Syrlya | The Commander (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chronosynthesis) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crescentview2022-12-27 05:40 pm
chronosynthesis) wrote in crescentview2022-12-27 05:40 pm
[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!))
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!))
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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!