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[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!))

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The hells it does.

[ It comes out more of a snap, and he turns his glare to the table, like he's trying to blaze a hole through the polished wood. ]

So lost in his little newfound affections and drunk off his luxury, it's a wonder if he has any bloody room left in his head to think. Not only that, but who is thinking so little of whom, when he sees fit to turn and fucking flirt in the midst of an argument?

[ There's barely anything left in the glass, but he throws it back anyway. ]

You heard it yourself, anyway. He thinks nothing of me, which is suitable for a coward who has never thought of anything but himself and the coin in his pockets. Be that he would choke on it, it would be a just fate.

[Syrlya hums. He's sure that isn't true--Adelis is important to Mishka. Syrlya's seen that already.

But does it matter when, his heart also trapped under walls, he lashes out instead?

He takes another swig of his some and then extends his hand across the table, palm up. An offering for Adelis to take it, should he desire.]

It isn't fair, is it? [It hurts, is what he means.] That he once saw your potential and now tears you down instead.

You will always be those things, regardless whether he believes in them or not--but that isn't the part that is the problem, hm?

[ Really, why does he care so much. It's not as if the cold bite of Mishka's words isn't something he's dealt with before, for all his years of enduring his critique and blood-soaked lessons. If anything, it's more familiar than whatever off-putting act of normality he's trying to put on in front of everyone else.

Especially, despite his efforts to deny it, when you consider the fact he once sought some sort of approval from him. To have the one person who saw any sort of worth in him once actively throw him off to the side, and turn his attentions without so much as a blink....

It's frustrating. It does twist something in the pits of his stomach, not that he would ever admit it. But what else could he expect?

He stares at the hand for a few seconds, squinting through his glasses as he clearly hesitates despite how inebriated he's getting. But, Adelis finally grumbles and shoves his hand near his mouth, biting the glove off with his teeth before slowly placing his icy grip in Syrlya's. ]

The problem. [ Yes, the problem. There's a lot of problems here, really, and he's not sober enough to bring up all of them, accent slipping as he speaks. ] Perhaps the problem is that I ever expected even the tiniest thing in the first place.

[ Lingering, foolish thoughts from the height of teenage idiocy, he supposes. Thank god he's clearly getting over that! ]

But clearly he and everybody else who falls for his insipid lies are more than enough. If he wants to rot, then he can rot. It will mean nothing to me when he does. Clearly, we were never close for anything of the sort to concern me.

Edited 2023-01-24 12:58 (UTC)

[Syrlya's fingers curl around Adelis' hand his thumb idly rubbing the back of it as Adelis spits venom.]

... he's an utter damn fool. [His expression twists. And with less care in picking his words than usual:] I'm sorry he's wounded you so.

[Because he has, left a fresh mark on Adelis heart in trying to push him to other people. However sympathetic his reasons, Syrlya aches for the grief that Adelis won't quite let out. That he did hold Mishka in regard--and probably closer than most people he would ever let so close to his heart. And Mishka treated it carelessly.

Hm. Maybe Syrlya should have slapped him upside the head before he left.]

[ He tenses, on reflex, at the light brush of the other's thumb on his skin- he's not used to comfort, to succor that isn't the cathartic slice of metal on skin or a liquid burn down his throat. Nobody has done that for him for nigh a decade, not since...

He focuses himself on pouring the last dregs of the bottle in his glass, opting to shove the memory away. He hasn't needed it since, and he doesn't need it now. ]

Hah. Wounded. As if I'd be hurt by him showing his true colors once more, rather than pretending to be somethin' he's not. [ Is what he tells himself, anyway, despite how much harder it is to deal with with his mind muddled by spirits. Still, he's nothing if not the determined sort. ] I've had shivs cut far worse.

[ Well, enough of that. He's wasted enough of his breath on someone clearly with his own priorities, so he opts to turn his attention his drinking partner instead. ]

But surely you didn't come all the way out here just t'listen to the ways I'd gut him given the chance. What, were the other applications not entertaining enough to warrant your scrutiny?

It might surprise you, but I really did plan to come find you after you stormed off. And I don't want anything to do with the rest of that blighted auction anyway.

[There's a twinge of irritation. His hand continues its gentle soothing gesture despite the way his expression falls.]

It has turned only into an embarrassment for anyone put to offer. And then Trahearne had the brilliant idea of putting me up on that board without my permission. You were wise to leave.

[ Blighted. He snorts at that- that's an accurate enough description. Still, Syrlya hadn't sounded as irritated with it before...then again, it's a little hard to focus on anything but the blowup and the flirting now that's near a whole bottle deep. Fuck, he's going to regret this in the morning.

That being said, it's a backseat thought as his eyebrows shoot up, surprised, before his face dips into mild disgust once more. ]

With the supposed fondness he speaks of you with, I would think he would know better than to sell you off to the highest bidder. [ No men over 6'0" can be trusted, apparently. The height comes from the lack of brain. ] And was it half as bloody degrading as mine was?

I don't know what he was thinking. [Syrlya sets the glass down and grabs the bottle to pour... but that's right, there's nothing left in it. He fixes the wine bottle with a glare as if it has betrayed him before he sets up upright again.]

I couldn't even tell it was about me until he admitted it. Though he did feel the need to mention my little dating experience, because I guess when someone looks back at my life the problem is I haven't had enough romantic partners. [He seethes, waving his hand in the air.] He really thought I would just--want to be bid on to go on a date with a random stranger!

[ Adelis watches, for a moment, as Syr's attempts to tip his empty bottle- his own is empty, too, now that he looks. He pushes himself to his feet with a harsh scrape of the chair, letting go of the other's hand to stalk to his cabinet and rip it open, pulling out another past half-empty bottle of whiskey from it's depths. Not too much, but whatever, it'll do.

He taps it on the table before sitting again, pushing it over wordlessly. ]

You're bloody joking. [ Dating experience? Really? Was half this island just full of braindead fucking morons? He takes another sip of his own glass, despite knowing he should probably stop by now. ] While we're at it, why don't they just start listing how many people we've shared a bed with? Since they're halfway there, already.

[ Because lord knows he's not ashamed about sleeping with people, but the last thing he wants is somebody to bid on it expecting him to put out by the description alone. ]

Pack of bloody fuckin'- idiots. Heads full of shite when they ain't empty as can be.

[Syrlya is all to eager to uncork the bottle of whiskey and pour half a glass. He takes a long sip, his face scrunching from the harsh taste but this deep in the alcohol he can't really care that much.]

It's only been you, and that I have no desire to tell him. [He doesn't need his kinky experiences judged.] He's certainly flitted around more people than I have, but that isn't because I can't.

[He grumbles, downing the rest of the glass.] I don't even know what's going through his mind lately. He gives me so many mixed signals.

[ Being a bro here, despite the full bottle of whiskey in his system, he's just...not going to comment on the fact he's one of those people ~~by the time this happens~~. He'll toss back the rest of his glass, before he opts to fill it again- although things are getting the slightest bit fuzzy now. That'll happen after a full fucking glass of whiskey. ]

Not all of us have the desire to throw ourselves at everything that breathes in our vicinity, but, oh, hells forbid you say that. [ Unlike some hoes around here...not naming names... ] Surely, we're more than happy to be sold off to someone we may not even know and spend the whole bloody day in misery.

[ Adelis definitely doesn't have a lot of advice to offer on mixed signals, though...romance is not his forte. He has a crush in denial and that's not working out well for him right now. ]

Either let him spit it out himself, or beat it out of him, in my opinion. I doubt he'll do anything, otherwise.

Would that it would help. [He grumbles into the glass.] I am trying to be patient with him as I know his death is more fresh to him than it is me. He may not feel anything at all and is just--scrambling for control. But I didn't ask for this heartache to be ripped back open after seven years.

[He knocks back the rest of the whiskey in his glass at once, coughing at the end. That taste and felt terrible. But it's grounding.]

[ ...Oh.

That's new information, on his part- he's not entirely sober enough to digest it completely, either, blinking rapidly as he soaks that in. He had been aware some people were in less than favorable circumstances before arrival, but being brought back from the dead is a new one.

...Being an ex-dead man himself, however, he supposes he can't talk, even if he was fully alive before he got here. There's another elephant in the room to be addressed, either way. ]

He can scramble for control where he likes, but he could at least use his bloody brain. [ Adelis scoffs- he's not the nicest person around, and he at least gets the irritation...just, obviously, not in the same way. Obviously. Feelings, he doesn't know her ] What he does with who is hardly my business, but he's asking for a foot up his arse if he wishes to say one thing and then act on another.

[ Like a certain SOMEBODY ELSE... ]

[Syrlya stares glumly in the bottom of his now empty glass, but doesn't yet move to refill it this time. Instead, he only snorts as Adelis gives a harsh response.]

Perhaps trying to set me up with someone else--anyone else, apparently--is his way of clarifying that.

[Mishka's claims still roll through his mind, however. They could just be an exaggeration, and he wouldn't know...

He shakes his head.] I'd rather he use his words, I know he's well aware how to use them. I'm hardly going wilt over a relationship that wasn't possible to begin with.

[So he says but here he is, drinking his frustrations away.]

[ Clarifying. Yes, that sounds about right, doesn't it. What else would be the point, other than trying to force them into interactions with other people? Ones they might not even know? It says leagues, in his fairly drunken opinion. ]

Perhaps it might as well be. [ There's a bitterness in his own voice, as highly debates on worsening his inevitable hangover. ] Not bloody much else you can call it.

[ He has little in himself to comment on the relationship, or lack thereof. It's a topic he's never been particularly well-versed in, even with the irritated bubbling in his chest- but that, in his eyes, is simply irritation. Betrayal, from one of the few people he actually respected in his life, despite his attitude. Acknowledging anything more than that would require there being something-

and there certainly isn't. ]

Unless you wish to force it out of him, which I doubt you've an interest in- Either he works up the fuckin' spine, or runs away from it. [ Or, bluntly, says to your face you were never close- that also works. ] Either way, there's little point in chasing after someone unwilling to be caught...unless it's for coin.

[Syrlya's expression turns to a rueful smile.] Truth be told, I never intended to. It's a poor look for a leader of your military and his second in command to be fraternizing.

[He reaches for the whiskey bottle to pour some more. This is a problem for future Syrlya.] Sure, I wondered about all those 'what if's after, but...

[He knocks back half the glass, his gaze stuck on the ceiling.] Have you ever been in love, Adelis?

[ Ah, yes. They do have that going on, don't they- Marshal and Commander, or whichever. He's never been too heavily invested in military operations, that being a more flavor of those born in Czjzek, but he supposes he can see it.

Not that he has much time to think on that, because the question has his mind grinding to a halt. His fingers cease their absentminded tapping on the glass as he attempts to fully process the question through the haze of booze and sheer audacity, brows furrowing heavily.

It's the alcohol, no doubt, that has his mind drifting to a hand idly ruffling his hair. The amused but genuine praises for his victories, and scathing but honest critiques for his failures. A frustrating, tight sensation in his chest.

I must have misled you.

Of course. ]

...Even if I ever had, in whatever miniscule way, there's no point in it. [ It mildly sobers him for a moment, hot wave of disgust rising anew ( at himself? at somebody else? ) before he pours nearly the rest of the bottle in his glass. He opts not to look at his reflection, to see the frustrated, drunken tint to his face. ] Better a heart closed than a heart broken.

[ The first time had hurt enough. ]

[Syrlya's lips twitch into a rueful smile as he stares up at the ceiling.

No point, huh?] It is... the most bittersweet thing there is. I have seen it inspire people to be greater, and seen it hollow them out until only the shell remains.

[What degree of that he's felt, though, doesn't leave his lips. Instead her brings his head down, gaze firmly down to the table as he slowly sips the rest of his whiskey.] And it has a nasty way of creeping up on you when you least expect it.

[...] Well, if you've never experienced it, it's hard to explain. Sometimes I wish I had been spared all this heartache. Other times... it is the only thing I have left of him.

[ Bittersweet. Perhaps that would be an appropriate term, if he could find any sweet in it. It's only bitter, harsh against his tongue and forcing his senses sharp, as if to maker him fully aware as to the futility of whatever meagre remnants of his apprenticeship remained.

He doesn't want to think about this, grip tightening around the glass. He almost feels the urge to throw it, but it would offer him no satisfaction- just the same furious, empty feeling he's had since he stormed off on his own into the waning light. He can't even feel the burn anymore when he tips the glass back, not even bothering to savor what's left. ]

...'Tis best to let things go before they fester'n rot you from the inside. [ A hypocritical thing to say for him, who uses it as an excuse to close himself off and get by alone. Ostoyans are clannish, but what about those with no clan left to sequester themselves with? Carving out a place a second time is a hardy task. ] But easier said than done.

[ The room is fuzzy at the edges, and he grimaces and tugs his glasses off, letting them sit haphazardly on the table. Not being able to register his own features in the bottom of the glass is a boon, at least. ]

A life is unfair and weighty, no matter what. Yet we see fit to cling to things we couldn't have or can't any longer and make the bloody burden heavier. [ He coils fingers in his hair, stares at how long it's gotten- thinks beyond the fog of how every urge to cut it evaporates when he looks in the mirror. ] Pitiful fucking creatures, aren't we.

That we are. [Is it people in general, though, or just them? Sitting here drinking away their heartache as if liquor could fill the empty chasm deep inside.

He closes his eyes, letting his head hang in silence for a moment before he rapidly blinks his eyes back into focus and looks up at Adelis.] But it feels a little lighter to tell someone. I've... never actually admitted it.

[ He is used to people in general, really- he's the image of the average Ostoyan right now, drowning their woes if but for a moment in the bottle. It does nothing, he finds, besides fuel his discontent and leave a harsh taste on his tongue, but he's far beyond caring now. ]

Be that you're able to remember doin' so later. [ Judging by the slur of his accent, however, the same applies to him. ] But hefting a weight off your chest 'fore it crushes you tends to do more good than not.

[ Says man who would bury his deeper emotions, but even he knows the cathartic sensation of disclosing your grievances behind closed doors. It's just not often he does so to such an extent. He's eyes narrow into a glare at his empty glass, before he scoffs and finally pushes it aside. ]

Although, I'd likely feel better throwin' it at someone else, if my aim wouldn't be so shite right now. Rot-infested bloodbag.

[Syrlya's lips quirk into a wry smile at that. He's sure Adelis would throw a lot more if he had the chance.

But the slur is obvious, so Syrlya thinks maybe he can help just by putting the glasses in the sink and disposing of the bottles. He grips the edge of the table to push himself up, sideways, out of the chair--and then the whole world spins over. He can't even tell which way is up until he actually hits the floor.] Oh!

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