Night Vigil

inspired by the infamous "i want the k" meme by deactivated tumblr user tastcful. send 🎲 to generate a kiss! potential suggestive/nsf.w themes may appear

A kiss on the cheek

A kiss on the nose

A kiss on the forehead

A kiss to the top of the head

A firm kiss

A gentle peck

A romantic kiss

A platonic kiss

A kiss to the eyelid

A kiss along the jawline

A kiss to the neck

A kiss along the collar bone

A kiss on the chest

A kiss to the stomach

A kiss along the hips

A kiss in the rain

An upside-down "Spider-Man" kiss

A kiss while laughing

A kiss underwater

A rough kiss

WILDCARD! Dealer's choice :)

A french kiss/kiss with tongue

A kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances

A sleepy kiss

A kiss that's an accident

A kiss while one or both parties are crying

A kiss in greeting

A kiss in parting

A kiss to the back of the hand

A kiss to the palm of the hand

A kiss to the inner thigh

A kiss while someone watches

A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A kiss after a bite

A kiss against a wall

A kiss to the shoulder

A kiss to the back of the neck

A kiss while one party is carried

A tentative kiss

An impulsive kiss

A kiss out of spite

A clumsy kiss

And not to mention, whenever they did actually come to Fontaine, they were swiftly and mercilessly hunted down.

The majority of the aforementioned hunting was taken care of by the descendants of the Marechaussee Hunters. Though their deeds had long since either passed into legends and myths or faded into obscurity, their arts had been inherited by some most devoted descendants across all those centuries, and their duties had never been truly and fully forgotten, even if the nature and meaning of said duties had changed somewhat.

Some of them, however, met their end by another hand entirely. It came in the form of a silent, pristine surface of the lake, clear and undisturbed like the purest jewel. It invited them with its tranquility, encouraged them to come and marvel at it, try to claim it, perhaps take a refreshing sip -

only for a surging torrent to emerge from the quiet waters akin to a crocodile leaping from hiding towards its unsuspecting prey, dragging them into the dark depths where all were equal in being at his mercy.

Just as the furious tide emerged, so too did it disappear, and before long, he was the only one still standing on the shore, watching silently as the surface calmed itself again, reflecting the stars and the moon just as it had a moment before.

Pointless.

Neuvillette watched the now once again quiet scene for a while, before he stirred as his elemental sense tugged suddenly at him, and turned - but the eyes that met his were not that of another prey, but rather, as it would seem, a fellow hunter. On the spot, his ice-cold glare softened, if only by a hint.

... Oh.

"Clorinde. Good evening," he greeted, as if nothing special happened just now. "I did not expect to meet you out here."

The crack of her pistol echoed through the evening air, sharp and absolute. There was little reason for her to toy with her hunt, no reason to prolong what was necessary. Mercy was a currency her prey had never dealt in, and so in turn, she, too, offered none. Her rapier lanced forward, precise, and the Hilichurl Rogue fell silent before its cry could leave its throat.

It made for a wonderful way to relieve some stress, this. The tightness in her shoulders eased; the line between her brows grew faint, each and every successful hunt spelling away the headaches that had weighted her after such a troubling day.

A hunt this deep into the night usually meant solitude. The woods were hers, and hers alone. So when a disturbance reached her ears—a rustle several stands of cypress away—Clorinde naturally assumed it was merely another band of hilichurls setting their camp, another knot of shadows to cut down. Pistol drawn, boots silent on the damp earth, she closed the distance between the trees, expecting a new threat, a rifthound perhaps, or maybe even an abyss mage, summoning more of its kind.

What she found instead was a gaze that snapped toward the slightest noise she made, as sharp as her own, inspecting, assessing, before softening almost imperceptibly upon meeting hers.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” she replied with a nod, her gaze already scanning for traces of a struggle. To an untrained eye, there would be nothing to see. But to her, who knew these woods night after night, the signs were clear: grass pressed flat along the water’s edge by a sudden, heavy surge, and a shallow scuff in the damp soil, already being washed smooth by the eerily calm lake.

Finally, she looked back at the Iudex—her new superior, in a manner of speaking, though only by virtue of their respective roles.

“I share your surprise. I, too, was not anticipating company.” Part of her wished to ask why the Iudex would concern himself with creatures so mundane—monsters were, after all, in the grand order of Fontaine, a matter for her and her kind. Alas, before she could shape the question into something suitably deferential, the brief peace between them was cut short with the telltale growl of incoming hounds.

Her grip adjusted on her rapier, gaze shifting toward the treeline.

The hunt, it seemed, was not yet over, and the guttural growls weaving through the trees were only drawing nearer. Clorinde pursed her lips into a thin line, attention returning to the silent, dignified man before her. Would it be odd for her to suddenly leave and resume her hunt? Was she expected to invite him? Perhaps he was here to fulfill a duty as well… In which case, she should, indeed, offer an invitation. It would only be polite, if not proper.

One, she disliked those who had little to no honour. Those who think very little of their contracts, those who do not value the weight of their words and promises.

Two, she was not particularly fond of tabloids. Not for what they post about her—all rumours and speculations at best—but for their casual disregard for the truth in favour of profit.

And then, three. She disliked, above all, getting her hair wet.

Which explained, somewhat, the scowl still etched on her face. She had scrubbed her skin clean until it nearly burned, changed into a new set of dry clothing from her travel pack, discarding her saltwater-logged ones in the washer in the process, and meticulously wiped down every visible inch of her weapons. Yet still that awful, itchy feeling somewhere around her scalp persisted, no matter how many times she tried to wash it with soap.

The true reason behind her frown, however, was the object in her hand, held closely against her chest as though it were a wounded bird, gloved thumb brushing along its engravings, quietly hoping that in doing so, she might fix it. But the local blacksmith’s sigh and apologetic smile confirmed as much: her flintlock may as well be done for. It may survive a plunge in fresh water, the blacksmith mused, but for a pistol of such antique make to fall into saltwater? You ought to commission a new one instead.

Clorinde rejected the notion immediately. And the stranger must have noticed the way her lips only pulled into a tighter, deeper frown, because with another sigh, she was given a piece of paper. A clumsy attempt at a map to a place named Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop, just a few distance away from the town. The girl could fix anything, or so the blacksmith said. Or, well, almost anything. For a price.

Thus, there she stood now, before the odd… building would be a generous description of it, scrap metal walls filled with childlike chalk doodles. Above it was a gargantuan mechanical arm, gathering sheets of metal with a clank-SHHH, before depositing it somewhere above the workshop with another clank-SHHH.

This, then, must be the place. The ugly drawing—err—kind map seemed to indicate so, and this certainly looked like the best place for a genius able to repair anything—malfunctioning (corroding) flintlock included.

She approached the entrance, the door another thing of scrap metals, melded together and shaped into a heart, somewhat. Cute. She’d raised her hand to knock, but as if the genius was already expecting her arrival, the door sighed open before her knuckles could even touch it.

“Oh—” The duellist breathed out, curiously stepping inside. No one greeted her. Right. So perhaps she should knock still, then.