beholdenning

[beholdenning]

... What is that in the Knight's eyes? Denning sees his raised shield and lance, not unlike what he looked like while lying in wait for the signal, not unlike the alert state he was in before. The point and surface are turned towards it and the body in its grasp.

A blink. New quintessence, even if feeble, settles in its limbs, its core, proving the soul's value as prey, assuring their continued operation. A fortunate fate for both. The morph glances back down at the now-worthless carcass in its grip, the man's face frozen in last seconds of clearly-identifiable pain, fear.

Denning looks up. But, ah, that look in Forsyth's eyes, the set of his jaw, the shake of his step. Is that, too, fear?

... Why?

No, a different question must be asked first. What is 'fear'?

Fear: Dilated pupils, elevated heartbeat, shallow breath, a shot of adrenaline, a reaction torn between fight, freeze, fawn, flight. Sudden, unexpected stimuli of the senses, pain. A threat. A loss of control. Death. Darkness.

That still does not seem logical. This mortal was fatally wounded by the Knight's own hand. What does it matter, then, that Denning makes sure his fading life does not go to waste? Then again, fear is highly irrational; Something caused by the smallest of differences, a base instinct of the organic flowing over. So:

Is he afraid?

"...dü?" Denning repeats after a long pause, an imperfect mirror of Forsyth's voice. A pause. Answers alleviate fear. That, too, is fear: The unknown.

They look down at the empty vessel again, doing scarce more than occupying their hands and burdening their limbs at this point. It hits the floor. The point of Forsyth's lance does not follow the corpse when Denning drops it.

A single hand, unbloodied, pinches together in front of their face, before bending at the wrist towards their lips, equally unstained, opening once, closing once.

'eat.'

average coworker experience // forsyth + denning

[beholdenning]

Denning is a construct. Constructs do not want. Constructs do not love. Denning does not understand.

'i do not know,' it repeats, a truth still. But the biscuit does facilitate things, a constraint of direction. The smell of chocolate fills its throat. Perhaps that too is the biscuit's function: Less pretense, more guide.

This time, the morph nibbles at her end, inching closer by steady margins, gently, gently. The biscuit must not break. That is the lose condition. She cannot tell if the kiss, then, is victory or loss. A frightening gesture, a confusing gesture, a gesture so laden given away so emptily. Love? What is love but weakness? What if one plays with the loveless? Games are light, and this is a game, a game. The-fear-is-the-thrill, but to-win-one-cannot-fear.

She does not understand. Is Mark afraid? Veiled red is met with bright gold, and her 'bravery'—is that it, or folly?—it is striking. It is no attack, but Denning parries regardless. Or is it a mirror?

Be not afraid.

A slow crawl onwards. Lips meet, unremarkably, cold to warm, the former unmoving, shifting though pages upon pages of memory— There are bones, organs, muscles within the mouth, and too many of them are involved or uninvolved in times such as these. In reality, there is nothing she can consult other than the one before her.

Then—In warmth, there is a spark of quintessence, white-hot and close, a beating-heart that could rest between fangs, a vibrant shock of life that tempts her to devour—She does not, pacifying odd impulse. Golden eyes had not closed, casting its cold glow on brown lashes. They flutter downwards to observe, again.

Sustenance. A base want.

Ironic in the wake of the biscuit.

Denning stills. Parts. Speaks: 'love... i cannot.'

A pause, a tilt of the head. She reaches for another biscuit. 'does this not bother you?'

a trifling treat // mark + denning

mini // source

[beholdenning]

@allyphase

Oh. Mark looks up from her notebook as Denning sits down next to her, cookie already caught between their teeth. "The game?" She signs slowly, turning towards them. She fidgets with her fingers, trying to figure out how to best explain the game. She looks at the biscuit, then into their eyes. "Kiss," she signs, her gaze falling. "The game is to kiss." A beat. If she is to teach, she should demonstrate. She carefully, deliberately, bites down on her end, then inches her lips forward. "You want more biscuit," she signs, pausing her movement. "It tastes good." She creeps closer. There is no heat from their lips, and she suppresses a shiver. Another bite. A deep breath through her nose. Surely they won't push forward... right? "You don't want to break it." She shifts closer to them, cautiously. Another bite, and this one goes too far - the cookie breaks under her teeth, and she pulls away, covering her mouth with her hand as she chews what she's earned. "If you meet in the middle... you kiss." She wrings her hands. "We didn't kiss that time."

A loss condition. No win condition, not as such, but it stands to reason that what lies opposite is victory. The prize: More of the biscuit, or,

A kiss?

A gesture. Affection? Desire, betrayal?

(these violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: “the one i kiss is the man; arrest him—"

which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness.)

Lie and truth in one. Laden yet empty. Empty in this competition, but laden enough to entice, to terrify? The tactician bites down on the opposite end, and creeps closer. Her breath is forcibly steady, the fluttering wingbeat of her heart, the bright star of her quintessence far more intriguing to observe than the disappearance of the biscuit— Does she fear it, or the gesture that follows?

It does not think to mirror her until she pauses to explain; A gambit that surely would have cost her had Denning any idea what it is here to do. It only thinks, then: how convenient it is that we may speak through gestures alone and understand.

Even if this fails it. The biscuit breaks, with little effort on its part to claim it this time around. There is the briefest of pauses as the morph extracts its own share of biscuit from between its lips and lays it aside.

That must be amended. They pluck another from the box, and place it between their lips anew, the glazed side towards the tactician. 'i do not understand.'

Repeat and Again look the same. The please, at least, makes the request less frigid.

a trifling treat // mark + denning

mini // source

[beholdenning]

tw // horror, death, vampirism

Parts of a larger system, components of a mechanism. Any army, any contingent, any service fits the shape of this structure, and the Knights are no different; Each given their role, their task, in each operation, whether it is frontline, communications, reconaissance, cover fire...

Interception, neutralisation. The forest is dark and poorly-lit, the sounds of combat already carrying where it can wind past the trunks of the trees. Firelight in the distance, a small plume of smoke. The signal: Targets inbound.

Denning conveys a sharp bird-trill and begins to nock arrows and loose them, aimed to maim rather than murder. A kneecap, a tendon, a shoulder, a calf, a thigh—keep them from running. The fools only approach in a trickle, as projected, in various states of readiness and terror. In stark contrast, their companion does good work, goal-driven and faithful. His fervor, too, is notable: An obedient fervor is a powerful weapon. His lance and shield are unyielding. What he does not manage to cut down, they shoot from places unseen. It is a balanced dynamic.

Distant fire dies down. Quiet begins to trickle in. Many convicts lie writhing or still on the ground. One is gasping, gurgling around a wound in his chest. The Knight, Forsyth, has done good work. This one will not last. It will not do to let him go to waste.

What that hapless bandit sees, then—What is it? Golden eyes open in the tree above, unblinking. White and red and black, a blur as it drops down from the tree. Blood gushes from red agony, blind fear, more gurgling. A heart wasting its last seconds. Squirming. Crawling. Scrabbling like an insect. White-hot. It hurts. It hurts. I want to go home. It hurts.

Pale hand reaches down. Sharp continuous pull at the scalp. Reedy sobbing. The head lifts, then the neck, then forced up backwards. Golden eyes. Staring. An abyss. It hurts. Distant begging. Why won't that bastard blink? Please blink. The black closes in. I don't want to die. It hurts. The gold lingers. Look away you sick fuck—It hurts! Please, please blin—

"Gh—Aaahh, agh, hgkk——!!"

The fallen bandit convulses in Denning's hold where they hold him up by the hair, his eyes bulging, rolling, clearly still alive, clearly not for long. A thin miasma lodges itself in every orifice of the human's face. He convulses again, chokes upon a silent wail. Denning tightens its grip so he does not shake himself free. One more thrash, another. A rattling, gurgling inhale. The sound of it drags like nails, chains, an eternity.

At the end of eternity: Slackness, startling paleness, a fast-onset rigor mortis. The exhale never comes.

Finally, Denning looks up.

@viridescent-lance

average coworker experience // forsyth + denning

[beholdenning]

activity check // october 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: (1 monthly) total skill points: 30 -> 31 skill point allocation: lance e (0) -> lance e+ (1)

threads not yet allocated to mastery: 15

[beholdenning]

Suffice to say, Denning is perplexed. A puppet-string mind carefully retraces anywhere where missteps could have been had, but finds nothing. He can rule out any fault of his own, for the incensed woman had clearly ordered a standard Burger with nothing extra nor anything omitted— What reason does she have, then, to claim she had ordered a Burger with Cheese?

She did not order Cheese. There is a Cheeseburger on the menu, and she could have had it if she so desired. She need only have the eyes to read it. Alas, even that is beyond these mortals. The question in turn, then, should be more similar to:

Such a basic order, and you cannot even communicate it properly?

All these thoughts, but little ability to put it to speech. Pale throat bobs, struggling to find the words to begin making clear to this woman that this is clearly noones fault but her own and that she brings nothing but disruption and a lack of gratefulness to this establishment for feeding her, but the woman only takes his involuntary silence as invitation to begin shouting at the morph again. Empty threats.

So Denning continues to stare blankly, at somewhat of a loss. Not being rewarded is all the same to him, but to criticise him for a job perfectly done is new. In this case, the interruption is nearly welcome. His feet smoothly slide a few steps back as his coworker steps in, words coming to her far more readily. Golden eyes slide to the red-haired woman, then back to the dissatisfied Customer.

"You're kicking me out." The Customer says, dumbfounded, before her voice rises: "You're kicking me out?! The audacity—" And has the audacity herself to push back, fair frothing at the mouth. "I'm not done yet, don't you dare placate me! You there, let me see your name tag, I'm reporting you to your manager— Both of you— This is unacceptable!!!"

Unacceptable, indeed. Denning gently grasps the woman's shoulders and pries her away from Tethys and begins physically steering her to the exit, unfazed by her grabbing at his shirt for his nametag.

i asked for no pickles

[beholdenning]

It is obvious, to the morph, as to why they would be hand-picked and recommended to this endeavor. 'listens to orders to a T', one Knight joked, clapping them on the back, 'would do the most ridiculous thing anyone asked of him', another crowed, clapping their hands in delight, 'would probably also serve looks in that dress,' yet another swoons, palms cradling her face as a sigh passes her lips. All of these are recommendations, affirmations to the suitability of their being.

Denning was not concerned when the betting pool went out, and remained unconcerned as they were escorted to the cafe in question, cheered on by their fellows. It was still utterly unbothered as it was ushered into another room, its measurements taken, colors checked, face touched up, a dress and matching accessories picked from a cascade of monochrome and pastels—Then quizzed and drilled on proper etiquette. Denning flows between tables in a flurry of black and white lace, lithe arms deceptively strong for platters and teapots.

An inability to speak is noted—But, ah, to miss out on such a pretty face, on such a graceful bearing, such unfailing dedication to each and every false 'Master'! The Manager sees no issue: All the better to partner with someone else, then. Someone who fits its 'vibe'...

"Now, we've just the perfect recruit for this!" The Manager trills with a flourish, leading it towards a bright null-spark, an anti-matter in the sea of quintessence.

Now this, while they cannot be called a concern, is interesting, at the very least. Golden eyes do not so much as blink as Denning regards its kin, something it had not expected to see again. Another beat, before it dips into a curtsy, gingerly lifting its skirts by a perfectly measured margin.

'limstella,' pale hands abbreviate their name to 'star', movements exact to give them the respect they are due. Faculties grasp for more words to grace them than just their name (though what is greater than that? The name a Master has granted—) when the Manager clasps her hands together and smiles.

"So you two know eachother then? Excellent, most ideal—Rosalind, will you please be a dear and guide our latest dollie-darlings through their first shift?"

... Dollie-darlings?

The senior employee gives an equally perfect curtsy and regards the two morphs, hiding her disquiet well. "I'm sure we've got a bunch of customers who're into your whole... Scary doll, gimmick. Come along, now."

Denning follows, obedient as a dog.

✧ two creepy goth maids to go, please

oct. anniversary commission | ft. limstella, denning | +1 any

[beholdenning]

... This is suboptimal.

Though not unused to working with the suboptimal at this point of their experience as a Knight, a moment of inattention hand-in-hand with distraction is quickly proving to be their undoing. The contingent Denning had set out earlier that evening with had been modest at best in the first place, complacent in their belief this would be a standard-fare bandit clearout.

It was not standard fare. A delay in the change of patrols had seen to it that their weapons are gone, and fellow Knights and Students alike captured in a sudden cacophony of noise. They had delayed in their return from brief investigation of a lone flicker of quintessence so they would not be hauled off alongside.

In the distance, raucous celebration over new spoils.

Here, a lone morph, wracking its mind to the extent its limited experience as a lone actor may permit. Time, while not of the essence just yet, is a luxury they do not have. They are scarce at a distance or in a position to call for assistance, and there is only so much magic-less hands can achieve without bow nor blade to wield, especially not alone.

They were made to die, but they cannot retrieve what they must if they do so. A conundrum, indeed.

There is there, and here is here. But not so far off, the rustling of a bush rouses their attention—Alongside bright, cold quintessence, like a winter-melt brook. Golden eyes move, head swiveling close behind.

Denning calls out, softly, with the chitter of an off-season songbird.

@carmennivis

look da, no arms // nils + denning

anniversary • gauntlets +1

[beholdenning]

There is an unexpected sene of finality when their fingers interlock, beneath even the now-familiar hum of her quintessence, bright and strong, brighter still; The end of drifting, the beginning of oath. A familiar unfamiliar. Unfamiliar in the fact she is obligated, in turn.

Still, she seems pleased by its establishment, by their verbal confirmation: A hypothesis proven, then. Her 'laughter' bubbles forth. A smile despite her state. Baffling, as ever, but not incomprehensible.

Yes: An oath of 'rest', for both of them, is something they can obey, can keep. It is needed of both of them. Denning gives her a grave nod befitting the establishment of the pact and their duty thereto.

"Mm," their hand releases, smooths over the back of hers, before they lean back and close their eyes.

Yes, they can 'rest' now, the both of them.

THE CLASSROOM IS ON FUCKING FIRE

[beholdenning]

activity check // september 2024

status: hiatus

skill points acquired: 1 (1 axe) total skill points: 29 -> 30 skill point allocation: axe e (0) -> axe e+ (1)

completed threads: n/a dropped threads: ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: 15

[beholdenning]

♡ // yeah this one's gonna be a riot

fankid meme || closed

" NERGAL " KANAMOTO

" this... is a message f... rom... lord nergal. i... i... i... "

apothecary > merchant

senno did not name the child because he was sure they would die within hours of birth. they did not die, but they still have no true name.

their ' nickname ', " nergal ", comes from the way they preface all of their speech. example: " this is a message from lord nergal. i want to go outside. "

senno's curse quickly began devouring the child's body upon birth, feeding on the rejected quintessence. somehow, the body stabilized, but half of their face is so disfigured from the attack that they cover it with rags. removing them causes nergal to fly into a rage.

they have trouble with language but cannot write or sign due to severe arthritis. they instead prefer to stare. they can say words other than " this is a message from lord nergal, " but it is a comfort phrase, so you'll hear them say it often. they don't actually know who nergal is.

their favorite food is custard taiyaki, and they'll be on their best behavior when senno relents and buys some for them.

[beholdenning]

activity check // august 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: 1 (1 monthly) total skill points: 28 -> 29 skill point allocation: bow a+ (17) -> bow s (18) | rank up! claim pending.

accessed: n/a mastery: n/a

completed threads: dropped threads: ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: 14

[beholdenning]

It takes the Fang a moment to understand their meaning, but understand it he does. Still, there must be easier ways about communication than this—Words fall messily upon the wayside, statement followed by question followed by statement.

Combat readiness aside, there is a nervousness about the man. Not common for him, no, not from what they know. This much is obvious: He expects them to beset him, but they would derive no use of his death. He fears the rising water, perhaps, which would be an issue if he continues prattling on.

Mm. Is he not an Instructor, at the Monastery? Or, at least, a part of it: They still know his quintessence too well for him not to be. It would be inconvenient to lose him.

Denning blinks, twice. Soaked hands reach down to pat their pockets as a charade in attempt to confirm his speculation, even if they are void of anything but a salt-crusted pocketknife and their Knight's insignia. A short shrug, then, exaggerated in imitation, before they fish out the latter, pinning it to their shirt and making to walk past him—Towards the climb upwards, and the modest lengths of cave that follow.

Denning turns back to the Fang. Stares, expectantly. It is obvious he wants to live. It is obvious he must follow. A hand opens, palm-up, and curls in a beckon.

One Star Rating On Tripadvisor

[beholdenning]

Good, she will rest. But:

The way they like?

They do not 'like' anything, and they can hear without issue— If anything, it is inconvenient that their voice lies ever slightly out of reach. Or, in that vein, perhaps...

Fingers twitch. Perhaps there is meaning in accepting the same approach. There is understanding inherent in the same language. An attempt to do so, in mimicry.

This too, can be purpose. Golden eyes look upon her extended pinky for a lingering moment, unfamiliar with the gesture, familiar with the pain even this must cause her but they, too, lift their less-damaged hand, pinky extended.

A promise lies parallel with orders, with duty, with pacts. Rest: Unusual as an order, but not unnecessary within existence. This much, they can do for her.

"prä-məs." Denning echoes back.

THE CLASSROOM IS ON FUCKING FIRE

[beholdenning]

Heard, catalogued: The yowling of a man who has flattened his own fingers.

... Perhaps better to narrow it into the category of 'pain responses from the current Marquess Ostia'. Golden eyes stare at flesh-and-blood digits swelling to an angry red as their own hands continue hammering away mechanically.

Thunkthunkthunkthunk. Clink. Scratch. Thunkthunkthunkthunk. They count the cycles until the Marquess recomposes himself enough to speak; When he does, he seems 'bothered'. Denning's head tilts. Strange. Though put clumsily, what they said is the truth. Still, they grasp the repeated why—Why here, why in Fódlan—And find their hands stilling.

Thought buffers, unexpectedly. Why? What once was a simple question to answer is now a nebulous thing: Devoid of higher purpose, function whittled down to 'help', always but a tool, a means. Greater queries answered to Lord Nergal. Three letters, the justification ever only one name.

Their Master is dead. Lord Nergal is dead. They know not how to answer this query. There is no answer deemed correct. There are no words they can provide.

Still, they try, borrowing them instead. "ma-stərz ded—"

Their voicebox clicks, imitation-swallow. Another shake of the head. Their hands twitch. One comes up to grip at their throat. "ded. nät hir. aɪ, hir."

Statement strings to statement. Digits dig into synthetic flesh. "foʊdlən, ma-stər." Nails drag down their neck to the leathers of their uniform. They tap the metal guard twice.

"aɪ, help." Denning repeats.

dread and valor .

[beholdenning]

activity check // july 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: 2 (1 monthly, 1 sword) total skill points: 26 -> 28 skill point allocation: sword b (8) -> sword b (9) bow a+ (16) -> bow a+ (17)

accessed: n/a mastery: n/a

completed threads: dropped threads: ✦ ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: 13

[beholdenning]

Drip, drop. Plip, plop. Ringlets on the surface, echo in the hall. Water trickles from stalactites yet to dry, left damp by the perpetual shift of tide, their impact echoing every which way. While drawn here to help provide for the monastery, Denning has found little of value thus far, instead lingering to take in the sounds. While the steadily-rising water was noted, it is of no consequence to a breathless construct. The other presence has been noted as well, alongside familiar impressions of strong quintessence, contact passed over in observing the addition to the soundscape.

The addition does not take overlong to notice he is being watched, sharp as he is.

A clicking noise responds to the warning, low, halfway into the throat, echoing like another saltwater drop. In the dark, the water is moved, gently sloshing in time to footsteps. Steps from a little twisting nook in the cave, where shifting, rippling, low blue light could not quite reach.

Their hands are raised, palms-forward when they reveal themself. Hair damp, surfaces lightly salt-crusted, clad in simple shirt and trousers to allow free movement in the water, Denning slowly cocks their head.

This is about the second tidal cycle since they have entered the cave. They are utterly drenched. Hands linger, also still dripping, for a moment, midair. When they move, it is simply to respond—

'can't drown.'

(But the Fang can. The water continues to rise.)

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