rowanmaxim

[rowanmaxim]

There's a few ways to interpret what one meant when 'anti-social types' were mentioned. It could be a completely neutral observation, just someone quiet and he does fit that description most of the time. Sometimes it could allude to the creepy wallflower types, the ones who breathed heavily, which was probably unkind of him to think, but he knows everyone knows the kind of person he's describing. "I'm social, just quiet for the most part, I think." Rowan does enjoy being around people once he's sort of dipped his toes into an interaction. It's something he's somewhat proud of, as a child he'd been so hesitant to speak to most people first. His uncle had been the one to socialize him and thankfully the bard was very good at the art of conversation so he didn't have to stumble through things due to anxiety. Being in a home where he'd been walking on eggshells would do that to a kid. He adds a crater or two to the moon, gently crosshatching the shadows and his brows raise at the mention of Avalon. "I grew up around the west side of the Queensland. But if anyone asks I'm from Eterna." It's a bit of an inside joke with himself and he does not elaborate to her further but the corners of his lips quirk up. "Seen anything interesting here yet?" His eyes flicker from the moon on the page to her and he imagines after growing up in Avalon, Lysara in general probably seemed boring.

That was something she had in common with the boy–not being used to hanging out. The difference was, it seemed to her that she was somewhat more equipped to handle it than he might be. She credited this to having a handful of aunts and being in the constant company of at least one family member at nearly all times, even when she might prefer to run off and enjoy a bit of solitude and a book. “So, are you one of those anti-social types?” she asked. Her mother had warned her about the seedy types of people who lived in cities like Eterna, and for a while it had given Iskra pause about exploring beyond the walls of the family estate and quieted her arguments and begging to have something more to her life than the setting of the provincial family home. 

If he was anti-social, he seemed to be able to hold a surprisingly light conversation. Small talk at the very least didn’t seem to elude him. “I’m from Avalon,” Iskra responded, “but I have an aunt in the city. I’m staying with her for the summer.” She traced a finger along the gilded decoration on the cover of the book she had been reading. “Where are you from?” It was only polite to ask.

[rowanmaxim]

"You don't have my pity, you have my friendship and therefore a place to crash at all times." He says with confidence, smiling a bit around his cigarette in his mouth. Celaya is kind of adorable in the sense that he knows she's this tough gal and she knows she's this tough gal. There's a doughy center to her though, he knows it's gotta be in there somewhere if out of the goodness of her heart she decided to be someone he could bounce ideas off of. What heckler offered not just constructive (though brutal) criticism but allowed you to continue to disappoint them until you got it right?

"I do not want your pity," there it is - the moment Celaya often shuts the door on kindness and she falters, pain in her eyes, a predator turned prey for she knows nothing of this city, of Lysara, of the magic within it. She sucks in a breath; why did it often feel impossible to choose kindness, to not emulate the poison she'd become resistant to? "Rowan, I don't know if I've ever had a real friend before, but I think you may come close." Even if she'd yet to laugh outwardly at his jokes, but they'd get there, she'd find a sliver of humor in her completely uptight, stressed to near-death body.

[rowanmaxim]

She is a cat and he is a shivering canary and somehow that imagery should not be so....Rowan thinks he still has a lot of feelings to unpack after she'd been mean to him at that party. His face is a mask of calm but he knows that she knows he's anything but a bundle of open and inflamed nerves. For a second, he is just looking at her and there's always this little bit of awe that comes with that. Iskra had seemed like such a gentle young woman when he'd first met her framed by moonlight streaming through the hall window. And in a lot of ways, she was. But there was this sharp edge to her that seemed to only have sharpened more in his absence. "How do you feel?" It's always such a stupid question to ask anyone out loud and yet he did it anyway with earnest. "About the letter? And knowing how I feel now." Getting the question out there though had him holding his breath the moment it was out of his mouth.

“Bully for you,” Iskra replied with a tight smile as she watched him sink into the seat across the little round tea table from her. She nudged the little tower of fancy sandwiches and mini cakes out of the way to keep her neutral gaze on his face. Rowan could barely sit still, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise. He always fidgeted when he was nervous, and Iskra relished in her discomfort as she gave him a venomous smile and slipped the tea list across the table toward him. “Why wouldn’t you hear from me? Ghosting is your modus operandi, not mine.” She pretended it was a casual conversation in an overly polite tone. Iskra placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together creating something of a bridge above her teacup. She placed her chin on the platform of her hands and offered him a cheshire grin. “So. What shall we talk about?”

[rowanmaxim]

Rowan thinks he loves everything about hearing anything Elokian says about the high seas. Elokian though is a captain, he's seen a lot of action, was a friend of the sea herself. If he were more musical, he thinks he'd put together a ballad for him, if he was more of a writer, he'd write said ballad and hand it off. Iskra could write it, he was sure of that and he could tell the tale. That brings about another question. "Is the crew family to you?" Because the other man painted this amazing life of fighting and fucking on the high seas but Rowan does wonder if such a thing gets lonely. Part of being a pirate was indeed leaving everything behind and ultimately he thinks that is what is holding him back from going out to sea himself. And yet that would the point, wouldn't it? Leaving it all behind and escaping all of his problems and sailing out on the water away from all obligations?

"Well, there was a short time when I was happy staying on the island. Getting drunk and fucking the mightiest men of legend used to be enough. I was a bit of a groupie in those days," he confessed with a chuckle. That era of Elokian's life was many lifetimes ago. However, Caribella's energy was infectious. Lying on the chest of a mighty Raider after fucking until the sun rose was when most got their stories of adventure and plunder. Elokian was no different, and eventually, the stories he heard were the very ones he wanted to tell himself. "But you can only hear a man prattle on about his greatness so much before you begin to wonder if you can have it as well. That's how it started for me, with the question. Once I wondered if I could be a legend too, that was it. I took what was mine and made sure that my status, my ultimate treasure, always returned to my hand no matter what. I'm the greatest because I'm always ready to fight to prove I’m the greatest."

[rowanmaxim]

Scrapbook Edits: Sad Academics

And I know I was wrong But I won't let you down Oh, yeah, I will, yeah, I will, yes, I will @iskra-tqd

[rowanmaxim]

"We won't know til there's more smoke, I guess." That was the terrible part about all of it, the waiting. Arguably, they were in the calm before yet another storm. Rowan had nothing but sympathy for those that had been driven out of Iskaldrik and yet he knew that it was more than just upsetting that it'd happened, it meant that the darkspawn could very well show up anywhere. If the North fell at any time, they could all be next. He had a bit of an in at least, the Nightingales were decently ahead of things and he'd know if it were time to turn tail and set sail somewhere else. It didn't make him feel any better though, that was for damn sure. "Haven's safe though, or at least not as in trouble as everyone thought it would be. That's a relatively good sign."

"Mm, no, but we've known that for some time now, right?" his business had literally been on fire, and metaphorically; as a merchant, Auri's life may as well have been in shambles but the silver elvhen was good in a bind. Loot and gold had once been pocketed around the streets of Iskaldrik and he'd have once been smart to set a foothold here, but it was too late for Auri to be impeded by further regrets. Basically, he's too pretty to cry over a burning business and destroyed city, but the Blight continuing to encroach further was something else entirely grim. They liked Rowan, it was simply an added bonus that the nightingale didn't mind feeding Auri information on occasion, "What city is to burn next?" Teasing, grim, albeit deadpanned, but Auri was trying not to panic either.

[rowanmaxim]

So this guy was somewhat terrifying and somewhat helpful and Rowan took a step back from the current bit of mushrooms he'd been looking at to fully look at the stranger. The stranger who looked like some kind of walking painting and Rowan knows better than to just trust anyone, his mother had instilled a sense of constant vigilance in him as a child. Granted, she'd also been a much bigger fan of flight over fighting. There's always shadows to step into if things got dicey, that was the go to move and had been since he was a kid. But he'd also spent part of his life raised by a rather whimsical bard and his love of art would take him places he wouldn't go with a sword. "This is going to sound insane, but could I draw you?" Brow raised, he cocks his head to the side. He will play into the just being a normal run of the mill guy until the cows came home if it would get him out of a sticky situation. He's no threat to this man covered in mushrooms, that was for damn sure.

"And yet." Disturb him he had; Diarmad didn't have any use for sketches or whatever meddlesome business had brought the traveler so far out of his way. The genasi could consider this a blessing; a gift from the Dark. A pale, anemic-looking complexion hinted at the ideal breeding ground for Diarmad's spores. He was thin, though whatever marrow the other had in his bones might make for an adequate fertilizer. He considered this but kept walking, still tired from his travels in the South. "That one's poisonous. Look much closer and you'll be dead." Diarmad commented as mycelial veins pulsed idly at the nape of the genasi's neck, sharp, blue eyes taking stock of the creature that had stumbled close to his lair.

[rowanmaxim]

"I'm um, I'm not entirely used to 'hanging out' in general." He points out, feeling more than a little sheepish at the admittance. "Especially around people my age." Most of his 'friends' weren't quite friends at all, they were either people he helped out or friends of his father's or uncle's, and it's not like he didn't like talking to people or had a hard time being social, it was more that he hadn't really been socialized as a child. Until he'd moved in with his father, his mother had been secretive and frankly, incredibly overprotective of him. It's something he tries not to let get to him, he's adaptable because he'd had to be. "Where are you from?" Rowan asks moreso out of curiosity than politeness as he dug one of the many pens from the inside of his coat pocket. He needs something to do with his hands and so sitting with his legs crossed, he puts the pen to paper and glances out the window and idly starts sketching the moon high in the sky in the corner of the page just to warm up.

It surprised her that he yielded to the request that he not smoke. Most people in Eterna thought she was joking, would laugh at the request and then produce another cigarette to offer to her. The smell of the smoke always bothered her, how could it not after she’d spent her entire life in the most provincial part of Avalon enjoying its unpolluted air? Instead, he pulled something else out in its wake. It took her a moment to recognize what it was as she sat up slightly to make more room for him across from her. Even as she tried to ensure there was enough room for both of them, the window was only so wide and her kneecap just barely rested against his. Iskra almost missed the question he asked as she tried to steal a glance at one of the completed sketches, but her eyes flickered back to his face as she realized he expected an answer. “I don’t especially mind them,” she admitted. “I’m still getting used to them, or at least the ones this big. I’m not from here.” She didn’t offer a further explanation, not right away at least. She didn’t wish to unless he asked about it explicitly, and even then she might keep her cards close to her chest. There were some who decided that she was too simple, not a worthy conversation partner when they assumed she was some uncultured transplant from the countryside. “Why don’t you like them?” she asked, her brows knitting together slightly. And of course, there was the implied question of what he was doing here tonight if he didn’t want to be. 

[rowanmaxim]

Jeremy Allen White as Lip Gallagher for Shameless, S09 EP09.

[rowanmaxim]

Person: @robinxofxstars Location: It's Neptune's Fleet and it's docked "So what have you gotten up to?" The outline of the pomegranate is done and looks pretty nice if he did say so himself. Wiping away excess ink on Robin's arm, he looked up from his supplies to observe his fellow cambion. It shouldn't be a thing anymore for him, trying to live vicariously through a pirate, but there was always going to be a part of him that thought that he might have missed a calling. Elokian had pointed out the call of the sea was something every pirate heard and yet she hadn't called out to him, not really. Which meant it was glaringly apparent Rowan was looking for some kind of escape route.

[rowanmaxim]

He hadn't ever known what to expect when he'd handed off that letter to her. For a while there he'd tried to tell himself that not hearing anything was probably better than hearing back. The problem with outwardly trying to be an easygoing person was that he had to tell himself over and over again that he was okay with any outcome. But such a thing was easier said than done and he thought maybe he himself needed the closure. Iskra didn't owe him that, he'd said his piece, her silence could very well be hers. When someone had shown up at the shop with a message for him though, he'd almost thrown up. From excitement? From anxiety? He couldn't decide. But he'd gone to the tea shop on the dot because Rowan knew her and knew she'd be there earlier and he wanted her to see that he could be on time. It's still not the best, his time management outside of work, but he's trying, the point is that he wants her to see that he can put the effort in. He was right and as he comes up to the table his heart does this kind of jump in his chest because she's wearing one of her ribbons and the way the rest of her hair falls highlights her cheekbones, makes those big doe eyes stand out even more. "I made time." He points out politely, sitting across from her and trying not to fidget. His eyes fall on what was his letter briefly and he wondered if she had indeed read his love letter, corrected his grammar, and now was about to send it back. "I um, I didn't expect to hear back from you so I was more than happy to get the message." It's still polite, he's on his best behavior.

Iskra let the dead air sit between herself and Rowan for a week. A full calendar week, seven days, days during which she knew he would worry, agonize through restless nights, and doubt his choice to deliver the letter to her at all. So committed to making him wait was the faiman that she cancelled her every social obligation and shut herself into her aunt Floria’s home, passing the time paging through novels and letters from home–from people who didn’t forget to write–and checking the days off on her personal calendar. She felt good about this, about her punishing restraint and her wrath. But she would not be so dedicated to her comeuppance, she had always planned to find him at the end of the week and speak to him, though she was determined to see to it that their meeting would be on her terms as well.

When she sent a messenger to deliver a note to him at the tattoo shop, because frankly she couldn’t be bothered to learn where he lived on such short notice, she knew he would show up at the time and place directed even if he didn’t send correspondence back accepting the invitation. She’d chosen a tea shop, broad daylight, perhaps only half with the cruel intention of watching him squirm in public. And half for the aesthetics and fashion opportunity of it all. She’d chosen a ribbon for her hair, knowing the way he had loved how she’d worn them in the summers they had shared. Plus, it would keep the hair out of her eyes; she knew how much he loved her eyes. Would he feel the same sitting across from them under her unbroken, withering stare? 

Iskra arrived early, intentionally early. Earlier than she knew Rowan would think to show up as she had always felt that being the first to arrive afforded something of an upper hand and home field advantage. She had been nursing an ornate saucer of some pink floral tea and reading a novel, only half-checking the door with each new arrival. When it was finally Rowan who crossed through the threshold she made a point of finishing her paragraph before setting her book down on the table. His letter was sitting, pristinely folded, between her porcelain place setting and another. “What a treat you could find the time in your busy schedule to join me.” The words were intentional. Her smile was a trap.

[rowanmaxim]

[rowanmaxim]

"No, but you're also not homeless if you stay with me." He points out, going about lighting his cigarette as if she hadn't just given him some kind of earth shattering news. He kind of has the space, she could take the bedroom and he could just sleep in his studio officially, it's where he wound up sleeping most of the time anyways. "We'll figure it out. I'll help." Taking a drag from his cigarette, he blinks twice before exhaling smoke and looking to her. "I mean, if you want me to." It's somewhat sheepish because just because he'd extended the offer it didn't mean she had to take it.

"Maybe they're a bit sensitive, an entire city is falling," had fallen, really, but Celaya had made her escape route once the darkspawn had managed to clammer over the massive wall that separated them from the outskirts of Aventia. She'd always liked Rowan; it took a lot of delusion to look at Celaya and think she could genuinely help with his comedy; but she'd always been a realist and perhaps that was where their paths truly diverged. He wasn't looking for someone with a knack for comedy, he was looking for someone not to bullshit him and Celaya had learned easy enough that he didn't mind reciprocating such favor. "I'm homeless, again - do you have any material on that?" Ruefully, with a clear edge, she likely smelled of blight and death, but the bard merely focused on his cigarette.

[rowanmaxim]

"Your origins being?" Rowan's not sure what makes him so curious about this quest of Mikhael's, but he feels compelled to help him. Granted, he feels compelled to help most people. But this guy had the kind of energy of someone a hero in a novel would meet on some grand adventure. Not like Rowan considered himself the hero in that situation by any means. "I've been here my whole life and I think people are fairly....Spiritual." Or maybe temples and churches had gotten an influx of people due to what had happened in Aventia. Which was actually rather funny when he thought about it, in a morbid kind of way. People always turned to prayer when something threatened their comfort, when it would benefit them. He thought it was rarer that people talked to some higher or lower power on a daily basis. Something tells him that Mikhael is one of those rarities though.

“Let’s see then,” he mutters slowly, a mix of tentative hope and mild resignation settling on his gut once Rowan reveals that there is one of such temples nearby. Rocking on his heels for a moment, he takes a breath and moves to follow. He is not hopeful enough to believe they will find a temple on the first day, but he is faithful enough to continue trying even if all he finds is disappointment. It’s what he owes to his God, and he will not allow his disappointment to stop him on this self-imposed quest. “Yes,” he admits softly. “I am well aware that it is beyond odd, considering my origins, but my mother raised me within the faith and I have seen the Great Ba’al in action. My faith comes from my foundation, and it is one of the things that has helped me realize that I am not an extension of my father’s legacy.”

[rowanmaxim]

Her eyes really were something, her facial structure in general. She's got the kind of features he wants to paint and he has to stop himself from doing the usual thing of kind of breaking down every plane of her face into how he would draw it in his head. It causes some hesitation in him putting his cigarette back into the pack in his back pocket. "Yeah, fair." Rowan nods and instead reaches into the pocket of the inside of his jacket and takes out the small sketchbook there. He sits on the cushioned bench across from her and it really is a nice little nook. He likes that about the houses in Eterna, the older ones all seemed to have interesting architecture, little secrets here and there. "Are you not into parties?" It's polite as he flips through the pocket sketchbook and gets to an empty page. "I'm not." Rowan's fighting with himself on if it was rude to talk to her while she was reading or if it'd be rude to just not say anything. A little small talk while he got settled couldn't hurt or maybe he was desperate for some kind of connection that seemed....Grounded? Artist's by nature tended to be a little eccentric, he got that, he had his moments, but everyone else he'd talked to that evening talked like they had something to prove. To literally anyone who would listen. It felt a bit more like scoping out competition to him for the most part and he was surprised he hadn't drank more to combat it.

Freedom was a welcome change from life as Iskra knew it in Avalon. In Eterna, the city seemed to have a pulse of its own. It was not uncommon that the family estate in Avalon did not witness a visitor for months at a time, the company of her family both comforting and stale all at once. Not like Lysara, where each day carried with it new faces, new sounds, new smells, and new experiences. It had taken Floria a while to bolster the confidence in the young ward of her niece to venture out into the city alone, and this was the first evening that Iskra pushed the boundaries of her newfound young adulthood and ventured into the lamplight of Eterna alone. Of course, Floria had personally vetted the invitation for the artists gathering Iskra embarked to attend, but that was her own little secret. 

Iskra had floated effortlessly from one small group to another learning a bit about the type of person who populated the setting of the salon everyone was in. She learned quickly that those who watched around clutching a small bundle of papers were all to eager to announce their good fortune of acceptance into the Harmonium–and Iskra instantly knew why Floria had been perhaps too encouraging of her niece being in attendance. Without anything needing to be said, aside from that an advance on next week’s allowance had been left on the dining table with the express purpose of Iskra to buy herself something lovely to wear for the evening, Iskra understood how she was meant to show up that evening. This was a networking opportunity, she was to find someone to charm and then latch onto; someone who could support her admittance into the Harmonium. Her mother remained staunchly opposed to the idea of Iskra’s education taking her outside of Avalon, but Floria and Iskra had grown into something like a pair of co-conspirators. How could her mother ever say no if Iskra could prove to be skillfully capable of paving her own path. 

If only her stamina was up to the task. The young faiman had collected the names and contact information to follow up with no less than two new initiates of the Harmonium and two who had survived the trials of those hallowed halls. That would have to be enough for the night, Iskra thought, her social battery depleted. She was still gaining stamina–new people exhausted her quickly after an upbringing so colored by near constant seclusion from the outside. The nook was hidden enough–almost enough. She had lost track of time when she first heard someone address her since she had cloistered herself halfway behind the richly colored velvet curtain that obscured most of her body as she leafed through a novel. Her brown eyes lifted from the page she was skimming and settled on his face. Iskra seemed to remember the need for decorum and sat up quickly. “Company, no,” she responded, though she eyed his cigarette, “so long as you don’t light that thing up.” She never could tolerate the smell.

[rowanmaxim]

Jeremy Allen White for Calvin Klein, November 2024 🚨

[rowanmaxim]

Person: @iskra-tqd Location: A Gathering in the Past He didn't know why he was going aside from the fact that he knew if he didn't, he never would. He had to live life outside of his comfort zone, going to the Harmonium would mean he couldn't sit on the sidelines forever. It's not like he didn't want some sort of limelight anyways, just a quieter, tighter circle than the crowds his uncle performed to. Wanting to share art and whisper stories wasn't quite the same as commanding an audience on a ship or in a tavern. The 'gathering', Rowan had heard about from one of the guys down at Inkquisition and it was full of those who'd already received acceptance letters and those on the fence about putting theirs in. Artsy types, it was like a well mannered zoo with someone playing music in every room trying to show off. He mingles, he nurses a drink for what feels like an hour but all the talk of nerves and how to write the best entrance letter and all that slowly got to him. Needing a moment, he peruses the large house until he finds a cozy looking alcove by a wide window that has moonlight streaming through. Except it's occupied by a young woman with dark hair and long lashes seated on the cushion at the window ledge and he's stopped in his quest to retrieve his cigarettes from his back pocket. It's like a picture he wants to paint, a beautiful girl reading by the light of the moon high behind her. Big brown doe eyes turn his way as her fingers went to turn the page and he couldn't just stammer that he was just leaving. "Do you mind some quiet company?" He asks politely, unlit cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other.