Hi I'm Lux and welcome to hell. This is an extremely low activity, private and selective multimuse blog. Features original characters from Final Fantasy XIV and Paizo's Pathfinder tabletop roleplaying game series.
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Final Fantasy XIV: Vanya, Okishur
Pathfinder series: Arlas, Mirabelle
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“I could fix him”; “I could make him worse!” Why??????? Why all this DIY???? I just wanna stand over his shoulder and see what he can possibly fuck up next
❝ all sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days. ❞ - cornelius and mirabelle
"What a first, for you to have your opinion on matters without my overt prompting. Has the Grand Prince finally worn down on your nerves?" There's a lofty acknowledgement from the lounging man, running fingers absentmindedly over himself, tracing every curve as his mind wanders elsewhere. As it always does. Enough of him is present to speak, but the rest of him must always be thinking, planning. A sort of existence that others would find overbearingly stressful, to think and never stop, to always have a need to be steps ahead of everyone else. To make sure he knows exactly the way he needs everyone to fit into his plans; the future he builds must be picture perfect.
Mirabelle is mindful still, even with so much of him absent. He feels still the plush mattress underneath him, the sheets with a thread count too high with a price tag to match. Not that it means much when he can get such things for free; once he would have wondered if that man ever wondered what happened to his prized stock, now the people of the world are little more than insects. They scurry about their business and Mirabelle pays them no mind.; they exist to do their tasks, live their lives, and provide him with all he desires to reap and harvest. Nothing more, nothing less.
Again he mindlessly runs his fingers over himself, resting a hand over fading bruises and the lingering warmth of the man whose long left their shared bed. There is no pleasure derived from it, his mind slowly drifting from him, slowly becoming too absent to bother recalling sensation and memory but he knows for certain that at one point this body experienced such. Later he'll think upon it, later with the barest dregs of fondness, and like always it will lead him right back to this house of prayer and the man who knows words and acts of true faith.
Cornelius' weight and warmth are long gone from the bed, but the heat between his legs is enough. Even if a part of Mirabelle's mind questions why he lets it go on; his fingers dip further as a budding frustration forces his mind to leave his overly occupied thoughts. He's years beyond the point of which he'd have lovingly carved his faithful to pieces, relishing in the spilling of blood and the brutal, abrupt but planned end. That fleeting, but mind numbing excitement that Mirabelle has learned to pursue but never chase. The thought of rendering Cornelius into the soulless parts the man truly is brings no inkling of enjoyment. His fingers stop, no movement they make chases away the mood that's begun to swallow his mind, and Mirabelle opens his eyes to see that Cornelius' mouth has been moving but in a rare instance, he caught not a single word that was said.
What a frustratingly put together man; frustratingly practical. While the object of his faith - his obsession - has idled within his own bed, just as bare as he was left, the nobleman has already redressed, acting as if the world never once stopped in its such impartiality. In the moment, it makes the god in mortal flesh narrow his eyes just a hair. Mirabelle gestures with aggressive flippancy at whatever comes from his most faithfuls mouth as he rolls onto his back to stare holes into the canopy above. An inhale, an exhale, and he lets go of the feeling in an instant, looks at Cornelius through the corner of his eye and then away before sitting up and slouching over himself; turning to look at the man with a smile as he distracts himself with other thoughts. Plans.
"You were speaking of the Grand Prince and I suppose all of those that clamor for the throne." He rolls over, off the bed and saunters over to the armchair Cornelius is not quite frozen to. The mess left in Mirabelle's wake is barely minded, his state of undress even less as he leans into his faithful priest's space. "What if you were put on the throne?" It's a question sincere and a rarity at that. The thought had crossed his mind before, when the Reaper had an inkling of how deeply Cornelius' faith ran, but now. Now it was something worth entertaining. He leans in further, strands of pink draping with tactful and deliberate artistry as he crawls into the mans lap. "It would be years in the making, but I could assist in getting you there. Sit you on that opulent throne, don you in the crown and robe."
Hands rest at his hips, keep him safe and steady in a chair that does its best to seat two. Mirabelle leans in closer in response, buries his face int he crook of the mans neck, drags the dress shirts collar down enough to leave the softer skin of the fleshwarp exposed. "What do you think you would do with this place? With Taldor? It's power is greatly waned, but I think it could turn into something so much more than this husk of dying nobility." The skin his teeth sinks into gives way with no fight, a charming trait he's come to enjoy. Most when it comes lose with barely a bite, but he cannot afford to spill Cornelius' blood today, not yet.
Another bite, and another, before he leans away enough to be heard again. "I think you should mull the possibility about, I don't desire an answer soon. But for once it might be good to let that imagination of yours run. A priest of Norgorber on the throne and I right there besides you." Behind you, he means, but the look that the other can't see on his face is vaguely playful. "I could be your consort, play about the castle for you. Whisper into the ears of people you had no time for. We could bend Taldor into a shape unrecognizable."
A pause, playful as his propositions are, Mirabelle's expression falls into its usual blank state. "Perhaps it's too public; to put one of my own in a seat of power in a land that still worships a dead god and the dreadful Master of the First Vault. Not without doing away with their churches power at least." There is no sigh, no drama as he properly settles in the man's lap. Idly, he thinks of the way the mans hands fit perfectly - habitually - in the places he'd bruised before. "But such is perfect for you. Us." Mirabelle voice takes on an affectionate coo, dragging the man into a kiss. Drags him from the cold pondering to a warm and loving embrace. The same as it always is; show the true cold colors of the Reaper of Reputation, then show the personal fondness the god has for the man. To lavish Cornelius in love and affection, fulfill him in every way, and then treat him as little more than a pawn when its over. Repeat, repeat, repeat. "I much prefer the secrecy. What it lets us do behind closed doors."
❝ i had begun to fear for you. did you meet with trouble? ❞ - @thronelessking
"...Not anything that I did not expect." Equinox brushes off his wounds and the blood that runs through his arms and drips from the tips of his fingers, tainting pure green soil. His greatsword is also tainted, which he takes to tending before himself. They will close, and they will heal.
No matter how many times he was sent to certain death... he always came back. Stronger, more resilient. Bitter. Questioning things about himself, about his beliefs. So his weapon gets priority, knowing this was nothing. He will heal. He will return. He always does. Always, always does. Even when he wished he did not. "I'm fine. I just got rid of a couple of annoyances."
Easier to put it like that, this way he does not humanize monsters. Does not humanize the dead. He shoots the cleric a quick glance, almost curious. A weird feeling tugs at his heart. "Were you worried about me?"
Why would he? A walking corpse that refuses to die. A broken man, abandoned by faith. And here this man was, blessed. The way Equinox can see sometimes, long fingers wrapping around Arlas in an almost protective way. The black roses. And for some reason, that not fills him with rage.
... It is almost soothing. Weirdly so.
"I can fend off for myself, it will not be the first time." But it would be the first time somebody actually paid any attention to it. This he does not say. Instead, he turns his full attention to Arlas. "... And I have a feeling I have not seen you pull off all the tricks in your sleeve to ensure your own survival in times of trouble, either."
A huff from the corner of his mouth, blowing curling strands of wild hair from his face. It is not that Equinox is the hardest of men he has ever handled, no far from it. There are men so lost in their grief that become unreasonable. Become stalwart walls and howling ghosts in living flesh. The cleric has tussled and tossed and argued with worse, Chelish men and women who have more than their fair share of opinions on him and his faith, who threaten with jovial words and feel secure in their standing until he brandishes the holy symbol of the Prince of Hell. No, there are worse out there than this stubborn bulwark of fury; held together by force and tension than a sound mind.
"It is normal for one to be worried, but yes. I worry for you every time you leave. You have a tendency after all to return like this." Where with others Arlas would argue and fight and claw his way into coming with another to aid them, he is also well versed in picking his battles. He knows better than to waste breath and time on those who are already more in love with their ideas and opinions of him, who refuse to see him beyond the image in their head. Equinox is in the same vein of a fight, but not because of the impressions he's built of the cleric.
Arlas has a suspicion that deep down in whatever quivering heart beats in Equinox's chest, that the man craves the soft hold of his Lady. To be ushered into a death that puts all his rage to rest. It is however not time for that rest, not time for that rage to be quelled. It must needs be pointed at something, someone, Arlas knows little and less of.
"I have many tricks within my sleeves, but even still it would do me better to have a companion that is all in one piece to aid me." The words are delivered with a flat, matter-of-fact tone as he approaches and digs his hands into an over stuffed pouch. A medics kit. Over the course of many days he has plucked everything needed to fully stock one and a little more, prepared medicines by hand, and in turn called less upon his Lady's magic for her life giving powers but made more use of the ingenuity of mortal minds to combat the deadliest ailments and wounds. He watched Equinox violently disarm a magus too close to him, that imbued magic into blade, and kept an eye on the trend since.
He does not fear the repercussions of channeling Pharasma's might to heal. But Arlas does this for the other mans personal comforts. "You can attempt to change the way this conversation is going to go all you please but I will be attending to you regardless." He gestures with a hand, flippant and unimpressed. "Now, allow me to dress your wounds more easily, if you would."
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❝ only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him. ❞ - mirabelle and cornelius
Mirabelle strides into the manor perfumed enough to politely mask the smell of fine wines, heavy, rich smoke, and the unpleasant lingerings of sin; the maids now starting to get used to his comings and goings, the way he ran the house perhaps more than the owner proper, attend to him with nary more than a gesture. "A bath if you will." He tells them before stopping to pause, watching them intently as one of the new girls tried and failed to not wrinkle her nose at his overbearing presence. To which, Mirabelle smiles. It isn't within the history of the house to have staff disappear into the night, but he knows that now he will keep a continuous score of her missteps. Still he leans into her space, more sober than in the moment he walked through the door.
The maid's skin crawls visibly as he does.
The bath fills, enchanted with layers of magic that Mirabelle paid a pretty gold coin for. Not his, but one lovingly donated by some family whose name he doesn't remember anymore. Their assets, the most important thing about them, have long been sitting within the sizable vault of Cornellius'; but they've paid for a luxury he's happy to indulge in, every drop of water that manifests through magic and the magic that warms the stone. Always hot, never cold. They line the rim with oils and soaps for a picky, picky lover, artfully spread fresh petals across the waters edge and with due poise and perfectly refined manners every one of them respectfully bows out without the need of dismissal.
"And make sure to tell the lord of the house to come visit me, he knows better than to keep me waiting." He can only smile as she scurries away with another handful of inexperienced aides, every step of theirs hurried. The more seasoned help - those long trained against the whimsy of nobles and their often insufferable company - escort him to the requested bath and set to work with diligence he'd find admirable if he cared.
Mirabelle however finds little and less worth in it, the staff of this entire manor little more than the cogs and gears of a machine. Needed to function but replaceable. Forming any sort of impression of such is more than fruitless, so long as they get the job done. Which these ones do, promptly and silently, with all due respect for him - their lords most favored... guest. Lord Wesker's lover, his object of affections. It's not entirely untrue, but it is rarely so simple. Again, the maids need not know, the more in the dark they are about the terrible altar they work within, the better.
The difference between nobility and the faith of the Mask one would readily find, is that doffed of their extravagant gowns and jewels, only the nobles remain the same person when stripped bare. The gentle inhale and exhale he takes is the first breath that's truly his own; and heeding not his faithful, who makes sure every garment is set aside properly, Mirabelle takes to the rim of the tub. "Now, the rest of me, please." The man so far away is the only one he trusts - if even that - to pull him apart with gentle hands. It takes only a moment for his arm and his leg to be freed from their sockets, laid gently at the foot. Mirabelle slides into the water with practiced ease and a guiding hand that dares not linger too long without permission.
There's only a few minutes of wait until the door opens up behind him again and the echoing steps of his faithful give away the ghost. Mirabelle, partially disrobed, artfully draped in finery turns on his heel with a smiling that once in a life long, long ago would be sweet as honey. "Just the man I was looking for, come I have much to tell you." Mirabelle gestures, brushing away strands of long pink hair, before beckoning the man forth with a fond coyness. "First, unlace the rest of me, I did not care for the maids unskilled hands to fumble about with your gifts. Much less any part of me." Anyone else would huff, would roll their eyes, wonder how it could possibly be his place to order about a lord but Cornelius does it in a silence that the god loves.
The first layers come off and with them Mirabelle feels the heat escape, the shiver that runs up his spine as Cornelius continues on his with task in silent reverence however is not entirely from the sudden adjustment. Layer by layer, the man slips him free of the outfit and role Mirabelle had undertaken in the evening.
"There was no need for such." Cornelius' words have a flat bite to them, one that makes leporine ears swivel for a moment; both fleshwarp and god aware of the windows having eyes and the walls having ears. "Only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him. I have other contacts I could have sent." When they lock eyes, there's not so much of a twinkle of mirth or a crinkling smile of sincerity, but frigid understanding. Mirabelle's smile, just as cold, shows the very tips of pointed teeth. "I couldn't simply sit around much longer and let you work so hard and not feel driven to give you an appropriate reward."
"You would not have called me here without reason." Coming from any other mouth, the god might have felt exasperated at such an obvious statement but he knows this is an invitation to talk. "Again, your bedside manner needs work. To tell a beautiful man to speak when he's so obviously flirting with you will do more harm to your prospects in the future." In the warmth of the water, he sinks until his head remains barely above and he forces the other to wait. And wait. And wait for a moment more before rising to sit against the tub wall. "I met with someone, there should be a letter of introduction in my clutch." He can see the fine gold trim of it gleam in the sunset that bleeds through the closed curtains. For a moment he considers how pleasant it would be with them drawn and still he does not move, daydreams he's long learned to pick and choose which to fulfill and which to leave be. "They're not the most noteworthy, however they do run a well established and frequented vineyard." It's a lie of sorts, the kind he knows the other man understands in a heartbeat. The Reaper of Reputation seldom sinks to the level of common winemakers.
Mirabelle's side is left empty as the younger of the two strides and snaps open the purse; where one might find the lords gaze to be inscrutable, Mirabelle sees right through the rouse. The priest leads through the letter with efficiency, not wasting a moment. The impassive gaze falls into the slightest frown at the edges of his mouth.
This is more than such, this is more than a trifle. To enter the bed of the family that owns the vineyards of Taldor's choice, that supplies every noble house and inn and restaurant, is no unremarkable feat. Wars among nobility are won not with force, nor money, but luxury. Coin can always be rejected, and if ones wealth has nowhere to go, no one to take it, then a family is dead in the water. Without a means of posturing at parties, where food and drink is more essential than anything, that is how you begin to make nobility bend and break.
With little more than a sweet evening of drinks and kisses, promises, and the intimate desecration of vows, Mirabelle has given Cornelius a means of beginning to strangle the life out of old nobility and prune the undesirable weak. It may not be the most powerful of tools, but more versatile than a blade or blackmail.
"Now." He declares with enough pomp to fool the inevitable ears listening beyond the doors. "Quit fondling the letter. I didn't call you here entirely for talk. Rid yourself of the dress coat and put your hands to better use, that brute has no decorum, no taste, nor skill outside his work." With his only arm he hoists himself up and over the rim, rests upon his arm and taps his fingers. The sound reverberates through the room with stringent impatience. "I need much more skilled hands to be laid upon me. It's only right to ask you then wash away the stains of another man."
The hands that touch him are gentle but not entirely by choice, but by directive. There once were callouses from gripping blades, rough edges of skin from years of brushing and squeezing through alleyways laden with brick and wood. Toughened skin from where sharp gems cut and dug deep. The hands of darker work, not of nobility. It took effort get them to this point; effort worth indulging in as the man obeys the whimsical demand. Every inch of skin is treated with care, lathered and massaged. Rinsed gently before fingers make sure that not a trace of soap is left behind. Mirabelle does not object to the way they stray and how his fingers dig into flesh, though he leans back; wet hair slowly drenching the man's dress shirt as he deliberately presses into him. "If you're so keen on being thorough perhaps it's wiser to just join me, instead of try and give the poor impression you don't care to."
after thorough devastation, indescribable loss, people’s hearts still beat. - nyx and venat. also i want this same prompt for adonia and arlas (bawova edition)
It pains her, the way that she cannot in these fleeting, precious moments be truly by her friends side. Little more than a voice, a presence, projected through a willing familiar, from the depths of the aetherial sea does Hydaelyn- Venat, look upon the remains of one of those she held most dear. To hear their voice, to see their smile, tired and strained as it may be, warms her heart in a way she has long missed. That smile still exists elsewhere, the love that made Nyx that defined them, is what guides the world down a path of hope. but still, but ever still, there is a fondness that she has held long and dearly. Her heart, warm and trembling with eons long sorrows, flutters in her chest.
"Yes, my friend." She turns to look beyond Nyx tot he little blue marble slowly turning. Venat had seen it before in only briefest of glimpses still however the sight of it makes her breathless. A little blue star full of life, and wonder. Countless lives upon it, countless existences that toil away. Countless, countless people, once just little shards of life, all driven to live. To dream. To pursue a tomorrow that will one day be a happier place, a hopeful place, for those who come after. A world full of those who toil to build wonder, to find beauty, to exemplify it.
A world her friend left behind, in hopes that she, too, would safeguard such creatures. Such life, such small, beloved existences. Children to them both. In the corner of her eye, Venat watches Nyx too turn to stare at the world they have held in their gentle, slumbering embrace. There is a peace that overcomes them, a satisfaction long earned.
"I wish you were there to see it. To see them." She does not whisper, but state. "I have beset them with a terrible existence." She brings a hand to her chest, and the body she inhabits mimics an eon old gestures. "But even still they have walked forward. They have suffered greatly... and they have learned to hope." As we wanted, as we wished, as we both dared to dream and hope, she wants to say. But she knows that such things belong to another existence, another life. One that races now against the clock that's finally resumed its ticking count.
Venat takes a step, two, enough to stand side by side with her friend again; together they admire the world from afar, on this creation of Nyx's that she had stolen from them. Like she had stolen a great many others. It is a moment that a part of her wishes could span for a much longer time, for an eternity, two hearts at peace. She smiles with all the softness and love that never once died within her and turns that look to her eternal friend. "There is still much work to be done." She states, voice pained by the knowledge of the trials to come. "But soon, my friend, my journey will reach its end. I have hope that what we have made, those we will leave behind, will be able to walk forward. To find a new path where we could not."
Gently, slowly, she raises a hand, and offers her palm. Nyx, who turns to her with an ages worth of tired but gentle understanding, takes with without hesitation; in that moment, she feels the tears that threaten to spill, but she will see them off with no less than a smile. "But your journey has finally come to its conclusion." Never once was she a woman of ceremony, but just this once, just this once she can do so to honor them. "Though I am no guide like you were, pray return to the star. I will see the rest of our tale to the end. So rest, my friend, you've long earned your peace."
❝ there are ghosts everywhere. we carry them with us wherever we go. ❞ (arlas)
The priest listens with the same front of aloofness as is desired of the Lady of Graves clergy; to listen to words like this is to listen to prayer, it is a duty most solemn. Sometimes these sorts of words are literal, the ghosts of the departed look to the living with envy and worry and love and sorrows. All things that bind them to the soil, bind them to flesh, bind them to blood. Sometimes the ghosts are creations of the minds; the grief and anger and despair that snaps open the rib cage and crawls inside to nestle around the heart. Such worries he listens to as well for they drive men to madness and to lay their hands on the deserved rest and the journey the dead face on their way to his Lady.
In his hands he thumbs his holy symbols; the comet of life and death that thrums and shimmers with a power older than the soil. In it, his Lady's blessing lay, waiting for when he needs it most. It is power and with it, it is a symbol of duty. With his in his hands, he smiles after a moment, a small and shaky thing hiding inhuman and gnarled teeth of an otherworldly beast. Yet, this woman is gentle enough, comforting enough, that he feels as if he can let the parts of his twice cursed blood show.
He works with her after all, it would do to show a sign of good faith.
"Whether literal or not, that is why we must put such specters to rest." Arlas starts, his tone rasping at first with disuse. he has had little and less to talk to beyond the little bluebird that follows him everywhere. "The dead and living both deserve their rest, their peace." Again he runs his thumb over the symbol, looks away from Ryu and to the horizon. It brings him less comfort than other thoughts, nature is beyond his per view, but he can appreciate the little things like cloudless early mornings and dusty sunsets. "And that is why I work, that is why my duty brings me to you. Perhaps it will bring you and your ghosts peace, too."
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