#[ffxvi verse]

[voidtouched-blue]

@phoenixfiiire asked: "I'm not scared. You won't be able to hurt me." He might have sounded overly cocky, but it was the truth. Or rather, even if she could hurt him, the Phoenix was cruel and had deemed him unfit for death. "At least, any hurt you cause, it will heal." Clarification. Joshua smiled as he held his hand out for the woman to take. "So please. Trust me?"

Her hands and face had been stained by darkened ichor, but still the man in red and black outstretched his hand to her.

He will dirty his clothes by touching me, yet still he offers?

Far from her usual manner of thoughts, she held concern for the stranger. Even more ridiculous, she worried for the cleanliness of his attire by touching the dried ink of her power that coated her skin and clothes. The way it stiffened the fur hidden beneath wrapped sleeves, and even glued her hair to her face and ears told her enough to recognize the filth she had been covered in.

This wasn't the first time it had happened. Yet, it was the first time it left her cowering in fear, and attracted the attention of the locals just in time to see her coming out of a power-crazed state. She had no control over being a Dominant, and it was that lack of control that terrified her.

What she needed in that moment was the very kindness and care extended toward her. As she sat in the blackened grass, and still-dripping foliage, she felt a warmth bloom within her chest at the sight of his hand reaching out. A flash of memory overlaid the moment, recalling how her Lord of Ash had done the very same. A blink and the image was gone. Replaced by the true welcome of a warming grin.

Every natural instinct told her to slap away his offered aid. Having lived as Branded her whole life, accepting help in this way would have normally been insulting. Yet, in her unquenched fear, her blackened fingers gripped his in hopes that she could escape the memory of the night before. The concern for her beastly appearance didn't matter in this moment. There was simply something about his cooling gaze that provided a sense of calm that washed over her.

Under the hood that clung to her head, her ears relaxed from their pinned posture against her hair. Her shoulders dropped slightly as she hesitantly rose to her feet, cautiously glancing around for any others that may have been present and waiting. Like a hunted animal, she was cautious of her surroundings, even with the temporary trust between them.

"You feel safe...here? With me?"

[voidtouched-blue]

"Y-Yes? Anything, mi'Lord!" She was quick to answer before he had even finished speaking. Though, her words were more of an eager whisper. Her wrapped and muddied feet shifted under her as she listened with shock written all over her face at his assignment. At first, she froze. Unsure of what she had actually heard, she looked up at him to see that he wasn't playing some sort of game with her. His command was genuine.

I get to choose...! Her heart fluttered in a hesitant concern alongside the gentle warmth of...happiness? His demeanor may not mark him as a kind man, nor how easily he killed men, but his actions had already proven him to be far different from any other lord she'd known in her meager life. She felt truly valued, and not just because of her unique skill with aether. The Branded creature dipped her head again.

"I-" She stuttered, unsure of how to answer.

"I-I'm...a....a name..?" The joy and delight left her nearly speechless.

She needed but a moment to decide. A name had already come to mind, but from a small memory. Some years before she had been discovered by her previous lord of Ash, her master at the time had a gentle soul for a son. It was to her misfortune that her Lord of Ash had murdered the man and his family, but his gentle son was the last person who had granted her kindness. His name was Cyrus, and she would never dare to forget the gentle heart he possessed. He often came back from his adventures around Storm and read books to her when she was still learning her letters.

He may have been dead and gone, but the gift he had given her was almost as deep as the tattooed brand across her eyes. She would take his name. She was set on that. Yet, it wouldn't do for a girl to have a name of a noble's son, let alone a Branded girl. No, she would make it her own.

"I do... your Lordship." She raised her eyes from the floor to meet his. Disregarding the clear lack of entertainment in his voice.

"I-I should like to be called....Cy-ra..." She hesitated, like she was unsure of the sound. "Cyra, ser. If it please you." Her second mention of it was more solid, more confident.

As she settled on her new title, she noticed a wisp of cloth in her peripheral gaze that startled her. She flinched, shifting suddenly to the side as she felt her heartbeat quicken in her chest. The quick shuffle had left her seated on her backside, staring up in surprise at the silver-haired maiden. Cyra hadn't even seen or heard the woman walk up to meet them.

"Ah! My apologies, ma'am. I hadn't heard you approach. Please forgive my reaction." She quickly forced herself to her feet, still struggling to stay upright, but it was her will to do so. She still had so much to prove, not just for herself but for her new lord as well. Barely introduced, and she was still vying for approval.

And so once more he was looking down upon her on her hands and knees. For a long moment he simply watched her, with the sharp eyes that had made many a diplomat or soldier cower away, as if he could run men through with his very gaze.

The nature of her previous "names" did not escape him. Pet - not so different from the leers once directed at his mother. Worm - not so different from the supposed generosity of the other adults who laid eyes on Barnabas as a child. Her masters had at least been honest about their own wretched hearts.

Even so, he grew weary more than empathetic.

This simpering nervousness would not do. Not if she was to reach her true potential. He had all the time in the world to wait, and to observe, but perhaps she would require some initial guidance, as many of his closest warriors had before her.

His mouth curved into a smile, not at all a welcoming one but one of appraisal. Of having a private joke.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "I do have a request for your services. A new name is definitely in order, but I shan't be the one to give it to you. Your first task in this castle, however long it may take, is to choose a name for yourself."

Another test, even as she was knelt on the floor half from her own exhaustion. He truly was a cruel king.

Even so, a maid had appeared, summoned by his own mind. She had a placid young face and long, silver hair. Ready to serve this woman on the floor who had spent her whole life serving instead.

"Have you any ideas?" Barnabas asked, his tone becoming bored. "If not, you can ruminate in your chambers."

[caeca-iustitia]

@hautevaux from here

-

“I see…”

They speak softly as they set their medical bag down and kneel beside the tailor, human hand coming down to lay against the other's forehead to check his temperature. After a moment passes, they hum softly and gently slip their hands around his biceps to carefully lift him into a sitting position against the kitchen cabinet.

Standing, they manoeuvre around the other’s apartment to grab a cloth which they soak in cold water, wring out and then fold neatly. They return to Vaux’s side and gently tip his head forward tucking his hair out of the way as they lay the folded cloth over the back of his neck to help with his elevated temperature.

Having taken care of that, they reach down and pick up Vaux’s hand to press their fingers to his pulse point. Red eyes scan the other’s pale features through golden spectacles, the raised scar that crosses their face standing out starkly against their pale skin and dark hair. 

They wait for around a minute before humming, standing straight to take a few steps back towards their medical bag which they open. 

From within, they pull a cuboidal bottle with a peach-coloured liquid swirling inside it and a leather-bound book that they set on the table next to their bag. They potter about the kitchen momentarily, grabbing a glass and filling it partially with the peach-coloured liquid before cutting it with a precise amount of cool water. 

This gets then held down to Vaux, an encouraging nudge with the bottom of the glass used to catch his attention.

“Drink this for me,” came a soft order, “It is an antiemetic. Something to help prevent you from throwing up. I have some more questions for you…”

Picking up the book and grabbing the bag, they kneel back down at Vaux’s side again and pull the pencil from their ponytail to note down what information they had gathered regarding Vaux’s condition thus far.

“Can you describe your other symptoms thus far for me?” they ask, pencil poised to note down whatever the tailor says, “Any headaches? Chest pains?”

[unforestalledreturn-a]

a starter for @valistheanshield They said obsession was a ballad that only madmen could dance to; that only a lunatic would set themselves ablaze in the fires of devotion to fuel the fetid tune of collapsed reason and corrupted morals. And, even past the eleventh hour, where nothing but ash remained, the broken still fettered through on hands and knees to find even a single cinder. Thou, tarnisher of the Mothercrystal, heretic and liar! Lay your life on the altar, purge from from Haearann, nay, all of Valisthea of your blight! The night was still in Lostwing. Over the years, it had been one Genesis' favorite hunting grounds, albeit one that only bore prey once in a while. It was difficult not to admire the sweeping hills of vineyard and the marvel of human ingenuity to transform what many believed to be a crash site of an airship into something equally, if not more impressive. New, from old. Of course, scenery was only a part of his appreciation. The lull and warmth of this cozy, far-off place was a false sense of security for his quarry in the past. It was like plucking diseased hatchlings from a nest, sparing the world of their polluted misuse of aether. Bearers thought they were safe here. Sanbreque was more lenient with the scourge in their land than was Haearann. And with sympathizers like that man Quinten, the miserable fools came trickling in nicely overtime. And now, once more, he silently offered his thanks to the Lord Chief Justice for having pointed him to this place. But his thanks to the Mothercrystal was never uttered. It felt bitter, too bitter, yet here he was, on another hunt. But no Bearer would suffice. No. No, Imreann had made it clear that something as lowly as that was not even worth consideration. No matter how loyal. No matter how much had been done in the name of purity. Imreann's only exception was Jill-- but she was a Dominant. She was a weapon that served the Orthodoxy enough that it outweighed her sin. Perched in the cross of shadows, high within the rooftops of this marvel of a hamlet, Genesis waited. Every movement warranted his complete attention, sharp eyes flickering to follow every villager as they went about their business. He listened. He knew he was close. He could feel it-- He... had always been able to feel it when a foul channeler of magic was near. The inn? The forge? His hand laid on the hilt of his sword, taut.

"Oh, pitspawn of the infernal plane... where do you hide your flame?"

[strawberista]

He's sipping his coffee and wondering if this means Joshua is available now...

[assilat-vojjor]

It would not surprise him if his father had not announced his presence, Bharbo was not a man who made many plans that were not inherently important to him at least and expected those that received him to simply do what they must to accommodate him. It was the arrogance of the King of Essos, and the sire of the great wrym himself, that afforded his father such a luxury. "Perhaps because my joining was last minute, though I daresay traveling here has already served to be interesting."

None more so than the beast which she petted idly while they spoke, his eyes flickering down to the unique plumage and then to how it continued to eye him wearily. Her introduction brought his silver eyes to meet her own vibrant blue ones, offering his own slight bend at the waist with his fist against his chest in a idle salute. "Well met, Lady Anabella. Do forgive me for sneaking up on you." His lips pulled into a slight smile, his hand moving back to his his hips nodding his head.

"Aye, I hunt more oft than I deal with the court these days. Though I dare say I've never hunted on the back of one of those beasts." He gestured then to the chocobo before continuing. "The lands around my homeland are more grassland than forest, and the use of horses is far more common than any other beast of burden." Drogo moved a bit closer now, clearly intrigued by what she was going to ride, his steps causing the little bells to chime softly with each swayed step. "And what do you hunt here? Game for pleasure or for prestige?" By now the young prince had made his way close enough to the duo to lean idly against the fence tilting his head in a curious fashion at her as he took in her state of dress to determine what she would kill. Little did he know how rare it was for the women of Valisthea to do such things, to indulge in the art of hunting and warfare. How odd of them, really, and it would be something that would clearly startle the boy once he learned of how odd it truly was in this continent. A moment passed him before he offered her a look, clearly taking the moment to ponder her words once more. "I had not meant to interrupt your excursion, Lady Annabella."

A couple of seconds of silence followed his introduction; a couple of seconds in which the young woman regarded him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as if she wished to gauge the truth from his words.

Once in a while, a message reached them from the land across the sea called Essos, yet she had never visited it herself. From what she had learned in her studies, he fitted the descriptions, although Anabella had never been fond of relying on descriptions. She glanced at the long braid and the small bells attached to his hair that jiggled quietly as he moved it.

Her leery demeanour faded no longer after, however, and she lowered her shoulders. "My Lord father spoke of visitors from across the sea," Anabella spoke at last and heaved a sigh. "But I did not know they will take the prince with them."

And she had not asked, she had to admit, which was, in hindsight, foolish of her since it would have been her responsibility to entertain the guest as the oldest child of the family branch.

It could not be helped, though, as he stood in front of her now after he had been sent by her mother. Anabella inclined her head in a rather formal greeting. "My name is Anabella Rosfield. It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace." Her words had been trained; even as she found herself at a loss about the situation, she could simply parrot what she had been told.

But once she had introduced herself proper, she paused and looked around. It took her a blink or two before she looked back at him once more. "I planned to set out for a private hunt. Do you hunt in your homeland as well, Your Grace?"

[voidtouched-blue]

FFXVI verse starter for @ifritmade

She could not take it anymore.

Cyra was tired of hiding. She was tired of running. She was tired of all of the people who kept trying to use her in an effort to obtain their false idea of immortality through her unique abilities. She was tired of all of the experiments, and the people poking and prodding at her to understand the differences in her body. Her unique figure was a credit to human cruelty and their lack of understanding. Even after she had heard the call of the otherworldly darkness, their whispers torturing her with every hurt repeated over and over again in an endless loop every night was driving her mad.

In her sleep she could not have peace. Not since she had accepted an offer for the power to defend herself against the malice of humanity. Yet, ever since the nightmares that once labored her sleep had spilled over into her waking hours. For a time, it had left her nearly comatose. It left her vulnerable.

Seated in a caravan set to transport branded from one corner of Storm to another, the other slaves that had the misfortune of being in the same wagon as herself were terrified. The hushed whispers, the maddening phrases she had spoken in her sleep had kept them silent for the initial stretch of the journey.

They hurt you. We must hurt them back. Make it hurt, make them suffer. Make it hurt, make them suffer. Make it hURt, MaKE THeM SuFFER.

The eerie voices that hissed in her head had not stopped repeating the same phrases in days. Not even in sleep could she have peace. The chant continued, and she just snapped.

She would return the malice to their pitiful and weak forms tenfold.

The girl did not hear the commands of the soldier at the door to the slaver's wagon shouting for her to exit. She barely remembered how he had died, but yet she stood there with his eviscerated corpse lying a gurling and bloodied mess at her feet. The sounds of screams around her, and angry shouts only added to the pandemonium in her head.

"You little shit-!" A soldier had charged at her, sword drawn and ready to strike. Her hands twitched, already slick with the dark essence of life that dripped from her dangerous fingertips. She felt the wind shift around her as the blade whistled through the air, her body reacting before she had even told it to, and the metal met nothing but dirt.

In her silence, her slitted eyes stared into the face of the taller man. The fear in his face told her that he was not yet ready to meet his doom, but she would be his reaper all the same. Her lips curled into a wicked snarl, every pointed tooth glistened in the light of the campfires. Such pitiful lamps would be swallowed in nothingness once she was done.

Another blink, and the second soldier had been gutted, and kneeling at her feet. Even in his clearly written fate, he begged her for mercy with pathetic wails. As her hair fell over her face in dark curtains, she focused on the agony writ in his face.

Feel as I feel. Suffer as I have suffered. You will see no mercy from me, worm.

Blackened tears leaked from her eyes as she permitted the void to guide her hand. Feeding on her anger, her rage, her despair...She gave it to them willingly. Cyra had spent her whole life in servitude. She had spent her whole life praying and hoping for a kinder placement. But the Gods never answered, and her body continued to be broken. She was a thing, to humans. And to even think that she had looked like them at some point in her life made her feel sick.

The things they had done to her, the violations of her body, her mind, her soul, they had built up within her. Unchecked rage, and a wrath she dared not even try to understand until the pressure had the emotions pouring out of her in a thick black ichor as viscous as the blood that boiled in her veins...and the blood that stained her hands.

She left the screaming man to his fate as she sought out her next target. She had truly become the hunter. Her vision blurred as the whites of her eyes flooded with the ichor of the Void, its malice pouring out of her eyes, streaking her grey skin with black. Her shaking hands clenched in violent, gory fists at her side as she hunched over.

This...this anger... This is not who I am! But... they deserve this.

"They deserve this." The words rolled off of her tongue as an ominous growl. "You did this to me! You made me do this!" She screeched out into the night.

"I am the suffering. I am the hate. I am the rage of human malice. And I will clean your stain from the land."

It wasn't only her voice that rang out through the fearful cries, but an inhuman chorus of whispers. As she stalked towards an armored man who had fallen trying to flee the demon that walked the field before him, she smiled. Her head had been tilted to the side, knuckles cracking as her fingers itched to be bathed in that warm flesh that stumbled as she approached.

"P-Please! H-have mercy! Gods have mercy!" His voice was a pathetic wail.

"You beg for mercy? Oh, how your sins sing to me in the guise of faith.." The wicked voice answered. She scowled as she shot forward, her body a blackened blur as deadly hands found their mark. In a crimson flurry, her talons bit into armored leather, and then into the softer flesh that lie beneath. She cackled as the man shrieked beneath her.

"Look what you've done! You, humanity, have created a monster." She sang out as the meat of the man's chest laid bare, open, and brutally gored. Yet it still wasn't enough. When would it be enough? The thought had given her prey's breath beneath her came to a gurgling stop.

"When will it be enough?" Cyra cried. She liked how the blood slicked her hands, how it glistened in the fire-light. She liked hearing their howls of suffering, just as she had heard it so many times before through her own voice, or through the cries of another. Her hands traveled from the body beneath her to run over her face, leaving black and red trails up to the wicked horns that curved up and back from her forehead. A devil she had been called, and that night a devil she would be.

[holyguardian]

@flamesofrebirths | short FFXVI starter

The Undying were a mysterious organisation that worked in the shadows. Though Aerith didn't understand the extent of their work, their purpose was revealed to her through a sellsword that ventured to the Southern continent. He sought an aetherweaver, knowing full well there were few, and thus his hand was forced to reveal enough information to convince an unbranded bearer to set foot on Valisthea. His duty was to the line of the Phoenix — and the health of the land was at a critical imbalance.

Those crumbs of information were hardly enough to sway her, though the promise of her safety in the Northern lands and a heavy coin purse secured her aid. "Well met, Lord Margrace." Aerith greeted. He was another Undying, and Brennan, her sellsword guide to the Northern continent, had sounded almost excited to greet this Lord. "I take it you're the one paying us?" It made sense in her mind. Why else would a sellsword be so enthusiastic.

[liroyalty]

Not thoughts today, only fish. LOOK AT MY FISHY

[brightblessed]

@phoenixfiiire said: "I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you come with me." The Undying would not dare attack someone that the Phoenix had placed under his protection. Dominant of Darkness or not, Joshua wasn't about to see them end the life of another innocent person.

Roi's body ached. He had been in so many battles. Wounds healed, sure... And lately, they seemed to heal faster than they used to. Ink-black darkness coated his wounds, shielded his body. He had always been a bearer. Even when his family tried to hide him from the empire. A long time ago, Rosaria was better for Bearers. Not perfect in the slightest... But better. Those stories used to give him hope before his family was murdered and he was enslaved. Made into a weapon. And when he had broken those chains and began to kill those that would harm the weak... He had listened to the voice guiding him. A mentor he needed. Oh, Roi... Will you always be a dog on a leash?

He didn't know what was happening to him. He remembered losing control before. When his unit was wiped out. He had heard someone call out to him and when he came to... he was the only survivor. Shadows twisted around him, flickering over his skin. The men that attacked him could not break through it. Power. He had power. He LIKED power.

But even then, his strength eventually wavered. He had killed many soldiers. His body ached. He couldn't force himself up from his knees and he gasped for breath. He could taste blood. He had no idea what was happening to him. He didn't know if he should run from it or embrace it. But he knew its name. Zodiark.

His wild eyes rested upon the man, though he could barely move... He would fight to the very last. He had killed soldiers. His brand was exposed as the shadows drifting over his body faded. He didn't care if he died. But if he died now.... Would his mother and Niall ever forgive him? They died to protect him just so he could burn out pointlessly here? What a waste.

He knew better than to trust the words of another person. But something about this one felt... Warm... Soothing even. Roi's battered body needed rest. If this man wanted to kill him, there was little he could do to stop him. He didn't know if he could muster up the energy to fight. He knew that there must be others. He could feel the eyes on him. Or maybe he was just paranoid. He almost laughed. The end.... right as he finally felt a sliver of something he could fight back with.

"Don't act like I have a choice." He grimaced. When had he ever? "My body feels like.... it's too heavy to move." A pause as he bites his lip in frustration. "If you want me to come with you, fine... More enemies will probably come." Not like he was at all subtle here. He had never seen or felt anything like that before.

[crescentbeambarrage]

Smt smt -- metia is the actual eikon? Akin to Usagi/Neo-Queen/Sailor Moon. Minako is blessed by Metia to be one of her guardians and is the representation of her 'love'.

No true 'primed' form, but akin to a semi-prime then - she will kick your ass in heels and a fancy dress.

Maybe slight emotional manipulation (more in that she can encourage people to feel 'love' very easily) and light based powers. Primary colors are soft oranges, yellows, and whites.

Iconic (not eikon) weapons are her sword and chain whip.

To be touched by Venus means you and your love are bound for eternity, or... something.

[wolfrings]

denzel's parents were punished by death, for trying to keep him from being a branded and thus, denzel has never lived down their deaths.

denzel boutta be one of those kid bearers in his ffxvi verse.

[lured-into-wonderland]

"My lady," the young heir to the ducal throne speaks up, although his tone remains quieter, as if trying to be mindful not to disrupt her overmuch. "In Sanbreque, do they also share the story of Metia?"

She’s happy to see him. The royal princess is charmed by his shyness and chivalry; so much different from her brother. If her fate is to marry without love and for the sake for the empire, she is happy it will be him. Elwin Rosfield. Ever since they met in that unexpected (and inappropriate) place, the young prince has never mentioned it in a way she could have felt insulted. Or even criticized. His actions, in her mind, have never expressed a disappointment or a displeasure in her (blameworthy) behaviour. Something she was used to hear so often from the lips of her father. Or her brother. Even though his behavior was much more in a need of an amendment.

Nunnally invites her fiancé, with a gesture of her small hand, to sit next to her on the balcony. The evening sky is beautiful; full of colours that soon shall be replaced by stars. Elwin’s words turn her thoughts towards the red star. How long has passed since she thought about it for the last time? Since she saw it on the Sabrenque sky?

She nodded: --

“I think they do. Or at least I know it. I was told about Metia by my nanny long time ago…” – she was a commoner though, so Nunnally wasn't sure how popular the story, indeed, was – “It’s a beautiful story.” – she smiles warmly to him; though the thought of Metia does bring some sadness into her heart. As a little girl, and even later in her teens, she so many times wished upon the star. None of her wishes ever came true. Perhaps she was reaching for something that couldn’t be reached. Especially by the Emperor’s only daughter.

“It’s a pity it’s just a story…” – this remark slips her lips; she regrets (even if a tiny bit) that she has said these words. But the heir to the ducal throne simply couldn’t believe it was the truth. She stands up and walks towards the railing of the balcony. They are seemingly alone, but she knows they are being observed. They are never alone, and they will not be anytime soon. Not until their wedding night.

“Is the story of Metia popular in Rosaria?” – she asks curiously; she’d like to learn about her new home – “We don’t see the red star here too often.” – she adds turning her face again to the young heir. She’s pretty in that last rays of the setting sun.

“How about the next time we see Metia on the night sky we’ll make the wish together…Elwin?” – she almost whispered his name; was it the first time when she has called him Elwin instead of using his title?

Perhaps it wasn’t proper, but it seemed so much nicer. After all they are to be married soon. And, somehow, Nunnally was convinced Elwin wouldn’t mind.

“I wonder how much the night sky in Rosaria is different from here…” – Nunnally loves watching the night sky; she wonders if she and her… – she hesitates even if only in her thoughts – …future husband could find pleasure in doing so together…?

Like she did with Sylvestre before their paths separated...for good.

@phoenix-flamed

[unforestalledreturn-a]

@lightxrampart liked for a short starter! Few things were quite as breathtaking as the sight of the Mothercrystal in Haearann. But when Genesis came to Sanbreque on holy pilgrimage, the room of echoing blue light almost felt like home. Maybe that was why he had come. Weary steps almost shuffled forward towards that sister light. Up the white-marble stairs, the former inquisitor only stopped when another step would cause him to collide with Drake's Head. Quietly, Genesis muttered a prayer, a heartfelt plea that his curse would be lifted, that his trial of faith was over; that he could go home. But there was only silence. Truthfully, how could a god even hear nor care for something as insignificantly small? Surely he deserved--... if a god could neither hear nor care, why was he being punished in the first place? He did not have much time. Surely, by now, this sacred place was swarming with defenders to purge the intruder. Trembling fingers dared to reach out, fractions away from committed a blaspheme that would warrant death in the Iron Kingdom.

[ritterblood]

Haurchefant believes he should be commended for at the very least trying to hold back, for he wishes not to make his Lord think he is teasing at his expense.

It does hearten him somewhat, however, to know that while so many things have changed, there are some things that will likely never change at all; and Clive's inability to read when someone is flirting with him or teasing in such a manner very much seems to be such a thing.

" Worry not, my Lord Rosfield. 'Tis simply good to see much of the young man I once knew yet remains. "

@ritterblood said: "bottom bunk tho, right?"

"I haven't slept in a bunk bed before, though given that I tend to rise quite early and usually come back late from running errands, I'd assume whoever I'd share one with would prefer it if I—"

He frowns.

"Why are you laughing?"

[strawberista]

{Someday I need to make a whole post about FF Hanekoma's love and romance because he is a lot less picky about it than Decaf usually is.}

{He actually leans a little closer to the way Espresso conducts himself, except maybe even a little worse because he doesn't have the problem of being a creature that humans aren't really supposed to know about. He's just very free with his heart and very excited to share his love with others, even if that means he ends up getting hurt a lot.}

{And of course his dedication to Joshua will always outstrip even his romance, similar to the way it is with his other verses, but this dedication will (unless I'm working with what I've established with Benji's Joshua) always manifest itself in a way not unlike patriotism and always wanting to sign up for military service. He's extremely loyal to The Cause™ and the cause in this case is whatever Joshua has going on. He's a more dedicated Undying than the Undying are.}

{There's a lot more to go over, but I'll just have to make a post at some point.}