#Darmon Strotagor

[tryingtimi]

Old Times

Inspired by Disappearance of the Girl by PHILDEL while failing my poll dears. It’s at least still a Darmon piece, even if not the promised one. I’m on it tho. Also, first try of figuring out their dynamic, so no context.

BOOK I EXPLORATION | CHARACTER EXPLORATION | DYNAMIC EXPLORATION | WC: 1,640

The Crystal Palace always showed its true magnificence at dawn.

Thick, sparkling blanket of snow covered the infertile soil outside as if its freezing white wouldn’t have hidden rough blackness underneath. Flakes rarely fell so deep in the belly of the circling mountain range, and yet the snow never seemed to dwindle.

Darmon turned from the groove they used as a window. The dining room showered in the red-orange light that seeped into the space, the palace’s crystal walls reflecting and multiplying its brilliance. They couldn’t see the auroras this far from Atarq, still, their colors reached them at every dawn.

“Its power to chain you to the window could not die away with the years. I dare say it never will,” Zheva called from the end of the refectory table.

The Nordic shines of the sun bathed her sitting figure in its slowly disappearing light. Since the day she put her armor down, she preferred to wear shadow-colored long tunics made of warm and strong textile, embroidery decorating its full length in rich shades of red and gold. Such as it did today as well. Her midnight tunic had sewed-in golden leaves scattering around in a somehow organized way, broad red hems on the sleeves and neckline adding to the harmony of colors, while a same shaded wide belt tightly wrapped around her waist.

Darmon nodded, then hesitated for a second.

His mind has been plagued with that old prisoner’s words. Words of suspicion and secrets. He found himself growing somehow careful around her. A disturbingly foolish act on his part.

Darmon joined the servants bringing in their many servings feast as they walked to the table. One of them leaned over to pull out his seat, but he stopped them with a soft gesture of a hand. The servant bowed their head, then placed four plates before Darmon as he seated himself.

“Is there a special occasion I‘m not aware of?”

Various roasted meats and vegetables ruffled up his hunger, the scent of melted butter, rosemary, and thyme twirling into his nostrils. Beside them, beautifully shaped glass bottles contained the translucent alcohol beverage made of anise, its curving form ornamenting the deeply shaded grape and pistachio bowls secured with lemon-mint tarts.

All Darmon’s favorites.

Zheva smiled a little.

“Can’t an old woman be lonely at times?” She earned a glance from Darmon.

Zheva’s face had been painted with curious tenderness today. Her features bore age, and maturity, something Darmon had grown accustomed to through the years. Her sharp, narrow eyes carried authority and wiseness while they let some visible wrinkles build a nest beside them.

Yet, Darmon wouldn’t ever call her as simple as old.

“I just find it unusual, that is all,” he added eventually. There were times when he – shamefully – craved to dine with her, but they never did. Only during lunch, they shared their meals and company truly.

Zheva took a bite from vibrant pink meat, the crystals orienting the last rays of dawn at her as a reflector. Her focus never left her meal.

“You are right, there is an occasion you might not be aware of. Two, perhaps.” She cut another slice, something almost like blood glistening on her chopsticks. “Have I ever told you about my son?”

A piece of carrot stuck in Darmon’s mouth as he stopped chewing. Only for a second, but he did.

“No, I didn’t know you had children.”

“Child,” again, she smiled a little, “only him. Especially after I left his father… or he left us, I am not certain anymore. It doesn’t really matter, I barely remember him and my son didn’t need him to outgrow him. He was a rascal since his birth, but he’d also been loyal and valiant. One could always rely on him in times of need. Qiang, that was his name.”

The biting sensation of the anise liquor did not ease the dryness of Darmon’s throat. All the food tasted delicious, yet somehow still felt as if he was eating sand.

He never heard such affection in Zheva’s voice before, not once. He couldn’t even recall if he ever heard her talk about her past. A legendary warrior of the ages and a believer left with a crumbled faith. There was not a seed of questioning in Darmon for why she never mentioned any of it before. Still, he couldn’t deny his surprise. And something else; a stirring, unsettling shred of thought.

The seed of how little he knew about her truly.

“Sounds as if you two were close.” Why continuing the topic felt like dragging a limp leg, Darmon couldn’t say. His plate almost emptied, his stomach nearly full, but he picked up another, large meat slice nevertheless.

“Hardly. We shared a lot, but his innermost thoughts remained his in the end. I knew only a version of him, one he felt comfortable sharing with me.” Zheva gestured with her hand, and the chandeliers brightened above them. A moderately dim, purplish light conquered the hall. “Raising a child does not equal that you’ll know them best.”

A strange sensation scraped Darmon’s throat; a scoff. He didn’t felt this reaction since… well, a long time ago.

He packed another bite in his already full stomach.

“You two are very akin to never asking questions. Unlike him, however, your nature is curious, Darmon. That much, I know. So, why don’t you ask?”

Traveling rays of light fell under the horizon, and the end of dawn brought darkness to the mountain range and everything slumbering within. As the hall turned completely amethyst from the only remaining source of light, Darmon found himself frozen. He cut the meat in half on his plate, his chopsticks abandoned beside it. He stared at the food, then with slow realization in his chest, he turned to Zheva.

“I never expect to receive an answer, hence why bother.”

Deepening crow’s feet, gentle, dark eyes, and a pause of silence. Then, Zheva put a comforting hand on Darmon’s, and all the cold of the world evaporated into nothing.

“You are free to ask, and with that, you shall earn answers.”

It’s been such a long time. More than a thousand decades, perhaps, since he saw the difference between Zheva and his family. Darmon couldn’t even recall when was the last time he just thought of them, yet their impact still reached him. However, with them, the reason why he joined her in the first palace was reborn as well.

“Why telling me about him now?”

She did not pull her hand back.

“Because today is the day he left me. You see, he did not share my view on how things should be. He loathed the cause I represented, and therefore, he loathed me. Some thousand years before, on this very day, he abandoned his mother. On this very day, I lost my son.” She sounded utterly mournful as she looked into Darmon’s eyes. For the longest time, he even caught a glimpse of some kind of exhaustion and age in that dark gaze. Then, ever so lightly, Zheva squeezed his hand. “Then, on this same day, you joined me.”

Crystals sang under the wind that sneaked inside the place. It reached Darmon, crawling under his padded tunic, yet it could not make him cold. He glanced at the table again, drinking in the view of the delicately prepared food. Meats, spices, alcohol, and tarts. Favorites, with just enough sweetness. Thoughtfulness to please one.

Darmon realized there was a tradition he completely forgot through the years.

And with that, the words unspoken made his eyes sting. Those words Zheva didn’t need to speak aloud. She lost someone today, and still, he was the one she celebrated. When he joined her, when he was reborn. Today, they weren’t celebrating something mundane, but the birthday of her son.

Darmon reluctantly put his hand on hers.

“I could say so many things, I don’t know which to actually say,” he said quietly.

“There’s no need for such formalities. I am grateful you’re beside me. I know what we do is hard, and it is delightful to have someone around, especially when one has a tender heart. Speaking of, I’ve heard you frequently visited the chambers recently.”

Darmon froze upon hearing this. Of course, she would know about it, he wasn’t trying to sneak around. Yet, it still made him tense under her motherly touch.

“It’s admirable how you manage those creatures, I was certain you’ll be the best to take upon this task.”

However appealing the words sounded, he knew it wasn’t exclusively a compliment. Oh no, it wasn’t. Darmon did not break the eye contact, letting those dark irises devour his soul as they stared into them. He would almost say that they spread the darkness around them as the night deepened.

“You can trust me,” he uttered. Why that was the first thing that tiptoed onto his tongue, was a mystery to him as well. He could have thanked her, he could have said he had a plan. But he didn’t. He knew she would be aware of his lies if they were actually those.

Was he worrying about lying without knowing it?

He wasn’t sure anymore. Not when he stood trial under those unwavering eyes and that oh-so-longed motherly touch. Darmon felt shame washing over him as in his shuddering heart he found the tiniest speck of desperate alarm.

Zheva did not smile anymore, yet she leaned closer and breathed a kiss upon Darmon’s forehead.

“I know,” she whispered. “I do.”

[tryingtimi]

"after everything you've done, i still love you. with all i am."

(⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

Follow You

Sitting in my drafts for a while now, I decided to add that two last sentences and post this finally. Sliding a bit of Darnehlia into the Cronyln era lol.

CHARACTER EXPLORATION | DYNAMIC EXPLORATION | SLIGHTEST ANGST | WC: 1,537

There were nights when the Humming Oaks did not sing.

The moon’s shine swept into the Dione manor’s room, its light creating a stairway through the window. The faint light of a candle called it into a soft waltz, both dimly brightening the space together.

Darmon scraped the last finely formed letter onto the parchment when the wind rustled the flame just enough to weaver over the words.

“What are you doing?”

He placed down his pen before he looked up.

Syonehlia’s form has always been a sight for him to drink in, yet tonight she didn’t cross her arms before her chest to lean against the door frame. Nor did she gaze at him with a hint of a smile in the corner of her lips. Tonight, her red eyes blazed silently in the shadows of the quietness of the world.

“Finishing the contract,” he answered, a slight frown finding his forehead. He’d sworn the air grew thick with something. “Is something wrong?”

It was strange to not hear the singing trees outside. Since his stay, they turned rather natural for Darmon. As if he was listening to them throughout his whole life.

Syonehlia stepped closer, into the light that revealed her form and face, showing a clearer view of her. She did not wear her nightgown or her bandages. Her spikes have seemed to sharpen ever so slightly.

“Yes. You need to stop this.”

Darmon sat back, confusion blooming in his chest. His frown deepened.

“I am not sure I understand what you mean by this.”

“You are aware, Strotagor. You’re doing my work.”

A simple statement that did not bring clarity as easily as the words rolled off of her tongue. Her manner was as sharp as her steps to the opposite chair beside the table; something that wasn’t unfamiliar, yet still strange.

Darmon didn’t flinch from the authority in her posture.

“I apologize if it’s intruding, I only meant to help.”

There has been a gentle breeze that made the candlelight dance again, tender pushing tangling among Syonehlia’s platinum locks over her frustrated features. She put her fingertips over the contract as she sat down.

“Did you?” Darmon cocked his head at the accusation in her tone, yet he remained silent. She leaned closer to him over the table. “It is an important matter, Strotagor. I appreciate the sentiment, but you need to understand that you cannot do this anymore. It’s not the first time you take upon one of the tasks I am required to do. There is a difference between helping and doing everything for me. I am more than capable of managing my matters, and I was under the impression you’re aware of this too.”

Anger.

Darmon let his lips part as he deciphered Syonehlia’s expression. Something he saw on her many times now, yet it was different this time. In what way, he wasn’t sure, but it was nevertheless.

And it put a strange thing into his mind as well.

“I am. I never doubted your capability. My only concern was your well-being, considering the amount of work you’ve been tasked with.”

“I haven’t been tasked with anything. I chose to reform our system. It’s a hard and slow process, but there is nothing to be worried about. I am handling my part. What concerns me to this day is that you’ve been idle since then. You’re around me, which normally doesn’t bother me, of course. I quite like it. Yet, you’re always around, Strotagor. You do my work, you do what I say, but tell me, don’t you have anything to occupy yourself with if I’m not around? What have you been doing before I came around?”

A moment of silence conquered the room. A loud, very present silence that could even cut through the Humming Oak’s music as well — if they would have been singing, that.

With that, Darmon found himself speechless. As if the noises of the night would have stolen his ability to speak. He held Syonehlia’s blazing red gaze, and couldn’t utter a word for several seconds.

Then, a grim sensation washed over his chest.

“I was nothing before you came around. A vessel of a man, if that much. What I’ve been doing wasn’t what I truly wanted. I did my chores, my part in the destruction, following someone I shouldn’t have. Then you appeared. Since then, I can’t fathom the idea of my life without you in it. My trust and my devotion is yours, and I’d follow you to the Hells and beyond,” he said, his voice calm. That did not capture what he had felt completely, yet he tried to convey as best as he could manage it. It was still odd to feel so much all at once.

His answer, however, didn’t seem to satisfy Syonehlia. Indeed, it appeared to rather make her even more heated, considering how she straightened herself, and then closed her eyes for a second, sighing.

“Look, it’s not right. I do not desire someone I can drag around by a string without question. What you’re telling is that you’re giving yourself up to me completely, something I never did and never will ask for. I do not need a spawn in a game, I do not desire to lead you. What I need is a person— a partner.” She looked into Darmon’s eyes in a way that made his soul shudder. “Someone who knows themself and what they want. Who can help me, rather than save me. Who can complete me, rather than build me over. Who can live beside me, not for me.”

Are you someone like that?

The question loomed in the dimly lit room like the shadows of the candle’s slowly settling, even flame. Drops of wax ran down on its sides, nearly reaching the holder’s golden edge.

Darmon remained silent, Syonehlia sizing his gaze, not letting wander.

In that nearly complete silence — there lurked no lie, no deception. As he was gazing at her, the woman he would have given up his life for, the one he could have been thrown into the flames for; there, Darmon seemed to beginning to understand Avelyn’s belief a bit more. For he’d been lost for so long, willingly letting someone lead him by his nose, always looking but never seeing.

Not once seeing The Truth.

His one and only truth he thought he was actively seeking, while he only pretended. There was no effort taken, no courage piled.

For more than some decades, he was as silent as the Humming Oaks and as blind as the starless night sky.

“I understand, and you are right. I am not sure I ever learned who I am.” Darmon let his mind roam, his chest heavy as ever. The fine edge of truth finally found him, reminding him why he was and always will be drawn to Syonehlia. He swallowed the edge of the sword. “Therefore, I can’t delay anymore. Nor would I want to. It’s not… easy, I confess. But I’ll do my best. That is the least I can offer.”

He gently slid the contract towards her, never leaving her eyes. There were no words needed for what he had meant. The past was clear for both of them, clearer than the future ever could be. Darmon was determined to make it as certain as he could, even if it meant taking a turn he never imagined he should do. Not after everything.

Syonehlia’s voice turned more tender. “After everything you’ve done, I still love you. With all I am. Not because it’s right, or because I was told to. Rather because I chose to. You can complete me, and so could I do the same to you. But, I need you to figure out the rest of your pieces before I can see if mine could fit in too. Because nothing can change that I love you. Nor on that, I would be willing to work on us, too.”

The night’s edge softened, and her blazing eyes almost seemed to smile at him.

Darmon had long forgotten how it felt to be overwhelmed with emotions. Another thing he could re-experience with her — beside her. He reached for her hand and gazed at it as he caress her skin with his thumb.

She smiled her subtle half-smile, taking his hand in hers. Their gaze entangled, and Darmon wished to transfer at least a shard of the feelings that swirled in his chest. If he had any idea, how exactly.

The fire in Syonehlia’s eyes changed. She stood up but did not let go of his hand. It’s been an elegant motion, guiding his attention until she arrived right before him. She walked further, towards the entrance of the bedroom. Her head turned there for a moment, then she looked back at Darmon, a gentle tug on his hand shaking his heart alive.

[tryingtimi]

OC Favorites Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @writingonesdreams and @the-void-writes! ❤️ Since everyone gave me the freedom to either choose or use theirs, I mixed them up. (and I left out the favorite person, because it's obviously Syon)

Rules: Share photos of your OC’s Colour, Food, Season, Animal, God. Then tag five people and change up any one of the five favourite things categories for the next round.

I'll go with Darmon Strotagor from Metalsea, because he's the favorite around here.

[I love the picrew version of him too, but the artflow one was more accurate and I tried to edit his crystal eye into it... so it's weird. Either way, let me know what you think lmao]

Colour

Dark tael blue or as I've found on the internet; Gentlman's Grey (Benjamin Moore colours)

Food/Drink

Grapes and Ouzo (greek anise-flavored liqueur)

Season / Place

Late autumn and uh, hehe, graveyard. Well, for antagonist-Darmon at least. He insisted to have a place like that for those who were unfortunate enough to not survive, well, anything they were going through. The graveyard was the only place where he could be alone and think, also. It’s a peaceful place where he could talk to those long gone and reassure them their sacrifice was worth it. Hero-Darmon is still searching for his favorite place, however.

Animal

Red-tailed black cockatoo. Mostly because it's said to accompany the dead to heaven in the florklor of the Tiwi people (accroding to wikipedia) and because they rather shy of humans.

God

If it’s not about in-world gods, then Hades, the God of the Dead and the King of the Underworld.

Feel free to use this list, or go with favorite: Element, Time of the day, God, Colour, Toy as a child.

I've seen a lot of you guys did for one character already, but I'll still tag you too, so you can do it for another if you want! @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @writingonesdreams, @the-void-writes, @approximately20blorbos, @aninkwellofnectar, @blind-the-winds, @odysseywritings, @aschlindartroom, @jess-p-edits, @moonscribbler, @circa-specturgia

[tryingtimi]

Night of the Broken

Hey, it's me who just said will not post anything before Sept 18th. Well, I just clowned myself again, because our little (slowly routine) with @bloodlessheirbyjacques works too efficiently. Anyway, this Darmon and Cronyl hurt/comfort scene has been made for @writingonesdreams and I hope it turned out as something okay lol. I can't tell because I never like anything in the moment I finish it :D. It also got long, so ugh, enjoy, loves!

DARMON AND CRONYL | ANGST WITH CAPITAL A | HURT/COMFORT | MENTION OF DEATH | WC: 3,348

Cronyl was laying on the floor, the map of the continent spread out before him.

The parchment seemed old, handed down through some generations now, which the colorful inks’ fading brightness displayed perfectly. Cronyl inspected it carefully, hands running over the richer, still strong lines that have been drawn over the original work. They were so fresh, the ink slightly stained his fingers as he drew them back.

Cronyl knew this map.

He lifted his gaze and looked around; he was in a room full of towers made of blank parchment, leather pieces folded onto the chairs and several completed or half-finished maps hung upon the walls. Some are smaller, some are not even capturing a real place, but a fantasy. A humble space, simple in decoration and furniture, yet it made everyone feel welcomed who stepped inside.

He knew this place too.

A melody. He turned to the archway of the kitchen, and only then he had been given the impression of smelling some kind of food. He couldn’t tell what exactly, but he knew it was his favorite.

He was standing in the entrance of the kitchen. Midday’s warm, playful sunlight streamed inside the moderately wide space. A tall, slender woman sat by the table, face and hands stained by various colors. Inks. Her features were blurry, but Cronyl knew that her deep brown eyes glued to her work, corn-blonde hair always freely flowing onto her shoulders. She was working on a map, while an even taller and more bulkier figure occupied the stove. This figure was a man, strong in body, and even stronger in soul. He trapped his jet-black hair in a ponytail that stretched down to his waist, just like Cronyl’s.

He hummed the same melody then the woman; the melody Cronyl listened to every night before he fell asleep as a child.

He was back in Anore, the village he grew up.

He was home.

“How do you like it, starbug?” Her mother looked up at him, her friendly smile never leaving her lips. “Isn't it too dry for you? It’s not a treasure map after all.”

Cronyl could see his father’s tender smile spreading across his lips too, as he lifted his wooden spoon up for tasting.

“I hear success anyway, camin’el.”

Joy. A feeling almost unfamiliar. It nested in Cronyl’s chest as he turned back towards the living room; his draar friends played over there, giggling and walking around the old-new map in awe. Mheera. Ner’rox. Gronoq. Kanna.

The sound of talking parents from the kitchen in the blissful afternoons. Cronyl proudly showed the maps her mother drew and books his father binded to the draar children. His friends.

The sweet scenery of home.

Stark-white uniforms out of nowhere.

Then, screaming.

A chest, only a keyhole to peek out. Shouting. Stinging stench of burning flesh. Piling bodies. Screaming no more. Blood, so much blood.

His friends.

Their parents.

His parents.

Only one strike.

Cronyl’s eyes snapped open as he instinctively sat up; a ripping sound of cloth and drumming blood in his ears followed by.

He jerked around, but his vision was maddening; a big mass of blurry darkness where an ever-moving, gold-bronze something crystal clearly stirred in the corner of his right eye, while blood-red veins evenly thumped on his left. Blood. The slightest twitching of the fine muscles of a lips, constant moving of eyelids, slumped shoulders by the tight chest muscles. Burning flesh. He saw all and every little movement of a sleeping body beside him. But also moving metal somewhere. His red clouded head throbbed with the lethal reflex of finding a weakness; a mark of an old strain, the exposed artery on the neck, the…

Cronyl shut his eyes closed.

Carnage.

His ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. His night pants soaked and stuck to his legs from the cold sweat that covered all of his body. He felt the bitter taste of iron as his sharpened teeth bit into his tongue.

Cronyl clenched them together anyway, steeling his trembling body and forcing himself to think.

Think.

Think… there was no ash he could smell, nor fire he could feel the heat of. Sweet scented air. He was in a room. A huge room. Darkness. It was night. He got the impression of moonlight. Clear sky then.

Evalon, he was in Evalon.

His sight… Cronyl lifted a hand to touch his forehead, where he could feel cloth under his fingers. Right, his bandana slipped during his sleep. His eyes got confused by each other.

He pulled it back to hide his left eye, heart not calming fast enough.

He breathed in; a deep swallow really, still ragged. He couldn’t get a better one out of himself. Not yet.

Cronyl opened his eye slowly.

He could see the faint outline of the intricately carved furniture now, his bag tossed into the corner, metal cube peeking out through its mouth. The moon’s shine seemed to bend around it.

The room was royal big, decorated by all the fancy, flowy patterns forced into the pricey stone. Cronyl turned to his left when he felt a tender breath on his arm as he was leaning back.

Avel slept beside him, sweet and sound, his sharp wrist spike mere inches from her closed eyes.

Cold dread washed over Cronyl’s bones as he yanked his hand away from her face. He cursed inside his head as he realized his spikes ripped through his two layers of leather bandages wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

Avel seemed to take a slightly deeper breath, when her eyes fluttered open just enough to reveal a bit of her golden irises. Her pale blonde hair blanketed her shoulders and some of the ripped up sheet under them. She looked at him slowly, dreams still clouding her gaze.

“Everything… alright?” she asked so softly, the last bit of the question turned into a whisper. Her eyes closed back letter by letter, then stubbornly opened up again, but hung there even heavier.

Cronyl’s core trembled even more from this, so he tightened his muscles to stop the feeling seizing control.

“Yes. Sleep.” His voice didn’t sound like him. It barely sounded anything like someone’s voice.

He slowly lifted his hand anyway and reached over her head, the movement making her close her eyes and not open them again. He knew caressing always calmed her.

But he stopped his hand in the air. Blood and ink soaked it, dripping from his shaking, bruised little fingers. And it wasn’t his blood.

He clenched his jaw as he turned away, tossing down the ripped and teared blanket and stood up instead. He wasn’t ready for a touch. Not yet.

He stole a glance from Avel, though, who fortunately stayed asleep. Good.

Cronyl silently slipped out of their room onto the hallway that was equally huge, but more decorated. He didn’t need to look around anymore, and he didn’t care for any of the grandeur. The only thing he was focusing on was the cold touch of the marble floors under his bare foot, the cool breeze that was coming from the Star Room and the said place’s moonlit, blue-grey view at the end of the hallway.

He already reached the entrance, when he realized he was half-jogging.

Metals, he was nearly panting. What a joke. He slowed his pace to enter without hesitation and make his way straight to an enormous window. His loose pants rustled as he sat down in the alcove, glassless night view spreading out before him. He chose a sitting that had no cushion laid down on it, only the naked stone under him. Cronyl crossed his legs, then leaned onto the wall, icy sensation running through his body as his back touched the material.

He exhaled, then inhaled. Then again. And again.

He looked out at the field of the Dione manor, blanketed by shadows and night-black patches, where Humming Oak trees should have been. Its rustling leaves sung a lullaby that he never heard before he set foot on the Dione estate. He seemed to get used to it already. To singing trees that everyone found calming and soothing.

Although, Cronyl rarely fit into the group of “everyone”.

He felt his skin prickling, where the memory of the heat harassed it; his nose full of the smell of ashen paper and wood. Pictures and sounds from a time he could never forget.

Cronyl dropped his head back, hitting the stone slightly.

He needed something to hold onto. Something to keep him in the present. Something to bring him back into the present. And so, he finally looked back into the room, letting his sight drink in the view he avoided.

Glowing starbugs were flying around there, some closer to the ceiling than the others, little wings flapping and fluttering as they playfully flipped over sometimes. Their blue and purple shimmers illuminated their small figures; they couldn’t have been bigger than Cronyl’s thumbs. Hundreds of these creatures floated inside, while some strayed and inched closer to the windows. There was one particular starbug with a clumsy wing that caught Cronyl’s eyes.

Or more like the figure the creature approached.

Darmon sat three windows far from Cronyl, traditional evalonian kimono wrapped around his body, legs freely hanging from the edge of the window. He wore black, as always, a color the nobles despised and which the nation looked down upon. His hair grazed his shoulders as he inspected the starbug with something like… longing in his eye? Cronyl couldn’t tell, but he still felt his body tense up from the knowledge of him being there.

How could he not notice him before?

Darmon slowly cocked his head as the glowing creature found the perfect angle of its path towards him. He lifted a hand, taking his time as if worried he might scare the little thing away.

Cronyl had no intention to talk, nor take his leave, however. His head felt still clouded with red mist and haunting pictures of his dream. Of his nightmare. Of his memory. He needed silence and an empty room. Something he was familiar with. Lone moments. Hopeless minutes. Vengeful desires. He flexed his fingers, widening his palm, so his slightly sharpening nails wouldn’t cut into his flesh.

He needed to calm down.

Darmon pulled his hand back. His gaze fell on Cronyl, as the starbug guided it there while it settled on a window’s alcove, right between them. The faintest hint of surprise ran through Darmon’s features. He glanced towards the entrance and then back at Cronyl.

Then he nodded as a greeting.

Cronyl returned the gesture with a rigid motion. His gaze quickly wandered from Darmon at the little starbug that floated between them, dancing around, flipping and wagging its better wing. It moved the same way as he last saw it; back in Anore, in a peaceful night with his mother, laying in the grass on the field. His mother. Calm nights, and joyful giggles. Blood. Screams. Fire.

“Everything is alright?” A voice ripped him out of his daze. An always annoyingly calm voice. Darmon’s voice.

Cronyl looked up at him, but he didn’t need to see his face to understand; his spikes sharpened again. His teeth yet again poked his tongue in his mouth and he felt his ears to change a little too. There was no point of trying to hide; nothing’s alright.

He shrugged, straightened one leg and forced his eye to not look at the slowly increasing group of starbugs approaching him.

“No.”

A creature started to wiggle in the same rhythm as the Oak’s humming, he could see it from the corner of his eye. Darmon stole a glance from it, then looked back at Cronyl. He stared at him for a moment, which made Cronyl think he’ll say something. Darmon, however, turned back to the night view instead, gaze losing focus and wandering freely. He let silence conquer the Star Room, glowing little creatures dancing around them.

This was what Cronyl wanted and what Darmon let him have. There was nothing to disturb his train of thoughts. His never ending fire in his chest that burnt with such intensity, he doubted anything could ever soothe it. Or… no, there was one thing. One life.

One kill.

“We can never get rid of them, can we?”

Darmon’s voice dragged him back into the present. Again. Cronyl realized he pushed his claws into the stone, the faint pain in his hand being so distant, he barely felt it. The color left his skin, while the taste of iron tiptoed onto his tongue. He was on the edge and his Wildness did not help him a bit. He was losing control. He was losing it. He was… lost.

Cronyl took a deep breath and turned towards Darmon.

The mage did not look at him, he kept his stare still on the night view outside. He seemed calm and content, legs freely hanging in the air, a slight breeze playing with his hair, glowing starbugs around him. He… also tightly held the stone with his hands beside him.

Cronyl furrowed his brows as he looked Darmon up again.

He was leaning over, but his body seemed stiff and he always shrugged as if trying to get rid of the kimono on him. He stared outside, but his eye did not look at anything particular, in fact, from a better angle, Cronyl could see the hollow inside.

Darmon sighed then, a heavy, tired sigh. One that Cronyl was very familiar with.

The sigh of nightmares.

Cronyl straightened himself, a strange thing blooming in his chest he couldn’t really grasp.

“Do you want to?” he asked. Why he decided to speak up, he couldn’t say, but he did it anyway.

Darmon lifted his chin, a starbug almost nearing close enough to actually reach him, but then it changed its mind and twirled away slowly. The mage slightly leaned back, then glanced at Cronyl from the corner of his eye. There was no hint of a smile on his lips, no content calmness, even the painfully thoughtful features of his face turned into something else. Something tired. Something real. Something… awfully familiar.

“No, I don’t. It helps me remember who I was and who I should be. Who I want to be,” he turned towards Cronyl just enough so he could have a clear look at him. “Do you?”

There was a certain intimacy in the question and the unspoken understanding of their topic. The sharing of a weight few carried. A strange bond, where they might want to talk about their night terrors and horrifying visions, memories, dreams, but would never dare to do it out loud.

Cronyl fixated a stray, glowing little creature from the side of his eyes. Their bluish-purple light always reminded him of his mother, and that night when she first showed him a wild starbug. Of a memory he could no longer think of as something heartfelt or joyful. He repressed a sigh and let his still tight grip loosen up.

“No. I feel the same. Which is strange enough to begin with.”

Metals, he felt so much lighter. From what, he couldn’t actually tell. He probably will never be able to. But there was something in this one exchange that lifted the darkness they sat inside the brightly lit room ever so slowly. And Darmon seemed to feel the same way from the look on his face. Cronyl could swear he almost saw a little smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“Strange is something we’re experts in; you and me both,” Darmon added, a little tilt of his head signaling towards Cronyl. He scoffed, knowing well enough what the mage talked about.

He pulled one of his leg up and put his elbow on his knee. His exposed, bare upper body was something that people rarely could see in a driadlin society. Hiding your spikes – and therefore most of your body was a part of everything; etiquette, religion, tradition. Things Cronyl grew up on, and things he decided to not follow. Or, not fully anyway.

Cronyl saw Darmon’s gaze lingering on one particular point on him, which made him automatically reach for it. A tattoo from his neck down to the edge of his left shoulder. There was a time when even he could barely touch it without wincing. He still felt the forceful grips around his arms, pinning him down and the needles’ painful, ghostly sensations on his skin as he ran his fingers through the lines. He stopped at every tiny wound, where the pattern also lost its shape. Then, without thinking, he reached higher, the back of his thumb grazing over the scar starting from his upper lip, running over the left side of his face. He didn’t stop the movement at his eye covered with the bandana, which also hid the rest of the scar. His finger still drew the marks over the cloth, just like the fresh inks brightened the old lines in his dream; he felt it on his skin, on his eye, on his scarred brow.

“You know what my tattoo means, mage?” He did not look at Darmon. He knew he was listening anyway. “The mark of the exiled. They did this, so no-one could shelter us and say they didn’t know who we are. What we are. That they were risking their life being only near us.” Cronyl paused for a moment. “They marked me the day I saw my parents die by the hand of the head of the Ivory Guard. He butchered them with all the draar rebels my parents cooperated with to stop the war. They ran an organization as I later came to understand, the one Zaherra was talking about.”

“You and Zaherra’s daughter are those two children who survived only,” Darmon quitely ended the thought. Of course he figured it out.

Cronyl nodded slightly.

I always dream about that night. When a terrified, helpless child hid into a chest, shaking bones crackling the same way fire does; the exact thing that devoured our home bit by bit. I could do nothing but watch it burn. My eye became powerful from all those horrors I saw then and there. This metal-cursed eye is something others would kill for – ironically. And I would give it away in a heartbeat for bringing them back. The draar families, my parents. I would… because I’m still that child, mage and I always will be.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue, but he never said them out loud. He couldn’t. And he didn’t need to.

“You might not believe me,” Darmon started. He earned a glance from Cronyl. “Even I wouldn’t in your place; but I understand.”

Perhaps, a continuation should have followed his statement. Something specific or something to hold onto.

But Darmon remained silent.

He sat there, three windows far from Cronyl and looked away respectfully, right towards the starbugs. Cronyl remembered what Izohr told them once; that these creatures were native to Helios. Native to Onidia, way before everything else. They existed before life itself graced the lands, carrying all the light and wonder in the world inside their little bodies.

Which also meant Darmon was gazing at something he was intimately familiar with, maybe even from his childhood. No joy twinkled in his eye, though.

Cronyl realized this is what he needed exactly. The silent, private reason did the job perfectly; his chest wasn’t that heavy anymore and his mind had cleared just enough to let his spikes pull back. Darmon was a bastard, a man who made terrible mistakes, a mage who possessed horrendous powers. He was also ridiculously well-mannered, quiet and clever – or a smartass, whichever the situation required. He was a pain in the ass, a voice of reason, and eventually became a man of people. He was many things as Cronyl slowly recognized it.

But, ultimately, he was a broken, lost boy, under everything. And so was Cronyl.

[tryingtimi]

❝  would you just stop treating me like something you’re trying to fix?  ❞ for the prompts? :) @writingonesdreams

Old Habits Are The Hardest To Kill

Thank you so much for the prompt, @writingonesdreams! 💛 I've finally finished it, but modified the prompt a little bit to fit the scene. My first time trying to write an iteraction between them, so it was fun to play with it. Another snippet for this prompt | Prompt list

DARMON AND CRONYL | ANGST? | MENTION OF DEATH | NOT EVEN FRENEMIES YET | WC: 2,296

An odd nostalgia rushed over Darmon as he followed Cronyl into the Metalsea’s inside.

The light of his lantern brightened the golden-bronze walls, metal pieces moving, veering, searching for their places. The whole space has been made from purely this material, giving an unusual liveliness of the tunnel they were going through. It naturally expanded just big enough to let him and Cronyl walk comfortably.

Darmon hadn't seen godrind such a long time ago.

“Don’t,” warned Cronyl. The mage stopped in place. He looked up at the driadlin sternly staring at him from the other end of the place, slightly squinting. “It doesn’t like light.”

Darmon glanced at the lantern, and he realized he leaned forward instinctively to inspect the walls closer. The metal wobbled under the brightness as a confused animal.

“Oh, my bad.” He straightened again, stepping back just enough to not disturb the material anymore. He also put his hand before the glow of the glass lantern, so dimness could conquer the space.

Only then Cronyl stopped squinting as well.

He kept his visible, godrind-focused gaze on Darmon for a little longer, the colour and the texture of his eye mimicking the Metalsea’s. The mage had no time to get used to the other’s glance —considering their short acquaintance—, which the slightest goosebumps on his arms confirmed clearly. That eye did that to people.

Cronyl then nodded, holding his head down just a little longer before he turned back to the wall before him.

The sign of appreciation. Darmon heard about this gesture from Syonehlia, but Cronyl was the first to give this to him.

“Should we look for another way?” he asked. There was something in the driadlin man that urged Darmon to believe he wouldn’t mind him asking things.

Cronyl, however, ignored him.

He concentrated on the waving, squirming wall that blocked their way, gently caressing the surface. It almost seemed as if he circled something specific onto them.

The weak light might have tricked Darmon’s eyes, but it gave him the impression of the wall weavering under Cronyl’s touch. Almost… pleasantly, before the pieces visibly separated, slowly opening up an entryway as the driadlin guided his hand down on them.

Darmon have seen a lot of things over his years, yet now he could feel his lips parting in awe. What he witnessed was something his people only speculated could happen — at the time he left them. The sudden knot of oldness found its place in Darmon’s stomach, which he deliberately ignored. There was nothing to be woeful of; he made his own choice back then. No-one forced him to leave his people and miss them evolve into a society that might be bearing the knowledge of Cronyl’s doings now.

They both walked through the entryway that led them into a very different place than the tunnel they came in.

What welcomed them was a wide space, with tens, hundreds, thousands of creations the moving godrind pieces made. Entries opened up and closed as they searched for their right pairs. Pillars and platforms built up from nowhere, then slowly vanished as the bits moved away. The ceiling seemed to be as far away as the sky in an open field; entrances, like gaping mouths, also appeared and disappeared there.

Overwhelmed, Darmon took a deep breath.

“Spellbinding,” he breathed.

A barely audible scoff made him bring his gaze back from up to their level.

Cronyl was leaning against the wall, arms crossed before his lean chest, half-gaze on him. There was no pathway beside him; as Darmon finally noticed. A dark, empty pit layed there instead, and Cronyl stood dangerously close to its edge.

“Don’t you agree?”

Darmon was genuinely curious. He knew the driadlin a short while ago, but they barely exchanged words since their first meeting. There was a certain reticence in Cronyl, that blended with some kind of intense passion that could make most people keep themselves away from him. He always looked you in the eye and considering his unnatural, metal-like irises, this definitely made people feel some unease.

Darmon, however, admired his straightforwardness, which his visibly cocking eyebrow clearly conveyed.

“I do.” He most certainly would have stayed silent, but Darmon gestured towards him with his hand. A sign to elaborate, if he’d be so kind. Cronyl straightened himself, letting the godrind pieces he was leaning on, go their way. “Never heard your wording before, though.”

Right. Darmon still spoke like Troghrun. He shrugged, his head clouding with dark memories. He needed to keep himself in the present, so he walked beside Cronyl; the other one never getting his visible eye off of him.

“Old saying. I should get rid of it.” He should have done that a long time ago now. Yet, he still found himself slipping sometimes. He needed to do better.

He’d seen Cronyl opening his mouth to speak, but he still stepped forward beside him; right into the pitch black, seemingly bottomless pit’s yawning mouth.

A little bigger than his foot sized godrind bit rushed under his feet. It slipped there naturally, perfectly stable.

Darmon let out the breath he was holding. His quick theory turned out to be right, fortunately.

It seemed like he heard a quiet “huh” from behind, that sounded rather impressed in some way. Cronyl walked beside him casually, while Darmon carefully stepped another one forward; a piece sliding under his feet just the same.

He couldn’t tear his eye away from his legs, it felt that if he couldn't stare at them, he would fall. In this way, however, he also saw the endless deep under them, and the godrind bits as they fell down right after their feet left its surface, never leaving an echoing thud behind.

He was slightly dizzy, fright bubbling up inside his stomach, step by step.

“Eye forward, mage.” Cronyl’s raspy voice forced his head up. Darmon looked at his companion warily. “Don’t stare.”

A command, an advice or a suggestion. Darmon couldn’t decide, but he did as he was told and glued his gaze to their destination.

They already reached the middle of their path.

Time went differently, when someone was frightened to their bones. Besides, keeping his eye forward, also hasn't been as easy as he thought. The knowledge of the depth under them tried to lure his attention back. It might have been easier to take this path blindly.

Darmon glanced at Cronyl, admiration blooming in his chest as a thought creeped inside his mind.

“This is why you make them cover their eyes,” he stated. The other one looked at him from the corner of his eye, still walking as if he never doubted in the godrind to miss a step.

“You’re perceptive,” he said eventually. “And clever.”

Darmon wasn’t sure if this was a compliment from the driadlin. That made him relax. His quickness in mind wasn’t something he sharpened with any good. Cronyl, on the other hand, clearly used his head to help others. Syonehlia and Avelyn told him a lot about the driadlin man’s rescue missions under the Metalsea. He saved people who were pushed into the phenomenon and doomed to a faith that most certainly contained a long and painful death. Yet, they were found by Cronyl instead. He covered their eyes to spare their mind from the intimidating complexity of the Metalsea and — if the sisters knew well —, he hummed a song to guide them, leading and clearing their way until they reached the surface again.

He not only rescued them, but cared for them deeply.

“You’re a good man, Eldenwer.”

Does his jaw just tensed up?

“You don’t need to be a good man to make good.” Cronyl turned, and leaped off onto the solid godrind platform as they reached the other side finally.

Curious.

This one sentence made something stirr in Darmon. He couldn’t grasp what it was, though.

He tried to mimic the driadlin’s movements and in a definitely more clumsy way, but successfully arrived onto the platform. Cronyl wasn’t waiting for him, he already was lots of steps away, but his speed seemed to be consistent and slow enough for Darmon to catch up easily. This man…

Darmon stopped.

An entrance opened up beside him in the wall, revealing a giant. Its skin was white as bone, yet the body was even more fleshy than a draar warrior’s. The size of it, however… it was at least thrice of Darmon’s average human size. The eyes were milky white, but the giant seemed confident in its movements. Sluggish, it continued its walk without noticing Darmon’s staring gaze. Ah, right. It was blind. This recognition reminded Darmon where he saw this creature already. Or, well, it’s variant.

Troghrun brought some at their place to make them into a Vessel too. They also made helmets that helped them see, so they weren't completely helpless on the surface. Maybe these creatures could be even more active with those. Even though, as Darmon thought about it a little more, the ones he met weren’t particularly… nice ones.

A hand grabbed his tunic’s sleeve suddenly, and yanked on it hard.

Darmon stumbled, losing his balance and stepping towards Cronyl so close, he needed to automatically lean back to not bump his head into his. Scattering crystals hit the ground, loud tinkling echoing through the place. They did not break, of course, but the sound made Darmon realize; he instinctively lifted his hand and called his crystals out from his belt as he caught a glimpse of the giant.

Cronyl held him firm and close, his stone cold face stiff with tension, two eyes piercing into Darmon’s soul. He lived some thousands years now, faced way stronger mages than him, horribly changed animals, twice his size and even soulless Vessel giants whom did not know fright, nor mercy. He’d seen the beginning and the fall of ages. He ceased to be a human a long time ago. Fear as it is, has lost its meaning and effect on him.

Until now.

“What were you trying to do?” Cronyl’s voice was low enough to summon all the horrors in the world.

Darmon’s throat went dry, his chest trembling from the wild thumping of his heart. The unease caused by Cronyl’s godrind-focused eye has been shadowed by the intensity of that other, red colour Darmon had never seen in his entire lifespan. The richness and the depth of the colour had no match in the world. Darmon didn’t even know this colour could exist. Nor what Cronyl could be capable of with this kind of an eye.

“I… It was involuntary, a terrible old reflex. I sincerely apologize! I meant no harm,” Darmon said eventually. He saw the eye weavering, struggling to stay in place. Cronyl’s gaze quickly jumped between the points where Darmon felt his various muscles tensing up one by one. It caught every one of it. It inspected him. Saw him and all of the nervous movements of his body.

Cronyl’s revealed red eye reminded Darmon that he, after all, was still human.

“You’ve tortured and slaughtered my people, mage.” The name sounded more of a swear word than any other Darmon ever heard. “Now, you were ready to attack those harmless creatures by reflex. There are things I can forget and forgive, but this is not among them. You are harm. The only reason I do not kill you right now is that Syon insists on keeping you, says you’re useful. We might have some advantage with you, but that doesn’t make you welcomed. Try what you planned again and I’ll cripple you.”

Darmon gulped. A cold sensation washed over his bones. He knew Cronyl was right and under the newly experiencing fright, he agreed with all the things he said. He deserved so much more than crippling if he ever let these reflexes control him.

For Darmon’s surprise, however, he noticed Cronyl’s hand shaking ever so slightly too. He also seemed to wrestle with his red eye to stay in place, even more than before. As if he were fighting against it.

Cronyl let him go suddenly, pushing him a little farther, while he quickly stepped away too and pulled the cloth that was wrapped around his forehead back at his red eye, hiding it. He didn’t look back at Darmon, just turned on his heels to walk towards the next wall that stood in their way. His whole body seemed almost more tense than Darmon’s.

Darmon stood there for a moment longer. He… didn’t remember the time, when he froze in place the last time. Nor this intense admiration towards someone that bloomed in his chest. Cronyl seemed to struggle with something exceptionally similar to Darmon’s problems, only he was capable of doing good still. From all the people, he felt an unfair kinship between himself and Cronyl, a man so much better than himself.

What an absurdity.

“You’re right,” Darmon said as he finally followed the other one, his spine still resonating from the shivers. Cronyl was already opening another entrance, but from the rigid movements of his hand, Darmon was sure he heard him. “I am harm and I do not deserve forgiveness for what I’ve done. Nor do I seek for it. I know it’s impossible for me to have it. I only want to help to stop what we’ve wrongly started.”

They entered another tunnel. Narrow, strangely lively and dimly lit as Darmon covered his light.

Cronyl remained silent for a long while, walking before him.

“You need to change your thinking for that. If you would stop treating everything as if it’s something you’re trying to fix, then maybe you wouldn’t have to feel threatened by most of the things, or people,” he spoke eventually, the usual cold tone switching places with the intimidating rage from before.

[tryingtimi]

happy blorbo blursday timi! which of your characters are meant to be foils of each other and how?

Damn Eggy, you and your cool questions! Thank you 💕

This one is hard to be honest, because I never thought about continuosly making any of them foils of each other. Cronyl and Darmon might have a lot in common, but while Cronyl has a tragic past where he lost his loving family, Darmon never had such a strong bond to his family, since they basically just never noticed him/ acknowledged his presence. However, they might be the two characters who I would make foils of each other.

[tryingtimi]

14

In The Grave, He Rests

Various Saints and Storms by Florance + The Machine is still the best Darnehlia song ever. Thank you for the number my love ❤️!

Context: Darmon realises Troghrun used his crystal eye to spy on the others, and with this, he also used Darmon as a puppet of his even after he left the man.

DARMON AND SYONEHLIA | CONTEMPLATING SUICIDE | MENTION OF DEATH | HEAVY ANGST | WC: 898

On nights like this, even the Humming Oaks has turned silent.

The moon shined brightly on His throne, up in the middle of the sky. Its rays merged and turned into a pathway, giving just enough light for Darmon to see the tombstones. Starbugs orbited in the air, nearing closer to him, but twirling away eventually. Never getting close enough, as if he was scaring them away.

A warm breeze rustled his hair when he bent over to place an ever-blooming magnolia at the grave before him.

“There you are.”

He raised his gaze at Syonehlia. Her voice danced quietly and softly enough to not disturb the night in the graveyard as she moved carefully, her movements keeping their refined state still. However late it could have been, she didn’t wear her nightgown yet.

She descended onto her heels the same way Darmon situated himself hours before. His legs long stopped numbing.

“Here I am,” he agreed, voice barely louder than a whisper. There was not a hint of gleefulness in his tone.

Syonehlia glanced at him for a moment, then she placed her palms on her knees and bent forward. She put her head so low, it almost touched the ground under them. She paid her respects to the dead in the most beautiful way Darmon has ever seen.

“You’ve vanished.” He did indeed. As soon as the meeting ended, he saw it best to find his way into the only place he felt he belongs. Among the eternally silent, among those long gone.

The tombstone they faced lit up a little as a starbug floated in front of it and let a tiny burst of stars out when it wiggled itself. There was no name carved into it.

“I apologize if I’ve made you worry. I only needed some time.”

Why Darmon felt as if he just uttered a lie to Syonehlia, he couldn’t tell.

She nodded as she looked around. The Dione estate had its own graveyard, a neatly trimmed, clean place directly beside the manor. Darmon, however, felt the need to build his own a little farther away at the edge of the woods. He gathered stones to stand as tombstones after some shaping, and he came here every other night to clean the ground out of weed, while he also collected the remnants of gemrains. He built only one smaller than the others; the one he placed here tonight.

The dirt dried on his hands from the digging. He quickly got used to the itching under his nails, however.

“We’ll be fine, you know.” Syonehlia carefully caressed a petal placed into a vase beside the nearest grave. “We could have expected it. We should have. But, it doesn’t make a difference what we should have done before. We will be fine, Strotagor.”

An oh so comforting statement. Her usual factual manner, sprinkled with a hint of reason. Syonehlia might have been right. Yet, they both knew, these were words only. Darmon was certain; no matter how much comfort has been uttered into the silent night, it did not change what has been done. Nothing could.

Therefore, he remained silent. The land of the dead called to him, named him. Coward. He never yearned for fleeing. Dying yes, but never fleeing. Yet with the burden of the recent events, brought the temptation of ending things finally.

“Who’s grave is this?” Syonehlia whispered suddenly. Her voice almost sounded worried. She might have noticed the grave in entirety just now. Or, perhaps, Darmon might have stared at the tombstone too intensely, with too strong of an intent.

“A coward’s,” he breathed, voice hoarse as he turned to her, revealing the part of his face where no crystal eye has been planted anymore.

[tryingtimi]

❝  before i met you,  i used to understand where i stood on everything.  now it’s all…mixed up.  ❞

👀👀👀

@bloodlessheirbyjacques ✨❤️

For Now

My love ✨❤️ Here's a juicy, heavy angst, because I can't write anything else. I also know the aesthetic board can indicate that they're gonna make out, but don't get your hopes up (for now). Also, you knew which couple is the only one that fits perfectly for this one, so here it is! Prompt from this list.

DARMON AND SYONEHLIA | HEAVY ANGST | MENTION OF DEATH AND SELF-LOATHING | WC: 1,708

Darmon floated. Black, lightless darkness surrounded him. His eyes blind, his ears deaf, his body feather light. Was he injured? Was he dead?

He wasn’t sure. But something was missing. Something that always stayed with him. Something he knew in his core, that was so familiar he didn’t know how to exist without it. Something terrible.

Screams. Shouts. Helpless cries. Mothers, fathers, children. People. Blood. Souls.

Taken. Ripped out. Butchered.

They found their way back to him. The horror of innocents, the trembling of the weak… No, no. They weren’t weak. Not in the least. They never bent, never broke; they were strong, stronger than Darmon ever was. Than he ever will be.

They were heroes, perished for nothing.

A familiar aching in the scattered ruins of a soul made Darmon realize — he wasn’t dead. Oh, no, he wasn’t. He couldn’t die with a burden this heavy. He’d been doomed to live.

He…

His body hurt. Eventually, the heaviness of a body came back to him. It was as if a mountain had grown on his chest, he couldn’t move. Even breathing seemed hard to manage.

He could feel a presence beside him, however. Slowly, with painful effort, he opened his eyes to see a clearly royal room’s intricately decorated ceiling. Ivory marble and silver lines stretched along the walls. It was a place he did not recognise, so his gaze stumbled towards the only figure he knew.

Syonehlia was reading a sheet of paper right beside him, so focused she did not notice Darmon’s awakening. Her clothes seemed fresh, hair brushed, freely flowing onto her shoulders, and not counting the bruises on her face that made Darmon grimace, she did not seem tired or ragged. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the worry towards her easing up in his chest.

When he opened his eyes again, he decided not to disturb her, so he quietly checked on his body functions. He attempted to move his right leg. Nothing. Then his left. Nothing. All the following attempts resulted in the same failure with his toes and arms. Slightly flustered, he looked towards his fingers and concentrated.

They moved.

Great. Continue. Darmon tried to lift his head up, but as soon as it moved, a deep groan burst out from the depth of his throat. Heaviness and pain pushed him back into the pillow.

And it caught Syonehlia’s attention immediately. She quickly dropped the paper beside her, one hand finding Darmon’s, the other carefully keeping his shoulder down on the bed.

“Easy,” she said softly. “You’ve been unconscious for more than a week, so your body won’t thank you if you try to move just now.”

A touch. Darmon did not feel another person’s touch so, so long, he completely forgot how warm it can be. How comforting. How… undeserved. Nearly as much as the tender care in Syonehlia’s eyes.

“The… Vessels…”

He could finally utter some words in a sickly hoarse, low voice. His throat felt dry and it burned, he needed all his strength not to choke up on violent coughing.

Syonehlia scooted closer, still keeping her hand on his.

“Gone. You made sure of that. Everyone’s safe now. We put Urien into prison and worked on restoring the city order. We formed a temporary council to help people reorient, but we still couldn’t decide on the next leader yet. The priests and priestesses opposed my suggestion of letting all the citizens vote for the new ruler, but father and some former nobles supported it. So it’s still under debate. Either way, things are getting better, people are calming down.” She reached over his forehead and took off a wet cloth Darmon did not even notice before. He might have had a fever.

Hearing about the situation sent a grotesque mix of relief and regret into his heart. All the life he took before, he took it again to let these people live. Different cause, same results. The screams and shouts became louder in his ears, nearly reaching the point he used to.

He slowly turned his head to see Syonehlia better.

“Am I… wounded?”

“The doctor found some bruises and cuts, but other than that, not really. However, you apparently collected and used up more power than your body could bear. Some kind of miracle saved you. You almost died, Strotagor. But you’re fine now.” The corner of her lips twitched, then she brushed a lock of his hair out of his face. “Well, almost. Your crystal’s cracked.”

Every touch made him shiver. So unfamiliar. He felt his strength steadily creep back, his pain not piercing as much anymore. He could lift his hand to touch his eye-crystal as if he cared.

Which he didn’t, actually.

He only wanted to see Syonehlia’s eyes follow his motion. They changed. The lilac base deepened into a rich purple, while the red ring around her pupil turned from coral to almost crimson.

His eyes did not see beauty in this world before. He could gaze into the lands, at the people and he saw bizarre wrongness, aberration even. Yet, now, he just stared at Syonehlia; her platinum locks, her longer, sharp-edged ears, her high cheeks and into those purple-red eyes. At her confident face, her calm thoughtfulness, her strict tenderness.

His weary eyes looked at her and the only thing they saw was beauty and pure rightness. Something he noticed too late, when he could no longer earn to revere it. The cries wouldn’t let him, for a reason Darmon sincerely understood and agreed on.

“How are the others?” He needed to rip himself out of the daze he fell in. Perhaps he was still feverish.

Syonehlia let a smile find her lips.

“Good. The crew replaced the Ivory Guard. They patrol in the city until people get used to the new situation. Eldnar took every morning shift with Drehana to smooth out any small disturbance, and because they usually like to switch each other at night beside your bed. Eldnar complains a lot about being friends with a bastard who couldn’t even get himself together in a day after his big speech on how powerful his crystals are. But I every time needed to drag him out of your bed in the morning to take his place. He always fell asleep talking to you.”

Friends. Care. Love.

Darmon was well aware of what he felt right now. He knew why he would have sacrificed his life. He knew he would do it again. And he knew he did not want them to be thankful for that. It wasn’t something cherishable, it was something he needed to do. He was expandable. He should have died.

He should have been dead a long time ago.

Still, he stayed alive. Then received such fondness, he could feel his pain turning into a bearable inconvenience. It did not ease or fade, it only became less in focus. Confusion and unknown warmness lurked under his skin. He wronged these people. Yet, they cared for him. As much as he learned to care for them. It was unrealistic, madness even.

Especially as he recognised the undisturbed calmness on Syonehlia’s face, while she reached for a glass of water on the desk beside the bed.

“You weren’t worried,” he stated. There was something very intimate in this one sentence.

“No, of course not. You wouldn’t let yourself die as a hero and find peace in the grace of mercy,” she leaned closer, lips curving into a half, humorless smile. “You’re too stubborn for that.”

He felt a similar smile tugging on his lips. Strange, otherworldly. When has he smiled the last time? He couldn’t remember. There was no reason to do that. But here he was, letting Syonehlia help him to sit up to drink through clenched teeth. The pain was there, it just did not matter.

When he finished drinking, he put the glass away and stayed sitting however much his back wanted to pull him back into bed.

He couldn’t tear away his gaze from Syonehlia’s through the whole time. She was sitting directly beside him, her waist softly pushed into his side. She held his eyes the same way.

“I know what you’re thinking, Strotagor. It’s written on your face, very clearly. And you’re right. You shouldn’t have used that power again. But, without you using the crystals, Evalon would have been destroyed. Completely. With every person in it. The Vessels would be still wandering around, not letting their bodies rest and give them the respect they deserve. You have taken away lives before, yet, this time, you chose to save them instead. You were a hero for those people out there. You did good, as you did change. Maybe you couldn’t win salvation, but you’ve taken a very important step towards it. Probably the most important one. Therefore, you should let yourself feel relieved, at least for a bit.”

The screams wanted to crawl out, being louder than ever. They already scratched the edge of the pit of Darmon’s mind. Then, suddenly, their screeching became more quiet.

She made them quiet. She, who could make his solid guilt tremble and unstable. Who could make him wish again; wish he could be better. She, who could awaken things inside him he thought to be long forgotten.

Caring, wishing, longing.

He lifted his hand up, so he could carefully touch her face for the first time.

“Before I met you, I used to knew where I stood with everything. Now it’s all… mixed up,” he uttered, voice still low. He sighed, when she leaned into his touch and smiled at him.

“Well, it must be confusing to fight beside us.”

“I’m not talking about that.” He slowly caressed her skin, revering every inch of it.

With a deep humming of acknowledgement, and a loving sparkle in her eyes, Syonehlia lingered in one place for a second before she leaned forward until her lips met his. All the confusing chaos rushed through Darmon when her hand found its place on his neck, tangled in his hair.

Her kiss felt unknown, soft, but not tender. It was a kiss of someone who can make you do better, who loved passionately. A kiss Darmon did not deserve.

Yet, he let himself accept it for now.

[tryingtimi]

Kill The Flame

Darmon threatens Urien finally. We're here, we've made it, I finally finished. The title came from the lyrics of IN THREES by AS IT IS, Set It Off, JordyPurp which was also one of the inspo songs of this piece. Enjoy.

Context (tho its non-canon): After Darmon and Syon's team saved Evalon, they captured Urien and threw him in the dungeon. Darmon, however, feels he has some unfinished business with him, so he visits.

NON-CANON | SLIGHT VIOLANCE | SLIGHT HOMOEROTIC INTIMIDATION | WC: 1,754

Darmon’s candlelight dimly reflected on the dungeon’s wall as he sauntered deeper into the belly of it.

He left behind all his crystals, except his eye, before he dived down here, and he didn’t accept the torch the guards offered him. His candle had been more than enough.

Scratches ran across the uneven surface of the stone where a spider hurried away from his faint light. Rocks crunched under his boot, still air of mold and age filling his nose when he finally reached the cells.

He stopped there for a moment. Consuming blackness ruled the place, not a hint of brightness trying to overthrow it. Quiet scraping reached him from one of the corners, breaking the complete silence, before settling into stillness again.

Darmon held himself back to squeeze his grip on the candle holder way too strongly.

He stepped inside the hall, the open space’s weight crawling onto his shoulders despite the darkness. He didn’t need to see to know the cell he was searching for was mere steps away; the only chamber that’d been occupied.

His candlelight trembled on the aged bars as he walked closer, weak light revealing the soft silhouette of a figure.

Darmon has seen many kinds of insects on his way inside, yet none of them made him as nauseous as the man sitting on the stole. The eye patch that covered his new eye crystal was something he needed some getting used to, yet it did not disturb his sight. He could clearly see as Urien Eval sat with his straight back to the walls, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers interlocking before his knee, eyes closed. As if he was resting. Peacefully.

Darmon set his jaw when the bastard cracked one unsettlingly white eye open.

“Ah, the human.” Eval’s lips did not turn into a smile. Darmon still felt as if they would in any second. “I must confess, you being my only visitor rather surprises me.”

Thin layer of dirt stuck to his face and clothes here and there, but he held his chin just as high as before. Even his tone did not change.

Darmon stepped closer to the bars, so he could take a closer look at him, the iron’s coldness radiating toward his face.

Eval opened both of his eyes, slightly turning to him while cocking an eyebrow. Darkness blanketed most of his body, heavy shadows embracing his face in the somber room. That hint of a smile became almost visible.

“Hm, I see. In the light of your relation to my bride – be that any of the kind – you felt obliged to come here. Curious. Had she asked you to, perhaps for the sole purpose of intimidating me? What it is she expects to accomplish?”

“The Queen has never been your interest in love, lest your official bride,” Darmon stated calmly. A drop of melted wax ran down the candle, indistinct scattering accompanying it from somewhere deep within the chamber. “Furthermore, Her Majesty has no knowledge of my whereabouts. Not a single soul has.”

The shadows waltzed with the light as Eval unlocked his fingers, then steadily rose from his seat. With every prim step, his figure became more and more visible and clear. Darmon wondered if he should lift his eye patch already.

“Not a single soul,” Eval repeated, humming along with the statement. “And why is that, human?”

The flame of the candle crackled as Dramon brought his hand even closer to the bars. Its light brightened Eval’s figure from beneath, the shadows dancing on his face.

“I wish to speak to you privately.”

The corner of Eval’s lips twitched upward.

“A secret.” He clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at Darmon from his boots up to his face. “Are you not worried, dear sir? I’ve heard you haven’t always been the most reliable link to your cause. Indeed, you’ve been rather an obstacle to your precious group of subjects, for the fault of a previous secret. Ah, you are surprised I know this? Well, there’s no need for that grim expression. I had no interest in your affairs to send my birds after you before. Nor I was aware of your existence. It’s just guard talk.” The bastard stepped closer to the bars, his breath reaching Darmon’s face. “However, you did turn out to be worthy of some curiosity. You’ve come here in the shadows just to converse with me. I assume you require a kind of information you don’t want others to have in their possession. Amusing. Clearly you despise me, and yet here you are. Risking your carefully built little trust.”

Their gazes trembled in the candlelight, the still air turning even more motionless than before. Darmon’s hands itched for his crystals as he watched Eval’s utterly triumphant smugness spread across his face. He’d been living behind bars, deep under and far from everything for weeks now and still, his confidence in victory never seemed to waver.

“Is that what you assume I’m here for? Information?” The mage blinked at him, putting his free hand into the pocket of his robe. Eval’s white eyes flickered with interest when a clinking sound echoed through the room.

“Certainly. With the others, I admit, I’d have my doubts, but with you… I know. Human, you are in my dungeon, which I designed and you still kept it as it’s always been,” he glanced around as if inspecting the place beyond the darkness. “That whispers of so much more than you think. It says we’re much alike after all.”

Snickering, scattering, quiet squealing. All the things that lived in the dark gathered around, but Darmon did not behold the scare of them. He stopped himself from grinding his teeth, slowly pulling a chain of keys out of his pocket. His chest filled with such weight as he placed the right one into the keyhole.

“You might be right,” Darmon started, “yet you’re so wrong. I have no special talent or aspect of my individual. While you have a gift, you see. A quiet special gift. People might wonder, how could you be proficient in more than one thing and what they witnessed when we captured you was something they might never find an answer for. You’re a living legend to them, a secret, a mystery. You have the blessing and the curse of your people. The Royal Eyes, those.”

The lock opened with a click.

Darmon lifted his gaze from the bars and a shiver ran down his spine when he found himself facing the very thing he was expecting. Vile satisfaction in an open smile.

He gripped the bar of the entrance.

“But I am not the people. I’ve studied the nature of many of your eyes and their mechanisms. I know things comprehensively. You might have won against Her Majesty and even Cronyl because of your gift and skills.” Eval backed slowly as Darmon opened the cell. “But there is a reason why I was the only one who could stop you. ”

He stepped inside, the entrance closing in with a quiet thud. There was a moment of utter stillness, silence weighing his shoulder down. He took a step forward, yet Eval had nowhere to back away. Not as if he wanted to, considering everything Darmon knew about him so far.

However, it didn’t matter. He raised his candle to see those predatory white eyes staring at him. Then, he lifted his eye patch.

“With your gift, you’re capable of seeing your kind’s magic inside their body. That’s your advantage. They’re predictable for you,” he said, his replaced eye crystal highlighting the golden magic flowing in Eval’s body. And behind him. “But I do not bear that inside me.”

Darmon gestured with his hand as Eval launched forward in the next moment. His nails sharpened into claws and almost reached his nose before the bastard was forced back to the wall, dropping to it hard while his body and limbs got captured by bronze-gold shackles made of godrind.

With that, Darmon had a better view of him; his ears mimicked his nails, sharpening into almost as dangerous as a knife’s edge. His teeth peeked out as Eval grimaced from the tightness of his godrind tethers and they seemed more like fangs than anything else. His Wildness reached its peak, his whole appearance reminding Darmon of a feral animal.

Yet, he still couldn’t see the one thing on him that he longed for the most.

Trapped and caged, Prince Urien Eval still somehow maintained his confidence and arrogance by looking at Darmon as if he was sitting on his throne, triumphing over him. His barbaric state didn’t matter when his thin lips curled into a smug smile and his white eyes conveyed he did not lose control over himself; letting his Wildness loose was his choice.

Something dark and vile arose inside Darmon.

He stepped close enough to Eval to reach the wall behind him, so with a light touch of his finger he could guide the godrind pieces around Eval’s neck, tight.

“You,” he whispered, feeling his shame drawing back in the shadows from whatever was coming alive in his chest. “You might think you’re indestructible, perhaps some kind of god. With what you possess, you might be close to one of them. You’re someone, because of your ability, and with that, you could have been useful to us. But. Oh, but you chose to do the very thing I cannot leave without consequences; you hurt not only the nation but Syonehlia herself. Thus, you must pay.”

Darmon exhaled deeply, his candlelight violently wavering beside him. He gazed deep inside Eval’s white eyes, searching for that one thing he wanted to see. The thing he came for.

Eval raised his chin as the godrind collar tightened around his neck even more.

“Without your ability, you’re a nobody. And so I’ll treat you like one,” Darmon finished his thought, the deepest, darkest part of himself awakening fully.

The corner of his lips twitched upward while he leaned over to kill the flame to fulfill his promise, obnoxious satisfaction circling inside his veins as doing that, he finally earned what he oh so longed for.

A glimmer of genuine, pure terror.

[tryingtimi]

Head Up Seven Up | Last Lines

Since I'm far behind on these, I'll just combine the two together and leave here only one post. The reason for this is that, I have this beginning of an experimental AU that I've started maybe a month ago. I thought of sharing now, because I'm just curious. With that said, here's a very short turned to villain!Darmon piece. 🤓

Tagging: @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @blind-the-winds, @approximately20blorbos, @jessica-writes22, @aninkwellofnectar, @circa-specturgia, @the-void-writes, @odysseywritings

Syon knelt before Avelyn and put her hand on her shoulder; Cronyl’s lifeless eyes staring up at them from her lap.

Her sister’s fingers guided all and every little golden string into his body. Hands shaking, body trembling, Avelyn did not cry. No, she didn’t.

She was too desperate to do that.

Syon squeezed her sister’s shoulder even stronger when she tried to shrug her touch off. She didn’t want to accept the truth yet. And Syon couldn’t blame her for it. It was hard enough for her too.

“It won’t help,” said the voice that could have made Syon scrape her own skin off.

Slowly, she looked up at Darmon.

He stood with arms hanging purposelessly beside his side, his shoulders almost slumped, his face stoic. A face she once loved. A man she once trusted. And where did this trust led?

Syon didn’t even try to force back her trembling, raging fire inside that gave her enough strength to stand up. Her eyes highlighted the muscles and weak points of Darmon’s body as red strings and dots on him. She was ready to rip every one of it out for what he had done.

How could she ever believe him at all? It was beyond foolish.

[tryingtimi]

Picrew OC Portraits

Thank you for the tags @bloodlessheirbyjacques and @writingonesdreams! After Jacques helped me out how picrew works, I totally lost myself in creating these guys so ugh. I’ll def post more things made in picrews, because I did a lot already.

Anyway, I’ll post the Metalsea cast for now because I can’t include all of it here lol. (My love also suggested me to tag you @writingonesdreams anyway because you might like them, so :D)

From left to right: Darmon Strotagor, Syonehlia Dione, Avelyn Dione

From left to right: Izohr, Drehana (hey, love ;)), Eldnar Ronwel.

For Eldnar I used a different picrew to catch his vibe more accurately. Also, our main boy, Cronyl Eldenwer gets two portaits, because he usually wears an eye patch, but I wanted one where his hidden eye is visible too, so, heh, yeah.

And Bra’aka is missing again because there’s no picrew where I can make him with his lion-dragon features sigh.

Either way, I’m tagging some lovely people to do this if they want to: @jess-p-edits, @approximately20blorbos, @aschlindartroom (I’ll tag you later for the IQRUS team legend), @aalinaaaaaa, @friendlyneighborhood-writer, @the-void-writes.

[tryingtimi]

66💕

His Tools

Land of All by Woodkid. The perfect one for another Urien scene from Darmons POV now.

Context: After the Turning of the Metalsea, Urien took over the capital and threw most people into prison. Darmon faced this fate too when they arrived back with Syon. She, however got capture by Urien, while Darmon eventually broke out. This is where Urien reveals his true nature and goals, close to the end of Book 2.

DARMON AND SYONEHLIA | BLOOD | VIOLANCE | WC: 655

It was dawn again.

The last time Darmon had seen anything but the dungeon’s walls, the Sun shone dimly over them and now, when he finally broke out of the prison, he’d been welcomed with the same pink-orange scenery. As if a day hadn’t gone by.

It was dawn again, but nothing was near the same as before.

Darmon carefully lifted himself with his crystal he was squatting on. The Eval palace’s hallway had been large enough to get lost in the heights of the ceiling. Slowly dying light brightened his pathway when he finally reached the prince’s room; its door yawning wide open before him.

“Look, Syonehlia.”

Darmon stopped for a moment. Prince Urien’s voice still made his muscles tighten whenever he heard it. The directness he was addressing Syonehlia only multiplied this rarely experienced feeling, however.

“Look out there, darling. Look at them,” he purred almost sweetly. His voice was not quite dripping from honey, but the thickness of venom.

Darmon set his jaw, and lifted himself, even more, blending into the darkness of the heights. Then, he carried himself inside the room.

It was vast, kingly with a large bed at one of the walls, baldachin hanging over it. And one end of the chain is attached to the wall.

The clinking links guided Darmon’s eyes to the balcony where Urien stood, facing the sitting Syonehlia and looking down at the captial. Darmon couldn’t see his face as the prince had his back to him, but he could see her. Heavy shackles hung upon Syonehlia’s ankles, her back straight, face stone cold. She still held her head high, piercing gaze not staring at the prince, but instead at the floor, however. Darmon gripped the crystal under him, his palm already heating up from the pressure. He never saw her like that.

And the tension only built in his muscles, when he realized her hands were free.

Urien suddenly grabbed Syonehlia’s face, forcefully turning it where he was looking at. Thin stream of blood trickled down her squashed cheeks when his sharpened nails dug into them.

“Look,” that bastard raised his voice, his ears sharpening as well. “What do you see, hm? Tell me.”

Rattling echoed through the room, as she steadied herself with her legs to not fall from the chair. She grabbed his hand, eyes flaming, nails clawing into his skin. Urien didn’t seem to care.

A crystal rose beside Darmon’s face, ready to aim and strike. His concentration didn’t falter, not even for a blink of an eye.

“Tell me,” Urien snarled, pulling her face farther outside.

Syonehlia visibly tensed up.

“People.”

So hoarse. Her voice sounded so painstakingly hoarse.

Pain struck from Darmon’s nails as he gripped his crystal even more, when Urien let her go by tossing her back at the chair. Darmon’s aim needed to be precise.

“People.” Half of the prince’s face revealed itself as he stared at her. He was sneering; mocking her. “Generous, are you? With those who need our guidance to live their life. Those that can execute only one thing in the shadow of perfection. Those who find one, single task to specialize at more than enough. People,” he scoffed. “Don’t you see, my darling? They’re no people. Not even close.”

He leaned closer, his smile widening at the side.

“I am the hand and they are my tools.”

One glance. Only one glance from Syonehlia should have been needed for Darmon to let his crystal loose. To let this madness end.

His crystals cracked ever so quietly under the force of his grip.

And so the dull grayness of early nightfall conquered the last ray of dying light, when instead of her, Darmon saw the prince’s piercing, pearl-white gaze jumping at him from the corner of his eyes.

[tryingtimi]

55

The One They See

While I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young is never not gonna be a Darmon song it also helped me to basically continue this scene which is a possible ending for Book 2 as well. So thanks a lot my love! 💛

Context: Darmon and Syon saved the grand city of Evalon from Prince Urien's madness and the soulless creatures, called Vessels. The people see Darmon as a hero because of this, while he and Syon also recovers from the aftereffects of the last fight.

DARMON AND SYONEHLIA | SLIGHT ANGST | HOPEFUL | WC: 627

Metallic, bright shine laid upon Evalon, the remnants of the battle scattered around than gemstones after a thunderstorm.

Some Guard worked on setting up a tent over the table where fresh stew brewed. Dirty, ripped-up spots have been left behind on their uniforms where the patches of the Ivory Guard proudly boasted once. Citizens gathered around the food, lined up, waiting then sitting together patiently. Some children laughed in the distance, playing a local game.

Darmon squinted as one of them lifted a gem from the ground, the sunlight sparkling bright across its surface.

“You’ve taken care of them,” he offered the words. It was true. The citizens, the late Guards or Syonehlia’s patrols, maybe all together; whoever had done it, they dragged away the bodies of the Vessels and built them graves in Darmon’s little cemetery by the woods. New, finely engraved tombstones slumbered in the embrace of ever-blooming magnolia beds. Darmon realized only now; how barren his efforts had been.

Syonehlia leaned onto her arms at the edge of the balcony, right beside Darmon. Her shoulder’s touch warmed his own.

“We owed this to them. They deserved a proper goodbye to rest finally.” She followed an old figure under them. Her father’s chestnut beard hid his lips, but his eyes found the two of them over him. Darmon nodded as a greeting, keeping his head lower for a moment.

“Thank you.”

Listan Dione lingered in one place, staring at them before he mirrored the movement and turned away eventually.

Another group of children giggled a little too loud beside Listan. They whispered and pointed in Darmon’s direction, then, when his eyes unmistakably wandered at the group, one little girl shyly waved at them after a nudge, her little sharp ears sharpening even more.

“Hey,” Syonehlia nudged him too with her shoulder when he didn’t move. “It’s for you. Wave.”

He knew she was right. The children looked in their direction, but they seemed to focus on him the most.

Darmon couldn’t name the feeling that nested in his chest. A heavy, yet bearable weight as he did as he was told. His gauche gesture made the little driadlin’s blushing face lit up with a smile, another wave of whispering and giggling flying up with a gentle breeze from the others. They might have seen this as encouragement when they joined their friend. Their youthful lack of control blossomed on their sharpening ears and teeth that peaked out by their open-mouth smiles.

“They’re excited,” Darmon stated, his injury on his side aching as his shoulders slumped.

“They like you.”

His throat tightened upon hearing her words. All of those kids wore patched-up, tattered clothes, dirt glued to their skin. The parents set up tents beside ruined buildings all over the city, young adults helped clean out the debris from some shops, bickering with the elderly owners in the meantime. There were injured sitting or lying under the roof of a tavern’s remnants, yet they all talked, sang songs, and laughed.

Darmon leaned at his wooden crutch so he could glance at Syonehlia. At her slightly scarred face, at her whose love he accepted for now, at her who gave him warmth and a comforting presence by a tiny touch; at her who he almost lost during the happenings.

At her and them who he brought all this upon.

“I’ll do better,” he uttered. The words slipped out without his permission, yet he didn’t try to stop them. “I can’t change the past even if I long for it, but I can do better than before. I’ll… be that someone they see. For them, and for you. For the better.”

[tryingtimi]

🧁 OC dessert game 🍰

Thank you for the tag @bloodlessheirbyjacques and @the-void-writes <3

Rules: using this piccrew, make a little dessert(?) that represents your character! go wild! there is a lot of room to play around with symbolism in this one, though you can also just fall back on aesthetics or make one that they would be inclined to eat!

Some desserts for the Metalsea main ships.

Cronyl and Avelyn

Darmon and Syonehlia

Tagging: @aninkwellofnectar, @muddshadow, @italiangothicwriteblr, @aschlindartroom, @approximately20blorbos, @friendlyneighborhood-writer, @jessica-writes22, @cherrybombfangirlwrites, @magefaery, @circa-specturgia

[tryingtimi]

Happy Blorbo Blursday Timi! Which of your characters have the weirdest hobbies?

Hey, Laurie, sweetest! 🧡 Thank you for the question! You got me with this one tho heh. I'm not sure whether these are weird or not so, you decide hehe. Depends on which culture they came from, I guess. Anyway, I'll list all of them and I'll also go with the Metalsea cast.

Cronyl and his "rubik's cube"

Cronyl has, for example, a hobby – or sometimes a coping mechanism, that contains a metal "rubik's cube" basically. Its similar to a rubik's cube in mechanics, not appearance; there are no different colours on it. Either way, Cronyl has that cube in his bag all the time, because that was the tool which helped him to learn how the Metalsea works. From the outside, the cube looks completely plain metal, even though, it's still strange because its' surface always waves just a tiny bit. When you look at it with Cronyl's eyes however, you'll see the inside of the cube that's basically built from little metal pieces that search for their pairs (think of puzzles). So, Cronyl's hobby is messing with this cube, while he also started to occupy himself with it when he's frustrated.

Bra'aka and his animal grooming

There's nothing more peaceful and stress-easing for him, then a good ol' grooming. He usually loves to be around animals and take care of them. His not much of a trainer, though.

Darmon and his glass jewelry collection

He collects glass pieces. Various kinds, from translucent through coloured to patterned. His favorite is the wavy patterned kind. When he collected enough, he’ll work on piecing them together and making jewelry from it. It’s something that he rarely does, but never stops completely. His parents had a jewelry shop back in the day when he was young and still among his people, and this is the only thing that he did not forget from that time. (tagging @bloodlessheirbyjacques because Darmon)

Avelyn and her scattered book pages

She lives in a monostery that has an enormous, ancient library with countless books. So it's not rare to find page pieces on the ground, ripped out or accidentally teared from the very old books. Never whole pages, though. And Avelyn loves to collect these pieces. There are a lot of kind of books in the library, even poems and fictions too (even though those are hidden, but she could find some) She's really into the mystery of what the whole page and the book could have contained which the pieces were ripped out from. Sometimes, she tries to piece the various ones together to have something new created. But she mostly just enjoys the intrigue of those half sentences or pharagraps.

Nareethi and her trinkets

She's endlessly curious, so she loves new things very much. That's why she also loves trading.She needs some new things to have in her bag all the time. She's not a hoarded though, because she only keeps the trinkets with her so long as they are new and interesting to her. She study them, messes with them, until she completely understands them or just thoroughly knows them. Then she trades them to someone. But not for money though. Only for other new things.

Syonehlia and her martial art training

She's a noble, so she shouldn't have learn these things, but she still does it in secret. She loves the rush of a fighting session and the fact she can defend herself and others if she masters this skill.

Drehana and her braiding

She used to braid the animal's mane she tamed for her employees (the royal family). She accustomed to do it and soon realized she loves to do it. She's that kind of a person who masters whatever things she dabbled in. Which means, she learned to do very complex braids, so the local children usually goes to her to have a hair they can show off. Bra'aka and Eldnar will love her skills and will be down to request some braiding from her in the very moment they learn this info about her.

Eldnar and his earring collection

He's a fan of earrings and piercings. He likes to collect at least one kind from every place he went to. He'll love Darmon's jewelries too and would love to bully him into making him a specific one. But Darmon will gift him one anyway, so there's no need for bullying.

[tryingtimi]

Hi Darmon 👉👈

Describe your ideal partner.

If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? (on vacation or permanently!)

What makes you laugh?

Are you a spiritual person?  If yes, what do you practice?

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?

@bloodlessheirbyjacques

@bloodlessheirbyjacques 😎❤️ Asks from this list.

He stands beside a fully packed table — colourful tarts, fruits and drinks everywhere — when you enter the room. “Welcome, I hope you had a safe travel.” He bows a little, smile nowhere to be seen on his face, but he does seem open to your arrival. He gestures towards the free chair which you see have some weakly glowing crystals attached to its legs and back. You sit down, and notice the faintest beam of golden light coming around Darmon’s fingers as he twirls them to guide them behind you and make your chair gently move closer to the table. Only then he takes his seat too.

He leans closer on his elbows on the table and his waiting features make you start eventually.

"Describe your ideal partner."

He seems lost in thought for a second. "Hm, I haven't given too much thought to this before. You see, I'm determined to be careful with idealisation. Whatever can seem to be an admirable trait in someone, the context of their actions where they use it is what..." He pauses and looks at you. Then, in a barely visible, sheepish manner, continues. "I'm sorry for the lecture. I took this a little seriously, haven't I? The truth is, I do not remember my preferences. The last person who came close to be my partner lived a... very long time ago, to say the least. The only thing I vaguely remember about him is his smile and the way he took care of the elderly back then." He pats his thumb with his other finger, then a ghost of a smile appears in the corner of his lips, as if he just remembered something. "Although, I'm surely drawn to a forthright and tenacious companion. Honesty is the most important for me, thus I can live with a fiercy kind of it as well. As for appearence and such, I truly not care for anymore. I'm not sure I ever did in this matter."

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? (on vacation or permanently!)"

"I would like to visit Nareethi’s home someday. She talked a lot about it and it sounds like a very fascinating place. Yaran is how their current location is called. I say current location, because the Shar-Dlin is a wandering nation, as it was brought to my attention by her. They built their society around these city-sized beasts — I think they referred to it as djaanvar —, whom they track until it settles down to die and let itself turn into plant-like organisms, basically. They use its remains as the base of their homes. The specific example she used was its lungs, that's tissues crawl under the desert's soil and grows vegetables and fruits there. It doesn't last forever, however, because the maintinace of these remains lasts approximately 100-200 years only. So, before they would run out of food, the Shar-Dlin begin to search after another beast that plans to settle down." Darmon's face glows with excitement, even though, he does not smiles still. "It would be great to take a look at these creatures, Nareethi's culture and respectfully study how the djaanvar works."

"What makes you laugh?"

Darmon starts to tap his thumb with his other finger. Some minutes pass before he speaks again. "Eldnar's and Drehana's provocative retorts. Also Cronyl and Bra'aka could perform as comedians sometimes."

"Are you a spiritual person?  If yes, what do you practice?"

"I was an active follower of the Three Goddess of Everything, in my ancient times. I do not use past tense, because I stopped believing in them. I only neglected my practice, when I joined Troghrun. Now, I'm afraid I can't fully go back to them, though. With everything happening in the worlds, my knowledge towards some of them faded and I can feel it fading further away day by day. But, I do work on keeping what's left of it alive and teach to as many people as I can."

"What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?"

Darmon leans back in his chair, one hand on the armrest, one reamining on the table. He stays quiet, eyes looking at the corner. He doesn't stare into nothing, though, but into a place long forgotten; into an age long lost. Then, his non-crystal eye wander back at you and as if he just doesn't want to burden you with the weight of his choices; he smiles a little, eventually. "This interview."