#moonsworn

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the water with a forlorn gaze, her elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. the world is quiet here, even if it's just for a moment before they have to continue their journey tomorrow. it's like they're the only ones awake, hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray.  she likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. either way, leitha would probably roll their eyes in frustration if she mentions her liking for nature once more. a hum. she stares off into space, for a moment, feeling their gaze weigh her down and split her apart. it's a tantalizing process, really— she can't tell if they're joking, but she knows it brings the same feeling as the parasite in their heads. it's uncomfortable and she would truthfully rather talk about anything else, but she knows trust must be built through moments like these. there's a difficult look in her eyes. she knows it makes her look older than she is, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea.

her hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for the night. she almost cracks a smile, but she's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots. she didn't sleep a wink last night. ❛ you look different in this light, leitha. it's lovely to see. ❜ a quiet thank you. from the time she has spent travelling with them, she's learned how to express her thoughts to them in a way that gives her the result she was hoping for. it is perhaps what works best with her, as well, because as different as these two are, they share more similarities. she thinks of their words once more. ❛ disappointment is perhaps the wrong word here. misplaced would explain it better. ❜ the young sorceress has been asleep for over one hundred years and now that she is alive during a completely different era, she's unsure if there's truly anything for her after they find a solution to the illithid parasite. everything she has held dear has already left the earth. when the end comes, what will become of her?

" BECAUSE I FELT LIKE IT. WANTED TO SEE WHAT WOULD HAPPEN. " tristan doesn't hesitate even for a moment in his answer, accompanying it with a half-shrug of equal shamelessness. rarely has he felt any need to apologize for himself or his proclivities, what he does in order to keep himself occupied and amused when the world around him grows just a little too dull for his liking. there's a vigilance to it, this constant need of his to have his mind engaged with anything at all. just like there's a strategy to ignoring why he might need that engagement at almost all times, as though he needs distracting. for so many reasons has the dissection of his own mind always been unthinkable. frankly his history makes him believe it creates far less complications to simply follow his instinct, wild as it may seem to some.

he twirls his svelte blade between his fingers, tilting his head, an inch to the side as he quietly admires his work with something dangerously close to pride. he's made some guard into a picturesque altar of death, beautiful and brutal, despite the inevitable trouble it's bound to cause. how irksome, always, that his talents go so utterly unappreciated in his time. what odes he creates to the brutal bounds of mortality, only to be scolded for being a fool. with some resignation, finally, he sighs with feigned wistfulness and casts his gaze briefly to the courtyard below.

when she wakes up in the morning, it isn't often with the intention of disemboweling anyone. but the wants and whims of the undercity flow like the tide, change often — some days require a heavier hand, keeping zaun under silco's boot. the day has been difficult, from start to finish: an ambush in the lanes by a few rowdy would-be heroes (fucking firelights), not so easily dispatched, followed by news that their latest shipment from piltover was caught and seized, and a fight that quickly got out of hand over a losing hand of cards — her hand, but that part isn't important. she can feel her last sense whittling itself down in real time. these days are occasionally a thrill, but for the most part, they're just work. exhausting.

looking at @moonsworn, who's looking at her, sevika glances down, and realizes that her boots are covered in rust-colored blood, drying away in peeling flakes. the splatter comes all the way up to her calves, stops just beneath the knees, but she's realizing there's also a stain on her jacket sleeve that's going to be a bitch to get out. her lip draws back in distaste, because she doesn't know how far she's gone today without realizing she'd looked like this. she's as vain as anyone else, most of the time. the fact it was lei to point it out, and not any of the people she'd just spent hours with, just makes it worse.

" tell me, " he says, plucking the lute's strings experimentally as he listens for the tune, adjusting the instrument here and there, based upon what he hears. all the while, he keeps leitha in the corner of his gaze, all that curious sharpness characteristic of him focused entirely on them, taking a study of their expression. it isn't suspicion that drives him, not remotely, but rather a natural inquisitiveness he has never been able to shake – and frankly, doesn't want to. " how many ballads have been written about you over the years? if I'm to stay with this party, it's only fair I know my past competition, were I to consider penning one myself, wouldn't you say? "

"Fine. I don't." His tail lashes playfully behind him as he lays face down in bed, pillow gathered up and under his head so he can more comfortably look to @moonsworn at his side.

They do look beautiful.

"I clearly like you for your arms-" Rolan carefully takes one of Leitha's hands and presses kisses up the length of Leitha's arm as he mumbles against their skin "and your back... and your hands-" Rolan dodges the small swat that his tone earns him. He's grinning anyway.

He likes that he can be silent with them and not feel as if he must talk. He likes being around Leitha, it was that simple.

"Certainly I like your a-" he doesn't get out the joke before a pillow hits him in the face, and he just laughs.

if byan was a canon character, what would the fanon interpretation of them be? ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ∘ ˚ ( accepting!! )

ough, the way i didn't even think about half of this and yet you're so fuckin' right... byan kinda is one of those characters that'd bring out the worst of fanon. like they just hit all those marks to draw all the worst sorts of attention. aaaaaand all of this reminds me of exactly why i stopped engaging in fandom spaces for the most part lmaooo