#( lighthearted swordsman visage. )

[intcritus]

name: kairos vladimir ( he took his bestfriends last name ) age: he's also ancient height: 6'4 occupation: former swordsman, forever bff to samael. species: vampire ( turned by samael )

he grew up penniless, poor, a villager who had nothing before he met samael. the two became fast friends, and he learned plenty by samael's side, to fight, swordsmanship, to read and write. he owes a lot of his current wealth in life to his bestfriend. and he truly feels lucky that he was able to keep that bond to this day.

during one of the last wars they fought together, he'd gotten skewered by arrows, and had begged samael to turn him and he did, because they had a bond that couldn't be found anywhere and samael refused to let him go. they were brothers. and truly, kairos would have followed him to the end of the earth if it meant he could keep the joy of life in samael's life and so he did, even centuries later.

[spirithunts]

as   usual   does   her   laughter   remind   him   of   chimes   :   courting   flirtatiously   with   gentle   winds   of   spring's   afternoon   ,   and   yet   as   usual   it's   this   effortless   charm   —   this   compliment   that   flows   honeyed   from   her   lips   that   gives   the   heart   of   a   certain   masked   swordsman   startle   like   birds   fleeing   from   crops   .   his   expression   remains   still   ,   save   for   the   slightest   twitch   of   his   lips   .   handsome   ?   in this moment , there   is   no   part   of   him   that   believes   she   is   being   sincere   —   not   when   she   wields   banter   just   as   fluently   as   she   does   her   magicks   ,   but   even   then   !   —   there   is   no   part   of   him   that   believes   anyone   could   think   of   him   any   sort   of   good-looking   .   not   when   ...   not   when   ...  

lifting from where it rests upon the hilt of his sword , a bandaged hand adjusts   the   hood   lower over   his   face   ,   his   mask   .   ❛   '   handsome   '   is   hardly   the   word   one   might   use   to   describe   this   visage   ,   ahri   .   ❜

» — A HANDSOME SWORDSMAN...  

— @windchaser

Carefully does she smooth over the fabric, delicate despite claw-like nails. Ahri's hands linger but for a moment longer, the final touches in adjusting the cloak to conceal his visage. The vastaya thinks little of her commentary, lighthearted as it is (ignored as she expects it to be; Yone may be unparalleled as a swordsman, leaving any enemy hardpressed to find flaw in his guard — yet a few well-chosen words ofttimes seemed enough to disarm him completely).

She imagines it will be the case, emotion kept from his face but for the twitch of his lips, her own curled in a half-smile, ready to leave the conversation behind as they would the village they visited to make the needed preparations. Ahri adjusts her own hood to better conceal her ears; it's an inconvenience, to hide like that (to conceal her tails, most of all), but a necessary one. It would be best for them to travel undisturbed.

It's the emotion she feels from him that draws her gaze back to Yone. While his face remains calm as the placid surface of an undisturbed lake, within the turmoil is obvious — not the turbulence that precedes a storm, but the melancholic calm that follows the brief agitation of a gust of wind.

Ahri looks up to meet his gaze, head slightly tilted to the side; sweetened words and playful charm, present as they are, were never meant to be wielded as lure or weapon toward him. To have company was such a rare occurrence; to have the company of one she could be so at ease around, unafraid to cause unintended harm, a treasure she greatly cherished. The feelings themselves, denounced to her through the inherent essence of her powers, would elicit her sympathy regardless; it is different, however, to sense it from one whose company she appreciates (one she knows struggles not simply with his looks, but his nature).

He thinks he is a monster. She wonders what he would think, knowing the entirety of her story.

Instinct and need may have led to much of what she did, but wasn't that in itself part of monstrousness? It's part of her, it always will be; but Ahri had come to believe there could be more, too.

Instead of protesting his commentary immediately, the vastaya hums in non-commital agreement, the sympathy in her golden eyes softening, as does her voice. The lilt of mischief that often colors it cannot be found in her words this time — gentle, yes, but sincerely so. "Maybe it wouldn't be the choice most would make. Maybe it wouldn't be the word you would choose, but it is the one I would use, whether you like it or not."

"I regret to say if you expect the changes you went through to have made you anything other than handsome, you're utterly wrong," A straying into the usual tone, playful, though no less sweet (and genuine, again, when she continues). "It certainly doesn't seem to have changed the good there is in your heart, either."

A pause, and she reaches for his hood again, fussing with no need to do it — seeking his gaze, before softly adding: "The mask, the azakana... It does not define who you are, Yone."