#lionsrest

She reminds herself the coffin is empty.

Varian is absent from this ceremony in body and spirit. (You searched.) There are only a horde of weeping, sweating mortals. Her skull fractures under the incessant pounding of their hearts. An ache throbs through the roots of her teeth. Her hands are far too empty. As empty as the --

Tiris presses against her, whining. Deep sorrow washes through her mind. In the river: the metal-blood-warmth of Varian’s scent. His hands, caught gently in teeth nipping greedily at treats. A palm as broad as the wolf’s skull, resting on the fur.

Her own hand is cold and half-bone, but when she winds her fingers through his fur, Tiris leans harder against her. In stillness they remain for the rest of the ceremony. Zoen closes her eyes to help stave off temptation. Not one of the gutless mob deserved to share the day with the old man. And it’d break his heart, if he’d still had one.

( If he had, you could have – no. Close that door. )

The speeches end, and the sobs settle down to mere sniffles. When the headache becomes manageable, he opens her eyes and seeks out the king.

You don’t get to die.

“Oh I don’t waste time on remorse, Andi.” His mouth quirks into something almost a smile. Tiris shakes Zoen off and approaches the king, sniffing at his hands for food scents. “It’s unproductive. And besides – there’s still so many sins to commit.”

Fewer by the day. He ignores the chill presence lingering at the edge of perception – and it, disconcertingly, returns the favor. The Lich King had been quiet since the reckoning at Antorus.

assorted setting prompts -- accepting

“ Oh, shit. ”

THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE dies on her tongue much the way the nobleman -- cultist -- fuck he better be a cultist -- did just a moment ago. Her teeth are stained red with his gore. His throat clogs her throat, and there’s a panicked moment (spit it out!?) before she swallows, instinctive -- oh fuck is that worse? More incriminating? 

The body falls from nerveless hands, onto the plush cushions of a pale chaise. His blood is luridly dark amidst the fluff and lace. Tiris pads forth to nose at the carrion, shameless with hunger. He shows little interest in the boy. The witness.

Gods and dark. He’s so young.  

The face isn’t one she recognizes immediately. ( Neither is your own. ) But the clothes are rich, and the demeanour is a noble’s. And his age… what, ten? Thirteen? 

Her throat is still clogged. She dares not clear it, and her voice croaks. “ He-ey there, little one. This is, ah -- ” what it looks like. “ This isn’t your business. Go away. ”

A sudden, awful thought occurs to her. The cultist was a noble.  

some prompt i probably deleted.

     Shhh. Listen close.      Can you hear it?

     That soft gravel rasp, the crunch of glass beneath a boot?      A wind chime wheeze, sugarwork pipes dissolving into rust on the breeze?

    The dying of the Light is such a small thing.

     He settles inside like a maggot come to feast, comfortable beneath the moldering cathedral ribs which creak with the pain of holding up the patchwork rooftop. Snow blows in through the shattered wooden hull, thick drifts carpeting the floor. The winter comes by his hand alone, but the rest of the rot, the waste, this is all the work of man, that most resilient steward. A rafter succumbs to its tender care, and crashes upon the pew behind him with a thunderous noise.

     Silence holds for a breathless moment…. before the flip of a page slices through.

     Cathedrals. Devotion. Life. Such fleeting things.

    ( you will not be so impermanent. )

     … and speaking of fleeting things —

I stg if you say helya vores one more time im going to fight you irl

🍴 - Favorite food(s) to eat? Pizza

📅 - Favorite time of the year? Winter! I love the snow cries