#warcrys

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It’s hard to be willingly vulnerable, as much as she desires it: the way she drifts towards it, hopeful that it can be achieved, and then she flinches back. Or she stares back like a dumb thing in headlights.

Naoko nibbles on the tip of her thumb, a childish leftover of a nervous tic, and heaves in a breath. “That’s-- that’s a lot.” It’s not a rejection, of course not, and it’s not quite a cryptic warning: all those she’s ever loved have gone, either alive and bitter or missing, or dead. But she wants it, so she grabs for Rembrin’s hand, holding tight and weighted like an anchor (that could go either way: keep him grounded, or drag him down).

//. @warcrys // old meme // rem’brin

     Hollow ache of bones rattled with Rham’ir’s every movement, the patchy dryness that made every single beat of his heart keep him roused to evening’s sway. Being so far from civilization whilst the cloying grip of some undiagnosed ailment was the least of their worries, but the heaving in Rham’ir’s chest brought their predicament to the forefront on a fairly regular basis. His body feels tight, extra aware of his skin and the sick taste in his mouth and he moves to take the bottle with one hand, turning his head away for a brief moment to alleviate the scratching in his throat. Like expelling dust from his lungs.

        “So the dye is expensive?”

        For one of the Studium’s brightest, the Elezen was still but a child. At eleven summers old, the red robe dazzled her eyes. It was so much different from the Studium robes she wore daily and so much better than the blues that matched Alphinaud.