#cuileandorcha

That didn't mean it was less bright - or rather, it didn't mean it was less cheery. Significantly more so in the past few moments than it'd been about three minutes ago. Then again, a lot could change when there was a bard in the equation - dancing from one tabletop to the next, light on his hooves and careful not to knock over drinks as he lead the call and response.

He plans to use the corner table as a rest stop, not a dance floor, to steal a brief moment to collect himself while the crowd laughed and cheered and a few tossed coin towards the tray he'd sat down before he'd start.

Things don't always go as planned, though, and a spot where the table top was sticky makes turning on one hoof go differently than planned. He topples instead of turning around, and while he makes every effort to save his fiddle by ensuring he doesn't land on it, he makes none to save himself from falling off the table, going ass first and sideways-- Oh, there was someone at this table.

Jubilance is sprawled over Kozmotis's lap, fiddle in one hand and bow in the other, one hock still on the table. He blinks owlish up at him - and then laughs, entirely unembarrassed by the turn of events, "Enjoy the finale?"

"Ah, well...."

Kozmotis has navigated far dicier diplomatic waters than an overly friendly minstrel.

"I confess," he retorts calmly, with that slightest infusion of wryness, "that I expected this to be less...hands-on?"

He glances pointedly down at their unsolicited physical contact. Maybe it's centuries of being the vessel and plaything of psychic cockroaches. Maybe it's the fact he still considers himself firmly wed to the late Lady Pitchiner: a steadfast widower. Maybe it's the fear that there's still some residual part of him that can touch, and turn into fearlings, any living material (he's pretty sure there is, were he willing). But this sort of thig makes his skin crawl.

A beat, and then a bit more intimidating, with that understated yet unquestionable authority that commanded armies and fleets to victory:

Mini Playlists // @cuileandorcha ;;

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO, Hozier | I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do

LIKE THE DAWN, The Oh Hellos | And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me. You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you.

"Do you know what a 'crash out' is? I'm having one right now." - Magnus @ Lorgar. // @cuileandorcha

For once, he exists in perfect ignorance. He's almost certain this is one of those old Terran phrases Magnus once collected from the errant thoughts of his elders. Yet, staring into the latest calamity their order faces, he understands the sensation intimately.

In another life, against all decorum, he might embrace his brother. Might offer a measure of comfort he has never known, only imitating the rituals of the serfs, that an arm around another seems to anchor those who, like Magnus, feel adrift. He hardly understands the comfort another's touch can offer, but he has seen the impact firsthand. It's only that he has never experienced it for himself.

It's only that he is beyond all sentiment and tenderness. It's all ash inside him, another casualty of that doomed city.

His expression drawn tight, he gets a firm hold on Magnus' robe, drawing his brother's singular attention to himself. Their brows collide with an almighty impact, tattooed flesh against intricate circlet, but it allows golden eyes to gaze into their singular mirror. Magnus has ever been his big brother, yet there is more than time between them now.

Even so, it is not the colossus of Tzeentch who sets the tone now. It is the runt of the Undivided. A small titan with a long shadow. The meek inherits not Terra, but at least some measure of control.

"Look at me," he demands. Not just the cycloptic physical gaze, but those ever-reaching tendrils that prophesy and spy and lash Magnus' attention out as a corona from his position on this false Tizca. Lorgar inhales sharply, his own mind whorling in on itself.

"I have not led you this far to leave you now," he intones. Simple words for a loyalty that has stood the test of loss upon loss. Simpler still to say in Horus' wake, where he cannot endure the loss of his remaining powerful allies. "Nor will I leave your sons to this fate, not if I can stop this."

Forget that this is his fault. Forget who was the architect of this Heresy, that he toppled the regicide board that left Prospero collapse as an inevitable ripple. Yet his own mind cannot even grasp that responsibility.

It is not his fault. It is the Emperors. The Urizen is the only one who can put it right -- not because it is Lorgar's wrong, but because who else can reach out to the Powers and be answered?

"Have faith, Magnus -- He will not have your sons, not this way. Each one can be saved. I promise you this." His grip loosens, and -- awkwardly -- he taps his hand against rumpled fabric as if that can put anything right. Foolishly, his tongue grasps at something from Before.

🚩icons & icon use // @cuileandorcha

I want to hold some hands when I say this. No, not you who enjoy making icons. No, not you who shelled out for icons because they made you happy. No, not you who enjoy the extra cohesion between your words and your character's visual.

You, the few I see on the dash worried about your lack of icons or fancy text or custom assets.

I was here when we used 400 x 400 gifs we stole from people's edits and no one knew what a smalltext was. We could not reblog asks. We had no idea what a header or divider was except as the most basic html. You know the commonality between that era and this one?

The writing.

All that matters win lose or draw is the writing.

Personally, I feel so much freer since I ditched icons, even if I do want them off my old rig for HC/drabble posts where I want to convey something of the mues in an otherwise OOC product. Your words will stand on their own. Do not get scammed into thinking the hobby about collaborative writing is a graphics rat race. If you want icons and fancy graphics and a cool theme, by all means pursue them. If you don't and feel like it's just an obligation of the community, it isn't. You're both right, because the important thing at the end of the day is to have fun writing.

@cuileandorcha asked: [ Blanket ] - from Mikaela

The air surrounding the campfire had been feeling much colder since Zarina came back from her latest trial. Usually, her jacket and scarf, along with the warmth of the fire itself, was sufficient in keeping her warm, but this time, she was actually shivering. She wouldn't have been surprised if the Entity decreased the temperature of the realm to fuck with them all in a more subtle way.

As if on cue, a blanket was gently placed over Zarina's shoulders by Mikaela. She wasn't sure where the other survivor could've found such a soft blanket, nor did she really care. "Thank you," An appreciative smile appeared on Zarina's lips. "Do you want to share the blanket with me? You must be cold as well."

Deirdre, on the other hand? Well, far be it from her to deny herself the chance for a Lady's good luck kiss before the night began.

Spooky! // @cuileandorcha ;;

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑬𝑵𝑰𝒁𝑬𝑵𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑹𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑽𝑨𝑳 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳𝑴 have been abuzz for weeks, waiting for the veil to thin. All Hallows' Eve allowed the bounds of this tiny land to spread further than ever before, giving Jane the chance to see more of the outside world, watching its festivities from a safe distance.

She was done up, as usual, in her favorite armor, wings aflutter as she nearly collided with Aine, chattering away at a mile a minute.

❝ What I feel for you is not gentle, nor meek. It is not beautiful. It wretched, it is dark and depraved with desire. And it is consuming me whole. ❞ Magnus for Ser ♡ // @cuileandorcha

The virgin hides her face behind her veil, a delicate wrist shielding marble relief from view. This is not the way a woman of her standing ought to be addressed. These are certainly not the words he was formed to speak. A man of his stature, literal and figurative, ought to know better than to toy with the little humans that swim in the gravity of this Crusade.

It hides the flash of white pearls well. Her joy. Her filthy, wild joy at this victory. One of them had to caper over the edge of boundary into madness, to pitch into a world as unknowable as the Immaterium. The sensation must throb in his mind, the rhythm of her own heart.

Proud, but no faster, no girl's dream of a bird beating against the cage of her ribs. She's still tethered miles from the edge, as he topples towards the rocks below.

Her mouth worries against the knot of veins at her wrist, the death of laughter. Oh, he's a fool, but there's no need to tease him for it. Poor fool must be desperate if he's painting himself the victim of a warpstorm.

"Poor thing," she mutters against the flesh. "Poor, dear thing. You're just like him, you know? You feel everything at once. He doesn't know moderation. None of you were taught."

How great are their inhuman hungers? What does it take to sate him? His brother has never known satisfaction, and by Magnus' own drive to learn what is beyond the ken of all others, she imagines him the same. She's found the thread that can unravel him to marrow and that giant's heart beating for her.

Or so he thinks. Poor, sweet fool. He'd let her do it, too, til he was all used up. Serpaisas wonders, consumed by the fire his skin so mimics, or like a beast set at the high table?

Whether he becomes ash or a meal, he's all hers. For the wildest, most wonderful second, she understands power. Her hand lowers, as does her expression. It's a fun moment, but not worth torturing that which can break another with the slightest thought. Squaring her shoulders, she truly studies her rival.