#⚘ verse — i thought even the bones would do

[prismaiden]

[ spar ]

The axe’s blade bites the snow beneath them, naught but a few deadly inches away from Anri’s helm. It was lowered slowly, though, with no intent to draw blood or threaten her pulse — her heart, beating fast now, loud enough it surely rings in her head like a clamour of cathedral bells.

Creighton looms above her now, teeth bared behind the steel wall of his mask, though murder, for once, has no home in his eyes. One knee digs into Anri’s breastplate, pressing her into the powdery white below them, the two sinking slowly as snow crinkles and crushes beneath their combined weight. He is panting, shoulders heaving, hands shaking against the haft of the axe he has now loosened his grip upon.

He meets her eyes — those beautiful, doe-like eyes, and all the fear and fury that swirls and churns within them — and it’s clear he wants to say something. But he is too out of breath. Sparring matches are no stranger to the Mirrahn knight, of course. But Anri sure as hell gave him a run for his coin.

And so, in this moment of silence, Creighton releases his hold on his weapon — the axe stays put in the snow beside his friend’s cheek — and shifts to straddle Anri’s waist gently, hands falling dumbly at his sides. His breath, hot and fast, trails out his mask in tendrils of steam as he tilts his head back and pants in great volumes.

Breathe…

[from lockawayknight :3💕]

@lockawayknight ♡

Snow caved beneath the combined weight of bodies and armour, buckling earthward with a sound that was both soft and sharp.  In another encounter, this frozen crater might have proved a resting place, a frost-rimmed grave on the borders of the Boreal Valley.  Instead, it became a cradle, a powdery palm holding Anri in a moment of shared respite.  Next to her head, the silvery crescent of Creighton’s axe lay buried, signifying the end of their session. 

No matter how many times they fought, Anri was left in awe of the savagery and ferocity with which her friend was able to conduct himself.  There was a precision to his swings, power enough to stagger her even with a shield to absorb the brunt of those blows.  Such craft was not easily taught, if such a thing could even be learned.  By comparison, when she moved, it was with the knightly countenance and choreography she had inherited from her forbear.  She did not share the same fluidity, the same predatory instinct. 

Perhaps she had come to the blade too late, or maybe she was muzzled by her deep-seated reluctance to cause harm to any besides Aldrich and his ilk.  It could even be that her very desire to survive faltered – Anri had already lived too long, and was weary in a way no amount of sleep could ever remedy.  Still, she challenged Creighton to the best of her ability, pirouetting around him, redirecting the sharp edge of his axe with the tip of her lucky straight sword, fresh snow churning beneath their boots.  Until, at last, she was knocked flat.  Had this been a duel of real intent, it would have ended with her skull split down to the brainstem.  

Exhalations billowed through his steel mask, appearing in time with the ragged fall of his chest.  Similarly spectral plumes leaked through the vents of her helm, as though in answer.  Only under Creighton could she be this calm.  When his shadow fell on her, it felt warm.  His weight at her breast, then her waist, came as a comfort.  No matter how far along the path of undeath they marched, she could not imagine him ever forgetting himself, or forgetting her.  Desiring wintry air on her face, Anri pulled free her helm, her head protected from the earth by pinned plaits of golden hair.  Carried on the wind, swirls of snowflakes stung exposed skin like grit.  Silence stretched as she lay exhilarated and spent, cold air burning her lungs and cheeks.  

“Slain, again.”

It was an observation made without complaint and accompanied instead by the gentlest of smiles.  This was his triumph, his victory, and she celebrated him.  Anri released her grip on her sword, leaving it embedded in its pristine pillow of snow, and took Creighton’s gloved hands fondly into her own.  More than mere play, their sparring carried purpose.  Purpose like that which hung as a millstone around her neck.  Purpose like that which waited for her in the icy heart of Ithryll.

“Do you think I am ready?”

Just as she could not bear to be explicit in her meaning, she could not bring herself to ask the question that lay leaden on her tongue: Will you come with me?

[prismaiden]

VERSES .

⚘ verse — do you believe in god / i do please stop there’s so much blood

canon . Unwilling acolyte of the Deep, corralled to the cathedral among a sorry stream of men, women, children.  Anri does not remember what came before the long march along the Road of Sacrifices.  Saint Aldrich is the beginning and he is insatiable, he eats endlessly, he bloats and swells.  Anri befriends other children in the course of her domestic and ecclesiastical duties.  They pray for salvation, but no hero comes to their rescue.  Hollow-eyed child, she watches as those she loves are consumed live, one by one, split like pomegranates on the altar while the monstrous choir sings and chants.  It was Horace’s idea that they flee.  In the end, they are the only ones to escape, to outrun the hunters and their hounds. They alone are the sole survivors of Aldrich’s grim appetite.

⚘ verse — teach me the art of small steps

canon . It is chance that sees their paths cross with that of Ryland of Astora.  Stowaways on the sea crossing, their fare paid by a greying knight to keep them from trouble.  He takes them under his wing, under his noble tutelage.  Together, they travel a war-stricken world, they grow accustomed to the weight of weapons in hand, they drink deep from the cup of honour and heroism.  When they are ready, they venture into the smouldering heart of Ryland’s motherland and slay the dark spirit that destroyed Astora.  The battle costs Ryland his life, and with his passing Anri dons his armour.  To those she meets thereafter, she will say she is of Astora, drawn as she is to its history of gallantry and courage, to its current state of desolation.  To drive back the growing dark, she offers herself to link the Flame – but her sacrifice is rejected.  She is deemed unworthy kindling, and she burns for nothing.  Loyal Horace follows her into the fire, together in death as life, and their ash is carried on the same wind.

⚘ verse — i thought even the bones would do

canon . Anri awakens in the untended graves, crawling from the earth with ash thick in her throat.  She is raised from the dead, remade as a Lordseeker.  In a world that rings empty, that is haunted by hollows, she looks to fulfil her purpose – to destroy the resurrected Saint Aldrich and avenge the children she once knew.  Horace is at her side as they take the Road of Sacrifices to the Cathedral of the Deep, though they will not find Aldrich there.  No, he waits beyond Irithyll, in the pale city that was once home of the gods.

⚘ verse — every body is a book of blood

bloodborne . A Blood Saint and custodian of the Orphanage.  Anri bleeds herself dry to bolster those brave and fierce enough to drive back the beastly scourge.  Covered in track marks, she tends to the children, she loves them true.  A low-ranking servant of the Healing Church, she knows not what fate awaits the children in her care, not privy to the machinations and horror of the Choir’s ambition.

⚘ verse — can i hope to become / when a lone lamb can’t be salvaged

modern . Anri owns and runs a flower shop, living a thrifty and simple life. She loves her friends and serves her community, frequently gifting bouquets to hospitals and homes for the elderly. In her spare time, she volunteers as a cuddler in the local neonatal intensive care unit. Beneath her wholesome veneer, there is trauma she dares not speak – that she and Horace are survivors of the Catholic care system.

⚘ verse — love is what sits at the core of the world

ancient greece . A verse inspired by but not limited to Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey.  Anri is a priestess Aphrodite, a caretaker of her goddess’ temple in Korinthia.  There she participates in sacred processions, public prayers, holy feasts in which the people present dine in the presence of divinity.  For a small fee, she may also officiate at private rituals.