#⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"You have been good company and I appreciate what you do for Nelia. I know it might have taken time for her to get comfortable at Drakeshadow, but knowing she has reliable friends..."

The man thinks of his upbringing, always in his father's shadow, wanting to gain his approval, to hear that he was proud of him. How he felt leaving home for the first time, to live at Drakeshadow while he studied necromancy and botany. He grew more outside of his father's eye than he could have imagined.

"It is rare that I find myself befriending or talking to others outside of Corvus. Though I seem to have a habit of befriending those my grandfather does not take a liking to. But do no trouble yourself with his opinion of you. He is a relic of a time long passed."

He stirs the tea within the pot, before beginning to fill a mug. Ginger tea had been a comfort to him, even before the wyvern's toxin left him with permanent aches in his legs. A pot of coffee was brewing, and he removes it from the flame. A strong, sharp scent filled his nose and he makes a face. He was never the type for coffee but she seemed to like it, so getting these beans had been a goal of his, if only to give a guest something she preferred.

"I am not one for coffee, but I am told that these beans have a particularly robust flavor. If you will continue your visits, I believed it prudent to introduce you to new flavors of coffee."

He sets his mug of tea down, inhaling the scent and letting his lips curl into a faint smile. He pulls out another mug, and takes the coffee pot, pouring it until it was nearly filled.

"Feel free to add whatever you like. Conversation cannot be had without refreshments, after all, Lady Doscedar."

Perhaps he appreciates the opportunity to learn more about Nelia's friends. Perhaps that was why...she smiled more, or seemed excited more often. She found somewhere she could come into her own, to make her own path. In that regard, he was proud of her.

"But I digress. I wanted to say that I appreciate you showing her the affection we were never given by our parents. It...means a lot to me that she finds herself. I would like it one day if she would stand by my side along with my other siblings as we lead House Zarin into a new era."

unprompted asks | always accepting! | @offrozenmemoirs

Timeline: A year and a half before the events of SoA.

An invitation to query was a far too frequent request that inundated the Lady of the house. Little does stir in eyes so deep and dark, dare comparable to onyx, as they pass over the painstakingly illustrated and crafted still-closed envelopes that cluttered her sturdy oak desk. Her stern, down-turned lips wear the familiar decorum of apathy. Sharp manicured talons barely graze against several envelopes, lifting them by the inside of her nail. Quietly and promptly, she overturns them and their impotent names—a second of attention measures to a second of wasted time. Though little stirs in those eyes, resembling ink and chalcedony, there hints of a color. Not a glimmer of light can be found there, but even in the far depths of the hadalpelagic zone, there lies the subtlest and weakest shade of the ocean.  

One dismissed after the other, today was anything but successful for the countless minor houses of the Graneyean Empire that attempted to appeal to the Lady. The matriarch preferred her rule distant and above the others. The prestige of newer families and their claims pale in comparison to her prestigious pedigree and lineage, and the intrinsic disparity of value between her and them was a fact that significantly weighed her decisions. An accomplishment for a newly dressed clan in her wing would be a social setback for five generations of deliberate and careful breeding, education, and presentation.

One must earn recognition if born without; one must cultivate one's power if born with it. To assume passage by the matter of the claim is incredulous; one must earn their place, even from the same blood as her. Luck cannot substitute accolades; effort does not replace perfection. It was not the path of the ill-minded and weak-willed; as much attention and dedication one may foster for another's sake, it will leave disappointment.

She has already weathered enough disappointment in this lifetime.

Almost free of the burdens of ineptitude and over-assuming parties, her attention leads to a strange envelope. Again, she lifts its corner with the hook of her nail. Palm-sized, she infers it to be an invitation to another's estate. All sides of the envelope were black, except for the backside's lowest quadrant, which was exclusively white. An emblem has her eyes narrow. Encrusted into the crimson wax seal, not a speckle blotting the envelope, was the emblem of a lindwrym. It was a two-legged dragon, one rumored to have once existed in the continent of Graneye, one that slithered through the forests and made dens deep within the endless trees. Their whereabouts and current standing as a population are unknown, and personally, it is unnecessary to know when most of the world's population of any dragonkin is extinct.

House Zarin. How are they managing without any trees to take cover in?

Her talon taps on the query, the prey in her line of sight, as she drags it to the front of her desk, isolating it from the unworthy others. She lifts her hand, palm side. Half-lidded eyes rise from the table to a measly height silhouette.

The uniform, which was seamless and flat, was fitted with a high, tight-collared dress and silver buttons against the length of their throat, fitting the standard that the Elrose house stood for. Yet, those irises she saw were unfitting of the alabaster perfection, witches' viridescent, abyssal ebony, or boundless azure as was that those locks; they were like dwarf mallows and ground ivies in the field of roses.

Like magic, flowers can be manipulated. A couple of droplets would do the trick; she'd soon have commendable black hair that compliments the flowers, unlike lavenders.

"This one," she orders. "Pay them a visit."

As she commands, they obey.

= = = = =

The deep, rich aroma of floral dark-roast coffee fills the air from the mug in Maisie's hands. The steam wafts to her nose and warms her ears, almost tempting her to surrender to the large black velvet chair cushions and even dare to slip off her boots. However, her staunch shoulders remain straight-edged, but her thumbs covertly rub the back of the mug.

After all, this was strictly a business call at the behest of another; what adjourned after the mandatory items on the agenda tended to be sparse words and quiet departures. However, professionalism diverted to nonobjective matters, especially when realizing who had been the requestor.

The rare, enthused host stands at the front of the short table in a more intimate wing of the manor after official matters finished. For the change of scenery, he reasons that his large study was unfit for what he had in store.

Maisie spotted the almost pristine state of the table. It was clear of any personal items except his recently served mug of tea and small jars of additives like sugar or honey. When inspecting the table further, it seemed almost unused as she drew the mug to her lips. There were no scratches, stains, or scuff marks. Its gleam and texture seemed as if the artisan freshly delivered it.

"My Lord is so kind for the offering of refreshments," thanks the gnome, holding her beverage. She glimpses at the alpine-height tiefling, his crimson spectacles guarding his eyes.

After an unsavory reintroduction to the current grandsire of House Zarin, which was another expectation fulfilled in the gnome's experiences handling Graneyean subjects, his grandson has been the most accommodating. Any offense, in ways of physically reacting, on the matter ebbed after the first decade of rumors, slander, infantizing, and the like. No matter how much mud was flung at her, they sought after her. Though, in the case of the current Zarin head, he was much more accommodating than anticipated, his efforts seemed aligned with a different cause—a more inquisitive kind.

"Well," Maisie clears her throat. "Your hospitality is exquisite, and your thoughtfulness cannot be ignored." She softly smiles and laughs, politely emphasizing. "What is most important is company spent together. If granted such pleasures of continued visits, I will cherish these invaluable minutes of our time together."

'Even when most wouldn't see similarities,' Maisie thinks as she drinks her coffee. 'Nelly and her brother are two sides of the same coin.'

The young lord's glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he steadily guided himself with his cane to sit down.

Wetting her lips, Maisie quietly reaches for a teaspoon and acquires two scoops of sugar. Stirring her coffee, she can't help but chuckle. "Miss Nelia is one of her class's most lively students. She's prone to," her hand wipes above her brow bone, "having a hair-raising time in the laboratory."

A sharp ring resonates in the voice as Maisie taps her spoon on its rim. "The reputation of her esteemed brother indeed has led to expectations already, especially in botany. In that course, at least, she has shown promising signs of infusing organic effects into her creations. Nothing has been created; none are even on paper, but thoughts are floating in her head..." She averts her eyes, grimacing, as she settles the spoon. "It is a tad worrisome if she takes inspiration from your discovery and tries to make an explosive from the strain. Inhaling that would leave someone in a week-long coma, I imagine. It won't exist in the short-term future, at least, with how strict the instructors have been becoming this last year."

She takes another sip of her coffee, her expression relaxing. "Her heart lies in alchemy, which, may their souls rest in peace, would make both of your parents very proud." She traces her thumb around the mug's rim. "She never does talk about them, but she certainly speaks well of the youngest sibling, Liyan, and your sister, Rafan."

"It's rather special to be there and watch your loved ones grow," her voice softens. Her eyes fixate on the still surface of the coffee. "Make sure to visit her on her birthday; she still faces loneliness here and there at the Academy, and her family surprising her would make her day."

"It pays off in the future in strengthening those familial bonds," Maisie half-hums, dismissing herself with another sip of coffee. "And the future holds a lot for Miss Nelia."

"Wherever she finds herself, I hope she takes the chance." She holds her gaze to Lord Zarin. "To go wherever she wants to go."

[allthatisleftinthedark]

For Maisie: beg — do they like making their partner(s) beg? do they like begging their partner?

NSFW HEADCANON MEME ! | accepting | @caustichatred

When it comes to her sexual encounters, and if she is leading, their pleading does much to help play into a fantasy or kink that they have. There are socially and publically dominant individuals who wish to be submissive and edged to kingdom come, and that may be readily acquiesced by the gnome. Sexual pleasure isn't derived mutually from these exchanges, but it can help her evoke the persona needed for the foreplay.

On the surface, Maisie isn't attracted to nor inclined to be turned on by someone's begging, but it doesn't mean she is against it; some people want to pant, groan, and moan, and it has to be done. Doesn't it?

Flatly, Maisie doesn't like to beg.

[allthatisleftinthedark]

5. for one muse to invite the other to spend the rest of the day with them  (Mai and Makoto)

Morning After Starters | accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

The sun's blistering heat beat down on the land, welting the skin of anyone who dared stay in its unrelenting rays. However, Maisie Doscedar was different. She was a child of the fields and pastures, roaming and working in them since she was young.

In a lightweight linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a deep purple tunic and brown pants, Maisie tolerated the heat. It allowed for a slight breeze of relief when she wielded her hoe, unearthing the dirt as she uprooted the stubborn weeds that the livestock refused to graze upon.

Despite her prolonged vacation to worldly affairs, she could not shed her dedication as quickly as the chickens and goats could with their feathers and furs. She was already up at the crack of dawn when the golden sun rippled the dark drown of the blue night with a warming orange. Readying herself, she pulled back her hair and left the home without disturbing her family and their guest.

As she dragged her tool through the dirt, it suddenly stopped. She blows a stray lock from her face. With the weight of the bottom of her boot, she pushes it further into the soil. Instead of dragging it over the same piece of earth again, she left it there.

The honored guest of the Doscedar household was a figure of mystery, someone she was still wrapping her brain around. Three months after her recovery from Sidheanholm and an unnatural venture beyond the material plane, she believed that it'd be the end of their exchanges and meetings. As much as she welcomed and encouraged him, Makoto Igarashi exhibited his reclusiveness and dislike openly and firmly. The only explanation that made sense was the winter prince's association with his grandmother, Lady Spring, who the family worshiped. It was still slightly off-putting that your deity's grandson could visit them.

It was even stranger that he decided to stay overnight for the first time. He usually left by suppertime to return to the dwellings of his father's castle; his visits never exceeded several hours, five or six, which meant the gnome allocated her schedule for her guest.

It was difficult to cajole the village elders about Makoto due to his unsettling energy towards the community, including its people, residents, visitors, and traders. However, she managed on the most straightforward matter that the elven-presenting figure was an envoy of Rivera, a commander of the Albarean Duchy's duchy. An enemy of the enemy can very well be a friend, after all.

The faint sound of grass crunching caught Maisie's attention. The man she had in mind emerged from the forest and returned to the opening that connected the woods to the farmlands. His icy blue eyes darted behind his shoulder, staring at the bracket of trees before flickering and staying on her.

Maisie perches her arm on the farming tool, tilting her head to the side. As much as they could spend staring at one another, with that unsettling feeling returning, Maisie spoke up. "Good morrow, 'Koto!" She raises her other hand, offering a gentle wave. "I hadn't realized you were an early riser, too. If you aren't, I hope I didn't disturb your sleep this morning."

With a gesture to beckon him over, Maisie wipes her wrapped left arm across her brow to remove stray sweat. As he approaches, casting a shadow that envelops her silhouette, she warns him, "Be careful with staring, especially at the bovine. They take that as a challenge." She sighed, remembering, "Oren did that when I was a kid, and Ma' had to intervene to stop a bull in its tracks. She was dragged halfway across the pasture before she decided enough was enough and started pushing the bull back. Em and Isi had to take him back to his pen before he could cool off--"

She shakes her head, glancing at his wardrobe. Seeing his typical attire from head to toe, she naturally asks, "Heading home already?" A light laugh escapes her.

However, his answer surprises her. "No? Well, it's not a problem; as long as your folks are okay, you can spend another day here. Though, I need to let Ma' and Pa' know. They have to be as the hosts."

Maisie swings the hoe out of the ground, resting it on her shoulder. "I'm not doing anything special here besides tending the land; if you want some fun, the marketplace is open in town today; you could get something nice for your mother."

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Which muse is the one who enjoys reading romance novels? What's each muse's favorite genre of book to read/movie to watch?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Four syllables for you: Ai-mon El-rose. A prolific reader and investor in the arts, Aimon is very open to xyr accrued collection of novels and is very opinionated on which authors are the best and worst. A prior post better details the reasoning behind xyr insistence on creating a grand collection, which can be read here.

Xe will always take more to read fiction than nonfiction and would be very exuberant to take another enjoyer of romance. If anything, he will be direct and would give a chance to convene with someone who reads it. The truth of the matter is that Drakeshadow is suffocating in the many things he likes and what he does; resistance is had in many different ways, but letting himself digest and indulge in something that does not harm, impede, or abuse the power of someone is a very odd (and low hanging fruit) of resisting. 

At a point, I discussed with Luca ( @offrozenmemoirs ) that Aimon and Seraph would be the top contenders to start a book club and be as quick to bond with each other if they met in circumstances different from what goes on in the campaign. 

For all characters these are their genres of preference for reading:

Aimon—As stated in the beginning half of the ask, romance fiction is one of my favorite genres. The specific subgenres would be a historical romance that usually predates the Graneyean Empire's presence in Nihiran; these texts are significantly challenging to find and could be lost to time (hence Aimon's efforts to collect and preserve them). Nonfiction-wise, xe prioritizes finding illustrated books related to architecture, usually visual dictionaries and engineering books detailing modern and alternative technologies used globally. Their status in the Graneyean Empire makes this remarkably easier to locate and purchase. 

Discoverer—As an entity presenting more of a phenomenon, written or oral knowledge considered niche or "lost" would favor them. Genre means nothing to them as long as there is gain or, as its name suggests, something to discover. 

Estranha—Nonfiction writing that includes self-help autobiographies that venture into journal writing and, secretly, self-sabotaging. Most of their catalog has essays regarding the subject of their thesis. They have also been giving a chance to fiction, specifically children's fiction. 

Juniper—After spending countless years in the most wealthy library in the Graneyean Empire, this retired cat enjoys spending her late nights reading books on travel, specifically Tahrea, where her wife is from, and culinary. The latter isn't necessarily for learning new recipes but for reading through the autobiographical parts of a recipe writer's life (or their experience at a particular food establishment). Fiction-wise, they enjoy short stories and tend to pick up a good leaflet that offers several stories written by different authors with a vague uniting theme. 

Maisie—Called "nerd" in her first session by the DMistress herself, it would not be unusual to admit that reading materials often venture into nonfiction (i.e., cultural studies, history, and theory). However, this is not her preference since those are read not out of pleasure but necessity. She enjoys thriller and suspense novels but is very biased toward ancient myths. Sweetly, she carries a copy of her brother's old manuscripts to read throughout her travels when she has ample time to relax. 

Sino—Much like her counterpart, the gnome has a good list of reading material that explores theory-crafting and history due to her work with her patron. Unlike Maisie, Sino finds these enjoyable because they better acquaint themselves with the shadow plane. Her personal reading taste would include a guide on weapon maintenance and, hilariously, unsolved mysteries. 

[allthatisleftinthedark]

I'd like to know what would be the fastest way for Maisie to become a villain. What would truly push her over the edge and make her go "i have nothing left to lose, so i will hurt all of those who have ever hurt me?"

Thank you for the question, anonymous!

Initially, my thoughts of Maisie's "villain" heel turn had me stumped. The idea of a villain in a story is to pass the moral quandary of what isn't acceptable, acting malicious, cruel, and harmful to those around them in the story. As previously explored in another ask, the characters may present themselves as antagonistic, but I see that as natural to any story when characters are meant to be people of differing opinions, experiences, and ideals. My characters, Maisie included, are not meant to be written as permanent antagonists in a story because, ultimately, they are participating characters in a collaborative campaign. Any prolonged or permanent antagonists would be the dungeon master's responsibility; my characters may provide conflict or tension, but that isn't their sole purpose in an otherwise expanding, multi-branching story.

To completely lose her heart and act with cruelty, without regret or grief, would be something that has to have extreme circumstances. For her to act cruel or harmful to someone while sorrowful is entirely possible!

Maisie always tends to work from an area of compromise. She is confident and proud of her accolades, but her mobility is limited. One of her greatest strengths—her heart — is also a contender for constant criticism by the elders. To be following their word, and also the words of her elder sisters, her compassion and emotions are caught in a labyrinth of thorns. As such a sensitive vessel, those prods and tears wear her throughout the years. However, her optimism is seen as resistance on matters outside of Dewburrow.

There are decisions she makes that may impact someone negatively. There is only so much work she can do to fulfill her larger quota or most pending and pertinent goal, and she needs to grit her teeth and swallow her pride. Depending on the matter, the stinging may be as intense as the last; those who've underestimated her certainly get a sprinkle of her empathy, but there are those she knows would feel so disappointed and hopeless when she has to deliver those words. Maybe that's why she tries so hard for those cases; Maisie knows the feeling all too well of helplessness and trying to overcome the impossible. Perhaps that's why she is so vigilant on Orchidus, where she nudged his side while they washed dishes, telling him it's better to be honest about the confusion than put up a facade. (She's already seen past it once.)

The foundation of her beliefs would always revolve around the betterment of the town, her family included. The greatest threat to her goals and personal stability would be direct harm and destruction of her foundation. Currently, Maisie harbors a deep grudge against the current head of House Grimgard due to her younger siblings' traumatic and near-death experience at the Graneyean Academy of Arcane Arts. She only openly expressed this at the Watcher's Tower, when her book compelled her to "complete" her story and update everyone on her history. Despite her attempts to sound impartial, there was an underlying deep-rooted feeling of something in her that Salphan, at least, noticed whenever Lord Grimgard was mentioned. When Severia confirmed one of Maisie's deepest fears--that her village exists no more in another universe--, it started taking its toll on her. However, more than that is needed to throw her out of kilter.

Cassandra, the Trojan priestess cursed by the god Apollo to where no one would believe her prophecies, is one of Maisie's primary character inspirations. It is she who notices, plans, and warns, but her cries fall on deaf ears; no one is quite so willing to listen to her when she happens to be the pawn that is meant to be moved or worked. Her elders, sisters, and other associates she works with do this intentionally or not. She can be seen below someone's station based on gender, years of experience, race, etc. Or, in the specific case of her older siblings (Oren, Isla, and Emery), they had a final decision and said how to handle their "predicament," which meant Maisie kept quiet and did not address it. The cycle of frustration that comes for Cassandra and Maisie is that their voices are not heard, and even if they are wrong, no one will take their word.

This should all culminate in her being so overwhelmed that her entirety caves in on herself. However, Maisie's story follows loyalty, and her fidelity is almost invincible. In AUs where she gets a sadder end, like in Abandoned Pantheon Route, I would not consider that her worst outcome. It is one borne of depravity; she is stripped of individuality and humanity because she throws it all away for the "cause." She cannot define her threshold and stop herself before then; she gives and gives until there's nothing left.

When it comes to the conclusion she'd make to be a villain, Maisie's intent would not be to do unto others as they did to her. Harm is not really feasible with her current mentality; the mentality she would most likely have, in this particular scenario of losing everything, is, "I have nothing left to lose; what is holding me back anymore?" Her mindset, at that point, would still be rooted in the greater purpose and benefit of others, even if it means burning herself until there's nothing but ash left.

I would like to say that Maisie, in SoA, has an interesting trajectory that I have been cooking up for a while. It is written elsewhere but not on any Tumblr blog (so it is visible), but there is always the question, "What about Maisie?" And that question, my good reader, is something she will face to answer if things go according to plan. How soon would Maisie Doscedar look into the mirror and ask herself that? Has she already found no answers? How many times has she? What will be the push to get her to see another way? (I have the answer, but that's a spoiler~).

Anonymous, I leave you with this: what happens when you realize you save everyone else but not yourself ?

Take care!

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"this isn't what i wanted." Makoto mumbles softly in his sleep, brow furrowed. Normally, he slept quite well, no bad dreams to speak of. Perhaps it's because he's acknowledging his own feelings, beginning to deal with his grief, that he's opened himself up back to the unpleasant dreams of losing Robert. Of losing those important to him. He curls up, another groan leaving him.

"IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME" PROMPTS | accepting. | @offrozenmemoirs

In the hush of the night, the wind's gentle whispers play a soothing melody in Maisie's ears. Perched atop the tree's canopy, she surveys the campsite, her keen eyes taking in every detail. Her knee is drawn to her chest, and her other leg swings idly as she breathes in the cool night air, exhaling slowly through her nostrils.

Not a single sound, not even the skitters of a mouse or the snapping of a branch, dares to disrupt the camp's silence. The campfire's kindling had long since surrendered to the night, and the lanterns, once vibrant, now rest in quiet slumber within the two tents.

The gnome can barely make out the silhouettes of the roguish runaway patriarch and the current horned prince in one; it seemed that the latter, Makoto, pointedly turned his back towards the former, Orchidus. As far as Maisie noticed when she left their shared tent, the absconded matriarch, Severia, was bundled comfortably with the spare blankets she gave her.

However, it was a grunt that caught her attention. She heard the tiniest sliver of discomfort next to the burnt wood and ash pile. Her hand hovers next to the slit of her black dress, feeling the cold blade to her thigh, with anticipation almost quivering her fingertips. Though not a creature or person nearby, she narrows her eyes. Only the sound of rustling catches her attention, and her eyes again adrift towards the tents of the party members.

Without a sound, the gnome adjusts to her height before kneeling where the branch meets the tree. In a swift and silent descent, she slides down the tree before quietly meeting the ground feet-first. Her hands dust off the wrinkles of her dress before her footfalls continue through the camp.

Maisie's immediate stop was at the front of Makoto and Orchidus' tent. Gently, with the back of her hand, she peers through the small opening she made.

Two slumbering bodies remain in the tent, with the shorter elf, Orchidus, snoring soundly on his side. His short, curly hair, a stark contrast to his tentmate's long, straight locks, masks some features of his face, but he remains peaceful in his sleep.

The other, meanwhile, was facing upright towards the ridge pool of the tent. Maisie cocks her head, spotting Makoto's glacial irises.

"Koto?" She barely whispers his name, now holding onto the opening flap of the tent. Though not wishing to entreat him from his lodgings, she could already make out his uncomfortable expression as if he slept on nails that poked and prodded him.

"Is everything alright?" She cocks her head. "Or is this a case of sleepwalking?" She holds her chin, glancing away as she speaks, "I wouldn't think out of the realm of possibility for a spirit of winter's court to do it..."

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Maisie and Lady Spring

Recommend romantic candidates for my muses and see their reaction! | accepting

What greater privilege could there be than to bask in the radiant light of the Lady Spring, to feel her warmth grace your very being? To feel the sun's gentle touch, kindling your flesh and awakening your senses, witnessing the sunbeams dance between the spaces of your fingers, is it not a marvel to behold?

Amidst a multitude of flowers, the Springtide Sovereign's garden stands as a unique oasis, a sanctuary where she bestows her generosity, hope, and love upon every soul. Tender are the hands that nurture and tend this pasture, forever entwined in the unending dance of seasons and time.

The Doscedar family has long been attributed to and paid their worship and respects to the Luminous Flame. Generation after generation, from their colony's arrival on the mortal plane to the first founding of Dewburrow, their eyes were alight with her gift. A daughter chosen to be deftly talented to commune and translate the will of earth, animals' voices, and flora's emotions. Some form of union with nature comes with every child, no matter gender, and it was based on the township's tradition for that specifically talented sister to be granted title and duty. But so were all the daughters, no matter their magical aptitude and liking.

Yet, her presence felt never substituted a presence met. Phantoms embody her; herself all spoken about, but never seen; every chirp of a bird or blooming of a flower reminds someone of her, but never had her voice been heard. Relishing in her daily reminders left some souls more starved than the others; left their lips more parched, and their beings writhing.

When would she show herself? The greatest of her aspects are her empathy, her sympathy, and her compassion. When will she call to the pained? The greatest sounds were of her welcomes and cooings, easing the pains and aches of a long-beaten body.

Even on the granite floor, torso cobbled and lip blistered, body nearly torn to ribbons, a guttural well of blood choked on, you gargled for her. Even when every inch of limb ached, and your body almost refused to move, when you hated every other touch lean on you, you whimpered for her. At every opportunity of hearing that door click behind you, where the light leaves from the door's sliver closing, you tighten your fists for her.

Gods, what you'd do to hear her. Gods, maybe she could not see your flower in the field. She may not want to if she saw how ruinous and wilted the petals are. Gods, she'd be disappointed in how you misused her gift, her blessing.

'She never answered my cries, pleads prayers.'

"Oh, the family patron?" The gnome glances up from her verdant-green notebook, quill still wet with ink. "You..?" A little taken aback, she lets out an uncomfortable airy sound. "You'd place me alongside her!?" Her brows raise, quick then to raise on her feet. Accusatory, near offended, "I'd never lay a hand on the Lady Spring! How sanctimonious of you to even infer!"

'She doesn't even know I exist.'

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"Your hand fits perfectly in mine." (Makoto and Mai)

Saying "I Love You" In Other Ways Sentence Memes | accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Despite the less-than-serene circumstances, a gnome can make do with what little she has. Maisie manages to contend in the cramped confines of the wagon's rear in the limited space. The bumpy road that jolts the wagon threatens to send her sprawling, but stationary, she remains steadfast. Her surroundings threatened to engulf her entirely, and though the discomfort would leave her neck aching for weeks, this was accommodating! After all, cramped enclosed spaces by herself triumph to being cornered in a space with shadows belonging to physical blockades.

In these cramped confines, she could retain her sanity. She kept a distance from work; solo work was more of her usual, not quite to her liking, but it was the standard. 

Amidst towering crates that loomed like monoliths, Maisie finds a spot to make herself as comfortable as possible. Comfort, however, is a relative term in such a space.  

The air was thick with the pungent scent of spices, the gritty taste of dust, and the aged aroma of wood. The sound of bumping crates and the wagon's rattling wheels filled her ears. She lay on a meager bed of hay intended for the horse, her head slightly bent and supported by the crate behind her. Her knees were pressed together. The ornate navy tome rested against her closed legs as she squinted, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the wagon. 

With fresh ink on the quill, Maisie's movements become a flurry, the quill's plumage dancing in a deliberate, fast-paced rhythm across the page. Her lips part in a silent murmur, adding to the cadence of her work. Her foot arches, tapping against the crate as if working the pedal of a potter's wheel.

Midst her writings, the brushing of canvas covers catches her attention. A glacial blue eye peers in before a man with skin darker than dampened earth enters. His horns nearly poke a hole in the wagon's roof, yet he navigates carefully, settling himself upon a nearby crate.

"'Koto," she greets him, her eyes momentarily flickering from her writing.

Muffled sounds come here and there as Makoto moves deeper into the wagon, settling himself upon the crate Maisie uses as a headrest. 

The one looming above her, perched on the crate, raises a brow. With his draconic heritage, Makoto seems to have flawless sight, catching every curve and slant in her writing. Whether or not he could decipher her penmanship was another story.

A long-clawed hand greets her from the corner of her periphery. His hand hovers slightly above, and his fingers curl inward; little effort is needed for him to reach her. However, his hand is without desire, unmoving as it hovers slightly above her left hand. 

A simple comment escapes his lips, drawing attention to the size difference between their hands. Golden eyes regard him. Unable to see his whole expression, she wrinkles her nose.

Maisie's leathered glove hisses as she closes it into a fist, then relax it. Raising it, her thumb brushes against Makoto's thumb as she holds it up for comparison.

By the length of her thumb, her eyes lurk forward over his hand's bow. Thrice over her thumb makes up the size of his hand. She imagines it would be more for her palm to fill his. 

A little airy giggle comes from the front of the carriage. Her ears note the familiarity, the harped amusement from the viridescent witch. Between the click-clack of sturdy wheels meeting the ground, only now did she hear the unintelligible and quiet conversation at the front. 

Yet the longer she stares at her hand, the more a thought comes to her. A pity, a shame, an interesting sight! 

 'Oh, a pity, winicë! Those are far too big for you. Those aren't for you; we have something easier for you to use. One of my grandson's training quills will do; he will outgrow them soon, but someone like you will need it.' Her chest grows heavy. 

A quiet blink, a second not spent thinking more. "Actually, Orchidus' hand would fit yours better." She withdraws her hand, pressing it against the book. "Severia's too." 

Not once did her eyes meet up with his again. Finality hangs over her last word before she returns to focusing on her writing. Only a striking silence remains. 

No sooner did he leave from the wagon's back than all the sounds of the world around resumed. Maisie could hear the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the distant murmur of conversation from the front of the carriage, all while feeling cramped and uncomfortable in her circumstances.

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Makoto smiles as he stares up at Maisie, who can barely look him in the eyes. He's aware of the risk he's taking, sure, they've run off to somewhere secluded enough to where there would be a low chance of them being caught, not to mention the two of them were wallflowers, so it was easy to sneak off. Makoto's whispered words to the gnome while he nursed a drink.

His tolerance for alcohol isn't quite normal, being much higher than a mortal being. Though, the elven absinthe he's had tonight sends a heated, heady pleasure through his body. Being a night of celebration, especially at an Orcish village had been a surprise for them to have such a brew. Though he's also aware that Elves are willing to trade their wares in exchange for something of equal value.

She sits on his shoulders, back pressed against the wall. He has to admit, he rather likes this current position, though he's certain the two of them aren't very likely to try this again.

He gently trails kisses along the inside of her thigh, focusing on the task at hand. He feels Maisie's fingers running through his hair, occasionally gripping it a bit tight, he's careful with his teeth, as much as he would love to leave plenty of marks on Maisie, he doesn't want her to be too uncomfortable. Perhaps he enjoys this a little too much, but why shouldn't he? This is the first time he's ever been able to be this intimate with someone, in such a long time. Perhaps it's because he wishes to treat Maisie right.

"I consider myself quite the lucky man to be able to see you like this, sia itov."

He loves the way her brow wrinkles when he speaks draconic, having no idea of what he was saying. Sometimes he liked how she would scowl at the little smirk upon his face. He hooks clawed digits into the band of her underwear, releasing a pleased hum of surprise as he looks at it. He had never taken the time to really look at Maisie's clothing, but he enjoys just how much it highlights her curves, and he marvels at just how soft, yet firm she feels in his hands.

"You don't have to spend so much time staring, 'Koto."

She scowls once more, tugging at his hair.

"My apologies, sia itov, I just want to memorize everything I'm having the fortune of seeing right now."

He gently slides her underwear to the side, before almost teasingly sliding his tongue across her entrance, and once more feeling her tug at his hair, a sudden movement this time.

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

(context, dream-epiloge to this drabble.)

The elven absinthe works wonders. Makoto Igarashi imbibes in volumes unmatched by mortal capacity yet may teeter into inebriation. Whatever his mind embraces amid this intoxicating haze remains a private experience. Though his body remains upright, weariness permeates his physical form, and his eyes grow heavy. Alone, his mind begins to drift. 

Unsteady and uneasy, Maisie clings to the horns of the firstborn son of winter and dragon, her sole anchor in these unforeseen circumstances. Facing the prince, her back nearly pinned against the cold cobblestone wall, her eyes fluttered and darted while she sat on his shoulders.

Passersby, townsfolk, and visitors blur into silhouettes as they pass the alleyway's entrance, their bodies casting shadows under the flickering lanterns. . No one intrudes to discover the unfolding scene in Stoneyard—the remnants of Maisie's cloak crumpled on the floor, the slit of her black dress riding up to her waist, revealing the black panties that were moments away from being discarded.

No one and nothing approaches or realizes the current situation. Yet every graze of Makoto's cool flesh on Maisie's inner thighs elicits a wince of anticipation from her. It's like ice tracing sunburnt skin on a summer's day, the flesh craving coolness. Wet and hot, his serpent-forked tongue teases across sensitive skin between languid kisses. Though its length could coil under her leg, he prefers its reach for sweeter pursuits. Her fingers knead and squeeze through his hair, seeking to suppress any sudden movement or twitch.

Makoto's breath thickens the air with the aroma of wineberry. Midday drinking is uncommon in most celebrations he's participated in Rivera, yet he indulges without hesitation. A drink here and there slowly accumulates throughout the day, especially with rare elven vendors struggling to keep pace with the demand despite their disproportionately priced goods at the bazaar. Fortunately, a privileged and wealthy person traverses the crowd of orcs, humans, tieflings, dwarves, and others; several gold pieces, spent without hesitation, already burden their knees.

By the gods, even he recounts Maisie's encouragement for drinking. Leaning against the fence post overlooking Stoneyard, a tankard remains untouched in her hand, with disinterest. Despite dismissing a flirt, or perhaps not registering it as such, her golden eyes flick to Makoto's. Her cheeks nearly flush from her prior tangent about color composition, explaining how many other colors suit him better than her and how ridiculous she appears in serious wear already because of her hair color alone. As if to divert from the topic, she raises the untouched stein, pushing it into his palm with an offer.

Alcohol impairs judgment, leading to drunken suggestions and very inappropriate outcomes, just like the very situation Maisie and Makoto find themselves in. 

It has been two decades since Makoto laid with someone beyond shallow desires. At his bedside, it remains cold and vacant, with the imprint and smell of his lost lover disappearing with time from his sheets. Time may only remedy the ache, but it is no cure-all. Not even alcohol can mend it all, but it certainly facilitates inhibitions and reservations. 

Bewilderment blemishes her nervous features, her brows knitting at the archaic maternal language he slips here and there. Unlike the other who preoccupies Makoto's dry and heated nights, who understands every degradement and insult that Makoto grunts into his ear while pulling his hair back. Every kindness and sweetness only puzzled her. 

A long black claw hooks her underwear's elastic, drawing it down slowly. Maisie contains herself, pushing back his hair to better watch him. A strong handful of hair is pulled only moments after he properly greets her, lapping at her lips. Her thighs cushion his ears as she draws her lips into her mouth, finally uttering a weak "Koto" while her hands lose their strength. 

In the hazy heat, her breath grows haggard. She leans forward, her grip returning to his horns. "Keep going," she says.

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Which muse is the most likely to turn to evil? Is their descent into evil slow or is it bought about for a desire to do good (in their eyes)? Would they be able to be talked down or to turn back? What does their choice cost them?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Truth be told, my characters are built in mind to be antagonistic because of their own beliefs and mindsets. Not to say that they are actively inhibiting or challenging things, but everyone has opinions and experiences, which naturally spawns conflict and friction.

The most likely to turn evil are usually not out of their own accord. For example, Sino and Maisie's themes include what constitutes "loyalty" vs "obedience." One must ask at what point someone's allegiance is based on the personal beliefs that they've cultivated or subjugated upon them. 

It is no secret that the gnomes hold onto their primary influences very closely. Sino had a terrific influence as an 11-year-old after escaping Stelsel, and Maisie had a very stable family life growing up. However, a lot is happening behind the scenes, like Sino's place of origin and Maisie's community and family dynamics. 

If the wrong people got their hands on the gnomes, they would've, truthfully, been groomed to be those evils. I cannot see them being people of power to be evil, either. 

Their systems have maltreated them, placing them at the lowest tier of society. They have been neglected and ignored, without any peers to help them. One of them caught a lucky break and found herself in the orbit of humanity despite facing her own challenges. She always felt like an outsider due to her past experiences, which made her feel like she was never acceptable, replaceable, and beneath humans. On the other hand, the other person was born into a family with their own secrets and a community's paranoia. They were traumatized and projected their fears onto her. She always tried to do her best for others, and her pride guided her. However, she often questioned her worth because of what she "has" to do. 

In the current circumstances, Sino and Maisie have dealt with the world's evils differently. Sino cried and pleaded with the Lord of Night when she was younger to let her back into the Void. In contrast, Maisie held onto her own and remained optimistic. Both of them have a natural instinct to withdraw, but the ambassador cannot do so. On the other hand, the gunslinger does not reveal her vulnerability so openly, especially when so few have gotten close to her. While they both recognize the misdeeds and mistreatments they have faced at their ages, one has not connected the dots to realize the wrongs done to her.

For them, doing a sharp heel-turn to do evil isn't in the cards. It would've been a different story if they had other exposures in earlier life. Neither would derive pleasure from it; they would not have any autonomy in these situations. Depending on how young it happened, the idea of them being talked out of is complicated; I believe Sino would have a better time working/talking out of it while Maisie becomes relentless in it. It is a quality of hers to keep dedicated, no matter the cost; she tends to feel over-accountable for the issues that couldn't have been impacted or influenced by her hand. Surprisingly, she can be the voice of reasoning for people who have otherwise led a destructive path. 

For Maisie, it is always a matter of protecting the majority, while for Sino, it is about defending herself (as her primary connections are fae-based/nonmortal). The consequences that would belie Maisie would be ultimately being separated from her loved ones; it is a matter of context on whether or not she is cognizant of the actions. In her current campaign and the abandoned pantheon route, she displays a keen awareness that alters her perception of herself, making her see herself rather negatively. Meanwhile, Sino would be severed from humanity around her as it is something that has been revoked from her since birth; it only cements her worst fears as she folds and gives into the lie. As one can see, the consequence means irrevocable isolation.  

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Who's got the biggest dumpy?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Of the POV characters on the blog, which includes Aimon, Discoverer, Estranha, Juniper, Maisie, and Sino, the gnomes are in the lead with having the most nicely shaped posteriors.

If I have to rank from most to least ass:

Sino (best of party)

Maisie (better than Orchidus')

Juniper (has a lil cute butt)

Aimon (at least has a bump)

Estranha (almost flat)

Discoverer (in the negatives of assery.)

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Change for Maisie and Makoto! Maisie noticing changes about him

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒  (  prompts for the five senses. add [reversed] to reverse the action. feel free to change wording as needed & add details ) - accepting. @offrozenmemoirs

[ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 ] ― The sender (Maisie) notices something different about the receiver (Makoto)

In the alley behind the townhouse and meters from the soldier barracks of Dewburrow, Maisie Doscedar could hide. Undetected, unbothered. That much she can trust. 

Enshrouded in the darkness of the hanger, the gnome absconds from the early morning light and sits on a crate. The blue layer above her black dress is missing in this instance; instead, she is only in that black dress, whose length stops above her ankles. Her muddied and dark gray boots are cast aside and paired together behind her. Slightly waved and loose hair that reaches the nape of her neck is pulled back in a ponytail, some carnation pink strands resting against her cheek. Her brows furrow in concentration, her face flinching.

. . . . . . . . .

Elder Hilda's precision never eludes her; a thought trailends the litany of responsibilities you internally catalog. Each responsibility is ticked off, and "reconvene and discuss sanction" is the latest, with a bold red checkmark next to it. 

Momentarily reprieve, if you consider celebrating your progress, halts from a hot pain shooting from your leg. Your brow furrows. Hands involuntarily clench. With forceful, calming breathing, you pace yourself through gritted teeth. 

A year has passed since the recollection of Dewburrow, its children, and other children in villages in Northern Argyll from the Graneyean Academy of Arcane Arts. Many were freshmen; their academy beginnings halted before even completing a full year. Some were on the brink of graduation; others were preparing to survive midterms. All, however, were expertly herded and hurried away, with the Acadmey's reactions less than their gracious facade. 

And still, it feels like yesterday. 

That should have been you there. That should have been you taking the blow. That should have been you raising the sword. That should have been you after all this time of doing everything. The elders are right; you're finally slipping. You were never fit.

The internal critic, the ever-present commenatator, is that all-too-familiar voice. They don't waste a single second as they go through every flaw and mishap from your four decades of service. The same voice you hear directing and negotiating, delegating and defending, humming and laughing, soothing and correcting, and sometimes weeping and apologizing in whispers—it's you. 

Statis. No matter how many times you leave the town and everything around you changes strangely, the village remains constant. Elder Hilda, the "Dewburrow standard" voice in your head, and even the buildings that surround you are as similar to your first days, sweet-eyed and innocent, on the roads at 16 to the current days, glass-eyed and calloused, at 60 when you return home.

One side of your head is throbbing with an unwelcome headache. All of these comparisons are pointless. You knead at it lightly and carefully, mitigating the agony with your index and middle fingers. Too many late entrants have already thrown the elders' plans off track. The dangers they imagine are more than plausible. You close your eyes. The invasions and takeovers from the Graneyean Empire at Rivera will be right on our doorstep. 

The tension in the air is palpable as you contemplate the chaos awaiting each hinder. The weight of obligation falls disproportionately on your shoulders, anticipating that you will be thrust into the midst of a conflict yet again. As you were told to be, taught to be, and have been doing for all this time.

Flap-flap-flap. Gales from a storm's onset, the sounds of discord around while safely in the hurricane's eye

A powerful, slow, rhythmic sound catches your attention, originating from something far heavier than the common bird that flies overhead. Instinctively, you look upward, and your gaze locks upon a familiar but always striking sight. 

Against the spotless blue expanse of the sky, large draocnic wings, possessing the deepest blue-black scales you have ever seen, fly over. With each wingbeat, a resonant whoosh fills the air—a sound you focus on that soon drowns out the town's everyday sounds. 

Makoto Igarashi, the seated prince of Winter's court, one of the many children of the high spirit but the only son of the Dragon Empress, flies over the town of Dewburrow. Their raven black hair waves in the wind, and despite the great distance from ground to land, you immediately recognize the pockets of exposed skin that the spirit always reveals.

You envision the prince's keen, frigid stare surveying the village, too far beyond to notice your existence. His main interest is always on your family's estate, and as much as you can determine, this is only one of the numerous trips he takes to visit his childhood friend, your older sister, Isla. 

Four months ago, you two became acquainted and delved into the darkness of the Void world, accompanied by...

Your scarred hand waves, dispersing the heavy cloud of strain that floods your head as you recall it. The memories of that journey still linger, haunting your dreams. All it leaves is insatiable curiosity for the Void, yet heavy disappointment in reality. 

Makoto's existence was unknown to you until your abrupt disappearance into the woods at Isla's request to investigate the strange situation. You never expected to see him again after the first time you met him. Similarly, you never saw the other one again.

Yet he persists. Why? 

Makoto Igarashi is a specter of carnage. Though you are not a witness to a massacre on the warfront twenty years ago, the Graneyean Empire and its floating city frequently whisper the spotting of a large dragon burning through "superior" technology and helpless soldiers.

Spellbound to confess their histories in the Watcher's Tower, Makoto does not spare the fact that each page in his life is blood-spotted. Sharp canines peer behind sullen lips with each word that falls from his mouth; none are whiter than the human bones he cleaned efficiently and quickly after "cravings." 

At least, that's how every monster wants to be seen.  The thing about self-prescribed monsters is that they need to be convincing. A common mistake is showing one's hand too early. To gain power over another, a level of restraint is practiced; overwhelming someone, friend or foe, is the first step to failure. Overcompensation is the reality if one shows their cards too soon and has nothing else to support them. Though those easily scared and desperate to survive would kneel quickly, those are the ones who fall for the facade. Self-prescribed monsters perfect the art of illusion. 

True monsters see no reason to display their heinous acts at the forefront; they will lick their finger and turn a page of their story, plainly stating the rhyme and reason of their everyday lives. True monsters need not show their fangs and claws; they await and prey. 

Keen for observation and supplied by a natural weakness for curiosity, your eyes always perceive beyond the veil. A show of ferocity and treachery, Makoto's ridges and edges are supposed to make one bleed if they draw too close. His cold eyes can bear the weight of life lived for millennia by those who dare oppose or question him. Yet, those same glacy white eyes betray him—a momentary lapse of where the 'humanness' that all spirits bear peeks through.

'Do not come close to me. I cannot take this again.'  At the time you first met him in the Void, you were unsure what that meant.

As days turned to months, your initial intrigue grew, and the overall mystery grew. You peer behind the mask anytime he loosens its strings. A deep-seated need to understand the essence, the truth, of any creature has always been your burden. 

If a person can be a home, the heart is the hearth, and Makoto Igarashi refuses anyone to get beyond the property line; a deep snowy-covered pine forest surrounds his estate, and he refuses all people, all indisciminately seen as trespassers. 

Unseen in the deep forest, Makoto can flex his wings and lower his guard. His sharp fangs don't purposely peek beyond a curled lip of annoyance. Instead, he frowns. His hand does not shake as he fights for control of his mind against the blood prince's influence. Rather, he rests his palms flat, lowering himself to the ground.

Fallen flakes dot his hair, and the imprint of his knees and hands is also left in the snow. The Dragon Price kneels, head bowed. Waiting, listening, and contemplating.  To whom? You, the trespasser lucky enough to hide in these metaphorical woods, still do not know.  But you know a mourner's grimace when you see it. 

Fleeting glimpses of melancholy and a shortness of tolerance for another soul, Makoto grapples with his decision and growing irritation with reality.  He catches himself feeling or believing in something he rejected for himself.

Through the progression of several months, you notice that conflict in him is growing. It is no secret from him, from the family, or from you that Makoto's range of accepted companionship can be counted on two hands and can be reduced to one hand if not careful. 

Initially, his attitude towards you was one of sheer tolerance; your presence was accepted because of the bond with Isla and because of Lady Spring's (his paternal grandmother's) blessing over your bloodline. Memories of the Void have already revealed to you that the threshold for his patience is shorter than that of Isla. 

By your own insistence and through letters and invitations to your home, interactions increase, and the days of Makoto's visits prolong. 

Ears twitch, and his gaze lingers longer when he does not expect your attentiveness. He is not standing around and politely waiting for conversation to pass, but he now listens. Conversations that would see him typically aloof or indifferent now draw him in; a query for his opinions and insights he begins answering, even seeking yours. An impromptu history lesson or winded explanation on your end meets with his expectant but stoic expression, a stark contrast to his curt manner with others in the town and your other siblings. 

The ice begins cracking, not loudly but in subtle ways. Despite how cold he can be, Makoto's disposition is warming.with a reason you don't completely understand. It was almost as if the icy facades of Rivera are slowly melting, revealing the hidden rivers beneath. 

On your family's property, you were sitting on the fence one evening when Makoto came over to sit next to you. Instead of having the customary stiff stance, he had one that made him appear relaxed and almost human. He leans forward, his lips in view. The talk flowed easily, touching on both immense and mundane things. And as the sun sinks lower into the horizon, illuminating the sky with shades of gold and purple, you see that the dragon prince has been affected by the most basic human emotion—affection.

"Fffff--" Your train of thought is interrupted by an acute pain shooting up from your ankle. You wince, glancing down. Purple and pink blemishes mar your heels—a sight that not only stings upon mere viewing but also aches piercingly. Anytime your hands move to touch them with the gentlest care, your leg trembles in response.

The sound echoes in your ears, and your head sinks, filled with memories. They are unrelenting reminders that... always... find... their... mark.

In the darkness of the alley, a place you hoped would offer respite, it seems it's still an avenue where the ghosts of your past and looming shadows of the future choose to visit. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids slowly close as your hands rest atop the crate.

You open your eyes, staring up at the spotless blue sky. Makoto Igarashi is now a black dot on the horizon. 

"...I hope you're well." She sighs. "I'll see you home." 

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Because Maisie has asked so nicely for Lucien to "don't let your freak out like that", the vampire has decided to do exactly the opposite.

In the form of a dragon's heart propped where she'd likely see it and a little piece of paper that had the initials 'L.F.P', a little smile drawn next to it, and a small message that read, 'don't tell me what to do.'

unprompted asks | always accepting! | @caustichatred

Maisie Doscedar heaved as she leaned against the closing door, putting her weight behind it. She crossed one hand over the other and flexed her palms outward, savoring the satisfying sound of the door clicking shut. Respite can take many forms, appealing to any combination of the five senses. For Maisie, it was a rented room's privacy and a locked door's security.

After unclasping the silver hooks of her navy blue drapery, the gnome hangs the hood on a hook adjacent to the door. She hooks her finger into her boot, sliding one off after the other and resting it on the carpet. Golden irises glance at the closed door leading to the bedroom and study.

Pa always said never to bring work home, but the cattle on the pastures sometimes managed to get inside the house. Ma echoed the sentiment but kept her weapon close to her belt after a day of drills and kept her youngest daughter trained. Breaking that cycle of hypocrisy would soon happen one day. 

But it isn't today. 

Soothing the wrinkles on her dress, the gnome mustered several disjointed thoughts, meeting together into a to-do list of miscellaneous research topics. She removes her goggles from her head, running her ungloved hand through her hair and brushing her bangs back. However, the thick locks still fall forward, framing that encumbered visage only visible in these secured walls. 

As the moment allows it, Maisie inhales deeply, eyes closing, clearing away all the prior commitments and troubles of the outside. 

S l o w l y, the air reaches her.

Her eyes shoot open. Knotting and twisting, panging discomfort comes to her stomach. Her nostrils wrinkle. Her shoulders fold inward, an erratic twitch in her being. Collected and calm are no longer in the expression of the gnome, the creases of her uncovered hand dampening and the bile heavy in her diaphragm. 

It was a scent one will never forget: rot. 

Maisie's heart was pounding as she cautiously stepped forward, her gloved hand pressed firmly against her nose and mouth. Her eyes darted madly across the living space as she took in her surroundings in a quick sweep. She checked the chair and table, but neither had been moved out of place. Urgency in her movement, she inspects the windows and then the main door. The furniture was not turned over or moved, and the door and windows showed no signs of forced entry. 

No matter which side of the room she went to, the rotting was still as thick and repugnant. Maisie's golden irises finally flit to the bedroom's closed door, heart sinking. Lowering her gloved hand to her side, forcibly taking a deep breath to acclimate to the stench, she paces towards the door. Her still sweaty right hand reaches for the doorknob, the cold metallic touching her palm and sending shivers crawling up her arm. 

Twisting the knob, Maisie breaches through the door and swiftly closes the door behind her. Security evaporates at any chance of being discovered. Confiding the known is not an option. Never can there be a chance of admitting what this could be. 

A threat? A reminder? Whatever it is, all contacts standing with Maisie can break contact. Why? Anything less than slightly perfect is what will make people leave. If you can't do, what good are you for? 

In the dimly lit bedroom, with the sunlight spilling out from the drawn curtains, she almost gags. The reprehensible foulness now escapes from its containment the moment the door opens. The bed is undisturbed, as are the dressers, she catches at the first inspection. However, her eye's attention flickers to the main desk opposite the bed. 

Sitting ominously atop a stack of vellum was a massive animal heart that she could not even fathom what it belonged to. Red and wet, it seems freshly torn from its host, laying to waste and awaiting her return. Beneath the heart, blood pooled around it, staining the papers beneath in a gruesome display.

Suppressing a shudder, Maisie presses her back against the door to close it. Another click comes to her ears before she departs, heading straight for the table. All the words come out balls at the base of her throat as her hands splay and clench, eyes darting across the tabletop. 

Towards the right half of the table, inked pages are stacked, her prior work. She grabs them fast, dragging her thumb over the page corners with her thumb. Her nostrils flare. Reviewing the checklist of items completed, she knits her brows. If as much as a speckle of dirt or, in this case, gore stains them, it only disrupts her current to-do list. None of her progress has been tampered with, despite the blood puddle encompassing the abandoned organelle on her desk. She breathes by a sliver of a miracle, "Alright, this is saved..." 

Glancing back to the nestled viscera, Maisie's brow raises. Untouched and unstained is a precisely cut rectangular piece of paper. With quick observation, the length is almost 3 quarters of her hand in length but thin by width, only allowing several words to be written on them if there were any. 

With her fingertips, she leans in and retrieves the paper. Her eyes were narrow, and her fingers were rubbing the material; it was not a quality she purchased in the town or from her supplies. It bore the initials "L.F.P.," a small smile accompanying it. Her jaw clenches.

Turning over to the other side, her eyes skimmed. Scrawled on the other reads, she reads upon it: "Don't tell me what to do." 

Her hand trembled as she crumpled the note, nearly tearing the paper despite her struggle to hold her composure. A sharp pang of fear and frustration surged within her, sending her heart racing. She immediately recognized the sender's handwriting, the looping letters taunting her with familiarity. The message was short and to the point, but its implications were clear: he errs on his whim, and his emotions preclude more profound thought. 

If he is bothered, he will bother you. As simple as that.

Shivers creep beneath her skin. Time and time again, his pettiness and vindictiveness only imply the lengths he would go to; the fact her head remains attached to her body and her corpse not decomposing in that god-imposed labyrinth is proof enough. Had she served no purpose or means for him, another death is added to his count, another body in his collection of failed attempts at escaping. But, she was the way out, the key from his god's contemptuous curse. 

Long-term consequences are evident, this being one morsel of proof. Vulnerable and exposed, the vampire crawls and creeps alongside the walls and ceilings, always watching and waiting. In the comforts of her own shadow, he may be there as she stands here, staring at this paper. True solitude is impossible, and there is no comfort in knowing she can be a rabbit caught in a trap or in this wolf's maw when he is finally finished with her. 

Inhaling as deeply as she can, Maisie holds her breath in her lungs, chest tightening. Through the nostrils, she exhales, steadying the nerves and the trembling at her fingertips. He can't get the best of her - not again.

With a heavy sigh, Maisie glanced around the room, her mind racing about handling the situation. She couldn't afford to leave any evidence behind, not with the high stakes. 

'Wherever in the hells did he even find this? This shite seems plucked right out of the Sarrane's collection.' The gnome already slips off their glove, discarding on the bed. She rolls up both sleeves, revealing an unscarred right arm and a wholly marred left arm and hand. Reaching into the pouch on the side of her waist, she retrieves a hairband. She holds it between her teeth and pulling back her hair. 'The thought of Lucien and a Sarrane in the same room, especially that imperious heiress and her father, only makes me think of dissection tables and cages.' She shakes her head. 'Not if there are only bodies left behind by a potential god killer offended to think they can overpower him and make him into a weapon.' 

Partially prepared, she reaches down to the slit of her dress. Against her palm is cold leather. Pulling back her hand like an archer pulling back on a bow's string at the nocking point, the motion is swift and fast. A loud thud interrupts the perpetual silence of the room. Embedded now in the wooden table, standing upright and motionless, is a dagger. 

Once more, she reenters the gruesome sight on the desk, her hand steady. Once loud and glaring in her eyes, the turmoil was mute, the glint in them dissipating as soon as her bare left palm met with the wet remains of a heart. Drawing her touch back, crimson dyes the running lines across her palms, tacky as she closes her hand. 

Methodically, she takes the dagger in her right hand. Meeting the blade's tip to the heart, focused on the arteries and veins, she holds her breath. From blade to muscle, each movement is precise; the chamber that holds life, pushing the flow of life through the body, is much like a puzzle. How simple it is to dismantle the pieces, reducing the heart to manageable compartments. Each slice and glide, some struggle from the dagger's slightly dullened end, leaves her shivering, but she pushes through the revulsion. As well-trained as she was, she forced herself through, focused solely on the task. 

A heart on the desk was now never in question; a butcher's wor kin precision remains from what a heart could have been reduced to. A gruesome mess that awaits to be taken out, of course. Maisie retires the blade elsewhere so that it will not stain anything else. With spare pieces of cloth, she ties the segments individually and wrinkles her nose. With only a week left in the town, disposing of these suddenly and all in one go may draw suspicion. Of course, there are always the pig troughs that she can casually dispose of these parts at night. 

Once that was over, the desk was the main problem to handle. She could only dispose of the ruined vellum and feverishly clean over the desk until it was spotless and again innocent from a cruel trick. 

Finally, when all traces of the macabre scene had been erased, Maisie dropped into her chair, leaning back. Exhaustion washed over her. Such horrors will not be the last; these encounters are only horrific surprises that await her like an animal leaving gifts, killed prey, for its masters. Respite comes eerily as she can only contemplate what to do next. 

[allthatisleftinthedark]

❣️ - What are their love languages? 🌙 - What’s their sleep schedule like? 🎁 - How do they feel about their birthday/birthdays in general? 🧑‍🦰 - Have they ever dyed their hair? Ever cut it themself?

Maisie!

Misc. Ask Meme | accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

❣️ - What are their love languages?

Many think, with how Maisie works, that her primary love language is acts of service due to her action-oriented nature and how she processes her emotions toward others. However, this is not necessarily an expression of love for her. While I do not want to spoil much as her writer/player, her overactiveness and involvement in others stems from a question she has been trying to answer since childhood. 

Her top two expressions of love are words of affirmation and physical touch. This is current. Frank as she is, the gift of being uncannily perceptive has gotten her work from her superior, and it works well in the field alongside her personal matters. Those of her party, in her eyes, need reminders and reassurance because in the world they came from, it was pretty lonely. Luxury and riches may be abundant, but the soul was starved of what it needed. 

However, as I write this, quality time is Maisie's third love language, albeit unspoken. Her personality tends to gravitate toward wanting to be close to people, which developed due to the admitted loneliness of her work (and her lack of personal/intimate relations). She likes having proximity to someone, or at least hearing their voice when she communicates with her family or rare others (i.e., Veria) long distance. 

🌙 - What’s their sleep schedule like?

Like her eldest sister, mother, and father, Maisie works on farmer's time and would be awake before daybreak. She attempts to get eight hours of sleep to keep herself well-rested and ready for the day. However, the reality is that she tends to get five to six hours of sleep, and her body has adjusted to it.

She would forego sleeping depending on her workload or something profoundly troubling her. She never mentions that she didn't sleep but will sluggishly get through the day and prefers handling physical labor to paperwork in order to stay awake.

Maisie is a light sleeper and can be easily disturbed to wake up. At these times, and if that home, she tends to stay in bed and toss and turn before falling asleep. Outside of her home, which could include her quarters in her superior's city, she ends up trying to catch on quota and fulfill the missions that she asked for.

🎁 - How do they feel about their birthday/birthdays in general?

To commune and celebrate, Maisie loves any reason to hold events. Birthdays are an excellent opportunity to gather loved ones in the current times that seem to people adrift and distant. Being in the company of friends and family in a relaxed setting, without any outside pressures, is something she tries to do whenever possible.

Maisie enjoys celebrating birthdays in her home continent of Argyll, especially those with family and close friends. However, she also attends other birthday celebrations, which are more political in nature and require her presence, such as banquets overseas.

Regarding her birthday, it makes Maisie melancholy. After the age of 16, when she began traveling and working, she spent her birthdays alone. There is a scarce chance that she can spend a long time back in Dewburrow at home. The most recent chance she had to spend that birthday with her family and have a break was on her 60th birthday.

However, that day started with her waking up in the morning and following her sister's instructions to inspect the woods. The cake and party waiting back home never saw the birthday girl. It was two weeks until she finally returned home.

🧑‍🦰 - Have they ever dyed their hair? Ever cut it themself?

Of all the variants of Sino, the rarest versions are those with the most vibrant hair hue, this being their intended and original hair color before any threats of bleaching happen. None would ever take to dyeing their hair, Maisie included.

As for hair maintenance, Maisie cuts it religiously. Some months shy of her 16th birthday, the gnome took scissors from the bathroom drawer and decided that a "proper change" was in order. At least, this is the official reason. When her mother, Naima, saw her daughter's hair, she was left speechless. Maisie's hair, which used to reach her tailbone, was now cut to neck length.

Even with how thick and voluminous her hair is, she has maintained its length for 45 years and has never seen it any longer. She usually keeps goggles on her hair, acting as a hairband, or will pick it up into a stubby ponytail when running experiments.

Maisie refuses anyone else to cut or brush her hair. Touching it is tolerated, but her breath audibly turns shallow at it.

Note: Maisie's hair length is a component of her visual storytelling/arc. She cuts her hair as a compromise that she, deep down, feels opposed to any unwanted advances and ideas on her. Almost as if it empowers her over those who actively monitor, correct, and control her.

However, the reality is that there's no real power in the situation if someone feels forced to change. That presumed autonomic choice was made under dubious circumstances and little room.  

The idea is that the short hair is representative of discipline but submission. Longer hair would be its opposite, representing liberation and becoming herself again. 

The shorter it is, the more deeply involved she becomes in objectives and blinded to "what must be done." The longer it is, the more Maisie is present and speaking as an individual rather than a representative of an entity or making choices on behalf of someone or something. 

For example, Maisie in the Abandoned Pantheon Route/CoL-Alt Route has the shortest length (pixie cut). This shows how much she has given up on herself to fulfill the goal of the resistance and her village.

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"i have all the answers you need." (From Discoverer to Maisie.)

No One Ever Listens To Me Prompts | accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

The Friar's Frown, a bustling tavern at the Erebonian-Riveran border, hosted many stragglers and displaced figures in the epilogue of war. Creaking floorboards announced arrivals and departures; clanking glasses symbolized promise and celebration; and loud chugging brought reminders of drowning and failure. The thin layer of gas and the gentle glow on the walls added a faint ambiance to the bar's patrons.

Yet, was the cobalt skeleton hidden in the corners of your eyes not enough company? As straight as the clavicles could be, the entity leaned with both elbow joints propped on the tabletop. Dark sockets stared at the untouched stein on her end of the table and the half-eaten plate of stuffed cabbages and sausage on the other side.

Could a flayed and muscle-stripped skeleton crave wine? A fleeting, amusing thought came to mind, imagining that phantom tongue dragging across discolored teeth. An empty glass would assuage them into the delusion of opulence.

"Catalina, what has your attention?" A gruff and puzzled voice spoke in an undertone, drawing her focus. Her ears perked, and a single golden iris acknowledged the guest.

"Oh, thinking of how familiar your story sounds." Whether lie or truth slipped to her tongue as passing fodder for talk, "In the din of travel, in a siege nonetheless, the mortal mind becomes difficult to trust when we only remember some scenes but not the whole play."

"Sympathy you give from a plate of food, but your words offer a less appetizing suggestion," answers Raba, the man of the hour, a swamp-green hobgoblin with a sharp-toothed frown. It takes very little for him to feel insulted or have a negative insinuation from his militaristic background.

She corrected herself, hand resting above her heart, "Understand that it is not unreliable." Her left brow hooked, even elaborating, "But you take issue with the gaps," much to his chagrin.

"Raba, your prestige speaks for you, and there is no need to breed hostility based on fact. As much as I despise it, forgetfulness creeps on me when least expected, especially from war."

Raba's beady brown eyes darted toward her. She watched him, knowing his target. Towards the right side of her face was only a peek at a surface-level mystery; her eyelid was shut out of the trained habit, especially when she could not bandage it. Of course, that was besides the utterly marred state of that side of her face that would draw unwanted eyes. Intensely but briefly, there was a moment of understanding. But she was spared so few seconds of that feeling a lifetime ago.

"Small prices to pay because of what we do." She rolls her wrist.

'You should finish that if he isn't.' The Discoverer rubs his "thumb" over his chin.

The gnome chews her tongue, briefly closing her eyes. "And it's for the betterment of everything if we're strong and capable enough to continue. We relay our successes and shortcomings to the best of our ability."

Raba took a deep breath, staring at his plate. "What happened at the port was only the result of tensions imploding; someone cannot force gunpowder and fire to live peacefully together." His eyes trailed up again. "A miracle that many people lived, but not so surprising by the mess it made of a once prosperous town."

Even after the war ended, the villages near the border never seemed to catch a break.

"Why does this specific instance interest you? It is nothing new to what reeks in these lands ever since the dissolvement of the," his voice lowered to a whisper, "Graneyean Empire and the Albarean Duchy's victory."

"Why do you recall this one so vividly than the rest?" The gnome drummed her fingers on the table.

"For how unusually premature the events were," he admits.

"Those circumstances are also a source of my curiosity."

"In all of Esterah, what I would give to see better than those elves and their magicks. To better grasp what shambles lay in this world because of their pig-headed righteousness."

A frigid sensation trickled down the gnome's back as the entity beside her moved closer.

The Discoverer began, "I have all the answers you need," as a whisper in the woman's ears. His arm lankily rested over her shoulder while his finger bones dug into her sensitive left shoulder. To his delight, he could feel the potential rising in this one if only he verbalized it now!

"Submit yourself to me; what has yet to be found for these eyes, unclouded, see all to the horizon."

The woman with remarkable candor continued, "And that's why I want to know more about that stowaway you spotted."

Dead silence at the table, no more bones digging into her left shoulder. All she could feel was a reanimated entity's composure twitching.

"Right, that child has been quite interesting to you. Do you come as a bounty hunter?" Raba blinks. "You do not neglect to mention details, like your station."

"A concerned witness is all I am. Of course, there have been numerous reports on a sticky-hand thief jumping from wagon to wagon."

"If it does not offend you to ask, miss, is that next of kin for you? Any familial relation to that child?"

"No. I am quite lonely," answers the gnome with a sweet laugh. "But the child is…" As she looks at the table, she blinks. In the momentary darkness behind the lids of her eyes, the sensation of hardwood on her fingertips disappears in a flash. Not a sound of mid-conversation or tavern life resonates sharply and close in her ears. No longer anchored to the body, it is pitch black.

Once more, she returns to the cosmic prison, dotted with nebulae and distant stars. Regaining sight, the Discoverer stands before her, arms raised, towering over her.

Heavy black fog entangles around her appendages, leaving her vulnerable on her knees. No matter the fight, it would always be a struggle. No matter how much screaming and kicking there is, it will always end in submission.

"Have I done something to be disrespected?" The Discoverer huffs with indignation. "Nothing in recent memory reasons your willful incompetence."

The woman tries to gain her footing as if speaking before the council. "The child has been missing and routinely coming up in my visits; my actions are not to disparage you. It began over in—"

"Don't," he interrupts. His silhouette drinks in the shadows, an inverted flame aglow in his socket.

"Se-quence," enunciates the entity. "One step at a time, nothing skipped over. Sloppiness isn't what you're known for, nor will it mark my reputation. Don't make mistakes you cannot atone for."

"Know the difference between a prospect and a lost cause," he says as he reaches out and rectifies her slumped figure. Suddenly, his hand reaches her throat, tightening around her jugular and choking her. The tips of her shoes barely touch the ground as she dangles. The woman's vision starts to blur as she desperately gasps for air, her hands weakly clawing at his grip.

"A child is something that anyone can find. Dress them as you like, feed them, and pat their backs when they complain and have stomach issues. Pretty them up and adore them; give them a little bed by the fireplace. Why waste time to be entertained?" He snaps his wrist, her body feeling fainter and closely going limp.

"Your obedience would be greatly appreciated." The Discoverer gives her another shake. "Do not sully a potential contract for your personal gain."

A loud, disappointed sigh leaves him. If a skeleton could, he would pull his upper lip in disgust. Opening his hand completely, the gnome is released as her body hits the ground, her body curling up as she remains in bondage.

"How much more useless can you be?"

The gnome's head snaps up, burning vile bubbling at the base of her throat. In the deep fog of distorted memories, the recess of missing information makes it impossible to answer why desperation and acrimony reside in her. All living in her mind were ghosts without faces, scratched out with drawn lines; no size was equal to the other, some as tall as her and some towering over her too. All these strangers surrounded her; none answered her when all she could do was scream.

"Back with you." The Discoverer snaps his fingers, and her sight dissolves into the darkness again.

As her eyes opened, Raba met her gaze, her lips still partially open, but no voice left her. Only in a blink did she go back and forth again, only taking a natural pause in her talk.

The cobalt skeleton was nowhere to be found; perhaps he retreated back to the depths of her mind, leaving the table for a party of two.

Her voice lowers to a soft level, barely above a whisper, and is meek in its sound. "It's heartbreaking to see a child so lost in a world that still doesn't know what it wants to be."

'Catalina' grabs her throat, glancing away.

To someone like Raba, that sounds like a compassionate side to the stranger; as traditional as he is, he figures that a woman's maternal instinct makes her incapable of avoiding sentiments.

It was a dreaded reminder to the gnome as that proverbial collar tightened around her throat, reminding her of what little humanity she'd have.

With that, the oblivious patrons of the Friar's Frown continue to bustle as Raba takes another bite of his food. The gnome rewards the silence as she returns the stein to the hobgoblin, unable to bring herself to drink and find solace there.

"Here's something extra for my rambles."

[allthatisleftinthedark]

❝ you do turn a pretty shade of pink when you blush. ❞ (Makoto @ Mai)

asoiaf: feast for crows starters | accepting

Amid gaiety and rejoicing, Maisie holds her tankard of raspberry-red wineberry mead, its untouched and neglected content sparkling like rubies in the sunlight. Her brows furrow as she scrutinizes the drink, tilting the mug uneasily and watching the mead trace the rim.

A small-scale gathering in northern Argyll was an invitation never to decline. Each event is an opportunity to strengthen and foster relationships and maintain appearances. At this time, it's the seasonal Hides and Gains gathering held in Stoneyard. 

Stoneyard is one of Dewburrow's many neighbors, specifically eastward. It is an orcish settlement that existed for 300 years, which is relatively young considering the area's history. Conflicts have been seen between the northern orcs and vanara from the southern archipelago of Argyll, vying for dominance. After the last battle, the orcs secured their territory, and sightings of simian faces have become rare. 

Nowadays, there is plenty to celebrate without territory threats. In this instance, the Hides and Gains gathering was a bazaar held biannually. Initially, it was a meeting of orc tribes in northern Argyll as a grand contest to compare their proudest and more ruthless kills in hunting. It served more as an over-glorified weekend competition but allowed the young orcs to meet others not too close to home and create informal groups for seasonal hunting. As a result, Argyllian orcs have a tradition of sending their young to other tribes to spend the season trapping and gathering in hopes of bringing the best spoils home. 

The tradition became more public in the age of economics, and the advancement of boats came. The Stoneyard settlement, specifically, was more than content sending dead pheasants as invitations to their neighbors. Though its original roots are hailed and respected, it has become more 'marketable,' a common complaint made by the traditionalists in the tribes. Communing and catching up aside, attendees can secure great deals on rare resources, like furs, not readily available in the region.

Maisie, who is rarely home, endeavors to engage in local affairs when she can. This year, she is back in Dewburrow just in time to participate. However, it was her first time venturing to Stoneyard with companions beyond her village and family. Given how little their schedules coincide and how limited his threshold is with mortals, it would only be a day. 

While her companion explores the market and inspects the wares, hilariously dwarfed by the orc majority in the market stalls, Maisie reconnects with familiar and acquainted faces. At one instance, there was an axe-throwing contest, and then there was a log-chucking contest and plenty more sports events the gnome couldn't decline. Friendly conversation continued, some even better known asking about her mother. Though eyes occasionally drifted towards her left arm's scars, playfully inquiring about the creature who didn't survive her. 

All this time apart from another was anticipated; Maisie would not press expectations on him or anyone else. She only shared an open hand for an opportunity. A moment of reprieve, she was allowed.

The same untasted stein in one hand while the other is free, but her thoughts drift. Maisie's cheeks flush faintly without alcohol. Leaning against a too-tall wooden fence, she catches her breath. Associates' motives and covert schemes dissipate from her concerns, replaced by the dread of alcohol's stench and slight swelling in her feet.

It was nearing mid-afternoon, and the two of them had not met up again. At least, Maisie was unsure of his location as he seemed to slip away. A low groan leaves as she rubs her palm against the side of her forehead. 

When would she have such an opportunity again to share what home is like with anyone else? It isn't like she has friends, to begin with—a truth that once troubled her but had now become a quiet reality. She handled it with discretion, playing along and holding her tongue. 

Nevertheless, that hidden, tender side of her heart stings at every reminder.

Adjusting from one foot to another, the gnome looks over the horizon line and watches the festivities. The forecast for today is still sunny without a cloud in the sky; no sudden changes of snowfall or blizzard are to be found. In her headcount, there are no signs of any horns of the draconic kind; a tiefling here and there had their horns, but many paled to the crown on that man's head. 

A rustle of branches catches her attention, and as she turns her head, she notices him in the corner of her eye. The frostbite of Rivera, the prince of the court of Winter, Makoto Igarashi, is leaning slightly over and standing close behind her, almost like an adopted shadow. A comparison like that may peeve Silas, who tends to be quite protective of her and literally occupies her shadow, too. 

The sight of Makoto startles her, causing the mead to ripple in her trembling hand. But Maisie composed her demeanor and greeted him, " Koto, are you enjoying yourself at the festival?" 

Glacial-blue irises flit from the busybodies of the market and return to her. His fixation is evident enough. Makoto's interests rarely lay outside those he considers close, so few can be named off one hand. The draconian man crosses his arms, resting them above the fence posts, a subtle sway in his tail. 

Something occupies his eyes, and it's clearly on her, Maisie assumes. For a moment, she brushes her hand against her face, trying to find the source of his curiosity. 

He leaves no room for wondering as he hooks a brow, complimenting the blush over her cheeks. 

"I'm all flushed from the dancing and competing," a happy sigh leaves Maisie. "Thank the gods pink looks good with my complexion, or else my father's genes have cursed me," she can't help but laugh as she gestures to her carnation pink highlights. 

"The purple, pink, and yellow combination is a challenge when I need to coordinate an outfit for it. My siblings have it easier since they usually have one color from ma' and the other from pa'," her finger brushed the bottom of her short hair. She squints, unable to twirl a lock around her finger completely. "Unlike you, many of those dark colors wouldn't be a part of my regular attire if I wasn't always on the clock already. Meanwhile, you wear that extensive range since you have black hair and bright blue eyes. It looks well on you and ridiculous on me."

"But, hey, it's professional." She shrugs. "Can't go being dressed in all purple and expect someone to take me seriously." 

Maisie blinks, glancing at Makoto. "I went quite a tangent there," she can feel slightly warm in the face but holds eye contact. "Sorry for that."

"Hey," she raises the mug and pushes it against his hand. "Take this. You can appreciate this more than I can." 

As the gnome adjusts her back to the fence, she nods towards the marketplace. "Say, you want to see if they have anything you'd want to bring back for your parents?"