𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎  ,

currently     present          :

natalya     karine     yohantova     ,     forty     .     inferni     .

𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚊     𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚑𝚓𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒     𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎     𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕     !

𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚊     𝚢𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚊     𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎     𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕     !

𝚎𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊     𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚊     𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎     𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕     !

if there was a type of grisha that scared both hannes and ivan to death were the tailors. he could comprehend the ones who dealt with nature things, like the tidemakers, and the healers and heartrenders. but the tailors ? no, he couldn’t. and being something he couldn’t comprehend, it scared him. what if they had more hidden talents than just change the appearance of others ? what if they could reveal his lies ? and of course, they were the perfect puppet for spying and that was what scared him the most. “ ekaterina. ” he greeted them, eyeing suspicious what the other was doing. “ i don’t think so. but it’s my job, isn’t it ? the boisterous guards are the ones who die easily. what are you doing ? ” hence pyotr, a fallen comrade. but hannes wasn’t talking just about his duties as a guard — to be a spy, he needed to be quiet. 

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐒  𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖  not  to  interpret  his  twin  when  she  was  like  this  .  it  was  always  better  for  them  to  get  it  all  out  .  thomas  ,  truly  ,  had  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  his  twin  would  wring  the  person’s  neck  .  he  just  hoped  he  would  be  able  to  watch  .  

he  smiled  though  when  they  came  to  sit  next  to  him  .  he  moved  his  arm  wrapping  them  around  his  sibling’s  shoulders  ,  kissing  her  temple  softly  .  “  as  if  you  needed  to  be  reminded  with  being  an  inferni  ,  ”  thomas  retorted  ,  nodding  sympathizing  with  his  sister  .  “  they  should  have  held  their  tongue  ,  did  you  at  least  set  their  shoes  on  fire  ,  or  something  ?  ”

𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝     𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜     𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢     𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗     𝚜𝚑𝚎     𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜     𝚑𝚎𝚛     𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎     at     thomas'     side     /     there's     something     about     twins     ,     the     way     they     know     each     other     like     the     BACKS     of     their     own     hands     .     jagged     edges     perfectly     matched     :     he     𝑆𝑂𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑆     her     temper     ,     she     brings     him     out     of     his     shell     .     even     now     ,     when     there's     a     tempest     storming     just     underneath     skin     ,     he     manages     to     tug     her     off     the     brink     of     an     explosion     most     imminent     .

soraya     aleah     nakhjavani     .     twenty     -     five     .     spy     /     kitchenhand     .

soraya's     beginnings     are     gentle     ,     easy     ,     remarkably     kind     .     born     to     suli     musicians     ,     she     is     no     stranger     to     performance     .     even     at     a     young     age     ,     they     call     her     the     nightingale     :     voice     like     honey     ,     dripping     sweet     and     strangely     haunting     .     when     she's     old     enough     ,     she     will     join     her     mother     and     father     on     stage     at     fêtes     .     until     then     ,     she     is     the     spitting     image     of     her     mother     with     her     father's     quick     wit     and     sharp     tongue     .    

oldest     of     three     ;     her     brother     is     five     years     younger     than     her     ,     and     her     sister     was     ten     years     younger     .     both     are     deceased     now     ,     and     she     aches     for     them     every     day     .     she     remembers     their     gap     -     toothed     grins     ,     their     sticky     hands     ,     their     beautiful     laughter     ;     she     longs     for     nothing     more     than     to     reverse     time     ,     to     have     her     family     back     together     .

once     upon     a     time     ,     she     was     a     happy     child     ,     worlds     away     from     the     vengeful     creatures     she's     destined     to     become     /     something     unbridled     in     the     joy     she     felt     ,     surrounded     by     love     at     every     turn     .     she     still     remembers     the     calmness     of     her     mother's     touch     ,     the     way     her     father     hummed     lullabies     and     hymns     alike     when     he     cooks     dinner     .     theirs     is     an     unobtrusive     existence     ,     and     she     loves     it     .

faith     was     interwoven     throughout     her     childhood     ,     a     solace     when     she     needed     it     .     prayers     murmured     to     her     favourite     saints     (     always     elisaveta     and     alina     ,     something     holy     about     powerful     women     )     ,     and     in     a     different     world     she     would     still     hold     faith     close     to     her     chest     .     she     pinpoints     the     exact     moment     that     it     all     falls     apart     .

soraya     doesn't     care     to     remember     why     she     wasn't     with     her     family     when     it     happened     .     all     she     knows     is     that     one     moment     ,     her     family     unit     is     close     -     knit     and     then     it     is     blown     apart     .     they're     in     the     wrong     place     at     the     wrong     time     ,     and     the     darkling's     mercy     doesn't     extend     to     suli     musicians     .     her     mother     ,     her     father     ,     her     brother     and     her     sister     are     all     gone     .     (     in     ketterdam     ,     they     have     a     saying     .     no     mourners     ,     no     funerals     .     oh     ,     how     she     wishes     she     could     skip     the     funerals     ,     erase     the     devastation     that     sits     at     her     core     ,     rotting     every     single     part     of     her     .     soraya     is     sixteen     ,     and     her     family     is     dead     ,     and     there     is     nothing     good     left     in     this     world     .     )

something     festers     in     the     space     that     love     used     to     occupy     /     bruised     at     the     centre     ,     rotting     from     the     inside     out     and     leaving     only     decay     in     its     place     .     she     doesn't     understand     it     for     a     while     ,     won't     hope     to     understand     the     feeling     that     thrums     through     her     veins     and     leaves     her     breathless     in     the     dead     of     night          ---     -          but     it's     rage     .     

she     leaves     for     ketterdam     shortly     after     the     last     funeral     in     a     conscious     effort     to     start     something     new     for     herself     ,     find     some     way     of     peddling     what     little     marketable     talents     she     has     .          (          besides     that     haunting     voice     ,     she's     a     talented     dancer     with     quiet     feet     and     a     talent     for     making     violent     twists     of     limbs     look     beautiful          .          )          she     ends     up     in     the     barrel     ,     alone     and     shivering     in     the     cold     ,     wishing     desperately     that     she     had     been     in     the     caravan     that     day     with     her     family     /     wiped     out     ,     but     at     least     she'd     be     with     them     .

what     else     is     there     to     do     ,     but     join     the     first     army     ?     in     truth     ,     it's     a     means     to     an     end     .     soraya     knows     that     feeling     in     her     bone     marrow     now     ,     and     it's     rage     .     she'll     use     the     first     army     to     hone     her     skills     ,     create     something     out     of     that     undying     anger     that     burns     right     through     her     .     she's     got     a     gift     for     fighting     ,     this     much     is     true     /     an     ability     to     camoflauge     herself     in     plain     sight     ,     shakespeare's     rose     and     the     serpent     under't     .     she's     a     soldier     for     six     months     before     the     first     army     approach     her     with     the     beginnings     of     an     idea     ,     of     something     more     .     the     thing     is     ,     the     fjerdans     got     there     first     .

she's     not     really     sure     how     fjerda     caught     wind     of     her     skills     ,     but     they     do     and     they     make     her     an     offer     she     cannot     refuse          ---     -          the     first     army     makes     a     similar     offer     .     spy     on     the     second     army     ,     see     what     you     can     gather     for     us     .     

neither     the     first     army     nor     the     fjerdans     realise     that     they're     being     thoroughly     duped     .     soraya's     loyalties     lie     with     neither     ---     -     they     lie     with     the     dagger     strapped     to     her     right     thigh     .     she's     taken     up     their     jobs     to     accomplish     the     one     thing     that's     consumed     her     waking     days     ---     -     to     end     the     darkling     the     way     he     ended     her     family     .     she'll     kill     him     or     die     trying     ,     and     either     is     a     noble     way     to     go     .

matteo     thiago     reyes     .     forty     .     palace     guard     .

when     matteo     thinks     of     his     childhood     ,     he     thinks     with     his     senses     .     

taste     .     (     of     freshly     -     baked     bread     ,     warm     and     wafting     in     the     crisp     morning     air     as     it     mingles     with     the     morning     dew     .     tea     ,     piping     hot     and     soothing     .     )     

sound     .     (     the     sleepy     whine     of     his     pup     as     he     extracts     himself     from     the     mess     of     sheets     .     the     rooster's     cheery     ,     if     painfully     early     ,     greeting     crow     when     he     and     his     brothers     scatter     feed     across     the     farm     .     )          

sight     .     (     the     sun     rising     over     the     hills     ,     painting     everything     golden     /     flemish     painting     kind     of     beautiful     ,     he     has     it     tattooed     on     the     backs     of     his     eyelids     .     the     breakfast     table     with     its     uneven     ,     handmade     legs     ,     welcoming     in     red     and     white     gingham     .     love     ,     love     ,     love     as     far     as     he     could     see     .     )     

touch     .     (     roughened     palms     stroking     a     favoured     cow's     muzzle     ,     the     way     a     milk     bottle     sweats     in     that     very     same     hand     .     textures     ,     the     dampness     of     the     grass     ,     the     sensation     of     being     led     out     to     the     pastures     by     an     adoring     mother     .     )     

smell     .     (     the     farm     ,     in     all     its     earthy     loveliness     .     )

the     reyes     family     farm     is     one     carried     by     pride     and     joy     ,     an     expanse     of     land     in     novyi     zem     that's     been     passed     down     from     eldest     child     to     eldest     child     for     as     long     as     family     history     is     known     .     the     third     son     ,     matteo     has     always     known     that     the     farm     will     never     be     his     but     that's     never     stopped     him     loving     it     with     his     entire     heart     .     to     this     day     ,     he     still     travels     home     at     least     four     times     a     year     to     spend     time     with     his     elder     brothers     and     their     families     ,     to     tend     to     the     farm     that     features     so     heavily     in     his     childhood     .

he's     eighteen     when     he     leaves     home     for     the     first     army     .     (     his     mother     begs     him     not     to     go     ,     cajoles     and     pleads     ,     tells     him     that     nothing     is     worth     dying     for     but     he's     not     entirely     sure     she's     right     .     his     mother's     ravkan     blood     still     runs     strong     through     his     veins     ,     and     honour     is     a     calling     he     cannot     deny     .     )

perhaps     he     should've     listened     .     he     leaves     at     eighteen     ,     only     to     be     honourably     discharged     at     twenty     -     five     after     a     wound     to     the     shoulder     that     will     forever     leave     him     aching     at     the     end     of     the     day     ,     listing     slightly     to     the     right     .     it's     not     without     its     benefits     ;     the     lives     he's     saved     are     better     than     any     glimmering     set     of     medals     on     his     chest     ,     and     it's     those     that     score     him     the     job     that     he's     taken     immeasurable     pride     in     since     his     first     day     .

working     as     a     palace     guard     is     reserved     for     war     heroes     and     lesser     noblemen     ,     they     say     ,     and     yet     a     zemeni     soldier     finds     himself     amongst     their     ranks     and     eternally     grateful     for     it     .     the     days     are     long     and     sometimes     people     are     less     than     kind     ,     but     he     revels     in     watching     grisha     work     .     they     call     it     the     small     science     ,     but     it     never     fails     to     leave     his     eyes     pinwheeling     .

in     truth     ,     there's     one     particular     grisha     he     watches     .     he's     not     sure     she     notices     him     ,     but     he     keeps     his     eyes     trained     on     her     with     a     hopeless     ,     lovelorn     ,     impossibly     soft     smile     .     (     she     watches     him     too     :     the     guard     with     unruly     curls     that     gazes     at     her     ,     the     one     with     stars     in     his     eyes     and     declarations     of     adoration     looking     like     they     want     to     burst     forth     from     behind     his     teeth     .     )

spoiler     alert     :     they     marry     a     year     later     .

Status: Open With: @ravkastarters​

“Hmm.” It wasn’t often that Jasmine could take her meal outside her assigned quarters, nor was it considered the most sound decision after the tragedy at the most recent Fete, but Jasmine was easily prone to listlessness. So, naturally, she had thought to come outside. If a poor soul was wrapped in conversation with her, so be it. 

“What do you suppose that thing was?” Jasmine asked. “I’ve heard that it’s not quite a Volcra, and anyone who tells me it is–” Jasmine held up one finger, out of pretend defiance. “–is probably lying.”

*          𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍     𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚜     𝚊𝚝     𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚍     ,     grisha     love     to     gossip     /     there’s     an     𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑒     imprinted     behind     their     eyelids     already     ,     uniquely     unpleasant     at     best     .     the     volcra     fail     to     impress     katya     anymore          (          at     least     that’s     what’s     proclaimed     ,     never     mind     the     hummingbird     hammering     beneath     delicate     ribs          )          but     this     ,     this     is     something     new     entirely     .     talk     of     the     CREATURE     pulses     among     the     dining     hall     ,          &          when     her     companion     brings     it     up     she     can     only     shrug     .