psychobind

[psychobind]

Contemplates how to save this world.

but like, nyaa~?

[psychobind]

monster hunter wilds is out and I have always been a professional bug stick wielder in true wagnas fashion so i'll be back when my friends and i beat the game i guess goodbye~.

[psychobind]

women keep coming up to me giggling and blushing and running their finger along the edge of my mighty greatsword like STOP theres literally evil afoot

[psychobind]

Little does he know (or perhaps a lot does he know,) while he is away, there is something left for him in his current estate. It may prove apt for the holiday.

A nontraditional bouquet comprised of the standard, string lights and fifty two baby blue faux butterflies presents itself like a small, gently lit beacon amidst the shadows of the settling evening.

Tucked into the arrangement is a small note. It says: "Though it will never compare to the starlit dances of those fluttering friends of yours, I was reminded of you even still."

Also, yes, this is a real product.

If only she could see his smile.

The bouquet twinkled in his arms, the delicate vine thread, glimmering like caught starlight, around tiny butterflies, no different from forget-me-nots in their fragility. A few of his own fluttered free, wings catching the low light as they circled curiously, inspecting the offering from all angles.

Wagnas had never been a stranger to the season. He had always found it quaint— a sweet, if arbitrary, ritual among mortals, encouraging them to speak their hearts before time took the opportunity from them. It had been, at most, an interesting cultural tradition to observe from a distance.

Until now.

It was foolish to let himself be moved so deeply by something so… simple. Foolish to let the warmth creep into his chest, to feel, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, chosen. And yet, as he turned, bouquet still cradled with rare reverence, he allowed himself a chance to bask in the moment.

Reentering his unfurnished apartment, his steps took him instinctively toward the portal that led beyond, intent to find a water filled vase fittingly beautiful for these strange and enchanting ‘flowers’.

[psychobind]

Fluffs... hair?

[psychobind]

Todays Sinday:

The butterflies join in.

[psychobind]

@asteelgarden liked 4 starter for me to torment a GOBLBON welcome t o north varennes

It began with a single monarch, a flicker of ember-bright orange against the blue of sky. Then, an hour later, came another. Then twelve. They did not move as a swarm, nor in thoughtless chaos, but as if guided by a silent directive.

It mattered not which direction this ornery lone traveler turned-- whether down the winding path toward the town, through the cluttered streets of Avalon, or into the dim hush of an inn-- there would be butterflies waiting. Five trailing the goblin through the marketplace. Three poised expectantly upon the inn’s doorframe, clinging to the wood as though standing guard.

It was not mere happenstance.

They were watching.

Whispering.

"You too... are far from home."

[psychobind]

@acosmicwayfarer liked 4 starter

Gentle were his butterflies as they came to rest, one by one, upon the keys. They perched cautiously on the lid, on the empty music stand, on the strings-- only to flit away when the vibrations of her playing disturbed them. The piano, it seemed, pleased her.

It pleased him too, to hear her play.

"Please, do not stop on their account," he smiled, appearing-- quite suddenly-- on the other side of the piano.

Wagnas still didn't fully grasp the concept of bars, nor the purpose of placing a piano within one... But he understood the spirit behind. The loneliness, the intoxication, the search for something transient and tender beneath dim lighting and cheap wine. He understood their animating principle, which was pain.

Was that what had drawn her to this instrument?

Yes...

He... could consume that pain for her.

[psychobind]

@vxmpirehunterd liked 4 starter

There, upon the horizon, swept a warning bloom of color-- thousands of butterflies, each a luminous, poisonous ember of red, blue, green, and violet, igniting the sky. They swirled together, moving as though caught in a silent dance, converging, shaping themselves to the form of a man. The light shimmered, pulsed, then dimmed, and in its place remained a face; gentle, serene, woven from something more ephemeral than mere flesh.

He lifted his gaze to meet the equally ephemeral figure astride that strange, inorganic steed.

"Yes," he murmured, his voice soft, speaking more to the stars than to the dark-clad rider before him. "It would seem the stars were correct."

"Your name, if you would, rider?" The question was directed now, spoken clearly to the figure whose path he barred. Though his stance carried the weight of a challenge, there was no bite in his tone-- only the smooth, easy cadence of one inquiring about the weather over afternoon tea.

[psychobind]

[psychobind]

little starter call?

[psychobind]

Sticks curling butterfly tongue in honeyed tea and sips.

[psychobind]

he is here and so are his butterflies and he is ready to save the world.

[psychobind]

Hi, I'm alive~.

my writing muse has just gone a little bit kaput (actually, I havent even been able to draw that much...) Haha. How is everyone though? Good~?

I'll be back soon because Wagnas is battering around in my skull like a moth smacking into a fluorescent light.

[psychobind]

I just saw the goofiest sketch fanart this morning. One of Wagnas's ninja lackeys was offering him a drink with a bendy straw in it, which Wagnas accepted with his usual eyes always shut solemnity. The things one must do when they have no hands :')

Yes... it is tough not having arms ; v ; or legs...

[psychobind]

Drinking tea with Kzinssie because he looks lonely and pathetic.

[psychobind]

He allowed Rocbouquet to take his hand, her delicate fingers curling into his palm. Noel might chide him for it later, but he saw no harm in indulging her, not in this moment. His touch was supportive, nothing more, cradling her small hand in his own with a tenderness that spoke of care. He held her as if the faintest pressure might bruise her, his gentleness an unspoken promise of safety.

Holds your hand