#Syfyn Javall

[nukbody]

"I know."

@exilethegame

[night-triumphantt]

Did I spend, over 100 hours on this, yes, yes I did. BUT NOW, I can look at all the exile cast standing together in a line and they all have cool outfits! ( @exilethegame I hope u like them, I stuck mostly to what doodles you had shared but also added my own design sensibilities in esp when we didnt really have a full image.)

anyway if you see me post these all individually in their own post mind your business, I spent a lot of time so I do what I want

[punkrangerdraws]

"I know you're in there"

@exilethegame

[teansouprmyjam]

"I just want you to talk to me,"

"I can't."

I’m obsessed with every variation of this scene (and the entire chapter, really) but I had to draw this one:’) everyone please go read @exilethegame, it’s,,, everything.

[florvinhara]

✨️ la danse macabre ✨️

HI the possibility of a syfyn corruption arc will not leave my mind so pls enjoy this stunning commission from my beloved @quietsphere of my revenge-obsessed demon commander marina and sy!!

[marshalortega]

and what rough beast

the exile, post demo. syfyn javall + the commander, love-swearing but not saying love, so nothing new. warnings for a bit of casual suicidal ideation. READ ON AO3.

THE HOUR IS LATE.  THERE’S A WOLF AT THE DOOR.

Down these halls haunted by the ghosts of your memory, you follow the path toward her. It comes as easily as breathing. There is no one to stop you, or question why you are here, and even if they did, what could they say to you? They see you as you are now. Not a wolf, not a commander, but something else  prowling the grounds, looking for something to bite into. The heads that turn, turn in fear, not fealty. 

When you were a girl, you thought your mothers were bigger than the Gods. Bigger than the sky. It’s easy to believe that when you’re small and your fist is the size of an apricot ripe for crushing, and you couldn’t hold a sword and you couldn’t fight a small god of chaos and you couldn’t even hunt, but you really did, you believed.

At some point between the blood and the battles, you realized that a god is just a word, and a word is something spat out by people smaller than you, and there is nothing real about it, nothing at all, and there was no mother, there was only a queen, and queens needed people to be their scythe across the landscape. And you were. So sharp you cut them too, when they tried to touch you. Too big now for anyone. It’s a sad day when one realizes their god is just meat and bone, and their teeth have grown larger and sharp enough to tear through even a queen. 

You turn again and find your way, feet silent on the stone, torchlight tinting everything in damp gold. Your arm burns and blisters under the bandages, but they filed your claws to nothing; the rendering of it wouldn’t be as satisfying, so you keep your fists tight and at your side. There will be time for it soon, when they give you back your weapon and ask you to live up to its name, become their killing field once again. Lead your band to their death. Do your duty. Soft-handed blood mages and flighty fae and Sabir and a snake in every sense of the word.

And Syfyn.

Syfyn had been real. Real as anything. Real as everything. She had a rare, smarting laugh that startled you into something shaped like a person: a girl-thing cutting through the echoing noise of sword clash. You were never a child, or a human, or a daughter, just a dull blade waiting to be sharpened, but when you were with her you were alive , and when she looked at you she shaped you into something almost… 

Almost. 

You tore through her, with that beast under your skin. It still roils now, waiting, waiting, waiting for that moment to strike again. This is how you know what you are; cruel and unfair, by nature monstrous. You–with no mothers, no gods at your side, no voices in your head, no weapon in hand, you only want her to look at you.

You swallow and your jaw clicks, still sore from the blow of her armored heel to your face.

This needs… you need, you need something. Absolution. To be struck down. You need a scar to match. Let her break your bones or drag her talons through your hair, it doesn’t matter, anything would be a release from this… this nothing you have. It was almost freeing, when she pressed down on your arm till it SNAPPED. 

You thumb at the dagger strapped to your side. You come to her door. You raise your fist. You hold your breath.

Three knocks on the heavy wood. You can hear her shuffling instead, how her body stills utterly. 

Silence.

Deliberation, likely. Whoever is knocking at this hour breaches code, and invites questions. But to come at this hour only means urgency. She’ll answer. You knock once more for good measure though. 

“Who is it?” She’s muffled by the door, sounds gruff, irritated. Maybe you would’ve smiled at that. You did, once, you think. Forever ago. Now you’re filled only with dread, and your palm slips off the hilt of the dagger, its intent burning hot on your skin. 

The door creaks open, and there she stands. Unraveled. The golden armor is shucked, leaving only the woman beneath it. Her hair is loose, brushing her pale forehead, and her eyes are marked by sleeplessness. The melty candlelight shimmers gently on her skin, bisected by the scars you left behind. She is beautiful. 

And you are silent. And so is she.

Silver on red. Red on silver. She, golden, and you, dark like blood in the night.

“Marrok.” She bites out, staring up at you like a hated thing, her claws indenting on the door. She tries for impassive, stone-cold, but you’ve caught her off guard and it falters. Her wings flare out, retract. You can smell the fear.

Swallowing hard, you drop your gaze to the floor, curling your shoulders inward. You will never be smaller than her, but you try.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Not tonight.”

“It must be tonight.”

Time is ticking down, down. Soon it will be gone, and they will be stripped of any moments left. There will only be the mission, and then death, and this–this must be out , now. It is eating away at your soul, like maggots into flesh, infection entrenched in the wound. Whatever comes after this, you can bleed it out slow.

She says nothing to that, moving to slam the door in your face. It groans. It is– You stop it with your fist, pushing back, hard .

“Please, Syfyn.” You say, pleading through the gap. “And then I’ll go.”

A century, a millennia ago she held you through the deep pits of transformation. Did you ever thank her for that? You can’t remember anymore. You only remember how she bit her tongue when your body shook and your hands turned to heavy paws, and you cut her once, on accident, slicing her forearm clean, and she never even blinked, she never looked away.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t stop you sooner. It would have been easier if she’d been afraid, cutting you down where you stood that night. Sometimes you think about it. Sometimes you wish for it.

Is that why you knelt before her, penitent, waiting? Waiting for her to take the killing blow she stayed, three years ago?

“You can take your sword, if you want.”

Syfyn breathes hard, her eyes glinting steel.

“Stay here.” She finally says, stepping away from the door. It closes, not completely, but cuts off your view, and you stay in your place, loyal as a hound. 

There’s movement, then: “Come in.”

You move slowly, like one moves around a startled animal. Or when one is hunting. The door swings closed behind you, and your heart stops heavy in your chest. She did brandish her sword. It sits at her side now, unstrapped but still in its sheath. She balances one hand on the pommel, and you nod in acquiescence. 

When you were still Commander and she was still second-in-command, you weren’t shy of this. Visiting her in the night, creeping around to not be seen, lest rumors fly. How many hours did you two stay awake, exchanging easy silence as much as conversation, before it fell way to some kind of hazy sleep? Too many. It had been a comfort. It had been… 

You wish you could say the room had stayed exactly the same, but that wouldn’t be true. 

It’s… lifeless, austere. There’s an oppressiveness to the air, like a shell too small to endure much longer, but still you push yourself inside. “Thank you,” you say, and wait at the closed door. “We have to discuss… the mission.”

“The mission?” Syfyn scoffs at that, and–maybe it’s deserved. A weak excuse. Not exactly a lie. “Which is why you needed to– did anyone see you?”

“Do you think anyone saw me, Griffin?” You say flatly.

She has the dignity to only scowl, instead of rolling her eyes like you expect. 

“Say your piece then and go. If you’re concerned I won’t follow your commands, ” she sighs, “don’t. I know the order of things. So long as we all do our duty.”

Our duty. To our country. To our queens. Our duty to strike the killing blow.

Your duty to her.

Not as commander. But friend. 

In the disgusting gut of your heart, you still feel it–that want of her, to hold her like a lover would. The image crosses your mind and flies from you just as quickly. Never to pass. You were her commander, and now you are– monster. Looming creature at the doorway. Holding her hostage in her own room.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what ? What’s the point, Marrok?”

She is so fierce. Like a shaft of blinding sunlight. The way your name sounds like it cuts her tongue. 

You feel stiff, corpse-like in front of her. She fidgets, clenching and unclenching her hand around the sword pommel. 

“I’m not a fool, Syfyn. I don’t expect to survive this, whatever it is.” She opens her mouth–maybe to protest, maybe to congratulate your hopeful death–but you raise a hand, silencing it. “But you can. I know you can.”

She doesn’t flinch, but there’s something there. It itches under the surface, sticking to her teeth. “You heard the queen. There’s no reason anyone has to die…” She doesn’t believe that–neither do you. You can feel it in her utter lack , conviction dead at the moment of contact. “And I will do what I have to do.”

“I know,” and, “I hope so,” and you do, you do. It– it wants to pour out of you, right there, flooding your throat. This thing . Let it out–let it out–like infection. Like bile. “But if we’re going to fight beside each other again, we must–deal with this.”

Out, out, out. Get it out.

“Like I said, I’ll follow orders.”

“No.” You shake your head, taking a step forward. She moves back.Watchful. Steel-to-red. And you smile, and it feels hollow, like skin off the bone.“You know it must be more than that. We must… trust something, if not each other.” 

“I don’t understand what you mean. There’s nothing—“

“Nothing to say?” 

Her teeth click together, lips pinched hard. There is something in her that you struck down. 

“No. I don’t trust you, Marrok. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I understand.” 

"Then... we're done?"

Words like a gutting knife. But you do trust her still, somehow. You can feel it reaching out for you still, the trust-bond. Three years and exile and nothing and a broken arm and you still trust her–trust her to save your life as much as end it. You think not even a god could take that from you.

Maybe that’s why you slide so easily to your knees.

Your hand comes to bear on the blade. In front of you, she stumbles back, snarls, a lion’s sound–“what are you doing? ”--and you bow your head, raise your gaze, drawing the dagger, bringing its hilt to your heart. As easy as breathing. 

"Marrok– what in the hells–” but she doesn’t try to grab you, or pull you up; her eyes are on that blade, that blade shining in the dark. She steps back, frozen. Watching, and waiting. Good. You need this–you need to be real again.

You swore an oath to country and queen, once. You swore to protect it with your life, with everything in you. You swore to be its defender, its sword, its beacon of war. Once, in you was a love for your duty so immense you felt no hunger, no desire, there was nothing but the shape of it and the shape of it was you , warrior, on your knees. 

This love, this duty, is the least you can offer to her, who you have so wronged. Something in you snaps, and with its release you feel so light , so at peace again. You need a god. You need a sword. You need something bigger than the heavens. 

She looks at you, horrified. So heavy is the horror it shudders through her, unmanning her, leaving her nothing but to stare dumbly at you. This face of hers, this face you love, it will forever bear your marks, and she will forever hate you for it. But you cannot let the fear continue. You cannot– 

The mantle of commander, wolf, beast at the door, slides loose from you, and in front of her you are not a woman, not a man, not a beast. You are her hand, her killing field. 

“Syfyn Javall,” you start, resting your free hand on your knee, drawing your shoulders back to their full rest. “I swear to you, on queen and country, that never again will I raise a hand against you, as I once did. I swear to you that so long as I breathe, I will be your shield, your sword. I will strike down your enemies and defend your kin. I give you my fealty, my loyalty, my life, whatever is left of it. And should I break this oath–” you turn the tip of the dagger to your heart, pressing down . It stings like truth. “Let this blade pierce my heart and strike me dead.”

“Good gods. You–” her sword clatters to the ground, fallen from her grasp. The weight of it strikes hard as her hand on your wrist, wrenching the dagger from your heart. “Stop—you are–”

She is touching you. What a gift.

Her hands are warm on you, hard as they are against your skin. Not yet pulling away. You realize–you haven’t touched her, not in more than three years. No hard metal armor between you. No wounds to bear. No witnesses to your oath-swearing. Whatever this is, it’s hers to do with as she pleases. Her commander on her knees, sworn to loyalty. 

“I am at your mercy,” you say, like prayer, or whatever comes closest to it, watching her face so lovely and near to you now. 

A wave of—hurt? flashes past her eyes, her gasping mouth, almost like you’ve struck her. But slowly, ever so slowly, she lowers her forehead to yours, eyes closing to the awfulness of you. 

On your wrist, her thumb trails the thin line of an old, old scar–with her other hand she draws away the blade, and that too falls to the floor, forgotten. 

You cannot–think, cannot breathe, cannot speak. It is Syfyn and she is above you and she is bending to grace your skin with her own, your foreheads and noses pressed,-- not close enough, never close enough, and you feel a scream, under your flesh. 

Slowly, she exhales, hot on your mouth. 

You feel the beast rumble, pleased, sated. Collared. A life for a life. An oath on a dagger. 

“Get up, Marrok.” Syfyn murmurs, grabbing you by the shirt with her empty hand, wrenching you close, up halfway off the ground. “You look like an idiot down there.”

[syfynjvall]

no offense but this was so sexy of syfyn but also the MEANING of it all… what if a group of sadistic surgeons were about to slice open your former best friend/lover who mutilated you (albeit through no fault of their own) but you stepped in front of them to protect them on instinct because that’s what you always did was PROTECT them and no way are the creeps who want to force said friend to relive their trauma will they be allowed to do that… the underlying love and loyalty is still there even if it’s REALLY deep down… just. wow

[ambrosykim]

my current feelings about ms syfyn javall..................

[instantdepresso]

The ROs minus Jost and Freedom because i got lazy

[somewillwin]

Bro syfyn route is so angsty…. I didn’t sleep yesterday reading 🫠🫠🫠

[bonesif]

Not his Syfyn.

The exile (@exilethegame)

Syfyn Javall x Atlas Akrosa (werewolf commander)

Word count: 1094

Warnings: angst, descriptions of blood

AO3 link

Atlas's anger and the wall Syfyn has built around herself— an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object. The tension of their past relationship and the unspoken hurt between the two weighs heavy in the air. And Atlas has never been one to let the elephant in the room have its peace.

A rusty little one shot for a game I'm definitely not hyperfixated on. Angsty scene that takes place in the storage room.

─────────

"You..." he rolls his parched lips together, wetting them. "You've barely looked at me since I've been here."

He's staring at a mask. A literal one, painted mixed colors by the stained glass perched over them. Syfyn's grey eyes peer back at him from behind it, all familiar and beautiful and wrong at the same time. Just like the rest of Plathius. But none of the untouched rooms of his childhood, the judgment and hateful gazes and fear of palace guards could ever cut quite as deep as the woman facing him a step away.

Three years and Atlas can still read Syfyn better than anyone, privy to the tension in her shoulders; the rigidity in her posture and the way she bristles at his words. When she's uncertain, she falls back on her duty. It's always been like that. She followed her orders like a model soldier should, even when they led her places she dreads. Except with me, he thinks, except when I bent the rules, then buries the thought deep within him.

Behind her dedication to orders, it's clear to him that she doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want him here.

"Did all of it mean nothing to you?" He prods at her indifference, too stubborn and never one to let the elephant in the room have its peace. Do I mean nothing to you?

Dust filters through the rich mirage of light between them.

Syfyn breaks his gaze, eyes set on the glass casing around his old armor. She's met with the eyeless stare of a white wolf pelt. She doesn't dare let her eyes wander to the daggers glinting from where they're displayed.

"Talon and fang. You know, it's like the two of us." Atlas's foot comes out to nudge her beneath the table, a crooked smile tugging at his lips until his gums peek out. He's waiting for her to say he's an idiot. 

She just stares, confusion and endearment sinking into her blank expression. "Why?"

Her feet are moving before she registers it, tense wings nearly knocking into Atlas as she passes.

"So you'll always be at my side. No matter what happens out there." He looks much too proud of himself, leaning an elbow on the dark wood and flashing one blade just under his warm brown eyes. "So. Do you hate it?"

She feels like everyone in the room can see her, a warmth seeping into her cheeks that isn't leftover from baking in the sun. Her arms draw closer to herself, and she knows she's going to kick him back as soon as she admits it.

"No."

Syfyn reaches the door again, grip biting into the handle. She forces the memories down as heavily as she swings it open, hard enough that a gust disturbs her feathers.

Atlas's gaze burns into her back.

"What, you can't even talk to me?"

It's not a question, not really. It's a statement. An accusation, broiling in Atlas's throat long before it leaves his tongue. 

Syfyn says nothing from where she stands. She just holds the door with such perfect stillness she could've been cut from marble. Like he's not even there.

The message is clear. We're done here. I'm not doing this right now.

It makes him restless, fists clenching so hard they form white half moons across his knuckles. Frustration and anger and pain bubble out of him, left standing alone by the cold glass case of his past. It burns like acid, threatening to eat away at him and spill out all at once.

His words come out soft and harsh and tender altogether as he says, "you know I never would've left you there, alone in a cell."

He's staring at the solid form of her back in utter silence and he wants nothing more than for her to look at him again with that smile so warm it rivaled her sunburnt cheeks— just like when they were kids, then comrades, then something more. He wants her to call him an idiot, to dare him to do things he couldn't possibly be stupid enough to do and laugh until her sides stitch when he does it. He wants her to criticize his messy clothes again. He wants her to apologize, or to tell him she misses him, or that she hates him. He wants her to look at him. 

Syfyn was never so quiet around him. He can still remember it, that side of her when duty and orders were removed. How could he ever forget it?

Not The Brazen Griffin. Not Plathius's second in command. 

His Syfyn. Gold would never be warm enough for what he saw in her. It was all the things he was missing now, the things he'd ruined.

There's a hollow feeling in his stomach threatening to make him feel something heavier than anger but no, no, no. 

Days go by. No one comes. All Atlas can do is stare at the walls and try not to feel the blood still caked to his skin. It's under his nails. It's on his arms, his chest, dried into the fabric of his clothes. He smells it. He's tasted it. He can't tell how much of it is his, where his wounds end and his crimes begin. 

No one to talk to, no place to clean the blood off his hands. No way to know if she's okay—

And now it's Atlas that can't look at Syfyn. His stomach churns and he feels he could be sick. 

Not that, anything but that.  

He can't bear to feel the guilt, the loneliness, the hurt he's chased away for three long years. Those things weigh heavy when they settle into your bones. They threaten to shut you down. He doesn't think he'd get back up if he fell into it now, doesn't think he ever would've in those years he spent on his own. Doesn't think he can live without his anger patched over it.

Atlas swallows hard and settles instead on bitter.

His footsteps are the only sound in the storage room, approaching until they settle right beside her. Not his Syfyn, not Sy, not Javall.

"You were going to the training field." Her words come out rigid, forced.

Atlas hisses a breath out between clenched teeth, not sure if he's angry or just disappointed.

"Right."

He doesn't wait when she pivots to shut the door, clicking every lock safely in place. And perhaps it's for the best as she catches her breath, hands trembling in the shadow of her body.

[nukbody]

i see you fellow syfyn simp 🫡

The way i am so obsessed with this unapologetic furious awkward orey-eye when she gives me the littlest hope just to break my heart once and once again 😭

[punkrangerdraws]

Some doodles from chapter 5 of @exilethegame! (100% accurate, nothing left out, definitely no painful experiences this time around)

[teansouprmyjam]

The Brazen Griffin

as always I am riddled with Syfyn Javall thoughts... (from @exilethegame​​)

(close-ups under the cut)

[prim-moth]

What's worse than a breaking up romantically? Breaking up platonically

[exilethegame]

Do you have a list of the ROs and like a description of them :( can't find it

I have one floating about somewhere, but here's an up-to-date one! :)

Vethna Mevnrael (they/them) Appearance: 5’9, skin the color of bronze with long wavy hair that’s only a few shades darker than their skin. Their eyes are a greyed-out blue-green and glow in the darkness due to magic. They wear a deep v-neck black gown with golden embroidery, an outrageous amount of rings and jewelry, and their signature wine-red lipstick. Background: Vethna hails from Vygrand-- otherwise known as the sworn rival land of your home country. Where you have been raised to resent most, if not all magic, they have been raised to thrive on it. You don't know much about them-- just that they're on the run from someone, something, powerful, and you're the only one who can protect them. That, and they have a whole lot of gold... almost as much as they have secrets.

Nikke Ivante (he/him) Appearance: 6’0, pale green skin and covered in iridescent scales. Purple bags sit under his pale green eyes, which, like all mythosi, glow in the darkness. Wears smudged black kohl across his eyes. His hair is long, half shaved, and braided, mostly black with streaks of white. His tongue is forked and his sharp fangs often protrude from out past his lips. His arms are covered in tattoos of snakes winding downwards, and on his neck sit geometric tattoos. Background: Nikke has been sent to kill you or kidnap you-- you're not entirely sure which it is, and you don't intend to find out. He's crude and sarcastic and overall a brute. He doesn't seem to take his own life seriously, nonetheless yours, and you have no doubt he's going to capture you or die trying. Hell-- maybe he'll just kill you both while he's at it... you know, for fun.

Jost Ivante (she/her) (Not romanceable in demo yet) Appearance: 6’0 with pale green skin and iridescent scales. Her features are sharp and she has multiple piercings, the most notable being her bridge piercing and snake-bites. She has tattoos down her arms and on her neck in geometric patterns. Her hair is waist-length and slicked back and filled with braids and tokens, and just like her brother, is streaked with white. While she wears dark paint over her eyes, it’s done in a manner much neater than Nikke’s. Background: Jost is Nikke's identical twin sister-- and, if possible, she's twice as mean and just as rude. She's more ruthless than her brother, but she doesn't quite have the fighting power to back up her venom-laced threats and taunts. Nonetheless, she fights dirty, and if you want to beat her, you're going to have to be smart.

Amilia Von Clamile (she/her) Appearance: 5’3 with snow white skin and blood red hair that’s poorly cut and uneven, coming to her chin on one shoulder and sitting well past her collarbone on the other. Her eyes are green and her face is covered in freckles. A deep scar juts into her lip on the right side of her face and runs down her jaw and neck. Background: Amilia's a fae-- the very kind of mythosi you've been raised to fear and have spent most of your life killing. She's all smiles and nerves, but you see something else in her eyes, sometimes. Something cold. Something calculative. Everyone seems keen to turn a blind eye to her, but you know a liar when you see one... don't you?

Syfyn Javall (she/her) Appearance: 5’11 with warm toned skin that’s often burnt red, leaving splotchy tans along her body. Her eyes are a steely grey, hair blonde and cut to barely brush against her shoulders. She tries to often wear it up despite this, resulting in most of the hair falling out messily. She's covered in scars with feathers in her hair, and her pupils are slits. Her teeth are all mostly sharp. Background: Syfyn Javall, The Brazen Griffin, Second-in-Command to the Plaithian Army. She used to work beneath you once-- used to fight beside you and honor you both as a comrade and friend. You grew up together within the military. When you had nobody, you had each other. But then you betrayed her-- or maybe she betrayed you. You don't know who started what, but you do know that the blood is on both of your hands now.

Sabir Du Vaelas (he/him) Appearance: 6’1 with dark, cool toned skin, black eyes, and long black hair kept in locs. He wears expensive robes that are a deep teal and is covered head to toe in expensive silver jewelry, most of which is covered in snake symbolism. Sabir's ears are pierced in several areas, and he tends to wear silver eyeliner and highlight. Background: Sabir, otherwise known as The Silven Viper, Eye of Plaithus, used to be your charge. He's a politician-- one of the better ones, if such a thing exists. Your past together was volatile-- perhaps you were lovers, or friends, or enemies. Either way, he saved your life when you otherwise would've been put to death by the state, and you owe him thanks for that much.

Freedom (gender selectable) Appearance: 6′0 with pallid, paper-white skin and bronze eyes that appear to almost be filled with a shimmering liquid. Their hair is waist-length and black with an iridescent sheen to it, long black claws bordering on talons on their hands. They wear long, tight fitting black robes. Background: You hear its voice sometimes, when it's quiet and you're alone. You try to tune it out. You try to ignore it. It forces you to remember things. To feel things. It's within you, wiggling and writhing, waiting for the right moment to attack. At times it feels predatory. At others, its presence is comforting-- protective and doting. It'll become whatever you want it to be. It'll become whatever you need it to be.