#trianthe

@trianthe​ inquired:  ❝ how do i make this right ? tell me !

      Sʜᴇ ʜᴀs to be the last person he'd have ever expected to ask for help; not just him, specifically (though that, too), but in general. It's an idea that does not match up. Ianthe does not ask for help from anyone. She might demand assistance, but that's a different thing. And he's not about to read her imperative tone as that. Not when there's something else lingering in it. The small admission that there are some things that she does not know. The small admission there might be some things in which someone is better than her.

      Hard to believe. He's not going to let her live it down.

she is not sure. one moment, she is orienting bare feet beneath her, trying with as much dignity as she can muster not to crawl groveling to beseech the silently malignant wedge of iron and leather that leers at her from across the room. ( she does not know why she continues to return to it, but something sleepless in her chest knows keenly it is all she has, and if it does not want her there is nothing. )

the next, she wakes flat on her back, bony chest heaving, something hot running into her eyes, limbs trembling in aftershocks of convulsions. the secondarius bells ring in ears clotted with blood, may the ninth look now upon their beloved saint, reverend daughter, keeper of what sleeps, unable to so much as touch her own sword, and weep. above her, cold steel looms unmoved, mocking another failure. for the barest moment, harrow almost feels as if the bored observation was coming from it, before recognition draws black eyes briefly up to the sallow ghost watching with all the interest of a vulture waiting for its time.

@trianthe​ inquired:  ❝ that was just a bit of fun ! ❞

     "I ᴅᴏ not doubt that for a second. What's life without a bit of enjoyment, after all?"

     He can't quite put his finger on whether he enjoys or despises Ianthe's company. It's not that he has any particular quarrel with her alignment: but there are always the differences between the more abstract and the more tangible fears to serve. He might not ever having been squeamish about anything concerning her patron: one of the simplest ones to understand and grasp. But that doesn't mean he's particularly fond of it, either.

     Though he has to admit, her methods are interesting and something not often seen. Most flesh avatars are so vulgar in their approaches to furthering their powers: it's nice to see someone genuinely bright and intelligent for a change. Not unheard of, but more rare with these more... primal things.

     That still puts two people who think they are the smartest person in any company imaginable in the same room, and that never clashes well.

@trianthe

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ ʜᴀs been a grief inside her chest where there should be a heart that could devour worlds. A sun that dies destroys what's around it, turns itself into a void, eats and burns away everything within reach and more. Miraculously, she hadn't died, and she hadn't lashed out towards the outward world — not in the sense most people would expect such an outburst to happen, and the thing had only eaten up everything inside her. It hadn't changed it's nature at all: love stayed love stayed devotion stayed loyalty, no matter how it looked from the outside. If there was one thing Corona had always been excellent in, better than with the sword (the one carried not her own), it had been to lie and pretend she was who people wanted her to be. Blood of Eden might have the impression she'd be their chess piece, but her loyalty would always be to a sister, even if said sister had abandoned her, left her behind.

     (Had not made them one piece: moon and sun forced to stay away from each other forever, silver and gold not melted into one, and who would truly understand that grief of not becoming? Why waste such a thing on Babs, poor Babs, stupid Babs, unwilling and unknowing of the gift bestowed?)

       THE UMBRAL EMBRACE OF THE BONE WOOD,   WHERE BRANCHES SHOOK LIKE SKELETAL LIMBS.    in their tremors they carried the melodies of the departed.    they are deep beyond the veil,    far from the mortal realm.     here the court of drearburh existed on the fringes of the faelands out in the uncharted territories the ran rife with wild hunt fae    ━   some believed the two were one of the same.    both factions held the dead near and dear,    a fascination for the fragility of mortality.    AH,    BUT THAT IS WHERE YOU COME IN MY PALLID HALFLING.    she is liminal grounds made flesh,    a creature perpetually upon the threshold.