#cascality

a laugh—a short puff of sound from a close-lipped smile—escapes as alanna pares an apple one thin slice at a time. she nods that yes, that would certainly be the preferable outcome, and proffers a piece to the warrior.

under the faultless sky, the air still but for the faintest breeze, it feels almost deceptively beautiful. a stillness as if the world were holding its breath,   jaws innocuously open and unmoving but there all the same.   it's a tension she has some intimacy with,   pincered between the looming titans of the empire and the holy see.

@cascality asked: “Don’t tell me you’re going in there. Why, it’s swarming with wolves.”

"Wolves   are   far   from   a   threat   when   you   have   the   right   spells"   Frieren   replied   matter   of   factly,   smug   smile   curving   pon   pale   lips.   

"I'll   be   fine,   besides   ....   even   if   I   were   at   a   disadvantage   I   couldn't   imagine   leaving   without   checking   every   inch   of   this   dungeon.   There's   likely   dozens   of   hidden   treasures   within   but   most   importantly   ....   grimoires.   -   You   don't   have   to   come   in   with   me   if   you   don't   want   to.   -   I   shouldn't   be   long,   no   more   than   three   days."

@cascality asked: PINNED

Eyes   widened   in   response   to   the   abrupt   push,   her   petite   form   trapped   between   the   wall   behind   her   and   Casca   in   front   of   her.   Confusion   painted   over   fair   features   for   a   brief   moment   before   reverting   back   to   Frieren's   stoic   visage.

".....Is....   this   your   way   of   seeking   my   attention?"

as casca’s mouth found hers,   her soft lips embroidered in that same certainty she seemed to carry into every uncertainty,   alanna couldn’t help but wonder if she’d often thought of kissing her.   it is as gauzy and fleeting as everything else between them:   there and gone again so swiftly (too swiftly) that she’d only her own surety that it’d happened at all.   chaste and tender, like a lover's.   alanna feels herself softly list toward the space she’d held just a moment before and beams.   she touches a hand to the other woman’s face,   tracing the curve of cheekbone with her thumb.   they sat huddled together on the floor of her tent.   bathed in the amber wash of her lantern.

he settles into the band of the hawk the way one settles uneasily into a new injury. the tight and twinging pain of a pulled muscle, a puncture wound healing over layer by layer, the unwelcome ache of a broken bone during winter. they welcome him tentatively, at first, and then with open arms—as soon as they realize what it is he can do. from this welcome comes a strange series of dynamics: they respect him, they fear him, they want him to like them, or they want to be him, or they mock him to cover their own shame. what alarms him more is the realization he cares. what is he meant to do with that?

they battle, and laugh, and drink together, jeer and crow and scream at the top of their lungs like wild animals, and guts stands at the edges of it all, uncertain. if griffith has set himself above them, their commander, and casca has set herself apart from them, then guts finds himself stranded, hungry to be a part of the pack, and—afraid. it all feeds back into the feeling that is most familiar for him, the easiest. it's not until after his temper has risen and fallen again that he realizes he's beginning to regret it.

it's casca that frightens him most easily. or she and griffith, in their own ways. the spat they'd gotten into earlier today hadn't been serious, but he'd been left feeling like he'd lost even when he hadn't. it's happening more and more often: she challenges him, and he doesn't buckle, but he comes... almost close. the rest are happy to embrace him for what he is, what he can do, but he and casca struggle against each other like a violent tide.

when casca follows him out of camp and through the edge of the trees, he's still trying to grapple with the familiar pulse of his own temper. there are no stars, tonight, just the moon. the leaves shift and cut through the sheen of light like the smattering of blood into the dirt. it's been a hard day. he'll come to his senses soon. it's a slip that he confesses anything to her at all—what surprises him more is that she says she knows, easy as anything. he licks his lips. she asks why he's snapped. he grinds his teeth, tries to speak. " you're... " the thoughts can churn all they want in his head, but when it comes to giving them a voice, he struggles. he can say nothing at all, or the wrong thing.

talking is existing, @cascality says. guts can't help himself: " i don't want to talk at all. " existence is a rote action, an endless spiked wheel of fortune, spinning and spinning, and he wants nothing to do with it. he wants to feel the tightening of the muscles along his arm, up into his shoulder and neck, and feel the way his elbow aches when he grasps the haft of his sword with two hands. this is easier. this is not existence.

they're tucked up, backs to the trunk of a towering tree, staring from the hilltop out into the valley. night's watch. griffith thinks it's funny to put them together and see what will happen, like he thinks of them as dogs on leashes he can let go just to see run, the fucking bastard. still: the breeze is cool and calm. the air smells of campfire smoke, and if he looks up, he can see the stars. from the corner of his eye, he can see casca, her head tilted down, the line of her jaw, her nose, her brow. she's...

" i hate poets—philosophers, " he says, with great disgust, to save himself from thinking, going too far down a path he's not sure ends. he turns his head to the side and spits. " poetry is for men who don't know what to do with their time and don't have the courage to pick up a sword. " they may as well be nothing at all: ashes scattered on the wind.