#imaginarynoumenon

In the upper floors of Feiyun Slope, you can find the ever-famous Xinyue Kiosk. A restaurant famous for having a three-month waitlist and serving Yue cuisine, a fish-based specialty, to their menu. He will not say how he came to be seated at one of their tables, but he will say that the glares he gets from neighboring tables are nothing short of humorous. Even as a stranger to this land, he still drew ire from the common folk—some comforts just carry over, reality be damned. 

He is in the middle of taking his first bite of stir-fried fish noodles when he hears a commotion at the door. He isn't surprised something is going awry, as the nightlife does not just end with craziness that is the buzz of festivities, as humans are indeed selfish creatures, especially to good and luxuries. He doesn't hear a fight break out, so he looks over with a tad bit of glum, expecting his quiet hours to be over if someone dares to—

It took only a millisecond for his heart, or whatever is keeping this body from perishing, to skip a beat and his eyes to play tricks. He is sure the young man has grey hair, the definition of ashen, but he swears his eyes saw white. He could swear the lad's eyes had been sharpened by years of isolation and desolation of virtues, but he only sees it's just naturally his features, and he's full of life. If he wasn't so sure the stranger wasn't who he thought of, he'd have thrown his utensils into his plate of food by now…

The young gentleman was obviously getting scolded by the staff for whatever he had done to cause such a ruckus, but as Otto scans the man's clothes… He catches the sight of a golden ticket upon his coat's lapel. A golden ticket not dissimilar to one he saw upon Welt when he had attacked him some planets ago. He smiles in schadenfreude and glee as he waves over a staff member. 

To the staff, he smiles, feigning chagrin. “That young gentleman is one of my guests; tell him these seats are open should he wish to join me.” 

Years of public speaking and over five hundred years of handling humans as a whole have their perks as he keeps up the smile to the grey gentleman that approaches his smaller table. He keeps things civil and gestures to a chair across from him. 

“You must be an outlander like myself with your style of dress. I saw the tail end of your commotion just now, and surely you must have an explanation for what just happened.” He is courteous. “And why not dine while you tell your tale as well? It'll be my treat for your troubles.” 

Lantern Rite Gifts | 1(2)/5

Caelus knows that he really should be more careful when wondering out alone, knows that he should be more attentive to his surroundings. But when he overhears that a particular establishment was renowned for it's cuisine, is it really his fault for getting so curious? Of course the poor lad simply walked into the place, completely unaware that you had to have a "reservation" ( whatever that meant ) to get in- or more specifically, to get a place to sit down and order food.

He tried to ask the staff member trying to usher him out to explain to him what the issue was, what a "reservation" was and how he could make one- but the staff member just looked at him like he was an idiot ( which he knows he is, but it doesn't mean that he enjoys when his lack of knowledge is pointed out or made a joke of ) and baffled that the silver would even ask such a "silly question".

Caelus is more upset than angry as the discussion goes from polite to passive-aggressive fairly quickly ( an unfortunate result of the trailblazer not being able to keep himself in check with all the paths currently in his body ). His hands are clenched at his side ( not that he would ever actually toss hands at someone just trying to do their job.. hopefully ) and his eyes are narrowed as he tries not to glare at the person before an unfamiliar voice calls out to the two of them, stopping the commotion immediately as they both look over towards the source.

As his eyes meet green, Caelus freaks out a little bit- his face likely showing his internal panic. Not that he had anything personal against a certain someone, but as far as Caelus recalls the name who called himself Luocha was still a wanted criminal. Their faces look remarkably similar, but the hair color is slightly off and much shorter ( though there is such a thing as a hair cut ).

At first the silver is hesitant, the underlying concern of a Luocha imposter wanting something from him- wanted to cause him more problems after already making a mess on the Xianzhou Luofu. But no, this stranger is simply trying to be nice and give Caelus an out of his current predicament. Plus- the whole reason he came here was to try out new food that was supposedly some of the best in the nation. So who cares about caution or thinking things through when you can satiate your curiosity?

He makes his way over slowly, carefully slipping passed the few staff members that had gathered at the sound of raised voices ( not his fault! ) until he takes a seat opposite of the stranger, a polite and careful seating choice. His eyes immediately widen upon being called out for being an outlander, but even more so at the reveal of this man also being one. Caelus does laugh a bit nervously though at the unspoken question of what had happened that had caused the public disturbance, lightly scratching at his cheek as he stares down at the table.

❛ Well... let's just say that, as a non-local, I don't know how things work around here. ❜

Caelus decides he should probably leave it at that, a rather simple explanation that he really doesn't want to go further into.. though, one second thought, if the stranger is willing to even pay for his meal, he should at least give more than that. With a tiny sigh, he puts his hands in his lap as his voice gets a little gentler.

❛ There is honestly a lot I don't know about- in general, I mean. I tried to ask what the person meant, but they just looked at me like I was trying to make a horrible joke or acting like I was stupid simply to get out of trouble.. and it just kinda got worse from there. ❜

The lad takes a pause, taking a quick breathe to calm down, before looking towards his meal partner.

❛ But I am curious to know why you went out of your way to help me out- even going so far as to say you'll treat me. That's really kind of you..... um- I'm sorry I guess we didn't catch each other's names.

A memory once, perhaps long ago when cobblestone was unironically advanced and a church had cursed her name he had done this many of times, but this time felt different. Once, he would have felt obsessive and perhaps pinched her cheek while she was still stinging from pain as his blood spiked in pressure, but now he finds himself gentler and more numb. Perhaps, he was just too tired, and the reminder of her was enough to tame the blistering queasiness.

"You're not hurt, are you?" He asks as he cups her cheeks to check her over, so different from how he'd expected this to go.

reasons to cup a face. no longer accepting. — check. after an unexpectedly violent situation, sender frantically rushes to check if the receiver is okay, cupping their face to look closer.

HIS HANDS ARE COLDER THAN SHE EXPECTS. against her skin, his touch is a shock. still, she stares straight through him, her mind racing, adrift elsewhere, caught, entangled in frenzy. the haze of memory is translucent, yet thick. impenetrable. then, her gaze flickers, refocusing. “ — no, no i'm all right. i'm not hurt.” kallen answers, as though catching up with herself, “are you?” she lifts her hands, afflicted with a stinging ache — perhaps to hold his wrists, his hands — then, thinking better of it, suddenly aborts the motion. phantom-like, she withdraws until she is just out of his reach. his cold fingertips trace invisible lines down her cheeks in place of unbidden tears, blearily-blinked away. as she examines him with concerned eyes, searching his face for something recognizable, anything, she realizes once more — with a start, with resignation, with perfect clarity — that not even a shadow of the friend she thought she once knew exists, anymore.

around them, the landscape is a blur equally indecipherable. equally solipsistic, kallen looks at him for a few moments longer, as if trying to exhume who she knows (and cannot deny) no longer remains. he seems fine, too. so she shifts her gaze elsewhere — above, beside, behind him. “we should, we have to … ” what to make of all this? this ringing silence, this spinning stillness. figures, silhouettes running — or is it smoke, billowing? she struggles to find the usual words. we should help, we have to help.

✧ ˖  @imaginarynoumenon asked:

[FIRE]

The fire is a guiding light, they say, a guiding light for the worn and downtrodden. The many lights of history, from the quick life of a makeshift wick to the overexpanded modern electrical circuit, have made the security of civilization something of a comfort. It keeps away the dark, it keeps away the inner thoughts of others out there. Homes may be built and locations of interest may be explored, but once darkness encroaches it is just as insidious as any whisper. In the snow and out in the snow plains, it is customary that people wanting to go out onto the land would need a guide and a person who knew the land above all else. A group of two or three, one a visitor no doubt, to go sightseeing just in case of misfortune in the snow. But it's not always mandatory—a buddy system is a courtesy to him, you see. This far out was a group of three who you would mistake for two at first glance, huddled over a fire and talking to each other while their third stood away from them in the trails of light. It was getting about dusk and the flickers of orange barely illuminated the blonde staring outwards towards the encompassing dark. Anything he planned to do is cut short—he is far too kind for someone who doesn't look back further than the crane of his neck. “Ah, I see the light attracts everyone. It's getting dark. What do we owe the company, miss?” It's all he says in greeting, a burning poison to his smile as he continues to only be licked by the barest of light.

In a life like hers, with a faux heart like hers, it is not infrequent to find familiarity in strangers.

This is, sometimes, a face like one you've nearly forgotten. A shared name, a similar history. The roots of the imaginary tree are interesting, they wind and overlap into similar patterns. It's coincidence, sometimes, and fate others, but it is a fact of life.

Now, however, it is a sensation somewhat different. She does not know his name or face, could not guess at either if she tried. No, there is something in the air around him instead that whispers to her of their proximity in this universe. That this is not the first time they have ever been near, only that near in definition had meant something different than physical proximity. Near in the sense of existence, born of the same branch. Veins on the same leaf.

"Just looking to keep warm. Isn't everyone?" Her smile is polite, saccharine, the watercolor hues in her eyes dancing with the amusement of someone who hears a joke only they understand. She studies him, catalogues him, sees in him the fingerprints of souls that she would know across thousands of years. Ego hums, then, pleasant.

He has always wondered what it would be like to be the end of a deal gone belly up, as he had yet to experience such a downfall while looking into the eyes of the dealer. The sire to the Kaslana bloodline and World Serpent had been an encumbering and stubborn few who had not addressed anything except their own gains, and while it had rubbed him the wrong ways into gritting his teeth back then, it was something he found quite entertaining now. In this bar far across the city, far from that centerpiece that prides itself on being an embodiment of heaven and fire, he finds himself within the chilling that clutched at the belly of Plutus while mimicking the skin crawl of a freezing mire.

But not in the presence of one lady Bonajade who made sure her circle of influence was warm and lit, the people around the sphere who were of common standing, and both sides of the alignments of night and day. It added a homeliness to her business but it was one he wished to find his way inside and to bury, either in his mind or real life was yet to be seen. He had someone to keep away from here on this planet and wanted to see what they could offer, so darkening someone's door was not beyond his methods of catching two birds with a single stone.

In the night they are without that fire that burns a safety in the minds of common folk, and are replaced with the soliciting whispers of night. He refused to sit once addressed and found his fingers gloved even though his body had no fingerprints to give, running along a dart that had been left within sight. He aligned the shot once he picked it up, and he makes just slight adjustments he doesn't need as he speaks. A purpose is priceless and he had no reason to rush.

“Lady Bonajade, I beseech an answer to a question before I take upon the dealings of yours truly. I have heard that you can help a man if he has something to protect, if he wishes for a sensible future that would soothe their worries and then align with theirs.” His tone holds no hint of misunderstanding that he wasn't asking a question at all, but his smile was curled and eternal. But he does give a real question after. “What do you have to offer that can bring someone to life, spiritually and all?”

He finally stops pseudo measuring the aim between him and the dart board, but the dart doesn't leave his hand the way it naturally should. Instead of coasting through the air, it's embedded in the table between them from where he changes his grip on it. From a featherlight hold to a knuckle clenched grip, he leaves it between them.

“What do you have for a ghost who has achieved his adieu, Miss Bonajade?”

The shadow of arrogance dusts the Lady’s doorstep once again, an uninvited guest- but not an unwelcome one. Few take her hand as easily, as readily, as those who believe themselves above her warnings. All the better for the Lady, who finds audaciousness charming. All the better for her guests, who will gain exactly what they asked for.

As promised, it was an equal exchange; mutually beneficial in its entirety. If pride sped negotiations along, well, time was just another currency they traded.

So Lady Bonajade chuckles, breathy and amused, at his refusal to sit as equals. Unlike her other customers, he is slow, methodical, measuring an unknown unit of success as he clenches a gloved hand around a dart from the dartboard.

This man- so careful, so controlling of his surroundings that he leaves a mark on her table- shows a glimpse of his hand; her temporary residence within an establishment owned by another (they owed her a favor now, as well, to be cashed in with a serpentine smile when her leisure on this planet was over) was not so delicate that she even blinks at his apparent violence.

She lets the sound ring for a moment longer than one normally would, eyes drifting up to his face, contorted in the view of desperation. Desire strong enough to drive the dead, it would seem.

“Now that is an interesting question, indeed…” His actions were rude, at the very least, but the Lady is generous enough to let him off by dangling the promise of hope for longer than she usually would. “The answer to it would have its own price, of course.”

A simple one, paid in blood.

She leans back, savoring another moment. “But I doubt you’re here for something so simple. This is an exchange, my good sir- everything can be traded, for the right price.”

          Having very few of the hours filled with people bending their knees to his demands and acquiring the information that he needs, he finds himself alone at the bar he had chosen for his last rendezvous of the daylight hours. The last man who had shared his space had left with a flushed complexion and a small bout of fear jittering their frame, but a newly seized attaché case at his feet. From start to finish, Otto had been nursing a glass of the same drink even to this second—not from nervousness or need for coherent thought, but out of boredom. While he would be on his way already, a bustling business man by nature, he had genuinely nowhere of interest he should be. Not yet.

So he finds himself abandoning his glass with a look from the barkeep, his tab not cleared but a promise to return. Sadly for him now there were little people of interest except an exhausted salary man at the bar now, the afternoon and work diner crowd having been the final cover of his helps escape. Where he goes, he ends up before a dart board and thick wooden walls. A carpet and a modest line some distance way his indicator where the game holds its rule. A pity, he muses as he picks up a dart from the tray.

The dark reds and dark browns of the bar shouldn't have brought in anyone of note, the design bare bones compared to the flashy and more appealing bars south in direction to this place. That's why he had picked the place along with the occasional salary man who occupied the barstools, until the late night crowds filed in behind him and this little game. Amongst the crowd, unappealing and unimaginative people of all walks of life, broke at the sight of metallic... well, everything.

Short of a dark set of pants and boots, a short jacket upon his slender frame, and a fanning cowboy hat the man was all metal from his neck to his visible lower back. And with that much vital area tightly compact, with steel, he's as tempted to say it might have gone all the way down to his jingling spurs. Another interesting specimen from beyond the stars, no doubt. And perhaps one to cure this small timeframe of boredom, should he agree.

What could he really lose that was worthwhile, after all?

When the man is decently within the threshold behind him and this little dart game, he fiddles the dart with expertise between his middle finger and index. "Might I ask for a game of darts from you, gentleman in the hat. Two out of three rounds winner, the lowest final score winning the round—you seem like a good shot. I've become rather... bored waiting around, and can't find myself thinking of any other ideas of how to spend my time."

He plays up his supposed boredom, expunged even a flamboyant sigh to pass the message along, and readies his dart properly. Even if the man didn't take him up, testing his aim never hurts to try.

"If you take me up on this game, I'll wave your tab over as my own. If you win, I'll pay for as many rounds as you can treat yourself to. When you lose, we simply part ways and I walk out of this bar and we simply part ways. Deal?"

Dice: [1d20] | Roll: `[6]`

With that he let go of the dart he had previously aimed at the fixed dart board, he makes sure to loosen his wrist so the dart is already curved to fall before it leaves his hand. Sticking in the outer black, he hits a 3. He let out a tsk, almost like he was shocked it landed so low.

Revelation 2025 | no longer accepting asks

This whole planet was far too fancy for a dusty ol' cowboy. Not that that had ever stopped Boothill before, of course. Crashing fancy places had become something of a hobby by now, but usually if you broke enough stuff, you'd find your way down into the seedy underbelly that every gilded place like this tended to hide. This little hole-in-the-wall bar wasn't quite seedy, but it was dark and empty, and the music that played from the scratchy old jukebox pushed up against the back wall was just some meandering solo that better served as a blanket for private conversation than something pleasant to listen to. You had to strain to pick up the important notes in hushed voices, but if there was ever anything worth hiding, it would be here among the ordinary and commonplace.

Besides, a cowboy stood out a little less here, if only because of the low light. And maybe because the disillusioned working class who made up its meagre clientele would rather stare blankly into their beers for a few hours before packing it in and trudging home. After all, every pretty little vacation destination still needed the regular folks to keep it running. To these people, Empyrea had lost its shine to the day-to-day grind. Maybe they'd never seen a cyborg cowboy before, but they'd seen enough of the bizarre to not to want to see anything more once they were off the clock.

So he sat at a table near the back, one arm thrown over the back of chair while he idly rearranged his flight of drinks with his other hand. He'd picked up nothing about Oswaldo so far, but that was nothing new. An hour or two longer and he'd try his luck elsewhere, he decided, but it was then that he noticed a striking blond stranger step up to the dart board nearby. Boothill lowered his head and watched him from beneath the brim of his hat for a moment, noting that the man appeared to be another businessman, and yet his demeanor stood him out for the rest. Someone higher up the food chain, probably. In turn, the man noticed him, too.

"A game?" Eyebrows raised with interest, then Boothill lifted his head to meet the stranger face to face. A smirk snaked across his lips, and he abandoned his half-dozen half-finished drinks to rise to his feet.

"Y'sure know how to sweeten a deal, partner. How 'bout we shake on it? Can't have ya chickenin' outta yer end'a the bargain when you find out I got expensive tastes."

All this just because the man was bored? Well, Boothill wasn't about to tell a rich guy how to throw away his cash. He'd take a few top shelf malts for the road to help him clear it out if it was burning a hole in his pocket like that.

Their game decided, Boothill crossed his arms to watch this fellow take his first shot. It wasn't a good one either. With a snort, the Ranger snatched up one of the darts from the tray for himself and went to take his place on the mark. This was going to be easy--

Roll: 3

The dart barely hit the board, to speak nothing of the fact that it hadn't even landed in the ring. 0 points.

Otto finds the way he ends up at her side again, even just for the smallest of moments, to be his natural folly. He is not masked or wearing a hat that could obscure his features with, to hide behind the shadow of a doubt the park's crowd could offer him at a moment's notice. He could not offer himself any of these as he's easily noticed... and it doesn't help that his legs are the traitors that bring him forward into a socially acceptable distance.

Her light is still as radiant as he remembered, had fought for and traded for, that he knew they weren't compatible like he was when they were younger. Even the images of her cast upon him by greater powers, she had condemned his actions. But, he had to try.

"Kallen, I... OUF!”

That was as far as he got, cursing the universe, before a sense of weight and momentum crashed into him. This park was full of pets, leashed or not, so it's fair to say the dog that crashes his party is as giddy as could be. A man in a white suit splayed in the dirt and hair fanned out behind him was quite a sight, and the dog barked at him to hurry and get up.

Even with swirling emotions and a rattled frame, he couldn't... find anything inside himself except the motions to sit up, and consciously try and pet the offending dog behind the ear. He didn't get to do it long as the animal huffed, turned around, and sprinted off into the park's lawn as it realized he wasn't one to play. Maybe in another life.

His tone is more incredulous, a rare feat these days to get from him. "I seem to still attract trouble, I got mud on your shoes. Might I ask for a hand up?" His offers up his hand.

revelation 2025, soaring heights.

Kallen takes Otto's hand. In the past, she might've teased him for falling over so clumsily, might've managed to ask if he was hurt through bursts of sparkling laughter. Now, as she helps him to his feet, she struggles to find the right words to say. "Don't worry about my shoes," is what she finally settles on after a pause, his hand still in hers, colder than she remembers it being. The words—mundane, plain, simple—feel out of place. Wrong. No, it isn't just the words. His hand feels wrong. He feels wrong. A stranger wearing his face, his skin.

Abruptly, Kallen lets go of his hand.

Then, belatedly, like an afterthought, "...Are you okay?" She paces around him, frowning, then gasping, her shoes squelching in the mud and grass. In the distance, the carefree dogs prance together playfully, jumping and barking and pouncing on each other. "Oh, your suit is ruined," she announces, her voice stilted and strange, not the voice of the carefree girl he knew, not the voice of the righteous woman she wanted to be. Her frown deepens. Evaluating the smudges of dirt on the white fabric, she stares at them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. "There's dirt all over the back."

Kallen remembers, when they were children, far less had driven him to the brink of tears and past it, had driven her to protect and console him. Don't cry, Otto. It'll be okay. When had that changed? Was it while she fought in pointless battles for Schicksal? Was it earlier? Had it happened gradually or all at once?

She looks away from him, as if ashamed. Impossible to think of him as the same person she once called her closest friend. At the center of the park, the dogs continue to play, tethered to nothing at all—