mithra-del-nord

[mithra-del-nord]

Memories. To know the meaning of a word isn't to understand it. I think in order to understand something one must have experience of it, or at least possess a senseless capacity for identification—which then, doesn't it also come from exercising a certain situation?

"𝐵𝑜𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓀. 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎'𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒸𝓎: 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝑒𝓃𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊".

Even though she has left — a rare thing — her figure as elegant as it is wild overbearingly in my memory, I don't mention Chiretta's name; although everything, even the glasses and alcohol's smell, reminds me of that witch. She herself inexplicably divorced with her freedom to marry that man, such a mediocre for nothing up to par with whom she decided, for some reason, to build a family cage to herself. And the remnants of those chains she passed on to me, because I had to take on her brats with an annoying promise to keep. Now that it comes to mind, could I perhaps consider a promise as a kind of bond? Something invisible and intangible that binds two people beyond time, beyond death.

"𝐸𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝒶 𝓅𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂".

For some reason, as my brain reprocesses the images of that dragon with a Nordic temperament, my stomach drowns into a faint suffering. It must be because it's not every day you meet a strong beast with refined pride. I suppose, we could have had more fun, if it had… gone differently.

Elbow resting on the counter, I bend my head over my bicep, to absent-mindedly play with the strands of my hair. I listen to Cain's speech passively, without, that is, intervening with any questions or personal opinions. At least, that is until the Central Knight's voice stops, on that last question that seems to want to dig up some memories in color from the snow.

"𝐼𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂. 𝒴𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂."

[mithra-del-nord]

"𝐸𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝒶 𝓅𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂".

For some reason, as my brain reprocesses the images of that dragon with a Nordic temperament, my stomach drowns into a faint suffering. It must be because it's not every day you meet a strong beast with refined pride. I suppose, we could have had more fun, if it had… gone differently.

Elbow resting on the counter, I bend my head over my bicep, to absent-mindedly play with the strands of my hair. I listen to Cain's speech passively, without, that is, intervening with any questions or personal opinions. At least, that is until the Central Knight's voice stops, on that last question that seems to want to dig up some memories in color from the snow.

"𝐼𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂. 𝒴𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂."

"𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉? 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒. 𝐹𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒, 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈".

With a wave of my hand, I invite Shylock to prepare me another cocktail. It only takes a few moments for the glass to be full again, and just as lightning-fast is the time that elapses before I take my first sip. I lick my moistened lips, the taste of the drink still on my tongue.

''𝒪𝒻 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓊𝓃𝓃𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝒹𝓈. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓂. 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝐼 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉…? 𝒜 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝒹𝓊𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓉, 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀?"

[mithra-del-nord]

"𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉? 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝐼 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒. 𝐹𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒, 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈".

With a wave of my hand, I invite Shylock to prepare me another cocktail. It only takes a few moments for the glass to be full again, and just as lightning-fast is the time that elapses before I take my first sip. I lick my moistened lips, the taste of the drink still on my tongue.

''𝒪𝒻 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓃𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓊𝓃𝓃𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝒹𝓈. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓂. 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝐼 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓉…? 𝒜 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝑒𝒹𝓊𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓉, 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀?"

Cain's praise certainly soothed my pains for a few moments. Not that I haven't gotten used of course, but it's always exciting to hear someone comment on my strength. His last question instead produces a brief initial hesitation on my part.

I bring the glass to my lips, to swallow whatever is contained therein, and which Shylock is accurately describing to me without my giving him too much attention.

"𝒲𝑒𝓁𝓁, 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁. 𝐻𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝑒 𝓂𝑒, 𝐼 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓈𝑒".

As I swirl the ice left at glass' bottom, as if this gesture made absent-mindedly and without a specific will could distract me from the stillness of boredom, my gaze travels far beyond the transparency of the glass. For some reason, I'm thinking of Hwylryn.

[mithra-del-nord]

[mithra-del-nord]

Cain's praise certainly soothed my pains for a few moments. Not that I haven't gotten used of course, but it's always exciting to hear someone comment on my strength. His last question instead produces a brief initial hesitation on my part.

I bring the glass to my lips, to swallow whatever is contained therein, and which Shylock is accurately describing to me without my giving him too much attention.

"𝒲𝑒𝓁𝓁, 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁. 𝐻𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝑒 𝓂𝑒, 𝐼 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓈𝑒".

As I swirl the ice left at glass' bottom, as if this gesture made absent-mindedly and without a specific will could distract me from the stillness of boredom, my gaze travels far beyond the transparency of the glass. For some reason, I'm thinking of Hwylryn.

I offer him my palm. I do it absentmindedly, without care; after all, Cain’s curious affliction is familiar by now, as well as his frequent requests for contact to temporarily solve the problem.

“𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌”.

As it utters these words, my mouth emits a thin breath, expression of boredom and resignation. I sit at the counter, crossing my legs and resting my chin on my knuckles. After ordering something strong and soporific — although I have no hope that it will have any effect on me and my insomnia — I turn to the Central Knight my voice, but not my gaze, which instead remains tired on a random point.

“𝑅𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝐼𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓃?”

[mithra-del-nord]

I offer him my palm. I do it absentmindedly, without care; after all, Cain’s curious affliction is familiar by now, as well as his frequent requests for contact to temporarily solve the problem.

“𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌”.

As it utters these words, my mouth emits a thin breath, expression of boredom and resignation. I sit at the counter, crossing my legs and resting my chin on my knuckles. After ordering something strong and soporific — although I have no hope that it will have any effect on me and my insomnia — I turn to the Central Knight my voice, but not my gaze, which instead remains tired on a random point.

“𝑅𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝓈 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉. 𝐼𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓃?”

I would throw myself on the bed — or anywhere else — to catch up on some of my lost sleep, but, given the overbearingness of the moon, which punctually tricks my eyelids, I think I'll disperse some time in the vivid colours of some alcohol. Halfway between anger and apathy, my gloomy mood accompanies me all the way to Shylock's bar, where it isn't only the manager's kind smile that welcomes me. The cheerful chatter of some wizards in the manor plays with my neurons fatigued by insomnia, beating them weakly. However, the annoyance must be insufficient; or is it the sleep that numbs my killer instinct? I wouldn't know what to answer, the fact is that I bring nothing but a little snow — and cold, given the expression of some — into the room. With a listless attitude, I approach the counter, tuning a subdued yawn to the languid rhythm of my steps.

With @qisms

[mithra-del-nord]

I would throw myself on the bed — or anywhere else — to catch up on some of my lost sleep, but, given the overbearingness of the moon, which punctually tricks my eyelids, I think I'll disperse some time in the vivid colours of some alcohol. Halfway between anger and apathy, my gloomy mood accompanies me all the way to Shylock's bar, where it isn't only the manager's kind smile that welcomes me. The cheerful chatter of some wizards in the manor plays with my neurons fatigued by insomnia, beating them weakly. However, the annoyance must be insufficient; or is it the sleep that numbs my killer instinct? I wouldn't know what to answer, the fact is that I bring nothing but a little snow — and cold, given the expression of some — into the room. With a listless attitude, I approach the counter, tuning a subdued yawn to the languid rhythm of my steps.

With @qisms

[mithra-del-nord]

Kenja-sama, you are invited to celebrate Walpurgis Night.

[mithra-del-nord]

[mithra-del-nord]

I am so tired. I will kill anyone who comes between me and my sleep.

[mithra-del-nord]

All right. I'll start the day with a tasty Mana Stone.

[mithra-del-nord]

I hesitate before her shiny eyes, her cheeks slightly alight with a not-so-successful attempt to contain an inexplicable desperation. Then I sit on the steps of the staircase; in a languid flutter of eyelashes, my pupils neglect for a few moments that solitary sight.

"𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃?"

Crying

[mithra-del-nord]

"… 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓊𝓅?"

Crying

[mithra-del-nord]

"𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑜𝓂. 𝒯𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒸𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓈𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒𝓈. 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈."

In response to @rutile-love

[mithra-del-nord]

"𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒."

I don't understand what was going through that woman's mind. Chiretta… Isn't marriage a kind of promise?

[mithra-del-nord]

I don't understand what was going through that woman's mind. Chiretta… Isn't marriage a kind of promise?

[mithra-del-nord]

A whim teases me. It's not so much the idea, although absolutely unpleasant, of sleeping with something that resembles Oz or the twins, but rather the desire to have everything to myself, or, in other words, the natural refusal to share. I'm dissatisfied: why look for everyone's characteristics, when he already has something that, in his words, vaguely resembles me? Without warning, I lift that thing taking it by the head, to investigate its silent gaze.

"𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽."