#redliongeneral

Mohg sat in silent contemplation before the golden cross bearing the symbol of Miquella's Great Rune.

... His arm sinistral was in reference to his left arm....

Mohg recalled that the left arm of Miquella bore prominent veins, abundant with blood. And it was with the blood from his arm sinistral that he nurtured his Haligtree. And now here it rests, left behind in an old storehouse in old Belurat.

Why would Miquella have chosen to leave such a thing behind? His left arm was an important thing, for it was with his arm sinistral that the Haligtree found life.

Mohg would be forever condemned by those who resided within the brace-city of Elphael, for the crime of abducting kindly Miquella from the womb of the Haligtree. Enchantment or not, he would be forever branded a villain for having laid hands upon such pure flesh.

But... For Miquella to have abandoned his arm sinistral was to abandon the Haligtree itself... Was that, too, in Miquella's plan?

... What of Malenia? Provided she has not succumbed to the rot herself...

With a breath, Mohg turned, departing from the old storehouse... There was one other, outside the gates of Belurat. And he recalled, on his descent from the tower, passing another cross in Enir-Ilim, though he paid it no heed at that time.

A pity, for Mohg found himself emboldened by curiosity...

He ventured outside, seeking the cross at the base of the stairs leading to Belurat's gates.

... I abandon here a part of the flesh of my body...

... The Mother of Truth craves wounds... But surely he did not flay himself so as to appease the Mother of Truth... Whatever was going through his mind?

Mohg stood up with a soft rumble. Grasping the rags he kept wrapped around his body. He glanced over his shoulder, furrowing his brow at the one who approached.

@redliongeneral

The glass that was pinched between his fingers had not been sipped from ever since it was picked up. For as much as a social butterfly as he was, Miquella did not feel especially talkative that evening and even less so when it came to dancing. He still received the looks and comments behind hands and delicate fans that he was accustomed to noticing by now, but where he would usually smile and nod at those people he passed them by. Not one single thing could distract him from the little mission he was on.

When he did have to ask a few people as to the whereabouts of his brother he was either met with an apologizing shake of the head or, to his marked disgust, the remark that the person could not recollect who this Lord Radahn was. So it was back to him and him alone to find him. Perhaps that was for the best, truthfully.

As he walked farther from the continuous chatter and music Miquella finally took a sip from his glass. It was the perfect feeling as his skin met the cold outside air and it was then he let his expression break into one of worry. He couldn't imagine anyone at the party trying to pull anything on his brother and he would not simply leave without a word. Biting the inside of his cheek he decided to search along the perimeter.

Footprints in the snow soon became apparent and he followed them to the garden which lay dormant beneath the snow piles. Spring would see it bursting with blooms of various sizes and colors but for now everything was cut back and browning. The roses especially would bloom to almost the same bright red as his dear brother's hair. He had always wanted to pick one and ever so carefully slip it behind Radahn's ear . . .

Send ✨for Izar to assign your muse a constellation and read their fate from the stars | still accepting

Frankly, it feels a little strange to do this for him of all people—the very person who made the pursuit of her profession outright impossible for so long, and who also happens to be a Carian. However, she doesn’t flinch at Radahn’s request, just asks the questions she needs to and scribbles some notes into her journal before actually getting to work. Astrology, at its heart, is science with a hint of magic and a dash of archive work; a strange overlap between ancient lore and crisp calculations and the sheer beauty of the night sky, weaving together into meaning and possibility.

‟This might not be anything new to you,” she mutters when she is at last ready to share her results, ‟surely you had somebody do that for you and your siblings back then? But of course, a lot has happened, and things may have been altered…”

She smiles as she presents to him a star map she has recovered from the Great Library itself.

‟Unsurprisingly, I’ve found that your constellation is the Steed. I’m sure you have seen it. From Liurnia specifically it appears to be very close to the horizon, and the tales I have found—mostly collected by Carian astrologers way, way back—claim this constellation is the soul of a noble steed so loyal to its master that it chose to outrun death itself by jumping up into the night sky. Some say its master is also to be found up there, the Warrior constellation which the Steed happens to be facing. I must say, I do wonder whether you heard this story when you were a boy, and thought of it when you got your trusty Leonard?

Anyway—the Steed is about persistence and the accomplishment of seemingly impossible things; I don’t think I need to spell out how this has manifested in your own life so far. Some writings stress how those born under this constellation’s influence are guided by their aspirations and convictions, just like the steed is forever galopping to return to its master’s side. Others stress the will to outrun doom and despair, or maybe their very fate. Even though there is, ironically enough, stagnancy in the eternal chase the Steed gives; even as it moves across the night sky, out of reach of whatever it ran from, it never truly advances… But then again, it doesn’t retreat, either. Two sides of the same coin, really.

after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them.

Miquella did not see the attacker, nor did he care that said person was now lying dead with their torso cleaved in two. It had all happened fast and it left the newly fledged god unable to move. A violence and a shedding of blood that he knew would not ever be fully eradicated but that he hoped he could tamper.

He didn't realize he had been screaming until his face was grasped and his throat continued to ache after he fell silent. The tears that fell burned like scratches upon such fair flesh and wide eyes frantically examined Radahn's body.

Send “Rumor has it...” And a rumor about my muse

For once he was not on horseback. The morning was fine enough that Miquella had decided to give his own body some exercise and as he jogged through the light mist he felt his decision was, obviously, the right one. The air felt fresh and his hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, bounced behind him like the flashing white tail of a deer.

Though the family estate stretched on for acres he knew pretty much every trail by heart; the ones that meandered through gardens and pastures, the ones made up of switch-backs up the surrounding hills, the ones that eventually made their way to meet the many streams and creeks that cut through the extensive property. As he made his way he glanced downward and saw the fresh hoofprints in the damp dirt. Someone else was an early bird and he would venture an accurate guess as to who it was.

Miquella caught up to the horse and rider, Leonard's shiny rump and tail swishing idly back and forth and almost as if they were in sync so too was Radahn's hair following the same pattern. He gave them a wide berth and made sure they actually noticed him before approaching and poking his brother's leg with his elbow.

Miquella would take most of the morning and maybe early afternoon to get ready. His head would be simply brimming with flighty thoughts with not a care for whatever the potential PR nightmare might be afterward (he'd be posting himself getting ready and his comments would be full of people wishing him well and/or asking who it is and of course he won't tell. Not that he would tell anyway, though).

He'd spend at least an hour going through his closet to find the perfect thing to wear. Classy and elegant, of course (like a fitted suit with a little feminine flair), for both the location and for his date. Date. He's actually taking me on a date! He can't believe he's so lucky. Though he appears to have everything and is like a personified sunbeam, Miquella struggles with self-confidence and is quite needy in terms of validation from others. Here he knows his family name isn't the prime motivator since they are from the same family.

Though he is a very touchy person he would hold himself back. He would take Radahn's arm if it was offered to him but other than that he would not be the initiator. He'd be overthinking it, probably, but he would not want to do anything that would then irrevocably change the course of things.

If it's an opera, Miquella would definitely be singing parts of it on the way to dinner. Softly, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for Radahn to hear.

At dinner he would want to talk about what they saw, really get into the fine details of what they both thought and felt about it. Miquella is a noticer of details so he'd probably go on and then ask politely if he's getting too into it. He'd also be genuinely interested in Radahn's work and what he's currently focused on.

He would certainly drink some champagne but also ask for a French 75 (gin, champagne, lemon juice, sugar) at some point. He likes the sweet stuff.

The golden god swept wisps of his husband's hair away from his face gently. Settled lightly upon his lap Miquella's gaze was warm and enveloping, taking Radahn in with utmost adoration. He could still feel the lingering pain, still feel all of the unsettled doubt that clouded his whole being. Yet he hoped that over time he could ease it all away.