reynauld

[reynauld]

I hope he fuckin steals stuff as usual.

[reynauld]

[reynauld]

guess who's no longer dead!

[reynauld]

Hand Candle paintings by Paul Benney

[reynauld]

I've been DESIGINING.

[reynauld]

:D

[reynauld]

The Titan Montante

[reynauld]

"No. I am getting back to what I once was."

He walks alongside Dismas, gently pulling him to the coach. The lightning fast blade and gun of the Hamlet doesn't like his wounds healed. He had let him, in foggy memory, knit his flesh once, in more dire circumstances.

"You have become a lot stronger. Still as thin as a serpent."

He pats the back of Dismas's shoulder.

"Too slow? Then we recall the trainers' words and quicken your step. Or find ourselves in a spar- My hands are as fast as yours."

Maybe faster. Just not with a knife.

Back to the coach with him, though. If he passes out then he can be healed.

"What are y--"

...well. Fine. I guess he'll allow Reynauld to help him stand. Hissing, one of his hand reaches for the arm-- it's still there, right? ...yeah, seems like it. It's completely numb, but it's still there.

Despite the pounding headache, he finds himself chuckling.

"Always that surprised tone..." he breaths out. Whimpers. "Still-- a little... too slow. Fer my standars--

Y-Ye got better."

[reynauld]

@reynauld

13, 💕, happy reunion

13. a bite on the thighs 💕 lustfully, smirking

What happens in the stagecoach stays in the stagecoach, wether it was an inappropriate joke, a particularly visceral insult or something more physical, or if the deed was made during the journey or while the others were resting at the Inn, it didn't matter. It was said as a joke, maybe, but most of them eventually silently agreed to follow it.

That night, it was his turn.

He hid in there, away from the rest of his companions, mostly to drink by himself. He needed some silence, some time away from the chaos in a particularly lived Inn. Hell, when the door opened, he already brought a free hand on his gun-- relaxing only when he noticed Reynauld. Sharing some bad whiskey, both of them started to feel at ease. They laughed - a little too loud, maybe, taken by the victories of the past day, the memories, or simply the fact that they were pretending they were back in the Hamlet, in simpler times, where, surprisingly enough, everything was easier.

He wasn't sure how they found themselves so close, what brought him to push even closer, pressing his lips on the other's, the clear taste of alcohol and rot invading his mouth, but with how quickly the Crusader pushed against him, returning the messy kiss, he was certain that if he didn't start, Reynauld would've proceeded him. The other's skeletrical hands slither against his skin, under his jacket, make him shiver. A soft moan escapes his lips, his own fingers crawl up the other's neck, clench on his hair as he moves lower, keeping eye contact as Dismas breathes out, slow, heavy. The knight shows a hint of a smirk as his nails are dragged down the Highwayman's body, skillfully undoing his belt and dragging down his pants - a smirk he's quick to return, just to let it die in a second moan when he feels the other's teeth on his naked leg, pressing hard enough to make the breathe escaping his mouth shake.

"Ah, fuck...!"

Dismas feels the other's lips curl into another smirk as he gives a second bite, one a little harsher, a little closer, clearly deadset on teasing as much as he can, play with his food to force him to let out as much noise as possible -- one that makes the criminal's grip on his hair tighten a bit to share the pain.

But it's fine. It's a good kind of pain, after all. One he'll happily indulge into.

[reynauld]

🤔

[reynauld]

watches paracelsus and bonnie making out in the stagecoach and settles on watching for ambushes.

[reynauld]

a goal to have if we have a completely scouted road.

What happens in the stagecoach stays in the stagecoach... sometimes.

[reynauld]

What happens in the stagecoach stays in the stagecoach... sometimes.

[reynauld]

it's like lifting a wiry tomcat full of knives.

[reynauld]

"It is no scratch, Dismas, but I must if you bleed too heavily. T'would rather care for you now, than later whilst pulling maggots out of your wounds."

It's true. The air ahead was disgusting and laced with ash and pestilence. This is an old conversation.

He treks behind him a few steps and offers his arm for the stagger.

"T'was a magnificent hit you landed, truly."

@reynauld

"Twas well won. Want ye my hands upon you?" He didn't like it before. But...

"Nonsense, I--"

Oof. Okay. He leans down, takes a deep breath. Lifts a hand, as to silently beg for a second... and then straightens himself, breathing out.

Ow.

"'Tis but a scratch. Let's get going."

[reynauld]

I’m digging the nigh-invisible nature of Reynauld’s inner conflicts because he’s completely convinced that whatever lies ahead, he’s been picked to die for it. He’s going in the last dungeon. They’re going to fight the Heart of Darkness. And he will die if they follow the motions of the Ancestor. 

He’s completely ruled by “his duty to the Light”. The problem is? He wants to live. His destiny is to die.

Reynauld has always been in service of others, or has been used by other people. He’s been through the indoctrination of the Church’s ideologies, and then the ideology of the Light afterwards, both of which have demanded complete fealty from him. There isn’t a single part of himself that he owns completely. Talking to him and expecting personal answers is almost impossible. He’s incredible at manipulating conversations. 

The constant service mindset leaves him with virtually no coping mechanisms when he actually does get stressed out. (which is rare, because he’s constantly coping with stress through services to others). He goes from a constant calm state to absolutely distraught. His crashes are so violent and unpredictable it seems like he has two entirely different personalities. 

[reynauld]

Montante (Greatsword), Spain, Toledo, ca. 1550-1600, housed at the Cleveland Museum of Art.