Trying Hard, So Hard

“I embarrassed myself in front of the entire crew in the cafeteria. I now require death.” Kona looks forlorn, like her life truly is at an end.

Squishes Ritsu’s face. “I need you to yeet me into the sun.”

London, 1888 AD, a city of machines blanketed in a thick, magical fog. Kona had been here before, though briefly and literally a century and then some later. This was completely different from what she had experienced. There were no crowds, no trolleys, just thick layers of fog rolling through the streets. It was that damned fog’s fault that she was separated from the main team.

“I don’t sense anything,” Kona said aloud. She knew Lancelot wasn’t far from her, even if he did blend in nearly perfectly with the surrounding atmosphere. “Not even Ritsu or Mash. Shit, how far did we go?” A mess of Automatons lay scattered around them, their strange ball jointed limbs strewn all over the street. Lancelot had made quick work of them. He always did.

“Maybe I should have stayed at Chaldea a little longer.” The woman leaned back against a wall, using it to prop herself up while she rested her aching legs. She still didn’t feel in top form after getting out of her cryo coffin, but they needed all the help they could get with fixing humanity’s history. When she finally managed to pull a servant- the one and only Lancelot du Lac- she was immediately put into active duty, mostly going into previous singularities to clean up any remaining abnormalities. She’d bonded a bit with Lancelot, or so she’d thought, but he’d remained mostly silent the entire time they’d been present in London.

clothing style.

before - bed routine. 

eating habits.

concept of home and family. 

hobbies. 

fighting style.

what calms your muse down after a bad day?

talk about one person your muse loves.

ways your muse says i love you.

describe your muse’s laugh. 

what items can be found in your muse’s pockets? 

talk about your muse’s most prized possession(s).

describe your muse’s walk. 

talk about your muse’s accent.

describe your muse’s smile. 

how often does your muse get sick?

does your muse know when to rest, or do they push themselves?

does your muse snore? sleeptalk? sleepwalk?

the thing(s) your muse thinks about before falling asleep.

is your muse a fitful or a quiet sleeper?

your muse’s thoughts on cops and other authority figures.

skills and special talents. 

disabilities or illnesses. 

habits and mannerisms.

introvert or extrovert.

religious or non - religious.

verbal or non - verbal communication.

something your muse could never forgive.

something that makes your muse smile.

something that scares your muse.

something that gives your muse hope.

how your muse responds to being helped / taken care of.

how your muse responds to unconditional love.

how your muse responds to danger.

how your muse responds to stress.  

how your muse responds to anger.

alternatively send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible !

“ Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriæ, dies magna et amara valde,” Kona’s clear voice spread over the battlefield. Corpses lay, some burned, others mutilated, nearly all innocent, strewn across the bloody space before her. “Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem.” Her words were concise, her voice not betraying the tears streaming from her clamped shut eyes.

“ Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.” She thought she was alone, free to let her emotions empty out into the Requiem she sang. She always did this after a battle. But this was the first time she’d been caught.

As her song died down, she turned to look toward where their camp was established. Her tired gaze finally settled on her one man audience, and she found herself too exhausted to care that she’d been caught. She reached up and wiped her eyes, slowly making her way toward Salieri.

“ Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriæ, dies magna et amara valde,” Kona’s clear voice spread over the battlefield. Corpses lay, some burned, others mutilated, nearly all innocent, strewn across the bloody space before her. “Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem.” Her words were concise, her voice not betraying the tears streaming from her clamped shut eyes.

“ Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis.” She thought she was alone, free to let her emotions empty out into the Requiem she sang. She always did this after a battle. But this was the first time she’d been caught.

As her song died down, she turned to look toward where their camp was established. Her tired gaze finally settled on her one man audience, and she found herself too exhausted to care that she’d been caught. She reached up and wiped her eyes, slowly making her way toward Salieri.

Kona presents Salieri with a cake. It’s red and white, with black music notes scrolling around the sides. “I heard your birthday is soon! Happy birthday.” Is there a grail stuffed inside for him? Yes. Did she tell him? No.

“today, i believe.” technically. the vagueness of what time zone or even day it is leaves that only a probably rather than something he’s able to say with certainty, but close enough. “thank you, kona. i appreciate it.”

it’s a pretty cake indeed. but there’s a weird sort of – metaphysical weight to it, he’ll say, a magic sparkling hazily around the center, not seen but felt. salieri prods at it curiously, not so uncouth as to shove a finger into the cake (he knows about cutlery, thankyouverymuch), but testing at the magical energy there. 

it comes in a spark as he plucks at the web of it, coalescing into the light of a grail, one of those shards that comes in a result of the singularities. it flickers over the cake for a second before disappearing again, but the answer is clear enough.

self-conscious, flustered suddenly – is is someone who can easily accept a cake, he’s allowed himself to think of himself as deserving of this. (it’s the show of care he’s allowed to accept, easier to take food and understand it is offered out of a bond than it is to listen to someone say such outright) but a grail – another, another of these things. he’s flushed, between honoured and embarrassed and the urge to refute something he does internally want.