✗ | BUTCHER'S VANITY.

It doesn't make sense - it's never made sense, the pair of identical books she keeps on her shelves, the boy who haunts these halls the same as she - but this is a new impossibility. It hurts when she inhales, her lungs struggling to fill against her ribcage, and it takes all of her courage to keep her face neutral. Even as her breath hastens, as her throat constricts, she will not falter.

That is the promise she has made, over and over again.

As best as she keeps her composure, a traitorous worm of cowardice still eats at her. The white hair, that purple-and-navy coat - she is not brave enough to speak, or the cry dies in her throat, some garbled word that's not quite master nor father - so she follows the bearer of that familiar visage. She is not unaccustomed to sticking to the shadows, and she does not care about paltry things like homework when she could be so close to the truth.

(She doesn't know what that means - what truth? - only that she is reaching out, desperately.)

It is near a full day of not-quite tailing before she finally pulls herself from the shadows. The moon has not-quite risen, but many have retreated to their rooms regardless - in this endeavor, too, she stands separate from her fellow students. From the darkness, into the blinding moonlight, and she drops to one knee before Robin.

"Master Grima."

Her shoulders tremble. She does not raise her head - the ground is far easier to look at than her own failure given form.

"If it is truly you, I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

And if it is not, I will rip your deceitful head from your shoulders.

She does not wish for any sort of conversation, and so she prefers to leave as quickly as possible, in a flurry of disdain and brooding. More often than not, she pushes her way through the crowds, and any murmurs of her rudeness fall on deaf ears. She is not here to be popular.

Rarely, she lingers. But there are times she does.

Today, tiredness seeps into her bones. At the beginning of the lecture, her eyelids had fluttered, and by the time class ends she's dozed off upon her books. Her hood is pulled down over her eyes - she does not usually wear the cloak, but today she was cold, and the hood provided a barrier against the blinding light and chill in equal measure.

In sleep, she looks calmer. The circles under her eyes are dark. The classroom empties out, slowly, and she does not stir.

Not until she is approached.

Ever-light sleeper is she, prepared for the worst, rarely entertaining the best. When footsteps approach, even as soft as they are, her eyes flutter open. Shaky, quiet, she breathes out -

"What?"

Her tone is harsh, but her heart beats heavy in her chest. Alarm. Why did she let herself go? How did she relax so much?

"I'll be leaving. Do not try to get me in trouble."

Because Lutz didn’t want to depend on his luck and grow complacent, he wanted to defy it. He wanted to be the one to carve his own path without any individual or force giving him the tools or conditions, he wanted to find his own voice and will to talk and interact with others without the safety net offered by phantom conveniences. So one might think- a boy with dreams this complex must be aiming for the impossible. For something that not even Lady Luck could aid him with, for a challenge that grand- he had to be with his sights set on something far from the typical realm of ideas.

He just wanted to experience what a sleepover was like.

Because luck didn’t grace him with childhood friends- not human ones, at least. Luck didn’t give him the bonds or the skills to form said bonds by himself, as the boy constantly found himself defaulting to his draconic friend at the end of the day even after seemingly successful attempts to mingle with other humans his age. Luck didn’t grace him with a childhood, and now as he freshly stood at fifteen years of age, he feels like he had missed out on far too much. He had friends now, that was one step forward indeed- but now for the rest…what to do? No one has ever taught him how to proceed, which was how Lutz often found himself unceremoniously dragging others to perform tasks with him.

No one ever taught him the cadence of a human bond, the rhythm it flowed. He knew how it could start, and how it could end- and for the middle, he’d figure out as he went.

So when he heard of some sleepovers going on, Lutz grew frantic and excited. He wanted to be part of one so, so bad. He wanted to experience those pieces of childhood he never got the chance to even think about. But then…well, how to get invited to one? No one invited him to anything, so.

He’d find one, and ask. Simple as that. Even if that wasn’t the correct way to go about it, it was the trail he was offered. And so he patrolled around the halls, eyes open and ears alert for any signs of what could be a sleepover in the making - even though he actually wasn’t too sure what a sleepover sounded or looked like - until he heard odd noises coming from one room. The door was slightly ajar, someone was definitely inside and something must be going on, but Ace didn’t seem to agree with it. Lutz couldn’t feel it, but his drake did seem averse to the energy coming out of that room for whatever reason.

Ah yes, he wanted Ace to be in the sleepover too, naturally. So, Ace joined him on his sleepover hunt.

If his wyvern saw trouble within that room…then it meant it could be danger hiding behind that door-! Putting on a brave face and bracing himself, Lutz suddenly entered the dark room, trying to find what wicked thing could be in it. “Show yourself, ominous being- oh…oh!” Except it…was no ominous being, it was another student. A mage girl, from the Black Eagles if he could remember correctly. He never managed to interact much with her, seeing how not only they were of different houses but their fighting mediums didn’t seem to overlap much, but…a friend is a friend!

Even if he just met her. Actually didn't even meet her, just spotted her. But hey, that could change!

“Sorry ‘bout that! I was walkin’ with my friend trying to find a sleepover! I’m not interrupting anythin’, am I?” He looked around the room and…saw some candles…some books…huh. He let out a slightly nervous laugh. “Well…guess I am. Oops.” He frowned slightly, a tad confused…and skeptical. “Uhm, what are you doin’ here? You look like you’re tryin’ to cast something? Isn’t that dangerous stuff?” Reason magic always felt a bit unsettling to him, but practicing it in a small room like this was definitely dangerous! That girl could get hurt, and he didn’t want that!

“You’re gonna get hurt if you cast stuff in here…I’m no magic but me and Ace will help you!”

Ignoring the fact he just invited himself in with little to no explanation and that Ace still seemed not very excited about the idea of being near that room or near that girl…yeah.

But at this point, for the promise of anything that could resemble a sleepover? Even if it meant having to aid a strange student out of the blue? Lutz would go for it.

They were sick of students insisting they were peers, or, worse yet, friends. Classes were exhausting, oversaturated with optimism and ignorance. These were students of war, not attendants of it.

Marc does often ponder that - it is one of the few things that brings them joy. When these children see carnage, will they balk at it?

They're distracted, then, while they pour over the pages of their spellbook. The tome is dog-eared and ragged, in stark contrast to the careful presentation of its owner. Notes in the margins have Marc squinting in the low-light, shuffling their book closer to the candles - but not too close, lest a fire break out. They don't mind taking their time. Surely, in the middle of the night, no one is bound to barge in on them -

“Show yourself, ominous being!"

They snap the tome shut in an instant - this is theirs, the only thing that's just theirs, and they will not let anyone else see it - and whirl around, book clutched to their chest. The boy barely holds their gaze - another fool playing at the hero - but the wyvern catches their eye. They'd not yet found a new mount since their odd arrival here, and a twinge of nostalgia betrays their steady heartbeat.

It's that foolish emotion that keeps them from violence.

"I don't need any help. I know how to cast spells."

Arms fold, awkward for the book in their arms, but they try nonetheless to cut an imposing figure. A pause, and a tilt of their head.

"Your wyvern bears a name?"

Words, words, words. Marc takes them in, as she does all things, with a healthy dose of wariness and a search for knowledge in equal measure. What was this chatterbox girl's name - Ella? It does not matter to her.

Master Grima, grant me strength. I cannot sever her head lest I reveal myself and doom us both.

"Are you a flier, then?"

Simple, curt, cold - information gathering. If that question had already been answered, Marc does not care to recall, and if the other girl takes offense perhaps she will be freed from this conversation.

Her hands tangle in the front of her skirt, a girlish gesture, and one she is not aware of. She peers past the other's shoulder to peer at the blinding-blue sky, a brightness unfamiliar.

Does this girl ever shut up?

(To an outsider, they could be mistaken for a pair of friends out for a walk, one brilliant, one shadowed.)

please specify if sender or receiver is doing the action, when sending in the prompt !

The best laid plans often go awry - Marc knows not the original speaker of the quote, only that it proves true over and over again. It had been presented as simple task, to transport these beasts. She had quickly taken in their forms, all spines and smelling of death, and categorized them as a threat. They'd been promised, though, that these precious pieces of cargo were both sedated and restrained.

So how did they end up here?

From where she had crouched in the dirt, she now stands, wiping her brow with her sleeve. The heat is oppressive, choking and humid, and while she does not mind dry heat she finds herself bogged down by this weather.

A track lays before them, of trampled trees and decidely inhuman footprints, and now she turns to her partner -

"We're not allowed to kill them."

(She sounds almost disappointed by the prospect.)

They do not mind it altogether much, except when it grows boresome, or tiresome, or most egregiously, distracting. When they are not attending classes, haunting the back of the room, they are researching.

( A way home - but not only that. The world they are in now is an unfamiliar thing, and they do not like not knowing. )

Today, though, they have a task.

It is late - the candle that serves as the sole source of light in their room illuminates it ever-so-weakly, sputtering low. Ink drips onto the page, spattering blotches onto the page they have half-crumpled over and over.

Hello.

I have been assigned your partner in this assignment. I believe it would ruin the point to attempt to inform you of my identity, so I will not do that. However, without revealing identifying information about myself, I do not know much else to say.

I am writing this late at night. I prefer to work at this time. I do not like bright lights, very much. The sun here is very bright.

Are you from here? I'm not.

________

[castle] for our muses to build sand castles together. what entails “sand castle” is up to you.

[dig] for our muses to dig a hole in the sand together. for extra fun, roll the dice and check if it’ll collapse.

[are you with crab milord/milady] one of our muses is trying to just chill and read a book, but alas, is it just a prank or is there actually a crab...

[yeet] for my muse to throw a crab at yours

[rope] our muses have just returned from a refreshing swim, but there’s something wrapped around their ankles. is it algae? is it some discarded rope? perhaps a squid?

[jellyfish] our muses went swimming, and had an unfortunate encounter with a jellyfish. what to do?

[urchin] ouch! stepped on a sea urchin!

[buried] so, we’ve decided to bury someone in the sand. who’s going to become the sand guardian?

[volleyball] let’s play volleyball together!

[shark] our muses are swimming and have met something that kind of resembles a shark. is it…?

[vendor] our muses have come across anna a beach vendor selling all sorts of trinkets, from colorful shirts to overpriced drinks.

[surprise] you see a coconut! is there anything inside?

[water] the water is nice and cool but then you pass through a weirdly warm spot

[sunburns] ack-! you forgot the sunscreen!

[critter] our muses see a little critter swimming! do they try to grab it? fingers crossed that it isn’t venomous!

[seagull] your muse chose to bring food to the beach, and now you have entered combat.

It starts small. It is discipline to awaken and sleep at the same time each day, and it is making the most of her situation to dedicate blocks of time to study. It is an indulgent habit when she visits the church, but dedicating space to remember what she holds most important in her heart is too a worthwhile past-time. She is not pious in the proper way, but she knows herself to be a zealot, and so infrequent visits turn into regular hours-passed.

The marble of the floors is so clean, stark-white, and she wonders if it has ever seen the blood of corpses.

The church is where this sunset finds her, fire-orange and flickering behind cumulus clouds. Her evening solace of reminiscing upon her father is interrupted, though - rather rudely, if she may entertain such an opinion - by twofold intrusions.

The first - a loud man that she is surprised is permitted at all. He comes with the booming promises of a charlatan, dragging a rickety cart behind him. She tunes him out, as she has learned to do, and her gaze wanders to an unassuming form.

Her father's coat.

That is all it takes for the beast to strike. In an instant, she has stood from the pews, and in another instant, she leans into the other's face, heels dug into the floor, all but grabbing him by the collar - "where did you get that cloak?"

I should kill you where you stand.

( She does not recognize the mirror. Not yet. Not like this. )