[the building is solid, if left to become one with the earth. the sign says not to enter, and he flagrantly disregards it. it's a simple matter to find what door has a weak enough lock to push past, and to hold his breath against the dust that will settle on his black clothes, streaking it with gray. quiet, out of the noise of the holiday celebrations and the city life - his information needed to be planted and grown, but he also wants to be alone for a while.
his self control feels absent, and it's restored in these times to himself, where he can turn over everything in his head with a cigarette lit and slowly savored. walking through the seating, until he reaches the stage and the orchestra pit, where he stops. the light is dim, with only the glow of his cigarette to really light the way, but he sees as if it was day.
Avenger, for a moment, is at peace for the first time since arriving in this strange city.]
[It's as if the city has let go of its breath, catharsis rushing out in the form of revelry and song. Andersen has yet to situate himself in this strange, new world, though from what he gathers a great crisis has recently been overcome. And so Aefenglom wears her brightest and best colors, festive in her relief.
But such celebrations weren't for everyone.
He spots him breaking in during one of his walks - skin pale as a corpse, clothes dark as death - and takes the chance to go after him. Andersen doesn't expect to go unnoticed. Avenger has keener senses than a piddly, third-rate Caster, no doubt. But he wants to see what's attracted such a powerful Servant to this particular location.]
... this place is a crying shame.
[Andersen stands at the entrance, a pack of beers in hand.]
You know, it's better to let the dead rest, Avenger.
Hm. I've never liked dealing with fortune tellers in my younger days, though I admit it's a handy skill to have. Is that all you can do, then? Divination?
[He's curious, primarily because he assumed all forms of magic that weren't of this world were out-of-sync or completely erased. Perhaps Childermass is just a common soothsayer that you'd see on the streets, but Andersen wouldn't write off magic too quickly.]
[This is a branch in the path he could take. Alien as this world is, it's a chance at a new life. Not as a Servant, but as a human. He recognizes the cards laid before him. Cu Alter had, and declared himself someone new.
But--]
But eternal vacations are the downfall of authors. Without a protagonist to lust after, nothing will be written. And third-rates like me can't afford to cast away their bond with their Master. Awful as the working conditions are, I prefer being a Servant to being the ghost of a mediocre man.
While I'm sure you're already getting so many letters like this one, please forgive me adding my voice to the multitude. Ever since we came through the mirrors I haven't picked up stories the way I used to, though I really, really wish I'd taken the time and seen your work sooner.
My nights and days have more color to them! The most tedious job is bearable when my mind wanders and finds your maiden with her dragon. Sometimes I tear up and can't explain why when someone fusses, but it's worth it. I read love stories, but your love story read me; it made me feel seen, related to. Of course you weren't writing for me more than any other reader, but that's how it felt.
Thank you, a fan
a letter sent to the original mailer's address. . .
While I can hardly commend your taste in romance, I must confess your ability to pick out the best of the garbage should be complimented. It has been a long while since I've written something so indulgent and tasteless. I wrote it in a fever state and, to be quite frank, I'm surprised someone has found worth in it.
This is quite a backhanded way to thank you. The time you've dedicated to what I saw as drivel has made me reevaluate its value. Though, if you ask me, there ought to be more outlandish romances in this city's market. Stagnation is art's greatest poison. Perhaps, if the mood strikes me, I will write a sequel to The Maiden's Dragon.
[there is a draft in the theater. unusual, because with the rainy season, the doors need to be shut when the place is not being cleaned. but a draft all the same, and the creaking sound of a door left open in the wind.
(the bond faintly hums between them, thoughts of moonlight coloring it, and the rain drumming on the roof.)
it's dark, but the cause can be tracked down. a back door forced open, damaged lock and hinges, whatever was blocking it was thrown to the side, and a crumpled black cloak haphazardly in the mess. a silver disc in the doorway - the brooch that kept his cravat in place.
there is a shape out there in the rain, hunched over and getting soaked. a creature, not a man, white with black stripes.
(that strange agitated thread that was there last month, only this time strong and twisted, stress still so high. it's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong-)]
[In the back of his mind, Andersen ticks down the days until the full moon. If the change will be like anything the mist brought, both of them will need to ready themselves. Dantes is much too proud to admit weakness, which is why Andersen discreetly prepares himself. Good memories are difficult to dig up when so many are tainted by bitterness and he works on focusing upon the scraps of warmth they once carried.
When night falls, Andersen feels it. A twisting tension, like rope chafing apart, taut and a thread apart from snapping. He feels the draft long before he finds its source. And when his eyes fall upon the clothes scattered, he feels a surge of concern. It wasn't like Dantes to run away in such a fashion.
He throws the cloak over himself to keep off the rain and heads out into the chill. What is that out there?]
[... this is no good. Andersen shouldn't have asked about Elliot's life in the first place. Learning more about a character makes one soft towards them and optimism has always struck his weak point. Especially when the optimist in question is a musician. He makes a disgruntled noise, though he remains quiet until they reach the balcony, whereupon he turns on his heel to face his companion.]
Listen. [He says in his typical, deep, manly voice. No more "kidding" around.] You're too much of a shounen protagonist. If I shoved you down the stairs like I intended to, I'd feel bad about it.
[Andersen thankfully drops the act in a split second, now that he's had his fun. He holds out his hand to allow one of his paper people to roost on the very tip of his child-sized finger.]
I kept silent all my life. Is it any surprise I'm such a blowhard as a ghost? I didn't choose this form and I certainly won't allow it to silence me. I'll be as rude and lascivious and cruel as I please, and no one will be safe! Certainly not me!
[Now that they're out of the party, Andersen looks more embarrassed than anything else. He thrives off attention from a crowd - being held over a fountain as a threat isn't his idea of good attention, and he squirms a little more.]
I couldn't convince them to give me a drink, so I resorted to a bit of tomfoolery for material. What's wrong with that?
[it's cold in winter, and that means that now that he's found how much warmer and quicker he can move as a tiger, he does. it's an adaptation, he tells himself, slipping into the theater, padding in softly on cat feet. he doesn't like it, but it's a sight better than freezing and it helps him work with these changes instead of hating them to the core.
it does mean that somehow, a six foot long white tiger is in the building, eyes big in the low light after nosing the door shut. he intends on changing back, since the door to where they live can't be opened with a good push, but he also wants some of the snow to get off his fur first, or it will simply melt against his skin and freeze him all over again. not fun.]
[Snow makes him homesick. How funny, considering how he couldn't stand Copenhagen at times. Andersen remains where it's cozy and warm, though he eventually has to wander down in a thick blanket to find a book he's misplaced.
And that's when he sees the tiger. Andersen freezes mid-step like a rabbit spotted by a predator, his own eyes huge with shock. Very, very gingerly, he puts his foot down.
[While Ozymandias is often one to bestow gifts onto others related to their craft when they possess one, it doesn't seem particularly appropriate for Andersen. Setting aside the fact that writing itself requires more intangible than tangible supplies, that just simply isn't really in-line with Andersen's...temperament.]
[His gift from the mighty Pharaoh is a bottle of liquor. There is a degree to which it is tempting to bestow unto him one of middling quality rather than spending the extra on something of greater quality as he has for some of the royalty that has found itself in Aefenglom, but Ozymandias can't quite bring himself to do it. It would simply reflect too poorly on him and make him appear stingy.]
[So, Andersen is able to drink like a king for a bottle's worth at least, blue and gold ribbons tied neatly to the neck of the bottle.]
[A rather heavy package wrapped in blue canvas with daisy pattern can be found on Andersen’s doorstep. Inside he would find an assortment of wooden bricks painted in various colors. Just a typical child’s toy for the child-looking author...
That is, until he sees the note she attached. It reads as follows:
[when he wakes, Andersen will find that Dantes is up before him today. the coffee is ready, and he's in the middle of cooking something that smells distinctly of butter and vanilla, eyes focused on the stove.
at Andersen's place at the table are two smaller packages wrapped in white paper, tied with gold bows.
there is also now in the warm kitchen a potted iris plant with a tricolore ribbon on it, which Dantes calmly moves around like it's normal.]
[Today is when he has to send out what few presents he has by courier. Andersen hasn't been sleeping the past day or so but last night his body shut down on him. It's apparently easy to forget that he's a human in this world, without the inhuman stamina afforded to him as a Heroic Spirit.
Which is why, when he stumbles downstairs, he does so bleary-eyed, still fumbling with the final button of his vest.]
... what's that smell? [He stops dead in his tracks to sniff at the air.] Hey. Dantes, that isn't you, is it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sometime in the first few weeks, do i even know what a timeline is
his self control feels absent, and it's restored in these times to himself, where he can turn over everything in his head with a cigarette lit and slowly savored. walking through the seating, until he reaches the stage and the orchestra pit, where he stops. the light is dim, with only the glow of his cigarette to really light the way, but he sees as if it was day.
Avenger, for a moment, is at peace for the first time since arriving in this strange city.]
no subject
But such celebrations weren't for everyone.
He spots him breaking in during one of his walks - skin pale as a corpse, clothes dark as death - and takes the chance to go after him. Andersen doesn't expect to go unnoticed. Avenger has keener senses than a piddly, third-rate Caster, no doubt. But he wants to see what's attracted such a powerful Servant to this particular location.]
... this place is a crying shame.
[Andersen stands at the entrance, a pack of beers in hand.]
You know, it's better to let the dead rest, Avenger.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
intro log overflow
childermass.
[He's curious, primarily because he assumed all forms of magic that weren't of this world were out-of-sync or completely erased. Perhaps Childermass is just a common soothsayer that you'd see on the streets, but Andersen wouldn't write off magic too quickly.]
enkidu.
[This is a branch in the path he could take. Alien as this world is, it's a chance at a new life. Not as a Servant, but as a human. He recognizes the cards laid before him. Cu Alter had, and declared himself someone new.
But--]
But eternal vacations are the downfall of authors. Without a protagonist to lust after, nothing will be written. And third-rates like me can't afford to cast away their bond with their Master. Awful as the working conditions are, I prefer being a Servant to being the ghost of a mediocre man.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
should we end it here?
sounds good by me!
a letter addressed to the author responsible for publishing a dragon/maiden romance
My nights and days have more color to them! The most tedious job is bearable when my mind wanders and finds your maiden with her dragon. Sometimes I tear up and can't explain why when someone fusses, but it's worth it. I read love stories, but your love story read me; it made me feel seen, related to. Of course you weren't writing for me more than any other reader, but that's how it felt.
Thank you,
a fan
a letter sent to the original mailer's address. . .
While I can hardly commend your taste in romance, I must confess your ability to pick out the best of the garbage should be complimented. It has been a long while since I've written something so indulgent and tasteless. I wrote it in a fever state and, to be quite frank, I'm surprised someone has found worth in it.
This is quite a backhanded way to thank you. The time you've dedicated to what I saw as drivel has made me reevaluate its value. Though, if you ask me, there ought to be more outlandish romances in this city's market. Stagnation is art's greatest poison. Perhaps, if the mood strikes me, I will write a sequel to The Maiden's Dragon.
H.C.A
(no subject)
full moon.
(the bond faintly hums between them, thoughts of moonlight coloring it, and the rain drumming on the roof.)
it's dark, but the cause can be tracked down. a back door forced open, damaged lock and hinges, whatever was blocking it was thrown to the side, and a crumpled black cloak haphazardly in the mess. a silver disc in the doorway - the brooch that kept his cravat in place.
there is a shape out there in the rain, hunched over and getting soaked. a creature, not a man, white with black stripes.
(that strange agitated thread that was there last month, only this time strong and twisted, stress still so high. it's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong-)]
no subject
When night falls, Andersen feels it. A twisting tension, like rope chafing apart, taut and a thread apart from snapping. He feels the draft long before he finds its source. And when his eyes fall upon the clothes scattered, he feels a surge of concern. It wasn't like Dantes to run away in such a fashion.
He throws the cloak over himself to keep off the rain and heads out into the chill. What is that out there?]
Dantes?
[He calls out to the large shape, hesitant.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
masquerade overflow
elliot.
[... this is no good. Andersen shouldn't have asked about Elliot's life in the first place. Learning more about a character makes one soft towards them and optimism has always struck his weak point. Especially when the optimist in question is a musician. He makes a disgruntled noise, though he remains quiet until they reach the balcony, whereupon he turns on his heel to face his companion.]
Listen. [He says in his typical, deep, manly voice. No more "kidding" around.] You're too much of a shounen protagonist. If I shoved you down the stairs like I intended to, I'd feel bad about it.
1/3
2/3
3/3
(no subject)
(no subject)
trevor.
[Pointing is so rude Trevor. Andersen swipes at his finger, though the attempt is halfhearted. He can barely see straight as it is.]
What do you care if I'm wasted on the steps? I'm not your problem to babysit, pretty boy.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
asahi
Then the problem is yours, not mine.
[Andersen thankfully drops the act in a split second, now that he's had his fun. He holds out his hand to allow one of his paper people to roost on the very tip of his child-sized finger.]
I kept silent all my life. Is it any surprise I'm such a blowhard as a ghost? I didn't choose this form and I certainly won't allow it to silence me. I'll be as rude and lascivious and cruel as I please, and no one will be safe! Certainly not me!
(no subject)
caren.
[Now that they're out of the party, Andersen looks more embarrassed than anything else. He thrives off attention from a crowd - being held over a fountain as a threat isn't his idea of good attention, and he squirms a little more.]
I couldn't convince them to give me a drink, so I resorted to a bit of tomfoolery for material. What's wrong with that?
(no subject)
no subject
it does mean that somehow, a six foot long white tiger is in the building, eyes big in the low light after nosing the door shut. he intends on changing back, since the door to where they live can't be opened with a good push, but he also wants some of the snow to get off his fur first, or it will simply melt against his skin and freeze him all over again. not fun.]
no subject
And that's when he sees the tiger. Andersen freezes mid-step like a rabbit spotted by a predator, his own eyes huge with shock. Very, very gingerly, he puts his foot down.
The floorboard creaks. Fuck!!!!!!!!!]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
modranicht gift!
[His gift from the mighty Pharaoh is a bottle of liquor. There is a degree to which it is tempting to bestow unto him one of middling quality rather than spending the extra on something of greater quality as he has for some of the royalty that has found itself in Aefenglom, but Ozymandias can't quite bring himself to do it. It would simply reflect too poorly on him and make him appear stingy.]
[So, Andersen is able to drink like a king for a bottle's worth at least, blue and gold ribbons tied neatly to the neck of the bottle.]
modranicht gift
That is, until he sees the note she attached. It reads as follows:
”Blocks for the lovely writer! Happy Modranicht!”
12/25
at Andersen's place at the table are two smaller packages wrapped in white paper, tied with gold bows.
there is also now in the warm kitchen a potted iris plant with a tricolore ribbon on it, which Dantes calmly moves around like it's normal.]
no subject
Which is why, when he stumbles downstairs, he does so bleary-eyed, still fumbling with the final button of his vest.]
... what's that smell? [He stops dead in his tracks to sniff at the air.] Hey. Dantes, that isn't you, is it?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
12/25
[That's the note inside of the beautiful box that could he used for keeping his notes intact, hiding small items or small bottles of liquor.]
[text] un: enkidu
how are your wounds doing? have you visited a healer? should i come by for some coffee?
[Yes, that covers everything they want to ask for now.]
a lot of things have happened and i did not have a chance to contact other platonic friends.
[They just keep it like that, it is easier.]
text | un: hca
But yes. You may come over for coffee, if you'd like.
[text] un: enkidu
early Mareuer; text
text
I've been an invalid all of last month. I have nothing but time. There's a cafe I frequent...
[And here, he gives its name.]
text > action
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
text; after the full moon
text;
That's not my name. What do you want?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)