#i should probably elaborate but ill let you draw your own conclusions

[m-o-o-n-thatspellsblog]

Describe yourself in three Stephen King characters?

I love this question, thanks for asking!!

Roland Deschain, The Dark Tower

Dan Torrance, The Shining & Doctor Sleep

Larry Underwood, The Stand

[silenthillmutual]

For the cliche prompts: Artemy/Daniil 4 or 23 (it could be 4 and 23 if you are feeling like mixing both. Tbh I wasn't able to choose)

(hello this is kind of silly and i’m not confident in its quality, but i am planning on writing a follow-up to this for the other number though it will probably be shorter than this! numbers here)

--

Things have been getting, in a word, ridiculous. The rain hasn’t let up in this section of town in four days, setting the scene nicely for all of Daniil’s drawn-out internal monologues about the futility of fighting fate or nature or whatever. His mind continues to grumble to himself as he sits in the hospital, trying to do research and feeling more and more, as time goes on...ridiculous. There it is again. Like the whole world - or at least the Town, which may as well be a world all its own - is laughing at him.

Burakh has been getting better at sneaking up on him; the only way Daniil knows he’s entered the building is from the gentle click of the front door as it closes again. He wishes the man would announce his arrival instead of using the opportunity to always try and catch Daniil off guard. One of these days he won’t have time to build his composure back up. 

Today, he’s safe; the rain makes the other man’s shoes squeak against the floor and he listens to the low-voice swearing with a smirk on his face. “Not today, you don’t,” he mutters to himself as he turns. He takes a moment, before standing, to admire Burakh’s form, eyes softening as he watches the man’s rain-soaked  hair fall and stick to his forehead, fingers weaving between the strands as he tries to push it back. He never manages to catch Daniil watching him like this, his own eyes taking int he sick strewn all about the hospital. Daniil looks away before Burakh can manage to do so. 

Daniil’s eyes manage to land exactly where he needs them to for a plausible escape. “This one,” he says, skipping the pleasantries his colleague never engages with anyway, “Has no sign of any illness. I suspect he’s merely playing ill to get out of the house.” The man even groans, over-exaggerated, on cue, and Daniil feels a little smug, as if that’s proved his point. Burakh doesn’t respond, or even react as if he’s heard, which chips away at the dam Dankovsky has been building, though at the present he can’t see the scale of the damage or the size of the resulting fracture. He files it as distraction, as even in their arguments, Burakh has never properly ignored him, and he is busy with his vials of tinctures.

He tries to clear his throat amidst its sudden buildup without drawing attention, licking his lips as he thinks for a moment on the cadence of his voice. It’s gone down again; maybe he hadn’t readjusted to it, let his voice go out?

Daniil stands, taking a few breaths as he goes, and starts again, keeping his tone steady as he speaks. “No matter. Now that he’s here and taking up a bed, I suppose he could have caught the Pest - or else be a carrier.” The man on the bed curls up suddenly. What Daniil can see of his eyes have gone wide. “So perhaps we should keep him for observation, if nothing else. Probably a danger to let him out now -”

When he turns back around, he finds his face almost against the other man’s chest, and has to fight back the blush that starts to creep up his neck at how very close they are. Dankovsky’s never warm, but good god, this man - between the heat he radiates and the way he makes Daniil feel, suddenly all feverish and flushed - it’s a small miracle Daniil doesn’t pass out from sudden warmth shocking the system. And now he can’t stop staring either, and he really needs to - stop dawdling, stop with the rapid blinking, and continue his thought already, damn you -

“Are you alright, Burakh?” he ask instead, his voice a horrid squeak, an octave or so higher than when he last spoke.

“Look in my eyes, emshen. I want to make sure you’re not lying when you answer the question I’m about to ask you.” His tone doesn’t demonstrate anger, but he may as well have asked Daniil to change the position of the sun and the moon... Alright, while perhaps not so literally impossible, Dankovsky struggles to maintain eye contact even with people he is not so wildly attracted to that a little more than a week’s worth of interaction incurs a massive internal paradigm shift in him. So this task is not so much less Herculean in nature. Burakh, too, seems to recognize he’s perhaps asked a little too much, as Daniil’s focus falters to those lovely cheekbones and lips, where his eyes follow Burakh mumbling, “Alright, that’s good enough.” He feels rather proud of himself for managing to re-establish the contact in time for Burakh to ask him, “What are you doing with a book on local herbs?” Which is when Daniil feels his stomach plummet and panic set in.

Alright. He needn’t come up with anything elaborate for an answer. “Research,” he says simply, hoping he’s not smiling too anxiously.

It’s hard to tell from the way Burakh is looking at him. He guesses his answer can’t have been too believable, because Burakh presses Daniil. “Research into what?”

“Local herbs, obviously!” Daniil smiles, but he can’t feel his face.

He’s still holding out skepticism about some of the truly bizarre things that people here believe, but a few more shoves in the right direction and he might even start to believe in some form of precognition; there’s nothing specific he can pinpoint in Burakh’s manner or expression to warn him that this answer will not be well-received, and yet he feels it somewhere in his stomach. His chest flips before the scowl sharpens and Burakh speaks. “You don’t trust me,” he accuses.

Daniil is back to rapid blinking - though thankfully this time it’s in confusion, as opposed to flustered cornering. He focuses more clearly on Burakh’s eyes, on his pupils, trying to determine what could have inspired this sudden agitation - though of course, Daniil is far from being am ind-reader. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” he says. It’s another chip, another scrape he doesn’t inspect.

“Then why do you keep asking other people about me?”

This, this is probably the suspicious look that Burakh is searching him for. He can imagine his face must have gone pale now, because the heat from earlier is gone. But it’s from a different reason to whatever Burakh is surely thinking, though Daniil is a terrible liar and all he can say is, “Excuse me?”

And not even, Excuse me? like ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ But Excuse me? like ‘I didn’t hear you.’

“Capella says you talk a lot about me. Her brother says you’ve been asking about me, and the culture. And he’s not the only one -” But whatever Burakh says next is cut off in Daniil’s mind by panic. He has not, apparently, been as subtle as he’d thought or else pleasantries as exchanged in the Capital were as lost on everyone else as they were on Burakh. Which would have been excuse enough have  Daniil not waited so long to execute it. Stupid, stupid move, Dankovsky, because now it’ll just look flimsy if you try to say your preoccupation with your colleague was intended to be polite.

Burakh’s stopped speaking now, and Daniil doesn’t know for how many minutes he’s been done. It’s enough that he looks perplexed, and suspicious. Daniil scrambles, mentally, to find a response that’s one-size-fits-all, and lands with blurting out, “I’m just interested.”

“And why couldn’t you just ask me?”

“Because you’re busy,” Daniil says, working a calm facade back in place. “As we all are. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

The look on Burakh’s face is disbelief, but until he says something of note, Daniil can’t possibly judge how much damage has been done. “Because I’m busy.”

“Yes.”

“We’re all busy.”

“Aren’t we?”

He looks genuinely upset now, though. Daniil can’t fathom what in his words could have possibly inspired that look. “Right. You’re so busy asking Yulia for books on panacea and Vlad for resources on local lore you can’t ask me,  your actual colleague about these things. Right.” Oh. Oh dear god no. “I thought perhaps we were friends, oynon, but looking for this without telling me? Asking my friends about me behind my back -”

“I just wanted to know if I could help you,” Daniil says. Which is much more honest than he intended to be, but now that this entire attempt to - what, impress him? Is going up in smoke, Daniil’s starting to realize how very bad at subterfuge he is, and that he never exactly thought this plan through. If he had, he might have come to the conclusion that his shift in priorities and ideology was never going to come without some humility and a significant amount of self-humbling. But now he’s stuck in t his fiasco where Burakh thinks - 

Well, he doesn’t actually know what Burakh thinks outside of there being some sort of betrayal of trust. And he does seem upset about it, so maybe there’s still a way for Daniil to get himself out of this mess. “You suck at lying,” Burakh tells him. “So you may as well tell me the truth. What did you do all that for?”

Right. Right! He can do this. “I changed my mind,” Daniil says evenly. 

“But why would you?”

“You’ve proved your panacea idea has ground to walk on.” Yes. This is going smoothly.

“And what changed your mind on that?”

“I fell in love with you.” 

He hears the words fall out of his mouth and listens to his brain scream afterward. It’s not what he wanted to say, not what he was telling himself to say and he’s not even sure how the words managed to come out against his permission or his knowledge like that. He could have, and should have, just said he’d heard it from Aglaya, or one of the children. There’s complete silence for a moment or two, an entire minute or so, until Artemy starts to ask, “What did you just say?” at the same time Daniil laughs a little too loudly, half shouting the words “Would you look at that, my shift is over!” tripping over himself to run out of the theatre.

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Inn Conversation (Part 2)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. The following evening, Pallas and Telurin chat over their meal at the town’s inn. Telurin warns Pallas that he should continue his studies in Light and mental magic for self-defense.

Pallas doesn't know Telurin's thoughts, but he sees that the Death Knight is studying him. His cheeks tint cyan blue when he feels the other man's eyes. Why was it like this? Was there something hideously /wrong/ with him, that he should find an undead man attractive? Was he an intrinsically sick person? Like a tiger, Telurin was to Pallas's senses: Too beautiful and too terrible.

He accepts the glass of water, and drinks. "I needed a change of scenery. And I needed to move on. After Boros died, I was inconsolable. It took me years to recover to the point you see me now." He chanced another look at Telurin, "Besides. I am an Anchorite. It is my sworn duty to heal others, whether that may be healing of the physical body, or disease, or the mental mind. I like to take care of people, and see them well."

Like a hawk,Telurin plucked the unvoiced conclusion to Pallas’s statement. Of course one trained in the mental arts would feel his guilt at what had been done to him, and what he'd subsequently done himself. His tail lashes as he bites back his words to something more humane. "A fine goal," he draws the words out, some amount of warning still present in his voice, "But there are still those that require the care of an Anchorite on Azeroth. A desire to help does not mean you must be where it is most dangerous."

Although he was now drunk, Pallas was still cohesive enough to detect Telurin's displeasure. He frowns up at the gigantic Death Knight, "The need is greatest here. I am not made of glass, Telurin. And I am not weak." Incredibly, he reached across the table, to grab one of Telurin's chinticles, glaring. This was the sort of thing he wouldn't dream of doing if he had been sober. "If you test me, you'll find out how strong I am."

Telurin starts at the contact, he had definitely not expected anything so brazen, and consequently pulled back against Pallas’s grip. He closes his eyes so the Anchorite won't see the effect it has on him and chuckles, low in his chest. "Oh, you are brazen, little one," His voice curls around the words. "Do not tempt me, Pallas, I would enjoy taking you up on that offer."

Pallas ends up getting dragged forward some when Telurin pulls away, but for whatever reason, he refuses to let go of the man's chinticle. He's still gripping it tightly in an angry little fist. Insinuating that Pallas was weak was one of his hot-buttons. He did not like to be called weak. He was also distantly aware he had just done something unfathomably dangerous, and maybe he should... run away? Run out of the building? But his stubbornness kept him right where he was. "Then let's go."

Pallas frowned and tried to look angry, although his features caused it to look more like a really angry pout. "Whatever you want to throw at me, I can take it. I'm not afraid!" He was so drunk. What was he even doing? But Telurin was wrong, in Pallas's mind. He wasn't weak.

Telurin chuckles again, and opens his eyes to look into the priest’s. He wraps a hand around Pallas's wrist and digs the tips of his gloves into the tendons, forcing the Anchorite to release his grip. "You are drunk, Anchorite." His tone is dismissive, and he's not made a single other motion towards the other man besides this one. "It would hardly be a fair fight. Come back to me when you're sober, and we'll see."

Pallas jerks his hand back at the grip of Telurin's gloves. He sits in his chair, breathing deeply and fuming for a moment. He is being dismissed. If he were in a more logical mindset, he would understand why, but at the moment, the emotional affect of the rejection is what he notices. His hands ball up into fists, and he looks down at the tabletop as tears form at the corners of his eyes. "You think I'm weak." He sounded irrationally angry about this.

Telurin frowns at Pallas's distress. The anger he could deal with, enjoyed even, but tears of frustration are another matter entirely. "I think you are drunk, and not thinking about your actions. Do you really want a fight, Pallas?"  Telurin's words are soft and he leans forward to rest his forearms against the table. "I will tell you this, I would not call you by your title if I did not think you worthy of it."

"If it would make you not see me as weak..." Pallas murmured, some of the fire dying down now that the heat of the moment was over, "Then I do." He became quieter when Telurin speaks about his title. Was he being complimented? "An Anchorite must be strong, for the kind of work we do... I've seen terrible things..." The priest squinched his eyes shut, then opened them again. "...Maybe you're right... Maybe I am drunk. I feel tired."

Telurin reaches for the Anchorite's wrist, the same that he had pried off of his tentacles earlier, his thumb now brushing over the same pressure points he had used to his advantage. "You do not." Telurin insists, more gentle than he's been with Pallas all evening. "Because it would end badly for you. I have *done* terrible things, Anchorite. Do not push me into another when you are not thinking clearly." He lets Pallas go and leans back against his chair.

Pallas is surprised - This is the first time (at least that he can remember) that Telurin has initiated a physical touch with him like this. As such, he blushes yet again, a faint turquoise spreading across his face and the tips of his ears while the Death Knight holds his wrist. But he's still being dismissed, and Pallas frowns again. "Does it have to be combat? Is there no other measure of strength that you would use? It is true, we are ill-matched." Pallas squinted up at Telurin's face. "...If I had to defend myself from one such as you... then there would be no fight to begin with."

Telurin seems to consider this, the tip of his tail twitching in idleness. "Then why did you seek one out? In what field would you consider the odds to be in your favor?"

Pallas scowled. "I just don't want to be considered weak... Just because I am not a hand to hand combatant, does not mean I am weak." He reaches for his rum glass again. Uh oh. "And I'm not afraid of you. I wouldn't be here, if I was." He blinks at Telurin's question, trying to comprehend it in his drunkenness. "The mental arts," he replies, a bit sluggishly. "I try to be respectful about people's minds. But I will defend myself if pressed."

Telurin plucks the glass out his Pallas's fingers, setting it back down on the table. The Anchorite is closer to right than he knows, though he has not had his mental defenses tested since he became a death knight. "Did I not press you to try and do so the first time we met? To pull the truth from my mind?" Telurin picks up his own glass, swirling the rum. "I am accustomed to Anchorites, Pallas. Do you not think I would have picked up some defense against their mental abilities by now?"

Pallas scowls, "To go flipping through the pages of another person's mind is not something to be taken lightly. It is a violation of privacy of the highest possible degree, when it is not consensual." Pallas blinked blearily, then... dropped his head against the tabletop. Drunk Anchorite. "...If I had felt threatened for my life, I might have tried something. It is otherwise like removing the clothing of another. There may be situations where it is appropriate, but it is usually best to ask."  Pallas smirked, "But maybe you would disagree with that too."

Telurin hmm's noncommittally. "One might take my provocation for consent." His delivery is smooth, noncommittal, and his posture at first glance is relaxed, as if they were discussing something innocuous rather than the severe breach of privacy that kind of mental contact would be.

Pallas turned his head where it lay on the tabletop, eyeing the Death Knight. He squinted his eyes. Depending on Telurin's defenses against such Shadow-based mental intrusions, he may or may not feel a cold brush against his mind. And he may or may not feel compelled to for some reason speak, 'I am a Death Knight asshole'.

Telurin is accustomed to such intrusions, though even still, he was caught off guard. The words blaze brightly in his mind and for a second, Pallas ensnares him, the habit of obedience working against Telurin in this case. He opens his mouth to speak before he catches himself. "I am..." He pauses, wresting control of himself back with sheer will. His grin is feral as he looks at Pallas and finishes the sentence to his liking. "...Not so easily ensnared, Anchorite."

Pallas actually laughs, picking his head back up off the table. He points at Telurin's brawny chest. "I had you! I felt it! You aren't as invincible as you seem!" Even if he wasn't completely successful, he's still pleased with himself. He could have been blocked out entirely, for all he had known. "You'd better watch yourself or I'll... make you sing nursery rhymes when you're not looking."

"You did," The death knight concedes, "For a moment." Telurin takes a sip from his glass, not looking terribly put out at the Anchorite's laughter. "Though I doubt you could maintain it for as long as it would take to complete a song."

"This is true." Pallas nodded. "That would take a lot of time... Your will is probably too strong, to allow me to do anything for that long." Pallas gestured, "If this were an actual combat situation, and you were someone who meant me harm, I would have only seconds in which to act. It's much more simple to try to make someone feel compelled to run away, than do something elaborate." Then his brows started to look worried again. "...I've heard Anchorites who practice Shadow go mad."

"Some." Telurin nods. "It takes a strong will to not be lured by it." Telurin pauses, remembering the first time he had encountered Pallas, and the glazed eyes of the orc who had suddenly dropped his weapon."I would guess you are safe from such a fate."

Pallas rubbed one of his thin arms. He feared the effects of using Shadow over time might be cumulative. Being that he was young and had not been dabbling in it for very many years yet, he thought might play a factor. It was not something he could control, however, and he knew of Anchorites who were masters of Shadow, and could still think and reason. And Pallas did have a stubborn will.

He was quiet for a moment. "... I have been thinking about your condition," he murmured. Now that they were conversing more freely, it felt somewhat safer to bring up. Telurin might not become grouchy and prickly as fast. "I was wondering if..." He gestured with his thin hands, "If there was some way to fool your body, into thinking you were doing something that you were actually not." He looked into the Death Knight's lichfire-blue eyes. "Do you see how I mean? If we created a mental manifestation... but you were not actually hurting anyone. Do you think something like that would be possible?"

Telurin's eyes narrow the longer Pallas speaks. "No," he says, tone absolute. "Even if it were to work, you would still be required to witness… No. There is too much risk, for far too little gain. My problems are my own, do not concern yourself with them."

Pallas goes light blue in the face again. He nods, his lips pursing when Telurin says the Anchorite should not concern himself with his problems. "I just want to help." But figuring out how he /could/ help was another matter. It was possible that there was nothing that could be done. If so simple a fix existed, Death Knights would have surely made greater strides at reintegrating themselves into society than they were capable of doing now.

Telurin resumes some of his previous relaxation as it becomes apparent Pallas will not press the issue. "A noble ideal, but even Anchorites cannot help everyone."

Pallas looks crestfallen. He rubs his eyes. "I should go to bed." His head still felt floaty and buzzy. Had he... Yes, he had /grabbed/ Telurin's chinticle. He hadn't imagined it, it had happened. He started to get up from his chair.

Telurin eyes Pallas, gauging whether the other man would be able to stand, let alone climb the stairs to his room. "Second on the left." He says, picking up his drink. "I will be along shortly. Drink some more water or you're going to be insufferable in the morning."

"You're already insufferable," Pallas snips, although he does pick up his glass of water to take with him. "Goodnight, Telurin..." He didn't really think Telurin was insufferable. He knew that if the other man chose to leave, he would be missed. But, he remained distant, and Pallas wasn't sure how to get closer. He wanted to see what was on the other side of the walls the Death Knight put up.

Telurin smirks at Pallas's snark, and he tips his drink to the Anchorite as he turns to leave. He watches him weave his way through the tables and the small crowd due to the hour until he had passed out of sight on the stairs, only then knocking back the rest of his drink with a sigh. He judged that by the time he was finished with the bottle of rum Pallas would already be out cold, and he could avoid the too innocent questions and the trusting eagerness for one more night, but it will only be a matter of time before Pallas learns to use it to his advantage against him.