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card of iron for leonidas & tal ; sword of honor for marton & adrian!
📿 for tal ; 💼 for marton
card of iron. leonidas recognizes rook from a wanted poster.
ah. the longer the two of them have this funny little stare-off, the more rook is beginning to think that the other man is not, in fact, flirting with him. to be fair, he should've realized the moment he saw the garments he wore, or the weapons at his side. rook hasn't worn his mask in a while and, the remaining slivers of the bard clouded his judgment. still... an idea comes to mind. rip the mask off and play the role of the fool. 'it was just a joke! play pretend!' the worst he'd get for it is a night spent behind bars. perhaps a visit from the general himself. his hands rest at his hips, head tilted to the side as his smile is covered by the mask. "like anything you see?" he's almost curious to see whether this one could catch him. excited to see, even. the many directions of his escape already begin to form in his mind. he nods at the wanted poster in the man's hand. "they never get my height right."
sword of honor. adrian challenges marton to a duel to decide an argument.
the challenge doesn't come as a surprise. yes, it may be childish and dim-witted to pose a duel in order to decide an argument over something as banal as this one, but... marton would've done the same thing, if it went any longer. perhaps, there's even a twitch of a smirk at the corner of his lips. he's been waiting for a good fight. "you'll regret this." he says with far too much eagerness, standing from his seat.
[ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ? - tal
contrary to popular belief, taliesin is superstitious. nyth'thrael is a realm unlike the others surrounding it, for it is entirely devoid of the sun. its people worship what lurks in the shadows instead. there are many deities nesting in the caverns, entities whose lairs remain in the deepest, darkest of places bereft of light and air. some worship the bioluminescent maiden of spores, or the warrior goddess clad in spider's silk who wields swords in each of her six arms made of pure darkness.
tal has always been and will always be most comfortable at the church of night. he is welcomed by the dark, his eyes more tolerant of it, his lungs soothed by the chill air. whenever there is an overcast in aurea, covering the light of the moon and the stars and enveloping the city in a way that reminds him of home, tal finds himself most resolute. whenever he enters the court's underground caves under the city there is a whisper of a prayer that unknowingly escapes him. before he deals with poison for any job for the court, he finds the lowest point of the room and presses his palm to it, asking for the blessing of the maiden. any spider he meets shall be treated with respect (though there might be exceptions from time to time looking at a certain spider lady rn).
[ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ? - marton
a dried up daffodil crushed and sealed in a locket. no I will not elaborate. :3
[ 🩸 ] for Tal :3 & [ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤ for Marton
crown of nightshade. with Val & Tal
crown of nightshade. valdís consumes a poisoned drink meant for tal.
it all happens quickly. too quickly. his head snaps to valdís doubling over, choking, then to the cup in her hand that was in his but a moment ago. his smile fades, glancing at the room trying to find the server, nowhere to be seen other than the movement of a shadow leaving the tavern. no, no, no, no, no. the sound that leaves him is more of a growl pressed through gritted teeth as he makes the decision, and he's beside val in a second, grabbing the cup from her grip. bowls and cups are swiped from the surface of the table as he lifts her atop, hissing at one of their members to go after the culprit before all his attention focuses in on val foaming at the mouth, her muscles tense as she curls up.
his drink was poisoned. it was meant for him. and now she's--
all he wants to do is to cradle her, soothe her, to make it go away, and guilt is beginning to corrode his insides as if he was poisoned himself. what is he going to do if he loses her? he can't lose her. he won't lose her. he must focus.
holding the cup up to his nose, the contents of the poison elude him entirely. night root. amber ash. grave lily. moonshade. gods, it could be any of them! the cup is thrown against the wall as he curses, leaning down to have his hands cradle val's face instead. "don't close your eyes. don't-- not yet, it's going to be alright. it's--" trembling fingers brush some of her locs away from her face, eyes frantically gazing at her contorted expression. "hold on a little longer, darling. fight it, please. please--"
[ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? - tal
I mean read the prompt above.... val, ren, the court, rook, everything he worked so hard for all these years.
sword of sacrifice. sheng takes a deadly attack meant for tal. none shall pass thru the great wall of sheng
the longer taliesin remains without her mask, the more of a coward he becomes. it is embarrassing. he has played the role of the innocent fool for far too long, believing his own lies, oblivious to his surroundings. idiot! reality comes crashing down when all he sees is the pointy end of a blade coming right for him, the flash of crimson, and a shadow. he can almost feel the piercing pain shooting through his body when--
he stares at his empty palms, then his stomach, free of a blade, insides still intact. he pats his stomach, then his chest, then his head, expecting to feel something warm and wet and instead feeling nothing. the blood dripping on the ground isn't his. but then whose?
his stomach drops at the sight of sheng standing in front of him, towering over him, shielding him from the onslaught. his hand hovers over the hilt of his dagger by his hip, concern overcoming logic as he takes a quick step back to take a better look when an arrow whizzes past him, nicking the side of his cheek, and his knees give out, crouching on the ground. "gods, what the fuck is happening?!" he whisper-yells, trying to stay in sheng's shadow, using him as a shield. it will surely come to haunt him later, once he survives this, once they both survive this, the way he selfishly hid behind him like this. "we have to run!" his grunt turns into more of a whine as he stands up halfway, grabbing onto sheng's arm and tugging him back. "too many-- you're bleeding! run!"
heart of roses. baeksa gives marton a token of their favor before a tourney. 🥺
a hand adorned with calloused knuckles caresses the horse's nose gingerly before it checks the bridle, then the saddle. it is not marton's first time participating in a race, and it won't be his last and yet, his heart flutters in his chest aided by nerves nonetheless. what he doesn't expect is the sight of his friend clad in ceremonial robes for the games, standing beside the chariot. in the tunnels by the arena is certainly not the place baeksa should ever grace him with. his place is in the magisterium's seats in the podium, lavish and perfumed with flowers and fruits and sweet wine, not here in the shadowed, dusty stalls. still, baeksa stands there by his chariot, and marton can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him.
"you shouldn't have come." he says as he approaches him, his tone hinting at how glad he is to see his dear friend send him off. gaze drops to baeksa's delicate hand, or rather the cloth entangled in their fingers, embroidered with golden thread, reminding marton of the color of their eyes. a token of their favor, the light that will lead him in the race, the spark he will need to light the fire in his core to win. marton holds his arm out, accepting their favor with a sense of pride he's hardly ever felt before. the silky fabric of it is far too soft as it wraps around his bicep, right under the golden armlet he's wearing in celebration of the games. "I will not make a fool of you for bestowing your favor upon me. victory will be mine."
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there's a sharp inhale from marton as his body tenses up, the glowing liquid dampening the cloth with which lian attempts to clean the deep gash under his ribs. he doesn't speak, he doesn't complain, not when it's his fault that he got hurt. he should've been more careful. it always goes like this, he acts before thinking, and he ends up flying in the air with the ground rapidly closing in, only able to teleport away in time to instead collide with a statue. still, the soft, pained exhale that escapes him can be heard both by him, and lian.
"I can do it. just let m--" his lips press together as another shock of pain crashes through him, and his eyelids squeeze shut. alright, so perhaps lian is doing this on purpose. and marton deserves it, too. he made him worry. it was a lot of blood he lost before asking him for help. his eyes open, glancing at lian like some child in trouble would. "...I'm sorry."
card of coins. sender buys the receiver a drink at a tavern.
the way he slides into the seat in front of her is smooth, and with a merry smile on his face. he is tal right now. darling, delightful, loud, foolish tal. there is no mask on his face. there are no prejudices held against the woman sitting in front of her, having bought him a drink after managing to not kick her cup over during his last song, as he hopped from one table to the other, as he has manages not getting dragged out of the tavern and 'beaten' for his impertinence. but let's be honest. he would've ran as soon as he could, were he to be facing a beating. that is simply who tal is. a coward.
"tell me you're not also drinking this piss water they call ale here. I think--" he pauses, as he proceeds to chug about half of his cup of said piss water. "--your delicate tongue is a more refined one. and I happen to have a barkeep indebted to me, which is why I may find us something much more deserving of kissing your sweet... lipssss..." he sighs dreamily, like any other drunken fool would at the first sight of... well, anyone beautiful.
crown of midnight. lian dances with the tal at a masquerade.
taliesin would need a lot more wine to have a difficult time figuring out just who it is behind the mask. all he needs to do is look into those eyes and know that it is one of his dear zhou brothers he is stepping up to, their hands held up in the air and nearly touching as they dance in a little circle along to the music. his own mask is more ornate than the ones rook would wear. it also reveals half of his face from his nose down, as there is no need to truly attempt to hide his identity from anyone at this party.
he's counting the steps, not because he doesn't know the dance, but because he cannot wait for the part of the dance where they finally embrace each other again. when the minstrels play that particular verse, tal slides his hand into lian's, while his other snakes its way onto his waist. "enjoying yourself?" he whispers, twirling around to lian's other side.
[ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ?
already answered below and it still hurts.
[ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ?
marton usually sleeps on his back. or at least that's how he falls asleep, and then he wakes up upside down or sideways on the bed sprawled out completely. he moves a Lot when he sleeps. and yes. yes, he has teleported in his sleep before. usually to the pantry. sometimes into someone else's bed! frequent nightmares. light sleeper. two pillows, one under his head, the other to hold onto, no blanket.
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no!!! :D marton has never felt like he belonged anywhere. not in his family. not in the city. not among friends, not among the sagire. he doesn't even want a big community. he only wants perhaps one person he can call his own. he feels as if he is alone in the world. he feels as if he is undeserving of another.
[ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ?
home is supposed to be safety, isn't it? to be comfortable. to be able to take a breath without thinking that even that would be taken from him. his home was the opposite, growing up. all he ever wanted was to run away from home. maybe it's his fault, for being different. maybe he just hasn't found home yet.
[ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ?
there are many stories taliesin loves to share with others. it's why he spends his free time posing as a bard, after all! his favorite would be the ballad of crispin the red. a story of a boy with hair of fire and spirit wilder than the curls atop his head. it is one of those stories that is meant to appeal to both children and adults, with great adventure, gods, monsters, the folly of man, grief, and most importantly, two whole verses written just to describe food. it is known that whenever tal begins to play the ballad, parents are quick to gather some snacks in the audience! tal's favorite moment is at the end, when crispin meets the great lady of the sun and a ball is being held in his honor, which is when the audience dances around him and it all becomes one big performance!
[ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ?
tal has never known peace in his lifetime and so, he does not crave for such in his future. if he could be selfish, and he will be, he would imagine his future with valdís and renzo. in any way, shape or form. he doesn't care, as long as they don't abandon him. he doesn't want to be alone.
the light breeze of the particularly chill night dances alongside the linen curtains as moonlight appears on the painted bronze mask, now discarded on the desk taliesin is sitting behind. his feet are resting on top of the desk, middle and index fingers absentmindedly rubbing at his temple where the mask chosen for the night has left a faint line in his skin. he's retired for the rest of the night, leaving non-urgent business to the others.
his gaze is affixed to the ornate wooden box in the middle of the desk, untouched, save by him and the messenger. no accompanying letter. no initials or family crest carved into the lid. it is just a box, plain, with a simple bronze clasp at the front. the messenger did not ask for coin, which means they had already gotten their payment. the exchange has been repeated in taliesin's head over and over again. the only words they spoke were nothing out of the ordinary. 'delivery for the thieves' court!' they did not say his name, yet they looked at him and him only.
who would know their location for the night? the messenger must've been someone they had dealings with before. who bought them, then? letting them go was the wiser choice, even though they seemed like they would be made to sing easily, given the crack of their frail voice as they spoke. letting them run back to whoever sent them, letting them think the court is unassuming buys him time. to be underestimated is to be two steps ahead at all times.
it is a trap.
of course it is a trap.
what he doesn't understand is the reason behind it. the other members of the court insisted on taking the box themselves. there could be anything hidden in there. by the size and weight of it, it is definitely no donation, whether it be coin or ale. it may be a threat. it may be a trick. it may be that the moment he opens the box, his life is forfeit.
he knew this would happen. ever since he decided to bring his plans to fruition, he thought about every type of conclusion to his story. stabbed in the back. suffocated with a pillow. mutilated by an assassin. betrayed by his own kin. rotting behind bars. thrown to the wolves. to possess power in this city is to have a mark painted bright red on one's forehead, waiting for someone to take aim and loose an arrow at any moment. and that would be the easier way out.
when this all started, subduing the rivaling gangs of the city was vital, but doing it in a clean and precise way was even more essential. they began with gathering intelligence, as much as they possibly could. their head of operations, who they knew, who they protected, who they were protected from. as many secrets as possible. knowledge was the only way the court could prevail. then, came the negotiations. letting themselves be known. showing their cards, but not the ones up their sleeves. when that failed, as taliesin expected it to, they moved on to a more nefarious angle. stay in the shadows, until it is time to strike. reveal the smallest of secrets only they would understand. scare them. blackmail them. a letter here. a box there. another round of negotiations. and even if that didn't work, they would move onto the next step: violence. that was the language they understood best, after all.
it was the only way to deal with them. and taliesin knew it would set him up, if not for failure, then for a lifetime of looking behind his back. the promise of revenge is a great motivator. one only needs patience. this box could the the fruition of said patience.
tal moves, legs pulled off the desk and moved to the floor as he stands up from his seat, his hands placing on each side of the box. moonlight shines through the window as the clouds dissipate above. this is what he signed up for. if the bounty on his head shall be cleared the moment he opens this box, he can only hope that it goes to someone deserving of it. if it is a message inside, a severed limb, a lock of hair, a broken mask, he would only have himself to blame for waiting this long to open it.
the clasp is undone, a breath is taken, and the lid of the box is opened with one, assured move. his hand pauses on top of the lid, the air in his lungs freezing as his throat closes up at the sight.
silk.
beautiful, expensive, shiny silk on the inside, covered in a silk of another kind, thin and light, weaved into a beautiful web atop which sits a creature. it is small, and elegant, two of its legs in the front gracefully stretching out into the air as it breathes the fresh air.
nyth'thrael has its fair share of spiders. some considerable in size, some revered, worshipped even. none of their bites are as poisonous as the smallest ones. the one he's facing down in this moment could kill a prey as big as a lion. humans are simply a nuisance to it. if they're in its way, they will surely regret it. for about ninety seconds, until their blood curdles and they lose control of their body, foaming at the mouth.
taliesin's head tilts to the side as he slowly pulls his shaking hand away, heart racing in his chest. the breath he'd taken is carefully exhaled through his nose. the spider sits upon a vial, covered in silk, containing an emerald colored liquid inside. the antidote.
is this a fucking joke?
his first instint is to reach for his dagger. one swift strike, and the spider would be dead. his hand halts mid-way, fingers clasped around the hilt for some support as he attempts to figure out the meaning behind it all. he watches the spider rest on the vial, calm as any predator holding the upper hand would.
the puzzle pieces begin to be put together into an enchanting, yet haunting image as lenyra caelestis' face flashes right in front of his eyes, that chilling smile adorning her delicate lips. it isn't a threat, she sent him, nor is it a death sentence. it is an offer.
ally or foe? it is up to him to decide. a soft chuckle slips past his lips. it is unexpected, but he is impressed. when the two of them last met, rook never intended for it to end up the way it did, jumping out of her window and running for his life. no, he meant to carry out the same plan as he did with the gangs. his first mistake. she is much more powerful than lowly criminals. infiltrating her garden of webs should've been done more carefully.
he was the one that underestimated her. and he learned it all the hard way, having one of his spies taken from him, right under his nose, as a show of cards. who knows how many more she has under her silken sleeves? he could only retaliate by doing the same.
but this. he should've thought about it first. he has, in a way, but alas, his plans got stuck in her web, negotiations dropped down a couple of spots on his list. cooperation is best between the two of them, she understands this as well as he does. but first, neither shall underestimate the other. their goals must align for this to work.
but can it work?
can he trust her to work alongside him? can they put aside what pride they have in their endeavors to do such a thing? he will never trust anyone fully. not like he does hawkmoth and jackal. what guarantee does he have that the silken spider won't turn around at any point and stab him with her poisoned dagger? he could send this spider back, with his blade thrust through its middle, its poisonous blood dampening the silk inside the box. and he could prepare for war. war for what? another territory? to feed his pride? to convince himself, and those in the city, that he is not to be trifled with? how many of his court will he lose in this fight? would it all be worth it in the end?
allying himself with the spider will allow him to get closer. she will have to give, as much as he does, in the name of trust between business partners. they will have to show each other their soft white underbelly. it may be just as much of a blessing, as it may be a curse.
taliesin wills his heart to beat slower, to calm his body along with his mind. and then, he gets to work.
-- -- --
the deadly spider sits in the windowsill, in a glass jar instead of the silk it called home for the past day or so. the vial of antitode rests on the desk, beside a couple of brushes, and shells containing paint, right next to one full of black ink, as taliesin works on the brass mask in front of him. the mask is painted in a color of cerulean mixed with white, the color of the moonlight on that fated night rook had laid eyes upon the silken spider for the first time. in the corner of the mask, he is a few brushstrokes away from finishing up the image of a black spider and on the left side, three red dots sit in an upside down triangle.
in the morning, the box will be sent back to the spider's home. an offer taken. negotiations begun. a common goal to be found. trust to be built. a chance to get closer. whether the knowledge he gains from that would be used to stand beside her, or against her, will remain to be seen.
He would not tolerate the sundering of his peace were it another; popping in so carelessly without announcing themselves, thinking themselves entitled to his private time... he is resting, vulnerable. Such brazenness should warrant decapitation. But... he will forgive him. He always does. Baeksa has his eyes held shut, water lapping at the opalescent scales trailing down the protruding shape of his hipbones, disappearing beneath the water. Steam curls up to skies in crisp swirling patterns, languid tendrils like hands caressing the young Kwon's cheekbones, keeping him subdued as he lounged so peacefully by the edge of the thermal pool.
"So you have..." Baeksa drawls as if bored by the conclusion, and his head lolls, tendrils of white swirling in the still surface as his face fell, his flushed cheek cushioning against the length of his bent arm, the appendage so lazily draped over the warm stones, his nails unfurling and outstretching as he yawns, "In one piece too... impressive."
Just like that—he is leaving again. He leaving him again, and he wants to curl his hands into fists and bang them against the stone; he spends his time in the company of so many but cannot spare him a moment? Is he so utterly repugnant to him he cannot so much as pretend to tolerate him for even a moment. His eyes burn, his jaw locks—he wants to scream; rage swells in his throat like a red balloon until it pops! "Stay!" Baeksa's calm demeanor wavers, wanting to shout, to stomp his feet, to make a scene—the child always simmering beneath the surface, trapped in the belly of this monster who had swallowed it whole but could never seem to finish digesting it—demanding to be let out.
He loosens his fists, plucking his claws from the meaty flesh of his palms, letting the blood wash away in the damp stone as he flicked his tail, splashing water over them.
"Mh," he clears his throat, looking up at him—he tries to shape his mouth into a pleasant smile—perhaps he would like that better. Yes, something dignified. Composed. "I mean... stay." smoother now, almost cloying sweet, wanting to reshape the demand into invitation. "You did well, a reward is due," he gestures, bending his head towards his shoulder as an invitation to come in. "You look exhausted... stay. These waters have regenerative proprieties... why don't you stay for a moment?"
the exclamation, or rather the order, spoken in a tone unlike the lackadaisical comments he was greeted with makes marton halt to a stop, eyes focused on the door he was about to exit from. why he turned to walk, instead of using his magic to appear in his room instead, why he gave baeksa time to respond, is a mystery even to himself. perhaps there was a part of him that wanted to spend more time here. perhaps, he even missed them.
he takes a deep breath through his nose, taking a moment to turn back and gaze upon baeksa once more. the soft edges of their features, the way their lips move, the tension behind those golden eyes. their hands, the pink color of blood mixed with water on the stone. a pang of guilt strikes marton in that moment. he should've known better, after all. not many know better than he, just how delicate his dominus can be. how tempestuous he may become when things don't go the way he wished them to.
and they try. oh, how hard they try, to seem as if there is nothing to be concerned about. as if they're as poised as any other. and they deserve a reward for that, don't they? besides... marton must make certain that they haven't hurt themself too badly. the last thing he wants is for them to have a permanent reminder of his impertinence.
"you're right." he speaks softly, beginning to undo his belt as he steps closer. "it's been a long day." he wouldn't admit out loud that the task baeksa has sent him on was exhausting. but the way his joints and muscles cry out in pain which each move as he undoes his robes is clear.
before long, he is stepping into the water, hissing at how warm it is. "ah-- it's scorching." he complains with almost a whine, like a boy would to his long-time friend, forgetting all about honorifics for just a moment. nonetheless, he enters until most of his bottom half is submerged, sitting beside baeksa. he holds his hand out, waiting for them to present theirs. "show me."
It’s a dangerous balancing game, the one she is playing with Tal at this point in time, even if Tal doesn’t quite realize it. Dangerous for Valdís, who has to hold back some of her more tender impulses for she knows keenly that for as much as she wants to give in and hold his face on her hands as she covers it with kisses, she also realizes that it might not be quite what Taliesin needs at this time. It’s not that he won’t welcome it, but that it will not ground him as much as pressing into his wounds and keeping him engaged with plays of words and challenges will.
Pain has the interesting effect of clearing his head at times—, or at least pain administered by her hands or Ren’s. And if it helps Tal whenever he retreats back into himself, into his fears and anxieties? Well, she is more than happy to provide him with a situation meant to ground him, to keep his whole being focused on her and her alone.
His quiet sigh almost undoes her composure and decision, the soft brush of their noses prompting a quiet sigh of her own as she shifts her face just enough to press her forehead against his in a quiet sort of tenderness that has nothing to do with their current actions, yet cannot feel more right. Eyes closing for a moment, she breathes him in slowly — his smell, his presence, the cool touch of his skin, colder than even hers yet startlingly familiar in a way that almost feels like home —, before her eyes flutter back open and her smirk softens for just a moment, a sign of fondness and tenderness that is swiftly hidden behind her usual bravado and the mask that she wears to keep whatever vulnerabilities she holds well hidden away from the world.
Whatever lies between them — the tenderness, the passion, the trust, the countless nights spent together with their heads pressed together as they examined the maps or the stars —, lies unspoken on her part. Not unacknowledged, for it is shown on the flickers of her expression where the mask retreats and her smile is a little too free to be calculated, on the way her hands reach for Tal’s and Ren’s whenever she has the chance, even in the way her eyes flicker over Tal’s expression and her shoulders relax when she finds him staring back at her, rather than through her.
Subtly, she leans her hip into his touch, head tilting slightly as she glances at him playfully now that she sees Tal before her and not a man shadowed by his worries.
“I see, then what should I call you, Taliesin?” She drawls lowly, voice sultry as she pulls their foreheads apart so she can pin him down with a playful raised brow. She knows what he wants her to call him. Moonshine. Carissima. Mea Spes. Or perhaps that last one is what she wants to call him, yet chooses to refrain, knowing this is not the time nor the place where he will welcome such words. Instead, she teases him, dangling his nickname just out of reach and waiting to see how he reacts. After all, if he is in the mood to be a brat, then she cannot make things too easy for him, can she?
“And here I thought you liked being rewarded and called a good boy,” Valdís says with a quiet huff of amusement, tilting her head further to the side and letting her locs fall over her shoulders as she observes him, leaving the side of her neck bared to the world. “Still, I do love a good challenge. Especially when it is as rewarding as this one.”
A hum of faux thoughtfulness escapes her lips as she glances away and back to Tal.
“What do you say, sunshine,” she begins to ask pointedly, smile sharp and amused as she does. “Should I remind you that you look best beneath me? That even if you do not make it easy for me, I know just what to do to bring you to your knees?”
As she asks, she steps closer once more, forcing him to lean further and further back over the table as she silently places a steadily increasing force to the thumb resting in the hollow of his throat, to remind him of its presence for now, but also as a promise of the entertainment that is to come.
“What says you, carissima? Want to prove yourself unbowed before me?”
for all the things taliesin feels guilty about, the fact that deep down he understands the tenderness valdís holds for him without ever articulating it into words spoken out loud, and still, he uses that knowledge in selfish ways, hasn't caught up to him just yet. were he to find himself alone with his thoughts for too long, perhaps sitting by the fountains in a square, absentmindedly strumming a melody on his lyre as he writes his next song, he would be overcome by it all. he doesn't simply let just anyone see him in his most vulnerable state. to ask for what val, or ren so freely gives him when needed. to get back into the mindset of rook without distractions. without falling apart at the seams. he needs this. and she knows. and it is selfish.
such a thought process is precisely why he needs her now. he cannot keep going when he second-guesses every decision he makes. he must feel grounded. their foreheads touch, and it's as if she's lit a clear road ahead of him in the terrible tempest of his mind.
when his name is spoken, instead of any other term of endearment meant for him and him only, his eyes roll playfully. even if, he quite enjoys the way his name rolls off her tongue. she pushes him back against the table, holding him down so there is nowhere to run. not that he would ever want to run from this position. any concern over his mistakes and his deserving of her touch is gone now, taken up by nothing but his anticipation of what is to come. "call me moonshine. you know how much I like that." he speaks with a lighthearted authority he knows he doesn't have in this moment, one he likes to tease her with.
his smile parts into a laugh, body squirming under her hold just a little bit, to keep her grip firm on him. "see? there you go, withholding from me the terms I like to be called most! how cruel." her bare neck is exposed, and he has half a mind to lean in and get his teeth sunk into her flesh. if only she didn't hold him down. his eyes are trained on her throat as he wets his lips.
the name opposite of what he wants is uttered, and it is met with a displeased, yet playful grunt. "you could certainly try." he speaks, almost in a whisper. her words paint a picture he longs for as he swallows down the desire bubbling up in his throat. yes, he wants it. he wants her. though he will sooner choke than say it out loud and make it easy for her. he likes the chase, after all.
she forces him down and back against the surface of the table, and with little resistance, but he lets her. the hand around his throat holds most of the power, anyway. the sweet pet name flows out of her mouth and tal nearly purrs, the fingers of his hand by her hips curling in as he grabs a handful of her. "but I already am." he lies, blatantly, with a grin.
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There were many times that Tal had reached out his hand, but there had never been a moment where Ren hadn't reached back to take it. Even in the darkest days when he'd began his new life in Aurea, there'd always been a moment like this. Which is why as he reached back, his hand falling into a familiar grasp, there wasn't much left but a heartbeat between them as he embraced him. "You haven't forgotten me, then?" He teased, as easy as a summer breeze as the rest of the room seemed to fade away. When he wasn't with Tal, he was with Valdis, and back and forth Renzo went until they were all together in the same room.
"Mm, are you patient enough to wait to be reminded?" Renzo smiled now, shaking the damp curls from his eyes before he held up his wrist, "I come bearing gifts, too. Everything was...mostly how you said it'd be," he grinned, since there was always a way for things to go sideways. Still, it felt good to be reunited – he'd never felt homesick on a ship, but for once, this had been the time. Too often he worried about things passing while he was gone, ever fleeting was time, and it had already taken so much from him.
the moment the two embrace each other, the world around them fades away and no one, nothing else exists but what they hold for each other in their hearts. it's overly sentimental, but that is how taliesin feels whenever renzo returns from a job that took longer than a couple of nights. he trusts him entirely, yet he cannot help the way his mind begins to agonize over details he might've missed in procuring the necessary information for their endeavors. "I don't think me forgetting about you is a possibility you ever have to concern yourself about." for ren, and all the memories involving him are locked deep inside the vault of his heart, right alongside those of valdís.
hands trail down renzo's arms until they wrap around each of his wrists, thumbs gingerly caressing over his pulse points. "I can be persuaded to be patient, so long as you remain by my side." his gaze travels across ren's body, as if he was looking for a fatal wound that would take him from him too soon. once he's satisfied with what he beholds, however, his eyes lock onto the other's. "no casualties on our part, I hope." anything else, he couldn't care less about, after all. "have you visited our dear dora yet? she'll be pleased."
Adrian wishes she could rip out the smirking mask and bare the face beneath. A small quirk of the mouth, a narrowing of the eyes, a scrunch to the nose brought out unthinkingly—all of this is much alike uncovering the pot simmering on the wood-stove to taste the thick broth on the back of a spoon. Would the concoction be too bitter, too salty, too obviously false? But there is no way to know. Their heart beats quicker than usual. There is an acknowledgement in the back of their mind that they are scared.
A part to play, easier if one draws from truth’s well. Adrian straightens in a flinch. I might end up in the bottom of such a well, myself. It could not be. Within, they grit their teeth; without, they look away, to the floor, as if escaping him without moving—while the mouth continues. The mask du jour (of the entire play) shall be well-meaning, and yet still a fool. “Thanks…” Half-doubt, due to its patheticness. Adrian would chew out their own tongue before thanking those who had spared them, but Melia is not Adrian. Their hands flex, as if fidgety when bare, and they hold onto the mug of ale to take a nervous sip. They suppress the shiver brought by the grisly ale and its grislier taste, only half-effectively. How Kastor drank this bitterness and not spit it out, they would never know.
There is a moment where one can hear the bellowing, the loudness of the other patrons, the joy and sorrow in their voices both when instead it should be a silence becoming of a pin’s drop. “A person?” Adrian knew of this. Still, the voice wavers and wobbles; a balancing act. “…How long ago did you say you last saw her, again?” Their voice is heavy and thick with grim implication, and they seem to notice such quickly, and hurry to swipe it under a rug. “Yes, of course. We can go wherever you say to go. Like the last place she was seen. It is like when one loses an object, that way.” They smile awkwardly, an attempt at a joke. “Or maybe she left you something that would help you help you know… know where she has gone.” Know who took her, and perhaps where she was dumped.
the longer they speak of this in public, the more tense rook feels in the moment. the patrons around them are boisterous due to the cheap ale having clouded their minds, hard earned food thrown carelessly across tables, the splintering of wood as they slam the tips of their blades on the table, playing games, telling tales, singing along to the melody that wretched, equally as drunk bard is playing in the corner. and yet... rook is still looking around, as if he's waiting to lock gazes with a cloaked figure, sitting still, having not touched their drink for a while, listening to him, looking for an opportunity to strike.
all of a sudden, rook stands up from his seat, dropping a couple of coins on the table. "we cannot stay here. come along." is all he says before he begins to move, expecting the other to follow. he is being overly cautious, he knows that much is so. there is no reason for anyone else to have as much at stake in this endeavor than the court. it is one of theirs that's been lost. unless... unless there is something she uncovered that they do not wish for anyone else to come to know. to infiltrate this tavern that is protected by the court without their knowledge is a feat on its own. should they find a way to get close to rook this way, they wouldn't leave any more time before striking. hypotheses upon hypotheses. is rook's mind betraying him, or is it well-thought out prudence? he may never know.
the two walk out of the tavern, rook guiding melia behind the establishment, through a tent that seemingly only holds provisions and barrels of ale. he pulls a piece of cloth out of his belt, beckoning her closer. "I'll tell you more. I only need to tie this around your eyes. 'tis only a precaution. I'll take us somewhere more quiet."
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