#𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒 — a multi-fandom multimuse for original characters as well as game/anime/manga characters (originally established in 2018, moved in 2026) medium activity, EST
featuring 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀 from 𝐖𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒
AFF. —
as written by MYTHE, she/her, latine, 35+
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Ships for my male muses are based on vibes/heavy plotting and mostly for the homies unless I find myself compelled. So if you're interested, compel me bro.
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very sleepy today so not sure how much writing i'll get done. however i am once more in hell thinking about xun since i was transcribing some of my metas for him again and my god i love this stupid dragon man...
@miburoni said: meta on atalanta's relationship to achilles?
You really had to do this to me, huh--
The thing is, Atalanta is (initially at least) very much annoyed by Achilles. Of course she knows who he is, and more importantly, she knows whose son he is, which is the crux of her irritation with him. She has no doubt that Achilles was raised well, that he was given the best he could be, which is why his impetuousness bothers her so much. His superiority is inherent, it’s known- there’s no reason for him to walk around as if everyone should be ready to bend to his whim all the time. Even if he is royalty, so is Atalanta, so are many of the other Servants, but Achilles is, as ever, filled with that unfortunate pride of his. It drives him to border on disrespectful when speaking to her, and if there’s one thing Atalanta won’t tolerate from anyone, it’s that.
She, who is not nearly so vaunted a Hero, is nevertheless an Argonaut, a huntress, the sole feller of the Calydonian boar and the fastest woman in Greece. She is the one and only Princess of Arcadia, regardless of whether or not she cares for the position. She is almost every bit as venerable as him save for her mortal blood, and she is strong enough and capable enough to command respect.
Yet Achilles, whose father was Atalanta’s comrade, who would certainly have told him of her exploits, treats her (at first) as nothing more than another, ordinary woman. A bauble, a prize- as if her lfe’s story wasn’t full enough of that already. Achilles acts as if, despite knowing what he does and being who he is, Atalanta should nevertheless see him as not only an equal, but someone who deserves her respect and adulation. And Atalanta... isn’t really that kind of person. So for a good portion of the story, Achilles rubs her in all the wrong ways because of this attitude.
That said, when it comes down to it, I don’t think (with the exception of one headcanoned person on Atalanta’s side) anyone else understands the two of them the way they understand each other.
Because they know each other and they know of each other, Atalanta and Achilles have a very unique insight into each other’s points of view. Even if they don’t agree with each other’s goals all the time, they can understand and respect where the other is coming from. They understand the hows and whys of their actions, because of the way their myths/histories intersect. Achilles understands that Atalanta is not ‘evil’ in the way the average person’s morality will make her seem, and Atalanta understands that Achilles’ pride doesn’t always make him callous or unable to sympathize the way most might expect. In fact, in the latter respect, I think Atalanta more than anyone except perhaps Chiron understands just how emotionally-driven Achilles can be-- which is part of what makes the way things end for them so tragic but also so good.
Because Achilles has always been someone who does the most when someone he cares about gets hurt. And the fact that he did all he did to ‘save’ Atalanta’s ability to remain true to herself as a ‘hero’ speaks to how much, despite all his bravado, he really does care about her. And the fact that Atalanta accepts his efforts in the end shows how much she cares about him. Not in a romantic sense (because once again, she’s friends with his father) but in the sense of someone who’s watched a nephew do something incredible for them and is both proud and grateful for their efforts.
So yes, Achilles and Atalanta are very important to each other, but in a way that’s so much more meaningful than the half-brained ‘romance’ a lot of fandom seems to want to shove them into.
𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐑𝐎𝐓 or complications in the tending of snowfield roses
(unfortunately (for him)) featuring @apocryphis's Aventurine | 2,193 words
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐀𝐓 the sight of him — not at his good looks, but at the pale, perilous phantom of your (former) self that seems to shadow his every step. He presents himself practiced, pristine and preening- a peacocking little pauper in a prince's trappings. Aventurine of Stratagems, one of the IPC's Stonehearts who was once little less than a person to them. For all intents and purposes, he likely still is- more expendable asset than human being. You believe know all you really need to know about him- except for the fact that looking at him is like looking in a kaleidoscope funhouse mirror.
He charms your contemporaries, your supporters- promises them the sky and stars wrapped in a neat, shimmering bow- and has the gall to look startled when your immediate refusal is met with unwavering support. Your constituents know, after all, which of you has their best interests at heart, so if he thinks, genuinely, that he's going to outdo you with one single, barely month-long campaign, he's sorely mistaken. He takes it better than you expect, but he doesn't stop trying.
And you hate him a little for it, at first.
You hate him more when he calls you 'friend' during attempted renegotiation- coos it, cloying and coquettish, but you recognize it for what it is: the carnivorous croon of a capable con-man- and you reply, without hesitation, that you no longer do business with 'friends'. He looks at Alexa like an accusation, you look at him like a warning. There are lines he should not cross with you- and you inform him of them without ever really saying a word.
Roses have thorns, Stoneheart- you should handle them with care.
(You don't think about how the last 'friend' you did business with was someone you took full advantage of without remorse. You don't think about how much the way he goes about things feels the same.)
Persistent to a fault, he seems to take offense to your refusal to fall for his flashy phrasing, his gaudy overtures. Offers 'gifts' you insinuate are bribes, offers 'compromises' you point out the losses in. Your people do not need the IPC's money, but the IPC desperately wants your System's power. Not a single one of those in positions of leadership are willing to cede it to them, and it becomes a stalemate. You become the figurehead on the chessboard, an immovable queen carved from rose-colored ice, a perennial, perpetual thorn in the IPC's side.
However, for as insistent as his bosses are, for how much they try and threaten, he, instead, learns.
It feels insulting to put it that way, but it's the truth of it; the IPC cares less about Grandis than it does about what it holds. Its people, its locales, its traditions- none of them mean a damn thing to the executives in their far-off homes, and it isn't long before that truth is spread around the people. Soon enough, most of the IPC deems it a waste to persist — but you have made yourself known to the cosmos at large long before it gets to that point. They have no recourse but to withdraw strategically, leaving Aventurine their sole point of contact. Most consider it a mercy he wasn't fired; you recognize it at the punishment it is.
The IPC still wants blood from this particular stone, and they expect him to be the one to squeeze it out- even if it's from himself.
You don't feel bad for him.
(Until you do.)
Not because he makes any particular appeals to your sympathy, but because you can tell, with every week he spends shuttling between planets in Grandis, how much it costs him everywhere else. There is no reprieve from other responsibilities, no assistance in managing his time, his work, the weight of the IPC's expectations that continues to be piled heavier and heavier on his shoulders.
You are called to retrieve him from one of the VIP rooms of the Golden City, alone and asleep not even a third of the way through his first drink. You are certain he didn't mean to pass out here. You are also certain he did not do so on purpose. However, there are Espers in Utgard who can easily put the unsuspecting to sleep without any chemical assistance. He probably didn't think to consider the fact. You have the Esper in question arrested, thank Alexa for her discretion, and decide to handle him yourself. To you, he weighs next to nothing, and you step through the purposefully-emptied employee corridors with him in your arms, irritated.
Aventurine sleeps like the dead.
(Aventurine sleeps like a scared child, curling into your warmth and murmuring a name you'll only understand later when he tells you who she is.
You never tell him you were the one to carry him out when he awakens, groggy and half-panicked, in your office the next day.)
Both of you come to an uneasy truce then, attempt to form something like a mutual understanding. You can't help but keep seeing shadows of yourself in him though- but worse still, you see flickers of people you love there too. He weaponizes his looks like Alexa, clawing his way into as much power as he can manage while making fools of arrogant men. He dredges up knowledge like Narmer, without hesitation or fear of whether or not he should. You even spy, now and again- when you're allowed to see beneath the facade- some of Jin Yuyao's desperate need to survive, to get the revenge she thought she deserved out of your own flesh, your own success.
Before you know it, you find yourself sharing silent looks in meetings, searching for the familiar flash of tricolor eyes in your direction when you know he's in the room. It's a strange kind of knowing that you don't think about too much, until suddenly, it strikes you why you keep looking. Why you're always searching, always making sure- even if silently, even if only to yourself- that he's there. That he's still in your orbit.
...no, that's a lie.
You're looking to make sure you're still in his.
Yet unlike what you might have done when you were younger, you don't act- you don't even really think to acknowledge it, past understanding the fact. You simply let it be, because you think it's nothing but a passing fascination. Something that you'll look back on and laugh at yourself over.
(You are most assuredly not laughing now.)
Worrying about acknowledging the feeling is no longer an issue; it pervades every interaction, creeping in like a strangling vine. You burn with fury because you feel humiliated- caught like a fly in a carnivorous flower that had not meant to even attract you. Because Aventurine does not think of you the way you think of him; honestly, Aventurine barely thinks of you at all- at first, at least. It's worse, when he begins to consider you a friend. When he tries to buy you thinks he thinks you'll like, instead of whatever's most expensive. When he calls you, not for business, but to gossip. When he visits, haggard and exhausted rather than his usual polished perfection, and languishes lazily among the cushions of the couch in your office.
When he gently calls you 'dear Abigail', instead of his by now half-teasing 'my friend', as if waiting for the rejection.
As if he's ever been rejected in his life, the little fool.
No, Aventurine has always been a coveted gem in many a collection- and that's also something you learn not from rumors, but from him. A directness and honesty that he only now, only hesitantly begins to show, as his visits become more regular- if still unpredictable. And you make time for him, of course you do; you can't help but want to. It only serves to further drive home the fact that this is not a passing fascination- it is something you're not quite sure you've ever let yourself feel.
That it wasn't a matter of 'letting' yourself at all is more concerning to you than it should be.
You have practice, at least, with not letting the affection show. It feels as though you've done nothing else since you were twenty-three years old, after all, than reign yourself in. If there's anything you take pride in, it's your ability to control not only yourself, but your reactions, the way you interact with others. It makes you seem cold and calculating to some, demure and composed to others. In your own heart, however, you know that what you really are is someone who has never wanted to let anyone else be the reason why she fails.
Even your closest friends know this, aware that though they are people you allow yourself to trust, the person you will always trust above all else is yourself.
So because you're so confident you can contain it all... you are certain that somewhere along the line, you slip.
While he doesn't show it, you think Aventurine is, if not aware, then at the very least suspicious. You tell yourself that has to be the reason why he shows up less, why it feels like he's pulling away. So you do the same in turn, unwilling to let your heart be the sole casualty in the fallout that is certain to come —
— and are baffled when somehow, now, he begins to give chase.
As sudden as it is unexpected, he reaches for you, hands empty of gifts but full of promises.
But you think of yourself, standing outside the Miracle, eyes fixed on its massive height, waiting. You think of the aftermath, the silence after you put your life on the line for him- he doesn't know, you didn't tell him- and you realize... he will always do this. He will always take- without question, without hesitation- anything you offer, and then pull away because he either feels or realizes it's too much to accept, feels as though there is something you expect in return that he either cannot or will not give. You're not sure which is which.
It's hard not to be angry at yourself for being unable to tell, because you know that were it not for the rot taking root in your heart, you would be able to discern it immediately. Yet whether due to false hope or uncharacteristic foolish optimism, you know what you want the answer to be- and you also know that it won't be the one you get.
So you continue to keep your distance, but you do not keep him away.
You are, after all, a woman of your word. And it was implicit, when you accepted the hand he offered as nothing more than a friend, that you would not abandon him. Not when so much and so many had already left him behind, alone in the universe with nothing but himself to rely on.
(You can try not to love him, but you can't know you'll succeed. All you can do is try. )
It would be less difficult, however, if he didn't keep toying with you.
Not on purpose- he'd have to be paying attention to you for that. But it's still painful, nevertheless- each slippery, selfish little slip-up embedding itself into the softened, vulnerable center he's been chipping away at all this time.
And don't say no, unless you want to break my heart.
Honestly, you wonder... does he even realize that a heart that he won't allow himself to show you is hardly liable to break?
And you are certain your friends are worried that you aren't furious. That you haven't dragged him, head-first, into facing all the things he refuses to acknowledge. It's a difficult prospect to even face, because if there's anyone you've met more dead set on covering themselves in thorns than you are, it's Aventurine of Stratagems.
You don't do it, you know, because you're afraid.
People can pretend all they like, but no friendship survives an unrequited confession. Not the same way it was before, and certainly not without breaking one or both people irrevocably. Irreparably. And while before you'd been certain you were stronger than Raine's wall, you have to wonder if the damage he's already done to you wouldn't cause you to crumble. And he's been shattered enough- by others, by himself. You don't want to be another fracture he's forced to mend.
So you will remain at his side as best you can from star systems away, and if he should call, you will answer. But you will not be the one to reach out, you will no longer be the one to offer. You will not continue to give- to cut into yourself, to give the disease a means to invade- only to remain behind, bereft.
Snowfield roses will bloom if they truly wish to- and you certainly have no desire to be felled by something like this.
(You will excise the infection from the core of yourself and set it alight, if you must.)
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it would not be difficult to assume that xun could simply look. peer into the future and see whether his sister would wake. sunday has always preferred certainty. but this time he understands that not knowing is its own mercy.
❛❛ i understand. ❜❜ he says gently, without the polished sympathy so many offer to fill the uncomfortable silence. he means it. every word of it. because he too has stood there before, unable to do anything. ❛❛ i hope she recovers soon. should anything change ... or you ever do feel the need to go to her. i will make certain you are able to leave and reach her as quickly as possible. ❜❜ because it is the right thing to do.
then he feels a faint vibration against his pocket. his attention faltering briefly before he retrieves his phone just for a moment before it disappears into his pocket again. ❛❛ i'm expected at the reception desk, ❜❜ he tells him, ❛❛ will you accompany me ? ❜❜
At the end of the day, it is difficult to think of Sunday as anything but kind. Oh certainly he's an exacting and remorseless taskmaster when he feels the need to be, but that hardly makes him a bad person. Or even cruel. Only that he has goals to meet and standards to upkeep and knows full well that there is only so much of it he can manage to do on his own.
(For now, at least- and even still he makes an effort to be as self-sufficient as possible.)
Acknowledging his offer with gently-closed eyes and the barest nod of his head is all Xùn can think to do. He does not tell Sunday that he not only cannot but will not return home if he can help it. Not if there's a chance that the same thing will befall another family member or one of his few remaining friends should the wrong people catch wind of his return. Unlike his current employer, Fēng Xùn does not consider himself a kind man. Not in the ways it matters.
While the interruption is a mercy, the perceived end of his time with Sunday isn't. Yet for a mercy, the Halovian invites him along, and with little else to do for the moment, he nods his head toward the door, gloved palm hovering centimeters from the small of Sunday's back. A cautious motion, not-quite contact.
𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄, there came a realisation so abrupt it nearly threw him off balance.
For perhaps the first time in his existence, this man truly wanted nothing from him. No leverage. No transaction. No careful reading between the lines for what would be demanded later. Just conversation — offered freely, accepted as it was, and allowed to end when it must.
A flicker crossed Aventurine’s face before he could stop it. Confusion, first — then something dangerously close to embarrassment for having assumed otherwise. It was a rare misstep, one he normally corrected before it ever reached the surface. Those sorts of tells had long since been polished out of him.
❝ Oh. ❞ He recovered smoothly enough, lips curling as he inclined his head, the surprise re-framed as charm. ❝ A true gentleman. ❞ This time, there was no artifice in it. He meant it.
Was it unfair, then, to have expected more? He had enjoyed the Knight’s presence — the cadence of his speech, the way he spoke as though each word had been chosen not for effect, but for meaning. It was poetic in a way Aventurine recognised all too well. He, after all, had made an art of performance.
But Argenti’s felt… sincere.
❝ Forgive me, ❞ Aventurine added lightly, tone easing, less guarded than before. ❝ I’m not accustomed to conversations that end without a tally. ❞ His gaze shifted back to the Knight, sharp but curious now. ❝ You may be the first who’s ever disappointed me by asking for nothing. ❞
Safe, however — that was another matter entirely.
❝ I can assure you I’ll do my utmost to try, ❞ he continued, answering the Knight’s concern with a shrug that was equal parts careless and honest. ❝ Though I’ve learned that safety is a… flexible concept. ❞ Wanted by more than one power, watched by more than he could count — it was simply the cost of being what he was. Still, Aventurine had survived this long by never lingering, never allowing himself to be pinned down. He smiled faintly. ❝ I move quickly. It’s hard to catch what refuses to stay. ❞
There was a pause then, softer than the ones before. Aventurine studied Argenti in turn — not appraising, not calculating, just looking. An unusual indulgence.
❝ And you? ❞ he asked at last. ❝ You speak of duty as though it were a promise you’ve already made peace with breaking. ❞ A small tilt of his head. ❝ Do you ever linger, Sir Knight — or is it only others you leave behind? ❞
The question wasn’t bait this time. Just curiosity.
In that brief, fleeting instant- that minuscule second of unguarded, unmetered surprise- Aventurine's face may be the loveliest he's ever seen. It's a thought that also strikes him, sudden and unexpected, swift and unforeseen as a summer squall. He allows the thought, and the emotion that comes with it, to settle as Aventurine recovers, equally quick. His ensuing smile is, of course, just as pretty, but it is false. A practiced pleasantry with which he might soothe a bruised ego or sense of superiority, regardless of whether he is in the wrong or in the right. Of whether he's suffered insult or praise.
As swiftly as the joy of his earnestness fills him, the understanding of this facade hollows it out.
"One does endeavor to such," he agrees, because he cannot- will not allow himself to fall to anything false. Not when it seems as though Aventurine still doesn't quite expect anything but. Oh he seeks to want to believe, but Argenti cannot believe that a man so deeply entrenched in the landscape in which Aventurine's facets have been polished would ever believe something so easily.
So he smiles, and dips his head, hand to heart, and shakes his head gently.
"There is nothing to forgive. You are but tempering your expectations as you are accustomed to. Far be it from me to hold against you something surely meant to keep yourself in a standing that favors you." Such reactions, Argenti well knows, are usually born of necessity, and that necessity born of inequality. This much, even he knows, regardless of how inelegant the truth may be. Those like Aventurine that thrive despite are to be lauded, in his opinion, all the more.
When he responds again, it's in that same coy, though now more contrite manner. He will try, he says, but nothing is a guarantee. While that may be true, Argenti cannot help but once more worry about just what may await his charge on the other side of his current predicament.
"Something being hard to catch doesn't mean it's impossible," he replies at last, procuring a rose from within his armor. That it is still somehow pristine is a mystery he does not acknowledge. With great care, he tucks the flower- not into Aventurine's hair, but into the collar around his neck, twining the stem carefully around the leather to hold it fast. "Now, whether it remains caught is another thing entirely, no?"
Then he turns his head, the weight of Aventurine's gaze settling upon him, somehow meaningful. Argenti pauses, giving the question thought, and weighs his words with more gravity than usual. After all, duty is a knight's calling.
"I am Argenti of the Honorclad- and I am not a man wont to dereliction of duty, my good Stoneheart. It is... to shirk such, as a Knight of Beauty is to falter in one's beliefs. And such things are... ones that I can ill afford to allow to come to pass." He cannot falter. He cannot stray. Beauty is an ideal he must strive to with his all- and it leaves precious little space for much else. "Even should I wish to, I could not linger- my duty lies out in the universe. Should someone wish to follow... I would hardly stop them, but I could promise them nothing. A Knight of Beauty seldom belongs, after all, only to himself."
Familiars' eyes watch as the figure manifests behind their master. Though no sound but senses shared, Ashaf picked up on the presence quickly. The man's chest tightened briefly at the surprise of a silken voice. Adrenaline spikes disappeared as quickly as it came. And so, we meet.
"Mm- likewise," Ashaf shifted his gaze toward the disembodied voice. As he stepped back for space, the pieces were finally put together. It is quite peculiar trying to imagine snap shots from many angles and distances. Eyeing the figure head to toe, already trying to determine who they might be. Their choice of clothing isn't recognizable to him... maybe it could be a part of new fashion in a level Ashaf rarely visits. No matter- the more important thing to figure out now: who and what is he?
A quirk to his brow as the man guesses his skill set. Warlock? Well, terminology tells me they aren't really from the area. "I feel it depends on the type of secrets we trade here," he coos softly. "I, too, wouldn't mind a trade of skills. Invisibility, was it? I haven't quite figured that one out yet." An inviting smirk played on Ashaf's features. Compliments tend to butter people up to his onslaught of questions about themselves. Nevermind his questions- Ashaf's spotlight is on the ankou.
"Yes and no." So helpful, this one. He finds himself studying the man- sharp-eyed, gaunt, pale, well-dressed. The kind of air that's steeped in politeness but isn't actually particularly nice. A razor in the silk, so to speak. Which is fine by him, but the unfortunate thing is those types are usually clever- cleverer than him in any case. And when a clever person gets on your case, they're hard to shake. "But I guess we'll see what kind of secrets are on offer, yeah?"
Gwyn's used to people being wary of him on looks alone. Scared, even. This one is neither- at least not in a way that really counts. No, what he is most is curious, and that's a dangerous thing indeed. Running a hand through his hair, the other reaches for his cigarette and pulls it from his mouth, letting the smoke trail out on the heels of a low, steady sigh. Peering at him from the corner of his eye, he gives him another once-over- more appreciative this time, because far be it from him not to enjoy someone pretty to look at- and drags his hand from his hair to the back of his neck.
As he rolls it slightly, the whorls of ink beneath his chin become more blatant, the black stretching down beneath the neck of his shirt.
"Though fair warning, not too sure I could even teach you that. Trick of the trade, and all." It's less active invisibility than existing on a plane that the average mortal can't perceive. Though given that this is clearly no average mortal, maybe he's just gotten a bit lucky. Tapping his tongue ring against his teeth, he rolls the cigarette to one side of his mouth, quirking his lips into a lopsided smile.
"How about we start with introductions? Pretty boy like you's gotta have a pretty name to go with those eyes, yeah?"
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HOW…PECULIAR. NO REACTION whatsoever… Even the most languid fish of the sea would have at least done something in a situation like this. However, she was corrected in her observation. They were not a fish. This, Hysilens, could agree with, for there were no known creatures of the depths that she knew of, that matched their appearance. ❝What are you, then? Your body does not quite feel like it is real.❞ She drew his hand back slowly, eyeing the other quietly once more as if she was studying the ripples of water rather than something so utterly unknown. At the words that followed their correction, her lips curled into an amused smile, Hysilens taking a step back so that she could sit upon the edge of the bath, legs idly kicking gently beneath that ever-inviting warmth.
❝An obsession with record keeping even in the face of danger… I wonder if you are a follower of Oronyx…❞ But she had been alive for a long, long time. There were none that were created by that Titan of Time and Night that she would not know. And if they were someone that she did not know…then… ❝Ah,❞ an understanding, ❝you come from beyond the sky.❞ That was the only answer that she could gleam from this situation. Whoever this was, was not of this world. But why collect memories of a place not your own? That, among all else, perplexed her the most.
Though that may simply be the perils of 'visiting' a place like this. Fable knows full well about the others that had come before him. Sent here to witness the place on behalf of someone else, only to perish in the process. But they are not him, and he is not them- mostly, because he is not nearly so foolish. Though, admittedly, his mentor may have something to say with regards to his level of foolishness regardless.
"Do those here... choose their interests based on their preference in deities...?" Slow, the question, and slower their eyes looking away from her and in the vague direction of 'outside'. Their head tilts, this way and that, and they give a considering hum. "How strange."
As though he's any less so.
"Mmm, I shouldn't answer that, but you already know." She seems clever, and he can't be bothered to lie if he's been found out. Not that he really planned to regardless. A pointed ear flicks, just a little, and golden eyes slip back toward her, curious. "In any case... is that how you chose your interests?"
you know what it is- like and comment which muses you want a starter for and i'll wander into your house to kick off a little plotting unless we've talked already. (thought even then i might stop in to double check).
Sorry finna be unhinged about Vali for a hot second RIP-
the unfortunate thing about Vali is that being both a vampire and part demon, the man's had both enough time and semi-forbidden knowledge to get his dick game on lock. he will fuck someone stupid, unconscious or both in that order, and he will delight in teasing them when he fucks them back awake too.
of course, he'll never do anything his partners aren't down for, but the fact of the matter is, if someone is going home with Vali, he's not going to be shy about telling them the above in that exact phrasing.
and it's easy to tell he's not exaggerating either- if Vali's unfairly honest about one thing, it's about how well he can get someone off.
and he knows that everyone that wants him realizes this.
Strigoi: Io & Vali Edition
(or: mythe cobbles together a bunch of folklore for her kids)
Vali and Io are 'vampires' in the overarching sense of the word- i.e. they are undead and they drink blood. However, in terms of their actual form and function they are... not quite so easy to define.
I'll start by saying that, although I do use the term 'Strigoi' for the both of them, they're a combination of multiple Romanian and Eastern European folkloric creatures. Most notably, the Upiór, Strzyga (for Io specifically), and the Zburător/Zmeu (for Vali specifically). Each of these can be simplified/broken down as follows:
Strigoi: Generally speaking, 'troubled spirits' who have risen from the dead and can turn invisible, shapeshift and drink the blood of their victims. Can also have multiple different 'kinds' depending on the methods by which they came to be.
Upiór: Bodies possessed by 'unclean spirits' of the deceased. Jealous of the living, capable of ripping people limb from limb or suffocating them in their sleep. Feed off of the 'life essence' (i.e. blood) of living creatures to sustain themselves.
Strzyga: People (usually women) with two souls- once the first soul died- often at a young age- the second would overtake the body and become a monster that would attack the living in secluded places. They were also believed to herald someone's death.
Zburător: In essence, spirits that visit the dreams of beautiful young women in order to seduce them- in essence, a type of spiritual incubus. Often conflated with the Zmeu.
Zmeu: Though they're considered 'dragons' in a sense, Zmei also often take a humanoid (though not fully human) appearance. In this form they often have serpentine or draconic features, scales, tails and bat-like wings, and thus are also often conflated with ogres, demons and, most importantly, vampires.
To begin, Strigoi are usually split into the categories of either 'living' or 'dead', and come into being based on which category they fall into. 'Living' strigoi are also, generally, considered 'sorcerers', and there are many methods in which they can come to be.
One of these is being the seventh child of the same sex in a family- though in Vali's case it was being the seventh child of a seventh child on both sides. Therefore, he was born with a distinctly inhuman appearance- which is to say: wings, a tail and scales in patches along his body. This eventually changed as he grew older- instinctively changing his appearance to better fit in with the people around him.
However, upon his first 'death', given the circumstances in which they occurred, he came back to life when an 'unclean spirit' (aka a demon) attempted to possess his body. Given that it had once belonged to a 'living' strigoi, and his death had come by execution rather than naturally. It was the perfect excuse for a dead man to come seeking revenge.
Vali's spirit, having not yet parted from his body, took the opportunity to return to it as well, and despite the demon's best efforts, subsumed it completely and took its powers- and his revived body- for his own.
One of the other ways a Strigoi can be made is by dying via a curse. This is the method by which Io was reanimated. Having been on the verge of death already, the 'curse' Vali placed on her killed her- and opened her body to another 'unclean spirit' to possess. Of course, the intent was always for Vali to 'consume' the demon that took the bait himself but... well. Like 'father' like 'daughter'.
As a formerly 'living' strigoi, Vali was very much like a Zmeu in terms of physiology. He was unnaturally strong, could change his shape at will, and could, to a degree, fight, as well as having the aforementioned wings and tail in his 'real' form. He was also possessed of considerable magical talent, though it was something that he never really used before his death. After his death, all his previous abilities were amplified considerably, alongside granting him essentially immortality and eternal youth.
Io doesn't have Vali's natural magic, but her assimilation of the demon that attempted to take her body granted her the ability to cast spells. While nowhere near as strong as Vali due to their inherent differences, she's still more than capable of unleashing considerable magical havoc if properly motivated. Even before she became a strigoi, however, she had always been prone to minor prophetic dreams about misfortune.
In terms of weaknesses: a lack of blood for a long period of time will render them weak and make it difficult for them to move under their own power. Neither of them care for silver, and holy water won't kill them but will burn them given that demons once resided in their bodies. They will not die in sunlight, but it does make them tired and sluggish in the longer days of the year if they don't take the proper precautions. They can be killed only by a combination of decapitation and driving yew stakes into their palms and heart.
(The real problem there is catching either of them unaware enough to do so.)
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there's something about Blade being presented as the 'came back wrong' trope that's so insane to me because he didn't. he didn't come back wrong. not the first time, at least. but every subsequent time, when he found himself reviving under Jingliu's not-so-tender mercies, he came back a little worse. a little more unlike 'Himself', until there was no more 'coming back wrong' and it instead became 'coming back more broken'.
Blade as a study on rage and grief, yes but also as a lesson about the consequences of the actions of others; of good intentions leading to atrocities, of how having power doesn't always mean the choices you make for others are the right ones-