#— 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘. ╱ missives. ❜

[adureus]

At his heels lie beds of near every hue ( pampered, thriving ), though their floral collection is limited. It's not for lack of ambition, or a lack of labour. Nay ⸻ the Blight has robbed the land of much. In that quiet morning, his only company is the babble of rills throughout the backyard's nursery, an echo of a lifestream in all sense. Not too long ago, this sight was consigned to fantasy. During their nascent years, they had naught ⸻ no seeds, no preparations were salvaged since Kupka's assault. All which remained would serve as monuments, mementos, proof of an existence lost to time and dust. He bristles at that. They need not desecrate memory with a want so trivial as a sample of a wildflower. Would he have thought the same of this passing request, some moons ago, regarding the harvesting of Snow Daisies and their seed ? Their temperamental needs were attributed and tailored to their environment. To mimic these conditions would normally be considered a trivial use of resources already strained thin. Once vernal lands choke on hibernal corruption, half-buried dreams, and an unprecedented scarcity both flora and humans alike must face. Yet their gardeners had achieved the impossible. Despite the odds, despite the difficulty. In secret, they'd mottled what they could. A modest patch, tended and nurtured. And now, their patience is rewarded, with the added boon of resilience.

Daisies aren't a common choice, but they embody a particular beauty. Refined, reticent in their presence, yet deadly. As is one Jill Warrick. Horticulture wasn't his forte, though he'd been informed of their toxicity. A fitting comparison perhaps, considering her skill with a blade. Roses, while cliché, deliver messages of affection effective and clear. Though, he gathers them this day not for the uniqueness of the arrangement, rather for a union of loyalty unwritten. Both flowers serve as vestiges of home, bundled in delicate parchment, suspend the glory and essence of nations beloved and bold. Rosaria and the Northern Territories, respectfully. Now they rest as bitter shells of yesteryear.

It’s a small, meaningful lull to days of activity and no pause. He’d even gone as far as inscribing words of appreciation onto paper ⸻ far from a letter of love ( and uncharacteristic ), he’d never been the sort to find himself fanciful with language. But she needed to know her importance to him : her contributions, his pride in seeing her grow and heal, and her ascension to personhood ⸻ unfettered, she climbs closer to the fruits of freedom.

The quill pauses then.

In youth, following her arrival, she held a predictable reticence. Yet, she also lacked a certain regality about her ⸻ no pretension or haughtiness embittered her words. The Princess of the North graced them all : a sharp interruption within the walls of Rosalith. So different. So stark. Blue to red. Red to blue. The Rosfield heirs welcomed her as any other, lacking prejudice and honouring her origins. It wasn’t long before she established roots for herself, now warmly settled despite her apprehension. And as they grew close, he’d learned much from her. With her, she'd brought wise perspectives, intentional words. Emotion guided her, true, as it did all youth ( before logic and maturity stunted their wonder of the world ), but she enlightened him with what many would consider an ancient wisdom. Perhaps the conflict had acquainted her with worldly knowledge, of lessons seldom taught so early. But war was not courteous enough to spare anyone. She’d protected him, cured him of indiscretion and lapsing confidence, remained realistic. She'd kept his expectations within the realm of man, constrained and attainable, promoted his success. Even at an age so tender, she carries words so wise. A song honed through generations, as though the Queen of Rime sung them within her ear, imbued through slumber. She’d done much for him ( down to catering to his own hound ! ) and in return, he’d incurred naught but debt ⸻ debts she futilely reminded he need not pay.

He’d insist.

During one of his father's annual tours, he'd reciprocate. Once they'd broken from the procession, exploring field and wood unseen, he'd aimed to surprise her with sights wild and wonderful. It would not be. The heavens wept, drowned his hopes, and earned her a nasty cold. Yet, she laughed nonetheless. Laughed lovely and sweet. He apologized post-haste. Bashful. Ashamed. Still, she forgave him. In retrospect, that’d been the day he’d come to love her much more than a friend. But fate is not so forgiving, and their separation stung deep and malignant as a wound ⸻ perhaps more so. Physical wounds mended with time and patience. The brunt of emotional wounds had a lifetime to foster their potential. And it’s precisely what he’d feared would happen. Once reconciled some thirteen years later, she forgave him. And again, he requests a pardon. It’s naught but apologies which he gifts her, or torment, or eves marked by worry. She gives unconditionally. He wishes to do the same. It took their reunion to rend him from a myopic, transactional relationship to war and destruction and a devilish temper.

To him, love is not overt. It’s intentionally unassuming, expressed through touch. The sweep of a strand too keen upon her brow, or a reassuring stroke to the small of her back. It's delivered through questions regarding her well-being, through attentiveness, through notes of her preferences. It's expressed through a protective glance in battle, or an assist ( akin to a dance. Poetic, albeit macabre, but harmonious nonetheless ). It's through the way he trusted her wholly with his affairs, both personal and professional. While she supports, she also challenges his ire, grounds him, reminds him of the alternatives. He needn’t be so headstrong, and throughout the years, she has reinforced his empathy, strengthened and nourished his soul.

The letter is completed, with melted wax to seal. It's melded with the pigments of woad and rouge leaning stains, not quite overtaking the default alabaster in its bleed. Two fingers press to lips, fall downward, impress atop parchment. Unseen, as an incantation, yet present. It’s the gesture which mattered most. He'd likely find her hovering about the map table of their shared chambers ⸻ her routine was predictable. She’d sift through newly delivered missives and glean any urgent matter. If she hadn’t dealt with them then he would upon his return. In that time, he hopes she will appreciate the gift in full, in the peaceful hum of shared company and thought. And, as predicted, as he emerges from those oaken doors, he is greeted by his beloved and a silken hello. She is usually the first to initiate, but he’d done so first, sinking into her approach, leaning, pressing lips flush and wanting into her own. It’s comforting. It’s sanctuary. The flutter of lashes tickle cheeks, as does her giggle ; in times like these he doesn’t feel so scorn. As they retreat to their short distance, fingers entwine with the bouquet and foreheads press. They fall into step naturally, recalling bygone days and the countless lessons for galas they never wholly got to appreciate. It’s only the creak and whispers of the Hideaway which serve as their tune. He didn’t mind. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable appreciation of the company they kept. He needn’t honour a day to show his gratitude, but at times he needs an arresting realization to slow down. He didn’t just live for himself anymore.

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫. @nievea

[adureus]

💐🌷spread the love to the people you’re glad you’ve found in this corner of the internet 💐🌷 Mwah mwah mwah !

Ahh thank you so muchhh ❤❤❤ Right back at you!!

[adureus]

❛ you... are coming back to bed aren't you? surely things won't fall apart if we take a day off.. ❜

It's her ulterior way of reminding him to rest. The mark of the day begins with its traditional bustle, and residents are mindful of their grace. They carry a careful silence to their step, speak in hushed tones, leave spirited tasks for midday. Elsewhere, within their shared chambers, Clive stalks what remains of night, pacing about, illuminated by the paltry flicker of candlelight. Too much lies upon shoulders ( no matter how broad ), calls for his regard, demands his attention. At some junction down the line, burdens shall grow relentless in their number, overwhelming, diminish his strength to but a feeble mess. It was only a matter of time ⸻ he'd find himself scorn by injury and ignorance, so it's best to heed Jill's wisdom and rest. Perhaps he'd be spared from reprimand ( Tarja boasts a tongue as honed as her scalpel after all ).

From her vantage, she can witness the tension claiming the sculpt and dip of his back ⸻ facing her some paces away ⸻ strained and pestered and withered from obligation ( and the literal weight of the world ). But she reminds him it needn't be so ; he upholds all burden upon himself, seldom requests the aid of companions more than capable. Particularly her. And, oh, does it humble him so. He knows well of the scars and avoidable fractures : a nick at the nose, the chest, and arm among others. His legs are not spared of the violence of conflict, either. He knows she scrutinizes the droop of darkened eyes which greatly lack sleep, and he's gliding the plane of a knuckle to the puffiness ( as if thought is made manifest ), kneading fingertips along the expanse of his forehead behind that mess of unruly hair. He'd slept like shit, and any well practiced betrayal of the fact would avail him naught.

❛   No . . . They won't.   ❜ Things won't fall apart, he knows this well. The Hideaway is a well oiled machine, and the residents its lifeblood. Clive is but one man ; the moniker of Cid is an ideal, a phantom carried by all, not unlike a hive mind, sustained through actions and progress and word. The hierarchy seems more a formality than anything strictly obeyed. Should a member crave rest then they are openly encouraged to do so. And yet, somehow, he believes himself to be exempt, as if an overburdened schedule reflected the healthiness of his ethic ( it didn't ). He is implored to relax and relish the fruits of his labours as others did, heed the wisdom he so happily barks at others, or sweetly requests of Jill. He knows her question is a plea to recentre, lest he lose his sense of perspective once more, as he oft did in focused pursuits.

Maybe the prospect of settling into the plush of another would do him some good, rid him of the strain bearing such an affinity to him, melt into the comfort of her company. And he does so now, wordlessly obeying, slipping back beneath the sheet to tangle into her embrace. Welcoming and warm, there's a sweetness to her everlasting ⸻ of snow daisies and notes he cannot quite place. He sinks into her, fluttering his gaze shut, murmuring something akin to agreement. The sigh to slip is audible and signifies his peace, falling into a comfortable silence. He is wilfully defeated, but he need not wallow in the loss. She is more familiar with his own mattress than he, the one who'd originally bought it. ❛   At times I forget what it means to be at peace.   ❜

[adureus]

❝  did you smile a little? perhaps i only flatter myself.  ❞   ╱   @braskide

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He hasn't the heart to not reward her enthusiasm ⸻ a pun typically harboured little effect in its overuse, yet a small smile creeps nonetheless. He wonders why she places such effort into lifting his spirit. Most went about their day and ignored the plight of others, too engrossed, too consumed by their own little worlds, shouldering a million and one problems still deprived of their solutions. Why add to their number ? Why burden oneself with the woes of another ? She is of a different ilk. Surely she's empowered by blooming hope, vicariously rewarded through the simplest of reactions. Yet, she succumbs to humility shortly after the accomplishment. Tugging at a previously hollowed heart, craving some inkling of normal human tones, it is her disappointment over something so trivial which summons his humour.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Heh. Are your jokes always this bad ? ❜ 

A chuckle. There's a hint of levity to soften the harshness of his critique, smile growing ever so slight to further sweeten her accomplishment. So, did he smile ? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Yes, he certainly did.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .

[adureus]

❝  i have been old and stern for so long, carved with regrets and years like a monolith. but that is only a shape i’ve been poured into. i do not have to keep it.  ❞   ╱  @vctlan ( Credo )

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐇𝐮𝐡. 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 ?

It's an ancient force which exists within and between, shackled to a mortal vessel. Some twenty-eight summers of flesh are a pitiful foil to the calamitous might of the titan of fire ⸻ Ifrit, wreathed in all-consuming flame, employing myriad damnations of hell and their moxies. Within his bosom, the Pyreburner's silence is not to be mistaken for dormancy. Nay, he simply observes and maintains his pact, gorges upon the essence of its demonic kin in exchange for power. He conceals it as devil hunting. It's hardly an equivalent exchange, though his soul was the bargaining chip. Clive had little say in the matter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  You have the luxury of choice. I do not. You'd be a fool to waste it.  ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 .

[adureus]

[ BLANKET ] — sender drapes a blanket over receiver’s shoulders

Ah ⸻ Had he overworked himself once again ?

Ever the light sleeper, even in the presence of comfort and safety, he is alert. Tuned to every scuttle, every creak, every unfamiliar gait ( be they heavy or soft, and with them their flit and flutter ). But there are still times where he yields to the whims of slumber ⸻ a restorative, cradling comfort rarely afforded and seldom bid. This time it'd been at a stool. In time, he will wholly embrace the enticement of rest. At present, it's a habit to convince himself that a wink is all he needs, that he must rise with the dawn, deprive himself of one necessity to serve another in all his waking moments. So much to do, so little time. He knows it's foolish to believe passivity is a detriment, that moments are best spent active instead, his stride sure from shore to shore. As he fulfills requests, proliferates their numbers through the promise of sanctuary, his own fire sputters in turn and betrays his exhaustion. An unacceptable sacrifice of his own doing.

Eventually do arms unfurl from their tight clutch at his chest just slight. Brows dip at the interruption, but it does not rouse annoyance. The smallest of breaths is expelled, a smile faint, and the mutterings of a ❛  thank you  ❜ sweep muted and sweet. He grows fond of the idea of others caring for him, too.

[adureus]

❝ Why couldn’t the pony sing in the choir? He was a little horse! ❞

His sigh is everlasting and loaded with conspicuous disappointment.

❛  Prompto. You're a sharpshooter, not a jester. Let's keep it that way.  ❜

[adureus]

“Ah, Clive. Do you perhaps recall that time we’ve embarked our journey once more in Waloed — ? With my accurate pugilistic pursuit? I’ve only spoken about Jill’s Eikon — it seemed as though in that very moment, there was something else I aught to discern yet… how your aether and hers somewhat merged. Quite an intriguing fusion, I must say… So, have you, my dear brother, perhaps entertained the notion of a more… significant permanent union? With a representation enclosed by a ring?” //:eye emoji:

❛   What are y ⸻   ❜

Oh fuck. Ringing sings ever loud within ears, escalates in intensity, disconnects him from the moment. Had he flustered his elder ? Perhaps. Quite a feat. Joshua's ability to deduce was deadly accurate, maddeningly so, and at times it's weaponized to playfully torment his sibling. So, his response is swift and sure and opposite to dulcet ; he is caught off guard.

Wait he speaks of a ring not ⸻ Founder.

❛   Shouldn't you be concerned with taking your medicine, brother ?   ❜

[adureus]

sneakily did she take the one shirt he needed and slip it on, surely he wouldn't be able to leave! ( only if he can catch her )

Miss Warrick : ever mischievous when she so chooses. She claims she's changed, claims to harbour a heart of ice, befouled and soulless. A monster of war and rime, her girlhood sequestered by dusk. The Ironblood have not deprived her of virtue, that sweet girl of their tenderest years, of her giggles, or the rare flashes of a smile oh so bright. It's a delight as she bounds about their chambers, shares a merriment reserved for the eyes of one so beloved. He obliges her. It's a playful divergence from the measured might she wields upon the field, or among the Cursebreakers. It is no contest. Effortless, a blossom upon the breeze, with steps light, airy, almost feline. She is controlled power ⸻ whet and trained by war. Unpretentious, she is last to boast of her victories or rivalry with Clive, humbly mitigating her capabilities. Bashful, too, perhaps. But with lashes dipped low, she dare not betray it. More times than once had he found himself flat on his arse in a spar, too spurred by arrogance ( she is far more nimble, far more coordinated with a blade ). He is far too brutish. She is far too quick. Their score sits at three to one.

Thin wrist caught in a hold arresting yet doting all the same, she is pulled close then, with fingers sinking downward, slow, to the modest flare of a hip, kneading there as he rests a dark mess of a crown at her bosom. Aligned with her heartbeat, a laboured sigh absolves him of a million sins. ❛   Come now. You've grown far too fond of my things.   ❜ She is of a beauty rare. Not quite delicate, nor wholly severe. She is a honed type of quiet sophistication, yet hints of her daintiness still crept through the punishment. It's that reclaimed light, nursed and nascent, which overtakes the weights of sorrow and torment which plague her in the night. She delights in this childish mischief, one she'd find herself chided in adulthood. He allows her the indulgence.

She need not lounge in linens sullied by soot and grime ( as they oft found their shelters in the night ), straw kicking up dust to harass all sense, marking the morn with a fit of sneezes far too frequent. Or the cold plane of stone, beneath bodies and steel, with cloaks serving as mockeries of their creature comforts long since disposed. At times, Torgal would nestle beneath torso or crown, offering some comfort to Jill and Jill only, feeling positively possessive ( or Clive had simply been far too heavy ). He wonders if she revels in the scent of Sandalwood, the muted hint of ember with its prevalence upon flesh. Or, perhaps the faintest of leather, of hide weathered and tested, clinging to whatever is found upon his back. If it isn't death, then it is these. A far-cry and contrast to the airy, sublime note of snow daisy, and of sanctuary.

While it's a favourite tunic of few, he'll let her have it this once.

[adureus]

❝  even the best iron grows brittle with too much beating.  ❞   ╱   @ashwarden

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀King of Darkness, do not speak of truth. A lie is easier to dismiss ! Falsehoods borne upon the voices of the lost ⸻ the tongues of opposition ⸻ are much easier to rebuke. Clive ⸻ wreathed in humility, lucid, malleable to others' claims ⸻ is never one to reject advice ( no matter the source ).

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀So, he listens.

There is wisdom in these words : ancient. Measured. Ripened with a sagely, albeit brutal edge. The King bears a conspicuous familiarity to battles waged and won. The scars he dons are the price, spun along flesh to accompany quiet triumphs never quite articulated. He knows such wisdom is honed and whet through the passage of time, of war, of misery. At thirty-three summers, he cannot begin to fathom the gravity of eons etched to bone. He is but a pup whimpering among the flames. Tender still. Clueless still to abandoned Valisthean lore and its war-torn past. None have walked each phase of life, and none have endured societal metamorphosis quite like the King. None are quite as intimate with the concept of wear and tear, of loss, of the goaded waning of the heart. Aye, of the heart and its supposed infinitude among halls of promise and tenacity.

Clive does not claim himself ignorant to such horrors nor depth. While in the presence of his own solitude, he oft finds himself lost to rumination, to the tales of the mind, nursing a will constantly at odds with a foreign, omnipresent aggressor. It prods at a constant, raking at those faults and clefts with the methodical patience of a feline prowling, claws protracted and buried deep. He allows himself to bleed ⸻ wordlessly bleed an infernal ichor laced with a matured brand of hope and sophisticated sense of justice. He does not claim immunity to the mind ebbing at times with the obstacle of grave loss. The iron, in this case, is his will.

And he is loath to admit some similarity within their beats ⸻ though they rest at opposite tails of their extremes. He does not scoff, nor does he rebuff these words ⸻ instead eyes flutter shut, absorbing, mulling over the advice ⸻ it's a warning best heeded.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀An inhale. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀An exhale.

The rains fall shallow and weave along locks, akin to sorrowful rills darkened as the skies, ending at silenced lips. They seep into the earth below, its infertile soil lapping at the nourishment like a man deranged, desperate for deliverance from the aetheric drought, desperate for some semblance of whole life and its yield. His response is unspoken, yet his aura is true. In another life, he'd hope to speak of a journey which healed rather than fouled, he'd hope to surrender steel for a quill in service to peace. But life is not so easy. One cannot save all ⸻ particularly those who believe they've already reached salvation.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  . . . And I'm well aware I'd be a fool to ignore this. You of all people, Barnabas, are more than familiar with hardship. You've endured scores of it.  ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .

[adureus]

ruffles his hair. " who's a good boy." /imsorry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A small swat, retreating, equally annoyed by the gesture as much as his words. How he scoffs at that, knowing it's a jest rather than congratulations for some feat. Humour always wound its appeal into Cid's decisions . . .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Do I look like Torgal ?  ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Actually, don't answer that.

[adureus]

❝  i want the sun to burn me. i want it to scorch me to the bone.  ❞      ╱   @auburniivenus

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Now wouldn't that be a mercy. . . ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To be cleansed of the scourge of the earth and all its sins, to be saved from this mortal coil and graciously conveyed to the realm of more benevolent gods. He baulks at her wish, holding a complex relationship to the flames harnessed within and without, flickering with a destructive hunger fickle in its control. He summons those embers once more  ⸻  a demonstration, a reinforcement to his detachment to the infernal self before extinguishing its billow, forming a fist. Ruddied gloves wheeze beneath the crumple.

Ifrit's heart beats, and throughout those years he has equally snuffed and nourished it through selfish pursuits. It has rumbled in His silence  ⸻  vying, bidding  ⸻  its pulse restless and ever poignant at the cusp of the mind. And how ' delightful ' it was to wake with a start most nights, soul wracked with nightmares and other untimely woes. These flames do not heal as the Phoenix's do, nor show mercy. One must wilt to be rebuilt. One must succumb to immolation. But Founder, did the mere journey feel as torture to both mind and soul, consuming the essence of humanity and injecting the dominance of an Eikon.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What did it mean to be a man anymore ? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He relates far greater to beasts.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Unfortunately, I'm not the one that'll bring you any kind of salvation. ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .

[adureus]

❝  what can i say? the world is an ugly place. we must live in it.  ❞   ╱   @violevin

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh  ⸻  how he bristles at that, recalls every bitter memory, every heartbreak, every cosmic punishment sunk upon his head. Scorn and savagery, hellish torment, he had come to familiarize himself with a realm mourning the theft of its once arresting beauty  ⸻  both in its people and its majesty. He'd become his grit, became moulded by social contagion and its pressures. Each soul upon this earth, empowered or no, supped upon Aether's supply so readily, dismissing what horrors abound with its consumption. They ignore the innate kindness rooted within humanity, honouring calamity and chaos in its stead, pluck what delusions they so choose of their reality rather than digesting it as it was. It was easier that way, to be ignorant of inequalities and destruction and suffering. It was easier to embrace the ugliest recesses of the mind, manifesting beyond ego to seep unto the realm and its loam, poisoning, creeping to influence mind and matter.

Elsewhere, a select few endure the misfortune of being labelled a Bearer. A cruel fate, that. Others revile and act as though they have no considerable part in their subjugation nor the quashing of their plea. What mentalities weave reality serve as a bellwether for the future all have wrought together. But the Blight continues its voracious march whether one notes its taint or not.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  And you've made peace with that, I take it ? ❜ 

Many deem him a fool, mark him rash for wishing to teeter the scales in favour of the bold and empathetic.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .

[adureus]

❝  i have a better idea. i will do as i please.  ❞   ╱   @sacredflorist

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀There's an incredulous snap of brows ; a crease livens above the bridge of his nose. A flair of annoyance coils skyward, awoken, yet is smoothed over by a conscious tap into logic. It's her gusto which shifts his impression. He questions if it's genuine, or a means to sway him without directly rejecting the expertise he sought to peddle. Few summon a brand of sharpened wit in his presence, fewer talked back  ⸻  most are either intimidated or meek by nature in their approach. Scientists, researchers, and other scholarly figures found a preference for his services, shelling out the fee without so much as a quip. Their voyage from [ A ] to [ B ] complemented the quiet they'd arrived with. He'd seen his fair share of souls who belied their edge, too  ⸻  but most abandoned any mock courage the instant they took to the field. More often than not, such lies would lead them to embarrassment ⸻ which camp would she fall under ? A wonder.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  By all means. ❜

Now, a gesture forth. A cant of the head. His encouragement a silent admission. Gil was Gil ⸻ if she required an escort then he would provide it ; his job wasn't to instigate. How hypocritical it would be to elevate himself above such reckless tendencies anyway ( they still found their comfort quite firm within ).

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  Just remember you're the one with the bounty on your head, not me. The whole point was to keep you out of trouble, was it not ? ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↪ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .

[adureus]

"Wellllll...." Sarah approached with a cheeky grin, hands held playfully upon her hips.

"What are you going to do for Jill? It's valentines day .... being the gentleman that you are... I presume you haven't forgotten .... right?"

❛  A gentleman, am I ? Not to worry, I haven't forgotten. You'd never let me hear the end of it. ❜

A smile. He had plans. Jill isn't the materialistic sort. Rather, she clung to sentimentality and company. He hoped to inspire the former, provide the latter. Perhaps a picnic ⸻ naught rivalled to the idyllic peace the countryside evoked. The quiet babble of brooks wove life about land untouched and unscarred, preserved by their inland refuge and remote proximity, far from the hunger of crystal. Its hushed tranquility paired well with the comforts of yesteryear : the foods, the joys, the wilful superficiality to their banter ⸻ aye, what a perfect gift indeed. They cherished it all, yearned for it, missed the simplicity of their problems. Their initial visit to the markets had been short, cut brief by obligation. Their repast would be intentional, its purpose to reminisce more than celebrate the day.

❛  There were pastries she was fond of back home in Rosalith. I was hoping to find something similar. ❜

[adureus]

"You and Jill. Both of you have been a blessing to our cause, I don't want you to ever forget that." ( from cid. couldn't find a prompt but have this, cid already throwing up death red flags with this fiughfj )   ╱  @heroesvow

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐖𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐡��𝐦 𝐬𝐨 ⸻ 𝐧𝐨, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. Reignited, long forgotten, a visitation from youth he'd long since consigned to history. He cannot name it, cannot embrace it. His attempt at acceptance seems amateur, what with the coy expression of his mouth, downward and subtle at the cusp, almost boyish. Gratitude is what he eventually settles on, though his mien is bemused and worrisome within and without. Any serious tone from Cid oft found itself coloured with jocular notes or was borne upon the wisps of cigarette smoke, seldom filtered betwixt lips chapped by test and time. Clive purses his own, mulls in this silence, understands the depth of the admission but cannot quite yield a viable response in turn. It's a hum instead, a cant of the head, downcast as if anchored to the implications of what has been shared. Alternative meanings are considered ; Cid has always been a man of many muses and double entendres.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛   How can I forget ? I'm reminded every time I see your mug.  ❜

A jest, of course ⸻ more appropriate for his company and to mollify the tone. Jill would surely weave a more suitable response, eloquent and intentional with each chosen word. She is thoughtful as always, expressing heartfelt appreciation to those who took a chance on them both, instilling the return of hope into hearts so downtrodden and once broken.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛   Many people look up to you and seek your guidance, Cid. I'm among their ilk. I don't want you to ever forget that.  ❜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ↪ 𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 .