sanctuary。

So I just had a very good chat but it also made me realize I probably have to clarify upfront how I go about shipping since not everyone does it this way ... So, hereby!: First off, I am SUPER open to shipping Rhys with just about everyone within reason (no children etc). I have a Highkey Three (OTPs) I’m personally very fond of, but I think he is a character that works well with a lot of people, so you’re always welcome to approach me about shipping! That said, though, I don’t necessarily plot — that is, I won’t plan from the beginning where and when the confession and/or first kiss will happen. When I say I “ship with chemistry” (and I virtually always do this), I mean I like to pick a starting point/interaction and have the relationship naturally develop from there through IC writing. It might admittedly take a while for anything to happen while writing blind like this, but I love the thrill of, even as a writer, not knowing what exactly will happen when — and then getting a good ol’ K.O. in the kokoro when it finally does. ww This actually even goes for the 3 OTPs I mentioned above: I will most assuredly go “HELL YES!” at the proposition/prospect, but even those I prefer to organically take their course so I can get that sucker punch out of it as well. tl;dr if you were looking to ship with my Rhys, it might take a while for anything to happen. I’m sorry for that wait, but I hope, like me, you can delight in ~the Pining and the Tension~ as well. w And know that it doesn’t matter to me if the ship is rarepair or something I’ve not considered before; after all, the interactions will allow for exploring the exact dynamic really well. So do stop by and HMU to establish a basis if you’re into some Real Yearning Hours — he’s actually VERY good at that. ww ♥

In the corner of his eye, there is a twinkle — and suddenly the thimble comes into his hand again, like the first fresh snowflake from the endlessly clouded sky. “Oh, thank you.” He gets up. Shinon turns his back, and Rhys just looks at it. “ … Shinon?” His voice is ever soft; the tone now almost hard. “ … Please don’t do this to her.” Mellowly, he sorts himself back into the chair again, robes lined crisply to the seat, needle and thread in hand. He looks not at the archer; he looks at his work, but speaks nonetheless. “I mind not. And I cannot blame you if you think any kindness I might show is but institutionalized. It is a little like that, isn’t it? It does feel insincere, because I have to.” He should have turned by now. “ — But she isn’t like that.” For its mellow, umber color, his ascending gaze that seeks the other’s is clarion and trenchant. “Mist is doing this for you. She’s doing this for all of us. So please don’t speak to her with that sort of tone. She doesn’t deserve that.“

Sorry for the absence the past 2 days! I had a couple of important art deadlines along with my regular job, so I had to crank down on those. Virtually done now, though, so I’ll be around tonight for a couple replies!  ♬

Loss of a church-issued uniform; his embarrassment aside, such spells nothing short of trouble.

The hallways were framed with marble pillars. The icons were all crowned with gold. His eyes had been rimmed red for days. He’d always dreamt. He’d always dreamt that to come here would be to recline in the gentle arms of the Dawnmother, nestled within her love and teachings like a choir of birds singing their morning hymn together. Here, in Begnion, there would be but benignity and kindness, a sanctuary for all to lay their head and rest peacefully ‘till the break of morn. He didn’t sleep anymore. The streets gave him no answers. He had walked them, ran them, suddenly panicked legs carrying him no closer to the answer as his wet, brown eyes had but stared up at the tower. Scripture gave him no relief. In the dark night by ochre candles had he tried find further lies such as those adhered to still within his lifetime ( “The Children of Strength are lesser — ‘Tis in our Wisdom we must rule over them” ) but his tears and the dim letters had left the truth a blur. His room gave him no solace. Wealthily furnished with riches from the bones of others, it had but four walls to close in on him and a pillow to weep into. Dry and empty, midnight drew him once again into the corridors, coldly echoing his breath in halls too high. In his haunted disgrace, he did not notice there was no solitude within his dark  — not until they were nearly feet to feet and all he could seem to do in repentance was flatten himself at hers. “ — Your Eminence  — “ His voice, thinner than a specter, broke on the last syllable.

over at my other roleplay account, Rhys got asked to come outside for a moment — but this joke my friend then made in DMs is absolutely SENDING me

Shinon responds in nothing other than in clicks and gripes of disapproval. Rhys needn’t ask their cause: it is always sentimentality, and softness, and love. He still continues unchanged. He wouldn’t know how else to speak. “ — Ah, my thimble.“ For a moment, it seems like they’ll have a conversation, rather than accusations with matching why and wherefores. “I thought I heard it drop, but ... Well, never mind.“ He should have minded, though, he finds but moments later when he resumes his threading. He pulls the needle through — and suddenly the tip is in his finger. There is no such hurt within the prick that it has him make a sound. He simply, quickly, puts his index in his mouth, to keep the blood from smearing a line on the freshly washed linen, and scoots off his chair to squat down beside and check again. To ask anyone for help, least of all the arid archer, doesn’t even cross his mind.

“ ... I’m sorry,” are the first words that come to him, as they so often do. Still, though his rue is true, he feels not both his stomach and self-esteem collapse into themselves at his admission to his own err. There is guilt, but no contrition, because the one who found him and his mess is Mia. Some would have fawned over him and worried; others might have yapped and blamed. He would have deserved the latter and felt doubly bad for the mistake; he would not have the care in the former and felt equally so. She does neither. Come on, let’s clean it up together! she simply says, and, him atoning as he helps, makes the problem undone. He’s glad it’s her. “ — Thank you,” is his next simple phrase. He couples her firm hold with a hand down upon her shoulder, and descends to the same floor the Yuletide chaos now lies spread about, the stepladder wobbling as it did when he tipped. Something crunches underneath the hefty soles of his boots, and he flinches in regret. She leaves him little time to wallow, though. “Not a bad look? ... Ah, perhaps I will do penance, then, by standing silent vigil in the corner, if we can’t salvage our tree.” He smiles, though, as he plucks himself free from the garland with butterfingers  — and then, struck by sudden inspiration, blooms into a quiet laugh as he drapes it across her headband. “Very festive. You could consider it.”