#ch: tófi sethson

[menodoramoon]

Everything feels so big. Their past. Their positions. Even Tófi's manor itself. She grew up in an estate far bigger than this -- almost castle-like in its sprawling design -- and yet, still, the flight of stairs feels like a longer trek than a traipse through the moors.

She has to ruin it with these feelings that were also too big. These memories that beat against her check, knocking against her ribs, begging to be voiced. She did so, and look where that has her. Look what it's gotten her.

Tófi's gaze, in that horribly penetrating way.

Even when they weren't trying, they could read her so easily. Well, it's easier to read something you're well-familiar with. There are few people alive who would know her more than them.

Her head swims with the implications. And the lost opportunities of that.

Tófi's voice cuts through the haze, the way his voice always could. She looks just slightly off of their vision, but their words hit their mark all the same. They speak about feelings -- the way they might shift and change. Their impermanence? Or merely their ability to evolve?

She nods numbly as Tófi likens her adoration for them to their rage. That stings. That stings in such a way that it only adds to Menodora's languid feelings, a looseness in her body that she really wishes she could fight off.

'I can feel too, Menodora,' they say, in a way that brings her mind to a steady halt.

Tófi's always been an enigma to her, even now. As a child, it made more sense. He was a Septarian, a monster. A civilized one, but still a monster. She wasn't meant to understand what was in their mind or heart. Their deepest thoughts and feelings were better to be left untouched. If she found out, it may frighten her.

Now, at an older age -- but still an insignificant one, she imagines, for Tófi -- she wants to know. She wants to know their thoughts and feelings. She has spent so much time trying to decipher Tófi's mind that she realizes she's neglected matters in heir heart. Rationality will only get you so far in understanding another person.

Is it possible that she's forgotten that Tófi was capable of feeling?

'Sometimes anger wins.'

'Sometimes anger burns brighter than any magic I can conjure, Tófi,' she wishes to say. It wouldn't just be true of them. It was Stella's temper, or Hekapoo's or Mina's that came to mind. Even her own. Sometimes anger did win… there were consequences to those blazes.

She gives the briefest exhale of a laugh. It's silly. Their Danish makes her smile, and she makes out the words even if it causes her to stall for a moment. They would always be more than her in that way. Danish. Or whatever came before…

"hvad kan du overhovedet elske, Tófi" She asks, with a wry smile.

It hadn't meant to be such a deep comment, but Tófi takes her seriously. She's reminded that there was a time when they were the only one who would.

They take her promise and speak almost kindly to her. She hesitates, but nods. The spreading quiet in her head is a relief to her. The way that she tries to allow herself to relax, even in their company…

'I just want you to fight,' they say. It's amusing. She feels they are no longer speaking of her resolve to rest.

'Wasn't there a time when you wanted me dead? Or to surrender? What happened to that, Mr Advisor,' she thinks. 'There was a time where I was little more to you than a pawn. Is that still true?'

Another thought.

Am I still an amusing game to you?

It's bitter. It's tart.

Her gaze follows their direction to the wound on their shoulder. Or, rather, where it should be. Would be, if not for their monstrous nature. It's obvious that her gaze lingers. She knows they can't see them, but she can. Those small motes and pinpricks of reagents, floating through the air. She often tried to mute her senses of them, a skill she'd been taught early by Glossaryck, but in this moment, she sees them. There's a fondness and hope dancing around her that she wishes she could pluck from the air and smother out. Small lights in varied hues that were intangible and impermanent... and so clearly related to Tófi...

But if Tófi couldn't see them… what was the harm in letting them stay?

"Alright," Menodora says, inclining her head. She's much more at peace than she had been, even if there are unanswered questions and unresolved feelings still hanging about. "Guided the right way... And you're wanting to guide me, Tófi?" She asks, with a slightly humored smile.

But then it eases, and her face once again shifts into tiredness. Her headache is threatening to return, rapping lightly on her temples.

She shakes her head slightly, her smile slightly tilted on one side.

"I suppose before you guide me on any philosophical journey, finishing the journey to bed would be preferred…" She inhales. Exhales. Lets out a thoughtful hum... Looks up at him with an earnest smile. "Nothing between us is ever easy, is it, Tófi? I fear I'm so used to them, I don't know what our relationship would be without these moments. Calm, perhaps? Peaceful, heaven forbid?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

A Letter to Torvald, Written in a Fine Hand.

Left personally in the mailbox with no return address. Though, it is not hard to discern the sender. Nor is it an unknown where the sender resides. June, I expect. July, realistically. Held tight from March, finally delivered whenever suits the receiver. A response to Morgenhistorier.

Torvald,

I think your new title comes easier now because I know the significance in a name. Because we are much the same and much different. Do you prefer it for the masking of your past? For the necessity of survival? Or is it a renewal for you? A new life?

People here call me Moon, as you do, because I find it easier than my long, pretentious family name. Have you ever liked it? Menodora. Moon? Måne?

I ask so many questions, it's rude, I know. I don't know how I can face you again, despite the fact that we've parted as friends. I had left us in an impossible situation when we said goodbye at the Moon Market. Or, better yet, when I refused to say it in the perfect words and left you stranded by fussing children and the organic oats.

Do not mind my sentimentality, I could never master it. In dreams and wakefulness still.

I imagine you may have spied me leaving this note, if you have even received it at all. I truly think myself foolish for craving and wanting things that are not meant to be satisfied. But you should know this by now. This desperation in me for closure that I'll never get.

I want to thank you for everything. Your patience, your understanding. I cannot muster words, usually, for what I feel.

Countesses don't feel, they act. As you well remember I was taught.

I am grateful for the renewal of our friendship, and grateful more for you as my friend.

All the love owed, all the thanks I cannot voice.

Best, and Kindly

Menodora Perhonen. Or Moon, if you prefer.

@ofseptarsis

[menodoramoon]

falsk håb | Regency

Summary: Hope & Mourning go hand in hand. Swyn Regency AU. <3 Or, Moon + "Childless Mothers" + Cycles. Characters: Regency!Moon, Regency!Tófi, Regency!Aurora Content Warnings: Infertility?? Words: 962 Read: Doc below the Cut.

[veevacious]

Vee nods. Right. Okay, so oils, probably. Vee wonders if they could steal some time to work on it in the art studio between classes. But, then again, they could work on it late at night at home, too?

"I'll get your approval on the initial draft, then," Vee says. "And then I can choose based on what it is you like? Cost-wise, oils would be more, but I'm a fairly inexpensive artist. Still a student and all."

Which was true. Vee wouldn't completely undervalue themselves, but they were no professional. They were in school for this! So, they could ask for about the minimum that was expected of them and still feel like they were being fairly compensated.

"With a photo reference, I'm sure I can get you that portrait quickly. But I still don't mind trying without a photo if you're not opposed to the description." Vee smiles. "That sounds really nice, though. A portrait-- I feel like people don't commission as many portraits these days. At least traditionally. It all feels digital. Not that it's bad."

Vee had done a fair share of digital art in their life!

Art was a thing that just, somehow, clicked. Back in Gravesfield, Manny and Camila encouraged Vee to learn to do. Be. Live as a normal teenager. So art classes as an elective and they took off from there.

Besides the enjoyment of doing art and making others happy, there was the fact that it seemed to be worth getting to know Tófi. For multiple reasons. He was interesting. He was also -- like Vee thought -- possible like her.

"Right now? Just the references. And, if you wanted to send me-- uh--" Scribbled down on a sticky note that Vee had pulled out of their bag... a sketched up mockup of a business card. (A draft for their graphic design class from before.) "You can email me here, and -- uh -- we can talk about pricing. Like I said, I'm pretty affordable, since I'm a student. I don't want you to feel taken advantage of."

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[veevacious]

"A landscape?" Vee asks, eye brows raised. They don't know why they're surprised. Tófi could very well enjoy a landscape. Maybe it was because Vee thought Tófi would be the type of person to have -- like -- paintings of gothic skulls or something that Vee thought was technically more difficult or refined.

Landscapes, however, Vee felt pretty confident in. "Usually I do landscapes in paintings. Oil or acrylics on canvas, would that be acceptable to you. Or would you prefer something else?"

Vee thinks this could be it, but then Vee is surprised that Tófi is asking them for a sketch of a person without references. Vee doesn't know about that one… but at the same time, Vee had done that sort of thing before, hadn't they? Made art based on words on the page to capture the sort-of likeness of fictional book characters.

"I'd be interested to try!" Vee says, "I'd definitely give it my best shot. I'd just hate if you came away from a session disappointed." Vee admits. "We could start with some sketches to try to narrow down the likeness and if we get it to your liking, I can paint it for you? I just wouldn't want you to feel like you wasted your time."

So, ultimately, Vee nods.

"I don't think either of those things, a landscape and a portrait, are outside of my skills. Yea, I can do those, that sounds right. And we can talk about the specifics of style and color as well. Would you want to meet somewhere to talk about the portrait in the near future? I'll bring my whole travel art set so we can have all the tools to try to get that likeness down? And then, of course, if you're unhappy, we could either figure out something else and focus on the landscape?"

They just… don't want to let them down.

It's such a silly, dumb thing… but Vee thinks Tófi has to be like her somehow. There was just this Thing about them, and Vee didn't want to lose their approval. Which, she could dig into that later, but she won't. Not now. Vee didn't have people to interact with -- besides their colony -- until they were older. It was hard to figure out what other people thought of them. It caused a great deal of anxiety. But Vee wasn't a quitter! Vee could do this!

"So, uh…" She takes out one of her sticky notes and scrawls her phone number and personal art email -- "Here's my contact information. For when you want it! And, uh, if you want to email me the landscape references..."

Maybe Camila would remind her of 'stranger danger' if she ever heard, but… it was fine! This was a window of opportunity!

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[menodoramoon]

'Min kære, there was not such thing as last time'

No matter how real the dream felt to her, no matter how vividly she recalls it, there was no convincing Tófi of its significance. Perhaps it wasn't a life that was tangible, but the impression of it so stubbornly stuck with her along with all the grief and emotion that she had experienced.

She doesn't want to fight. Menodora nods numbly, a soft, "alright," murmured. A concession of sorts. No matter her belief, she admits a quiet defeat, at least in this moment. At least with them.

They tell her they don't fear her. She looks up, warily, as Tófi explains. A wry, tired smile spreads across her lips. The detail that many people got wrong about Septarians, especially when going off of hearsay and vague recollection, was that they were immune to harm. Even that they were inhumanly resilient to injury. Menodora would argue with that.

The thing about Septarians was that they were resilient in will, not in their defenses. Limbs and organs grew back with ease. They were semi-immortal for their regenerative persistence. They were suspectable to harm, braving it, then coming back somewhat anew.

It had taken great strength and recklessness to have caused that 'permanent' damage. To inflict harm that did matter. Her gaze falls on where their ring finger should be, her wry smile turning tight. It was a drastic measure. It was a desperate measure. And it was a defiant measure, as she had aimed not for their heart as she had been instructed to do.

Even when the chance arose again to strike them down, while they had perplexedly attempted to regrow their lost finger, Moon the Undaunted would not reignite that 'Darkest Spell.' It was hers to use forever. If she wanted, she could whisper those words now and try to call upon it.

What she lacked to cast it now, besides the energy and magical stability, was conviction. Her weakness of will would not allow her to make another attempt. Her weakness in general could prove fatal, but not to them.

The darkness under her skin surges with her thoughts, the feeling of its residual ire dancing through her nerves, leaving discomfort and mild pain in its wake.

Every passing moment leaves Menodora feeling more and more unsteady. Sapped. The effects of her rogue, runaway feelings more and more evident as any lingering adrenaline drains away, leaving an aching emptiness behind.

'Do not pout, Diamanter,' they chide. She hadn't considered herself to be pouting, though the mild indignation of that statement almost fulfilled that prophecy. The use of one of her many soft names, in Danish no less, a particular trigger for the subtle blush that spreads further across her cheeks.

Though she had meant her quip about fairness to have been a wry sort of humor, a deflection laced with a weak attempt at levity, Tófi had considered it sincerely.

They acknowledged the exchange of physical pain for psychic, emotional damages. No matter the tangible harm she could attempt to inflict upon them, the sharpness and ruthlessness of their tongue could cut her tenfold. It was a staying sort of pain that recurred, playing unbidden in the back of her mind. Her loneliness allowed such recollections to fester, much like the memory of that haunting eye contact at the banquet. The look of raw betrayal written across Moon's face met with the haunting indifference of an expression, a remorseless wall.

Her mind had wandered, thoughts spiraling outwards, until Tófi drew her back, conceding only part way to her protests.

They would not carry her. They would still lead her to bed.

The note that it was the Master Bedroom did not escape Menodora, though her general weariness did not particularly fancy an argument about it. She doubts Tófi is the sort of person -- sort of Monster? That title of which they are so proud of -- to forego such luxuries as the primary bedroom in their own manor. All of which to say, she expects it's their room that they're leading her to. Would a guest room be more practical? It would certainly be more appropriate. For as overly pragmatic as Tófi claims to be, she wonders if they've considered the implications, however founded or unfounded, of their intentions.

More and more of her resolve slipped from her, and she is forced to wonder just how much of herself she's lost to that raw and explosive display. Just what sort of toll her violent temper had wrought on her.

They tell her to follow them, and Menodora just needs a moment. A quick moment to gather herself, to stand up again with her head held high because she does not desire Tófi's charity.

The Septarian takes two short steps forward before pausing, and Menodora, through an annoyingly imposing haze, glances towards them but does not meet their eyes.

They reach for her, first her wrist. Then her hand.

She really must look terrible.

They pull her along, supporting her through her abrupt bout of unsteadiness. She must admit that it is a humbling experience, though one she's in no position or disposition to fight. They already acquiesced to one refusal of their help. She doubts they'd do so with another.

Gods, she was reeling.

Guiding her as they had promised, they propose an exchange. They will make an effort not to start any fights with her when she is 'too tired to begin with' (likely too tired to fight back), and she must promise to rest, really rest, in turn.

Restlessness had always been a core failing on her part. Her face is impassive as they walk, mostly due to the words not fully settling for a moment's delay.

There's a momentary hum through her pensive half-smile. An acknowledgment of their words, without a commitment.

She has always been relatively perplexed by her former advisor's, former teacher's, opinion of her. So many concessions over the years for her benefit, yet they nurtured a not insignificant amount of doubt through their lessons. Of Mjaunie and all she knew. All she was part of because that system was all she had.

Menodora closes her eyes for just a moment against the light, trusting Tófi to maneuver her if needed. If she walked into a chest or sideboard, so be it. She probably deserved it for all the trouble she causes.

She stops where they are, holding Tófi's hand tightly in her tainted one. Signaling for them to please just let her stand for a moment. To allow her to be still because if they kept walking, even at that slow pace for her sake, she might very well be driven to some state of mental nausea.

That aside, an unbearable building of uninhibited emotion was roiling in her chest.

"I don't understand," she admits, eyes open again, the words escaping before she can revise her thoughts. It seems she's committed to this line of dialogue… she continues, "How it is that you can show such thoughtful care for me when only minutes ago we exchanged verbal and physical violence." She grimaces at the still-open emotional cuts. They hadn't scarred over yet, they were still too fresh.

"You can so easily call me pitiable and pathetic, yet offer quite sincerely to carry me to bed." It's an inconsistent relationship they carry on. Or was it that their rage and wrath, their verbal berating, was simply their version of her own magical outburst? "There was a time when my adoration for you, Mr Advisor, would have weighted your words so heavily that I don't know if I'd ever resurface again. I might have drowned under the impact if we were still within the halls of my family manor."

Such an admission felt forbidden, only possible due to her fragile mental state. They had never been terribly affectionate with each other, physical affection was not a virtue of her family and such closeness would have been deemed inappropriate between a monstrous teacher and the young Komtesse, yet care was shown through small acts or favors. Through shows of goodwill and confidence. Through Tófi's belief in her, despite the broad doubts levied against her by The Commission.

Had they been the one to first express concern for her accelerated training in Light Magic? Maybe they had had a point, given her unstable display.

Menodora remains rooted, the issue of rest having come back to her. She had not yet accepted Tófi's terms, which she's sure hasn't escaped their notice.

Their words were that she must 'promise to try,' which left Menodora with the question of what they consider to be a fair attempt at resting.

When she had initially asked to rest, her request was meant to suggest being able to take a moment off her fear in the sitting room to gather herself. She had never intended to intrude so much as to be led to their bed.

The implications of which, again, she did not want to voice in fear of them being perceived as rude. (A bold concern for a woman who had just stabbed them, but…) Besides, the nature of their relationship had never betrayed an intention of romantic attraction.

(Dreams of an alternate 1815 aside.)

"I promise to try," she says, abandoning her stubbornness (or was it her caution) and nodding softly. Squeezing their hand once more.

Even with her physical unease, her mind calms, even if only temporarily. She's grateful for the reprieve.

"Though I can't guarantee how rested I'll feel. You know how idleness and quiet only encourage my wandering thoughts." (A recurring truth from even her childhood.) "I fear I'll only disappoint you further, Tófi."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[veevacious]

"Oh? Oh. Oh good. Good, good, good. I'd hate if you did, yea, sorry," Vee says, trying their best to just recover what they're trying to say. Anything is better than stumbling through this conversation and bumbling through the buzz of words. "Yea, I'm bad at rolling with it. I overthink everything, but, I mean, it comes in handy sometimes. I am often overprepared! Except now."

She looks around.

"With this conversation. Which I'm taking up by talking too much."

…

And the moments of Tófi's contemplation strike total fear into Vee that 'oh my gosh, he hates me, and not only that, he's not like me and actually I have to go tell Mama that we have to move again because I'm a big dummy' but actually no, that's not what happens.

Tófi is very nice and tells them that he's honored to have been a model. Vee wouldn't go so far, but they do beam back. And stand on their toes to try to figure out what it was that interested him in her sketchbook.

Was it still the blocky-ness of their shoulders? Vee could probably also grab a white marker and try to reshape it. She liked working in all sorts of mediums. Despite her digital arts major, she was very much into traditional drawing. Just not…. for class credit.

It felt restrictive, but she knew it was for the sake of fundamentals. Still, she liked throwing inks and paints and mixed media into Strathmore or Canson sketchbooks -- whatever was on sale -- or trying her hand at watercolors in Arches, or sometimes she grabbed markers and Bristol pads.

Her eyebrows raise.

"Oh, um. I have before, but I guess I'd want to know what you'd like? I mean, the answer is 'yes, I do,' but I have a strict policy that if I don't seem like the right person for it, I'll politely decline because I would want you to get what you wanted. Not something that wasn't right for you."

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[menodoramoon]

'It is just nature,' they say. Though, the thought of it isn't very comforting. To admit that it was just nature meant, in some ways, admitting that Moon had lost control. Is that what happened? Yes. Obviously. She'd lost control of her magic and had allowed it to spark and run away, plumes and blooms of fire erupting into the room.

But before that, it was her lost temper which had her summoning it in the first place.

There wasn't any logic to the action besides the desperate need for her to push him away.

They may not blame her for it, but she blames herself.

As a Countess of Mjaunie, Menodora's magic was meant to be tightly disciplined. Beyond that, Menodora herself was meant to always be in control. Her thoughts, her emotions, her impulses -- that was one of her biggest flaws in the eyes of The Commission. She cared far too much about things that didn't matter.

Runaway magic often left Menodora feeling dizzy and drained…

Her feelings threaten to runaway again as Tófi guides her to their kitchen, hand on her shoulder, lightly grazing it. It's familiar, and she wants for it to be comforting. How things stand… it's simply familiar. Tófi's presence in her life has never been consistent, but somehow, it's always been constant. Physically, perhaps not. But the memory of them, the ghost of them and their actions… those linger. They linger across every plane they've touched.

Menodora notices that Tófi doesn't exactly answer her question, but she doesn't begrudge them for it. If anything, she looks on, knowing it's not an easy question to answer. As logical as each of them believe they are, the contradictions in their actions make their failings all too apparent.

'Wait a second,' they say, leaving her for a moment. Menodora leans on the counter instead, watching Tófi's actions. Perhaps too closely. They'd offered ibuprofen. That's all. It's confusing to Moon, the different steps they take towards and away from each other. For all the reasons that Tófi might have to harm her, she can't bring herself to even consider the idea that they'd harm her now. Especially under the guise of offering her ibuprofen.

They hand her the capsule and a glass.

Menodora stares at both of them for a moment too long before ingesting the pill and downing the water, thoughts in her mind sparking off as she did. Little fears and doubts popping in her head, mixing and mingling with the small, airy lights she swears she can see behind her closed eyes.

She doesn't know how long she spends just leaning against the counter, trying to center herself. Trying to center herself and distract herself from the pain that's pulsing in her wrists, just under the skin. She needs to glamour her hands again, but she doesn't think she could even summon a guiding mote of light in this moment.

It's like there's a hollowness in her body where her magic should be. She wonders for a moment if the dark spell is eating at her, but that would be silly, wouldn't it? If anything, it would have to be guilt that's devouring her slowly. The dark spell can't do that...

The dark purple pulses once more before quieting...

It's not until they speak that she realizes they've taken the glass from her.

It's not until a moment later that she registers what it is that Tófi had said.

She opens her eyes, surprised from her distractedness.

Tófi's stepped closer to her and Menodora can only look up at them, disbelieving. Her eyes are wide and mildly bewildered. They're offering to carry her?

It takes a try or two for her to even manage words.

"My dear," Menodora starts to say with an attempt at humor, though she can hear the tiredness in her voice as she speaks and she loathes it, "the last time -- even if in a dream -- you carried me, I attempted to claw your eye out. I really don't think…" She trails off-- registering the other bit of what they'd said.

'I will guide you to bed'

She can feel a certain heat rise to her face. That was definitely the more pressing of the two statements. That definitely should have been the priority… Menodora knows they don't mean it in any particular way, and yet, they can't help but feel a certain number of rules would be broken just for accepting the offer.

Another dream comes to mind. Where such a thing might have not only been acceptable, but encouraged. A light kiss and--- Menodora, stop.

There's not exactly a tactful way to go about saying so, though. This break in decorum, should she allow it. And, what, she reminds them the difference between the two of them? Of Monster and, for the most part, Human? Of Dark Prince and Light Countess? The Civilized Monster and the Merciful Pseudo-Monarch? No…

That's a different sort of headache altogether.

Instead, Menodora glances towards the torn and scorched fabric at Tófi's shoulder. Her dagger would have burnt but also cauterized… that was a strange sort of affect only her magic had. Not her solid constructs, only her blades. She could summon daggers and swords of light, but near all of them had the same issues. They all felt just unstable enough, like there was too much fire to the aether. It burned as it pierced, reversing damage in some ways that Menodora had or hadn't meant to cause.

Unfortunately, it always seemed perfectly suited to the type of monster that Tófi was. She wants to believe that they couldn't have healed by now, the way her blade sunk into their shoulder. Yet, against that want, she knows they have…

Another slight ringing. Spreading to her ears...

"You really don't have to, Tófi," Menodora starts, shaking her head, conscious and aware of the dried blood on the other's shirt. "I'll be fine. Please don't strain yourself. I apologize. Please, I hadn't meant to impose."

It's all she ever seemed to do, isn't it? And look who paid that price...

She didn't need him to take pity on her. Especially after they had just called her pitiable. But her face stung and her head spun and she just... just, just just...

"I'll be okay. Really. I've stabbed you and you're the one offering me Ibuprofen. That hardly seems fair, now does it?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[veevacious]

He's weird. Uncanny. He gave off similar energy to how some other Isles creatures did... without the brimstone. But he wasn't a creature. He was a person-- a human. Or...

"Well, you look great for your age..."

Could he be that old if he was something else? Basilisks have a generally similar life expectancy, compared to humans. Other facts, like the consumption of magic affected that, but overall, Vee doesn't expect any sort of additional longevity for their basilisk status.

When Mr Tófi concedes the point, Vee thinks they've broken through and they could talk about the things Tófi did that were artistic. Quite different. She feels a little bad, actually!

Mr Tófi was convinced and convicted in the fact he was not artistically inclined. But that didn't mean he didn't think he was good at other things? Vee just placed soooooo much value in art, she couldn't think of a world where she wasn't artistic, or pursuing being better. If Tófi was confident in their status...

"Oh, um," Vee starts, trying not to sound too rude or pushy now, "I mean. I hope you don't feel a pressure to entertain me. I mean, if you want to talk. I mean!! I like talking to you. You're sort of like me, I think!" What exactly that meant, Vee didn't elaborate. But... "Or not, but I think we could be alike! This conversation is good. I can talk to an Appreciator, I'm not better for being artistic at all. And I -- uh -- can fix the shoulders in the picture. Let me just, uh, I can do it if I block in the edges and make it more of the empty space. Oh, wow, I hope I didn't offend you, Mr Tófi."

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[veevacious]

'but I just happen to be a boring old man that would much rather appreciate other's work than do it myself'

"Okay, but you can't be that old," Vee says, tilting their head. If anything, Mr. Tófi seemed a bit too self-deprecating. Sure, intelligent, but maybe they just needed to be reminded that they, too, could be creative, if they wished it. "And I wouldn't call you lazy. If you don't enjoy it, you don't enjoy you. But that doesn't mean you can't do it. There's a difference, see?"

Maybe Vee shouldn't be lecturing the self-proclaimed old-man about art, but this was something important to Vee. They spent their whole life at the mercy of others and their free time at the mercy of survival. Now that they could pursue art, they would! And they'll tell others that art and storytelling and all these other things were worth pursuing if they wanted to!

Vee shakes their head, intrigued by Tófi's ideas. "I think it could be a bit of both, then," Vee says, "at least a little bit. Sure, you could study the evolution of humanity, but stories are also part of that study. People can dissect why and where great epics come from, but those stories are still stories that are told and passed down and around... Animating and Illustrating, in some ways, are adaptive as well. It's translating them into another medium, right? Translation is an art. Adaptation is an art. Oral tradition is an art, and a history much more fragile but just as important as the written ones."

Vee smiles.

"You don't have to be artistic, but I think you can be or might be if you really thought about what you consider art."

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[menodoramoon]

She can't help but give a half-humored smile. Almost fair, they had said. Understandable. It was always somewhat uneven. Though, she knows what they mean. Perhaps she had all the magical defenses, but he could kill her easily. She could not come close without corrupted intervention.

The inside of her wrist begins to sting again, pangs of dread echoing in Menodora's heartbeat.

She can see the way he shifts as he touches to the wound on his shoulder. The one she had left there. Her loss of control haunts her now, the way that she had let go of her restraint enough to threaten him. Would she have done the same to anyone else who brought those harsh -- maybe -- truths upon her? Her feelings had been hurt but shouldn't be enough to want to cause harm to anyone. To kill or maim or injure. What kind of Countess was she to do something like that, to someone she at one point had sworn, as a person of Mjaunie, to protect.

Once upon a time, she had sworn to them that she would be a different sort of person.

It felt like that grief was mine, Moon doesn't say, because to replay those memories wouldn't be worth it. It brings them back to that cycle and she doesn't want that. Of harm to each other -- her oblivious nature which irks him, his vicious tongue. How had the two of them ever been friends with these key differences in who they are as people?

She'd looked up to him. They'd been under her power, even if she hadn't realized it at the time. The civilized monster of Mjaunie, aiding the lords and ladies by leveraging their understanding of history and politics. He was a good Monster, she was told. When he turned on her, it felt like a personal betrayal. But it's not so easy, is it?

He rejects her offer to pay for the damages, and while she opens her mouth to protest, she can sense it's far from a mere formality. The refusal is not a performative action, asking Menodora to come back and insist. Tófi was never that way anyhow.

Simply, Menodora nods, accepting. If they were to ask, she'd acquiesce immediately. But for now, she would leave it alone.

Moon's face burns with a subtle shame as she tries to steady her previously rage-filled breathing. As she tries to settle her elevated heart rate. She is angry and angst-ridden but it's not fair for her to feel so hurt when she had quite literally stabbed Tófi for stating things that, while having strung, were true. At least to the degree that Tófi believed them to be true.

"I'm not asking for an apology," Menodora says, meaning it. She flexes her fingers, where her daggers had begun to burn the inside of her fingers. Or at least gave the illusion of such a thing.

He steps towards her as that anguish takes over and she can't help but flinch slightly, taking a half step back. They made no move to hurt her, yet that didn't mean they couldn't. They had done so with their tone and harsh words. She is still reeling, but it's her own mistrust that betrays her. And for that, Menodora is deeply frustrated.

'I should have some ibuprofen somewhere in the kitchen,' they say as they rest their hand on her shoulder. Funny, she thinks. The same one with the phantom scars. But that's not something she'll bring up. It was merely a dream.

Has the darkness spread further up her arms? She feels a slight despair as the stains remind her exactly what she's traded to get them here.

Yes, her and Tófi's friendship, but any semblance of her sense of self as well. Every time she thinks she could be a better person, she's dragged back to the memory of that day.

Isn't that so self-pitying? Tófi wouldn't approve, and neither would mother, she expects.

Still, it hurts. It leaves a slight burning in her fingertips, unrelated to the knives. And pricks under the skin, like it was magic wanting to spill out the same way light does.

It's not shadow magic, something she could control if she only dedicated herself. It's something deeper, a flow of magic that feels unnatural within her body.

"I suppose I attacked you more literally," Menodora murmurs. They don't apologize. It doesn't evade her notice. They'd always been that way, the implication of a thing that was not meant.

Even now, they're concerned for her. She nods, a bit unsteadily. Instead of the half-sob, she's now wracked with an aching headache. Was it the feeling of being weighed down by that old magic, or simply an over-excited over-exertion.

Menodora glances around, looking for something to steady herself. It's only Tófi that she can learn on at this moment. So, she swallows her pride and does so, trying to relax her body and lean slightly into the hand that rests on her shoulder. Trying not to sway slightly. She feels ill and unwell and guilty. Not so bad as to see stars or small, dancing lights, or to see the edge of consciousness, but she feels the need to close her eyes.

She won't. Not yet.

"And what, dear Torvald," She murmurs, wincing slightly at the pinging headache that was forming, "makes such a biting performance necessary?"

She's not exactly looking for an answer, but it's an interesting consideration.

"I'm feeling… a little dizzy, Tófi," she says. finally bringing a hand to press against her temple. "Would you mind terribly if I rested for a moment so long as I promise not to set any more of your possessions ablaze…?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[veevacious]

Trust the process. Easier said than done but that was something Vee always had to remind herself when working on their underpaintings or sketching their concepts for 3D design.

Vee didn't really think Tófi was lying when they said that Vee's work was good, but the reinforcement was nice. Vee knew there were more prescriptive art styles, and Vee wanted to keep their art organic. Though, their face does tinge red as Tófi points out a few of their errors, but that's okay! Vee was open to feedback, however awkward it could feel to do so.

"Oh, you don't do anything artistic?" Vee actually finds that hard to believe. To her, everyone had some artistic or creative hobby, even if they didn't realize it. Storytelling, or visual art, or music -- listening or maybe analyzing, sometimes dance... "Or just visual art? I mean, there's lots of ways to be creative, Mr Tófi," Vee says. "I'm a digital arts and creative writing double major. You don't like telling stories or anything?"

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[menodoramoon]

What was it that he must think of her? The Light Countess of Mjaunie: burning their home, stabbing their shoulder, threatening their throat. She felt small and cornered at once, even if she was the one with some amount of perceived control.

No. Any instant, Tófi Sethson could easily overtake her. They could easily throw her from them, take her life. She knows they won't, they'd said as much.

But they could...

The key was the potential for the thing. Was her mistrust of the reality a matter of their monstrous nature? Or was it the fear of a familiar cycle, come back after some dormancy?

Lowering the light dagger could have been a mistake. It was giving up the facade of control, of fierceness and power. There was part of her that had often felt powerless around Tófi, even when she feigned bravery on the battlefield.

The moment they betrayed her had burned itself in her memory, and now look.

She was not even worth killing anymore. Isn't that what Seth would want? His dear son to deliver her heart to them?

The thought inspires a feeling of sickness just as much as Tófi's jest inspires a feeling of incredulous surprise.

"You confuse me," Menodora says simply, eyes focused on their hand on hers moreso than anything else. She can't look at their reptilian eyes. She'd only seen them a handful of times.

If she looked, perhaps she'd feel the phantom sting of their palm on her cheek again. Or perhaps she'd see more than an amused smile, like the one she had perceived in their tone.

A joke from another life. A recollection to before she'd let her temper rage and burn and blaze.

She could be particularly vicious.

But she couldn't bring herself to go any further.

Menodora retracts the light blade from their shoulder, correct in her assumption. (Her private inadequacy.)

It cauterizes the sound and she is left to wonder, exactly, what Septarian blood pooled like. Poured like.

"I know I'm resilient," she murmurs, her other hand falling to her side, "but it pales in comparison to your regenerative powers. It seems a bit unfair."

Said lighter, an awkward attempt at adding levity.

"I don't think I have it in me to scratch your eye out. That other me must have been much more ruthless. Or maybe her grief reached further than what I ever could."

Menodora tightens her grip lightly, the hand at his chest. Drawing the fabric of his shirt for a moment before releasing because she had to (and it would be rude to wrinkle his garments.)

"I'll pay for the damages," Menodora murmurs, though with the articulation to be understood. "I'm--" sorry? That's the word she might to use... It comes out more formal as she tries again. "I apologize. Sincerely."

Hopefully they know that that's true. She's not meant to let her magic spiral out of control, in bursts of flame and destruction. It was classic Mjauman, wasnt it? The fire. The burning...

Tófi may not remember, but they'd spoken to her about it long ago. Perhaps when she first picked up fire as a specialty, before the addition of aether? Was it a disappointment that their student took up a specialty that was so deeply tied to monstrous trauma?

Does she feel better now? She's had her outburst... does she feel better?

"I don't know," she answers honestly. In English. Despite it being a first language to her, Danish felt-- foreign again. She was losing touch with it in a way that stung deeply. "I fear my burning has burnt a bridge between us. I fear your sharp tongue had severed some ties before that."

She digs her nails into her palm, wincing as she does. Is it about the pain, or something else?

"I don't think we can go back to what we had, Tófi," she says, another part of her threatening to break. She can feel that rage dissipating from her body, leaving a weak and exhausted state.

It had been so long since she had used her magic in such a way. She felt the toll of it, the tax on her body.

"I'll miss it. Whether it was an illusion of propriety and friendship, or was genuine, I don't believe it can be salvaged. Or at least the same."

She doesn't break her skin, but damnit does she want to.

"I don't think I'll be the same after today. And I don't know if it's you I have to thank or blame."

They are dear to her, an interwoven part of her history. They are loathed by her, and intertwined part of her unraveling.

Gods, and then it hits her. A choked, anguished sob and laugh at once. Not a flood of tears, not a moment of hysteria. Like it's funny. Like this loss is funny. A cruel joke.

"Our friendship was nice while it lasted," she hums through a strained tone, her voice tight, finally withdrawing her hand and stepping back. "I'm sorry I had to burn it."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[menodoramoon]

Her heart is racing, fierce like fire. The beat of it is deafening in her ears. And yet, how could it be? She is heartless, isn't she? To turn on a friend this way? Only Tófi isn't a friend, and never had been.

There's blood that clings to his shoulder, and she wonders what would happen if she dislodged that dagger. Would it pour and pool? Crimson and raw? Black like tar? She's forgotten what the blood of a Septarian looks like, it's been too long.

Or would her blade still be 'defective,' cauterizing the wound the moment that it left their flesh.

Her eyes are nearly watering from the thought of it.

A drumming. A thrumming. A buzz in her ears as Tófi's words reverberate through her. They're dissonant in her head and discordant in her chest.

There's nothing she can do against them now, is there? They've always been the semi-immortal septarian, and she's always just been 'Diamonds.' A kid, running around with a tiara. Maybe she grew taller, but she was still always her.

Any moment, she would plunge into the frigid realization that it was a worthless effort. This horrid loop of wanting to fight and realizing the futility of it.

Has it always been her that's gone to Tófi. Maybe when she was a child? But-- she'd gone to his home on his hatching day, hadn't she? But they had been the one to invite her to the Acorn Drop. And then... they had been the one to approach her at the Gala. She had been to one to approach them in The Moon Market...

It was mutual, this reciprocated hurt they inflicted on each other...

"Don't forget that you've sought me out when it's suited you," she snaps in return, pressing her dagger closer to his throat. The way it can touch and not burn... but she wants to.

And that's the scary thing, isn't it? She could be just as cruel as they are believed to be.

"You're the one who spilled wine on my dress for a lark. You're the one who invited me to meet you on my birthday. Don't pretend that it's been one-sided this whole time. Don't pretend that you're above me in this."

Did you not want clarity for that first dream? Didn't we share something there?

She looks hard into their eyes. Looking, searching, and finding nothing. They sound far too casual, far too pleasant for someone who has a dagger lodged in their shoulder, albeit, one made of light. Does it not hurt them? Or are they merely being brave in the face of the monster killer?

'But I didn't murder anyone!' she had cried out, facing the Commission. They ignored her. Left her in her quiet torment at the wording they had chosen when relaying events. 'Everyone will read that I had killed him! It's not true!'

She hadn't killed anyone. It was the word vanquish that was misunderstood. Part of Menodora had always held an ache there, as if that was a scar that had never properly healed. To become The Undaunted Countess, everyone had to believe she'd vanquished who had been one of her only friends.

Her title rested on the fall of someone she at one point loved, even if it was just because they had been akin to family to her.

"What about leaving me?" Menodora asks, something in her shifting. She can't name it, whatever it is. This sadness, this weight. This feeling where she recalls the loneliness of those days in such a visceral manner. "With The Commission? With all of their damnable pity and the whole of Mjaunie mourning for me!"

Sometimes, Menodora had a curious resemblance to the late Grevinde, Comitessa. Her imploring eyes and faraway looks. Her light hair twisted down her back... The way she felt things too much...

"What about sacrificing your reputation for my sake? You had the choice to kill me back then, too. You had a chance to win the Mjaunie Civil War and you threw it away because I -- what -- severed your finger?" She asks, seriously. Voice hard. "Surely, you regret that. Surely, you regret not ending my line there. and claiming victory for yourself? It would have been so easy, but you took mercy on a child. Why?"

And it's in her grief that Menodora recalls standing in front of Tófi, the Child of Nemesis, certain that they'd end her life just because she'd asked. Because, in that dream, Tófi had hated her, and had previously tried to kill her in a war far bigger than Mjaunie...

Her grip slips somewhat and she withdraws the blade at Tófi's throat an inch or two, seeing there the scorch of the light dagger's touch.

She's unpredictable. That's something she and Stella seemed to share...

Menodora has to remind herself that she can't kill him. Not without using that spell again-- the one tainting her arms. Her wrists. Her hands...

Her mind drifts back to that night at the Gala. His wine spilled on her dress. His jacket on her shoulders.

"You said that I could not kill you without killing myself in the process," Moon starts, softly, tightening her grip on the knife in his shoulder. Her voice shakes in such a pained and strained quiet that even she can barely stand it. "You know the truth of my feelings now, Tófi. You've reminded me just how futile my efforts are and always will be." The dagger at his throat begins to fade to nothing, dissipating into heat and air. Her stained right hand falls to rest again on his chest. Over their heart...

It's sentimentality. It's also somethiing else.

He could have killed her back then. But... hadn't she offered them the same mercy? She had aimed at the devil and -- purposefully -- missed.

"Aren't you at least a little concerned what a grief-stricken woman like myself could do to you now?"

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon

[veevacious]

Vee can't help it. Beaming, they say, "well, I'm glad! I'm always afraid because everything is a work in progress somehow." Which sounds pretentious, but it's how they were taught. Their mama -- Camila -- always said as much. Manny always said something similar, but maybe not so concise. "And, I mean, I'm a student, but maybe one day I'll be really good."

Illustration wasn't their area of study, but they really did want to be good at it. They were moving towards sculpture and video, separately, but illustration always had a place in their heart.

"Not really. I only started real art study in High School -- American, I'm sure you can tell -- but then I got accepted into the Art Department here and now I've sort of taken it and run. But I've always 'been artistic', to a degree. Before that, I didn't have a whole lot of time to study it," Vee admits. "What about you. Are you an artist of any kind?"

Which seems like a fair question, considering Tófi's interest.

@ofseptarsis

Drawn from Life || Open !

[menodoramoon]

Echoes of failure. Echoes of disapproval. Echoes of being nothing like what anyone had hoped. She had thought Tófi's opinion would matter the least to her. After all, they had killed her mother in cold blood. She shouldn't give a damn what they said.

Yet, this was a person who knows her most. This was the person who knew her the longest, save for The Commission. They'd known her from childhood, raised her in the way of nurturing her mind. Was she a waste of time and effort? Was she worth nothing?

Their words strike against her, wounding her over and over. If Tófi had their way, she'd have more fortitude. She wouldn't give up. She would be a stronger person. She's not.

Tófi: wishes they had killed her. Wishes they had killed her because who she has become means little to them. It must have all been some ruse, the way they claimed to care for her before. The person she was, the person she is. She remembers them giving her a gentle kiss on New Year's, and it was jarring to be treated so gently by the person who now claims they would have killed her all those years ago.

How would they do it? How would Tófi betray her twice over? The same as her mother, or something tailored to Tófi's view of her. Was she heartless, and thus, he'd take her's from her? Or did he find her pathetic, and thus, it would be some mercy to kill her quickly? Something swift and deft? Would they draw it out, make an example of her?

She could wretch right now with the implications. One death was enough. Would Seth have approved of Tófi's actions? Likely. Tófi would win their father's approval, and she would follow by way of her mother's fate.

Her heart, her feelings feel wounded. But Tófi has already made their thoughts on her feelings clear. They were useless. She was useless.

'a pathetic waste of life' ... 'an empty, cowardly husk of yourself' ...

'If you felt this way, why couldn't you kill me in that dream!' she wants to yell, 'why can't you bring yourself to kill me now!?'

It's a wretched thing to think. And yet, if she were laying her feelings bare, she doesn't care about Tófi's honorable deaths. She doesn't care about glory on the battlefield. She wants Tófi to do something about the words he says. Verbally massacre her, sure. But only if they had the decency to finish it with a blade.

Oh, but they're monstrous, aren't they? Their claws would be fine. She'd accept that. It would be thematic. Perhaps ironic. The show of three bold marks raked across her skin, because she'd taken the fourth and buried it in their history.

Gods, and she feels so sick. And she feels so trapped. And she feels so done. Hopeless and lost and confused in all these ways Tófi abhorred.

But fuck what Tófi thinks because he was the opportunist who took her mother's life and fled instead of finishing the job.

They loved her in a dream, once. But that's another trick. Cruel fate allowing her heart to open to them. She should never have, lest they tear it from her chest.

Her hand burns hot with fire. With this agony. With this feeling of murderous intent. She feels monstrous herself, morally. She can't be like them. She can't be.

It's the same repetition. The differences between them. The way she forces them. And the way she can't help but see those similar lines. A mirror she doesn't want. It sees not her as she is, but the her as she was. Smiling because Mr. Advisor had told her some new fact that was forbidden.

Who was she now?

Ha. Tófi thinks she's pathetic. She knows that. She's thought that. This isn't news, even if the realization of it is several lashes against her psyche. The confirmation hurts.

The fire the blazed in her hand hurts.

She looks up, sees Tófi for what they are. A monster. Scales and burning. Immune? Resistant?

Her face twists with some kind of angst, some kind of loss, some kind of sadness. She looks at her hands, and the way the glamor can't hold. Not when the pain was great. Not when she can expect scarring from this.

The darkened veins and purple tinge crawl, creep up her arms. Higher than it had been before. Perhaps she should see that as a sign to stop, but Tófi's words reverberate in such a way that she can't stop herself. She can't think.

And there's something in Tófi's face that looks satisfied that she cannot take. This look of realization, this look of -- maybe -- hope?

She can't allow it. She can't let them see how desperate she's become. She can't let them see who she is in this state, because this was a failing. This wasn't her. This was emotion and hurt roiling and forcing her to be someone else.

She's not herself. She's not anyone.

Another attempt and she finds her strength. She finds it in her to summon a smaller blade of light, requiring less control, and presses Tófi against the doorframe. Presses her free hand into their shoulder to pin them. She knows she can't outmatch them in strength, but to summon fire there. It was a threat she could muster, perhaps, if her magic did not betray her. She presses her short blade, reminiscent of her twin daggers, near their throat. The burning of it, the radiance. She feels anger. She feels...

She doesn't want to hurt them. She doesn't. But she does.

For every fucking inadequacy they accused her of. For every fucking failure they levy against her.

"I don't need your approval, Tófi," she says, voice hard and proper, yet strained with emotion. "I do not need validation from the treacherous Prince of the Dark Monster Nation, an underhanded betrayer to Mjaunie."

Her eyes are stormy, a variation of her brighter blue. She is no longer stunned into silence, allowing them to lay into her with their verbal abuse. Even if she is not a stronger person by far, she is strong enough to pretend.

She can always pretend to be more.

Fire blazes around them. Growing. She could snuff it out now, but the way the heat burns, the way her lungs strain... it feels good. Right.

"Do not fucking lecture me," she says, pressing the blade closer, "on the person you -- a murderer, a spineless assassin -- want me to be! Maybe when I was a child, you cared for me because I was easy to manipulate, easy to control. You wanted me to believe the best of monsters, yet you used a peace banquet, where a treaty in your favor was to be signed, as an opportunity to sow more chaos in the current Civil War. Have you ever considered that you were the reason I grew to know the true nature of monsters?"

Her tone is biting. Her blade is so close to his neck. She can't. She won't...

The darkness creeps up her wrists. Stings. Leaves their own kind of burn.

He'd told her there was no way to kill them without killing herself. This, she might be able to live with. Die with. She could accept those terms. That blaze in her is self-destructive enough to crave it.

"You don't care and neither do I, but I do not forgive you."

@ofseptarsis

genfødte sandheder || Tófi & Moon