out reaches two closed fists, held in front of eliza with the hint of a small smile; “one’s a trick, one’s a treat.” someone is celebrating halloween early this year. choose wisely.
* / OPEN TO MUTUALS 🤍
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out reaches two closed fists, held in front of eliza with the hint of a small smile; “one’s a trick, one’s a treat.” someone is celebrating halloween early this year. choose wisely.
* / OPEN TO MUTUALS 🤍

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inhale, exhale. it’s just another event she’s meant to show face / support at - step aside, the love bot has arrived! she takes a steadier hold of the hand welcoming her out of her vehicle transport - it’s certainly far from eliza’s desired pastime, but … she’s somewhat used to it by now. she’s got jackie on speed dial, tinted shades covering eyes that dart across a screaming crowd and a nice buzz going from the tequila shots she’d taken on the ride over. it could be worse. (one day, it will be.)
in no time, eliza finds herself ushered into the lineup of universal records’ finest stars - to the chagrin of veteran crafters that she is escorted beyond, eliza is pushed damn near the very helm, smiling as courteously as possible to those who would happily witness her downfall.
there’s a monotonous, overwhelming buzz of fans and paparazzi past the barriers of security along the carpet. eliza is quickly poised by a handler beside the beloved johnny silverhand - in passing, this isn’t their first shared occasion. lights flash as she dips in beside him, hands folded in front of her abdomen. though, given the close proximity, she takes the opportunity to lean into his ear and say, “y’know, i’ve damn near wore out your underground vinyls.” an honest smile finds her lips as she meets his eyes, speaking loudly enough for him to hear above all the noise, “red dirt, rainbow credenza … ‘s good shit.”
* / @rockerb0y. 🤍
"Oh! Is that dress Rigelian?"
She does not recognize the woman, per se, but her attire is familiar, a style that she has seen before in the noble court of Rigel. Celica takes a moment to study her face.
"Pardon, where are my manners. My name is Celica, of Zofia. I don't believe we've met. Are you from Valentia as well?"
Even if Celica wouldn’t have any reason to be able to identify her, recognition flashes across Rinea’s expression like a harsh streak of light. Of course she knows the Queen of Valentina’s face—it would be impossible not to, even with the brief amount of time she was allowed to remain in the newly-formed nation before she was whisked away to Fódlan. She had heard whispers as she quietly pushed her way through the busied streets in the port town, excited murmurs of the new queen, once a lost princess of Zofia. She’s beautiful and kind, she and King Alm will be our saviors from the chaos Emperor Rudolf left behind in his death. And before she had departed, she had bore witness to the beginnings of a mural painted in the newly-anointed Saint King and Saint Queen’s honor—and Rinea couldn’t help but think to herself that the vermilion-haired woman was indeed lovely. It was only a painting, but it evoked the same feeling that Rinea always had when she looked at portraits or statues of Mother Mila—like she was bathed in the warm glow of her benevolence just by looking at her.
Absently, as she turned away and was pushed aboard the ship setting sail to Fódlan, Rinea felt a silly thought creep up on her. If she had become empress as Berkut had once intended, would just the sight of her image give people the same feeling of comfort and safety?
( ...Of course not. What a ridiculous idea to even entertain. )
Now, gazing at the woman before her, Rinea sees that the painting still did her justice in her radiance. How could she ever hope to compare?
Curtsying, Rinea starts with, “Yes—” but her throat suddenly feels dry, and the words catch on the tip of her tongue. She clears her throat and tries again, eyes lowered to her shoes. “Yes, my lady. It was my mother’s... I was allowed to bring a few things from home, so—” Again, she coughs into the bank of her hand, suddenly feeling very small and very unsightly. Argh, why did she have to notice her?! The mention of her mother only reminds her that her parents would be appalled by how disastrously she’s handling this.
“Yes, you’re correct. On both counts.” She smiles feebly. “It’s an undue honor to meet you in person, your majesty. Um... I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have thought to ever see you here. Thank you for everything you and King Alm have done for our country... I... Er, I like your dress too?”
'' why , hello there ! '' charming smile , leaning aganist the bar table .
he's a charmer, alright. there's something almost blinding about the light color of his hair, of the shiny overcoat he damn near dirties on the bar table he's leant up against - eliza blinks once, taking in the sight for all that it is. vaguely, she recalls reading something about a grandiose outlaw gracing the area - a dying breed. (eliza neglects the thought for the time being.) she wonders if he ever manages to get his hands dirty in such a getup.
"hiya," she replies, a friendly smile and nod shared his way as she keeps her posture turned straight ahead; regardless and if need be, he'll make a fine target for her sticky fingers. "can i help you?"
* @hircdguns 🤍
there’s an inherent intimacy in the silence shared between them. to bleed is human, to hurt is human, to feed, to fuck, to breathe - the humanity of it all is implicit in their everyday function, even in this depraved, war-mongered state. to see - to know one another so enviably, so truly … to see every hidden and ugly bit in a single glance is the true mark of their intimacy.
they’re tangled into one another beneath a ratty old blanket. the air is quiet - even eliza’s breathing slows before she speaks.
“... what do you believe?” she asks the question as calmly as any other - like the amount of ammunition behind it isn’t tenfold what they’ve got hidden in droves. eliza’s eyes are tired, limbs weary - silently pleading for some resignation to what she’s fighting for. (him, she’s fighting for jacob. does he realize that?) “tell me … tell me what you believe.” prove to her that she hasn’t lost herself for an unworthy cause.
in this shared space - within these four walls, held against his bare skin only does eliza’s mind slip. she allows herself a breath of reprieve; if there is a god, jacob will witness her devotion. she willingly gives him her bloody & marred, beating & bleeding heart - places it in his hands and asks him to offer an inkling of his in return for her undying loyalty. her fingers brush over his sternum as she swallows unspoken doubt, lifting to feel for his heartbeat and remaining there. “... - please.”
* / @warisgod 🤍

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❛ your heart is beating so fast right now. ❜ — from strahd, to elya
There's no memory of a first time to compare it to. There's no telling if remembering the first time would make this any less frightening.
The warlord's fingers dance on his skin, and Elya (Elya!) has lost track whether the claws trace true arcane patterns or simply entertain themselves as they draw figures coming in and out of the blood on his skin. The world has slowed down to a crawl, every beat of his heart thunder in his ears, jolting him awake to remind him that he still lives even as every closing of his eyelids to blink feels as if it could be his last.
It has been an hour. It has been forty seconds. It has been neither, but the kind of sense that is required to know that has been drowned out by the way arcana that always was so exhilarating now settles into his veins like the cold of a grave.
But he could swear there are lives starting and ending in the time it takes for one heartbeat to finish and the next begin.
Lord von Zarovich's words sound impossible.
"Mortal weakness," a lighthearted response, gift of telepathy delivering the words when his hands stay paralysed. "I was not awake the last time. This is..." The words 'frightening' and 'exciting' fill the gap at once. (A hundred times more fear than excitement, but his soon to be patron need not know that.)
In two separate movements, one of the eyes and the other of the head, he lifts his gaze to the vampire to catch his eyes when they're not looking at him—instead, he finds crimson eyes staring back at him, locking on to his gaze the second their eyes meet, and there's no telling where on the spectrum of curious amusement and mockery the expression falls.
The same blood covers both of their fangs. Liquid life to seal the pact of undying.
There's a clawed thumb on the open wound on his neck, and he submits to the touch like a deer knowing he's trapped. The gentleness of the movement startles him more than violence would, and he shivers—from bloodloss, from fright, from a memory of pleasure all at once. His response is a hand raised to Strahd's cheekbone—a hand too cold to discern the touch of grave on the vampire's skin. Strahd's hand pushes him down fully, as secrets of immortality tie him in the Weave.
He knows the ritual is over and his tether changed hands before Strahd needs to tell him so.
Nothing's changed, and everything has.
Van Richten is safe. Ready to run the second he hears of this, no doubt, but safe.
As life begins returning to his limbs and new magic makes itself home in him, five words emerge through the haze:
You better be worth this.
@slowtimerolls
@wovirk said: ❝ it’s not all dollar and cents. ❞ from jack mayhaps? / MEME.
there’s a sardonic, bitter laugh that escapes her, then - so unlike her true self. eliza is hardened to the bone, worn thin with grief, loss & drive - people are dying. hosea, lenny - the list goes on & on and no one seems to care. if money is what they need to get far away from a society that doesn’t want them any more, she’ll do whatever she can to get it - including appeasing the marbled man before her.
“maybe not - but i need every fuckin’ dollar i can get.” this is a woman, desperate for her freedom & the freedom of those around her - she doesn’t have the luxury of being non-materialistic any longer. her lips set on edge as she surveys him, something between twisted action & regret behind warm, brown eyes; “you gonna help me or not?”