tatsuokon

[tatsuokon]

courtney love prays to oregon, clementine von radics // hooped earrings, the front bottoms // buzzcut season, lorde // my tears ricochet, taylor swift

[tatsuokon]

mid-evening, the Verdicci Masquerade, towards the servants’ stairs at the back of the party      ( @cassian-penvenan​ )

He keeps having to remind himself that he’s at this party for a job and not just to enjoy himself. Or, rather, Adrik has to keep reminding him, every time he starts to get too close to getting carried away, every time he tries to pull them into some quiet corner or empty room away from the noise and the responsibility, or every time he starts to get a little too comfortable making small talk with well-dressed Catelian nobles, as if he hadn’t just been nearly assassinated something less than 48 hours ago.

He can’t help it: he’s dressed for it, an elaborate outfit of beads and carefully embroidered pink satin that he’d spent far too much money on, a rose gold mask set carefully across his face, barely hiding his identity but sheltering him just enough from close scrutiny that he feels like he could get away with almost anything. It’s cruel, to hold luxury out this close in front of him and tell him that he’s here to work. So he’s rather itching to get to it, by the time he and Cassian are supposed to reconvene near the back stairs that should take them down to the basement, to the vault around which Cassian’s been scouting to make sure they’ll have some time uninterrupted for him to break the thing open while Tatsuo stands guard. 

He’s there a minute or two before he should be, picks up a glass of something fizzy from one of the servants circulating nearby to give himself an excuse to be over here as he waits, moves to a nearby window that looks out over the Verdicci gardens, luxurious and well maintained.

     “Shall we get this over with?” he says, voice low, as soon as he can sense Cassian’s familiar presence just behind his shoulder, and then he turns to face him, gives him a grin. “That way, our spoils stored safely in that clever little bag of yours, you and I can actually enjoy the rest of the party.”

[tatsuokon]

gwyncrafven​:

for all the time that she’s been among those of the gambit, gwyn can’t readily recall many occasions where tatsuo had been alone in her company. this had, perhaps, been purposeful on her part. in situations where it might seem nearly unavoidable, typically, and likely appreciatively, someone like adrik would serve as a buffer between them, providing an air of civility where gwyn may otherwise be prone to less cordial action. so needless to say, there were fewer instances still where she might see the former prince in action or dedicate much thought to him at all, frankly. his confidence in her ability to accomplish the task at hand aside, it surprises her somewhat to see how he keeps pace and time with her. he doesn’t dawdle needlessly or ask for unnecessary rest, and the hunter, honestly, isn’t entirely sure she’d grant the request to begin with unless it seemed absolutely necessary so his stamina is fortunate.  

her break in step as they close in on their objective doesn’t appear to slow him as much gwyn might prefer, her query seeming to speed him along, in fact, in examining the translucent stones nearest the pair. the answer he gives isn’t .. what she expects either, maybe, though she also isn’t quite sure what she assumed of the journey’s purpose to start. still, it nearly floors her, how simple a thing it seems, and it’s difficult to shake the surprise from typically unreadable features. once the thought settles in her mind, it summons something akin to a smirk in the end, a near chuckle bubbling past her lips that would surely find itself easier had she been with anyone else. “.. i’m not sure whether to be insulted or impressed. is this the sort of thing you risk very often?” she didn’t know him well enough to guess how silly his excursions may usually be, as it was.

his testing of how well his gloves perform gives enough satisfaction to the both of them, it seems, any odd effects apparently mitigated by inherent magic and she struggles now to find any other reason to hang back anymore. she parts her lips to .. offer something, perhaps. another question or lame excuse — anything to keep from crossing the threshold. and then, upon realizing she has nothing, seems to grit her teeth in preparation for moving forward until something catches her attention.

it isn’t much of a tell, really, and if the hunter hadn’t been searching for excuses it might sooner be possible that she’d miss it initially, but her ears catch it before her eyes do — the sound of ice fracturing.

spinning back on her heel and briskly moving away from the cave’s opening to prevent the worst in that moment, gwyn notes the cracks trailing her quieter steps, soon merging with an enormous, gradual heat. she knows, right then, why there were no footprints and why the trail seemed so easy. “this better be one hell of a drink.” the thinning ice nearest the burrowing threat forms a near puddle now, a residual effect of the growing warmth beneath, before a scaly, centipede-like creature breaks upward like a torpedo, erupting from its own cavern of tunneled ice below and crashing in the ranger’s direction. clearing the way in the nick of time, gwyn calls back to tatsuo who still lies within earshot. “grab what you can and get going.” this wasn’t a matter up for debate. the beast minded him less, at present, and it was best to take advantage while they could. no sense in leaving empty-handed.

“i’ll cover you.”

.

He’s already moving to make his way into the cave, where he can see some larger pieces of crystal free from the rock wall, easy enough to pick up and large enough to fetch a fair price on top of what Contravere wants from them, when Gwynera replies, and the question surprises him. He turns back, to look at her, a look of amused puzzlement on his face. This doesn’t seem, to him, all that different to any of the other missions he’s taken for the Gambit, little errands that those without weapon or will don’t want to undertake themselves. Go get this crystal isn’t any different than go fetch these rare potion ingredients or go find this missing person, in the long run: people need things, he can get them, and money changes hands that allows him to keep on putting food in his belly and a pillow under his head. 

     “Tal is tal,” he starts to respond, prepared to defend his reasoning if she questions him. He may be trying to stay on her good side, here, but he can’t help the urge to defend himself. Hadn’t she and Gavril come up here looking for dragon parts to sell, days ago? What was the difference between that and this? 

But he stops short, as her facial expression shifts, a look of focus, determination, like she’s seen something dangerous just over his shoulder—and he’s starting to start backwards at the look when he hears it, the ice cracking like a thunderclap as something emerges from below them, directly between them, massive and writhing, a blur of carapace and legs, some kind of massive insect, contorting its long torso and turning to look at Gwyn. 

     “Fuck!” he exhales, sharply, startled by it, but Gwyn already seems to be springing into action, telling him to get the job done and run and... okay, yes, that rather seems like the plan. He’s taken on monsters, but at this scale, the two of them are going to have a hard time doing much damage. Its exoskeleton is thick and plated; he’s not even sure his blade could pierce it, and if it could, he doubts it would do all that much damage. 

So he retreats the last few steps into the cave, scoops a few fist-sized crystals into a bag, holds it carefully in one gloved hand. One for Contravere, three for them to sell and split the tal. He wishes there was time to grab more, after they’d come all this way, but the thing between them is starting to move in such a way that it’s going to block off his exit from the cave if he strays any further in, and he thinks he can hear more ice cracking, within the depths of the cave. So instead he moves as close as he can, trying to keep quiet and keep to the edge of the wall so as not to pull its focus, and waits for his moment to dart back out so the two of them can run. 

[tatsuokon]

adrikodol​:

Adrik shouldn’t waste time, beneith the surface of the water. It’s thick with blood down there –– Tatsuos, the assassins, even their own. But something about it makes them linger, slow movements. They watched as the small figure of the assassin sink, limply, down into the water.  They watched as Tatsuo finally swam, up and up and up into safer territory. Adrik just can’t help looking, can’t help knowing. It doesn’t take more than a second to get a look at her face, to ache at the familiarity of it, to reach out and feel her dull pulse, and then to take the knife from her limp hand and begin to swim away. 

Their lungs are aching as they swim back toward the surface. They don’t have much practice, holding their breath in situations like this. Adrik thinks that might be a flaw, something they should work on, because the moment they break the surface they’re gasping for air. They twist around in the water, a little frantic, and only feel something akin to relief when they actually set eyes on Tatsuo. 

“I’m here.” They gasp, already moving again. “It’s okay.” A promise. They get to the side, where Tatsuo is clinging, and they’re able to pull themself back up to the pavement where he hadn’t had the strength. They take only a second to breathe, to shake some of the water off, before they’re down and grabbing on to him, hauling him over the edge and out of the water, body laying below them on the white stone, staining it red. Their hands feel frantic, but they’re steady as they move over his body where he lays, pressing against the place where the blood is seeping out of him. They whisper a prayer, a wish. “Fuck,” They finish. “She really got you, didn’t she? Okay. That’s okay. It’s all okay.” 

They reach into their back, quickly looking over their shoulder for danger. None that they can see. The scrap of bandages they keep is soaking wet, but they don’t want it for much more than pressure against the wound. They shift Tatsuo with far less care than they should, rushing through it, tying fabric tight across the wound. “Okay. Okay. Hi Tatsuo. I’m going to pull you up and you’re going to lean on me.” 

They do it, quick movements, taking nearly all of his weight against them. It’s too familiar of a feeling, and they wish it wasn’t. But all they can do is get him home, safe, where they can actually look at those wounds.  

The world’s gone fuzzy, just at the boundaries of his vision, in a way he isn’t sure whether to attribute to oxygen deprivation, or blood loss, or both, but he relaxes as Adrik moves towards him, a calm coming over him that is probably shock but he chooses, anyway, to believe is the calm understanding that as long as Adrik’s with him, he probably won’t die. There’s a kind of déjà vu to the feeling, an acute memory of the last time he’d felt like he was dying and Adrik had hauled him to his feet, told him the blood god didn’t want him dead yet, and touched his wounds with a hand so careful and precise he’d almost wept from it. 

They’re here, at his side. They’re talking to him as they work, those gentle hands feeling along his wet, bloody clothes for the place where the fabric is split open, where he is split open. They find the one at his side, the one he knows is worse, too close to vital organs; he feels the pressure as they bandage it, and lets his eyes shut against the sharp pain of the pressure, necessary but bordering on excruciating. He should tell them about his shoulder, too, but that one doesn’t matter right now: torn through muscle, they’ll need to address it eventually so he doesn’t have mobility problems in his sword arm, but it isn’t bleeding near as much as the one Adrik is focused on. 

Instead, with his eyes shut and the world around him out of focus, he lets his attention wander to their voice, familiar, the way they are clearly trying to sound calm without feeling it. They’re giving him instructions, and he’s usually so good at following those. But his sluggish mind fixates, instead, on something else, like fabric snagging and pulling. His name. The rounded vowels of it. Most people not from the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms never quite get the pronunciation down, the sound of the slide from long u to the rounded o. Most of the time he doesn’t mind: the farther people are from that place, the less likely they are to want him dead. 

Your kingdom sends its regards, Prince of Blossoms, the assassin had said, and he hadn’t felt quite so keenly aware of just how many people wanted him dead since he was climbing out the window of a palace on fire.

But Adrik, when they say his name, says it the way he does. Says it the way his mother once did, his sister, his tutors, their accent on the word sounding far too much like home. He hadn’t noticed that before. How many times had they heard him say his own name? How much effort had they put, into making sure they said it just right? 

They’re pulling him upwards, now, and he lets his eyes drift open so he can see, so he can help. So they don’t have to carry him all the way to whatever safe place they’re headed.

     “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says, and his voice comes out shakier than he means it to, a little slurred, but the warmth of the joke is still there. A little promise, from him, that he’s not planning on dying today. 

[tatsuokon]

aubreyluckers​:

she tries to resist rolling her eyes. of course it’s important, she thinks snidely, context is everything. one would think a prince was better educated, but thankfully she has the better judgement to keep that comment to herself today.

now her eyes do roll, however, “ i think for something as momentous as an ancient’s god temple, the key to unlocking it would amount to something more complex than a simple scavenger hunt. the idea about moonlight however - ” well now this is annoying. because now she had to admit that tatsuo had actually had a very good idea. for all her lectures about symbolism and history, she’d completely overlooked that she’d only ever seen the mural in the light of day, and something about the paint did ring a bell.

“ did you know certain species of scorpion glow in the dark? a leading theory is that they use it to identify each other during the night.  I wonder if their corpses can be ground up into pigment like cochineals. ” she loses herself in thought for a short while, mind swimming with potential ideas and possibilities. her head finally snaps up and she focuses on the man again.

“ i suppose you’ll want to be joining me? ” she asks, almost begrudgingly, and prays they can just meet up later and that tatsuo insist on spending time together.

“ oh, and it’s not a ruby,” she quips, with a hint of s smile, “ it’s clearly a clear gem, but blood-stained. ” because, after all, she must always be the smartest person in the room.

     “And miss a perfect opportunity for a good old bonding experience?” he replies, with a grin and a raised eyebrow, knowing that she hates every second of it. He’s not sure why Lucky hates him: there are people he understands hating him, but it seemed Lucky had hated him instantly from just the look of his face. Then again, she wasn’t the most pleasant or sociable member of the Gambit herself, so he tried his best not to take it personally. “Aubrey, I would sooner die than abandon you on this task. And without your invaluable knowledge, you know as well as I do that I’m too poorly equipped to be up to the task all by myself.”

More than a hint of wry sarcasm to the flattery. Okay, so maybe she did have good enough reason to think he was obnoxious. 

He hadn’t been planning on spending his days in lovely warm Catelia sneaking about by moonlight trying to uncover the secret to an ancient piece of art that might have hidden treasure inside, but he has to admit, even if it hadn’t been Lucky, the whole thing had piqued his interest. 

He takes a second, still crouched down to examine the ground, runs his fingers across one of the painted lines and looks at his gloves to see if anything has come up. Of course it doesn’t; frescoes may not have been the art form of choice in the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms, where court artists preferred ink and silk, but he’d learned enough about art history to know that the powder-pigment used to make frescoes became, quite literally, a part of the wet plaster as it dried. And powder-pigment seemed to fit Lucky’s glowing scorpion theory, too.

     “Well, what do you say?” he says, a moment later, standing up and brushing his hands off. “Meet back here at moonrise, see what the moon god reveals to us?” 

[tatsuokon]

zhenyafen​:

Zhenya had almost forgotten what it was not to sweat, not to feel the sting of it in her eyes, the slow drip between her shoulder blades down to to the small of her back. The cold was simple, nothing that couldn’t be solved with more furs and fires, the press of bodies closer, closer. The warmth of magic was easy to call and control; Zhenya had it dancing between her fingers as a child, before she even knew the name of it. But unwanted heat was inescapable. Zhenya could be naked on the sand and they’d still want to claw out of their skin, if only for a small moment of relief. 

Like air on paved road, heat for the unaccustomed distorted everything. She had been practicing. There was a wake of carved and pockmarked trees behind the gambit to show for it, endless hours in dawn and twilight dulling her blades against the bark. Still the hilt felt heavy and unfamiliar in Zhenya’s palm. She spun it around once, twice. Orientation didn’t matter, it still felt like the first time, when her hands shook and her feet were too close together, shoulders hunched when they should have been braced. 

They faced Tatsuo now with light eyes, brow arched and chin lifted, a mocking of the expression he so often wore. It felt ridiculous. It felt like a version of herself, calm and confident, that was just out of reach. Despite the dropping temperatures, Zhenya was dressed in only thin linens that exposed her arms and chest. She twisted the blade in the air, an elegant but useless gesture as her feet found their position. 

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

.

Zhenya prepares for a fight the way he used to: in her head, thinking about the weight of the blade in her hand, thinking about the position of her feet, the posture of her stance. He can see it, in the lines of her body, the small but noticeable areas of tension, just behind her knees, along her non-dominant arm, in her neck. She’s thinking about every lesson, everything she’s been taught, and looking at her he can hear his old fencing tutor’s voice in his mind, echoing alongside his own: back straight, chin up, knees bent, shoulders square. Things he used to think mattered—things he once thought would be enough to see him through a fight, before learning that none of them did. 

Still: Zhenya’s improving. They’ve come a far sight further than the shaking hands and clumsy strikes they’d come at him with, the first time he’d accidentally taken them by surprise and they tried to stab him out of panic, a flat blade barely leaving a scratch against his armor. Neither of them is wearing armor now, and he has his sword turned such that he’ll only ever touch her with the flat of the blade, too dull to cut and never quite hard enough to bruise. Her blade isn’t dulled—no use practicing with something that won’t help you in a pinch—but he isn’t worried about them doing any damage someone in the camp can’t quickly fix. 

     “Confident today, are we?” he replies with a grin, and then lunges forward, a strike aimed just below her ready arms, something easy enough to counter if she’s focused enough to realize they’ve begun.

[tatsuokon]

adrikodol​:

The rush of the blood in the air is a beautiful thing, lingering. It had been so useless, before. But now it was something claimed by them, claimed by their master. Blood for the blood god, food for her power. For Adrik, as well. A job well done, a rush of pride in their heart –– a rush of something else, as well. A surprising and unknowable feeling in their chest, at the sight of the man before them. The feeling as he looks up at them, his pretty face dumb with shock for a moment. He sounds so shocked at the idea that someone might protect him, and it makes something deep down inside of them ache. Poor boy. Poor little thing. Some instinct in them tells them to protect, to nurture. Their fingers itch to help heal those wounds. 

“I saved you.” They echo, with something almost sure in their voice. They had. They would have done it even if Vermir hadn’t requested the kill. They can’t stand a bully. They can smell his blood too, the sweet pure lull of it, something worth protecting, something almost beautiful in the dark of the night. “The Blood God.” They nod, again, looking down at him, waiting for him to take their assistance. “Our great Goddess of Blood and Mothers, the Lady Vermir. My patron. She doesn’t want you dead, so you don’t need to worry about me finishing the job this brute began.” A promise, one they think he probably needs to hear. He has the energy of a hunted thing, something fearful in the night, someone who has not seen real rest in quite some time. 

They’re relieved when he takes their outstretched hand, hauling him to his feet. They’re deceptively strong, and he’s easy to move. More delicate even, than he’d looked before. He holds his hand to his wounds, the blood seeping through. And they huff out a laugh, something almost fond already. “Your sword. No. I didn’t.” And they look at his face, wondering if its important to him. They decide it probably is, and that he can hold for a moment while they fetch it without bleeding out, and they  huff out a sigh. World weary, they shift him. They prop him against the wall of the establishment, settle him against it and the barrel beside the entrance. “One minute. Don’t move. Don’t die.” 

It only takes a moment to go back and find it, the beautiful thing. They grab it from the hands of another foul-smelling man, who takes note of their blood drenched hands and their many ill-hidden knives, and is smart enough not to inspire their fury. Atfer another moment, their back out to Tatsuo, attatching the sword to their belt as they move. 

“You can have this back when you’re strong enough to walk straight.” They promise, stern. “Now come, lean on me. I have a room nearby.” Insistent, they sound like they won’t take no for an answer, shifting to take his weight back on their shoulder again. 

It’s a miracle he doesn’t lose the contents of his stomach before he’s up on his feet again, a miracle he manages to focus well enough to listen to what they’re saying to him, the answers they give. He’s hazy, losing focus—he might, he thinks very distantly, be concussed, though that honestly feels like the least of his problems. They tell him about the blood god, who, apparently, doesn’t want him dead, and isn’t that a strange thing, for so many people to want him dead and for some god he’s never heard of to have decided differently. He’s never been one to put much stake in gods, but if this one’s sent an angel to keep him out of his grave, he thinks maybe he’ll have to reconsider that. 

The moments go by in a hazy blur. They move him, they dart inside, they return with his sword in hand and he smiles dimly at the sight of it, the only earthly possession he cares about anymore, the last piece of the palace he has left aside from the pendant around his neck, hidden carefully beneath shirts. They hold it carefully between bloody hands, and as they strap it to their own belt instead of handing it over, he notices the way the red from their fingertips has left little blossoms along the dark leather of the scabbard, like petals falling from a tree.

There’s not much he can do besides do as they say: stay here, don’t die, lean on me. All incredibly rational instructions, and he latches onto them like a dog given orders. Small words, he can focus on. Easy movements. Stay here, don’t die, lean on me. He repeats them, like a mantra, grits his teeth through the pain as he limps at their side, lets his eyes drift shut for a moment.

Thankfully, they aren’t lying about the room. It’s close—just across the street, and two buildings down, up a narrow set of stairs that he navigates with some difficulty, eventually shrugging them off and supporting himself against the wall because the space is too tight for them to stand two abreast. Before he knows it, they’re sitting him down, on the edge of a narrow, low bed, and he sets his focus back to breathing again, wipes a stray drop of blood from the corner of his eye with the back of his gloved hand.

     “I don’t even know your name,” he says, to their back, as they stand across the room from him, looking through a bag. They’re shorter than they’d looked in the alley, and slender, but he can see the strength of muscle beneath the dark, draped clothes they wear. “How’m I supposed to thank you if I don’t know your name?” 

[tatsuokon]

adrikodol​:

It speaks to their level of trust in Tatsuo that they don’t really stop to think about what Tatsuo is going to do, before they run off into the fray. It’s useless to question it, useless to wonder. Tatsuo will do whatever he thinks is best, and that thing is likely to be reckless and wonderfully brave –– he’s that sort of soul, the kind who will allow himself to be ripped to shreds if he thinks it’s the best or fastest way out of a problem. They’ve gained the confidence, over the years, to know that whatever it is he does, he’ll probably come out of it alive. 

He’ll spill some blood, but he won’t fade from the world. The Blood God appreciates him too much to allow him to slip away from Adrik. He is loved by them, even if he does not realise how much. 

In the moment, they hold no real worry for him. Their mind is focused on a singular task, the rescue of this child. That is another loss the Blood God will not stand for. Vermir loves children above all else. Children, and the mothers who protect them. If it is possible for this little girl to come home unscathed, Adrik’s god will ensure that happens. Perhpas that was why Adrik was there, in the moment, to hear the pleas of a frantic mother, sick with worry. Perhaps their purpose does expend beyond the killing and the spilling of blood. They like the idea of that, holding the same capacity for protection in their heart that the Temple Mothers do. 

They slip through the opening in the flowers, and see that Tatsuo has chosen a straight course through. Blood seeping from his little wounds, leaving the two of them flanking the girl and the monster in kind. They lock eyes, just for a moment. Their footsteps slow slightly, moving silently across the ground. Tatsuo is in the perfect position to deal with the beast, and Adrik will not draw its attention back toward the direction of the child. They can see the glint in his eyes, they know his plan, and they trust him more than any other force in the universe. 

They move quickly, at the same time he and the beast do. They re-sheith their knives, and they sweep the little girl into their arms. They are clung to in turn, by small arms, sniffling cries buried in their hair as they pull her away from the fight. “I’ll come back,” Is all they take the time to say. A promise, thrown in his direction. And then they move. Away, away, out of sight and out of harm. Tatsuo told them to get to safety, and they intend to. With a quick prayer to their God, they carry the girl back out of the flowers, back to the waiting arms of a mother who weeps with thanks. 

They don’t linger as long as they should, just enough to make sure the girl is safe and unharmed by her encounter. With a promise to return again soon, Adrik heads back toward where they left Tatsuo. Rushing through the flowers to him, earning a few small cuts of their own. They slide to a halt at the edge of the fray, looking for an opportunity to join in the fight, wondering of Tatsuo doesn’t actually have it handled. 

Its jaws snap and snarl, like a hungry animal; its eyes glow a cold white as it stars him down, as it begins to move—slowly—towards him, in agonizing lurches, one long, thin leg to the next, its talon-like claws dragging on the ground as it goes. He takes the risk, for just a moment, to take his eyes off of it, to glance behind it, to watch Adrik scoop the child up into their arms and meet his eyes and then disappear, off into the flowers, off to safety. As it always does, in moments like this, some calm, clear voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s okay now, the job is done, they’re safe, whatever happens next will happen next. He leans back into the voice, into the instinct, like a warm bed, lets it catch him.

The rest is instinct, too, practiced and reflex-fast. He meets a claw with his blade, the force of it shaking the bones of his arm and threatening to send him off balance, the spring in his stance allowing him to rebound and throw its arm away from him with as much force as he can muster, knocking it off balance instead, and he gets a good swipe in, and then two, its taut gray-blue skin peeling open to revel a seeping of sap-like black blood. He’s so out of his own head, so in his body, that it doesn’t even occur to him to think what is this thing?, only to bear down on it hard, aiming for whatever might be a vital organ, and then retreat back three steps, four, five, as it slashes out once again with those horrifying claws. 

Sword fighting, he learned, quite early into his post-palace life, is nothing like the swordplay they teach to noble young boys: no rules, no glamour, no elegant lines and clever tricks. It is brute force, and desperation, and endurance, and he has all of those in spades. He used to think, learning at the side of the palace’s fencing master, that it was like a dance: he wasn’t wrong, but this is so, so much better.

The thing lands a few blows, grabs his arm and wrenches it, though its claws meet the durable leather of his vambrace and slide off, unable to reach and tear flesh. He catches himself again, slashes at its legs and finds that, unfortunately, it either doesn’t have any pain receptors there or its tendons are inside its bones, because his sword hits bone and the thing barely flinches, grabbing him again and opening its gargantuan jaw with a sickening crack, pulling him towards its maw.

He takes a gamble. Whatever this thing is, whatever its inhuman anatomy, it’s bound to have a brain. He lets it pull, lets it draw him close, shifting his arm out of its grasp just in time to thrust the sword up, through whatever this thing’s equivalent of a soft palate is—

And pulls the sword out, as its grip around him relaxes, as it slumps to the ground, allowing him to extract himself from its mouth and take a few steps back, looking at it in disgust as it oozes thick, sticky blood into the rich soil beneath.

     “Disgusting,” he says aloud, and then glances from its body down to his own, his shirt and skin stained blue-black with its viscera. He needs a bath. He needs twelve baths, preferably hot ones with heavily perfumed soaps.  And as the monster’s body slumps to the ground, he can see Adrik, empty handed now, standing behind it, blades ready.

He gives them a lopsided grin, satisfied, and gestures at the monster on the ground between them, limp and unmoving.

     “Well, that was interesting. Did you get her back to her mother?”

[tatsuokon]

adrikodol​:

They cherish quiet moments and quiet days, in the grand scope of things. Once they wondered if they would ever get sick of it, the way that they and Tatsuo walked side by side through the world. Trusted, cherished companions. They had wondered if they would get sick of the near constant company, with following each other in to trouble. Or if Tatsuo would get sick of them, their ill-thought-out words and their tendency to wander off and return with blood caked under their fingernails. But they didn’t, and he didn’t, and they loved to walk with him in beautiful places as the sun began to creep down across the horizon. 

It’s a foolish thing, the trinket that catches Adrik’s eye, beyond the shop window. A blossom, pink as anything, unnoticed by Tatsuo. Made of pale glass, ready to be pinned to clothing or tucked into hair. And it’s easy to imagine attatched to him, easier still to slip away from his company for a moment to run their fingers over the glass. Their mouth twists, and they bite their lip at the price attatched to it. Not outrageous, but far more than they would ever consider. If this was Darcassian trying to win someones affection, he would have slipped the damn thing into his pocket by now. But Adrik wasn’t someone who did things like that, held too firmly by a strange and unusual moral code. So a sigh escapes, and they resign themself to sacrificing they Tal. They’ll make it back and more, before they leave this city. 

And Tatsuo is worth the cost. 

They leave the store with the pretty blossom wrapped in pale white paper, tucked into the pocket at their chest. Close to their heart. Safe. 

Only Tatsuo isn’t there waiting on the street, like they believed he would be. They might consider the reality that he had wandered off, if it wasn’t for the slight sound of disturbed water. Adrik has instincts like no other, an with a quick movement they look down. Ripples across the surface, a hint of blood in the air too strong to deny.

“Idiot.” They sigh, frustration leaking into their voice. They recognise the increasd beating of their heart ; a sign of fear, terror at the idea that Tatsuo might slip away from them, that he might die here. Of course, the moment they turn their head away, Tatsuo would find trouble in a city of assassins. They should have known better than to leave his side, with everything going on, with the reality of his existence. They say a quick prayer to their god, before they take the leap to follow. A prayer to guide their hand and their breath, to spill the blood of any unworthy foes and protect Tatsuo in the fray. 

They have to force their eyes open in the water. It goes against an instinct inside of them. Adrik fights that one while they embrace the others, the things inside them that drive them to protect the things they love. His blood is spilling in the water, red as anything, vital and precious. More spilling than they’d like. And the assassin is there, aiming to spill more, stuggling in the water and against the force of him. 

So it’s easy to move. Easy to take their own knives and do the same, slide the metal edges into the places where it hurts the most, rip the woman away from Tatsuo and spill blood until the fight goes out of her. Adrik doesn’t know if she dies, and doesn’t care. The important thing is to be quick, to incapacitate and then move to Tatsuo. The important thing is to save him, and pull him from the water with whatever strength they have. 

She’s strong, the assassin, strong and desperate, thrashing beneath him as they sink towards the bottom. The canal’s deeper than he expected, too—it feels bottomless. Dark and deep, without the sun to pierce the surface and illuminate the white stones he knows lie at the bottom. A wide array of factors he didn’t take into account. Among them: struggling to grab her arms and keep them at bay, he’s expending more energy than he anticipated, his heart racing, rapidly moving oxygenated blood through his system. He can hold his breath for a remarkably long time, when he’s calm, but in his panic he somehow forgot to account for the fact that he’s not calm. 

His chest is already burning, when he sees the splash, the disturbance in the water, the slim dark figure diving towards them, when he feels the assassin torn from his grip. The flash of sharp metal. The blood. Adrik. Of course it is. Of course they arrived just in time. They always do, ever since he first met them, all those years ago, in the alley behind some tavern where they saved his life for the first time. 

He finds himself, momentarily, stunned. Surprise? Shock? Blood loss? Oxygen deprivation? Either way, he floats there for a long moment, unmoving, just watching, the water stinging his eyes, his heart pounding, his lungs on fire with the desperate demand to breathe. Watches the assassin’s body sink lower, limp now, blade still clutched lightly in her grip. And then looks to Adrik, and everything clicks back into place.

He swims upward, fast as he can. Reaching for the surface with a determined desperation, though with every push it seems farther away, as his vision starts to blur around the edges. His right arm is useless, so he propels himself with his feet, wishes he’d made it to the bottom just so he’d have something to kick off of.

And then, finally, at long last, he breaks the surface, gasping for breath, kicks his way to the side and tries to haul himself up over it, though he doesn’t have the strength to make it all the way. Holds himself there, and breathes, water dripping from him in great sheets, a terrible splash of faded red against the white pavement. The canals in Catelia actually do run red, he thinks to himself, wryly.

He turns back towards the water the second he can compose himself to, turns back and scans the dark water quickly, looking for them, any sign of them. How stupid it would be, for them to jump in and save his life only to have the water claim theirs. Not that he would let that happen. Not when he owes them his own life so many times over already.

     “Adrik,” he calls out, though he knows they can’t hear him from below the water, all sound muffled to an eerie near-silence. And then he sees them, a dark shadow rising, breaking the surface of the water not far from him, and he feels the fight go out of him and give way to exhaustion, his body having no need for the adrenaline anymore now that he knows they’re safe, too. 

[tatsuokon]

aubreyluckers​:

“ it’s aubrey, if we must be on first name terms. ”

and he knows that, doesn’t he? but this is one of tatsuo’s attempts at being friendly gone awry once again. lucky always thought of herself as a particularly blunt person, but either the man was outrageously obtuse or he chooses to deliberately ignore her desire for peace and quiet. after a few moments of awkward silent it became very apparent that tatsuo wasn’t going anywhere.

with a very audible sigh, lucky says, “ i’ve heard rumour that this fresco gives way to some sort of secret. a temple, specifically, underneath the marketplace. I would assume one that was once dedicated to the god, marsei, who I’ve been told was worshipped in ancient catelia. though ‘ancient’ could mean anything. ” her annoyance is plainly visible across her face. the tip she had received from a courtier had been sparse on detailst, but at least some of city folk had confirmed the folk story. she just hopes there’s actualy some meat to this story.

“ i’ve done some research – apparently marsei was a moon god. they also presided over the domains of truth and justice, and were associated with fortune telling, which is why their presence here is represented by this scrying bowl. i couldn’t find a reliable enough source to determine why the god fell out of favour, but what’s interesting is you’ll find marsei’s symbolism in one of catelia’s domestic goddesses, dutia, but the scrying bowl was misinterpreted as a womb, hence dutia’s association with childbirth. perhaps catelia’s shift towards dirty politics and sabotage left no room for a god of justice anymore.  ”

she looks up and quirks an eyebrow, “ are you following me so far? ”

The audible annoyance in her voice gives way, after a minute, as she starts rambling on about Catelia’s ancient gods, and he paces in a circle as she goes on, tracing one of the loops of the fresco with his footsteps, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel. Feeling for any kind of pressure-sensitive mechanism, though that doesn’t make much sense, seeing as people walk all over the thing every day. And then she looks up at him, and he looks back at her, and shrugs. 

     “I’m following,” he says, slowly, patiently. “Though I’m not sure why all of that matters if you’re trying to solve some ancient puzzle box.”

He takes a moment, crouches to the ground, tracing his gloved fingers along the colored plaster. Searching for seams, or cracks, places that might indicate where the image might open if you... what, said the right magic words? Truth, justice, fortune telling... he would have expected Catelia to have a patron god of money, or secrets, or maybe even, perversely, of blood, like Adrik’s but twisted, blood for power’s sake, something like that. A moon god... he’s no theologian, not even a believer, but he’s always liked a puzzle. 

      “If Marsei was a moon good, maybe the picture looks different by moonlight. Some mixture of paints that reveals something else, some other key, only under the light of the god it was made for. That, or, I don’t know, we need to gather a bird and a ruby and a tangerine?”

[tatsuokon]

along one of the canals, dusk, the second day in Catelia      ( @adrikodol​ )

Adrik has slipped into one of the shops along the water’s edge, something catching their eye as the two of them strolled along the canal, and he hadn’t asked why—whether there was something they wanted to look at, or buy, or whether the shop’s proprietor had angered the blood god somehow and they needed to quickly dispatch him. Either way, he knows Adrik, knows they’ll deal with whatever it is quickly and quietly and be back by his side in just a moment. Instead of following, he’d found a spot on a low stone bench to sit, watching the water grow dark as the sun slipped below the horizon, watching the boats going by.

When he feels a presence behind him, approaching, silent footsteps and smooth movements, he assumes it’s Adrik. That’s how they move: dead quiet, like a shadow, undetectable except in that he knows them so well he can feel them wherever they are. Excepet—the closer they get, the less the silent footsteps feel like Adrik, something different, about the distribution of the weight—

An arm around his throat is pinning him in place before he can turn around to see the assassin behind him, not Adrik, but someone else.

     “Your kingdom sends its regards, Prince of Blossoms,” the voice behind him hisses, heavily accented with that distinctive Catelian lilt, sounding a little too pleased as it does, and the dread sets in a split second before the pain does, a blade so sharp he almost doesn’t feel it as it pierces twice, quick, once into the space along his side where the seam of his armor meets, once into the meat of his right shoulder, presumably to render his dominant arm useless. 

His sword is at his side, but he can’t reach it, and pain is already radiating down his arm as he feels them move again, shifting their own weight, pinpointing the weak spots in his armor, likely searching for the quickest way to his heart. He’s heard tales, of Catelian assassins; he has maybe twelve seconds before she finds it, and a deeply limited number of options, all of them less than ideal. He can’t pull himself away from her, can’t run. As far as he can see, his only option is...

The water. Adrik will know; Adrik will be able to tell. He just has to buy himself enough time for them to get here. 

He dives, into the canal, grabbing her with all the strength he has in him and dragging her with, throwing her over his own shoulder and into the water, holding her there beneath him as they both sink. Betting on the unlikely bet that this Catelian assassin can’t hold her breath as long as he can, as the clear blue water around them blossoms red with his blood.

[tatsuokon]

an open-air marketplace in the arziciara, Catelia, mid-morning the first day      ( @aubreyluckers​ )

He’s having an absolutely lovely stroll through the marketplaces of the arziciara while Adrik is off doing blood god knows what off on their own and, really, he thought nowhere could be better than the thrilling five day party and he’s starting to think he might have been wrong: this city has charm, has taste, has culture, something that’s been sorely lacking from the last half-dozen little towns and small cities they passed through, not to mention that between the sun and the sea breeze the weather is to die for. 

He’s spent a tal on some sort of delicious pastry and a cup of something hot and bitter to drink from one of the street-side stalls and is wandering around looking at the shops selling art, fine jewels and little carved trinkets and whatnot, when he comes across a familiar face—Lucky, standing right in the middle of the marketplace, staring at the ground.

Or, well, no, alright, he’ll give her more credit than that. Staring at something on the ground, something that appears to be some sort of large, elaborate painting on the off-white plaster that makes up the center circle of this little square. A haze of half-faded colors, a series of circles and a few miscellaneous things painted between them—a bird, a fruit, a gem...

      “What do we have here?” he asks, once he’s stopped just behind her shoulder, to see if he can startle her out of what is clearly some very intense focus. “I didn’t know you were a patron of the fine arts, Lucky. It isn’t particularly... good, is it?” 

[tatsuokon]

the Haelion desert, the day before the Gambit arrives in Catelia, evening      ( @zhenyafen​ )

It’s been a while since they did this, him and Zhenya; there had been the days-long party where he’d spent most of the time on the side of intoxicated that made it unwise to point a sword at a friend, and then the trip through the desert where it had been far too hot and dry to even think about exerting energy he didn’t have to. Before that, they’d been making the long trip across the edges of the permafrost from Lodorwind and it had been cold... the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms had had lovely, temperate weather year round, all his life, which means he doesn’t tolerate the cold or the hot particularly well, at least not without a healthy dose of whining about it.

But now they’re almost out of the desert, and the sun is beginning to set, so it’s cool enough to think, cool enough to want to get up and do something, and camp is set up, and everything’s sorted, and he’s honestly itching to spar, to work some of the pent up energy out of his muscles, to make sure Zhenya hasn’t already forgotten everything he’s taught them. So he went and found them, sitting by the fire, nudged them with the toe of his boot until they finally looked up, and now the two of them are standing on the outskirts of town, Zhenya with a blade of their own, Tatsuo with his sword at the ready, standing across from one another. 

     “Have you been practicing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at them, a light, teasing tone to his voice. “Or am I going to wipe the floor with you?” A little friendly competition has always seemed to work best between the two of them, pushed Zhenya harder than most other motivating factors, and he’s eager to see if she can beat him.

[tatsuokon]

gavrileontidis​:

A dragon. Something about the guess strikes Gavril as impossibly funny and he starts to laugh - a low growl of a laugh that shakes his entire body, the kind of laugh he hasn’t had in a long time. The tiny stone heart stutters, tapping against the glass. He doesn’t try to question where it comes from, only rides the wave of glee that washes over him as he pictures a little dragon in a cup; Tatsuo’s delight in finding the ‘surprise’ makes it even better. 

When he stops at last, discreetly wiping a tear, he looks up at Tatsuo with wide eyes. “Is that how you ask someone to dance? No courtly manner in you,” he scoffs, and lets out a chuckle that makes his chest hurt. He slings an arm around Tatsuo’s shoulder companionably. “Wish there were a singing competition,” he mutters. There are plenty of Ohrog mining songs he knows that could rouse a tavern like this into a belligerent chorus. 

Still a bet is a bet, and the faithful never renege on a promise. Gavril stumbles to his feet, a looseness in his limbs he hasn’t felt in years. “You think I’ll back out now?” he says, nudging Tatsuo cheerfully. “Come on, then. You can dance, if you want, and I’ll just have to shuffle along behind you.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the city square. This is how it works; he has to act now, before he starts to regret everything. 

Gavril waves thanks to the bartender who eyes the pair of them, clearly amused, and leads Tatsuo to the doorway, humming a work song under his breath. 

Gav begins to laugh, low and full, and Tatsuo finds himself doing the same, some combination of the brief moment of marvel at the little stone heart, and the satisfaction of the dawning realization that Gavril is absolutely feeling the effects of their drinks combining to make him realize, all at once, that so is he, a warm and pleasant buzz under his skin, across his palms and fingertips, along his cheeks and nose. He laughs, and laughs again, and sets the glass and the heart down on the counter, pulls a few extra tal from his pocket for the bartender, who really has done a remarkable job here. 

     “It’s been so long since I asked someone to dance, I don’t think I’d know the opportunity if it was looking me in the face, my friend,” he says, still laughing, the warmth and weight of Gavril’s arm around his shoulders a comfort as they get to their feet and begin to move out again, back through the crowd and into the world beyond this little tavern, still bright and warm and full of boisterous energy. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re a better dancer than you think. Follow my lead, you’ll be just fine.” 

And then they’re spilling out into the square, Tatsuo’s feet moving the two of them of their own accord, towards the crowd of dancers like there some kind of spell pulling him in that direction, his fascination from earlier amplified by his quickly boosted level of intoxication. He used to love to dance, especially when he felt like this, and he holds a grip firm on Gavril to make sure his companion doesn’t get lost on the crowd. 

     “Some day I’m going to make you sing for me,” he demands, as they approach the edge of the circle. Once they pass it, he knows they won’t be able to stop, knows they’ll be swept up in the whirl of bodies, and he will be an animal, all instinct and no thought, all motion and no words. He feels, very suddenly, the need to make sure he says something, before he can’t anymore. “Promise! I want to hear it. But we’ve got to dance. A bet’s a bet, right?” 

[tatsuokon]

ovidofpouthena​:

There’s plenty more to say on the topic of home, and what that means for all of them really. It’s the sort of philosophical, yet emotional question that makes the urge to shift to Auberon bubble to the surface, and the melancholy ache in knowing that is a face they can only use now on the rarest of occasions, when they know for sure that the elf themself is in the Valley of Asphodel, far away from any potential trail to suggest there might be two Auberon’s wandering around. But it’s not something to reflect on just now, in the middle of the festival, any more than they already have. So they push that urge to the side, just as they let that longing for home fade for the moment, as it seems Tatsuo is happy to try to do, too, and they push on happily.

“Positively cheated out of your tal. You’re lucky we adore you, or we might make you buy us another drink to make up for it,” Ovid teases with a hum, raising an eyebrow. 

They’ve heard many people talking about the tower and its supposed view to the edge of the continent. The thought of that height makes Dru’s stomach turn, but they’re interested in what one might find at the top. “Not yet, no. We haven’t made it past the drinks, in honesty, but there’s time to see it all. Dru’s never been fond of heights, but we think Zephyr might enjoy it. Perhaps some secrets lie at its top, something that can only be seen there. Wouldn’t that be a terrific tale to tell?”

Another sip of the drink, more able to push through the warm nostalgia, the singing, to focus on the conversation now that they’re used to it. “And you, Tatsuo? Are you planning to spend the whole festival drinking your way through the tents, or are you someone who believes in the fortune of pretty beads, perhaps?”

.

He’s grateful that they take the cue to move on, to slip back into the easy, shallow, casual tone of two friends speaking about nothing in particular at all, glad to leave behind the conversation of homes and loss and everything else that came with it. He knows they see right through him—they always do, and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to, but he oddly doesn’t mind how well they know him, even if that means knowing the pain he hides from most of their other companions—but they have the decency to let him keep at least a bit of his pride in tact at the end of the day. 

     “Me? Well,” he says, sitting back a little, leaning his elbows on the back of his chair like he’s considering the question. He really isn’t planning to do much besides drink, unless Adrik drags him off somewhere interesting. The party part of this thing is very much up his alley; the religious aspect of it somewhat less so. It hadn’t been particularly fashionable to worship any particular god in the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms, and he’d never quite found it in himself to seek out any stake in faith or any kind. He believed in fortune, but he didn’t believe anyone, or anything, could change what it had in store for you, or predict what it would decide it would do next, and when. Nothing could have predicted the turns his own life had taken. “Fortune will have its way with me, whether I spend money on a lovely string of beads or not. It really rather enjoys playing with me, I think.” 

He feels himself suddenly restless. Ovid’s company is as good as anyone’s, better than most, but there’s an energy to the place that makes him want to keep moving, instead of lingering on anything. He can feel the pull back towards his maudlin mood from moments before, and he’d hate to risk indulging in it again already. So instead, he pushes himself up, taps their glass as if to say enjoy the rest, and gives them a teasing little bow. 

     “I think my money’s better spent on drinks. But if you find something spectacular up there, do let me know. i’d love for something to surprise me.” 

[tatsuokon]

tatsuo kon + wolfpupy tweets

i am traveling through space and time refusing to learn anything and being a diva about it

[tatsuokon]

gavrileontidis​:

There’s a pleasant rhythm to their back-and-forth that Gavril doesn’t often feel with the Gambit; it reminds him of Soar, of having a brother to egg you on when you’re sledding down the mountainside on huge strips of bronzewood bark. Bad decisions are best made in pairs. He’s fully committed to this now, reaching for the second drink and taking a sip. This one tastes more like the wine he’s familiar with, deep and spiced and warm. The heady scent clings to his lips and clouds his thoughts. 

A bet, Tatsuo suggests. Gavril sinks his chin into his palm thoughtfully (and to rest his heavy head). The music swirls around them. “Why not?” he says, and smiles - his best, dopey, innocent smile. “If I guess right, you have to join the dance competition. I’ve every confidence you’ll do us proud with those fencer’s feet.” 

The glass sits in the palm of his hand, the weight of it shifting back and forth. There’s something moving - scuttling in there, little scratchy movements at the base of the glass. “Some sort of insect?” he wonders aloud, and takes another tentative sip. The movement stills. He holds the glass again and it picks up with a slow, steady beat.

“No,” he mutters. “A clock ticking? Lights, I’ve no idea.” He drains the rest of the drink and stares into the bottom, where a tiny stone replica of a beating heart sits, perfectly keeping time with his own pulse. Does it skip a beat, right then? Gavril can’t help a small smile at such magic, so unlike his own; at the temple they said such enchantments were frivolous and wasteful. But perhaps that was what made them magical. He covers the bottom of the glass with his hand and waits for Tatsuo to make his guess.

He grins, at the bet, an almost vicious glee rising in him as Gavril agrees to make a deal, suggests the dance competition as their stakes. Tatsuo has been oh so interested in it, himself, and while it sounds like tame enough stakes, he has a feeling it will end up far more interesting than either of them can realize right now. 

     “And if I’m right, you’ll do the same. Deal,” he agrees, and then swirls his own drink around, watching the way the viscous liquid moves, clinging to whatever lies at the bottom, stubbornly refusing to reveal even a glimpse of it. Whatever it is, it rattles against the glass, a sound of movement, a sound of metal or something like it. His mind casts back to a game he and the other teenagers at the palace used to play—toss a tal into someone else’s drink when they weren’t looking, and if they didn’t notice, they had to finish the drink all in one go.

But, no, that’s far too simple for the woman who had made the drink with the lapping waves that smelled of pine. It must be something more intricate than that. Something that can move, on its own. He takes a sip, and considers, for a long moment. 

     “A miniature of a dragon,” he says, and he’s not entirely sure why, but the idea of it fits in his mouth, something about the warm spice of the drink well-suited to the idea. He gives Gavril a little shrug, and then downs the drink, warm and thick and fragrant.

And then spies the beating heart at the bottom of the glass, and lets out a delighted laugh, pouring it out into his hand, still damp from the leftover liquid in the bottom, and watches it for a moment as it beats there.

      “Oh, that’s good,” he says, grinning as the tiny thing races ever so slightly. He sets it down on the counter, arching an eyebrow towards Gavril. “What happens if we both lose? Do we both have to dance?”