#makersruins

//. @makersruins​ // old meme // thyra

     He hadn’t encountered such a horrifying sight since the Calamity. Desensitized to the conflicts that engulfed Eorzea to its brim and beyond, the smell of blood was something he was keenly used to, constantly aware of and forever retaining in the blueprint memory of his dreams. Thyra was a fighter--he knew this. Did he worry? Yes, but not quite to the extent as he probably should have. He knew she was a fighter. And he knew she’d get hurt to some extent. But... she was strong. One of the strongest people he ever knew, almost to the point where coming down to brass tacks, Thyra could put him on his back with relative ease, Warrior of Light be damned.

     Lo, the creeping dusk settled over the Gridanian canopy, and he was loathe to push away his all-night studies overdue rest a moment longer when a curious knock at his door reaches large tufted ears. The door creaked open with a sense of uncertainty, and time seems to slow to a crawl as it swings open, and it seems as if it’s minutes before he realizes what he smells. The familiar taste of iron acrid and sick on his tongue, and worse, it was familiar. Blood he’d smelled before, but not in such quantities. Gods, oh gods--

     ❝ Thyra-- ❞ the name leaves his mouth like a snake, headless and groaning in its suffering. Sluggish, movements as those of the undead, reawakened unnaturally, causing the sound to shudder and whither just below the threshold of a whisper. If he thought he was getting mildly sleepy earlier, he was sure as shit awake now, and his body moves of its own accord, grabbing hold of his dearest friend and hauling her inside. Twelve above--Gods, Menphina; oh Hades, please let this be just a mixture of her’s and someone else’s. There has to be a limit, it can’t all be Thyra’s blood.

     He knows not where Hydaelyn is. He knows not from whence his strength springs, only that he’s rushing, grabbing, cutting, cradling. Words leave him as leaves falling from their branches, gentle and unassuming--quiet and steady on the breeze, Lay back. Open your mouth for me. Watch the light. Follow it with your eyes. Where are you hurt? Thyra, Thyra please speak. Don’t close your eyes, keep talking to me-- He doesn’t have enough twine, enough bandages for her wounds. Water dragged in from the nearby brook, her armor and clothing all soaked head to toe stripped, and carefully he washes, mindful of her wounds, holding her up with one arm while the other ran aether-heated water over pallid flesh, rinsing it clean of sinister red.

     Thyra please, speak to me. Tell me what’s happened. He almost can’t hear his own voice beyond the piercing tinnitus that deafens him. He can’t control his breathing, and his tail nearly knocks over a bucket of water twice in his mounting anxiety. Gently, he shakes her--she must stay awake. He can’t lose her. He can’t lose her in this eleventh hour, when she’s so close. He did everything right this time. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose her!

     It’s a reckless decision. But he doesn’t care. Hand against her sternum, his palm glows a gentle blue. If he was worth anything, it was the vast reservoir of aether within him. He shoves it into her like a lifeline, providing a steady flow to her chest, her heart. Her body. Her entirety. Draining himself. He cares not for his own state. He would survive. He always managed to survive. Bereft of energy, he all but collapses, stopping himself with the burning ache of his muscles--should he collapse, what would become of her? No. He can’t lay himself down just yet. He saves his last bit of strength to carry her to his bed. Dry her off, bandage her wounds with strips of his own torn clothing. And next to her, he curled, letting her take the blankets. The warmth, the safety. The security. She would have it all under his roof.

short starter call | @makersruins​​​

Being surrounded by vast amounts of ocean had always confused her, leaving her a befuddled mess, almost as if the sea threw her sense of direction into the trash. Being in a new city that she had yet to explore did not help with this factor, but the knowledge of scholars was far too enticing to ignore, leaving her lost and unsettled but far too determined to turn back. 

Blue eyes gazed upon the stricter woman that stood ramrod straight and acted as if she wanted anything other than to be disturbed, causing hesitation to shake in her bones. Alas, the woman seemed to be the only one around at this time and left the viera with no choice. With quiet steps, she approached until she was quiet enough for the meekness of her voice to carry across the raging winds of an angry sea.

    the dulled tip of the blade strikes against her shoulder. theldra's own rapier is held out, positioned to deflect an attack that struck elsewhere. she offers what might be a smile, but seems more like a grimace.

    " it seems you have won this round, thyra. "

    theldra drops the rapier to her side, other hand lifting to press to her sternum. she inhales a steady breath.

    " your swordplay is, as always, enviable. i would go again, if you would. "

There was a brief moment where he tried to meet her gaze. Vibrant, unnaturally crimson eyes met the greying blue, and in that moment she seemed to peer through him. Anything that came from him, any lie or half truth or attempt to shuffle away from reality, would be met-- perhaps not with a harsh, verbal rebuke, perhaps not even an outward acknowledgment, but she would know and he would know.

There was no point in trying to lie. G’raha had lived with falsehoods for so long that they felt slick and uncomfortable on his tongue now.

“... Well. Look at that sky.” He cleared his throat before speaking, turning his gaze up to the night sky. Dark and endless and filled with a universe of stars. “How could one sleep with such a rarity above them?” G’raha did his best to crack a smile as he glanced back at Thyra, but it felt just as weak as his attempt to deflect.

@makersruins​ whispered: aspectabund ! uncommon words drabbles. // accepting slowly. 

Names held power. Had stories attached to them. She found it ridiculous to be born with names on each wrist. Never knowing which one would herald her demise. Karigan avoided thinking too much about it throughout her growing years. There would be no use wondering, no use expecting. No use for hope in such a dreary world. It wasn’t until she had climbed up from the depths of hell that she realises     ──       these names would not matter. Not when she was walking such a dark and brutal path, away from the beaten one that many walked upon. 

Karigan’s first love was the sky; the endless expanse. A canvas of ever changing colours that never promised anything. Closer to the heavens that she sought to shake and wreak havoc upon. It is only in moments of silence, where she doubts her path, herself, does her will crumble. Her gaze falls upon the written letters on her wrist and she wonders. What would they be like ? 

It is in moments like that, does she ghost her fingertips over the letters. On her wrist, the names held no story. She did not know these people other than the fact that they exist, know not of their personalities. 

The name Thyra is spelled on her wrists in a painfully proper fashion, straight and stiff. Karigan briefly wondered if this alluded to this person’s personality. It isn’t until she meets Thyra in person that she realises one of the two possible outcomes. Yet she can’t help but to break into a grin. She remembers their first meeting vividly, how gunmetal eyes looked as if they were staring right into her soul, and how they danced on the battlefield. The sky pirate thought nothing of it at first, she was always one who burned for battle, after all. 

💯 What is my muse’s ideal date?

A trip to a book store, or maybe even just a walk to somewhere. It doesn't need to be a big flashy spectacle, something small and cosy. Doing those things would show that they really know him, that they listened to him when he rarely talks about himself and what he ‘enjoys’. Though he has never actually been on a date, but, those are just some things, that he may find to be enjoyable. 

@makersruins​​ has asked:  “it is not dying that frightens me. it’s living without ever having done my best.”  castlevania starters // accepting. 

WERE THEY NOT ONE IN THE SAME? A fear of death was nothing more than of meeting your end before you’d had a chance to live rather than survive — of one that had come without having completed the goals that had been set for oneself. At least that’s how it was in the xaela’s eyes. She’d long stopped fearing death and life itself — believing the weavings of fate to be within her control, that heaven nor hell could take her until she decided it was her time — but secretly, there was still a fear that bubbled away within of a death that came before she’d ever lived. There was an apprehension for a life in which she did not succeed in achieving the goals she’d set — of razing the earth in her vengeance. 

Beyond that, what was one’s best? Was someone’s best not ever changing, a wavering value that could never be captured accurately. Best could always be better, and your best would not — could not always match up to your best from a time passed. It was unquantifiable — a variable that could not be controlled and changed at will like the wind that guided the ocean’s surface waves. How could one fear what could never truly be captured? They would always have done their best, and never quite done it within the same breath. An unfortunate paradox. Was it fair to place such a heavy burden upon oneself? Never. And yet, they did, they did. They always would. It was the nature of the heart — to always want to go beyond. The assassin snorted back the  derisiveness that clawed at her tongue.

“ Your best is a measurement better off taken on a daily basis, and all others forgotten. ” A cup of mulled tea found itself placed in front of the hyur, the steamy aroma wafting in the ambient lighting of the shop that had been briefly shut to cater to the woman across from her. “ Only ever used to acknowledge what more you have achieved in current times than yesteryear and to acknowledge how far you have come. ” 

The expression she offered was soft, a simper of sorts, although violet hues still held an air of incandescence to them that was always carefully placed behind crafted walls, but still observant to those who looked deep enough.