#twistedisciple

[hermidetta]

[ Special: Rat ] This one looks real good. A twitchy sort of nervous, lurking around the edge of the ballroom like she'd melt under the spotlight. Griss had caught sight of her by chance, because like her, he was also lurking around the party's periphery, but unlike her, it's not because he's avoiding the other guests. He trailed her for a little bit, just to make sure she'd appreciate the furry thing squirming in his fist.

He thinks this one might be one of the musicians from last year's ball, because he'd heard the rumors of the rat band making its appearance again recently and why else would a rat be wandering around this ballroom full of people? (for plenty of reasons, just none that Griss likes as much as the idea of gifting a little trombonist to someone)

But his time's up now. She knows he's here, so he catches up with her, his own heart thundering with excitement like the little one under his thumb patters away with terror.

He sees his chance. His teeth bare in a grin.

"Hey, hold this for a sec!"

A Big Ol' Rat flies through the air, squealing, straight for Bernadetta's chest. [ // hello :) ]

the shiver prickles up the buttons of her spine and back down throughout her body, sending bernadetta into a tizzy that nearly has her trip over her own two feet. it is a chill with fangs, a needling death knell. it is a looming presence that might just be as harrowing as hubert von vestra's, goddess love him, goddess or whomever else had the guts.

in retrospect she should have appreciated him more. because without the familiarity of hubert's particular horror, bernadetta slinks through the night without any leads on what this could be. she slinks along walls, corners, any stretch of shadow as she is prone to do—yet she cannot shake off this unspeakable, morbid sensation, cast upon her like a sheet of ice. it follows her everywhere. it haunts her every move. eventually, too, it tails her into one of the halls tapering off from the ballroom.

this is her fatal mistake. with her surroundings stripped bare of other stimuli, bernadetta finally perceives him: hunter, circling prey, and far less well-intentioned than any classmate could be. for all of her misplaced panic a broken clock is still right twice a day—she is certain that this reaper is here for her, to split her very soul from mortal flesh and bone.

her ribboned slippers pick up with a startle, and a sob, but she does not make it far. no, not at all.

this ghoul grins, all teeth, and bernadetta's shriek from that sight alone is punctuated by what he chucks at her. the fuzzy projectile thwacks into her chest with a squeak that mirrors her own; on pure reflex bernadetta's arms spring up to catch it, and as they do, she opens her eyes to see the "gift" blink right back at her.

it pauses.

she pauses.

"... michael?"

their mutual shock lasts for one, two seconds. then, throwing up its little paws with huzzah, michael the rat is the first to break their silence when it squeaks in merry recognition:

"princess bernadetta!!!"

bernadetta screeches. somewhere in the distance, another person's wine glass splits with an abrupt crack.

her eyes and head both roll backward. darkness bleeds through the corners of her vision, swallowing the rest of the world before she can move.

and thus once again, bernadetta von varley has fainted while standing upright.

#asks / #toaball2024 #twistedisciple #THE NOISE I MAED FROM RECEIVINH THIS ASK WAS SBMETHING TSU AND SARA BOYH GOT TO SEE IN REAL TIME #IM WCTUALLY MCFREAKING LOSING IT #so happy they get to meet like this so sorry she had to faint on you it was in the heart of the cards (dice) #[SPECIAL: RAT] HAS GOT TO BE THE FUNNIEST GIFT EVER THANK YOU FOR SENDING IT TO HER HAHHAHA #i'd like to introduce you to michael mouse (miku mouse's grandfather) son of michelangelo mouse. they come from a sacred line of trombonis #do the rats even talk? who knows..........it could all be in your head bernadetta......much to think about :wahoorat:

[sereneshymn]

[ it's a grouse ] The sound of bells precedes him. But for once, Griss has no intention of sneaking. He swings a dead bird by its legs like its a bag or some other accessory, while other guests glance at him once, twice in horror as he jingles past them. Each of them would make a good recipient for his little gift (or... re-gift), but he has his eyes set on someone else entirely.

It's not easy to miss the tall, angelic-looking figures mingling in the crowd. Ethereal radiance aside, their white-feathered wings stand out by themselves. Griss doesn't think they're real. After all, he's seen plenty of people dressed up in feathers tonight.

This one just looks a little too comfortable, is all.

"Here." Griss bows his head in faux apology, presenting the dead bird, an arrow still protruding from its chest (its shaft affixed, now, with a little bell) with both hands. With all the reverence one might show a deity, he lays the thing at the man's feet.

"Sorry for your loss."

He turns away before he can break his straight face, but calloused laughter follows him as he strolls away.

Throughout his life, Rafiel has seen a lot of colorful, peculiar and often unpleasant people. On the auction block, though he did not personally witness the bidding for him, he could still recognize the peak of greed and arrogance surrounding him from all sides. In Micaiah's army, he silently hid behind Queen Nailah and Volug from the hatred and disgust flowing throughout the people of Daein akin to a pestilent river. Allied with Commander Ike, he met people of all ages, views and attitudes and then encountered more still on the battlefield, their auras coming together to form a complicated, tangled mess of a net that he navigated through with the utmost care and not without difficulty.

But even among them all, including the most disturbing ones he can recall, this one is... new. Even as his attention is drawn and he turns to face the man approaching him, he is already feeling a sting of nausea coming in.

And once they lock eyes, it does not get better. Though the sight of the grouse with an arrow protruding from its chest startles Rafiel, sending a cold wave throughout his body, he has seen the results of the Wolves' hunts several times in the past, so as unpleasant as the sight is, it is... bearable.

But something about the man bothers him. Disturbs him. Terrifies him. He does not understand what to make of it.

There is a mixture of darkness, distortion and some strange form of suffering and joy within that heart. Eyes full of tears stare into his soul, and at the same time a loud, wild, sickening burst of deafening, unhinged laughter rings in his ears,

drowning everything out,

drowning him within itself.

He has to remind himself to breathe to stop himself from collapsing, and the words spoken to him register with too much delay.

"I—I don't know wh-what you..." He begins, but by then, he has already turned away to leave, laughter following in his trail. Rafiel is left standing there, pale on his face, with the dead grouse lying before him.

Maybe he can... call Naesala to take it for a snack or something...

But he really needs to sit down first.

#twistedisciple #let us sing in unison ❀ ic. #the joy of connection ❀ ask. #support ❀ griss. #toaball2024 #((“support: griss” [sarcastic])) #((thank you! that was Fun to find in my inbox)) #((I think Rafiel just got oneshot))

[machiot]

@twistedisciple sent:

Griss lived by the old "eye for an eye" adage. As soon as he'd gotten a glimpse of Marni, and as soon as he'd made sure it was her, he knew he'd have to pay her back for the sweet bun wrapped in a meatball. He couldn't let her have all the fun, of course, but the difference between the two of them was that Griss wasn't one to sweet talk redheaded mages into doing his dirty work for him because 1) he liked getting his hands dirty himself, and 2) let's be real, there isn't a single person in this ballroom who wouldn't be skeptical of a request coming from him.

So he takes care of it himself, a chunk of ice from a sculpture in one hand. The little bells of his brooch jingle softly with each step he takes toward Marni, but the crowd is thankfully louder.

One. Two...

He darts his hand out once within arm's reach, hooks a finger on the back of her dress and tosses the ice right in. Anyone else might have run before their victim could get their wits about them and swing, but not Griss, who's cackling with delight right behind her.

What goes around must come around, but for some reason, Marni never quite expects the "come around" part to actually hit her. Call it naivety or call it a refusal to learn; the tomahawk always smacks her on the way back.

So what if her own plans hadn't gone the way she wanted them to? Here she is regardless, smug as can be, so absorbed basking in her (Tormod's, actually) handiwork that she doesn't even hear the glorified cat bell jingling away. Marni foolishly doesn't expect retaliation at all, forgetting perhaps that Griss has two perfectly good eyes more than capable of spotting a frilly pink dress from across the floor.

The mere seconds between feeling a hand on the back of her dress and the icy torment that awaits are not enough to save her.

"HIEEEEEEEE?!"

A high pitched shriek escapes her as the block of ice sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiides down her back, a terrible combination of both wet and cold. The ice melts further against the warmth of her skin, sending even more ice cold water trailing down. It's worse than accidentally stepping on an ice cube with socks; the ice is trapped inside of the dress, dooming her to a night of sogginess.

Marni jerks against the sensation, shoulders tensing up against the cold, before spinning around to find out what and who would pull such a childish prank on her.

One-eyed brat pot, meet more metal than an armory kettle.

"Griss!! I can't believe you would—" Wait, no, this is Griss. "Ugh, scratch that, yes I can! You're so mean! You totally ruined my dress!"

The fact that she started it is not even a blip on her mind. What matters is that he's laughing at her and she's cold and wet and all three of those things need to stop. They may have taken away her axe at the door, mumbling something about safety, but they can't take away the two weapons she was born with.

"Hey, I can hit you, right?" Marni asks, although she's already very clearly winding up. "You're gonna let me hit you, right?"

#toaball2024 #twistedisciple #🎀 support: griss #//YESSSSSSS KARMAAAAAA :SICKOS: #//sorry for the giant post about marni getting ice dumped in her dress i dont know how it got this long #//have been giggling at this ask ever since i got it happy to finally release it into the wild

[rafent]

♡ for Gregory (or Griss, if you're not afraid of the therapy bills from that kid)

Dragon ♀ / Sage ♀

Pure concentrated genki. Sweet, agreeable, and friendly, but has her hot-headed moments. Likes to fight and thinks victory is thrilling. Does not like to lose

Stylish! No daughter of Rafal and Gregory is going to run around looking like a street urchin. Wears and treasures the outfits the latter makes

Strong sense of justice and doing what's right, absolutely cannot stand by when people are getting hurt, and is willing to suffer pain for that ideal. A torch bearer to both parents' sense of self-sacrifice

Grew up isolated and sheltered, but loved. Adored by her fathers who give her the love they never received from their own parents. Lived in the forest together with them where they honored 'a quiet life' for a time (i.e., Gregory's ending)

One day everything changes...the country girl must enter the big city...

Character Arc: Undertakes a coming of age, Samurai Champloo-esque journey and scours the entirety of Elyos looking for her missing parents. 'Have you seen the pale dragon that smells of sweets?' Rafal being a Fell Dragon and Gregory being a fell disciple with Griss' face means that persecution of their child is inevitable. Love is not only staying close, but staying away to keep her safe. This lonely little princess waits for the day she can give them a piece of her mind

Chronically messy hair despite her best efforts. Two clueless first time dads means she had to learn the in's-and-out's of girlhood all by herself

Army Superlative(s): Most likely to lie and be caught, brightest smile in the army, the one who talks out loud the most when thinking

#◜ ₊ — 𝓡 ˚ ₊ 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 ╱ meme. #twistedisciple #the genki grafal daughter who has my whole ass heart #i considered griss because i think having a kid would be very Humbling for him and rafal collectively #i still DO think that. but griss affects this kid indirectly anyway so :')))) #tldr: i foresee this gregory/rafal kid as being both the happiest and possibly loneliest child in the world #getting all the love from grafal that they didn't get from their own parents #but also being so loved that they (and i mean rafal) will do drastic things to keep her safe

[ruinakete]

"You're--!" Here. In one piece. Alive. A professor? Griss can't decide how to complete the sentence as he pushes through the throng of dismissed students spilling out of the classroom, bumping shoulders with a few of them but not even looking back. His eyes instead fix on a familiar figure - the goddess appointed by his dying words - certain that if he were to look away, she'd disappear without a trace.

But when he reaches her, jostled and breathless, the look in her eyes tells him, beyond a doubt, that she's as real as he is. If they were both dead, at least they wound up in the same place.

"You took your sweet time." He doesn't care about the answers to questions, how she got her, or why. Disbelief seems like a waste of breath now, so what he offers her instead is a smile. A rare one: genuine, and soft, like the look he'd given her when they were saying their goodbyes.

"Paperwork must've gotten lost or something." It cracks a little wider with the joke, but doesn't disrupt the clarity in his eyes as he looks up at her. "You're a sight here, that's for sure."

IT HAS ONLY BEEN A DAY SINCE HER ACCEPTANCE, and yet, the church inclines itself to work the mage dragon to her very bones. when she dismisses the class, it is with a faux smile pinned to the curve of her lips and a half - hooded gaze of relief. oh how tiring humans were when faced with knowledge━━━beady eyes bright with curiosity; unearned, unprovoked. there was a willingness to participate and learn and indulge that, at the very least, filled zephia's still heart with the slightest twinge of hope. the monastery was a lost cause the moment she drew her first breath before its gates━━━its students' inclination to devour information first and ask later simply proved their weakness. it was almost a shame that━━━

she hears him before she sees him. or, rather, her ears pick up the ruckus that his presence always brings before her eyes can reach him.

students look back as the man forces his way through the mass of bodies, ever so selfish in his conquest of simply existing. and zephia could not be more sure of this if not for the mere reverence in his gaze; its sole fixation on her and only her.

for but a moment, she remembers how revitalizing it is to be worshipped so eagerly.

"g... griss?" her voice leaves her without thought, hardly audible and too breathless; it's too late for her to trap the name between her teeth. ironic, it becomes, when both hounds are finally standing before one another, their breathing thin and eyes wide with respective shock. the silence is not long, for it never is when griss is near. and that, the realization that yes, he is alive and breathing and unharmed, steels zephia's body.

her shoulders lower and away goes the surprise; thus, painted lips straighten into a thin smile. a monotonous expression that almost immediately threatens to soften at the tenderness griss reveals to her. it is anything but right━━━fierceness should be his default, always, always━━━and yet, zephia can only utter a small laugh in response.

"trust my words; if i had known you were here, i would have awakened sooner." because he deserved it. what else could she give in light of his sacrifice? his trust? instead of entertaining the thought, zephia sighs━━━unmoved by the man's joke, but relieved all the same. "is my presence here that much of a surprise? think now, it was inevitable. this monastery is a fraud of safety, after all; allowing two hounds into their ranks."

she does not comment on her position as a professor. neither does she comment on what his position might be. ( something bloody, surely. something to entertain his urges. )

but the admiration in griss' gaze quickly becomes unsettling; it has been too long, too soon. zephia hides away her smile, turning away to set down the ink - stained papers she has been holding without pause. "have you been in fódlan long? to me, it was just the other day that i, or rather, we..." died, she almost finishes, but the words never comes out. she continues, "anyway, i trust that you have been vigilant in my absence, darling?"

#twistedisciple #☽ ━━━━━━ ❝ the cruelty of a mother's greed ・ 【 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 】 . #☽ ━━━━━━ ❝ to appease the handmade goddess ・ 【 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 】 . #this got long but WAAAHH THEM!!! :pleading: :pleading: #“the goddess appointed by his dying words” alright Ree I'm gonna get you I'm

[lauscanis]

♡ ˚· @twistedisciple asked:

"Looks like the gang's all here now." Griss' voice comes crawling up from behind, followed shortly by the man himself. Leisurely steps bring him around to face the girl he thought Zephia had punished for good, and he takes a second to tease reality from dream and illusion. Fódlan, so far, had been full of tricks like that, and by now Griss had come to expect the impossible, just as he knew how easily it could all blow away like smoke. Head canted, his lips peel back from his teeth in a gesture that could only be described as a snarl, as the cheshire smile is neither friendly nor warm, but it's not entirely threatening either. Griss had never been good at hiding his feelings from his face, and here they take on conflicting shapes. A discerning eye, or simply those who knew him well enough, could trace the faintest outline of something softer than claws and teeth and metal points. "Thought you died." This statement of fact does finally make a discernible frown. "Guess you'll have to thank Zephia for that, huh? You 'n me both know mercy ain't her thing."

Marni's spine goes rigid in a heartbeat. She had brushed off warnings of familiar faces -- surely those weirdos had no clue what they were talking about, not when it came to her, anyway. Evidently, that had been a mistake.

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong." Her eyes track him as he moves, shoulders drawing up and inward as though in an effort to make herself smaller. Just as his expression does little to disguise his own conflict, no amount of disgust forced onto Marni's can cover her fear.

She clears her throat.

"You said... all? Like..." Did they still consider her one of them? Was she forgiven? No, she scolds herself, you don't want their forgiveness. "What, you guys are all on vacation or something? Don't you have more awful stuff to do elsewhere?"

She wants to ask if Mauvier is with them, if Lady Veyle is okay. She wants to ask what happened, if they missed her, if they forgot all about her, if-

"Whatever, not like I care anyway. Did you hear they made me a knight? Heh, pretty impressive, I know." Hands fall on her hips in a false bravado, nose upturned as though to really sell the point. "So I don't need you guys anymore, got it? And pass that on to Zephia for me, yeah?" Let her know how stupid she was to let me go.

#♡ ˚· ( griss ). #twistedisciple #thank you again for the rat ree

[berglietz]

Was that… Blood? Finally? Right here at the end of a long and mostly uneventful night? Griss picks up his pace to catch up with the guy, then darts out a hand to snag around a solid bicep.

”Hey, kid!” He jerks him back, and finds that it’s not just a spot or two, but massive, bright red stains all down his front. Did he kill someone? That’s Griss’ first thought. Covetous eyes stare hungrily.

”Where’s all the fun at, huh? You look like you’ve had a grand ol’ time tonight and I want in. How’d you do it?” Stepping right past what an ordinary person might consider personal space, he leans in close with excitement. “A knife? Glass?” 

He sniffs and catches a whiff of garlic and tomato. He’s not that kind of hungry, and that it might be coming from the red stains (which, if he hadn’t already had a few drinks, he might have noticed weren’t changing colors like real blood) hardly crosses his mind. Instead, he plucks one of the few bells remaining on his brooch and holds it up by a thin chain. It jingles softly.

”Come on: tell me where the real party's at and I’ll give ya one of these.”

Sorry, did this guy just sniff him?? "Whoa—personal space, much?" Caspar takes a half-step back, eyes sweeping up and down as he sizes up the man currently crowding his space. The spikes of metal that adorn his jewelry speak of someone who wants to appear dangerous, but it's the sharp scent of alcohol on his breath that really spells trouble. (Men who smell like that are less likely to back down, more likely to turn things into a brawl. This one already seems to be looking for one.) "Anyway, I didn't use any weapons like that. Just my bare hands." It's like this guy thinks you're supposed to kill people in a food fight or something. Seriously! "The fight's already over. If you wanna brawl, you'll have to start a new one." He clasps a fist around the offered bell and silences its song, pushing it back toward the man's chest.

"I don't think you should, though."

#[ ic ] #[ ask ] #toaball2024 #twistedisciple #// not totally satisfied with how i concluded this one honestly but the event clock ticking away is kicking my ass AAAA

[justices-blade]

19. A memory of someone they don’t see anymore

✧ meme-ories!

The Missus is dead.

For all winter claims, it doesn't take her. Noone knows what took her, really. It's a mild spring day that drags on like molasses, kids quietly shuffling around to hang out laundry to dry, shanking eachother with wet towels to try and make eachother yell, get them in trouble. Others whisper at eachother under the clatter of dishes, while the ones who've already done their chores sit silently playing with the wooden blocks with tooth marks on them. There's a few numbered clotheshooks that are newly empty. The winter was cold and harsh.

His and Finch's autumn coats still hang side-by side. They can't afford winter ones. These, too, are going to other kids next season. Finch is stacking tin cups because he always lets the younger kids have the blocks. A girl tries to nick a cup, eager for the cacophany of collapse. ████ slaps her hand away.

"Party pooper," she snips, slapping his hand back. ████ scowls, about to snark at her for it (and his volume would eventually, inevitably, spiral just a bit too loud, and he'd be in trouble), but someone else beats him to the punch — Everyone's heads snap around when the noise starts.

A dish breaks. A fight? There's hardly much better to do when they're not let outside enough because there's only one Missus to keep an eye on them all, even if the older kids turn into little Missuses when they can, with favor to curry and authority to get hopped up on because they know how this place works best. Sit straight, don't bounce your leg, be quiet, do your chores. Peel those potatoes, fetch the play clothes, recite your numbers. Stop giggling. Stop crying. You will cry when I make you. Don't run in the hallways. Where are you looking? Pay attention. Wretched girl, why can't you pay attention?

But fights bring even the older kids back to being just kids as they jeer and chant at the little fists flying and the grunting and biting and shrieking. But the fight drags on, and the Missus doesn't show up to give them a screaming and a walloping — The two girls gradually stop attempting to tear eachother's hair out, realising before anyone else that something's wrong. The fight stops as soon as it started, and they join hands to start dutifully cleaning up the shards of the broken plate to hide away, like they never fought. A boy peeks out of the closet with the faulty lock that the Missus locked him in for dropping the fresh laundry.

It doesn't take long for what's wrong to really settle in.

Another boy he only knows as number seven, a snitch through and through, runs down the hallway, face ashen. "Oi! Someone get an apothecary!" he shrieks — But ████ is already bounding down the way he came, slamming open the door to the sewing room without thinking. She's on the floor, rolling in the dust, now no better than any of them.

The Missus doesn't even scold him or threaten the cane for all the noise he makes. She doesn't even sneeze.

That's because she's dead.

#;answered #twistedisciple #there are cws on this but im not sure what they are. sorry #hes like... six-seven? in this one id reckon #finch is like two years younger #discipline for the poverty-military pipeline baby. #;stories by the campfire | drabble #;now there's an idea! | hc

[enarmor]

@unsungblade & @twistedisciple sent:

15. A heartbreaking memory

//via memories; still accepting

They were told to capture an imposter and a pair of rogue knights.

A pity, then, that many were dealt a swift and decisive end.

But not one.

"Ngh... You!"

He cocks his head to locate the source of the sound. It's somewhere deep in the fog, likely left behind on the road of slain foes he and the Shield had carved for their lord. Looking back isn't something he ever thought he'd have to do, not while such an important mission is at hand--not while one even greater lies ahead. It's true that at its core, a knight's job is dirty. They bleed, and are bled. They kill, and are killed. But to soil his hands for the sake of protecting hers, he'd gladly build a bridge of bodies.

It's just that he'd never expect one of the bricks to shout for him.

"Are you speaking to me?" he answers, casting his voice out into the open air as he retraces his steps seeking conversation, "To Sain, the most dashing and daring of Caelin's knights?"

"Hah! That'd be you alright... The general's son."

Sain freezes. Of all the things to be called--vermin, scum, dead meat--he hadn't expected to hear the word son. It's one rarely spoken by his own father. To hear it on the lips of another dying knight, he had to have struck someone big. An up-and-comer in the brigade, perhaps? Someone who likely envied his position, and the all but guaranteed inheritance of Commander. His horse is pulled into a slow trot, gently making its way toward the voice until finally the fog parts enough for it to become a person. And there he sees him, halfway dead on the side of the road, his sword lodged in his leg and mount already passed on. There is no future for him, Sain notes. No hope. Only bitterness and hatred, that he might be left here to rot for a few more hours.

He considers offering him a mercy kill. It would be the honorable thing to do.

"Of course you'd turn traitor..." he coughs, clicking his tongue to flick some of his blood at the Lance's boot, "You always had everything handed to you...! Of course... You'd take the easy way out!"

Sain's smile does not falter. He always imagined that some of the others thought of him this way. They are colleagues--bound to sow seeds of competition and water them with hatred. But in place of an immediate response, the battered knight hears his feet hit the ground. He's slipped off his horse and twirled his javelin around his back--inching closer so the man can appreciate his conversational gestures.

"You don't have many breaths left in you," he mocks, raising a finger matter-of-factly, "if I were in your position, I'd save them. Best to say a few prayers or wish for the safety of your loved ones."

"Fine... Then I'll make this quick..." A smirk pulls at the corner of his jaw. He knows exactly what he's doing, has set the trap for the flirt and is waiting with bared fangs. If he is a candle about to snuff, then he'll go out with one last flare. He'll set ablaze the forest of green so that the smoke that rises isn't his own agony, but Sain's. He'll earn an end to his struggling--dealing a swift kick to the Lance's ego all the same.

"You're no knight."

"Shut up."

Sain steps closer. His finger instantly retracts itself so that his hand can ball into a fist. As his gaze shakes and the muscles in his back shutter, it tightens--knuckles going bare. A slash across his chest or slice down his back would not cut as deep; to be called a failure of a knight is to have his entire identity stripped from him. It is to be flogged by a whip and chain, to be hung from the back of a wagon and dragged into town. It removes the very core of his being, and every effort made to be deemed worthy in the eyes of his general. Of his father. To one day be dubbed a true knight and join his ranks--to finally become an equal to Eagler and earn the right to hear him call him son--Sain holds firm in his ideals. He would serve his lord, even if it meant being reduced to the state of his opponent.

But his lord is also his lady.

There is a darkness in Sain's heart, pulling his strings with hands wreathed in doubt. Is it really just drive, just acceptance, moving him forward? Or are his flames stoked by love, reins yoked by affection? Is he yearning not just to claim the tenderness of his father's grip, but to replace it with the fair hand of his liege?

Something sinister swirls behind his eyes. His jaw tenses, and though his cheeks do not move, his smile widens until it becomes a grimace.

The defeated knight laughs, uncaring that he's at his wit's end if it means having a chance to tear Sain down.

"You're just a nepotism baby-"

"I said shut up!!"

He drives his javelin through the other's throat. Whatever fire remains is doused in his own blood, and silence ensues. Silence that, in many ways, is worse than that dastard's baseline insults. If anything, it proves him right. That the only way for Sain to keep him quiet is to resort to the instincts of an animal.

His slumps against his weapon, knees weak not from battle, but the shards of his own fragile ego. He had been broken by a dead man, and suffers even in his absence. As he stares down at a face drained of vitality, a lock of hair comes loose from his headband. It brushes against his forehead, and only then does he realize it is soaked with sweat. A perfect mirror, then, to his thighs, which have been drenched by the spilled ichor of his fellow knight.

But he doesn't have the right to call himself that, does he? The knight is dead, and Sain is walking into an open grave.

Soon enough, he fears, his whole life will have been for nothing. The dream of a wide-eyed boy is crashing into a sea of despair.

#IC #ASKBOX #UNSUNGBLADE #TWISTEDISCIPLE #HEADCANONS #//taking a break from owain birthday asks to do this #//you two are absolutely insane

[elusivia]

Bringing a Knife to a Bunfight [Griss & Zelkov]

continued from here @twistedisciple

Whenever Griss smiled, which was too often and in the wrong situations, Zelkov felt his blood want to freeze over. They’d met before as enemies, yet meeting again as something akin to allies wasn’t all that much better. It never had been, even when they were both stationed in Elusia castle, shadows passing in the night.

“*Working* has many definitions,” he hissed. He didn’t have an actual knife pointed at Griss’s throat, but his tone was just as steeled. “I am still effectively *retainer* to Queen Ivy, as well as being employed here. It is my *business* to seek out potential threats.”

Frigid resolve from Zelkov’s glares tended to send the weak of heart scurrying. Even Kagetsu did not dare legitimately cross Zelkov in such situations, yet Zelkov feared his own fervor was exactly the flames Griss wanted to fan. Griss was in possession of remarkable willpower, seemingly channeled only towards the Fell knew where, yet Zelkov didn’t intend to fold to it.

“I have *obligations* to my liege which I cannot compromise by making wanton, empty *threats*, and I was never one for *toying* with my food before I eat it,” he spat, distaste shining through his hushed tone.

He paused, glancing to the rest of the party-goers who seemed to actually be enjoying themselves, hopefully too delighted with their comparatively normal company and drinks to pay much mind to them.

Zelkov’s hand momentarily flew to his belt, fingertips on the hilt of a knife, pondering, on high alert.

“I *have* stabbed you before.”

He let his hand fall back down with a shake of his head, expression displeased as if he was recalling a time he stepped in something wet with socks on.

“It was a *peculiar* experience I would not wish on others.”

#thread #//tried to tag this as threat like three times before i remembered how to spell #thread: bringing a knife to a bunfight #//forcing bunfight to mean what i want it to to fit the pun awlfhbwfeq #twistedisciple

[melusinezephyr]

[// set sometime in Elyos, prior to the end of Engage] "There's something I always wanted to know," Griss started, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head to give off the air that he wasn't that invested in the answer even though he'd brought up the question. Maybe it was too personal, maybe it was stupid. Whatever the case, he didn't want to be caught making a big deal out of personal things, and like this, he could write it off as a product of an idle mind. Sitting out here in the Elusian autumn, nursing drinks around a pit fire while they waited for the rest of their group to rejoin them, there was plenty of space to think about things that wouldn't matter under any other circumstance.

"How do you keep track of the years when you get to a certain age?" He glanced toward Zephia sitting nearby, then back to the flames chewing through a thick branch. "Humans celebrate birthdays every year." Well, some did. Griss didn't. "But when you only got a few decades to live, that's nothing. A thousand years though... That's like months to us humans. Maybe even days. There's no point counting them when there's so many."

Zephia sips casually from the cup in her hand, easily reclining backwards. The fire burns before her, and Griss gravitates to her like a moth to a lamp at night.

"Hm? Oh, is it my birthday? I hadn't even noticed." She takes another sip, humming softly to herself.

"I suppose that's your answer then, I don't care to keep track much anymore." She had once, when she had been young enough that her birthdays still meant something. When she had still known what her mother's side felt like.

Celestia, be careful. Your mother would hate for you to get hurt on your birthday. Ten is a big age after all. Celestia, happy birthday sweetheart. Everyone in the village is so proud of you, you know.

But it wasn't like that mattered anymore. She was older now. Wiser. She didn't have time to waste on silly things like celebrating a birthday that was only going to be meaningless in her long lifespan.

"You'll understand someday, I'm sure." Griss was only human though, one day he would die. And Zephia would still have many more birthdays after that. Birthdays without him.

Hm. Why was that such a sad thought?

#ic posts #ic: that's enough out of you #supports: want me to make it better? #support: griss #inbox: then by all means try #answering asks #birthday asks #twistedisciple #<3

[royalknght]

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in." Griss stops just at arm's length, challenging Mauvier with a grin to take a swing at him despite the palms he holds open at his sides in a display of faux peace. Their last meeting had put an end to any friendly relations they may have had as "brothers" within their twisted family, but hostility had never scared Griss. In fact, he could count the number of amicable relationships he had on one hand, but that made this little run-in all the more exciting.

"Lady Veyle's here, so I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up. If you hadn't been killed after we saw each other last, anyway." He stares up at Mauvier. It's that same old serious face, and he's the same old no-nonsense stick-in-the-mud that Griss has tried - and failed - for ages to rile into doing anything interesting. Still, he can't help himself.

"Bet you never thought you'd see me again, huh? Don't worry though - while you were taking your sweet time getting here, I've been taking good care of Lady Veyle. Hahaha!"

Mauvier had never been one to react outwardly to Griss'...

To Griss' anything. He knew Griss well enough. He probably knew Griss better than most people did.

This wasn't a fact he was really happy about. Still it was enough that he knew not to let him rile him up. He didn't rise to the bait, instead he just watched him carefully like one would watch an injured coyote to make sure it isn't going to bite.

"I didn't think I'd see you again, no. I thought you had died of your wounds." He didn't know whether he was sorry to see Griss had made it or if he was secretly relieved. There was a lot to take in here and plenty of time for Mauvier to sort out how he felt toward it. Even at the end he thought it was a shame Griss had to die in that place. So maybe it was good he had not.

He didn't rise to the bait even when Veyle was mentioned. "I'll be checking in on Lady Veyle immediately. She will need a reliable knight in this unfamiliar place."

#in character. #twistedisciple

[revelale]

🥂 "Guess where the Divine Dragon goes, his followers... follow." Griss lifts his chin and makes the threat with his eyes, widening as he fixes Pandreo with a stare down the length of his nose. "Not thinking of converting the good people of this land now are you? 'cause that's gonna be a problem." Specifically for Zephia.

welcome to the afterparty!

well, ain't that a familiar voice? not an entirely unwelcome one, mind, though he has to say he's pretty surprised to be hearing from the guy at all. stranger yet, is that pandreo isn't seeing the guy barreling directly into the line of fire, convinced inexplicably that he could really make paper ( tome ) beat scissors ( sword ). or, you know. in a grave. "clever," pandreo quips in reply, chuckling a little as he turns the stem of his champagne flute in hand. griss wasn't flinging spells at him either, so should he take this as a non-hostile situation? probably? definitely, right?

probably. he'd gotten the gist more or less from the others.

just as well. it wasn't anything personal, as unpersonal as you can make people trying to revive the fell dragon and plunge your world into darkness. but, if the divine one could forgive the fine lady, then pandreo can forget by example.

well, maybe it was just arrogant of him to think that he had to forgive anything.

"i didn't technically follow the divine one out here, but i guess it could look like that." the misstep in her gender goes over his head. pandreo, instead, has to wonder briefly if that was how he came across when he'd stumbled into her earlier, but a problem for later pandreo to contend with. would've hardly been the first time he'd gone and embarrassed himself, anyway. "what's with everyone thinking that i'm here to convert people?" pause. he looks down at his robes, then looks up again. maybe he should've worn something else to this function.

"can't it just be that i'm here to offer a helping hand? what about you? here to," he gestures vaguely. convert? maim? "well, you're here in one piece."

#✞ ` ‣ 【 ANSWERS 】 #twistedisciple #engage spoilers #i reckon i wrote around it enough but who knows :0) #pandreo vc: it's just vibes my guy #thamk u for sending reeeeEEEE!!!!!! #i figure it's easier to just skip over the whole SURPRISE I'M [REDACTED] THING BY HANDWAVING A LITTLE ......

[beholdenning]

🥂 "Loaning weapons, serving drinks, you do it all, huh?" No answers comes - neither polite agreement nor sheepish chuckle, not even acknowledgement. Griss shoots a frown sidelong at the knight (? or something, Griss can't really tell what exactly the guy is) and looks them over for a beat. "Not much of a talker, is that it? And here I am trying to make small talk like a square. Well--" He finishes off his drink and exchanges it for another from Denning's tray. "I'm not inclined to just stand around talking to myself. Ya gotta give me something."

Denning listens as the human talks, with no clear recipient in sight, patiently waiting to see if he will take a drink for himself after he finishes his near-empty glass, mostly set on moving on if he does not — But then red eyes look at them askance, as if addressing them.

Ah. He has been addressing them. 'Small talk', he calls it. It seems frivolous, much like banter. Was Denning supposed to speak? Their hands are occupied with the tray, and they had hardly needed more than the congratulations they had baked into their tongue for the night. Still, the morph's lips part briefly, as if about to vocalise, as if to ask what a square is because the other looks quite un-angled, before they close their mouth, shake their head as if in agreement.

Not much of a talker, indeed, though yet not out of free will; But the demand, at least, is something they can meet. Blinking once at the prompt to give him something, Denning looks at the next drink he's already helped himself to, looks back to the drinks remaining on their tray, looks back to the man; And without hesitating any further, nor breaking eye contact, hands him yet another drink, nods in a self-sastisfied manner, and makes to head on their way.

#twistedisciple #griss being Civil only to be met by This Fucking Guy is so funny #;answered #i hope they continue to pester eachother #;e. battle of the eagle and lion | 2023

[rafent]

cannoli - how does your muse express love? how do they act when in love that differs from how they act around others normally?

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ( also asked by @twistedisciple )

Rafal's love language relies primarily on materialistic and verbal ways of expressing love. The former is straightforward, easy, and tangible. It requires little explanation, is less compromising compared to outright confessions, and doesn't necessitate putting his heart as openly on display. He gives handmade confections to the Divine One once during their support chain and attempts to do so again in a wake-up event.

Nil was also fond of gift-giving, specifically flowers. Rafal for all his former masquerading did retain parts of Nil that he not only emulated but went on to preserve in his own behavior - unconsciously or otherwise. In terms of verbosity on the other hand, words come to him with a good deal more difficulty. This is also a perfect segue into how he behaves while in love.

The hardship in expressing himself and easy agitation with emotions will perpetually be there, underlying. Rafal's sense of embarrassment at vulnerability is a response to his survival instincts to remain guarded. After centuries of keeping his true feelings and even his identity under lock some part of him will always keep his cards close. But it doesn't mean that he isn't susceptible to cracks; private or veiled moments of appreciation for the one he loves when he thinks they aren't listening.

Rafal: I do not know if I could stand to wait another thousand years. Not for you. I believe I would lose my mind. To mourn for you like that...it would break me.

Alear: (awakens)

Rafal: Ah... No, it was nothing important. I am glad to see that you are awake. Listen...when the end comes...let me be the first of us to sleep eternally.

This eloquence within itself is already a massive difference. The Rafal who is holding himself back or is on platonic terms and the Rafal who is in love and actively being encouraged for his advances are two different beasts. I like to envision a set of floodgates straight up bursting open when it comes to the enamored aspect of this identity. He's bold, forward, possessive, and jealous, but also plaintive, sensitive, and deeply loving once given the green light.

Get past his guilt, move past his walls, and the door opens into someone who essentially sees the object of his love as his priceless treasure. His treasure in every single way who he doesn't want to share with anyone else. In foresight, Rafal is pretty emblematic of how a hoarding dragon might love; selfish, attentive, absorbed, and unwilling to relinquish the jewels in his hoard.

[ Ally notebook — Every Day With Rafal (JPN) ] "He may be easily embarrassed and won't tell you his honest feelings, but he cherishes you deeply. When you're alone with someone, he gets so jealous that he glares at you from afar. He keeps his promise ring in a container made of his own scales and protects it so that no one else can see it let alone touch it."

Oh yeah, and did I mention Rafal is also a cheeky flirt.

Ironically, Rafal is more 'dangerous' when he knows he has the favor to act. He's emboldened, he's passionate, he suggests to spend time together without batting an eye, and doesn't skirt around the prospect of physical relations. Intimacy in this regard is another method he uses to quantify and prove the depth of his regard, which he outright says. This dialogue is exclusive to JPN Rafal's Pact Ring wake-up event.

Rafal: Today I have time...how much I yearn for you...I'll make you understand it.

Whoever he is in love with, he effectively keeps them on their toes and sometimes even walking on a bed of nails which warrants the saying: never a boring day.

#◜ ₊ — 𝓡 ˚ ₊ 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ╱ askbox. #◜ ₊ — 𝓡 ˚ ₊ 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 ╱ headcanon. #floreix #twistedisciple #“how does your muse act while in love” ummmmmmmm. well- ( proceeds to drop the most loaded response ) #rafal is my favorite partner in the game but more specifically jpn rafal #he has zero chill i can't express that enough #the sense of Heart Palpitations and aggro ping and fight or flight is so real with him #where did this all come from ? answer: being love starved for so long and suddenly releasing those floodgates. also being rafal

[ruinakete]

"You're not supposed to kill anyone," Griss says, but behind the excitement in his eyes and smile, it's hard to tell if he believes it. Or cares. Standing to Zephia's left, he stares off at the rest of the field and its blend of colors: red like blood, blue like bruises, gold like...

A horn blares and his head snaps up toward the cliffs, the thought severed before it can finish. A southerly breeze swells and rushes through the crowd. The flags snap and flutter over the hush.

Griss tosses his head to brush the hair out of his eyes as he glances back at Zephia, meeting her two-toned eyes with a toothy grin.

"But that doesn't mean you can't rough 'em up real nice. I hope I go home with a nice reminder." He extends his arm, flips it over to examine the underside, then points to his ribs underneath and laughs. "Maybe right here."

OF COURSE NOT," comes the amused hum of the mage dragon, flexing her claws in arches and curls until a satisfying crack lets the tension within her simmer, "the monastery is not likely to support more. . . fitting practices like peer elimination. unfortunate, dear, i know. you need not tell me."

but griss does not, for both kin and herself are silenced by the abrupt blaring of a horn overhead, drawing their curt attention yet losing it all the same. it is almost startling how unfamiliar she feels here; poised to stand beneath the colors of a banner she knows little of, to support the house of a dragon she knew not existed until weeks ago. though she cannot be solemn now, can she? not when her hound meets her eyes with the excitement of a child first getting his hands on his master's tome.

home, he speaks so easily of.

zephia offers him a smile, arms crossed over her chest and head canted down to see where he points. a fit of sweetly natural laughter leaves her in an exhale despite herself. "and i hope your opponents gift you that pleasure! hm-hm, only a fool would be unable to, after all. but, if they do not, then you may find me instead."

sangria eyes flit elsewhere, narrowing to the expanse of the battlefield before them; not ignorant to the flags fluttering overhead, easily bent to the wind. she has only seen rafal once. . . may lord sombron grant her the blessing of a closer vantage point, then. an eye into the natural state of any fell child. . .

"griss. i expect to hear the upset whines of my students after this battle, yes? complaining about a hound who nearly tore them apart to-day." and with that━━━and a harsh flick of her wrist, striking griss' shoulder as if a good luck gesture━━━zephia turns to leave. a fanged grin is given in farewell, "simply tend to them, darling. that is all."

#toaboel2024 #twistedisciple #☽ ━━━━━━ ❝ the cruelty of a mother's greed ・ 【 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 】 . #☽ ━━━━━━ ❝ to appease the handmade goddess ・ 【 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 】 . #YOU BEAT ME TO IT AGAIN!!!!! #me and zephia hopes that you get scarred up good griss :pleading: she'll do smth drastic if you don't have fun #zephia vc maybe if griss attacks my students they'll leave me alone about bumping up their grade :weary: #ANYWHO! WHERE'S RAFAL! CMERE DRAGON MAN THAT BEFRIENDED MY SON