#( soa verse tag tba )

[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

[idefend-blog1]

‘ does that hurt? ‘

Patch Up The Broken Boy  | Meme Here  |  Accepting

           He can all but HEAR the smirk without even looking at her. There’s concern laced in, always is : somehow this perfect combination of SARCASM and genuine fear that color the brunette’s tone and make it damn near impossible to look at her. It’s too real, the shit that lies beneath the surface. In a life full of bullets and betrayal, THAT is what scares him. Knowing that this girl, strong and seemingly UNPHASED as she is, dreads the day the club returns a man short. The day they drink in his name and vow to make things “ RIGHT ”. She’s the only one smart enough to realize he isn’t interested in more blood being shed in his name. 

                         She isn’t his Old Lady. But she might as well be. 

           The only response she gets is little more than a grunt, though the corners of chapped lips turn up and his fingers twitch where they rest on his knees – if asked, he’d blame the sting of the alcohol against the open wound on his shoulder, but she’s biting her lip in the corner of his vision and FUCK, she knows. She always knows. Later, after she’s fucked the stress of the day from his system, she’ll call him out on it : bold and teasing and RIGHT. Big Bad Biker wanted to hold my hand, she’ll say, and he’ll act as though that voice isn’t the reason he continues to come home after every close-call. 

                                                          It is. 

#fortunedisdains #ii. answers . the answers to your prayers are never what you expect #soa verse tag pending #margarita tag tba

[allthatisleftinthedark]

Change for Maisie and Makoto! Maisie noticing changes about him

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒  (  prompts for the five senses. add [reversed] to reverse the action. feel free to change wording as needed & add details ) - accepting. @offrozenmemoirs

[ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 ] ― The sender (Maisie) notices something different about the receiver (Makoto)

In the alley behind the townhouse and meters from the soldier barracks of Dewburrow, Maisie Doscedar could hide. Undetected, unbothered. That much she can trust. 

Enshrouded in the darkness of the hanger, the gnome absconds from the early morning light and sits on a crate. The blue layer above her black dress is missing in this instance; instead, she is only in that black dress, whose length stops above her ankles. Her muddied and dark gray boots are cast aside and paired together behind her. Slightly waved and loose hair that reaches the nape of her neck is pulled back in a ponytail, some carnation pink strands resting against her cheek. Her brows furrow in concentration, her face flinching.

. . . . . . . . .

Elder Hilda's precision never eludes her; a thought trailends the litany of responsibilities you internally catalog. Each responsibility is ticked off, and "reconvene and discuss sanction" is the latest, with a bold red checkmark next to it. 

Momentarily reprieve, if you consider celebrating your progress, halts from a hot pain shooting from your leg. Your brow furrows. Hands involuntarily clench. With forceful, calming breathing, you pace yourself through gritted teeth. 

A year has passed since the recollection of Dewburrow, its children, and other children in villages in Northern Argyll from the Graneyean Academy of Arcane Arts. Many were freshmen; their academy beginnings halted before even completing a full year. Some were on the brink of graduation; others were preparing to survive midterms. All, however, were expertly herded and hurried away, with the Acadmey's reactions less than their gracious facade. 

And still, it feels like yesterday. 

That should have been you there. That should have been you taking the blow. That should have been you raising the sword. That should have been you after all this time of doing everything. The elders are right; you're finally slipping. You were never fit.

The internal critic, the ever-present commenatator, is that all-too-familiar voice. They don't waste a single second as they go through every flaw and mishap from your four decades of service. The same voice you hear directing and negotiating, delegating and defending, humming and laughing, soothing and correcting, and sometimes weeping and apologizing in whispers—it's you. 

Statis. No matter how many times you leave the town and everything around you changes strangely, the village remains constant. Elder Hilda, the "Dewburrow standard" voice in your head, and even the buildings that surround you are as similar to your first days, sweet-eyed and innocent, on the roads at 16 to the current days, glass-eyed and calloused, at 60 when you return home.

One side of your head is throbbing with an unwelcome headache. All of these comparisons are pointless. You knead at it lightly and carefully, mitigating the agony with your index and middle fingers. Too many late entrants have already thrown the elders' plans off track. The dangers they imagine are more than plausible. You close your eyes. The invasions and takeovers from the Graneyean Empire at Rivera will be right on our doorstep. 

The tension in the air is palpable as you contemplate the chaos awaiting each hinder. The weight of obligation falls disproportionately on your shoulders, anticipating that you will be thrust into the midst of a conflict yet again. As you were told to be, taught to be, and have been doing for all this time.

Flap-flap-flap. Gales from a storm's onset, the sounds of discord around while safely in the hurricane's eye

A powerful, slow, rhythmic sound catches your attention, originating from something far heavier than the common bird that flies overhead. Instinctively, you look upward, and your gaze locks upon a familiar but always striking sight. 

Against the spotless blue expanse of the sky, large draocnic wings, possessing the deepest blue-black scales you have ever seen, fly over. With each wingbeat, a resonant whoosh fills the air—a sound you focus on that soon drowns out the town's everyday sounds. 

Makoto Igarashi, the seated prince of Winter's court, one of the many children of the high spirit but the only son of the Dragon Empress, flies over the town of Dewburrow. Their raven black hair waves in the wind, and despite the great distance from ground to land, you immediately recognize the pockets of exposed skin that the spirit always reveals.

You envision the prince's keen, frigid stare surveying the village, too far beyond to notice your existence. His main interest is always on your family's estate, and as much as you can determine, this is only one of the numerous trips he takes to visit his childhood friend, your older sister, Isla. 

Four months ago, you two became acquainted and delved into the darkness of the Void world, accompanied by...

Your scarred hand waves, dispersing the heavy cloud of strain that floods your head as you recall it. The memories of that journey still linger, haunting your dreams. All it leaves is insatiable curiosity for the Void, yet heavy disappointment in reality. 

Makoto's existence was unknown to you until your abrupt disappearance into the woods at Isla's request to investigate the strange situation. You never expected to see him again after the first time you met him. Similarly, you never saw the other one again.

Yet he persists. Why? 

Makoto Igarashi is a specter of carnage. Though you are not a witness to a massacre on the warfront twenty years ago, the Graneyean Empire and its floating city frequently whisper the spotting of a large dragon burning through "superior" technology and helpless soldiers.

Spellbound to confess their histories in the Watcher's Tower, Makoto does not spare the fact that each page in his life is blood-spotted. Sharp canines peer behind sullen lips with each word that falls from his mouth; none are whiter than the human bones he cleaned efficiently and quickly after "cravings." 

At least, that's how every monster wants to be seen.  The thing about self-prescribed monsters is that they need to be convincing. A common mistake is showing one's hand too early. To gain power over another, a level of restraint is practiced; overwhelming someone, friend or foe, is the first step to failure. Overcompensation is the reality if one shows their cards too soon and has nothing else to support them. Though those easily scared and desperate to survive would kneel quickly, those are the ones who fall for the facade. Self-prescribed monsters perfect the art of illusion. 

True monsters see no reason to display their heinous acts at the forefront; they will lick their finger and turn a page of their story, plainly stating the rhyme and reason of their everyday lives. True monsters need not show their fangs and claws; they await and prey. 

Keen for observation and supplied by a natural weakness for curiosity, your eyes always perceive beyond the veil. A show of ferocity and treachery, Makoto's ridges and edges are supposed to make one bleed if they draw too close. His cold eyes can bear the weight of life lived for millennia by those who dare oppose or question him. Yet, those same glacy white eyes betray him—a momentary lapse of where the 'humanness' that all spirits bear peeks through.

'Do not come close to me. I cannot take this again.'  At the time you first met him in the Void, you were unsure what that meant.

As days turned to months, your initial intrigue grew, and the overall mystery grew. You peer behind the mask anytime he loosens its strings. A deep-seated need to understand the essence, the truth, of any creature has always been your burden. 

If a person can be a home, the heart is the hearth, and Makoto Igarashi refuses anyone to get beyond the property line; a deep snowy-covered pine forest surrounds his estate, and he refuses all people, all indisciminately seen as trespassers. 

Unseen in the deep forest, Makoto can flex his wings and lower his guard. His sharp fangs don't purposely peek beyond a curled lip of annoyance. Instead, he frowns. His hand does not shake as he fights for control of his mind against the blood prince's influence. Rather, he rests his palms flat, lowering himself to the ground.

Fallen flakes dot his hair, and the imprint of his knees and hands is also left in the snow. The Dragon Price kneels, head bowed. Waiting, listening, and contemplating.  To whom? You, the trespasser lucky enough to hide in these metaphorical woods, still do not know.  But you know a mourner's grimace when you see it. 

Fleeting glimpses of melancholy and a shortness of tolerance for another soul, Makoto grapples with his decision and growing irritation with reality.  He catches himself feeling or believing in something he rejected for himself.

Through the progression of several months, you notice that conflict in him is growing. It is no secret from him, from the family, or from you that Makoto's range of accepted companionship can be counted on two hands and can be reduced to one hand if not careful. 

Initially, his attitude towards you was one of sheer tolerance; your presence was accepted because of the bond with Isla and because of Lady Spring's (his paternal grandmother's) blessing over your bloodline. Memories of the Void have already revealed to you that the threshold for his patience is shorter than that of Isla. 

By your own insistence and through letters and invitations to your home, interactions increase, and the days of Makoto's visits prolong. 

Ears twitch, and his gaze lingers longer when he does not expect your attentiveness. He is not standing around and politely waiting for conversation to pass, but he now listens. Conversations that would see him typically aloof or indifferent now draw him in; a query for his opinions and insights he begins answering, even seeking yours. An impromptu history lesson or winded explanation on your end meets with his expectant but stoic expression, a stark contrast to his curt manner with others in the town and your other siblings. 

The ice begins cracking, not loudly but in subtle ways. Despite how cold he can be, Makoto's disposition is warming.with a reason you don't completely understand. It was almost as if the icy facades of Rivera are slowly melting, revealing the hidden rivers beneath. 

On your family's property, you were sitting on the fence one evening when Makoto came over to sit next to you. Instead of having the customary stiff stance, he had one that made him appear relaxed and almost human. He leans forward, his lips in view. The talk flowed easily, touching on both immense and mundane things. And as the sun sinks lower into the horizon, illuminating the sky with shades of gold and purple, you see that the dragon prince has been affected by the most basic human emotion—affection.

"Fffff--" Your train of thought is interrupted by an acute pain shooting up from your ankle. You wince, glancing down. Purple and pink blemishes mar your heels—a sight that not only stings upon mere viewing but also aches piercingly. Anytime your hands move to touch them with the gentlest care, your leg trembles in response.

The sound echoes in your ears, and your head sinks, filled with memories. They are unrelenting reminders that... always... find... their... mark.

In the darkness of the alley, a place you hoped would offer respite, it seems it's still an avenue where the ghosts of your past and looming shadows of the future choose to visit. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids slowly close as your hands rest atop the crate.

You open your eyes, staring up at the spotless blue sky. Makoto Igarashi is now a black dot on the horizon. 

"...I hope you're well." She sighs. "I'll see you home." 

#offrozenmemoirs #⋆ * correspondences acknowledged and responded ; maisie doscedar‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * exchanges with the emissary ; maisie doscedar‚ ic * ⋆ #( soa verse tag tba ) #corporal punishment tw

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"You know, we should be keeping up with our dance practice."

Seraph's voice is light as he closes his book and sets it on the stand next to his chair. He gets up and stretches out. They've put it off for obvious reasons, but the elf has kept practice on his own. Of course, dancing by himself isn't the same as having a partner to do so with.

His mind always returns to that night in the Rowdy Griffon, the feeling of elation and shyness at being bought to the stage always in his mind when he practiced his dancing. It wasn't as if he needed to know how, but it became one of his favorite ways to pass the time. He makes his way over to Sino, giving a bow before he stands back up and offers a hand to her.

"May I have the honor of dancing with you, my knight?"

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Retired for the day, Sino runs her gloved fingers through her long, thick ponytail. She separates the grayish-purple locks and faded pink highlights before twirling one strand around her finger. Her left hand haunts the back of her head, toying with the thick band fastening her hairstyle. "Mmm, not tonight," she muses before hooking her thumbs into the pockets of her pants.

The gnome glides back and forth across the foyer in her fluffy blue rabbit slippers, her eyes flitting around her surroundings. Her gunblade was comfortably retired by the couch, and her large travel backpack nestled comically between the towering belongings of her elven companions.

The kitchenette cleared up any last-minute snacking amongst the three of them. Any spare bottles of Elven Absinthe are in line of sight on the counter, but pushed away for a large map of the island city of Abarlio. An extra notebook holds down one corner of the map, while the parchment has been scratched around with stunning investigative work from yours truly. Never mind that penmanship is ragged, sharp, angular, and precise, unlike someone's snobbishly airy cursive.

Decompressing nowadays involves less inebriation, clanking bottles, and slumping over a mattress in pitch-black darkness. Instead, there are cozier conclusions where Sino sets herself with a book with her companion, Soot, nestled on her chest. A roaring fireplace might accompany the sound of crisp page turning and the clangorous snores of a 4-month-old raven. As present as the opportunities were for it, the gnome, admittedly, took the longest to acclimate to such intimacies when it meant it involved her, not her being a quiet onlooker who managed to be in orbit.

The lancer is skimming through his latest thrift store finds on the island. He has put his heavy boots on the front of the bed and is sitting in the foyer. In the meantime, the sorcerer has taken over the bathroom and is now on the sixth step of an extensive skincare and haircare routine.

Seraph's attention lies elsewhere now as he candidly expresses a reminder. His book hisses shut as he places it on the stand, already committed to resuming that practice.

Sino's hands rest on her hips, pausing her brief sweep of the hotel room. She blows a loose lock from her hair, raising a brow. "Has Soup not kept up with it?" An immediate retort slips her lips with that lopsided smile. With her crystal clear voice, she assumes (hopes) that it begins nagging the pristine princess at the vanity.

"Well.." Her gaze strayed to the table, blocking the spacious rug that served as the ideal practice area. She moves toward the very obstruction that Seraph is aiming at as he stands up and moves in her direction. It slips easily off the carpeting and toward the kitchenette as she presses the rear of her waist on the table.

Once the rug is barren, Sino dusts off her hands. "Not as roomy as the stage in the Rowdy Griffon, but beggars can't be choosers! That makes them whiners and not whining in the fun way, either."

Folding his arm over his chest, his right hand resting above his heart, Seraph bows. Lithe and gentle, it is almost unheard, but a little chuckle leaves the gnome as her nose wrinkles. 

Almost forty years ago, it was, but she once enjoyed tales spun by the eternal void, the father of the sky, Lord of Night. One of his favorites to recite were always the stories of people of courts, mainly valiant knights, and their lovers outside of courts—the seemingly ordinary peasant with a golden heart beneath. Never did she sigh so syrupy sweetly like Seraph does with his stories, but she could tell that her patron warmed himself to stories of the mortal world. 

'I wonder if those stories remind Night of her. Perhaps it befits their story: people of two different worlds finding and seeing past what no one else can see in them.'

"Is that what you've been calling me all this time?" Her brows raised as she accepted his invitation, resting her palm in his hand. "Knightly things aren't quite my aesthetic; I'm not clanking around in armor or anything like that." She giggles. "I don't think a gunblade is anything remotely common in those fairy tales you've read either." 

"Are you taking the lead this time, Seraph? Or should I?" She tilts her head.

#⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * interactions with the independent contractor ; sino‚ ic * ⋆ #( soa verse tag tba ) #offrozenmemoirs

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"Sino! Would you like to read with me? I got the newest book from Hard in Hightown, and it's pretty good so far!"

He knows noir and romance novels aren't everyone's cup of tea, but he likes sharing something he enjoys with his party members. Plus. It's just nice to simply spend time with them.

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

Settling into her favorite chair within the Lenoir mansion, Sino reclines against the plush purple wingback chair that faces the lit fireplace in the den. With the latest edition of the Roaring Gazette in hand, she perused through each page, flipping through, her eyes skimming over the recent news. 

On the other hand, she holds her lit pipe. She brings it to her lips and inhales deeply. As she pulls the mouthpiece away, a serpentine stream of smog escapes her lips, painting smoky strokes in the air before drifting away. 

While leafing through the current events, the gnome catches the recurring mention of a certain Estrella. 'How quickly she returns to being seen by the entire duchy after missing.' A small smile comes before her eyes move elsewhere. The gossip column theorizes wildly about strange rumors of a town to the south, allegedly cursed by a shadowy specter preying on children and women. A long, drawn-out snort of amusement escapes her. 'Funny how information spreads,' she thinks, idly waving her pipe in the air.

'If we halved that section, there can be a person of a week printed there. Wonder how we'd be able to submit people. Tulia would be a perfect fit there. I can see it now: Tulia Thornshield, The Crimson Eye's Brain and Brawns. Soup would be able to suggest the perfect sketch for it...and she would be massively embarrassed . . . Sounds like a plan.'

The subtle creaking of a door behind him draws Sino's head in that direction. Emerging from the dining room is Seraph, his attire familiar but comfortable without heavy layers of armor, with his dreads neatly drawn into a high bun. In his hand, he holds a thick book. Each step he takes defies gravity, seemingly etherial. Upon closer watch, his eyes are light and dreamy as he clutches the book close. 

"What's that you've got there?" Sino snaps the gazette open, the parchment crinkling under her touch. The cleric doesn't hesitate, shortening distance, his eyes brimming with want. Presenting the book to her, he reveals the cover: Hard in Hightown. 

Her lips press tightly together, a valiant effort to restrain herself. Every part of her must be restrained from making a joke that is inching to come out. Almost visible. Bulging, even. 

"This is part of a series? Never heard of it," she admits, neatly folding the papers and placing them on the teaside table next to her chair. "How long have you been reading that for? Has it been an old flame of yours since your time at the cloister? Or did you discover it on your travels?"

The bookcover, in dreary deep blue shades, depicts an old man's face in the backdrop, skin sagging and frowning, with a young black-haired woman in the foreground, a scar across her left cheek and nose. Deciphering the genre from its cover is a challenge enough. 

Sino can already imagine her shadowy patron, towering and bent, chiding her with a wag of his bony, pale finger: "Don't judge a book by its cover." 

Not everyone has the time to read every line. Some of us can only afford time for a synopsis!Why do I feel like I'm taking that too literally? 

"If you don't mind an audience, shall you bless my ears with your voice and read it out loud?" Sino adjusts herself, drawing her legs into the chair. She gestures to the spacious couch next to the teaside table, which has ample room to accommodate him, the minstrel, and herself. Even Freya and Soot can, if they choose to cozy up between them. 

Sino blinks, baffled. Why did that image cross my mind? 

"I'm not sure if anyone's mentioned this to you or if Soup has brought it up. If no one has, and especially if Soup hasn't, I'm going to beat them to it," Sino rolls her wrist. "Your voice is soothing and would make for a perfect voiceover for theater. You could narrate my morning routine, and I would believe myself to be a starlet on stage." 

"Tell me how it all begins. I'm all ears." Her elbows prop on the armrest closest to the neighboring couch. Her eyes glimmer, silently pleading, almost disarmingly persuasive, ready to counter any hesitations he might harbor. 

#⋆ * interactions with the independent contractor ; sino‚ ic * ⋆ #⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆ #( soa verse tag tba ) #offrozenmemoirs #[ ooc: thank you for the ask luca!! ] #[ ooc: sino's all ears for seraph :3cc ]

[allthatisleftinthedark]

[ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 ] ― sender worships receiver’s body (Sino and Seraph)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒  (  prompts for the five senses. add [reversed] to reverse the action. feel free to change wording as needed & add details ) - accepting. @offrozenmemoirs

[ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 ] ― sender (Seraph) worships receiver’s (Sino) body Modified.

Lord of Night, seer of dreams and slumber, grant me a soundless night and the willpower to sleep through this. 

For someone so closely bound to the high spirit, Sino's prayers usually find an answer. Unfortunately, who answers is the reason for her pleadings. 

The Lenoir Mansion's ground floor is a sanctuary of silence at night. Its serene ambiance can cajole even the lightest of sleepers to slumber. Sino, who drifts to sleep with ease, has no complaints. Nothing stirs in the darkness, and her eyes may find respite and close. But tonight is different. 

Lying flat on a large mattress accommodating her gnomish stature, she is esconded in a cascade of pastel purple and pink hair. Her right forearm drapes over her slightly damp forehead, and her left arm rests beside her on the bed. 

Countless hours into the evening, she stares at the ceiling, it dancing with gentle candlelight waves, and the light traces across her sleepless expression, accentuating her increasingly narrowed eyes. Parallel to her form is her pillow, half her height—the one she often embraces and wraps herself around.

Slightly disheveled, her sleepshirt is somewhat askew, revealing the arcs of a healthy midriff, while her shorts expose the middle of the thighs. Socks once adorned by her feet now lie discarded and rejected, removed by restless heels. 

Cool air caresses against exposed flesh. Sino's eyes dart downward from the ceiling, momentarily distracted. Her thigh twitches in response to the attention of a breeze. 

What is with me? 

No matter the adjustment or alteration, precipitation clings to her, from the base of her exposed, marred neck to her thighs. She kicked away the caramel bedsheets, leaving one tangled around her leg. Even her nightly plush companion was shoved out as comfort eluded her from physical contact. 

Passing through the night is the reprieve that answers but does not acknowledge her. Her whispered prayers fall on silent ears. 

The second floor spills secrets from the floor above through the damnably thin ceiling connecting to the above floor. Penetrating through the measly barrier are the wobbles and hums of a bed frame. The mansion's cracks carry—ah!—the unexpected gasp of the last voice she wants to hear (unless her name spills from those lips). It relays the—mmm—relieved sigh of the last voice she never wishes to imagine (lest she's the reason).

The hand against her moist forehead tightens to a fist, and each heartbeat constricts. 

It seems her prayers have been heard, but by the very person, she desperately tries to keep out of her fantasies.

Get up and go. Conscientious voices urgency, suggesting the need to abscond. Don't fall into the obvious trap. Fingers quiver as her jaw tightens, teeth gritting. Nothing comes out of this besides Soup's satisfaction in knowing you hear him every night. 

Her hand on the bed flattens as she instinctively opens and closes her fist. That he knows you hear the way that Seraph works him up now. Her bare nape feels the bed covers cling to her skin. Before, it was those little moans and loud breathing from Seraph and Soup conducting and contorting that inexperienced body of his. 

How much more Sino's chest hitches, as does her breath, a tingling coursing the heat in her chest to her fingertips and down to her abdomen. 

How much is Seraph doing so deftly to make Soup create such sounds? To make his head rock back, fingers digging into his scalp.

The forearm resting on her forehead draws downward, feeling the traces of heat dragging along at her fingertips. The slip of her pink tongue licks her bottom lip, and her index finger traces over them.

His eyes are so white that only the hint of icy blues betrays that original assumption. Imagine those gazing down at the naked canvas of a body, the bare canvas of a body, the air fresh with the scent of dew on grass blades from a recent rainstorm. 

She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, biting down. So gentle is her touch down her throat, feeling the ridges of nearly torn flesh down to her exposed clavicle. Her shirt displaces a bit before her palm finds the curve of her stomach. 

Tender lips press into the back shoulder, finding the perfect spot to begin mapping his lips against the skin. His hands dig into the dips of the waist, each pressured kiss leaning the other forward. But his hold keeps them steady, allowing him the advantage of kissing down their spine. 

Snaking beneath the shirt, her hand finds her right breast. Kneading it, her thumb and index finger feel and pinch around the sensitive skin.

Before she knows it, he moves to her collarbone, the impressions of his teeth barely touching her skin. Assuringly, his thumbs rub circles against the thighs, them slowly spreading a bit at the invitation. 

That unassuming hand begins its descent. Knuckles brush through the plush cover before her hand begins her outer thigh. They slither into the depths of her shorts. As the tips of her fingers journey to the inner thigh, she meets the wet reality beginning to plaster between her legs. 

Cupping her face, Seraph looks at her once, with his chin at the center of her abdomen. Permission granted, a lop-sided smile comes to her alongside the ragged breathing. Her fingers brush against his face before his descent continues. 

Sino buries her face against the mattress, turning her face stubbornly. Legs tense, her knees pulled up before her hand, locating the night's uncomfortable heat source. A faint whimper escapes her. The flat of her palm massages against the folds of her cunt, her thigh muscles tensing and her pelvis coordinating to the motions.

Seraph's firm hand hooks her trembling knee over his scarred shoulder, his lips dedicated to the thigh, and pepper kisses higher and higher. Hot breath so close to the core, even a knuckle grazing right against the lips. 

The gnome bites her lips, the pad of her thumb focusing on the clit. Two fingers thrust into her, in motions towards her navel. Her teased breast pinches down over the areola.

The last time they make eye contact, he looks almost unsure, But her hand guides him down, only able to smile and ask, "Can you really show me what you can do?" Rough hands dig into her hips as he pulls her forward, and --

All Sino knows is that the curled fingers inside her, finding the right spot, almost knuckle deep, are layered with the thick essence of her pleasure. Panting fills the air, wordless and airless, slickness around her inner thighs, her panties pulling in rhythm to her slightly arching hips. 

Teary-eyed, the gnome's breath is cut short. Her toes curl and uncurl, the heels of her feet digging into the mattress. Sucking the cool air through her teeth, all the warmth tingles her body that craves and aches. 

Body convulsing from the intensity, she knows her fingers are squeezed with each spasm, and her knees buckle. Trembles overwhelm her. She pinches her nub, takes a deep breath, and does it repeatedly. Almost on the edge, almost to the point.

Writhing, the fingering becomes more rapid, deeper; huffing out pleads to feel every sensation that her laborious, begging body would let her. Her hips roll faster as her fingers pinch her nipple, flick it and yank. 

Almost there, almost there--..

Sino's body arches sharply, a jolt coursing from her abdomen and moving everywhere. She clamped down on her lips, forcing herself not to cry out, even as her hips bucked involuntarily. 

At once, and finally, the strength in her body saps; that coiling in her stomach snaps, her form collapsing against the mattress. Her hips ease their pace as the aftershocks subside until at a still. Cold air greeted her sweat-slicked back, her skin prickles and a shiver running down her spine. 

Erratic breathing, the gnome lays there with her chest heavy. Her fingers, coated with the evidence of a job well-done, lay limp against her thigh and breast. Between the spaces of her fingers, she feels the webbing of her body between her middle and ring finger. 

With a groggy effort, Sino untangles herself. Her clothes are more undone than ever: shorts half-drawn down, and her sleepshirt rucked up, exposing her perked breasts to the cool night air. A dull ache is further down, her thighs and between it still pulsate from the fervent contortions and squeezing she forced. 

Palms splay out on the mattress, and the gnome steadily sits up, her gaze landing on the pillow beside her. In accusatory silence, the pillow stares back. She bowed her head, shaking it before she adjusted it behind her against the bed board to support. 

Reaching over, Sino begins rummaging to the bedside stand beside her and pulls out her pipe. A moment later, a flicker of a match illuminates her face, an amber glow tracing her tired features as she lights the pipe. After one long inhale, she closes her eyes and reclines her head. 

Drawing out her exhale, her eyes slowly open, back to staring at that forsaken ceiling. This time, it is silent.

No Soup, No Seraph. 

Not a morsel of sound to be traced in the mansion.

Alone like before and how it is supposed to be. Keep moving, and do not fraternize with what cannot be. 

Smoke parts from her lips; all left now is a frown and her bleeding heart. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

#⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆ #⋆ * interactions with the independent contractor ; sino‚ ic * ⋆ #( soa verse tag tba ) #usfw cw #usfw tw #offrozenmemoirs

[allthatisleftinthedark]

[ 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 ] ― sender strokes receiver’s hair (Sino and Seraph)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒  (  prompts for the five senses. add [reversed] to reverse the action. feel free to change wording as needed & add details ) - accepting. @offrozenmemoirs

[ 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 ] ― sender (Seraph) strokes receiver's (Sino) hair [ song suggestion - Nothing's New by Rio Romero Timeline: Arc 2, in Ingora before boarding the Wave-Soaked Maiden

Physicality amongst the champions of balance found its own equilibrium.

Each, with a profound appetite for warmth and touch, tended to them uniquely. Living up to their titles bestowed by the goddess, the elven sorcerer and cleric were drawn to one another like a bee and sugarwater. Incandescent exchanges and escapades into the night illustrate how the aching of heartbreak and the spiritedness of curiosity meld together, holding and clinging, seeking and gaining. 

Two have been spoken of, but what of the third? The final member was starkly different, starting with being a gnome. Boasting a height of 4'0" with the assistance of her heels and typically at 3'9" with naturally purple hair with pink highlights, the gunslinger obtrudes alongside her lankier, sharper-eared, magic-capable companions. 

For Sino of No Name, her heart's dwellings are not fickle; superficial wants are answered. If she wanted a drink, she had one. If the urge to throw a dart hits her, she indulges. Capricious antics would never define her; she harks to her consistency as a badge of pride. Cursory fancies, however, never breach past the exterior of mischief and merriment; beneath lay a myriad of emotions kept away. 

Comforts can be either alleviating or numbing for Sino of No Surname. Hollow is the heart grieving mistake after mistake; the beginning of their tale in the merry band united them at the cost of loss. First, the snow-white-haired champion of the north; then, the raven-black-haired champion of the void. Like many times before, the vagrant was typically lonely in their travels. Seeking solace in the boisterous ambiance of taverns, she partakes in festivities while the others stay together. With a heavy pint in hand and booze swishing in her skull, she lulls easily, enjoying the residual warmth of another's bed. 

Alas, it does not sate her—it does not fill the void within her.

It became evident during their extended stay in Ingora. At least, that was when she realized it.

The fateful night of the incident was hours before the cleric's sudden departure to train beneath the Lady of Death's wing.

Retired on the plush cushions of an aged sofa, her waning moon-yellow irises stare upon the peeling ceiling in the shared living space of the tavern room. Her ears twitch—muted sounds travel from the adjoining rooms. The hums of a bed creaking, the soft thuds of boots dropping, a mattress hissing at the sudden weight, and the secret, nervous whispers began that night—the unmistakable cadence of intimacy. Her right hand's fingers curl in and flatten out before her eyelids slowly close, and a pronounced frown is etched on her face.

She is not a witness to the scene by eyes, but her ears recall it all. Sometimes, it keeps her awake at night. The following day, her playful banter and tongue-in-cheek commentary recant the escapades of the prior night. She catches glimpses of the survivors. Sometimes, they would awkwardly limp out, sluggishly drag themselves around, or have some pep and step. Always, they manage out fine. 

Yet, awake at night, it haunts her as her eyes envision the imprints of another at her bedside, a ghostly figment of her imagination. Sometimes, her stomach twists, hearing a sigh, gasp, or muffled laugh from next door. Of course, he tampered with the sound suppression runes. She'd think bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut. Of course, he wants me to hear. 

To drown out the noise, she'd resort to rummaging, finding a quick solution. There is a stash—a particular remedy to numb her senses. Of course, I know a way to ignore it. At other times, she'd leave the shared spaces, whether in a tavern room or the sprawling Lenoir mansion and wait for dawn. Of course, I know how to subdue this strangeness in my chest. But the unsettling feeling persisted. 

If she craved it, she looked elsewhere. Always. 

On another day in the Lenoir mansion, all is the same for the champions. Within the dim glow of the lower floor of the mansion's tower, various components of Sino's gunblade sprawled out dismantled masterfully. The familiar weight of its pieces in her hand, even in her tired stupor, comforts her. Each piece, each adjustment, was a favorite puzzle of hers; countless times, she solved it.

A low yawn draws from her, heavy eyelids lowering and raising lethargically. 

On the other end of the round table sits Seraph, the cleric now champion. His eyes narrowed at the pages of the thick book in his hands, one he found rummaging through the bookcase in the foyer. Another of his many romance books, this one belonging to a series he had never heard of before, was something he excitedly shared with her and Soup in the dining room as they partake in breakfast. 

He lingers a breath away; only his slow breath makes his presence known. His sharp, elven features were softened by the amber luminescence pouring in. Another page is turned as she hums to herself.

Alas, with her palms resting on the table's edges, Sino's head was slightly adrift.

A chair creaks lowly. Seraph's shadow elongates against the wooden floor before uniting with hers. Half-lidded eyes had previously watched the deftness of her movements and precision. A quiet beckoning pulls her closer. 

Something hooks through the long, flowing fringe that frames her face. A finger, cool and slender, runs through her purple-and-pink hair before twirling around the hair. She is so unexpected, careful, and sweet that she is drawn in. She finds herself leaning in for the comfort of a touch. A sigh escapes her. 

Her eyes draw open slowly. In Seraph's palm, the weight of her world rests. His eyes were like moonlit lakes, more profound and enigmatic up close, yet they had a lingering kindling. Never cold, but always soothing and kind. 

For a heartbeat, Sino wonders: Is this what Soup has the privilege of seeing every morning? The tranquility, the belonging? 

Reflected in his eyes, she saw herself. Oh, it was more than just her visage. 

Gnawing, her stomach knots. The unease, the same quiet searching to find that moment when all will fall apart under the pressure. 

Just as the vulnerability threatens to overflow, she jerks away. The air chills; their shared connection dissipates as quickly as it comes. She recoils and steps back.

They stand apart, their eyes staring into the silence. Seraph's hand falls to his side in defeat, any query of what could've been overshadowed by unsureness darkening his face. 

"Sorry!" Sino forcibly laughs. "Sleep isn't with me these days." 

Turning back to her gunblade, she wished for nothing more than to escape that gnawing yearning.

#⋆ * interactions with the independent contractor ; sino‚ ic * ⋆ #⋆ * lettered received and responded ; sino‚ asks * ⋆ #( sino and seraph tag ) #( soa verse tag tba ) #offrozenmemoirs