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cirocchio​:

    He feels the salty sting of a lukewarm liquid against his blistered palms - fingers thick and rigid and barely feeling from years of baring a sword like a second set of lungs, before he truly begins to grasp the muffled, strained sound of the chokes that echo through the cavern. And his thumb, instinctively, smooths over the first pinpricks of tears he feels from where his palms still cup her cheeks - drying her skin to the best of his ability as they begin to tumble. And, yet, he can’t keep up with them, and feels them dampening his own skin until the tips of his fingers are next to useless against the onslaught. Her warm skin begins to feel cold and moist against his hold, and the tremors that rack her own body feel like his with how they make his wrists tremble as he tries to hold her firmly in place. 

     Her voice cracks as even the faintest of words attempt to escape, and he cannot make out what she wants to say above the sound of her sobs and labored breaths. And he doesn’t know what to say to mend the hurt that he assumes he’s caused her. Words have never been his strong suit. He was a soldier not a politician. He could cut the finest of threads with the tip of his blade, even blind. But he cannot weave words of comfort or great meaning - cannot soothe whatever it is that aches her with the sound of his voice. Because his voice is rough and weary from years of war and violence. 

       He does not deserve to her hold her jaw within his grasp. He does not deserve to reach out with such delicate gestures of affection he barely knows how to use. Yet, he wants to. He wants to reach out to her; to remain tethered to her. To continue on beside her long after this journey of theirs concludes. And it isn’t something he should desire, but does regardless. A choice he has made of his own free will for, perhaps, one of the first times in his life. But that does not give him strength to feel anything but helpless when her sobs echo against the stone walls of the cave. 

       And it cannot, possibly, give him the strength he needs when the only words she can speak are an apology he can’t imagine why she would offer to him. His hands withdraw from where they had been resting upon her cheeks. The burns upon his visage sting as he feels his face distort in a mixture of pain and concern. Her tears are louder than the rain the drones on outside. Greater, still, than the thunder that screams in the distance. And more agonizing than the pang he feels within his chest upon hearing her repeat those words as if that’s all she can say. 

      He swallows around the lump in his throat. It almost tastes like a wad of cooper on the way down. “Ciri,” he tries, but his voice doesn’t feel loud enough to overpower her grief. Or rather, what he assumes is grief because he has never known someone to cry in relief or happiness. The world he had grown up in was cruel. Tears had only been shed when someone was lost or dying. Morbid as he realized that sounded at the moment. “Are you all right?” He knows it’s a stupid question the second he asks it, so he takes a moment to compose himself. If he wishes to stay with her as he claims he does, that’s not what he should be saying or doing right now. So, he inhales and reaches once more.

        His fingers brush against the corners of her eyes, hand tracing upwards until he can feel dampened lids. His other arm extends, ruffling past loose clothing, and wrapping firmly about her shoulders that feel brittle within his grasp, and brings her towards his chest his once more. “Ciri,” he speaks softly against her ear. The hand trying to wipe away the tears he can feel wetting her features slides back until his fingers tangle in her hair - the texture both rough and silky against his hand. “I’ll stay, this I swear to you, I will stay with you.”       

whisperonn​:

   Silence had never and would never bother him. In all of the centuries he’s clung to this earth, it’s been a constant in his never ending life, and he has always welcomed it. Even if the quiet that stretches out between them now is strained - a shadow against the buzz of fireflies and the hum of the wind as it struck the tombstones nestled around them. Unspeaking witnesses to their rather one-sided conversation. Oslyeus’s opinion is of little concern to him. Nothing will change who or what he is. The how and why had been set in stone decades ago, and no amount of pressing or rubbing or worrying would change that. Hate flowed through his veins like the grimy blood that stained the ugly scar wrapped about his neck, and anger composed the very muscles which kept him afloat. He is nothing but his rage. Nothing but his want for revenge. All people are awful, including himself, and those words might as well be etched into his tombstone, assuming it still stands. Despite that; however, his expression is largely devoid of emotions. Unlike the other, he doesn’t cradle himself to shield his nonexistent heart from the hurt because he feels next to nothing these days. Only an overwhelming bitterness. He has been dead too long to recall what the warmth of acceptance and companionship feels like. 

      When Oslyeus does finally part his lips to speak it’s with great difficulty. And even that response earns little more than the incline of his brow and the slight purse of his lips. His hand came to rest upon his hip, posture relaxed despite the thick air that had settled in. “It wouldn’t matter much one way or the other if you were. You can’t change the past.” Words are stated easily and in the same flippant manner as always. Even if the past could be changed, he wouldn’t bother saving his own neck. He’d come to terms with his death years ago. Yes, at first he had been bitter and angry about that too, but it was but a tiny flame compared to the raging inferno that kept him tethered to this wicked world. A world he only served to make all the worse by festering within its hold. Free hand brushes the tips of calloused fingers against the muddled cloth that now wrapped about his neck. Black ooze staining worn cloth as his nails pressed into it, as if they wanted to tear at the stitches keeping his head in place. He’d been a king once - with all the pride and wealth and power one could have. Now he looked like a runaway clawing at old wounds. 

     His head tilted to the side, thick, dark hair tumbling against the slender curve of his shoulder. His eyes betray nothing about him. A dark void that seems hollow and unreachable. He has never been easy to read, and that makes it easy for the breathless chuckle that vibrates against his tongue to slip past his lips and out into open air. “You think I want revenge on the people who cut my head off? You think the reason I’m still here is ‘cause I’m upset about that?” Humor slowly trickles into his voice. If only it were that simple. The country he had once ruled over was dead and gone. Fallen not long after he had been overthrown. They were fools too busy fighting amongst themselves to stop others from tearing them apart. He couldn’t have cared less about it. Perhaps a part of him feels guilty for how awful he had been, but, truth be told, he doesn’t. When he thinks back to those days he feels nothing. His chest is empty despite how it trembles with his gentle laugh. “That’s cute at best, I couldn’t care less about it.” 

      Hand falls back down to his side. “If it were that simple I’d be gone already. So if you’re beating yourself up over it, don’t bother.” No his death was but a shallow cut compared to the fissure he felt whenever his mind wandered back to his sister’s death. How she had suffered. How she had endured. How her everlasting kindness had been spat upon by the people she had loved without condition. “I’m worse than you give me credit for. Don’t forget the things I’ve said. All people are awful, myself included. I know you’ve got your secrets and I’ve got mine, too. That’s just how people are. If you waste your time trying to unravel mine, you’re gonna end up wasting your time. Remember, I’m dead. You’re alive. One of us has a hell of a lot more to loose. So why don’t we get this mission over with before a another ghost decides to take a liking to you, and we’ve got a whole different set of problems on our hands?”                 

15 QUESTIONS ABOUT THE MUSE !   

Tagged by: @tyraunt​ (thank you)!

Tagging: @teniras​ (this is a horrible meme to tag Guardian in, but I’m doing it anyway because Amy called them out), @maskedmuses​ (Azuna), and @go-forth-and-live​. That’s it. Steal it! 

WHICH UNPOPULAR ARCHETYPE ARE YOU?

The Omen 

tagged by : @whisperonn​ (thank you)! 

Tagging: I haven’t been on the dash much so let’s go with @thorn-kissed​, @tyraunt​, @cirocchio​, @umbra-speculum​! 

thorn-kissed​:

   His index finger and thumb are still gripping his nose as he peers at the dent beside what remains of the circle that had been etched into the wood. His eyes are watering, and he can’t tell if that’s from how rotten the stench was or simply because he hadn’t slept in God knows how long. All the chickens screeching in the background didn’t help, but he also couldn’t blame them. He was human, and the smell was downright toxic to him. He can’t imagine how they must be feeling. Hadn’t the farmer taken notice of it and looked into it? Surely he must have come in here multiple times. Then again, it had taken him a minute to notice it. Still, it doesn’t sit right with him. He can’t wrap his head around how someone wouldn’t, eventually, catch the scent. His nose wrinkled, and he turned his head to look up at Velia. 

     “Yeah, I have a hard time believing we’d miss something like this. Not with your nose. But it’s strange. I don’t recall the farmer complaining about a smell.” His hand reached out to trace the circle, finger tips gathering up smoke and ash where they brush. Rubbing them on his pants, he finally releases his hold on his nose. The floorboard feel loose beneath his knees, and there’s a dent in the floor that sinks beneath his weight. There’s a hole here. Had it been there last time? Oh, he does not like the dread that settles into his stomach at the thought. “You would think...” he numbles as he shifts back, waiting until the floorboard stop creaking beneath his weight before he stops. 

       “Step back.” It’s the only warning he gives before he grabs the loose boards with his bare hands, and starts pulling. The wood splinters and screams, but comes up easily, tipping from rusted nails as he hurls the old wood off to the side. The scent hits him like a storm, and he almost coughs up his coffee, but, somehow, manages to keep it down. His arm comes up to cover his nose and mouth as he peers down into the shadowy depths of the shallow hole. There’s a tarp laid across something beneath these boards. Something that smells like rotten eggs and weak-old chicken that’s been left out in the sun to rot. It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t be having such thoughts while in the company of so many birds. 

       Willing it away, he reaches out and tips the tarp up. Hot bile rushes to his tongue and he falls back on his rear at the sight that greets him. Flies buzz up from where they had been nipping at rotting flesh. Decay having set in on the mangled body. And he has to will himself to crawl back over to the hole and get a better look. The body is still mostly intact, save where bits of flesh have been pulled away from the bone where flies have wormed their way into the corpse’s exposed tissue and muscle. Holes from the talons of the chickens evident upon the arms and legs that are folded neatly at the sides. He braves a glance at the face and his heart sinks. The man’s bread is full of grime and dried blood; silver strands painted with muck, and the wrinkles on his face have become sunken alongside empty sockets where maggots had already devoured his eyes. He’s not an expert and he sure as hell isn’t qualified to ID a body, but he’d met the farmer once before and he doesn’t forget faces.

        “We’ve got a problem. A big problem,” he mutters into his sleeve as he shifts to the side. It’s not like this is the first body he’s seen, but God he will never get used to the sight. “I’m pretty sure this is the farmer. We should probably call for back-up.” They’re detectives, not cops. They can’t pick up the body, but, well, they do need to look it over for anything to see if the spirit they’re after is behind it or not. “For now, we need to head back to the car. I should have gloves in there.”     

unladylikc​:

    He nods in approval. Revelin was unworthy of one, if only because he was currently way and, thus, couldn’t wait in line on his behalf. Sound reasoning, in his opinion. After all what vassal makes their lord do such a mundane yet bothersome task? A terrible one, so this is a fitting punishment for his failure. “Indeed.” At least Vivian appears to understand his logic. She is truly a breath of fresh air when compared to Revelin’s constant complaining. Why her uplifting spirit is something to be admired. He would much prefer to listen to her babble about juice than be subjected to another hour-long lecture by the younger fox spirit explaining how and why he should tend to his own shrine. Absurd. He would never. He can’t agree with her ‘sharing is caring’ remark, but he supposes that’s one of the flaws humans possess. Always eager to indulge one another. “Hmm, I suppose I can allow him to get away with that much for your sake. But do be careful, if you spoil him too much he might cease working for me!” The fact that even has such a concern reveals that, despite his pride, he’s not as secure as one might believe. Revelin, after all, has been working beside him for centuries now. If the other had any intention of leaving, he would have long ago. Still, it’s a thought that haunts Gabriel every chance it gets.  

      “I have little choice but to trust your judgement on the matter,” he admits. He’s never had juice before - wine or water was his preferred drink, but he supposes he didn’t mind humoring her. But long lashes flutter uselessly as he blinks in surprise when she turns to look at him, caught off guard by the look on her face, he can only stare at her for a moment before his own confusion eases. “How would I know?” He huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Humans were supposed to bring him things, not the other way around. If anything, this juice seller should be paying him to taste their creation. It’s not every day a God willingly waits in line for something, after all. “They should be grateful someone such as myself even has an interest in their product in the first place. If anything, they should be giving it to me free of charge for gracing them with my presence.” He sticks up his nose. His self-centeredness seems to know no bounds. And he looks downright offended when she suggests he would have ever gone shopping. “Of course I haven’t, such a lowly task is best suited for Revelin. I have never gone shopping a day in my life.” He says it like he’s proud of that fact. Head held high as hands come to rest on his hips.   

whisperonn​:

  He’s not sure what he had been expecting. Maybe he had thought Oslyeus would yelp at the mention of ghosts grabbing hold of him or maybe he thought he would roll his eyes at him. Perhaps he’s take another swing at him for toying with his fears so casually or maybe he would simply get fed up and storm off. But the moment he notices how deathly quiet the other has gone; how still and rigid his body became, he realizes he had made a mistake, and that he should have never opened his mouth in the first place. He looked visibly distraught as stared at him, and Kier’s fingers twitch involuntarily at his side at the sight; black liquid and grime pressed beneath his nails scrapping against his palms. Wasn’t he the idiot who had mocked Oslyeus for being too soft? So shouldn’t he have been the first person to realize his little speech would backfire? Right in his face, too. But he’d never been a delicate person. Oh no, long before he had been sharp claws and jaded breath and still heart he had been golden daggers and prickly silk threads and stained crown. Other people were rarely a thought in his head - so selfish and unmoving and wicked. So why did he suddenly decide to start caring again now? It’s been 300 years - it’s too late for him to start thinking this way.       

    Then he notices the first sign of wetness pricking at the other’s eyes, and he knew, already that he had messed up - that he had thrown himself onto a landmine, but he hadn’t realized just how irreversibly awful he had fucked up until Oslyeus started crying. Lips purse uselessly. All he knew how to do was hurt and lash out and bite with his tongue - he didn’t know how to soothe old aches or comfort new ones. Fingers flex against his skin and he flicks them uselessly against the air just to get rid of the grime and ooze he had collected from scratching at the stitches wrapped tightly about his throat. And the stupid thing was, he’d be the first to admit that he had deserved it. He’d be the first to admit that he was rotten and unhinged and heartless. Oslyeus’s tears were wasted on him. And he wanted to back up when the other tore the cuff of his sleeve off because the idea of mopping up not-really blood from a ghost was laughable at best, but he didn’t. He lets that material catch about his neck despite his best judgement.     

      The sound of Oslyeus’s voice echoed through the graveyard, and clawed against his ears. He wanted to laugh. If Oslyeus is awful, what does that make him? Nevermind, he’s known the answer to that question for a few centuries now. And maybe he would have laughed - normally. Maybe all of the anger welling up inside of him would have exploded in a violent frenzy if the person in front of him right now had been anyone else. But all he ca manage against Oslyeus is the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He wants to snap - he had anger trapped within him that’s been building up over multiple decades now, but it all fizzles out when confronted by Oslyeus’s honest grief. For once, he’s the silent one, not moving until the other is finished tying that useless wad of fabric about his neck.  

      “Maybe you are, I can’t judge you. I don’t think you are. At least not to me,” he begins. His voice is steady - he can’t display the range of emotions Oslyeus is capable of and, even if he could, he wouldn’t know how. He’s been angry too long. “People are awful. People are cruel. We’re all rotten to our cores. But so am I, Oslyeus.” It’s one of the first honest answers he gives that isn’t mixed in with senseless insults or petty jokes. “I might, actually, be one of the worst people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting truth be told. So, no, I’m not an outlier. I’m awful too. Hell, I’m probably worse than awful.” His tongue tastes stale in his mouth, and a harsh laugh vibrated within his throat. Why is saying all of this when this was, exactly, the conversation he tired to avoid having? But it’s like he couldn’t stop once he started. “This scar is the least of my problems. I probably deserve it.” No, he does. “So, I’ll warn you now, Oslyeus, I am unforgivable and, I’ll be frank, I don’t regret most of what I’ve done. And, what I do regret, I regret because it backfired on me. Nothing good can and will ever come from me.” He lifts a hand to rub at the cloth that now covers his scar - he cant feel pain; hadn’t felt it in centuries. He doesn’t even remember what it feels like. “So, you should probably go. I’m dead anyway, so there’s not much of a reason for you to stick around.”   

cirocchio​:

     Thick clothes cling to his skin where he’s now sprawled out beneath her thanks to their less than graceful fall - almost drowned by the water he can feel licking at his neck and weighing long hair down against his back and chest. Heat from the sun he can feel burning at his shoulders makes the water lukewarm at best - sweat just barely cooled off by its touch. And the air has mostly vanished from his lungs, stolen from him when she collided with him in his stumble. He can feel her weight half on him, and the meager heat that rolls off her damp skin where he can feel just the faintest brush of her arms at his shoulders. And he can feel the gentle tickle of her breath where it rolls off of his features; knows she’s only a hair’s length away from him (hers, not his), but isn’t made to feel uncomfortable by their sudden closeness. Either because his lungs are still struggling to regain air, his elbows are propped up painfully against the uneven rocks beneath his body to keep his head above water or because he’d grown accustom to her touch some time ago when she had tended to ugly wounds or when she had reached out for him. But he won’t deny that the position he currently finds himself in is less than ideal with rocks poking at his skin and water threatening to cover his head if he slips again. 

      And Ciri is quiet. Not that she’s loud to begin with, but the silence that drags out between them is somewhat unusual. He parts lips to ask if she’s uninjured, but the moment he does he’s greeted by the sound of her voice, and relaxes where muscles had tenses on instinct. “I am fine, forgive me. I lost my footing.” He wants wants to lift his hands from where they’ve fallen beneath the water to trace his fingers along her arms to double-check that she didn’t cut herself in the fall, but he resists the urge to do so after she answers a question he hadn’t asked, but both were well aware that he would have had he been given the chance to. He shifts when he feels her weight leave him just a bit, assuming she is getting up, but barely has a moment to make sure his grip on the rocks beneath are steady before he feels her fall against his chest and he’s left without air all over again. 

       “You needn’t apologize. Are you still all right?” He’s sturdy; remains firm despite the position he’s in; rocks digging at his sides. He doesn’t have the same muscle mass he had when he had served the Mad King - but he’s still built like a soldier and training is still engraved into the very marrow of his bones. He will always be willing to take the fall for her. Grateful that he was the one pinned against the bed of the river rather than her. Perhaps it was something he had done unconsciously when he realized they were going to fall. His body barely gives when he feels her hand press into his chest, using him to a lever to push upwards - arms lock in place, and muscles contract to make up for the newfound pressure on his chest. 

      Her words; however, make his lips tug downwards - creases the skin between his brows and makes fingers roll into loose fists where they remain stuck against slick rock. He has never liked the idea of her fighting - he barely even tolerates the idea of her being around him when he has a bounty on his head. The thought of endangering her terrifies him, and he’s been struggling to come to terms with the fact for months now. She wasn’t made for violence - she had soft skin and a gentle voice and quivering heart. But he supposed, most people weren’t made for violence - it was something beaten into them before they even knew how to breathe properly. But the fact remained, he would likely die before her. Then, in this world so often torn by war, what would she be able to do? 

      A shaky sigh slipped past his lips. Frown still present upon his features. “I will not teach you how to fight,” his voice is firm, almost uncharacteristically so when speaking to her. “I will not teach you how to wield a weapon or how to take a life. ” It feels strange to speak to her in such an unwilling manner - strict when he is normally anything but. “I will; however, teach you the basics of self defense and nothing more.” He won’t teach her how to fight - only how to protect herself. How to make an opening so she can escape. Anything more would only endanger her more than he already has. He would only make her a more striking target if he taught her anything else, and he has no desire to give her a weapon. Weapons, after all, are crafted for the sole purpose of killing - there isn’t a blade or axe or arrow that was made with the intent to spare lives instead of take them. “Forgive me, Ciri, this is something I will not budge on.” Not even for her. No, perhaps because it’s her.