#ncncnsksks rip in shit creighton’s dignity now all of china knows u have emotions and are actually nice sometimes

[lockawayknight]

yellowfingcr​:

“Me, sir? Nothing! I know nothing,” Heysel answers, one hand leaving the wooden handle to raise a palm defensively before curling back down. Her tone is kept politely level, lest she sounds too amused by a situation that has terribly little of entertaining, but under the many layers of yellow cloth covered in invading red she’s smiling, sharp as a hunting knife. “Of course. I’m a scholar, besides being an invader and a nuisance. I like reading, and magic, and history, but of what Mirrah was I know terribly little, though I’d love to learn more. I know just enough to recognize the stag on your chest, I promise.”

Oh, she’s so going to die for that, and she wasn’t even willingly swinging the metaphorical bat to the wasp’s nest, as she so likes to do. She was merely being honest with her knowledge. The way he moves signals nothing but a promise of death he will keep if she doesn’t backstep, so she complies, one boot moving after the other, murky water splashing about her boots till, after enough steps, it is clear water that soaks the wrappings around the leather. The sheer, burning intensity he exudes makes sparks of adrenaline-thirsty bloodlust pop and crackle in the attic of her brain again; come on, look at him, you’re not getting out of this alive and it’s a fact, but hear me out you can die laughing, taking the same amount of blood from him as the amount he’ll take from you —    

— and she snuffs the itch out as candlelight before it can reach her muscles with practiced ease. There is a time to allow hungry, stupid thoughts to hunger and want stupid things, and the time isn’t now. She had her fill of battle for the moment, she tries to reason with herself, and violence can be found anywhere; a living Mirran, not so much. Even if he’s more killing intent shaped as a man, right now, than anything pleased to answer her questions. Sort of. He certainly isn’t going to share a glass of wine with her as he recounts the history of a land long fallen, but he’s not looking excessively mad at her. For now.

“More or less! It’s Heysel. Uncommon variant of Hazel, I know, but my parents were creative like that.” His stare is unwavering; so is hers. He can’t know that, however. “I’m a nobody. Of course I give my name freely! It means nothing to those I tell it. But if you don’t want to give yours, that is just fine. There is more to people than just their names, and your skill speaks for itself! Though I’ll also add-”

Don’t do it, don’t provoke him-

“-that while those are end times without many gods left, my goddess is… well, one! She does her miracles, she doesn’t care much for humans. She’s pretty in her own way. Your average deity. She likes her bloody prizes, however. Truthfully, I believe it’s all she cares about. What did you use, earlier? The little gem? Um. Oh, I remember this.” She snaps her fingers. “You don’t find those anymore, in Lothric! I wonder why. Scholars everywhere would commit heinous crimes to have the thing in a museum!”

You’re jostling him. Verbally. You’re pushing a man who is about to maul you and you’re going to be cut down as a cedar tree because of this, what rational part of her that very much would rather not be chopped like a log protests. She ignores it, jolly. Well, yes, he likely will, but also: what he doesn’t? He said he doesn’t like me yet, so maybe in the future he will! One never knows.

‘An invader and a nuisance’… Flipped his mood like a goddamn lightswitch, that did. That single, offhanded joke is enough to get Creighton smirking again, despite his best wishes to keep his intimidation levels at their max. (Thank the Gods for the few inches of steel shielding his face from her view, lest she find out he thinks she’s funny.)

Or… find out that he’s just begun having a bit of an internal crisis. As she prattles on, his gaze continues to soften until it’s more akin to admiration than anything else, though thankfully (for his ego) not visible due to the angle of his helm. He looks angry. He looks fit to kill. He looks as unforgiving and bloodthirsty as would merit the notoriety he’s been slowly building over his truly countless years in this world. But beyond the visible, well…

On and on she prattles, and on and on he listens, finding it easier and easier to actually focus — actually hold thoughts as well as his axe. Alright. A scholar, a nobody, someone who gives their name freely, a sorceress, a flatterer for sure, and...

Her voice soon fades to static background noise, if only for a moment, as he starts to realise just how... comfortable... he’s starting to feel despite everything — despite the pain, the toxin, the weapons drawn and the blood splatters on both of their once-colourful clothing. What is it about her that’s making him feel almost like... letting his guard down? It couldn’t be trust — no, absolutely not, not after how viciously they’d both just fought — but... something about her, just...

And then it hits him. Oh. It’s… because she reminds him of Magerold.

Well, now he feels a bit ill for reasons entirely unrelated to the swamp’s toxins. (If she looks carefully enough, she may notice that his free hand’s begun anxiously fidgeting with his tabard’s muddy skirt.) Honestly, he couldn’t care any less about this goddess she’s talking about. No, no, it’s her tone, her energy, her clear excitement and the joy she sends out on the winds like dandelion fluff that’s captured his entire attention. It’s a familiar, familial sort of chaotic kindness — a sort that had kept him feeling at home since his earliest memories. It’s something painfully nostalgic, painfully rare in this world, and that had left a most painfully empty hole in his heart when he and Pate had left Drangleic. It makes him feel… accepted. Appreciated. Confident in himself beyond his warrior’s calloused skin. It’s…

Whatever happened to him after the Throne of Want was conquered…?

No. No, no, no. She is not a friend, and she is definitely not trustworthy. She’s got a weapon, and she’s got a way with words, and she’s got one stubborn foot in the shallow grave he’s just begun digging for his image. No.

A hard blink, and a soft shake of the head, then Creighton’s finally back in the Now, albeit with a bit more of a headache and a bit less strength in his grip on his axe. “Oh, the gem?” he asks, clumsily fumbling to get back to the conversation at hand, all ferocity once again gone from his tone — yet another one of his brain’s lightswitches that she seems to enjoy flicking like a strobe light. “Yeah, they’re, ah…” Ah, hell, conversation machine broke… “They’re… old.” Nice save, bud. “Had ‘em a while. Nothin’ special. Not, ah… not the first time someone’s said they’re worth more than jus’ healin’, though.” Shrug. “Do you, ah…” — fuck… don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t you dare say it you stupid, idiot street dog... — “do you… want one?”

Goddammit, idiot, you went and fucking said it… Well, there goes that piece of his internal warrior’s dignity. Two feet she’s got in the grave of his mirror of Mirrah’s self-image now, and he’s just reached for another shovel. Great. She probably just lost all respect for him, least of all as the ruthless warrior she’d just been painting him as. Just, fucking… great. What the hell is wrong with me…