#𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕; ᵉⁿᵈʷᵃˡᵏᵉʳ

[simulvcra]

@arathina​: "i think the loporrits are quite endearing," she said thoughtfully, curling a finger around a stray strand of her own hair as she watched them toil around the hull of the ship. "though something about it makes me think our beloved hydaelyn has quite the soft side." / ysayle

      Gloved fingers tap against jacketed upper arm , once , twice , before they come to still completely. An idle melody he heard on the road once ,  seemingly a lifetime ago , and had followed him like a faithful hound ever since.

Stood as they are , not quite centerfold but neither fated to the wings as Hydaelyn’s creations pitter patter underfoot. Back and forth with an enthusiasm seldom found flourishing beyond the lines of childhood and warfare.

A jarring juxtaposition , one which follows him as keenly as his gaze follows them in turn. He might’ve reconciled the former with the latter , if Hydaelyn had seen it fit to craft them in an image far removed from what he often associates with childhood stories. Those in thick and aging leatherbound books left to gather dust upon the shelf , whimsical waterpaint illustrations painstakingly applied upon the pages.

      “  That , or our dear Hydaelyn has quite the sense of humour . “ He counters , silver brow raised. Amusement carries in his voice , in the upturned nature of his mouth at it’s left corner. Rose coloured eyes pay Ysayle a sideways glance , following the curl of her finger around a lock of hair as white as his own.

Given present company scurrying underfoot , he cannot help feel that he and her are the oddities here. Collectables by another name.

      “ ‘Tis a shame to have missed witnessing the forums reaction to finding out our great custodians crafted by Hydaelyn’s hand are uplifted rabbits. I would of paid to have seen it. “

[simulvcra]

@aevyternal​: Lips had been pulled terse for a second, two, as her brows knitted together for a brief moment until smoothing out again. A quiet chuckle upon the exhale of breath as clawed hand extends towards his cheek. A phantom touch, softer scales smoothing over the rise of his cheekbone before the auri leans ever closer for lips to feather over his temple. Her touch lingers, a voice of warm honey soon murmuring against his ear.        ❝  You haven't slept.  ❞  An observation, rather than any kind of reprimand. Thin strands of silver slip over her shoulder as she turns her crown, now pressing a kiss against his cheek, more present than the last.    ❝  Are you not tired?  ❞

      Sometime’s he thinks she’s not real.

For as the desert loves to craft mirages wreathed in vivid reds , sunburst oranges and that one luminescent shade of yellow only found upon the shoulders of the holy — so the cold turned it’s piercing gaze to those northern ice floes and snow flurries and bid them to replicate.

And she is the result. Liable to dissipate in an aborted exhale , her cold touch melting at first dawn. Yet , she touches him and remains. She does not become a figment of an ever rapidly exhausting mind , a statue crumbling beneath elements far beyond it’s control and bid to weather them all the same. Atlas’ raw shoulders , the umbrage of a bruised and broken fist.

      “ Not yet , no. “ Scarred fingers search for their clawed counter parts , sharpened porcelain & intricate marble , beckoning them forth to return the press of lips she had pressed against his skin. Lighter than the discarded feathers of doves in flight. He replaces them a moment later with the press of his brow , eyes squeezed shut. Shoulders rise , and they fall. The book perched against propped legs forgotten , words fade in the undertow of weighted thought.

      Is he not tired ?

There is no luxury to be found of simply smiling off such a question , nor is there a sleight of clever word play to had , safe in the knowledge the asking party is oblivious to the weight. Ebony knows , down to bone marrow and soul dust.

      “ ‘Tis a particuarly gripping read — “ He jests , scarred fingers tapping against well loved text, a heartbeat expires between them , and another , and another , “ and I’d not give my devils more of my prayers. “ Quieter than a ghost , than all the foot prints long lost to the sand and sea.

Yet more grains in the hourglass fall , Dante’s unoccupied hand moves to gesture at the vacant nook beside him. An invitation to not wander the night alone with thoughts their only guide. “ Let me read for us . “

[simulvcra]

 @curecify​: "When, precisely, is the last time you ate? Or rested, for that matter?"

      Lips curl up at the edges , enough to reveal the barest hint of ivory. The mild apologetic’s red handed tell in action , the showman’s flourish at curtain call.

At first , he wonders what gives it away ⁠— perhaps the steady creep of  shadows beneath a canopy of white, thistles in a field. Or perhaps it is the ceaseless crackle of fire continously fed well past the hour of it’s demise. Yet another pot of tea placed upon it , and the steaming tea up perched precariously upon the edge of the table.

“ Perhaps I was waiting for your inevitable , and fine company. You are almost late to our midnight reverie , after all. “ An admonishment and suggestion artfully rolled into one , down to the velvet cadence of his words. It lasts for as long as a snowflake dares to persistent upon the tongue , doomed to wilt beneath warmth. Dante’s features become perturbed and resigned at once , branches electing to remove themselves of the last few leaves which dare to linger just past harvests end.

      “ I was attempting to write my letters. Elivre and Alienor finally sent word from Broken Glass. “ Head inclining a fraction to the right , gaze resting upon the small plethora of parchment half-scattered about dark wood , wax chips interspersed between , a telling tale of hasty fingers assailing waxen seals for their contents. Elivre’s elegant script clashing with Alienor’s more devil may care scrawl. “ T’would seem my hands had other ideas , however. “

      Hands outstretch and turn palm up , before his companion asks , revealing the subtle tremor and raised , perpetually  vexed latticework of red-silver scarring lancing across pale skin. His left flying a cruel banner of crimson. An incident with the kettle , a fools mind half-a-step behind the action.

One might’ve asked once , how someone could forget the ailment and once upon a time , Dante might’ve said it was a very good question. Now it seems like a question that answers itself , a sentiment book primed to absorb a question and spit out ink. If you cannot at least find light in their own miseries in this life , he reasons , sooner to throw yourself to the sea.

       “ Tea ? “