#sylvansoldier

The sarcastic smile fades to a fierce grimace.

"But he has all my knowledge, all my training and experience, all my tactical finesse, and none of my...."

The Centurion of Dawn and Dusk knows he's not quite Kozmotis anymore, too long the living four walls hosting the Fearlings. Too many memories of razing worlds and ruining lives in their name. But he's also not Pitch, who viciously eased his unceasing pain by doing these things. He struggles for a word defining him next to the wraith.

Salty Mun Meme || Accepting

I post semi-regular reminders that Areban is Not in fact a vegetarian, let alone vegan. Usually it involves mentioning that his favorite readily available snack is whole quail, and he'll eat them feathers on.

Sb once asked me if he ate them live too.

As if it was just a very normal kind of question to ask? Like that was the Standard for how you are supposed to eat whole quail? As if the protocol for eating whole quail, even raw whole quail, was to pick them off the ground and shove them in his mouth still squirming?

Ask my muse a question and they will respond with a blatant lie.

"Oh, you weren't aware? I don't eat. I persist on internal energy alone. One might even say I create it. Certainly enough to share."

50 𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙺𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚂 // not accepting.

𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒, 𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐅 in him. Sliske likes to plan out probabilities and actions, trying to find the best outcome at all times. Any needle-thin route that would serve him the best. Whether it was from paranoia, comfort, or a need for some degree of CONTROL, he didn’t reflect on it. His trip up the stairwell behind her was uneventful until Tess’ voice cut clear, “Don’t do it again.”

     The Mahjarrat knows exactly what the Fae is talking about and CHUFFS at her softly, not a valid apology for unproven MURDER. He’s good at it, leaving no trace, no identifiable manner at times. But she knows he’s the only suspect — every time. And he gets away with it. Sliske stops short on the stairs and stares up at her, a quizzical squint aimed at her with a glint of MIRTH in it. Able to feel he’s not following, Tess turns on a heel and confirms Sliske isn’t moving, his gloved hand rested on the railing with that unblinking, almost PREDATORY stare, “What?” His only response to her inquiry is a low guffaw and head shake paired with one of those long, notched ears dipping back a tad.

      “I like looking up at you, you look different when taller than me — up on the stairs,” Sliske states a little too slyly, the cut of his vowels walking a thin line between seductive and DANGEROUS as a hand beckons at her sharply with two fingers, the gloves on them straining at the points of the claws they cover.  Tess doesn’t cede to him and instead purses her lips, avoiding his usual way of pulling people into doing what he wants with his words, his motions, the MAGIC that coats his silver tongue like sugar venom. “Sliske.” The fae says it so sternly his side smirk turns into a snarl and his eyes narrow enough that the thin, grey membrane that usually protected his eyes from debris and bright lights is visible in the corners before he takes one step up the stairs and presses his nose to her jaw in ABATING silence. He stays there, striped neck craned up to fit the hollow of his eye and cheekbone to the side of her face with a raspy purr. An ill-matched puzzle piece.

        It’s always this game to see how he can get her to fold without any unfair pushes, all he does is tip the scale a little — time to time. “I rather like this, the FAUX feeling of you being taller; albeit temporary,” he murmurs close to the Fae’s ear, jesting before a singular claw drifts along her tawny cheek as he parts a little from her. Just enough room to brush his lips against her pursed ones, the singular ONYX point on her cheek becoming many as they curled into her hair. Always the hair. Must be envy; he has none of his own. Sliske finally gives into silent begging, forked tongue curling against her lip with a HOARSE snort until  Tess gives in and grips him hard by the silk lapels, dragging him close which earns another nasty guffaw from him between breaths; he always liked the occasional commanding motion. 

     𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖆𝖇𝖞𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖍, 𝕵𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖘 𝖎𝖙. It is a twist of magic and cruel fate that obscures and twists his own sense of self and willpower to the frantic changing ways of the Labyrinths’ mysterious pathways and crossed halls. Sitting upon his throne in a rather lazy and haphazardly manner, he summons a crystal ball upon his gloved hand, not having the energy to manifest himself physically onto the Labyrinth, and by the Spirits, what a surprise he gets.