#mydcimos

A small rest, he decides, when his brisk stride through the crowded city takes a turn down a winding marble path, where the music and march of foot-traffic dull into a mutable whisper. There are trees here, so out of place when the rest of the city is so crammed together that it cannot afford the space. Flowers of all colors create a beautiful way forward, and he’s guided by curiosity more than anything else. The well-kept garden is quiet by design, sitting structures and benches placed between floral designs and perfectly carved ponds.

Mydei brushes idly at his braid as he lingers, hesitant when he rests his back to a marble pillar, happy for solid ground under him when the rest of the planet seems so manufactured. Sleep isn’t something he needs, but he drifts anyway, watching the flowers sway in the breeze as people pass him by.

…then, his eyes open.

The barest bit of weight draws his attention toward his lap, where a grey cat with a patchwork of black and white stares back at him, kneading the fabric of his cape. He stares at it, holding still. There are two others that seem to make a judgement, winding against his legs and purring. “…uh.” They jump away as if the sound of his voice startles them before slowly creeping back. Resuming.

Many Ohkemans kept pets, but he can’t remember ever wondering if Kremnoans did the same. If they did, he imagines that they must have been war animals. Things capable of service and glory. So…he’s at a loss, looking around to see if the creatures belong to someone, to apologize for stealing them.

This time, he’s the one that jolts. The cats jump, hair puffed for a fight. It’s amusing, but Mydei – he swallows. The person in front of him may as well be a ghost – though he wouldn’t call himself superstitious. It is her, though, even if he was in danger of forgetting like anyone else, the mismatched, teary irises are etched into him.

Had she been following the cats? Are they hers? The patchy one hisses at her as it returns to his lap.

I didn’t think you were real. No, he can’t say that. It hardly makes sense at all. A messenger of the titans, that’s how you were written into history… there’s more. Always, Mydei is not spared from remembering the things he hadn’t said, and the things he did say that could have been better.

He was so…young. And yet, she looks the same. “I…” The words would choke him, but he isn’t sure that he has anything to say in the first place. It’s bizarre, but not. “Are these your cats? You look like a cat…person.”  When he had first met someone from a place called Teyvat, he had almost asked them…if Fontaine was a real place there.

BEFORE SHE KNOWS IT, SHE'S LOST IN THE ALLEYS OF THE CITY.　✧　where had it gone? oh where, oh where could it have gone? such an adorable face, such charming patterns on its fur, such striking eyes! "psspsspss, kitty kitty kitty! won't you come out? i want to be friends!" could it be that the book she'd been reading to it from hadn't been to its taste? or perhaps it wasn't a reading sort of cat to begin with.

it couldn't be that as soon as the other young woman who'd been scratching its head had gotten up and left, that it'd decided it wanted nothing to do with her as well. she'd been the one holding it in the first place!

"kitty kitty kitty!" her tone grows more impatient now, a little offended by its persistent absence. when still no answer comes, she huffs soundly and peers further down the alley. to the right was a secluded, but rather charming, little green space. . . she can see a small animal choosing to hide there. holding her book in the bent of one arm, she strides in, taking a preliminary look around to make sure she was not trespassing on some private property. despite the main street being not too far away, this place seemed to drown out all sound, the enclosing walls of surrounding buildings buffering the noise from outside. it made the little nature grotto feel more remote than it was ; she could imagine someone taking respite here, away from the demands of daily life and imagining themselves in another world entirely, if only temporarily.

before she knows it, a smile has come upon her face and she's nearly forgotten why she'd come here to begin with. her attention has wandered to a climbing vine sprouted with trumpet flowers, damasking the aged wall beneath it in blushing sunset rose. she doesn't even notice the man sitting beneath a column until her perusal circles around to her left and starts to find him there, already staring at her. why hadn't he said anything? and why is he wearing nearly nothing?

it seems he chooses that moment to find his words, and at that same moment she realizes he is not just anyone. those tattoos. . .

from that place??

did he recognize her too? that must be what that bewildered look means. sitting down, he appears at once. . . not smaller, but not so frightening as he did in the darkness, deepened by the shadows of torches lit with flame. why is he here? how did he get here?

all that is washed away by the mind-boggling mundanity of his question when he finally asks it, shocking her, briefly, into speechlessness.

"they are not mine." when she too finally finds words, they sound haughty ; perhaps they are, or it's merely the remnants of disbelief settling into something like it. in fact, it's only then that she notices the cats at all——three of them, circling around him and fleeing, a little bit, from their now changed environment.⠀(⠀it must be because they no longer found him suitable, and nothing to do with her.⠀)⠀"and. . . what does it mean, to look like a ' cat person ' ?" her folded arms drop. "though i'll admit i do like them. that one, in particular," she indicates the grey with the black and white patches with a motion of her chin, "has been eluding me. i came here looking for it." she feels a little proud to know her intuition was right.

Chairs and tables are flying, clattering against flimsy walls and shattering. Breaking over backs in what Mydei considers the unmistakable snap of partially rotted wood giving way to the barest bit of force.

Put simply, the destruction would be more impressive if everything – the people included – were not poised to crumble at the slightest breeze.

Mydei is caught in the tide of it, the anger of the room feeding into the consciously smothered flame of his ire as he strides swiftly to the room’s center. To the start of it all and the unfortunate foxian that is the catalyst. The gold of his gaze is dark, furiously tracking where the boiling beverage raises red welts where it’s been splashed on a blind man’s skin. He inhales, exhales—

When his fist comes down on the bar top, the force of it splinters the stone floor underneath. Wine red crystals of errant force splinter from the ground, tiny quakes that make the mob begin to scream before the noise dies down. The people fall silent. Mydei thinks he hears a single coin drop and roll a distance across the ruined floor.

Preoccupied, Mydei’s free hand turns the wound for better observation, standing close enough to Jiaoqiu to shield him, were any brave enough to answer his attack. (They are not). “Move this elsewhere.” Spoken as a royal order. “Do not test my patience. I will move you all by force.”

Then, to Jiaoqiu, his tone loses the edge. “We've met before. Mydeimos of...Castrum Kremnos…Can you heal this?”

jiaoqiu is meant to be waiting in this establishment for the arrival of those he knows: the restaurant is warmed mostly by the heat of people in close proximity, even more than the fires stoked to warm food and drink. a proximity this close is enough on its own to brew tension and discomfort; a pink ear twitches when he hears a nearby patron at the bar complaining that the man before him had gotten a far warmer beverage.

as the bartender replies in an exasperated tone that everyone receives their warm drinks from the same stove, jiaoqiu considers it: maybe he shouldn't be taking up a seat so close to hard-at-work staff... at the same time, if he leaves, it will be hard in such dim lighting and close quarters to find a free seat elsewhere to wait. the patron at the counter growls something barely intelligible back at the bartender --- and he feels the next action as a sharp, hot scald across one arm before he hears a tin cup hitting the floor behind the bar. "hey man, what the hell!? did you just..."

he assumes this is the voice of the bartender once more, but the complaining customer shouts again before he hears an entirely new voice remarking on the fallout of the hot drink's spill, then another, and then --- a chaotic cacophony of sounds breaks out, forcing him out of his seat to hunker down just below the front of the counter.

the chaos seems to stop abruptly when a new voice in a somewhat familiar tone rings out after a louder crash of wood: then, the same shadowed figure takes his scalded arm and turns it. damaged amber eyes strain to try and make out who is speaking, until he hears the name... ah. that man, that place. "oh... yes, that is correct: we have met before, haven't we? jiaoqiu, if the name escapes you: my apologies for not recognizing you sooner. it's quite dark in here," at least, it's too dark for me, jiaoqiu wants to add. an uneasy chuckle comes instead, then he shakes his head: "I appreciate your intervention, but don't fret --- it probably looks far worse than it really is, as it isn't terribly painful. besides, I'm accustomed to a burn every now and then."

It’s…cold.

The kind of cold that makes movement slow no matter which way he wills it. To combat this, Mydei keeps himself in motion, ignoring the way metal bites into his skin until he’s forced to remove his gauntlets. You’ve died like this before, he remembers, multiple times. Even if the memories feel as if they’re faraway.

A dream. A nightmare.

Mydei scoffs, lips shivering at the warmth of his own breath. In the background, someone is crying. A child. They’ve looked – a soldier’s efficiency for scanning a battlefield for anything useful. Even if they did leave the camp now, the fire – and the dozens of lives depending on it – looked to be at its last flicker.

“Deliverer,” Mydei says, numb hands easing red fabric from his should as his gaze cuts to the other. “Strip.” Someone has the presence to begin whispering, but Mydei doesn’t care. It’s for the fire. He knows Phainon will understand.

he's been walking the perimeter of the fire for some time, trying to find anything that could be of use... but phainon comes to the same conclusion others have landed at as the light of the blaze starts to weaken. seems like they'd need to venture further from the safety of lingering warmth to find anything of use... and as he's considering which way to go from here to look for firewood, a familiar voice speaks a nickname he knows well, then makes a single-word, bewildering command. "eh --- what...!?" through the immediate sense of alarm and an awareness of the scowl coming from a nearby woman sitting with her children, phainon turns back to see a brilliant scarlet fabric being pulled away from broad, marked shoulders and puts two and two together. "mydeimos. hold on, that's not... a few seconds more of a blaze isn't worth burning your warmest layer of clothing! here, I..." he quickly pats down his own person, trying to think of what could make more reasonable kindling...

leather wouldn't burn with this little flame left, ruling out his belt or his own gauntlets. and fabric would burn far too fast in contrast... there has to be something better, right?... then, an idea comes to mind. "wait... your shoes aren't all metal, are they? like a sole inside of cork and wood. my own have..." phainon's voice trails off, and one arm reaches out to brace on one of mydei's shoulders as he reaches down to pull off one leather boot, then reaches inside it to quickly rip out a well-worn and comfortable cork layer within. "just might need to soak it in a little fuel, but otherwise... this should help the fire burn long enough to buy us some time to look elsewhere." then, phainon pulls the boot back on, far less pleasant to stand on once more... and repeats the process with his other boot before handing both over to a man trying to keep the fire going with the occasional spritz of some kind of oil.

In many aspects, a crowd of people gathered in one place is like a battlefield that waits for the first blood to be shed. To signal a beginning. Mydeimos has always thought this, preferring to shoulder through with purpose. Much like a warrior on a mission, there is a beginning and an end.

Even now, golden eyes are narrowed on that purpose. The grey-haired beacon that’s worth the bumbling press of people suddenly crowding the square.

The roar of too many voices is at once so loud that he doesn’t notice the fight that has broken out until several fists fly his way. Guards dressed in silver and blue flood the crowd, and Mydei braces for the fist that slams uselessly against his chest and has to stifle the smirk that threatens.

Truly, he shouldn’t be amused, swinging an arm out to throw a few enemies out of his proximity. They collide with others, a guard barks an order at him that has his fist curling on instinct, ready for another strike.

But this is not his battlefield. Not his purpose.

Picking his way through the impromptu fray, he doesn’t care for the riotous cries that sound over steel. He only cares for the whistling metal bat that swings his way as soon as he’s come close enough to Caelus, shrieking painfully in his head as they collide. Already, the guards have subdued the worst of it, flooding in from all sides.

It is not comforting enough, grip firm on the other’s bat as he walks them to a quiet corner of the plaza. “You have a talent for finding trouble. These people are hardly warriors. I’m done here.” The trailblazer appears uninjured, but Mydei isn’t satisfied with just that. Something he masks with a scowl. “You are coming with me.”

Snowswept StampCard 3(2)/5 | accepting

Why is it always him? Why is it always when he's on his own that this kind of stuff happens? The Nameless was just trying to enjoy the festival, walking around to inspect the different vendors and catch up with his Jarilo companions! He didn't want to be apart of.. whatever the hell this was.

Curiosity kills the cat racoon.

Caelus just thought that it might have been a large crowd waiting for a speech from Bronya, or just a large collection of visitors trying to figure out their lefts from rights. So of course, wanting to be the Nice Guy he was, the silver had gone to try and offer some help- only for chaos to break as soon as he stepped over the trip wire.

Bodies start swirling around the area and arms start flailing to push or pull, a lot of rather loud hollering ( oh how Caelus hates the volume- if he had known this was going to occur he would have brought his earplugs ) that the Nameless can't quite tell is of excitement or aggression- maybe both.

Instincts flare immediately as people crowd around him, voices all blurred together as something uncomfortably close to panic sets into his limbs. Unfortunately, Caelus has been on one ( several ) too many battlefields to simply brush off years of muscle memory that kick in- an elbow jabbing to one side while his bat is already summoned in the other. Likely not aided by the fact that Caelus had just been with Dan Heng in the ring earlier that day to participate in a few scraps, so the adrenaline returns with vigor.

Nor is it helped by the presence of the Silvermane Guards, who shout something that's too muddled for Caelus to even process, start to close in and merge with the conglomerate of attendees. It reminds Caelus of when he, along with March and Dan Heng, had first arrived in Belobog and had been almost instantly labeled as criminals and chased for hours. Then the image of Caelus turning around to backhand a guard with his bat comes to mind- another unhelpful reminder.

The intensity only grows as things slowly turn into shapes and colors as the unease sinks deeper to grab at hold at his lungs. Caelus has already swung at one or two people with varying strengths before his next swing gets halted by a single hand. Amber eyes stick to the limb encasing his weapon just shy of fear and faint shock. The tenseness in his shoulders only tighten when he's practically dragged along by his bat and the figure that is painted like a flame.

It's only when Caelus hears that familiar voice that the grip loosens in his chest, recognition slow but steadfast in the knowledge that he will be fine- that he's not alone.

❛ Yeah, I guess you got a point. Trouble just loves me. Follows me around yet hasn't even asked me out on a date yet! The audacity, I swear. ❜

The silver's voice is far too soft for his attempt at a joke, clearly trying to brush whatever had taken hold of him under the rug to pointedly ignore it. He may be safe with Mydei, but he isn't safe here in the wide open and out in public. Though Caelus does appreciate that they're in a spot far quieter- and he refuses to acknowledge how that small thing does a decent amount to keep him from completely tipping over.

The words exclusive prize mean nothing to him. They might as well be a foreign tongue altogether for all he cares about another planet’s odd trinkets. Let them keep them.

No, it’s the contest that ignites the blonde’s interest, anticipation seizing in his chest before the crackle of static inside of a black box hanging overhead announces the game’s start. The teams are quick to pair off, friends giggle senselessly as they wander at a pace ill suited for victory.

He’ll crush them, of course. As soon as he qualifies with a partner… even if his options are less than ideal. It’s fine, he tells himself. When was the last time he truly needed help?

Any partner he chose would be lucky to stand at his side.

When the room clears enough to weigh his options, Mydei takes long strides toward another. “You, with me,” He grits, unceremonious with the greeting as his gaze already tracks to where they should go next. Left, toward the art gallery. Then the right side, then upstairs. “Move quickly, we have ground to make up.”

Seconds of precious time, but Mydei feels confident in his choices, always. It’s the other’s eyes, perhaps too bright, too venomous to belong to someone ordinary… but sharp and clear and perfect for the task ahead. They find one statue, then another-

On the fourth, Mydei gifts his name to an acceptable ally. “Call me Mydeimos.” Then, because another group is closing in on a statue that had appeared on the shelf of the first floor, Mydei grabs him by the coat and launches them both from the third story.

If anything, what Mister Cold Feet considers himself lucky for is the fact he's even allowed to set foot back in the museum at all. Maybe the festivities have everyone in bright, forgiving moods, or maybe they're just too busy to bother with him - either way, he's got his eye on the prize, believe you me.

So when a go-getter approaches him to team up? Sampo's delight is genuine, if amused. The man might have waffled prior to the crowd thinning, but his approach spoke of not an ounce of hesitation in his bones. Sampo can dig that. (If anything, it immediately marks the stranger as a foreigner - no Belobog resident would approach Sampo Koski of all people sans reservations at all.)

"I'm all yours," he replies with a wink. And off to the races they go!

"Got... it!" Cruel of them to tuck it so high up - Sampo’s hardly short, and even he had to reach! He hops down, token proudly in hand. He flips it into the air, catches it, and tucks it away.

Oh, right. They'd dived in headfirst, to the point of ignoring formalities, hadn't they?

Mydeimos. A strong name. The businessman commits it to memory.

"Hehe! Sampo Koski, at your service!"

He hadn't meant it like this he hadn't meant it like this hehadn'tmeantitlikethis!!!!

Coming up in a smooth, soundless roll, Sampo whirls on his teammate, wide-eyed but none the worse for wear - luckily!! Like, come on!!

"A little heads-up next time, friend?! Ol' Sampo saw his life flash before his eyes just now!!"

His breathing steadies and he sighs and, oop! Plucks up the token they had risked life and limb for.

He extends it to Mydeimos.

Mydeimos the undying was at home in a few specific places. The battlefield. The sea of souls. Spaces carved for violence and not frivolity. And yet…

“No.”

Here he is, arms crossed over his chest as he warns away another pair of citizens dressed as… ? Titankin? He almost feels compelled to let them know that the beasts never bleed, but the dedication to depicting battle injuries is impressive. They run from him, from his tone and he wonders again- why is he here?

This festival is a Zagrean-born tradition, though he couldn’t place the legend even if he’d heard it a time or two. Dressing up as all manner of creatures to fool even the Titans themselves, playing tricks for sweets…

He is going to lose the challenge that got him here merely because he mistook the meaning of the game. There were no monsters to slay other than the obvious... his gaze narrowed on the man responsible for the turn of the evening. “Deliverer,” He calls, warding away two small thieves dressed like white and black chimera as he strides forward, where a withered woman with bony fingers holds out a cauldron boldly labeled poison. “…don’t eat that.”

☼ TRICK OR TREAT ROULETTE. no longer accepting! [ roll: 3: pixie stick. ]

there are more children roaming the streets in wild costumes than he would've expected, now that they were here --- the tradition isn't exactly familiar to him either, with so many bold and bright colors and inventive designs running around. but it was something worth seeing for yourself, even if you weren't a kid... right? that had been half of his logic when he tried ( and seemingly succeeded ) convincing mydeimos to come along and see the festival, all under the guise of seeing if any of the real dangers could be found among the crowd.

one girl that passes him that looks as though she's dressed up as lady goldweaver: yellow yarn tied into curls as a makeshift wig, a cream-white dress, glittery golden accents pasted and sewn on haphazardly. phainon watches as she passes while skipping along down the road with a sack in hand, until he sees an old woman offering out treats in a pot first to the little lady goldweaver --- then to the two of them as they walk along not far behind.

phainon hears a familiar nickname as he stops in front of her, already looking down at the little paper-wrapped confections: blue eyes turn back to mydei, and he smiles at the warning, deciding to pick up one anyway. "what, you think it's the real thing, and not a trick? this would count for our wager, if so... if I find something that's really a dangerous poison, I'll have earned a point, all while you've wasted time scrutinizing too-short titankin." phainon hadn't been considering eating it, maybe pocketing it for someone else... but now, he had to, didn't he. before mydei can discourage further, he rips off on end of the little paper tube, then tosses its contents back like a quickly-swallowed drink.

Did other cultures have similar layers to their sparring?

Mydeimos had once thought to look into it, though the training curriculum for Ohkeman warriors was so lax that he hadn’t gotten past the first handful of drills. Even without this, it was with good reason that the people with the privilege to stand against him in mock battle could be counted with one finger.

By virtue of an undying body, he knows that when his own limbs begin to feel heavy with fatigue, the other has been pushed far past his limits. That he’s noticed it at all is an improvement.

A thousand words rage behind the accusation in his eyes, narrowed for further assessment as his gauntleted forearm presses against the curve of his throat, leaning in. Pale features easily flush with exertion, eyes that become brighter – as if Kephale’s divine clarity sparks to life under duress. He looks fine, barring the aches and pains that would accompany such a fight.

With his heel, he kicks the greatsword away from where it’s fallen at their feet. Only once he is sure that the blood staining white clothing is his and not Phainon’s does he relax his grip. The marble pillar at Phainon’s back chips and wavers under the weight, as if warning it might give way under further abuse. “Reckless as always, Deliverer." He’s not sure if he’s telling the other, himself, or the pillar, but—

"Yield and I’ll grant you a stalemate.”

☼ NONVERBAL PROMPTS. yes, still accepting!

the way mydei moves in a sparring match is always something that commands attention --- not just because of the flash of scarlet marks that cover him, not just because of the inherent and imminent threat he poses to his opponent: no, the most important thing to observe is how he moves. the fact that the main weapon mydei uses is little more than his glimmering gauntlets and he manages to move with them with such ease while facing a long blade like the one he wields is often terrifying.

quietly, phainon wonders if mydei prefers this, too: it is, after all, a time when talk is far more limited, all in favor of focus and practice. and this time, he's lasting longer than usual: careful deflects toss flying gauntlets back when they come too close, but are plainly restrained, trying to conserve stamina. as absurd of an ambition as it feels to phainon, he still hopes anyway: maybe, just maybe, he could outlast him this time.

another restrained deflect is his undoing. phainon feels metal at his throat, far too close for any hope to counter: blazing eyes are suddenly unnervingly close as he registers that his weight is now pushes against stone, and hears the sound of his own steel sword hitting the ground nearby. a strange, breathless smile comes, even as pain at phainon's throat feels more intense than any other possible wound --- maybe the expression at his lips is deflecting, refusing to answer the question the burning gaze asks of him. am I exhausted, or am I fine to go on? maybe even I don't know, mydeimos...

then, phainon registers the pressure at his own throat lessening, just before an offer comes. pale blue glances down to where the standard steel sword he's brought along has slid to across the ground: then, he tilts his head as attention turns to his opponent. before he answers, both arms raise up suddenly to start to brace firmly at the other man's chest to push more distance between them --- "offering a stalemate just as I seem positioned to win this match?" phainon shakes his head, clicks his tongue: "such an underhanded tactic, mydei."

Kiss Meme | Accepting! 19. A kiss underwater

It isn't often Caelus finds someone he can truly let loose with- sometimes the whispers of Nanook can be hard to ignore. Or, you know, just built up energy needing to be expelled. After Caelus eyed Phainon and Mydei's multiple "duels", the pure glee that buzzed under his skin at the idea of being able to "play" with people who can actually handle him ( his ridiculous synthetic & Stellaron given strength ), Caelus jumps at the chance.

Cue Caelus play-fighting Mydei in the public baths- pushing water at each other with vigor and prideful smirks. Taunting words are exchanged and amused chuckling is kept in their chests. Canines peak out of the silver's wide smile as Caelus decides it's the time to strike.

The silver gathers enough force to launch himself at the flame haired man with gusto, arms outstretched to snake around wide shoulders. The gesture sends the two men toppling into the water with a loud splash. Caelus is sure Mydei could have easily side-stepped him, avoided the tackle entirely, but he's glad the man seemingly went along with the Trailblazer's antics.

Once both men are beneath the surface, warm synthetic hands move to cup the Demi-God's face. His smirk diminishes into something softer, something far more fond, as thumbs brush along cheekbones- tracing red marks engraved into skin. The water shifts around them as they stay submerged for a handful of heartbeats, the waters providing a refreshing coat against overworked flesh.

It takes little effort for Caelus to pull himself closer, to allow his lips to crash into Mydei's- ever gentle but firm so the gesture is unmistakable. They then resurface, wet hair flattened on both men's skulls, droplets falling back into the baths as the silver snorts- ever smitten.