skavira

    ⠀ID:  ⟮ @lafaeys⟯ 
            ⠀⠀⠀⠀┈┈┈─
            
            you neither stayed to see your score, but alas, regretted being there. yet you would much rather occupy my space and pretend you hate it.
            
            *striding around the couch, he comes to a halt near the hearth, staring down at the fire. only when he spreads his palm toward its heat does he seem to notice how cold the evening has become. his fingers flex slowly, drawing warmth into them, whilst his lips remain chilled from the walk. he gives a quiet breath through his nose, then turns his head toward her.*      get out, sybil. this is the only courtesy you get.

     ⠀ID:  ⟮ @lafaeys⟯ 
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            *a snicker of breath sounds from his throat at her departure. the gathered huntsmen fall into a veil of silence.*
            
            gather the bows. archery time is over.
            
            *rikkard hands his bow over to the boy. yet each time his eyes turn over his shoulder, the memory of her gaze returns; sharp enough to feel. she had pressed the bow against his chest as if the gesture itself might prove some point, as if one bitter folly between them could be settled by a shaft through his own. it could not. her arrow had pierced clean through his, and the words she left behind were colder still. he had heard every one of them. worse, he remembered them.*
            
            [..]
            
            *rikkard returns to the manor by evening. a day spent over cards has done little to tire him, and the wine in his glass has left nothing but a dull hollow in his gut. he greets one of the servants with a passing hand, sending them on their way, whilst the rest of the men murmur amongst themselves and disappear toward their chambers. he makes for the library. halfway there, his coat comes off, the chill of evening still clinging to the cloth. he opens the door slowly and slips inside. the fire in the hearth greets him first, already burning low enough to warm the room. someone has thought to light it. it is not matilda. his eyes move across the desk, then the table. no fruit. no evening meal. nothing prepared for him. then the green shawl draped lazily across the back of his chair catches his eye, and his jaw tightens. casually, he throws his coat over the hanger by the door and begins to uncuff his sleeves. her perfume reaches him before she does; heady, unmistakable. his expression flattens at once, irritation settling into him with the familiar weight of a stone.*     

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀﹒ ✶ ⎯⎯           @skavira. 
            
            ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ a vast of laughter from his comrades ought to have splintered against her pride, though it did. neatly, as one would of an axe cutting through wood. sybil, however; refused to show it. she turned her head to look at his arrow lodged into the target, then settled her gaze back on him. she stood close to him, too close; enough to catch the cold words slipping from his lips. this was not the friend she had garnered her hopes in, but knew she deserved every bit of it.          just not the rest that came along. she took the bow he offered, squaring herself as she had been taught. uncertainty, however, came to possess her frame; she lost the remedy of her sanity as she drew three arrows from rikkard’s quiver, her fingers tightening around each shaft before setting them to the string. her breath was held for a fleeting moment, gaze narrowing upon the mark. then, one after another, she released them, each striking pointedly into his.
            
            ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ( the score, gentlemen?⠀⠀)  ⠀sybil pushed his bow against his chest. the iciness in his eyes had darkened, and there wasn’t a twinkle of affection as there once had been. silence fell all around them, even the ladies themselves had hushed. at that, she turned back, peeling her gloves off.
            
            ⠀ ( let us head back to the manor. i have changed my mind. perhaps, this indeed was a terrible of ideas, cecilia.⠀⠀) ⠀⠀⠀her cheeks were pulled taut by a sharp inhale of breath, and stung by the humiliation she refused to let show, she linked her arm with her dearest of friends, and pulled her along.

   ⠀ID:  ⟮ @gyrded ⟯ 
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            it is a matter of.. (..) honour. consider it that, mr. sires. besides, you ought to understand better than most outsiders that this falls outside my jurisdiction.    *nikolai laces his fingers together, elbows resting against the desk. his cheek shifts slightly, jaw tightening for a moment before he forces himself to ease. tension served no purpose here. not between two men who already understood the cost of their decisions. unlocking his fingers, he pushes the file across the desk toward him. the offer of a seat had already been declined. stubbornness was something he recognized well.*
            
            if this concerns your \sister,\ then i am afraid i cannot offer you much assistance. society has a convenient habit of looking away when the right names are involved.    *for a moment, he studies him. he had seen her. the infamous bloodline attached to her name, the whispers that followed, the damage caused by rivals who cared little for truth so long as the reputation fell apart. recovering lost assets had been one matter. watching even the new york times turn their family disputes into entertainment had been another.*
            
            why?   *the question leaves him quieter than before.*    why did you do it, knowing exactly what it would cost you? (..) bailing out a family member should have carried consequences for a man of your rank and position. yet you stepped forward regardless.   *his gaze lowers briefly to the file between them. some choices were made out of duty. others revealed something far more personal. and that was the part nikolai found most interesting.*

   ⠀ID:  ⟮ @lafaeys ⟯ 
            ⠀⠀⠀⠀┈┈┈─
            
            ah, \no.\

/  17 going into 18 - still mdni

@lykhaos 
            
            /  uh hello ! 

   ⠀ID:  ⟮ @magicker ⟯ 
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            *amara keeps her footsteps as light as possible. she is halfway across the library, nearing the towering bookshelf, when his voice stills her. her question goes unanswered, only for his words to return with enough reason why. folding her hands behind her back, she tries to peer through the narrow gaps between the books, but finds no trace of his silhouette. already, her mind begins assembling the procedure his injuries might require, stitching together possibilities before ever laying eyes upon the patient himself.*    not in my case. no. nearly not enough to give me the details i desire.
            
            *amara casts a glance toward the looming window. rain drums steadily against the glass, wrapping the library in a strange melancholy, as though the world outside has been swallowed by the storm. with this newfound intrigue, however, she finds herself grateful for the distraction. otherwise, she knows her thoughts would drift back to headquarters.. to the people she left behind, and to the mess she had only just managed to escape.*    why do you not request the aid of the headmaster downstairs? his medicine, and his hands, are quite gifted at healing.
            
            *she asks out of genuine curiosity. beneath it, though, lingers another motive entirely. she wants to see the face belonging to that voice. moving carefully, she rounds the end of the bookshelf, taking care not to disturb the silence blanketing the room. she searches the second aisle. \nothing.\ a quiet disappointment settles inside her, but she refuses to give up. slipping into the third aisle, her gaze sweeps between shelves stretching toward the ceiling. again, he is nowhere to be \found.\*    why do you hide? out of all the places you could have gone (..) you decided an asylum was the best place to disappear among the patients everyone else calls mad?

⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀ ⠀ MADDENING POINT OF RUSED CRIMSON THICKLY COATED HIS SKIN UNDER THE WHITE OF HIS SHIRT. ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀ASUNDER THE JOLT OF PAIN THAT GATHERED THROUGH HIS FRAME, SWEAT SEEPED FROM HIS SKIN; DROPLETS FALLING IN A LOW TRICKLE AS HIS BREATH FALTERED. there was little light to offer him a better view, leaving him to his own way of summoning it. firelights came in a whisper of breath, a faint glow emerging through the shake of his hand. a sudden sound caught his ears, the bolt shifting as the manor responded to his request. he knew then it had been heard. however, as he searched through the familiar rows of books, his wet fingers left behind a bitter stain upon the worn spine he reached for. the mark of his injury remained as he pulled, and the shelf turned with a quiet groan, revealing the hidden passage that awaited him. rurik collapsed against the back of the shelf with a strained breath, his hand pressing against the wound as he fought against the growing ache. the chill of the library felt no more than a passing breeze against his heated skin, his body too consumed by pain to acknowledge it. then came the sound of footsteps approaching.
            
            ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀he did not turn. rather, he worked through old routine, the same movements practiced through years of necessity. the needle remained clenched between his teeth as he prepared himself, hands steady despite the tremor that threatened to betray him. his words came through a clenched jaw, careful not to disturb the needle between his teeth.
            
            ⠀⠀⠀ “hearing the words of a mad person—-in the first place should tell you enough already.”

   ⠀ID:  ⟮ @magicker ⟯ 
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            *pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders, she lingers before the warmth, allowing it to chase away little of the cold clinging to the room. somewhere behind her, the great library door sounds. not quite a knock, yet not silence either. distracted by the dancing firelight, she casts only a passing glance toward it before looking away again. then she hears it. the \voice.\ the very one she had spent weeks reading about. it is deeper than she imagined, worn by years, thick with an accent she cannot place. whether she follows the sound itself or merely the pull of her own curiosity, she cannot tell. quietly as a mouse, she crosses the room and slides the bolt into place behind the library door. then another thing reaches her before her eyes do. the scent of iron laced with fresh crimson. amara turns slowly, her gaze falling to the old wooden floor. dark droplets leave a winding trail across the timber before disappearing underneath one of the towering bookshelves. something between fear and sorrow grips at her chest. neither feeling wins over the other.*       i was beginning to think you were merely a lucid tale inked by a mad man.. or woman.
            
            *amara murmurs, following the trail one careful step at a time. her brows furrow, and she feels a current of energy course through her. whatever weariness had settled into her bones only moments ago disappears beneath sharpened \instinct.\ every part of her warns her to turn back, yet every part of the physician she has spent her life becoming urges her forward instead.*      how bad are your wounds?

@magicker 
            
            /   all yours!