Towards our distant shore

-> TEMPESTFORGED: A multimuse study in past and present through various media types, WUTHERING WAVES, Genshin Impact, Fate, Honkai: Star Rail, Pokémon, Gundam . Selective and mutual only, Personals and Minors DNI. FIXATION FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE: Male Rover (Faer)

Consumed by Corviis, He/Him, 25+, GMT +0/1, RE-EST: 02/2023 GRAPHICS BY @originfx , PSD BY @/NOAHSRESOURCES

-> [ rules // muses // mains && exclusives // memes // Nik Info // Faer Info ] <-

-> Stranger in a stranger land [ Aemeath // @lunaetis ]

He walks in the shadow of Ginnungamere's snowkissed branches, embracing the tranquility so far removed from the endless repeating cycles that taunted him to no end. Aemeath had insisted on a reprieve and he himself saw no reason to remove. Yet he cannot help but stall on the path, looking out towards the woman so cheerfully playing with the seals even as the music continues to hum lightly within the borrowed headset.

" May your courage never fail you, your future's yours alone to write~ " Her singing, even recorded does much to soothe his nerves as he steps atop the snow, keeping feet light to sneak up behind the pink songstress. " You know Aemy, a little bird told me you're not allowed play with the seals this close to the house~ " Teasing is a new habit, yet even still he leans in the snow, hesitantly reaching out to embrace the cool sensation.

-> Ordinary things that Feel Intimate [ @vulpesse ]

A WOUND THAT STRETCHES FROM SHOULDER TO SHOULDER, old and new that entwine in one roughly wrapped package to as amber turns to meet a sea of gold encapsulating diamonds. Her epithets are well known to him, a sea of mysteries that surround a being older than the rumbling of civilisation that spread through the valley far below. The ancient wanderer thinks of stories old, long forgotten, of mischievous kitsune that some claim to roam the wilds to this day.

Yet he suspects the stories to have been woven like a fine tapestry of the wood nymph's past exploits. Some fear the torrent, yet he cannot claim to sanity like the few that lose themselves to the fear of the abyss, so willing to chase the wisps of unknown that follow in her wake. There is an intimacy to be found in the touches of long nails, in the waves left by beautiful claws that mar to heal. He holds no delusion, even his unaging nature fails to live to the embodiment of nature that flutters through these halls like the mistress of the house.

In truth the Rover suspects her claim to it has long surpassed his own, and yet he need not nor dare not to speak that though, to speak into the air that which has already long since become a fact immutable face. He knows so many of her claims, how they speak truths to the self that lives beyond the grasp of the few.

Amber downturns to the miniscule faded scar, to the memory unbidden of plush ruby stained dark with blood. Perhaps the choice had sealed his fate that night, yet it is hardly one that he regrets, not as lightly gloved digits reach to brush aside untameable curls, a gentle caress of silken raven locks in thanks for the careful treatment few would so willingly give. " can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight? in the dark? in the thick of it? " She demanded, and yet he finds the question one truly unthinkable, for he is not one to shy away from the night, to falter in the face of obstruction.

Yet it is a gentle cough that pulls him from memory, the air of the wilds that has him stretching the shoulder to test the stitching. There is intimacy to be found in the closeness, in the way newly treated injury is tested with the curling of an arm that pulls around, to lean against the hardened chair. Gaze falls on petal shapes that accent doll like skin, follow the ebb and flow until it culminates on those which are stained rose red.

" Once you asked if love was willing to exist in the thickets of the untamed night... " Bold, gruff, yet all too telling of the intention as gloved digit curls under chin, pulling faces close until nothing is left in the silence but the sensation of lips interlocked. A beating slow drum, a thump of three before they part, feeling the panting of air beckon yet refusing to loosen hold on the control of form.