Za

Aurelie let adjusted some of the pins around Azariah's ribcage to loosen it a tad. "My perfectionism always shows. You know how people are, they'll judge one little thing on a piece of clothing."

Azariah huffed a soft laugh, her hands moving with that easy fluency Aurelie had drilled into her. “Let them judge,” she signed, lips curling into a crooked grin. “They couldn’t sew a button back on if their life depended on it.” She shifted as Aurelie adjusted the pins, the tension easing. Her expression softened, something warm flickering at the edges. “But hey,” she added, fingers tapping lightly over Aurelie’s wrist to get her eyes, “your perfectionism is why people want your clothes in the first place.” A beat. Then the smirk returned, sharper. “And why I trust you with sharp objects this close to my ribs.”

WOLFGANG STOOD VERY, VERY STILL which was saying something , considering he’d been elbow-deep in dirt thirty seconds ago . azariah had a way of making his insides feel on f i r e , or maybe it was just the manual labor . he exhaled through his nose , slow , a half-laugh he didn’t fully let out . ❝ yeah , well , ❞ he shifted his grip on the shovel , shooting her a sidelong glance , ❝ good thing i’m not that easy to sneak up on . ❞ instead , he drove the shovel into the dirt and stepped out of the half-dug grave , brushing soil from his hands . ❝ and just so you know , ❞ he added , and his tone was dry , ❝ you wouldn’t need to worry about me burying you . takes a lot to get on my bad side , these days . though the ‘ ask nicely ’ part sounds like a threat i should probably take seriously . ❞ there was a flicker of something, maybe amusement ?? interest ?? whatever it was, it p a s s e d over his face before settling back into his usual cool , steady expression . he leaned his shoulder against a nearby headstone , arms folding loosely . ❝ so if you’re not stalking me , ❞ he said , ❝ what are you doing here ?? you don’t wander without a reason , do you ?? ❞ he asked .

Azariah arched a brow at him, the corner of her mouth tugging into something small but undeniably wicked. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she said, voice low and amused. “If I wanted to sneak up on you, you wouldn’t feel me ‘til I was breathing down your neck. You’re good, Wolf. You’re just not banshee good.” She came to a stop beside him, leaning against the headstone opposite like the two of them were old ghosts sharing a cigarette instead of two people flirting in a graveyard like it was the most normal thing in the world. “But you’re right,” she admitted, folding her arms loosely. “I don’t wander without a reason.” A beat. Her gaze slid to him—slow, deliberate, too honest in the shadows. “Sometimes the dead get loud. Not screaming—just… restless.” She tapped lightly at her temple. “Makes it hard to stay inside four walls.” Her smirk returned, lighter this time. “And you happen to be the only person in this town who doesn’t immediately try to fix it or pity me. Makes the cemetery a little less… lonely.” Azariah nudged his boot with hers, soft but pointed. “So no,” she added, “I’m not stalking you. I just figured if I’m gonna be haunted tonight, I’d rather it be by you than by whatever’s stirring under the dirt.”

"I wasn't just thinking about for my wedding. Just any town event we don't want turning into a disaster. Which is all of them, of course," she said, sighing as Azariah quickly caught on to why she was asking. "Well at least you'd warn us if you did feel something, which is very much appreciated. I hope you don't think anyone expects you to become like a town monitor or anything. I'm sure you can't control your abilities like that any more than the rest of us can."

Azariah huffed a quiet laugh, tipping her head as she looked at Natalie. “Good,” she said, a wry smile tugging at her mouth, “because the day this town expects me to be its personal early-warning system is the day I fake my own death and move to the mountains.” Her expression softened after a beat, something warmer slipping through the sarcasm. “But you’re right. I can’t switch it on and off like a porch light. It’s… instinct. Impact. Not a skill set.” She lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “Still, if something ugly was creeping toward any of these events, I wouldn’t just sit on it. I’m not heartless.” A pause—then a playful flick of her gaze. “Besides, you’re getting married. I’d rather not have your big day overshadowed by me screaming bloody murder in the corner.”

open starter.

Azariah glanced at the floating items, then at Runa—all bright eyes and reckless joy—and felt that stupid, traitorous warmth bloom low in her chest. “Fine is one word for it,” she teased, bumping Runa’s shoulder with her own. “Personally, I was leaning more toward ‘mildly chaotic but weirdly effective’. Very on-brand for you.” She let her gaze drag over the hovering objects, then back to the witch, a slow, crooked smile forming. “Careful, though. You keep showing off like this, and I might start expecting miracles on demand.” A beat. Then, softer—teasing, but with that edge of truth she couldn’t swallow down, “I’m missing one more thing, actually.” She tapped her temple. “Something small. Hard to find.” Her eyes flicked to Runa’s hands, then her mouth, then away just as quickly. “…but I get the feeling you could conjure it.”

closed starter - aurelie & azariah ( @azariahmiles )

Azariah glanced down, her fingers moving fluidly as she signed back, “Only my pride. You’ve got me standing here like a mannequin.” A teasing grin tugged at her lips before she softened, adjusting her stance a little. “Maybe a bit tight here,” she added, brushing her hand over her ribcage. “But you’ll make it work. You always do.” Then, with a playful tilt of her head, “You sure it’s the dress that’s off, and not your perfectionism showing again?”

closed starter - madison & azariah ( @azariahmiles )

Azariah arched a brow over the rim of her mug, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “If they’re trying to kill you, they’re doing a terrible job. You’ve survived off caffeine and chaos for how many semesters now?” She leaned back in her chair, tone teasing but fond. “Take a breath, Mads. The code will still be there in an hour—hell, it’ll probably still be broken too.” A pause, then softer: “You need to rest sometime, you know. Even machines overheat.”

Azariah’s laugh came out low, breathless, tangled somewhere between triumph and surrender. Her hand stayed fisted in his shirt, pulling him back in that same heartbeat he’d pulled away, because gods—he was impossible, infuriating, and she was so far past pretending she didn’t want this. “Brave?” she echoed, her voice a husky whisper against his lips. “You think that’s bravery?” Her eyes caught his—dark, gleaming, defiant—and her grin curved slow, dangerous. “No, Theo. That’s you playing with fire.” Her free hand traced his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth where she’d bitten him, lingering like she might do it again. “And the thing about fire,” she murmured, her lips ghosting his once more, “is it doesn’t care who burns first.” Then she kissed him again—deeper this time, with that same reckless edge she wore in everything she did, like she was daring him to keep up.

@azariahmiles "So the way the whole banshee thing works... Can you like tell when death is coming? Like for instance there's a big party in town with bunches of people there and just knowing if there may be an attack?" Natalie asked. Okay, maybe her questions weren't as subtle as she thought they might be.

Azariah’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, sharp but not unkind. “It’s not a crystal ball, sweetheart,” she said evenly, voice carrying that low, matter-of-fact weight. “I don’t get dates, times, or a roll call. What I feel is the pull—the echo of something ending. Sometimes it’s minutes before, sometimes it’s already too late.” A faint smirk touched her lips. “So if you’re asking whether I can tell you if your wedding’s about to turn into a funeral? The answer’s maybe. But if I felt something like that coming, trust me—” her tone softened just a hair, “—you’d know.”

Wolfgang DIDN’T look up r i g h t away— his shovel MOVED with steady, practiced rhythm, the sound of earth giving way f a m i l i a r as breathing. When he finally PAUSED, he leaned on the handle, glancing over at her with that USUAL unreadable look that hovered somewhere between A M U S E M E N T and e x h a u s t i o n. ❝ I wouldn’t call it PEACEFUL, ❞ he said, voice low. ❝ But it’s h o n e s t work. Nobody asks for anything except to be left a l o n e... and even that’s not always g u a r a n t e e d around HERE. ❞ He studied her then— really s t u d i e d her— like he was trying to FIGURE out what it was about Azariah that kept pulling his attention back e v e r y time she wandered into his p e r i p h e r y. She wasn’t like MOST people. There was something s h a r p in her silence, something solid. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe that was why he APPRECIATED their friendship so much. ❝ Consistent company’s better than N O N E, I guess, ❞ he muttered. ❝ Though I wasn't expecting to find you hanging around here tonight. ❞ A b e a t passed. Then, with the FAINTEST trace of dry humor: ❝ You S T A L K I N G me, Az? ❞

Azariah huffed a quiet laugh, the sound more breath than voice, curling at the edges like smoke. “Please. If I were stalking you, you wouldn’t even see me.” She gave him a sideways glance, sharp and wry, eyes glinting beneath the low spill of moonlight. “I’m a lot of things, Wolfgang, but obvious isn’t one of them.” She stepped away from the fence then, slow and deliberate, boots crunching softly over gravel as she moved closer—close enough to smell the damp earth, the iron tang of rust, and magic left to rot. Her gaze dragged over the open grave, then back up to him. “I like places that don’t pretend to be something they’re not,” she said simply. “Graveyards don’t do small talk. They don’t ask for smiles. They just… exist. Quiet. Undisturbed. Honest, like you said.” Her lips curved faintly. “You and the dead have that in common. No bullshit.” She crossed her arms, letting the silence settle between them again, companionable and weightless. “Besides,” she added, eyes flicking back to him, “if I wanted to stalk you, I’d wait ‘til you weren’t holding a shovel. I’m not trying to get buried tonight.” A pause. Then, with a dry smirk, she added, “Not unless you ask nicely.”

Aristotle's lips C U R V E D into a thoughtful S M I L E, equal parts intrigued and CHARMED. ❝ Jazz and whiskey, huh? That actually sounds DANGEROUSLY appealing. Though I should W A R N you, I have very QUESTIONABLE taste in records. There’s a H I G H chance you’ll END up listening to some deep cut, or some embarrassingly NICHE soundtrack. ❞ He stepped F U R T H E R into the office, no longer content with L I N G E R I N G in the doorway. ❝ I like that, THOUGH. The way you put it. Not CARRYING it — just keeping the space O P E N for it. That’s... POETIC, honestly. And kind of reassuring. Like M A Y B E you don’t have to be W R E C K E D by every moment to HONOR it. ❞ Leaning against the E D G E of her desk now, he T I P P E D his head toward her. ❝ STILL, I think I am INTERESTED in seeing behind the C U R T A I N a little, ❞He raised a brow, the GLINT of his usual mischief softened by G E N U I N E curiosity. ❝ — When do you WANT to do this mystery J A Z Z and whiskey night, hm? I'm F R E E all weekend. ❞He expressed.

Azariah gave him a long, level look—half suspicious, half amused—as though she were trying to decide if he was actually serious or just leaning into the bit for the thrill of the chase. “Dangerously appealing is my brand,” she murmured, voice silk-dry as she reached for her now-cold coffee. “And I’m not afraid of questionable taste. Just means you’ve got a spine and a soul.” She paused, her gaze flicking up to meet his again, sharp as a scalpel but warm around the edges. “As long as it’s not show tunes or spoken word horrorcore, we’ll survive.” She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking quietly, arms folding across her chest like she was weighing something heavy and invisible. “You really want behind the curtain, huh?” Her tone was light, but there was a flicker of something ancient in her eyes—like a door creaking open in a dark house. “Most people who ask don’t actually mean it. They want a version of me that’s palatable. Interesting, not inconvenient.” A moment passed. Then she gave a small shrug, one shoulder rising and falling like smoke. “But if you’re still game…” Her lips curved into a smirk, low and slow. “Tomorrow night. My place. Bring whatever dusty vinyl you’re willing to defend with your life. I’ll handle the whiskey. Fair warning—no masks, no stories, no bullshit. Just jazz, the good kind of silence, and maybe one too many truths.” Another beat. Then, with a knowing glint, she asked, “You sure you’re free? ‘Cause after that, you won’t be able to unsee me.”

Zafir let out a S O F T laugh, quiet and genuine, as if the weight of their words had finally settled into something LIGHTER. ❝ Northknot does have a certain... F L A I R for well-timed chaos, ❞ he said, gesturing loosely to the world BEYOND the trees. ❝ It’s like the town itself is a fig — ripe, C O M P L I C A T E D, potentially dangerous, yet sweet enough still to be worth STICKING around for. ❞ He mused. ❝ Maybe the TRICK isn’t choosing what we are, but learning to live with ALL of it — the giving, the surviving, the S H I F T I N G of it all. Not just making peace with the mess, but finding a kind of R H Y T H M in it that works for you. ❞ His smile returned, FAINT but real. ❝ And if I’m going to KEEP learning that, I’d rather do it with company that doesn’t flinch from asking the B I G G E R questions, so, thank you. ❞ He expressed.

Azariah’s smile deepened—small but striking, like a sliver of moonlight through a stormcloud. “You’re welcome,” she said simply, but there was weight to it, something genuine that slipped past her usual armor. A rare softness, earned and deliberate. She glanced out toward the trees again, their branches swaying like dancers caught in a rhythm only they could hear. “Northknot is a fig,” she echoed with a low laugh, dry and a little reverent. “Sticky-sweet, a little dangerous, and weirdly full of life even when it shouldn't be. Honestly? That’s probably why I stayed, too.” Then she looked back at him, her eyes steady and sharp and almost warm. “Rhythm in the mess… that’s poetry, Zafir. Hard-earned and honest.” She nudged his knee lightly with hers—just enough to make contact, not enough to knock him off balance. “You’ve got the kind of perspective most people spend lifetimes avoiding. So if you're still figuring it out, you’re doing better than most.” A beat. Then her smirk returned, crooked and glinting. “Besides, chaos tends to favor good company. And lucky for you, I’m very good at sticking around.”

cassiopeia wasn't normally one to frequent bars outside roscoe's, but a friend of hers was having a promotion night— and cassie was nothing if not supportive, even while in the slumps herself. she was about ready to call it a night when a warmth took up the empty space beside her. an internal sigh, a quick mental calibration, and she turned to meet azariah with a dimmed smile. on the outside, a genuine face. on the inside, a timebomb waiting to implode. those who knew her well would see the weight behind her eyes, a weight masked most naturally. "just celebrating friendship."

Azariah leaned back on the stool, resting one booted foot on the rail beneath them, arms crossed lazily as she studied Cassiopeia with a gaze a little too sharp to pass as casual. That flicker of dimmed light behind the fairy’s smile didn’t go unnoticed; Azariah had made a habit of reading masks, after all. And Cassie’s? Beautiful. Polished. Practiced. But cracking, just a little, at the edges. “Blackjack? Please.” Her tone was dry, amused. “You know I only gamble with higher stakes... like feelings, reputations, or immortal souls.”