#venushorned

It wasn’t often that Gale let the impending sensation of doom scale itself up his vertebrae, colliding with the muscles of his neck like its own claw threatening to squeeze in on itself. It was sickly, inconvenient for someone like him; Gale was cynical, practical, and generally positively inclined. The theories reflected around their newfound ocular intrusion had begun to bump heads with his overarching stir of fear– how it would interact with the worm, if they would interact together.

That evening had, unfortunately, been particularly unnerving with the fluster of his own thoughts.

The fingers gracing the careful fabric of his sleeve almost acted as its own balm– Gale was a physical person, but that characteristic had since waned itself under the rampant collision of his chest. Instead, that typical comfort had twisted itself into a sense of dread whenever someone had gotten too close; logically, he knew that distance on this scale hadn’t mattered, as the explosion of his own prowess would level anything and everyone in a city’s extension from himself.

“Nothing has happened just yet, and perhaps that’s why I find myself at an uneven cross with my own thoughts.” The easy grace to his arm had been gently declined as he brought his hands up once more, another articulation that coincided with the steady flow from his lips. “This,” the same hand had come to gesture toward his forehead, “As lacking in familiarity as we are with it, has me deeply unsettled. I can’t help but let my own thoughts regress into the potential of devastation, beyond what our little friend may produce. It’s a cyclic pattern I’ve found myself in over the last few evenings. Fear, the unknown– they’re factors I’m familiar with, intimately so, just not to this degree.” Obsessive, almost. He’d always worried over the blight of Netherese within his chest, but having another affliction living alongside it only made his churning mind twist that much more.

Commission - Oriel of Ordalia

spun - sugar  pink  skin  &  cotton - cloud  white  hair,  a  puff  of  chiffon  &  lace,  alara  spots  her  immediately  in  the  recessed  alcove,  a  candy  contrast  to  the  boozy  reds  of  the  cushions  &  curtains  &  stately  wood  surfaces  sticky  with  old  beer.  @venushorned,  who  couldn't  blend  in  if  she  tried.

hers  certainly  isn't  the  only  gaze  that  snags  on  gossamer,  the first one fresh  from  their  refresh  & already  nursing  her  little  bottle,  &  each  accompanying  thought  bombards  her  mind  like  waves  relentlessly  battering  a  boat  in  a  storm  at  sea,  loud  &  obnoxious  &  uncontrolled.  the  distance  to  her  table  is  mercifully  short  but,  even  so,  alara  catches  hundreds  of  flitting  thoughts,  ranging  from  wondering  wistfully  whether  she's  a  new  entertainer,  or  awaiting  someone,  to  planning  how  to  whisk  her  into  one  of  the  upstairs  rooms  with  their  lacking  wit,  to  altogether  more  lewd  fantasies.  all  split  her  skull,  spilling  stars  across  her  vision. 

thank  the  gods  gossamer's  sour  expression  discourages  approach  &  her  table  remains  empty  of  unwanted  visitors.

until now, anyway. 

alara  plops  down  in  an  empty  chair  with  still - damp  hair  &  a  bottle  of  her  own,  taking  a  page  from  her  companion's  book  &  drowning  her  current  headache  at  the  bottom  of  a  glass,  which  she  pours  for  herself. 

❝       do  i  look  like  an  ale  person ?       ❞  she  despairs, idly  tracing the stem of her goblet. ❝       be  dishonest,  if  you  must.       ❞ 

not  that  it'll  make  a  difference  at  present.

parties and the cleric are like oil and water. it’s too loud, too busy. there are too many faces belonging to too many strangers, and if they have to fake one more smile. . .

the stairwell becomes their sanctuary. if they could get away with it, they would leave. it wouldn’t look good, though. so, they hide, needing only a moment to catch their breath and collect their thoughts. and when they hear approaching footsteps, they release a string of celestial curses.

thankfully, they turn before they yell. they would have felt like a monster.

&&.  𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑  ☠︎︎  @venushorned  ;  a  continuation  of  this.  a  sequel,  if  you  will.

               𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋-𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄   𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒   𝐁𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐃   poor  Puck's  mangled  comprehension.  In  fact,  it  often  flies  past  it  entirely.  He  believed  the  night  spent  playing  dice  with  Gossamer  to  be  simply  that  ⸻  just  two  friends  hanging  out,  if  one  were  to  put  it  in  his  terms.

In  truth,  had  he  known  what  Gossamer  was  really  after,  he  would  have  readily  obliged  her.  She  need  only  ask,  and  his  support  is  hers.  He  wouldn't  have  even  asked  a  single  question.

(  Naturally,  this  truth  can  be  applied  to  anyone  else,  too.  Had  another  companion  asked  him  to  vouch  for  the  Underdark  the  very  next  night,  he'd  find  himself  in  quite  the  dilemma.  ) 

If  there  is  one  thing  Puck  craves  more  than  anything,  it  is  to  be  helpful.  He  is  a  man  too  eager  to  please  with  too  many  holes  in  his  head  to  form  opinions  on  his  own.  If  a  pretty  woman  with  soft  lips  kisses  him,  he's  going  to  agree  with  her.  Gossamer's  strategy  certainly  didn't  hurt  her  case.

Still,  Puck  has  his  not-so-brainless  moments.  Though  he  often  struggles  with  red  fog  clouding  his  thoughts,  blocking  his  awareness,  his  emotional  intelligence  is  sharp  ⸻  if  slightly  delayed  this  time  around.

Days  after  voicing  his  certainly-original-thought-of-on-his-own  opinion  about  the  crèche,  he  approaches  Gossamer,  head  tilted  like  a  curious  pup.

              ❝  You  used  me  ？❞  It  is  not  an  accusatory  statement  nor  is  it  offended,  more  an  impartial  question  seeking  understanding.

"you jingle." it's spoken with delight and perhaps a touch of envy. "it suits you." fely'ene nodded, giving gossamer a warm smile.

The chain from his wrists, albeit long and unattached to any sort of peg, rattled rather distinctively against the legs of the wooden stool on which he sat, which he had believed would have made that question rather redundant.

Nonetheless, it wasn't the first time he had received such a query. They were, after all, amidst the largest festival that year marking the summer solstice, which blessed the attendees longer hours under the sun to enjoy the events that were hosted that day.

He might've looked like one of the stunt actors. Some of them had chains about them too, in various arrangements that they claimed would be part of their performances. Hells, even the musicians were adorned with them, though they were admittedly much smaller than his, and much more golden, with bells and trinkets that jingled (just like his, he supposed) to the colourful rhythm of strings and drums.

Marcellus' exhibit was far less glamorous. It was a makeshift, fenced off pit that was dug into the dirt, situated near the food stands from where the Baldurians could watch him tussle a lion over a hearty pint. Clearly, it was not a place one would look to enjoy an idle sit, more so that there were currently no customers, and no lion.

Why not join in with the festivities? Some had already asked him.

"I have no choice," he said simply to the tiefling girl, counting it as the sixth time that he had to repeat those words.

"Go," he jerked his head dismissively to the direction of the main stage, which was currently ablaze with purple smoke, and the jovial applause from its crowd which had notably grown a tenfold in the last half hour.