( Pahja knows that she is a lot of things to a great many people, be it positive or -- as comes with the territory -- negative. Sometimes both depending on temperament or inclination, but not to the extremes as Emet-Selch surely has held her over his long life and her rather short one. She knows it bothers the Scions, as desperate as they are to protect her, to make sure she takes care of herself; Emet is a liability, a risk, a danger. For Pahja he's simply Emet, and allowing herself to have him with her is as selfish as she's allowed herself to be in a long, long time. The Scions have to be aware of this fact, too, or else they wouldn't begrudgingly let him exist in the Rising Stones, watching him out of the corner of their eyes while life goes on.
On the days he isn't scathingly editorializing all their comings and goings, he's taking a nap somewhere high amongst the towers and stone balconies of Mor Dhona -- favoring the views not of the Crystal Tower. So often has she found him there that, when he is otherwise occupied, she's steadily dropped off pillows and blankets to make it more comfortable than lying on the cold stone for the both of them. Napping during daylight hours will never not be preferable to attempting to find some peace and quiet in the Rising Stones, and normally by the time she joins Emet he's already asleep and all that remains is for her to curl up next to him and pull a blanket around them both.
Not so this time, for when she dismounts he is ready with some quip or two that she waves off, letting him resettle with his book before curling up against his side. )
You know-- ( She starts, looking up at the oncoming gloom that threatens to ruin an otherwise sunny day. ) If we got a tent you might as well just stay up here all the time.
[ He feels more oft like a tiger than a man, for all that he might lay claim to the word, a creature of strength and power trapped in walls, eyes watching him at each and every moment. He recognises his place, certainly, and realises why there are such limitations on his existence, but it does not make it easier to bear. It is a burden that he carries, one that he bares, because for the first time in eons his heart feels as though it has been able to breathe.
With little else to do as far as 'aiding' the Scions (which, he thinks, comes with its own share of anger and frustration on all fronts) he has found his time stolen with stories and sleep, allowing himself to drift away into the evening with little more than a blanket for comfort. A far cry from the generous supply of bedding and luxuries he had once been afforded with another time in another lifetime.
Ah, how things do change; a refreshing thing for once rather than something worth torment.
Pahja arrives and he plays the game of ignorance, as if the book he reads is of more import than her, until she speaks and he can do no more than offer the gentlest of scoffs. ]
And give up such a generous abode? I hardly think so. [ Careful, slow, one arm wraps around her, drawing her close. Familiar and comfortable. ] My chains would likely not extend so far.
Oh, to think you have such high opinion of your quarters!
( She snorts, letting herself be pulled in without resistance. Once she is tight against his side and chest she curls further in, the side of her face pressed against his chest and her own arm lying over it, her fingers playing with the fur hem of his shawl.
No one has offered him a change of clothes. Pahja thinks he wouldn't take it if they had.
Her smile fades slightly; with him there is no need to pretend that she is not tired, worn down, faced with a bone deep exhaustion that obligation keeps her from resolving. Emet understands; her fingers curl further into the fur. )
They only want to make sure you're not up to trouble. Although-- ( A bemused shake of her head, muffled and resigned laughter following. ) They would also insist that should you come to harm it'd be your own fault. And, if I do say so myself, we couldn't keep you anywhere you didn't want to be.
( Bold to call him out? Perhaps, but Pahja has never pulled punches in her life and she certainly isn't going to start with Emet. Not when she wonders if there are scars running over his chest from the blow she dealt him. )
And to think you might imagine me to have anything but.
[ He was of the Old World; he was an Emperor, a guest among kings, and now he sleeps like a prisoner under watch with voluntary guard. This strange notion the Scions seem to have of being able to keep him leashed as a pet is baffling to say the least when he exists as he does - a being far beyond their power, someone they cannot truly contain in their pitiful walls.
There's no denying that he is here all the same, however, bound by invisible shackles to a women he can't find the strength to step away from. Her soul is too familiar, too comforting, and her heart has so deeply entwined with his own that he has no sense of how to free himself from her warmth. That is something the Scions know and why they take such comfort in his position in their Rising Stones; he will not harm what is hers.
Not in this moment, at least.
Turning his head, he rests his chin on her head, cocooning her with his body. ]
I shall simply have to not come to harm, then. Though I doubt you would allow it to occur in the first place.
[ Pausing for a moment he reaches for her hand, drawing her up and urging her to move, willing to lift her if he must. ]
And should wounds happen to befall me you might soothe them with your lips.
probable endwalker spoilers from here on out, for the entire msq
( Wisdom demands that feeling safe within the arms of a man who would have stopped at nothing to kill her, her friends, and all of the world is impossible. Pahja knows this, and yet it doesn't change the warmth that spreads within her, the feeling of peace that washes over her as he surrounds her. Perhaps it's part of her soul, calling out for the comfort of another known to it.
Perhaps it's that Pahja has never known to do anything by halves, including who she might give her heart to; Emet has it within his hands as surely as she knows that she holds the chains that keep him close.
Laughing, she lets him take her hand, meeting his golden eyes with sly grin. )
My lips? Hm, I was unaware of any healing properties they might have -- I think a demonstration is in order.
( Teasing, but she will leave the ball in his court; Pahja knows that for all his bluster he is sentimental to the last, achingly so. Denying that they have any connection at all is commonplace, as his complaining, but he still answered her call for him -- twice over. And this time she is not eager to see him leave.
(Hythlodaeus, too, but he keeps himself otherwise occupied, as charmed as he is by all living creatures. At least Pahja is mostly certain he will not end up on the wrong end of something with a great many rows of teeth.) )
[ There are very few things Meara allows herself in this life ─ a moment of rest, the comfort of a hot bath, a meal consisting of more than what can be gathered from the area around her campsite ─ unless such things are forced upon her. Too busy has she always been looking after others rather than herself. Too focused on the well-being of the world around her while ignoring her own needs. The Scions came to this realization quite early on in their time together, making certain such things are given in such a way that their esteemed champion cannot refuse.
They only want what is best for her, of course, making certain she receives the self same care she gives onto others ─ friend and foe alike ─ as they take some of her duties upon themselves and leave her with naught to do but rest. A cruel fate, truly, for one such as she.
Unable to lay her head down upon a pillow Meara resorts to wandering, to taking in the sights and sounds that usually are little more than a backdrop on the world-ending crises she spends so much time working to thwart. There is no destination she has in mind, nor any goal, allowing her feet to take her where they so desire. Perhaps it should not surprise where exactly they lead, and to whom, given how often her thoughts seem to flit back towards that long coat and slumped shoulders. Once such things were met with anger unending, a similar feeling she held for most of his fellows, but something somewhere shifted in her opinion of Emet-Selch, and that anger was replaced with something much softer.
A need, perhaps, to stay at his side. To listen, to learn, to understand. To take comfort even in somehow who understands the very fabric of her soul. ]
Taken to brooding, have we? [ Her presence would be no surprise, she thinks, not with how easily he seems to pick her out from a crowd. Still, she thinks to pretend if only for a moment, that she surprised him this time. ] Be careful, should your brow furrow anymore you may gain another wrinkle.
[ Comparatively, Emet-Selch could claim to a life familiar with the richest of comforts - but he finds himself less inclined to them these days, unconcerned with feather beds and the warmth of a fire in the wall. There have been other worries on his mind, other matters to think of, and he is oft lost in the notion of the past overwhelming him. It is difficult, then, to focus on the present when he longs for a world long gone.
He is harried around like a prisoner, urged to stand and sit and move with the Scions as if he was meant to be a pinned animal, but he can only find it in him to complain briefly when the time comes. The world's end has paused for now, a brief thing, and he wishes that it had not; the ache of eternity has often been too much to bear, too much grief to muster the strength to withstand it. Company eases it, but it is nothing like the people of the past, friends long gone to the Star.
Her soul sings to him before she approaches, his sight not wavering in the years, so he barely turns as she approaches. Emet-Selch can read her spirit like a novel, and when her words reach his ears all he can do is breathe out gently, trying not to fumble his speech, burrowing into the depths of his wants and wondering how long it will take before he breaks once again. ]
I do not brood. Your Scions' inability for critical thought does not make mine something so poor. [ And the look he gives her is sour to say the least. ] You whisper wrinkles to an immortal? You must be tired.
[ Questions still sits on the tip of their tounges when the other Scions look at him; Why? Why does he still draw breath? Why does he hold such sway over their vaunted champion? Questions often posed when they think he is out of earshot when they think perhaps this time Meara will have the answers they seek. She never does, unable to find the right words to properly express all that swirls within her chest. Still, they trust her in this, as they do in all other things, for not once has Meara ever led them wrong.
Despite herself, a smile finds her lips, and her eyes light up with amusement that always comes to greet his sourness. Truly, she cannot help but wonder if he even has the ability to smile or to laugh in unbridled joy rather than contempt. ]
You do brood. [ She counters, a hand reaching up to brush a lock of stray hair behind a horn. ] More so than any man I have ever encountered in my life.
[ It is then that she turns and reaches up towards his face, finger hovering at the corner of an eye. ]
Right there, it makes you look more tired than I could ever be.
[ The look he gives her can only be described as withering, a lowered gaze that settles on her features - before he thinks better of it and shakes his head, accustomed to the notion of her teasing by now. There's something familiar in it, of a friendship borne and lost a lifetime ago, and he can do little more than welcome the tenderness it offers. He has long been bereft of such things, after all.
Leaning down, he tilts his head, as if to be judge and jury rather than ally. ]
You have quite literally spoken with dragons and creatures beyond imagination. I cannot be worse.
[ His gaze flicks to her hand, her horn, her face, before he scoffs and rises up to full height once more. ]
Again, I have been gifted the certainty of immortality. One might imagine some tiredness walks with that notion.
[ And who would she be to deny him such comforts? Bereft as he is of all he has ever known. It would be a fate too cruel, she thinks, one worse than the shackles that seem to bind him now. She lifts her head, smile widening just enough to reach her eyes.
It was good of her feet to carry her here, to him, instead of into whatever trouble they could find. Much better than the soft pillows her of bed, as her friends would so dearly want. ]
You may be right, I know a dragon who still mourns his lost love. [ It has been some time since she had been to Zenith, she thinks, she ought to visit. ] Alright, you are not the worst but you are a close second.
[ Absently she shifts on her feet, watching him rise, moving to follow just a touch before remembering her height prevents such things. Instead, she shifts her weight, tilting her head to the side. ]
Then you should be resting rather than brooding out here.
( If Amaurot was paradise, then Elpis defies words. Heavenly, perhaps, otherwordly definitely. Everywhere she turns is something that takes her breath away; be it flowers or people or the wonderful and many-teethed creations that the Ancients bother themselves with. She could spend years wandering around, delighted by every new thing presented with her but it isn't the time, nor place, in which she can spend such a thing. Long enough was spent on telling Venat and the rest of them about their future in direct defiance of Elidibus' words, and even longer still now that they wait.
Her feet are restless; wandering outside is well and good, but she's near sick of everyone calling her familiar. That she might not even be considered a person at all is insult onto the existing injury of worrying if she is truly her and not some lesser, vain reflection of a woman long dead.
Not often does Pahja feel lonely, so often do others insist upon her presence, but it comes crashing down on her now, a weight that threatens to bend her back. She forgets where she's going, simply lets her feet pick their path, and is only slightly surprised when she finds herself arriving at the domicile she knows was given to Emet-Selch.
He is the last person she would expect to make her feel human, at least at this moment, but she can't help but give into the ache of familiarity. That is what she wants most of all, even if she knows he would deny it.
She has lost so many people to get to where she is; the idea that he is here, alive and wonderful and still so stubbornly ill-tempered threatens to break her heart anew. Futures that might have been that she will never know from the moment she defeated him, robbing her of the chances to ask him questions and learn.
If he were from her time, he would understand. Perhaps there is a chance that he still might.
Pahja knocks once, loud and ringing in the silence. And then knocks again. )
[ Visitation for the purpose of an offer was something reasonable enough for Emet-Selch, but settling into Elpis is something that makes him yearn. He wishes to return to Amaurot, of course, to return to the beautiful gilded halls and the towering chambers that breathe home to him, but he cannot stray so far when there are still things he ought to do. It is what brings him to rooms and rest, settling in bedding not his own and accepting the fact that he may be here for some time.
His eyes are alight with the colours of souls, his heart is heavy with the burden of questions, and he wonders about the future. He wonders what may come when they walk forward, aware and unaware all at once, building hopes on false promises and striving for something better. Their world, in his eyes, was already near enough perfection; why might he ask for more than that? There is nothing better than this, than Elpis, than Amaurot.
Still, their guest comes and finds him and he should not be surprised - but he is, remains so, given how close she seemed to others above him. Hythlodaeus was more their wont, the jovial soul he remains, and so Emet-Selch had been content to be nothing more than the frustrated companion, loathe to do anything beyond remit to make their time here of more comfort. It is not his duty nor his want, but he has no desire to send her away at the moment. It's clear something weighs on her mind and if she seeks him out for solace - well, he certainly has the wisdom to share.
Turning away, he moves and opens the door, peering down at her. ]
( A lesser woman would be put off by his gruffness, perhaps. At least chastised or mollified; Pahja has faced his disdain before when it was sharper, a knife aimed to cut her resolve to ribbons. It did not break her then, at her lowest, and she will not let it destroy her now when she is so close to understanding the heart of what destroyed his world and will destroy her's. If he insists on comparing her soul to that of Azem's he should be well prepared for her stubbornness.
So she stands with her hands on her hips, peering up at him into familiar but unfamiliar eyes. )
Is requesting your Eminence's company not enough? ( She teases, though perhaps he won't take kindly to the familiarity. Shaking her head to clear away the jest, her grin settles into something more inquisitive. ) I couldn't sleep. It never seems to be a problem for you, that much I know, but I thought that I might use the time given to us more wisely than simply wandering.
It is hardly a request when you come storming in as a tempest.
[ As if she hadn't been appropriately polite, knocking on his door and awaiting him to open it. He is sour because it is in his nature to be so, bristling like an irritated cat more than an immortal bound by duty to be in this place. He can hardly complain, not when Elpis is so handsome and beautiful a place, but he yearns for some reason to be dismissive when he has learned so much.
His arms cross over his chest, looking down at her with an explorative expression, wondering. Who finds it difficult to sleep in paradise, he wonders? It is not his wont to ask her more of it, but he does step at the way, inviting her into the room without much more preamble. It would be a waste, when he might question her a little more himself. ]
How would you wish to use the time, then? What questions do you have?
( Seizing upon the opportunity, Pahja slides into the room without a second wasted -- she doesn't want him to change his mind and shut the door in her face now that she's piqued his interest. It could happen, she knows he's prone to ill-temperedness. But apparently his desire to entertain her questions also remained unchanged and that, of course, is comforting.
Giving him a small, thankful smile, she makes herself comfortable in one of the chairs in the room before he can gesture her to take a seat. Presumptuous, yes, but again -- the quicker she entrenches herself in this space the more difficult she hopes he'll find it to remove her. )
Everything. ( It comes more breathless than she'd like, her eagerness overtaking her as she leans forward, a hand going to grab an apple slice. The action is second nature -- she is used to being in charge, in the center of the room. ) You once told me I would like Amaurot. But for all that I experienced it in your recreation, I want to know what it was really like. What do you do for fun? How does one relax? Do you have theater?
( Pahja clears her throat awkwardly. )
Or you could tell me about yourself. I know your name, I've-- ( Here she waggles her eyebrows, because she really can't help herself. ) Seen you transformed, and we hardly know anything about each other!
[ It has been a very, very long time since his mind has been properly his own. But then there was that partial form of Azem, sundered but also very bright already, burning with the will to set things right, and Azem...
Azem is not trying to set Zodiark free. A part of Hythlodaeus's gut wrenches, because he knows that means Azem and Emet-Selch are at odds. Or were at odds. That is rarely good, and yet...
Emet-Selch would have chosen to keep his course. Because of Hythlodaeus. That does not necessarily mean it is the right choice. The past... though Hythlodaeus wants to return, to hold his dearest people once more, to learn more - he knows from Azem's eyes that it can't happen. Not really. And he chooses to help the future. Because he knows that's what Azem will be fighting for. And then...
Then, the last of the fog lifts, and he is no longer on the moon, dissolving into the welcome, familiar warmth of the aethereal sea, with a sigh of relief.
In there, he form again, raising his face to properly be for the first time in millennia. Free... Zodiark is no more, for weal or for woe...
Hythlodaeus's train of thought stutters as memories taken from him return, and his eyes widen. Hermes... Meteion... Azem. This partial Azem who knows the truth. Who knows--
Hythlodaeus shudders slightly. What did he do. What did they all do... postponing a problem doesn't solve it. This...
As everything around him spins, there is a familiar color, distinct, familiar, beloved - and so, so weary. Hythlodaeus raises his chin again, back straightening. Oh. Oh, his poor Hades...
He flies there, knowing that his approach will only remain secret if Emet-Selch really is not paying attention, but still, he settles nearby, taking care to sound like he normally does, to feel like he normally does, the turmoil locked in his heart wrapped and padded gently away from sight, away from his mind. ]
Emet-Selch knows the burdens he has carried; he has been urged to do it for so long, bearing the weight of expectation from so many people and knowing nothing more than the path before him. He has yearned to return to the world he knew, bright and beautiful halls, golden chambers and bright, perfection that is now beyond the means of anyone in this realm. Letting go of that, allowing it to slip through his fingers, to stride forward into his own oblivion...
That is not something that he is prepared for.
There is little that might be kept secret between them, and he can sense Hythlodaeus as he comes. It sings of comfort and home, of a world long lost to the realms of darkness and pain, but the relief he feels is something painfully soft, an ache in his chest. Emet-Selch cannot ignore it no more than he can pretend as though he has not been desperate for this meeting for eons - he has heard the echo of Hythlodaeus' words in his mind for almost too long.
Slow, almost lazily, he turns his head and lifts a hand to wave, careless, as if he has not oft dreamed of this moment, as if he has not been desperate for a reunion for years come to pass. It would be far easier to step forward and embrace the man, but he does not; he has not quite been able to steep into kindness towards himself, to let his heart breathe.
Heh heh heh. Of course not. Since when do I only have one thing to say?
[ Hythlodaeus hums slightly, eyes crinkling, but he doesn't add what runs through his head - did the shade of him that Emet-Selch recreated only say one thing and grow quiet?
But no, while that amuses him, he is rather certain that his friend will be anything but amused.
Instead, Hythlodaeus steps closer, reaching up to place his palms at the sides of Emet-Selch's face, touch gentle as he can make it, in this place. ]
Let me look at you. [ And... ] You remembered everything, too?
I do not think it has ever happened in the span of our knowing one another. I was a fool to think it might begin now.
[ It is impossible not to think of the shades, of the images that had haunted of him, filled with longing or yearning for a friend long lost to him. To see him now, almost in the flesh, as it were... It is painful. It makes him feel things he has not in some time, and the knowledge that Hythlodaeus can likely see it in his very spirit is an irritant.
The touch to his skin draws him out of his thoughts and he frowns, expression twisting at the softness. It has been a long time - but he does not pull away, allowing it despite the clear furrow in his brow and the frown that colours his mouth. ]
You could have looked with your eyes, not your fingers. [ A sigh. ] Yes, yes, I remember it all now. Foolish to the end, I am well aware.
[ He must be out of his mind. That's the only explanation that Thivir can come up with. There is absolutely no true logic behind his current series of actions. All his lessons and training would have told him to take advantage of the situation and end the life of but another intruder. This is what he should have done. Instead the Viera is here, attempting to save said life because - for whatever reason - he feels compelled to.
It shouldn't have been difficult, really. He had been trailing the group through the jungle for the last couple of days. Thivir had been outnumbered, initially. However the jungle has a way of weeding out those that are careless. With each passing day, their numbers dwindled. Energy drained from various beasts that lurk in the shadows and would call Golmore home. It is at that moment, in the darkness of night, that Thivir had dropped down from the trees to finish off the rest. That is the price for entering into the Wood unwelcomed, the very trees themselves murmuring their anger and displeasure into his ear.
That had supposed to have been the end of it. In fact, Thivir had been rather successful in managing two drag off at least two of the intruders in silence before a groan from the trees alerts him to something about to go wrong. And go wrong it did. For what manner of creature decided to also swoop down on the unsuspecting Garleans, Thivir never had laid eyes on. He had been taken just as unawares. Knocked out cold for but a few moments, but a few moments had been enough.
Perhaps that's why he's electing to spare this lone survivor's life, for his own could have been taken in those moments and it had not. Be it due to Thivir being a rather low priority in the moment or just carelessness, he couldn't say. But he does recognize the signs of poisoning and the sight of open wounds would lead to but one method of removing it before nature inevitably took its course.
After he deals with this, draws out the poison from opened wounds, he'll just demand this man leave. If there is a refusal then well. At least Thivir's honor will be intact when he goes on to take his life.
[ This is not how Emet-Selch had intended things to go, in any realm of possibility.
There had been a designed purpose for bringing the Garleans into the Wood, of course; to allow as many of them to perish as possible in 'defence' of himself, to create more upset and frustration in their kin, those had been left behind, but there was another reason. Beyond the need to create absolute hurt and anger in his people, there was also the simply fact that he was curious. It was a part of the land he had yet to see with his own eyes, despite his many years of wandering, and he wanted to bear witness.
Of course, he had not imagined that he himself might be the one to end up suffering for his choices, but that has been sadly proven. For someone like him this would not necessarily be the end of the world, as it were, but it would be a frustrating knock to his plans - regaining himself would take time, despite his abilities, and he has little reason to want to go through the effort when he could simply... Not die. That is what possesses him as he drifts in and out of consciousness, chest feeling heavy.
Coming back to himself properly is no easy feat, and when he feels something on his body he twitches, trying to move himself away for fear that he is being attacked again - but eyes opening reveals it to be not so, and when he lifts himself on one arm to sit up, to look at what has overcome him, there are no words for his shock at seeing someone treating him... With their mouth?
Oddities will never cease, it seems, and he winces as he shakes his head. ]
What an usual greeting, I must say. Is this common, for your ilk?
[ The man shifts and tries to move away. Thivir puts a stop to it, a sound of irritation escaping from the back of his throat. Do not move away when he is busy. Though perhaps he should take it as a good sign that the intruder elects to sit up, even if it forces Thivir to pull back. Well... Isn't he rather eloquent for someone that had been close to death's door.
Aquamarine eyes glare and Thivir doesn't look away for a moment as he spits both poison and blood off to the side. ]
For you to be well enough to sit up and speak would indicate that my greeting has served its purpose.
[ His accent is thick, voice rough from disuse - for there is little reason to speak when one is alone. He berates himself for it too, being baited into speaking too easily. ]
[ It is hard not to be a complete arse when you wake up and find yourself at someone else's mercy, Emet-Selch has found - and it is, unfortunately, painfully within his nature to poke and prod at the people around him until he finds out who they are. The fact that this man seems to have saved his life should speak for more, perhaps, but he is still who he is - and he would not have died either way.
Still, there was some merit in the attempt, certainly. It should earn some measure of thanks. ]
And a fine greeting it was, despite the strangeness. You have my thanks for what I am sure was a welcomed attempt at ensuring I survived.
[ Sitting up a little more, he glances down at his wound, face twisting just enough. How unfortunate for his fellows that they did not have their own little saviour. ]
[It isn't uncommon for Azem to turn up on Emet-Selch's doorstep as the first thing she does upon getting back from a trip, sometimes even before visiting her own place to put her things away. After all, she's usually got souvenirs and objects of interest to share, so it seems more practical to just beeline straight to her friends. This time, though, she looks more like a lost girl scout looking for someone to sell baked goods to -- except instead of baked goods, she's actually hoping for a distraction. This trip was not one of her better ones, and she's more of a mind to overwrite the bitter aftertaste with something nicer.]
I just hope I'm not wasting my time...
[It's possible, she thinks when she knocks, that he is not home right now. If she had his soulsight, it wouldn't be an issue; she could just sense where he was and home in on him that way. But alas, it is not a gift meant for just anyone...]
( 'tis an odd twist, that a society such as theirs focused on the pursuit of perfection & higher learning would maintain such a flawed system as the various rankings of alpha, omega, and betas among them. still, despite the power of creation being theirs, there was something to be said for nostalgia — who among us can alter the very lifeblood of creation? proponents would cry. it is part of what defines us!
venat had long since ceased listening to the debates. they went round and round among layperson and convocation alike — and nothing changed. the sun rose. the moon had its phases. and alphas, omegas, and betas presented upon sexual maturity among them. the convocation itself, made up of primarily alpha individuals, only monitored the workings as much as to ensure there was no discrimination among the three. indeed, a beta or omega could sit amongst them.
but they never did.
it was that small sign of hypocrisy that had driven her out, eventually. the world was changing and with it, there was more opportunity than ever. what better replacement for her than a beta? she had not been ready to return to the star, but that did not mean she ought to stand in the way of progress. the convocation had had no choice; her student had been eminently qualified for the role.
and she had returned back to what she loved best: traveling amongst the people who were her purpose. elpis offered numerous diversions, endless opportunity to learn and experience through the eyes of these creations their view of the world she so loved. still, she could not remain there forever — she was summoned, occasionally, to amaurot to provide advice and input to the fourteen.
it is upon one such trip that the rut slams into her like a tidal wave.
venat stumbles, catches herself on the marble of a nearby building and bites back a snarl, tempted to bite down on her lower lip until it bleeds. it's been ... oh, centuries, ages since a rut hit her like this. ordinarily she might have more warning — a few days of irritability, some amount of minor attraction to portend what to was to come. for it to be this strong, there had to have been something to trigger it. there's a sweet scent wafting from a nearby doorway. omega.
impossible. that very doorway led to the personal quarters of the fourteen, a group she knew very well did not have an omega among them. still, following on instinct more than intellect, she staggers her way through the doorway, nostrils flaring. the scent, it's so strong — as though she might as well be right on top of them (and the thought of that sends a rush of slick between her legs, a throb accompanying it).
close. they're close. so close that —
she rounds a corner with more speed than intended, catching emet selch about his collar as she does so. the scent is near overpowering now and she growls, eyes wide and pupils blown as she takes in the (for once) unguarded surprise on his face. gripping his robes with both hands, she walks him back until she feels the wall come up behind him, pinning him tightly with her hips so she can nose at his neck with a quiet mumble. )
You are partaking in some dangerous experiments, Hades. ( it's a miracle she can manage that much, and she can't help herself; her teeth dart out to scrape against his neck, the taste of him drawing a quiet moan. surely he must have been messing about with creation magicks that would draw this sort of response — the others of the convocation would not take kindly to having their heads messed with. ) You're lucky I found you first. Biological alteration is forbidden.
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it's time to cry old man
On the days he isn't scathingly editorializing all their comings and goings, he's taking a nap somewhere high amongst the towers and stone balconies of Mor Dhona -- favoring the views not of the Crystal Tower. So often has she found him there that, when he is otherwise occupied, she's steadily dropped off pillows and blankets to make it more comfortable than lying on the cold stone for the both of them. Napping during daylight hours will never not be preferable to attempting to find some peace and quiet in the Rising Stones, and normally by the time she joins Emet he's already asleep and all that remains is for her to curl up next to him and pull a blanket around them both.
Not so this time, for when she dismounts he is ready with some quip or two that she waves off, letting him resettle with his book before curling up against his side. )
You know-- ( She starts, looking up at the oncoming gloom that threatens to ruin an otherwise sunny day. ) If we got a tent you might as well just stay up here all the time.
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With little else to do as far as 'aiding' the Scions (which, he thinks, comes with its own share of anger and frustration on all fronts) he has found his time stolen with stories and sleep, allowing himself to drift away into the evening with little more than a blanket for comfort. A far cry from the generous supply of bedding and luxuries he had once been afforded with another time in another lifetime.
Ah, how things do change; a refreshing thing for once rather than something worth torment.
Pahja arrives and he plays the game of ignorance, as if the book he reads is of more import than her, until she speaks and he can do no more than offer the gentlest of scoffs. ]
And give up such a generous abode? I hardly think so. [ Careful, slow, one arm wraps around her, drawing her close. Familiar and comfortable. ] My chains would likely not extend so far.
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( She snorts, letting herself be pulled in without resistance. Once she is tight against his side and chest she curls further in, the side of her face pressed against his chest and her own arm lying over it, her fingers playing with the fur hem of his shawl.
No one has offered him a change of clothes. Pahja thinks he wouldn't take it if they had.
Her smile fades slightly; with him there is no need to pretend that she is not tired, worn down, faced with a bone deep exhaustion that obligation keeps her from resolving. Emet understands; her fingers curl further into the fur. )
They only want to make sure you're not up to trouble. Although-- ( A bemused shake of her head, muffled and resigned laughter following. ) They would also insist that should you come to harm it'd be your own fault. And, if I do say so myself, we couldn't keep you anywhere you didn't want to be.
( Bold to call him out? Perhaps, but Pahja has never pulled punches in her life and she certainly isn't going to start with Emet. Not when she wonders if there are scars running over his chest from the blow she dealt him. )
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[ He was of the Old World; he was an Emperor, a guest among kings, and now he sleeps like a prisoner under watch with voluntary guard. This strange notion the Scions seem to have of being able to keep him leashed as a pet is baffling to say the least when he exists as he does - a being far beyond their power, someone they cannot truly contain in their pitiful walls.
There's no denying that he is here all the same, however, bound by invisible shackles to a women he can't find the strength to step away from. Her soul is too familiar, too comforting, and her heart has so deeply entwined with his own that he has no sense of how to free himself from her warmth. That is something the Scions know and why they take such comfort in his position in their Rising Stones; he will not harm what is hers.
Not in this moment, at least.
Turning his head, he rests his chin on her head, cocooning her with his body. ]
I shall simply have to not come to harm, then. Though I doubt you would allow it to occur in the first place.
[ Pausing for a moment he reaches for her hand, drawing her up and urging her to move, willing to lift her if he must. ]
And should wounds happen to befall me you might soothe them with your lips.
probable endwalker spoilers from here on out, for the entire msq
Perhaps it's that Pahja has never known to do anything by halves, including who she might give her heart to; Emet has it within his hands as surely as she knows that she holds the chains that keep him close.
Laughing, she lets him take her hand, meeting his golden eyes with sly grin. )
My lips? Hm, I was unaware of any healing properties they might have -- I think a demonstration is in order.
( Teasing, but she will leave the ball in his court; Pahja knows that for all his bluster he is sentimental to the last, achingly so. Denying that they have any connection at all is commonplace, as his complaining, but he still answered her call for him -- twice over. And this time she is not eager to see him leave.
(Hythlodaeus, too, but he keeps himself otherwise occupied, as charmed as he is by all living creatures. At least Pahja is mostly certain he will not end up on the wrong end of something with a great many rows of teeth.) )
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slams into
They only want what is best for her, of course, making certain she receives the self same care she gives onto others ─ friend and foe alike ─ as they take some of her duties upon themselves and leave her with naught to do but rest. A cruel fate, truly, for one such as she.
Unable to lay her head down upon a pillow Meara resorts to wandering, to taking in the sights and sounds that usually are little more than a backdrop on the world-ending crises she spends so much time working to thwart. There is no destination she has in mind, nor any goal, allowing her feet to take her where they so desire. Perhaps it should not surprise where exactly they lead, and to whom, given how often her thoughts seem to flit back towards that long coat and slumped shoulders. Once such things were met with anger unending, a similar feeling she held for most of his fellows, but something somewhere shifted in her opinion of Emet-Selch, and that anger was replaced with something much softer.
A need, perhaps, to stay at his side. To listen, to learn, to understand. To take comfort even in somehow who understands the very fabric of her soul. ]
Taken to brooding, have we? [ Her presence would be no surprise, she thinks, not with how easily he seems to pick her out from a crowd. Still, she thinks to pretend if only for a moment, that she surprised him this time. ] Be careful, should your brow furrow anymore you may gain another wrinkle.
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He is harried around like a prisoner, urged to stand and sit and move with the Scions as if he was meant to be a pinned animal, but he can only find it in him to complain briefly when the time comes. The world's end has paused for now, a brief thing, and he wishes that it had not; the ache of eternity has often been too much to bear, too much grief to muster the strength to withstand it. Company eases it, but it is nothing like the people of the past, friends long gone to the Star.
Her soul sings to him before she approaches, his sight not wavering in the years, so he barely turns as she approaches. Emet-Selch can read her spirit like a novel, and when her words reach his ears all he can do is breathe out gently, trying not to fumble his speech, burrowing into the depths of his wants and wondering how long it will take before he breaks once again. ]
I do not brood. Your Scions' inability for critical thought does not make mine something so poor. [ And the look he gives her is sour to say the least. ] You whisper wrinkles to an immortal? You must be tired.
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Despite herself, a smile finds her lips, and her eyes light up with amusement that always comes to greet his sourness. Truly, she cannot help but wonder if he even has the ability to smile or to laugh in unbridled joy rather than contempt. ]
You do brood. [ She counters, a hand reaching up to brush a lock of stray hair behind a horn. ] More so than any man I have ever encountered in my life.
[ It is then that she turns and reaches up towards his face, finger hovering at the corner of an eye. ]
Right there, it makes you look more tired than I could ever be.
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Leaning down, he tilts his head, as if to be judge and jury rather than ally. ]
You have quite literally spoken with dragons and creatures beyond imagination. I cannot be worse.
[ His gaze flicks to her hand, her horn, her face, before he scoffs and rises up to full height once more. ]
Again, I have been gifted the certainty of immortality. One might imagine some tiredness walks with that notion.
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It was good of her feet to carry her here, to him, instead of into whatever trouble they could find. Much better than the soft pillows her of bed, as her friends would so dearly want. ]
You may be right, I know a dragon who still mourns his lost love. [ It has been some time since she had been to Zenith, she thinks, she ought to visit. ] Alright, you are not the worst but you are a close second.
[ Absently she shifts on her feet, watching him rise, moving to follow just a touch before remembering her height prevents such things. Instead, she shifts her weight, tilting her head to the side. ]
Then you should be resting rather than brooding out here.
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cranky baby fuckboy; endwalker zone 5 spoilers
Her feet are restless; wandering outside is well and good, but she's near sick of everyone calling her familiar. That she might not even be considered a person at all is insult onto the existing injury of worrying if she is truly her and not some lesser, vain reflection of a woman long dead.
Not often does Pahja feel lonely, so often do others insist upon her presence, but it comes crashing down on her now, a weight that threatens to bend her back. She forgets where she's going, simply lets her feet pick their path, and is only slightly surprised when she finds herself arriving at the domicile she knows was given to Emet-Selch.
He is the last person she would expect to make her feel human, at least at this moment, but she can't help but give into the ache of familiarity. That is what she wants most of all, even if she knows he would deny it.
She has lost so many people to get to where she is; the idea that he is here, alive and wonderful and still so stubbornly ill-tempered threatens to break her heart anew. Futures that might have been that she will never know from the moment she defeated him, robbing her of the chances to ask him questions and learn.
If he were from her time, he would understand. Perhaps there is a chance that he still might.
Pahja knocks once, loud and ringing in the silence. And then knocks again. )
Emet-Selch?
fuckboy supreme tm
His eyes are alight with the colours of souls, his heart is heavy with the burden of questions, and he wonders about the future. He wonders what may come when they walk forward, aware and unaware all at once, building hopes on false promises and striving for something better. Their world, in his eyes, was already near enough perfection; why might he ask for more than that? There is nothing better than this, than Elpis, than Amaurot.
Still, their guest comes and finds him and he should not be surprised - but he is, remains so, given how close she seemed to others above him. Hythlodaeus was more their wont, the jovial soul he remains, and so Emet-Selch had been content to be nothing more than the frustrated companion, loathe to do anything beyond remit to make their time here of more comfort. It is not his duty nor his want, but he has no desire to send her away at the moment. It's clear something weighs on her mind and if she seeks him out for solace - well, he certainly has the wisdom to share.
Turning away, he moves and opens the door, peering down at her. ]
The hour is late. What do you want?
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So she stands with her hands on her hips, peering up at him into familiar but unfamiliar eyes. )
Is requesting your Eminence's company not enough? ( She teases, though perhaps he won't take kindly to the familiarity. Shaking her head to clear away the jest, her grin settles into something more inquisitive. ) I couldn't sleep. It never seems to be a problem for you, that much I know, but I thought that I might use the time given to us more wisely than simply wandering.
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[ As if she hadn't been appropriately polite, knocking on his door and awaiting him to open it. He is sour because it is in his nature to be so, bristling like an irritated cat more than an immortal bound by duty to be in this place. He can hardly complain, not when Elpis is so handsome and beautiful a place, but he yearns for some reason to be dismissive when he has learned so much.
His arms cross over his chest, looking down at her with an explorative expression, wondering. Who finds it difficult to sleep in paradise, he wonders? It is not his wont to ask her more of it, but he does step at the way, inviting her into the room without much more preamble. It would be a waste, when he might question her a little more himself. ]
How would you wish to use the time, then? What questions do you have?
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Giving him a small, thankful smile, she makes herself comfortable in one of the chairs in the room before he can gesture her to take a seat. Presumptuous, yes, but again -- the quicker she entrenches herself in this space the more difficult she hopes he'll find it to remove her. )
Everything. ( It comes more breathless than she'd like, her eagerness overtaking her as she leans forward, a hand going to grab an apple slice. The action is second nature -- she is used to being in charge, in the center of the room. ) You once told me I would like Amaurot. But for all that I experienced it in your recreation, I want to know what it was really like. What do you do for fun? How does one relax? Do you have theater?
( Pahja clears her throat awkwardly. )
Or you could tell me about yourself. I know your name, I've-- ( Here she waggles her eyebrows, because she really can't help herself. ) Seen you transformed, and we hardly know anything about each other!
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endwalker zone 5 spoilers
Azem is not trying to set Zodiark free. A part of Hythlodaeus's gut wrenches, because he knows that means Azem and Emet-Selch are at odds. Or were at odds. That is rarely good, and yet...
Emet-Selch would have chosen to keep his course. Because of Hythlodaeus. That does not necessarily mean it is the right choice. The past... though Hythlodaeus wants to return, to hold his dearest people once more, to learn more - he knows from Azem's eyes that it can't happen. Not really. And he chooses to help the future. Because he knows that's what Azem will be fighting for. And then...
Then, the last of the fog lifts, and he is no longer on the moon, dissolving into the welcome, familiar warmth of the aethereal sea, with a sigh of relief.
In there, he form again, raising his face to properly be for the first time in millennia. Free... Zodiark is no more, for weal or for woe...
Hythlodaeus's train of thought stutters as memories taken from him return, and his eyes widen. Hermes... Meteion... Azem. This partial Azem who knows the truth. Who knows--
Hythlodaeus shudders slightly. What did he do. What did they all do... postponing a problem doesn't solve it. This...
As everything around him spins, there is a familiar color, distinct, familiar, beloved - and so, so weary. Hythlodaeus raises his chin again, back straightening. Oh. Oh, his poor Hades...
He flies there, knowing that his approach will only remain secret if Emet-Selch really is not paying attention, but still, he settles nearby, taking care to sound like he normally does, to feel like he normally does, the turmoil locked in his heart wrapped and padded gently away from sight, away from his mind. ]
Hey. Long time no see.
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Emet-Selch knows the burdens he has carried; he has been urged to do it for so long, bearing the weight of expectation from so many people and knowing nothing more than the path before him. He has yearned to return to the world he knew, bright and beautiful halls, golden chambers and bright, perfection that is now beyond the means of anyone in this realm. Letting go of that, allowing it to slip through his fingers, to stride forward into his own oblivion...
That is not something that he is prepared for.
There is little that might be kept secret between them, and he can sense Hythlodaeus as he comes. It sings of comfort and home, of a world long lost to the realms of darkness and pain, but the relief he feels is something painfully soft, an ache in his chest. Emet-Selch cannot ignore it no more than he can pretend as though he has not been desperate for this meeting for eons - he has heard the echo of Hythlodaeus' words in his mind for almost too long.
Slow, almost lazily, he turns his head and lifts a hand to wave, careless, as if he has not oft dreamed of this moment, as if he has not been desperate for a reunion for years come to pass. It would be far easier to step forward and embrace the man, but he does not; he has not quite been able to steep into kindness towards himself, to let his heart breathe.
Still, his lips curl just a little. ]
Is that all you have to say?
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[ Hythlodaeus hums slightly, eyes crinkling, but he doesn't add what runs through his head - did the shade of him that Emet-Selch recreated only say one thing and grow quiet?
But no, while that amuses him, he is rather certain that his friend will be anything but amused.
Instead, Hythlodaeus steps closer, reaching up to place his palms at the sides of Emet-Selch's face, touch gentle as he can make it, in this place. ]
Let me look at you. [ And... ] You remembered everything, too?
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[ It is impossible not to think of the shades, of the images that had haunted of him, filled with longing or yearning for a friend long lost to him. To see him now, almost in the flesh, as it were... It is painful. It makes him feel things he has not in some time, and the knowledge that Hythlodaeus can likely see it in his very spirit is an irritant.
The touch to his skin draws him out of his thoughts and he frowns, expression twisting at the softness. It has been a long time - but he does not pull away, allowing it despite the clear furrow in his brow and the frown that colours his mouth. ]
You could have looked with your eyes, not your fingers. [ A sigh. ] Yes, yes, I remember it all now. Foolish to the end, I am well aware.
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going on the assumption he's wearing his solus hair but ignore if he's reverted to elpis hair
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touches this post
It shouldn't have been difficult, really. He had been trailing the group through the jungle for the last couple of days. Thivir had been outnumbered, initially. However the jungle has a way of weeding out those that are careless. With each passing day, their numbers dwindled. Energy drained from various beasts that lurk in the shadows and would call Golmore home. It is at that moment, in the darkness of night, that Thivir had dropped down from the trees to finish off the rest. That is the price for entering into the Wood unwelcomed, the very trees themselves murmuring their anger and displeasure into his ear.
That had supposed to have been the end of it. In fact, Thivir had been rather successful in managing two drag off at least two of the intruders in silence before a groan from the trees alerts him to something about to go wrong. And go wrong it did. For what manner of creature decided to also swoop down on the unsuspecting Garleans, Thivir never had laid eyes on. He had been taken just as unawares. Knocked out cold for but a few moments, but a few moments had been enough.
Perhaps that's why he's electing to spare this lone survivor's life, for his own could have been taken in those moments and it had not. Be it due to Thivir being a rather low priority in the moment or just carelessness, he couldn't say. But he does recognize the signs of poisoning and the sight of open wounds would lead to but one method of removing it before nature inevitably took its course.
After he deals with this, draws out the poison from opened wounds, he'll just demand this man leave. If there is a refusal then well. At least Thivir's honor will be intact when he goes on to take his life.
Right? ]
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There had been a designed purpose for bringing the Garleans into the Wood, of course; to allow as many of them to perish as possible in 'defence' of himself, to create more upset and frustration in their kin, those had been left behind, but there was another reason. Beyond the need to create absolute hurt and anger in his people, there was also the simply fact that he was curious. It was a part of the land he had yet to see with his own eyes, despite his many years of wandering, and he wanted to bear witness.
Of course, he had not imagined that he himself might be the one to end up suffering for his choices, but that has been sadly proven. For someone like him this would not necessarily be the end of the world, as it were, but it would be a frustrating knock to his plans - regaining himself would take time, despite his abilities, and he has little reason to want to go through the effort when he could simply... Not die. That is what possesses him as he drifts in and out of consciousness, chest feeling heavy.
Coming back to himself properly is no easy feat, and when he feels something on his body he twitches, trying to move himself away for fear that he is being attacked again - but eyes opening reveals it to be not so, and when he lifts himself on one arm to sit up, to look at what has overcome him, there are no words for his shock at seeing someone treating him... With their mouth?
Oddities will never cease, it seems, and he winces as he shakes his head. ]
What an usual greeting, I must say. Is this common, for your ilk?
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Aquamarine eyes glare and Thivir doesn't look away for a moment as he spits both poison and blood off to the side. ]
For you to be well enough to sit up and speak would indicate that my greeting has served its purpose.
[ His accent is thick, voice rough from disuse - for there is little reason to speak when one is alone. He berates himself for it too, being baited into speaking too easily. ]
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Still, there was some merit in the attempt, certainly. It should earn some measure of thanks. ]
And a fine greeting it was, despite the strangeness. You have my thanks for what I am sure was a welcomed attempt at ensuring I survived.
[ Sitting up a little more, he glances down at his wound, face twisting just enough. How unfortunate for his fellows that they did not have their own little saviour. ]
My apologies for not being a proper patient.
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how many times do we have to teach you this lesson old man?
I just hope I'm not wasting my time...
[It's possible, she thinks when she knocks, that he is not home right now. If she had his soulsight, it wouldn't be an issue; she could just sense where he was and home in on him that way. But alas, it is not a gift meant for just anyone...]
rambling...
venat had long since ceased listening to the debates. they went round and round among layperson and convocation alike — and nothing changed. the sun rose. the moon had its phases. and alphas, omegas, and betas presented upon sexual maturity among them. the convocation itself, made up of primarily alpha individuals, only monitored the workings as much as to ensure there was no discrimination among the three. indeed, a beta or omega could sit amongst them.
but they never did.
it was that small sign of hypocrisy that had driven her out, eventually. the world was changing and with it, there was more opportunity than ever. what better replacement for her than a beta? she had not been ready to return to the star, but that did not mean she ought to stand in the way of progress. the convocation had had no choice; her student had been eminently qualified for the role.
and she had returned back to what she loved best: traveling amongst the people who were her purpose. elpis offered numerous diversions, endless opportunity to learn and experience through the eyes of these creations their view of the world she so loved. still, she could not remain there forever — she was summoned, occasionally, to amaurot to provide advice and input to the fourteen.
it is upon one such trip that the rut slams into her like a tidal wave.
venat stumbles, catches herself on the marble of a nearby building and bites back a snarl, tempted to bite down on her lower lip until it bleeds. it's been ... oh, centuries, ages since a rut hit her like this. ordinarily she might have more warning — a few days of irritability, some amount of minor attraction to portend what to was to come. for it to be this strong, there had to have been something to trigger it. there's a sweet scent wafting from a nearby doorway. omega.
impossible. that very doorway led to the personal quarters of the fourteen, a group she knew very well did not have an omega among them. still, following on instinct more than intellect, she staggers her way through the doorway, nostrils flaring. the scent, it's so strong — as though she might as well be right on top of them (and the thought of that sends a rush of slick between her legs, a throb accompanying it).
close. they're close. so close that —
she rounds a corner with more speed than intended, catching emet selch about his collar as she does so. the scent is near overpowering now and she growls, eyes wide and pupils blown as she takes in the (for once) unguarded surprise on his face. gripping his robes with both hands, she walks him back until she feels the wall come up behind him, pinning him tightly with her hips so she can nose at his neck with a quiet mumble. )
You are partaking in some dangerous experiments, Hades. ( it's a miracle she can manage that much, and she can't help herself; her teeth dart out to scrape against his neck, the taste of him drawing a quiet moan. surely he must have been messing about with creation magicks that would draw this sort of response — the others of the convocation would not take kindly to having their heads messed with. ) You're lucky I found you first. Biological alteration is forbidden.