#blademused

"how quickly the blade becomes you."

It was common enough sentiment that blades were an extension of their wielders. After at least a year of her having put her Dark Knight soul crystal aside ( both because of the overwhelming Light, and eventually, the Final Days ) she had decided to take up the art of the blade once more.

She didn't expect the sword she is now carrying to be fucking haunted. Though, given her track record, this was bound to be the case eventually. Trouble tends to congregate around Death's shepherd wherever her footfalls seemed to sound.

"possession is rude. i prefer consent and eye contact."

"An' I like missionary with the lights off an' socks on," she joked idly, "if we're listin' our preferences. Good choices on yer end, I might add." Though she may stretch possession as long as it was consensual, and not a certain someone piloting her body to make threats on her friends' lives.

Hikari could forgive and forget. She had become very, very forgiving--but if there was one thing she would never forgive Fandaniel for, it was that. Perhaps that's why she so readily accepted Yaa'rai's offer to wield him, knowing that he'd reacted to the prospect of taking control with disgust.

It made her feel just a fraction more comfortable.

"NO! NOT THE LEMON AGAIN—"

scrunches up like an accordion.

⇶ Deep bags are settled 'neath his eyes as his eyes crack open. He stares warily at the blade near the foot of his bed and considers, quite uncharitably, opening the window and throwing him out. Then, he turns in bed, pulling his blankets closer to his body, and burying his head under his pillow.

"you know what i like most about you?" the blade's voice is a lazy drawl, dripping with satisfaction after a full meal. "you're not a morally complicated individual. i could force myself to be content with you."

@blademused || Yaa'rai & Tarhos || unprompted.

Creak of metal, stretch of leather, a growled exhale of agitation as gauntlets tighten their hold round the crossgaurds of the damnable blade, its point entombed in the still-warm abdomen of some nameless welp incapable of saving himself from a far superior adversary. Disappointing, he thought, as the youngling all-too-easily fell to his assault. He admired the courage to not beg, though to die in some banal attempt of protection, self-sacrifice, sullied any amount of respect the corpse might have once earned.

He stands, muscled tensed, as his eyes gaze upon the spectacle of bloodshed and viscera. The stench of iron and mud filter through his helm just as easily as the coiling voice of his weapon.

" Your contentment matters not. "

His voice is low, aggrieved, as if there is some slight in the other's words. The blade is pulled violently from the earth, muscle and flesh tearing with the upward thrust.

well, that certainly put a damper on things, didn't it? goes to show him what a fool he's been for keeping a talking sword around. umbra had made his distaste for yaa'rai clear from day one; even now he could feel the old frame's hackles raised as clearly as he could from within transference. he was typically partial to umbra's instincts, trusting him as he would his own, but he'd had similar reservations about sevagoth and his shadow in the beginning and had since grown — tolerant of them. was it foolishness, pride, curiosity, or a genuine hope for better tides that spurned drifter into continuing to welcome yaa'rai among his motley crew? 

who knew? certainly not him. 

what he did know was that he wasn't particularly fond of his emotions, or lack thereof, being unduly commented on. if there was one thing duviri gifted (cursed?) him with, it was an oft unreadable expression. his smile, it seems, was found wanting by the ancient blade's scrutinizing gaze. 

he stalled his work at his comment, hearing ordis sputter something abashed, briefly slipping into borderline violent, and continuing on defending his honor as per usual. golden eyes took in the sword, his own burning eye gazing back. he drummed his finger absently on the half carved wood in his hand, measuring his response, before gesturing towards him with his other, pointing with the little carving knife.