#inibicion

↳ for @inibicion + tifa

❝  Alright…  let’s  see  what  you  left  me,  ❞  Dante  muttered,  his weapon  resting  across  his  shoulder  like  an  afterthought  as  he  took  in  the  scene.  The  floor  was  slick  with  dark  residue,  stone  cracked  and  scorched  where  something  big  had  gone  down  hard.  He  let  out  a  low  hum,  boots  crunching  as  he  stepped  closer.  ❝  Man,  somebody  really  overdid  it.  And  here  I  thought I  had  commitment  issues.  ❞

He  sighed,  already  bored  with  the  idea  of  cleanup,  but  his  attention  sharpened  as  he  crouched  beside  what  remained  of  the  beast.  The  cuts  were  clean.  Efficient.  No  wild  hacking,  no  hesitation.  Dante’s  mouth  curved  into  a  half-amused,  half-impressed  smile.  ❝  Not  sloppy,  ❞  he  noted  to  no  one  in  particular.  ❝  Whoever  did  this  wasn’t  showboatin’.  Straight  to  the  point.  ❞  Talking  to  himself  felt  natural.  Some  days  it  was  the  only  thing  that  did.

He  dragged  the  tip  of  his signature sword, Rebellion  through  the  pooled  liquid,  lifting  the  blade  just  enough  to  watch  it  cling  before  sliding  off.  The  scent  hit  him  immediately,  sharp  and  warm.  ❝  Yeah…  ❞  he  murmured,  expression  shifting.  ❝  Fresh.  Real  fresh.  ❞

Dante  rose  slowly,  posture  still  loose  but  senses  fully  awake  now.  Whoever  beat  him  here  hadn’t  just  passed  through,  they  were  close  enough  to  leave  the  trail  warm.  Friend  or  foe,  he  didn’t  know  yet,  and  he  didn’t  like  that  someone  was  already  a  step  ahead. 

Closed Starter for @inibicion

This was possibly the last place he wanted to be.

Odin only knew why he'd accepted the commission to make a delivery here of all places. Caught in the moment of that request, Cloud hadn't truly given the location too much thought, and yet here he was now pacing the delivery court of Seventh Heaven.

How long had it truly been since he'd last frequented this place...? Two, perhaps three years? Sad to realise that he didn't even know, sad to think that it had been so long since his last meeting with the woman who ran this place.

And the fear sitting in his gut like a brick at the thought of having to face her again after all this time.

He glances back at the rented truck still rumbling behind him, fleeting thoughts of making his escape and simply offering his apologies to the delivery company that had offered Strife Delivery the commission were oh, so very sweet.

Against his 'better' judgement, he chose to fulfill the contract, striding to the cab of the truck and snatching the clipboard from the dash. And he killed only another few seconds checking the invoice with a grim expression before striding back to the corrugated door leading to the ale cellar, bashing on the thing, once, twice, three times, and calling;

"Delivery!"

𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃

@inibicion asked: “Perhaps I find myself envying you” He spoke carefully, glancing over to him. “ Your faith does not require a promise of salvation, nor does it ask to be rewarded. You offer yourself to Beauty without pausing to wonder whether it will spare you in return. In Penacony, belief is permitted only when it can be guided, shaped, and gently restrained - when it serves harmony rather than threatens it. Faith that cannot be managed is deemed a danger, not a virtue. Yours, however… is dangerously free.” // sunday to argenti

𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐘'𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋-𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 seems suddenly smaller, dimmer than he had been when last they crossed paths. Not quite a crisis of faith, given that- as he understands it- he had attempted to supersede one with another, but something close enough. Yet in so doing, he had invited challenge to what he thought he had believed in, and now found himself mired in the question of whether or not his previous faith had been worth it.

Argenti cannot comprehend it, not in the way he speaks it- and yet the sorrow he senses beneath the words compels him to try.

"A faith that is built on anything but earnest belief," the knight begins, fingers curled at his chin, expression gentle, "will always fail those who follow it in the end. Faith is called such because there is no sense of expectation, only... mmm, shall we call it 'hope'?" The thing with feathers, as the old poem goes, as his eyes fall to the faint flutter of wings as the man before him shifts in place. "And while spreading faith is simple, controlling it is not. To do so is to impose upon the freedoms of those who should, by all accounts, be your fellows." His expression, if possible, gentles further, green eyes dark with sympathy. "There are as many ways to believe as there are stars in the sky- if not more, as people vastly outnumber even those brilliant lights of the cosmos..."

People, Argenti well knows, who are as prone to professing the superiority of their own faith over those of others. People for whom 'faith' is merely a suggestion, or perhaps an excuse. People for whom faith is little more than a curse that they cannot hope to escape- not without leaving behind all they have ever known. People whose beliefs change, day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment, as they live and learn and love.

This too, of course, is another sort of Beauty- so long as that faith is an earnest one.

"Would it ease you to know that some might find your faith enviable?" That those who might were those who had either forsaken the path of the Beauty or left it entirely is something, he knows, he need not mention. "To be a Knight of Beauty is an oft-solitary thing. Though we may occasionally forge bonds, they are seldom long-lasting, due to the nature of our Oaths." Oaths that they have no one but themselves to help them uphold. "Restraint is, after all, not always a terrible thing, for such may give rise to the type of zealotry that can become... dangerous."

Too late does he realize the implications of his words, shaking his head as if to dismiss the possible accusation swiftly.

Then, he pauses, reconsiders- to lie would be an ugly thing, no matter how it may hurt his companion. If he's to be honest with himself as well, he's certain that the man has had enough falsehoods and half-truths to last him quite some time, by now.

Thus does Argenti's hand fall from his own face, reaching out to brush pale strands from golden eyes with a regretful sound.

☥ @inibicion asked: trailing   fingers   down   their   spine   to   check   for   wounds // from anaxa

Old habits die hard and so do a knight's that knows no rest from battles even if far away from the world where she comes from. No grand reason is needed to help those in need, an act of chivalry— of righteousness if you will, of her understanding of justice. Because if there is anything she can do, she gladly would. So it's been since innocent days when she daydreamed about fighting giants like that knight from the stories of her childhood that in people's eyes, he was fighting for naught windmills that were giants in his imagination. As per own view, however, it was an act of courage. A declaration of intentions that, were the day come where real danger descends upon them, he would be the first to throw himself in the woes of battle to protect everyone.

And in being an active participant of regular battles comes the risk of getting injured.

Cartethyia was never afraid of physical pain after having come to terms with the fact that it will be part of her life when she was still battling the Threnodian. Though admittedly, ever since she's become stronger, so was her pain threshold increased significantly more than what a normal human perhaps would endure. It is for that reason that sometimes she may sport injuries that she did not notice on herself to begin with— so long as they are not critical to her life nor they can corrupt her, they will eventually heal. This is not to say that she doesn't treat herself with the same respect, love and kindness as she would anyone else, no. She does, she always does— but to be on the receiving end of someone else's tender touch is... different.

Roseate lips part to exhale a shaky sigh when Anaxagoras' fingers touch at the back of her neck first, feeling a shiver she cannot constrain even if she wanted. It was out of his insistence that he checks any injury she may have precisely because she may think so little to him, yet that seems to be of so much importance to him, on the other hand. Long lashes flutter close with the slow descent of his fingertips, gentle and purposeful. Anaxagoras touches her with surgical precision, contrasting heavily with the warm care of a lover. Like dewdrops do his fingertips trace the axis of her very being, a very weak and vulnerable spot key to anyone who would wish to take her life through violence. Cartethyia knows this well and despite her careful nature indicating her to be careful, she resists.

◜Is your mind at ease now?◞ Lapis lazuli eyes open, their corners crinkle in a smile that rarely make their way to her lips nowadays— covered by the solemnity she carries like a second skin, byproduct of all the past experiences she has lived in her life so far. ◜I may not be the most reliable when it comes to the wounds I wear at times, but I was earnest when I said that you will not find any there.◞ That's what makes this situation all the more amusing to her, even the thought that he already knew, too. It is the tender moment of care that reaches deeper into the maze of her heart than anything else, more mundane in comparison. When his hand reaches down to rest on the curve of her waist, she scoots closer to him, face burying on the crook of his neck as a silent encouragement to continue his endeavors.

@inibicion - "You speak of destiny as though it were a crown. I assure you, Mydei - more necks have broken beneath its weight than have borne it with grace." / from cas. \ unprompted ask.

( 🦁 ) YELLOWED EYES SHIFT to look at the maiden ; one of the three of calamity including himself ---- the crown prince could fault her little in speaking on matters she knows little the full story of. he isn't one to talk about his past and the events that led to his casting into the sea of souls.

how THE BLACK TIDE and its corruption of anything and everything led to many a campaign while his father grew madder with power while he remained in exile and gathered strength. how , in the end , his hands were to be stained red with royal blood ---- just like those destined to commit regicide to usher themselves forward had done many times before him. what his father had done to his father before him.

a waste. pointless.

❛ AND DESTINY IS nothing but a broken neck. doomed to follow words that could be spun in ways untrue. following prophecy all the way through .. madness can easily take if over and over the same path leads to ruin yet persistence follows it through. ❜ arms cross as the stern gaze looks away from her --- something between his ribs stirs a little after expressing knowledge unknown.

( it didn't feel such .. so much felt familiar lately. like he'd ▀▀▀▀ before. hm ? odd. whatever the thought was it no longer remained , but the feeling of dread continued to linger )

❛ DESTINY WAS NOT a word that existed in the kremnoan tongue as i stepped foot into lands not my own. i came to despise it's existence --- it had ( and continues to do ) smiled upon me far too long. leaving my head golden with blood as i tried to avoid it. ❜

𝑰𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, heavy eyelids slowly lift, blinking in a state of awakening. Immediately feeling a weight at his wrists, he couldn't move much. A groan is heard as a throbbing headache becomes evident as he looks at a weak reflection on the floor. It was clear to him that his position wasn't ideal from the marble floor reflector that gave him a blurry vision of himself. Bloodied and bruised. He became quickly aware that he was not on the receiving end of a good night when an echo of boots caught his attention. He lifted his head slowly, only halfway, but it was enough. A familiar mask and attire greeted him, but he wasn't pleased to see it. Dottore.

Note: Deshret is (very likely) just an imaginary presence in this starter, unless you'd like him to exist in some more concrete form (as a ghost, spirit, time traveler, etc.). I am going off of personal headcanons that you can find here. Hmu in DMs for any changes or clarifications if you'd like to engage the starter! I hope you like it.

Another day to be forgotten someday, in the vast sea of memories a man was bound to outgrow and leave behind, to make room for other things. Responsibilities, duties, worries and fears.

But for the young boy that Cyno as at the time, the moment couldn't have been more special. He'd tried so many times to get through that little squeeze in the wall, of one of the biggest ruins he'd managed to find in his solo excursions - who was there to tell him no? - and he knew he'd grow someday. Too big to ever try again. Like the adventurer he dreamed to become, he'd seized the moment and tried, and tried some more. Sure, he'd acquired a few extra bruises in the process, but at last he was through.

The place was poorly lit, and the air felt a bit stale to breathe, but his lungs were young and strong. And the dark shadows of the corridors didn't scare him. He had all the company he needed to feel safe.

Even if people said it was all in his head.

"Al-Ahmar?" He called in question, listening to his own voice echo against the corners of the hall. His eyes were transfixed on the unmistakable depiction of his friend, painted on the wall in a scene that he did not quite understand. The figure held an object high before his eyes, while at his feet, many people sat on their knees and gazed up in his direction. Their arms were high towards the sky. Were they afraid? Or were they celebrating? It was hard to tell. There was something else, but time and wear had erased most of it to his eyes.