A'gust Tia

"I knew him to be a Seeker by the way his eyes drank the sun's light, and I knew him to be a fragile soul by the way he balked under the sky. Nothing would prepare me, though, for the day he proved my negligent assumption wrong. When the glass ceiling would lay in shatters at my feet."

Showing Emotion: A’gust Tia

Rules: Please repost, don’t reblog! Bold what applies/appeals to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies/is situational. Tag if you do this, I’d love to see it! 💖

ANGER: jaw clenching, hands balling into fists, teeth grinding, yelling, going nonverbal, stuttering speech, rushed speech, slow concise speech, rambling, quiet, arms crossing, shaking head, tearing up, animated, expressionless, projects, internalizes, vents, withdraws, passive aggressive, direct, physical outbursts, verbal outbursts, foot stompies

JOY: easy smiles, fighting back grins, suppressed laughter, loud laughter, giggles, chuckling, smirks, whole body laughs, covers mouth when laughing/giggling, throws head back when laughing, slaps leg, touches people around them when laughing, looks down when laughing, looks for eye contact when laughing, sparkling eyes, bubbly happiness, quiet subtle happiness, obnoxious happiness, wants to spread joy, quietly savors joy

SADNESS: crying, bottling it up, seeks distractions, wallows, meditates and processes, avoidance, seeks out comfort, withdraws, talks it out, internalizes it, sad smiles, depression naps, uses alcohol, uses drugs, seeks out sources of joy, fidgets with sentimental item, sits in silence, broods, gets moody, wants someone to share the misery, tries to hide negative emotions, nurtures others to make themselves feel better

EMBARRASSMENT/SHAME: blushing, looking away, rubbing at back of head, covering face, laughing nervously, laughs it off, overthinks, lets it go, self deprecating humor, deflects, gets irritated, smiles, withdraws, crossing arms over stomach, crossing arms over chest, hands in pockets, shoulders sinking, shrugs, falling into silence until comfortable again, talking a lot to compensate

GUILT: avoiding eye contact, shoulders sinking low, head hanging down, crying, chest aches, lashes out, internalizes, apologizes, deflects, communicates, withdraws, grand gestures for forgiveness, accepts fault easily, punishes themselves, martyrdom, victim complex, guilt complex, healthy conscience, internalizes even after forgiveness, seeking redemption, moves on easily, denial, lack of guilt/conscience, sorry they got caught more than caused harm, can’t handle knowing they hurt others

FEAR/ANXIETY: trembling, crying, sarcasm/sass to cope, rambles, goes silent, gets angry, fidgeting, clenching jaw, picking at nails, chewing at lip, pulling at clothes, adjusting jewelry/clothing, swallowing thickly, eyes widening, over-reacts, under-reacts, calm, logical, panic, irrational, overthinks, carefully analyses, talks to themselves, breathing exercises, flight, fight, freeze, withdraw, fawn

Thank you for the tag: @serai-querel​ !

A man carries only what is necessary in his pockets, and what he deems necessary speaks volumes about his character. Pockets lined with lint and malcontent may house the itchy palms of a thief. Those trimmed in gold and stitched with silver duplicity cradle the unscathed hands of a noble. Leaves plucked from an autumnal wind go in the pockets of romantics, and losing Cactpot tickets go in those of cynics. Optimists carry trinkets to mark each memory.  Nihilists have cigarettes to count down the days.

And inside the pockets of a Miqo'te named A’gust Tia were: a few pieces of taffy, a faded photo, and a stone that burned cold.

The stone was smooth like glass. Unblemished by nick or scratch save for the thumb-size indentation in its center. An insatiable chill permeated from its heart; a single rhythmic hum that hinted at a heartbeat set  deep in the obsidian marbling. It breathed alongside A’gust. Silent and steady as the Miqo’te’s thumb drew worrying circles into the indentation. He wondered if those around him knew of the soul stone in his pocket.

The hair on the back of Auggie’s neck tingled as he wove through the Gilded City’s streets. A weight upon his shoulders followed him around every corner and bend. It made him breathe deeper, listen closer, and see clearer. He paused his idle wandering, foot traffic flowing past him like a steam, and focused. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder. Expecting to meet the gaze of a person, creature, or even a shadow, he was left with nothing. Nothing but a lingering knowing. The city had eyes for him and the dark secrets hidden in his pockets.

A’gust swallowed hard, adjusted the scythe strapped to his back, and dipped his head low as he skulked past the throng of pedestrians and into an alleyway. It was darker there. Quieter. Away from the cacophonous roar of a city newly awakened for the long night. He pressed himself against the wall, fumbling with the strap buckle. He unslung the scythe with unfound grace. Leaned it against the sandstone wall. And backed away with upheld palms. It glowered at him, lantern light dancing along its crescent blade.

A’gust didn’t blame a soul for casting him auspicious glances. The scythe he carried was a dangerous beauty. It stood a full fulm taller than him. Crafted from dark steel and etched with arcane runes, it was a weapon made for a man cut from a different fabric. A man that danced with danger and spoke from his chest. Not he who hid in shadows and spoke in whispers. Yet the woman from Pearl Lane saw it as a perfect match for him. The woman Bato Cheto recommended he see; the one who would help him manage his predicament. She had sized him up with no small degree of amusement when he stepped through her door. A laugh already starting at the curl of her lips as he sputtered through his story. He said he didn’t wish for power or vengeance. Just to simply manage. And to that she scoffed. Told him that he had such a weak, little heart.

Then, she gave him a stone and the scythe.

“I can’t do this…” A’gust whispered.

A slow, steady match burned beneath his ribs, sending his heart into a gallop. Each palpitation he felt from his skull all the way down to his finger tips. The tick of a clock made different. He stole a fox-quick glance down the alley’s length. Only him and his shadow. Yet he knew he was far from being alone. His gaze lifted to the scythe. And the scythe looked back at him with his own eyes reflected along the blade. There was a deep-rooted hunger in them. He shied away, ears pinned back and tail curled around his waist.

“I can’t do this.”

The shadow sewn to his feet stirred. And a chill danced down Auggie’s spine. Like tendrils of smoke, deriding laughter crept from the crevices of his mind. The dark thread caressed his thoughts and came to linger at the very foreground. It brought a grimace to Auggie’s lips.

“Go ahead,” he grumbled, casting his shadow a rueful glare, “Laugh all you like.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slid down the wall’s length. Either knee was drawn to his chest as his gaze drifted to the stream of people that passed by the alley’s entrance. “Makes no difference to me.”

The laughter ceased.

And the shadowed thread flitted across his thoughts- as if to occupy a new part of his mind. Its whisper was soft and lyrical in his ear.

“Hey… I’m hungry.”  

A’gust hummed as he fished a taffy from his pocket. “I know you are,” - he took his time unwrapping the candy - “But give me a little more time.” He chewed thoughtfully. Honey sweet with a touch of salt. A disquiet smile touched his lips. At least this could stay the same.  

“It’s been forever. I’m tired of waiting.”

“Here.” A’gust offered a candy down to his shadow, forcing his smile to reach his eyes. Yet the shade said nothing as the gathering quiet grew dense and thick. Worry gnawed at his stomach. “They’re sweets,” he tried, “Surely you’ll like them.”

Not a whisper emerged from the dark.

“Calcifer…” The name was more breath than word as it escaped from Auggie’s chest. Did he sound as tired as he felt? “Please. This is all I have-”

The sky was a widow’s sky, bedarkened and empty, dressed in an ebon gown whose hem trailed along the fringes of eternity. A vastness that swathed him in momentary quiet broken only by the drill of his heart; a hummingbird cupped in the hands of a god.  Shadows writhed at his feet and churned in the mist. Shades dulled by the ambiguity of time manifested in them. Their long, slender fingers caressing the crevices of his soul as they whispered in nearly forgotten voices. Bittersweet and soft. They spoke of fear. And they spoke of hate. He closed his eyes. Allowed the great gouts of hurt poured from their amphora to settle at the bottom of the glass. Then, armed with the faintest of smiles, he extended a hand out to the darkness.

“What are you,” -his voice flickered, straining to be heard- “Afraid of?”

The silence which answered him coaxed his eyes open. The whispers and the shadows stilled. Somewhere in the near distance were footsteps falling over the darkness like the hush of rain. A strange light flickered in the veil; someone had pricked the black, releasing a slow trickle of crimson warmth. The shadows receded from his feet as the light grew and a figure took shape. He drew in a sharp breath - the flame in his chest leapt from its wick.

She was a picture of the past. Hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of fire, fathomless eyes piercing the shadows, and a smile that hinted at the secrets stashed in her pockets; she was exactly as he remembered. His sister stood before him, shades clawing at the halo of warmth cast by the candle in her hand. Beckoned by fire. Tempered by smoke. She held the candle in one hand, and in the opposite, a book- either’s fingers stained with crimson down to the knuckle. Her gaze drifted with unhurried ease until it met his.

“The rain is speaking quietly…” she whispered, lips curled in a disquiet smile, “You can sleep, now, Little Brother.”

Then, she blew out the candle. And the dark was silent and empty once more.    

The crackle of parchment against his cheek. Patter of rain against the window pane. Then quiet- but a strange quiet, a different quality of quiet.

A’gust opened his eyes just a sliver, still clinging to a dream that was already starting to fade. The details, diluted and dull, drained away like water. The memory was all but gone when he tried to scoop it up in his palms. Reluctantly, he peeled his cheek from the desk and blinked into the gloom of dust and waning light. The floor of his meager space was made into a minefield of discarded notes and empty mugs still rimmed with coffee.  Books ranging in study -from Aetheric Theory to Horticulture, Astrology to Bio-organic Decomposition, and everything in between- lay in a sprawling heap at his feet. And what space wasn’t occupied by a still-born brew abandoned on its burner was filled by fresh parchment yet to be christened with more cluttered thoughts. With a tired sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

The night had been a long one. Or, so he assumed. He wasn’t quite sure how long he slept. It somehow felt like both an instant and an eternity. Carefully, A’gust rose from his chair and made his way to the window. Fingers stained with alchemical residue curled into dense, velveteen fabric. Lingered as he listened to the flutter of his heart. Slow. Wavering. Touch uneasy. The why to it escaped him; he was never a fan of storms, so he figured the rain was to blame. A quick flick of the wrists and he cast the curtains aside, ushering it a thin channel of grey light. He winced at the sudden onslaught, pupils drawn into thin slits. Morning, after all.

Sharlayan woke just as the rain eased into a gentle mist, droves of scholars passing under A’gust’s window as they made for the Studium. Idle chattered carried on the wind like gossamer thread and hid beneath a distant growl of thunder. He watched them pass -weighed down with their school books and heavy cloaks- with a wistful smile. While they toiled away in their lecture halls, he’d be here. Free to sift through documents and tomes at his leisure. Such was the benefit of being an alchemist of independent study. Though, for every onze of reward came an equal measure of hardship.

A’gust turned from the window and cast his gaze about the room. Much of the night had been spent chasing threads to their fruitless ends. Misguided tangents and off-topic fixations. He flitted from topic to topic only to find himself running around in circles. A torrent of chaos kicked up by his own thoughts and curiosities. And when all was said and done, he ended up searching the same place he started from- the black paged volumes of his father’s research. A’gust pursed his lip as he found the stack of books still waiting for him on the desk’s corner. Their pages darker than the room’s shadows.

“A penchant for theatrics,” was what he said to Serai when she asked about the ominous color. Not a lie. Not entirely.

The chair groaned with protest and age as he deflated into it. A fresh piece of parchment was drawn from the stack, placed next to the inkwell. Then he stole another glance at the black books. And once again felt his heart quiver inside his chest. In truth, the black pages were due to their alchemical composition. The parchment enchanted twice over, leaving behind a glossy film that only a certain aetherically infused ink could penetrate. An ink invisible to the naked eye lest paired with a blend of sulfuric powder, bomb-ash, and a pinch of lime. Such precautions made A’gust wonder why Father felt a need to guard these secrets.

From the desk drawer, he procured a straw-string pouch. A translucent powder glimmered without the aid of light from inside when he worked it open. Only a pinch was needed. 

The first volume he knew intimately well, the initial read possessed of optimistic vigor that devoured the breadth in a matter of hours. Thus his reflection cast along the dark pages when dusted with powder came as little surprise to him. Father was man before his time; an ingenuitive mind unabashed to break a few rules for the greater good. His research began with an idea; it began with a seed of hope.

A’gust fished a matchbook out of his vest pocket. Struck a single stick. Watched tender flame lick at the air before setting it to the page’s edge. Crimson letters crept from its dark depths. Eddied by the warm brush of fire, words of a now dead man followed after the match’s head: