mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
code by valen t.
Last edited:
Navigation
Install the app
How to install the app on iOS
Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature currently requires accessing the site using the built-in Safari browser.
More options
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
Fantasy ´ 𝑷𝑨𝑿 𝑹𝑶𝒀𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑺 ` 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
- Thread starter mother of sorrows
- Start date
-
- Tags
- closed
blue-jay
a secondary antagonist
lusille of vexira
"T
Lusille nodded curiously at the fair-haired woman's words, pondering her own title for a second: the Inventor Princess. She noted the difference between her title and many others: Inventor, in the space where an adjective usually was. She was nominalized by what she could do—what she had to do—rather than who she was. Or perhaps the implication was that inventing was an extension of—or even the foundation of—who she was. She let the thought go for now; no use pondering such matters in a ballroom. She'd rather be dancing.
She watched, a little sadly, as the sparkly-clad Aurichian prepared to leave.
"I thank you for the gracious time spent with me this evening. I hope the rest of your night is spent in good humor."
Lusille nodded. "I trust we'll be seeing you again soon!" She was a fan of non-committal goodbyes: See ya soon and Until next time, et cetera. Partings were rarely permanent, so she thought it only fitting that the words chosen should convey that—to keep matters light and fun and reworkable, like anything should be. She only made the mistake once: using an impermanent goodbye for a separation that had proved thus far to be quite permanent. She didn't like to think too much about it.
She watched the lilac dress move across the room to her brother and hoped silently that he wouldn't be too harsh with her. Based on what she'd gathered about the Aurichian so far, Lusille thought that whoever paired her with her brother certainly had a sense of humor.
“Now then..." Lusille turned her attention back to her date and found mischievous eyes looking back at her. "Would you care for a dance?”
Lusille beamed and clapped her gloved hands together. "I'd love to!" She wasted no time in taking up her date's hand and leading her to an area on the dance floor with more room. "Though, I should warn you—the way we dance in Vexira isn't best suited to a ballroom setting. I'll do my best, but if we stick too much to convention I'm afraid I'll make for a poor partner. So, let's try to have fun with it!"
Lusille imitated what she imagined a ballroom dance position to be, though (like her curtsy) the angles were wide and imprecise—much less restricted than the position was likely supposed to be. She began to step to and fro with the music, but her movements were bright and jumpy, giving the dance more flair than necessary. She tried her best to reconcile her movements with her date's as they went on, though she made sure not to relinquish the panache that defined the steps of her boots.
As they danced, she spoke, practically glowing from behind her imp mask, "Isn't this delightful? I hope you don't mind me stylizing a bit. That stiff, formal dancing I always hear about seems like no fun." She added, "You'll have to tell me about all the gossip you hear. I wish to make the most of having a date with a talent for tittle-tattle."
The blue and bronze of the dresses twirled together. Lusille was reminded of the sea that they had sailed over to arrive here. How refreshing she had found it. How welcome of a change it had been.
Though, only as a temporary one.
Lusille faltered, suddenly very aware of her position, her priorities, and what was expected of her. Words and images flash through her head: schematics, business deals, materials. Dancing and making friends hadn't necessarily been on the list. She knew it was unfair to think that way, but she couldn't help it: Maybe the other royals—the actual princesses—could successfully and appropriately pursue such fancies, but Lusille had to have other goals. Her hand in marriage carried no weight—only her hand as an inventor.
The names given to us can be tiresome. But the name she had been given before this one was that of a peasant child. Worse than tiresome. Lusille ground her teeth. She had told herself that she wouldn't think about this, that she wouldn't let herself be intimidated by everyone else. And, in reality, she wasn't intimidated by them. She was intimidated by something much harder to articulate: the fact that she quite enjoyed talking and dancing and being silly behind a mask. All luxuries that could distract her from her true purpose. All luxuries that seemed so ill-fitting on her if she really thought about it.
Would dancing create trains? Watches? Flying ships? Would her crude banter truly bring her family money and influence?
Lusille met her date's brown eyes regretfully. She slowed her dancing, lessening the swing until she came to a stop. She grinned, though there was a nearly imperceptible strain in her cheek this time. "I'd almost forgotten—I have a letter to write! I would tend to it after this, but I'm afraid that it is quite a pressing matter and I... feel quite silly for having forgotten." Lusille began to step away, uncharacteristically sheepish behind the face of an imp. "Our short time together was the most fun I'd had in ages!" A small chuckle. "Until next time." And she was off.
In truth, she had no letter to write. She was going back to her room to stare at schematics and tinker with gadgets—the work that had truly brought her here. For a moment, she saw herself, and she saw herself clearly: still a grimy child piecing together bronze bolts and plates in a scrapyard. Yes. Yes. Time and time again, it was proven that, for girls like her, it was so much better to do than to be.
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
aeneas.
𝙖 𝙘𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙙𝙖 𝙘𝙮𝙘𝙡𝙚.
cesar ibarra.
"K
The recent additions had reminded him of the creatures that owned the night sky. How Cesar thought for the briefest moment that the masked lady would sprout wings and leave her lower half behind as she bared fangs in her displeasure. manananggals were known to be beautiful before nightfall after all and it was clear to the revolutionary that the answers presented to her were not the ones she desired.
The man of smoke however reminded him of the crows no traveler wished to cross paths with the night. Deceitful as the sound of their wings told lies to terrified listeners. The wakwak, earned their name from the sound their wings made when they were on the hunt. And the louder they seemed, the more distant they were. Perhaps it was his get-up or the sense of the man sizing Valen up as possible prey but his demeanor put Cesar off. Retelling him of the stories of the winged beasts that would fool you and eat your heart without faltering in their flight.
Crudeness and crassness were attributes abandoned by him in his youth for they were traits that stemmed from the swine of nobility. Those with a path already paved for them in golden abundance often forgot the people who built the road, to begin with, thus losing themselves in the process. From the casual use of cusses in conversation from the man of smoke left a bitter taste in Cesar’s mouth. He was far too familiar with the those of blueblood and despite his revolutionary attire being covered in dust, Cesar wouldn’t hesitate to at least embody the fragment of his past. Given that the hosts have already proved to have many tricks up their sleeves, maybe he would be given the opportunity to dawn his title the way it once was.
Even the words of another such as Valen didn’t stop the other’s action of snuffing out his cigarette against the pristine walls of the ballroom. He never liked smokers.
“Quite an interesting pair.”
Albeit rude, he felt a sigh of relief escaped him when the creatures of the night flew together towards the dance floor. Maybe there will be a time when he could witness them in a more charming light but regardless, it was back to two and the minister wouldn’t have had it any other way.The smile that felt strained on his face just moments ago softened at the shy display and the sense of accomplishment. So, his assumptions were correct! What were the odds of that?
“There is no need to apologize, and yes I once enjoyed a hike for the thoughts. I’m relieved that we’re on the same page because over that short discussion, you mentioned your hobby of making necklaces out of seashells and that so happened to be a hint given to me about my date.”
Over the life of Cesar Ibarra, he was never one to be asked to dance. Chivalrous in his nature, he had always been on the ready to sweep another off their feet when he felt the responsibility to. Since that was what most ballrooms were to him. An obligation to give those who asked what they wanted. However, when Valen bashfully asked for a dance, it never once crossed Cesar’s mind to accept out of obligation. Rather he accepted out of genuine desire, no time (nor want) to think about any sense of responsibility weighted with his answer.
“I’d be more than willing.”
Champagne flutes and any remnants of timidity were abandoned at a disregarded table as Cesar offered his hand to the other. Among the sea of representatives dancing among themselves, he only found himself looking at the pearl he encountered before their metaphorical dive. A quick glance at Valen’s wrist and Cesar only found more hints about who he possibly is behind the mask.
“Your bracelet is lovely, could it be a family heirloom of a sort?”
Families that came from providence did family heirlooms, right? Maybe it wasn’t the best question to ask given his own background.Though the shape of the band itself gave room to ponder on. The trident was often a symbol of nations by the seas and given the previous hint, it wouldn’t be foolish to assume that he was well acquainted with the sand and seawater.
“It must be nice to be so close to the beach. Although the Mirror Isles have beautiful shores of their own here, so I suppose you have remnants of home while you are here.”
He bowed at Valen; A waltz was not a dance form he was a stranger to but also not friends. It wasn’t an art he usually indulged in before he became a part of politics and even then, dance partners found him enjoyable out of his charm rather than his skill. “I apologize beforehand if I make any mistakes, despite the times I’ve done this, I could never manage to fully perfect it.”
MOOD
dancing : ]
OUTFIT
check discord !
coded by xayah.ღ
demonology
𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉.
mpiady tejara
T
They quite suddenly wished for the ball to end. The welcome spent, and they were an island, as they typically were, but they looked more like a fool than ever. Fool’s gold, they thought, glancing down at their attire.
A rose, much more youthful in its pinky-sheen, stepped forth into Tejara’s vision. A cascade of darkened hair; a blackened flower. Perhaps, one that is dying, so slowly but surely. Rot, they wondered, but gave her a smile all the same, the thorns stinging Teja to remind them of their purpose.
“Hello,” they responded, watching quickly as she gave way to a compliment. “Thank you, my lady,” a nod, “Your dress glimmers under our hosts’ light, like a rose in the midnight garden.”
Despite their lackluster tone, their words were genuine, more so than the wisp of a grin on their lips. This faint smile broadened alongside their shoulders at the mention of a dance, gleeful to have something to do other than stand at attention and try not to shuffle and scurry in nervous energy. They looked down at their champagne glass, and a pang hit them. The temptation of another faux pas was enough to dimmer Teja’s spirits and excitement. Yet, they looked the young woman in the eye and replied, jovially and with an unintentionally booming tone, “I would love to!”
They moved to place the glass on a nearby table, almost toppling it over with the brusk placement. Thankfully, luck didn’t strike against them as hard as monsters would have, and the glass maintained its upright position.
Holding out a hand to their date and moving towards the flowing tune, they joked, “Apologies for my loudness. I don’t quite know my inside-voice yet.”
Finally, instead of standing to the wayside as a golden idol, there for appreciation during the celebration but never able to participate in the traditions, Tejara was active. A participant. Their feet were clumsy, and their movements unsure. Still, they found themself jittery to move, to dance. It was one of the few things they still did, even in their travels. Of course, the form of dance expected in the Peace Hall was more formal and structured than anything they’d ever practiced, but they found it as intoxicating as if it were the fireside-dances of Clan Menara or even the seasonal routines common to the villages they passed through.
Taking a delicate grasp of their partner’s hand as they danced, they noted, “I see you have quite the group? Posse? They seem very excited by your presence.”
The music swelled, and everyone else gave a twirl. Of course, Tejara was late in this act, moving sluggishly. When the rose faced towards the sun once more, they continued to ask, “Yet you asked me for a dance. Are they really that boring? Or did my costume captivate you that much?”
coded by xayah.ღ
neon reverie
ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟᴇ
PAX ROYALIS
i. THE MASQUERADE
Somewhere, a grand silver mirror stands, lonesome in its sort, but not alone. Glass show glimpses instead of reflection, images switching in and out like memories; they show masks meeting masks, unfortunate falls, the trading of nicknames, exchanges of words and spinning of figures. Nothing escapes the watchful eyes, and amusement flickers in them. Two looming figures, one ignorant crowd. A grain of sand falls — one minute closer to midnight.
“It is time.” one says, eyes narrowing to the golden hourglass.
The other nods in response, figure turning.
“Horatio” she calls.
A blue orb materializes before them, flickers as it dips slightly, like a knight kneeling before a queen.
“You know what to do.”
Its indigo shines just a bit brighter, just a bit deeper, in response. Horatio disappears then, leaving the two alone once more. They share a glance, a twin smile. One hand is offered flatly to another, moonlight streaks gathering in her palm, a white butterfly resting briefly in its lunar pool.
“Shall we, sister?”
A red petal lands next to the butterfly; the shadow of a hand hovers.
“We shall.”
✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧
All of the sudden, the lights in the hall start to flicker; a dance between light and shadow, ebon seeping till it swallows. The dance halts as the music slides back into silence. Whispers find each other while gazes search for reasons, minds unsure of the hands or ghosts behind it. Confusion blends together with anticipation for another minute or so, until —
A voice echoes throughout the hall, coming from nowhere and traveling everywhere.
“Everyone, the time has arrived for our hosts to join you on this fine evening. Please welcome lady Innocenzia and lady Enya.”
it is then when the heavy doors open up again, letting in the cold midnight air and revealing…. Absolutely nothing. A howl of a breeze slithers forth and greets the silence in the hall like an unwanted guest, the atmosphere slowly sinking into an awkward one as the time stretches on. A second passes — nothing. Another one — still nothing. Questions start to rise as well as suspicion; was this a trickery?
Something flutters, small and white. Upon a closer look, you can discern its form: a butterfly. It enters the hall, before lowering itself onto the marble tiles. Gentle wing brushes, one touch. You blink, then, suddenly, there were two. Another blink, three butterflies. Blink — two more. Blink — three more. Soon enough, a large wave of butterflies has materialized before you, all surrounding the first one. Together, they rise, and a river they become, one that flows, up and down, side to side. It is pure, enchanting, glowing. From the many fluttering forms, a heart emerges. It grows, and grows, and grows till —
A burst occurs, revealing a feminine figure at once. Draped in white, almost translucent silk, she arrives, bearing a single red carnation. A soft blow of breath and the petals start to scatter; wondrous and weightless, they spin in the air. And just like the butterflies from before, a few petals turn and twist to become many. A tempest of blossoms it is, swirling wildly, beautifully, passionately — red like roses. Red like love. As rain they fall, and as a heart they stay; growing, growing, growing until—
An explosion follows, with another female figure stepping forth. Tight, semi-embroidered semi-translucent fabric hugs her curves while pale blue drapes fall down to the sides. Side by side, they stand, identical faces but unique dispositions. One smiles while the other smirks, head tilted, eyebrow lifted. Soft eyes twinkle underneath the lights and the first one curtsies.
“Greetings everyone, we, the hosts, welcome you once more to Mirror Isle.” her voice is light, like the fluttering of wings. “I am Innocenzia and this is my sister Enya. We do hope your travel has gone well and that you are enjoying this night.”
The other takes a step forward, lips curved.
“We are here to join you in brief only, given the many works we still have to do, we just simply could not wait to meet our beloved guests. Ah, and you haven’t disappointed us with your appearances. Gorgeous, each and one of you–” dark brown eyes rake over the figures in the hall, almost predatory, certainly flirtatiously.
Innocenzia exudes a small cough into her hand, interrupting her sister’s gaze.
“Yes, you all look beautiful. It is unfortunate that we can not linger for much longer. Still, we shall not leave without a gift. A fine masquerade this is, but surely it is missing something.” an exchange of looks between the two, a stream of unspoken words, of meanings and intentions.
“That’s right.” Enya supplies. “You all have gotten to mingle a little, with your date or your not date. Maybe you have even gotten to know them a little. However, what are words without expressions, and what is love without gazing into each other’s eyes. “
Innocenzia giggles, softly, knowingly.
“Yes, our gift to you, my dear guests, is to end the night not with blurs, but with clarity. And clarity you shall have. So go and look at my dears, look how your date bears a smile or a scowl.”
A snap of a finger.
It happens in an instant, without hesitation, without pain; the shattering of masks.
A heart-stopping realization will fall upon you, as you glance around.
You can see them.
Their face.
And they see yours.
“It is time.” one says, eyes narrowing to the golden hourglass.
The other nods in response, figure turning.
“Horatio” she calls.
A blue orb materializes before them, flickers as it dips slightly, like a knight kneeling before a queen.
“You know what to do.”
Its indigo shines just a bit brighter, just a bit deeper, in response. Horatio disappears then, leaving the two alone once more. They share a glance, a twin smile. One hand is offered flatly to another, moonlight streaks gathering in her palm, a white butterfly resting briefly in its lunar pool.
“Shall we, sister?”
A red petal lands next to the butterfly; the shadow of a hand hovers.
“We shall.”
✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧
All of the sudden, the lights in the hall start to flicker; a dance between light and shadow, ebon seeping till it swallows. The dance halts as the music slides back into silence. Whispers find each other while gazes search for reasons, minds unsure of the hands or ghosts behind it. Confusion blends together with anticipation for another minute or so, until —
A voice echoes throughout the hall, coming from nowhere and traveling everywhere.
“Everyone, the time has arrived for our hosts to join you on this fine evening. Please welcome lady Innocenzia and lady Enya.”
it is then when the heavy doors open up again, letting in the cold midnight air and revealing…. Absolutely nothing. A howl of a breeze slithers forth and greets the silence in the hall like an unwanted guest, the atmosphere slowly sinking into an awkward one as the time stretches on. A second passes — nothing. Another one — still nothing. Questions start to rise as well as suspicion; was this a trickery?
Something flutters, small and white. Upon a closer look, you can discern its form: a butterfly. It enters the hall, before lowering itself onto the marble tiles. Gentle wing brushes, one touch. You blink, then, suddenly, there were two. Another blink, three butterflies. Blink — two more. Blink — three more. Soon enough, a large wave of butterflies has materialized before you, all surrounding the first one. Together, they rise, and a river they become, one that flows, up and down, side to side. It is pure, enchanting, glowing. From the many fluttering forms, a heart emerges. It grows, and grows, and grows till —
A burst occurs, revealing a feminine figure at once. Draped in white, almost translucent silk, she arrives, bearing a single red carnation. A soft blow of breath and the petals start to scatter; wondrous and weightless, they spin in the air. And just like the butterflies from before, a few petals turn and twist to become many. A tempest of blossoms it is, swirling wildly, beautifully, passionately — red like roses. Red like love. As rain they fall, and as a heart they stay; growing, growing, growing until—
An explosion follows, with another female figure stepping forth. Tight, semi-embroidered semi-translucent fabric hugs her curves while pale blue drapes fall down to the sides. Side by side, they stand, identical faces but unique dispositions. One smiles while the other smirks, head tilted, eyebrow lifted. Soft eyes twinkle underneath the lights and the first one curtsies.
“Greetings everyone, we, the hosts, welcome you once more to Mirror Isle.” her voice is light, like the fluttering of wings. “I am Innocenzia and this is my sister Enya. We do hope your travel has gone well and that you are enjoying this night.”
The other takes a step forward, lips curved.
“We are here to join you in brief only, given the many works we still have to do, we just simply could not wait to meet our beloved guests. Ah, and you haven’t disappointed us with your appearances. Gorgeous, each and one of you–” dark brown eyes rake over the figures in the hall, almost predatory, certainly flirtatiously.
Innocenzia exudes a small cough into her hand, interrupting her sister’s gaze.
“Yes, you all look beautiful. It is unfortunate that we can not linger for much longer. Still, we shall not leave without a gift. A fine masquerade this is, but surely it is missing something.” an exchange of looks between the two, a stream of unspoken words, of meanings and intentions.
“That’s right.” Enya supplies. “You all have gotten to mingle a little, with your date or your not date. Maybe you have even gotten to know them a little. However, what are words without expressions, and what is love without gazing into each other’s eyes. “
Innocenzia giggles, softly, knowingly.
“Yes, our gift to you, my dear guests, is to end the night not with blurs, but with clarity. And clarity you shall have. So go and look at my dears, look how your date bears a smile or a scowl.”
A snap of a finger.
It happens in an instant, without hesitation, without pain; the shattering of masks.
A heart-stopping realization will fall upon you, as you glance around.
You can see them.
Their face.
And they see yours.
cavitea
𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧
hisoki of tsusaye
H
Trickles of amusement filled his dance at the mention of struggles learning the vapid steps of others. Such differences fell between the various kingdoms that he could only faintly wondered if there were others who would fair more poorly than himself. "I suppose I should be glad I am not the only one who found learning these dances to be arduous. Within the streets of my lands it is more of the joining of hands in the dancing of children than adults spinning themselves to fatigue."
He paused for a moment, hands and feet counting themselves in the spin of crimson and winter as the smallest tilt of a head brought doubt to her statements. "I don't however quite believe you. Your boldness in color and tone already suggest the greatness you conceal. Perhaps we will have to meet again to further discuss these 'boring' habits of yours." Bold, perhaps. Reckless, even. Words that tumbled without thought in the ways that books wrote to speak to those to garner interest with others. A meeting, over tea or chess, a walk perhaps that could spurn forward the beginning of an alliance if not bite back the sense of loneliness.
"All the same, I suppose I may join you in sentiment. I cater to shrines and the typical bearings of a second heir. Smacking dolls with swords can only bring so much joy when resting behind the safety of guards. Once I may have been the one who --" And there had been the start of a smile, a seeping of genuineness that held warmly into clasped hands until the flickering of lights killed off queued syllables and a head flicked towards the entrance of hosts. Magic abounded but in a way that butterflies held beauty from only afar.
It spoke of danger, of powers to be wary of.
Without mention, fingers interlocked along limbs and a step took him forward, so subtle in change it may not have been noticeable to minds outside of his own that raced. A fight wouldn't be needed and yet his limbs felt ready for the moment, a tightening of grasp that meant only the whispers of a responsibility. Only because she was the one assigned to me, of course. The smallest trickle of relief tainted only by the words of gazing at another.
Hisoki couldn't hesitate in his motions to stop their words falling like a curse through the air, nor the petals that began to fall away from his face in a melancholy stream as head turned and met itself in horror with the equally exposed eyes of his date.
Winter started with the frosting of eyes, a creeping icicle that trickled down its death-like grip onto a heart and into a soul until only rasping taps could be made against the frozen surface. Nothing was allowed to melt the sanctity of ice or enter into the fortress stacked higher than trees; higher than mountains. His gaze was cruel compared to the gentled smiles of flowers and whispering movements of silk. It held frenzied calculations, precise in their ways of digging into others and determining flaws. None of the smile he had put on earlier made its way into charcoal depths.
Lips instead fell from their perch on his cheeks into a bitter line, the grating of teeth hidden as once more Hisoki raised a hand to his forehead in a cautionary farewell. "I thank you for the dance, as discourteous as this ending seems to have been to the efforts put behind our elaborate disguises. Please, excuse me to recollect myself." As swiftly as they had tangled blood into snow he pulled away again, retreating from a battleground he felt lost upon with a quickened pace.
Faces all around were telling of the amusement and shock behind a loss of anonymity, eyes meeting with others in new scrutiny that reached out and choked those unprepared. Hisoki was among them.
There were eyes that didn't belong on this island, foolish and weak in their floundering for the prospects of 'love' as if they carried the qualities deserving of it. A sneer nearly crossed his face instinctually as fingers slipped themselves along the folds of white, gripping silk between bronze and pulling upwards a coin that now trickled itself over knuckles in a repeated, nervous manner. There were eyes that sparkled too much, that stood calculating just as he did, malice in their intentions or a cruel disinterest in those nearby. Eyes that belonged to those more interested in flaunting bodies than providing personality of depths.
There were eyes behind the mask of the one he had called Sun, eyes of a stranger smiled to and for a moment he considering pausing if only to take in another calculation. The shake of a head lead his thoughts astray from the possibility, the crumbles of masks crunching belong his determined strides as without fail he met more with those around them, with the eyes of so many, strange and foreign.
Until they were shockingly familiar eyes; eyes that shouldn't have been there. Eyes that disappeared so long ago on the back of a horse. Of course, Hisoki had always gathered that another representative of Tsusaye would be at this event. A noble perhaps or a warrior from the fallen graces of fighting. This was instead a book he had already closed in his life, a chapter he had shut away, dogeared with the intention to return and properly mourn it one day. A brother, more in spirit and soul than that of his own blood relatives and one he hadn't seen since ...
Shadows gripped themselves around him, a slithering of shade and discomfort that wiped along waterlines and gave a push to his back. The gods had a cruel way of laughing in his face, he supposed.
Strung like a carrot before him however he turned cheek once more, allowing the softness of shade to creep along the bottoms of his silks until corners in the blinding room fell darkened and quiet. It was a sanctuary he had to hide himself in lest the innermost sanctum of his heart betray the intentions of his being there. A match, they said, another being at the altar and something to take pride in. No pride came from this, however.
A dance with a poppy, alluring and addictive, wilted under the stares of winter and a coldness seeping through layered cloth. He had already given himself the ease of mind that something so precious and warned couldn't look fondly upon himself yet felt pained at a lingering sense of 'something'. Tepid fingers pressed themselves almost in a languishing sigh against shaded cheeks as white melded itself among the comforts of shadows. As he had suspected, this was simply not the battle he had prepared himself for. No books described the emotions of speaking fondly to another nor the shame at feeling naked in your soul.
Instead the shadows welcomed him back as a safe haven, white draped in dusty greys as a wall of the ballroom became more comfortable than the eyes of those around him.
He could wait out his time within the event in this way with the best of luck, counting the motions of a chessboard back in his room to distract from the smiles and looks and shared emotions. Hisoki was not fond of sharing much more as he stood there to the wall, a wavering form of shade behind him.
Watching eternally; worried.
MOOD
the mask crumbles
OUTFIT
discord.
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
triples
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
...
fae'an de malisio
A glimmer passed in the dark of the girl's eyes when understanding dawned upon her, and her melodic voice chased after the thought with undisguised enthusiasm. Even before the deciding question fell, Fae'an felt it; he had solved the riddle. Fortune had, indeed, taken his side today.
Yet, he watched the miniscule shifts of her expression — from victory to doubt and then again to conviction — without an answer, his mutedness stark against her lively display. Though the music climbs and their shapes float along with it, a certain question anchored him still.
The question of what lay in ink, scratched like a warning into the end of her letter.
Caution threatened to sharpen his stare, but Fae'an held onto his lightheartedness as the mask held onto him. When she returned to face him after a graceful spin, their gaze locking, his bearing only brightened. Like the beat of silence was his intention all along, like it were a moment drawn out for the fun of suspense, he told her,
He let the moment settle between them as the music carried on, sifting through the clues about her in his memory. They were pieces of a peaceful life, he mused, quite ironically. One step. Two.
Two steps. Three. Words already on his tongue, preparing themselves to leave it... when it happened. A shift in the air. Fae'an came to a halt, just as the doors to the hall swung open. One by one, the dancers followed suit, every inch of attention in the hall slowly but surely stolen.
At first, there was nothing. And, then.
A flutter of action, the buzz of magic, a deconstructed garden raining down as a grand entrance. Innocenzia. Enya. So they appeared, two women. Women that screamed of something other, something to incite vigilance. The hosts. Their greetings and praise fell upon their guests like a spell, and the room stayed silent save for their voices, not realizing that the real spell would only come at the end.
The feeling of a layer being ripped from his face was abrupt. Unstoppable. A delayed reaction rippled through the crowd, pleasant and unpleasant to many degrees. Yet, though he was never before the man to lose his bearings from unexpected turns, Fae'an stood still and tense. Because, what had struck him in the moment was not shock.
It was fear.
He breathed. The pale scar behind his ear seared like a newly sliced wound. And the voices were there, young and old, lilting and hoarse, whispering:
The second it took him was both fleeting and slow. Composure was a beast he had long since tamed, but, in these times, it was a slippery bastard. The smile that had been ripped from his lips quietly restored itself, his eyes regaining their focus and flitting across the hall, over new faces attached to less-new figures.
Yet, he watched the miniscule shifts of her expression — from victory to doubt and then again to conviction — without an answer, his mutedness stark against her lively display. Though the music climbs and their shapes float along with it, a certain question anchored him still.
The question of what lay in ink, scratched like a warning into the end of her letter.
Caution threatened to sharpen his stare, but Fae'an held onto his lightheartedness as the mask held onto him. When she returned to face him after a graceful spin, their gaze locking, his bearing only brightened. Like the beat of silence was his intention all along, like it were a moment drawn out for the fun of suspense, he told her,
"In fact, I do."
A twinkle in his eyes to match hers, a soft laugh that teases at shared secrets. "How did you guess?"
He let the moment settle between them as the music carried on, sifting through the clues about her in his memory. They were pieces of a peaceful life, he mused, quite ironically. One step. Two.
"It's nice to find you at last, princess,"
he began again,"I've been curious the whole night, to meet the talented artist the letter offered. You're a painter, as well, aren't you?"
Two steps. Three. Words already on his tongue, preparing themselves to leave it... when it happened. A shift in the air. Fae'an came to a halt, just as the doors to the hall swung open. One by one, the dancers followed suit, every inch of attention in the hall slowly but surely stolen.
At first, there was nothing. And, then.
A flutter of action, the buzz of magic, a deconstructed garden raining down as a grand entrance. Innocenzia. Enya. So they appeared, two women. Women that screamed of something other, something to incite vigilance. The hosts. Their greetings and praise fell upon their guests like a spell, and the room stayed silent save for their voices, not realizing that the real spell would only come at the end.
The feeling of a layer being ripped from his face was abrupt. Unstoppable. A delayed reaction rippled through the crowd, pleasant and unpleasant to many degrees. Yet, though he was never before the man to lose his bearings from unexpected turns, Fae'an stood still and tense. Because, what had struck him in the moment was not shock.
It was fear.
He breathed. The pale scar behind his ear seared like a newly sliced wound. And the voices were there, young and old, lilting and hoarse, whispering:
They see it.
He blinked. Another breath. They see you,
they mocked, ecstatic, hysterical. Fingernails dug into his palm.The second it took him was both fleeting and slow. Composure was a beast he had long since tamed, but, in these times, it was a slippery bastard. The smile that had been ripped from his lips quietly restored itself, his eyes regaining their focus and flitting across the hall, over new faces attached to less-new figures.
"Well, our hosts know how to set up a show, don't they?"
he remarked, in a tone not so different from before, finally taking in the face of his partner revealed to him. Bold but sweet features greeted his, and though it was the first time he had truly seen her, there was a sense of familiarity in their meeting. "But I must say I was right,"
he continued, "now that I see what the mask was so cruelly hiding."
They see your face.
"Oh, please,"
she giggled, hand rising to brush her hair away, "I could say the same for you."
He studied her for a second, before sharing in her laughter. Yes, if she could say the same, then she has not seen it. The voices lie. None of them have seen it, yet.Your true face.
coded by xayah.ღ
mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
LOCATION: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit
INTERACTIONS:
INTERACTIONS:
izolda beausejour
of auriche
Like a mirage the thousand-headed snake melts away into something much more stumbling, muscle that wants to move with no idea where. The unseen stranger is at once bold like dawn and too aware of the space they occupy, both the whisper of sand and the clatter of war. Izolda watched silently as the representative almost ennacted violence on a poor, innocent side-table, a stark contrast to the grace that reminds her of those big, sleek cats that stalk Bandiama in search of men. It is an odd combination and yet brittle in it's genuinity; they must surely not be from Auriche, she thinks to herself with a titter. They would have been quartered already if they were.
Whatever it is that lurked beneath that golden mask, Izolda decided that she rather likes it. There was something about the open eagerness that would feel terrible to deny, a sort of ham-fisted, warm charm.
She gives a laugh at their comments, one that is neither kind nor cruel - whatever the intent behind it is, Izolda's pleasant smile does not reveal it. The lamb-faced woman only leans out a white gloved hand that meets their armored one, and together they swirl out into the dance floor, their footsteps meeting in the tempo. Candle light reflects sickly off her partner like a vein inside a sunken cave, or perhaps a dragon's hoard forgotten in the ages. Their awkward, unpracticed steps do not fit into the emblem of a warrior, with a sort of anxiety to them that Izolda could not place as excitement or bloodlust. They must have danced before, she thinks, but the waltz is obviously not in their favour. It is no matter - but it still brought an idea to her head that made her smile just a tad too sharp.
In a move both elegant and daring, she inched away some of the distance between them to lead. Her steps are clean-cut and confident, a far cry from the care in the other's grasp.
Another laugh like the singing of a bird; though whether a nightingale or mocking bird is yet be seen. ''I think they are more excited by the prospect of gossip than me.'' Hungry wolves in women's clothes. They would tear her to pieces for the promise of scraps. Izolda was glad to be rid of them and in the company of someone much more interesting already - the twirl broke at the other's knees, but Izolda was quick to pick up the pace and take them along. Lightning flashed in her eyes at their question, a thought indescribable and quiet.
''Can it not be both? They have been needling me all night and, do not mind me, you stood out from all the rest.''
Like a mirage the thousand-headed snake melts away into something much more stumbling, muscle that wants to move with no idea where. The unseen stranger is at once bold like dawn and too aware of the space they occupy, both the whisper of sand and the clatter of war. Izolda watched silently as the representative almost enacted violence on a poor, innocent side-table, a stark contrast to the grace that reminds her of those big, sleek cats that stalk Bandiama in search of men. It is an odd combination and yet brittle in it's genuinity; they must surely not be from Auriche, she thinks to herself with a titter. They would have been quartered already if they were.
Whatever it is that lurked beneath that golden mask, Izolda decided that she rather likes it. There was something about the open eagerness that would feel terrible to deny, a sort of ham-fisted, warm charm.
She gives a laugh at their comments, one that is neither kind nor cruel - whatever the intent behind it is, Izolda's pleasant smile does not reveal it. The lamb-faced woman only leans out a white gloved hand that meets their armored one, and together they swirl out into the dance floor, their footsteps meeting in the tempo. Candle light reflects sickly off her partner like a vein inside a sunken cave, or perhaps a dragon's hoard forgotten in the ages. Their awkward, unpracticed steps do not fit into the emblem of a warrior, with a sort of anxiety to them that Izolda could not place as excitement or bloodlust. They must have danced before, she thinks, but the waltz is obviously not in their favor. It is no matter - but it still brought an idea to her head that made her smile just a tad too sharp.
In a move both elegant and daring, she inched away some of the distance between them to lead. Her steps are clean-cut and confident, a far cry from the care in the other's grasp.
Another laugh like the singing of a bird; though whether a nightingale or mockingbird is yet to be seen. ''I think they are more excited by the prospect of gossip than me.'' Hungry wolves in women's clothes. They would tear her to pieces for the promise of scraps. Izolda was glad to be rid of them and in the company of someone much more interesting already - the twirl broke at the other's knees, but Izolda was quick to pick up the pace and take them along. Lightning flashed in her eyes at their question, a thought indescribable and quiet.
''Can it not be both? They have been needling me all night and you stood out from all the rest.''
A hint lurked just beneath her tone, there and gone like a silver fish. Thousand feet danced alongside theirs as another turn came, the music vibrating under her skin to set her blood alight; her own dress poured into their grave-gold, the feathers torn from birds that must have seen all of the world. Curiosity gnawed at her like a bone, and the night will still not die so fast. Her voice is light enough to warrant to draw her face closer, or maybe only an excuse for it.
‘’What about you? Is your costume only for show?’’ Another glint in her eyes, lips drawing up with unspoken intent. ‘’Or are you as much of a warrior as you look?’’
Question drew over Tejara’s mind, a net that acted as a filter. A quirk of the brow, and they were now painfully aware of how much she navigated. His body was hers. His mind was kept sealed, with barriers melting down as tar to cut off whatever invaders attempted to wade in. Body sunken, but mind prevailed. At least, that is what they hoped. Goodnaturedly, they laughed before being cut short.
Lights shimmered and the music paused. The pair’s movements followed, and in a patriotic attempt as knighthood, Teja faced the direction they thought the disembodied voice to be coming from, then shifting like a cat to the red petals floating in. They skirted a glance to their dancing partner, wondering if this was her magic or the magic of a beast disguised as a lovely woman. Then, the hostess revealed themselves.
It all occurred in sharp succession, of which Tejara was conscious of little. The tar along the interiors of their brain had clogged any sense, and the femme hostesses spoke in sludgey syllables. They had moved to allow their dancing partner to stand beside them, wondering if she was experiencing the same lack of coherency. Instead, they met eyes just as a snap resounded along the hall’s walls.
Gold clattered to the floor, sinking to the sea of white marble and silk gowns. Underneath was the night, whose face rippled as a molasses puddle. It all dwindled down to the menacing hurricane’s eye: the swirl of blackest black along their chin. With the freedom, Teja moved their jaw, jutting the tattoo upwards. It was reaching out, looking to drown whoever dared closed enough. In keeping balance along the warrior’s face, twin moons engorged themselves at the sight before them, but also at the nakedness. Most importantly, Teja was now aware of the thin sheen of sweat that perfumed their brow-bone.
The lamb’s face bleeds away into a woman, all silken gaze and delighted laughter, and her unwavering eyes watch theirs.
Wiping at it, they finally responded, “I’m afraid a warrior I am, though I prefer to wear less armor when in battle.”
Dimly, they felt the twine of a lie wrapping around their tongue. Battle? It was the wrong word; no wars were fought with Teja on the front-lines. They fought only what attacked them first, what wanted their blood, what found their beacon intoxicating, and in effect, they were both the savior and the enemy. The executioner. They allowed the blood to pool in their mouth, biting hard over a smile. Suddenly, they were shy and unwilling to brag as the Queen had instructed. Naked, they were aware of the tattoo, of how it sat as a third eye, and of how it was always the first thing that foreigners questioned when they met him at the Sebajan royal grounds.
In an attempt at distraction, they asked, “What exactly have your ladies been ‘needling’ from you? Matters of politics escape me, but perhaps golden armor and a scarred face can convince them to let it lie.”
Izolda smiles.
No, that is wrong; she does not smile. She only turns up the corner of her lips and floats closer to the warrior of sun and sky, the person that smells like the blood long since dried in ghastly tombs. Her voice drips like the water in such horrible, inconceivable places, slow and distinct.
‘’Machines.’’ She murmurs for Tejara’s ears alone. ‘’Ones that will change the world.’’
The ball was on its deathbed, released in raspy breaths and Izolda steps backwards as if nothing had happened at all; her features are once more plain politeness, a bored charm that has beaten out all sharpness. The woman drops into a deer-like bow, hair fluttering in the sweet sea breeze - there was only the barest hint of a smirk to her if you do not blink too fast.
‘’I have to thank you for making my night less tiresome. I truly did enjoy our dance.’’
She is devoured by the moving crowd now, one last velvety look before she is gone in a dream, all but a few words to prove she ever existed at all.
‘’I hope to see you again, our golden knight.’’
Whatever it is that lurked beneath that golden mask, Izolda decided that she rather likes it. There was something about the open eagerness that would feel terrible to deny, a sort of ham-fisted, warm charm.
She gives a laugh at their comments, one that is neither kind nor cruel - whatever the intent behind it is, Izolda's pleasant smile does not reveal it. The lamb-faced woman only leans out a white gloved hand that meets their armored one, and together they swirl out into the dance floor, their footsteps meeting in the tempo. Candle light reflects sickly off her partner like a vein inside a sunken cave, or perhaps a dragon's hoard forgotten in the ages. Their awkward, unpracticed steps do not fit into the emblem of a warrior, with a sort of anxiety to them that Izolda could not place as excitement or bloodlust. They must have danced before, she thinks, but the waltz is obviously not in their favour. It is no matter - but it still brought an idea to her head that made her smile just a tad too sharp.
In a move both elegant and daring, she inched away some of the distance between them to lead. Her steps are clean-cut and confident, a far cry from the care in the other's grasp.
Another laugh like the singing of a bird; though whether a nightingale or mocking bird is yet be seen. ''I think they are more excited by the prospect of gossip than me.'' Hungry wolves in women's clothes. They would tear her to pieces for the promise of scraps. Izolda was glad to be rid of them and in the company of someone much more interesting already - the twirl broke at the other's knees, but Izolda was quick to pick up the pace and take them along. Lightning flashed in her eyes at their question, a thought indescribable and quiet.
''Can it not be both? They have been needling me all night and, do not mind me, you stood out from all the rest.''
Like a mirage the thousand-headed snake melts away into something much more stumbling, muscle that wants to move with no idea where. The unseen stranger is at once bold like dawn and too aware of the space they occupy, both the whisper of sand and the clatter of war. Izolda watched silently as the representative almost enacted violence on a poor, innocent side-table, a stark contrast to the grace that reminds her of those big, sleek cats that stalk Bandiama in search of men. It is an odd combination and yet brittle in it's genuinity; they must surely not be from Auriche, she thinks to herself with a titter. They would have been quartered already if they were.
Whatever it is that lurked beneath that golden mask, Izolda decided that she rather likes it. There was something about the open eagerness that would feel terrible to deny, a sort of ham-fisted, warm charm.
She gives a laugh at their comments, one that is neither kind nor cruel - whatever the intent behind it is, Izolda's pleasant smile does not reveal it. The lamb-faced woman only leans out a white gloved hand that meets their armored one, and together they swirl out into the dance floor, their footsteps meeting in the tempo. Candle light reflects sickly off her partner like a vein inside a sunken cave, or perhaps a dragon's hoard forgotten in the ages. Their awkward, unpracticed steps do not fit into the emblem of a warrior, with a sort of anxiety to them that Izolda could not place as excitement or bloodlust. They must have danced before, she thinks, but the waltz is obviously not in their favor. It is no matter - but it still brought an idea to her head that made her smile just a tad too sharp.
In a move both elegant and daring, she inched away some of the distance between them to lead. Her steps are clean-cut and confident, a far cry from the care in the other's grasp.
Another laugh like the singing of a bird; though whether a nightingale or mockingbird is yet to be seen. ''I think they are more excited by the prospect of gossip than me.'' Hungry wolves in women's clothes. They would tear her to pieces for the promise of scraps. Izolda was glad to be rid of them and in the company of someone much more interesting already - the twirl broke at the other's knees, but Izolda was quick to pick up the pace and take them along. Lightning flashed in her eyes at their question, a thought indescribable and quiet.
''Can it not be both? They have been needling me all night and you stood out from all the rest.''
A hint lurked just beneath her tone, there and gone like a silver fish. Thousand feet danced alongside theirs as another turn came, the music vibrating under her skin to set her blood alight; her own dress poured into their grave-gold, the feathers torn from birds that must have seen all of the world. Curiosity gnawed at her like a bone, and the night will still not die so fast. Her voice is light enough to warrant to draw her face closer, or maybe only an excuse for it.
‘’What about you? Is your costume only for show?’’ Another glint in her eyes, lips drawing up with unspoken intent. ‘’Or are you as much of a warrior as you look?’’
Question drew over Tejara’s mind, a net that acted as a filter. A quirk of the brow, and they were now painfully aware of how much she navigated. His body was hers. His mind was kept sealed, with barriers melting down as tar to cut off whatever invaders attempted to wade in. Body sunken, but mind prevailed. At least, that is what they hoped. Goodnaturedly, they laughed before being cut short.
Lights shimmered and the music paused. The pair’s movements followed, and in a patriotic attempt as knighthood, Teja faced the direction they thought the disembodied voice to be coming from, then shifting like a cat to the red petals floating in. They skirted a glance to their dancing partner, wondering if this was her magic or the magic of a beast disguised as a lovely woman. Then, the hostess revealed themselves.
It all occurred in sharp succession, of which Tejara was conscious of little. The tar along the interiors of their brain had clogged any sense, and the femme hostesses spoke in sludgey syllables. They had moved to allow their dancing partner to stand beside them, wondering if she was experiencing the same lack of coherency. Instead, they met eyes just as a snap resounded along the hall’s walls.
Gold clattered to the floor, sinking to the sea of white marble and silk gowns. Underneath was the night, whose face rippled as a molasses puddle. It all dwindled down to the menacing hurricane’s eye: the swirl of blackest black along their chin. With the freedom, Teja moved their jaw, jutting the tattoo upwards. It was reaching out, looking to drown whoever dared closed enough. In keeping balance along the warrior’s face, twin moons engorged themselves at the sight before them, but also at the nakedness. Most importantly, Teja was now aware of the thin sheen of sweat that perfumed their brow-bone.
The lamb’s face bleeds away into a woman, all silken gaze and delighted laughter, and her unwavering eyes watch theirs.
Wiping at it, they finally responded, “I’m afraid a warrior I am, though I prefer to wear less armor when in battle.”
Dimly, they felt the twine of a lie wrapping around their tongue. Battle? It was the wrong word; no wars were fought with Teja on the front-lines. They fought only what attacked them first, what wanted their blood, what found their beacon intoxicating, and in effect, they were both the savior and the enemy. The executioner. They allowed the blood to pool in their mouth, biting hard over a smile. Suddenly, they were shy and unwilling to brag as the Queen had instructed. Naked, they were aware of the tattoo, of how it sat as a third eye, and of how it was always the first thing that foreigners questioned when they met him at the Sebajan royal grounds.
In an attempt at distraction, they asked, “What exactly have your ladies been ‘needling’ from you? Matters of politics escape me, but perhaps golden armor and a scarred face can convince them to let it lie.”
Izolda smiles.
No, that is wrong; she does not smile. She only turns up the corner of her lips and floats closer to the warrior of sun and sky, the person that smells like the blood long since dried in ghastly tombs. Her voice drips like the water in such horrible, inconceivable places, slow and distinct.
‘’Machines.’’ She murmurs for Tejara’s ears alone. ‘’Ones that will change the world.’’
The ball was on its deathbed, released in raspy breaths and Izolda steps backwards as if nothing had happened at all; her features are once more plain politeness, a bored charm that has beaten out all sharpness. The woman drops into a deer-like bow, hair fluttering in the sweet sea breeze - there was only the barest hint of a smirk to her if you do not blink too fast.
‘’I have to thank you for making my night less tiresome. I truly did enjoy our dance.’’
She is devoured by the moving crowd now, one last velvety look before she is gone in a dream, all but a few words to prove she ever existed at all.
‘’I hope to see you again, our golden knight.’’
code by valen t.
Last edited:
mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
PAX ROYALIS
ii. THE BONDS OF TRUST
The sea is silent. Dreaming. Mirror Isle sits upon a cradle of infinity.
Stars lay on the night's great, black stomach, pulled close into their mother's stretched embrace. Clouds shift in the moon's fitful sleep, throwing them off once and tucking herself back in later. She gave the world below a sullen look, envious at humanity's slumber. Only the joyful or the morose walk the late paths now, one deep in revelry and the other in thought. The breeze is still tingled with autumn when it rustles the thin curtains of a room far from the representatives sight, carved into the old, salt-bleached rock of Marblewish - it is older than the wars and it will stand for even longer, crumbling only when the memory of cruelty has long died. Like a lonely eye it looks upon the sea and the tumbling, sighing land that grows ever more gold with each colder wind.
In the room there is a woman, and her cheeks are pink with tears.
''She's horrible, truly horrible...'' Innocenzia hushes, as if not to disturb the night's brittle stillness. ''She never listens.''
Her hands run over the well-used, light brown desk that has been her own forever. Spots of ink seep through layers of paper, endless envelopes and books; a few scratches run along the pale wood, crafted in years that are now gone. She had been writing them the whole night before, the letters, and now they are gone - Innocenzia never told who she had put together with who, but when has Enya asked for anything? The pairings had been made with care and her sister knew nothing of such things. The woman wiped a hot tear away, bitter with anger and frustration.
The map remains, at least. Enya must not have noticed it. She cuts into the harsh paper and grabs the envelopes, one for each pair of hearts - her gestures are stuttering and rigid, and she is like a child again. A displacement of air murmurs behind her and Innocenzia does not have to turn to know it is Horatio. His disembodied voice is at once wistful and terribly sorry, speaking as he always has and always will;
''Oh, Innocenzia,'' he starts, sadly, ''Even eternity is not enough for what you two hold.''
Your eyes glance over the words, curt as they are and confusing - and when you look up, you are no longer at the mansion.
Wilderness. The ground below your feet is sogging with water or cruel with stone, you hear water or you hear the rustling of leaves above your head. You see something in the distance or you do not, but you are not at the mansion anymore and no amount of bewilderment will bring you back. Your letter has been replaced with a slip of a map, aged but readable - and in the corner there is written a sentence, bold and bright.
THE KEY TO FINDING YOUR WAY BACK IS NEAR.
And perhaps worst or best of all, you hear another person.
One that is standing right next to you.
Stars lay on the night's great, black stomach, pulled close into their mother's stretched embrace. Clouds shift in the moon's fitful sleep, throwing them off once and tucking herself back in later. She gave the world below a sullen look, envious at humanity's slumber. Only the joyful or the morose walk the late paths now, one deep in revelry and the other in thought. The breeze is still tingled with autumn when it rustles the thin curtains of a room far from the representatives sight, carved into the old, salt-bleached rock of Marblewish - it is older than the wars and it will stand for even longer, crumbling only when the memory of cruelty has long died. Like a lonely eye it looks upon the sea and the tumbling, sighing land that grows ever more gold with each colder wind.
In the room there is a woman, and her cheeks are pink with tears.
''She's horrible, truly horrible...'' Innocenzia hushes, as if not to disturb the night's brittle stillness. ''She never listens.''
Her hands run over the well-used, light brown desk that has been her own forever. Spots of ink seep through layers of paper, endless envelopes and books; a few scratches run along the pale wood, crafted in years that are now gone. She had been writing them the whole night before, the letters, and now they are gone - Innocenzia never told who she had put together with who, but when has Enya asked for anything? The pairings had been made with care and her sister knew nothing of such things. The woman wiped a hot tear away, bitter with anger and frustration.
The map remains, at least. Enya must not have noticed it. She cuts into the harsh paper and grabs the envelopes, one for each pair of hearts - her gestures are stuttering and rigid, and she is like a child again. A displacement of air murmurs behind her and Innocenzia does not have to turn to know it is Horatio. His disembodied voice is at once wistful and terribly sorry, speaking as he always has and always will;
''Oh, Innocenzia,'' he starts, sadly, ''Even eternity is not enough for what you two hold.''
✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧
A day has passed since the masquerade has been dusted and packed away, now but a promise for the things to come. Whether you rested or explored or talked, sunlight has escaped you - you've only had a single day to rest between what is to come next. Dawn knocks on your window like a guest that understand no rules, insistent and bold, and the early risers only have a bit more time than the rest. Sleeping or wide awake, in the early hours a servant appears with a letter in their hand, signed by the very hosts you had met at the ball. They rouse you if they have to and they do not leave until you open it, standing or laying or at the first bites breakfast.
Your eyes glance over the words, curt as they are and confusing - and when you look up, you are no longer at the mansion.
Wilderness. The ground below your feet is sogging with water or cruel with stone, you hear water or you hear the rustling of leaves above your head. You see something in the distance or you do not, but you are not at the mansion anymore and no amount of bewilderment will bring you back. Your letter has been replaced with a slip of a map, aged but readable - and in the corner there is written a sentence, bold and bright.
THE KEY TO FINDING YOUR WAY BACK IS NEAR.
And perhaps worst or best of all, you hear another person.
One that is standing right next to you.
Last edited:
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Peng Zhi Kui
Z
With one final groan that dissolved into a shout of victory now that they felt limbered up, Zhi Kui set to work organizing the various pieces of nearly-complete inventions that they had been fiddling with all day, hauling out wooden crates to place them in and tucking the scribbled notes associated with each piece (or pieces) neatly to the side to ensure that they would not get smudged or lost. They slid on lids that clicked neatly into place before locking each one with a separate key on the ring that jangled on their belt, and carried them over to the far wall of their workshop, where crates of similar sizes containing cheap metal weights sat, blending their actual contraptions in with the dummies, ensuring that it would be difficult if— and it was quite a big if — someone managed to break into their workshop and tried to make off with one of their nearly-finished inventions for their own glory.
Once they were all lined up, the set to work on their next security measure, grabbing one of their ladders and leaning it against the wall before opening up a barrel of sea water and dipping a rusting bucket into it, climbing up and up and up until they reached the trough that sat high above the crates, slowly but surely filling it up with each trip, a rather tedious task that Zhi Kui didn’t quite mind, given the fact that it kept their body occupied.
After the exercise was completed, Zhi Kui grabbed a thick rope to tie on either end of the trough, wrapping it around and around and around their arm and pulling it taunt and tight, to the point of straining both themselves and the rope. Once satisfied, they ducked behind the crates, threading it through the elaborate contraption that linked to the pressure plates underneath the stones that the crates sat on. Should someone take a singular item off, the rope would slacken and the trough would upend the salt water over everything— effectively ruining all of Zhi Kui’s work, but that would be better than letting it fall into someone else’s hands.
Finally, finally complete with ensuring the security and safety of their livelihood, their reputation (and their ego), they set about clearing away the tools that they found less precious, thrown with loud clangs that reverberated around the open space into their metal boxes that also clicked shut.
With one finally glance around, a stern (but proud) nod to themselves, and a pat on the back, they turned off all the lights and stuck their hands deep into their pockets, grimacing at the way that the skin on the back of their hands felt pulled back at the action, and made their way down the hallways towards their rooms, intent on changing into something much less fitted and flowing, looking forward to whatever evening activities they would embark on with their posse. It would be the last evening before they were to board their transportation to some far flung island where they needed to mingle and politic. They needed to go over the notes that their mother and Dal had compiled for them to memorize, to attempt to decipher who would be the best for them to speak with, to cozy up to.
Suddenly, just as they were contemplating if they ought to take a detour to see if Shu Chang was in his office, their mother’s voice called out and jolted them from their thoughts:
“Zhi Kui!”
Her hands flew up to her face as the color drained from it and they felt their own heart rate pick up at the panic that was written all over her expression. Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows had risen to her hairline, giving her the impression that she had just seen someone be killed in front of her.“What is it?”
they asked, panic reaching forth and coloring their tone as they picked up the pace to hurry forward— “What is it, mama? Are you okay? Has someone gotten hurt?”
“You’re not supposed to be here!”
she cried, seizing their hands as soon as they were close enough, dragging them along towards their room, muttering all the while about their half-siblings and when the next ship would be. “You were supposed to leave for Mirror Isle yesterday!”
Now it was Zhi Kui’s turn to look like they had seen a deep tragedy, their mouth dropping open now as real panic made itself heard by the way they yelped,
“Yesterday?! But I wasn’t supposed to leave for one more day!”
“No, no, one more day ereyesterday,”
their mother chided back, fumbling with the various locks and combinations on their door before finally flinging it open. “Hurry, hurry!”
she declared, the urgency clear in her voice before it dipped into an exasperated but warm tone as she groaned, “Oh, you sweet boy, what am I to do with you?”
They both fumbled around for their packed suitcases, listing off the last few items they might need— clothing and protection and inventions that they could take along to tinker with and impress whoever needed to be impressed. A mere handful of hours later— and it always impressed Zhi Kui, how much their mother seemed able to just snap her fingers and make things happen— they found themselves hugging their mother tightly at the port, before climbing aboard the ship that was to take them to Mirror Isle. Once aboard, they turned to face the port, waving at Dal and Shu Chang, who were trying to stifle their laughter at the fact that they had miscalculated when they would have to leave, though their eyes looked a bit wistful and downtrodden themselves as the ship slowly pulled away, until they were waving at nothing but specks in the distance.
- ♢ -
Finally— finally — Zhi Kui found themselves stepping onto dry land, onto solid land. While they had not been seasick, they certainly did not enjoy travel over the sea, trapped in a singular vessel, unable to move around. They had done their best to be occupied in their cabin, fiddling with an elaborate jewelry box that they had spotted shimmering in the scrap pile that always seemed so ripe with pickings. Its outside was golden, with elaborate, intricate designs inlaid into the frame, linking to an even more elaborate locking mechanism that Zhi Kui was attempting to figure out— ideally, it would necessitate someone to push a button there, resulting in a lever popping out here, which would then be pressed to release a clasp— and on and on for a few more steps. It wasn’t secure by any stretch of the imagination, simply a design gimmick, a novelty item that could delight a child that wished to play around with something shiny, which was the issue they were attempting to resolve. They wanted this to be functional, and as such, was trying to figure out how to separate a specific path of unlocking— turning a switch this way instead of that, pressing a button and holding it in place for a moment versus letting it go immediately. They had made some progress by the time they had arrived, and quickly placed the delicate container into its plush box that was packed for transport, and gathered up their items to be taken aboard the island. There were a few suitcases that they refused to let go of, handing out the explanation that there were delicates that they did not want damaged, and that they would rather take responsibility for.
Once more— finally, finally, a room to set all of their items down in! They glanced about, taking in the luxury, the beauty of it all, a nice boost to their already enormous self-importance. A grin crawled across their face as they gazed at the desk set forth for them, a place for them to tinker and try, and it morphed into a softer smile at the painting on the wall, their eyes taking in the long, straight black hair, the kindly eyes that gazed back at them, the warm smile that was not delicate or demure but proud. However, their smile quickly turned into a frown at the sight of a box sitting on the bed. They wondered if their half-siblings had been in before and had laid out any plans of attacks, or if anyone else amongst the guest list would think to do so. Rules did not exist when one had power and influence, and everyone on this isle had plenty of both, scrupulous or not. As such, they turned to their toolkit that hung by their belt, pulling out a screwdriver and wrapping their hand in a (semi) clean towel, making their way slowly about the room, pressing the end of the tool to wooden boards and seams gently, attempting to see if any would pop up mysteriously, with the last item to be examined thoroughly being the dresser. Opening the drawers revealed inventions and contraptions to be taken into their accomplished hands, pieces that they could polish and perfect and fix, their capable eye spotting the flaws that others surely would miss, taken in and tricked by the gilded presentation of supposed perfection. They placed the jewelry box that they were working on amongst them, alongside a few other contraptions they had brought along, smiling (a touch smugly, for someone who had miscalculated the days before a critical trip) at the way they seemed to fit right in.
Now that the room itself appeared to be secured, they turned their attention to the box that had been placed on their bed and the letter seated next to it. Zhi Kui unwrapped the box first— delicately and slowly, without touching its surface directly, positioning the folds away from their face and utilizing the screwdriver to pry the wrapping away from the package.
They blinked at the object that they had been gifted— a music box, one that had clear craftsmanship involved given the intricate and delicately painted designs, the key that once inserted, played a jaunty little tune. Their eyes slid to the letter and— with less caution— they opened it up to read, their eyes darting across the letters and narrowing at each word, deeply suspicious.
Welcome, Zhi Kui. I have heard of you, even if you have not heard of me. I hope you will do your reputation justice. For now, I offer you this gift; may it bring you as much joy as you bring to others.
In the privacy of their own room, they made a low, suspicious humming noise that lasted for quite a handful of seconds; a silly little scene, if anyone was to see it. They tapped their chin with a singular finger for extra effect, mulling over the words and who may have left such a gift for them to find. (The host may be the obvious answer, but why would they do such a thing? There were servants prowling about as well, and of course, the other guests— their half-siblings included. Such a delicate piece may have come from their hands, given to them for some less-than-innocuous reason that they were unable to decipher at the moment.)
Finding no answers in their not-so-silent rumination, they simply set the music box aside for the time being, and set to unpacking their items, not quite relaxing in the space, but permitting their back to face the door as they settled in and prepared for the next day.
- ♢ -
The next morning began bright and early as usual, the thread of sun that peeked through the gap in the curtains left purposefully there to be the alarm that Zhi Kui needed to get up. Despite this, they groaned in dread and snuggled deeper under the soft, silky covers, relishing in the feel of the fabric whispering against their skin. They had been delighted to discover the bedding was as comfortable as the one they had at home, permitting them to sleep in their favorite nighttime attired— absolutely fucking nothing. Unfortunately, their mother had instructed them to pack their least favorite type of clothing, and they were dreading shrugging on the layers and layers of scratchy, itchy kerseymere and wool that would make them look proper.
With one final dreadful groan, they lifted their arms out from under the covers, stretching them to the ceiling and made another noise of effort as they strained against the temptation to burrow back underneath the sheets. Knowing such a thing was not possible, they sighed and tossed off the covers, standing up to move the curtains shut now that they had fulfilled their purpose. They moved away from the bed, towards the soft carpet that stretched out in front of the small tea table and the plush cushions seated on either side and began going through their standard morning stretches to loosen and limber up, planting their feet apart from one another and leaning from one side to another, lifting their arms up towards the ceiling and then the walls. After this was completed, they continued on with a truncated set of morning exercises, their standard equipment having been left behind at home. Once those were completed, they sat up and wiped themselves clean utilizing a towel and the water basin within the room, before turning with absolute dread in their stomach towards their outfits. Having missed the first day of festivities, they were now in a precarious position of needing to impress the rest of the guests and make it clear that they were to be taken seriously, despite their faux pas. As such, they would need to actually wear some of that damn formalwear that they had brought.
Shutting their eyes, they breathed in deeply, filling their lungs and puffing out their chest before blowing out their breath through their nostrils. They repeated this act twice more before moving forward as if marching off to battle, pickup up their undergarments first to pull on. They then shrugged on the burgundy, cashmere collared shirt that they had brought, with velvet detailing of vines looping around and around in a slightly darker shade— a softer, lighter fabric, one that they would appreciate as the first and probably only pleasant layer they would suffer through for the day. Next came the pants— high waisted, made of a dark gray wool, and slightly tapered at the ankle. They were not as constraining as their work pants, but this did not mean they were comfortable. Nay, the wool fabric may have been durable and warm and perfect for both indoor and outdoor events and therefore could be declared practical, but it was also scratchy, prickling across their skin almost the instant that they were pulled on over their legs. They tucked the shirt into the waistband, mostly to offer themselves some protection from the itchy fabric.
After that, they pulled on the velvet vest with its two sets of large, golden buttons and grimaced the entire time they did them up, feeling constrained already. Finally, the two most uncomfortable elements— a white, stiff, cotton cravat that felt like it was choking them, and not in the fun way, and then the socks— the socks. Somehow combining the worst of the rest of the clothing, pulling the scratchy sensation of the pants and pairing it with the stiffness of the cravat, but throwing in their inability to not bunch up. They were gray, woolen socks that had beads of shining silver sewn into them, above the ankle, as if such a design choice was necessary. They would feel uncomfortable in a mere handful of hours, faster if there was more walking involved, slipping down and down their leg and pooling at the mouth of their boot and reminding them over and over again that they were there, that they existed.
And indeed, as they pulled on their black, leather boots, and completed their appearance with a dark brown coat— constraining the movement in their shoulders— they could already feel the hairs on their legs chafing against the fabric, against their skin.
I know, mama,
they thought dramatically, as if she was in front of them and they were a teenager again, rolling their eyes and sighing as she lectured them for the umpteenth time about how important it was to make a good impression, I understand. I do not like it, however.
On an unknown instinct, they turned to the portrait that sat on the wall, gazing at the gentle eyes that seemed to stare back, and offered a smile that was in equal parts irritated and exasperated, but in no way ashamed. Even the mere thought of their mother was a balm to the growing irritation that pooled in their stomach, knowing the words that she would say to them while touching their shoulder gently, her head held high, hair piled even higher to make her presence even more prominent than it usually was. The smile softened into a more pleasant expression— though this was undermined by the first handful of steps that they took as their entire face immediately turned into a frown, brows furrowed and nose almost scrunched as they reached down to tug at the socks irritably.
Just then— a knock! Hurrying to the door and grimacing only slightly, they opened it to find a servant, and then another letter, thrust into their hand. They blinked, confused, glancing down to look at the contents, and in an instant, in a flash!
“Ah!”
they shouted, startled and eyes going wide, leaping into a fighting stance— or as much as they could with all of their layers. Their feet were now spread apart and they were bent at the knees, lowering their center of gravity, and their fists were raised before them, one thrust in front and another further back. The letter had been bunched up in one of their fists now, and they glanced about to spot—“Ah!”
they repeated, turning their stance to face the other figure that was now with them, uncertain if they were the cause of the sudden change in scenery (or perhaps the mysterious box!). 
coded by xayah.ღ
Pepsionne
oi oi
xan ahn
X
“Far cry from home, huh?”
He smiled impishly, addressing the two large felines that occupied either side of him. They prowled in slowly, cautiously, addressing the new and foreign surroundings. Soft fur slipped over rigid, alert muscle with each step forward. Their time in the jungle had left them unused to the environments catered to proper society. Xan ran his palm against a lounge chair tucked beside what looked to be a tea table. What his skin met was a rich, buttery fabric. His expression twitched with mild annoyance, biting words shoving their way to the forefront of his mind with little resistance. So much waste in extravagance, it makes me sick. That’s the problem, Xan, it makes me sick.
Mali bumped her head into the soft flesh of his palm. Xan’s distress oozed from his pores like a toxin, the taste of it heavy and unmistakable on the tigress’s tongue. Mali let out a chuff of air. Xan snapped back, hardened features giving way to a smile at the deepened sound emanating from her throat.
“Yeah--let’s keep looking around,”
Soft words were cradled in the gentle palms the room offered forth.The young man shifted, his movements fluid yet at first glance sloppy, in the direction of an intricately carved door frame. He ran his fingers over the carvings, feeling the tactile dips and curves against his touch. Xan had requested a room with at least some kind of balcony or access to the grounds, as keeping Mali and Vikal trapped inside a maze of an estate seemed far from a good idea. His familial home in Bandiama was a healthy marriage of indoor and outdoor spaces, so bite sized tastes of the jungle were available when the craving struck. The door pushed open in a fluid swing, fresh air lapping at his ankles.
The young man stepped outside, sighing in relief to feel a wave of fresh air kiss along his skin. He supposed that he, too, needed direct access to the freedom of the grounds. Maybe even more so than his companions. Time in the jungle, free from his family, free from the suffocating traditions they bound him into, had left him weak. The armor built during his childhood that allowed him to sustain the toxic air of his nobility had faded and cracked from lack of use. His bare skin was now too sensitive, too vulnerable.
That’s the problem, Xan, it makes me sick.
Xan made no effort to stop the sneer that soured his features as he maneuvered further onto the balcony. One of Bandiama’s honored representatives. His family couldn’t have been more elated, and Xan couldn’t have been more reluctant. What did he represent, other than the empty husks of charred foliage after the fires of revolution? His family had no qualms with lapping greedily at the still fresh wound of Bandiama’s revolt, drinking their fill and kicking down anyone who tried to get a taste. Privilege wasn’t as easily snuffed out as simply abolishing titles. Xan’s presence here was a nauseating example of that.
Regardless, it seemed like Xan’s invitation had been penned with a hesitant hand. His arrival had been staggered several days off from the rest. His mother’s lips had tightened when he mentioned that notion, the premise of her golden boy just barely making the cut of importance something to resharpen the dulling rage inside of her.
Quickly growing tired of the grounds Mirror Isle offered, incomparable to the embrace of the jungle, the man mindlessly wandered through the room he had been given. Dark eyes settled with a sharpness, having caught the slight gleam of something placed squarely at the foot of his bed. Xan turned the gift over, muscles tensing in ignorance as to the weight the item carried. Mali and Vikal appeared at his side, having finished their own inspection of their new residence, pushing cold, wet noses into the skin of Xan’s hands as he worked open the letter attached, first.
Welcome, Xan Ahn. I have heard of you, even if you have not heard of me. I hope you will do your reputation justice. For now, I offer you this gift; may it serve you more than any ring could.
Eyes burned silent fire into the formerly pristine paper, the clean surface now tarnished by the bruising grip of his hands. Xan set the paper down, creased edges settling uncertain on the bed. What reputation, exactly, were they referring to? He could feel the gaze of hopeful stares upon him, sweaty hands gripping at his tender flesh. Watching, waiting, for greatness. For something, anything at all. What was the author of this letter in search of? Most likely a reputation that was not his to give.
The gift came next, though not nearly as rousing as the letter had been. Xan turned wooden pieces over in his hand, fingers drinking in the worn and softened surface. Absently he wondered how many hands had done the same as his, the paint was fading off in several spots, sharp edges turned round from time. Xan let out a sigh, settling the pieces back in the box to forget about.
“What do you guys say we do a little exploring of our own?”
Xan’s smile was mischievous in his address of the two felines. They gave him excited growls back, stretching limber bodies to release the tension that had made a home there in their travels. "That's what I was hoping for. Let’s start with the grounds of the mansion.”
---
“Mr. Ahn!”
A voice strained against the thick wooden door, desperate for any space to slither through and reach whoever lay within. A hollow knock followed, three rapid beats before the air gave way to silence once more. “Mr.Ahn! There is correspondence for you if you’d please open the door.”
A sigh resounded, but it was sucked in almost as quickly as it was exhaled. The unfortunate servant tasked with delivery of Xan’s letter stood impatiently in front of the heavy door that had been the recipient of their cries for several minutes. The thin layer of composure was slipping away from them rapidly, and they feared the ugly face of impatience from showing itself improper.
“Mr. Ahn!”
The servant tried once more. Desperation dug into skin with greedy nails. “If you do not answer I’m coming in, this is the final time.”
Silence again burdened its way through, pushing and shoving around the servant until they finally bit the bullet and slipped their way inside.Tucked away within the interior of the extravagant room lay an equally extravagant bed. The servant swallowed hard, sweat breaking across their brow when they felt the piercing eyes of a tiger raise in alert.
“Mr. Ahn,”
They tried again, moving closer to the side of the bed. “You have correspondence waiting for you.”
Pristine hands offered forth the cream letter.Xan cracked open his eyes, blinking back the shower of sunlight that danced in ribbons from the airy ceiling. His nose was pushed into the glossy fur at Vikal’s neck, arm slung lazily over the panther’s side. It dipped up and down, in a rhythmic, steady breath.
“Cool, just set it there I’ll read it later,”
He mumbled, sleep dragging down his words into incoherency. “Mr.Ahn, I have orders that you must read it at present, I am not allowed to leave until you do so.”
Xan raised a hand and gestured with a sloppiness towards the servant.
“Go on then, read it to me,”
Xan added. Vikal huffed in annoyance, his tail slapping against the mattress with heavy thumps. He let out a throaty growl.The servant swallowed, unsure if their orders would allow such an open interpretation. How could they tell if the man was even listening? He lay sprawled with tangled limbs in the satin sheets of the bed, two large and increasingly annoyed felines curled up tightly around him.
“Go on,”
Xan added after a beat of silence. He could hear the shifting sounds of discomfort emanating from the servant. “I’m listening, relax.”
The servant nodded rapidly, their hands shaking as they lifted up the smooth paper.
“Right--- uhm”
The clearing of a throat. Then--the letter. Xan listened to the words the servant stumbled over. The contents were odd, much too odd for his sluggish brain to break down and ingest properly. The man suddenly sat upright, twisting a naked torso to gesture behind him for the letter the servant clutched in nervous palms.The gaze he met was wide, startled, taking a brief moment to flicker across the unkempt form of Xan’s appearance. Hair splayed, olive skin warmed in the honeyed morning light, eyes heavy and half lidded with the drug of sleep. Xan gestured once more for the letter, impatient, before settling back into the embrace of the mattress. The thin paper ignited into a cream glow as the man read it, one arm propped upright and leaving him no choice but to offer up the letter in the company of the sun.
“Tejara of Sebaja,”
Soft lips murmured to themselves, turning the name over on his tongue to test out the sound it made. “You will probably need this,”
the servant added, an afterthought. Xan’s mouth began to open in confusion, the beginning of a question sticking in the back of his throat when he was suddenly flinching back against a ribbony form of silk tossed upon him. Before he could curse in protest, the servant was no longer there--wait no, that wasn’t quite it. Xan was no longer there.Dry, crumbling earth bit into any exposed flesh it could sink its teeth into. Xan shifted uncomfortably, arching his back off the ground to avoid the uneven gravel and rock that replaced the caress of a mattress. The morning glow that had set itself up in his airy room had festered, like vinegar spoiling creamy milk into something pungent and repulsive. What enveloped him now was an eerie gloom. It stuck to his skin with echoes of desperation and silent cries.
Xan sat upright, his mind hungry for an explanation as to his surroundings. Crumbling stone jut out from the ground like broken bones. A rusting iron fence enclosed them into some kind of square. Wait--them? Xan’s gaze bolted backwards, retracing the figure his mind had written over.
“Um--hi,”
he tried, voice weak and struggling to make space for itself in the heavy air. “Kind of a long shot but uh...any idea you know what this is all about?”
He gestured with a lazy twirl of his finger to the deserted nightmare they suddenly found themselves in.coded by xayah.ღ
iridescent.
𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 ; 𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜
...
valen de malisio
One day free. One day to do whatever they wanted until they’d be called upon for another event. Others may have taken the opportunity to meet their fellows, to socialize with more than those they’d danced with. Valen chose to spend it solo.
He didn’t get to sleep until about dawn, tossing and turning as his mind replayed the night’s activities over and over again like a broken record. Why did he act the way he did? Why did he flee shortly after the masks vanished with little to no explanation? Yes, he may be very insecure about his looks, but that didn’t mean he could just vanish without so much of a “thanks for the dance, but I must depart now.” No. All Valen’s date received was a short “I-I’m sorry, but I have to go” before he turned on his heels and scurried away. Stupid stupid stupid. And he turned back to his other side.
Waking up to the sun shining directly in his face, he guessed it was a little after noon. Instead of walking around the mansion and risking running into his date, he chose to dress quickly and head out to the beach he’d walked on when he first arrived. Finding the beach pleasantly deserted, he plopped down and allowed the water to lap at his toes and the sun to warm his skin. He spent the remaining time with the sunshine collecting seashells, thinking about the pretty little necklaces he could create when he returned to his chambers.
Once back in there, he deposited the many shells onto a chair and crossed back to the door to open it for whomever just knocked. Someone must have been reading his mind or heard his internal pleas for no socialization because standing in front of him was a staff member carrying his dinner on a tray. Thanking the staff profusely, he took the tray and shut the door gently behind him, crossing over to his bed and carefully setting the tray down upon it. Holding back a squeal of glee, as he was never allowed to have meals in his room let alone on his bed back at home, he began to eat. Having not eaten anything all day, Valen was ravenous.
Digging through his belongings for the string he knew he packed, his hands closed upon the scissors that were gifted to him the previous day. Well, at least he could use them to cut this string. Moving the finished dinner tray to the chair and the shells to the bed, he set to work. And he worked until his fingers absolutely ached, but it was all worth it since he now had dozens of pretty necklaces to give to the kids once he arrived back home.
Yawning, Valen decided to call it quits. He decided to store the necklaces and scissors on the windowsill, allowing them to be bathed and illuminated by the moonlight. Usually, he slept in the nude, but feeling as if that would be scandalous in a place far away from home, pulled on a pair of linen, drawstring pants, threw an open fronted blue robe at the foot and crawled between the sheets. But then he realized how thirsty he was. He knew there was nothing left in the pitcher in his room given he had drank it all with dinner meaning he’d have to venture out to a common area.
Throwing the robe on, he walked out of his room, footsteps completely silent upon the floors of the mansion. In no time, he entered the room where he’d be able to get a glass of water, but there was already someone there. Well, there went his plans of no socialization. Maybe if he was quiet they wouldn’t notice him?
“Here I thought you had run away, robbing me of a dance.”
So much for that.
To make matters worse, it was the one who he thought wanted to eat him during the dance. Great. “Well, I’m here now. What… you asking for a dance right this second? Not exactly the right atmosphere.” Clenching his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake, he crossed the room to the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass, ignoring whatever was just said. His eyes followed the bird as it took flight before he raised the glass to his lips and drank greedily. When the space between them was suddenly minimized, Valen worked very hard to remain where he was instead of backing up several steps. But his feet remained rooted to the spot and he raised his gaze to stare directly at Ren.
“You weren’t so confident at the ball. Where’d this damn confidence come from?”
“Oh? You don’t like it? And here I thought you were the type to just eat confidence up.” He himself apparently needed to eat some more because he could tell that these newly found balls of steel would not last for much longer and then he really would be the lamb in the middle of the lion’s den.
“You’re mistaken. I fucking love it. I want to see how long you can keep it going.” And now there was even less distance. “How much would it take to make it disappear?”
Valen tried and failed to stop himself from snorting into his glass of water. "How long I can keep it going?” he repeated with a hum. “Mmm, I can go all night, baby.” He knew this wasn’t how the conversation was intended to go, but maybe he could turn the tides to his favor and send the other packing quickly so he could drink his water in peace.
But it looked like that wouldn’t be happening. Before he knew it, a hand was digging into his shoulder and wood was cutting into the small of his back, trapping him between Ren and the counter. “Awfully bold, aren’t we? Shall we test it then, baby?”
And was he about to get into his first ever fight? “Masks hide more than just our faces, you know,” he mumbled. “But yes, let’s test it.” Test what, he didn’t know. He too was not about to back down, however. “Unless. . . unless you’re too scared to do so?” Valen prayed that would be the answer so he could get the heck out of here and go to sleep.
The sound of cruel laughter hit his ears the same time that a chuckle was felt on his right one, lips brushing against the metal hoop part of his earring. Ren had leaned in close to Valen until his chuckle brushed against his ear, causing a shiver of both fear and disgust to go down his spine. “Scared? Oh no, I have fucking standards. Sleeping with you would be even below me, and that’s saying a lot. You’re too bloody easy. Took me a second, and you’re already crumbling.” Ren pulled his face back, pulling a drag from his cigarette and letting the smoke billow into the man’s face, as he remarked. “A fucking whore.”
Valen’s brows shot into his hairline at that. Sleep with him? What? “Woah woah woah. Sleep together? Oh, no. But it’s cute how your mind automatically thought of fucking,” He smiled a sickeningly sweet smile, fighting the urge to cough at the smoke. “I must say, you might want to reevaluate who you’re calling ‘too easy’ and ‘a fucking whore’ since you’re the one who thought sex was what I wanted when in reality, I was saying all of that just to get you to leave. I have no interest or desire whatsoever to sleep with you.” He reached forward and grabbed the cigarette out of Ren’s mouth, dropping it into the glass of water he was holding.
But then he had a better idea. Turning slightly, Valen set his glass down, grabbed the pitcher of water and dumped the entire thing over Ren’s head. “Oops, sorry. Thought you were the sink.” After setting the pitcher back on the counter, he began to walk away. “I'd change out of those wet clothes soon, or else you might get a fever.” Then he was gone.
He’d only been asleep for what felt like minutes (but was definitely hours), when he was shaken awake. Making a soft grumbling sound, Valen turned his head and slowly blinked his eyes open. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and grabbed the robe, throwing it on. The second his arms were through, a letter was shoved into his hands with the command to read it. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he began to read.
Though he read and reread it, nothing seemed to register apart from “remember this name, it might be the gate to finding your way back” and “Cesar of Bandiama”. Who was Cesar of Bandiama? Confused, Valen began to speak “Who is Cesar? Finding my way back from where?” he questioned, but when met with no response, finally looked up. And his mouth dropped open in shock.
Gone were the beige walls and red linens of his bedroom, replaced by thick, towering trees and grassy floors. Glancing back down at his letter with the hopes that it would offer some sort of explanation for this madness, he found that it was now a map. Great. So much for an explanation. The only words the map offered were “the key to finding your way back is near.” And where? Surely that stone tower far, far away wouldn’t be the key.
The sound of rustling caught his attention and Valen turned his head in time to see another figure emerging from the bushes. Ah, so this must be Cesar of Bandiama. Intending to meet him halfway, he began to walk over, though froze mid-step. Cesar of Bandiama was his date. Was the date he’d ran out on. Oops.
He didn’t even have to raise a hand and feel his cheeks to know that they were bright red. Not because he was shirtless in the middle of the forest, but because he was embarrassed by the dance night. “I-I,” he started, stuttering over the words. “I’m sorry for running out on you the other night. I just—“ Don’t like my face and pale in comparison to you? That didn’t sound like a good apology. “Yeah, sorry.” He held his hand out, hoping to make amends. “I’m Valen, nice to officially meet you, Cesar of Bandiama.”
He hoped Cesar of Bandiama wouldn’t be too angry with him. “I’m actually fluent Tyoinmin, if you’d like to speak that?” Since his own language, Lalavi, has elements of Tyoinmin and Tsuyoni, Valen made it a point to study both languages until he was fluent in each. Maybe this would help ease any anger felt by the other, should there be any.
He didn’t get to sleep until about dawn, tossing and turning as his mind replayed the night’s activities over and over again like a broken record. Why did he act the way he did? Why did he flee shortly after the masks vanished with little to no explanation? Yes, he may be very insecure about his looks, but that didn’t mean he could just vanish without so much of a “thanks for the dance, but I must depart now.” No. All Valen’s date received was a short “I-I’m sorry, but I have to go” before he turned on his heels and scurried away. Stupid stupid stupid. And he turned back to his other side.
Waking up to the sun shining directly in his face, he guessed it was a little after noon. Instead of walking around the mansion and risking running into his date, he chose to dress quickly and head out to the beach he’d walked on when he first arrived. Finding the beach pleasantly deserted, he plopped down and allowed the water to lap at his toes and the sun to warm his skin. He spent the remaining time with the sunshine collecting seashells, thinking about the pretty little necklaces he could create when he returned to his chambers.
Once back in there, he deposited the many shells onto a chair and crossed back to the door to open it for whomever just knocked. Someone must have been reading his mind or heard his internal pleas for no socialization because standing in front of him was a staff member carrying his dinner on a tray. Thanking the staff profusely, he took the tray and shut the door gently behind him, crossing over to his bed and carefully setting the tray down upon it. Holding back a squeal of glee, as he was never allowed to have meals in his room let alone on his bed back at home, he began to eat. Having not eaten anything all day, Valen was ravenous.
Digging through his belongings for the string he knew he packed, his hands closed upon the scissors that were gifted to him the previous day. Well, at least he could use them to cut this string. Moving the finished dinner tray to the chair and the shells to the bed, he set to work. And he worked until his fingers absolutely ached, but it was all worth it since he now had dozens of pretty necklaces to give to the kids once he arrived back home.
Yawning, Valen decided to call it quits. He decided to store the necklaces and scissors on the windowsill, allowing them to be bathed and illuminated by the moonlight. Usually, he slept in the nude, but feeling as if that would be scandalous in a place far away from home, pulled on a pair of linen, drawstring pants, threw an open fronted blue robe at the foot and crawled between the sheets. But then he realized how thirsty he was. He knew there was nothing left in the pitcher in his room given he had drank it all with dinner meaning he’d have to venture out to a common area.
Throwing the robe on, he walked out of his room, footsteps completely silent upon the floors of the mansion. In no time, he entered the room where he’d be able to get a glass of water, but there was already someone there. Well, there went his plans of no socialization. Maybe if he was quiet they wouldn’t notice him?
“Here I thought you had run away, robbing me of a dance.”
So much for that.
To make matters worse, it was the one who he thought wanted to eat him during the dance. Great. “Well, I’m here now. What… you asking for a dance right this second? Not exactly the right atmosphere.” Clenching his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake, he crossed the room to the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass, ignoring whatever was just said. His eyes followed the bird as it took flight before he raised the glass to his lips and drank greedily. When the space between them was suddenly minimized, Valen worked very hard to remain where he was instead of backing up several steps. But his feet remained rooted to the spot and he raised his gaze to stare directly at Ren.
“You weren’t so confident at the ball. Where’d this damn confidence come from?”
“Oh? You don’t like it? And here I thought you were the type to just eat confidence up.” He himself apparently needed to eat some more because he could tell that these newly found balls of steel would not last for much longer and then he really would be the lamb in the middle of the lion’s den.
“You’re mistaken. I fucking love it. I want to see how long you can keep it going.” And now there was even less distance. “How much would it take to make it disappear?”
Valen tried and failed to stop himself from snorting into his glass of water. "How long I can keep it going?” he repeated with a hum. “Mmm, I can go all night, baby.” He knew this wasn’t how the conversation was intended to go, but maybe he could turn the tides to his favor and send the other packing quickly so he could drink his water in peace.
But it looked like that wouldn’t be happening. Before he knew it, a hand was digging into his shoulder and wood was cutting into the small of his back, trapping him between Ren and the counter. “Awfully bold, aren’t we? Shall we test it then, baby?”
And was he about to get into his first ever fight? “Masks hide more than just our faces, you know,” he mumbled. “But yes, let’s test it.” Test what, he didn’t know. He too was not about to back down, however. “Unless. . . unless you’re too scared to do so?” Valen prayed that would be the answer so he could get the heck out of here and go to sleep.
The sound of cruel laughter hit his ears the same time that a chuckle was felt on his right one, lips brushing against the metal hoop part of his earring. Ren had leaned in close to Valen until his chuckle brushed against his ear, causing a shiver of both fear and disgust to go down his spine. “Scared? Oh no, I have fucking standards. Sleeping with you would be even below me, and that’s saying a lot. You’re too bloody easy. Took me a second, and you’re already crumbling.” Ren pulled his face back, pulling a drag from his cigarette and letting the smoke billow into the man’s face, as he remarked. “A fucking whore.”
Valen’s brows shot into his hairline at that. Sleep with him? What? “Woah woah woah. Sleep together? Oh, no. But it’s cute how your mind automatically thought of fucking,” He smiled a sickeningly sweet smile, fighting the urge to cough at the smoke. “I must say, you might want to reevaluate who you’re calling ‘too easy’ and ‘a fucking whore’ since you’re the one who thought sex was what I wanted when in reality, I was saying all of that just to get you to leave. I have no interest or desire whatsoever to sleep with you.” He reached forward and grabbed the cigarette out of Ren’s mouth, dropping it into the glass of water he was holding.
But then he had a better idea. Turning slightly, Valen set his glass down, grabbed the pitcher of water and dumped the entire thing over Ren’s head. “Oops, sorry. Thought you were the sink.” After setting the pitcher back on the counter, he began to walk away. “I'd change out of those wet clothes soon, or else you might get a fever.” Then he was gone.
◉ ◉ ◉
He’d only been asleep for what felt like minutes (but was definitely hours), when he was shaken awake. Making a soft grumbling sound, Valen turned his head and slowly blinked his eyes open. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and grabbed the robe, throwing it on. The second his arms were through, a letter was shoved into his hands with the command to read it. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he began to read.
Though he read and reread it, nothing seemed to register apart from “remember this name, it might be the gate to finding your way back” and “Cesar of Bandiama”. Who was Cesar of Bandiama? Confused, Valen began to speak “Who is Cesar? Finding my way back from where?” he questioned, but when met with no response, finally looked up. And his mouth dropped open in shock.
Gone were the beige walls and red linens of his bedroom, replaced by thick, towering trees and grassy floors. Glancing back down at his letter with the hopes that it would offer some sort of explanation for this madness, he found that it was now a map. Great. So much for an explanation. The only words the map offered were “the key to finding your way back is near.” And where? Surely that stone tower far, far away wouldn’t be the key.
The sound of rustling caught his attention and Valen turned his head in time to see another figure emerging from the bushes. Ah, so this must be Cesar of Bandiama. Intending to meet him halfway, he began to walk over, though froze mid-step. Cesar of Bandiama was his date. Was the date he’d ran out on. Oops.
He didn’t even have to raise a hand and feel his cheeks to know that they were bright red. Not because he was shirtless in the middle of the forest, but because he was embarrassed by the dance night. “I-I,” he started, stuttering over the words. “I’m sorry for running out on you the other night. I just—“ Don’t like my face and pale in comparison to you? That didn’t sound like a good apology. “Yeah, sorry.” He held his hand out, hoping to make amends. “I’m Valen, nice to officially meet you, Cesar of Bandiama.”
He hoped Cesar of Bandiama wouldn’t be too angry with him. “I’m actually fluent Tyoinmin, if you’d like to speak that?” Since his own language, Lalavi, has elements of Tyoinmin and Tsuyoni, Valen made it a point to study both languages until he was fluent in each. Maybe this would help ease any anger felt by the other, should there be any.
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
ravensunset
no thoughts just vibes
anita illeva
A
Anita hadn’t thought this place would have an effect on her, and certainly not so soon.
Morning came, and despite a restless night, Anita pulled herself out of bed. She hadn’t been given instructions for the day; it came as a relief, and as far as she was concerned, an opportunity. With the knowledge and magic the hosts showed, it was past time to have a look around.
Anita’s door opened easily into the rest of Marblewish Mansion. The staircase greeting her shone like the morning sky and sang with her footsteps, the marble halls decorated with murals and paintings and growing plants. The halls seemed endless, corner after corner, and Anita sank contently into stretching her legs with the walk, noting the twists and turns.
Ren knew he should have been looking ahead of himself when he was rounding the corner, but he’d glanced down when rounding it, and the collision that followed he refused to blame himself for. Just because he wasn’t looking, didn’t mean others shouldn’t. A startled, “What the fuck?” escaped his lips as his cigarette was knocked loose from his fingers along with the lighter.
The collision sent Anita back a few steps, the lighter clanging onto the floor and cigarette— still lit— catching on the fabric of her shawl. It took her a second to process the sudden appearance of the man in front of her, seeming just as startled, and regain her balance before she notices the small flame that’d caught. She pulled off the shawl, only half thinking, and tossed it onto the ground, stepping on it to extinguish the flame. Once satisfied, she looked up at him, eyes briefly narrowing. She wasn’t unwilling to apologize— so long as he did first.
A flame flickered to life and died, Ren’s eyes flicking down to the ground to watch the shawl be stomped on. Arson wasn’t in his taste, but even then he steeled his face into a blank look of nonchalance, unashamedly curt. “You should watch where you’re going.”
When she returned to her room at last, it seemed to welcome her, the door sliding noiselessly shut.
The events of the day spun circles behind her eyes. The argument– on day two, as though she’d been trying to cause problems– his eyes more vivid than the flames. Anita tried to put him out of her mind, and thankfully, there was more to focus on.
Xiaoran. Chance was a tricky creature, but on rare occasion, a friendly one. Her eyes looked the same; her smile looked different. Winter back home felt blurred into the pleasant island weather, now both marked with her presence. It had been deep into the evening that they’d explored the grounds before the night had summoned them both back.
Anita did not manage to dwell on it long. Her body felt as though it had spent the day running a marathon, not merely taking a stroll, as though it was being badly drained, and needed the rest. She fell asleep nearly as soon as she hit her bed.
Anita was not usually much of a dreamer, and certainly not one who’s strayed far from reality. That day they were vivid and disorienting, any manner of shapes and figures pushing through her sleep. The island seemed to laugh at her, and something much, much further seemed to call for her.
A knock on her door shook Anita out of her slumber. Her eyes opened to bright swirling colors, fading into the soft blue light from her window, the gold details on her walls. Had she slept through the dawn? Anita was used to waking into still-night air, taking advantage of the mornings, but perhaps the isle’s ocean air had played a stronger effect on her habits than she’d realized. The knock continued, louder and more urgent.
“Coming!” Anita yelled out, blinking the dreams out of her eyes and swinging her feet out of bed. Her fingers closed around the cape that had arrived for her with the room, wrapping it around herself to preserve some modesty as the knock seemed to have not the time to wait for her to be properly dressed.
The servant, callously impatient, opened the door themselves as Anita finished fastening her cape around her neck. A letter was thrust out at her.
“Oh! Um, thank you,” Anita managed out before opening the letter, curiosity defeating tiredness. Her eyes narrowed at the words. A test? Had they heard the commotion yesterday, were they upset at her about it? She whispered the attached name out under her breath.
Anita looked up, perhaps to interrogate the servant, but instead, she felt a breeze wash over her. Her feet, still bare, touched not cool marble but blades of grass, poking up at her. The magic woven into her cloak, for which she was achingly grateful for, kept her neither warm nor cold, but she could still tell how chilly the early morning was.
The leaves above her rustled. Ahead, a clearing, and buildings scattering it; Anita noticed immediately how silent the village ahead was compared to the forest behind. It was abandoned at best, and though the crumbling structures would provide shelter, their state of deterioration seemed to ensure they’d not hold any warmth.
A shiver ran through Anita’s body, though not from the cold.
The letter in her hands had changed.
She had not at first noticed a companion next to her, but as soon as she did, it was though he’d been there all along with her. Dark hair, silver eyes, freckles set into his face. He looked captivating, every feature arranged perfectly in place, though something more played at the edges of his expression. Anita wondered what mask he’d worn two nights before.
“Fae’an of En Malis?” Anita asked, speaking again the name given out to her. It felt wrong to break the silent tranquility of the scene they’d been dropped in, but she could not ignore his presence, either. Should she have opted for a more formal greeting? Given their mutual states of undress, it felt they were already past that, “Good morning. I can only assume you were taken by as much surprise as I was,” She remarked, allowing an easy smile to form across her features, tone kept light, as though their circumstances were no concern.
She did not know how long they were to stay out here, which direction would hold the way back. But there seemed to be little danger, readily available running water, and a clue between her fingers. If this was a test of bonds, as the initial letter suggested, it meant the goal was working together as much as it was getting back.
coded by xayah.ღ
cavitea
𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧
hisoki of tsusaye
A
Since birth it had been the sun and the moon, woven into the delicate waltz of battlegrounds and bloodshed. They were worshipped within the boundaries of Tsusaye as entities of their own, living and breathing with the power to divine fate. The god Nichisu stood in the shining might of the sun to hail upon the eldest brother in a visage of molten gold and victory. His counterpart Yunaye sat in the melancholy silence of the second born, a dance of silver snakes in darkened grass, illuminated by a forlorn moon and the whispers of prosperity. Here, in the silence of a star-freckled room was the wilting latter half of the whole.
Silver grazed through weakened eyes as delicate flowers tossed themselves weakly from their hold on inky locks to decorate the worn carpet below. No comfort was found in the plush folds of furniture or ever-impatient shuffling of chess pieces. Only a stare, hardened and stone placed deep into a mirror.
Childish, a voice of his own hissed in his head.
He was a fool to have thought the event could transpire without magical hitches, a grating defeat he took in a bitter grimace and a swipe towards the parchment stacked neatly on his bed. "A ball for puppets, strings pulled by malevolent masters." Fingers pinched away the grating musings of his mind, a body falling backwards onto a bed meant for the love of another. Stars continued to dance above him, shaping themselves into animated constellations until the weariness of recounting the night took over.
------------------->◇<--------------------
With a rising sun and the empty promises towards an uneventful day it still left Hisoki meandering along the expanse of the claustrophobic room. Knick knacks and beloved ornamentation suffocated the loveless desires of his body, twitching hands sending the occasional ivory piece along squares in a game against space.
Since dawn he had been awake, dressed plainly to observe the clashing of pale moon and obsidian glass with one another as fingers hovered over and again passed by the reigning horse tossing its enchanted head in the air. The corners of his mouth twitched down as a pawn moved itself against his bishop and once more sent a piece toppling indignantly towards the ground before a pacing stride. A narrowing of eyes were all that showed the real displeasure in the act, a body stooping with silks to retrieve the besmirched piece.
A star, he thought, tightening his grip on the smooth surface of carven stone, a bend in his spine remaining enough to reminisce on the glance shared and the potential meanings dancing around it.
Him, of all people.
The remnants of childish laughter, a lingering sensation of a promise in hooked fingers.
Not something I can risk thinking of now.
A straightened back set the bishop back onto the safety of a wooden table, a slip of a grasp moving only to reach into loosened black strands and itch along the lengths. He felt weary despite rest, aching in a stiffness that prepared for defense, a coiled viper in desperate need of respite. But sighs were the only grace given to the man, hands reaching beyond the still-moving chess pieces to grip at sheer fabric and layer it around exposed arms. And then he was gone, trailing in stiffness along the vine-covered paths through mirrored halls and vibrant spirals.
In a desperate effort it would be the simplicity of a warmed drink to soothe even the throbs of a scheming mind failed. Hands wrapped dutifully around a shimmering cup, steps taking him away from the sounds of others as Hisoki stewed, pondered, and evidently failed his own line of thoughts. The halls surrounding him bent against the will of his path, maze-like and indomitable as the lingering frustration from the previous night passed over the appeal of tea.
Steps of shadows moving through walls, presence shown in light but not in sound. Xiaoran’s eyes trail the different paintings in the hallway, scouring for clues in their veneer. A woman’s portrait stares back at her, red lips curved into a smile; sometimes her face repeats itself, the same features echoing in other art throughout the manor. It could be vanity speaking here, the odd desire to see oneself in multitude not being uncommon to have for those higher in status and thus, often, ego. Still, something else hums; a melody that stretches further than simple meanings, further than time. A faint trail calls to her, and elected to follow it, she turns—
Splash.
A hot liquid soaks through the layers of her dress, a burning sensation occurring where it meets skin. What the fuck? Fingers wipe away some of the liquid, a herbal scent entering the nose — Tea? Did something just spill some damn tea on her? A glare that points; it softens but does not quite fall upon catching the moonflower weaver of last night, almost empty teacup in the hand.
“You…” She states, both as an addressal to him as to what he had done.
His tea was gone and in its place the crimson bird from the night before, fluttering her wings in the probably righteous upset to the spill. Granted, Hisoki mused briefly, it had been she that took to trapeze so quickly around corners. A venomous hiss towards the previous night however and a lack of decorum pulled sharply at the corners of his mouth.
“I suppose we never did have the precious time of exchanging honorifics last night, you.” Sharpened looks were offered to the now useless cup before a gathering of shadowed mist took precarious hold and slipped it away. “Perhaps —” You should watch we’re you’re going; words bitten off into a metallic taste as a sudden tremble to fingers unraveled the covering cloth of his arms.
There wasn’t time to let a cultural difference pull down the wrought gates so carefully built. Unceremoniously then it was passed to the other, an outsider glance of ‘thrown’ perhaps before busy feet began to move. Anything to hide the foreign growth of warmth along exposed skin
“Use this.”
No room was left for response however, a growing need to cover himself overweighing the garment offered away to the gilded mind he had tapped so faintly upon the night before. A pitiful teacup trailed behind him, blanketed by a wavering form of shade as the uncertainty grew in the mind of Hisoki on his way back towards the sanctity of his room.
A chessboard awaited him weakly, pieces switched around in a pattern revealing of an attempted cheat that only pushed the hurried man into another bite at his finger. Surely he had taken the right actions there, relinquishing his fabrics to comfort her. Would that ever comfort someone as her? A thought wasted on the moment, irrelevant to the itching tightness in his chest and causing a sweep to the chess board, writhing pieces showing flippant anger at the motion.
"Silence, all of you. There's something more pressing. There's ..."
His words never finished themselves, choked behind spilled tea as the time moved to pass and a gnawing sensation only proved to grow in strength into a restless night.
------------------->◇<--------------------
The uncertainty led eventually to early knocks on a door.
Knocks that, as Hisoki quickly learned could only spell a further despair upon a pride-soaked mind. Comforts of the night so rarely allowed and now almost frowned upon as a letter unfolded and feet found themselves tickled by grass.
A sway marked the disorientation, a hand clutching away the parchment as another leveled outwards to catch at air and instead pulled along green stalks. Eyes blinked away the sudden sun, the sweetness of flowers in full bloom hitting strongly into a nose longing of home.
The breeze of warm spring tickled along skin often covered, a rattling of the shadows along the length pulling up and close over pale muscles in a wispy second skin. It was sinful to expose so much, an offer towards intimacy within the comforts of his culture and yet so plainly settled not only in front of servants but here, in front of a complete stranger. A person he didn't know, another dot to a galaxy unexplored.
And this person was a star: filled with quickly burning gas and the radiant colors waiting only till the symphony of death. It was sigh-inducing to see the reaction given to himself, hands already moving to pull closer the flowing fabrics on himself as he looked away from the exclamations of 'ah'. "I suppose you must be Zhi Kui, of Vexiran lands?" A curse of copper on his tongue, a lingering feeling that the mechanical kingdom had yet to finish its taunt over him coming out in an unexpected bitterness of his voice.
"It appears our gracious hosts have taken most generous liberties with our bodily autonomy and mean to have us dance like ribbon monkeys." Hands slipped from their prude hold on fabric to pull open clenched parchment and offer a vague squint to it. "The tree over there," he pointed towards the undeniable growth "If you're not in the mood to complain perhaps we should start there, yes? In my homeland there is a skill taught to youth to gain vantage points and this may aide us in that regard."
A look, a coldness wrapped in feigned warmth was spared to the stranger, pity rolling over cheeks for the sharpest moment before a hand was loosely offered. "Assuming I'm not the monstrosity your exclamations claim me to be I can assure you I'll do as I can to ensure your safety until we manage to part ways." Smile, you fool. The stiffness of a upwards line mimicked his back from the previous day, twitching in a foreign smoothness under indifferent eyes.
MOOD
oh, a pity
OUTFIT
discord.
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
demonology
𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉.
mpiady tejara
B
Fear wraps around their slumbering throat, but the dream within overrides it. Their sleep fills them with curiosity, along with the simultaneous desire to kill it, and when they wake, they see Izolda's face, her smile, and the caress of her whisper as it slipped into his ear. "Machines that will change the world."
It should not have been her words that struck this inner conflict; she had pricked him with her thorns and then wilted into the ballroom's pyre. A strange dream, he decided. Their eyes opened as though they took a great breath. Embers cry in the fireplace. It is a work of pure stone, almost bone-chilled. Teja's hand inches forward, disgusted by the clamminess, but he is glad for the warmth. More importantly, he is glad for the light. Quickly setting themself upright, they add another piece of wood, wiping their hands free of soot on the carpet, cringing upon realizing what the ground below them was, and then watch as fire eats its fill.
A knock comes at the door, and Teja scrambles to their feet. Fabric drapes around their hips with the sudden weight of gravity, and their hair falls into their eyes as they look down. They unselfconsciously blink, examining blankly the linens they'd dressed in, nor the leather wrapped around their waist. The evening had left Teja buzzed, and in the flourish of curiosity, the digestion of a bit too much wine, and the worry for the coming day's agenda, they had decided to try on the casual attire given to them. The Queen, once more, thought only of what would make them the most akin to the warrior that they were to be known as. What caused his pause now was not an enduring surprise at what he was wearing, but rather the fact that he quite liked the lighter tones against his skin. It glimmered against the fire, and its shadows casted well across the cream cloth. The thought was left to be ate by the waking sea.
They opened the door demurely, but quickly put away any trepidations upon realizing who they were and where they are. A letter on an ornate platter rested in the hands of a man across from him. "Oh," he said, looking towards it before remembering to look the man in the eyes. "How can I help you?"
"Good morning, sir," the man across from him said with a bow, holding out the letter upon rising.
"Who is this from?" Grabbing the letter and pulling out their gift in equal time, they avoided any embarrassment of ripping the letter open by simply cutting it with the dagger.
"Your hosts, Ladies Innocenzia and Enya."
Their lips turned downward a small bit, though not at the mention of the hosts. Rather, the look on the man's face was rather smug. Tejara decided not to read too much into it, instead focusing on the letter.
"I can't leave until you open it." Now, his tone read just as confident, almost demeaning.
"Is there a reason why?" A broil beneath Tejara's skin, set by the look of the servant across from him. "Is there something I should know?" Their voice was ran over hot gravel, a though they were throwing stones as the impetuous man across from them. The servant's face shifted, "Oh no sir."
Yet there was a hint of a smile in his voice, alongside impatience. He wanted Tejara to open the letter. They looked down. Must be something about the contents. When he looked back at the other man, he suddenly worried for his life. The dagger still in his hands, he rushed forward. "Show me your true form!" he growled, poising the dagger above the butler's oil-diamond eye.
"Sir?" Terror had clouded the other man's vision. He shook, clanking his teeth back and forth as his jaw worked out, "Sir, I am a servant of Mirror Isle, nothing more."
Tejara did not move. The butler continued. "The letter in an invitation to today's events.
Standing in the hall, Tejara glanced left and right, spotting another of the staff along the way. He squinted, spotting that she also carried a similar platter, with a similar letter. She squeaked upon spotting the warrior, running down the hall as a mouse. As the midnight cat he was, Teja scattered, dropping the poor butler, moving quickly back into his room, and stretching the parchment out.
"Apologies," Tejara mumbled, sheepishly, as they examined the splayed out paper. The letter rolled out a name: Xan Ahn. A shuffle, darkness, and then, he looked up to see a fogged landscape. Stone below him, as though the ground were made of ash deposits.
He growled with the rage of his heartbeat. Ba-bump-bump-bump Ba-bump-bump-bump. Their body was flame, a white light against the harrowing death of wherever they were. "What magic," he grumbled, turning in a dazed circle to better view the headstones at his feet and the volcanic sky. Monsters. Gone was the curiosity, the thought that there was anything more mythical and fearful than this. His body hummed, though he could not decipher if it was the monster he suspected to be the butler or the adrenaline from being transported to his grave. "What fucking witchcraft?"
They were naked, standing in whitened cloth against a solemn night, without either sword for protection and none for their body. The dagger and the crinkled map in their palm were the only worthy things near them, besides perhaps unearthing a bone or two. A headstone. Sometimes, Tejara wondered at the gods and their choice of irony. Perhaps, it was the monsters and their magic which played great coincidences as this. Their fingers wrapped around the iron fence around them, letting the powdered rust settle and stain their clothes.
"Um--hi," a voice came to them. They looked back, slowly, with slitted eyes.
"Kind of a long shot but uh...any idea you know that this is all about?"
They then thought back to the letter, specifically the name they had read before finding themself here. "I believe a trick is being played upon us." Their voice was even and unfulfilled, unlike their tone from the night before. The sun is drier in fear. "You're Xan Ahn of Bandiama, then?"
They turned their body fully, but still keeping a safe distance between themself and the other. "If you received a letter too, then you must know my name. Tell it and we can work ourselves free."
coded by xayah.ღ
neon reverie
ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟᴇ
xiaoran liumei
S
Indignation, it sits fittingly in the frame of a woman abandoned on the dancefloor, but feels too extreme for a soul too jaded to care.. Curiosity, how her wings flutter upon the prospect of hidden shades and secret planes; Xiaoran seeks to know more, inked secret still alive and calling to be used. Can you call it sincere, though, when nature taught her to be anything but that ? Empathy, it crawls, digs its fingers through the dead it was buried with; a sliver of a thought trembles — we truly aren’t that different. It might be the most honest one, and yet, the one she cannot afford.
Imprisoned, she lays, awake and tired. Isn’t this what you wanted? A voice whispers, hands heavy like history on the shoulders. Crowned cages; the perfect place to live on hollowed hearts. Numb limbs stretch out, pale fingers shielding the eyes from the sun that is always, regrettably, arriving too soon. If she could, she would stay in bed for the whole day. Alas, wishes weren’t meant to be fulfilled. At least not hers.
Xiaoran knows what to do today, suspicion rattling in her head the moment the hosts had shown themselves. A strange mansion with even stranger owners; so many unknown factors, so much mystery. Surely, there were things to be found if one tried to look for them?
The marble statues glance down at her, smiling.
━─━─━━─━「₪」━━─━─━─━
Voices further down the hall; they bend in agitated motions, twist like vines on the edge of tightening around throats. A rough timbre of smoke clashes with the sound of frost, their qualities stirring a deep familiarity within bones. It is blood that calls to blood — like hatred does to regret — and memories of snowflakes falling — like laughter does with time — flicker.
Xiaoran did not need to see to know.
Matters of diplomacy advocate for pretense; the smoothing of wrinkles, the cleansing of dirt, the veneering of cracks — the image of perfection smirks, powerful. As heir, she knows that the familial responsibility rests on her shoulders to reign the troubled in and ensure alliances stay alliances. But maybe Xiaoran is tired of scrubbing dirt that stays under your nails, and perhaps she is just done with absolution for the sake of a last name. Besides, Anita is not just someone; they go further back in time than ghosts.
Her gaze lowers at the cloak in her hands; she grips it tighter, before reluctantly putting it on. Discomfort crawls with the knowledge of it belonging to another, but it was better than Renshu catching her stained dress.
“Ah, I thought I heard something unpleasant crawling about.” A few long strides take her where she needs to be, right next to Anita, her hand planting a soft but supporting grip on her shoulder. “Anita, love, do not waste your time asking bloody parasites to give something instead of derive,” dark hues narrow over to similar ones.
“They aren’t worth it.”
━─━─━━─━「₪」━━─━─━─━
“I apologize for my brother. He has…..issues.” her arm was loosely circled around Anita’s as they strolled through the garden. She does not look at her while speaking, gaze instead capturing the petals and thorns of roses. Old memories scratch the steel that has locked them down under; a young girl giggles, snowflakes in her hair and frost in her breath. She is grown up now, and Xiaoran can’t quite bear it… Foolish enough, she can’t look at the evidence of how time passes on, despite everything.
Anita’s lips turned up at the words. As unpleasant as the encounter had been at the moment, with Xiaoran’s arm around hers and the air of the garden, the idea of having almost had her shawl go up in flames seemed nothing short of amusing, “On the contrary. I apologize that that is your brother,” Her words were light, teasing. The knowledge of this part of Xiaoran’s life, her home, made up for anything else. She seemed, now, less ghost-like than Anita’s first impression of her had; almost unfamiliar, one who she was learning about all over again, “But really, you couldn’t have left him at home?” She asked, trying to catch a word, a smile.
Perhaps time only strikes its fist on those deserving of it, because catching the same teasing sparks in eyes older but not old brings back the image of a face Xiaoran can vividly recall from the past. Anita’s hues shine like stained glass; some bits have become more refined over the years, while others gleam just the same in their pure, unrestricted ways. It’s both a precious and cruel thing to witness—- because how can one protect this, living in a world that knows cruelty best. Xiaoran, bruised by a history she will spare Anita from ever knowing, can only offer half a smile in return.
“If I could, you would’ve never had the displeasure of meeting him just now.” bitter feelings stuck in the throat, a curse she can’t get rid of unless her hands seek more blood than they already have. Her moral compass might bend, but it will never bow. “Speaking of home, how is Seyvershina? It sure has been a damn while. And how have you been?”
A breath catches in her throat. Xiaoran’s smile is half-formed, empty; there is a young girl next to her older cousin’s friend, doing everything she can to make her laugh, and more often than not, succeeding, catching it and using it to warm cold hands. Anita does not know whether she has lost that ability or whether Xiaoran has— though their whole walk, she had not given a true smile. If it stings, Anita does not show it. She continues as though nothing has been noticed.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Anita let the words hang just an instant longer than they meant to. She could not say much more, no I missed you, only the cold truth, “Same as always. This is a lovely change of scenery.” Anita reached down, letting her hands brush against a flower’s pink petals. She realized, then, as much as Xiaoran might be hiding, there is just as much she cannot say. The question, how is it back home, could not be answered, although Anita wished she did not have to resort to practiced formality with her of all people,
“And you?” Maybe just a bit of prying, “Enjoyed the dance? Is that a borrowed cloak–” A poke, another tease, but Anita’s words cut off. The world swam before her eyes, twisting, blurring. Anita stumbled, grasp tightening around Xiaoran’s arm to keep her balance as it again cleared.
Words bitten down on defensive tongues; the moon’s cloak was never meant to be hers — it was a mistake, one easily rectified after today.. Her hand reaches out to stabilize the sudden stagger, unknown haze shrouding one’s bright eyes for a moment. Worry seeps into Xiaoran’s being, a hushed whisper seeking relief.
“Are you well?” She asks, to which an easy smile responds, alongside a dismissing wave — nothing’s wrong, it spells.
But something inside cracks like thunder; a hiss in the ears, full of conviction and empty of faults. The lie, Xiaoran decides then, will find its peace for today. A pretense for a pretense; the silence stretches, protecting both souls drowning in matters far complexer than words.. In spite of their differences, the two women understand it very well.
Don’t ask questions you can’t know the answer to.
━─━─━━─━「₪」━━─━─━─━
The third day wakes her up with the sound of incessant knocking. A muted and muttered response invites a servant into the room, another envelope in their possession. Sleep swaying in her head still, Xiaoran exudes a long yawn, hand rubbing the exhaustion in her temple.
A vague string of words greet her once more; unsaid weights dangle in front of her, hung like a prize or a noose. Kalala — the name is barely whispered in the mind before environments blur and whiz. What once felt like cold marble, suddenly became soft and very wet beneath her feet, dirt sinking where weight is placed.An utterly unpleasant odor surrounds her, and Xiaoran has to use her sleeve to block her nose in defense of it.
A swamp.
She was in a swamp.
“Bloody lovely…” Disgust flashes across her face as she lifts the now dirty and wet edges of her nightdress. It is then when the figure of another flashes in the corner of her eye; a small, round face greets her. Their bewildered expression dances so freely, so openly, that Xiaoran has to hold back a scoff. Innocence never bodes well in games like these.
“Kalala, I presume?” she addresses, hand resting on her hip. “It seems that the hosts desire us to trek through a bloody swamp. I say we find dryer land first; anything less feeling like straight up mud will do. “
MOOD
r u fcking kidding me
OUTFIT
[discord]
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
arthur morgan.
be loyal to what matters
anastius goswami
T
pulling the bedding away from himself, he planted his feet upon the cold flooring. a gentle huff of air came from his nose as he pushed himself away from the warmth of his bed, only for him to quickly grab his silk robe. colors of gold and cream, hints of black designs adorned it, hugging to his body like it was made only for his body. as he tied the robe around himself, anastius made his way over to the window and pulled open the curtains. rays of sunlight beamed within the dark room, warming everything it touched. a faint smile grew on his face, turning on his heels and venturing towards sharmila who was peacefully sleeping on her silk pillow. reaching out and giving her a soft pet, anastius began to get ready for the day, looking forward to taking a early morning stroll.
~~~~
anastius was content within his hidden little sanctuary, the sound of little birds and insects were all that could be heard as allowed the morning sun hit against his skin. soft shade of the multicolored trees, a mix of chill and warmth made goosebumps form against his body— a sensation that was more then different to the priest, as life of constant sun rays was all his body knew of. though he wouldn’t call it a bad different, but perhaps sooner or later he’ll develop some kind of head cold if he wasn’t careful. as he took in the view just a little longer, anastius began his morning stretches. soft sounds of popping joints filled his ear drums, yet it was a satisfying feeling— leaving a tingle within his bones. the moments he had alone were rare and when he had them, he was ever so greedy with em. perhaps this getaway destination was something he needed, maybe he was slowly beginning to see it. though soon enough his peace had been disturbed by the sound of snapped twigs and loud snorts, a snort he was all to familiar with. opening his eyes and turning his head sharply, anastius soon locked upon an unwanted foe.
but unbenounce to him, a furry little suprise was hurdling his way. the patter of flat feet ran throughout the halls, naughty paws grabbing upon anything shiny along its way— hey, if they didn’t want it to be stolen, they shouldn’t have left it out. little grunts and snorts, dark eyes with nothing behind them— while clueless in everything in life, the only thing that stuck to their little brain was gemstones and their person. a loyal little creature, glued to her person no matter where they went and yet… sharmila was left alone in the comforts of her room. the sweet plunders that resided for her was not enough— sweet rice milk and plum filled dough, soft cashmere bedding with her favorite pillow… it didn’t satisfy her. sharmila grew bored easily, her dishes were bare of any crumbs or a drop of milk. what she wanted wasn’t there, the man that she deemed her person. anastius took care of her, watched her hatch from her little egg and bonded to him as soon as she opened her eyes. anastius was vital to her survival, he was a man of god after all.. he couldn’t let a defenseless, innocent creature die on his watch and besides she was kinda cute… in a slimy, mucus kind of way.
within her species, these little creatures are always born within a small clutch of eggs— being a social creature, having siblings to grow up with was vital to their survival. bonded between each other upon hatching, sharmila’s species would simply die of loneliness if they didn’t succumb to hunger first. so her bond among anastius help keep her alive, the ampule supply of sweet milk also had a helping hand— but her bond shielded her from a painful death, which perhaps is why anastius has always been so lenient and spoil-some with her.
as he kept his eyes locked on the deer, all anastius could do was glare at them. it wasn’t as though the deer here hated him like the ones back home right? or perhaps they disliked him because he hated them first, but who would really know anyway… their deer. not as though the priest was reliving the day when he had been attacked by one of his queens, the spiteful little shit gave him a scar on his right hand that will not go away. rolling his eyes, anastius pulled his attention away from them as the sound of crushing leaves catch his notice. a scurrying little creature it was, but knowing that it was coming after him would soon cause the pit of his stomach to turn into knots— perhaps this cane would come in handy after all. taking the cane in hand, anastius put his hand on the decorated handle. but before he would do anything, the little culprit had presented herself… in her dirt covered glory. soon the tightness within his stomach released, the beating of his chest had slowed and his arms relaxed.
"Sharmila, for heavens sake you almost gave your father a heart attack.”
he said sternly, putting the cane back down against a near by tree. "While I inquire interest as to how you found me, I suppose i should also be proud of you.”
words of silk flowed past his lips, reaching down and grabbing the heavy little fur-ball. "You’ve gotten much better at using that nose of yours, my beloved.”
he said as he dusted off the dirt and and leaves from her pelt, though he took note of his much heavier she felt— as if she had stolen something, right?soon enough, the two of them had begun to make their way back the manor. while the sketchy priest had wanted to spend a little more time away, the sight of sharmila covered in dirt and bugs made his skin crawl, plus those deer kept looking at him funny.
"While I know you hate it Sharmila, I simply cannot allow you to muck around this place looking as if you rolled in a pig pen.”
looking down at her, not a thought was behind her eyes and yet quickly she began to scurry underneath the sleeve of his robe, as if trying to hide from the impending bath. "Sharmila Anita Anu Goswami a bath is good for you and you’ll thank me when it’s over now please, i don’t also wanna be covered in filth.”
reaching within his sleeve and pulling her out, seeing as she was covering her eyes with her webbed hands— if she couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there. shaking his head at the sight, he placed her upon his shoulder, where she always sat. "And if your good Sharmila, i’ll even give you badam, your favorite. Sweet milk.”
he said sweetly to her, using his index finger to give her a soft scratch behind her ear, which only caused her to purr in content. reaching closer and closer to the manor, anastius could see the shape of a figure standing upon the steps leading into the manor. standing still and holding a silver tray within their hands, waiting for the priest to make his way towards them. curiosity struck the older man, giving his companion a side glance. "I wonder if they await us Sharmila.”
he whispered softly.taking the needed steps, anastius looked at the servant with curious eyes. they spoke nothing to him, simply extending their arms out to behold him a little letter that sat upon it. arching a brow at the letter, anastius couldn’t help but feel an uneasiness grow within him.
"What is of this letter my dear?”
he asked blankly, staring at it before looking back upon their features. little to no emotion was held, their strawberry locks flew against their face as the wind gusted through them— but they stood tall and still. interesting. it didn’t take long for sharmila to make her way down her persons arm, taking sights upon the silver platter. the sudden moment caught anastius off guard, a soft grunt came out of his mouth as he tried to stiffen his arm as the creature ran down it and quickly putting her paws upon the platter. little yet mighty, she was able to snatch the platter right of the servants pale hands, resulting in said maid to retreat their arms close to their body. “My god..” they said, their green orbs looking at the small creature as it held upon the silver platter with glee. anastius wasn’t entirely shocked, more so embarrassed at the sight of his fellow companion."Sharmila Anita Anu Goswami, have i thought you nothing about manners? Give your father the silver platter.”
he said sternly towards her, but by this point the plate had already been stuffed into her pouch. a glimmer of excitement was within her little eyes, which made anastius feel slightly bad as he didn’t have the heart to take it away from her. "I must apologize for her, she has no restraint among things of the shiny variety”
he said calmly, letting a side eye be placed upon his furry friend who slowly began to understand her new stance in this conversation. Without saying anything more, anastius took notice of the letter that had taken a fall upon the ground. near his feet, he had begun to kneel down and grab upon it. taking it within his hands and giving it a quick inspection, looking back at the servant who said nothing to him. "This must have been written by the host, im most certain it is.”
more so a statement than a question, seeing as how the servant was of no help to him, but figuring they had been tasked to say nothing at all. without a second thought, anastius ripped open said letter and began to read its contents— so strange, what kind of trick would they play this time?before he could even look up from the letter, the beating rays of the run grew ever so hotter. a flash reminder of his life back home, memories filled his mind of when he was a young boy. left to himself most days, when he wasn’t behind hounded by his father anastius would escape towards the beaches. digging his feet deep within the sand, the crashing of waves soothing his inner thoughts and the smell of salt water stinging his nose. their was a comfort for him, something not even his father could take away from him. the chants of prayers never soothed him like other children, crashing of waves and cawing of sea birds dried up the tears that swam down his face. a warm embrace of the sun and coating of sand against his skin, that was his tender embrace. abounded by both his parents and gods, anastius was forced to figure out life himself— sadness and despair was a constant grip upon his existence, but now he’s learned to coexist with his own suffering.
letting out a rough sigh, anastius let his gaze fall upon the sandy beach before taking a side glaze to the sights of third figure— Jung-Hoon of Tsusaye. anastius knew not much of the man, but he was sure the other knew nothing of him. it wasn’t as though anastius has spoken to many people here, the want to interact with others has been minimal to say the least— sharmila has had more of an impact then he has, which is saying something.
"How charming it is to meet you at a time like this. If your letter hadn’t given you a hint as to who i am, i’m Anastius. ”
he said towards the other male, giving a slight bow of his head before turning his attention towards the sandy beach. "This shall be a pleasant way to spend such an afternoon.”
he grumbled sarcastically, eyeing sharmila has she stood at his feet. "The mind behind the eyes of the hosts, I often wonder how they get such fun toying with us.”
these words weren’t directed towards anyone, simply speaking it into existence. they both much have been thinking it right? "Did they leave you with something important? a clue perhaps?”
he asked the other, reaching into his pocket and finding something that looked sorta like a map— if it had been drawn like a child, but a map nonetheless.
coded by xayah.ღ
aeneas.
𝙖 𝙘𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙙𝙖 𝙘𝙮𝙘𝙡𝙚.
cesar ibarra.
C
Despite his current quarter’s attempt to paint him a lullaby of serenity through the graceful swans and blooming nature, Cesar Ibarra rose before dawn like clockwork. The ball that had occurred the night prior left a void in him that he couldn’t quite put into words.
Fear was a familiar face. The revolutionary had seen fear bleed deeper than blood on the faces of once proud nobility. Confusion was his foe. Nights with his brow furrowed into a bridge across his face as he read through piles of parchment. Insecurity was his shadowing tail. There wasn’t a day that passed where Cesar turned to see it lurking behind.
He saw a morphed amalgamation of all three embedded into the heart of the memory, though were they the feelings reflected within himself or Valen? A question with no resolve as Cesar still found himself grasping for an answer. Attempting to find the clear path of wrongdoings he had committed that made his date run as if he was next on the Apollonian’s guillotine.
Many preemptive expectations were set within the scholar’s head when he rode the ship to the Mirror Isles but none were expectations of hurt. None were expectations of a retreat just after the first event.
To spend the day exploring the wonders hiding within Marblewish Mansion was what Cesar needed to heal the battle wounds on his ego, and the mansion grounds were the escape he had hoped for them to be. Vast and ethereal, a labyrinthian entrance with a priceless reward, marble pillars wrapped in the embrace of fauna and vineyards, and a chaotic type of order within the ground’s nature which reminded Cesar of home.
Just him and a gentle breeze to cool his burning thoughts.
Snap!
Or perhaps not.
It didn’t occur to Cesar that wildlife would roam the same grounds as he, though the newly discovered playful nature of his hosts should have given him some foresight. However, could he be blamed for not expecting a tiger as the source of the now-broken vine? And was it with a panther?
“I can’t believe it but I think I’m starting to actually miss the humidity,” Xan sighed, addressing the companions that stalked at his sides. They merely huffed air in response.
The voice caught him off guard and the image before him almost lead Cesar to believe he was slowly going mad. It wasn’t every day that one would see another treat two apex predators as if they were old friends. But then again, what should one be expecting given all that happened thus far?
After what felt like an eternity of providing services as a new statue for the grounds, the two locked eyes. Almost as if Cesar’s brain had been decommissioned over the new editions, the gaze ignited it back to life and suddenly the presence of the two felines didn’t seem all too surprising to the fellow Bandiama representative.
To Cesar, Xan Ahn was a name without a face—faceless no more he supposed. A classic tale of tragedy, revolutionaries killed and the lone noble sparred. His story was told from the clenched teeth of Cesar’s compatriots when the news broke like wildfire within Bandiama. The noble had left on a journey of self-reflection before the Apollonian could catch a glimpse of him.
“I see we had the same thought today, the grounds are just too beautiful to not explore.”
Cesar walked closer to the other and his big cats, as if greeting an old friend. “Cesar Ibarra, a fellow representative for Bandiama. I’m glad we’ve finally met.”
Was he expected to show him hostility? “That is, if my assumptions are correct.”
There were no eyes witnessing the two than their own and whatever rage Cesar once held from Xan’s tale had long been extinguished. Besides, he felt too somber of a mood to truly engage in disputes.“Would you expect any less from such a grand event?” Xan asked in reply to the other’s observation, a tinge of distaste on his tongue. His gaze darkened when Cesar introduced himself fully. The Apollonian was a name that never failed to trigger a reaction among Bandiama citizens. Whether that reaction was admiration or a disgruntled aversion, however, was entirely up to class. “I’m glad we’ve met as well, it’s relieving to finally put a face to the mighty Apollonian,” Xan smirked, tilting his head to the side. He walked in the direction of Cesar, offering the man a smooth bow when the distance was respectable. Vikal and Mali stared silently at him while they sat back on their haunches, yellow eyes observing.
His mood however was not too self-consuming to not grace a smile; the tiniest bit of sheepishness from the mention of his title.
“Did you just arrive? I didn’t see you on the docks when the rest of us departed from home.”
A twitch of annoyance flashed on Xan’s face before he pushed it into an impish smile. “Seems like my invitation got lost in the mail. I was called out sort of,” He cleared his throat, eyes shifting to the side only to dart back to meet Cesar’s, dark irises mixing with the inky black of his pupil, “last minute.”
“Well, let me be one of the first to welcome you. You haven’t missed much, only a little acquaintance party.”
Hazel broke from rich brown as Cesar's eyes drifted to the side. The words had been etched with sympathy; the ball had been far from little but Xan didn't need to know. To be missing out of circumstance burns deeper than absence on your own accord. "Though I must admit, I envy the extra days you had in Bandiama."
The confession left a longing taste on his tongue. It felt as if—at least for a moment, the mention of home brought him back.It was a fleeting feeling, a trance quickly broken soon after the words hung.
"Don't get me wrong, this place is marvelous and the hosts have been nothing but accommodating, but,"
He attempted to find the words. A formula of thought that didn't paint himself either weak or insincere. "It has proven to be a challenge to find my place in a new environment."
When you've fought for your plate all your life, stepping into a place luxury without proving yourself felt almost wrong. Out of place.
Cesar let the thought die the deaf ears of his own mind out of the protection of his persona. Instead, his sheepish smile only grew, attempting to keep the tone of the conversation. Casual and friendly.
"Perhaps it's just the homesickness speaking."
Xan brought a hand to his chin in thought. “Ah, I see.” He reached down to scratch behind Mali’s ear, the large cat leaning into his touch with closed eyes. “The sterility of such a well-manicured island is suffocating. We’ve only just arrived and already I can understand your sentiment,” Xan smiled then, the mischief in his eyes giving way to an odd sense of genuity. “In the mansion, there’s a reading room in one of the upper floors. I’ve found the arrangement of plants to be–most similar to home.”
"A reading room, you say? I think you've just pointed me to the direction of my hideaway for today."
His smile began to mirror the other's—no longer strained but boyish and light. If someone had told the past revolutionary that he found himself on common ground with Xan Ahn, conversing and smiling, he would have called them mad.Yet here the two were, two halves of a coin meeting in the bountiful grounds of Marblewish mansion. An event that only the Mirror Isles could provide.
Despite inner convictions reprimanding him, as the two’s discussion was leading to a close, Cesar bowed. An action uncommon to the Apollonian outside of dance yet it felt right. Xan proved to deserve the respect that came with it, after all.
"You'll know where to find me, if you and your felines want the extra company."
His words bled genuine.“I wish you all the best on your ventures today.”
The ex noble gave one final bow in parting to Cesar, an unknown glint of something in his eyes as he turned round towards the path he had diverted from originally. His two companions followed suit with silent movements, soft paws padding across the ground. A pair of yellow eyes burned into Cesar as Vikal glanced back at him briefly. The next moment, they rounded the corner and were gone.
✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
The third day approached the same as the second; tossing and turning into a rude awakening just moments before dawn. A win considering how much worse his waking hours were in the past. Morning came just as he got dressed and with it, a knock on the door. He opened the door with warm greetings and a pleasant face, welcoming the arrival of new opportunities.
Valen of En Malis.
Perhaps the renewal of a previous game, then.
Before Cesar could question the gods if they were attempting a chance of fate or a cruel joke, the world around him morphed and distorted. Suddenly the four walls of his room grew beyond a confined space—but a complete environment and the paintings of the outside were no longer just art decorating the room. If the type of foliage wasn’t so different, Cesar would have believed he had been magically shoved into the wallpaper. However, no trees in the art were as dark and tall as the ones Cesar found himself standing in the middle of.
If this were the hosts' answer to his homesickness, he didn’t find it very funny. Although, the opportunity to both apologize to his date from the ball and partake in a long-overdue hike were silver linings he could get behind for the time being.
Internally, he had hoped to bump into Valen of En Malis when his mind had conjured up something to say—it was starting to be ridiculous how often the Apollonian found himself at a loss for words. But like the writing on the paper, fate had other plans. And other plans came in the form of familiar curls on the other side of a bush. The hitch in his breath would have given his arrival away if the sound of leaves against his feet didn’t already do that for him.
The abrupt exit from the ball prior didn’t allow Cesar to get a clear look at Valen’s face. And yet from a single glance, he found the fact to be on the top of his list of regrets that night.
“No please, I should be the one to apologize, I didn’t realize I upset you.”
For the second time, Cesar bowed. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you too, Valen of En Malis.”
He rose his head to meet Valen’s gaze in an attempt to find vexation, relieved to find none. Without much second thought, the revolutionary took the other’s hand, providing a chaste kiss. “You could still call me Apollo if you’d like.”
A scholar at heart, Cesar’s smile came easy at the offer.
“I’d like that a lot actually.”
He replied in his mother tongue. Of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised that an (assumed) royalty of En Malis would be familiar with Tyoinmin. The revelation only made Cesar all the more curious about his partner.Upon letting go of Valen’s hand, he was reminded of the map in his other.
“I believe we were given a map that could help us get out of these woods. Or at least to hint at where we are.”
He unscrolled his roll of parchment, studying for crumbs their hosts had given. A crumbled tower caught his eye quickly and from a gaze above the trees, a resembling structure existed. “Perhaps a trip is in order.”
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
triples
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
...
fae'an de malisio
Fae'an heard the approaching footsteps long before the urgent rap on the door. His attention was perked but he stayed motionless, quiet, as if testing how long the knocking would continue, if it would soon fade or grow all the more pressing. Keen ears picked up whispers from the outside and he imagined the servants, standing about, feet tapping, lamenting his deep slumber.
It would have been funny if it wasn't rather sad, how untrue that was. Alas, at this early hour, he was instead sat at the ornate desk, thin excuse for a robe thrown across bare shoulders, borrowed tome from the library open on his lap that he wasn't quite reading. He and Sleep had a tense relationship, partly by his own design, and unfamiliar beds only came further between them.
Awake as he was, Fae'an was also woefully unfit to receive any visitors, all uncombed hair and lack of caffeine. Unprincely, one might say. Yet, no effort was made to tidy himself, and he lounged & waited until the volume of the knocks reached what felt like the limit of somebody's patience. Leisurely, he put the book to the side and rose to meet his impatient guest.
Instead there were trees and the sound of water, pristine colors replaced by softer shades, sunlight trickling in through the cover of leaves. The mouth of a river, the end of a forest. That's where he stood, alone and sorely unprepared.
Well, not alone. There was a woman, not far from him, who was observing the scene with the same muted surprise that he had. He couldn't tell how she had arrived, either, though it seemed clear it had happened the same time, the same way as him. Anita. This must be her, his partner in the test. Or, perhaps his test itself.
The plains that stretched before him were nearly empty, populated by sparse buildings that could barely be called a village. It was silent. Desolate, in fact, though the palette tried to hide how grimly so it was. Call it instinct or paranoia, the emptiness failed to make him believe that dangers were absent. Only that they were hidden.
Fae'an hummed a soft agreement as they approached a wooden bridge, his strides slow like a man on a morning stroll. Which, in a sense, this was. And with a beautiful woman, too. What's to feel wary of? He jested with himself, sectioning away what remained of his unease.
It would have been funny if it wasn't rather sad, how untrue that was. Alas, at this early hour, he was instead sat at the ornate desk, thin excuse for a robe thrown across bare shoulders, borrowed tome from the library open on his lap that he wasn't quite reading. He and Sleep had a tense relationship, partly by his own design, and unfamiliar beds only came further between them.
Awake as he was, Fae'an was also woefully unfit to receive any visitors, all uncombed hair and lack of caffeine. Unprincely, one might say. Yet, no effort was made to tidy himself, and he lounged & waited until the volume of the knocks reached what felt like the limit of somebody's patience. Leisurely, he put the book to the side and rose to meet his impatient guest.
"Good morning,"
he greeted upon pulling the heavy doors open, eyes landing on the mousy figure of a girl in the mansion's uniform. Her gaze, too, landed on him, but shot away so quickly like a marble flicked by nimble hands. Her voice as it returned his greeting came out in muffled syllables. "A letter,"
she mumbled, face cast strictly downwards even as she offered it to him, "for you, your highness."
Fae'an stared at it without a word, a layer of suspicion tinting his smile. Another game from the hosts, he had no doubt, another riddle. A second passed before he reached out in delayed acceptance, slipping the folded letter away from fidgeting hands and unfurling it to reveal the message within."Remember this name... Anita of Seyvershina?"
Just as he consumed the last of the words, an abrupt feeling of displacement overcame him. In one blink, he realized that the pair of feet in the edge of his sight had disappeared without noise. By the second, it was no longer just his company, but the entire mansion that had gone with her. Instead there were trees and the sound of water, pristine colors replaced by softer shades, sunlight trickling in through the cover of leaves. The mouth of a river, the end of a forest. That's where he stood, alone and sorely unprepared.
Well, not alone. There was a woman, not far from him, who was observing the scene with the same muted surprise that he had. He couldn't tell how she had arrived, either, though it seemed clear it had happened the same time, the same way as him. Anita. This must be her, his partner in the test. Or, perhaps his test itself.
"Fae'an of En Malis?"
His name left her lips like a question as she finally turned to him. "Good morning, I can only assume you were taken by as much surprise as I was."
He returned her smile, taking in her features in attempt to recognize her from the ball. Her eyes were clever, dark like a night at sea with just enough of a light to keep you searching. They must have missed each other the night before; he would have remembered her. "You assume correctly,"
he laughed, looking away from her and down at the letter which had morphed into a map, "it's been an interesting morning."
Gray eyes narrowed. His gaze travelled from the paper to the scene it portrayed, as the chill of the dawn ran across his skin. The plains that stretched before him were nearly empty, populated by sparse buildings that could barely be called a village. It was silent. Desolate, in fact, though the palette tried to hide how grimly so it was. Call it instinct or paranoia, the emptiness failed to make him believe that dangers were absent. Only that they were hidden.
"I hadn't been sure if it'd be good, though,"
he admitted, attention returning to the woman beside him. "I feel better now that we've met."
He was almost serious. The temperatures that made him feel underdressed prompted a question of how she was dressed and the answer, unsurprisingly, was: better than him. Her coat, at least, looked like it did its job.“Likewise.”
Anita flashed a smile at his words, something between the cold air and the words spoken seemingly snapping her awake. Whether it was the company itself or the innate pressure of having such, Fae'an, too, felt his previously dwindling sense of motivation to take action return."I wonder if we're still on Mirror Isle,"
he mused, his question only mostly rhetorical, as he began his first steps away from their starting point. Behind him, he heard her footsteps follow. “Seems a waste of a beautiful island to send us off it. I believe.”
A fair point. Anita fell into step beside him, perhaps thinking over the resources given to them as he was, before adding, “Exploring may be the intent here. Besides, I can think of worse ways to spend time.”
Fae'an hummed a soft agreement as they approached a wooden bridge, his strides slow like a man on a morning stroll. Which, in a sense, this was. And with a beautiful woman, too. What's to feel wary of? He jested with himself, sectioning away what remained of his unease.
"I believe it would be easier on us to search the village first, then, perhaps there'll be something of use for us."
He doubted his own words as he said them... or, rather, he doubted the kindness of their temperamental hosts. He refrained from mentioning this particular thought, keeping the lines of his expression blurred between relaxed and blasé. "Typically, I would say we should split up, save time,"
he continued, reaching a hand out to his partner— and it was there again — that almost-honesty, "but since we're already lost, I'd like for us not to lose each other."
coded by xayah.ღ
mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
The masks shattered.
The ball ended. It ended with a smile, a promise, a goodbye. The hosts were stunning, ethereal, their playful smiles reflecting the one Anita so liked to wear.
Her mind was not on them. It was split, distracted, committing a partner’s face to memory and wondering whether they’d do the same for her, how soon she could find out his name, it was too on another revealed figure, the lost warrior, the cold shock, ice in her veins and glass on the ground, it was on who’d seen her and who hadn’t.
On their way back, Anita caught the black outfit ahead. She quickened her stride until she was by Leksei’s side, opting for a gentle bump against him with her shoulder instead of a spoken hello.
The man looked as unperturbed out of the mask as he was beneath it, nursing a last glass of the night and idly watching the ball-goers trickle out. He was not drunk, only itching out of his collar and in a state of depression over tray-theft; he perked up at the jolt, giving Anita a flicker of a small smile.
Anita’s fingers closed gratefully over the glass’ stem; the form of her mask had meant she hadn’t drank all night. She offered a smile back, noting though, the still expression beneath it.
“Thank you. I believe I did,” She raised the glass to her lips, electing not to express her doubts of the night. Being by him, part of home brought next to her, already helped wash everything else away, “And you? The outfit give any frights?”
Leksei gave a sound that sounded something between a groan and a sigh, seemingly in the negative. He took a deep sip, looking for the first time a bit alert.
He gave her a curious raise of his eyebrows, musing on how hard he would be pushed if he teased her about a potential courter. Anita is not as above violence as she acts.
A slight upturn of the lips at the sound, enjoying getting the reaction. Leksei had perked up, just slightly, but enough for her to notice, her presence to matter. “We have. Quite a show.” She answered, a teasing lilt to her words, and a straightening of her posture at the next question. “And I did, actually,” She was more than slightly proud at the speed at which she’d accomplished it, “I hope it went well.” She stated, without elaboration. She wasn’t certain of the impression she’d left– and Leksei knew how important the diplomatic game was to her. And whatever else she had seen, she’d need to think on it before she could bring it to words.
“Maybe you’ll gain more enjoyment from the next one,” Anita commented, musing on his words. She was happy to tease him about the day, but Anita didn’t know anyone who she wanted to have a respite, a chance to enjoy himself unboundedly quite as much as him.
Leksei grins at that; an open, genuine thing that bursts out from where it has been stifled, the smile just a bit uneasy at the edges from lack of use. Anita looked so deeply serious in her regalia, so solemn about the politics of it all that it made him want to laugh. It is a far cry from what he knows her as and he leaned into the urge to poke her about it. A witty comment already on his lips, Leksei went to nudge her with his hip, meant to be nothing more than a friendly gesture - he forgets his own strength all up to the point when he feels an impact and it does not stay where it was.
The first mistake of the night. Leksei’s stomach drops and
Anita goes flying.
Very gracefully, in her defense, but flying anyhow and with no buts about it. One second she is here and the other she is sprawled over the marble floor, taking a nearby table down with her as collateral damage; wine glasses lay on the floor with an overspilled crash, a dozen bewildered faces turning to it. The sound was far too loud to play it off and there was no ignoring the way she fell, and Leksei had a heartbeat before Anita’s face twisted from shock to what he could possibly describe as pure murderous intent, the flash in her eyes enough to turn him pale.
He gives Anita a thumbs up before running through the crowd like saints running from the devil.
The air around her. Anita’s stomach plummeted, and then crashed. The wood of the table failed to break her fall, instead, it was brought down in splinters alongside her.
Deep red wine on a pale dress. Anita hardly felt the bruise certainly forming on her back. Her jaw hung open, before forming itself into something else entirely, a grin and a snarl, eyes narrowed. Someone kind enough to care offered a hand to help her up; Anita thoughtlessly brushed it aside, not quite managing to avoid a shard of glass as her palm pressed against the floor, pushing herself to her feet.
It was not their childhood winters, but in the moment, Anita forgot all other circumstance. He was going to pay for that. Anita, now laughing, pushed through the crowd, running despite the outfit, chasing in vain through the ending night.
The balcony was one of the last strongholds of those who were not ready to part with the masquerade yet - conversations stubbornly persisted out here, even as the wind rolled coldly over crashing waves and made the night shiver in her thin fog. Leksei idled by one of the wide white arches, a little way from the talking couples. He snuck out a cigarette, half there in mind as he stared out into the deep, inky sea, spilling out over the jagged rocks like a great tear.
It was peaceful.
The prince frowned when his arm brushed against nothing, cursing when he realized that the rat-thing must have done away with his lighter too; irritation, bright and sharp, flared up inside of him. An ashtray, he can tolerate, but is he not allowed even his own possessions? Leksei stood there, half a saint and half a ruffled man with a cigarette in his mouth, holding on to an expression of contemplation. He was about to give up on it all and walk back inside, when he took note of a figure that he could almost believe he knew.
Leksei squinted through the darkness, the crystal lights flickering over a figure clad in black and ravens in flight, a brow set in solemn reflection. A face that is deathly serious and with eyes that seem to look down on the world below in contempt. A familiar one that fills Leksei’s memories with whispered secrets. Renshu, Xiaoran’s half-brother. The prodigal son and walking thorn for the Liumei.
Xiaoran would have Renshu hanged in their capital’s center if she could. Renshu would have her burned at a stake.
Leksei, as with most things, stood witness from the sidelines and deigned to talk to both.
As much as people - perhaps rightfully in some ways - paint Renshu as a horrible, sneaking monster that lurks in the shadows, he has never been anything but polite and a decent sort in the smoking rooms Leksei visited in Vexira. It could be that smoking makes the man mellow, but if there is such a side of him that yearns to destroy and burn, Leksei never asked too much of the other man to see it. The man turns towards the other, openly and gives a ghost of a smile.
Fingers trace over engraved metal, toying with the lighter lid, absentmindedly escaping a suffocating event. Ren moves through the crowd, face set in frown as he makes his way out to the balcony, pausing at the greeting. A familiar face greets him, formality falling between them as if a stone. It’s tense - and he has no interest in dancing a learned dance of titles.
“Leksei,” Ren greets back, moving closer to Leksei. The crown prince was one of the few people he easily tolerated, having a subtle respect for the fact that they were able to be in one another’s company without jabs done in his direction. At times it was exhausting to run on hatred, and he desires a moment of respite. “Oh, bloody hell,” his eyes caught sight of the unlit cigarette in the man’s mouth. “Are you in need of a light?”
Something that could almost be friendliness settled in the tired lines of Leksei’s face, the formal blankness bleeding away into an expression much more genuine. He was half-afraid meeting on grounds built for peace would bring with it all the rules expected, but Ren looked as harassed as he ever did after any social event. A whole masquerade must have been political torture for him, filled with sharp points as he was - Leksei could almost relate, grimacing at the mention of his unlit cigarette.
The distance between them is closed by the click of a lighter and a fire blindingly loud in the stainless gloom. Smoke fills the air.
It is born and then it is dead, and the ashes are the only proof it ever existed.
Leksei gives a nod of thanks, arm half-resting on the decorated railing; a billow of grayness clung to the gentle hand of a breeze, drifting away into the endless unknown. Silence settles between them for a heartbeat as they smoke, but it is not the uncomfortable, stifling kind - he suspects both of them dislike talking for talking’s sake.
“I didn’t care for it. I danced with one, and then fucking left her as quickly as the dance had begun,” comes the amused admission in answer to the question. Ren leans over the railing to watch the sea stretch in front. There is no end to it, neither out nor down, and it’s as unyielding as always. Cornering them on this island of shaky relationships at best. Although, there is a steadiness to the smoke curling from their cigarettes, even as Ren pulls a strand of it to run over his knuckles absentmindedly.
Leksei half-laughs, half-chokes at his comment, stuck somewhere between finding it funny and knowing he shouldn’t.
“How are you enjoying this gathering….” his voice pauses, searching for a better word then snakes, but instead leaves the question hanging there, and instead follows with the same one back. “What about you? Did you find your date?” Somehow, he doubts Leksei had, otherwise the both of them would not be out here in the night.
The sea lays upon the rocks and waits for an answer. Leksei glances out into where Ren’s eyes are lost and thinks on what to say, rolling the words over his tongue as if to taste them. He stumbles over bureaucracy and wrestles with politeness, before settling instead on the bare truth.
Another chuckle is stolen from within Ren’s chest, escaping in a short puff of air. It escapes into the air, carried away by the wind, the brief moment of soft amusement. “Fuck no, It is never too late to steal a boat.” Ashes scatter to the wind as Ren taps off the cigarette, “Although I fear we are stuck here in the name of absolute bullshit. I’m not certain how much longer my patience will hold out. I’ve already earned an unwarranted fan to the face. Maybe we can tie together a raft from driftwood?” The sound of amusement follows the statement done half in jest and half in full seriousness.
Leksei thinks on that, just as serious and just as joking as Renshu is. Then, he muses;
The sea, as if in disapproval, roared even louder.
The clearing is whipped by the cruel hand of wind and snow sinks under his boots, the black-struck trees so silent it made his ears ring. He is all alone, though his hunting party must be close by. Leksei does not know at what point he must have wandered off. The bow in his hands does not shake, even when his legs start to move like they are being dragged by some great, unseen rope.
He tries to remember the beginning and fails.
At the end of the forest there is something waiting for him. Leksei staggers through the grasping, treacherous roots and the clinging arms of trees. The deer cries on the horizon, never drawing close even as he races after it like a madman, her soundless jumps panicked with pain. Wait, he tries to call through a mute throat, wait for me. He runs after the sobbing deer, the brilliant brown, his own legs are frozen and shaking and he can't remember the beginning. I can't shoot it. It's pregnant. Leksei does not know how he knows this, but he readies an arrow out of his leathers anyways, aiming for the crying deer, so beautiful in snarling snow.
He drags the arrow back and it buries into her leg, sending her screaming to the ground.
Leksei walks towards her. The forest swells with the light of morning, red sun filtering through the dark forest and when Leksei reaches her, it has started to sing of night.
On the muddied ground, by it's mother side, lies a dead fawn; it is slick with mother-blood and water of birth, it's eyes open to the stars and night sky. The deer does not try to run when he approaches, raising a frenzied, gentle head. Her eyes are dark and rolled to the cave of her skull, her mouth frothing in red. You will die. Leksei wants to say, the knowledge settling in his chest like the heavy of a child.
She whispers, voice human;
''Leksei. Leksei, I don't want to die in the dark.''
Leksei feels, at once, very calm. He drags out the knife on his belt, shining with promise and tries to remember how this started.
''Shh. It's okay.'' The man steps closer. ''Just close your eyes.''
The sheets are damp with sweat where they stick to his skin, the resounding beat of his heart the only thing telling Leksei he is awake as he startles into being. Half-mad with dreams and with forehead drenched, gasping for air and eyes wild - the man is sick for half an hour more before the hand clenching his throat shut relents, the panicked anxiety retreating in the face of soft daylight peeking through the blinds. Another nightmare scared away by the sun.
The thought isn't comforting in the least. Even with the fireplace eating up half the logs in the basket, the room still felt bitterly cold. It is only an hour more that Leksei starts to feel alive in the barest sense of the world, washed up and dressed in a simple black. Heavy dark circles followed the line of his eyes and he sat on his bed like a linden God, but there was enough dignity in him to open the door when a knock came.
A servant girl, bland-smiling and plain, hands him a letter. ''For you, sir. The hosts ask you to read it as soon as you are able.''
Leksei takes it, mumbling a distracted thank you - his thoughts are still mindless and dark, the door closes with a whisper and Leksei reads it with the care of one striking a match for a funeral pyre. The words float through gray matter, their meaning catching and escaping hooks in the muddy depths; the name catches and stays, and Leksei frowns to remember it. He is about to voice it, to give truth to what he is seeing -
but the floor twists from under his feet before he can, the floorboards replaced by the smell of sweet grass.
Trees enclose their greedy hands around him and Leksei gasps for breath, smelling blood and smoke; his hand shakes for as long as it takes him to notice he is not alone, enveloped by plants and arrogantly tall grass that grabs his knees. There is no snow.
Only a woman. A small, gentle looking one, wide eyes of equal confusion and something uncertain under her skin. (Leksei thinks of a deer and wants to be sick.) A trick of magic, then - perhaps if he were dropped here alone, Leksei would have fallen into fear, but all he felt now was a sort of wild curiosity and a long, wary side glance to the woman. He doesn't remember her from the ball and so he doubts she knows him either. Another one of their hosts' plays, one he didn't care for.
A pulsing, giant plant hissed next to them. Leksei startled like a doused cat, the flora completely unfamiliar to him.
The ball ended. It ended with a smile, a promise, a goodbye. The hosts were stunning, ethereal, their playful smiles reflecting the one Anita so liked to wear.
Her mind was not on them. It was split, distracted, committing a partner’s face to memory and wondering whether they’d do the same for her, how soon she could find out his name, it was too on another revealed figure, the lost warrior, the cold shock, ice in her veins and glass on the ground, it was on who’d seen her and who hadn’t.
On their way back, Anita caught the black outfit ahead. She quickened her stride until she was by Leksei’s side, opting for a gentle bump against him with her shoulder instead of a spoken hello.
The man looked as unperturbed out of the mask as he was beneath it, nursing a last glass of the night and idly watching the ball-goers trickle out. He was not drunk, only itching out of his collar and in a state of depression over tray-theft; he perked up at the jolt, giving Anita a flicker of a small smile.
‘’There you are. I was worried I’d had to drag you out screaming and kicking.’’
His shadow limb stretched out of sight, a wine glass ominously floating towards his friend like a ghost that had terrible luck picking out a vessel. ‘’Well? Did you have fun?’’
Anita’s fingers closed gratefully over the glass’ stem; the form of her mask had meant she hadn’t drank all night. She offered a smile back, noting though, the still expression beneath it.
“Thank you. I believe I did,” She raised the glass to her lips, electing not to express her doubts of the night. Being by him, part of home brought next to her, already helped wash everything else away, “And you? The outfit give any frights?”
Leksei gave a sound that sounded something between a groan and a sigh, seemingly in the negative. He took a deep sip, looking for the first time a bit alert.
‘’Well, we’ve met our hosts. That’s all I’ve gained from tonight.’’
He’s never liked balls and he was not sorry to see this one go. ‘’Did you find your date?’’
He gave her a curious raise of his eyebrows, musing on how hard he would be pushed if he teased her about a potential courter. Anita is not as above violence as she acts.
A slight upturn of the lips at the sound, enjoying getting the reaction. Leksei had perked up, just slightly, but enough for her to notice, her presence to matter. “We have. Quite a show.” She answered, a teasing lilt to her words, and a straightening of her posture at the next question. “And I did, actually,” She was more than slightly proud at the speed at which she’d accomplished it, “I hope it went well.” She stated, without elaboration. She wasn’t certain of the impression she’d left– and Leksei knew how important the diplomatic game was to her. And whatever else she had seen, she’d need to think on it before she could bring it to words.
“Maybe you’ll gain more enjoyment from the next one,” Anita commented, musing on his words. She was happy to tease him about the day, but Anita didn’t know anyone who she wanted to have a respite, a chance to enjoy himself unboundedly quite as much as him.
Leksei grins at that; an open, genuine thing that bursts out from where it has been stifled, the smile just a bit uneasy at the edges from lack of use. Anita looked so deeply serious in her regalia, so solemn about the politics of it all that it made him want to laugh. It is a far cry from what he knows her as and he leaned into the urge to poke her about it. A witty comment already on his lips, Leksei went to nudge her with his hip, meant to be nothing more than a friendly gesture - he forgets his own strength all up to the point when he feels an impact and it does not stay where it was.
The first mistake of the night. Leksei’s stomach drops and
Anita goes flying.
Very gracefully, in her defense, but flying anyhow and with no buts about it. One second she is here and the other she is sprawled over the marble floor, taking a nearby table down with her as collateral damage; wine glasses lay on the floor with an overspilled crash, a dozen bewildered faces turning to it. The sound was far too loud to play it off and there was no ignoring the way she fell, and Leksei had a heartbeat before Anita’s face twisted from shock to what he could possibly describe as pure murderous intent, the flash in her eyes enough to turn him pale.
‘’Oh, shit.’’
Leksei blurts. Does the only thing that can save him now.He gives Anita a thumbs up before running through the crowd like saints running from the devil.
The air around her. Anita’s stomach plummeted, and then crashed. The wood of the table failed to break her fall, instead, it was brought down in splinters alongside her.
Deep red wine on a pale dress. Anita hardly felt the bruise certainly forming on her back. Her jaw hung open, before forming itself into something else entirely, a grin and a snarl, eyes narrowed. Someone kind enough to care offered a hand to help her up; Anita thoughtlessly brushed it aside, not quite managing to avoid a shard of glass as her palm pressed against the floor, pushing herself to her feet.
It was not their childhood winters, but in the moment, Anita forgot all other circumstance. He was going to pay for that. Anita, now laughing, pushed through the crowd, running despite the outfit, chasing in vain through the ending night.
***
The balcony was one of the last strongholds of those who were not ready to part with the masquerade yet - conversations stubbornly persisted out here, even as the wind rolled coldly over crashing waves and made the night shiver in her thin fog. Leksei idled by one of the wide white arches, a little way from the talking couples. He snuck out a cigarette, half there in mind as he stared out into the deep, inky sea, spilling out over the jagged rocks like a great tear.
It was peaceful.
The prince frowned when his arm brushed against nothing, cursing when he realized that the rat-thing must have done away with his lighter too; irritation, bright and sharp, flared up inside of him. An ashtray, he can tolerate, but is he not allowed even his own possessions? Leksei stood there, half a saint and half a ruffled man with a cigarette in his mouth, holding on to an expression of contemplation. He was about to give up on it all and walk back inside, when he took note of a figure that he could almost believe he knew.
Leksei squinted through the darkness, the crystal lights flickering over a figure clad in black and ravens in flight, a brow set in solemn reflection. A face that is deathly serious and with eyes that seem to look down on the world below in contempt. A familiar one that fills Leksei’s memories with whispered secrets. Renshu, Xiaoran’s half-brother. The prodigal son and walking thorn for the Liumei.
Xiaoran would have Renshu hanged in their capital’s center if she could. Renshu would have her burned at a stake.
Leksei, as with most things, stood witness from the sidelines and deigned to talk to both.
‘’Lord Renshu.’’
He greets with a hint of surprise, giving a nod of stiff formality. ‘’I didn’t know you came, too.’’
As much as people - perhaps rightfully in some ways - paint Renshu as a horrible, sneaking monster that lurks in the shadows, he has never been anything but polite and a decent sort in the smoking rooms Leksei visited in Vexira. It could be that smoking makes the man mellow, but if there is such a side of him that yearns to destroy and burn, Leksei never asked too much of the other man to see it. The man turns towards the other, openly and gives a ghost of a smile.
Fingers trace over engraved metal, toying with the lighter lid, absentmindedly escaping a suffocating event. Ren moves through the crowd, face set in frown as he makes his way out to the balcony, pausing at the greeting. A familiar face greets him, formality falling between them as if a stone. It’s tense - and he has no interest in dancing a learned dance of titles.
“Leksei,” Ren greets back, moving closer to Leksei. The crown prince was one of the few people he easily tolerated, having a subtle respect for the fact that they were able to be in one another’s company without jabs done in his direction. At times it was exhausting to run on hatred, and he desires a moment of respite. “Oh, bloody hell,” his eyes caught sight of the unlit cigarette in the man’s mouth. “Are you in need of a light?”
Something that could almost be friendliness settled in the tired lines of Leksei’s face, the formal blankness bleeding away into an expression much more genuine. He was half-afraid meeting on grounds built for peace would bring with it all the rules expected, but Ren looked as harassed as he ever did after any social event. A whole masquerade must have been political torture for him, filled with sharp points as he was - Leksei could almost relate, grimacing at the mention of his unlit cigarette.
‘’Much obliged.’’
The distance between them is closed by the click of a lighter and a fire blindingly loud in the stainless gloom. Smoke fills the air.
It is born and then it is dead, and the ashes are the only proof it ever existed.
Leksei gives a nod of thanks, arm half-resting on the decorated railing; a billow of grayness clung to the gentle hand of a breeze, drifting away into the endless unknown. Silence settles between them for a heartbeat as they smoke, but it is not the uncomfortable, stifling kind - he suspects both of them dislike talking for talking’s sake.
‘’How have you been?’’
Leksei asks after another drag, blinking exhausted eyes. ‘’Did you end up finding your date?’’
“I didn’t care for it. I danced with one, and then fucking left her as quickly as the dance had begun,” comes the amused admission in answer to the question. Ren leans over the railing to watch the sea stretch in front. There is no end to it, neither out nor down, and it’s as unyielding as always. Cornering them on this island of shaky relationships at best. Although, there is a steadiness to the smoke curling from their cigarettes, even as Ren pulls a strand of it to run over his knuckles absentmindedly.
Leksei half-laughs, half-chokes at his comment, stuck somewhere between finding it funny and knowing he shouldn’t.
“How are you enjoying this gathering….” his voice pauses, searching for a better word then snakes, but instead leaves the question hanging there, and instead follows with the same one back. “What about you? Did you find your date?” Somehow, he doubts Leksei had, otherwise the both of them would not be out here in the night.
The sea lays upon the rocks and waits for an answer. Leksei glances out into where Ren’s eyes are lost and thinks on what to say, rolling the words over his tongue as if to taste them. He stumbles over bureaucracy and wrestles with politeness, before settling instead on the bare truth.
‘’No. I was busy thinking about how long it would take to swim to the nearest other island.’’
Leksei’s smile is fumbling. ‘’Do you think it’s too late for us to steal a boat?’’
Another chuckle is stolen from within Ren’s chest, escaping in a short puff of air. It escapes into the air, carried away by the wind, the brief moment of soft amusement. “Fuck no, It is never too late to steal a boat.” Ashes scatter to the wind as Ren taps off the cigarette, “Although I fear we are stuck here in the name of absolute bullshit. I’m not certain how much longer my patience will hold out. I’ve already earned an unwarranted fan to the face. Maybe we can tie together a raft from driftwood?” The sound of amusement follows the statement done half in jest and half in full seriousness.
Leksei thinks on that, just as serious and just as joking as Renshu is. Then, he muses;
‘’Well, you got any rope on hand?’’
The sea, as if in disapproval, roared even louder.
***
It's too late. The arrow buries itself into the wailing deer's side and she takes off further into the trees, where the horses can't follow.
The clearing is whipped by the cruel hand of wind and snow sinks under his boots, the black-struck trees so silent it made his ears ring. He is all alone, though his hunting party must be close by. Leksei does not know at what point he must have wandered off. The bow in his hands does not shake, even when his legs start to move like they are being dragged by some great, unseen rope.
He tries to remember the beginning and fails.
At the end of the forest there is something waiting for him. Leksei staggers through the grasping, treacherous roots and the clinging arms of trees. The deer cries on the horizon, never drawing close even as he races after it like a madman, her soundless jumps panicked with pain. Wait, he tries to call through a mute throat, wait for me. He runs after the sobbing deer, the brilliant brown, his own legs are frozen and shaking and he can't remember the beginning. I can't shoot it. It's pregnant. Leksei does not know how he knows this, but he readies an arrow out of his leathers anyways, aiming for the crying deer, so beautiful in snarling snow.
He drags the arrow back and it buries into her leg, sending her screaming to the ground.
Leksei walks towards her. The forest swells with the light of morning, red sun filtering through the dark forest and when Leksei reaches her, it has started to sing of night.
On the muddied ground, by it's mother side, lies a dead fawn; it is slick with mother-blood and water of birth, it's eyes open to the stars and night sky. The deer does not try to run when he approaches, raising a frenzied, gentle head. Her eyes are dark and rolled to the cave of her skull, her mouth frothing in red. You will die. Leksei wants to say, the knowledge settling in his chest like the heavy of a child.
She whispers, voice human;
''Leksei. Leksei, I don't want to die in the dark.''
Leksei feels, at once, very calm. He drags out the knife on his belt, shining with promise and tries to remember how this started.
''Shh. It's okay.'' The man steps closer. ''Just close your eyes.''
***
The sheets are damp with sweat where they stick to his skin, the resounding beat of his heart the only thing telling Leksei he is awake as he startles into being. Half-mad with dreams and with forehead drenched, gasping for air and eyes wild - the man is sick for half an hour more before the hand clenching his throat shut relents, the panicked anxiety retreating in the face of soft daylight peeking through the blinds. Another nightmare scared away by the sun.
The thought isn't comforting in the least. Even with the fireplace eating up half the logs in the basket, the room still felt bitterly cold. It is only an hour more that Leksei starts to feel alive in the barest sense of the world, washed up and dressed in a simple black. Heavy dark circles followed the line of his eyes and he sat on his bed like a linden God, but there was enough dignity in him to open the door when a knock came.
A servant girl, bland-smiling and plain, hands him a letter. ''For you, sir. The hosts ask you to read it as soon as you are able.''
Leksei takes it, mumbling a distracted thank you - his thoughts are still mindless and dark, the door closes with a whisper and Leksei reads it with the care of one striking a match for a funeral pyre. The words float through gray matter, their meaning catching and escaping hooks in the muddy depths; the name catches and stays, and Leksei frowns to remember it. He is about to voice it, to give truth to what he is seeing -
but the floor twists from under his feet before he can, the floorboards replaced by the smell of sweet grass.
Trees enclose their greedy hands around him and Leksei gasps for breath, smelling blood and smoke; his hand shakes for as long as it takes him to notice he is not alone, enveloped by plants and arrogantly tall grass that grabs his knees. There is no snow.
Only a woman. A small, gentle looking one, wide eyes of equal confusion and something uncertain under her skin. (Leksei thinks of a deer and wants to be sick.) A trick of magic, then - perhaps if he were dropped here alone, Leksei would have fallen into fear, but all he felt now was a sort of wild curiosity and a long, wary side glance to the woman. He doesn't remember her from the ball and so he doubts she knows him either. Another one of their hosts' plays, one he didn't care for.
A pulsing, giant plant hissed next to them. Leksei startled like a doused cat, the flora completely unfamiliar to him.
‘’You must be Lady Katherine.’’
The prince says, giving a blank stare in her general direction that looked at once cold and apprehensive. He dug a boot into the sticky mud, taking note of their surroundings - if he letter was not lying, and Leksei thought most things are a lie, then they must find their way back. Two strangers in a stranger land - no, he really did not care for this. ‘’I assume you got the same letter as me.’’
the crown prince
leksei.
♡coded by uxie♡
Pepsionne
oi oi
xan ahn
He pushed the dark strands of hair from his forehead with one hand.
“Here in the flesh,”
Xan replied to the other’s inquisition. He then sat up with a grunt of effort, brushing off small bits of rock and dead vegetation that clung to his warm skin. “My letter stated the name Tejara of Sebaja,”
He tilted his head to the side, the hint of a smirk ghosting across his features. “Seems we’ve drawn the worst of the lot ,”
He said, gesturing around the barren graveyard. He imagined where the hosts might’ve sent the other guests, picturing them frolicking in a meadow, awash in the honey warm light of the sun. Pricks of goosebumps washed over his skin, eyes having glossed over the image of a weeping angel. Its plastic expression of grief was forever frozen in time. Death was something that he had grown used to in the jungle, its presence necessary to uphold the balance of life. The mourning of death, however, was not. Xan swallowed down the growing unease that began to tighten in his chest. There was something disturbing about the environment they were in. The silence, it was unnaturally calm, unnervingly barren. Mirror Isle had already been a shock to his body, but even the island had its share of the ambient sounds of life. Ambient noise usually indicated a healthy, thriving environment. As for silence, well, silence usually indicated death.
Xan pulled the silky fabric the servant had tossed his way, taking several slow steps towards Tejara.
“Well, I say we have two options, we could either search this graveyard for some type of clue, or we get the hell out of here.”
He brushed a finger over the rusting fence that enclosed them, examining the crumbled remnants of dust that resulted from it with a scowl. “I’m in favor of the latter, personally.”
coded by xayah.ღ
ravensunset
no thoughts just vibes
anita illeva
F
Instead, she kept her relaxed expression on her face, and found his playing a similar game. Footsteps took on a casual pace, but Anita could tell from his words he was focused on their goal. Fae’an’s observations had been quick and clever; even with the surprise change of setting and early morning, lack of getting ready for the day, there was no mistaking he was as intelligent as he was easily charming.
“Smart. I’d like the same.”
The bridge creaked beneath them, but held. The air smelled the way it did only near running water, sharp and almost tasting of the minerals underneath, and the river babbled and pulsed, alive in its motion. Wood beneath their feet turned back into grass, the scattering of buildings surrounding the water, and now them, too.
Anita stepped into an abandoned village.
Back home, a rider passed through an abandoned village. Hooves struck a road dusted with snow, snow piled high on once-yards and house’s roofs, the air glimmered with the snow sailing through it. Each home carried ghosts, those who had once-lived there, ghosts who made the air chill even colder than it should, even in a Sevyershinian winter. The rider tried not to look, but curiosity peeled at them as they snuck glances at the structures. A child’s toy hung in a window frame, spinning slowly. A wooden mask lay discarded on a front porch; its purpose unfulfilled. The rider shook the reins on their horse and took off, unable to do anything but.
Anita’s gaze darkened as she viewed the empty houses, stuck in a familiarity. But she was not home; the threat had to have been left long behind her. More importantly, she was far from alone. Within the instance, she shifts back into herself, smiling and carefree.
“Do you believe our hosts were kind enough to leave clues in empty houses?” Anita asked, in jest, stepping forwards and peering into a doorway as though they were passengers in a museum, observing the displays, “We were given a map of the village, so I doubt we’re meant to be trekking through the forest…” The houses were furnished, still. Anita could not tell if it was a complex, artificial set, or if there was once life here. If so, it had passed a long time ago. Anita pressed her free hand against a wall, and felt nothing.
“Our hosts are,” came the reply, his sentence trailing off as if searching for a pleasant word, “unpredictable, I would say. The map could be misleading, as well, or perhaps it's simply leading us to the first clue among many.” Another pause, as Fae'an glance flickered to the sea of trees they left behind, and Anita followed his gaze. “Perhaps the forest is next.”
Anita gave a small hum in agreement. “They do like their tricks,” she murmured. Her eyes swept over a table, a chair still positioned in front of it. A rug placed on the floor, though now long worn. The walls had long since failed at keeping the elements out. They stepped out and viewed the next one, finding only the same collection of broken furnishings.
There was the village, one whose heart had long stopped beating, and there was Fae’an, his blood pulsing against her fingers. His hair unmade, tousled from both the night and the breeze, silver eyes against gray clouds. Only then did Anita realize she was seeing a picture it’s likely not many have access to, him as close to unmasked as one can be awake. She did not hide looking, even as her eyes found his sharp jawline, his barely covered chest.
He had not gotten as fortunate as her in his choice of covering.
“So, En Malis? Not known for its cold weather,” Anita’s voice came out as easy as it always did, light, never quite serious. Her fingers reached for where her cloak fastened around her neck. “It’s warm out by my standards. A little early to be trading clothes, I know, but this might do you more good than me, if you’d accept it.”
“Warm out? Is that so?” Incredulity mixed with mirth in his words as the chilled dawn breeze brushed by them again, sharper now that they were further from humidity. His gaze lingered on her dress for a moment before politely withdrawing, and he spoke, his tone mirroring hers in nonchalance, “I'll be alright. I've seen my share of worse weather…” Laughter laced his voice, directed at himself, “Though, I admit, I'm usually more prepared.”
The answer had been about as she’d been expecting, but still Anita hesitated. She figured against pushing the matter, doubting he would relent so soon. “Worse weather? Have any stories, hurricanes fought?” She considered the tales she’d heard of En Malis, all linked so closely with the sea. If she wanted to know who it was beside her, why he’d been chosen to represent his land— he certainly looked the way she pictured royalty— she didn’t ask it directly.
The words floated on the morning wind. Anita stole glances as she walked, starting towards the larger building in front of them, though she suspected it would not be the barren structures that held whatever secret she was meant to find.
coded by xayah.ღ
Last edited:
mother of sorrows
𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘻, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘣 𝘮𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘵
code by yousmelldead
The floorboards cough up dust as you move through the first room, creaking like wails of a lazy, warm animal in the sun. Ruin has claimed the outside of the small house, but it has made it's true nest here - broken pieces of furniture watch you quietly from the half-rotten wooden floor, a few vines claiming a broken window. It clearly has not been lived in for a long time, all that must have been human slowly forgetting it was there at all. When you move into the next room, you find what must have once been a bed and a roughly carved chest. Curiosity aside, there is nothing else to this house; inside, you find a book so old and dusted that it practically holds on to a few strings with an admirable desperation. It takes you a moment to even dare flick it open, the yellowing papers like spidersilk in your hands.
There is writing inside of it, worn and barely intelligible in a way that forces you to squint. It takes good look for knowledge to even settle in your head - it is the common language, archaic and scribbled with a child's recklessness. It says as such;
''I've hidden my ball in [you do not understand this word] by Alamisa's house. I've had enough of Nalaya always taking it. I wish I could leave her in the well sometimes.''
It must have been the diary of a child. Whatever the rest of their thoughts had been are now nothing but the hint of ink on paper - you can't read the rest, no matter how much you try. The house is still silent as you left it and the diary rests back in the chest. From where you two stand, there are two other houses closest to you.
A PARTLY CRUMBLED MANSION, SURROUNDED BY TREES and A FARMHOUSE, STILL STURDY EVEN WITH TIME.
Anita and Fae'an have a choice. It will have consequences.
ravensunset
triples
There is writing inside of it, worn and barely intelligible in a way that forces you to squint. It takes good look for knowledge to even settle in your head - it is the common language, archaic and scribbled with a child's recklessness. It says as such;
''I've hidden my ball in [you do not understand this word] by Alamisa's house. I've had enough of Nalaya always taking it. I wish I could leave her in the well sometimes.''
It must have been the diary of a child. Whatever the rest of their thoughts had been are now nothing but the hint of ink on paper - you can't read the rest, no matter how much you try. The house is still silent as you left it and the diary rests back in the chest. From where you two stand, there are two other houses closest to you.
A PARTLY CRUMBLED MANSION, SURROUNDED BY TREES and A FARMHOUSE, STILL STURDY EVEN WITH TIME.
Anita and Fae'an have a choice. It will have consequences.
ravensunset
triples
ANITA AND FAE'AN
Last edited:
FloatingAroundSpace
Three Thousand Club
Peng Zhi Kui
H
Quick, quick, they thought. Who would speak in such a stick-up-their-ass way? Back to the texts that were presented to them by tutors, back to the lessons they took in the safety of their mother’s quarters, back to the lines they had memorized, the facts that had been drilled into their head. Take in the words being said, the actions being done— turning away, taking command, language so proper that it was nearly painful to listen to, the note about homelands and youth and training. Posture as stiff as his words, but willing to extend a hand out, someone who was clearly uncomfortable but trying to put them at ease.
At once, (like dear Dal would say, smiling and shaking his head, one arm around their shoulders fondly, forehead pressed against their temple, a low chuckle in their ear as they spoke) the cogs in their brain managed to squeal to life and creak together to spit out a conclusion— someone from Tsusaye, the fallen empire, the broken empire, the one that had glory that had been stripped away. This realization flashed across their face, smoothing it out and causing them to drop their arms and unclench their fists. They drew themselves up to their full height before moving once more, their hands reaching up to clutch at the lapels of their jacket and shrugging it off quickly, suddenly, in one fluid, potentially far too eager, motion before swinging it about in front of them and presenting it to the other man— without a smile. They were not interested in such an expression, always viewing it more akin to baring teeth than an attempt at putting someone at ease, a slimy, slippery gesture designed to put one on edge, a challenge that screamed, I know something you do not. In a kingdom where everything was a closely guarded secret, where sometimes it was luck that decided whether or not one would meet the ugly end via spat or slight or taunt, a smile hid more than it showed, especially among strangers. Manners were never taught, nor were they ever learned, but their mother had insisted. There was opportunity amongst the ashes, amongst the dust and decay, amongst those that had not yet been considered— much like all of their inventions, there were treasures dismissed by the others, and they ought to seize any opportunity to discover them.
So, they were currently offering their jacket to the stranger before them, saying in a level voice, as if they were speaking to a merchant,
“That is correct. I am afraid I do not know who you are, but acknowledge you are from Tsusaye. Please, take this jacket as a showing of my understanding of your desire to be comfortable. I have no disagreements about approaching the tree.”
Of course, it would've been a gracious gesture, respectful of barren skin and the intimate words behind each sliver of gooseflesh. Of course, it should've been something accepted in fluid motions so common behind the shadow-wrapped man. Instead he let jaw sink enough in disbelief before curled fingers pushed along a pale temple and he reached for the clothing. Disrespect, no, distrust.
It smelled foul either way.
Arms slipped all the same into foreign cloth, skin bemoaning the abrasive texture despite the settle of a pounding heart.
"Hisoki,"
he spoke quietly, a degree of stiffness dropped if only in the continued surprise of the gift. "Titles shouldn't mean much in that regard. I won't blame you if this ... is unpleasant. With me, anyways."
Hands found themselves taken along seams, a bite at an inner cheek. "I'm afraid I'm still unused to the customs of other countries since arriving here. All the same."
Like water from a faucet the hushed stiffness seemed in drops to fall. Hisoki couldn't bear to match eyes, head turning in a washed over look. It had almost been easier to pretend, or so he would allow himself the silence of internal admission as barefooted steps began to confidently take him forward, picking along the ground. Only a voice carried from the determined figure back towards Zhi Kui, softened as a rock could be. "Come along then, Vexiran and let's rid ourselves of whatever messes we see this as."
Zhi Kui managed to pull together enough self-control to only wrinkle their nose at the other man— Hisoki, they now knew— only when his back was turned and not to his face. On one hand, they could sympathize with the fact that wearing the restrictive, unpleasant feeling fabric was, well, unpleasant. But what were they expected to do, strip entirely and offer their shirt as a more comfortable shield against the weather and whatever perceived humiliations the nation of Tsusaye would declare from the situation? Surely, the act of stripping to bare skin in front of him would make the man even more wooden than he currently was. So what then, were they expected to actually do to placate someone who could perhaps eat raw citrus with a flat expression?
Deciding impulsively to simply intensify the face they were already making by raising their eyebrows upwards and sticking their tongue out— only briefly— they fell into step behind Hisoki, stating,
“If we are not utilizing titles, then you ought to call me Zhi Kui, no? Or would it be considered deigning to utilize it? I promise my mother thought long and hard before naming me such, and I think it would be a sign of respect to her for it to be spoken aloud,”
they said to the other man in a matter-of-fact tone, though they did not rush to catch up to him. Once they arrived at the tree, Zhi Kui did step forward and examine the bark, before glancing over at the other man.“Looks like any old tree to me,”
they said, nearly cheerfully. “Should we climb it, see if it’ll give us a good vantage point?”
coded by xayah.ღ
neon reverie
ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟᴇ
code by yousmelldead
You rarely hear a silence this loud; it’s heavy, like a cloak tailored for a frame tougher than flesh. It’s silent, and yet, you can hear the screams of the years encrusting the petrified earth beneath you. It is silent, and yet you swear to hear the wind howling, almost human, certainly haunting. Mist shrouds the forest surrounding you, and with every step you might take to those gates, it deepens. Stone angels glance while statues glare; their heads never move but you still feel their eyes on you, following like a shadow. Remnants of the past have found their home here, right where death dwells and life visits; the crypts look older than both your lives combined, some look even older than nations. Weathered stone meets faded words, both victims to time, just like the bodies left here to calcify or rot alone. The graves are silent, but something silver speaks nonetheless.
You find a locket on the ground; it is dirty and scratched, and you have to scrub it clean enough to open it and catch a glimpse of the carved letters inside. The passage of time wails within. Some of it is completely unreadable; it is either a language you don’t know or no language at all. It is likely they present names, but you don’t know for sure. What you can read is this:
Flowers of my life. Key to my heart.
Its worn state makes you guess that whoever this locket belonged to is far gone. Lonely and abandoned, it feels cold in your hands. You wonder if you should keep it or not, but somehow, you get the feeling that the graveyard is more of a home to it than you are. And a couple of steps further confirms this feeling, for what should be barren and dead, appears lush and alive.
There are two graves, two crypts, that stand out from the rest.
ONE HOLDS A STONE SWORD WHILE FRESH DELPHINIUMS CROWN THE SIDES.
ONE CARRIES A STONE WREATH, AND ON TOP OF IT LIES A FRESH BOUQUET OF ORCHIDS.
Tejara and Xan have a choice. It will have consequences.
demonology
Pepsionne
You find a locket on the ground; it is dirty and scratched, and you have to scrub it clean enough to open it and catch a glimpse of the carved letters inside. The passage of time wails within. Some of it is completely unreadable; it is either a language you don’t know or no language at all. It is likely they present names, but you don’t know for sure. What you can read is this:
Flowers of my life. Key to my heart.
Its worn state makes you guess that whoever this locket belonged to is far gone. Lonely and abandoned, it feels cold in your hands. You wonder if you should keep it or not, but somehow, you get the feeling that the graveyard is more of a home to it than you are. And a couple of steps further confirms this feeling, for what should be barren and dead, appears lush and alive.
There are two graves, two crypts, that stand out from the rest.
ONE HOLDS A STONE SWORD WHILE FRESH DELPHINIUMS CROWN THE SIDES.
ONE CARRIES A STONE WREATH, AND ON TOP OF IT LIES A FRESH BOUQUET OF ORCHIDS.
Tejara and Xan have a choice. It will have consequences.
demonology
Pepsionne
TEJARA AND XAN
Users who are viewing this thread
Total: 5 (members: 0, guests: 5)
Similar threads
- Replies
- 18
- Views
- 499
- Replies
- 24
- Views
- 369
- Replies
- 23
- Views
- 510
