#cautionarys

[𝐼]ris hallows the azure of New York, but 𝕲otham’s moon is falwe upon carmine stones. And still, he, ever the sacricolist, has carried one such stone with him across the water, lodged somewhere behind his breast-bone. He cannot deny it: 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑖𝑚 𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦. He cannot sever her from his flesh. Her blood is his blood, though it is his skin that breaks, and Grant’s hands that tend it.

Peroxide is poured. The wound receives it like an affiance renewed under durance. The sting flares albicant, a brief annunciation of pain, and breath tears from him. The sound is quiescent, human. Grant stills, then continues. Pain is not new to him, he remembers well. Chēle moves freely across his ribs through torn cloth and torn resolve. It steadies him. The noscible chill is almost gracious. Their eyes meet at the sound of his inhale, and he speaks first, silence invites castigation. ❛ I’m okay. I’m not new to this. ❜ This sigilism is written on him. A somandric, perantique codex written in scars: the tristifical grammar of the ℛobin. Hamas. Beadu. Druerie. Old words for old violences. Cuts mapped where muscle learned its limits, pale seams where the night marked him. @cautionarys hands move with a douceur that feels learned, he notices. He always does. ❛ I’m fine. You’re a good nurse, y’know? You’ve got gentle hands for a big guy like 'ya ( … ) That’s a compliment, by the way. ❜

The smile costs him. It always does, 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑦𝑟’𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑙𝑒. There is comfort in oration, in breath and sound. They have learned this together: that words tether the soul to the present. Company is its own small sacrament. Tonight, he had looked forward to it.

His examinations had only just concluded. Tamara’s voice still rang with clarity, reminding him that names are devoir before they are ipseity. Wayne Enterprises required his presence. ‘ It’s been a while since the public saw you. Bruce has been busy. You Waynes — need to keep up appearances. ’ A summons spoken without thural, yet binding all the same. He knows the sarcinarious weight of the name, he resarciates. The good: to heal without striking, to build without spilling blood. The bad: those who viliorate the hand that offers change. Some nights, he thinks there is no difference between being Tim and being Robin, an ossifragant thought. This inheritance was Bruce’s; his penance, his theology; not his. And yet the world does not distinguish between sons with its famelicose hatred. He asked Grant to meet him near a restaurant Tamara recommended. He had believed, naively, that only Gotham made a sacrament of fell. But brutality is catholic; it needs no single city to thrive. 𝑁𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑛. But Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne? What do they see when they look at him? Teterrimous scaevity. ‘ You Waynes — get out of our city. Go back to your shithole. ’ The words, sevidical, still echo in the alley where he had stepped aside to smoke while waiting. Robin would have moved first, he did not. He let the blade enter him, adjusted his body just enough to keep the wound shallow. A calculation made in flesh. He returned to the hotel with blood soaking his shirt beneath the hoodie ( all black, of course ) If it were not, the concierge would not have smiled as he waited by the elevator. ❛ A friend of mine is coming, ❜ he had said evenly. ❛ Grant Emerson. Please let him up. ❜

Now, he bites his lower lip, a vultuous gaze turning skyward through the window, where the night pessundates him. His body aches with the old contradiction,

jesse's voice snaps her back to reality. eyes blink, bringing the world around her back into sharper focus. the littering of empty mugs and squashed cans of energy drinks, the pieces of paper with indistinguishable words scribbled onto them, and the stress toy that had been squeezed so hard that it now remains flat. in the reflection of her screens she catches sight of herself. hair unbrushed, glasses low on her nose, with bags under her eyes. how long had she been at these screens? gaze glances to the digital clock in the corner . . far too long to be considered healthy.

❝ i guess i got lost in my work. ❞ fingers push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose before attempting to comb through her hair. perhaps she should be embarrassed, but she hopes jesse quick can understand the needs of the vigilante world. how much it demands from you. ❝ lost track of time and, uh - basic cleanliness. ❞ head tilts from side to side, stretching out the now stiff muscles. it's nice to have company, at least. even if said company is too fast for her sensors to catch, not allowing her any warning of her arrival. ❝ so, is this business or pleasure? ❞

if asked, he wouldn't be able to explain why, but he knew by the way the air in his mind changed, the way the voices quietened at the periphery. maybe it was by the way the footfalls were slightly uneven, slightly reluctant to approach, or maybe by the fact that he had known this would happen one way or another. exy was a small world, and his world was even smaller, every name and face and border carefully orchestrated or labelled for his control alone. ghosts therefore were easier to detect, which meant surprise was perfectly unnecessary. the stadium was buzzing with the oncoming match. inside, the ravens were hurtling commands for the warm up. the trojans were the quieter bunch, a few dozen familiar faces for the season.

it's the oldest of warnings: a girl like her shouldn't be in a place like this. and it's true ! lebedeva should be with her friends, hosting a salon — or better yet, in a bathhouse, soaking her feathers in rose water with a pretty cupbearer at her side. but instead, she's here. pretending to be a servant. all to rescue the mage who seems intent on telling her everything about white london's horrific seat of power except how she might be able to find atho's hidden study. the vila blows a slow breath through her nose, and bats her lashes up at him.

❛❛ dragi, you must know my brother's poor sense of design is equally criminal -- you stole from his house, did you not ? if i stay any longer, i might start to feel right at home. ❜❜

hello taylor my dear friend 🧡 thank you for enjoying my muse list!!!!!!!!!!

i really want to flesh out tiber septim and finish writing out their dragon age verse especially. ofc i love writing them in a skyrim setting due to their connection with the story, but they'd be really fun to explore in other verses too — even a modern one, which i'm still working on!!! just gotta get my lazy butt going and expand on their verses and alternate settings. they're just a little complex to layer into other places due to the fact that they're a GOD, so i just need to translate that aspect into other worlds.

thanks to blythe i've been writing more artemis with her thane, but i need more threads with them asap! she's another character i need to throw into more verses to make things more accessible. not everyone knows mass effect to that degree, so again, gotta get off my ass and finally detail all the elements of their story that work well in differing verses.

i have a few threads with alekos, but i could always need more. he's my stubborn dragon rider oc trying to win the loyalty of his dragon, gesthamane, who has been passed down through generations of his family. i feel like i could explore a whole lot more with him in other fantasy verses... and, once again, need to detail the ways he fits into places like dragon age.

tl;dr i need to stop beating around the bush and write out all my verses for all my characters, but the amount of muses i have and the amount of stories i want to write intimidates me to the point of inaction 🤡

a golden head whirls in her direction, crowned by flaring rays of indignation. what , you think i’m not qualified ? @cautionarys says, his fingers gripping tightly around his weapon, seemingly all the more emboldened to prove something.

his aunt's chin dips in a wordless rebuke, all her humor turned to sternness; then suddenly, one of her wisps darts through the air and nicks him in the ear. ❛❛ stop being foolish. it's embarrassing. ❜❜ here she is ever the eldest daughter of koios' judicious house, speaking to an eldest son -- a would-be heir, had the war gone in their favor. ❛❛ of course i know you can kill it. ❜❜ you're a titan, she wishes to say, but if the wind carries such a treason to olympus, it marks the end of these visitations at best, and a banishment to the pits at worst.

all the same, her shoulder's straighten, carrying the dignity of a general despite being barred from the stars and losing the full breadth of her power. much of what was left of it had been sacrificed to create this very island, but she wanted nothing more than to see it be the haven she'd intended for leto and the twins. deliberating this, she finally eyes apollo with the conspiring glint he'd been waiting for, the very same that she'd once given to her starlit soldiers. ❛❛ you have your father's power, but you must take after our intelligence just the same. so think -- what sense does a beast who dwells in the dark rely on most ? how do you exploit it ? ❜❜

                        as was customary in her daily routine, aerith departs from the fast-paced heart of sector five and makes her way towards the solitude of her church, nestled quietly along the edge of the sector, entirely forgotten about. yet, as she moved through the stillness of the abandoned streets, her path is abruptly blocked by a swarm of fiends — hedgehog pies, to be precise — eager for their prey.

luckily for her, though also an irritating truth, the turks are never far behind her — shinra's vigilant eyes ever-fixed upon her. just as the hedgehog pies lunge, their fangs grazing only the faintest layer of her skin, a flash of familiar red hair darts forward. in an instant, the figures drives the fiends back, and soon the last of them retreats.

a shard of blood pierced the ground, and he noted the cleverness of the art of magic involved; while antari had long used their elements in distinguished manner, few possessed the rare skill to combine them this way. blood, tart and smooth, angled with the rise of the earth to pierce the flesh of bandits. he had not needed the protection, but rarely did he ever intervene to stop the exerted effort of strangers from protecting him. that was what holland was, even if they were bound by something greater — at least for now.