#valleydaisy

It wasn’t often that Gladio had the opportunity to make use of his courtly manners. How stupid it had been that he’d been schooled in that vein, when his fate had been predetermined for a profession in which he would never utilize it. Would be bow his head to strega before he put them down, or make obeisances to rusalki or greet a bruxa with civilities before throwing moon dust bombs at their faces? But he remembered them, even after years of training within the walls of his damned caer. And in this moment, he thanked his stars that he did.

Lethendralis sang as it cut through the last of them, the blade slicing easily through the leather armor to cleave a devastating blow to his chest. Bone snapped and splintered with an exceptionally satisfying sound, matched only by the slick slip of his sword into the soft of his enemy’s throat. 

Fenris did not flinch, not even at the warm spray of blood that graced his cheek, his lips. In battle, his full focus was intent on his prey, on the perfect annihilation of his enemies. It was only when the song of his blade stilled into silence did he look over his shoulder to search out his commander, the pale-haired valkyrie at his back, drawing her bow to let loose a flurry of arrows that convened in deadly congress within a straggler’s chest. 

Fenris watched as he crumpled into an inglorious heap upon his comrades’ bodies, a hint of a smile playing upon the corners of his lips as his hand reached to seek hers. Articulated steel brushed against her lithe fingers, a momentary affection before they dropped away to adjust the sheath at his back. 

     Her tongue CLICKS off the roof of her mouth rather loudly, unable to stop herself from briefly glancing down at the dress in question. It only takes a second to recover, however, turning back to the elven sorceress with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

     “ Not at all, my dear – but don’t fret. It’s an easy mistake to make. Not everyone has an eye for FASHION and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. ”

He remembered the way. Simple as shit. Take the N train from his shithole studio apartment in Queens, across the river to where he’d emerge right by the southern edge of Central Park. And right in front of her apartments. Which looked less foreboding as they did last night, lit up in their crystalline brilliance  to stave off the dark of night like a glittering jewel. 

His skin still smelled of the floral bath oils she’d poured for him, which sat strangely sweet with the scent of leather from his old jacket, and the smoke that adorned his hair from far too vehement a bad habit. It was that scent he took solace in, focusing on that as a touchstone as he ignored all the fancy business types and richies parading past him, looking at him like he was lying in wait to mug someone. Because Christ, if he didn’t look the part. 

And there she was. Her golden hair caught the sun like a some new-polished coin, brilliant and burnished and beautiful. Dressed to the nines, as only he’d expect her to. While he looked like some schlemazel asking for spare change. But Fenris caught her stride and fell into step beside her, hands shoved in his pockets as he adopted an animatedly haughty pace. Astoria, Queens meeting Waldorf-Astoria. It was fucked, but Fenris didn’t care. 

@valleydaisy

He awoke to the brusque nudge of a boot to his cheek, bringing with it the unsettling, verdant scent of petrichor and broken grass. His right eye felt tight, swollen nearly shut, obscuring the thin, vernal sunlight that filtered through the winter-bared trees. But still he blinked against it, unable to find his bearings.

They were in the woods. That much he could understand. Fenris hadn’t felt the open air in what had to be a decade, knowing only the foetid chill of terrarian basements, of the scent of stone wet with muculent rainwater runoff. The expanse scared him. Felt too wide apart. Like the sky itself was pressing down upon his head. So he kept it bowed, as he always did. And followed the tug of the collar that hung heavy around his neck, digging into the the threadbare cotton of his dirty, cloven shirt and through to his red-worn skin stretched thin over his collarbones. 

“On your knees,” one of them had ordered once they’d walked for a mile or so out to a clearing, and Fenris could hear the sneer in the way he lingered upon the command. He did so, his hands pressing scarred palms into the dew-wet earth. And no sooner had they alit did a foot rise to kick him in the ribs, sending him reeling on his side gasping for air. 

And then they both set in on him then. kicking pointedly at his face, the soft of his stomach, the crux between his legs, with the focused resolve of a calculated revenge. “You bit clean through the meat of Emrych’s hand,” one of them said, grasping him by his dirt-caked hair, hissing his words like threats born on noxious breath. “Rotted off him in a fortnight. And the hand of the Master’s favorite is worth far more than the life of a slave. So he’s given us permission to dole out your punishment. And here’s the thing: he doesn’t quite care if you make it back in once piece. Or at all.”