#wanegod

Wind moved through Irithyll’s bones, threading the brittle hush of frost and long-ceased prayer – but around the pair gathered something softer, a fugitive warmth, as though an unseen hand had drawn aside a veil she had not known she wore.

Anri.

Spoken unadorned, without rank or title, her name was rendered bare-faced and beautiful on the tongue of so fair a speaker. It echoed within her breast now not as call to arms nor a command of duty, but as something almost indecent in its gentleness. A fracture. A dilation. A petal opening beneath a reluctant, pallid sun.

When they bowed – they, whose bearing carried an unspoken gravity, a poise and composure no mere wanderer ought possess – Anri felt a mercifully short-lived disquiet take root in her chest. Reverence ill suited her. It clung poorly as silk thrown over chainmail.

“Pray, do not – ” she began, the protest low, unsteady, her voice catching against the moment, lacking the refinement to stand beside theirs. Her speech was plain and serviceable, where theirs unfurled like hymn and scripture. It faltered all the same, dying as her gaze fell to the offering.

The trinket lay in their palm like a captive star. Its glow was neither warm nor cold, but something estranged from such mortal reckoning. Moonlight moulded into shape, bound and made to linger. It did not banish the dark but rather softened it, made it intimate.

Her hands, accustomed to sword-hilt and shield, seemed poor instruments for such a thing. She had known talismans before ( tokens of faith, crude charms fashioned in desperation ) but this bore none of the frantic pleading of mortals. No bargain. No fear.

Her throat tightened.

At last, with reverential care, she reached. Uncovered fingers brushing theirs lightly, fleetingly, as the trinket passed into her keeping, its glow settling against her skin like the last breath of dusk.

“You are too kind,” Anri said softly. No protest lingered in the words now, only a quiet, aching humility. “I am not so worthy. My path is stained through with failure… and any grace I bear is borrowed at best.”

She turned the charm between her fingers. Its pale light shifted, alive in some small, inscrutable way. It caught the tremor in her hands, traced the worn lines of her armour, the nicks and scars that told the story of a knight who had endured much and prevailed in little. She lifted her gaze then, meeting theirs with unguarded trust and gratitude.

Beneath the forget-me-not blue, sorrow persisted.

Thoughts of Horace, of the long road yet untravelled, of the devourer who waited at journey’s end. Duty coiled about her heart like a thorned vine, constricting, ever-present, hooking into her sinews. Still, in this narrow interstice of quiet, she felt that same noose loosen, if only by a fraction.

Carefully, she wound the cord about her wrist, setting the charm against the pulse there. It seemed to keep time with her.

“I shall carry it,” she said at last, her voice steadier, though no less quiet. “Not for any worth of my own, but for the kindness in which it was given. I shall endeavour to become deserving.”

A faint smile touched her lips, wan and fleeting as frost in late spring.

“Perhaps, when this sorry quest is done, I shall learn to believe the heavens’ song.”

Anri suspected such a day lay far beyond the horizon, if it lay anywhere at all.

Thus she stood beneath a sky that did not stir, bearing a light that was not her own, turning it over as though it might confess its nature if only she looked long enough – wondering, dimly, without shape, what manner of soul had seen fit to place it in her hands.

divinity. such a heavy word, one that the dancer-knight lets fall from her shoulders when she dances / when she trains. today, in the dark, gentle moonlight and irithyll's tall walls, she is a performer for nobody except the stars⸻ a tender comfort meant for her.

hands trace constellations. with slow steps, her sword ( a delicate, thin thing. made to her liking, light and fluid ) slices through air, curated movements of her craft. in her precision, she takes great pleasure ; in her capability, she finds fulfillment. it is almost enough to weather the paranoia, which stalks her from the shadows⸻ leaves anxiety in her soul intemperable by strength. adept as she is, strangers in the court bring only uneasiness, a thought she will surely share come day. for now, it is time to rest.

the soft sound of scales brings her pause, halfway to her bed. she's smiling, as she turns to the door and half-bows ( head directed to the floor ), one hand pressed across her chest in both salute and address. " my lord. " ah, a most important title, a formality she cannot decline or avoid. after all, one must pay all proper respects to their ruler and deity.

but  mother  said  to  stay  here  until  discussions  had  finished  .  mother  needed  something  from  gywn  …  most  likely  something  for  her  experimental  spells  or  whatever  .  why  not  ask  seath  ?  ugh  . 

quelrin  –  er  ,  ray  (  he  had  changed  his  name  ,  much  to  his  mothers  dismay  )  sat  upside  down  in  the  chair  ,  his  cloak  of  humanities  floating  softly  onto  the  ground  as  he  started  at  a  curious  snake  .  he  stuck  his  tongue  out  for  a  moment  before  looking  back  up  ay  gwyndolin  .  he  remembered  maybe  meeting  them  as  a  child  –  they  remember  the  pale  hair  &  skin  that  reminded  him  of  his  beloved  firekeeper  sister  (  she  shed  her  name  &  now  calls  herself  ' the  fair  lady  ' –  once  again  ,  to  their  mother's  dismay  )  . 

finally  he  rolled  off  of  the  chair  &  back  to  his  feet  before  sitting  in  the  chair  properly  . 

❝  so  ,  what  does  the  moon  look  like  ?  ❞  oh  flame  , he  was  genuinely  asking  ,  wasn't  he  ? 

♡ ,      @wanegod  .

There is a shape in my thoughts. It moves when I look at it.

Saga feels as though she is being observed, like a floaty at the edge of her vision that slips away every time she tries to focus on it. No one else seems to see what she sees, but such things have always been normal for her ⸻ to perceive the imperceivable with unsettling ease. Even so, she is startled when it drifts a little closer.

❛ Are we going to keep playing peek-a-boo until I find you, or do we skip the games ? ❜ she asks aloud. Her voice is calm, almost conversational, as though she were addressing someone standing just across the room. Truthfully, she has no idea what the correct response to something like this is. But if it is something, if it’s listening, then treating it like a person might coax it out. Things tended to be less shy when you spoke to them directly.

lazare has stood on the precipice of death and ruin for far too long to not carry the cold confidence of a man who has stared into the abyss and had the abyss stare back. it is not overconfidence that steels him, but confidence, experience, and yes, boldness.

he sweeps his cat's eyes across gywndolin, his expression passive, and doubts very much that they care overmuch of the difference. is it worth mentioning? perhaps. it is an effort that may yet prove a fool's errand. it could also prove worthwhile, all the same.

“ Why are you still here? I told you to go, ” said @wanegod

The Holy King remains guarded where he is presented, aloft his throne with the pretense of sunlight blessing him with a facsimile layer of warmth. A man much too small, gaunt to claim residence for a throne so mighty, its sheer presence alone could eclipse all of Lothric under its authority. Yet, it is occupied by none other than one deigned by inscribed destiny. His adornments royal enough befitting to his position with all the gold-carved runes plunging from the bones of his clavicles down into the spill of his lap, cushioned by lavender brocade crushed into pooling wrinkles.

“ I am where I am needed, ” he declared with firm conviction.

Lothric by name, but he who sits before the flutes of Oceiros has forgone his individuality as a man, elevating to that of his country. Hereby bound to his archives, he is both shackled by demand and liberated beyond his sickly flesh. His contradictions didn’t define him as its empowerment vastly outweighs its bane.