#auramaiden

“Deirdre? I’ve brought some water if you have need of it.”

A rest from tired, calloused fingers didn’t exactly mean that she couldn’t show kind gestures to her fellow performers. Especially when water was considered invaluable... it does a musician well. Slowly she sets the glass upon a nearby stand, just in case. “I’m taking a rest from practicing myself. I’ve a feeling my fingers are thanking me for it.”

ASK THE MUN SOME QUESTIONS

♫ : Are there parts of your own personality that you reflect onto your character? How do they work?Looks at Sumia. We are already pretty alike so I guess in some ways I do reflect certain things onto her moreso than Robin. It works out pretty well because of it. We both want to help people and love reading. There are tons of other things. So if I do project it is on to her. 

I don’t think I reflect anything onto Robin. Maybe some insecurities but it seems to work out well there too.⌘ : Where do you get some of your inspirations for plots/head canons? Offer an example, if possible.

wind magic is haunting.

it’s the core of silesia and fury had always looked up to it, curious if her father had been skilled like levin. the liberation army was full of surprises and it was nice to learn more of jugdral, there were people from almost everywhere. it was nice to know that ( the air is different but welcoming ) and as much as she misses home, there’s a lot to learn.

@auramaiden

Continued from here

Setsuna nodded gravely. “Yes. But I think that happens to everyone sometimes.” Everyone seemed out of sorts after having stumbled into this strange new land. Outrealms weren’t really an uncommon subject at this point, but seeing a land where they were common to this point was...jarring, to say the least. It granted her the chance to meet new people, of course, but she couldn’t help but wonder what was happening back home. “So long as people are aware of it, it should work out though.”

She blinked before her gaze fell down to the drinks before them. Thinking of home, and she’d forgotten the small piece of home she’d scavenged up while here. Smiling softly, she picked up her own cup. “Sencha, I believe. It’s popular back home, kind of a standard.”

ask meme | not accepting

the answer left her mouth easily, she needn’t think about it at all. for a mother, her child was everything.

auramaiden:

He’s but a boy in her eyes and yet he spouts wisdom elusive to men twice his age. Her heart aches for him, for whatever experiences he’s been through that have taught him the horrors of war. He appears older than her own children, but the boyish roundness of face betrays him.

Parental instinct swells within her heart filling it with desire to reach for him. However, boys are fragile she’s come to learn over the years. They cling to their stubborn pride to avoid showing weakness. Men are quieting in their suffering. They shoulder the burdens of their loved ones and, in turn, she graciously plays the part of fool. Support is offered as best she can (only that which they are willing to accept).

“ You are wise,” she agrees quietly, melancholy note present in tone. Her small hands reach for his tentatively, gently so not to be overly familiar, and ready to release should he display any sign of discomfort at her touch. “ But there is still hope. ” Encouragement is as much for herself as it is to him. And she prays for the day that none are required to take up arms for anything other than friendly sport.

initially, it hadn’t been meant as a statement of wisdom, or something spoken to demonstrate how much he has grown or how the war has changed him -- there are enough markings, visible && otherwise, on him and his to attest to that, and he can posture elsewhere. not in front of her.

not in front of the woman he’s only heard of in stories, the one who, some may consider, is partially to blame for the burden that had been placed upon the younger generation, a s k y no atlas could ever hope to carry, and which had nearly proved too heavy for them even with their combined strength and resolve. for all of that, though, he can find nothing in him -- no spite, no bitterness. 

in silken-soft hands that feel just like a mother’s should, she takes his own -- battered, scarred, sword-calloused -- and holds them, and they’re warm, feel like safety and evoke a curious sensation in his gut that he can’t explain nor place, only know that it is something he has yearned to feel, something not even the embrace and care of a later-adopted mother could grant him.