( ɮ ) ᴸᴵᴳᴴᵀ ᴼᶠ ᴬᴾᴼᴸᴸᴼ

the Tarnished is wrong about one thing: this is no confession and this isn't guilt. Guilt is, instead, a thing of the past that Isaak has laid to rest. It rears its ugly head every once in a while, sure, but its assault against Isaak's defenses has long since ceased, choked on a lack of air like a dying fire. What remains is acceptance, carefully tended to like the dark, starlit gardens he used to traverse once. [ Out to watch your queen bleed, traitorous and conniving. Has he truly fallen into the grasp of the Cuckoos' adage all these years later? Does his history make him a prodigal knight, and does his former affiliation make him an accomplice to murder rather than a merciful kill? Sometimes he still wonders if Ranni will have his head, even if he's received Iji's assurances to the contrary before. ]

❛  good. ❜  blade withdrawn, he follows the sorcerer’s sights to where new danger lurks. ❛  guilty men are intolerable. ❜ 

the curved blade hangs on his shoulder, launched back in wait of the first swipe. with a nod he follows the knight’s sights and waits; there is a murmur of dissent as the stony visages appear, one by one, followed by a myriad of stone-head cuckoos with their staffs raised. the line of his blade catches in bloodfire, and when he swings it outward from the side of the entry way, it cuts a wave and takes their heads with it. a howl sounds as he peels out of the shadows, pointing the blade-end to the ceiling. ❛  think the dog’s pissed? ❜ 

it had been — and turned out to be none other than radagon’s beast. there was a question here what the former spouse’s entities were doing here still, but again, wherever they looked, signs of him had chained this academy to once place. they step closer now, with fewer and fewer hostiles remaining. from the dust laden balcony ways, he retrieves an academy glintstone key.

too many people leave the past behind too fast, as though it were a meaningless fad. He's found that tending to a small tether, in whatever shape or form it takes, is a worthy investment. Gustave remains silent as he examines the set of lenses, takes note of the partially worn - off serial number. “ Out of production stateside, maybe, ” he says, but the debate is hardly unkind. He taps his finger on the number. “ If I remember right, these are from a limited production line back in forty - five, and France has a sizable sphere of ... let's say vintage enthusiasts. Mostly corpos and socialites dans Paris and repairs are basically no expense for them. Si seulement, hein? ”

and gustave knows more than he does, talking it out without bribing a coin out of him for every spec and detail. he listens carefully, eyes attentive and brows boyishly furrowed. ❛  i want them, ❜  he said quietly, mind made up given gustave’s recall; if the optics were out of production stateside, then there was a chance netrunner’s in night city may flinch at the unexpected copyright. that was all he really needed: a second’s hesitation could turn the tide in a knife fight. ❛  done. i’ll get your scratch. ❜ 

slowly, he presses two fingers to the casing, and after a beat, slides them further up gustave’s desk, handing them over. arms crossed, he debates saying more. his mouth even parts to speak, before it all clams shut and tight. turning about, his voice murmurs out before he’s gone. ❛  tschüss. ❜ 

the apple trees bloomed beautifully, the rare sight impa hopes to become less and less rarer the longer she’d get to live here. where she stands she is transfixed by the pale sun-like tapestry they chart over the decline dipping into kakariko - even with so much mountain and hillside surrounding them the light still comes through, a quiet brightness that can only exist when the sun manages to touch the canopy of trees in springtime, and she vows to inform some of her fellow sheikah to look out for the trees to remain unharmed, either by wild foxes or some of the larger birds that preferred to circle the village and sit in the long branches. there must have been an abundance of trees here, before everything and before they all chose to rebuild their village, so she is more than glad they could preserve some of them. it would mean for a bountiful harvest in late summer and autumn, something for all of them to do.

a quick shadow settles at her side, one she nearly misses from assuming it to be one of the aforementioned birds or smaller animals, and what she thinks might be one of her people is kenneth - looking much better this time around than the last few times she has seen him, not less daunting as the figure he strikes despite his youth ( or rather because of it ) with that scythe of his against his back like the evening sun disappearing into the ground. how very fitting, impa muses, as she always has seen him with one foot wilfully tumbling out of the sky and the other firmly planted here to raise hell wherever he goes. a soul like him, no matter how predisposed he used to be, is much more meant for these great planes of wilderness, for the toil of battle and the acrid scent of dirt and blood. sometimes she wagers the guess he likes it this way.

he greets her with a hand to her shoulder rather than words, and settles at her side where the birds sing overhead. the quiet here is almost unnervingly peaceful, he supposes he understands why she chooses to stand here by herself, alone with her thoughts. his head turns when they align at the shoulders, eyes skating the look of amusement on her face. he opens his arms a little, and glances down at the attire they had fitted him with. yes, there is a flicker of great satisfaction on his face at having gotten his hands on sheikah armour at last. ❛  yes. ❜  he gestured between them with his hands. ❛  i watched you sew. ❜  it wasn’t as good as her work, but it was something and he wanted to keep it like treasure. her next words get his attention, and he looks up, lowering his arms. there’s a hum of agreement when he does watch the trees. ❛  i saw you by yourself. what were you thinking about? ❜

time seemed to blur, then. the young man played in a half-dissociated state, his prosthetic not a burden but a strength, stony in the face of cheap insults, thankful for his gracious team — he couldn't imagine being surrounded by the ravens, they were barbaric. beasts. he'd faced worse back in krat. they couldn't phase him, these overgrown bullies. could only irk him, but kenneth...? kenneth got under his skin. delivered his promised fight with a fist and flippant behavior, all so pointed, and sent him away. only siblings could twist a knife this expertly. romeo became a ball of shame, all fire and passion. he trudged away, throat hot, skin tingling, thanking the nurse for their concern but insisting that he was fine. he'd taken worse beatings in his life, had been severed. this was just a punch.

it felt nice to dismiss it as such. baby fists, he'd spat with a knot in his throat. he's still a baby, my brother. forgive him. the crowd dulled to distant noise as romeo apologized to his coach and entered the hall, angry tears stinging his eyes. he'd fallen into the trap set out for him. took the bait and embarrassed his teammates. (they'd be kind about it, he knew, but that didn't make him feel any better.)

the ravens get very little out of him despite their prodding or morbid curiosities. his blank faced disinterest as they spewed more coarse and unimaginable disrespect on romeo’s name had eventually faded their interest. what was the point of poking a dog that hardly noticed the stick ramming into his gut, or the boot stomping down on its tail? by the time the game was called, the raven’s retreated with their glory in tact. between one moving body and the next, he was gone too : they expected as much, he was too uppity about tidiness to share someone else’s version of it even in the locker rooms. which made for the perfect escape from reality—

❛  it didn’t. ❜ he said, flexing his fist near his own chest. his knuckles were reddened less from the hit now than they had been before, and more from the pressure of his gloves as he removed one. the same couldn’t be said from the bruise he’d left on romeo’s cheek. tilting his head, he pretended to be astonished at the sight. ❛  i don’t gotta ask if it hurt your face. ❜

he steps closer, as if this wasn’t trojan territory he was intruding on. one look at him from jeremy would tell the sunflowers a wolf was trying his luck on their side of the kingdom. it didn’t matter, he was half way across the room with his quiet steps, fingers digging into romeo’s hair to yank his head back slowly. the still-water fury in his eyes was loathsome as he spoke with just-barely gritted teeth.

     easy compliance if not for the yard long stare that preceded the inevitable undressing.   with clinical precision she wields a pair of fabric scissors.   frayed edges done away with like weeds as she begins to conduct the makeshift surgery across the disarray that was her desk.   ❛   so you need one for every day of the week then?   i'm not your personal stylist,   ken.   ❜   he had a varying schedule and a penchant for scrapes there was no amount of attire she could fashion that would be kenneth vareck-proof.   

❛  maybe if you were my stylist, i’d have waited. ❜  he sees it now, she is unhappy that he went without her, that he risked it without her at his side or his on hers. it’s hypocritical too, when he had busied himself in her business without permission and admonished her for going anywhere dangerous on her own, only to turn around and vanish first into trouble. he sees it, of course, but would he ever be remorseful for it? ❛  but as it turns out, i can’t afford you. ❜