hellhound

hellloooo, i'm kira (she/her) and i play prince chaeyul, one of the royal family's biggest headaches! i'm super excited to get to know everyone and your muses tho i sadly couldnt find any blogs to stalk preopening </3 so please like this post for me to dm u or feel free to dm me first (i also have discord if that’s easier)!! i have an about page for chaeyul here, but under the cut is a bullet point tldr :^)

[ ... ]

The giggle she gives is genuine and more hearty than the last. She pushes at him lightly. “I don’t know,” Yerin mumbles back, teasing him. She shrugs her shoulders. 

“What man in the courtyard four nights ago? Was there a man here?” She sways her voice, emphatic and dramatized, winking at him. “We’ll never know, will we, Chaeyul?” Her lips purse as she tries to remember. “I think I saw teeth the size of a wolf’s and a knife as sharp as granite. My waking up was not even what fazed him. There were a few builders who had stayed on the site overnight, fortunately. Without them, I’m sure I would be dead.”

it's one thing to feel that something bad might happen soon. it’s another thing entirely to know that it is, that cloud of predestined foreboding in the air asphyxiating the rest of the sky like it wants to make its presence known, like nobody deserves the temporary silence and peace that comes after a mountain of bodies lost to battle. like chaeyul doesn't already know from the hushed whispers of the small council and watery smiles the citizens on the street throw at him when he walks past that this is just the beginning of it all, the metaphorical cup that’s the hari bulkan brimming with grief that hasn’t spilled over. that will spill over.

his father taught him that a little loss sharpens the mind, too much leaves it wholly numb.he doesn’t know what stage he’s at, but he knows there’s been enough for him to sweep yerin away from the rest of the capital like the precious gem she is to him, the pearl that sits in its glory amongst the rest of the seabed. he won’t feel guilty about monopolising her time and confining her to their personal palace’s walls (because that’s what he’s doing essentially, no matter how he tries to conceal it with pretty intentions) if he thinks that it’s for her safety, that it’s what best for her. that he’s what’s best for her.

leaving her for weeks alone, chaeyul has no answer for that, and she still cradles him like the first time they met. the affection in her eyes feels like it could stave off anything bad in the world, and he wishes he could concentrate more on the way her giggle pinches at his heart if not for the way it sinks to his stomach at her words.

“what?” he repeats again around the lump in his throat, and his own voice sounds faraway to him like he’s listening as a third person privy to their conversation. words aren’t enough to encapsulate the panic that claws at his chest, the realisation that his impenetrable fortress for her isn't as impenetrable as he thought it was and worse yet, that he wouldn’t have known until it was too late because he left her alone. he thinks she sees the way his face falls anyways, that sharpness in his eyes. “there was a man with a knife in your chambers?” 

[ ... ]

and so he decides to pretend. both for his sake, and for the prince standing on the bridge before him, eyes flickering and hands kept behind his back, a slight nod of his head to his subordinates that brush past him without ever looking back.

he tilts his head slightly, calm and composed, yet with the slightest mask of confusion obscuring his gently smiling face. 

“how may i help you, prince chaeyul?” the words linger in the night air, frozen with apathy, as though the person being confronted was not him in person, nor in name.

he’d been taught only recently by yerin that relying on forgiveness and kindness is the only way to keep yourself sane during insane times, but chaeyul lashes out like a struck hound at the first opportunity he gets.

“you should be careful swinging that big sword around.” there’s a smidge of something in his words that could be called threatening, if it weren’t for the way his voice hitches slightly with his sharp inhale of breath. he knows the warning catches in his throat – hates how it catches, even – because it always does when he’s in front of the other like a habit he can’t extract from his brain. 

suddenly chaeyul’s eighteen and cowering again, a small scrap of a prince with a paper crown on his head that nobody thinks belongs there. 

now, he offers xuanyu a mawkish smile, biting his tongue as if that’ll be adequate enough of a defence against the way the mockery presents itself in his words anyways. his eyes hold a glimmer of suspicion that he knows the other catches, that he wants the other to catch as the only palpable warning he’ll be able to get across without drawing too much attention. “one slip of the hand and you might actually hurt someone. i know you have a natural disposition for violence but unnecessary bloodshed should be kept to a minimum during times like these, do you not agree?” 

chaeyul leaves little space for xuanyu to talk, and even less space for him to disagree. he supposes this ugly amalgamation of unspoken words and stifled anger is the consequence of burning bridges when ego gets in the way, like it always does, between the headstrong. but nine years of what he essentially counts as silence coupled with resentful glances across the royal court, and he wonders if there was ever a time where he looked at the other and didn’t feel the wave of bile burn in his throat. 

he shifts. feels the weight of the sword inside the sheath resting against his thigh just to ground himself again, to remind himself to keep breathing and keep both feet on the ground.

[ ... ]

when they were out of sight, she decided to look at chaeyul again. “ you look so different, ” her eyebrows furrowed in worry. “ i almost didn’t recognise you. ”

he’s long known that there’s prices that have to be paid in every war, that no benefit comes without its reciprocal burden like a lingering curse hanging over the nation. chaeyul remembers it being one of the very first things his father had taught him, the politics and economics of war etched into his brain because it was more important that he could implement a budget for the military above being able to comfort citizens that had lost their family to the fires. he remembers it leaving a bitter taste on his tongue like one too many apple pips chewed, but he’s never tasted it quite like now, the price of war that weighs heavy on his mind. loss, and constant loss at that.

forgetting in the form of selective memory is what he does best and yet the past always finds a way to attach itself to him, catching him out when he least expects to be caught. maybe that’s why seeing akane now feels acrid more than anything, frail body tucked away into the loneliness of the royal court like hidden treasure, the nobles continuing their vulture swoop around her with newfound determination. 

the fire lord’s wife. chaeseong’s wife. he can see the red that radiates off her in waves unnoticed by the rest of the fawning people, anger the primary feeling one jumps to when cornered into a position they don’t want to be in. akane’s no different. chaeyul knows that.

“i can say the same for you.” the smile that accompanies his words is wry, voice echoing off the empty corridor regardless of the way he tries to quieten. he thinks he can count on a single hand the amount of times he had seen akane in the last few years, on a finger the amount of times he had seen her smile and he can’t find it within himself to blame her. 

[ ... ]

She folds his fingers into her own hand and leans in to brush a kiss over his knuckles, smiling down at him. “That is precisely what I fear, Chaeyul. No one to tell me when I’m being too indulgent. Modesty is a practice I would like to keep. I’m afraid of what I would be like if I grew accustomed to having things my way all the time. Trials build character.” She insists with an affirmative nod, her lips shaping too tender a smile, evidenced by the impression his question leaves upon her. The edges of her mouth twitch and falter, narrowing as Yerin’s own head does, inquisitive and soft.

“Yes … ? In light of what happened.” She pauses, laughing because of him. “The man I saw in the courtyard four nights ago, Chaeyul.”

 “i do not think there’s such a thing as being too indulgent when you’re deserving of it all, no? i like to think you do have your way all the time.” there’s a beat of quiet and he’s grinning when he talks again, words holding a teasing lilt to them. “i fear my universe would crumble otherwise.” for chaeyul, it’s much easier to act like a fool in love when he truly is one, yerin at the core of it all for him like a precious gem he has to hide away. she makes it easy, her thumbs pressing under his eyes to cradle his face like he’s worthy of her gentle touches– she doesn’t seem to notice the blood on his hands like everybody else does, or maybe she chooses not to because she loves him. because he loves her.

yerin’s love is organic, something that could fuel him for years to come because she gives and gives and gives and it never seems to be enough for him, that alcove in his heart missing her constantly even when he’s nestled in her lap now. he’s always gone with the wind nowadays, creeping into the crevice of his mind that’s still stuck in the warzone, yerin teasing lightly at his penchant for daydreaming like neither of them know the reason he stares into blank space so often.

he doesn’t deserve her, he knows. but he’s always been selfish, and he refuses to change that when it comes to her.

her words ring in his brain with that dim sort of fear that creeps up quietly at first, before sending his heart lurching, thudding against his chest. chaeyul sits up, hand reaching up to set the damp towel aside on the table when his eyebrows draw together, mouth turned down in that mild frown. he traps yerin in his gaze. “the man in the courtyard four nights ago?”

[ ... ]

sayuri lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room. “oh, sorry?” her eyes darted back to him, unsure if he had said anything. a worry struck her then. suddenly, she worried he might have said something and she had missed it. she worried she would blink and he would be gone and all she would be able to do was miss him. it seemed to her that was all she could do now—miss, and worry, and wish. her life was a perfect graveyard of buried hopes, and she worried she would one day have to bury him in it, too.

trying to find routine during times that demand nothing but irregularity feels too similar to trying to find a needle in a haystack. chaeyul remembers embracing spontaneity for the better part of his life, though it appears like something that’s eons ago when all he craves now is some level of consistency, something stable in an unstable land; waking up one morning and knowing what awaits him seems misty, like some absurd dream.

hammerhal is much too far away from the capital for someone who’s gotten used to the distance between the front and back borders of a battlefield, but sayuri always bursts into his life like clockwork with the panache of someone who knows she’s wanted there. the routine he needs. his eyes catch the unnaturalness of her smile, present because she needs it to be and not because she wants to– but he doesn’t do a good job of pretending he doesn't spot it because she knows him like the back of her hand, soft despite all she’s been through. he returns it with one of his own, however shaky. 

“nothing we should worry about. i heard from the court’s physician that cold milk is better for the body than warm milk, anyways.” he says, stepping aside. he hasn’t, but he supposes a little fib when they’ve been immersed in nothing but bigger ones and sweeping betrayals is a necessary reprieve for the two of them. it’s the little things, he thinks, cold milk and little lies. a wolf howls somewhere in the distance, and suddenly she seems like she’s not there anymore. “sayuri?”

the elephant in the room, her loss and way she’s seemed to wrap up her grief into silence, is almost suffocating. almost, only because her character fills up the entire room before anything else can, like it always does, and she’s looking at him hesitantly with some pinch of worry in her eyes. 

he wonders if she’s scared he’ll be gone too, sooner than either of them would expect. he knows he’s scared she might disappear, the stubbornness that pins her down in hammerhal like a curse for him, as though if he takes his eyes off her for a second too long she’ll slip from between his fingers. everyone else seems to nowadays.

[ ... ]

"your grace," he addresses chaeyul with a calm tone, though his eyes are avoidant of the older's face and the scar that brandishes him; the scar that shows he, too, has fallen a victim to this madness. in another lifetime, closeness would know them instead, body against body as chaiya would enclose his arm around the other, only to be subsequently chewed into. now, a crevasse stands between them and all emotion that has the misfortune of finding itself attempting to fly over, rather falls into the cold abyss. "if i may." and he dares, in a way that he has never dared before; for it is not chaiya of the house sathanna that speaks, not the young lord of the ember islands that everyone snickers about behind his foolish back — it's the lieutenant that speaks now, a soldier covered in filth. "with our recent losses," he lifts his head, gazes finally meeting, "i am certain that everyone in the capital is beyond happy, myself included — truly, marriage is a beautiful and should be celebrated — but our men at the borders with south — we are disheartened, your grace."

there’s no place for fire on land.

he’s acquainted with the first-hand the effects of it when it’s uncontained and used as a weapon for war, the stench it leaves behind when it pulls a veil of death over every village it destroys in its wake. nowadays the blessing of the gods, the power that thrums underneath his fingertips like the only lifeline that’s keeping him afloat right now, seems more like a curse than anything else. he knows it’s hard for the villagers to separate the flames from the chaos they create, but it’s even harder to pretend like he doesn’t see the fear flicker in their eyes when they catch sight of him. 

fire doesn’t differentiate, and neither do they. for them, he’s no different to the ones on the other side.

you may not, chaeyul burns to say because he knows the lashing of his tongue, sharp like the pointed sword that sits vested in his scabbard now, has the ability to inflict a greater wound on chaiya than any weapon possible. but he’s tired of striking, the first instinct he has to lash out built into him after years and years of fighting and winning and losing and fighting. chaeseong reminds him often that he needs to hold those closest to him against his heart, but seeing chaiya marked with a thousand new scars feels like a slap to the face. 

he doesn’t remember the last time he had gifted the other with healing creams. it seems like a childhood folly from hundreds of years ago now, like concealing the scars block out the memories etched into their brains.

instead he stares down at the other, gaze levelled like he can really convince either of them he’s as calm as he pretends to be. “you would be a fool to not expect demoralisation in a war. i wasn’t aware our men at the south were such optimists.” his voice is a murmur to conceal the irritation simmering under the surface, a secondary emotion to the core of what he really feels: helplessness. “i suppose they believe the aim of the war is to make them feel good about themselves? unfortunately, we don’t have time to nurture hurt feelings if we are to emerge victorious; you win some battles and you lose some battles. surely soldiers expected nothing else.” 

chaeyul pauses for a second, hand tapping against the wooden table.

he learns quickly that loss is something volatile, something uncontrollable like flames licking at the corners of rooms, something that makes its presence known every moment of every waking day. he learns even more quickly that the grief that follows is something much worse because it expands and then recoils back into itself, swallowing everything and everyone with it until the entire nation is awash with a dark wave. it’s hard to celebrate small victories when everyone knows of the bloodshed that had paved the way for it, every peal of laughter falling on silent ears that are honed to only listen out for anguished cries.

the easiest way to not topple into madness is to find someone to blame, like chaeyul does, finger pointing towards chaehwi because it’s the only answer that makes sense. he’s always known there’s a monster in every person that only stirs when you give them freedom, but to see chaesol fall victim to the curse is something that burns at his chest.

“you should have just killed me if you planned on betraying us like this. maybe it would have hurt much less.” his smile is bitter where it rests on his mouth, words holding that unintentional echo in the stillness of the prison when he finally sets his eyes on chaesol; his heart doesn’t ache at the sight only because he wills it not to. she does not suit her surroundings, the rustic iron bars and the window large enough to let in only a pale stream of moonlight. 

she does not suit the position of a traitor either, and yet she’s proven herself one. 

“you were never a monster like this. has our little brother poisoned your mind with his madness?” chaeyul’s voice echoes off the stone walls like a thousand accusations tearing into her, and he inhales sharply, the breath caught in his throat. there’s a brief pause. when he speaks again, his voice is laced with desperation, anger spilling out through the cracks. “speak, chaesol! is he threatening you? how will you explain the bloodshed to me? explain it!”

[ ... ]

“When it’s finished, we’ll have grand walls that rise up like wings and cover us just enough so the garden can still benefit from the sun and the rain.” Yerin singsongs, the smile on her face resonating as truth. “I hadn’t intended for them to be that high initially, though I figure it’s better to be cautious in light of what happened. Do you think it will take the builders long?” Yerin asks with a pout as she reaches across for a roll of bandages she intends to wrap his burn with. She removes the cloth from his forehead and wipes it down his cheeks before returning it against the bowl. “I hope not. That way you’ll still be here to see it when it’s finished.”​

chaeyul’s led ghosts home again.

he can tell because yerin’s holding him like he’s crafted from porcelain, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks where he’s laying his head in her lap. a loving gaze is unfamiliar to him after weeks spent pretending like he can’t see the exhaustion pulling at the eyes of countless soldiers, tiredness a secondary feeling pushed aside for the sake of marching forwards. nobody says it to his face but he knows none of them really feel human anymore, the silent confession permeating throughout the battlefield until the air is almost suffocating with its thickness.

what is suffocating is the stench of death that follows him around everywhere. it’s a godless reminder that even he can’t run away from it all, despite the safe haven he’s built for the two of them, a secluded palace of their own just because yerin’s a treasure he can’t afford to lose amidst the chaos. just because yerin’s a treasure he doesn’t want to see in any proximity to the chaos, more than anything.

and yet he’s here but he’s not really here – chaeyul feels like half of him is between yerin’s fingers and the other half has been left somewhere in the south, strung up on the trees like the threat chaehwi had made in the form of rotting towns. he’s heard of death knocking on people’s doors but he had never seen it before and now, it’s all he sees when he blinks, the macabre portrait burned onto his eyelids.

chaeyul flinches at the dampness of the towel, eyes flickering open. everything else except her voice finally dims out into white noise, and he feels the corners of his own mouth tugging to match the placid smile she’s wearing, his fingers reaching absentmindedly to intertwine with her free hand. “i did. it looks beautiful, darling. even better than last time, i can tell you’ve been dedicating time to it.”

he’s pulling up her fingers now to press a kiss against the tips of each one of them, appreciating the artist behind the art. “who needs the sun around you here when it pales in comparison to your brightness?” he murmurs, eyes crinkling with his tell-tale smile. “we can tell the builders to do whatever, they know better than to question your imagination, mm? i’m excited to see how else your plans will change. people do say the best plan is no plan after all.” 

he remembers having done the same thing during chaesan’s name day, the way he extends his arm towards akane for her to take like a lifeline to pull her out from the sea of nobles. it feels like a thousand years ago. she feels like a thousand miles away now, the tenseness in her jaw unfamiliar to chaeyul only because it seems to be directed at his presence, eyes sharpening into steel knives the second his voice reaches her ears. 

her rage is expected, akane’s silent wrath possessing the power to scorn with a single look and yet he still finds himself flinching, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. he can’t stand the idea of any more hate, any more anger.

these are the bittersweet bones that grow around the passing of time; she’s looking at him like he’s indecipherable, and he doesn’t think he’s looking at her any differently. chaeyul knows more than anyone what it feels like to be cornered into a position every single part of you is resisting, but he also knows more than anyone that pitying her only enrages her more. even when the misery in her eyes pinches at his heart with culpability, akane a physical reminder of the omnipresent and bitter truth that anybody close to the fire lord’s crown gets burned. 

an apology isn’t enough in proportion to the way the takao house has been reduced to ashes with the torch of the royal family. it’s his guilt that stands in the way of him looking at her now, his eyes flickering to the nobles behind her when he murmurs. the light smile on his mouth is unconvincing to himself, let alone anyone else. 

“would you mind following me inside? i believe you’re needed for some preparations.” 

now twenty seven years old (thumbs down from him) in 47BG, the events of the past two years have weathered him down significantly and seeing the horrors of the war first hand means that he’s lost most of his humour and general air of energy/preppiness/recklessness that used to characterise him

not to say he’s stoic entirely; his affection for the commoners and remaining members of his family has still remained, and he holds the people left in the fire nation that have clearly marked themselves out to support chaeseong’s reign dear to his heart

which is to say, even in the darkest of times, he will be attempting to put their happiness before his and revert to his more easy/care-free personality if it helps take the burden of the chaos around them off their shoulders

whether it’s very obvious or not that he’s just putting on a fake smile for them remains to be seen

unsurprisingly, pacifist chaeyul is not very pleased that there’s a war going on

he had already started when lady sang was assassinated, but chaesan’s death spurred him on to finally take his role and duties seriously and he has been avidly training (both firebending and hand to hand combat, though the former is his speciality for obvious reasons) and has blossomed into a firebending weapon

as someone who hates war and is pained seeing so many innocent deaths, he’s still not the best when it comes to military decisions and leaves most of it to chaein (who was injured in the great waltz and he is currently soaking in guilt)

does fight in battles however (pretty frequently, like throwing himself into every fight makes up for his years of indolence) and i have given him a sick ass scar/burn wound that starts from the right side of his neck and extends all the way to his upper right arm/chest just bc i can and just bc i remembered prince zuko again :p

much more paranoid now; he feels like the world’s been spinning on its axis far too fast for him to catch up and he’s still trying to put the pieces of everything together. the multitude of assassinations over the past couple of years has left him fearing for him and his loved ones’ lives, and he’s still stuck in his (admittedly, childish) hope that he can keep all of them safe

[ ... ]

he looks like the boy she loved before. qiuji won’t say anything about this, come the morning. there’ll be rites to observe, and a person to mourn. a nation to go on, where he’s meant to be the royal prince and she a lesser noble. but just for now, before the sun rises, they’ll be them for a moment once more.

“i’m sorry, too.” 

they both know what he’s sorry for. he’s never been one to believe that a picture could say a thousand words but he’s all too knowing about how silence can be impossibly stifling, the weight of unsaid words and heavy quietude in the night air saying tenfold more than what any picture could. he feels the palpable heaviness now like the dampness of the rain still sticking to their skin, qiuji’s focused gaze on him unfamiliar after years of stealing glances and swift avoidances.

he’s quiet throughout it all, head leaned against her gently, still holding one hand in his like he’s afraid letting it go means he won’t ever be able to reach out for it again. 

a part of him feels bitter that it had taken an uprooted nation and a plethora of tragedies before she could even bear to look at him now but at twenty five, chaeyul knows he’s too old to blame other people for the consequences of his own actions. at twenty five, he’s sick of the constant weariness that boils in his heart, feeling like he’s been rotting away from inside out.

at twenty five, the way she has her thumb over his cheek to brush away the stray hairs that fall on his face feel especially like she’s saving him from something. the big unknown of tomorrow.

chaeyul’s always hated how everything feels uncertain when you’re on the outer wings of royalty, a touch-and-go position where a gust of wind strong enough (or a vial of poison carefully tipped into a meal, as the events of the night have shown) could be enough to break him down. and searching for certainty means he’ll run to the people he’s most familiar with, however long ago the intimacy once was, the places he knows like the back of his hand. 

qiuji occupies both categories easily.

[ ... ]

“I was not there for my aunt. I was not there for my mother. I was not there for my brother. I don’t —  I cannot, I will not be bested. Made out to be vulnerable. Made out to be a fool. Made out to be weak.” She emphasizes with keen strain, gritted teeth sheathed as she presses her lips together tightly. “I refuse that, Chaeyul.” Yeona murmurs, softer as if she had reclaimed the part of her peace that was slipping, hand extending to pat his knee. 

“It was never your role to play caretaker, you know.” She smiles finally. “Growing up, all I can remember is scolding you for being irresponsible. Now look at you. Time has passed, truly.”

his silence is an apology to her, his tongue caught between his teeth when he bites down. 

selective cognizance, a skill chaeyul’s learned to craft after twenty five years of setting aside everything he wants to ignore, means there’s certain things he can lift from the way yeona’s looking at him now, how she’s sitting with her hands folded in her lap carefully, eyes flickering only where he moves. the fact that she’s allowing him to be this close means she wants him there for some reason lost to him, her silence nothing less than a thin layer he knows conceals the storm that undoubtedly stirs inside her. 

“vengeance is draining, even for someone like you. draining to handle alone, at least. you have me, and i do not doubt that you have chaein, too.” he doesn’t fail to notice the way she ignores the bread, though he knows the lashing of her tongue if he brings it up would be more unforgiving than usual. he nudges the plate towards her inconspicuously instead, ever so slightly. “they would be a jester to deem you weak after knowing you have survived everything.”

selective cognizance means he can try to read yeona if he wants to, but he doesn’t take notice of the weight her eyes hold when they rest on him (or at least he tells himself he doesn’t), never losing their sharp glint like an unsheathed knife despite being in the face of someone who’s always felt closer to her family than his. he wonders briefly if this is how she draws a barrier between the two of them, reminding him that he’ll always have the taint of royalty attached to his name before he can ever consider himself her family. 

he doesn’t blame her. not when there’s been so much misery in her life just because of their association with the crown that sits in the heart of hari bulkan now, the amalgamation of precious metals like a curse they can’t rid their hands of. he doesn’t perceive her gaze because he doesn’t want to, because taking note of it would mean that his being a burden to her would be a fact.

“yes, i suppose time makes a fool out of us all, does it not? i never liked playing caretaker, either.” his own smile is a reply to hers, though the way his mouth curves still holds a pinch of sadness. “you used to smile more at me, even if it was out of exasperation. now, i fear a genuine one from you is as rare as a blue moon.”

( His incredulity sounds itself in a little exhale whose warmth makes for the embers that his eyes catch, glancing up at Chaeyul then. )  ’Crown prince’.  ( He repeats, as if he were sampling it for himself first before the alcohol, tongue pitter-pattering against his lips. )  Do you not prefer ‘brother’? Or some other kind of moniker? I would hate to be addressed so formally for the rest of my life. Especially by someone who I thought was my friend.  ( One wink as he lifts his hand up, fingers wrapping around the cusp as he shapes his lip around the edge of it, swallowing it down in one, burning and aching tug. )  This is supposed to be a pastime between friends is it not?  ( Clarifying through a strained rasp as he winces through the consumption. )   Awful.  ( Chaeseong spits, tongue licking over his lips as he raises a singular, inquisitive brow, head tilting with his own surprise. )  

…  But? Not bad. Bring me another.

( ‘ / his consequent smile is a flash, fingers reaching somewhere behind him to pull out another bottle of liquid gold with all the éclat of a magician performing a trick. his words are accompanied by a teasing lilt, head tilted. ) i prefer whatever nickname the crown prince likes. if brother is the one you choose, brother it shall be. ( ‘ / he slips the drink into chaeseong’s waiting hand, pushing himself up so he can be perched atop the stone wall, patting the space next to him. ) ( ‘ / he’s learned by now that numbing yourself is the opening move when it comes to ignoring your precarious position in the royal family. the second step is still undecided, though he hopes chaeseong can help him find it. ) it’s good, not not bad. of course, i presume your lack of fine dining means the greatness of alcohol is unfamiliar to you. dragons don’t share the fire nation’s love for drinking, am i right?