#dionidai

mikkel is a hearty young lad. with a sick father and young siblings to feed, he'd boarded his first sail in hopes of bring some semblance of fortune as a deck crew. whilst, he'd imparted with the sort of excited naivety a boy age fourteen years of living would, i could go about to see the world, as well. killing two birds with one stone, hans had told him quietly right back that first night they'd spoken, while mikkel coyly nodded. again, he's a hearty lad. hardworking, good. every instructions hans laid out, the very few he could as they worked among other sailors, he'd followed well. smart, too.

it's unfortunate, is what it is, that through the throbbing of the pain from where the welts where his brother had laid his whips and tore at hans' skin, the boy has to bear witness to this as well. hans could hear him cry somewhere in the background, hurrying someone else inside their room. foolish, foolish boy ! he thinks vehemently, though he has no strength—nor attention—to genuinely scold. his back feels as though his prince brother alek had burned the flesh along with the whipping; it is searing. hans grunts, cries, and screams a guttural scream into the floors of the inn—if only, for a moment, he could direct the excruciating pain elsewhere.

mikkel is crouching besides hans now , tears stream down his face as he informs hans that he had brought in a healer. ❛⠀LEAVE ! ❜ hans screams. all— and he thinks so jaggedly, haphazardly, as though his own train of thoughts could not bear the pain long enough to have the words strung together. all he needs is some balm, he thinks with a lot of effort, some clean clothes to clean the blood, and any drinks that could let him sleep. that is all. that is all. ❛⠀i need not to be attended to. i need— i need rest. please—leave me. ❜

in the end, he begs.

They haven't known each other for long but the druid had been nothing but helpful since they started journeying together. she knew she was perhaps more open minded than most giving all her travels, but she still found herself surprised when people had the tendency to move aside when they saw a drow dressed person passing by.

@dionidai ( asyrn's ) reaction had been almost pleased when it happened the first time and she couldn't help to wonder why, yet for her surprise, the answer was simple : ❛ 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝? ❜ he says as they walk by some clearly terrified humans and she can't exactly hide her frown as she turns to look at him.

❝ well, terrifying is not exactly the word i would use to describe you, you know? ❞ she adds, hoping he doesn't take it the wrong way; she's sure he's literally housing at least one or two bats somewhere between his clothes, for hells' sake ! ❝ at most, you're perhaps... slightly intimidating. ❞

An artist prays to the Muses. He offers vows of service and devotion... “Sweet Lady...” 

Oneiros, the Lord Shaper himself, uttered these words in a low, reverent murmur. He stood in the temperate Mediterranean breeze upon the banks of the Helicon river, clad in flowing black robes and barefoot to show his humility. And held in his pale hand was the humble offering of a single white anemone, the flower itself the generalised symbol of anticipation while the damask petals communicated his sincerity.

The Muse had ignited such a flame within him, but it went so much deeper than mere infatuation. For the first time since his younger years, Lord Morpheus could taste the addictive sweetness of true connection. And in that sweetness, he had rediscovered in himself the fresher feelings of youth.

And since this moment, he had rather neglected his duties, instead passing his days counting the hours until he could once again lay eyes upon her.

However, he first and foremost wished to communicate his respect for her before he made known his passion and thereby would gladly court her in a manner appropriate to her customs for however long she saw fit. And so, humbly dropping to his knees upon the sultry Grecian river bank, he bowed his head and held the anemone gently to his lips.

“...She of the Nine Daughters, most gracious one - I offer unto you my respect, my diligence, and my untempered affection. For I, the Lord Shaper, and your most humble and devoted servant, request the great honour of your company this day...”

𝟐𝟎𝟎 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒  || ACCEPTING.

"It will get even worse," he mirrors his averse choice of words while, ironically, seeming quite serene (if not pleased) about the storm, which slowly morphs into a raging blizzard before their eyes. "And then it will last for a few days."

The massive radius window suffers no harm from the furious dance of wind and snow; fragile-looking glass gracefully withstands it where a web of imperceptible incantations has been etched into each clear panel. The entire castle was built upon intricate magic, thus the influence of weather is relative here, including the cruellest assaults of this sempiternal winter.

"These mountains are kind to no one." Still undisturbed. Factual. It should go without saying: their deadly ice and inaccessible heights are vastly dreaded in the northern regions.

ㅤ𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭.ㅤ|ㅤ@dionidai

ㅤhis stoic expression broke, the well crafted mask he wears dropped for a split second. damien's eyes saddened.the idea of having control over his life was something he had lost hope for a long time ago. as quick as his mask dropped, it returned a moment later. the musician held his breath as he searched for the right words. he resisted the urge to stand and pace. discussing personal matters always made him feel uneasy. damien preferred to dump his feelings into his lengthy discography, not in conversation with someone who he had just met. "don't know. never thought about it."

ㅤhis eyes broke from calliope's, finding it odd she chose such a heavy topic to talk about. finally, damien released the breath he held in for so long. "i think my grave has been dug for me since i was kid. even if i could change the road i'm on-" he paused, suddenly changing the subject. "so wait, hold on. the fates? like greek mythology, fates?"

he's playing the clueless card. cute.

maria takes a sip of the coffee; she takes advantage of the sunglasses too. her eyes flickering behind the shades to once again sweep across the perimeter for extra cameras. then the exit route. one, she suspects, out the back. can she outrun him ? probably. though then again, all of SHIELD's information—the few she'd managed to save from the catastrophe in 2014 and eventual resealing by the military and department of defence—about this... immortal is limited.

case-en-point, she doesn't even know if this is true immortality. what is the healing rate ? to what extent can he be cut up or torn down or bogged down by bullets until his life's forfeited ? or is it the real deal ? the you-can-separate-my-two-decapitated-bodies-and-scattered-them-all-over-the-earth-and-i'll-still-be-back-alive type of deal ? and if it is, or if it isn't, does he have all the 3-in-1 package of being super strong and super speed alongside this extended longevity ?

questions, questions. maria hates that there are questions.

what can she say, she's the thorough kind of gal.

❛ then that's all the more convenient, isn't it, mr vratis ? ❜ there is an obvious smirk in her voice, though her expression doesn't quite translate the same. she wiggles her coffee cup. ❛ i'll buy you a drink. we can match. ❜

no, hob thinks — though not with the tone of grievance or fear which one would expect he harbours.

now normally, hob believes that'd be the appropriate reaction, see: the panic and the oh-shit moment and all. you never quite want any of your former colleagues or acquaintances from your past life to see you on the street, alive and well and... un-ageing, while they most probably would be in their later age. it'd create a litany of issues and questions, ones hob usually dusts away by saying he's the son or the nephew of the identity with which said colleague or acquaintance knew.

and one would think, yeah. what's so bad about it, gadling ? except paranoia's an ugly mate like that, my friends. and once you've been at the bottom of the thames for more than a week, dying from drowning again and again and again, you tend to be wary about being recognised. it's just—not a comfortable sensation, yeah ? trust him on that.

but this— this is different, aint it ?

because hob could've swore that the last time he saw that face, it definitely wasn't any time back in the last few decades. it must've been centuries ago. but for fuck's sake, what was his name ? vance ? vienna ? ( by the way, that's a good song, that one. gosh, he wishes he could've met billy joel when the man's alive. ) ❛⠀ my friend ! ❜ hob settles with instead, laughing aloud as he comes forward, drags the other into a mighty embrace. ❛⠀ oh, i've been dreaming of this day, you would not believe. you— you were a tailor, were you not, my friend ? ❜ back in the 1700s, but eh. who's quite keeping tabs ? point is, that's a long time ago, and he's still here: same as hob, untainted by time.

❛⠀ vratis, that's right. oh, my friend. come. let me have a look at you. it's been so long, has it not ? ❜