#ELUSIVIA

[enigmage]

C Support- Zelkov & Zelkov?

Zelkov: Stop- no, it *cannot* be. What are you? Zelkov?: It seems this *visage* disturbs you. Zelkov: What *prank* are you playing? Zelkov?: None. I am *unable* to change from your form and inflections while we are in *sight*. Zelkov: Hah. That you would mimic my *mannerisms* proves you are not him. Zelkov?: Him? I am *you*, for this moment. Zelkov: I can see that. It's that I thought you were a ghost of someone else... I had a twin, you see. Zelkov?: Oh, I... Zelkov: Don't cry. It's not your grief. Zelkov?: I cannot help it. Zelkov: It's me who's inflicted this on you. I'm sorry. Please, stay away. ???: ...

[ashenprofessor]

Nuns among us

[starrook]

He ought to get better at being a bit more visible. As it was, Zelkov silently stepped out into Alcryst's path, in the dim light of dusk against gray monastery flagstones which were remarkably similar to the shade of his overcoat in the low light.

Oops.

"Ah, Prince Alcryst." Zelkov greeted him in a low, breathy tone, aware of the late hour, and less aware of how mysterious he sounded. "I see we are *coworkers* now." With Alcryst's skill, Zelkov almost pitied anything that dare attack the monastery. "Should you *require* any medical attention, stop by the infirmary any time. I even have many of my *homemade* potions on hand." He pulled an unlabeled vial out of his coat, presenting it to Alcryst with an unreadable smile. "For you."

(It's lavender essential oil.)

The sudden appearance of a tall, dark figure stops Alcryst in his tracks—there's no time to question how someone managed to sneak up on him. One hand reaches for the knife, prepared to defend himself... but a certain memory from the Brodian borderlands gives him pause. He nearly killed the Divine Dragon in a situation like this...

Alcryst raises his head, watching this figure warily. They look... oddly relaxed. And oddly familiar. In this dim light, it takes a minute to put a name to their face, their voice. "...Zelkov?" He answers uneasily. An Elusian in league with Ivy, but an ally all the same. Alcryst forces himself to relax as Zelkov does, despite this man being as suspicious as ever. His mannerisms. His smile. That 'potion' in his hand.

"...Lavender?" Alcryst can smell it from here, a strong floral scent that bring fond memories of his mother's soaps and shampoos. Everyone is trying their best to mend their countries' ties after the war... thinking of the gift like that makes it easier to accept. "I admit it's a lovely scent... Are you sure you should be giving this to me? What if someone else needs it?"

[beholdenning]

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

starter for @elusivia

Noone had noticed the injury after their joint hunt. Denning, too, did not notice it immediately, too distracted by his fellows’ compliments to verify the fact he is not hale; He does not feel pain that would tip any other living being off to the damage his upper arm has sustained, gouged by a bear’s claws in its final throes, the damage proper concealed by his shoulder-cape, so not even the other knights had noticed. The stockier of their number help carry the bear’s carcass back to the monastery as the sun goes down, leaving Denning’s own hands mostly idle; His bow feels oddly heavy in his grasp, but the feeling leaves as Denning fastens it to his back.

It is only later he grasps the gravity of it, while changing out of his clothing to hand it in to wash and mend; Morphs do not know pain, but the gradual sap of strength from his limbs does not go unnoticed. Quintessence dribbles out with irregular globs of black ichor from a deep gash the creature had left behind, drenching his sleeve in thick pitch. Golden eyes stare blankly at the injury, their thoughts blurry in something equivalent to lightheaded, before slowly, mechanically, rolling the sleeve up, attempting to stem the flow. Clumsy hands open a kit with gauze, before realising that their injured arm refuses to articulate, their remaining one likewise sluggish.

“Ah...” This is not good. They would not be able to recover that quintessence easily. Their consciousness has eroded, ever so slightly, at the edges. Still, they manage, with teeth and their good arm, to tie the gauze around the leakage, the material fine enough for now to hold the thickness of their ichor at bay. Perhaps... Perhaps they should see where that bear has been stored, to see of any of its essence lingers. Perhaps they should pay the village a visit, voicebox chattering like a ravenous corvid...

Dennings feet had already carried him out the door, wandering towards the kitchens to try his luck with the bear. The hour is unholy, with little activity besides patrols and cramming students in the corridors. Few would think to look twice at a sniper in most of his uniform heading in the general direction of the infirmary... Though, once he passes the open doorway with footsteps far heavier than usual, it becomes clear that he has no intentions to visit.

In the moonlight, the candle-flicker of the monastery; The gauze has slipped, slightly. A pool of thick black has gathered under his nail, at the tip of his pointer finger, the end of a line down a pale arm. A wet drip echoes into the empty night. Denning stops and shifts to readjust the clumsy tourniquet.

[enarmor]

an angry kiss 

Alright. What the hell.

"Let me make myself *clear.*"

Zelkov went in for a harsh kiss, one with sparks akin to those flying from blades rather than tongues, kissing with the intent to sear, to overwhelm, to shut up, and if his suspicion was right, maybe to even be giving a first kiss.

He broke it with a harsh gasp, looming over Sain.

"Leave Queen *Ivy* alone. Women should be given financial *compensation* for whatever you types get up to."

Oh? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?

Sain smirks. He thinks he knows what he's seeing here. Zelkov can have his fun with him for the duration of his kiss but the second that man pulls away, Sain twirls a loose lock of goldgreen hair and stares at him like a cat. He is busted.

"I think I finally see it now..." he muses in a sing-song voice, stepping closer to bridge the gap the Elusian had created. "You don't want me to bother this queen..." his fingers walk up the other man's shoulder, stopping at his cheek to give a light flick, "because you want me all to yourself."

Before Zelkov can get out another word Sain pulls him in close, giving him a taste of the lips he so clearly desires. No teeth gnash, no hair falls in the way--there is just Sain and his deft expertise, used against the assassin. When he's sure the initial shock of his approach has worn off, he smooths a thumb over the other's cheek. The lasting imprint of his finger says that he's not giving up on this poor sap, and Zelkov can forget about winning. Every slight against him has a double-meaning as a flirtatious response; any attention is good attention. He would take being beaten half to death as a confession, so long as the other party stays to see his broken smile. But pain isn't what he hopes to provide for Zelkov: only pleasure. Only sweet joy as the heat from his breath flows into his mouth, stealing some skin from his chin to nibble on during a brief pause. And then it's back to smacking against the other's face, head turned sideways for a better angle. This lasts as looooooong as Sain can drag it out, his feet shuffling closer and closer with each attempt of Zelkov's to get away.

And when it ends, the hand that had gone up to his face returns to his sleek shoulder. Sain still isn't intent on letting him out of his clutches, not when there's still more he has to say.

"It's settled, then. Come with me... And I shall show you a *world* of wonder!"

[rafent]

There was a figure standing between Zelkov and the most coveted display of sweet buns. He wished he could simply sneak past and back out again, but even his skills didn't allow for such a close heist in a room without cover. So... he'd have to speak to the stranger.

"I don't believe we've *met*." Zelkov held out his hand for a handshake, fulfilling his obligation towards the night's game of elements. His eyes immediately turned to the sweets. "Those look *delightful*. Artistic, even. Might we *indulge* together? There is no way to go *wrong* with bread based pastries."

"We haven't—this would be our first encounter," a low voice returned coolly, the eyes above it gauging the tall stranger with a suspicious stare that traveled up and down then gravitated toward the middle. One look recognized the proffered hand as belonging to a foreign greeting ritual; the highlight of every novel encounter conducted between humans who met for the first time.

Rafal was no human, to be certain, but kindness was an ideal which held his interest even greater. The act of exchanging touches- germs and sweat- with another living existence was surely nothing if not a foremost act of said kindness. So his fingers reached out in turn, moderate gripping force applied to their handshake as a strange sensation weighed upon his neck, like the vine-composed necklace there had grown just a little heavier. This feeling was determined harmless and therefore shrugged off in favor of the more intriguing topics at hand.

"As I said it is the first we meet. With that knowledge in mind, you are undoubtedly a most audacious man to request for a dragon to share in his hoard of treasure."

The one known as Rafal to part from even a single crumb of his painstakingly acquired sweets? To do so was an action that beggared belief, the question of whether or not this fell dragon was in good health or right mind. However. His usual selfish nature toward the safekeeping of his treasures lapsed for a moment, filled with begrudging respect for not only the stranger's bold request but the accompaniment of its solid reasons.

". . .But perhaps it is rare to find a human with such cultured taste buds. I myself often lament at the possession of simply one mouth, for two mouths could so easily consume double the sweets." A shimmering picture of generosity, he plucked a bun from the platter and offered it to the other- the smallest of the lot. He nodded, quite satisfied with himself and his showing of virtuous character. "Go on, then. Such a quality ought to be rewarded. You may take this."

[twistedisciple]

Bringing a Knife to a Bunfight [Griss & Zelkov]

@elusivia

continued from here “*Queen* Ivy.” The correction was automatic, though unnecessary. The manifestation of anything that he disliked seemed to be what Griss would hone in on. He felt some satisfaction that Ivy’s presence had an effect on Griss, though his work was far from done. There was a sort of passion in war, though it wasn’t the sort he could lose himself in peace in like a hobby of creation. He begrudgingly admitted that there might be an inch of common ground between them. Zelkov was compelled to play the fiery game of risk, cloaks, and daggers, even if he itched to go back to his quarters and do an impression of an old cat lady minus the cats and with far too much yarn. He expected some sort of egging on regarding stabbing, but Griss blew his expectations out of the water. Zelkov blinked. He stared, blankly. Griss had so much metal on his face that he wondered, vaguely, if the piercings ever got infected. Whoever I need to pray to to make sure that he never comes to *me* about that, I’m praying… “You’re so *desperate* you’d pay for me to gut you like a fish the way some people pay for daily eggs and milk.” Half whispered, confused awe, and if anyone had been wondering what they were talking about, he doubted they could’ve guessed. He was surprised enough that his revulsion didn’t quite make it through. However, he was always on the clock, and Griss knew how to hit the alarm. Ivy. “You wouldn’t *dare.*” Zelkov leaned close as he could without making actual contact, only having to move an inch or two, eyes narrowed with a leer. “*Two* can play at *this* game, Griss. I do not know how you and your master *cheated* death, but if I can elude even *you*, would you wager *Zephia* against my blade?”

Desperate. Griss would’ve argued but, yeah, maybe it was true. The battle earlier had done little to sate his appetite for punishment, and in fact had the opposite effect - he was starving for more, and Zelkov just kept dancing around promises like words had any cutting power to them. Was he gonna stab him or not? Honestly, he couldn’t tell now if the man even wanted to get rid of him, but Griss did delight in the way the proposition finally seemed to put him at a loss for words.

“Is that a yes? ‘cause you could start right now unless--”

The cool professionalism snapped back into Zelkov’s eyes far too quickly for Griss’ liking. He should have guessed that Ivy would have been a red button word, but maybe now they could finally get somewhere. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as he met those piercing gold eyes without so much as a blink.

“Zephia might be the one giving the orders, but she doesn’t need me protecting her. If ya wanna make enemies that badly,” his grin stretched wide enough to show off nearly all his teeth, “go for it. But just know that I’ll be real sad you didn’t pick me to slice. Might even make me want to hurt you instead.”

[aimlessarchery]

Only if you *desire* to 🎨

how could i deny such a *polite* request

[sharpscion]

He preferred his usual daggers, but Zelkov was still dexterous with a sword. Less elegant, easier to block, but he still knew how to jab at weakest points and evade at close range. He spun his venin sword around in his hand with a flourish of his wrist, eyes locked onto Scáthach.

“I have an *antidote* on hand for the aftermath of our trading of blows.” He took his combat stance. “You will *need* it.”

Venin Edge Sunder Roll: 6, hit, Sunder, crit damage, -2HP to Scáthach. Inflicts minor poison, -0.5HP. Zelkov HP: 6/6

They are locked on each other, this moment is between their swords and their skill. Scáthach has never enjoyed these one on one scenarios, he was much more acquainted with the slashing of faceless mobs. Still though, he would not disgrace his home or Prince Seliph with anything less than his best. His resolve bolstered once more, he readied the Killing Edge in his hands near head, finally prepared for this bout.

"I appreciate the concern, really." A smile washes over him and fades as quickly as an actual wave against the coast. "I've faced much worse than poison, though, so no need to hold back. I won't!"

Pleasantries are thrown to the wind now, and it takes but a moment for Zelkov to accept the invitation. His sword is pointing directly for any Lethal points it can find at a speed that is hardly normal. Scáthach attempts to derail this strike with his own blade, but he is not fast enough. He feels the stink of metal piercing skin, and this feeling kicks him into overdrive. This is war once again...

Now that his opponent was in range, he took little time readying his blade as well. He would put power behind this strike, even if where he had been struck still stung unusually.

Scáthach counterattacks with Killing Edge. 1d20 = 14! Scáthach deals -1.5 damage to Zelkov. Scáthach is inflicted with minor poison and takes 0.5 damage; HP: 2.5/5. Scáthach attacks with Sunder Killing Edge. 1d20 = 16! Scáthach deals -3 damage to Zelkov.

This is already tiring, the air stinging in his throat as he took shallow breaths through his mouth. The sweats bead down his forehead and trickled off his nose to the grass beneath them. He has not tried like this in a very long time, and it brings him joy. "You're very skilled, Zelkov! I could stand to learn a thing or two from you."

Scáthach HP: 2.5/5.

[arcstral]

This Marth did not know him. Zelkov had made a blunder or two with the living lords he’d met as Emblems. The urge to rush to him, to spill his heart out, had to be paused. He would give context for this encounter. Marth deserved it.

Zelkov bowed slightly, a hand on his chest. “Your Majesty— I know you, some small *part* of you, yet I know we meet as strangers.”

Oh, it was harder than he thought it’d be.

“Even so, I must give you my thanks. Your spirit, a friend to mine. Your words, sweet but far from nothing. Though I am unsure I want to spring exactly what I am thankful for on you on a first meeting… I needed to express my sentiments anyway.”

Lost families, a black hole stuck inside their souls that vengeance could not force closed. No, no he could not dress that wound there in the sunny afternoon of this greeting.

“I am glad to see you again. You are someone worth getting to know *twice.*”

                Another arrival from Elyos, a population with little rarity yet so many unique individuals to make up for it. Marth straightens with the recollection of a freshly minted faculty member- cranes his neck, really, for the other is considerably tall. New names may float on the periphery of knowledge for some; painlessly pushed aside minutiae, much too easily forgotten until they earn their relevance; but not to this king who prides in those around him. Faces and names even never before crossed held value. The potential to evolve into something more just as a stranger might bloom into a friend or an ally on a choice bit of sunlight, a little spritz of water, a kindly exchange just like so.

               "Zelkov, is it? You have a way with words that stirs the heart. That makes a stranger feel that he is worth something." He is not the spirit Zelkov speaks of, the very first words shed from Marth's mouth express this, but such tenderhearted speech could nevertheless honor anyone and humble them in the same stride. "...Though, I suppose in your case stranger is not truly the right word."

               A sheepish quality tinges him on the note. The emotions splayed out to him with the unbolted honesty of an open palm are not new. Similar encounters have lined his week without seeming end. It troubles the heart in some ticklish way- though his ignorance by no means deems him responsible, a compassionate man cannot help but to feel helpless at the things he cannot recall. For these happy, sad, or bitter reunions Marth can offer no recourse except a new path they might walk together. But... for the passionately spoken Zelkov, there is at least one thing more:

               "I cannot speak for the other one- the Hero-King of your land. But hearing your fond admissions, I am certain the feelings within them reached him as well. He must have treasured your friendship just the same." Fingers press into a light perch against his heart. With the sensitivity of one who does not wish to dishonor a memory, the present Hero-King forms his words carefully. He is little known to the fact they leave him with surprising ease, a familiar warmth and gesture of equality.

                "It brings me to say that I wish to know you as he did. But to that perhaps there is one deterrent." A play performed by different actors, even traveling at an oblique, will still conform so long as it follows the same script; falling within bounds of the same fatebound song and dance. Such forces march him onward to the same kind statements, the same destination and smile, with an inexorable nature that even a king cannot undo. "You called me 'Your Majesty', but I will accept no offer nor implication of service. Let us enjoy this time together, Zelkov. As equals. Simply Marth will do."

[ofdusk]

✧ ⁺ ⁺  @elusivia​ asked:

It stood to reason that the living, breathing lords of history were not completely alike their Emblem counterparts, but old habits died hard. Without thinking, Zelkov silently took his place next to Corrin in the courtyard, standing at attention.

...

She was part dragon, was she not? He'd hoped that her ability to rejuvenate allies with the radiance of her presence was not simply a side effect of her spiritual self.

No, he felt just as sleep deprived, and the idleness of even a few moments was enough to irk him.

Oh, but he'd shown up all of a sudden and remained a mystery.

"Pardon me. This was supposed to be *refreshing*," he said to Corrin. "It seems to me there is no supernatural air in our company. My *memory* defied reason. I am Zelkov, of *Elusia*, of Elyos. I am sure you are well-spoken and pleasant as I once *knew* you... but what else I speak of must sound nonsensical."

She doesn’t even notice him at first. For a good long moment, this stranger is allowed to simply linger at her side with Corrin none the wiser. Only when his silhouette catches the very edge of her peripheral does she react, back stiffening and eyes widening. 

“...did you need something of me?”

Every new thing about him continues to be somehow more unnerving than the last. As if his presence wasn’t strange enough, the way he speaks furrows Corrin’s brows. Not even just the way, though, it’s the things he says. This stranger implies that he had known her, and yet no matter how hard she squints at his face... no bells are ringing.

“Ah, well- Zelkov, you said? I’m Corrin... though it seems like you knew that already. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Refreshing? Supernatural? Perhaps it’s better not to ask...

A little smile crosses her features, even if a touch awkward. “Perhaps you could tell me of how it is we have met? I’ll admit, it seems to escape me now.”

[vidames]

it's your potlucky day

The Officers Academy welcomes the continent of Elyos! With the current interest in countries outside of Fodlan, the students are eager to welcome new faces and learn all they can about these new-to-them countries. The cooking club in particular is hosting a potluck for all to attend, starring a roast bear on a spit.

Céline carefully carries her favourite, delicately painted porcelain teapot. She takes gentle steps so as not to jolt the chinaware in her arms and keep it steady. The bag over her shoulder is filled with a myriad of tea varieties, both from Fodlan and her beloved Firene, alongside a party sized serving of Emperor's Mess. Her favourite dessert and the dish she felt most confident sharing with others.

A banner, welcoming staff and students from Elyos hung above a huge table. Or several tables, laid out end to end and laden with cuisine from all across the globe.

Such a joyous occasion, prepared for their welcome. It warmed her heart, and she could only hope her contributions to such an event were satisfactory. It takes a great deal off effort, but once the ceramics are settled, pulling out her dessert and tea selection is a simply affair.

"Oh my, that looks simply delicious!" She speaks brightly, with great enthusiasm to the person who slips in next to her. Their offering smells wonderfully comforting and at a glance, looks equally as delicious. She speaks to them, attention upon the display of food and drink spread out infront of them. "I am Céline, princess of Firene, a kingdom in Elyos. The monastery has welcomed us so warmly, it's a pleasure to be here."

She turns, facing the person and smiles. "Oh, it really is lovely to see you!"

@elusivia & anyone who'd like to join in for good food and company

[alcrystallize]

( tears ) - for the sender’s muse to wipe the receiver’s muse tears .

“You’re *alright.* You did well.” Seeing Alcryst in some state of distress wasn’t exactly uncommon, but Zelkov was finally able to offer some comfort to him after treating a sparring incident injury. “Get some *rest.*” He finished wiping Alcryst’s face, touch gentle.

⌜ & .˚      found  family  prompts. ⌟

⌜ ✥。.:`: – it was indiscernible what was louder - the collision of two steel swords against each other or the voice inside of his head criticizing his every move; regardless, it was sufficient evidence in his coordination alone which one prevailed for the brodian prince. not good enough. his breath hitched in his chest as his heart pounded from the impending defeat awaiting him. disappointment. crimson eyes burned with the grueling acceptance of his loss. you will never be like diamant. soon, the strength of his resolve faded as he collapsed to the ground. failure. who was alcryst planning to fool - except himself with the illusion that he, too, could protect brodia and the people he cares about on his own without his brother there to save the day? no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to amount to anything - and all of his classmates who witnessed his pitiful downfall would certainly agree without a sliver of a doubt in their minds.

"zelkov…?" he blinked, feeling tears begin to trickle down his face - dripping from his chin onto his dirt-stained pants. sitting there with dust on his shoulders - wincing from the pain of a wound that he did not even realize he had, a sense of embarrassment overcame him. he was man of mystery before, even more so now as alcryst would not expect him to rush to his aid - especially with words of consolation for his efforts; however, knowing that he knew the prince prior to the academy and saw him in this state - had alcryst really not grown at all since then?

"no," he brushed his cheek with his sleeve, "i'm sorry, but no -- you're wrong. i did not do well. that could not be farther from the truth. if i rest, i should lie here in the dirt as it is where i belong… under people's shoes. i must apologize, as i am not worth your time, zelkov… or the mess that i will cause because of my significant shortcomings." and as dirt, alcryst doubt he could even help a single flower grow. ⌟

[beholdenning]

Zelkov had a soft spot for Denning. He couldn’t quite describe it, or even why, far beyond the kind of care given to a creation like a doll or piece of art, yet not quite that of a romantic sort. A sort of fondness, affection, for someone who every so often, Zelkov found the simplest sorts of interactions to be profound. If it was in his hands, held against his chest in a warm embrace, that they understood life, he was happy to be there to witness it.

Ah, but he could not be jealous. They deserved many others to be with them too. Dance partners, friends, coworkers, a whole array of life.

So, Zelkov carefully measured their hips and torso, explaining as he did so. “Are you *excited*? I’ll have this *ready* by the time of the ball. Taking down accurate *measurements* ensures I have little to no future *corrections* to make.” He hadn’t asked if Denning needed an outfit, simply going ahead and making them one. He didn’t want them to miss out on anything because they didn’t know what they needed. Zelkov could already imagine the flattering cut of suit he’d make for them.

“I thought a darker *palette* would suit you, so I brought a little selection of *colors* for you to choose from.” Zelkov noted down his measurements and then held out a small arrangement of materials, dark and rich colors of every main hue available.

“Which is your *favorite*?” Had Denning ever been asked their opinions before? Zelkov made an effort to soften his tone, hoping to make them feel reassured. “There is no incorrect answer.”

The ball approaches.

Denning observes its approach with perfect neutrality. It does not lurk, nor does it loom; There is far too much talk of it among the denizens of the monastery for it to creep up unexpectedly, nor is the morph particularly perturbed by it. Fervor sweeps through lines of conversation and gossip as the knight goes about their day-to-day, occasionally even assigned to tasks to help prepare for it. Between all of this, the bustle and the overheard words and the texts they have all but devoured in their hours in the library, They believe they have a decent idea of the entire affair — Though the exact form and function continues to elude and confound them. The only aspect between the food, dance, and people that had even remotely stirred them was when they heard tell of the musicians that would be in attendance.

Even that minuscule flicker of interest apparently was enough interest for their colleagues to leap upon the unintended opening, insisting they attend for 'their own sake', citing irrelevant things such as 'hermithood' and 'isolation' as reason for them to 'get out more'. There is a palpable energy in the insistence. Even a minor inclination is more than enough, it seems.

It is certainly enough for Zelkov, based on how quickly he had leapt upon the chance to dress them 'appropriately'. This energy — Is it 'excitement', is this 'excitement' what pushes so many to gossip and chatter? Their own interest nowhere near approaches excitement. The ball remains a confusing unknown to them that they feel no compulsion to investigate, internal or external.

... No, that is untrue. There is external compulsion aplenty, from fellows-in-arms, from meddlesome clergy. They had ever been driven by external compulsions, by orders and the vision of another, from the moment they had come into being from the ashes of another.

(Speak for me. Kill for me. Die for me.)

... There is external compulsion from Zelkov, too, who measures them with the same care their master must have before they were more than a diagram, perhaps, to fit them according to his vision — But this time, they are alive, cognisant, lifting their arms when told, staying perfectly still otherwise, pliant and obedient; A model mannequin, all of their limbs his to manipulate. Bright gold follows him as he goes about his work. It is methodical, precise. Gold eyes not their own shines with a glimmer they cannot place. They cannot help but wonder: Had Lord Nergal let the same light into his eye, looking upon them? Is excitement what is meant to be felt, here? What does Zelkov intend for them?

Color cascades into their vision as if in reply to the latter: Blue, red, black, purple and spectrums beyond and between. They have given freely to him, yet he still gives them a choice.

There is no incorrect answer.Then there is no correct answer, either. Still, Denning finds themself reaching for one out of habit — Because they do not know how else to live, because there had always been a correct answer of some kind, because there had always been expectations of them, expectations they yet eternally strive to fulfill. It was hardly a gift, then; Just the natural course of things, what they owed in return for their creation, their existence, their voice and limbs and name. But now — Now it is a gift. Denning owes noone aught, owes none but their master — and yet owing and giving is all they know.

So they will give. But what, what are they supposed to do with someone who will not take and will just give again in turn?

ask me to speak. ask me to kill. ask me to die, and i will.

but i do not know how to do this.

Still, they try. Swaddled in purple and green for most of their life, in white and red for but a number of months, they pause for a long moment, before their hands gravitate towards first towards the familiar — Then towards a rich mixture of black, red, white. A pause, a deliberation. The purple reflects the man who made them their garb, the green draws their eye inexplicably. But once again, they stray towards chiaroscuro, highlighted with vermillion. It is only right they continue to display their allegiance, is it not?

Golden eyes flicker up for confirmation, even despite Zelkov's reassurance. Fingertips gingerly trail over the proffered palette of choice. They tap the sample twice, still watching his response, still uncertain; But, ah, they are certain of one thing.

"... make it easy to move in."

[enarmor]

Zelkov hadn't even overheard the exchange between this... person... and Queen Ivy, but just a glance of it was enough to surmise its nature. Rather than bother Queen Ivy with the triviality, Zelkov sought him out himself, sneaking up on someone on purpose for once.

"Leave her *alone*." His voice rasped in Sain's ear, cold and serious. What was he supposed to be, a student or knight? Either way, Zelkov was disappointed. "Get a job."

He folded his arms, staring down at Sain, the or else clear.

Sain is startled only by the surprising nature of Zelkov's approach. He jumps--as any man would--but nearly soiling his trousers is all him. "Gyaaaah!! What an... Underhanded way to greet your knight and hero!"

He hasn't the faintest idea who 'she' is, since alluding to her status as a woman narrows that down to just about every woman at the academy, but Sain can piece together how the assassin must mean someone close.

He sticks up a finger, matter-of-factly, at what the other has to say. This is where his bravery shines, showing no true fear for his intimidating nature; Sain would face even death itself for the sake of true love.

"Aha! On the contrary, it is precisely my job to be enamored by wonderous women. I am a knight, and knights are tempted by refined grace."

His smile finds its way back to him as he takes a large step closer, slinging his free hand round Zelkov's neck while waggling the finger still in the air.

"If you would like, I can teach you all there is to know about gawking at the ladies. We shall let our hearts sing, you and I, as we dance across their dewdrop gaze!"

[yunakitry]

There was much between them he wouldn’t breach in the broad light of day, in a crowded medical tent, though even then he felt the pull, both a comfort and a wariness towards someone who saw too much about him, who knew what few others could only guess at. He didn’t hold it against her, but he did feel his nurturing side kick in when she came in with a few lance wounds, if he had to guess.

“Yunaka, please sit. Let me get you *tidied* up.” He came over with more supplies than really needed, bandages, cleaning rags and a vulnerably. Most importantly, a juice box. “*Drink* this, I’ll only need a moment. These *mock* battles give scrapes worse than they *appear*.”

What had he needed to work on, again? Friendliness? He could try.

“It is *good* to see you again.”

The life of her past is one Yunaka kept concealed away, hiding it behind a grin and wink. But with Zelkov, it was different. Their eyes are the same— The way they observe compared to anyone else. Even now, she was reminded of that. With a forced laugh, she readily took the beverage as her shoulders released their held tension.

"H-Heya, Zelkov! Yeah.. They sure do. I was in for a real toughie. They don't joke around here even with a 'mock' battle." She never even caught her opponent's name. Then again, she did not see it fit for idle chatter during an intense training match.

With the juice box in one hand, her stillness accompanied itself with a glare towards Zelkov. He really was good at what he did. "I'm glad to see you too! Really, I am. We should chat sometime. You know, when we're not uh.. Here." Her eyes shifted towards the wounds, an indicator enough of what she meant.