#support: sephiran

[in--nagas--name]

🎲 :)

:^> two healers..... performing lifesaving miracles... five feet apart cause they're not gay (?) (au.... unless?)

(blood? non-graphic description of injury?)

The wounded man lies still, now, having crossed the perilous divide between unresponsive and sleeping it off. The bandages are fresh around his breast, and he has not, as yet, bled through them.

It was a collision in the street; two carriages careening behind spooked horses. Such a mundane thing, and still so horrible.

Still, fortuitous that Libra was nearby. Libra and... this stranger, with his staff and his tidy apothecary. This stranger, who spoke scarcely a word as he and Libra wove that broken body back together; who sits exhausted on the wood floor now.

Libra smiles softly at him. Wets a scrap of cloth, still somehow unbloodied. Washes the sweat and blood and road-dust from his weary brow.

With a fluttering, enervated hand, he soaks a second cloth, swipes it carefully across the stranger's blood-streaked hand.

"The depth of my gratitude is difficult to express," he murmurs, gently scrubbing dried blood from the point of the stranger's wrist. "Our patient still lives. Had I been alone... I am not confident I could have saved him."

And when the blood is washed away, Libra presses a tiny reverent kiss to the back of the stranger's hand.

[yukyunotabibito]

@thelightofcreation continued from here

“[And who’s fault is that?]” Sephiran doesn’t want to respond. He wants to ignore the white dragon. There was a lot of vitriol trapped in this closet- if he still had any trace of his heritage left, he likely would have fainted by now, from the hostility in such close proximity. And the best way, his thankfully still working mind provided, was to ignore all of this. It was difficult, with how the white dragon liked to talk. He snaps back, slightly irritated, “The feeling is mutual. Now, shall we find a way out, or simply exchange insults until someone opens the door?”

"How would it ever be my fault? You're the one who did this to yourself," Nasir hisses out, the words starting to come easier to their tongue. If the Goddess' light no longer shone down on Sephiran, then it would be his own fault, certainly not theirs.

They shake their head. It's futile to argue about faith with Sephiran of all people. They need to focus on getting out of here before they kill him in a blind rage, focus on getting away from him.

The walls around them seem to be shrinking by the minute, and Nasir can only guess that they don't have much time before the space between them and Sephiran will be completely absent. They would quite like to get out of here before then, "I don't care to spend a moment longer in here, especially wiht you. Let us find a way out at once."

[swordsmanoftranquility]

a kiss after one muse has injured the other  //au. where seph wins, i think

Sephiran stands over the swordsman, the same false smile on his lips as he watches the light magic he wields do the damage it had long had no reason to deal.

Then, to add insult to injury, he kneels to make their eyes level and plants a kiss on the other man's forehead.

"Just a little longer, and your fate- as well as all of mankinds, is decided. Have you anything to say?"

Kiss Meme // Accepting! (1/?)

AU: Alternate Ending, Tellius Spoilers

Zihark is only beorc, he cannot do anything to defy the power of Begnion's Prime Minister, especially not whatever power he was wielding right now.

Zihark takes a knee, sword slammed into the ground in front of him - moments away from breaking, but that didn't matter anymore. There was no longer a reason for his sword to stay intact. Because there was no longer a reason to fight.

The world was going to end, and if Ike couldn't do anything to stop it; how in the world could Zihark of all people?

As if he's taunting him, Sephiran lowers himself, their eyes meeting for but a split second, and presses a kiss to Zihark's forehead. Zihark can only grit his teeth, a hiss of pain escaping from between them.

The end... it was coming soon wasn't it? At the very least... can Zihark hope that the next world will be a better one?

"Fuck you," He manages to spit, a cough of blood escaping through his lips at the same time. He's going to die soon.

Ah yeah... he was going to...

...die...

........soon...

[swiftlance]

a kiss on the back of their hand, formal yet intimate

She's half tempted ta rub her eyes 'n make sure she ain't dreamin', but her baby sister'll throw a fit if any of her carefully applied lines of kohl get smudged. Instead, Nephenee crosses her arms, left thumb and forefinger pinchin' the sensitive skin near her right elbow. The sharp, bright pain is enough to ground her, remind her that this scene straight from a fairy story is, in fact, real life.

No way is she divin' headfirst inta that crowd. Women in dresses of every color 'n shape under the sun elegantly sweep along the tiled floor, while gentlemen in equally colorful suits accompany them. Some have bright sashes 'cross their chests--somethin' ta do with government, Nephenee thinks.

If'n she don't occupy herself soon, the anxiety'll drive her mad. Queen Elincia herself invited Nephenee, so she's got every reason ta be here, but it's hard rememberin' that when the Queen's off attendin' royal duties and Nephenee herself is left all by her lonesome.

'Bout fifteen feet away, she spots a refreshment table, chock-full of all manner of tasty treats. Keepin' close ta the wall, she makes her way there, mutterin' her 'pologies when she gets to close to someone else. Her stomach gives a nervous twinge; just lookin' at the food ruins her appetite. But it's a way to pass time--

A man with long, raven-black hair appears before her. A deep purple sash cuts across the white of his jacket. He says somethin'--horsefeathers, she wasn't payin' attention--and offers his hand.

"Uh....N-Nephenee. Pleasure ta meet ya," she says softly, cause that's what yer supposed ta say, right? Gingerly, she places her hand in his, thinkin' he'll give her a handshake.

But of course nothin' goes as normal here! Bold as a fox in a henhouse, the man presses his lips to the back of her hand, starin' at her all the while. Blood roars in her ears, tinges her cheeks bright red. She glances away, gently but firmly removin' her hand from his grasp. "Ah...fergive me, sir, wasn't expectin' that...."

[knightofgalatea]

It was an effort not to leap from the seat she lounged in, to shout “Ah ha!” like she had solved some great mystery, or yanked a mask from a costumed villain.

Instead, Ingrid bit down on her tongue, hard. The taste of copper filled her mouth, sharp enough to keep her focused, to not act prematurely.

The true Astallac likely would have responded with a comment about how he knew no one better than he knew her. That he was a book for her secrets to be written. That he knew her far better than he knew even himself.

It was all rather melodramatic, but villains were always meant to be melodramatic. They were bold, and loud, and dramatic. They made grandiose statements and used their cunning to run circles around others until the heroes finally saw through to the shadowed heart of their manipulations.

What Astallac would not have said was ‘I don’t believe anyone could truly understand another to the extent you say.’

Astallac was the closest thing Laurellane had to a friend. To a best friend. As a child she had often been isolated, alone, thanks to her illness and frail body. Even when attention had been heaped upon her, eventually her family would leave, shutting the door and leaving her alone for long, wretched hours.

And then when the heroine had been brought into the family, things had only gotten worse. Laurellane had acted out, growing more and more dramatic, more and more villainous as she scraped at any opportunity to regain the attention and love she had wanted. But the only person anyone ever had any eyes for was the heroine, and anything Laurellane did seemed only to push everyone further away.

Only Atallac, her right hand man, had stayed. Loyal until the very last breath.

Ingrid fixed her gaze on the man before her again, almost certain now. He had hedged his response, keeping it vague, a mostly true statement. Had anyone else given such a response she would not have blinked. But this character would not say such a thing, not to Laurellane.

She studied him for a moment, his posture, his expression, the cautious way he spoke, the tense way he held himself before her, like a child tucked into a corner and trying to be still while playing hide-and-seek.

There was a chance that she was wrong, her test nowhere near perfect. But she didn’t think she was wrong, not about this.

Slowly, she stood. Crossed the room, her feet sinking into the plush carpet, heading to the desk where she knew Laurellane kept a jewelled dagger. It was more of an accessory than anything, but she knew it was sharp. There was a passage in the first book that made mention of it, the blade always kept finely honed and cleaned. Laurellane had never learned to fight, so she had needed to protect herself in some manner.

Ingrid was certain she was right, but she still wished to be near enough to grab a weapon. In the case that things went horribly, horribly wrong.

Only when she had both palms planted on the desk, staring down whoever was trapped in Astallac’s body, did she push forward. Whatever happened next was in her own hands, and would not be dictated by the story she had loved.

“You’re not Astallac,” she said. She leaned forward, doing her best to sound direct. Laurellane’s voice was a soft, low voice, and her words sounded strange in Laurellane’s mouth. But she had to press on.“I think you’re someone else,” she continued. “I think you’re just like me, and that you don’t belong in this world any more than I do.”

He keeps his expression concerned, his posture at the ready- obedient, servile. He watches her mull over his response, evidentially not one she expected- though perhaps she had expected none at all, and instead decides upon his fate at the whims of her current mood. It would not be the first time he had met a noble like this, nor, he would guess, would it be his last. But with no understanding of why she would speak so much of her life- her sister, and her past, he could only fumble in the dark for a suitable response.

She fidgets, growing ever the more nervous, and with her tensions rise his; if she did not trust him, then his position in this household (and perhaps even his life) were in jeopardy. It was clear enough that he had no allies in here except her- and with no information, a different body no less, Sephiran was unsure if he could think a way out of such drastic odds.

If he must, he must- but it would be extraordinarily difficult. 

He comes to such a decision, as does she, and there is only a pause as they regard each other, master and servant, a farce of a relationship. His behavior, one that should have been expected, was greeted with suspicion- either he was no servant at all, or that she sought for something else. He pitied her, for having such a strange servant that simple obedience set her on edge.

If this were her most trusted servant, than what were others to her?

When she speaks again, it sounds as though it were a final test. He had not earned her trust with servility, and she offered an ultimatum in return. What to do…

From her statement, who he had replaced was indeed important to her, so important that he would be her confidante over any others. All she had to do was ask a question about herself, and he, failing to answer, would be outed as a fake. But… she had not.

Why? Was it that this original would be so mischievous that he would fake another personality for a day? That would be odd, but more importantly it would betray a trust that would be required for a noble’s confidante. Was she bluffing- and he a normal servant, albeit strange, and this was a test? Again, unlikely, otherwise he would not be so specifically called and reminded. She called upon him often, common knowledge amongst the servants; her first statement would not otherwise be asking upon his absence.

Was she like him? Another soul in the wrong body? 

“I don’t believe anyone could truly understand another to the extent you say, Milady.” He begins, cautiously. “Much less someone of my standing to that of yours.”

[yukyunotabibito]

♡

What if Your Muse and Mine Had a Child | Accepting | 1/?

Wouldn't a dragon heron thing be fucked up? Yeah. That would be fucked up; wouldn't it?

What is he? Nasir vc: I don't know. He's fucked up that's what.

Despite it all, despite whatever problems his parents have when you put them in the same room, he turned out... okay? Yeah, debatable if he's really okay, but he's trying to be at least. Combine dragon and heron vibe checking abilities though and he dies whenever he steps foot outside.

Inheirted Sephiran/Lehran's black wings, which I'm sure he would feel very normal about it.

A gentle soul who just wants to be left alone to his books and his little hobbit house. Yeah, he's a hermit; what about it? Going outside is painful, best to stay inside where everything is safe and fine except when his parents are arguging and it feels like his head is going to explode.

He is begging them to get a divorce. Why won't they just get a divorce already? It would make everyone happier right? Ugh, dads get out of his house and solve your issues somewhere else this sucks.

[gloamvonhrym]

every human ruler in tellius needs an emotional support bird. elincia gets to cry on leanne. micaiah gets to hug rafiel. sanaki gets to…… dunk on naesala

[grxstnnefealltoir]

He isn’t quite sure if the boy will come to his shop today. The importance of the date is heard through the grapevine- the who’s and when’s less important than the fact that he had been informed, and in turn had prepared a small gift.

It is wrapped, placed in a small box and left on the counter with an envelope labelled neatly with his name. Something that he can see the moment he enters the building, whether the owner of the establishment was around or not.

Inside- a few salves made with those practicing swordplay in mind, to soothe and mend. Made only the day prior, with a small list of instructions within.

And as for the letter itself, it is written warmly, wishing blessings for the coming year.

is possession a good birthday gift? || darios bday'25

The day was like every other when it should've been like no other. The habit of being awoken and told concisely what would be happening when was a ritual delegated only to this day. His and yet not. What was his was likewise that of his people. His life and his time most of all.

So it is odd trying to stick to his schedule, to say the least. In that task, he had utterly failed, but perhaps that was for the best. Where the mornings tended to be his favored hours for helping out, he still makes his way to Sephiran's apothecary as the night comes to a close. How funny to see it by the glow of moonlight alone once more.

Illuminated on the counter is what he can only assume is a gift. He had hoped to see the man himself, but that would always be nothing more than wishful thinking.

"Ah-" The noise is gentle as he peers inside and sees the salves, the instructions alongside sending a warmth to his ears. Always one to look out, wasn't he?

Further and further such warm swept across his features until hands bid his eyes to look away. Nostalgic was hardly the word, deja vu? Whatever the feeling was, he recalls so long ago reading something in a similar vein.

A gentle sigh was seen in the winter's night air as he walked out to make the trek back to the monastery. He would have to thank him the next morning with an especially nice tea...

[egittae]

[ RECOVER ]

It takes a while, but eventually Sephiran is both able to drag the boat full onto land, and then the body onto a temporary cot (a towel laid upon the beach). In his defense, he had not expected something so drastic to happen, nor to have happened in the way it had.

It was good enough.

And then another period of time passes- one in which he is not particularly fussed about the details- before the man stirs. As his eyes open, Sephiran moves to kneel beside him.

“Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?" A pause, letting him adjust to his new location, prepared to dodge backwards should it have been the result of a fight. "Matthias brought you in and was rather vague about the circumstances. I have medicinal herbs and staves, should you still need anything.”

“...What the hell?”

Before he could ask any other questions, a coughing fit stole the show as his lungs tried to push out any and whatever water left. The taste in his mouth was frankly disgustingly salty, making his nose burn- as well as his eyes. His entire outfit was drenched, hanging heavily from his body even as he laid on a makeshift cot that was quickly identified to be a towel.

As the coughing slowly stopped and Lambert took a time to regain his breath, blowing his nose to also try to get rid of water, he looked up at Sephiran. Right, he had been at the sea with Matthias and that clown decided to drown him.

Letting out a shallow sigh, Lambert hoisted himself up by the elbows. “So he had the decency to at least fetch someone to fix the problem he created...good to know.” Tasting is strength, the professor then tried to slowly sit up. He definitely felt physically tired- swimming was far from a light activity, but his companion’s healing most likely aided his muscles’ recovery. “My apologies that you had to clean up after Matthias’ mess. I shall figure out a way to repay you for this afterwards.”

“I feel good enough, if anything my only issue now is figuring out a way to explain my condition to others. I suppose I can claim I got drunk and fell into the ocean, or something like it.” He couldn’t exactly just say ‘Matthias drowned me at the sea’ if asked. “It always comes at the price of my image, does it not…anyway, that is my problem to deal with.”

He’d ignore the gravity of the situation entirely. Of a friend seemingly turning on him again, subduing him in a way he was unable to retaliate properly, putting him in a situation that could’ve gotten him killed if Matthias truly wished to do so. It would be a lie to say what happened didn’t weigh down on his chest and mind. However, allowing this to dominate him would make him weak.

Just get over it. You’re still alive aren’t you? Get over it.

Lambert eventually got up, trying to twist some of the water off his outfit before nodding in gratitude. “Thank you for your service Sephiran. I hope you have been enjoying the ball outside of this incident.”

[machiot]

[ RESCUE ]

And then second. Rescue staff still in hand, Sephiran repeats the incantation, warping the other safely to shore. She was entirely unfamiliar to him, looking to be on the younger side for beorc. Or so he assumed- he had never been quite the best at guessing. 

Though, his voice inadvertently softens as he asks, “Are you alright?”

It could have been dangerous, if either of the two had decided to attempt to swim back to shore. He supposes he should keep an eye on the waters as well.

Not knowing what else to do, he takes out a small wrapped treat and places it in her hand. In case she had been frightened. “Here, have a candy- be careful, now.”

In the blink of an eye, Yunaka is gone, leaving Marni stranded by herself on the boat. Still oar-less, mind you.

Blink. Blink.

"YOU ACTUALLY LEFT ME, YOU—"

Marni's ear piercing wail is cut off by the familiar sense of vertigo of her body no longer being in the same place it was only moments before. Her feet do not meet the wood of the row boat, but the still damp sand of the shore. When she looks up at the man standing there, it's not even someone she knows.

He even gives her a candy? ...For some reason? Vertigo relief, maybe?

"What? Yeah, I've been warped tons of times. I'm used to it by now!" It was a big part of their strategy, even, with how slow her armor made her. You get warped enough times and it stops feeling like such a big deal. "Wait, no! That's not the point here! I've gotta go kill that jerk for leaving me out there and bailing on me! Here, take this!"

A pearl charm is hastily thrust into the stranger's hand as if in trade for the candy and Marni takes off running, kicking up sand as she goes.

[cielenruine]

[ HEAL ]: sender ends up in the receiver's lap trying to tend to their wounds to the best of their abilities.

“Hold still…” Sephiran leans forward, only half minding the distance, mostly focusing on the wound he was dressing. A few opened salves lay to the side upon his worktable, as he inspects his work carefully. “If it were not already partly healed in this way, I would have taken out my staff instead. Come to me if you have any wounds like this again-”

A beat, as he realizes how close he had come, withdrawing quickly, dusting his hands to avoid any semblance of embarrassment, save for a dusting of pink across his face. “...My apologies.”

Letting oneself be tended to was...truthfully he would never get used to it no matter how many healers or doctors he had gone through in his time as a soldier. "Are you sure that's an offer you want to make to me, dear friend? You've seen my arm...you'd see me perhaps every week at that rate." It was a nice offer, one he certainly didn't mind considering the care that seeped into the wound and the warmth that radiated in the aftermath. He was not going to be the one to mention it. Healing required it even, being so close to someone, attempting to understand them even in a way. There is a gentle smile and he leans back to make a bit more distance. "No- it's quite alright. Thank you, Sephiran." Gentle fingers grazed over the healed skin. "I'll do my best to make sure I come here for leisure more than for things such as this."

[goldoanheart]

Kurthnaga notes Lord Sephiran's reaction to the song that he had been humming, wondering if the older man too remember.

Oh who was he kidding? Of course Lord Sephiran remembered. Kurthnaga remembered and he had only been a mere infant! And Lord Sephiran had... in the Tower looking back... spoken so fondly of that babe that he had once taken care of, Kurthnaga's heart still gouged open from his father's death not even hours prior.

But with the look on the man's face, and the pain of times gone by that surely overwhelmed him, Kurthnaga will leave it be for now. There were more important matters to tend to anyway. He could bother his father's dearest friend about those emotions some other time. Another time when they were both better equipped in the moment to deal with them.

"It's fine, so long as I don't have to see it, I'm sure I can remain standing," The young king laughs nervously, waving off Lord Sephiran's worry like it was no big deal at all, despite the reaction he had every time with even the sight of a single drop of blood. He trots obediently after the heron, following as the older man travels down the hall, "If I were the Duke, I wouldn't tell us much either. Especially after he realizes that we snooped around in his quarters without permission. For his sake though, I hope he tells us something. I would hate to see him continue down this path and fall to depths he cannot recover from. He does not seem like a terrible person, even if he is doing it to himself, he may not deserve it."

Two Opposing Souls of Light and Darkness

Recovery

[yukyunotabibito]

a defiant kiss //AU, but the AU is your choice hehe

Kiss Meme | Accepting (1/?)

AU: I've Created Something Terrible, Tellius Spoilers

"Lehran," They breath out his true name like its a curse, as if uttering it could cast a shroud of death upon those whos ears it reached. Though, in this case, the only one who hears is the man himself. Nasir lingers close to his side, as they once had lingered close to Dheginsea's. They're always a step or two behind, kept on a metaphorical short leash. If Lehran was smart, he would done something far more literal. But no, he didn't have the guts for that; did he?

"Lehran..." They whisper again, closer this time, with the hint of a clearly falsified whine, "Lehran, you never pay any attention to me. Have you decided to scourn me now? After all the lengths you've gone through to keep me imprisoned in one way or another, you won't even spare a glance for me?"

It's all an act, probably for both of them. It sure is for Nasir. They don't doubt that it would be for Lehran as well. How could it be anything but an act? They scoff at the idea that any of this could be geniune.

Longingly, they turn their gaze from Lehran for but a brief moment, staring out the window at the free and blue sky. It's a nice day, a breeze is surely blowing. Nasir wouldn't know. They long for the freedom they once had, to set upon the seas again. Perhaps Lehran would take them, if they were to put their all into begging for it. They scoff at the idea of finding any outing with the man enjoyable though, no matter where they managed to convince him to take him.

Nasir puts up the walls again, slipping back into the farce just as easily as they managed to slip out of it for a mere second. Piercing blue eyes drift downwards, meeting Lehran's own green. They've grown to hate that color, grown to hate the way it looks at them.

"Lehran..." They mutter one last time, breathed softly against the heron's mouth. It is the last act of defiance they have, pressing their lips against his like it is a declaration of war.

What kind of fool tried to put a dragon in a cage anyway?

[fletching-scar]

🎄 He seems familiar. A tilt of the head as he tries to identify the man, before ultimately deciding that there are too many to choose from. Not that it was particularly important- he simply needed to get around the other. “Excuse me…”

They were gonna let Shinon into this fucking bourgeois party, so he came for the wine. They should be pouring the good stuff, right? Shinon wants to know what wine is actually supposed to taste like.

But it's absolute swill. Sharp and bloody, and so strong it feels like he's choking.

And it... it gets to his head. Way faster than the cheap shit does.

Shinon's leaning in some doorway trying to remember what year it is when some blue-blood begs his pardon.

Shinon blinks hard, scrunching up his face. He tries to remember what words feel like, and once he thinks he's got some, he looks up.

And the words are gone again. This guy... this guy's got a face like a blooming snowdrop, shaped even finer than Shinon can carve wood. And fuck, he is a blue-blood--he's so pale, skin so milky Shinon's eyes can trace the little blue veins underneath.

For a moment, Shinon thinks he might throw up--but then he looks at the great expanse of white this man is wearing, trimmed with cloth-of-gold.

He may be crooked, but he's not a class traitor. He clears his tangled throat. "S-shove off," he mutters.

[fluxrspar]

[ 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ] : sender is expressing anger over receiver's constant recklessness.

for you i would (still accepting)

It is only natural for her to act like this—to put her all into battle; to focus solely on the mission; to expend herself in order to secure victory.

There had been a close call this time. (In actuality, there had been many close calls, piling up with every outing, every skirmish, every full-blown fight.) Selena had drawn too close to an enemy soldier, and now she had dressed wounds for it. It didn’t affect her breathing; neither did it hinder her pulse.

All the same, Sephiran finds fault. (This time, it was minor, but what of next time? What if there is no ‘next time’ after that?) Selena listens, and she ponders, but it is hard for her to change heart.

To hesitate is to condemn to death.

“Of course,” she lies. “I’ll be more careful next time. Don’t worry about me.”

[fletching-scar]

starter for @thelightofcreation Shinon stumbles around Garreg Mach like a starving ghost. He skulks through the Knights' mandatory drilling, he debrides his wounds with whiskey in the night. It goes on for days.

Sometimes, he swears he can still feel the warmth of Greil's body on his brow, on the heels of his hands. He doesn't know whether to cling to it or--or what. Expel it from himself. Exorcise this ancient, festering ache.

We all learned to get on without you. The words are seared into him like a thief's brand: livid, ugly, blistering.

He wishes, desperately hungover, that he could just put it all back in the bottle. Seal the lid with wax, and dash the damn thing off the mountainside.

He knows, as his exhausted hand drags down his pale and sweat-slick face, that this is impossible.

There's no place worth running to. Not anymore.

The way out is through.

Shinon sits on this, a while. A few more desperate days of nothing doing.

He thinks the last person he ever apologized to was his sister, half a damn lifetime ago.

He knows it might probably be worth it. Like it was then.

But he'll be damned if he says it to Greil's fucking face.

And that's what leads Shinon here, to the slightly finer corner of the town. What keeps this bit of parchment in his fist, puts his head on a swivel, looking frantically for someone he might ask for a few splotches of ink.

take a letter