[OPEN]

[chronosynthesis]

WHO: Syrlya and You
WHAT: Syrlya gets cursed, and then has one bad day after another so he runs away to the hotsprings
WHEN: ~few days after the spring dance until last day of spring. Closed prompts through end of Summer
WHERE: The farm, around town, the hotsprings
WARNINGS: There is NSFW in these parts

[Do Not Agitate the Goddess (mute) | Edge of the Woods + His Farm]

[Syrlya gave it a few days, at least didn't confront the Goddess about her questionable habits at the dance itself. It doesn't go terribly well.

He marches away from the pond, his expression is twisted into a scowl and fists balled. Anyone who crosses his path in the immediate aftermath is met with irritation, and then a pointed turn of his face away as he marches down the path.

After a few hours he's had some time to cool off--though he's still sulking, toiling on his farm ripping up weeds and pushing new seeds into the dirt. If they didn't have to do this to eat, he'd let this goddess know right where she can--]

[Twice cursed (blind) | Other people's farms]

[Luckily, going mute only lasts for a day, and then it's back to normal. For a couple days, at least. Until he wakes one morning to the room being strangely dark, like the sun itself was snuffed out--no, but it isn't the sun that's the problem. It's his eyes.

The morning is a panic. A level of fear he doesn't often feel as he's suddenly lost the sense most important to him.

The first trip is a stumble to the clinic... unsurprisingly, when dealing with a talking plant it doesn't offer any answers except that they, at least, don't seem to be injured. Nobody there accuses the goddess, but an errant magical effect... Syrlya can only think of one person who is capable.

So, his option is to wait it out for now, see if it clears up on its own. That is... not optimal. But ultimately Syrlya can't find any better options.

Doesn't mean he can't try and do what he needs to. So, using a glittering sword as a makeshift walking stick (watch your feet) Syrlya strides out of the farmhouse.

Or rather, trips out of it, hitting a few walls along the way. And then he's on a truly blind path, tripping and crawling over other people's fences with no real idea of his orientation. Just where he thinks it is. The warmth of the sun isn't helping him as much as he wishes it did.

Anyway. Sorry if he tramples your flowers.]


[Make That Thrice Cursed (table) | The Town]

[The blidnness clears up after two days as if it never happened. So not a malady after all, it seems. So Syrlya goes into town to finish errands he intended to before the weekend. He's just headed down the street with a bag of groceries more varied than the limited vegetables from their garden... when it hits.

A plastic folding end table drops seemingly from thin air and smacks right onto his head. Syrlya buckles with a startled cry, his bag tumbling out of his arms and spilling to the ground.]

((His plotting post is over here if you want a more custom starter or simply something else!))

Comments

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya purses his lips into a thin line. Not often, because their destiny called them to a great and terrible war. Not often because it claimed Trahearne's life, and for seven years time together was only a grieving fantasy.

Would it not be the and again when the return?

But he tilts his head over and offers a smile.] You're right about that.

[pactmarshal]

[ It's been a blink of an eye for Trahearne. Soon the number of days he's spent in Crescentview will outnumber those he spent in Mordremoth's hold; the buildup to which already feeling like a distant event. He thinks of all the time they spent together since Syrlya was a sapling. That it has been seven years since his death for Syrlya is still a bit difficult for him to grasp.

For now, he's just grateful they get to do this at all.

Trahearne returns the smile, warm and kind and fond. ]

I'd say we make the most of it. [ He wants their conversation to last into the wee hours of the morning. ] I want to know everything, Commander. What has life been for you since Maguuma? How has the farm life been treating you?

[chronosynthesis]

It's... quiet. Mostly, except for that blighted goddess and her problematic meddling. [He frowns. Yes, he could do with a lot less of her still.

Did Trahearne ask about his life back in Tyria? He's pretending he didn't hear that.]

[pactmarshal]

Language, Commander.

[ Trahearne frowns in turn. He is still a little afraid that the goddess can un-make him.

He did notice that not all of his curiosity has been satisfied, but he won't touch on that for the moment. ]

Has she truly been that much of a bother to you? I can't imagine there've been other incidents.

[ He's thinking about when he kissed van Zieks against his will. ]

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya fixes Trahearne with a flat look before he dramatically rolls his eyes. He will not watch his language.]

I do not take kindly to someone muddling my will or senses, and she seems to throw her power around with abundance to manipulate us. I don't trust it.

[Gods, not even once.]

[pactmarshal]

I understand. You are free not to trust her, but do not forget what she has done for us.

[ "Us." Trahearne returns the look with narrowed eyes of his own. He knows this is complicated, but outright antagonizing her will get them nowhere.

At least the manipulation seems mostly harmless at this stage... Mostly. ]

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya crosses his arms, almost pouting as he mutters.] Oh I won't be forgetting how she stole my voice and my sight.

[He sighs, waving a hand dismissively.] I don't want to talk about this.

[He was just starting to relax and yet the water soothe all the marks Adelis left on him.]

[pactmarshal]

[ A flash of fury glints in Trahearne's eye, his composure and goodwill quickly evaporating. ]

She did what?

[ Syrlya did nothing wrong (or so he thinks). Why target him like that?!

The marks, rashes on Syrlya's wrists do not go unnoticed either. His expression collapses into a full-on frown as he scoots closer in the water, grabbing Syrlya's arm before he can hide it beneath the surface again. ]

Did she do this to you too?

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya would agree, he did nothing wrong.

But his own complaining is interrupted as Trahearne grabs his arm. He turns to stare, bewildered... and then he realizes what his foolish mistake had been.]

Oh, uh--no. No, that was from... something else.

[His face flushes in embarrassment as just the memory of it puts a pit in his stomach that he does not need right now. This was not something he meant for Trahearne to see.]

[pactmarshal]

Something else?

[ Trahearne parrots, as though he cannot imagine there could be more out there who would want to harm his commander.

He leans over to get a better look, letting his thumb run gently over the mark. ]

Then what happened?

[chronosynthesis]

Nothing bad I assure you. [He didn't ask the details with Kaeya, he doesn't want to share them himself. His face is still gold.] There was just, you know, a particular bingo square of mine. It's fine.

[pactmarshal]

[ That Syrlya doesn't elaborate tells Trahearne enough. Plus, he vaguely recalls one of the more salacious squares mentioning something like marks from the few times they've compared cards. ]

You've had sex.

[ Trahearne's expression is unreadable as he stares at his commander, a pang of...jealousy? muted under the tight lid he keeps on his feelings.

He gently lowers Syrlya's arm back into the water. ]

I hope whoever it was does not mean you any genuine harm.

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya pulls his arm back, absently rubbing his wrist as he plunges it into the water. He expected it to be embarrassing but he didn't think Trahearne would be... upset?]

He doesn't. It was agreed upon to complete a square for each of us and with someone I trust. I am bruised but not harmed.

[pactmarshal]

[ Trahearne will insist he is not upset, of course. The look on his face and his posture saying otherwise.

He leans back in the water. ]

All right.

[ His lips are pressed into a thin line, amber eyes piercing Syrlya in his stare. ]

But if anyone ever does harm you, tell me. I will not let you suffer alone.

[ He will not enquire further, nor will he press the issue. He isn't one to talk. ]

[chronosynthesis]

If someone does attempt to harm me, I'll leave them with twice the bruises in return. [He glances aside to Trahearne.] But if there were any actual danger, you would find out.

[If he goes for rough sex pt 2, though, he isn't telling Trahearne shit.]

[pactmarshal]

[ There's a brief pause before Trahearne's expression softens, a smile tugs at his lips. ]

You have always been a powerful fighter.

[ Of course he would. He thinks if there were any actual danger, it would come to him through the grapevine, or perhaps through someone else entirely. He doubts, especially with his limited power now, he would be rather useless if the situation called for it.

Trahearne sinks back into the water, going back to his original spot, gaze drifting out over the hot springs. He isn't sure what this feeling is that grips his throat, but he feels...awful. His proverbial heart aches. Like asking had been the wrong decision, though he went in with wrong intentions. Like he's driven a wedge between them that just widens the already impossibly large gap that separates them.

He doesn't say anything else. ]

[chronosynthesis]

[Meanwhile, Syrlya would really like to dissolve into this pond so he doesn't have to contemplate future conversations with Trahearne about his kinky sex adventures because Trahearne mistakes them for an attack.

He reaches to rub his cheeks, willing the evidence of his fluster to disappear. And otherwise, he lets the silence sit between them.]

[pactmarshal]

[ He doesn't know! They were just talking about the goddess exerting her will over people!

The silence hangs over them for a long, long while. The tension does eventually evaporate from Trahearne's shoulders and thought process, but that doesn't make it any less awkward.

Eventually, he shifts in his spot, a little tired of sitting in the water. He lifts himself to sit on the edge of the pool instead, his feet still submerged. ]

I brought some of our mushroom harvest for dinner.

[chronosynthesis]

Oh? [Syrlya looks up (and up and up) and a small smile graces his lips.] That sounds nice. I brought some sliced turnip we could have with it.

[pactmarshal]

That sounds delicious.

[ Syrlya's smile is met with another, slightly more hesitant one. It eases Trahearne's feelings, which have now been lidded and locked and buried.

That's been getting more difficult lately.

He lifts himself from the water and stands, speaking as he stretches: ]

I'm going back to camp now, but shall we take a little walk next?

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya looks down at his arms as he pulls them from the water. He probably doesn't want to steam for too long and over hydrate.]

That sounds acceptable. [He hauls himself out of the hot spring, shaking to get as much water off of him so he can grab his clothes within too much mess.] I should be dry by the time we return to camp.

[pactmarshal]

[ Trahearne nods, then turns away to shake the excess water from his hair and begins to regrow his clothes.

It sounds like they're going back together. So it doesn't matter if he's finished by the time Syrlya's ready, he can regrow and walk. ]

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya folds his clothes up, boots in the other hand before he turns to Trahearne to start the walk back to camp. If he's holding his clothes up in a way that his torso scar isn't so visible... well, he'd rather not kill the mood of their outing a second time.]

[pactmarshal]

[ Luckily for Syrlya, Trahearne only glances briefly in his direction, flashing him a smile, before setting off on the path back to camp.

And when they arrive back, Trahearne stands by his bed roll and turns his gaze upward, mentally making a note of which way is town, which way is to the springs, and what part they have yet to explore.

He waits for a moment before turning to Syrlya. ]

Ready?

[chronosynthesis]

[He pats himself to ensure he's dry enough, and then starts pulling all of his clothes back on.

The gloves are last, after his boots, and he flexes his fingers before he looks at Trahearne with a nod.] I am. Where are we walking?