Libel's mouth hangs agape for a few seconds too long, the damp air of their breath running over their own skin as they watch him shrug off his disguise. Their expression is something between awe and worry, the late afternoon and the metamorphosis before them reminding them to peel their hand from the wound on their neck. They wince as they agitate their throat, which already is showing the fresh bloom of bruising.
The pain is supposed to break Libel's rapture, force them to their senses, but instead when The Puppet Master meets their distracted gaze the dull throb in their skin seems to be cloaked in a new layer of fog. Libel should hate being on their knees for anyone. They should hate being a dog, being a named and caged thing, but they can't seem to stitch the fury and their consciousness together. It felt nice to be owned.
Libel swallows thickly as The Puppet Master's remark on their imprisonment cuts through their moonstruck state.
"Yeah, that's fair," Libel dips their head as they talk. On some level, they're thankful for the prison time to be over. However, surely The Puppet Master has to understand the world of suffering they just escaped. He saw the haunted look in their eye as they stared him down from behind bars, he read the panic and ache in their letters. Yet, here he is, shamelessly waving it away like smoke from a branding iron.
The Puppet Master's next chide is hardly any relief for Libel, a fresh pang of guilt, horror, and jealousy washing over their newfound anger. It takes a moment for the fact they're now a puppet to settle in, and when it does, they stiffen and clench their fists. They don't want to be his. However, what's worse is the tightness in their chest over the fact they're not his only puppet. They want to believe they're just worried for this stranger, but they know very well that's not entirely true.
When The Puppet Master gestures for them to keep pace, it takes Libel too long to catch up. They want to be thankful for his act of kindness despite how difficult that feels right now. They swallow their pride and give him a friendly tone. "Ah, you're sure you're not gonna' try anything if I'm by your side?" They make a vague gesture to the wound on their neck. Their tone comes across as playful, almost daring. As if Libel wants him to hurt them. As if they like the feeling of hot blood down their neck. As if they want him to try to find it in himself to kill his newest toy.
When the shock of what they just said washes off of them, they finally get over themselves to ask about the new 'puppet': "So... Who's the new guy?" They don't look The Puppet Master in the eye as they speak. Their Adam's Apple bobs in their injured throat. They almost don't want to know what goes on in their master's head--plan or otherwise--but on another hand, they wish they never were clueless at all. - @physigils
The smell of blood is intoxicatingly sweet to The Puppet Master, coaxing and endearing. It’s almost disturbing how joyous they find the hurt of someone they clearly desire to keep close. He doesn’t care for the well-being of this puppet, of course he doesn’t, but a blood ritual isn’t something he gives out willingly.
His little puppet… It was exhilarating. The fog, the awe, the admiration. His puppets give him his name. Those under his control, bearing to his every whim, whether by choice or not. He would not be the master of puppets without his cast of willing servants. Strings hold strong in conditions such as these. Power brews. A fight stirs. Something lurks, and The Puppet Master is at the forefront, a conductor of darkness.
The Puppet Master doesn’t regard the imprisonment scuffle again. Something so monumental, leading to such an outburst of Shadow magic near such an important spot? Unworthy of his time. At least right now. A small huff and a roll of his eyes was sufficient enough a response. What a healthy way to deal with his trauma.
But…
“Burning for you…” He murmurs, but his voice barely crosses a whisper. An afterthought. Unimportant.
The Puppet Master shakes his head. He has other things to occupy his mind. Like the ritual. Oh, the ritual. He had completely forgotten.
Unprompted, The Puppet Master halts, clutching Libel’s shoulder tightly so they pause in their strides too. Without word, he reaches fpr his collar, where his neck might be if he were human, and yanks a thread free without showing any sign of distress. Gathering a needle would be the hard part, but thankfully, years of seam rips and fraying have taught him to keep a sewing kit on him at all times.
With gentle hands, The Puppet Master brushes away stray hair from near the wound site on Libel’s face, wiping away the dry blood with careful usage of water magic. Once that was dealt with, he begins the actual wound closure, stitching the flesh as careful as one would hold a baby bird. Thread, pull, thread, pull, the rhythmic nature is paired with just the hint of Astral magic.
Wait, Astral? He cares enough to numb the pain? Or perhaps he just doesn’t want to deal with sounds of pain from his puppet. Either way, the sugary sweet metal smell fills the air and lingers before being replaced by the familiar shade and physical.
As they fall back into formation and Libel works up the courage to speak again, The Puppet Master allows himself the faintest trace of amusement.
“Because you’ll harm me oh so much? Forget who’s holding the strings, dearest?” The Puppet Master makes a noise akin to laughter, sounding rather reminiscent of a caw.
Humour is strange on a creature like this. Unnatural. But so is everything about The Puppet Master. It almost sounds like he hasn’t experienced much emotion other than his defaults for a long time. It wouldn’t be surprising.
After Libel speaks again, his expression returns to a blank one of slight intrigue and amusement. Little puppets and their strings… how adorable.
“Hm? Why? Do you wish to meet it?” He asks, expression resembling something akin to an eyebrow raise, “It’s just an asset. It will be valuable to us in the future. You might even recognise it, though perhaps not by the time it is truly my puppet… Some are hard to persuade.”
The Puppet Master’s expression shifts again, this time to one of slight malicious enjoyment.
“Ah, but you… Such a willing puppet. Libel.”
The name spoken… It tugs. Something deep in Libel’s core, it is pulled almost an entire step towards The Puppet Master. Amusement floods The Puppet Master’s expression at this stumble, clearly satisfied with whatever just happened.
But before anything more can be said, a flash of rich purple and deep scarlet envelops the duo at a standstill, and suddenly the warmth of a summers’ day is traded for a sharp, icy cold. The mountains.
