SION ASTAL. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sunderings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pawnstorm2016-10-02 07:46 pm
sunderings) wrote in pawnstorm2016-10-02 07:46 pm
[CLOPEN] through the light that illuminates everything
Who: Sion Astal & You!
When: 10/3 - 10/8.
Where: Gammon & Caissa!
What: Kingly failure on the job, singing, and domestic affairs (oh my).
Rating: PG?!
October 3rd - 4th ⇰ Cochrane, Gammon | Photo Tour (Job/Open!)
[ He flies on high, La Vista's wings of light ablaze at his back, a camera in his hands as he photographs Gammon's natural treasures from a bird's-eye view, sailing effortlessly over the Emerald Lakes until....! There is murmurous protest from La Vista itself, and though it is far from the first time he's received complaint from his Hero's weaponry (it seems the curse of Kings, to be subject to tantrums of the weapons which they wield), this surely marks the very first instance when he hasn't been able to quell them...!
And so: he plummets, wings of light dispersing into a thousand filament-fine strands of aetherous nothingness as he falls, silvered hair streaking behind him.
Apologies, Hero, if you were enjoying a lake-side picnic directly below, this scenario may end in one of three ways: broken bones (yours, if Sion should land atop you—thank goodness he can heal!!), an expert catch, or the King's own show of grace (a wind spell, with which to break his fall, and accidentally blow your picnic away?!). ]
October 5th - 8th ⇰ Coastal District, Caissa | M-m-manaplay?! (Open!)
[ Mana streams may catch the errant Hero's eye, should they find themselves wandering Caissa's coastal district in survey of the autumnal flush of color. The farmland nearest the coast is a patchwork of deep golds (barley, bending in the wind), brighter yellows (sunflowers, resilient of seasonal cold), and orange (marigold and an array of harvest gourds), all hues encompassed by mana-threads gathered not by the windmills, their sails catching mana from the ocean breeze, but by a King's song—an incantation which holds him still, amid the flowing, perpetual motion of farmland and field. Above the sussurating wind and distant sound of sea, his voice rises, and the world resonates with his melody—
(I see a spark of life shining; I hear a young minstrel sing. A beautiful roaring scream of joy and sorrow, so extreme. There is a love in me raging, a joyous magical feeling!)
—and the mana streams dance, coalescing into a magic which gathers the zest of fallen, dead vegetation and sees it flourishing within the bounds of the spell, and all those Heroes within its healing circle rejuvenated. For this is the power of King's rank magic: drawing upon mana from nature to revitalize allies...!
...even if acting as a channel, a living, breathing, conduit, should be more taxing than Sion had initially realized. His song cutting short, he falters—swaying—but catches himself (with grace), turning the motion instead into a pivot with which to face present company!
Why, of course he noticed you. ]
Shall I sing another song for you?
October ??? ⇰ Coastal District, Caissa | CLOSED TO ALICE
[ He draws.
Inked quill taken to parchment, the Hero King's thoughts are elsewhere, far from the seaside cottage he shares with his Lady (his Lady who has been curiously absent for the vast majority of the day—wherever it is that her adventures have carried her, he knows that there will be a story to tell when she returns home, safe and sound!), adrift in a landscape which has come to life beneath his fingertips, illustrated with a cartographer's accuracy and an artist's flowing script.
He draws, and he thinks of how, nearly eight months ago to the date, he'd stood upon the edge of the Southern Country of Ali with all his Empire's might at his back, poised and at the ready to take the territories of the Republic of Belis. His campaign to see the world of Menoris united by love, all countries come together beneath a great flood of renewal, his kingdom's banner of white and blue...
Would he return to it? The vision which he'd glimpsed, burned into his mind's eye (as his own men had been, by his own hand; his own order), had it truly come to pass realms away from here?
Golden eyes narrowed, sharpened to gleaming knives in a fit of what could only be described as King's fit (of brooding), he does not sense his Lady's presence until Alice is close, beside him at the table, and there is the softest, sweetest sound--...
A kitten's mewl???
(If his eyes go wide, round as saucers in childish surprise, at least no one but Alice will glimpse the sight...!) ]
When: 10/3 - 10/8.
Where: Gammon & Caissa!
What: Kingly failure on the job, singing, and domestic affairs (oh my).
Rating: PG?!
October 3rd - 4th ⇰ Cochrane, Gammon | Photo Tour (Job/Open!)
[ He flies on high, La Vista's wings of light ablaze at his back, a camera in his hands as he photographs Gammon's natural treasures from a bird's-eye view, sailing effortlessly over the Emerald Lakes until....! There is murmurous protest from La Vista itself, and though it is far from the first time he's received complaint from his Hero's weaponry (it seems the curse of Kings, to be subject to tantrums of the weapons which they wield), this surely marks the very first instance when he hasn't been able to quell them...!
And so: he plummets, wings of light dispersing into a thousand filament-fine strands of aetherous nothingness as he falls, silvered hair streaking behind him.
Apologies, Hero, if you were enjoying a lake-side picnic directly below, this scenario may end in one of three ways: broken bones (yours, if Sion should land atop you—thank goodness he can heal!!), an expert catch, or the King's own show of grace (a wind spell, with which to break his fall, and accidentally blow your picnic away?!). ]
October 5th - 8th ⇰ Coastal District, Caissa | M-m-manaplay?! (Open!)
[ Mana streams may catch the errant Hero's eye, should they find themselves wandering Caissa's coastal district in survey of the autumnal flush of color. The farmland nearest the coast is a patchwork of deep golds (barley, bending in the wind), brighter yellows (sunflowers, resilient of seasonal cold), and orange (marigold and an array of harvest gourds), all hues encompassed by mana-threads gathered not by the windmills, their sails catching mana from the ocean breeze, but by a King's song—an incantation which holds him still, amid the flowing, perpetual motion of farmland and field. Above the sussurating wind and distant sound of sea, his voice rises, and the world resonates with his melody—
(I see a spark of life shining; I hear a young minstrel sing. A beautiful roaring scream of joy and sorrow, so extreme. There is a love in me raging, a joyous magical feeling!)
—and the mana streams dance, coalescing into a magic which gathers the zest of fallen, dead vegetation and sees it flourishing within the bounds of the spell, and all those Heroes within its healing circle rejuvenated. For this is the power of King's rank magic: drawing upon mana from nature to revitalize allies...!
...even if acting as a channel, a living, breathing, conduit, should be more taxing than Sion had initially realized. His song cutting short, he falters—swaying—but catches himself (with grace), turning the motion instead into a pivot with which to face present company!
Why, of course he noticed you. ]
Shall I sing another song for you?
October ??? ⇰ Coastal District, Caissa | CLOSED TO ALICE
[ He draws.
Inked quill taken to parchment, the Hero King's thoughts are elsewhere, far from the seaside cottage he shares with his Lady (his Lady who has been curiously absent for the vast majority of the day—wherever it is that her adventures have carried her, he knows that there will be a story to tell when she returns home, safe and sound!), adrift in a landscape which has come to life beneath his fingertips, illustrated with a cartographer's accuracy and an artist's flowing script.
He draws, and he thinks of how, nearly eight months ago to the date, he'd stood upon the edge of the Southern Country of Ali with all his Empire's might at his back, poised and at the ready to take the territories of the Republic of Belis. His campaign to see the world of Menoris united by love, all countries come together beneath a great flood of renewal, his kingdom's banner of white and blue...
Would he return to it? The vision which he'd glimpsed, burned into his mind's eye (as his own men had been, by his own hand; his own order), had it truly come to pass realms away from here?
Golden eyes narrowed, sharpened to gleaming knives in a fit of what could only be described as King's fit (of brooding), he does not sense his Lady's presence until Alice is close, beside him at the table, and there is the softest, sweetest sound--...
A kitten's mewl???
(If his eyes go wide, round as saucers in childish surprise, at least no one but Alice will glimpse the sight...!) ]
no subject
You are not the first man to suggest that I am much too green to dole out good counsel. [ A brief pause, a moment taken to right himself—a hand, carded through an impossibly long fall of hair; La Vista's beaded necklace centered once again upon his shoulders. And when he turns to Koumei, the man may have very much been greeted by a (playful, outrageous, theatric) flutter of full, silvered lashes. ] But I am not so young.
[ Physical appearances aside, though he is cursed as his Lord Father had been, left frozen in time, immortal and bound to the fate of Menoris, his true age is...! ]
I will be twenty-one on the twenty-first of Chrysanth. [ In a little over a month, then—it is strange to think how time passes them by. (Intolerable, to think that he has spent nearly nine months in a foreign realm when his own hangs, suspended in peril, with only ten years time left in existence.) ] And I shall worry as I please for a friend.
[ A friend who has taken him by the hand for the second time in one night. Humming softly, Sion flexes his fingers in Koumei's grasp before brushing his thumb along the back of the man's hand, the caress a tender one. Over-familiar. But then, they have always been, Koumei's words from the day they'd first met lingering with him still.
Two of a kind. ]
Though... my mind is set at ease by the freedoms, now, within your grasp. While we are bound as Heroes, this realm is much kinder than the existences we have both known. [ His words are quiet, but spoken with strength; innocent but knowing. Always, he has been an odd juxtaposition of traits, a King who wished only to laugh foolishly and smile with others at heart, even as the weight of the crown demanded that he burn all the world before him. ] If I remind you of your brother, perhaps it is only because by birthright, we are meant to shoulder all the majesty and all the horror of the realm. We bear it, so that others do not have to. But here, in this place...
[ A little desperately (despite himself) he squeezes Koumei's hand, fingers curling about the older man's. ]
...I see flashes of the world I wish to create for my people. [ A soft exhale. ] A kingdom where everyone has the right to exist, to live in equality where they might spend their days as they would please, even if that pleasure should be something so simple as a lazy, afternoon nap.
[ And that is, perhaps, the only part of his story which is worth telling.
More importantly...!! ] But Koumei...
[ This is really..... serious...... okay........!! ] ...how old are you?
no subject
I ammend my remark, in that case.
[His tone was somber as he spoke, a touch too grave for the informal and painfully sweet cadence of this conversation. Speaking so plainly was as normal for him as a wrinkled overcoat and a lamp that had long grown cold from reading too far into the night. Formalities were sprinkled in for the sake of politeness alone-- and were not something he reserved only for those of equal status.
It was what had earned him the respect of the armies-- for, after the bowmen fired their bolts and the swordsmen finished their dire dance, they were all indeed the same.
Koumei squeezed that hand back, a teasing gleam in his eyes as he regarded Sion.]
You're younger than Kouha, for he is in his twenty-third year. Although I'm sure he would gladly show you how to dress properly, were he here.
[Whimsical and terrible-- a fan of high fashion and outcasts alike, a young man who chose to boldly live without defining himself by any of the shame that had been thrust upon him by the world-- Ren Kouha truly is a unique soul.
But Sion's words, as seemingly light as they were, had struck a note of clarity for Koumei. A peaceful world, where one could spend the day napping as much as they pleased...
Though he would never use words quite so fanciful, wasn't that the goal he and his brothers had always strode for? Wasn't that the goal set forth by the late Emperor Hakutoku and his sons, Hakuyuu and Hakuren?
He chuckled. How long would he spend living his life chasing after the dreams of those who had already perished for the light of the current world?]
Your dream sounds quite pleasant-- but, that isn't the reason I find the resemblence so striking, [He said softly, for that dream had never been Kouha's. He had worried after his mother, after the happiness of the rag-tag little army of outcasts he had collected over the years. The fate of the country was secondary to him.] If you don't wish to tell me right now, that's your right-- although I do hope you'll trust me enough to share it one day.
Unless... Hm. [He canted his head to the side, seeming like a curious bird.] Perhaps you find me too 'old'. I am a man of thirty, after all...
no subject
[ A slow withdraw, a cheeky grin. ]
Someone ten years my elder is bound to be fragile, after all.
[ And then Sion is laughing, stepping back, leading Koumei by the hand just as he had once upon a time, during their venture to Sparrow Town. But even as they walk, treading the path closest to the Emerald lake, Sion cannot forget that this is the third time Koumei has caught him (saved him), that...
He does trust the man, in the end. ]
Then... shall I offer the old man something in recompense? For his troubles, perhaps he can come to know a third thing about so humble a King. [ The laugh disappearing from Sion's voice, he glances back, over his shoulder, at his truly not-so-old companion. ] In my realm, a world known as Menoris, the sensation of touch was robbed from me.
There was a time when I would not be able to feel the brisk autumn breeze, the gentle warmth of sunlight, or know the true weight of a friend's hand in my own. [ And so it begins: a light swing of their hands, back and forth, to and fro. ] That is why... I must thank you, for humoring me and indulging my whims.
I am, perhaps, much too fond of hand-holds.
no subject
It was a javelin strike from across the battlefield, [He stated in a stilted, matter-of-fact tone resembling that of a put-out scholar making a quarrel out of semantics.] A blow intended for no one else but me. An assassination attempt, if you will.
A more fragile man wouldn't have survived such a blow.
[Had he his fan, he would have lifted it with dramatic flourish to hide all but his sharpened gaze. Instead, he allowed Sion to lead him along, following after these whimsies as if they were stepping stones along the path.
--The sudden outpouring of details, from a man who seemed to loathe speaking of himself, did take him by surprise. And Koumei, still unconsciously seeking the simple tactile assurance of not being alone in this world, lifted his brows in surprise at the apparent confession made in such a light tone.]
...You can be as fond of handholds as you wish, [He said soberly, playful agitation mellowing in the autumn breeze as Sion swung their linked hands as a child.]
The role of 'King' can be akin to a cursed position-- as you're targeted by all of your enemies with all of the weapons they have at their disposal.
I'm glad you've your sense of touch here. Regardless, was it illness or magically influenced?
[He regarded Sion carefully and, still not fully in control of all of his skills as a newly minted Bishop, unconsciously Scanned the man to satiate his own curiosity. His dark eyes, normally the warm color of the autumn leaves or the sunset, gleamed a pale blue not unlike the stars in the night sky for a heartbeat or two as he squeezed Sion's hand.
Even if no answers were to be had, one way or the other, he hoped Sion would understand that he didn't need to hide himself as he did.]
1/2
(No, for as long as Sion remained in Enprise, Koumei would never be left to shine in the night sky alone.) ]
It was a jest, my friend. I meant only that next time I should plummet from the sky to land atop your lap, that I should take appropriate precaution.
[ Whatever that might be. A wind spell, to cushion his fall. A barrier, to protect Koumei. Or... a warning, at the very least, for it had been odd, hadn't it? Though he'd fallen from such a great hight, Sion hadn't uttered a single sound of surprise. ]
No javelin shall strike you again, for you are under this King's protection.
[ From Noir and its assassins, and from— ]
2/2
[ Are like starlight, glinting blue. ]
What magic is it that you've called upon?
[ For the King can feel it, Koumei's mana actualizing into some manner of spell, the weight of the man's gaze becoming a tangible thing, whispers of that aura (hope, in the darkest of places) a caress against his skin. And unbeknownst to Sion, who has never before encountered a Bishop's scanning technique, something hidden to the naked eye becomes visible to the scholar, markings of runic gold visible now upon his person.
But what is their nature? This, Koumei has already unwittingly discovered, for when the word cursed had fallen from his lips, Sion had flinched back, shifted away.
(And the longer Koumei's gaze should linger upon them, the cursemarks which seem embedded into Sion's skin, a distinct air of anguish will settle upon him—the loneliness and despair of hundreds of vanished worlds and the people who had perished along with them.) ]
skjfhgjdfhgjfgd
Eyes widening briefly when he witnessed the nature of what Sion was hinting at, Koumei quickly averted his gaze once Sion's words called up what was happening.]
My apologies,
[He murmured, torn by the strange runes he had witnessed upon Sion's person and wondering if this was what that young Magi had meant when he referred to the Kou Empire's Oracle, Judar, as being like a 'black sun.' He could almost envision how this would look in his own world, with the bird-like streams of Rukh swirling uncertainly, shifting between light and dark like what he knew of his adopted brother Hakuryuu's true nature.
Koumei pulled back as well out of respect-- for such things didn't frighten him. No, nothing could. Not after witnessing the wrath of the veritable monsters he had helped tear asunder, nor after witnessing the painful realities of what comes when a single person, after a lifetime of fighting for a lost cause, finally gives in to Despaire...
He lifted a hand to his face, mimicking the way his unruly bangs used to fall, and the covering of mask he now had to wear just to aid his sister in helping their country recover some of it's former glory.]
Hatoha informed me the other day that I've been promoted to a Bishop, [he explained, recalling his Carrier's excited fumbling around the halls that morning.] I know not the extent of what a Bishop is capable of here or in those strategy games, but I was also granted a crossbow that I'm certain my retainer would appreciate, were he here in this world.
[To this, however, he bowed with all of the grace and dignity that an exiled prince could have, his fisted hands meeting across his chest in what was the traditional salute of his country.]
I did not mean to step upon something you didn't wish to be tread upon-- and my lips are sealed in regards to what I saw. We can act as if nothing happened, if that is your wish.
[For he could see now the truth: that Sion knew exactly how much of an accursed position the burden of Kingship could be.]