#echoingalone

[moon--wakearchive-blog]

@echoingalone (Plotted Starter - Leaf)

        The cold, bitter wind of winter had settled in upon Kanto like a plague - seeping onto the barren land, and taking root in the very soil that composed this godforsaken region. Tepid breath slipped out into the freezing air; visible for a brief moment before the breeze scattered it into the depths of the night as thick, worn boots pressed into the solid earth - scattering meager piles of fallen snow. Shoving gloved, calloused fingers into the thin pockets of his dark jeans, he tipped his head back; messy, black locks spilling along his roguish features as bright, red irises watched the light dusting of snow fall. How long had it been since this building had been remolded, and the League torn into little more than bare bones and ugly remains? He’d stopped counting a while ago (he stopped be alive long before then, though - just the ghost of a man, and he’s not entirely sure whose anymore either). 

          ‘You’re just like your father,’ the words always echo within his skull on nights like this when his only company is the pitter-patter of light paws and the distant thud of heavy footsteps as the grunts take turns watching the frontend of the compound - taking turns drowning shots and making pointless bets. 'Before your mother soiled him,’ they would drone on to disinterested ears that had heard the same thing a thousand timed before (oh but they were wrong - his father had been a better man; he’d crawled out of Hell and hadn’t been singed by the flames while he had willingly plunged himself through fiery gates and begged the devil to take him). They were wrong in more ways than one, though, the silver ring hooked about a chain wrapped about his neck reminder him (he was filthy, too, but she would never accept this awful ring like his mother once had).  

          Forcing a sigh from his frigid lungs, he brought his head back down again - fingers coming up to slip about the ring where it was tucked beneath his shirt. He’d long since gotten used to the cold; while the others complained, he never once voiced concern about this base’s location - perhaps that’s why it had been given to him (he doubted it - he knew Kanto better than anyone else, if anyone was to lead it in Giovanni’s stead while he was busy dirtying his hands elsewhere, Red was the perfect choice). He feels something warm and soft brush against his knee, and his gaze turns briefly to Espeon as she brushes against his calf; her bright, red gem glowing faintly in the meager light the moon hanging overhead provided. The fur upon her back stiff as she glares into the bushes.

                   “Come. Did you find something?”

          His harsh voice cuts through the eerie silence as filthy, beige fur peeks out from the shadows; long tail swaying eagerly back and forth as the feline wiggled his way out from the thick, brown and red bushes that surrounded the former League. A loud, whiny meow follows as the Persian pranced over to him; mud on his paws and grime lodged between his toes - earning him a rather firm growl from where Espeon was currently tucked behind Red’s legs (she’d never really enjoyed getting dirty). Plopping down in front of his master, the overzealous feline yanked shards of shattered Pokeballs from its paws, spitting them out in front of Red’s boots with an expression that could have only been described as strangely excited as the strange feline tilted his head back in the direction of the mountain.       

                  “I’ll get rid of them myself. You’re an eyesore, go bother the grunts.”

          Stepping around the pesky creature, he was quick to head in the direction the feline had come from; Espeon not far behind him. Pathetic - did the rebels truly believe they had a chance against him, or, perhaps, they were simply admitting defeat and throwing themselves at his feet? It hardly mattered, he’d crush them with his own hands (make them squirm and beg and scream until they were just like him - nothing). Slipping into the woods behind the building, Espeon was quick to move in front of him; keen ears slotting forward as the gem upon her forehead began to shine. A muted, joyful cry slipping from her throat as she picked up her pace; tiny paws slamming against the hard ground with glee - aggression making way for excitement as she leaped through the trees with a soft omph as she flung herself onto something as a few hushed purrs echoed within her belly. 

          Great, apparently their intruder was - his expression fell as his eyes stumbled over brown hair tangled against purple paws and strews across smooth features he would have known on his deathbed. Lips twitching into a firm frown, he felt his rigid fingers curl into tights fists within his pockets. ‘You’re just like father before your mother soiled him. You better not let something taint you, too.’ Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to quell the wicked thoughts racing through his head and the rising heat of his anger as it seeped into his very bones, he dug dull nails into the thin fabric of his gloves until he could feel something warm and set begin to build up against his palm. Why? Why? He could repeat the word a thousand times, but he would never be able to come up with an answer. Hadn’t he done enough (hadn’t he ruined the both of them)? Espeon’s gentle, worried cry as it echoed within her throat snapped him back to reality as he approached them.    

                 “What are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Get out.”

        His voice is stern; raspy and shaken as he forces the words across his tongue (get out; leave, before it’s too late). His chest aches, and his hands are trembling, but he doesn’t take another step - doesn’t close the distance when he could have (leave). Why, why did it have to be her? If it had been anyone else he could have - (leave - I can’t bring myself to hurt you).  

[vantagx-archive-blog]

@echoingalone

    The pristine, white walls of the massive, but mostly empty castle are still largely unfamiliar to him, and he feels an eerie pit form in his stomach whenever he walks them - the sound of his armor clanking echoing through the hallways without the soft scrape of smooth shoes along the tile beside it.  And he can’t be bothered to recall the names to faces he couldn’t have cared less about (despite the fact that this gaudy palace was currently only called home by five other people and some strange, obnoxious and sorely invasive owl who had a habit of hanging around the anomalous girl who had dragged him into this plebeian excuse for an army). His lips remained, twisted into a stern frown, as he made his way towards the study - the disgusting hum of his godforsaken heart hammering away in the cavity of his chest to serve as a reminder that he’d been dragged from the bowels of Hell to play soldier in this inane world (while Rinea was still burning - or, perhaps, she had never been plunged down with the damned in the first place).     

          Heavy, plated boots filled the otherwise silent hall with a noise like thunder - cracking and humming against the brightly lit, dancing lanterns hung on either side. It hadn’t taken him long to memorize rooms, halls, and doors - after all, this miserable kingdom was little more than a pile of dirt compared to how grand and vast Rigel had been (even if the others may be surprised by how observant he apparently is). And the study stood out amongst the blander doors that were nestled beside it; it’s edged chipped away from use, but it was abysmal, at best, when compared to the daunting libraries and tightly packed shelves he had grown accustomed to in a world that felt so very detached from this one (and, perhaps, he longed to see how it had changed in whatever amount of time had tumbled by since his arrival here and death there). For now, though, he had others matters to attend to. 

           Gloved, armored fingers reach for the doorknob without hesitation, and he couldn’t have been bothered to knock - no that would have been an insult when he was the one doing this dreadful land a service. And with equal aggression, he yanked open the door without warning and marched inside, ignoring the rattle of the worn-down bookshelf as it trembled with the sudden bang of the door, and the tipsy desk sat in the center of the room filled to the brink with clutter - some of which had fallen off at his entrance. Without a greeting, he made his way over to the young woman seated on the wobbly chair (who appeared to have fallen asleep on a stack of old, dusty books - ugh how unbefitting for one of her status) in front of the dreadfully unstable desk, and slammed the palm of his hand down in front of her hands (nearly taking the desk down with the girl).            

        “If you continue to behave in such an undignified manner, you will surely be mistaken for nothing more than a servant, and an incompetent one at that.” Leaning back, but just ever so slightly he looked down on their supposed commander. “Frailty will lead to your untimely demise, now rise or suffer the consequences of your inadequacy.” Judging by the low light creeping in beneath the old curtains from the window in the very back of the crammed room (and the fact that everyone else also appeared to still be safely tucked away in their rooms) , it couldn’t have been past five in the morning. 

[devour-the-crooked]

@echoingalone

       “If you value your lowly lives, you’ll allow me through,” his hoarse, cracked voice slipped from the depths of his dry throat and into the frigid air in a tepid stream that rolled from his bitter tongue. Chapped lips pulling back into a snarl to reveal sharp fangs already drenched in blood with the hot sensation of dark fire burning at their backs as six eyes danced about the panicked faces of measly servants and knights alike; tugging at scaled and marred skin, tearing chips of skin from his face as the crimson markings beneath his eyes burned, and surged all at once. With their trembling hands wrapped tightly about lance, sword, or axe, they remained in place; whispers shifting through the crowd like a poison while the dying light of day sank behind the pristine walls of the palace. The cold ate away at his exposed skin, rustling the worn and tattered remains of his old cloak until it had seeped into his stiff bones, but even as it threatened to turn his human flesh black and blue it compared little to the heat of his wrath and the inferno that was his unbridled rage. 

         “You will let me through.” But their ashen faces only regard him with fear and the obnoxious sense of loyalty that kept them six inches deep in the snow and staring down the shell of a man that remained (there was no reasoning with him when he was angry) with a conviction that only served to grate him all the more. His lips tugged into a frown, a low growl vibrating from the back of his throat as his fangs rubbed together; his bare feet trudging forward through the thick layer of snow that had covered the land, rattling the worn, grimy chains that still tethered them together, turning the skin around his ankles raw and bloody. His attention following to a lone knight who worked his way through the army, sword clutched in hand as he approached slowly.  

         “Sir, I’m afraid we cannot allow you in on orders of the Exalt, as we’ve been trying to tell you, Lady Robin is no condition to see anyone.” Dreary pupils dilated as the words struck his ears, calloused fingers curling into trembling fists as elongated nails dug trenches into the palms of his hands; yanking at the thick chains still binding his hands together and knocking against his thing wrists. His canines dug into his lip, oozing the sweet taste of copper onto his tongue as he tightened his fists, the back scales protruding from beneath his torn clothes burning as steam rolled from them. The muscles in his arms contracted as he forced them apart, snapping the rusted chain in two before leaning down to grasp the shackles upon his feet and crushing them within his claws. And may the Gods have mercy because there was in his hollow heart of those who would fling lies about his sister at him (she doesn’t remember anything; not even you - lies, every last one of them, she could never forget).        

           “To Hell with your Exalt,” he growled, “I won’t let anyone hurt her again, and if you stand in my way of saving her, I’ll erase you.” The hard soles of his feet pressed into the earth, and before the man could ready his weapon Reflet’s claws had dug into his face, piercing through his skin and deep into his skull. “Please, sir, we’re telling the truth, she doesn’t even remember the Exalt!” Another soldier pleaded beside him, but his voice turned into a pathetic gurgle as Reflet rounded on him; lashing out and taking his throat within his hand, crushing his windpipe and tossing him into the snow. 

          “Liars, all of you, you’re just out to use her again.” He plunges forward, the snow melting beneath his feet as the shadows about him simmer into dark flames and pour out around him; consuming steel and cloth and flesh alike as they devour the poor fools stupid enough to wander too close to him, turning them to ashes before they even had the chance to scream as he reaches out to pull oncoming knights from their steeds, and tear through the skin and muscles and bones with his claws and fangs. Pushing forward with ease into the castle gates, settling them aflame, as he enters its familiar halls. “Do you understand now? I’ll obliterate your entire kingdom unless you return my sister to me,” he hissed, gaze darting about the hazy room to the terrified faces of the maids and guards that stood within the castle’s walls; blood dripping from his mouth and fingers onto the velvet rug, his chest heaving and his lungs ached, but none of that mattered (to Hell with everything they had gone through, he would be damned if he allowed Robin to be used by these people again).  

         He turned to the staircase in the heart of the room when no one dared to raise a weapon against him, dragging himself upwards until his filthy hands rested upon white doors, and he flung them open; slamming them against the walls and snapping their hinges. The anger fading from his muscles as sleek, white hair, gathered into two long, but low ponytails, greeted his blurring vision. “Sister,” he heaved, stepping forward into the bright room (the maids and soldiers that had been attending to her fleeing the moment their eyes fell upon him). “Are you uninjured?” The heat oozed out from his body; quelling the fires he had set and calming his rage. No claim of Chrom’s devotion to her or of his grief could change his mind; he would never trust the man who had lost her in the first place, the man who had made her go through all of this. No, this time he would save her. This time he would make things right, and no army, no country, and no part their shared history would stop him (he’d failed her once; he would never fail her again).  

[devour-the-crooked]

@echoingalone

      Clear, shallow waters lick at his bare feet; smothering the ornate, golden chains wound loosely about his ankles in its cool, crisp kiss. Billowing out in gentle ripples about him as he sinks deeper into its depths; drowning the thin, silk robe that hangs from his slender waist, blending black fabric into the crystalline waters, ignoring its pull as it fans out about him and nudges at the marble sides of the decorative pool. Flowing easily into the deep grooves and careful bumps that carve out images of the Fell Dragon and the former glory of the ruined country. Extending his bare arms to the side; purple and black scales glisten beneath the heavy, bright rays of the sun that hangs high overhead as golden bracelets knock against his bony wrists, swaying loose chains in the breeze as they dip into the holy water hugging his waist. And his above it, his skin is bare; exposed for all the world to see. The intricate, complex markings on his back glowing beneath the sun’s touch; devouring every inch of his rigid spine with the shape of Grima, and dipping about the six, dark bones that poke out from his flesh.

      Two years ago, he would have never set foot outside with his hood down; revealing sharp, tangled horns that curve about his eyes, and three pairs of crimson eyes that burn against patches of dark scales that further mar what remains of his more human features. In the depths of a secluded prison beneath the impressive walls of Ylisse as he morned his sister’s death, and felt rage pulse through his bones at every word that fell from Chrom’s blasphemous lips; to be bathed in the light of day again had never once crossed his wild mind (it never would have when the only person who had ever mattered to him was dead and gone). And then she stumbled back into the world like she had never been gone in the first place; both ruining and saving his life in the same breath, and with it he found atonement and salvation in the sands of his devastated, hideous country (he couldn’t save his sister when she needed him; he had accepted what remained of the Fell Dragon within him like it was the missing piece of his soul, but he could save what was left of his ailing home, and shelter it from the hands of that worthless man). 

         He can hear the muffled prayers and whispered words from the war-torn civilians gathered about him; their voices strained and timid against the gentle breeze that nips at his silver locks (there’s fear in the strangled voices of the elderly who have lived through too many wars with Ylisse to feel safe on the graveyard that composes Plegia now, and hope in the excited whispers of the children who heralded him a God among men; their savior, but if the Exalt ever dared step foot on his land again, his people would not need to weep tears of fear for Hell and all of its furry slumber within him). And it’s a simple thing to see the crisp lines of their faces from where he stands despite how his vision threatens to seep from his human eyes as they regard him; packed together tightly with their hands reaching out to grasp at the marbled edge of the pool for a chance to study him more closer; to stare at ugly the ugly cracks in his flesh and the dark scales that tear his skin apart with wonder. He would not be a king that stood idle, or a prophet who refused to walk amongst them. 

         The soft hum of a flute drones on in the background to the eerie cry of a lone drum, and the careful chants of the guards positioned beside the pool (though they were hardly needed); one clasping his neatly flooded cloak in his arms as he lead the group in prayer. It meant little to Reflet (though there was a part of him that was greedy for the sense of power and control it instilled in him), at least in the same sense that his people regarded the ceremony with, but following such traditions helped unify what remained of the country. It was a simple prayer: one he’s lead a dozen times since claiming the fallen crown, though today he remained quiet. His voice too hoarse and too strangled to reach the distance the crowd spanned, but his presence alone was enough. To an outsider, it must have looked strange, but religion had always been tightly woven into Plegia’s politics, and Reflet was more than willing to make use of it to keep everyone at peace (to free their minds from worry when they still shied away from foreigners and went rigid at the sight of soldiers, the occupation had not been kind and Reflet had only rid this land of the lingering men a few days ago, and exhaustion still licked at his bones from the display of power he had given them to prevent the desire of returning to ever cross their minds again).     

        His arms fall back to his sides as the guard finishes, watching as the citizens collect themselves, all standing nearly at once. And he wades his way to the pristine walls of the pool, easily lifting himself out over the edge, accepting his cloak from the guard, and quickly tossing it over his damp shoulders (ignoring the slight sting of his palms as the cuts made there yank; used to dye the clear waters a murky red). Normally, he lingers, but he doesn’t have the energy today, yet the guard is quick to stop him from leaving, leaning forward to whisper something gleefully into his king’s ear. “Robin? Are you certain?” He nods, a grin slipping onto his features as he pulls away from Reflet (Ylisse’s Queen she may be, she’s still their lord’s sister, and holds much respect in the eyes of the people here, regardless of if she’s aware of it). 

       With soaking fabric mudding and collecting the sand scorching his bare feet, he exchanges a few quick words with the men before moving through the crowd that parts easily for him, even as the calls of joyful children ring in his ears and words of gratitude mix in. He would have stopped to address them normally, and his quickened pace makes them curious (poor Robin, by the time he reaches her, she’s going to have her own, personal welcoming party, which he would have gladly thrown had he known she was coming - wait he had forgotten about the upcoming festival in his haste to rid the land of the unwanted soldiers and bandits, he could drown himself for not being more prepared). 

        “Sister,” he calls as he spots her white hair fluttering behind her (while trying to subtly send one of his subjects to gather up his men to prepare a room for her; nothing less than the best would do). “It’s good to see you again,” he heaves; boiling lungs taking a moment to collect his words on his tongue as he reaches her, as his calloused fingers dig into his knees, catching his breath before he finally manages to look up at her. “I’ve missed you.” He wants to reach out, and embrace her; to feel the thud of heart against her chest and the dull heat of her breath just to ensure she’s still alive; that she’s real and here and not slipping through his fingers all over again. But he hesitates; he’s never once been worthy of touching her, not when they had been children and he couldn’t keep her out of trouble, and especially not now when he had failed to protect her. But it’s been months since he had left Ylisse behind; unable to remain in the stuffy, crammed air of its streets, and he can damn the thoughts in his head just this once. So, he steps forward, gingerly bringing her into a loose hug, careful not to cut her with sharp scales and bladed horns.     

[vantagx-archive-blog]

@echoingalone

       “Robin!” the young princess all put yells through the crowded halls of the castle as she shoves her past stuffy noble after stuffy noble like she wasn’t still barefoot as her hard heels smacked shamelessly against the marble floor and tore through velvet rugs she had always believed were gaudy anyway. The Divine Blade that should have been tucked safely within the thick walls of her room was instead latched to her hip beneath the layers upon layers of the white ballgown her butler had somehow managed to shove her into before she had wiggled out of his grasp to plunge into the party without a proper escort (or shoes for that natter).

      With the silk fabric of her massive dress gathered up in her sharp nails and calloused palms, she darted down the long hallway, ignoring the grunts and calls of the guests as she nearly plowed each one of them down. The fluffy petticoat tied around her waist peeked out from beneath the gathered fabric of her gown, dragging along the floor, and somehow not tripping her as she raced through the castle like she had an actual purpose for her tirade rather than the mundane reasoning of simply wanting to see the young woman again after having been informed by her brother that the strange tactician would be attending the ball, as well.

      The hefty jewels of the necklace hooked loosely about her neck pressed into her bare chest; the top of her dress sitting just about her breast and held into place by an elastic hem rather than a pair of sleeves, leaving her arms exposed where they weren’t covered in bright bracelets that had been gifts from each of her siblings. She had always believed such things to be mostly ugly and worthless, but she adored all of them enough to shove them onto her arms with little regard to her own appearance, but the heads that she turned on her way to the main room informed her that she might have been a tad bit over-dressed with gems for their tastes (Oh, well, they could kiss her toes if they had a problem with it).

        Diving into the castle’s massive, over-sized ball room, she weaves her way around the dancers stretched out over the floor, and ignored the music as it blares against her sensitive ears. She knew the other woman wouldn’t be mingling amongst the dancers, but probably tucked away in some corner with some complicated book in her hands. And it only took a few loops around the room to find out she had been right when she spotted the white-haired woman seated in one of the tables that had been set off to the side for tired dancers to rest; her gaze fixed on some book Corrin couldn’t even hope to read from where she stood. And so, the draconic princess did exactly what any respectable friend would do in that situation.

        Lunging across the floor, and somehow not knocking anyone over in the process, Corrin leapt onto Robin, her muscular arms wrapped about the other woman’s neck as she rubbed her check against the top of Robin’s head like they had been friends for rather than the few short months since they had first met one another. “Robin! It’s good to see you,” she greets, still latched onto the other’s form as she wrinkles her nose at the book. “Isn’t it difficult to read with all of the noise?” She complains, wiggling against the other girl’s back. “I know! I know! You should dance with me. Do you know how to dance, Robin?” And her mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute.

[vantagx-archive-blog]

Muse Icon Meme

Repost, do not reblog

Kamuy. .

When happy:

When sad:

Seeing something they want:

When their berserk button is pushed:

Seeing someone they dislike:

tagged by: @clericallis

tagging: @unladylikc,  @skyboundsong, @awakenfate, @cirocchios@latrocinari, @echoingalone, @eiriini, and I queue’ed this so I have no idea who has and hasn’t been tagged yet so feel free to steal! 

[vantagx-archive-blog]

@echoingalone​

      “If you value your lowly lives, you’ll allow me through,” his hoarse, cracked voice slipped from the depths of his dry throat and into the frigid air in a tepid stream that rolled from his bitter tongue. Chapped lips pulling back into a snarl to reveal sharp fangs already drenched in blood with the hot sensation of dark fire burning at their backs as six eyes danced about the panicked faces of measly servants and knights alike; tugging at scaled and marred skin, tearing chips of skin from his face as the crimson markings beneath his eyes burned, and surged all at once. With their trembling hands wrapped tightly about lance, sword, or axe, they remained in place; whispers shifting through the crowd like a poison while the dying light of day sank behind the pristine walls of the palace. The cold ate away at his exposed skin, rustling the worn and tattered remains of his old cloak until it had seeped into his stiff bones, but even as it threatened to turn his human flesh black and blue it compared little to the heat of his wrath and the inferno that was his unbridled rage.

        “You will let me through.” But their ashen faces only regard him with fear and the obnoxious sense of loyalty that kept them six inches deep in the snow and staring down the shell of a man that remained (there was no reasoning with him when he was angry) with a conviction that only served to grate him all the more. His lips tugged into a frown, a low growl vibrating from the back of his throat as his fangs rubbed together; his bare feet trudging forward through the thick layer of snow that had covered the land, rattling the worn, grimy chains that still tethered them together, turning the skin around his ankles raw and bloody. His attention following to a lone knight who worked his way through the army, sword clutched in hand as he approached slowly.  

        “Sir, I’m afraid we cannot allow you in on orders of the Exalt, as we’ve been trying to tell you, Lady Robin is no condition to see anyone.” Dreary pupils dilated as the words struck his ears, calloused fingers curling into trembling fists as elongated nails dug trenches into the palms of his hands; yanking at the thick chains still binding his hands together and knocking against his thing wrists. His canines dug into his lip, oozing the sweet taste of copper onto his tongue as he tightened his fists, the back scales protruding from beneath his torn clothes burning as steam rolled from them. The muscles in his arms contracted as he forced them apart, snapping the rusted chain in two before leaning down to grasp the shackles upon his feet and crushing them within his claws. And may the Gods have mercy because there was in his hollow heart of those who would fling lies about his sister at him (she doesn’t remember anything; not even you - lies, every last one of them, she could never forget).      

          “To Hell with your Exalt,” he growled, “I won’t let anyone hurt her again, and if you stand in my way of saving her, I’ll erase you.” The hard soles of his feet pressed into the earth, and before the man could ready his weapon Reflet’s claws had dug into his face, piercing through his skin and deep into his skull. “Please, sir, we’re telling the truth, she doesn’t even remember the Exalt!” Another soldier pleaded beside him, but his voice turned into a pathetic gurgle as Reflet rounded on him; lashing out and taking his throat within his hand, crushing his windpipe and tossing him into the snow.

         “Liars, all of you, you’re just out to use her again.” He plunges forward, the snow melting beneath his feet as the shadows about him simmer into dark flames and pour out around him; consuming steel and cloth and flesh alike as they devour the poor fools stupid enough to wander too close to him, turning them to ashes before they even had the chance to scream as he reaches out to pull oncoming knights from their steeds, and tear through the skin and muscles and bones with his claws and fangs. Pushing forward with ease into the castle gates, settling them aflame, as he enters its familiar halls. “Do you understand now? I’ll obliterate your entire kingdom unless you return my sister to me,” he hissed, gaze darting about the hazy room to the terrified faces of the maids and guards that stood within the castle’s walls; blood dripping from his mouth and fingers onto the velvet rug, his chest heaving and his lungs ached, but none of that mattered (to hell with everything they had gone through, he would be damned if he allowed robin to be used by these people again).  

        He turned to the staircase in the heart of the room when no one dared to raise a weapon against him, dragging himself upwards until his filthy hands rested upon white doors, and he flung them open; slamming them against the walls and snapping their hinges. The anger fading from his muscles as sleek, white hair, gathered into two long, but low ponytails, greeted his blurring vision. “Sister,” he heaved, stepping forward into the bright room (the maids and soldiers that had been attending to her fleeing the moment their eyes fell upon him). “Are you uninjured?” The heat oozed out from his body; quelling the fires he had set and calming his rage. No claim of Chrom’s devotion to her or of his grief could change his mind; he would never trust the man who had lost her in the first place, the man who had made her go through all of this. No, this time he would save her. This time he would make things right, and no army, no country, and no part their shared history would stop him (he’d failed her once; he would never fail her again)

[devour-the-crooked]

@echoingalone

     Calloused, cracked fingers clutch tightly at the tattered hem of his rolled up cloak; folded rather measly over his arms and held close to his chest as he tip-toes his way through the palace halls, avoiding the glances of timid maids and watchful soldiers as the consistent beat of thunder struck the earth and the drone of heavy rainfall slammed against the high walls. His soggy boots leaving a watery trail in his wake, and his were pants coated in mud where they weren’t torn by seemingly a collection of small claws, and caked with small slashes of blood (that was clearly his own: a hint of black mixed in with the dark crimson). And his bare arms were littered with small scratches that, at first glance, could have been mistaken for the usual cracks and dips in his skin where scales were seeping through, but were far too tiny upon closer inspection to be the doing of his other half (and a set of tiny teeth marks could be made out if one peered closely enough at the wounds). With damp, silver locks hanging lifelessly in front of his eyes, all three pairs glanced wildly about him; eyeing every person that he passed as he made his way towards the kitchen. 

         “Keep quiet,” he croaked at the bundle of fabric cradled far too carefully in his mutilated arms, but the hiss of his voice only seemed to make the cloak bunch up and struggle against his grasp with a loud, high-pitched meow that hummed against his skin and made his pointed ears tremble. Quickly, he shoved the hidden animal closer to his chest, and glanced wearily over his shoulder at the lingering guards, but they paid him little mind. It had been two months since he had reluctantly returned to Ylisse at Robin’s request (or rather her convincing; he would be damned if he allowed that bastard to have a third child with his sister), and when he hadn’t burned the castle of kingdom down within the first week of his stay, he had become old news to most of the soldiers (perhaps out of respect for their Queen or simply because their worthless Exalt had ordered them to leave him be). But the thoughts didn’t have time to linger; a dull pain flooded through his arm as tiny teeth managed to find flesh among scales and fabric and sink in like a beast choking its prey.  

        His tongue clicked harshly against the roof of his mouth, but he didn’t wince or release the wiggling wad of drenched fabric from his arms as he continued down the hall. It was late; the cooks were gone for evening by the time he had managed to reach the kitchen, pressing his back against the weak doors, he easily slipped inside. His eyes needing no time to adjust to the darkness as he skirted around the counter; already cleaned with not even a sign that a meal had been prepared upon its top less than a few hours ago. Moving over to the pail in the back of the crowded room, he shifted the bundle to his right arm and gracelessly fished a wooden ladle out from the shadows beside it, wrapping thick claws out its worn surface and carefully drawing a spoonful up. Taking the ladle into his mouth (and nearly snapping it in half with sharp fangs), he rolled the bundle in his arms until he could get his fingers around it to unwrap it. 

       Revealing the small, orange head of a frightened kitten that greeted Reflet’s face with a low hiss and another scratch at his cheek. “Hey, cut it out already,” he growled, trying to keep the feline from clawing at his face again while trying to shove the ladle in its face. Wet to the bone, the last thing the poor creatures needed was water, but Reflet’s understanding of animals had never been anything to write home about, and now they were horrified of him. And this kitten was certainly no exception to that rule; her dripping fur standing on edge as low hisses vibrated in her throat without the hope of stopping. Still trying to wiggle free of Reflet’s grasp, she reached up and smacked the ladle with her paws, long claws tearing it out of his clumsy grasp and sending it onto the floor before his feet. “I’m-”

       Without missing a beat the cat slammed her tiny head into his chin, yanking herself free from his grasp and bolting beneath the low-hanging counter. “Hey,” he hissed whirling around to chase after the creature. “Are you trying to get caught?” Probably (anything would have likely seemed better than having a man less human than the kitten herself chasing her around with sharp fangs, massive horns, and claws that threatened to put her own to shame, but that hadn’t really dawned on Reflet when he had picked the pathetic creature out of the trash in the middle of the storm on his way back to the castle). Tossing himself onto the ground; his eyes dilated to see the bright ball of fur tucked in the deepest corner underneath the counter as his palms pressed to the cold stone of the floor. 

         “Come here,” he tries to whisper softly, but it spills out in a raspy snarl that does little to help his cause as he leans down under the counter, earning a sift claw to the face from the terrified animal, nearly catching his lowest eye in his grasp. Yanking back, he held up his hands to shield his face from her angry paws, and thrust himself on his knees, slamming his thick horns against the bottom of the counter with a loud thud, and sending the vibrates of the impact straight to his skull as he pulled away. With an annoyed hiss, he prepared himself for diving beneath the counter to grab only for his keen ears to rattle at the sound of approaching footsteps, scrambling to his feet, he smacked his back agains the counter to hide the shivering bundle from view just as the doors creaked open, flooding the room with light. 

        “Sister,” he awkwardly forced out; dry lips stretching into a smile that reveled sharp fangs and creased his eyes. “You uh - you should be resting,” he wheezed, but the loud meow that followed his words effectively sealed his fate. Slamming his palms down on the counter in an attempt to cover up the noise, he coughed loudly into his fist. “Nice weather we’re having,” he heaved between his fake coughs against the chorus of meows echoing from behind him.