#ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts )

[duskroine]

💭 Hi <3

hear my thoughts, for i am now you! - ophelia impression meme ( accepting! )

     Oh, if only Soleil could see her now.

     “Well,” Ophelia smiles a pleasant one. “if it is the cold that you fear then surely, you wouldn’t mind if I’d accompany you, hm? How does a talk over tea sound?” And with the hand she places on the girl’s waist, she watches with quiet triumph as her words cause Eden to blush. Inigo would most likely comment on how prettily the flush spreads across her face but Ophelia’s peripheral vision blesses her with the sight of another lovely darling, whose gaze has lingered on them for a bit too long.

     Ophelia turns, completely, towards Eden and leans forward; the squeak of surprise she’s given in return puts a wider grin on her face. From the experience of being both a bystander and a victim to Inigo’s antics ( that one moment before he realized she was, in fact, Odin’s daughter; to her fortunate cause ) Ophelia’s quite sure of what to do next. 

     The signature style of dating by the totally-cool, very awesome, Inigo!

     “Cutie, you can’t leave me hanging here without an answer~”

     Eden perks up at the name but her attention seems to be more focused on the ground rather than the prior questions. “Uhm... Well, I’m... sure.” Ophelia raises an eyebrow and Eden pauses to blink at her. “Yeah. We can get some tea, if you’d like!” and it’s the way that she says this that almost makes Ophelia feel sorry for diverting her attention to yet a different girl, the moment they step into the teahouse. 

     Her hand slips out of Eden’s and--the girl blinks down at the slip of paper in her hand--she excuses herself before making way to a indigo-haired girl. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose that Ophelia pushes a finger against to keep from falling; the girl does nothing but look at her as she does so.

     “You have quite the issue of staring but honestly--” She winks, laughing at herself in her head for simply imagining how this would play out if Inigo was in her shoes instead. “--I’d have the same problem if I caught my eyes on you first.” While her words do not cause this girl to flush, she does smile and raise an eyebrow. Confidence in the glimmer of her eyes.

     “And you didn’t see me before?”

     Ophelia laughs. “Unfortunately not but look, I’m here now, aren’t I?” yet when the girl makes a move to share her name, a different shade of hair peeks from behind her and the heroine catches sight of an individual walking through the teahouse. “Inigo!!”

     A pat to the girl’s shoulder and she’s off to approach her companion, who’s either overjoyed to see her here or experiencing some form of shock. Ophelia can’t really tell... 

     “Did you see how endearing my performance was? I was impersonating you!” She says this all while posing, eyes closed and a hand over the side of her face; signature style! “The diligent hero who seeks out more than just one heart--even if it causes his downfall with any of the ladies that he encounters in the process! Actually, that’s a great storyline!” And it’s when she goes to hand him her paper of how-to-be-Inigo-properly, that she realizes the state of her companion.

     Ophelia pauses. “I-Inigo, are you... oh dragons, did I make you cry?! I, uhm, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to upset you!” The heroine quickly plucks the paper from his hands and, truth to her assumption, Inigo only begins to cry harder. Ophelia freaks out ( She’s never been before someone who’s so... this!! Kana has cried around her once but he had stubbed his toe, so that was valid ) and when she attempts to lead him out of the teahouse, Eden approaches them with a concerned expression.

     The sight of her... well..... Inigo’s cries don’t lower, at all. Unfortunately.

     ( The chances of him returning to this teahouse is low but at least Eden has received a note of where to send Ophelia letters. That much is in her favor. )

#theindigoflirt #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #{ imagine an inigo support :sparkles: } #{ HE'S CRYINGJNDSJDSJDSSDLM #{ I CAN'T RIGHT NOW WHATXDSD } #{ me; so. ophelia's gonna do an impression of him. / sam; if it's about him dating. he's gonna cry } #{ LIKE. I'M SORRY INIGO BUT WHAT ELSE IS SHE SUPPOSED TOJNDSK } #{ also. advocate for chad ophelia ( we ignore her getting flustered in those mistletoe posts. don't perceive her ) }

[duskroine]

❰❰ HURT ❱❱ sender is hurt protecting receiver

comfy/hurty time! - closed!

     Arrows dance through the sky--a dance of death and life. A balance between the cries of the fallen and wounded. Magic shakes the ground. The air is a blur of colors and iron, yet never the sense of glory that the heroine would always feel whenever her surroundings remained in nothing but chaos. The tide of war was passing; they were losing.

     “BAAAAANG!!” Lightning rockets from her fingertips and the single bolt knocks an archer off their feet. Another falling victim to the next attack she gives. The incantation is sour on her tongue, even it knew how poorly their odds were. “Defy the laws of eternity,” Magic pools in between the palms of her hands, “SUNDER AND CREATE, MISSILETAINN!”

     Flames dance from her grasps and out toward the scattered group of enemies, except... a sliver of iron strikes through and her magic disperses. Ophelia’s eyes widen, if only for the mere moment she’s given to breathe. She stumbles back, away from the myrmidon's attack, but her ankle catches onto something ( a root, body, maybe just... air ) before she falls.

     Her name echoes louder than the clashes of battle--the enemy’s blade rises above her.

     “Oh dragons,” Her fingers graze the surface of Missiletainn, where it, too, had fallen. Ophelia prepares another incantation just as the myrmidon moves to strike; his blade meets only with iron and not skin. It takes only a moment for her savior to be recognized. “Priam!”

     Her delighted cry is followed shortly by a gasp--her lungs tighten and her heart trembles with worry. No matter how strong Priam proves to be, the myrmidon makes it almost impossible to land a hit on him. Gloved hands press against the ground and she raises her legs slightly, flipping back to her feet with less grace than deserved.

     “UNTAMED BY THE SUN! MISSILETAINN” The myrmidon steps from behind Priam, sword high and face masked. “--BREAKING DAWN!!” The blast of lightning curls dangerously around her hand before she tosses it at the enemy, watching as it barely dodges the edge of Priam’s blade. The myrmidon is hit only by the side of his shoulder, but just enough to fall to her ally’s own attack.

     “Finally.” Priam’s voice is rough and strained, but he smiles as he speaks ( as if nothing could damage him; she envies the thought ), “Hey, you okay?”

     Ophelia nods, “What of you?”

     “I’ll be fine.” yet his wound appears ghastly, even beneath the gauntlet he presses over it. She can’t heal... even if she could, the possibility of her being able to master that field of magic remains doubted.

     “The battle will give way, soon. We simply have to stand our ground until then,” Ophelia’s reassuring statement is replied with a nod and a focused gaze that she soon follows; an arrow flies past them. “The stars will support you as will I, too!”

#radiantpriamos #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ imagine a priam support :sparkles: }

[duskroine]

It's not every waking day that Ophelia can find herself in the presence of many... many heroes. Some of tales she's never heard and others of legends she's memorized from sunrise to sunset. Others, she has walked the very same land as them. Inhaled the same air as they have. Surely, she has quite the... opinion of them, right?

Send 💭 or 'THOUGHT' for Ophelia to do an impression of your muse!

Of course, it'll be seen by none other than your muse because embarrassment is key, and she's embarrassing.

#ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ did i make all of these beforehand? don't look at me :) }

[duskroine]

💭

hear my thoughts, for i am now you! - ophelia impression meme ( accepting! )

     / A queen of the skies and her people. Someone who sees those higher and lower. Below and beyond the clouds. /

     “The throne mustn’t be judged,” she twirls the staff in a slight spin, “not everyone is fit for this position, you know?” 

     Ophelia smiles, sweet along with her honeyed words. Warmth was to be given to those who deserved it--how easily did Elincia win over her people? The thought causes her smile to falter, and she lowers the staff. A small clink against the ground. 

     “She must fight as calmly as she speaks. So... no shouting?” she mumbles, glancing at her open journal from where it sat on her mattress. The idea is refused, of course, it is. She shifts her attention to a different unfinished script and starts from there. “Ahem, well--WAIT!" but an idea scurries in her mind just as she hurries to gather her items. 

     Her journey doesn't take very long ( with her running through every hall of the Monastery and potentially bumping into other students... yeah, she made it there quickly ) and her feet connect with softer ground. The environment is no longer walls scattered with papers and pins and string, but now, it's a structure beneath the beautiful display of blue skies.

     It's easy to get here and easier to sneak inside the stables. Elincia's stead is nowhere to be found, but there are many a pegasus or horse who appears like hers. No... not a horse. Ophelia has to be true to the script and character. She needs a pegasus. The closest fit is a elegant stead by the name of...

     "Angel," Ophelia repeats the word labeled on the side of the stall. It's a... mediocre name. Very much so. "No no, this just won't do. We need a name of brilliance! Of... of honor and loyalty. Each virtue bestowed with grace and assurance that YOU--" Angel blinks at her. "--are the queen's most faithful!"

     The heroine pauses, her arms stretched out now fall to her sides. Yet not in defeat! Just... a minor turmoil. "Unfortunately, I am not very sure of Elincia's pegasus. Their name is foreign, yes, so we need something just like it!" Except she isn't knowledgeable on anything from Elincia's homeland. Not the delicacies or attire or anything of the sort.

               ....... EH, who cares?!

     Angel's nice--tame but very hesitant--enough to guide Ophelia onto his back. It takes a bit longer than she expected at first but the ill-thought of exhaustion fades from her mind once Angel's wings flutter and span out. The heroine, only but a girl, squeals in delight before clearing her throat and expression. Warm smile? On. Staff and sword? Not correctly in place, but she has them. Crown? Handmade, but the thought counts. And she's ready!

     "Now, allies," she imagines an entire army behind her and Angel--scattered troops but the outlines of a few friends appear brighter, "we now march onto enemy soil. Keep your heads high, my friends. For the future of dawn awaits us--in the sky and in mind! I, QUEEN ELINCIA, will--”

     But laughter interrupts her determined cry--Angel doesn’t falter even while the heroine flinches and turns towards the sound. Green hair cascades over Elincia’s shoulders, a hand pressed to her lips to muffle the next giggle that attempted to fall. Ophelia squeaks and scrambles off of Angel, who seems overjoyed that the other lady has arrived.

     “M-Miss Elincia,” the heroine swallows the stutter and bows her head, “I... uhm...”

     “I see that you’re having--” Elincia pauses, in search of a word, perhaps. “--fun. Sorry, I just came to check on the stables when I heard some shouting.”

     Ophelia nods, huffing out heavy exhales to allow her blush to fade. “Why, yes! Those shouts were the very calls of... well, how much did you hear?”

     “Hm? Marching on enemy soil and the future of--”

     “Dawn, that’s correct! Ahaha,” Ophelia quickly hands Angel’s reins to Elincia, “it seems that the sky has deemed my presence to be needed elsewhere! Bye!” and without yet another word but a bashful wave, the heroine is gone.

#amiticium #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ imagine an elincia support :sparkles: } #{ OHGOD THIS BECAME LONG } #{ all of them *may* be this long but idc.. } #{ this was a past one btw. but it's finished now!! } #{ ophelia rarely becomes embarrassed to the point of running but she thinks elincia is sooooo cool so yeah :) } #{ thanks for sending!! }

[duskroine]

❰❰ SAVE ❱❱

comfy/hurty time! - accepting! 

small, very small tw - blood and violence

     She never expected for her legend to end this way.

     Crimson seeps through the fabric of her uniform top, soaking her fingers and the jacket in a color she hates seeing. A color she set upon her name. Crimson Ophelia; always to see a shade of red. That shade of red can’t be the blood spilling from her stomach, right? The wisps of anger pulling at her visions, alongside fleeting glimpses of black. Right?

               She wasn’t to die this way. Not here. Not now.

     Yet the blade that tilts her chin up has nothing but peril in its glint.

               “Finally,” the man hisses out, and Ophelia can only agree.

     She coughs, an incoherent splutter of words falling from her lips, too. “The... wh... child...” Her throat burns, as well the side of her neck where the sword still rests. The man grunts something out, maybe it was a scoff. Ophelia can’t hear him over the... the ringing in her head. Pounding like drums to a festival she’s only dreamed of going to. She wonders--he begins to speak--if this is how others feel when she speaks to them. Powerless. A victim to her endless torture.

     “Child?”

     “There... hah... the boy.” Ophelia coughs and yet again, does more blood spill. Only this time, it’s on the edge of the blade dangling her life from a golden strand. “I--”

     Her words break off into a choke, the man’s boot finding her wound quicker than she could have stopped it. Her fingers fall underneath his foot when it strikes her in the stomach. The blade has been moved back--enough space for the heroine to kneel over the ground she’s bled on. For how long? She can only... wonder...?

     “The runt ran,” he laughs, “but what does that have to do with you?”

     The drumming in her head beats faster, pushing her closer toward the cold, cold embrace she refuses to settle in. Another kick is aimed at her side and her opposite falls against the alley’s stoned ground. The pounding moves from between her eyes and sets in her ears. They’re louder... unfamiliar... she coughs again.

     “If... If he has r-ran then...” she smiles a bloody but bright one, “I can fall now.”

     Except when the sword is raised and she lowers her head, it’s not the heroine that hits the ground. Iron slices through air and strikes iron. Crimson shields over her right eye but her left is all she needs to see a different pair of boots shuffle in front of her. Ophelia’s hand grows feather light against the wound. It doesn’t fall though. Fingers--longer than hers, hard, gauntlets--press over her hand.

     “...ia?” She blinks. “Ophelia? Shit, it’s okay. I got you.”

     The voice pushes past the ringing--no longer a mind accustomed to the sound of beating and drumming. Footsteps, they were. “S...vain?” She can barely speak through the blood swirling on her tongue--the disgusting taste of iron so familiar yet disgraced.

     Ophelia only needs one eye to see that the clock has struck midnight. Prince Charming is here.

     “Yeah, it’s me.” Sylvain’s tone is darker, and whether or not it’s normally that way has disappeared from her memories. “Come on, Ophelia. Stay focused on me. We’ll get you help, I promise.”

     There was a time, she remembers, when she heard those exact words fall from his lips. Except there hadn’t been a sword ripping through her body. There hadn’t been a child to pull away and push deeper into the alley. There hadn’t been anyone but them two... and the orb descending from above. When Sylvain turns her over, the heroine can feel herself descending, too. As if she weighed everything when the blade pierced her skin and weighed nothing when it was yanked out.

     Sylvain doesn’t let her close her eyes for too long. She understands why--she doesn’t want to, though.

     “I’m...” Sorry? Hurt? Dying? “There was--”

               “--a child. Yeah. He’s with the other knights. Deep breaths, Ophelia.”

     And she does. Ophelia forces herself to inhale and... oh, why is everything black now?

#crestbound #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ imagine a sylvain support tag :sparkles: } #{ I HAD AN IDEA AND RAN A FREAKING MARATHON WITH IT } #{ still running as we speak... } #{ anyway. this is long and late and hi } #{ i grab ayer and shake her by the shoulders } #{ anyway x2. draft run between homework }

[duskroine]

a kiss on the chin. Ares spots his target and prepares to strike. How dare she make such a fool of him? Oh, how she'd pay for her indiscretion. He keeps his head down as he walks by, avoiding drawing her attention until the very last second.

He plants a right smacker on her chin.

"Ha, the fell maiden had fallen. How careless to leave yourself so vulnerable to attack," Ares declares, feeling very pleased with himself. "Hodr's bloodline empowers myself and myself alone. Only I may wield Mystletainn, the demon sword." Okay Eldigan could too but that wasn't the point. "Never again shall you rise from the ashes of your shame." He saunters off proud and leonine, only to double bck at the last moment.

"Also, I'm a much better kisser than you are." he adds, just to twist the knife in.

kiss, kiss, find a spot - accepting!

     This was outrageous! A curse set upon such a maiden, how dare he?! It was one thing to call her a fake, but to wish every slice of bacon she receives to burn is just... it’s... how dare Ares!?!

     Breakfast had been eaten with a pout and raised shoulders. Now, as Ophelia leaves the dining hall, she can only sigh. Yet not in defeat. No, never! A sigh for exhaustion, because surely, that tall brat would get what he deserved, even if--

     Fingers rest beneath her chin and her head is raised, just enough for a kiss to land there.

     Ophelia shrieks, hands flying up to push Ares away and clutch the lower part of her face. “You, again?!” her eye twitches at his declaration, “How dare you!? Must you forget exactly where you stand? That is beneath me!”

     Ares, a satisfied expression upon his face, turns on his heel, even as Ophelia continues to shout after him.

     “The AUDACITY you have to call my actions in shame. Missiletainn is not a sword of demons, it’s a tome! I have the--”

     He looks over his shoulder and his words only sink in her mind after he’s continuing back down the hall. She blinks. Once. Twice. A third time slower than the first two. Immediately, the heroine’s face burns scarlet as she stomps her foot. “No you are not! That was below average, even a--HEY, GET BACK HERE!!”

#hezulion #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ'ꜱ ʟɪᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪɴɢ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ / ʏᴇᴛ ᴡᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴇQᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍʀᴀᴅᴇꜱ! ( ares ) #{ OHHHHH MY GODDD } #{ ARES THE AUDACITY!!! } #{ i love their rivalry like please just be besties already } #{ their friendship is just a bunch of screaming and competitions } #{ someone spell missiletainn and mystletainn on a piece of paper and let them see how it's spelled }

[duskroine]

Spots to kiss +13

Nina loved Ophelia, really she did- but she would never shut up. Just watching her stand on the table, moving her arms around as she spoke began to annoy Nina to no end. Ophelia was making a fool of herself and Nina couldn’t watch any longer.

Quickly, Nina walks over to where Ophelia stood and grabbed her arm, yanking her off the table and holding her in her arms before setting her down. Nina places a quick kiss onto her lips before glaring slightly. “Ophelia my dear friend, please be quiet. I don’t think you realize but it’s three in the morning and people actually want to sleep.”

kiss, kiss, find a spot - accepting!

     “...and it was as if fate had witnessed a betrayal of its own hand! The prince, bright and fair, held a mighty hand high and sung a proposal. That if the war was to end on such a horribly muted note, that his father would be, at the very least, remembered. For every--” there’s a yawn somewhere below her, “--arrow that had pierced his chest, the boy wished for centuries of honor. The crowd was alive with cheers and promises! Nothing that--”

     There’s footsteps behind her and Ophelia barely has the time to look before her arm is yanked down. She stumbles, feet scrambling to steady on something. Anything. Instead, she press against air and her arms hang over someone’s shoulders. 

               Huh...?

     Silver hair--a beautiful color of stones she remembers kept in a chest--brushes against her face and Ophelia blinks. Once at the hair. Twice at Nina. T--oh wait, it’s Nina!

     “Ah! Nina!” the heroine smiles, “You’ve just missed the--”

               The archer’s lips press against her own and Ophelia finds that her words are suddenly not hers anymore. Her feet touch the ground and she’s no longer in Nina’s arms, nor are her lips accompanied by anything rather than air. The heroine swallows, hard. A quick nod to whatever Nina was saying--something about mornings and three people.

     “Yeah, totes! I-I’ll...uhm...I’ll goeatbreakfast!”

               Nina raises an eyebrow and Ophelia just laughs, ignoring the faint traces of heat on her face. Maybe she should go eat...breakfast at....three in the morning. She thinks of speaking, maybe to ridicule or point fingers, but she doesn’t do either. Instead she scrambles back up on the table and glares down at Nina. Banish this foolish moment of vulnerability! She is not to be deceived by no mere kiss!

     “No, your charm will do nothing to halt this legend! I shall continue whether your affection distracts me or not!”

     Her only response is a laugh, small and light. Just as Nina’s footsteps are when she moves to sit at the table the heroine is standing on. Dammit.

#musing-fantasies #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ... ʏᴇᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ. ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜱᴛᴀɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪɴᴋ / ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ. ( nina ) #{ gggggggayyyyy } #{ hopefully i can shoot this other ones out too }

[duskroine]

Kiss!

a booth for kisses and suffering - accepting!

     A purpose to compete settles over her mind as the booth is graced with Ophelia’s presence. It hadn’t been a manner of entertainment or chivalrous volunteering. No, she had agreed to pledge a devoted cause to the booth because he had done so.

               If that imposter could get kisses, then she could, too! That’s easy enough!

     Mitama’s there, first, and Ophelia jumps to her feet. Perfect!

     “Greetings, Poet of Golden Ink! You’re here for a kiss, correct?” Except she doesn’t give Mitama a moment to answer because gloved hands are already pressed against the girl’s cheeks and she’s pulled into a kiss. Except it doesn’t reach her lips, instead, Ophelia gives her a soft peck on the corner. Where a smile is slowly twitching on Mitama’s face.

     “There! Now, if you would do ever so kindly to tell every passing ear of this booth--there’s a fool I wish to beat!”

#verseandrhyme #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ɪ ɢɪꜰᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ᴏɴʟʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ / ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ / ʜᴏᴡ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ. ( mitama ) #{ i love you mitama.. do you need your s-- i'm kicked from the tags }

[duskroine]

❰❰ HEAD KISS ❱❱

comfy/hurty time! - accepting!

     It’s easy to forget that Julia isn’t a lady sent from the heavens--with a task to keep the heroine on the right path and not stray into the darkness that constantly attempts to tug at her soul and mind. A smile is enough light to allow those cold, cold fingers to yank back and scutter in the shadows. Death doesn’t taunt her when the other lady is around. It’s silent; the wind has yet to sing its normal song.

     The kiss is accompanied by fingers curling around her shoulders. It’s all fleeting. Gentle. Julia’s lips leave her forehead a moment too early. Her smile stays, though. The very same light that eats at her nightmares and steals her attention in the grand corridors. Ophelia’s hand reaches up to her forehead, fingers hovering over the spot where the kiss had been planted.

               A blessing? “Thank you,” she whispers, “not even the stars can grant me such luck...” 

     Julia’s smile grows and it’s contagious--the corners of Ophelia’s lips begin to twitch upwards in a similar manner. It’s smaller, though. She wouldn’t dare try to outshine the lady’s own beam.

     Aquamarine lights dance in the back of her mind as the heroine tilts her head up to press a kiss to Julia’s forehead. Ophelia knows that it won’t give Julia the same rush that it gifts her. Can she hear how the heroine’s heart jumps around in her chest? Can she feel how her hand trembles against her arm? Can she feel the smile that goes into the kiss against her skin? Can she feel the same warmth blossoming in her chest? 

     Appreciation...? Awe? Respect? Which was the emotion that pooled in the spaces of her heart?

               “I will, forever, be in your debt for every blessing you’ve given me.” Even when allies fell around them and found that the ground was a softer bed than a cot would ever be, Julia never allowed her to fall for more than a beat. Maybe that wasn’t how it went. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she simply can’t process anything at the moment. Ophelia’s heart beats like thunder in her ears--what is the purpose in trying to hear over them?

                         Thank you, Julia....

#lafilledenaga #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ imagine a julia support :sparkles: } #{ i'm... i'm not sure where i was going with this but hey. does that matter? } #{ i slap this onto the dash and move on to the next one }

[duskroine]

❰❰ GAZE ❱❱ our muses make extended eye contact

Even days later, the news still threatens to bowl him over. Owain, having a daughter? Some poor lass subjected to being his lover? Inigo prays Naga sends the lady strength.

All of this flies through his head while staring directly at Ophelia, who just so happens to be staring back. Oh gods. Cheeks flush pink; he quickly looks away, clearing his throat.

"I'm not staring cause I want to flirt!" Ugh, he shivers just thinking about it. (Not to mention Owain would literally skin him alive.) "You just...look like someone I know."

comfy/hurty time! - accepting!

     The heroine’s sight has been blessed by the Goddess of this land, she who has held every star in the sky. Who has listened to every prayer of hers--knees trembling against the ground as she bowed by her bedside--and laughed. Who, Ophelia wonders, has a thundering laugh. Only for the stars. Only for her. Yet, no matter how many of her whispers are to be ignored, her eyes still hold the flames of someone who’s been chosen from hundreds. Thousands.

     She is no stranger to stares or embarrassment. Shame drowned beneath her flow of blood--years of being looked down upon does something to a little girl’s imagination, doesn’t it?

               Brown meets blue and never leaves. There’s no laughter in Inigo’s eyes. Not a smile or a grin. He’s just... standing there.

                         Menacingly!

     Ophelia blinks a few times, her fingers reapply her bandages with a care that doesn’t falter even while being watched. Silence hangs in the air between them; her eye twitches ever so slightly.

               Dear dragons! Isn’t this man tired already? The heroine understands the urge to stare is hard to fight when a performance is underway, but she wasn’t doing anything yet. Was he being entertained by her checking her bandages?

     He blinks and immediately adopts a faint blush across his face after yet another minute of silence. Ophelia frowns at his defense. “I would hope not!” she exclaims with a hand on her hip, “I was afraid that your staring was an attempt to find entertainment in my leisurely act of healing--and yes, that’s weird.”

     Inigo sees someone else when he looks at her, doesn’t he? Is it like seeing Soleil when she looks at him...?

               The thought falls somewhere in the back of her mind and she plasters a smile over her face. “Say, would that someone be my father--the Bearer of Fated Darkness? Oh joyous! I knew that my frown matched his! A perfect mold of stoic and true!” A pause. “It was the frown, right? Or is it the hair?”

     Another pause before she drops her arms to her sides and sighs. “It’s just my face, isn’t it? Oh pass the thought, I’m more intrigued on what you know of him--wait, you were talking about my father, yes?”

#theindigoflirt #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #{ imagine an inigo support :sparkles: }

[duskroine]

❰❰ CARRY ❱❱ sender carries receiver bridal style :0)

comfy/hurty time! - accepting!

     Time is as inconsistent as she remembers it to be. Paperwork takes up all the space on her desk, bed, and most areas of the floor. Alongside the still ocean of white and vanilla, there are a few tomes scattered here and about--open at a certain page only to be turned by the misplacement of her foot.

     Evening light spills from her window and her cup is empty.

     The hallway is a bit vacant when Ophelia steps out of her room. Whether it is or not isn’t really on her mind, since her gaze remains trained on the incoherent writing in the purple tome she holds. 

     She’s barely a few yards away from her door when suddenly, there’s a shout behind her and the heroine is swept off her feet--her cup falling to the floor while the tome is pressed hard against her chest.

     “DEAR DRAGONS!!”

               “Pheels!”

     She knows the voice by her head and when she looks up--him. 

     Ophelia releases a sigh, no longer a lady of tensed muscles and an incantation on her tongue. “Shiro, look at what you’ve... Pheels?” her words waver, just slightly. Enough for her to take in mind what name the Hoshidan prince had addressed her as.

     Shiro just laughs and--with an easy step over the fallen cup--begins to walk further down the hall. Ophelia sighs, again, but there’s no arguing that a smile isn’t present on her face.

     “I wasn’t even away for that long, besides my room rests with history to be read and work to be written!” she protests--which is only responded to with a raised eyebrow and a comment about ‘it being dark outside’, “Also, ‘Pheels’ is a questionable title but if so, then I will bear it with pride! You shall have one, too!! Maybe--er, where are we going, again?”

#raikuroji #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #{ imagine a shiro support tag :sparkles } #{ PHEELS!!!! } #{ adding that to her 32 pages of nicknames/titles }

[duskroine]

|| ✾ || ; It wasn’t his own life that’d flashed before his eyes, but the one of his very friend. Siegbert could practically see the lance ripping through her body just before it happened, a scream of warning on his lips—but Ophelia stands tall and decimates her woe before the lance can make contact.

Prince stands still for a moment, frozen as relief washes over him. When the last enemy falls, he jumps down from his steed, rushes to her side, and pulls her into a hug tight enough that it might have hurt her more than the actual battle.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispers. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

hugs, hugs, hugs - accepting!

     Hesitation on the battlefield was dangerous. There simply wasn’t any time for it. Reluctance would get her killed; it almost does now. Truly though, it hadn’t been her fault. The day had been calm, a leisure walk with the Nohrian prince ( she hadn’t suggested it, but that was fine ) and a tale for a tale. She had barely finished hers when the first set of arrows flew through the air. Cutting through any word she had on her tongue -- there was never time for hesitation.

     The battle only supported the fact that nowhere was safe. Not Nohr. Not the Deeprealms. Not even in her father’s arms. 

     Lightning dances over her fingers, across her palm and moving up her wrist. “Burn a foe, SIMMER AND DANCE, MISSILETAINN!!” her words are almost muffled by the crack of thunder that echoes after a bolt of lightning shoots from her hand and at the last archer. Ophelia shakes her hand -- an attempt to calm the nerves in her fingers -- and the pages of her tome begin to lose their familiar glow.

     The heroine sucks in a breath, holds it for a second, then exhales. The next moment happens in an instant and she, herself, hadn’t realized what happened until after. A lance was raised behind her, the prince had froze, magic pulsed in her hand. The attacker is handled with before their grip shifts to even plunge their lance any closer to her -- the lightning dies right after the incantation leaves her lips.

     There’s a beat of silence in the air, except for the faint crackling of her spell and their heavy breaths. Another beat, Siegbert’s feet hit the ground. Another beat, the last one before the prince’s arms wrap around her and she’s yanked into an embrace. Ophelia almost chokes, her face pressed against his chest and the embrace tightens. Heavily. 

     Siegbert’s words reach her a moment after they’re spoken -- she doesn’t believe that she heard them at first. He had been scared. He had been concerned. She doesn’t believe anything at first; her head’s dizzy ( either from the embrace or shock, she’s not sure ). It’s too early in the day for her to look towards the stars for assistance... for support. She wishes that they were there; they’re not, and she’s alone.

     Ophelia’s arms stay limp to her side -- she wonders if she even has the strength to move them. She doesn’t try to. Neither does she try to speak. There’s no need. There’s nothing she can say ( or wants to say, but that would be a lie ). 

     It’s the disbelief that turns her words to ash. The air is cold. The embrace is cold. Why does she feel cold? His concern is unnecessary -- he shouldn’t care for her. Why her? They were different in many, many ways. He should have been concerned for himself during the battle. He’s a prince after all -- if he dies, people will care. Only the stars will, if she passes. 

     Only the stars ( if only she knew how wrong she could be ).

#perfectionist-prince #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ꜱʜᴀᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ. ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴋɪɴɢ. ( siegbert ) #{ av........ } #{ none of these are gonna be revised so f it }

[duskroine]

[ weep ] ;D

non-verbal ask memes! - open

     She doesn’t cry -- no, no, she can’t remember the last time her eyes held sorrowful specks. The Chosen One isn’t allowed to cry. Why spread anguish with every tear when her path only supported those who stood tall? 

     ...those who stood tall.

     / Fate speaks to everyone -- yet only those of scars and promise ever get anything more than a blessing. /

     Her fingers curl around the spine of the book, nails digging into the leather cover. She inhales... but doesn’t exhale. It holds in her throat, clogging her airway and pushing any words that were forming to the pit of her stomach. The library is anything but quiet, maybe to her. Maybe, everyone wasn’t being as loud. Maybe, she was overthinking the voices. No, she hears them. She hears him.

     Exclamations of fate, dragons, and self-legends. No, she knows them all -- by tone, not words. She couldn’t. This isn’t her Odin. Gods, this isn’t even Odin. A man of a different name and younger skin. He isn’t her father, he can’t be her father -- why does she keep mistaking them both then? It’s unfair, she swears that fate is laughing at her. She knows it is. 

     What isn’t funny about a lost girl? Among strangers and customs she doesn’t know nor understand? What isn’t funny about a girl far from her home, in a land without that of her father’s embrace. No... she understands. It must be very funny -- she doesn’t laugh, not once.

     When the tears do arrive, they blind her. They burn her flushed cheeks, bite at the fading confidence in her mind. She pushes the book back on the shelf... but doesn’t move elsewise. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale -- 

     Her name echoes from behind her, and her concentration is broken. It’s at that moment, as a hand falls on her shoulder, that Ophelia realizes how similar their voices sound. Her shoulders shake and her bottom lip trembles pathetically as she cries. There wasn’t a reason to hide it anymore -- Gods, she was terrible at hiding it. Well... of course she was. Only her father was perfect at covering even the worst of wounds and tears. Only her father was as... perfect for her divine role.

     “P-Please don’t...” a sniffle breaks apart her words, “don’t look at me.”

     ( To cry in front of a reflection of your father. Just how cruel was fate? What did it want from her? What could she give? )

#missiletainned #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ���ᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ᴏʜ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ! ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴛᴇᴅ / ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ... ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ. ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴꜱ... ( owain ) #{ AW FUUUU } #{ MIK!!! IS THIS FUNNY TO YOU?? } #{ DO YOU *sniffles* DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?? } #{ okay but why does ophelia angst hit different than my other muses... EH more angst i guess! } #{ anyway.. thank you for the ask!!! } #{ also it's so freaking vague but yeah... owain is the broski who tapped her on the shoulder } #{ why? *slams head against a table* THINK FOR YOURSELF!! IDK!! } #{ anyway more drafts i disappear bye love ya }

[duskroine]

[ sacrifice ] - "I do not get pleased with fights- but I'd jump in the way to save you even if you are my retainer. Hmm- such nonsense is not forgotten by you, I know that."

non-verbal ask memes! - open

/ A heart smothered with devotion only has two paths. Obsession or loss. /

She doesn’t recognize the scream that falls from her own lips -- she couldn’t have made such a sound. She couldn’t have... she did. 

No, no, please. 

Lightning crackles around her fingers, a dance she’s not sure she’s willing to carry out. At least, that doubt was prior. Now, it’s faded to pitiful... pitiful ashes. The moment her hand presses against the bandit’s chest, Ophelia knows that he won’t get back up. He can’t -- she won’t allow him to. The incantation leaves a disgusting taste on her tongue, but she can’t swallow it. It’s companion is guilt.. rage.. disappointment. She had been blind, too focused on the pleasant hue of the prince’s eyes. Too focused on him. Just how disastrous was she?

It’s only when her ears are granted the blessing of hearing his words, that the heroine realizes just what fate has thrown at her. So utterly bitter -- when did her eyes begin to sting?

“Forrest!” she falls to his side, hands not as concentrated as her eyes. She looks at his face, his hands, the wound. Her hands touch his face, his hands, the -- “You... you...” words are lost in her throat, each and every syllable being dragged into her chest. To taunt her heart, to taunt her. “No, no, no, how could -- why did you... you shouldn’t have d-done that.” If he hadn’t stepped into the bandit’s line of sight, she would have been their main target. Ophelia would have received the blade to the chest -- not him... and honestly, she was fine with that. By fate, she wanted that to happen. Anything but this... anything but him.

“I...” it’s as if her vocabulary was struck alongside the prince. The façade breaks, shattering in front of her and falling to the ground. She doesn’t pick it back up -- that was strength she needed for him. “Stop.” It’s all she whispers, holding his hands over the wound and pressing down. Pushing against it with all but might, she almost calms down at the wince Forrest lets out. Almost.

Underneath rain and sorrow, Ophelia’s no longer the Chosen One. Nor is she a Heroine of Dusk. Crimson drips from the title, she no longer bears it. Not here, not now. Instead, she’s a little girl. Crying and hysterical. She’s broken, and at fate’s demise. She hates it -- the feeling of loss, of grief. Of crumbled hope.

“Spare me the forgiveness,” she doesn’t deserve it, “just press against the wound.”

She’s not strong, no, far from it -- but she tries. Attempt after attempt after attempt, until her hair has been matted against her scalp and the prince is safely in her arms. There’s a small stagger in her step, but it doesn’t elicit more than another wince from Forrest. She doesn’t run, or yell. She’s quiet as she walks, listening only to her liege’s breathing and the pattering of rain.

Something inside of her hopes... dearly... that she’ll be punished for this. By the wrath of his father or worst, her own. Yet nothing can pull the hatred seeping from her heart -- maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t too keen of her path.

#musing fabric #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜɪɴᴇ / ᴀ ʙᴇᴀᴄᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ / ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴍᴇ. ( forrest ) #{ I HATE YOU KEM } #{ DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CAN CRY?? WANNA SEE?? } #{ i'm telling leo.. grabs my box of tissues and runs } #{ just you wait... just you WAIT } #{ also.. it's oki everyone.. forrest hasn't died. i toss the 'yet' out the window and smile }

[duskroine]

[ dance ]

non-verbal ask memes! - open

It’s only when her palms press against her uniform that she realizes that she’s sweating. It’s humorous -- she doesn’t laugh. To be drawn to such a sight is... eh, rare. Not that her presence wasn’t always with the prince yards away from her, but their paths barely crossed anymore. In the Deeprealms, she was there to protect him. To hold him whenever he cried, to cook for him -- clean and serve -- yet here, he can prosper. He has been prospering. She can tell, even if their houses remain different.

A voice, somewhere in the back of her mind, tells her that this is wrong. It’s prying, it’s dangerous. It’s immoral... but the heroine can’t pull her gaze from the dancing prince. To say that he was one of the best dancers she’s seen would be... a bit unfair, but he was enjoying himself. He had to be -- the smile on his face burns any doubt she has. His movements fluid, a dance meant for two yet performed by one.

There’s a beat of silence. His hums now fade as his gaze locks onto hers. She doesn’t run -- maybe she should have. Instead, she simply freezes in place. The hall is left silent, only housing the faintest of footsteps. She imagines that they belong to faculty just outside these walls -- but when Forrest steps in front of her, she realizes that she was wrong. Very wrong.

“I...” Ophelia swallows the hesitation, “I must apologize for prying onto your moment of serene pleasure. S-Surely, this isn’t a righteous act of a retainer bound by --”

A pause separates her words, her breath, and she blinks. Did he... he couldn’t have just...

“You wish to... to dance with me?” 

She’s not a dancer -- nothing of the sorts. The heroine doesn’t leap into battle with grace and poise, no, she’s a storm. Anything but elegance. That didn’t match her, it matched him. Still does, even as Forrest holds a steady hand out towards her. Ophelia doesn’t hesitate to take it -- maybe she should have. He guides her back to the middle of the empty hall ( some say that there had been a grand ball here, had the prince attended? ) with little but a laugh. It’s pleasant, not in her head, but she knows it is.

“I’m afraid that I am not the greatest dancer there is, but if you wish to be accompanied by the Heroine of Dusk, then who am I to refuse?”

#musing fabric #ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜɪɴᴇ / ᴀ ʙᴇᴀᴄᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ / ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴍᴇ. ( forrest ) #{ mhmmm sorry i just think that they're two pretty neat besties }

[duskroine]

[ nap ]

non-verbal ask memes! - open

Silence is a strange entity. Unknown to the heroine, yet only revealing itself at rare moments of the day. This must have been one of them, for she hasn't spoken a word since the book was given to her. Reading was... also a strange entity. She's never liked to waste her time reading false lives but Ophelia can't ever deny a good story.

The sky fades into a dark sea of stars, yet the book still hasn't been placed down. In fact, she wasn't even aware of her surroundings. Well... in her defense, whoever gave her this shouldn't have.

"Why is the maiden marrying him if her fondness falls into the hands of a different man?" she frowns but doesn't move. "This has left me quite... confused."

Too unaware that her presence was being accompanied by someone the entire time. Also in her defense, who in fate's name would come into the library at this hour? ( truthfully, the girl had been there with her the moment she was given the book... aha? ) So when weight has fallen over her right shoulder, Ophelia barely bites back a shriek in time. No, no, she isn’t scared, it’s just that any danger could have been lurking in the shadows, and this very strange story had hypnotized her. Yeah... she's going with that.

"Who -- Mitama!" It's strands of pink that she only needs to see before she can easily tell the identity of her good ol companion. Then an idea shines in her mind, and she smiles. "Oh, golden poet, you hold much knowledge on this foreign subject. With your love being held in Siegbert's hands, surely, you would understand that it is eternal. Yes? Since one's soulmate is only chosen by fate, you wouldn't whisper vows to someone that isn't... asleep?"

A beat of silence passes after Ophelia manages to catch sight of her companion's expression. To her dismay and entertainment, the poet is asleep. Succumbed to the darkness of exhaustion although she seems to be perfectly fine with sleeping in the library. Oh... they are in the library. A frown pulls at her lips and the heroine sighs. 

“Goodnight, friend.” she whispers, before returning to the pages in her hands.

#ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ? ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴᴇ?! ᴏʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅ ɪ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀ! ( inbox ) #ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ. ( prompts ) #verseandrhyme #ɪ ɢɪꜰᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ᴏɴʟʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ / ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ / ʜᴏᴡ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ. ( mitama ) #{ i hold mitama.. bestie :) }