#ic threads.

[stlispenard]

@andthe6 continued from wintery prompt

the creak of his floorboards for once brings him reprieve, instead of annoyance. enjolras has been savouring the artificial warmth of his apartment after a night spent at the library, and a morning in the campus’ auditorium. he half-expected company. courfeyrac is a given, on cold days like this. m. enjolras seniour foots the electricity bill, though matthieu doubts he’s aware of it, so the central heating runs, day and night. the tousled, unconscious form of grantaire on his couch gives him pause, however. as does the alarming realization that he can recognize the back of his neck, turned away as he is. he recognizes envy settling in his gut, but attributes it to being so tired himself. what he wishes for himself is sleep, not whatever activities preceded his guests’ slumber.

enjolras’ wish is granted the moment his golden head hits the pillow, rising only due to the incessant buzzing of his phone. messages announcing safety and shared locations stop him from muting it. he gazes through heavy lids out the window, the undeniable fall of snow gives context for the group chat panic of the day. most of the amis are home. marius is at chez fauchelevent, bless him. courf and ferre have found shelter at the cinema (?). one person is not accounted for – technically two considering he himself has yet to respond. enjolras’ heart rate rises as running a marathon, had grantaire ventured out in the cold? the door connecting his bedroom to the living room swings open with a violent thud. the disoriented and slightly accusatory expression of a sleepy abandoned guest pops up from behind the couch. “ oh. ” they stare, as if the other person were insane and enjolras has never felt less comfortable in his own home. “ you’re still here. ”

      tequila might not actually kill you, but it might lead to some questionable decisions that makes you wish that it would. for the most part grantaire can drink exactly the amounts he needs to to get by without severe repercussions. the going to the club and licking salt, lemon and liquor off strangers’ abs is a new one and entirely owed to the ingenious of courfeyrac. dear courfeyrac, who will kiss you just to cheer you up in the spirit of friendship and courfeyrac, who happened to shower in the morning, using enjolras’ body-wash and who probably dried himself using his towels. courfeyrac who— if you squint— has a torso with the same definition and same amount of body fat. he’s a substitute, a fix, a hit, but he is never quite right. he’s always assumed that he is aware of it, too, and that he, when he initiates, feels a similar loneliness. sex is their shared solution. 

      grantaire, for the most part, has enough self-respect to keep clear of combeferre and enjolras’ place and besides rue gay-lussac is almost always closer (which means distance can’t be the excuse). he doesn’t remember agreeing to going to theirs, or if he had even tried to protest it. absurdly— considering the nature of his mind—  he doesn’t really remember thinking much at all. he remembers being with courfeyrac in a bathroom stall one moment and on the couch the next. enjolras’ couch. 

      when he wakes up it is because his mouth is agonizingly dry. the absence of courfeyrac is not surprising. the boy always has some place he needs to be whereas grantaire has nothing. he prefers the days where he is unconscious for most of it and he isn’t surprised that courfeyrac knows as much. so, grantaire considers it concern rather than neglect. the only thing he is slightly bitter about is the fact that he has to get up and get himself some water and that it will inevitably delay him going back to sleep.

      it would be lying saying that he is just about to leap off the sofa when he hears a door open behind him. grantaire is still very much on his back contemplating whether or not he’d die from dehydration if he just stayed still for another couple of hours. the fact that he isn’t alone startles him enough to make him sit up (he supposes he should be grateful for the push) and the fact that it is enjolras, of all people, makes his stomach churn. there’s a very real possibility that he will be sick all over their fancy furniture. 

      he fixates on a tiny loose string by the collar of enjolras’ t-shirt instead of his eyes. grantaire doesn’t want to see the frustration he already hears palpably in the tone of his voice. “yeah,” he replies eventually, patting himself on the chest, “still here.” he is still groggy from sleep, his voice is nearly gone and he lacks a clever thing to say. he lets out an audibly grunt when he’s about to get up and he realizes he can’t. he’s naked. sure, he’s got a blanket covering him up, but he’s definitely too naked to move. he feels heat rise in his cheeks and around his ears, he feels humiliated and ashamed. 

      “fuck, man, i didn’t think anybody was home except for courfeyrac. i wouldn’t have…” an awkward, fumbling pause, “i’ll have to find my clothes.. but then i’ll be out of your way, i promise. i promise.”

[ganhman]

“ may I please get a crumb of affection? ” / sanji.

starr's affection isn't soft.     and @cherrygardn,     already battered and bruised,     is a man deserving of lips that chase away the ache.     not a row of razor teeth,     fists to break bones or a tongue that has craved blood.     she is violent, a goddess of war.     void stares back at the love cook,     and she wondered,     had he come to her,     all knowing about what kind of woman she is?     the tilt of her head is curious,     and eyes drift to the cigarette between his teeth,     before she settled.          ❛     you'll have to beg harder than that.     ❜

[theautumnpicker]

@mystraguideme

It's his, by any rights. They'd taken an awfully long detour to find the book in the first place, and then it had been Astarion himself who had been sent to collect it, to carefully sever the connection between the pressure plate and the statues around it. Yet for all his effort— not to mention his very polite request— it was Gale who was rewarded with the treasure. And for what? It's undoubtedly just another bauble to him, the ravenous, power-mad fool.

Not that Astarion can really fault his ambition.

Of course, he showed no outward sign of his irritation. That wouldn't win him any points with their leader. Besides, he still had options. He meant to wait until they were at camp and swipe the thing while the others were eating. He even pitched his tent next to Gale's that night, watching the wizard closely as he set up all his worldly goods. Yet Gale seemed to keep the book with him, as if it were a bit of light reading he wanted to settle down with on a full belly.

So, giving up on his first plan, Asterion joined the group at supper after all, smiling and joking to disguise his poor appetite for the sort of food they have to offer. He went to bed directly afterwards, but he can't sleep, whether or not he wants to. Thoughts of the book invade his mind, almost calling out to him with the power it has to offer him. There has to be something in the pages of that tome that he can use against Cazador, or even just use for himself. Something to make his condition permanent, beyond the grace of these damned tadpoles that everyone else seems in such a rush to remove. He imagines returning home to his old master, telling him what he'd discovered and promising to share the secret— for surely even Cazador would envy his power now— only to watch him burn and writhe in the sun.

That does it. He is getting that damned book.

Astarion sits up and raises the flap of his tent, peering out and seeing to his satisfaction that all the others are asleep, or at the very least in their little beds, oblivious to all the world. He half crawls outside, keeping low to the ground in a prowl, as he steals over to Gale's tent and listens outside, ceasing to breathe as he listens for the sounds of the wizard's own breathing inside. He feels hungry suddenly, but whether he hungers for the knowledge close at hand or for the blood he can smell under Gale's skin as he stalks his quarry is hard to say.

The hunger makes him impatient. Astarion doesn't wait until he can hear that breathing slow, until he's sure Gale is fast asleep. Instead, he enters quickly and quietly, not even looking at the wizard at first as he scans the entirety of his surroundings in rapid search for his heart's desire. Even if the book remains on Gale's person now, Astarion fully intends to take it for his own.

[this-is-krikkit]

people introducing victor: this is serial gold medal winner, olympic champion, figure skating God and living legend Victor Nikiforov victor, introducing himself: hi, i'm Yuuri Katsuki's fiancé!!!

[nonlethal-au]

[ masterlist ]

Non-Lethal AU (abbreviated: NOL)

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[stlispenard]

     tim’s words are a punch in the gut. well, they’re multiple, actually. he tries to bear it stoically, but something tells him it won’t last long and that he’ll break like the branches under their feet. “skippy…” he tries, like he’s finding the words to justify his actions, “i supposed it would be enough to keep you away,” which might be the last thing he wants, but the one thing he needs, “i think i have a habit of underestimating you.”

     he’s been cut-throat because that is exactly how he is. he always shoots first to avoid being shot himself, “you should be so angry that you can’t look at me. i thought i went directly for whatever string attaches you to me, but here we are.” again, he wants to say, but he knows he doesn’t need to. they’ve tried and failed before and now they are just at the end of another cycle, “you shouldn’t be taking this kind of crap from anyone and especially not from me.” it sounds like the start of a lecture, but it’s one he’s not committed to making. he's distracted by tim standing there in the dark with his hands in his pockets and his eyes glazed over by an emotion even hawk struggles to interpret. inevitably, he moves towards him. 

     “i think catholics can hate, you know?” 

     once he’s close enough, he touches tim’s elbow and guides him a few steps to one side so he's sure they're both covered by trees, “and you really should, skippy. i might fucking need you to.”

caught, and what is he supposed to do about it now? hawk knows that it's him, knows he's the one who's lurking where he shouldn't be and where he isn't wanted, so it's not even as if he can leave and pretend that he was never here in the first place.

there's a part of tim, a more rational part, that tells him that he should be angry at hawk right now, should be furious with him, but all he feels is ashamed. the heat that had propelled him this far, that had told him he was justified in his anger, has now given way to a shame that he is, once again, where he isn't supposed to be. he wants to say 'or else what?' but instead his hands find their way into his pockets as he slowly approaches the other man, shoulders raised up slightly in a defensive manner.

‘ i heard your news, ’ he says by way of greeting, ignoring his urge to exchange pleasantries. those days have long since passed. ‘ i'd say congratulations, but i had some news of my own. probably about as life-changing as yours, if i'm being honest with myself. i'm sure you know all about it. ’ it's as close as he gets to a spiteful comment, because as hard as he might try, the man who stands meters away from him now — though he won't get closer, doesn't trust himself to keep his hands off — still sits so firmly in his heart, that tim fears there's no removing him, that hawk will be there for the rest of his life.

[arom-antix]

The brainrot has momentarily concluded

[sheliesshattered]

[branwyn-the-half-witch]

Comparative Mythologies of the Long Night: Part Two – Azor Ahai and The Red Sword

In part one, we looked at the origin story of the Long Night, and the ways in which it is reflected in the main series. Now, we shall move on to discuss the heroes who seemingly saved the world.

The most notable of these heroes, with whom you are likely aware, is the one most commonly known as Azor Ahai; emerging from Asshai, this is the hand that wields the flaming sword Lightbringer. They are also known as Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, and Eldric Shadowchaser.

As a brief aside, it is interesting to note that all of these names can be related to specific places in Essos; the Patrimony of Hyrkoon is an ancient nation, Yin is a city in Yi Ti that has often been its capital, ‘Nefer’ is the last city in the distant kingdom of N’ghai, ‘the Shadow’, or the ‘Shadow Lands’ are a region in the furthest east, with AssHAI in the southwest, serving as something of a gateway to them – and it is the Shadow, as we will later learn, from whence the dragons may have first originated; tamed by an ancient, unnamed people.

Whether this solid anchoring of these heroic aliases in various places means anything more than a suggestion that the hero – or heroes – may have come from there, or were perhaps claimed by those peoples, I will leave you to ponder. For now, we shall turn to Azor Ahai’s legend.

Of Azor Ahai (AA), we have the most available information of all of the legends we shall discuss. He is also the only one explicitly prophesied to return again, and the manner in which AA shall return and be heralded is very clearly laid out for us from multiple sources.

AA is described as a leader, wielding a burning sword that radiates heat and light. He gave ‘courage to […] men and [led] the virtuous into battle’, returning ‘light and love’ to the world. So we should account for these aspects, as well as the finer points of the prophecy.

Much has been said about who AA reborn might be, with many candidates proposed. I will not be spilling that ink here; it’s Daenerys. Born on Dragonstone, a smoking isle in the great salt sea, she arose when darkness gathered and, beneath a bleeding star, awoke dragons from stone.

I would also point out that even Jon Snow, upon hearing of the Prophecy in the context of Mel’s candidate Stannis, zeroes on the importance of Stannis not being born on Dragonstone. One can almost hear the author himself tapping his fingers impatiently, no?

If you favour another candidate, a more abstract interpretation of the prophecy, feel free to do your own research and present it elsewhere; I am interested primarily in exploring the myths, not arguing. However, I do hope you will let me expand on my case and consider it fairly.

Dany becomes a leader, bringing hope and courage to mankind and returning light and love to those lost in the darkness. Moreover, she inspires them to fight for themselves, for their lives and loves; leading them into battle, but not doing their fighting for them.

I would also briefly highlight this echo of command from Quaithe, in light of one of AA’s names being ‘Shadowchaser’ – and that Quaithe wishes Dany to go to Asshai, from whence the myths of AA were born and the prophecy was written.

Going back here may mean in a temporal sense, revisiting the origins of AA and learning who he was, what he did, and most notably for Daenerys, why it was needed. She is, as present, unaware of the encroaching darkness that threatens the world, on any level except subconsciously through her dreams. A revelation is needed.

To add to this, we have the ‘Prince that was Promised’ title; these are used interchangeably with AA by Mel and by Maester Aemon and seem to often refer to the same person; in light of GRRM’s addition of Aegon’s dream to the canon, my interpretation is that they do refer to the same person, but by accident. Though we do not yet have it in GRRM’s words, Aegon saw the return of the Long Night and a Targaryen fighting against it. This is tPtwP, Aegon’s name for this leader who happens to also be the one who woke the dragons from stone to fight the cold.

And it is Aegon’s dream that dream-driven Targaryens have stumbled across in their scrolls – what Rhaegar to become a warrior and thence to confer the promise he initially saw in himself upon his newborn son. The Red Priests who herald Dany speak only of AA; Mel may have discovered tPtwP on Dragonstone itself. All other sources for the Promised Prince title seem to be either Targaryen or Targaryen adjacent – such as Barristan, who himself speaks of Jenny of Oldstones’ witch friend, presumably close to certain Targaryens.

But what of Lightbringer? Daenerys is not trained in arms, so how can she wield a sword? Recall that AA reborn is marked by waking dragons from stone and wielding Lightbringer. There is no separate mention of forging/reforging a sword. Perhaps there is more to the tale than that?

So let us examine Lightbringer and its forging; AA makes three attempts to forge the blade, quenching it in water, lion’s blood and, in his successful forging, the living heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa. The blade is described, by the Jade Compendium, as making its own fiery heat.

The blade never being cold, but being warm as Nissa Nissa was warm, is very alike to the description of dragons being ‘fire made flesh’; and the description of Lightbringer in action resembles nothing so much as the affect of Drogon’s flames. Lightbringer, Red Sword of Heroes, is not a blade; it is the dragons awoken from stone. But what of the three forgings? The exact arrangement of the forgings is sometimes debated, but the one I favour is this arrangement: the first forging in ‘water’.

The second in the ‘heart of a lion’; note that this moment is so important it appears again in the dreams that guide Dany’s steps to her eventual success.

And the third, successful forging – in the ‘sacred flames’ of a funeral pyre, fed by the blood of heart’s beloved. Note the proximity of the water/lion/heart imagery on each occasion, and that the conversations following the first scenes are about dragons, and then about war.

In the chapter prior to the pyre, Dany has dreams haunted by a pursuing cold, and by ghosts urging her on, with very familiar gemstone eyes; this links Dany and the dragons explicitly to the Great Empire of the Dawn and thus to the Long Night that followed the Blood Betrayal.

These dreams also link the dragons to sacrifice, just as Lightbringer is linked to Nissa Nissa’s sacrifice. Dany’s dreams show us the lives lost in her journey to that point (though Drogo is not yet entirely lost to her); those she has lost will lend their names to the dragons.

Blood sacrifice is a deeply potent power, both within ASOIAF and without. Many characters tell us of the potency of shed blood; of kin, king, and of holy men. Within many cultures in our own world, blood sacrifice was a holy act, to ward off catastrophe, as payment – and penance.

In Aztec mythology, for instance, it is now generally understood that blood sacrifice, both of slain captives but also one’s own blood on a daily basis, was both a fuel offered up to the gods for their daily labours, and as repayment for the debt owed by the living to the gods for their sacrifices made when creating the fifth sun, and so all human life. The dreams emphasise Dany’s own shed blood from the beginning; in her bloody footsteps, the burning in her womb, and the burning blood from her torn open back, which ultimately grants her wings.

When the time comes, she offers up her own blood by walking unafraid into the sacred flames of the funeral pyre, to bleed with her fallen beloved. Dany alone, among all Targaryens who have attempted to bring back dragons, took the last and most important step of self-sacrifice.

But if we understand blood sacrificed to be offered up, not just for power but for payment of debt, what debt is Dany paying here? Moreover, have we strayed from AA in this talk of blood magic and penance? I would argue not; for just as Dany’s Lightbringer is living dragons, so too do I believe that AA’s red sword was no literal blade, but dragons also.

I would here posit that Azor Ahai, in the coldest, darkest night, sought to bind fire made flesh to humankind. I propose that he tried and failed twice, before binding dragons to the fate of men.

I implore you to consider that Nissa Nissa was a dragon.

This concludes Part Two. Part Three shall answer the question, ‘what in the world did she mean by that last comment?’, by examining sacrifice, necessity, and the long, sad history of House Targaryen’s ritual offerings of innocence as payment.

[zcrayas]

Rya had never seen an Omen before. Not in a sense of being aware what they were, what was their place in the society. During her journeys she had briefly noted the wandering huge creatures, thinking no less of them than any other - could they hail from other lands?

For Lady Tanith, indulged in blasphemy against the ruling order, had chosen to shelter Rya, even from the terrors occurring even behind the manor walls, even from Rya's very origin. Refusing to taint the pure heart, a rarity among their kin.

Even though she hadn't been lied about the cruelty of the lands, the cruelty executed on unfortunate beings by her home family - the serpent herself, wasn't taught to despise or shun. And she knew too well, what hate and fear could bloom in others.

Outside, where serpents were non-existent, she was feared. Thus, choosing willingly to disguise herself in more accepted form, even though holding pride for her true image. And she chose to hide, only to spare the insults and unwanted attention.

Ryaalways believed in the good of the heart upon approaching anyone. Tarnished, the champions lady Tanith requested her to find, and other wanderers. Considering just how peaceful the stranger seemed, she hesitated none.

" The tree. I saw you gaze it so longingly. Indeed, how the leaves dance in the air... how long they maintain that glow even on the ground. " The young noble mused in slight distance, pointing up at the tall looming vision - almost dream like. " I couldn't just ignore that." || @fellomenking ❤' d!

[dramatisperscnae]

@thecreativeforge from here bc tumblr is dumb

Breathe. He had to breathe. Nothing had happened, they were fine, just breathe, Grayson. And try not to think about how Roy's hand had felt, there in the small of his back. How it might have felt if it had landed a few inches lower.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump, though he didn't pull away; instead his own hand came up to hold it there as he looked over at Roy, hoping the flush on his cheeks had faded a little even as he found some comfort in the fact that Roy's hadn't. At least Dick wasn't the only one suddenly feeling awkward right now.

He managed a wry grin at the teasing, giving Roy's hand a squeeze but still not letting go. "I'd…call it a tie. Would've been my win if that old brownstone had still been here." He was trying to tease back, but as Roy glanced over and blue eyes met green any further comments died on Dick's lips. His heart was still pounding, albeit a little softer than it had been a few seconds ago, though he wasn't afraid; behind the uncertainty in his eyes absolute trust was shining through.

[littlebadger]

TUE!verse || START 》 @fruity-hub-blog / @lordfruitloop

A deep ache had settled into his bones, every muscle stiff and sore as he lay in the hospital bed, the sheets tucked too tightly around him. His eyelids felt heavy, barely open, and his vision blurred under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like hours, but now his mind refused to let him slip back into sleep. Everything hurt.

Where am I? He shifted under the covers, his vision slowly adjusting. The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor filled the room, its sound grating on his nerves. He turned his head to glare at the screen—it was too loud.

No, what was loud was the ringing in his ears—the deafening blast of—

A sharp gasp tore from his throat as his entire body tensed. Instinctively, he tried to sit up but was met with a surge of pain, forcing a pained hiss from his lips. His trembling body collapsed back onto the mattress, every nerve screaming.

The Nasty Burger. His parents. Jazz. Sam. Tucker. Mr. Lancer, too?

“Hey! Help! Hello!?” Danny’s voice cracked with desperation as the heart monitor beside him spiked, its alarm shrill and piercing, calling the nurses to his side.

[stlispenard]

      to say he struggles with setting boundaries when it comes to his family would be an understatement. usually. talking about the six had been easy enough but getting back together and playing with them wouldn’t be - instead just the mention feels like peeling the scab off an old wound and scratching until it bleeds. “no,” he interrupts when she’s only just about to ask her question, “we’re not doing this again, jules.”

      there’s more to it than the music, of course, even if he uses him being out of practice as the main excuse. in that sense he takes more after his brother than he ever thought he would.“there’s a million reasons why it’s a bad idea. first and foremost, i don’t want to leave my family, alright? you know how it is when daddy’s a rockstar and not around when you’re so young. i can’t be that.” graham is not not going to go for the old history repeats itself thing when that is what he can vocalize without sounding like an idiot. it’s also the one thing he knows for sure julia will understand because she felt that loss herself.

      “i love making music, julia, but i am out of practice when it comes to standing on a stage. i am over chasing that kind of high - it doesn’t make you happy for very long. it’s not sustainable - it’s just a drug to the system.”

random little thing for @stlispenard

julia knew from the start that this wouldn't be an easy task, asking for everyone to come back together for a little reunion. throughout her documentation it was obvious that there was still some bad blood between the band, most notably her dad and eddie and whatever the fuck had been going on between him and daisy. but out of everyone she hadn't expected uncle graham to be the most firm.

her face fell at the first "no" and then he went on to explain that he was completely devoted to his own kids, he didn't want to stir the pot again. the six was over, that chapter of his life was finished. julia knew that he had always wanted kids, he had doted on her whenever she was in the studio waiting for her dad to finish up whatever he was doing and listening to him and karen recount their story was definitely one of the more awkward moments. still though, this was her uncle. surely she could think of something.

[purplebass]

I just compared the antari trio to the bears from We Bare Bears? Yeah lol <3

(profile pics credit: @/lasq.draws on IG)

[glacialswordsman-a]

starter | @tartagla | plot call

The nation of Mondstadt, land of the free for those who call her home. There was a gentle breeze caressing the lands, making leaves rustle and tree branches calmly dance within the tempo of the wind's movement. Windwheel Asters spun delightedly as Dandelion seeds were carried along the day's delicate gust, while the sun was at its peak... It was simply beautiful. Not only that, but it felt absolutely wonderful to the inhabitants that resided in Barbatos's lands; and Kaeya was no different from anyone else in this matter.

The Cavalry Captain had long since completed his own work and then some, before opting to enjoy a 'leisure stroll' for once in his life. Normally he would be anxious in spending his time like this, but today... It was exceptionally nice today. How could he even fathom letting a day like this pass by without actually enjoying it for once by just sitting in his office? Even so, his 'stroll' was, of course, a guise for him to patrol the area between the Winery and Springvale uninterrupted. While he did want to enjoy the weather, there was still that itch in him that told him to be vigilant and look out for Mondstadt all the same.

He can never afford to simply relax.

He hiked up the mountains that stood proudly in the middle of the Dawn Winery and Springvale, using this setting as a vantage point for him to look down at the roads that wound around and between them. This way, he's able to enjoy his day while also keeping a keen eye on anything occurring below. He had high hopes that today would be uneventful, but of course, he could never be too sure.

[reginrokkr]

Footprints are left in their wake one by one on the blanket of snow, step by step as Dáinsleif treads the grounds of unknown lands. No sight of humankind nor of any shape or form of any civilization left behind or human activity whatsoever. Only monsters he hasn't seen before, while they are reminiscent of Abyss-affiliated fiends judging by the powers they draw and sometimes the anthropomorphic form they have. As star beasts in Teyvat, these are no laughing matter nor deserve to let one's guard down no matter how skilled one may be.

The sheer cold and snow that never seems to melt begets curiosity within the seraph's mind, ever wondering about the ecosystem of this world and if that is the reason why there is no human life here— or perhaps there may be none at all to be had if humans don't exist in this place. Dáinsleif is cognizant of the fact that inhospitable lands can be incompatible with other forms of life, too.

Not long before he decides to rest does he see from afar metallic fences and machinery that he opts for walking some more and have a look, albeit never intruding into territory he doesn't know. Whoever or whatever created this, he cannot be sure whether they will act kindly within his presence. Where creations lay so must loom nearby their creators and ere long does Dáinsleif find out that said creators are humans. Good, so long as mankind exists in this star, so his possibilities to learn about this vast universe will increase.

Rubescent lips part to heave a content sigh for such pleasant discovery and so Dáinsleif turns on his heels to leave. His aching muscles beg for rest, so does his mind after an undetermined amount of time walking and seeing little more than a vast albor ocean of snow. Somewhere discreet where he cannot be found yet not too far from the settlement is the chosen location to rest until a fox's cry causes his guard to be up once more, trained eyes in search of any presence that must've caused the tundra animal to be in distress.

Against his aching muscle's will, he rouses on his feet and searches for any living being activity within his vicinities. The source of the cry is found with immediacy as soon as a man's figure —judging by his muscular-looking back and broad shoulders— crouching catches his attention. With one hand he holds the poor fox in place while it struggles to thrash about in order to break free from his grasp and with the other snow is grabbed and brought to his lips. Despite the oddity of eating or drinking snow, stellar pupils take notice of a patch of blood making itself evident through the fabric of his top-wear on his arm.

❝You are hurt.❞ Only after these words abandon his lips does the seraph berate himself mentally at the prospect that the man may not understand the language. Even so, his voice stands low and gentle, tone does wonders to communicate feelings when language cannot establish a bridge of understanding. Dáinsleif ignores if what little fauna that lives in these snowy plains may be drawn to blood and thus put the man in danger, or if his life is endangered depending on the amount of blood that was spilled. His index finger points towards his own arm, pointing to the location of the other's injury to make himself clearer through signals. ❝Blood loss is detrimental in a place like this and I happen to have some medical knowledge.❞ One step brings him closer to the man, slow and measured to not generate hostility. His hand stretches towards him, an invitation. ❝Do you need help?❞

@longzhua ✦