hymnals: you're not alone in this story's pages (hearts are worn in these dark ages)
αɗяαѕтєιυѕ, тнє нιgн ρяιєѕт ([personal profile] hymnals) wrote in [community profile] station72 2017-05-10 09:37 pm (UTC)

[ He just nods--mmhm, yep, it's weird as hell. Even to his mind, as someone who has seen scores of things that score pretty high on the 'weird shit' meter.

His eyes flick from the bruise on her cheek to the rest of her, to the tension in her muscles, to the confluence of anger and frustration thrumming like a heartbeat through her whole body. He knows that level of stress; knows the toll it takes on body and mind alike.

He thinks to himself that she sounds different when she's not screaming. ]


Not really.

[ His own memories flash through: scenes of destruction and genocide, the dead ravaging the forests of his homeland, the sickness that nearly crushed what thin sliver remained of his people. He exhales slowly. ]

Our name refers to mourning. The blood of the lost.

[ It's a pretty heavy thing, he knows, but true all the same. It's why he wears mostly black and red, even now. A movable funeral that he carries with him everywhere he goes. ]

And I'm Adrasteius.

[ A pause. He lifts his hand, light limning his fingers. ]

Does your cheek hurt?

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