Sorrow crumpled Clay's brow, anguish sitting a cool beast within his breast. Its claws pulped deep within his heart, leeching cold dread and throbbing in tandem with the Phantom's scar.

You didn't tell him. You didn't tell him. You could have killed Solomon and you never said a word to him.

"I'm sorry, I-," came the weak beginning, once-grinning lips thin and twisted in a pain his medication could not touch. Clay's head lowered, a frustrated sigh wracking his shoulders. "I don't know why I didn't trust you to be on my side. I should never have listened to Yuri and you shouldn't ever have found out like you did. I should've explained..."

"Senior...."   Sigrika   hesitated,   almost   afraid   to   ask   because   of   what   the   answer   may   be.   She   both   wanted   and   didn't   want   to   know.   A   conflicting   feeling,   it   caused   such   a   cruel   pain   to   throb   within   her   chest. 

 "Did...   Denia   say   anything.   Um   ...   anything   I   should   know?..   before   she..."   words   trailed   off   her   tongue   ....   she   wasn't   even   willing   to   say   what   happened   out   loud.

"I   was   sent   that   message   from   her   ....   but   knowing   her   ...   she   probably   left   a   few   things   out."

with the setting sun at their backs, it is easy for lazare to conceal his frown with the dark shadows cast by the hood of his cloak. some mile or so behind them lies a middling sized but bustling river port, abuzz with the activity of a town settling in for the night.

it is the self same town that had turned the witcher away, unwelcome, expelled from it borders. there would be no inn room for him there, or any place at all. the same could not be said for jaskier - the bard, for all it is worth, could have continued on and slept that night with a roof over his head and woken to a decent breakfast and the pleasure of perusing market goods.

he hadn't. instead he had followed lazare away, though entry had only been barred for one of them, and then asked about it - how he feels. lazare had given the answer every witcher gives, excuse or not, though it is an answer jaskier seems unsatisfied with all the same.

send a character/dynamic for some fridge poetry // @heartsrising

send a character/dynamic for some fridge poetry // @heartsrising

drayden's always been a talented artist. this can be said without dispute. the skill he has with a paintbrush, charcoal, even the cheap watery paints that they sell for dimes at corner stores. he can create masterpieces from anything. and to sit nearby, sipping cool lemonade and admiring the careful arcs of smooth paint swirl into a vision known only to him... it's a privilege. painting is to drayden what cooking is to her; yet another thing they can bond over.

only, today, she wanders into his studio while he's stepped out, admiring the tiny glimmers of this impossible life they have here. victor's petunias growing in the garden. stanley stirring a pot of soup with the slender wooden spoon. sansa quietly embroidering a blanket in the sunlight...

and then suddenly, there it is. set aside, painted in hues of warm, radiant yellows, golds, peachy hues. darkness on the edges. a guitar cradled like a child, his fingertips dragging down the strings, lips parted mid-lyric, his yellow mug poking out behind his boot. it's him. and if she were in any doubt, if the mug and the dimples and the wink that always ended up being a blink and the unmistakable tangle of his reddish hair weren't enough proof, she can see maddoc dancing behind him, a girl with auburn curls spinning in his arms, his laughter as bright as the paint used to create the magic of the picture.

she stays staring until the door opens. she doesn't need to turn to see him. it's drayden. so she raises her hand, gesturing breathlessly to the canvas, and forces herself to speak. " how do you... did you two... you knew him? "

A new journal entry begins with @heartsrising (Vinnie)

Arriving in a strange new place was nothing new for someone like him. Ever since the ceremony where the dragons chose him to be their last voice things changed for him. Moving place to place to stay under the radar it was what lead him to Moonlight Peaks. Once he walked in the sunlight now he was more of a night owl. Not that the night fury who accompanied him complained about it. He changed for a long time from being a nocturnal dragon to diurnal. Now back to nocturnal. And the night had its beauty.

It was one of those night where sometimes things that went bump in the night spooked him. A new town , a new set of unfamiliar sounds as he looks up from his work the lantern reflecting his face as he squints into the darkness.