allthatisleftinthedark

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Reblog this if you’re okay with people sending unexpected IC asks to your muse at any time! No meme prompts needed!

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Send 💞 for me to describe 5 ways my muse says ‘I love you’ to yours.

Can be verbal, or non verbal. Platonic. Familial. Romantic.  

#⋆ * prompts starters & fun things ; ooc‚ memes * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"Fuck therapy I'm becoming a knight." (Seraph to Sino)

Tumblr Text Prompts Part 2 - Sentence Starters | accepting! | @offrozenmemoirs

With the spare table in the manor's conservatory wing, maintaining her gunblade maintenance becomes tenfold easier. Despite the arduous nature of the work, Sino always found it enjoyable and relaxing.

Disassembling the weapon is easier when there is enough space for all its parts, including Sino, should she perch atop the table. As is, the various components of her Type-B gunblade are meticulously arranged before her and grouped according to their placement within the firearm.

At this moment, she holds the gun portion of the weapon in one hand and a thin brush in the other. Her vision narrows, and her focus intensifies. With careful precision, she probes the brush into the open barrel, swabbing away debris from the cylinder. Each movement is deliberate and precise. 

Although the routine has been a solitary experience throughout her life, there are moments when her companions share the room with her. In this case, Seraph took residence on the other end of the room. His posture relaxed, Skadi, his sword, rests between his slightly parted legs, his hand resting on the hilt.

During an earlier sparring session, rain poured down, drenching the sword. To prevent any damage, the elf took a cloth and meticulously dried it already for several minutes. Beside his chair lay an unused brush and a pot of oil, ready to be applied to the sword as a protective layer once it had dried to maintain its sharpness and prevent rust.

Sparse commentary happens occasionally, with neither party engaging in direct conversation. Sino never paid much attention to the number or lack of bodies around her, but these past months have changed her. Whether Soup works on his hand pistol on the second floor, overlooking the dining room, or Seraph reads in the first-floor foyer or tends to flower-pressing in the conservatory, she lingers. In her eyes, merely being in the presence of another without the need for continuous conversation is a sign of confidence. 

As Seraph runs the cloth down the blade repeatedly, he mutters to himself, "Fuck therapy, I'm becoming a knight." 

Meanwhile, the gnome gazes down the barrel of her gun, pulling out a brush to clean it. She wipes it meticulously against the grain of her pants. However, her strokes gradually slow as she blinks. 

"Aren't you already?" Sino muses."I think being your dad's champion puts you past wanting to be a knight; you're more than that already. You went from guiding the spirits of the dead to guarding the aspects of Winter. And," her voice draws out, "you assumed Eleanor's role, who, to us, epitomizes knighthood." 

"Whether or not she went through a formal ceremony and received a title is beyond me," she shrugs, "but she certainly looks the part."

"Whatever 'therapy' is, you probably didn't need it," she continues, her eyes tracing over the blade of her weapon. As for me, someone without this 'therapy,' look how well I wield my gunblade! After all, I already have a knight's and a gunslinger's weapon in one."

"Next time, you should probably ask Eleanor about that." She retires the brush on the table before she snaps her wrist, the gun clicking back to its regular form. "Ask her how much of 'therapy' helped her out with her swordsmanship." 

"Between you and me, it probably didn't. By the stars, she probably never even done it."

#⋆ * letters received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆ #( soa verse tag tba ) #offrozenmemoirs

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Makoto smiles as he stares up at Maisie, who can barely look him in the eyes. He's aware of the risk he's taking, sure, they've run off to somewhere secluded enough to where there would be a low chance of them being caught, not to mention the two of them were wallflowers, so it was easy to sneak off. Makoto's whispered words to the gnome while he nursed a drink.

His tolerance for alcohol isn't quite normal, being much higher than a mortal being. Though, the elven absinthe he's had tonight sends a heated, heady pleasure through his body. Being a night of celebration, especially at an Orcish village had been a surprise for them to have such a brew. Though he's also aware that Elves are willing to trade their wares in exchange for something of equal value.

She sits on his shoulders, back pressed against the wall. He has to admit, he rather likes this current position, though he's certain the two of them aren't very likely to try this again.

He gently trails kisses along the inside of her thigh, focusing on the task at hand. He feels Maisie's fingers running through his hair, occasionally gripping it a bit tight, he's careful with his teeth, as much as he would love to leave plenty of marks on Maisie, he doesn't want her to be too uncomfortable. Perhaps he enjoys this a little too much, but why shouldn't he? This is the first time he's ever been able to be this intimate with someone, in such a long time. Perhaps it's because he wishes to treat Maisie right.

"I consider myself quite the lucky man to be able to see you like this, sia itov."

He loves the way her brow wrinkles when he speaks draconic, having no idea of what he was saying. Sometimes he liked how she would scowl at the little smirk upon his face. He hooks clawed digits into the band of her underwear, releasing a pleased hum of surprise as he looks at it. He had never taken the time to really look at Maisie's clothing, but he enjoys just how much it highlights her curves, and he marvels at just how soft, yet firm she feels in his hands.

"You don't have to spend so much time staring, 'Koto."

She scowls once more, tugging at his hair.

"My apologies, sia itov, I just want to memorize everything I'm having the fortune of seeing right now."

He gently slides her underwear to the side, before almost teasingly sliding his tongue across her entrance, and once more feeling her tug at his hair, a sudden movement this time.

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

(context, dream-epiloge to this drabble.)

The elven absinthe works wonders. Makoto Igarashi imbibes in volumes unmatched by mortal capacity yet may teeter into inebriation. Whatever his mind embraces amid this intoxicating haze remains a private experience. Though his body remains upright, weariness permeates his physical form, and his eyes grow heavy. Alone, his mind begins to drift. 

Unsteady and uneasy, Maisie clings to the horns of the firstborn son of winter and dragon, her sole anchor in these unforeseen circumstances. Facing the prince, her back nearly pinned against the cold cobblestone wall, her eyes fluttered and darted while she sat on his shoulders.

Passersby, townsfolk, and visitors blur into silhouettes as they pass the alleyway's entrance, their bodies casting shadows under the flickering lanterns. . No one intrudes to discover the unfolding scene in Stoneyard—the remnants of Maisie's cloak crumpled on the floor, the slit of her black dress riding up to her waist, revealing the black panties that were moments away from being discarded.

No one and nothing approaches or realizes the current situation. Yet every graze of Makoto's cool flesh on Maisie's inner thighs elicits a wince of anticipation from her. It's like ice tracing sunburnt skin on a summer's day, the flesh craving coolness. Wet and hot, his serpent-forked tongue teases across sensitive skin between languid kisses. Though its length could coil under her leg, he prefers its reach for sweeter pursuits. Her fingers knead and squeeze through his hair, seeking to suppress any sudden movement or twitch.

Makoto's breath thickens the air with the aroma of wineberry. Midday drinking is uncommon in most celebrations he's participated in Rivera, yet he indulges without hesitation. A drink here and there slowly accumulates throughout the day, especially with rare elven vendors struggling to keep pace with the demand despite their disproportionately priced goods at the bazaar. Fortunately, a privileged and wealthy person traverses the crowd of orcs, humans, tieflings, dwarves, and others; several gold pieces, spent without hesitation, already burden their knees.

By the gods, even he recounts Maisie's encouragement for drinking. Leaning against the fence post overlooking Stoneyard, a tankard remains untouched in her hand, with disinterest. Despite dismissing a flirt, or perhaps not registering it as such, her golden eyes flick to Makoto's. Her cheeks nearly flush from her prior tangent about color composition, explaining how many other colors suit him better than her and how ridiculous she appears in serious wear already because of her hair color alone. As if to divert from the topic, she raises the untouched stein, pushing it into his palm with an offer.

Alcohol impairs judgment, leading to drunken suggestions and very inappropriate outcomes, just like the very situation Maisie and Makoto find themselves in. 

It has been two decades since Makoto laid with someone beyond shallow desires. At his bedside, it remains cold and vacant, with the imprint and smell of his lost lover disappearing with time from his sheets. Time may only remedy the ache, but it is no cure-all. Not even alcohol can mend it all, but it certainly facilitates inhibitions and reservations. 

Bewilderment blemishes her nervous features, her brows knitting at the archaic maternal language he slips here and there. Unlike the other who preoccupies Makoto's dry and heated nights, who understands every degradement and insult that Makoto grunts into his ear while pulling his hair back. Every kindness and sweetness only puzzled her. 

A long black claw hooks her underwear's elastic, drawing it down slowly. Maisie contains herself, pushing back his hair to better watch him. A strong handful of hair is pulled only moments after he properly greets her, lapping at her lips. Her thighs cushion his ears as she draws her lips into her mouth, finally uttering a weak "Koto" while her hands lose their strength. 

In the hazy heat, her breath grows haggard. She leans forward, her grip returning to his horns. "Keep going," she says.

#⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #nsft tw #offrozenmemoirs #[ ooc: ty for the ask! ] #[ ooc: writing this as makoto's w-t dream cuz he's very unwell for his party members. ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

PATTERN BANNERS | galaxy 08.

( requested by → @strawberrystepmom )

went with more monotone colours here for the background and the design elements. i think it works?! loving the orange heehee

colours : 001 / 002 / 003 / 004 / 005 / 006 / 007 / 008 / 009

feel free to use; please like, reblog, and credit 〜

support me through ko-fi | more dividers →

#⋆ * behind the cast ; ooc‚ general * ⋆ #[ ooc: using the 8th !! tysm for the resource. ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Which muse is the most likely to turn to evil? Is their descent into evil slow or is it bought about for a desire to do good (in their eyes)? Would they be able to be talked down or to turn back? What does their choice cost them?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Truth be told, my characters are built in mind to be antagonistic because of their own beliefs and mindsets. Not to say that they are actively inhibiting or challenging things, but everyone has opinions and experiences, which naturally spawns conflict and friction.

The most likely to turn evil are usually not out of their own accord. For example, Sino and Maisie's themes include what constitutes "loyalty" vs "obedience." One must ask at what point someone's allegiance is based on the personal beliefs that they've cultivated or subjugated upon them. 

It is no secret that the gnomes hold onto their primary influences very closely. Sino had a terrific influence as an 11-year-old after escaping Stelsel, and Maisie had a very stable family life growing up. However, a lot is happening behind the scenes, like Sino's place of origin and Maisie's community and family dynamics. 

If the wrong people got their hands on the gnomes, they would've, truthfully, been groomed to be those evils. I cannot see them being people of power to be evil, either. 

Their systems have maltreated them, placing them at the lowest tier of society. They have been neglected and ignored, without any peers to help them. One of them caught a lucky break and found herself in the orbit of humanity despite facing her own challenges. She always felt like an outsider due to her past experiences, which made her feel like she was never acceptable, replaceable, and beneath humans. On the other hand, the other person was born into a family with their own secrets and a community's paranoia. They were traumatized and projected their fears onto her. She always tried to do her best for others, and her pride guided her. However, she often questioned her worth because of what she "has" to do. 

In the current circumstances, Sino and Maisie have dealt with the world's evils differently. Sino cried and pleaded with the Lord of Night when she was younger to let her back into the Void. In contrast, Maisie held onto her own and remained optimistic. Both of them have a natural instinct to withdraw, but the ambassador cannot do so. On the other hand, the gunslinger does not reveal her vulnerability so openly, especially when so few have gotten close to her. While they both recognize the misdeeds and mistreatments they have faced at their ages, one has not connected the dots to realize the wrongs done to her.

For them, doing a sharp heel-turn to do evil isn't in the cards. It would've been a different story if they had other exposures in earlier life. Neither would derive pleasure from it; they would not have any autonomy in these situations. Depending on how young it happened, the idea of them being talked out of is complicated; I believe Sino would have a better time working/talking out of it while Maisie becomes relentless in it. It is a quality of hers to keep dedicated, no matter the cost; she tends to feel over-accountable for the issues that couldn't have been impacted or influenced by her hand. Surprisingly, she can be the voice of reasoning for people who have otherwise led a destructive path. 

For Maisie, it is always a matter of protecting the majority, while for Sino, it is about defending herself (as her primary connections are fae-based/nonmortal). The consequences that would belie Maisie would be ultimately being separated from her loved ones; it is a matter of context on whether or not she is cognizant of the actions. In her current campaign and the abandoned pantheon route, she displays a keen awareness that alters her perception of herself, making her see herself rather negatively. Meanwhile, Sino would be severed from humanity around her as it is something that has been revoked from her since birth; it only cements her worst fears as she folds and gives into the lie. As one can see, the consequence means irrevocable isolation.  

#⋆ * behind the cast ; ooc‚ general * ⋆ #⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"Debates are stupid because why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me." // Ori to Maisie!

Tumblr Text Prompts Part 2 - Sentence Starters | accepting! | @ofthescatteredstars

Whoever thought that the coin conversion rate stayed consistent between universes? It saved Maisie Doscedar from the uncomfortable sweat at her nape. Despite spending countless nights and days poring over tomes and scrolls to initiate transdimensional travel, little consideration was given to the practicalities of functioning in a new world. Neither she nor her accomplice had contemplated what would come after their success. But, as always, there was a silver lining, or perhaps just pure stupid luck and chance, that things would work out.

The tavern, a haven amidst the untamed wilderness, welcomed the welted feet and encumbered bodies of the weary travelers. Though the pub owner could not consolidate four beds for four travelers, two beds and a couch were available. After three hours of settling in, sleeping arrangements were still being finalized.

Seeking solace from the mounting tension, Maisie retreated to one of the rooms. It wasn't hers to claim but offered a temporary respite from the chaos. Here, she could review the map and strategize for the challenges ahead. Potential allies had emerged during their travels, but nothing was certain with the tension in the air. The dogmatic and relentless were not known for their willingness to compromise.

Tck-tck-tck. The gnome taps her quill's tip at the inkpot's rim, removing excess droplets. Her left arm rests on the tabletop, and her scarred palm supports her face. The quill hovered over the vellum before her, her lips pursing before she lowered the writing instrument, tapping her pinky against the table.

'No one is keen on the theatrics of heroism, so trying a campaign of doing the virtuous and noble deed of resisting the Empire is off the table. Going for a 'just cause' for recognition seems a better substitute that does not devolve to bloodshed and needless violence.' 

All that matters now, in review, is putting the proper pieces together. As much as Maisie's companions are people, each possesses and presents a facet of their cause. Similarities bleed over, binding them together, but it was not glorious nor as innocent if one could recognize two of the Empire's former household heads or even sense the dragonborn's noble heritage. Of the four, she is the black sheep. Her stance can appear neutral as someone wholly separated from those they fight against. At least, in this world. 

Barely scratching the paper with her quill's tip, the mock-ups would be brief. The hundred-year advantage of being from the future felt less like a landslide edge and more like an interesting footnote. She retracted her quill before even a drop could stain the page.

'This is a sinking ship I willingly boarded.' How her elders would have chastised her. 'I am not even its captain, but I feel I hold as much responsibility.' How she dangles herself voluntarily as prey for the wolves. 'I am in way over my head.' 

The door behind her creaked, drawing her attention away from her overwrought thoughts. She looked over her shoulder, swallowing the heavy lump amassing at the base of her throat.

Entering the room was Orchidus Flores, "man of the people, hero to all," dressed in luxurious violets—the dyes expensive and rare—with black-as-night hair and ocean-deep eyes, a shade only witnessed in the seas off the east Nihiranian coast. His form is thinner than before, and his stomach curve is absent at the quickest glances. (A shame.) He shines brighter now than their first encounter when he encroached in all black with a somber, sneered lip. (However.....)

Sunshine bright yellow irises quickly acknowledge his azure deep irises. Yet, as their eyes connected, hers darted away, her stomach heavy. She promptly resumed evaluating her paper, discarding the unwritten one.

From the corners of her eyes, she spotted Orchidus nonchalantly removing his shoes, letting them drop to the floor. He sauntered over to the bed and fell forward with a careless lean, his chest planting into the mattress with a lofty "umpf."

From her first glimpse in Sidheanholm to the prolonged exposure after a near-year disappearance, what could she parse from his appearance? All the shifts were the least built subtle. From the near military cut hair, all-funeral dreary formal wear, he turned to ruffled, bed-kempt hair and bright-purple garbs meant for parties, not travel. There was no strategic advantage; it was all "look at me," and that was the least he, or anyone in the party, needed. 

Mind not that the purple better complements those blue eyes than the black. He knows that. His ears caught Maisie when she murmured it under her breath at the dining room table. He may have reveled in hearing that; he may still be to this day, though he doesn't show it. 

The gnome shifts in her seat, clearing her throat. "Orchidus," she begins, "regarding our current situation, I wanted to talk to you and get your feedback on what we'll need to do going forward." 

Some back-and-forth begins, reviewing the participating parties and their less-than-ideal circumstances. The only way to see any optimal gain was to make peace and accommodate the unnecessary party to become their allies. It all begins with acquainting and then negotiating. In the likelihood of everything, it might come down to a dispute, adding to the tension lingering in the air. 

Orchidus quirks a brow, his figure still sprawled over the bed. His expression bordering on indifference finally queries, "Debates are stupid because why would I want to sit down and argue with someone blatantly dumber than me?" The interjection is like nails on a chalkboard, each note dripping with condescension. 

The gnome's jaw tightens, but her face remains unmoved. She asides the quill, the inkpot forgotten for the moment. Her hands rest on the top of the table, staring solemnly toward the already written thoughts and directions. 

'I made this bed, and I must lay in it.' 

That iron-enforced wall and patronizing mentality always left an acidic aftertaste in her throat. Those mindsets were of those believed to be above all else. Each interjection and belittlement was exhausting. It was just another day of work; it was her on the receiving end of rejection for having dared be the idiot who considered talking. It was she to whom no one would listen. 

Her eyes quietly dart to him. A strange fascination and frustration melded into one as she drank into his features. Juvenile ego wafts off of him, his head slightly raised, perhaps perplexed by her lack of reaction. 

The throughline is so clear. It was there when Maisie first saw him, when she first met Salphan in the forest, and it was ever so clear after reuniting. 

What terribly, terribly young eyes. 

No matter if Orchidus is now 168 years of age, the equivalent of an elf barely sprouting out of their young adult years, he still has that adolescent look. Immaturity nor naivety explain it well, but it is of seeking. She often saw those very eyes in her town's children when people asked about their dislikes, likes, days, and whatnot. They would answer, but their eyes always seemed to acquiesce to the teller to ensure that what they said was right. 

No matter his significant physical change, those lips remind her that all these thoughts still belong to the same man: Salphan Elrose. His ego is intact even if there is no pointedly blatant shoving or smarter-than-thou attitude. It keeps him cushioned and safe navigating things far greater than him. By asserting himself to believe he can, he can fake through it. 

Former patriarch, he speaks from the highest station of life. At the pinnacle of power in the oligarchy and the master of secrets, people talk, plead, or bargain with him; it was his ultimate call to listen or not. Yet, with a sudden decision for the rest of the world, he abandoned everything and fled to fight against the very Empire he helped prosper and grow. 

She feels all the stranger when she thinks of his obtuse comment. What could she say? For starters, parroting what others more successful than him have said doesn't mean intelligence; mimicry may be flattery, hell, or even life-saving in his court, but it wasn't here. Or, she could say, Believing in the right without communication limits oneself; it shows all the more how conceited and wrong you are. Or, even devastatingly, despite all that talk of change, much growth is needed. 

With what many things could she say, what is something the most productive and worth it to utter? 

Maisie adjusts to sit correctly, shoulders straight, as her heavy gaze settles on him. Like a trained hound, all her attention was focused on Orchidus. 

Barely an implication of age is on his brow; only the shadows are seeping into his slightly sunken eye sockets. Not an ounce of stress or worry ruins perfect black hair with white hair or bags beneath his eyes. Sixteen years on the road did him well, too; the sun brightened his complexion's warm, ocher hue to replenish the vitality drained from the nearly two hundred years caged in Drakeshadow. 

Maybe the sun was still caught in those eyes, the way they glimmer and shine under the right angle, like diamonds. Though it was not as light of a shade as that jewel. Those eyes have depth, harkening to their nymph heritage, yet something gentle lies there. It was as if the morning light traced over the petals of a delphinium. 

Familiarity twinges her eyes. She recalls standing in a parlor ostentatiously decorated and surrounded by furniture far too tall for her. Her ears ring with the sound of fire crackling in the fireplace. She was younger then, far too naive in the head. Patient in wait, she drinks in her surroundings, wandering around territory unusual and new. The bookshelves tower above herm, and an ornate chandelier ominously hangs from the ceiling. Flames lick the air at the maw of the hearth.

Above the fireplace are two bust portraits facing one another but not making eye contact. Unsmiling, severely serious, and staring somberly. 

Only one thought slips into her mind: 'That painting truly did capture your likeness.'

She now sits in this unfamiliar tavern, in an unfamiliar echo of her world, with a strangely familiar yet not familiar person. Beginning to speak, she addresses him. "Orchidus," the start is deliberate and measured, "is that what you see in all of it? A competition?" If his ego suggests anything, his intelligence is nothing that can be topped; he assumes himself smarter, which translates to not wanting to waste any time with those not of the same caliber or level. 

Was it always a case of domination and subjugation? As cheekily as she could point out how fitting it was, she tucks her tongue. On the other hand, it may be a matter of proving oneself after constant denial. 

Roaming past the elf lying on the bed, the gnome catches the silhouettes of the others. One stands staunch with broad shoulders straight, much like a guard; the other, while not as tall, seems more nervous but more flexible. Politely, she states matter-of-factly, "Well, that is nothing for you to worry about because I can do it." Their eyes meet again, and the gnome nods toward the opened door.

"Go and hang out with Koto and Veria." Already, Maisie turns the cheek, her hand reaching for the once-retired paper. "I have work to do." 

#⋆ * exchanges with the emissary ; maisie doscedar‚ ic * ⋆ #⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #( soa verse tag ) #ofthescatteredstars #[ ooc: this was gon b a joke answer but it dawned to me how fucking complicated this is. ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Which muse is the one who enjoys reading romance novels? What's each muse's favorite genre of book to read/movie to watch?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Four syllables for you: Ai-mon El-rose. A prolific reader and investor in the arts, Aimon is very open to xyr accrued collection of novels and is very opinionated on which authors are the best and worst. A prior post better details the reasoning behind xyr insistence on creating a grand collection, which can be read here.

Xe will always take more to read fiction than nonfiction and would be very exuberant to take another enjoyer of romance. If anything, he will be direct and would give a chance to convene with someone who reads it. The truth of the matter is that Drakeshadow is suffocating in the many things he likes and what he does; resistance is had in many different ways, but letting himself digest and indulge in something that does not harm, impede, or abuse the power of someone is a very odd (and low hanging fruit) of resisting. 

At a point, I discussed with Luca ( @offrozenmemoirs ) that Aimon and Seraph would be the top contenders to start a book club and be as quick to bond with each other if they met in circumstances different from what goes on in the campaign. 

For all characters these are their genres of preference for reading:

Aimon—As stated in the beginning half of the ask, romance fiction is one of my favorite genres. The specific subgenres would be a historical romance that usually predates the Graneyean Empire's presence in Nihiran; these texts are significantly challenging to find and could be lost to time (hence Aimon's efforts to collect and preserve them). Nonfiction-wise, xe prioritizes finding illustrated books related to architecture, usually visual dictionaries and engineering books detailing modern and alternative technologies used globally. Their status in the Graneyean Empire makes this remarkably easier to locate and purchase. 

Discoverer—As an entity presenting more of a phenomenon, written or oral knowledge considered niche or "lost" would favor them. Genre means nothing to them as long as there is gain or, as its name suggests, something to discover. 

Estranha—Nonfiction writing that includes self-help autobiographies that venture into journal writing and, secretly, self-sabotaging. Most of their catalog has essays regarding the subject of their thesis. They have also been giving a chance to fiction, specifically children's fiction. 

Juniper—After spending countless years in the most wealthy library in the Graneyean Empire, this retired cat enjoys spending her late nights reading books on travel, specifically Tahrea, where her wife is from, and culinary. The latter isn't necessarily for learning new recipes but for reading through the autobiographical parts of a recipe writer's life (or their experience at a particular food establishment). Fiction-wise, they enjoy short stories and tend to pick up a good leaflet that offers several stories written by different authors with a vague uniting theme. 

Maisie—Called "nerd" in her first session by the DMistress herself, it would not be unusual to admit that reading materials often venture into nonfiction (i.e., cultural studies, history, and theory). However, this is not her preference since those are read not out of pleasure but necessity. She enjoys thriller and suspense novels but is very biased toward ancient myths. Sweetly, she carries a copy of her brother's old manuscripts to read throughout her travels when she has ample time to relax. 

Sino—Much like her counterpart, the gnome has a good list of reading material that explores theory-crafting and history due to her work with her patron. Unlike Maisie, Sino finds these enjoyable because they better acquaint themselves with the shadow plane. Her personal reading taste would include a guide on weapon maintenance and, hilariously, unsolved mysteries. 

#⋆ * behind the cast ; ooc‚ general * ⋆ #⋆ * notes spotted and slid along ; aimon elrose‚ asks * ⋆ #( estra ask tag ) #⋆ * memo seen and replied ; juniper 'ghost whisker'‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Who's got the biggest dumpy?

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Of the POV characters on the blog, which includes Aimon, Discoverer, Estranha, Juniper, Maisie, and Sino, the gnomes are in the lead with having the most nicely shaped posteriors.

If I have to rank from most to least ass:

Sino (best of party)

Maisie (better than Orchidus')

Juniper (has a lil cute butt)

Aimon (at least has a bump)

Estranha (almost flat)

Discoverer (in the negatives of assery.)

#⋆ * behind the cast ; ooc‚ general * ⋆ #⋆ * memo seen and replied ; juniper 'ghost whisker'‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * notes spotted and slid along ; aimon elrose‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #( estra ask tag ) #⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Discord convos with the homies: Unfortunate edition feat. @allthatisleftinthedark

#⋆ * to be cherished and kept ; a keepsake for life ; ooc‚ saved * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Hilariously, three of six of my cast members are in the "secret third thing" with other characters and they (the three I write) all have purple hair.

#⋆ * behind the cast ; ooc‚ general * ⋆ #[ ooc: unsurprisingly; it is mai and sino. and es. but es' situation is- ] #[ ooc: definitely not of their own doing. it's just 'babygirl figure yourself out first please.' @ creed. ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

“i can make time” a huge love language

#⋆ * a testament to love is each scar on this body / the blood stained hand still carries a poppy ; maisie doscedar‚ musing * ⋆ #⋆ * beyond the pages of histories spurned and hidden / these paws uncover and hold until the end ; juniper 'ghost whisker'‚ musing * ⋆ #⋆ * to the melody of new beginnings he dances in waves / sea speckled in each step ; aimon elrose‚ musing * ⋆ #⋆ * ash to ash / dust to dust / fate's at the end of their bullet ; sino‚ musing * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"By your tone alone, it implies interest for the day." The gnome quirks her brow. "Am I incorrect to assume that?"

@allthatisleftinthedark

"Me? Planning something?"

#⋆ * what crept from the shadows was someone unlike any other before ; maisie doscedar‚ verse * ⋆ #caustichatred #[ ooc: oh no here we go!! ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"Makoto," Maisie glances at the floor worriedly. The both of them have been sitting beside together. "I am not sure if you're able of this, but your tail looks like it's about to coil around my leg."

Unprompted Asks || Accepting! @allthatisleftinthedark

"Hm?"

The dragon looks at his companion, before noticing that his tail is in fact curling around Maisie's ankle. He wonders just when he's become so comfortable around the woman, part of him feeling slightly uncomfortable with the gesture of affection. Yet, another part of him doesn't mind. How could he, when all he wants is to be treated softly?

It's stubborn pride that makes him deny gestures of affection, pushing others away and keeping the icy wall around his heart. He's afraid to lose others, and he's afraid to have his heart torn out once again. For all the power he held, he couldn't protect someone he loved dearly. So he walled himself off.

He remembers Maisie's hands cupping his cheeks, and how it made him freeze, how gentle her touch was, how warm her hands felt against him. He remembers leaning into it, a soft rumble of pleasure vibrating within his chest. Eyes closed, he simply enjoys the presence of another, for however short of a time it may have been.

"Ah. My apologies."

Makoto's voice is surprisingly soft, and he looks down at his lap, tail uncoiling from around Maisie's leg, before adjusting to wrap around her wrist instead.

"Makoto? Are you okay?"

He nods in response to her question, and allows a smile to come to his face. He doesn't know what he's supposed to be feeling anymore, however short the time that things have been, in between his training as an Astral Knight, and dealing with the ramifications of Orchidus returning to their world, there had been a growing sense of both irritation and desperation.

The prince wants nothing more than a break from all the work he's been doing, to try and live something of a normal life for once. Alas, that wouldn't happen, not quite yet. So, perhaps it's time that he makes more of an effort.

[But you can't continue to go on without properly mourning. How can you help when you can barely pull yourself together long enough to get your current work done? You've locked yourself away so long that you don't know how to live among the world anymore.]

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm still capable of changing. I know I'm not easy to deal with. That I'm too eager to jump to violence...But I...I never want to feel powerless again, to feel as if I'm going to fail the people who are relying on me."

[I don't want to fail you.]

"I don't know how else to be, and I'm afraid of what's going to become of me once I tire of fighting. Who am I meant to be, outside of a general? What place do I have in a time of peace?"

Maisie sits, and she listens, and she's always listening to the problems of others, but who listens to her? How long has she had to be the one who keeps things together, who pulls it all together and holds it there when they're on the verge of breaking? How much more could she do before she broke? Yet she gives her all to people, she gives her all and more, even when she shouldn't. He is not worthy of her, and he knows that. Yet she continues to give him chances. He feels her hand rest on top of his, and he flinches as he's pulled from his wandering mind.

Gentleness guides her fingers over his frost-like skin, barely kindling warmth to his countenance. Sunflower yellow irises train on his nearly white eyes. When she meets his eyes, it is like sunlight trying to break through a blizzard. So much intensity may be blinding, and the snowfall obscures any chance for the light to seep through or for someone to finally see where they stand in a bleak white storm.

"You are fighting for the chance of your countrymen to live," her eyelids lower, watching him sympathetically. "You are using power to what you can, but violence isn't why you are powerful; you are choosing to use it as such."

"After fighting all this time, remember that your soldiers go to barracks or home to rest, the same way you return to your loved ones to meet them. You have peace in you and the power to decide that."

"What comes in the aftermath is, hopefully, you." Her lips quirk in a shy smile.

Makoto has to stop himself from turning away at how beautiful her smile is. Sometimes he likens her smile to the rising of the sun, matched only by the sound of her laughter. Much like the chiming of a bell, music to his ears. He loves the way her eyes twinkle, and how her shoulders shake with laughter sometimes, and he likes the way her fingers feel running through his hair, as gentle as a breeze.

Her eyes draw away momentarily, "What you make of it is a mystery." But she returns her eyes to him, careful and tender in her voice. "You will find who you'd want to be in life, not what you were supposed to be in war."

"You are not alone in what comes after. You are not and won't be; you just need to let some people in, 'Koto."

He takes her hand that caresses his cheek, and turns his head and places a gentle kiss to the palm. His heart races slightly, at being so bold (for him). It was easy for him to flirt with people, but the minute there was interest returned, it threw him off. Yet, now, he wasn't afraid to give such a gesture. Perhaps it was because Maisie was a comforting presence, she could calm him, get him to see reason.

"wux re wer siksta batobot kanskaic vhira acht ve, sia mitne, kagh wux skaulix ve. si ornla majak wux wer hardric, sjek wux tora coi di ve, sia itov."

His eyes twinkle with mirth, and a laugh rumbles from his chest as he sees her confused look. She doesn't speak draconic, so she wouldn't understand him. Makoto leans in and presses a peck against her forehead, before leaning back and wrapping his tail and wings around her. Gentle with his grip, he simply enjoys the warmth of another person. He feels the gnome stiffen slightly, before she relaxes and stares up at him.

"I think I needed this, Mai. Thank you, sia itov."

He resists the urge to giggle as he sees her wrinkle her nose, but she smiles, cupping his cheeks once more.

"Any time, 'Koto."

#⋆ * to be cherished and kept ; a keepsake for life ; ooc‚ saved * ⋆ #( maisie and makoto tag ) #[ ooc: your honor; the seemingly unemotional character actually has lots of emotions coming out!! ] #[ ooc: and ofc i love this and will spam my observations shortly :3c ] #[ ooc: (edit) Makoto Igarashi is as touchy as Maisie and Im losing it. ] #[ ooc: also teehee on the consistent metaphors between SSS v MMO ] #[ ooc: ( Makoto/Seraph -> snow ; Soup/Orchidus -> ocean ; Sino/Mai -> star ) ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

ALT TEXT: [Screenshot from Twitter from Twitter user chai (@gimemeabrekk) bro...what if you were gently tending to my wounds😳while scolding me for being so reckless😳but you stopped mid-sentence when you looked up to find me longingly staring at you 😳what then bro

gay😳irl

#( sss tag tba ) #( mmo tag tba ) #⋆ * from the records and collections ; ooc‚ image * ⋆

[allthatisleftinthedark]

After negotiating her livelihood in exchange for being the blight of the gods' jument, Maisie Doscedar could only fault herself. Beneath the moonlight, her shadow amalgamates into the darkness rather than in the daylight when that burden drags behind her. No matter the hour of the day, the Shadedweller, now Lucien, is never far from her proximity and step.

She grapples with this blessing and curse. On the one hand, the mayor's plea for his village's protection has been answered, subsequently benefiting the other impacted and nearby settlements, granting the 5,000-year-old prisoner's escape. His insatiable cravings and bloodletting have seemingly subsided since he escaped from the labyrinth. 

All of this for...

How much longer can she attempt to deceive herself? Lunancy, it was! This, being tethered to a malign entity until her dying breath--as she refuses him any opportunity for massacre--was the best choice?! It is the toll of her decision, but was it one made freely and of her complete control? Is there any autonomy in an exchange where one haggles with and for their still-beating heart? Considering it, no alternative would be plausible lest she wish to join the other unfortunate carcasses decorating the labyrinth. As before and now, she knows, the fault was hers.

She could already hear the elders back home—inept, inept, inept. She could even hear the labeled superiors at work—aut, aut, aut. 

A long, deep sigh breaks her from her trap of the mind. Returning to the present, her resigned breath breaks the night's silence. By the fortune of moonlight, Maisie meanders through the dwindling supplies to the night; enough fish were caught earlier in the week to be cooked. Yet, without salt, they would rot quickly and be inedible by the end of the week.

What had she been doing? Her gaze shifts to her hands. One clutches a dagger she often hides beneath her dress's skirt, and the other wields a sharpened piece of wood. With deft precision, she adjusts her hold on the handle, gliding the blade across the wood to shave off a new layer. Stray locks of hair cascade over her eyes, and she huffs as she attempts to blow them away. 

With how much daylight they spent traveling to then immediately camp at sunset, their loss of sight would be imminent. Each minute comes and goes, and the darkness encroaches. Soon, it would be nay possible to figure out the desire paths made by others who walked by long ago. Without sight, the other senses are vulnerable. Every rustle of leaves or distant howl of wolves amplifies in sight's absence. Susceptibility grows. 

Her eyes narrow as she focuses on the subtler sounds around her—the whisper of the wind, the scrape of the blade against wood, the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat. Amid the quiet, her shallow breath lingers, but she notes another's, strained and softer than her own. 

She blinks, then calls out. 

"Lucien, how much longer until the campfire?" 

Not even a cricket's bow answers her. 

"Lucien..?" 

Suddenly, something heavy presses against her back, stiffening her shoulders and sending a shiver down her spine. Her hand opens instinctively, releasing the branch that drops below the earth. However, her other hand shows a different resolve. Gripping her dagger tighter, her knuckles' color dull from the intensity as the pommel faces her. 

Maisie's heartbeat, that ugly loud racket, almost chokes her as it nearly reaches the base of her throat.

 As she struggles to maintain her balance, she turns her head, catching a glance of fit—a flicker of gingery orange. Large and unfettered, its silhouette was nothing of anything animal or human. The uncompromising and untalkative enigma presses on, and Maisie's body leans further from the increasing weight. 

"Ah--" With a surprised gasp, Maisie fumbled, no matter how much resistance she placed up. Her body crashes into the forest floor, a muted thud following the impact. As she lays there, her chest facing the ground, legs tangled, and her breath ragged, Maisie's hand reaches out.

Whatever or whoever pinned her body surpasses her weight, but the body is strangely passive. No matter which way she threw her shoulders, the creature's responses or lack thereof were only the same rhythm she heard earlier of Lucien's breathing. 

In a blind reach, Maisie finally reaches something in her hand. Her brows furrow as she runs what feels like threads between her fingers. She processes and mulls over the silky texture in one blink before roughly twirling it around her finger. 

Deciding to cushion their slumber with her body was none other than Lucien. She slithers her hand from his hair, using her forearm to push away the onslaught of hair, able to see some glimpses of the real world. "Are you asleep on me?" She asserts, prodding her elbow against him. 

His body suddenly jolts as he pulls back, his frame and arms moving synchronized, finally freeing Maisie. Through his locks of hair, she can see his ever-so-panicked expression and how widely his pupils grow as they interlock eyes. 

'If the undead could fluster, if blood could flow through their veins with beating heart, how pink would you be right now?' A mischievous thought nearly breaches, but her mouth is trained enough to keep its sharpness sheathed. 

Lucien is keeping himself in check to the best of his capabilities. The best was how little social graces he musters in everyday conversation without resorting to his animalistic tendencies. Facing the unknown and the unusual, especially as a vampiric being, was easy; facing the normalcies of a society older than oneself, especially by several millennia, was immeasurable. 

She pushes herself upright with her arm, restabilizing her balance once more and sitting upright. 

To his question, she replies, "By some minutes." Upon further thought, her nose wrinkles. She grabs the fallen branch, twisting her wrist as she observes it. "Half an hour," she corrects herself. Time bleeds, especially with how deeply one may get into one's mind. 

That answer may not even be the actual one, but admitting that the time slipped through the fingers was not in the cards. It will only open up questions that Maisie knows she will not answer. 

"Perhaps I spoke too softly," Maisie replies amiably. Truthfully, she suspects he must have heard her, given his inhumanly advanced hearing. One must consider how he would've picked up on all her subtle sounds and her voice from across the labyrinth. Yet, there was the even more likely possibility: drowsiness might have already taken him by her return, making him less cognizant.  

"Either way, how goes the fire?" She glances at the ring of rocks and the piles of sticks at its center. Nothing kindled in there yet. "We are running short on time. But, I procured some sticks and made them into skewers to cook our spoils for tonight." 

Maisie proves her work, twirling the sharpened branch between her fingers. 

As much as she would take over and let him rest, she would rather him say it than take immediate charge. Carefully as she had been at the beginning of their relationship, she must tread with as much caution. Who knows when she could lower her guard, if ever. 

Sleeby ► accepting

@allthatisleftinthedark said: Are you asleep on me? - Mai to Lucien.

send ’Are you asleep on me?’ for my muse to fall asleep leaning against your muse.

The journey to the surface must have been more demanding than he had anticipated. His father and the damned god had placed traps and illusions around every corner and step, making their path perilous and annoying. It felt almost like this place was constantly changing. Despite knowing the way back, it looked like the paths never stayed the same, making it difficult for the duo to complete the task of leaving. It made him angry how well thought out this place was. But that much was obvious at this point. Even when they had earned their freedom and he felt the crisp cool air of the night upon his skin, Lucien was still rather infuriated at it all. The desire to take his anger out upon something was strong, but Maisie was the only living thing he could cast his fury upon... And she had done so well getting him out of that damned maze- not to mention he had promised he wouldn't harm her if she successfully lead him out.

He was still chugging along, though, as Maisie wanted to make it to an inn before anything else. Lucien agreed, unfortunately burdening the gnome with his company as they made their way forth. He follows closely behind her, arms behind his back as he takes in his surroundings, his decaying heart stirring in response. It had been so long since he had seen the surface; the urge to roll in the dirt, play in the mud, feel the bark of the trees and the smoothness of the leaves they carried was strong. But Maisie, a distrusting but loyal creature, had fulfilled her promise to lead him out. Now it was time for him to repay the favor and grant her a safe passage to the inn. Unfortunately for her, this meant having to suffer his company. Fortunately for him, it meant he was going to experience a bed again.

Yet, halfway through their travels, the duo agreed that they should set up camp. They were not going to make it in time and exhaustion had her dirty little fingers in them both. But Lucien had no tent, no bedroll, no tools of survival of his own. He'd have to rely on Maisie again and begrudgingly set about helping her set up her supplies. It seemed, however, that Lucien was more exhausted than he previously thought. He was in the middle of trying to start a small fire for them to cook their meals upon when; caught in a sitting position with his legs curled beneath him, Lucien falls asleep. Turned out, the vampire had fallen asleep on Maisie who he didn't see sitting beside him- or anywhere beside him for that matter. Not that the information was important, he had been caught sleeping! And on the woman no less! He felt a rush of heat burn beneath his skin and could only stare at her in bewilderment. He then clears his throat and turns away from her, embarrassed to have been caught in such a state.

"When did you get back?" He murmurs, struggling to recover. "You should have warned me."

#⋆ * exchanges with the emissary ; maisie doscedar‚ ic * ⋆ #⋆ * what crept from the shadows was someone unlike any other before ; maisie doscedar‚ verse * ⋆ #caustichatred #[ ooc: YEAAAAH!! i love this. ] #[ ooc: 'distrusting but loyal' is such a great way to describe Mai; I love it!! ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

#⋆ * official peeper of horrors and therapist for the very low price of her sanity! ; maisie doscedar‚ crack * ⋆ #( mmo tag )