crescentview | [OPEN]

[OPEN]

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!))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah, yes his many little miracles of nature. [Syrlya sips through the glass of wine before pouring another, much more gently than Adelis does.

He looks thoughtful for a moment, swirling the wine before taking another drink.] How much has he changed from what you remember?

[ Ugh. He doesn't even stop the look of visceral disgust at that familiar line. ]

Miracles of nature, my fucking arse. He acts like I haven't seen those things strip the flesh from someone in minutes and crawl right back into his gaping maw.

[ Another fairly large sip, but at least he doesn't totally hammer it back this time. Probably because he's already simmering at the question, and you can't answer with a mouth full of booze. ]

Substantially. He was cold as all hell, for all his smiles and his playful quips. He never got too close to anyone else, and taught me to do the same, because you never know who will stab you in the back the moment it's turned- and now he has the audacity to try and play bloody matchmaker? Preach to me like he didn't do a near complete turnaround in his sleep? Who the fuck does he think he is?

[Syrlya also slows, because he's paying full attention to b what Adelis says--and fitting it into the things he just saw and the things Mishka told him (before deciding to seduce him instead).]

Ostoya is not kind to those who wear their hearts in the open. [That much he sees in both of them. Adelis' are obvious. But Mishka...

Well, trying to break Adelis' walls for him was doomed from the start. So he nods along.]

He told me you had already moved on from his tutelage. [Another swig of his glass.] But it seems like he's having a hard time letting go of that. At least--from the little I've come to know him.

But he won't tell you why he's changed his perspective?

Of course it isn't. [ The point he tries to make, more oft than not. ] That is merely an invitation to have it ripped apart or stolen, more often than not against your will.

[ It feels good, he thinks. Letting it out. Another swig of his glass, and he nearly empties it again, and he can feel the sharp fuzziness of downing heavy spirits in rapid succession, but it does little to slow his roll. ]

And what has he told you. What a loving mentor he is, or perhaps what an awful little creature he is, instead? Either one would just piss me off equally. Where he gets off treating me like a child who can't even make his own bloody decisions...

[ He doesn't elaborate too much on that one, hand wrapped around the whiskey bottle. ]

And no. He won't tell me a fucking thing. Not only that, but he knows some things about me that I know I've yet to tell him, and then he has the gall to dodge the fucking question and act like I'm imagining things. Does he take me for some kind of fool? I learned from him to begin with! If anybody would know when he's full of horseshite, it's me!

[Syrlya deliberates whether he should mention what Mishka told Syrlya. Whether it's what Adelis wants to hear. But even if he hates it, when part of his anger is the information being withheld from him... perhaps he needs to have all cards on the table.]

... He said that you were meant for greater things. To forge your own future. [His expression twists wryly.] Which does make him quite the hypocrite in telling you how you should live your life now, doesn't it?

[He likes Mishka. He even agrees that he wants to see Adelis be able to take his defenses down.

He's picked a clumsy way to express it. And that's putting it gently.] Nevermind making decisions for you... it never should have been allowed to submit a date application on someone else's behalf.

[ That gives him enough pause he stops mid-drink, slowly putting down his glass to stare at it. For something that tries hard to sound like a compliment…

It just makes him angrier. ]

Greater things? Is he fucking joking? [ The audacity of him, to try and sing his bullshit praises to other people. ] And yet I’m just a child wagging my tongue in tantrum. Destined for far above my station, but only when it’s by someone else’s design? Piss off.

[ Fuck, he’s debating on just hammering the whole bottle at this point. But he restrains himself, if only to down another throat-burning glass. ]

Does he think I do desire the company of strangers just like he does, while he paints a false image for people to gawk at? If I wanted company, I’d bloody well find it myself.

[Syrlya finally slides himself into a chair before pouring more wine for himself.] I am glad you did not slit him right there--I really would hate to see you get cursed by the goddess over his poor judgement.

[ Ah. He didn’t even think to offer a chair or whatever, but too late now, he supposes. ]

Not worth the effort. [ A bitter hiss, thumb running over the rim of his glass. ] Deserved, but I will not get myself cursed more just because he doesn’t know when to shut his bloody mouth.

[ He is a man of temper with opinions, but it has been a long while since he last let his tongue run loose like this. ]

But I suppose it’s ever so difficult to shut one’s mouth when your tongue is constantly shoved in another’s.

He is quite free with his affections. [Syrlya muses, as one of those people who has been on the receiving end of Mishkisses. He stares into his glass before taking another large mouthful.]

And you're among them, aren't you? The people he has touched.

[ That earns a visceral grimace, and he lets his hand drag upwards to rub at his neck, with the fading of bruises and harsh red lines. He absentmindedly scratches a bit too hard, before dragging it away to pick up his glass again. ]

Just an exchange and nothing more. Spur of the moment. And never have I regretted anything more in my miserable life.

[ He doesn’t want to think about the things that led him to accept, which feel more like a festering wound now than anything else.

Reasonably sauced by now and still running on rage- ]

Hope the next time he tries to stick his cock in something, it fucking rots off.

Edited 2023-01-22 20:53 (UTC)

[Syrlya snort, breaking into a chuckle. He probably shouldn't find that as funny as he does, but...] Then he would be forced to shut up by putting his mouth on other things, hm?

[ He allows himself the lightest of smirks at that laugh. It would be what he deserves, wouldn’t it. ]

And wish him on anything besides the burning lick of a bonfire? Hardly. I feel nothing but pity for whoever decides to take his offers for anything.

[ The bottle is nearly halfway by now when he finishes topping up his glass, taking a moment to stare at it. ]

He puts on a good act now, but I suppose once an Ostoyan, always an Ostoyan. He cares for little but himself and whatever indulgent pleasures he can chase.

[Syrlya hums, long and low. He knows Mishka can be incredibly charming, and has no doubt he'll have experiences with other people. He wonders if those will go more like his needling of Adelis, or flattery of Syrlya.]

And you? What is it you care for?

[ He would rather not think of it. As long as they go horribly, that’s all he asks.

The question does bring him pause, face tinted red in his bleary reflection in his glass. His brows knit as he actually thinks on it- something he would probably only do seriously for Syrlya this point, as there are little others he would consent to discussing himself with. ]

…My sense of self. [ A bit vague, but after a moment as his brain catches up through the light blue of alcohol, he continues. ] My independence has always been important. I detested the idea of submitting myself to someone else’s whims, following their every order and vision of me, denying who I am. When an errant creature can steal your mind and slave it, it becomes one of your most important things.

[ His grip tightens.]

He knows this very well, and yet he sees fit to spit on it by attempting to dictate how I should act.

[Syrlya sets his glass down, propping his cheek on one hand as he listens to Adelis intently. That answer is... very fitting for him. Someone who has determined to carve his space out of rot and spoil, and--who Syrlya agrees, has the chance to achieve greater things than just squirreling away in a decaying land.

A lopside smile graces his face.] Then he's even more of a fool than he made himself out to be.

I agree, by the way. If you don't have your mind, then you don't have any life at all.

I thought that was rather obvious. I did say the maggots have finally eaten what's left of his brain.

[ That earns a scoff, but it...feels alright. He's had people listen and agree before, but he's never really been able to unload everything on his mind, used to bottling it up as he is. Then again, being over three glasses deep is probably doing him some favors. ]

...As I have come to believe. [ A smiling face echoes in his mind, an outstretched hand and a pleasant murmur- 'Your body, or your mind?'. ] But I simply cannot stand the idea of caving to weakness. When it rots you from the inside, body and soul, soon enough it will drag everyone else around you in a crushing wave of ruin. I simply chose to not let myself drown.

[ He sounds, vaguely, as if he's speaking from experience. ]

[Syrlya's gaze settles, quiet and thoughtful on Adelis. He catches that, as deep in alcohol as he is. How Adelis' focus pivots from the self to those around him. It isn't just the ruin in brings to himself--he is not an island.]

... I understand. [He looks down at his glass briefly, at the remains of wine in pour number three.] I nearly had my mind torn from me as well by one which would have twisted me into a puppet of their destruction. I saw many of my people fall to it.

[ That earns a bleary blink as he processes that, tapping a finger on the table. How familiar that sounds, huh. Perhaps quite in the same sense, but close enough. ]

...It feels easier to give in, I suppose. [ He does not know the full story, nor does he think he would be able to parse every little detail, but he has enough. ] Better than the suffering. A weak mind is easy to prey on, especially when they've little left to lose.

[ A reality, however sad or brutal it may seem to others not used to the crushing weight. ]

Find someone crushed under the weight enough, and they'll take any chance to lighten the load.

[Syrlya hums in quiet affirmation. He would generally call them "weak" minds--mordremoth's call had been intense. But it was the relief of giving in, of no longer trying to fight that greater presence, of having nothing else... that drew so many of his siblings back to Mordremoth's fold.]

It... certainly isn't an experience I would wish on anyone else. [He's sorry Adelis went through the same.

He downs the rest of his glass.] He really overlooked your best traits, like your strong will and determination. Even your pragmatism. You are the kind of person I'm sure would get anything done if you set you mind to it.

You are far kinder than I am. [ Adelis doesn't hesitate to say that, as it is the truth. ] I feel nothing but disdain. His weakness was his own cowardice.

[ The most specific he's gotten this whole time, but he's already back to nearly downing his 4th glass, the red reaching his ears. It's not as if he's in the mood to hide anything, anyway.

His eyebrow slowly raises as he leans on his elbow, peering straight at the other man for a few moments before deigning to speak again. ]

Keep flirting with me like that and people truly will get the wrong idea. [ Is he joking? Probably. ] Ironically, that's one of the very reasons he gave me for picking me up in the first place. Apparently, however, that doesn't matter anymore.

[Syrlya certainly doesn't argue. There are some simple truths in who they are.

He pauses while reaching for the wine bottle, listening to Adelis and only beginning to move again when he finishes speaking.] You really haven't heard much of a kind word said to you, have you? It's only an observation.

[He begins to pour the last of the bottle. Oh, he really went through this wine much quicker. But it's so much easier to drink.] If I were to flirt I would sooner sing poetry about... your eyes for example. Clearer than any ocean and just as dangerous should you approach carelessly. But if you can grant it proper respect, its cool depths are a welcome relief.

[... Yeah that sounds more like flirting and not just being perspective. He raises his glass for emphasis before taking another sip.]

[ ...Huh. He pauses mid-pour, before slowly tapping the bottle down on the table. He was expecting something more of a denial, or perhaps even a fluster, but doubling down? It's...surprising.

Not as surprising as how he continues, Adelis freezing for a brief moment as if he doesn't know how to react. Perhaps he would keep a cooler head were he not heavily intoxicated, but at the very least his face can't flush much harder. Another quick sip, for the soul. ]

...You and everyone else waxing bloody poetic. [ He is noticeably not making eye contact. ] The only ones with the time to think of such compliments are kindred and nobles looking for new pets and naive, lovesick youth.

[ The former, he's more intimately acquainted with. ]

Most people are disinclined to shell their kind words to street rats.

[Syrlya watches Adelis over the rim of his glass.]

... Well, how do you like it? Everything I've said I mean in earnest.

[What does he feel about receiving real, genuine compliments from someone paying attention to his value?]

[ This time, he takes more time to think about it- it's a genuinely bewildering concept, in his eyes. It feels odd coming from someone who...means it? Part of him doubts, but another has come to gradually accept that Syrlya is, of all things, not a liar.

He stares into the glass long enough his own reflection starts to blur, before he finally speaks. ]

...Well enough. I suppose.

[ A momentary pause, as he struggles with something, before something comes out as another bitter mumble. ]

A great deal better, [ he lifts the glass to his lips again, as if trying to drown out the thought. ] than being called a tantruming child.

Well, yes, that's just an insult. [He takes another sip.] But you said--Mishka noticed the same things I do. It still matters. I don't know why he feels the need to taunt you now but--it matters.

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