𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 [ ... ] a video game based multi - muse centered heavily on personal interpretations, focused on world building and relationship formation. selective and mutually exclusive, fed by 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 ( 36 he / they / she est. ) and ruled by none. this blog contains varying degrees of mature content, discretion is advised as triggers are rarely tagged. minimal rules and simplified muse list below the cut.
heavily affiliated with : riphalos , dspndncy , fatecalled
♡ mun is deeds , 36 , est , all pronouns.
♡ this is a private , mutually exclusive roleplay blog.
♡ chronically bad at non - plot related conversations.
♡ i do not follow for follow.
♡ i maintain the right of refusal.
♡ most often in drafts , rarely stalk the dash.
♡ anti - purity culture.
♡ minimal formatting , occasional icons.
♡ i practice frequent and liberal softblocking.
♡ very ship positive.
♡ heavily oc inclusive.
♡ dupe friendly with minor reservations for friends and multis.
♡ attachment to those who indulge me often.
♡ here for low - stress writing above all else.
♡ i am ship exclusive with riphalos' muses, any dupes will be platonic.
current roster , subject to change at a moment's notice. characters are listed alphabetically with no implications towards interest. each have a personal url for tag tracking and blacklisting if necessary. last updated june 14th 2026.
y'all.. i'm less alive than the last time i checked in. work has been rough rough. ya deeds is a dead man walking. labor + heat(humidity) + time = rip to this bitch. been holding on by a thread these last few days. can't even begin to describe how tired i am. miss you nerds. xo
you ever go to give an update and it feels like such a WELL DUH moment that you almost don't ? no ? yeah me neither.
i start back to work tomorrow. i've been dealing with a lot of sudden onset depression this last week or so and while i have made countless threats to be here, it keeps falling through. whenever i get down, i tend to wind up with migraines and yadda yadda the head been hurtin. for many reasons. while work will no doubt tear me a new asshole, i'm hoping the physical labor will knock my brain straight. i can't even say i'll be slower cause yikes. lol i appreciate those who have been patient with me. i'm, as the kids say, a mess. :))
dice roll starter ! @vilifyme ft. aerryn & minthara.
aerryn felt the drow's gaze upon her and felt the need to mentally recite a little prayer to the morninglord for protection. yes, she had just helped break minthara free from the cultists, but she was not naïve enough to believe that that immediately made them allies. she still recalled her first encounter with minthara in the goblin camp at the old selûnite temple.
but when minthara asked why she spared her, the cleric spoke cautiously. “ -- the morninglord bids me to give everyone a chance to find their way towards light, regardless of the . . . way in which i've met them. i'm not trying to convert you,” she assured, “but i've failed him before by casting out those who . . . well, just call it a second chance. no one should be enslaved by the absolute. we can leave it at that.”
a great shame is growing inside her. it is swollen on this woman's words, fed by her tongue and reared by her grace. for all of its thrashing, however, minthara remains largely unchanged. her frown is settled, neither shallow nor deep. tight brows ask their own question and outline skepticisms she otherwise allows leniency. look closer, however, and her nervousness is profound. deprived of her armor, stripped down to meager rags, perhaps it is a punishment in itself to be seen in such a state. even with distance ushered between them with further steps aside, there's the pull. where want and will must meet, test their mettle, and come to a conclusion for her.
" and this is the only reason ? " her chin has risen, but there is little pride behind it. how could she nurse what is stillborn ? cradle the corpse of her honor and the reality of just how far the absolute has dragged her from any semblance of what was. it is sick. it is morbid. but it is truth. " to offer me a second chance ? " extend a hand where, not long ago, it'd have met the edge of polished steel and poison. what a curious girl. " and what is it you want in return. "
a dilapidated ruin filled with so much potential. of course, he'll never say no to gold, but there's something special about diving into the past and bringing back proof of it, regardless of potential price tags. his work with the explorer's guild gives him a sense of purpose, something he struggled to achieve throughout all of his life, even after climbing through the ranks of the thieves guild to eventually take over the leading spot. damn mercer.
blue-grays filled with curiosity shift from the locked entrance to peer at his companion. he is not an official member of the guild - yet. but, it's only a matter of time before the guildmaster sinks his teeth into him. from a few encounters before, zoren trusts nathaniel's abilities in the field, and believes him to be a suitable partner for the inevitable danger to come. " once we go in there, there'll be no backing out. " an arm is slung over his companion's shoulders. " expect traps, undead, puzzles .. we could be in there for days before we find the exit again. "
there's always been a delicate balance between purpose and play. it's a tip-toed tightrope walk of an ever diminishing return. but what the warden-commander doesn't know won't hurt her. how emblazoned blue cuts a stark shine in the dim glow of firelight. soundless in his approach, nathaniel knows the name of what rises in his belly. tickles the soles of nervousness until it capsizes with want to peek around one more corner in the dark. old as his bones, curiosity was a creature his mother's tongue couldn't lash, nor his father's raised hand reach. it stretches alongside him, here and now, pale eyes squinting where the shadow breaks and—
the arm isn't new. how his vision tunnels to address it with mediocre reception isn't, either. zoren has his quirks. he's one flashy grin after another, the fingers squeezing his shoulder felt more than once of late. closeness without the caveats of camaraderie are... different, but easily shirked with a chuff and a nod towards their heading. " and leave you to face those traps, undead, and puzzles all alone ? "
markham had tunnel networks not entirely unlike what they've seen until now. where the vimmarks claimed the coastline and what channels couldn't be accessed due to excess flooding had always been made up for with something.. special. what peaked a boy's childish wonder when his lordship expected him focused on training. at least the company is, now, is better.
" you know, there's always a chance one of us doesn't come back from this. do you have any next of kin i should look for ? " morbid humor is still humor. a flash in slanted greys above a barely-there grin, " a mistress i should know about ? "
somewhere in thedas. the hot summer weather could not be salvaged by only a light breeze and shade ; though vestele found herself a perfect rock under a tree just beside the river to rest on with another romance-filled book, she could not find it in herself to feel comfortable. perhaps the modest long dress, despite its light linen, was not the greatest idea to bring along to the rocky beach at midday. her eyes, shielded with a palm, wander then to her companions — all so free and relaxed, as if there was not the threat of an endless doom lingering above them. they needed this, of course they did ; they never get a chance to simply stay down and take a slow breath. ‘ you don't have to wait for me, i told you i'm not going in the water. ‘ she calls out from her hiding spot, scrunching her nose with an apologetic smile. ‘ i’ll watch your things from this very safe-from-getting-wet distance, yes? go, go. have fun. ‘
it's times like this when he misses antiva most. the stink of the ocean. sun-kissed skin, sparkling with saltwater spray, his hair a mess of damp waves that stick about in unruly twists. it isn't rialto bay, but.. it would do. the company, however, left some things to be desired, of course. finicky of where their armor lay, grousing on about the coarseness of sand and murky depths. where one body leaves to submerge into the brine, another stays behind, content under a leaning sylvan, its branches in wide, arched weeps.
" oh ? " ears twitch, thin brows at a curious rise, " are we no fan of being sticky and wet, my dear warden ? " a light tone, zevran needles with a heavy-lidded gaze and the sort of slow approach that suggested he'd not too easily be shaken.
shifting pebbles, the odd rock to be perched upon, when idled his is a wondering stoop, " you know, in my country, there is a name for the beautiful women who sit beside the coastline but never dip their toes. " dropped from vestele's face to the book in hand, bright eyes flash a knowing gleam that warrants a deepened slant to an already broad grin, " we call them sea thrifts. blossoming and pink-cheeked.. always a wonderful sight when the sun is high and heavy. "
"Fret not, our dear and fearless leader!" Her laughter kept low enough to not draw the curiosity of the others as they toiled among their own evening pursuits, Aridani twists her body towards him as if her music were some secret to be shared. "I would never dream of sharing an unfinished piece with just anyone and certainly not goblins, bandits, or devils. Though the latter all seem to have a terrible habit of just dropping in unannounced."
Leaned forward, Damaen could see her own devilish mischief burning behind blue-flamed eyes. "We'll just have to take our chances, won't we? As for the subject..." That warm inner light still seemed to glow from under half-shuttered lids, as impossible to snuff out as the relentless optimism she'd plagued him with since they clawed their way out from the ruined carcass of the nautiloid. Aridani's fingers recall the melody she just jotted down, but linger on each note indulgently until it rings with a haunting melancholy.
"A mane of hair like silvered starlight... Eyes dark and too deep to be measured." A shift of her grip. A drop in key. Loose lyrics ring more like ominous poetry. "With fangs white and gleaming, wrapped 'round a treasure tight..."
Squeak!
Between their feet, a familiar red ball rolls to a pointed stop, coated in ribbons of drool and dirt and the rough semblance of the song to end with a discordant thrum. "Scratch! How much fetch can one dog play in a day?"
Scratch's answer was nothing more than the happy thud of his tail against the ground and large panting grin. Completely indifferent to the waylay of his mistress's creative process when he knew she would ultimately relent. Which she did, heedless of the slobber as she lobbed the ball up and over the boulders and shrubs that shielded Shadowheart's tent from the rest of camp. With any luck, Scratch could work his charm on her and buy Dani a few more uninterrupted minutes. "I swear I'm never going to finish this song for him at this rate."
—i'm not your leader.. it's an old and tireless argument by now, steepled in the tuts of others who have patted his shoulders and agreed through sarcasm and humored drawls. neither appealing nor entertained, the title persists. it sits across shoulders that slump as she speaks and adjust themselves in a forward lean to imply want to find distance. distract himself with the dented edge of a sword he doesn't remember the acquisition of.. how a borrowed whetstone slides itself in the quiet schlick ! of one pass. two. he loses count eventually and the coasted motion only ends when the first tang of fresh iron catches in the air.
his own isn't the pretty perfume of those carcasses left on the risen road behind them. it's a red that smears classless and ugly over the pads of his fingers and turns a sword's gleam into something mottled instead. even then, the distraction is fragile. it's a sticky-sweet interlude before she's begun again, strumming a melody that manages not to wholly ruin his mood. a balancing act while damaen licks his thumb clean,
" ...what does that mean ? " behind him his pack rattles with his movements, " ' too deep to be measured ' .. what's that supposed to— " he doesn't finish repeating himself, interrupted by a bounding mass of fur and excitement, scratch woofs till aridani caves under pressure and quick as he'd come, again the dog lopes elsewhere. a creature of fickle interests ...he could sympathize.
" ..forget it. "
between his seedling curiosity and the threat of conversation, it's easier to fall back into motion. make mechanical what would otherwise feel daunting when the fourth in a string of sleepless nights tries to sink unruly grips into the marrow of him. no trance is made with mettle enough to keep the whispers at bay. even here, with her tune a demanding racket, the urge breathes down a nape already clammy from resistance. it begs for more.. another drop to set the whole cliffside reeking. he feeds the chatter with a more purposeful slice. small, just below his second knuckle on an index finger that flexes and bends till the swell is heavy and what's beaded begins to roll.
" why don't you sing about things that matter ? " like what ? it's his own question, framed in her voice, stared down with the weight of a breathless, wanting beast, " the dog doesn't care about your words.. it's a waste of time. "
@vilifyme asked: “ would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? ” leon ➤ ada
his current haunt hadn't been hard to find. safehouses, hovels, bunkers, suites — she's tracked scents to all manner of hideaways with far less than what she's been hoarding on leon kennedy. for rainy days, she'd told herself. for days like this where she should ignore his name in her phone, his texts that nudge for acknowledgement she rarely gives. makes more room for an out he can take whenever he'd like, she tells herself. just how ada likes it too, nothing to trap her into the corners of rooms and relations alike that only make slim shoulders tighten, bristle, brace.
so when she infiltrates through his balcony, she doesn't think on how she could've just knocked at his door. when she finds him inside, she doesn't think on how the rainwater drips off her coat whilst she shucks it aside. and when he says what he says, she doesn't falter confused or inquisitive. she just saunters to his pantry, expression ever the neutral mask that doesn't offer much to any eyes that search for meaning there.
“no. because you always think that, no matter the place or the time.” gloved hands reach inside to move a box of crackers, slide over some cereal. “i'm making coffee. unless i can't find any, which would be a shame.” a smirk plucks at one corner of lips that know the routine. “wouldn't want this visit to be for nothing.”
must say something that he missed that last touchdown. looked up to find the bears trailing by six. a staring contest with his coffee table hadn't ended on good terms and the sigh that breaks away from his latest exhale is as irritated as the fingers that remind him in their lift that he hated this sofa. didn't enjoy the cold, slick surface of leather outside of a car's interior. hadn't made for a comfortable ( albeit unintentional ) bed. didn't make for a good place to lean back, his head tilted to catch just the tips of fan blades when they passed into view.
that's how she found him, a bottle of coors balancing on a knee propped by a planted foot at table's edge. the image of a man disenchanted by his own down time, chasing a buzz that got further and further away each time he caught it.
" check the bottom cabinet, " without looking, preoccupied by a tactless swig, leon's aware from the sound that ada's looking in the wrong place. wasn't that rare. " not sure how much i've got though. " just that it was columbian. a dark roast that'd beat back whatever newest hangover attempted to shackle him with a headache and a foul mood come morning.
a delicate pit-pat, her coat spreading a small, barely there puddle beside a dinner table he can't remember ever using, he knows the distraction isn't mandated. could fashion something out of her brisk delivery and the fact that she's interested in something besides work for a change.
but the movements won't come. no facing her and the meek hope that, maybe, this will be anything but a pit-stop in the grand scheme ada wong tucks carefully out of sight. " was starting to think you weren't getting any of my messages. " sent with weeks in between, always answered with silence and a dull reminder what a fool he could be if left to idle too long. " you cut the surveillance before coming in ? "
Leon exhales something between a nervous laugh and a sigh of relief. He deflates from his stance with a nod. Yeah, right. Be a shame not to fall into some big, strong, capable arms, attached to a guy whose far too nice given the situation. He's at least a step above a civilian. Right? He can do, like, half the work. Perhaps a little overzealously. He is in the live laugh learning stage of covering Carlos. The ammunition management has been questionable at best, only when he runs low does it click that he doesn't have to take every headshot. It's a grim new instinct that hasn't had time to ferment into a new trauma yet.
"Yep." Cosmically bad timing, right? He's pretty sure his workplace induction spectacularly failed. All of the locked doors, the puzzles hidden in plain sight. What happened in the case of a fire emergency and someone took home the club key? Why was the museum statue even a puzzle? Who came up with that? He whips his head up to look at the back of Carlos' head, catching his side profile when he looks back, again. Part of him knows he's being babysat by the brickhouse that plucked him up and out of the police station. "I, uh. I think I want a raise."
There's a huff from him. He can feel the adrenaline pulsing in his skull. Hasn't had a chance to crash, when it does, maybe he will take this more seriously. He has always been that way, though. Coping with humour. He clears his throat. "Thanks for letting me help with the evacuation. Even if there isn't much left to help with, I probably would have lost my mind back in RPD." Any other sentiments are dropped as Leon snaps his head around to the violent shaking of a chainlink fence. Two dogs, for a moment he thinks the fence is enough of a deterrent, some bullets can be saved.
Then the mutts prove how high they can leap. "ON YOUR NINE!" he warns rapidly emptying a clip into one of the zombified dogs. He pats himself, retrieves his last clip to reload and finds himself knocked back when the one he shot several fucking times lunges and catches his tactical vest in its rotten maw. It's terrifying having the creature this close to his face and he struggles to shove it off. It's already rolling and preparing another lunge.
he's a funny guy. noted. someone else and leon would've been less well-received. deemed a headache among the many, many others that were determined to find purchase. mimic snapping teeth with a tight vice and unwelcoming sneers. but carlos isn't someone else and despite the lackluster shine to off-handed jokes, he spares them the chuckles they're after. with everything else in a tailspin, it's not a steep price to pay. " you tellin' me they didn't strap you with a hiring bonus for all'a this ? " two can play this game. in the lazy slant of a cocked grin, his own gag is a parody in the face of the real thing. better than nothing, he figures. silence may have propped their chances but that anxiety at his flank wasn't easily ignored.
for what good it does, the rain has begun to die down. puddles on the asphalt reflect an overcast night's sky and the flicker of nearby flames nothing but a proper downpour would touch. he's glad for the break, soaked curls sticking to the dip of his temple.. a high cheekbone when he turns to watch that quivering fence try to withstand one more assault. he knows the feeling. all that chain link, his body had memorized a similar shiver hours ago.
" hey ! back up ! " it's an order that comes too late, one head start and the barbed wire at the fence's peak does nothing to slow a sudden, violent collision. " leon ! "
in the shuffle, the second mutt catches at his peripheral and be it training or some damn good timing, a little spray-n-pray does the trick that sees it skidding out of sight. a danger neutralized is a danger abandoned. it's the sprint forward, through clicked teeth and a muzzle introduced to the coarse sole of an umbrella issued boot. not the most graceful save, but a bullet through kennedy's hand wouldn't be helping either of them out of the frying pan and disconnected, it's easier to level a snarling maw in the center of steadied crosshairs and pull the trigger. his own rifle's clip is still well off, the burst more cumbersome to nerves than anything else.
" you good ? " down there, again, in the mud. down there again where he'd only stood up a few minutes ago. without the breath of shamblers incoming, groaning against the other side of that barricade, he might've laughed louder, longer.. might've given him grief without offering his hand alongside it. " i'm guessing you weren't a k-9 unit then, huh ? " the guy'll beat himself up enough without help. who was he to start doling out shit ? nikolai ? " c'mon big guy. "
his huff is one haughty, unimpressed, impatient. he isn't even supposed to be here, tangled and trapped within a bumbling conflict that grows more tiresome the longer it leans against his back. has his tail swishing firm flicks down by his heels whilst his arms fold over a chest that heaves another disapproving exhale hot through his nose. rolan's own skin itches wrong in this place. he's not meant for wilderness and dirt and sweat sticking to robes that need washing. what he's meant for is greater things — towers and tomes and candlelight and sweet treats on a little gold plate. he's meant for baldur's gate, where his future will finally flex itself open out of the all nothing he's had to claw his way out of.
so this delay grinds his teeth, rubs an ache in his jawbone and dances a restless prickle down his spine. he hasn't been able to sit still and only opens his mouth to complain. even the bases of his horns bristle wrong whilst he watches the newest guest to the grove with so much more grumbling to offer. and clicks his tongue with a harsh, unimpressed snap when she's so quick to twist it against him.
“i'm well aware, thank you! that's why i keep trying to get them to leave with me, but nooo! all you bleeding hearts have to get yourselves all bloody involved.” he scowls, shining gold eyes gleaming their glare without wavering. but there is always the blink of them to accompany the scoff, the turn of his head, to consider cal and lia; they whom he will always stick beside, no matter how foolish and reckless and troublesome and—
“wait a minute. hold on.” his brow furrows, his gaze pins her anew. he's considering the implications of her wording, even catches his lips flickering the pull of a sneer up one side of his mouth. “you're not staying to help, are you? you're running.”
he shakes his head, arms falling free to instead prop clawed hands atop his hips as his tail gives a more amused swish of a flick behind him. “quite the hypocrite, hm? but one with sense, if that's your play.” he steps in closer, chin jabbed upwards with pride salvaged haphazard from the bruising she'd given it. “i'll have you know i could take the entire camp of goblins if i truly wanted. but i can't go getting distracted when i'm needed elsewhere. what's your damn excuse?”
already the conversation has outlived its use. it's purged what delicate patience she'd managed to manifest and left her stomach tight with want to argue. meet that swell of his puffed chest with the slope of her knuckles. see how much hot air he'd spout if she cut his mouth out of the equation. it's an appetite that glows hot in the embers of a glare curved by squinted lids and a sneer riding through raised upper lip. provocation, however, had been met by the undertow of rebuttal and, in his shadow, her head tilted back, l'rhea acknowledges, silently, that this was brought about by her own untethered tongue. the very same that, now, tests the sharpness of fangs. ties itself with a slur that is, instead, swallowed.
" ...excuse ? " repeated, aloud, it makes even less sense. some allusion to a responsibility unclaimed. caretaker of the cowering masses. " is that a joke ? " asking when she already knew the answer, what fragile distance between them has survived is laid under the mercy of a swaying guillotine she's eager to drop. applies pressure when creeping ever-closer. testing just how long a lifted chin would survive when his bare throat sits below it.
" i am helping— " a steepled argument, tail flicking sudden, jarring snaps behind her, " ...i'm propping up this farce of a defense, " gestured to in a thoughtless, swept reminder back where the wall creaks its support. " making sure the wee ones catch a wink of sleep before they're expected to fight off a swarm of stinking goblins. " where they would, no doubt, fail. where their short lives would end.. where the blood of ' her people ' would fertilize the earth for some time to come. his alongside their pitiful little puddles.
too easily baited, risen onto the balls of her feet, the lean that thinks to lead her to worse is aborted, swift and purposeful. it's not worth the uproar.
" i will not be cowed into some corner by a coward's want for safety. " sooner a trap than a sanctuary, the swallow of the grove can be their grave if they choose, but not hers. not while she has a say in the matter. " when the gates are stormed i intend to be outside of them. " locked into the limbo of some misconstrued agreement that is beginning to feel less and less worth the struggle. " i wouldn't want you to have to come off your hands, after all. do stay seated before you wind up a casualty in the crossfire. "
" what kind of advice is ' be yourself ' ? " from rose unu ; whether she knows it's her papa or not, she has the same hot take of that is bad advice but i am gonna take it.
the walls shifts and moves, living. not real. a dreamscape always changing, unable to retain the structural integrity of the solid, waking world. it is a bedroom, a place she must burn into her retinas as she waits for sleep to drag her under the surface, return to the abyss of decay tethering them all together, then it is an utilitarian space, maybe a school. no desks or furniture but the ceiling is high, the tiled floors dull, big, rectangular windows pouring in divine light. he wishes it was warm, comforting, but the tone is cool, giving it a florescent, oppressive atmosphere.
" heh well-- " a chuckle punctuating the still air around them, it ripples through it, a pebble dropping into a pond. " ...it's the sorta thing you're supposed to tell someone when they're a kid. " he adjusts his shoulders, rolls his head on his neck, waiting for the muted crack and the release of pressure trapped between the bones in his spine. nothing happens. this is not his body here, what physical remains of him are laying in a dark room somewhere, just a corpse. a fruiting body releasing golden spores which seek something living to infect. " if i told ya to be a cooler version of yourself that'd be bad advice. do you know what cool is? " he scrunches up his face, looking to the ceiling as it stretches further and further away from them as the manifestation of this room slips away. " i dunno what cool is... not anymore. probably drugs and petty theft or something. "
" you should be yourself because it's the best version of you. " ethan smiles at her, pride blooming in his chest. shimmering in his eyes as he looks to her. she is so like him, a reflection of him. the best parts of her mother and himself, he loves her more than he feels he can contain within the facsimile of his form. the windows change, the tops arch and the light moves into amber. the entire scene swims in the flickering circles of thousands of prayer candles burning along the walls. far off, a hymn from his childhood drifts into the scene like the scent of a loved one lingering in a room after they exit.
it all feels so.. messy. a pile-up on the interstate. the aftermath of a great flood. where the terrain is impossible to navigate and each road leads somewhere darker than the last. or maybe it's not complicated at all. an imagined obstacle, perhaps the thing most in rosemary's way, of late, has been herself. one foot in the door, one foot out, she's never known which way to lean. can't see which light is the end of the tunnel and which is an oncoming collision. both make her toes curl in worn down converse. both make her stomach knot up until progress, as a whole, stalls out and in a world unsteady, she'll sit where she's able.
a bench in a park at dawn, bluebirds singing in the trees and a wishing well bubbling false promises. the pews of a grand cathedral worshipping a god she'd never been exposed to. and.. sometimes everything is just black. a void yawning wide and hungry and— and he comes most often when she's there. can sense the fragments of her distress and coaxes them down with a dry sense of humor.
" i don't want to be cool, " she interjects a mumble, chin tucked and teeth starting their worry on a bottom lip so frequently chapped. a not-so-old split is caught, tugged, and released before new damage can be done. " i just wanna be.. " normal ? replacing resolution with a groan, she's dropped her face into waiting hands, heels of her palms rubbing tired rings and the sprout of unwanted tears from eyes that need to be sharper. stay alert. ever alert. always aware of who and what sits behind new corners. it's no wonder the exhaustion clouds an obvious will to move.
" it isn't fair, is it ? " quiet, a secret shared in reservation and leaking morose that darkens a room that tries to form around her. nothing has a footing here when she doesn't, too. time stumbles, her hands shake, and open palms show flares of sparkling life that do nothing to console a cry kept in her chest. those things are better kept there. stuffed back into a box, deep and old. " but that's just how life is, right ? feeling sorry for myself won't help anyone. "
@vilifyme asked: sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face. minthara ➤ atti'kas
in menzobarranzan, his blood had been no better than the thickest silt down beneath the black watered lakes. spilt without thought, spattered like artwork within the whims of those he'd learned to please in so many sultry smiles, hooded looks. as he'd learned to endure and to bend, fold, finesse himself as needed beneath the heels of so much armor and ego. which is why the coils, the many-armed embrace of a being far beyond his comprehension had been such an easy cold to fall into when the time came. had scooped him from the underdark's demands and to a surface that may have burned his skin, but had offered freedom all the same. until the mindflayers came, of course, but atti'kas still sees potential in his path forward, never back.
and is perhaps why minthara's addition to their troup has prickled tension between his shoulder blades, but also an eerie sense of familiarity. one he cannot help, one he has known for two centuries in the dark of what was once their home. but he also can't help the smugness of his smirk when the cut of a dagger, the routine offering for his patron, spatters aside across her cheek and pulls such a grimace from her. he of the past would've bowed his head, offered his long braid to her for some harsh twist of disapproval, but… no longer. the instinct doesn't even find him, just the proud lean of his chin upwards and the widened slant of a grin he won't apologise for.
"does it sting, valsharess?" the term is purred with mocking lazed within the honeyed curl of his tongue, sarcasm dripping over-sweet in sharp contrast to the unimpressed shine in red, red eyes. "the blood of someone lesser so warm on your skin?"
he shakes his head, scoffs to himself as he proceeds to bleed across sigils painted into the dirt by his bedroll. it sizzles and smokes upon dripping contact atop the marks, smelling less like iron and more like the lightning-strike freshness of the astral plane. he does, though, toss her a silken cloth after a moment's focus. "leave it to a baenre. your butchery makes messes everywhere, and yet... "
she never sits in his presence. never stoops or kneels. won't crouch to fetch a blade when her hands know many ways to cripple a heart without aid. but disinterest is not the same as disgust and though he treks a short path back and forth across the camp, she wonders how deep the cut of her stare has penetrated. if he feels it in his nape. that thin expanse of flesh that calls to her palm and fingers that may tighten an absent fist, though it is just as swiftly forgotten. among the bodies in offering, the familiarity is what discards her want for space. sees company kept in a silent, unloving embrace.
and in that company comes risks. this no different than any other, hot and thick and trailing a slow-rolling descent down high cheekbone. iron coupled with embers, minthara has waded through richer ichor and felt less sullied. sneers shallow by comparison. not for the blood, run to her jaw, but the words.. the silk that's bat away, landed in the soil beside still armored boots. better to wear his token than to be seen conspiring towards morbid comaradarie.
" the blood of my lessers belongs on my skin, jaluk. " what he does with his netherlord is of no concern nor interest. where sigils sear hot white and the stink of wanton magics has perfumed the hillside ; his stain. one tall, piercing beacon that will undoubtedly summon the interest of any faithful nearby. the call for action where none is needed.. she'd given such orders, herself, numerous times over. ' march to your deaths or return to greet worse. '
what does it say, she wonders, that she yearns for that fight ? something to disrupt the silence and her mind in a twisted waltz with no end in sight. remnants of the absolute. the pinpricks of an invader, squirming about where it shouldn't. in the absence of battle, bereft the sanctuary of bloodshed, there is only this. the quiet. and him.
" you know well that messes are necessary, " death. the calculated scalpel that cleaves the cancerous mass from a people prone to its growth. where one house falls, all others benefit. even the ungrateful. even those who seek salvation in false idols and a world that cannot properly fear or elevate them. " how apropos that you saturate the dirt.. so eager to feed vermin of all kinds, it seems. your patron starved as the worms you trample ? curious. "
