Nik | 27 | she/they
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$LAYYYTER

Kiana Khansmith

"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
almost home
YOU ARE THE REASON

★
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@tyrantdotexe
Nik | 27 | she/they
Anymore this blog is loosely maintained and outdated.
Askbox and DMs are open for interactions/plotting.
PM me for Discord.
Other information under cut.

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"Alternia Community College, there's a bunch of them all over the planet so I'm surprised you haven't heard of them--but...it seems like you don't get out much."
Considering there wasn't an immediate sense that his life was in danger (besides the very firm hand holding onto him) Alvais chatted away idly about his communication courses, part time job and some other aspects of his completely ordinary life that might be relevant. "I can totally fill you in on anything else if you have questions though." Occasionally he glanced around, observing the decor, hoping to peer outside a window to maybe get a better grasp of where he was.
Were they under the sea? No no that wouldn't make sense since he walked right through the front door unless there's some sort of tech or psionics at work... "Oh! I forgot to ask your name too, wouldn't be fitting for me to just call you the Manor Lord or Spooky Sea Dweller."
𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓 𝕸𝖔𝖚𝖞𝖚𝖊'𝖘 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖘𝖕 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖆 𝖉𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖉. A dimwitted lowblood who fawned at the sight of him and chatted his nerves with a semblance of disbelief. He spoke of the world beyond; the decaying dynasty of Alternia rotting into spires of concrete and copper technology.
" You are too young. Hardly enough meat on you to constitute for a man, " he commented with absolutely no regard to the already fragile ego of this blubbering fool.
College-bound, rust, he could be no older than 12 sweeps, Mouyue surmised. But — he will plead a case of ignorance, pretending on end he is ever-so detached from the workings of a world living within the outset of his dominion. After all, he was certain this one was too dumb to recognize duplicity if it slammed him in the throat.
" You may call me ' Mouyue '. Any royal title you deem fitting as a prefix works just as well, " he is stern with introduction as he wrangled the boy through the ghostly corridors to some other place.
ssssh late nite post ft @tyrantdotexe
It's the closest he's ever been to a sea dweller, Alvais thinks, and probably the last time too. Unconsciously taking a few steps back as if the space would make entire situation less intimidating, it did not in fact, craning his neck to meet the other's gaze. Meekly nodding back at a loss for words, his job was suddenly a far afterthought as he was snatched up off the ground. His hands shot up on instinct grasping at the towering troll's arm, legs outstretched hoping to feel a tiny bit of floor to get some grounding but was met with more distance between himself and the floor.
His blood ran cold feeling his bangs be pushed aside to meet the manor dweller eye to eye. Feeling almost like prey being observed in a trap.
"I-it's Alvais, Alvais Waiser! I go to ACC in Morosbourgh!"
ℑ𝔫𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡. His cheeks squished in between lithe forefinger and thumb before he was eventually set on his feet, the seadweller electing to slacken the straight line of shoulders to loom over him instead.
All that it speaks is lost to Mouyue. Mentions of a world beyond his own. Living, no doubt.
As the only guests this king lives to see anymore are those of the dead, he decides he'll entertain himself with this one. " And that is? " he'll ask before his hand drops to the smaller troll's shoulder, claw curved over the muscle and cinching him around the bicep.
They will walk one way down the dilapidated halls over songbird floors —— this one will have to say goodbye to mundanity for a while.

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Eyes, there were other pairs of eyes staring at Alvais sparking a trail of goosebumps up his arms, clutching his thrifted jean jacked tighter around his frame. Unlucky for the rust cusp he never had the ability to see spirits but he can always feel them. "Sorry? I mean your place seems pretty cool and all but I'm gonna lose my job if I don't find a way out of here." A weak shrug with Alvais' giving a wry apologetic smile was all he could offer as an answer but what was the other troll expecting? He didn't choose to come here there was some weird, outside force that just snatched him up! Probably a prank from one of the fraternity brothers?
Anway- Crossing the center pulpit his form was illuminated as he peered around hoping to also get a better look at the inhabitant of the manor yet their form was still cloaked out of reach of the flames. "So...do I get a pass or should I start running?"
𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨, yet they violated the boundaries of this dynast's home on their own volition. Mouyue was beginning to suspect a level of foul play and — he woefully did not care.
" You will find another then, " the retroreflector of his eyes near-glowing in the dim light as he meets with the rust at the bottom.
He towers over him, as all fuchsia tend to do with low class insects. Alvais asked an innocent question, out of fear or stupidity ( he certainly doesn't know when to stop talking ), and before he could act on the impulse, Mouyue snapped his hand forward to capture him at the jaw; treating him no less one might a fish they wrench out of the water, thumb pushed into the mandible to suspend them as they writhe.
Fingers push away his hair to look at his eyes, then examine the common plain wear of his clothes.
" Your name. Where you hail from. " It was less a question as it was a demand.
With some…cautious trepidation, the young rust blooded cusp meanders his way around the unfamiliar landscape veiled by the inky night paired with an awfully terrifying aura by all accounts.
Mentally, Alvais was only minorly distraught after going from crossing the street to his part time job to suddenly being in an unfamiliar area that jumped straight out of a gothic horror novel. Thankfully oddities were somewhat normal in his every day life but that didn't stop him from damn near leaping out of his skin hearing the disembodied (or bodied?) voice echoing around him. "HA-haahaa!" Voice cracking a few octaves too high, "Um yes I would say that is a good assumption..."
Yeah that took a good 4 to 5 sweeps off his lifespan for sure, Alvais thought as he wrung his hands nervously. "A-anyway since you perhaps live here I was wondering if you maybe know where the exit is? I'd hate to ruin your eternal rest or whatever you're doing here."
𝔘𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔲𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔯, sniveling prey shrieks into the chasm of the lobby; girlish and pathetic. It disturbs the foundry of spirits whom leer their heads towards the source of terror before they resume their activities unbidden by some mortal thing.
The manor lord proceeds to stare down, waiting for something more, complete with the slight disappointment there was none.
" You came here, yet you already seek the exit? " He descends down the left flank of stairs, long robes twisting and tumbling behind him on the grand steps.
Even if he could control the home with the power of his mind, the doors were sealed shut, bolted at the steel locks and chained in by the fire spells; a living entity of its own.
" Come closer, let me look at you. "
𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔭𝔶𝔯𝔢𝔰. From the thin line of the horizon spanning over the vast expanse of once verdant fields, leveled to the mud in oil slick palettes of blood and detritus. Emaciated horses, weighed in by leaden armor, stalk over the battleground, hooves squishing in the remains of their riders and retainers. What piles they could not limp through remain briefly inanimate by spite and dead nerves, reacting deadly to the world around them.
A knight stands lone in the middle, staring over the carnage in fond memory. The blue blood in his veins pump with fervor as his heart hammers within the cage of his chest, breath erratic from wondrous blood spill. The exhale slipping through his helmet smokes into the polluted air; his inhale taking in the scent of fresh decay, burning away through fatty layers to striated muscle— too wet to host a fire that could only burn so hot.
His bloody spear is equipped over shoulder when he absconds the arena towards the hosting tower of greedy && wicked nobles, waiting in comfortable parlors and genial company until the conflict resolves itself at the hands of lusting foes.
Prying open the doors, breaching the formality reserved for servants, the knight cracks back the wood, welcoming himself inside, before the doors slam back inside, trapping him within.
The aroma of smoked meat and brine vegetables waif the air. A sickly mixture with the perfumes, pleasure-spilt blood, and the sweat of layered finely dressed lot stacked within; packaged into every leisurely section of the castle. Laughter rules this sectioned off world amongst the smatters of idle conversation scattered veritably from one room to the next. Low, pulsing light colors the estate in a varying of cool-saturated blues to pinks, and all seemed to glow beneath such illumination.
He travels regardless of this. A no one to them. They only glance anyone bothered to spare was that of disgust or bemusement at his bloodied entry or putrid death that clung to the silver of his armament. He doesn't return any look in return, uncaring over his repute to these small, useless people.
The trek winds like a waltz, weaving from one side towards the next, until he reaches towards one end where his master stays. However, he could not quite make it there before a wall of particularly petulant nobility gates all open entrances with their drunken lumbering, tugging exhaustion through the threads of his joints before he turns heel to wait until they saunter off elsewhere.
His demeanor lives beneath the convenience of his mask, so he does not school the severe expression in his brow. He doesn't bow to niceties. He doesn't play pretend any gallantry when not requested. Though, at some point, he notices a single noble out of line of the rest. And, as all knights out to do, he offers himself in way of quiet introduction; gauntlet hand reaching out to capture Petera [ @currentfxation ] by the fingertips and lifting them towards the grill of his helmet.
Crouched to one knee, he lives here for the moment, before relinquishing them and returning to full height.
Great sorrow waters thy garden, winding and twisting as they weep. The bells of lilies cast down towards the Earth, resplendent sweet. There was once war here, or so they speak. Hear my prayers and save my soul from a world so bleak.
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔤𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔶 𝔲𝔫𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱. No longer do pilgrims erode the stones smooth, neither fanfare nor travel wedge them into the dirt, leaving them to the whims of time and rain to erode them away silently into eternity. They serve to guide where people once went into the deadly passage of writhing limbs eager to brush over a stray shoulder drawing far too near. Nary twin moon able to cast its generous light over the withered shingles of the roof nor into the dimly lit streets; the ever-stray flicker of lumens bearing enough light to mark a path, but never the destination.
Alvais [ @currentfxation ] is carried here. Whether it be by allure or ascent, there is a chasm waiting to receive thee. No invitation needed to carry them towards the stone steps leading up to verdigris-brass twin doors, splitting open to receive their welcome guest. The eidolons of peasants past tugging at the brass handles until the mouth of the manner yawns open with an echoing groan on forgotten hinges.
There is only darkness there— a steep Abyssian blackness brokering a naked terror. The manor breathes with the chirp of bothered nightingale wood and the sigh of weathered wind-sills allowing chill to slip in.
Life might exist here. Phantasms caught in the dredges of routine, from now towards eternity: soft soles marching with an eerie uniformity through the corridors, the quiet chatter of gasping whispers drinking in the despair of undeath, the wheeze of slain sycophants rasping for words, tongues useless in their mouths as they lap helplessly against mutilated soft palettes.
Within the main hall lived an immense helix staircase. A Thespian flair like an angel's wings from the center pulpit of the lobby and branching out towards the bracketing edges. They separate like unfated lovers before curving around to join hands once more at the top, into the border of the second floor atrium. Down the pinions of their stair-steps do they bleed a fuchsia so dark is it nearly black with a worn silver binding at the borders, until the carpet unfurls at the bottom to greet those who dare enter through the main doors.
Strident eyes stare through the unabated darkness from the center focal point of the second floor balcony, owlish in its stalking, down upon the guest; an angel witnessing mankind at the foot of God's throne. Blue ghostflame serves no one in illuminating the being outside of shrouding them into the purest silhouette with cobalt backdrop.
" You are far from home, lowblood, " it speaks; voice a masculine hard edge with a sibilant androgyny.
forgot to slap this down here but i can say i am not immune to some breasting boobily ocs ft @neutralt2olls Barrie and @tyrantdotexe Sanghwa

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Tyrians in your area.
Does this community still have a pulse.
Kharis's profile is up.
"i could fix him" please don't it took a lot of work to fuck him up this bad

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Official ref.