rigil goes to eorzea

lyse and he have one of those rare and important friendships where you can actually call someone on their bullshit, they trust each other quite a lot and get along maghificently. he often visits! there is also a big group of people he likes that end up conglomerating (lyse fordola arenvaald, sometimes rauhban), so he usually has a great time. emmanellaine is also oft in ala mhigo for reasons i cut from my timeline but the tendancy remains.

reddy is more like his boss and i dq'd everyone else he works with or for on a regular basis i just forget that sunsilk is a job and not a hobby. the wol stuff gets in the way too much.

eng hangs out with hildebrand heliodor maximillian manderville more than is probably healthy for the headache amounts of the people around him lmao.

eng:

eng:

-

vamp fatale does not answer her slab when tyrant calls it. this isn't unusual. she parts with her personal contact information most sparringly, but she still receives dozens of superfluous calls per day. she is the heir to a dynasty, and is leadership still to sizable portions of those titanic industries. he understands well the demands upon her time, and likewise the impossible desire to dispense with the noise and dwell for a moment in silence, instead.

no one is like to perish should vamp fatale, however, set aside those noisesome obligations for the moment. and so, do we arrive at her tendancy to ignore her slab from time to time.

vamp fatale, however, does not miss practice.

vamp fatale did not even willingly miss practice during her growth period. the nurse technicians had to declare a medical intervention.

tyrant doesn't experience 'worry' or 'fear', but he finds himself running anyway. he should mind that people capture video of him when he shifts into a cauahepya, but the thought does not cross his mind. there is only a rising sense of pressure in his center, and the need to run faster and then faster, and the feeling he gets in a match sometimes, when his body is screaming 'end it!'.

he slams his hand into the flatpad outside vamp fatale's room. the door slides open to reveal darkness. he shifts without thinking, his vision sharpening, the darks becoming lighter and the sharp outlines of the room audibly coming into focus. the sofa is empty. the cafe stools by the bar are empty. he waves the door to the bedroom open, and recoils from the sudden burst of pain. her slab, he sees, in blinked blue afterimages. the screen is bright like a flash bang, lighting up again and again with calls. the bed is empty, but the sheets are rumpled, used, hanging off the side of the bed as if someone had risen quickly. he stumbles around double-checking the apartment, but the act is to no avail. the apartment is empty.

his chest contracts. his breathing picks up. he's not afraid.

his own slab is alerting, he realizes. the vibration pattern indicates that the caller is metem. he puts the call through to his earpiece.

"tyrant!" metem exclaims. "where are you? i'm getting Sock alerts that-"

metem. metem, he realizes. metem has trackers on all of them, linked to their regulators. you're a fool, and a joke.

"metem," he says, urgently. "vamp fatale isn't in her apartment."

metem stops. "um... okay? is she supposed to be?"

try again. "check your FUCKING calendar," he hisses, feeling feral all of a sudden. is he still shifted?

metem falls quiet for a moment, a little hum here and there while he sorts data.

"ah ha!" he says. then: "oh, no."

metem knows her as well as tyrant does. it's his job.

another moment, then: "her regulator is about thirty khaas from your position. but..."

the silence hangs. he wants to start running, but 'pon what heading? he could be getting further away from her.

the energy strains under his skin, which feels painfully tight. if he had a dagger-

"im sending a medical team," metem says, decisively. "sending you her position."

there is a crowd of people pointing their cameras at her building when you burst out of it. you jump them, and pivot. it's a run that lasts seconds for you, the world blurring by. the street is bright with hard pink neons. her body is in a chair, slumped over an outdoor table as if she was just taking a nap. her standard regulator is on. it is shining bright red. not a show red. a warning red.

"metem," he says. his voice sounds strange. her pulse is slow. she's wearing sweatpants.

she stirs. she blinks.

"who...?" she slurs.

his blood freezes.

metem's shouted instructions about nasal spray locations fade out. tyrant reaches one trembling hand up to his own regulator. his, not an aac regulator, not a regular one, not even the heavy duty model he wore back when all he was was a hunter.

his was a gift from the president. the design is custom, fabricated for the champion of the arcadion and the champion of the arcadion alone.

he watches vamp fatale's still form as he presses the small mechanical button on the rim of his regulator. the world shivers, then blooms into soul sight mode. for a moment, the colors are magical. for a moment he is young again, marvelling at the pinks and purples and golds, the soft kaleidoscoping rainbows of shimmering light. for a moment, he allows himself to breathe it in.

the alternative is facing the reality. the reality is that he is scared. he is scared because when he looks at vamp fatale, all he can see are gummy, slimy patches of blackened rot.

psychonekrosis.

advanced.

-

hythlodaeus is there that day because his supervisor has finally seen fit to allow him to represent the bureau of the architect at the convocation's seasonal open comment session. hythlodaeus is authorized to be there, but is also a demonic rule-breaking little fright who had decided hades was 'moping' about the loss of his most recent apprenticeship and needed 'airing out'. As if hades were a rug.

He wasn't moping, and he doesn't encourage hythlodaeus' antics as a matter of routine. He highly doubts, however, that hythlodaeus will declaim the presentation he has been given in the carefully arranged way it had been intended. hythlodaeus is a fullsome supporter of what he calls the emotional connection fostered by spontaneity.

Thus and only thusly, he had permitted hythlodaeus to distract the secretaries so hades could gain entry. That is why hades is there that day. He is there to see elidibus, in simple white, rise to call the meeting to order. He is there to hear the whisper of motion run through the fields of dark hoods and matte robes. He is there to turn, and see with shock a figure in the back of the crowd wearing an entirely jet black mask.

The chamber is silent. Attention is divided between elidibus and the figure. No. That is not wholely true. Azem has tilted her head, a matter of a ha'degree or so. Her aether sharpens finely, almost imperceptably.

"Ah," she says, her voice loud in the quiet. "That would be my apprentice."

Breath stops. The room goes somehow even stiller.

elidibus visibly masters his posture. convocation members are not anointed. they don't come as a surprise. they do NOT come without warning. the world holds yet its breath.

"Of course," says elidibus. He extends a welcoming palm out to the figure, from whom the crowd has somehow withdrawn. "Please, join your master."

It is the last moment of the old world, and the first moment of the new.

The figure frowns. He opens his mouth, and his words are fierce and spiteful.

"Excuse you," he tells the adjucator of the will of the convocation, "but I have no master. And I am fine right here."

He sits directly on the ground then, and stares, and stares.

---------

He still finds himself mourning what he lost, every day. Enguerran's sense of taste had been horrific, and watching him politely grimace over the finest dishes Aymeric could offer had always made his heart squeeze with fondness. Enguerran has fussed and fretted over his outfits for every minute he had free, trotting out from the dressing room in form-fitting luxury after form-fitting luxury, critiquing every one while Aymeric sat in a chaise, never allowed to touch during the process no matter how deliberately provocative the ensemble had been. Enguerran had delighted most endlessly in teasing and flirting with Aymeric whenever possible, and it had made him feel special, and treasured. Phoenix eats whatever, wears whatever, and looks at Aymeric always with the detatched air of an inspector, attempting to sort out some distant puzzle. Phoenix is a ghost, shadowed by everything he isn't, and Aymeric knew well he wasn't over the loss of his intended, but knowing it is one thing. Being knifed in the gut with reminders of what you'd lost every day is another.

Yet. 'Tis also true that he is grateful, so grateful that sometimes he is brought near to tears. Phoenix laughs the same way Enguerran did, like he's quite suprised to find himself doing it. It is a challenge and a joy to make him laugh, to find to combination of things which unlocks that special smile. Phoenix fights the same way, too, with intensity and focus and breathtaking grace, like he something divine come to life in a bolt of fury. He is quick, and brilliant, and strong, and Aymeric finds himself wanting in the same way he used to, a desperate and intoxicating pull. He needs to touch. He needs to smell. He needs to possess. And of course, Phoenix sleeps like Enguerran did, one minutes all limbs asplayed, the next cuddled and clinging and pressed tightly against Aymeric's body. His heartbeat is quick, but steady, and his breath is sweet with the smell of paste, and his lips are soft where his head is tucked against Aymeric's shoulder and the world is, for a moment, as if it had never changed.