#soliam murr

[knight-parzival]

some Pyre sketches

[raynewton]

— That's it. Now the necklace, and you, Your Majesty, will be ready.

— And the mantle?

— The mantle of the First Empress is totally inappropriate for your attire. You — and all of us — need to show that we accept the culture of the Moon Tribes and are willing to incorporate their customs into the traditions of the Empire. Besides, you won't need Mantle's wise counsel today, the councilors will handle the negotiations.

— But Gol says—

— Gol! What can a boy from a barbarian land know about diplomacy? His nomadic kin are so primitive they pray to books. At least the Moon savages share our belief in the stars. Enough talk, we must hurry!

[exultedshores]

They march. Their group is sizeable, a good hundred of the revolution’s agents trailing behind a small number of figures clad in the white raiments of their ascension. Hedwyn, their Golathanian, walks arm-in-wing with his Fikani; Jodariel, Soliam Murr incarnate, has a tight hold on Ignarius’ hand, their horns knocking together affectionately; Ti’zo, the spitting image of his grandfather, sits atop the wild hair of Chae, who’s all but skipping alongside Almer and Dalbert of the Fate. Seven of the eight Scribes and their friends, their entourage, marching shoulder to shoulder down the alabaster streets. Oralech stands alone at the head of the procession, dressed in the uniform of a field medic that marks him even more recognisable than the bright robes of those behind him. He would have donned his raiments as well, out of a sense of uniformity if nothing else, but the Demon’s clothing no longer fit his diminished frame. He is no Demon, and he is no Scribe. He is the star that beckons them ever onward.

[warthogreporter]

Khaylmer and the Nightwings

Just had another Khaylmer thought. The Nightwings are supposed to represent the adversaries of the Scribes as a whole, but I think Khaylmer specifically might have been part of their intention.

While Khaylmer is the reason the Scribes were all in the Downside together and thus found each other, the Nightwings function as the gatekeepers of its sole exit. To all other triumvirates they are the final boss, an enemy they can rally together against.

It's Khaylmer's star that heralds the beginning of the end for the rites, as the Scribes foretold. But the Nightwings are also attributed as part of the reason for it multiple times, even in the lyrics of the credits song.

Also Khaylmer betrayed the emperor, causing his fall to the Downside and transformation into a demon. The Nightwings of the past had an act of betrayal within their ranks that involved a nomad being pushed from a high place and becoming a demon, who much like Soliam Murr can give his freedom so that someone else may have theirs.

Since the Book of Rites shows that the Scribes do honor Khaylmer in their own way as the reason for their coming together, it makes sense that the intended heel triumvirate would be most associated with him. He's the only enemy of theirs we know of they would give that sort of honor to.

[laughingpinecone]

Follow-up of my time travel fic Time Syzygy... time to bond over great hopes and ideals or over being certifiably Cursed (tm), depending.

[tieflng]

these posted privately the first time OOPS. have some scribesentines from the og triumvirate :)

[pyrepalaver]

gol golathanian and soliam murr are idiot husbands and fucking valid

[thiscatiscreepy]

Anyway, here's my contribution to the Pyre fandom.

[milkinawineglass]

*soliam murr voice* hrrrn, gol, i’m trying to run my empire, but i’m dummy thicc, and the clap from my ass cheeks keeps alerting the harps

[art-soboro]

haven’t posted anything in a while have some imps

[lizabet27]

Day - 14 Fierce

[knight-parzival]

The cursed emperor

[golathaniann]

Downside Prairie - Rainy Night Dreaming

The slowburn fluff Goliam continues!

.

They had left the Sandfolds for what Ha’ub insisted was known as Downside Prairie, and the imp was determined to urge them ever-forward, towards a series of hot springs to rest.  The prairie was lush, and beautiful, a green more beautiful than all of Soliam’s former riches, even with the storms.  It was strange, being alive and changed, taking such joy in things like the thundering downpour of a surprise tempest, soaking clothing and hair and dripping along the faint grooves of his horns.  Even when Ha’ub and Gol had managed to find them a cave to huddle into, or were able to construct a lean-to with sufficient shelters he would stand out in the roaring rains anyway, to the imp’s amusement and his former general’s resigned chagrin.

That is what Soliam is doing now, standing out amidst the storm and enjoying the feeling of the elements battering against his skin, arms out as if entreating the sky, soaked and glistening and laughing.  Lightning flashes, a little too close for even his recklessness to allow, and he turns back towards the night’s shelter with a sheepish grin.  There is such a look of helpless fondness on Gol’s face, from where he is watching, that Soliam stops, breath caught.  It passes swiftly, however, under Soliam’s eyes, and again he has his exasperated general (former general, and not... not his. Not as he wants it to be).

“My liege, you will catch a cold, and then we will all be sorry.”

Soliam winces, internally, both at the reproof and at the reminder of what they had been.  Of the foolish man he had been, unworthy of such devotion.  It is habit for Gol more likely than not—the practiced respect—but it serves ever-more as a reminder of all that Gol had forfeit for his sake.  (Soliam thinks of a stolen press of lips against Gol’s forehead, and feels ashamed).  He makes his way into their cave-shelter, head down and chastened, and opens his mouth to make an apology.  Before he can speak, Gol hustles him in and settles him down on a low rock to serve as a stool, and takes up the dripping mass of his hair.  

“Hold still.”

The words are unneeded; Soliam is frozen, unmoving, as Gol begins to carefully use the slickness of the rain to tease the tangles out of his hair, using the flashes of lightning as guidance when the careful feeling of his fingers fails.  Soliam has never known how to care for it before, and the addition of the huge horns only make the task a more difficult one.  But Gol has infinite patience, it seems, and a gentle tenderness as his blunt fingers comb carefully through the mess.  As he encounters them, Gol keeps removing pieces of foliage and debris that seem to have logged themselves into his hair—including a twig that is perhaps more accurately a decent-sized branch—and then dropping them to the floor with soft snorts.  Soliam can feel a flush crawling up his neck, and is pathetically grateful for the obstruction of vision that his horns provide.

Eventually Soliam relaxes into it, the feel of Gol’s blunt fingertips dragging along his scalp, the careful way his fingers trace oh so lightly around the tender skin at the base of his horns.  He lets his eyes shut, and rests in the certainty that the forfeit of all the Empire was most certainly worth this.  This moment right here, where he is wet and starting to get a little cold, with a better knowledge of who he was and who he could be, and at the receiving end of boundless gifts of mercy.  This moment with Gol at his back and his fingers in his hair, combing and detangling and patting dry and… braiding?  Neat plaits that keep what is becoming more of a mane than a head of hair tamed and out of the way.  There is such a gentle care, as Gol’s hands linger around his horns as he gently towels them dry, as Gol takes care of him, and with his eyes shut Soliam can pretend that it is instead an act of domestic intimacy, instead of an extension of Gol’s unearned loyalty and service, a gift beyond price.

His eyes are shut, and he thinks back to the look on Gol’s face when he first turned back, that half-flash of what seemed fondness, that look that makes Soliam think that one day, perhaps, it will not be hopeless to believe that this unnamed something in between them could grow to be more.  That his kisses won’t be limited to the brush of lips pressed to a forehead with only the stars to witness.  But he doesn’t know if he can hope for more, doesn’t know that he should.

Oh, but even a demon can dream.

[wren-key]

Earth. Matter, rooted to stability. Money, power, harvest.

Soliam Murr in a blaze of glory, when the best days of his empire have not yet come to an end, with the most important treasure in his hands - the Celestial Sphere.

"The horned one, he has had a dualistic nature for as long as he and I consider each a friend. The stories I am told about Murr's youth describe no one I know."

[runicmagitek]

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go (Brighton/Manley - Pyre)

(( because it is my life mission to fill AO3 with this ship for my bro @metaphoricalmelodies this time for the 1 mil bash featuring fluff prompt # 1 - “It’s you, it always has been.” Thank you so much bro for all of your amazing support and loving these terrible guys with me! Enjoy! ))

Snowflakes floated against grey clouds in Soliam Murr. A perpetual chill lived in the air. Erisa claimed it to be a reminder, but never spoke of what. Even Oralech accepted the solemn remark.

As for Brighton, he emerged from the Blackwagon the night before their final Rite and found silence.

Well beyond the fire’s comfort, he ambled to a ledge overseeing the Downside, albeit shrouded in snowfall and shadows. Brighton sat upon a rock and bundled into his fur-lined cloak. How many nights had he wished—begged, even—to return to the Commonwealth? Victory awaited them over the horizon on a solar eclipse, but for once, his heart ached for something else.

The snow crunched from behind. A tall shadow cast over him. The familiar scent of exotic nectars tickled his nose. Now his lips twitched. Soon that silence would shatter and—

“Good heavens! What a dreadful spot you’ve decided to brood over this time. My word, could you not find a patch of green in the vicinity?”

Brighton glared over his shoulder. “If you can find anything other than snow in this forsaken land, then by all means, steer me in the proper direction.”

[read more on AO3]

[laughingpinecone]

Soliam Murr the Fallen Emperor, Last of his Name, and Ha’ub the Accursed, for @tieflng!