every face a different shade (open)

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 1, 2020 6:49:28 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 1, 2020 6:49:28 GMT

It was the soirée to end all soirées. Men and women buzzed about in all of their finery ─ the men in the their finest three pieces and a majority of the women dolled up in dazzling dresses in any color under the sun. A massive white-linen buffet table offered a veritable feast for the eyes and the taste buds, and there were golden china plates and crystal wine glasses waiting to be laden with opulent entrees and desserts that could only be guzzled and gobbled by the rich and snobbish and elite. The white linen was laden with dish upon dishes of bountiful and exotic wares: herring pie, stuffed peacock, poached pheasant eggs, sage baked capon, slow roasted hares, full haunches of spiced veal, field mushrooms garnished with cheese ─ and that was only what was in the immediate field of vision.

The who's who of Taras gathered en masse and they danced to the renowned musicians and laughed pretentiously at their tables. Some of them adjourned to the dining hall where plates rested above the table and unspoken things were kept under the table, all in the guise of polished conversation.

All the festivities and wonder, and everyone's eyes kept slipping to the young pale-skinned man a dark, almost violet doublet with feathers embroidered in silver thread. For all intents and purposes, the man looked as though he belonged. His white hair was gathered dyed with silver ends with a few loose tendrils falling over to frame his face. Seren's eyes were effortlessly lined in kohl, and his lips expertly touched in rouge. The dark doublet and skirts were paired with a billowing waist cape, white swan feathers in a silver belt that trailed from rear to his ankles.

The entire ensemble was elegant, refined... though the plunging neckline and slits on either side of the skirt showed a immodest amount of skin, it was all in good taste. The man himself was charming ─ always winking as he plucked a champagne flute, or moving as effortlessly as water through a stream when snatched up for a dance.

For all intents and purposes, the man should have belonged, and yet all that people could focus on or whisper about were the wings: glittering under the lights in soft incandescence and comfortably tucked at his back. Seren looked like Zeus to come survey his kingdom, grinned and winked and flirted like Aphrodite, held a glimmer in his dark eyes like Ares and Eris all wrapped into one, but those wings were all that anyone could focus on.

Nestled off to the tables, situated close enough to the head for Minerva to keep an eye on him, Seren opted to listen more than he spoke. Those at the table were wealthy noblemen, honored to seat with the Blackwoods; any observations he could draw might be invaluable. Minerva continued to be amiable towards him, although her attention was primarily occupied by her children and her attempts at feeding them. Seren still did not know fully what to make of her - and how often her thoughts might stray towards his immediate demise.

That would not deter Seren himself from persisting in smearing it into her overly made up face that he had popped her husband's cherry, though. There was little chance that Darus would be turned against his wife, considering their closeness, but perhaps if Seren poked this metaphorical bear enough it coax her into striking first. Then... well.

Seren's face is his best feature, aside from his perky little arse, it's perfect fine that he act in defense of it.

"Out of curiosity, might I ask... have we met before?" intoned the nobleman Nikolai, now seated next to Seren after the departure of James, one of Darius' many military friends. Nikolai smiled thinly into his goblet. "Something about you just reminds me of someone..."

Immediately the air began to grow terse. It must of slipped Nikolai's mind exactly what the young faerie's previous profession had entailed. Seren bit into a candied almond, and was pleased with himself for displaying no sign of ire or discomfort whatsoever. ""How curious you forget me," he said, pleasantly. "When I'll certainly remember you for all my days."

Nikolai's expression was claimed by a wide and unconvincing smile. "Oh, you needn't be so evasive," he said. "I meant no offense, of course. Is it such a bad thing that my memory slipped? After all, it only means I'll have the pleasure of hearing your account of our evidently memorable meet!" Nikolai placed his hand briefly over the young faerie's, as if in show of solidarity. "Refresh my memory, my dear."

"Funny you should mention pleasure," said Seren with a wry little smile. He hid the slight tenseness as Nikolai touched him, suppressing the flood of disgust and self-loathing at the memories that sprung forth. The faerie gave Nikolai's hand one final pat and retracted his, drawing up his handkerchief to lightly dab at his slightly smirking lips. "It makes sense that you have a short memory, yes," the faerie continued, ignoring a look from him. "If I recall correct, everything about you is short. Do not fret, my sweet Nikolai... there's no shame in it! It only made you all the more memorable!"

The faerie's lips pulled into a sympathetic smile, whereas his eyes flashed with dark mirth. "I believe as Aesop who once said, 'Good things come in small packages.' Surely this means yours is the greatest little pecker to ever see the light of day!"

Besides him, Mattias, another guest, coughed briefly. Though Seren caught his expression before he concealed it ─ one of surprised amusement.

Nikolai blinked, caught off guard for a moment in a way that seems to startle himself. The man tensed, lips parted like a gaping fish as dawning horror registered on his features.

"But I wouldn't worry! Given enough effort, I'm sure you've managed to satisfied your lovely wife over there! Fifty years happily married... ah, I envy a love so lasting," Seren said louder than necessary, behind his lacy handkerchief.

A surprise, really. Given that the man hadn't managed to last more than a meager five minutes.

The chairs shifted, next to him. It seemed Minerva had been preoccupied with the children (who had been toying with their dinner, so it seemed), but she appeared to have overheard the gist of the other conversation going on beside them. "Yes," Minerva cut in smoothly, "You would envy the sanctity of matrimony, wouldn't you. Lacking suitors, as you are." The comment was casual, but cutting; Seren caught the implications beneath the surface.

His expression took on a faint look of distaste. "Oh, pish posh... I am in no rush to tie myself down," he said, attempting to sound indifferent. "It is more sloth than vanity. To be inextricably tied takes... a mental toll, I think. I had hoped to laze about for as long as possible."

"But perhaps all this selfless dispensing of wisdom has tired you," remarked Minerva. "You look unwell."

"I assure you, Lady Blackwood, I am perfectly - "

"You look unwell," the woman merely said again. A note of casual command entered her voice. "You may go rest now. It would be a shame if I had to worry about your health."

The entire table had quieted.

Seren stared at her. Comprehension had dawned on her that this was a dismissal, and a look of utmost indignation was now painted on his face. But even if the woman's smile looked dangerous, she was a fool to challenge him.

Rather than address her, he shifted to glance across the room to where her husband dwelt, mingling among the guests. Unabashed, Seren brings a hand to his lips and whistles, the harsh noise resonating and cutting through the air sharp as a knife. Familiar brown hues settle over him, warm and soothing. Darius had changed much since their adolescence... but those eyes?

Seren would recall them anywhere.

The man is devout to his wife, loyal without fault... but even now, Seren can see that the man is not immune to his beauty, to his grace, to the sight of his chest heaving as he takes in each breath. The curve of his lips and movement of his limbs have an unearthly grace which would, stilling men as they drank in the sight of him.

"Does the sight please you, my lord?" he purred. Even his voice was beautiful in its own way, soft and deep and full of the night time hours and murmurs of lovers as they lay together. Seren did not waste a beat once he had the man's attention, turning to wiggle his rump enticingly, feathers swaying sensually to and fro. Darius' cheeks flushed as the man turned away just as swiftly, though not before he shared a look with his wife.

The faerie's eyes flit back to Minerva after a moment, positively smug.

Seren's laughter rings out in the air between them. "Well, it appears I look well enough to Lord Blackwood. But I do appreciate the concern as to my health, m'lady."Tucking in his chair, he left - not because of the dismissal but because he wished to seek better company, with a whoosh of perfumed silk and feathers. Slowly, with his departure, the conversation resumed again.

For his part, Seren seemed utterly comfortable with the audience, probably because his ego act as a cushion against embarrassment and shame. His mood remained soured, though, aware as he were that the display had been somewhat childish. Minerva's ire at him was justified, truly. Seren could not sugar coat the situation, prior to his arrival she had been engaged in a happy marriage, albeit one built under false pretense, but happy nonetheless.

What it really his place to meddle so?

No...Maybe a little?

"I have no egrets!" he murmured firmly under a breath, a impish laugh hid at the bird pun─ first of many, given his costuming.

No. Darius loved him. Truly, entirely... loved him ─ broken pieces and all. That fact alone was cause to remain.

The faerie lingered on the edges of the dance floor, like a shadow.

His eyes scanned the room with determination in search of someone when his eyes landed on a particular guest... he smiled. It was soft, so lovely it was like the stars themselves, decided to rest behind the soft cushion of his lips. Yes, this one would do quite nicely... Seren's steps veered over to intercept with this unfortunate onlooker. With hair of silk and his head held high, the man waltzed with an effortless saunter. The clicking of his boots added to the rhythm of the soft classical music that played onward without pause.

"Lovely spread, isn't it?" the faerie said, voice softer, more intimate. His tongue peeked out to slip along the edge of his lip and trace along from right to light. "I adore these things when I'm not the entertainment." He sounded wry, but that was a matter of course for him. It did not escape Seren that he had still somehow found a way to make himself the center of attention.

On cue, the cheerful vibrato of stringed instruments filled the air as the next song began.

Seren turned to the guest. His lips, full and ruby red pulled into a wry twist, his eyes lined with thick lashes. "Darling, I'm afraid I mean to make a scene in a petty act of revenge against a loathsome woman, and you are going to help me do it," he confesses bluntly with playful eyes and radiating mirth.

"Indulge me in this... and I'll reward you handsomely. If not, well..." Seren merely smirked. "You might surmise already, my vindictive side knows no bound. Best not have my villainous wrath turned upon you, eh?" The faerie winked, though it was meant in good humor.

"So perhaps you'll be generous and favor me with a dance?" he asked, all charm and every entitlement.

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 1, 2020 9:42:13 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 1, 2020 9:42:13 GMT

It was under the guise of the perfect family of high end nobles who were held in great esteem by the courts of Taras that the Branwen family had been forced to don their masks of civility towards one another and attend this lavish party in the finest of their finery. The entire family of powerful sorcerers had their heads raised high as they had taken to the room. Each moved in unison marred only by the blackbird of their tree. The disgraceful hanging limb that none of the other members cared to comment on, nor explain why his appearance did not coincide with the rest of the gathering with his raven-like wings unfurled behind him like the odd one out in the group that he was.
The head of the family, Edgar, had insisted on Asher's presence if only to subside the whispers of his bastard son and make it appear to all the public world that the boy was one of theirs. The only thing he held in common with them being his hair that was blacker than the night, just like his three elder brothers, but where his brothers were tanned and strong and brimmed with magical potential, the half-breed did not. His skin lacked for pigment making him feel like the ghost he often felt he was. The shadow that cast a pall over the Branwen family name. His magic was limited to a select few crafts he had taken years to specialize in, specifically the manipulation of the darkness he felt so connected and drawn to, as if it was the only thing in this forsaken world that held any companionship for him.
Normally he wore loose shirts that exposed far too much skin, but for the sake of appearances he had been stuffed and tucked into expensive garments befitting a man of his rumored status, though in truth he held no real claim to the Branwen's estate, but that was not public knowledge. The suit fitted to his lithe and lanky frame and the shimmering black not unlike the wings that jutted from his shoulder blades while the shirt and adornments were varying shades of dark purples and blues making him, to all the world, resemble the colorings of a raven, the meaning behind his family's name, Branwen, a Welsh term meaning "fair raven or dark beauty".
Edgar, his father, wished to hide the fact that his youngest son was the product of a late night rendezvous with a commoner Fae woman who had mysteriously died moments after Asher's birth.
The only mother the young man had ever known was Felicia Branwen. A cruel and cold woman who despised his very existence and made no move to hide it, save for her general indifference she granted him at gatherings such as these. Being ignored by the woman was the closest thing to an act of kindness she had ever granted the young half-fae, who could feel the icy look she was giving him, even now, as if demanding he fall in line with his brothers and stop hanging back. He could almost hear the shrill shriek to "straighten up and stop slouching like his commoner whore of a mother".
Still, given she would not make a move at him with so many eyes upon them, it was the smallest act of rebellion he could do to ignore the gaze that endeavored to bore a hole through the side of his head. He knew she would add to the array of scars on his back for it later, but he'd become accustomed to her fury and if it meant she was unhappy, even for a moment, it was worth it.
The bitter shrew.

"Make yourself of use and fetch your mother a drink," the voice of his father deep and demanding, a man who was clearly not accustomed to being disobeyed and Asher relented to doing just that, even though all he wanted to do was protest the fact that the woman could ever come close to being anything remotely resembling his mother. He knew better.
His "mother's" wrath left scars, his father's was something on entirely different level. The kind that could fracture a psyche. He was the most powerful warlock Ash had ever known and, given his father's practice in magical studies, he had come across many, but none could rival the things he knew his father was capable of.
He returned with the glass in hand, Felicia's nails burrowing into the back of his hand as she took it, a warning of what was to come for ignoring her gaze earlier.
"At least your existence is good for something," she hissed, the words falling on deaf ears as the young Fae made to distance himself from the rest of the party he had arrived with to avoid succumbing to his brother's merciless ways.
If he had to be present at this veritable Hell then he intended to not have the absolute worst time in the world, taking up residence in the shadows that beckoned to him like a welcoming embrace. Perhaps he could wait the night out unnoticed and unbothered by any of the others that milled about this room like the useless bags of hot air that they were.

"Lovely Spread isn't it.."
The words had caught his attention, but he didn't turn from his attempted plight at becoming one with the decor.
It was only when it became clear someone had deigned to speak with the black stain on his family's transcript, as none at these affairs ever did, that his eyes, pale grey like the subject of his name, met with a man bright and blinding as if staring too long in to a blistering flame, whose snow-white feathers shimmered beneath a metaphorical bright beam of sunlight. A man who was so far the polar opposite of himself it was as if he'd gazed into a mirror that lead to an alternate dimension and found his parallel.
What had caught his interest, more than anything, was the notion of causing a scene in an act of revolution and rebellion.
A game he knew all too well.
A mischievous grin wove its way across the young noble's features as he imagined the wide eyed look of horror upon his so called "Mother's" face if he were to make a spectacle of himself in any way. He would pay dearly for it, but the town of Taras had not painted him with the colorful moniker of "Loki" for no reason, after all.

"T'would be a pity to incur your vindictive wrath and let anger mar those elegant features" Asher teased, his own voice deeper, more gravelly. The sort of sound that caused a stir in one's chest with the sheer resonating bass of it.
Once Again.
The exact opposite of the melodic tones that emanated from the majestic figure before him, like an Angel fallen from the sky to offer his hand to the Devil.
"I'm not much one for dance." Not that he didn't exactly know how. He'd been given the same lessons in the ways of a proper gentleman as all his half-brothers, but he had never had the pleasure of placing them upon a public setting, often preferring to play the part of the wallflower.
The outsider looking in.
"But you had my interest piqued at 'petty act of revenge'," he chuckled darkly, extending his hand towards the other man, as the feathered appendages that had been placed neatly against his back, opened wide.
If he was going to join this spectacle, he was a man that, once committed to an act, leapt in with both feet.
And what, pray tell, was more of a sight than the white winged Fairy parading across the dance floor with the black winged half-blood.

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 2, 2020 6:50:15 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 2, 2020 6:50:15 GMT

Seren had absolutely no interest in any of the young men and women who had eagerly (and some drunkenly) turned his way with their mostly arrhythmic gyrations. In some ways he considered that he'd outgrown them—or at the types of relationships that they offered. Because if you have had one inelegant grope and one gagging tongue down the throat, you've had them all. It was hardly his style, in fact it never had been. That's partially why that old lifestyle had to go. Drunken nobles fucked like they ate—gluttonous, slopped, and with no attention to detail!

But, he reflected, when Asher lent his hand and the faerie led them down the dias and to where the dance floor awaited them, he'd been quite surprised by the presence of another faerie. In fact, the only man who didn’t seem to show her any particular interest then, or at any time throughout the evening, was the man whom she was more than surprised to see there in the first place—Asher Branwen.

The youth looked absolutely out of place in a way entirely opposite to Seren—whereas the faerie was donned in snow and silk, Asher looked like Hades burst forth of the earth, garbed in unearthly ebonys and purples between the lines. The heavy fabric was rich and hung over his lanky frame. They were black, as dark as ink and contrasting highly with the pale flesh of the one who wore them. This young man carried himself with a natural authority that he had no reason to possess. But he was still the son of a nobleman and for the reason he came, he had full reason the dress as he was.

There is violence in him, and the others can't seem to realize it. But Seren can, he can see this violence within him.

And he worships it.

Seren wasn't deterred, even, that Asher had all but tuned him out initially—it was consistent with the way as was typical of this particular youth, or so the stories went. In fact, the only way to reaffirm that the man had even heard Seren was constituted of a subtle inclination of his head and a devil-may-care grin easing it's way across his normally impassive features. It seemed apparent that this soul foul these events patently painful, with how he all but draped himself across the outskirts of the wall. Still, Seren wasn’t entirely sure why his eyes seemed to naturally seek Asher out. Perhaps it was the fact that he couldn’t read his every thought, unlike the vast majority of other men ogling him from around the room—the welcome reprieve of a little mystery. But first there was the matter of his extravagant skirts.

Asher would have no recourse but to wait a moment as Seren fiddled with the string, his lips pursed with steady concentration. "What lengths I must resort to in order to be the fairest of them all," he remorsed, nose wrinkling as he deftly detangled the feathered cape so it flowed down his leg hip evenly, a glimpse of thigh showing. Oh, perhap it was all a bit much. However there was purpose behind every garment, a need to please... and oftentimes, a deeper meaning. The swan down that made up the length of this half-waist cape had been taken off a bank of swans during a natural molt. Evidence that no animal need be harmed to remain fashionable.

"Ah, I chose well! You're wiser than a good many of your position," Seren declares, gentle hand at his hip, the other used to claim his, and guided them off into the waltzing steps. His footwork was fine enough, his hands steady and guiding.

It felt like an age ago that he would have shied away from any manner of contact. Now, Seren looked utterly at ease and perfectly at peace offering touches. It was true that the upper class were meant to be more skilled in the arts, however courtesans may have a slight edge. "Far more handsome as well, I confess." There was a light in his eyes again, the tips of his lips tipping upwards. "I find it plausible that you fit into a background so, rather than sent there in a form of elitism, but because you are like the mythological Excalibur incarnate in mortal flesh... untouched and made cold by stone, laying it wait for the only one worthy to hold you in arm."

The faerie withdrew a moment, a single step between them. His long fingers, a musician's hand, extended, palm up, towards Asher. He might of been casting a spell—a siren song, echoed in the unabashed lust as he leveled Asher with a heady look as he connected their hands once more. Asher's skin was warm, contrasting starkly with the cold expression he had worn. And Seren noted something else—a curious vibration, faint but definitely there. It felt very much like magical energy—something he’d encountered in certain magical creatures before, though it was unlike the purely natural energy of the fae. Then again, he reflected as he looked into Asher's intense features, this was no ordinary faerie. And when he slowly drew himself closer, eyes never leaving Asher's, he sensed this wasn't the only surprise in store for him. There was a certain grace to the dip of his wrist, an elegance to the way he supported Asher's fingers in the valley of his palm—restrained, almost reverential.

Then, sliding his fingers to Asher's wrist, he gently adjusted the position of the man's hand in his before grasping Asher's other hand and lifting it to his shoulder, Seren's fingertips trailing under his palm as he released Asher. The hybrid was taller than he'd expected, and if he wasn't in heels Seren felt certain they'd be eye to eye. As further instruments joined the winding strains of the solo violin, weaving and melding, a rhythm emerged but he didn’t seem ready to move, holding Asher gently but firmly in place. "You need only follow my lead, Darkling," he murmurs sensually. They are creatures of fire, passion left to run rampant, and Seren will take what he desires. He is selfish and fickle and burns hotter than any fire stirred within the blood by slitting a man from throat to groin, and for now? For now Asher would be entrusting him to be his commander, his general, and follow his steps and obey without hesitation. "'Revenge is a confession of pain'," he quote, soft like a lover's caress. It shone within his gaze for a fragment of a second—quiet anguish, a shred of sincerity, buried beneath the multitude of layers made to protect what remained of that lost child he'd once been. "Why don't we let them hurt for a change."

And then he drew Asher closer. Easily, Seren pressed his abdomen into his, for though he had start by guiding Asher's foot now he had moved onto his hips. The faerie's hand slipped lower, resting on the small of his back, and he had positioned Asher just so when he swiveled his hips, he would move with them. This was a genuine technique, yes... though it felt almost like... well, grinding. But the more elegant grinding one could engage within, the seductive steps of the tango. Seren's body was the template and Asher was simply filling it with his own.

Last Edit: Mar 2, 2020 6:56:57 GMT by Seren Culvért

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 2, 2020 8:49:23 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 2, 2020 8:49:23 GMT

    The man who bore the elegant wings of a dove flying against the early morning sky seemed some how so in place among the nobles, with their penchant for frill and pomp, and yet so out of place with the high morals they maintained among their public image, despite the fact that Asher knew full well this room of hypocrites was as full of it as public outhouses.
In the open they dawned their 'holier than thou' attitudes. Their noses so high in the air it was amazing they could see two feet in front of them, but behind closed doors they were the most licentious of beings yet known to all of humanity. It was refreshing to meet a man who was both elegant and blindingly stunning on the inside and made no move to hide it on the outside. This physical manifestation of a dendabrodium orchid was unlike any creature the young noble had ever seen in all his days.
He took the room without expending an ounce of effort and the very fact that he did only made him even harder to watch without fear of going blind and yet impossible to look away from.
It was a scandal in itself to speak with the whispered about Branwen black sheep, but to guide him to the dance floor on top of that was enough to draw the attention of many. Asher's own movements refined and refrained, but not from any act to hide himself, but more of an ingrained notion of having the phrase "be seen and not heard" drilled into his skull on the daily and a task he normally would endeavor to do if only to keep his head above water upon returning home, but the mischief that glowed from this Hermes like man only spurred on his own rebellious intent further than the insubordinate youth would normally allow himself to delve into.
He was drinking from the Devil's cup with these motions and felt no shame for the act as he relished the taste of every last drop.

  Where violence and burning hatred lurked behind the icy grey depths of his own eyes he could see a silent storm in the other man's. A quite whirlwind that sought to rain down trouble upon everyone in this room and it was quite the sight to behold. There was an age old wisdom in those depths like Prometheus reborn to defy the gods.
The hybrid could've basked in that fire Seren brought for hours, but it seemed they had a party to disrupt. Without making a single sound they were to scream in the face of all these nobles here, the Branwens included. Even though he felt the familiar cold chill of Death claw down his spine and knew exactly who it came from, like the frigid Skadi of Nordic tale, that Ice Queen of legend. If looks could kill, Felicia Branwen's sought to annihilate her husband's bastard son from the face of the Earth.
She was welcome to try.

"If I may play the magic mirror," Asher played upon the theme of Snow White the other had alluded to, "I would say the effect was aptly achieved."
His wicked brow raised upwards to match the uneven quirk of his lips.
There was a showmanship even in the way the glorious man before him shed his layers, unable to resist his own eyes wandering down the length of thigh that had flashed to the world before correcting himself to meet Seren's entrancing gaze.
Some nobles may unabashedly display their promiscuity even in a room full of their peers, unable to mask the monster inside their souls, but Asher was not one of those. He may be looked on as the most scandalous person to be present at this gathering, but he would behave with accord. As much beauty as was coming off the other Fairy in droves that there was, he need not ogle his body to see it. It was evident enough in every fine line of his face and every mesmerizing aspect of those eyes that held a world of knowledge and a confidence like none the Branwen Bird had ever seen.

  He allowed his steps to follow in time to Seren's lead, submitting to playing the second with no protest. He knew full well this would be a lot more of a spectacle if he simply kept in time to the more dazzling man's hands. He was unsure how to respond to the guiding touches and the flattery that rolled so easily from the full-blooded-fae's lips as if kind words were such easy things to offer another being. That had not been the young half-breed's experience, not once in his quarter century of a lifetime. Words of compliment he had never learned how to accept or roll with, doing all he could to mask the reddish hue that fought to stain his porcelain features.
"Your hands seem capable enough."
The art of word play was a normal teaching in the Branwen household, but not one the youngest brother had ever mastered or been able to sharpen in public.
The movements he followed felt no different from casting a powerful spell, watching the unbridled force of the world that was Seren, in this instance, and allowing your hands and body to move in effort to match the invisible lines of power that danced through the air at any given moment. That's what he did here. The extravagant Fairy was the powerful breeze and he, the sorcerer that sought to mirror and capture that gale force wind. It was not impossible to keep up, not with the hands that guided him where he need be and he did not try to fight them, allowing the current of the musician's notes to sweep him downstream and take him.

"I am at your whim," not even attempting to fight for the head of the swirling mesh of fire and ice that was the two moving across the stone flooring, Asher's wings pulled out to keep the others at bay and grant them the center of the room as well as its ire. They were a raging wildfire standing in the midst of the eye of a hurricane, torrential rain and downpour in the form of glares fueled by disgust and disbelief.
This was, easily, the most enjoyment Asher had ever experienced at one of these gatherings. A crack in the ice of his eyes breaking through in the form of a more genuine smile than one he had ever felt in all his life.
Whatever the cost these actions would rain down upon him. It was well worth it.
He would suffer the retribution a thousand times over to feel this level of excitement again.
Only faltered by the knowing words that met his ears. This man could see right through him as if he were a figure made of glass, and yet, Asher, surprisingly, found it didn't scare him as much as he thought it would.
To be seen, truly seen, for what may very well have been the first time ever.
It was a chorus of firsts for him tonight and he was well aware that this memory would forever be burned into his minds eye.
"It seems only fair they get paid a modicum of what they are owed."

  It took fighting off his natural instinct to shy away from more intimate touches to allow himself to be drawn close to the other's body, mentally struggling against his instinct's desire to flinch from the contact. The only indication being a tightening in his muscles that pulled at his jawline. He would not flee, however, no matter how much his 'fight or flight' instinct pleaded with him to.
Was this what the warmth of another's body felt like?
It was unfamiliar and inviting and once the screaming in his mind to run had dwindled away he came to find he rather enjoyed the feeling that filled his gut with a blossoming mirth which escaped in the form of a weighted breath.
Dancing he had learned, but it had been nothing quite as intimate as this display, only heightened by the sound of glass shattering in the hand of his father's wife and the echoing that sliced through the music of heels clicking away from the gathering before she caused a scene.
"Lady Branwen sounds displeased," every word laced with wild and unabashed pleasure at the realization.
"I may need to avoid the wrath of Scylla whence I return home, but it is well worth it."

Last Edit: Mar 2, 2020 8:52:00 GMT by Asher Branwen

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 3, 2020 7:02:33 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 3, 2020 7:02:33 GMT

The Blackwood family home was a marvel of marvels in Taras. It sat on a private plot on the beachfront, an imposing and sprawling manor built of local sandstone that looked as though it had been plucked from the pages of a picturesque little fantasy (Cinderella's, perhaps) and dropped right in the middle of the cold and wind and wet. In the spring and summer, the home played host to all the various parties and summer soirees that had night music and wine swirling in glasses until well into the night. Come winter, the grounds were covered in snow and the house mired in twinkling lights signifying a warm and splendor-filled haven from the elements. A wrought iron fence surrounded the premises, and a protected gate ensured that only a select few were given access to the property.

When Seren had been younger, he might of seen this manor and thought himself a pauper about to be plucked up from the drudgery of poverty and desperation.The halls were a labyrinthine twists and turns towards rooms that were each more well furnished than the last. To Seren now, the house was than a house, more than a maze: it was a stage for a dance of shadows. A normal person and even more magical creatures would have been ignorant, but life in the shadows were what Seren had known best for so much of his life.

And pray tell, who better were there to keep in hand than the ever elusive shadow master himself?

Perhaps he would do what others could not and reduce two legacies to dust, only to build a better future from the bones of the past. Perhaps he would build an alliance over this meeting and trade witticisms over clinked glasses of wine. Perhaps he would have a conversation and it would simply be a conversation, just as a rose was a rose was a rose. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

The atmosphere smells heavily of lavender. What you would smell on a cool spring night with newly blooming flowers. White marble pillars lay scattered around the room with crown molding in laid in the walls, around the ceiling. The domed ceiling above everyone resembled the night sky with hundreds of little lights mimicking the constellations. A scrupulous glance about the room showed that despite the band's invitation, the guests deferred to Lady Blackwood to testing the waters. They would have the first dance alone, it seemed, with all eyes upon them. Lovely.

"Loosen your hips," is all he murmurs, his breath rolling down the man's neck. It might have been a reasonably innocuous statement if this was a dance lesson, however the sinful purr drew it a long way down the path to eroticism. And if replayed over and over in the mind, it was an aphrodisiac certainly one didn't need. It was a stick of dynamite, purposefully planted in his mind. "That's it... there," his silky voice proceeded to ignite the dynamite. Their pelvises moved in union like a mating pair. This was something significant about the tango, it worked in such a carnal rhythm that it was a mystery how some managed to neglect to finish in the bedroom.

And then he drew Asher closer again until he was delicately abrading his woollen clothing. Seren's hand had slipped around and was now grasping Asher's waist, assisting him to lean—to bend sideways, backwards and even to lean into him, pressing against the hard planes of his torso. And each time he took Asher a little deeper. "Do you like being watched?" he breathed, low and teasing, mere inches away from Asher's lips.

It was quite clear that Asher was trying to follow, and was a well matched for his deft elegance. The next time when he arched the man back over his arm, his groin pressed against Asher's and neck exposed, Seren suddenly leaned forward, his face coming so close to his he may wonder if Seren was actually going to kiss him. "I've become indifferent to it, my senses are dulled to it," a corner of his perfect mouth lifted in a self-pleased smile. "But I suppose there are exceptions. I do like being watched when I'm making a spectacle."

He continued to lead Asher along, in time with the lively music.

"You flatter me, Darkling," The faerie sighed, a softness soothing the raw edges of hurt in his mind. There is no resistance to him, no strategy to avoid him, only this, only him. His taste, his touch, his body, his smile, his laugh and words and heat. Seren is bloodlust without the blood; just lust alone, in a man's form, pressed against him. Alas, the nobleman needn't praise Seren at his own expense—the potential was there, the power to truly impact the world, the only thing that Asher lacked was freedom from the shackles society thrust upon him.

Asher had it all in the palm of his hands; wealth, power, wit... it would take only a spark to set the world ablaze.

Seren's flame had dwindled the first instance his innocence had been stolen. No matter how lovely his allure or enticing his garb, at the core he'd always remain a whore.

Nothing could salvage fractured his soul any longer.

Then Seren was upright again—graceful, proper, comfortable—as though he’d never even been there. Like he’d never had his lips hovering only millimetres from Asher's pulse. As if he’d never been close enough to run his tongue along the dimpled ridgeline of his collarbone, tangy with his frantic perspiration. "The Duke of Astor only has a single testicle," the man offers suddenly, entirely straight faced, though his eyes lit with a certain mischief. A silver pin that he had carefully threaded into his hair to tie it back came free, white tresses cascading downward to brush at the edge of his shoulders. "The servants whisper his... personal affairs with the hunting hounds were at fault, though certainly his wife was pleased when the visitations to his mistress ceased. Coincidentally, this all occurred after she'd spied upon them joined."

Without warning, he grabbed Asher and spun him around, gentle hand delving down to splay across his pelvis. Holding Asher tightly, his back pressed against Seren's torso, he lifted one of Asher's arms above his head, bending it swanlike over them before trailing his prickling fingertips down the exposed underside. "Apologies— it looked as though you could use a laugh," Seren explains, a warmer smile creeping across rosy lips. The sudden rigidity of Asher's jaw had been noted and although Seren might of entered into this situation with his own motives, the faerie had no intention of causing this man upset. The lack of whispers of the Branwen blackbird showed that he was uninvolved in the sort of debauchery that set Seren on edge.

His hand was briefly pressed into the small of Asher's back as he bent him at the waist, feathers flicking against the wooden floor. But then he was brought upright again, Seren's cheek whispering against his before his hand slid around, grasped Asher's wrist and then rolled Asher's body away, only just keeping him upright. The speed of the music had been building, and with it the tension in his shoulders and forcefulness of his movements.

The faerie did not misstep, though his gaze might of landed elsewhere at the sound of glass shattering his body knew the movements to well to fault. It seemed he couldn't resist a tinkering laugh, eyes filled with sincerity and elation at Asher's comment. "Spectacles are nothing without an appreciative audience," Seren purred languidly, winking.

Far behind him, Duke Aubrey had risen grandly from his seat. "My Sweetling!" he declared, loudly enough for it to be audible even at this distance. "I will be a sorry soul indeed if I've left this ballroom without seeking the hand of the most beautiful woman in the room - will you do me this great honor?"

"Oh how you flatter!" returned a familiar feminine voice.

The words came across oily... buried beneath the jovial intones, Seren detect a shred of panic. It sounded staged. The remainder of the ballroom seemed to interpret the launching off of this second duet as an a sort of implicit blessing to finally take part... a means to offer cover, to dispel the immoral acts on the floor. Around them, lords and ladies alike began rising from their seats, and soon more and more couple joined them on the floor.

As the song drew to a close, his steps slowed as well, light steps easily directing them a little ways away from the now bustling dance floor. "What that your first?" he wondered, mirthful twinkle suggesting he was well aware of the double entendre. Turning, his touch lingered a little longer than necessary on Asher's waist, radiating mischievous as he glanced to him.

Last Edit: Mar 3, 2020 7:25:02 GMT by Seren Culvért

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 3, 2020 19:40:59 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 3, 2020 19:40:59 GMT

    Asher Branwen was a man of isolation and solitude, but it was in the depths of the darkness that one heard the whispers none would speak to a room at large. The help and hands gossiped much, not that he minded. The tactful young noble had come to find it a great way to discover intel on all those he considered to be his enemy, which was bordering on just about every face filled with disdain that currently lined the walls of this room, none knowing what to make of the shockingly immoral display taking place before them all.
But he'd come to realize just who it was that had drawn him from the dark and pulled him beneath these seemingly blinding lights that twinkled overhead.
He'd heard whispers of a homewrecker come from Fae blood, not unlike his own mother, who'd been making waves at the Blackwood's estate.
Asher had met the family before, not in any intimate manner and for the most part he couldn't tell you any of their first names, simply their faces, but the one he did know was the woman who echoed his own Lady of the House. The Lady Blackwood to his Branwen. Minerva.
She was as shrewd and bottled up as he knew Felicia to be and could only imagine what dangers lurked in waiting for this majestic Devil in white who guided him along the floor like a swan dancing through the water.
He felt a familiar fear for this man, the fear of the fate that had befallen the woman who birthed him, knowing all too well the dangers of making waves in Nobel's houses.
He was not so brave to stir that pot quite so thoroughly as this man was, but as much as he feared for the sanctity of that languid throat the caged bird realized he felt the warm urge to run his own lips along...he respected the man's fearlessness and wished for just a speck of that daunting prowess.

  Hitched breaths and flushed features washed over the unsullied Raven as their bodies became molded into one creature composed of poise and grace, swirling through the room as if they were one person set about to break down all the facades of morality that looked upon them. He was a puppet to Seren's masterful movements and though touch was something he normally fled from, flinching away and slinking back into hiding like the shy and terrified creature of the night that he was, he'd begun relaxing into the arms of the other. His muscles no longer held the tight instinct to flee from his caressing hands, even as his ivory skin blossomed with the heat of desire he'd not felt before in his lifetime.
He knew Seren's reputation, knew he was not the rich noble such an elegant man as Seren would truly seek the company of, save for this moment of use to make all the harpies with pockets bloated by an overabundance of coin few of them truly deserved tremble in their wake. Asher was noble in title alone, he had nothing to offer, but still he relished each heated touch and breath wafting along his long and sensitive neck, having to burrow his teeth into his lower lip to hinder the arousal that emerged inside him like the Evening-Primrose that bloomed only at night and died the morning after. A short lived swell of beauty that only made the attraction more enticing by its fleeting nature.

  He could barely register how to respond to the other man's question, glancing out at the room that felt like millions of eyes splaying him open. He was exposed, a state of being he normally loathed, but-
"Normally no," he finally spoke, his voice holding a weight to it that carried across the sensation of just how unusual and out of character this was for him, "Normally I'd be terrified to make such a spectacle, but...I'm not."
It was a surprise to him that he really did feel that way.
He was targeted by danger here, like this, and yet he'd never felt more at ease.
What kind of siren was this Seren?
What magics allowed him to pull Asher from the blackness, washing that ink from his wings that normally weighed them to the ground?
Was it simply that the man actually seemed to, even remotely, care about the way Asher felt that he was made at ease?
Even if the actions were an act, even if Seren was just using the young noble as all seemed to in this world.
It felt good.
Even if the moment was destined to end.

    Darkling.
He loved the way Seren said that, like he was some mythical creature of beauty and not the 'bastard son made to be forgotten'.
He would cherish the name like a valued gift, clutching it tightly and letting himself get lost in the touch, the breath, the beating of the other Fairy's heart that seemed to only add to the melody flowing from the strings of the musician's instruments that drew the drama of their dance to a crescendo like no other that had ever taken place in a gathering such as this.
They were a spectacle that would not soon be forgotten no matter how the nobles would try. This moment would live in infamy on the winds of gossip.
It was such a simple and harmless statement, but it was emblazoned upon the minds of every person in this room now.
Absolutely incredible.

  The hybrid had slipped so far down the rabbit hole of his own thoughts that when the hilarity of Seren's words reached his ears it was enough to nearly make the young man falter in his movements, thankful that the full fledged Fae had a handle on things.
"Apologies?" He questioned, indicating no such sentiment was remotely necessary, "I relish in the knowledge that that foul waste of flesh seems to be missing his pound of." Snickering at the image of the unbalanced man of power.

"Shame she couldn't stay for the entire show-" referring to his 'mother' before being interrupted by the boisterous voice of the Duke who sought to dim the spotlight that shone upon them by crowding the dance floor.
Part of Asher wanted to keep his wings out wide to push them back, but he thought better of it as he sensed the nearing presence of the only shadow too large for him to hide within, approaching on the dance floor, taking the hand of a Countess now that his own wife had fled to gather herself.
His father.
The very closeness of the man drew the young noble back into himself, his elegant feathers drawing shut and closing against his back as tight as they were able.
"M-my first?" His embarrassment alighting at the knowing question far too flushed now to keep his focus on the stony eyes of his father that ran a chill to his very core.
"I mean, I've danced before, but nothing quite so- intimate."
Flashing the other Fae a lidded and shameful look at the way Seren seemed to know exactly how, truly, untouched, Asher really was.
He could feel his powers reacting to his swirl of emotion caught between Seren's hypnotic eyes and his father's wrath. The shadow that extended from his own feet ebbing and flowing as if it had a mind of its own, practically illuminating the chaos of the half-fae's mind into an interpretive piece of abstract movements.

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 4, 2020 22:56:59 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 4, 2020 22:56:59 GMT

There's a demure smile tracing his lips as he shifted around, clapping politely for the quartet, and was joined (somewhat grudgingly) by various guests. Seren observed with mild, albeit gracefully veiled, amusement as Lady Margaret all but swept the Duke aside for the slow dance. Of all the affected observers, Margaret had been one of those who had the least impact. She hardly seemed aware of the world at all, aside from the ladylike manners absolutely necessary there's no doubt she's rather daft. It was curious, watching her — at what seemed like the Duke's expense. Slower dancing also meant more intimate dancing, didn't it? Did she hope for a repeat performance?

Silly girl, he'll take your innocence without pause and leave you only a bastard to remember him.

The faerie was so disappointed by the other's admission he could have bitten the shadowed skin of Asher's cheek. It had not taken so little to incite him to make a mess of Minerva's perfect little party, carving through the pretense and perspicacity with immediate action. This was just another game for him. Seren fell back into his self-assured guidance, and with the more languid beats of the music, kept Asher's arm laced around his. "Tell me..." he mused, trailing a ways off with the hybrid, a group of nobles part easily before them, "Why the fear?"

A pleasant smile remained while Seren thought it over, about how generations filtered in and out of this world, about generations who preceded the new generation wouldn't have understood what they represented. Even now, the abilities of his people were often seen as burdensome and feared, ridiculed. It was to be expected, difficult to accept and adapt to change so drastic and formidable.

The people who feared them felt inferior. They were witnessing evolution accelerating and fearing for their own existence in this brand new world.

Seren did not fear death. Perhaps, he did not relish the thought, however it was a inescapable threat. No. It was something else, old and harbored. Every single person in the world wished and prayed for it; craved it deeply as if starving for a breath. Seren feared a death without meaning, without purpose. The threat of Lady Blackwood loomed overhead, darkening his world further and further each day. It would not be long until the woman had preparations in place to silence him. If the woman hoped that it might be cause for him to shudder in his heels and sweat, she was sorely mistaken. If anything, it only made Seren bolder. Fearless.

Perhaps there would be ashes yet, but for now, Seren would make his voice heard.

His eyes fixated on Asher while he studied his side profile. They were shadowed in ebony, reflecting back the colorful red orange yellow flames dancing in the wall sconces. The colors made his pale cheeks glow like a sunset, flow of hair like nightfall. "Would it be that you fear repercussion... or," Seren's eyes glittered dangerously and his hand reclaimed Asher's waist, he smirked. "That once you allow yourself the luxury of indulgence and enter the spotlight, you may just enjoy it."

Seren could remember his father looked out at the sea, his face set and serious as he thought and pondered his legacy and all of its shortcomings. One vexation?

Humanity. He could remember his father's sneer when he spoke of the human world, or when they glimpsed the cancerous sprawl of these beings encroaching further and further into the woods each year. His father was ever-grasping, ever verdant in his envy...

It was bad enough that Asher was powered and did not flaunt it, terrible enough that he had his legacy torn apart between two worlds and had redirected it to another direction, but holding polite — if lightly barbed — conversation may be a tipping factor, send him over.

Nothing was ever quite so simple, unfortunately. There was a life within these walls, among the artifacts collected by those who had lived and were only remembered in minuscule things, as though parts of them were absorbed within them.

Wasn't that the thing about keepsakes? To remember a person by. As if losing the item would cause them to forget that person was ever in their life; their existence reduced to something as simple as a stuffed animal clutched in the hands of a child. Letting go was entirely arbitrary. People held on for as long as they could, clenching their fingers in and creating anchors. They needed connections and without them—who were they really?

Seren did not believe in hauntings, it was his understanding that the dead were to be reborn into the circle of life, but he hoped that his father was burning with his rage, and as he took amid all the very creatures his father loathed, Seren pondered burning the house down as well, perhaps with Minerva inside of it. Whilst it was unlikely his father might approve of his antics tonight, he believed such musings would be well applaud.

With the young nobleman in hand, Seren watched the time tick down on the mantle clock. A brow arched as Asher mused on Lady Branwen's presence, or lack thereof. "Tsk... and here I hoped, my touch filled your thoughts. Have you become an exhibitionist so soon?" His words took on a chiding tone, but the spark in his eye suggested that he was only playing along with his humor. Seren's lips took on a sultry pout.

He could have peered out of the window and watched the sun tuck itself under the horizon, but there was little point when he could feel the shadows lengthen. A normal person and any other would have been ignorant, but shadows were familiar. "You feel the weight of his gaze, even now, don't you, darling?" Seren angled himself slightly. A subtle flick of his fingers, fingers gesturing vaguely towards the general proximity of Lord Branwen. The faerie's own wings were neatly clenched back, less tense more to keep stray arms or hands from brushing over the sensitive skin.

He hummed, thoughtful.

"I confess that I know little of your father so I'm unable to presume anything, nor did I have any inclinations in harboring ill thought toward you and your family. What I am able to say," and his tone altered, holding a sense of sincerity and turning back to face the young man framed by shadows, "is your father underestimates you."

Asher gave Seren nothing to muse over. His face was unreadable as Seren's own. Although, he suspected if he peered hard enough, he may have noticed the little varied things. The subtle sinking of his shoulders as the adrenaline and euphoria died down. "There is an unspoken elegance in the power you possess, darling," his mouth curled upward, "and I want to watch it grow." The fae blood within was a strength, not a weakness. With the proper tutor. Well. Seren hoped that the Branwen's instruction was not thoroughly, though he suspect they might of intentionally neglect lessons of the fae given Lord Branwen's little entanglement.

Casually, he kept an arm looped around the other's waist, the tug strong enough to sweep Asher against him; keeping him pinned there. It was not firm not to prevent wiggling free, merely a consideration to guide him towards the familiar darkness that lingered on the edges of the room. "I take it you enjoyed yourself, as I did?" Seren allowed the slightest note of amusement to surface with a half-grin. Lashes swept softly as he pressed closer, "I hope my mischief didn't make things quite so... hard." The faerie punctuated his words with a brush of hand down the length of Asher's back. They continued their slow ascent, vibrating faintly against his skin, before coming to rest under the bare curves his rear. Whilst his intentions had been impure, Seren had no objections to teasing even a small degree of heated arousal he'd induced in him.

Last Edit: Mar 4, 2020 23:22:04 GMT by Seren Culvért

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 5, 2020 20:08:38 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 5, 2020 20:08:38 GMT

        Why the fear?
  He wished that were an easy question for one such as himself to answer. He'd lived Twenty-five years now but each day had become more secluded and closed off than the last. Each waking moment an hour longer spent trapped in a swirling nightmare that appeared to have no end no matter how many times he'd tried to pinch himself into a state of wakefulness. It was unyielding horrors that befell the young Noble who'd never felt the touch of a friendly hand in all that time.
Like Quasimodo locked hidden away in the church bell towers of Notre Dame, Asher was a creature on the outskirts of all society. A puzzle piece that had no adjacent slot to fit snugly within. For all intents and purposes, he was an outcast in every possible way. Commoners avoided him as he kept them at arm's length with his ways of the Charlatan. The trickster.
Loki.
The name had been made as an insult, a word of warning of the mischievous young nobility who lay small acts of rebellion in his wake like the aftermath of a small tidal wave formed from chaos. Yet, somehow, he felt connected to the title. Thrived in the sobriquet society had thrust upon him. It kept him apart from them, not unlike he was apart from the nobles. The Blackbird. The Trickster. He was both and neither, like a man guised within the masks of Melpomene and Thalia.
No one truly knew him and he both loved and hated that fact in equal parts. It kept him safe, kept him in the dark.
But also in the cold and unknown.
He was a wanderer lost in a blinding blizzard and he could not cut his vision through the haze.
Was it not Plato who had once said “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light"?
Those written words had grasped tightly to the fringes of the Half-Fae's mind ever since he'd read them. How much they resonated with him.
He could not answer Seren's question as to 'Why the Fear'. The thought of delving that far into his own struggles felt no different than as if he'd torn his shirt from his body and let them look upon the vast array of cuts that coated his back making the canvas surrounding his wings more scar tissue by this point than any real skin. He was certain the tide had shifted in that direction by now, but had confided in none of the abuses his family put towards him. The physical tears to his body to speak nothing to the fragmented pieces of his mind.

"I don't think I was made to have the light cast upon me," his response hollow as he let his distant gaze trace the lines of Seren's face.
He could swear the man's skin glittered and shimmered as if it had been coated in the dust of a million pearls turned to powder. He was a commoner in a room of nobles and yet he was the most striking centerpiece in the room. Even the artwork and statues that surrounded them were of no comparison for the Fairy's chiseled and elegant features that seemed cut from the finest marble and molded by Aphrodite herself, in the male concept of her own image.
He wondered if his own mother had been so beautiful. She was a fully fledged Fairy as well, surely she must have been something to behold. Asher had never been granted the chance to know for himself. There were no pictures he could find, not a single painting or even a written description of what elegant features he imagined she must've had. If there ever had been, he was sure the Missus of the house of Branwen had thoroughly done away with them in her fit of envy and rage.
The half-blood's hands clenched tight as if he could almost envision himself snuffing the light from that frigid bat of a woman. Twisting her throat until the only shrill screeches and sounds she could make were wheezing gasps pleading for air.
He caught his own fury and loosened, ashamed he'd even let himself succumb to such evil thoughts, even if for a moment, especially well standing in a room full of people who could surely have felt the palpable heat that had flooded his skin at the notion.
He didn't want his newfound companion to think him some monster born from rage and hate, even if his life had been molded by the emotions.
He'd been too absorbed to even register Seren's teasing comment on the prospect of molding Ash into an exhibitionist. Too far inside his own head to respond with how ridiculous a notion that was.
He would never enjoy the eyes of many. What he had enjoyed, however, was the ire of the masses. That had felt good.

  The Fairy who held his arm, leading him through the throngs of bodies that parted before him as if they were the red sea and Seren, Moses himself. The man had clearly noted Asher's anxieties leaking into the darkness beneath their feet and molding the shadows into odd patterns. Stretching and distorting them.
"Yes. How a single man's stare can compare to a Death toll I will never know."
A defeated sigh escaping him. Ebony feathers ruffling with tension that made the air thick and heavy.
"It's as if Lord Branwen's gaze, alone, would be enough to stop a man's heart."
And truly, for all Asher knew of his Father's growing mystical powers. It might be.
Could he yet strike his youngest son down with a wave of his hand?
Asher was not sure.

  The young Hybrid was comforted when he was pulled close against Seren, as if the fantastical Fairy that held to him might be his saving grace from his Father's current ire. What an odd feeling it was to actually enjoy the close proximity of another, even though he could feel the fresher scars on his back burning with the pressure, he made no indication of it. His tolerance for pain was high by now. Part of him had even learned to enjoy it, in a twisted way, as if convincing himself it was a pleasant feeling rather than a brutal one could save the remaining pieces of his mind from degrading entirely.
Not to mention, when Felicia struck him and he smiled or grinned at her the bastard half-fae could feel the annoyance and frustration coming off the woman in droves knowing she was losing her ability to keep the youth firmly beneath her thumb the less he cried out in pain.

"I truly did," he assured Seren with a soft and gentle smile that was almost enough to reach that empty, pale gaze of his. But no matter how hard he tried to carry himself in a proper and closed off manner, he was no match for the Fae's flirtatious teasing and it showed as that newly familiarized red flush dusted across his angled cheekbones. A heat that burned bright when he felt the teasing and touches that were quite malapropos, but not altogether uninvited. Though the youthful noble did shift uncomfortably, but less so from the touch itself and more so from the following heat in the pit of his stomach as a result of.
"You do seem to be rather professional in that art of making things rather...stiff..."
Clearly unlearned in the art of indicating just how to communicate in any manner remotely akin to flirtation as he glanced to the side at Seren then away, feeling quite the fool for his previous admission of his rather- elated- state of being.
"Forgive me, that was a sentiment out of character for myself."
Precisely why he should remain in the shadows.
Foolish.

Last Edit: Mar 5, 2020 20:11:15 GMT by Asher Branwen

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 7, 2020 20:12:13 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 7, 2020 20:12:13 GMT

Seren's gaze slipped over the familiar features of the expansive room, its deep shadows broken only by occasional torches fluttering like heartbeats against the walls. His mind slid simultaneously over a passing parade of memories from his time here— this would, after all, be the last event Lady Blackwood permit his presence unhindered, at least for the foreseeable futures. The finale, he noted with a wry at the sudden lack of guests in their proximity, unusual but not unexpected. Far different than the annual Winter Solstice Ball months away, this soiree was meant to be more sedate, more mature, and more interesting as it turned out. The effects he now felt as a fuzzy euphoria drifting through his mind and a pleasant warmth rolling through his body. Unlike the young Branwen, he'd already well and truly gotten over the shock that was the full attention of this pit of vipers, still considered this the most stable foundation in his life.

If Asher remained even more sill and moved less, he may have gone unnoticed. A sense of silence spilled between them; all the unspoken words were replaced by a pair of faces who hardly allowed the world around them to understand just how they felt under the surface. The words they failed to say were burning in the candlelight, heat crackling and popping, turning the wood from dry to brittle to dust. The same heat crept out into the room and Seren felt it pressing against his hand like a gentle caress. The same shadows held onto earlier seemed to have shrunk away and gathered along the walls, within the dark corners, just out of reach of their master, waiting with anticipation.

His gaze trailed from the fire to Asher once more, and Seren found himself standing up taller, almost as if he were a king in a throne room with a fine crown on his head, rather than one whose time was directed to being on his knees. "Do you think that I was?" is wry counter, secret smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

In a way, it was like seeing Sleeping Beauty left chained down on a thin, decaying mattress. A beauty bound by shackles unseen, torn between straining in silence or letting the world dissolve away, eager to return midnight dreams. In a vibrant world that was rife with death, the bold black of his attire called to Seren. It fluttered around him like plucked petals of a rose. He didn't meant to drink in the flushing red color and the wings, the way the dim light reflects off, the natural oily black gaining a shimmering soft highlight of pastel orange. The darkness he could see were striking against his skin.

It's strangely... comforting. Offered a rare nostalgia to Seren, who is unfortunately unaccustomed to finding others of his elusive race.

"No, the path from the shadows is laden with traps and sinkholes... I daresay they've learned how easily our kind may outshine them."

It was a shot in the dark, and one Seren delivered with a piercing stare and the slightest tilt of his lips. Was it doubtful that Asher Branwen would be keen on acknowledgement of his mixed blood? Absolutely. But he could still allude to what he had been told over and over again. The shadows of Asher's wings had been black, but then shadows generally are, and these are like the purest ebony. It's another lie in these wings warring of old artwork depicting delicate, white, pristine feathers. Black had never looked so lovely a color on a man. The world blooms and bursts with life in his wake, for a man who lives in a realm of distant and dying things, the sight of Asher is a heady thing.

The crowd parted almost as easily as they had before, as if they bore some potentially dangerous untouchable quality that might bring down the wrath of the gods if they stared too long. Seren moved through them with an undeterred wisp of a smile, taking his secret amusement from the way certain guests would avert their gaze when he cast his eye toward them long enough. It was a little over the top, being regarded as though he had the potential lethality of a venomous plant (or venomous possessor/handler). At least he wasn't alone.

Asher Branwen.

The bastard of the Lord Branwen. Blackbird. Whispers of a trickster god in mortal flesh, though such validity of these murmurings was not confirmed. Certainly Asher were a man of mystery still, though like the burial shroud of Odysseus Seren would see it unravel. Asher was forward with a soft admission at his early observation. The faerie remained poised, content for the moment to linger in closeness, drawn to physical connections like a moth to a flame as he were. There was something more to the hybrid's statement.

Seren listened as the young man, ringed by his unreachable shadows, slipped into the deepness of his past and brought a heaviness in his words. Asher described a man, his father, as though wraith who strived on the unevenness of power and control, wanting to coil his hand around the ones who exhibited their evolved state and sever theme. It were a world he might personally attest towards; tempered the thought of a place where their own kind stood above those who failed to understand what it meant to be more, to be gifted, and their ravenous need to fill an emptiness inside them with hatred, jealousy and–above all else–delectable fear.

Some nights he breathed destruction, craved it, yearned to cut down the masses for the assurance their own would survive.

It were especially true this night, with a broken bird in his hands. A mistake. Seren was right. His father did underestimate him. There might be truth in the rumors, then.

Asher, the disappointment.

Lord Branwen would never notice when the shadows became his.

The young faerie leaned forward. Shadows and light shifted across his face until more of him was reintroduced into light. "It pleases me to hear that," he murmurs, satisfaction in his eyes. His arms flex, nearly draw the other in closer to share in a embrace... alas, Seren knows what it would mean. He knows what such a thing represent. Humans were most... guarded with their affections, far more subdued than his people- who laughed and loved and danced without reservations. He would not hint that Asher was meant to cast off one cage and find himself trapped in another. The bronze net of rumor would descend down upon him, the fine chains of it confining and burning upon his skin like Hephaestus' gilded snare. The impulse lasts for just a moment, before he sees sense, and lets his head briefly settle on the other's shoulder instead before Seren releases the man of his hold entirely to settled in a easy, comfortable distance at his side.

Bastard or not, Asher was a Branwen in name.

Beautiful or not, Seren had been a whore in profession.

A flicker of surprise fades in an instant. He is proud – and why not? Is this not one's natural state, naked as the day she stepped from the foam of the waves, in the very act of life's creation? Seren refuses to waver and bow his head with shame under the victory of the desperate and needy, who would just as soon enlist his services as condemn him for the acts they ask. Seren's smile narrowed out to a full-on smirk, "Would you like an encore?" He smiled sinfully, lust fueled gaze languidly crawling over the other's form. Asher is all dark shadows and harsh lines, before him, mouth tipped at a corner into a smile. He marvels at his quietness, at the secrecy of the shadows around him, at the gift that was given to him "A chance of venue perhaps... say, your chambers?" When Seren tilted his head down coyly, his lashes nearly brushed his cheekbones, the light cast shadows of his eyelashes onto his cheeks, creating long streaks like threads of silk.

Perhaps he ought to show more regard, of the confined nature of this place and of the threat in inviting a stranger to his bed, but the jest delighted him and it was within his nature to respond in turn. There was a vast difference between seducing a man on the streets and the casual courtships of two desire enthralled creatures in his mind.

Seren's hand shot forward like a pale streak of lightning to loosely settle over Asher's bicep, giving it a little squeeze. "Apologies?" he recite, nose crinkling in feigned displeasure, still in a manner that suggested he was only jesting. "I relish in the knowledge that such a pretty little face such as yours may be so candid." The allusion to the noble's former words was doubtlessly deliberate, as he glanced over with the corners of his lips fighting a smile, eyebrows slightly raised.

Mischief is in the eye of the beholder. Most of the time he's a coiled spring of frustration, then something changes, the odds move in his favor and the sparkle begins...

Really, were they so different?

Last Edit: Mar 7, 2020 20:15:20 GMT by Seren Culvért

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 8, 2020 6:05:26 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 8, 2020 6:05:26 GMT

    There was a blissful serenity in the company of the Fairy at his side who did and did not belong here. The kind of feeling one caught on a windless night when the whole world that was so normally flooded with a cacophony of overlapping sounds suddenly became eerily still like a world gone mute. Asher felt the calmness now, relishing in the silence Seren carried with him, the silence to the young Branwen's overactive thoughts and unsteady nerves. The winged shadow on the wall could remain so perfectly still while Pandora's box lay open within the confines of his skull, but Seren's calming voice had found a way to replace that damnable lid and shut out the torrent of chaos that so normally flooded forth from its depths. He felt at ease with this man, like he needn't wear a mask formed from porcelain, a painted on smile covering the darkness in his expressions.
The purely impure masterpiece of grace that walked with him. Their feet dancing through light and shadow as they moved along the outskirts of the room. He enjoyed the fire that burned in Seren's eyes, the lights of the wall reflected in vivid depths and becoming them, as if they were lenses with which to watch this world burn to the ground. A cleansing fire that would annihilate all in this room should he will it.
Lucifer, The Morningstar. Lightbringer.
They were all the same Devil, the same angel cast from grace by his father and for a moment Asher swore he could see that same destruction and rebirth scrawled along delicate features that he wanted to run his fingers across. Caress the sharp angles and soft lines of that unmarred and delicate skin. Did the men Seren normally sleep with see what Asher saw when he gazed upon that avenging figure?
Not the 'sex worker' he seemed to be but so much more.

        A whore.
  He knew the word, the profession, but it seemed ill suited to the one he gazed at. He didn't see a figure to bed and leave when the sun ran high, he saw an experience that would never leave your mind until your end of days. Ambrosia, nectar of the gods. A taste one would savor and yearn for until the moment Death came to collect their toll, and perhaps even beyond.

"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world," the young Noble mused aloud, quoting the words of one of his most favored authors to ever put quill to paper.
"The one which people would call immoral is that which holds a mirror to their own shortcomings."
His gaze lidded at his lips pulled taut,he could see very clearly why men of power could so easily be brought to their knees by a single Fairy's presence. If Seren tried, Asher was sure he could have the majority of this room eating from his hand and yet he sold his body for pleasure. Was that a personal choice he enjoyed? Or was it a means for survival? Or a life he'd fallen into and could not claw his way back to the surface as Asher often felt about his own?
Maybe one day the half-blood would ask and know the answer, but not tonight. Not when he did not wish to spoil the mood by prying deeper than he deserved to.

  It was evident the hybrid mulled the invitation put to him over in his mind's eye, smiling when his apologies were waved beneath the table as an uninvited guest to their current talks.
He'd never had a single other soul in his bedroom at the Branwen manor, that was true. It was nice quarters, nothing to snuff one's nose at even for the unwanted and forgotten son. He could say what he wanted about his father, but the man had the most vast collection of books Asher had ever seen in all his life and much of the overflow had been filling the walls of the youngest noble's room for so long now. He adored reading, learning about the world he saw so little of through the window that stretched out alongside his bed.
But it was a nerve wracking matter that he had never been with another among those black sheets made from silks only to be envisioning the form of one who'd occupied the bed of many entwined within them, the very mental image drying his throat as he tried to readjust his attentions by letting long and slim fingers drag against the darkness cast across the wall they walked beside, the inky black billowing out like inky fog to take the shape of a translucent black rose in the fingers of the young sorcerer who commanded the shadow as if it were his personal pet.
"Obviously my blood is only half that of yours. Half that the magics of my father," admitting as much as he twirled the black rose in his grasp and blew it away into a puff of smoke that rejoined its kind along the walls once more.
"The Witch blood much stronger than the Fae of my mother. My real mother."
A sigh passed through the air between them as he clearly regretted that fact. He'd much rather be a full fledged Fae and drain the Witch from his veins altogether, but it was who he was.

"The Branwen estate is liberated of the harsher members of the bloodline," his jawline twitching with mischief now as he viewed Seren from the side of his eyes, "It shall be for some time yet, it would seem."
His words indirectly alluding to the fact that he was certainly not saying 'no' to the invitation to seek out a place that held far less- people- within it.

Last Edit: Mar 8, 2020 6:07:48 GMT by Asher Branwen

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 11, 2020 4:51:54 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 11, 2020 4:51:54 GMT

There was a calmness to the faerie as though time bent around him. His expression was clean, polished, desolate of any real emotions other than the glint of something ungovernable and the simple pull of a smile on his mouth; that smile which seemed to meet everything and nothing, and hardly reached his eyes nor matched the rest of his complacency. Perhaps that smile was like an exposed knife, blade out and threatening. "The prince of paradox himself," Seren spoke, his words laced in with a note of approval. The author was one he knew well, Seren fancied it when he might coax one of the elder Blackwood children into reading for him. Unfortunately feigning illiteracy had it's slights; this inability to keep a private collection of novels the first and foremost flaw with his guise.

Whilst a shame... the perquisites outweigh any consequence - oh, what great and terrible secrets were carelessly left for his viewing. He was relaxed, shoulders dropped slightly and left hand resting comfortably at his hip, though his wings remained firm drawn against his back. "The trouble is what are dreamers but doomed visionaries, kindred to Cassandra of Grecian myth to utter doomed prophecy ever mistaken by those whose feeble little ideals cannot comprehend the method of their madness?"

Where did that leave him? Seren dreamt of a world unlike this, that was true. However out of reach his vision and how closely he guarded it's intricacies, it was his aim to achieve it. He could have the whole resting in the palm of his hand, but none of it would matter if no one else noticed. Digging through the masses, overcoming challenges, scraping by and unafraid to get their hands dirty with muck under the nails, held nothing of value if they couldn't be told how well they've done, that we're proud of you, you've done well for yourself, great job. Was he a conqueror, that wield his blade without mercy, cast garish scarlet across in his wake? No. He was something else.

Sacrifice.

The word seemed to echo in the confines of his skull, seemed to accuse him with silent mockery. Seren's eyes were the hues of the forest, surrounded by dark moss. It was the kind of earthy green that revives the grass after a cruel, unforgiving winter. Interwoven shades hiding the chaotic nature behind. Never before have eyes held such danger and beauty all at once. Much like his own nature: reckless, untamed, yet undeniably captivating. They burned at the three-syllable word with such intensity, the white of the world's background seemed to glow and heighten, all else fading around him. Sacrifices were often made when change was inevitable. It was nature's way, after all, selecting its finest candidates from the weakest. And the evidence of it was all around them.

A light, airless chuckle escaped his lips. "Mmm... but I am many things. A lover, a fighter... and all that." He tilts his head, with a quint of his eyes and a wry grin. "Suppose that makes me a conundrum."

His body is a double edged sword; the same hands that pay devotion to every curve of the body were the same that polish and sharpened his blade so attentive, the same bedroom eyes that lulled others into heady lust knew how to leave a man or woman in ruin. War lends itself to lust with a finesse that cannot be denied. He was born to ruin men, and born to love them in the same way– without remorse, without hesitation, full of fire and passion and breathless excitement. The blood of victors and aristocrats may run within the veins of these men and women... but at night it was within the altar of Seren to which they spoke their prayers into his thighs. Even he was no stranger in partaking in the ritual. He had given up a great deal of himself in order to perfect his long-standing dream. He had carved an immeasurable portion of himself. Without it, his vision would have faltered.

It was not the heat of the hearth fire, or the orange-yellow cast into the interior of the room that made this place feeling much warmer. These events were oftentimes a complete and utter bore; frequently Seren would arrive fashionably late, and turn in early. Asher's company was a welcome change of pace. What was it, he saw, shimmering across Asher's face—a wisp of something, like a hair out of place, a brush of fingers then it was gone. "Yes, well," the left side of his faint red lip tugged upward creating a sinister smirk on his face; casting a spell of lust to eyes that dare look his way. "That is likely the only context in which my purity exceeds your own, hmm?" Asher didn't say anything about his father, he didn't expect him to. The light jest was meant to distract from whatever conflict self-deprecating Seren sense brewing in the air.

Seren saw parts of himself mirrored in this young man- a wayward soul, currently adrift. Just a shadow compared to his sire -- not even good enough or worthy enough of his undivided attention. He couldn't even look in the mirror or at his own accomplishments without finding some place where he had fallen short of expectation or could have done more to achieve his potential. He had even seen disappointment in his father's eyes before he disappeared, and that was its own blade to the heart. Could it be the same for Asher... or were this a mere trick of the night? He had been deceived in the past.

He held the others gaze momentarily before turned slightly to pluck a pair of champagne glasses off the tray of a passing server. Seren extended one in silent offering.

The faerie's eyes seemed to turn this way and that, nose wrinkling with the stray feeling of impatience each time they met with that of a passing noble. "Do you suspect your absence would be immediately noticed?" he wondered aloud, with a smile which knew how to lie its way to reach his eyes. He lowered his voice, casting a disdained glance at the dance floor. "I can attest that the back gardens do look lovely this time of year. A pity the others take such beauty for granted." He observed with mild, albeit gracefully veiled, amusement as Lord Blackwood's eyes landed on him briefly, before the lord was all but swept away by his wife for the dance. With his bout of disorder accomplished, there's nothing wrong with a calculated retreat.

Even Lord Blackwood's favor would not protect him entirely from swift retribution, it'd be a pity if this night ended on a sour note. Or worse, those manicured nails in that horrid shade of mauve, might be back handed against the lovely canvas of his face.

Last Edit: Mar 11, 2020 5:00:03 GMT by Seren Culvért

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 11, 2020 20:30:11 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 11, 2020 20:30:11 GMT

    It was pleasing to have a fellow fan among the same author. His brothers had never been keen on the particular majesty that flowed from that Wilde ink. Listening to the other's darkening premonitions of doom and dreams none of the short-sighted in this room could comprehend the coming of.
It was in the air though, or maybe it was just Seren himself projecting the aura, but Ash could feel it. Like Hell froze over. His pale skin prickled at the sensation, a visible shudder ruffling feathers that glimmered in the flickering lights, as if the shadowy quills where alight with anticipation.
The smell of freedom was flitting through the air under the halfling's nose.
A surge in his chest exploded, fireworks in the vacancy behind his ribs.
Seren's presence had a powerful effect on the young Fae-blooded man beside him. Asher felt a rise in his brain. Invisible fingers massaging his mischievous tendencies.
He liked the feeling.
Like electricity in his veins.

"What's a conundrum if not an excuse to explore a topic?"
The Raven inquired, a wicked look in pale pools of intrigue flashing through his lidded stare.
Finally a soiree worth attending. These affairs were always absolutely droll and dreary with the same stiff pleasantries exchanged while Nobles stroked their own egos and flaunted their wealth like a room full of demonic peacocks all trying to see whose feathers flashed the brightest.
He'd seen it a thousand times over, always the same, and all of a sudden, it wasn't.
Nothing about this party had been usual for Asher, thus far.

  A prod was made towards his lack of experience behind closed doors and Asher glanced away, feeling that tightness in his chest that came with being overly exposed and unprepared. He wasn't quite sure how to respond to such a knowing remark and instead chose to ignore it, waiting the moments passing to reflect on his companion's following words.
He honestly didn't know, at this point, if his absence would please or anger his family further. Perhaps it would be best to not push his luck, seeing as how Felicia had stormed off rather instantaneously before.
_{"The Gardens."}Echoing the word with a thoughtful look. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been in the garden here before. If he had he couldn't recall, but he'd come to find many of his memories had holes in them, missing pieces, like his brain was trying to hide things from him.
"Sounds lovely," Asher agreed with a gentle nod, following the other man's stare towards the Duke in the distance, noting the brief but intense look that had passed between both Darius and Seren.
He couldn't help but wonder what the story was there. The only parts he'd heard were the gossips of scandal, but as with gossip, the facts were few and often wrongly expanded upon. Whatever the truth of the matter was, there was something there.

  The Blackbird's eyes shadowed over, thoughts strobbing in his intense gaze.
Regardless, some fresh air would probably be a good thing as his hands fell into the pockets at his side, wings hunching up on his back. A shield made of feathers were holstered behind the young noble.
Something about the interaction between the two men before, that small stare that had said so much. Ash couldn't stop thinking about Seren's perceived feelings for the Duke.
A forbidden love, maybe?
That felt tragic.
He could feel a sympathetic pain in his chest as he made to nod once more.
Certain it would be good to get away from the party, even for a short time.

  That was, until he turned to look for the direction of the garden, but was met instead with a stare like a Lioness about to maul the antelope sat before it.
A sharp smack masked by the sound of the music struck the side of Asher's face, forcing his head to jolt, bangs hanging like a thick curtain of night over the noble's features. Felicia stood before him, huffing in anger and clearly unhindered in her rage given the shadowed corner they'd stood in.
"You ever embarrass the Branwen name by engaging in such whore-ish acts, with, with, that prostitute!?" Gesturing to Seren in her fury fueled tirades.
"What can I say, Madam," Asher chuckled, his face still mostly hidden but the unhinged grin curling the corner of his lips in an almost manic looking smile, "I am the bastard son of a 'whore', after all," quoting the word his un-mother often used to describe the woman who'd given birth to him.
"It's in my nature, is it not?"
Felicia's eyes widened and then narrowed as her hand raised to strike the half-blood before her, but instead she paused, hand shaking in the air between them before being dropped and letting out a low growl in the back of her throat. Nails like a harpy's talons, digging into Asher's arm as she pulled the boy close to hiss in his ear.
"Push me much further, and I will R I P those tainted appendages of the Devil from your shoulders. Do I make myself clear, Bastard."
"As clear as the vodka spewing from your breath," Asher scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a soft laugh that elicited another noise of exasperation from the woman who regarded the two Fairies, half and full, like they were worms beneath her heel, then turned and stormmed off, leaving Asher to raise his head. His expression once more steady and rather un-expressive.
The noble raised an arm towards the garden, his entire demeanor completely disregarding the exchange that had just unfolded.
"Shall we retire to the garden? I do wish to see if it's as lovely as you say."

Last Edit: Mar 11, 2020 20:35:16 GMT by Asher Branwen

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 12, 2020 20:11:57 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 12, 2020 20:11:57 GMT

He certainly did like to talk, didn't he? There was nothing wrong with a great speech or words. Seren enjoyed words when he was given a chance to use them freely, but words could be telling, especially when he used them so liberally. If there was one thing that Seren learned early when he moved into her Darius' house, it was that words were just another weapon in the arsenal, and sometimes they could be such a double-edged thing. Talk too much or say just the wrong thing, and it was like giving someone the rope to hang you with.

Seren did not give people rope. He forced others to make their own knots, but a myriad of irritation and pleasant buzz of champagne dissuade his usual cautioning, letting him talk about beliefs and dead things and hauntings while the fire peppered his words with the occasional crackle of punctuation. Occasionally he would lift the crystal to his lips as if to drink, only to change his mind at the last second and tilt his head as though a profound thought crossed his mind, when in reality... he still knew better than to allow himself the luxury of the release of his more primitive state of mind. Best not get swept away.

Seren wondered about other things. He did not know what haunted Asher, only held an inkling of suspicion, and it had nothing to do with an empty bed or the weight of his father on his memories. Those were things that could be shrugged aside and shed, just as Seren had stepped away from poverty, stepped out of his place in the shadows as the high class whore into becoming the muse. Even his unexpected emergence as the faerie scion was just another shed of old skin, the hanging of an old identity. They were important, identities, to be true... they helped mold one into what they were today, but at the end of the day the past was the past, and you should only have eyes for who you were not, and who you could yet become. Seren watched Asher, noted with a cry smile that he was sidestepped to say anything on the topic of purity but when he kept wondering about the question in his mind —who are you really, darling?— the only thing he kept coming up with was a question mark.

Reaching up, his thumb pressed into the indent of Asher's chin and turned Asher's head until his eyes were upon him once more. "Rare is the union of beauty and purity," he says, gently. Fingers smoothed across the plain of his cheek to tuck hair behind his ear. "My people believes that flesh and fëa are strictly related, intertwined, thus each bodily union gives away a part of your fëa— your spirit." He offered Asher a wry little grin, his eyes bright as kindling. "I see no shame in safe guarding one's fëa." His hand moved to lace with Asher's, and he pressed there a soft and formal kiss. This contact, he felt was permissible.

To him, standing on the edge of the ballroom, even with Asher's sure heat and strength right by, the whole world was a massive tangle of barbs.

That harsh duality was what made their tentative, quiet companionship unique, perhaps. This man was just as uncannily perceptive as he was. It was odd to be on the receiving end of casual, precise observations. The fabric of the cloth sucked the stray tear into its heat. If only the rest of the damage could be washed away so easily. But no, this was an experience, and a lesson. He promised herself long ago that she would take in everything life had to offer, the good and the bad. He would learn and flourish and...

Seren would do many things, he was sure, but not this night.

This night was for rest, to pick up the pieces.

Where Darius was concerned he was responsive; a puppet on a string. It was an uncomfortable revelation. This deep, vaguely itchy feeling did not match his grand ideations of what love would be. He had suspected for some time now that the eagerness that bloomed in his chest where encounters with him were concerned was not entirely stemming from friendly roots. Seren's heart swam with half-formed regrets, heart ached as though blood had become tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat. It hurt in its own way, but the pain had become an old friend, and Seren was too used to pretending to let his mask slip even as he took another sip of her champagne (suddenly much too bitter) and listened as Asher considered his suggestion.

It took a few minutes for him to collect himself, demons banished with a sip of blanc de noirs, leaving them abandoned and alone.

Well, not alone. Seren turned his head and saw someone else approaching. Not everyone had lost their nerve, it seemed. This woman was also clearing showing her vexations one way or another. Seren's wings flattened against him as if a wall had materialized behind him, and stood there coquettishly. In his arrogant triumph, he smirked — just a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. "Lady Branwen," he coos in greeting, releasing the other's hand to grasp at the his waist cape as he curtsied with a flourish.

SMACK!

Oh dear. That looked as though it hurt.

Any sympathies he might share we kept off his features. Seren might as well have been made of stone. He watched the half faerie's features brighten into a grin that would have looked more welcome on one of the hungry wolves out in the woods. He listened simply as the noblewoman called him a whore (she wasn't wrong), and when it became apparent that he had control of the situation, Seren blinked and kept his face a perfect mask that revealed nothing.

Had he not grown up under his father's thumb, he would of hissed or lashed out or thrown up hands in irritation at the mild assault that it was absolutely revolting for someone who called themselves a mother to ever lay hands upon any child in their keeping, be the child theirs or otherwise. It would only escalate the situation though. Seren could not be porcelain: he was steel. And steel did not stoop to being baited by idiocy, no matter how tempting it would have been to do so.

It didn't stop Seren from thinking, however, and his immediate thought was that he should see how far Felicia's husband's love for the Fair Folk stretched personally to spite her. "Heavens, that woman is insufferable," he bemoaned, unconcerned if the still retreating woman in question overheard. It were times such as this that Seren could reaffirm his sexuality. Felicia's presence had deftly washed over him as though the embodiment of a dip in a frozen lake. There was a flicker of intrigue for why Asher remained, if this was his company at the Branwen estate.

Curiosity bloomed, but he let it die on the vine.

"It would be my pleasure," his head would cant to the side, and a smile that was unreadable as ancient text arrived on his face, a wink offered as he reached over and looped the outstretched arm around his. Fingertips rubbed against the other as if they were still able to detect the creaminess Asher's silken fingers left behind. While it didn't change the swirling bright of his grass-stained eyes, edges of his face briefly softened.

After exchanging a final glance towards the waltzing Blackwood's, Seren stole off, arm and arm with Asher, from the well-illuminated dance hall and into the naturally dimmer gardens. He tired of feigning interest and awe at talks which made his stomach curdle if any emotion at all. He was bored of battling doe green eyes while carefully dodging the sight of his dearest love in arm with that woman. Besides, who would notice him gone for fifteen - twenty minutes?

They passed fragrant flower bushes and marble fountains lining their way. "Ahhh... peace and quiet, at last," he sighed, eyes contended as he admired the entrance of the hedge maze.

Asher Branwen
Nobility

Blackbird of the Branwen House

Posts: 33

every face a different shade (open) Mar 12, 2020 21:24:51 GMT

Quote

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 12, 2020 21:24:51 GMT

    Asher would be forever thankful the altercation with his drunken "mother" would go rather unspoken of, save for the blunt comment on the quality of Felicia's companionship. The statement did not go unnoticed by the Raven winged noble who let loose a huff of amusement.
Honestly, that was Felicia being rather restrained as far as Asher could tell. Truly, he expected a lot more than that, but he supposed she was doing her best not to create a spectacle.
Part of him wanted to do exactly that now, the sudden urge, but he'd done enough damage for one night. He knew that, and he really wasn't keen on the spotlight it would take to create such a scene.
No, he'd had enough eyes on him. The solitude of outside sounded far more appealing.
"That's just how she expresses her motherly affections," Asher spoke dryly, the raise in his brow signifying the sarcasm of his words.
There was nothing, in the least bit, motherly or affectionate about that woman.
^{The bitch.}He could still feel the damning sting of her hand on his face. He was accustomed to it, but it was far more humiliating with an audience of any size.
That irked him.
His hair slunk over his face to hinder the sight of the red that flared up, evidence of the palm's harsh witness.

  Liberating, the feeling of fresh air brushing past his skin, ruffling his hair and clothes when the door parted to let in a burst of refreshing winds just beyond the confines of the toxic fumes building up within these walls. The upper class and their seething ire and manipulations like a suffocating cloud.
The sensation of outside was almost intoxicating.
There was a freedom that could only be found beneath the open sky. Claustrophobic as the young Branwen was, even that room, with all those people, had begun to be way too much for him. Felicia's ire not having helped the situation.

    "Preferible," Asher spoke in a breathy voice, relishing the freedom he felt when it was only himself and the other Fae. He didn't get the same feeling of being observed like a specimen with Seren.

    He let those midnight streaked wings of his burst wide, reaching out as far as they were able in a much needed stretch, careful to refrain from knocking them into anything. He felt so much more at ease when he could do that. Not even his room allowed for such space.
Perhaps if he did not have towers of books easily knocked over by the appendages he may, but alas, he loved harboring the various tomes of magic far too much.
His powers were no easy match for his brothers and their innate ability to spin spells where Asher struggled for weeks to get one absolutely right and even then, his magics were never a match against his elder siblings. The only place he had exceeded them was with Abyssal magic. The art of utilizing the energies of the Infernal to manipulate the physical world, or as some would say dark magic, said to be linked to the magics of Hell or at least some variation on the Underworld.
Whether or not that was true about Asher's particular strain of magic was still up for much speculation. But where he excelled in one field, his brothers could cross and master nearly any.
He had to admit, despite his disdain for Witches as a whole, he did wish his own powers were stronger. If only to keep up with those of his enemies.
But he could not.

  The young Branwen gave his wings a gentle waft before letting them hang loosely from his back, the feathers sprawling out across the walkway, like a cape made from the quills of a blackbird.

  "It's so beautiful," Asher remarked, his eyes so pale they almost looked white in the glare of the moon smiling down at the garden from above.
The smell like an ensemble of perfumes all singing out in perfect harmony.
Roses and lilies, so sweet and fragrant and calming.
The smell was a comfort.
How he'd never been out here before, he did not know. It was certainly an overlooked space. Asher mused it might've been such a more grand affair to have the gathering in this setting, but he supposed those upturned noses much preferred the hoity-toity factor of showing off their more expensive arts rather than the artistry of their gardens.
Ah well. It was their own loss, after all.

      "Is that a maze?"
  Asher's head tilting like a quizzical cat who'd just spotted movement from the corner of their eye.
He had to wonder what it took to upkeep such a creation, the constant trimming it must need, or for that matter, how much attention this garden took in general. They must have an army of gardeners for all this.
The roses huge and billowing out, showing of their healthy and vibrant colors, visible clearly even in the soft lighting filtering out through the windows of the manor and the stars twinkling overhead.
Some gardener had shown these plants a great deal of love and attention.
Asher admired that, relishing the thought of the hands that kept these flowers' hearts beating strong.

Seren Culvért
Commoner

Posts: 29

every face a different shade (open) Mar 13, 2020 3:05:29 GMT

Quote

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 13, 2020 3:05:29 GMT

This decadent little gem was tucked away and protected by the high rises of the luxurious estate; the gardens a piece of paradise for a nature starved fey. The garden always seemed more beautiful under starlight. It was as if the gift of the moon wasn't darkness, but liquid enchantment, washing out the world to show what was there all along, nature in all her humble brilliance. The marigolds became gold, the grass the greener than over every fence, roses in every shade of red from cherry to merlot. There were plenty to admire, aside from colorful rose bushes that aligned the walkways, the secluded grove of Japanese cherry blossoms was a favorite of his.

Though obscured by a flare of light, something in his face seemed to fall with the distant declarations echoing out as he slipped out into the gardens with Asher. Not caring enough to veil his sudden relief, he sighed and glanced almost wistfully at the hedges. After a brief moment of contemplation, Seren broke away and took up a perch on one of the benches and reached down as he began to unlace his boot. "These have been bothering me all night, they are coming off immediately," he warned, pausing in his once in his endeavor to send Asher a look of feigned horror. "Oh! A glimpse of ankle... how scandalous! You may avert your eyes if my promiscuity offends your delicate sensibilities." The faerie swayed back as if about to swoon for added effect to his dramatics. There was no barb in his words but a very present teasing tone.

With a small difficult, he proceeded to ease the slightly heeled boots free and placed them on the floor beside him, one by one. He almost moaned as hours of tension was gently eroded by the action. But even as he melted under his relief, neither would he of chosen a different set of footwear.

There was an act of defiance when Asher looked at him, his eyes clouded. The Branwen bastard would be brave and persevere in an ever-changing world that lusted after its own bitterness. People were going to point their fingers whenever they had the opportunity and push the blame on others for their own insecurities. Lemmings would often follow lemmings. Humans were notoriously the same. Majority were unable to hold original thought. They would much rather allow the blind lead the blind, and become fools of their own folly. They will agree because everyone else agreed, even if they didn't understand the subject in its entirety. They feared opposition, being different, changing their opinion to avoid ridicule and disassociation.

If you aren't like us, then what the hell are you?

"What a mercy it is then, that nobility affords its women to hire a wet nurse... lest her own brood have suffered hypothermia," was all Seren offered to his companion as he rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders. The faerie gave himself a moment to scan the terrain, note the position of the moon and consider how much time he'd have before someone went looking for him.

Then Asher opened his wings for the first time and Seren forgets to think about anything.

The wind was soft, ruffling black feathers gently as Asher seemed to soak up the moonlight, the pale tendrils shimmering across glossy fathers, and the amount of colors that spread across the span couldn't be counted. He didn't realize that black could shimmer in such fashion.

"Oh, most certainly," the faerie agreed, although his gaze remained fixated on the raven haired man in front of him. "Tis a wonder no one else sees what I see," the former was added softer, barely more than a breath.

The faerie's own wings remained calmly at his beck. It remained an unspoken fey custom; a barrier, for the wings were said to be the heart of what they were, the tangible manifestation of fëa, vulnerable and fragile and touching them without permit is the worst violation one can commit. His gaze follows Asher's down towards the maze. "Why, yes," Seren answers, nodding. "It extends around the property, the Blackwood's own personal labyrinth should they need an escape." The faerie knew these grounds as though the back of his hand, however his knowledge of this puzzle was yet unsolved. The main branch of the family were the only ones disclosed with such knowledge, and no amount of pressing or prying had managed to coax an answer of the children, not even the youngest boy.

Seren knew the stories though. A young woman's face painted on the main office over the mantle had piqued his curiosity, and from that sparked a interest in the estate's history; he heard rumor of the faerie slaves kept then, how they had used their very life blood to water the grounds into fertility and kept up the garden, restoring what was once a place of death and decay into life and beauty. Curious... wasn't it, that the humans here had yearned for an ounce of light and beauty, and what they caused in turn was the very opposite, components contrived of darkness and destruction.

Give No Quarter

Greetings

Site Statistics

CBOX

Credits

every face a different shade (open)

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 1, 2020 6:49:28 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 1, 2020 9:42:13 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 2, 2020 6:50:15 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 2, 2020 8:49:23 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 3, 2020 7:02:33 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 3, 2020 19:40:59 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 4, 2020 22:56:59 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 5, 2020 20:08:38 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 7, 2020 20:12:13 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 8, 2020 6:05:26 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 11, 2020 4:51:54 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 11, 2020 20:30:11 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 12, 2020 20:11:57 GMT

Post by Asher Branwen on Mar 12, 2020 21:24:51 GMT

Post by Seren Culvért on Mar 13, 2020 3:05:29 GMT