(Closed) Aereuer Catch All

[mirshikar]

Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Aereuer
Where: Aefenglom, the Treehouse Enclave, and beyond...!
What: SOL, Quests, Memory Sharing & Building a Cwyld-Spotting Roost. If you'd like to thread with Asura this month, feel free to hmu @ the April CR & plotting post, and we can hash out the details for a starter!
Warnings: In all event threads, cw for: slavery, abuse, and violence. Peppered among all other threads: light violence and some nudity.

Comments

@jin

[mirshikar]

"Oi, Asura! Y'should be in here, drinkin' with us, instead of standin' around like a big ol'fool out there!" [ —hollers one (1) strongman Merrow, the great boom! of their voice rising above the din of the other Liver Let Die patrons to reach Asura where he stands in full occupation of the tavern's patio.

That Asura had agreed to take on a bouncer's role on behalf of the establishment has little to do with personal gain (his earnings? to be swiftly ushered into the hands that need coin the most: the matrons of local orphanages; the Dorchacht refugees still desperately in need of aid) and everything to do with supporting the Habor District, its community, and of course...! Having some fucking fun, the kind that stems only from throwing yourself headlong into knock-down drag-out brawls with good company in tow. And that, t h a t is the reason why Asura tosses a glance back, over his shoulder, through the open double-doors of the tavern to bellow out his response with a sporting grin: ]

Yeah? Well don't you worry, you won't be without this fool's company for long.

[ Because that strongman Merrow? They're a narwhal which Asura knows particularly well, calls both comrade and friend. But what that camaraderie does not do is preclude them from Asura's prerogative as a bouncer on this fine evening, and as much is revealed when Asura makes a show of stretching, relaxing back with his taloned hands clasped behind his head when he continues on: ]

I'll be coming for you sooner rather than later, when you're shit-faced enough to think that it's a good idea to start throwing around punches while I'm still on guard-duty.

[ "That'll be in ten minutes, Asura, we'll let you know!" and "Get ready to get tossed out of here on your ass, Hank!" chorus several more voices from within the tavern itself, laughter and raucous merriment rounding out the intonations before the bar-patrons return to their drinks and Asura returns to bouncing, ensuring that no (already) intoxicated make their way in. But then, there's a face he doesn't recognize, belonging to a man who holds a bearing not unlike Asura's own: as much as Asura is playing the part of doorman, there's no way to hide his King's mien and proud stance. And this stranger...? Well, Asura's known many courtiers hailing from the four great seasonal Courts and beyond— this man, whoever he may be, has got the air of one. And that's why Asura can't help but ask: ]

You sure you're in the right place, friend?

[turmoiling]

[Jin Guangyao most certainly does not look like he belongs here, with his golden robes, slim figure and that polite, if self-assured, bearing. Even without any particular expectations, Asura isn't quite what he had in mind when it came to talking politics... in fact first impressions were of a more jovial Nie Mingjue. But he gives no sign of being concerned about it.]

I had been told I might find Asura of the Mirrorbound Council somewhere around here, and I couldn't help overhearing the name. My apologies for interrupting. My name is Jin Guangyao. [He bows a little in introduction, though keeping his hands folded within his wide sleeves in front of him.] I've been hoping to find someone from the Council to speak with. When you're finished here, would you be willing to sit down and talk for a few moments?

[mirshikar]

Jin, then. [ A recently arrived Mirrorbound, judging by both mannerisms (a bow, overly formal, standing in testament to Asura's former suspicions) and dress (golden robes which no tailor in the city could hope to replicate). Intriguing, that someone so new to the world of Talam should already boast a vested interest in both the Council and its members. Though Asura's greeting is nowhere near so flourishing as Jin's own, when it is offered, it is an earnest sentiment: ] Well met.

There's no need to wait, if you join me instead. You can hardly call manning the other side of the door [ gesturing with a gold-taloned hand, Asura invites Jin to stand abreast of him and so too take up the mantle of a second doorman ] interrupting, after all.

Besides, the evening ahead will be long. [ Long, and for all that it will undoubtedly be filled with the good fun of intermittent rumbles between Asura and friends rowdy bar-patrons, what it'll lack in is this: ] And for all that I enjoy the company of the sailors here, I don't know of anyone who's much for conversation after they've had their fill of ale and tavern offerings.

But you... [ Keen and appraising and thoroughly unabashed, the way Asura's eyes rove over the other man's frame. Slowly, one of the reasons why Asura cares to call himself part of the Mirrorbound Council becomes clear: the air about him is one of command, and for all that his temperament is boisterous and jovial, he remains a man with complete control over and awareness of his environment. Turns out, there's a damn good reason why he makes for an excellent bouncer— the Court of Summer is militant and warfaring: there is not a single soul among its ranks who did not once train as a solider. ] You should be just fine. If you wanted to find Asura, you've got him.

[ A grin, a smooth incline of head— ] Now, what's this about needing the ear of a Council member? We've got at least ten minutes.

[turmoiling]

It would have been Sect Leader Jin at one time, but everyone in the sect's lineage shares the same family name. [Or would if his father hadn't been such a randy old stallion that he lost count of how many illegitimate children he had -- but that sure isn't worth getting into.] So please, simply Jin Guangyao is fine. [He corrects a little apologetically.]

[Rather in contrast, Jin Guangyao leans harder towards the calm and peaceful, the kind of man you'd imagine at a table sipping tea rather than on a battlefield. Though not unfamiliar with war, his role in it was considerable less forward; swordsmanship is a good skill to have, but his best skills lie elsewhere.

Nevertheless, he takes up a spot near Asura to chat, as incongruous as the comparison between the two is. Perhaps that's the reason he's smiling... though the reality is to mask the mild irritation that the easiest to follow up Coucil member on had to be a fellow like this. Ten minutes? Standing outside a bar? Of all the things to deal with.]

I'd hoped to hear a little more of the Mirrorbound Council and its work thus far. It's encouraging to know that even from places as foreign to us as we are to them, the local government has been gracious enough to allow at least a few seats.

@alucard

[mirshikar]

[ The King of Summer stands surrounded by Autumn on all sides, his nose wrinkling only ever so slightly from the Ashen Court's seasonal accompaniment: leaf mold. Yes, it is true that when Spring graces Aefenglom's Wilde after the onset and thaw of Winter's cold, the fallen and decomposed foliage will serve a far greater purpose than mildly aggravating Asura's nose— directly impacting the soil health (and therefore, the health of the forest in its entirety), it will help the vegetation of the enclave to flourish, grow strong, and proudly defy the Cwyld...! And yet...

Yet, it remains a marker of Autumn, and all things considered, perhaps it is only fitting that an embodiment of Summer would find himself with an aversion to that which devoured the splendor and bounty of the growing season.

In any case, Asura should be paying less attention to leaf mold and focus upon his guest instead: Alucard, who surveys the treehouse and the whole of the enclave with a keen, analytical eye and is no different from when he'd last crossed path with the King during the Wilder's expedition. ]

The task I have asked you to aid me with is a sizable one— [ Drawing plans to construct a Cwyld-spotting roost high, high in the boughs of the enclave's trees. A structure sturdy enough to withstand the oncoming Winter, yet one which so too refrains from being overly obtrusive in an ecosystem which is home to so much life. Nearby, Stellar Bears chatter amongst themselves, urging one another to make haste in their foraging before hibernation, and overhead, birds sings songs of migratory patterns and journeys to places which Asura wishes he might be able to map and identify. ] —and while you have my gratitude for making the venture here, Alucard...

[ Leaves crunching beneath bare and taloned feet, Asura bridges the distance between himself and Alucard to stand abreast of the other man, golden-scaled wings folding comfortably over his shoulders so as not to serve as an imposition. ] ...I also must ask you: why did you say yes?

[cryptsleeper]

[It's interesting, having a reputation that has nothing to do with Dracula for the first time. Alucard has found himself ultimately anonymous in this world, save for the fact that some people have begun to understand him as more than a slightly comptetant architect. There is such a thrill in that information - something he'd never share with anyone, not even Trevor or Sypha - and it's what has driven him out into the brilliant autumn.

He's always liked the season. As a child, that meant long nights when his father was around more. As an adult, he learned to forage and knew that autumn was the most important season. To not gather amid the riot of colors was to risk oneself during the winter, a matter categorically unacceptable.

So Asura's invitation? It was an easy yes. A commission rather than a voluenteering of services, even if there was no payment. There was pride in being asked, even if Asura might as well be his exacting opposite.

Looking at the intended area, the considerations are many. A challenge like this is new and wonderful, and Alucard already has pages of notes filled in about the particulars.]

Quite simply, it's a challenge and a chance to refine my skills.

[He turns another page, still scribbling in the notebook.]

How many did you envision, by the way?

[mirshikar]

Two, at minimum, each raised to a different height. [ In this endeavor, working with Alucard is no different than having commissioned a Wizened Artist to assist with the plans for a Summer outpost or Winter cottage. When Asura's gaze follows Alucard's line of sight, he imagines the other Mirrorbound readily conceptualizing a design which refrains from speaking too much where there are already so many voices in Aefenglom's Wilde. A tree roost which would remain silent, no different from the hunter which occupied it, keen as Asura himself is when sounding out Cwyldtid and Shades in the forest. ] One, below the canopy. The other, above it.

[ Unless, of course, there should be a better way; an alternative which stands stark in contrast to Asura's initial proposal of separate platforms. And perhaps that is where the challenge lies: the very thing which has Alucard more expressive and alive than Asura's ever before witnessed. True, the other man's countenance remains much the same (cool, aloof), and all hints of vibrancy are subtle, but Asura is someone who resonates with tests of skill and the relentless drive for improvement— it prompts him to look, really look at his companion before he continues on with a roguish grin: ] Could easily make that three, if you're jonesing for a bigger challenge. Creation's a harsh mistress, but the reward in it is one I'm well acquainted with.

When we're back in the city proper, how about you pay a visit to the magitech shop I moonlight at? [ Since aiding the Wilders in their construction of a magitech teleporter, Asura's taken a greater interest in his mechanic's skill, developing projects of his own rather than so simply working to further the orders at the shop. For Alucard, he's certain he could drum up something personalized— whether that's a weapon or otherwise. ] You turned down my offer of an enchantment before, but I'm not about to let you go uncompensated for your work here.

[ The dragon in him is much too proud, and the fae in him rankles at the notion of being so indebted. ]

[cryptsleeper]

Hm. [It's a matter that Alucard simply adds to his ever turning notebook pages. Everything is terribly preliminary, just as the rest of the idea. There is one particular point of clarification that's worth prodding at from the outset though, because that? That does impact the design.] For this particular matter, did you imagine having your above and below platforms be on the same tree, in order to provide the same rough view at different heights, or did you imagine them at different spacing?

[Another page turns.] Being able to have them in the same spot means a more immediate response should something happen, but also the allocation of a small covered area for supplies and the like that can cover both the above and below sections. However, a centralized location means potentially missing matters. Depending on which you'd prefer, my recommendation would be to do three staggered platforms, which would demand each have their own supply area, or to do two sets of centralized platforms a certain distance away from each other to provide better coverage.

[Alucard's eyes finally move from the notebook to Asura himself, calm gold eyes waiting for a response. He has, admittedly, just flung out quite a bit of information. And-- ah yes. Compensation.]

I'd prefer coin. I'm completing a conversion of a home for myself and two others, and have had to vampire-proof certain sections. [AKA: Trevor's getting a full basement apartment that has no windows.]

@gwenaëlle

[mirshikar]

[ "A stranger! A stranger! A stranger is here!" warbles a songbird from its perch atop the treehouse balcony, its chirruping trills fed through the auto-translate of Asura's divination spell. And as Asura rises from his state of repose (as one does when so summoned by a feathered friend, especially after they've elected n o t to migrate alongside of their brothers and sisters in favor of remaining where the curious, curious, curious Mirrorbound had collected in the forest!), a grin spreads across his lips because—

—while hearing the voices of the local fauna isn't precisely the same as being attuned to all the intonations of the natural world (the Ashen whispers of Autumn, the siren's call of Fate), it's a magic that's returned to him all the same. No longer is Talam so devastatingly quiet; so devoid of of the spirit which Asura has known all other realms to possess. And maybe, juuust maybe, that thought alone ignites in Asura a hope for this dying prison world to prevail against the Cwyld, the sentiment held cloistered in his furnace of a chest.

But all that aside, there's still the matter of receiving the stranger which Lelia (the songbird) has alerted him to. Let's get going, then, he murmur-rumbles, grabbing the nearest beverage available (yeah, that sure is whiskey, isn't it) to offer to a guest before exiting out, onto the balcony. And after that? It all happens in swift succession: a tap of taloned fingers against his shoulder (indicating that Leila should abandon her current perch in favor of a better one: him), the unfurling of his draconic's wings, and a swift and powerful glide to the ground below.

His landing places him between the treehouse and the river which flanks it, and also conveniently in close proximity to the woman (a Mirrorbound? has he glimpsed her face somewhere before?) he greets with an easy incline of head and a swaggering: ] Yo.

[ "Yo! Yo! Yo!" Lelia sing-trills, birdsong to the stranger's ears, and a riot to Asura's own. ]

[trouvaille]

( it is a memorable face, to be sure: milk-pearl pale skin that gleams shimmering rainbows whenever she shifts under the light, high cheekbones and exaggeratedly sharp features, her eyes black and uncanny large with slit pupils that widen, huge, into starry prisms pushing all that black to the edges with her startle when he lands near her. she has presumably been in the river, still dripping water at its edge and naked except for a light-weight jeweled chain around her waist, the only break in the improbable shining paleness of her a black tattoo wound around her thigh; at asura's unexpected arrival, the leather-wearing beast of a dog that had been sedately making his way toward her breaks into a trot, carrying strapped to his armored harness a bag that is probably her clothing.

putin, weighing probably at least twice what she does and looking very suspiciously like the consequences of a bear and a wolf's wild night out, does not growl but bumps against her hip and thigh with his head ever so slightly ahead of her. between them, one might say.

he is still more immediately friendly than his mistress, who looks as if she's going to mouth that yo back to asura with skeptical incredulity. it hangs in implication rather than fact, river-water dripping from the bottom of her blue-black curls, as she considers this friendliness and how exactly one responds to being greeted with 'yo' by a horned man nearly a foot taller.

if she's ever been greeted that way before, it was probably ironic. )

Hello.

( the voice is heard, occasionally, on the watches; not often. the face, never; perhaps glimpsed once or twice through a crowd from a distance. distinct enough that if he met her, he'd have been sure of it. )

Am I intruding on something, or?

[mirshikar]

Feels a lot like the other way around. [ Asura, intruding upon her skinny-dip in the river. The notion that others could (and would) happen upon the forest enclave had occurred to him— the shelter of its hollow and relative proximity to both farmlands and city makes it an ideal getaway for all those in need of a reprieve. Thing is, Asura hadn't counted on receiving someone like Gwen as his very first guest. Workers from the nearby lumber yard? Sure. A farmhand in search of a runaway sheep? More likely than you'd think. A Wilder, checking in to ensure that the Mirrorbound weren't laying the land so recently reclaimed from the Cwyld to ruin? That had already occurred, and Asura had expressly assured that the treehouse, the gardens, and the roost which would soon come to accompany them both would be no more obtrusive than any Wilder outpost.

But then there's Gwen, standing upon the riverbank as her iridescent pearl-shimmer skin glints rainbows and the stuff of Polychromatic Fairest— those fae who were living embodiments of color itself. And it is that thought which causes his gaze to linger upon her bare frame, though notably it is with a look of open wonder, one absent any true intent. Or rather, any intent save for the one indicated by the way Asura raises the bottle of whiskey clasped in his taloned hand. ]

Came down to offer you a drink— [ "Yes, a drink!", Lelia who-now-has-a-visual twitters, hopping upon Asura's shoulder with no fear of either the stranger or the bear-wolf-dog which accompanies her. And maybe, Lelia's absence of care has a lot everything to do with her current perch: Asura who, with all his golden and armored scales, is an imperturbable tank of a dragon. One who stands as complement to Gwen, if only because he matches her in implausible appearance. After all, whoever heard of a creature that displays the glow of their molten heart through a window of the very crystal which their body is comprised of? That's not evolution, that's aesthetics, and it has a hell of a lot to do with the being responsible for forging Asura in the first place. But that's another story. Right now, there's Gwen: ] —and some company, though now I see that you've got that last part covered.

[ With that guardian-dog-Hedgebeast creature of hers. ]

So, should I leave the bottle, close my eyes, and turn around while you get dressed? [ Presuming that her clothes are, in fact, in the satchel strapped to her four-legged companion. If not, there's always the easy alternative which Asura announces in a drawl of an invitation: ] Or are you more interested in going up to the treehouse and warming up after your swim?

[trouvaille]

( two instincts war within her, both of them arguably contrary, and while the first thought is an arguably sound one (it is useful for people to think she has weaknesses she doesn't, and she has spent years obligingly pretending to need a cardigan when she doesn't) it is the second one that comes out of her mouth when she opens it: )

Is there a dress-code for this treehouse? You can turn around if it makes you feel better, but I'm not getting dressed until I've dried off.

( what's a modesty. just as asura's gaze is more interested the whole of her rather than lascivious details, there isn't anything erotically charged about the way she is so bluntly disinterested in putting her clothes back on until she feels like it. wet fabric against her skin isn't pleasant. she was only just in the water, and she wasn't expecting company, and if underwear is a requirement for it then she doesn't need it that badly.

shame about the physical form is some human nonsense that she never really managed to internalize even when she thought she was human; something she tolerates rather than embraces. if there is going to be any upside to being trapped in this backwater, and there aren't many, being able to tell someone she doesn't want to put pants on right now because she's a merrow and fuck you, that's why, had best be one of them.

and she's not actually very good at pretending to understand what cold's meant to feel like. she's just got away with it for years among people who didn't have all of the information to consider she might just not, actually a viable option. )

Do you live out here?

@dantes

[mirshikar]

[ Well known beyond the Bright Wall, the King of Summer who routinely embarks upon Cwyld-culling expeditions for simple love of the Wilde (and the love of the hunt). And with construction of the treehouse so recently completed, what better way to celebrate than with a foray into the forest deep, sounding out the Cwyldtid and Shades which stood to infringe upon the peace of the very sanctuary which he had built? Overhead, clear skies promise fair-weather conditions. Underfoot, the terrain remains yielding but not sodden from the earlier rains, ideal for the tracking of beasts. And the sound of rankling contention between the Wilders who monitor the forest's treeline and a Mirrorbound who is familiar to Asura's eyes...?

W e l l, that just promises good company for the hunt ahead, because let this be known: the Crimson King is ever the opportunist, and where he can interfere with a Mirrorbound barred entry to the Wilde on account of being without a bond, he most certainly will. ]

This guy? [ —tall, pale of hair, looking like he's seen better days? Asura's footfalls slow to a stop right alongside him, Avenger who burgeons with wrath that remains ever at the forefront of the King's senses. ] He's with me.

[ And to illustrate proof of the fact, from the pack on his back, Asura draws a temporary bonding potion (kept on his person in the event of an emergency), and...! Clasps Avenger's shoulder with one taloned hand— a hand which is by far more draconic than the other man is likely to recall, but that's a discussion for the road ahead.

Right now, it's up to Avenger to sell this. Make this happenstance meeting read as believable.

Play along the curl and squeeze of Asura's fingers seems to say, though his countenance remains nothing short of gregarious, a grin sweeping across his features as he assures: ] I'll take responsibility for it, if he's not returned back to the city in one piece.

[ressusciter]

[of course they'd have ways to measure if someone had a Bond or not. of course, it wouldn't be that easy, and he could make a break for it, but that would lead to more problems than it solved. he just wanted to go in and hunt, to take down something and productively release the agitation in his chest, but it was "too dangerous." too dangerous, for the Count - he could have laughed if he wasn't so annoyed at the whole situation.

he hears Asura before he sees him, but the hand on his shoulder still sends a ripple of invisible tension through him, something he breathes through to latch onto the chance given. one way of outright slipping past the Wilders' grasp and maybe getting what he set out to do.]

Took you long enough. They didn't believe me when I said it'd all be under control out there.

[the potion and Asura's presence pacify the scouts, who in all are just doing their duty and nod so they can depart and get back to keeping an eye out for danger, instead of wayward Mirrorbound. it's when they're definitely not turning back that Dantes speaks under his breath.]

There's nothing you'll need take responsibility for.

[mirshikar]

[ Nothing at all to take responsibility for, huh? ]

Sure there is— [ Languid and easy as always, the rhythmic cadence of Asura's voice, and where the other man had taken care to speak in sotto voce, the King of Summer seems not to know how to do the same. But then, what he has to say (with a sporting grin and a dangerous narrowing of his slit-pupil eyes) hardly blows their cover. In fact, it only attests to their former charade, for all that Asura is quick to pocket the temporary bonding potion, stowing it away. ] —and it's besting your kill count.

[ Because whether it were for the promise of coin, or for the simple purpose of letting loose and working through all of that tension which had tightened the shoulder muscle beneath the warm palm of Asura's hand, Avenger intends to hunt (for what other reason might anyone be so keen to venture into the Wilde's depths?), and such a thing is done best in pairs. ]

So what's your weapon of choice today, friend? [ Uh oh. Looks like you're stuck with your rescuer, Avenger, because Asura's totally psyched about this. ] I can conjure up a complement to it— go distance, if you're short range. Go brawler, if you're still all about the shadows.

[ Which still seems to be the case. The shadow thing, that is. Doubtless, that Avenger wished to fuck right off into the Wilde and go unnoticed by a single soul. Too bad that his wrath is a big smoldering beacon for Asura (too bad, that Asura gives enough of a damn about his fellow Mirrorbound to interfere— to not let the guy go it alone.) ]

[ressusciter]

[he has his reply in an instant, though in Dantes' head his thoughts race by enough to afford him the illusion of time. he gets to discard his objections to the bonding potion - ones he was about to speak, if it was insisted upon. he's held himself together enough that once without it won't destroy him.

fine. he'll adjust to fighting with someone else, since he remembers Asura, and knows he won't have to slow down any when it comes to working with him.]

I've brought a sword. You can focus on beating my kills all you wish - or, if the idea's more attractive, we can use tactics to bring down greater prey.

[it's not directly shying away from him, and that's progress. he supposes he owes courtesy if Asura won't try and press anything like a bond on him.]

@daenerys (event) cw: slavery

[mirshikar]

[ Perhaps it is fitting, that behind a mirror framed by a crown of iron spear-tips and gold dragonscale, there should be an inferno. A great tide of flame which erupts from the maw of a dragon in chains, each link of metal affixed to the beast's limbs the size of a team of horses harnessed together; their weight fissuring the blackened earth where coils of slack lay— the limited range of motion an almost too-resplendent gift given by the looming figure of the dragon's Keeper.

"Reduce them to ash," the dragon's Keeper commands, its many heads all adrone in synchronicity. Impossible as its appearance, the sound of the Keeper's voice, its layers coiling together in dread consonance which steals all breath from the lungs; hums down to the very marrow of the bones. The intonation alone could have immobilized an army and does, the soldiers populating the plateau below frozen in their tactical formations as dragonfire hails down from the precipice above.

To the enormity and grandeur of a dragon, the soldiers are but matchsticks in tin plate. To the eyes of the woman who plays the role of spectator here, in this memory of a loathsome battle staged by the dragon's Keeper, the soldiers appear differently: survivors of massive charnel pits, they are Ogres fed and grown upon a diet of carrion and bones, their hulking frames a product of their ample rations. Were their Ogres' battalions pitted against any other force, surely their opposers would have been decimated. But not one can scale the cliff to reach the golden dragon; not one can hurl a javelin with enough strength to strike at the beast's molten heart, visible through the chinks and vents of its armored chest.

Passage through the mirror has placed the woman at the hind legs of the dragon, next to its coil of chains. Positioned so aloft, she may choose to continue on in survey of the battle below (a battle which isn't one, regardless of how it is has been set— what transpires now is slaughter), turn to boldly witness the titan of a ten-headed creature which lords over its imprisoned dragon, or...

Set her sights upon the Asura of present, who appears at her side, the tips of his taloned fingers pressed to his chest— there, where bronze skin gives way to gold dragonscale, and dragonscale cedes to the smooth surface of fire-crystal: the chalice which houses the glow of his molten heart.

That the dragon of memory is Asura himself needn't be said.

Instead, grim of expression and eyes never once straying from Daenerys's face, Asura speaks the words (reminds himself): ] It did not end like this.

[ No, he did not remain here, in this world where the atmosphere itself is pulsing and alive with the magic of Faerie and the near-crushing force of Fate. And yet, yet— his Keeper's voice resonates at the back of his mind ("this is your home, my great golden dragon, and you will always return to it."), intensified by the sight of their phantom. ]

[freeing]

[ In stories of heroes and dragons, there is almost certainly a skew that paints the dragons as fearsome beasts. They were otherworldly, molded from fire and ash to this realm – how else would humanity describe such power? They fear, they distaste, they envy.

Daenerys sees not, no matter – but what she sees is chains. Fear had done this, she assumes, lost in trying to parse a half-nonsensical story feels overshadowed by the means of being brought here. Had she a right to view it? To partake in the sight that disgusts her at face-value, making her stomach churn.

Perhaps she had no right to even reply, to even let her presence become a stain in this dream. A golden dragon, one that should take the sky as its domain and look down upon the world... it was pitiful. ]

It started like this. [ She snaps back, choices made to create such a conflict – such a blot of history that feels written with rage and pain in mind. ] Tell me, how it ended. Can this dream magic show me that?

[ She beckons to the voice, defensively as if she wished she could step forward and rip away the chains herself. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Daenerys does not know what it is she witnesses (no mortal could— it is not for them to ever know the madness that is Faerie), and yet her voice is absent of anything but conviction when she speaks, demanding from him an answer as odium holds her gaze affixed to his chains. Incomprehensible though her surroundings may be, the human Queen has not changed: at her core, she remains an ardent defender of those with their freedoms removed from them, and it is her seething blaze which enkindles Asura's own. Sparks it back to life where it had been reduced to embers and smoke by the sight of his once-Master. ]

It ended centuries later in a place called Svarga. [ —galvanized, Asura's presence is no longer so subdued. This is his memory; he alone holds power here. ] A city in the clouds.

[ And whether it is by the dream's magic or his own oneiromancer's skill, the memory of the loathsome battle splits at its seams, untethering into skeins of color and light which reform as though they had been strung upon a loom to weave a gilt tapestry like no other. The shift in scenery is stark in contrast to the warfront of scorched earth and ashfall, but for all its breathtaking beauty, it is not unmarked by fire and by blood: amid its copper spires and gleaming marble domes, there resonates a dragon's roar, the gnashing of teeth, and the rending of flesh.

Daenerys stands now upon the expanse of a bronze bridge blackened by dragonfire, the golden dragon free of its bonds and descended upon the half-charred body of its Keeper.

"You have betrayed me," the ten-headed creature gurgles and gasps, somehow yet alive as the dragon tears into its body, splattering blood and viscera upon the bridge and before Daenerys' feet. But in the wake of the accusation, the dragon gives pause, lifting its head as its eyes narrow to gleaming slits in unspoken vehemence. Vehemence which refuses to remains silent, in the end: shifting from a draconic form to a humanoid one is a seamless thing, one which leaves the Asura of memory standing poised beside his Keeper's prone frame, smaller now in stature, but no less unrestrained.

"No," the word is guttural and wet with the blood which slicks Asura's teeth and tongue; the sound of his voice strange, like it had seldom before been used. This is the moment where he speaks for himself: "I have taken from you my pound of flesh, and have made it so you will never enslave another being again."

"And yet... I will always remain... your Master..."

Rage contorts Asura's features when he is confronted by this truth, but it lingers for only the briefest of moments, a virulent calm surfacing in its wake in acknowledgement of that which he will never be able to escape. "Aa," he concedes, a taloned hand outstretched to rest against one of his Keeper's many heads in an almost dutiful caress when he lowers his voice in intimate, damning promise:

"That is why I will erase you completely."

And spare no more parting words. Shifting back into the dragon created by his Keeper's very hands, Asura incinerates the creature's gruesome remains, a vortex of flame descending upon the bridge, and within its great eye—

—Daenerys. Daenerys, and the Asura of present, who looks skyward as the rain of fire ceases, his draconic self taking flight from the city in the clouds after surveying the creature's corpse: bones and blowing ash, no different from the matchstick soldiers upon the battlefield.

There is a long quiet before Asura speaks, a shaky exhale (purge, release) sloping his shoulders when he bids from her a response: ] Was this what you had hoped to see, Daenerys?

@sokie (event)

[mirshikar]

[ That Asura's mirror had been impossibly ornate to Sokie's eyes is of no true surprise— they are close, and she knows him to be more than the adornments of the gilt dragonscale and iron crown which had greeted the eyes of others.

Sprawling across the bottom of the mirror's frame, depictions of grand battles between fae, the wood carving so animated that the resounding clang! of spear against shield could nearly be heard; the intesity and heat of dragonfire readily imagined from the depictions of flame-bleached bones and remains of the vanquished. More intriguing still, that the top of the frame seems too simple in comparison to storied battles done in Arcadia. The symbol of Asura's Freehold, the Biscione, sits nested in stalks of wheat, plant roots coiling down to mid-frame and forming whorls about landmarks (of Milan, of Miami, of Uttar Pradesh) and one silhouette so small it could have only ever belonged to a child.

A child who appears as a newborn in the memory behind the glass, held safe and secure in the bassinet of their mother's arms. Though the woman is fatigued from childbirth (skin still slick with sweat, her auburn curls matted down, clinging like wet lace to the frame of her face), she is undoubtedly is in command of her surroundings. At her beck and call, maids take express care to clean away the last signs of her home-birth: no sooner than she is helped by the midwife's hands to the plush seat of a sitting chair, the bedsheets are changed in a flurry, linens and other sundry articles interchanged with speed that could rival even the most seasoned Chatelaine.

And before both maids and midwife (much to the midwife's chagrin— the lady of the house has only just given birth!) are dismissed, the woman sends for a glass of wine. Red wine, because bringing her second child (a son) into the world had been far from the largest ordeal of the night. A testament to this fact, Asura's appearance: he has seen combat, and for it his garments have paid the price. A perfectly good shirt, torn apart by bullet holes— gunfire, which he'd shielded the woman from only hours before. He hadn't thought twice before placing himself between the woman and the shots fired, and maybe that is what influences her decision: ]

"His name will be Valerius, for his godfather." [ —the woman croons to her newborn son, and though her eyes are fixed solely upon her child, she remains acutely aware of Asura's presence. Asura, as he walks the breadth of the master suite like he's still on some damn security detail. With a robust clearing of her throat, she clarifies in a tone which insinuates the insult "you blockhead!", but so too remains indicative of the kind of exasperation which is borne only from fondness: ] "For you, Asura."

[ And that? W e l l, it gets Asura to pause mid-step, visibly faltering in his surprise. His green eyes (absent of sunglasses), are wide as he glances back, over his shoulder, because he can't have heard that correctly. No way— him, a godparent? A godfather?

When the woman continues on, a private smile plays upon her lips. Perhaps, for her, there is some satisfaction in tripping up her inhuman bodyguard. ] "My son will be blessed, if he grows to possess the very same bravery and strength which saved his life and mine from our enemies today."

[ Processing the woman's words leaves Asura (a great, Arcadian dragon) weak to her wish. To his own desire, to build a lasting connection with the humans of the mortal realm. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Constricted by emotion— ]

...it can't be the same, Gianna. You know that. [ Can't be, won't ever be, because Valerius is human, and though Gianna has asked it many times of him, Asura will not impart Arcadian power upon her children even for the purpose of protecting them. They have him, instead, to stand as bulwark between their family and the inherent danger of their business. To— ] You don't want him leaping in front of gunfire every damn night, after all.

[ Asura quirks his lips and Gianna laughs, but both seem to share in the sentiment that yes, stunts like that are best reserved for dragons. ]

But it can be close. [ Bridging the distance between himself and where Gianna sits, he stands at her side, declining to hold Valerius when she invites, because— he sinks down to one knee instead, his taloned hand devastatingly gentle when he guides one of Valerius' tiny feet to rest against his forehead, marking a promise: ] And I will do my best to guide him.

[ Wherever Sokie stands in observation of the memory, the Asura of the present appears behind her, his wings, tail, and inherently more draconic features distinguishing him from the Asura of memory.

Something like regret crosses his expression, then, his slit-pupil eyes like glass when he speaks: ] ...I don't know if I gave him my best, in the end, but I did try.

[weirdnecro]

[She knew the crown, the scales. They were so much of Asura, and she found herself stretching her fingers out, and touching it before she realized what she was doing.

And she found...a beautiful woman, a second time mother, and someone in need of wine this evening. Her mouth twitched; it brought back a few memories, of earlier times. But...she couldn't remember if this was the birth of the boy from his memory story. Maybe.

But...this was his human family. She was glad for him, that he found people he cared for, after who knows how long in the Hedge, alone.

He finds her sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with the babe. And when she looks up, her expression is smooth. Things...she thought, didn't go well. Did they ever, for people of power like themselves?]

You tried.

[Her voice was quiet. Thoughtful.]

That's all anyone can ask for, when it comes to caring for a child.

[mirshikar]

Aa. [ Unlike Asura, to be so subdued. To say so very little, when his heart lies open, on display. From afar, he watches as Gianna cards her fingers through his past-self's hair, tending to both him and her son in tandem— and almost, he can feel the ghost of her touch. Though Gianna had been spoken for long before her path had crossed with his own, there is always an undeniable connection between someone who entrusts their livelihood and safety so completely to another.

Yes, he had tried. And quite nearly, he reaches for Sokie's hand, but he forestalls the gesture. Speaks instead: ]

He grew up well. [ Valerius, alongside his sister Luciana. And no sooner than Asura says the words, the recollection of Gianna and her newborn son unspools, threading into skeins of memory which twist and twine, coalescing anew to form a courtyard where the pat-pat-patter of two children running amuck upon the birchwood deck is punctured by twin peals of thoroughly c h a o t i c laughter in the late hours of the evening.

Valerius, cackling with glee, moves in perfect synchronicity with Luciana as they dodge and weave, ducking behind furniture and dashing through the shallow waters of the fountain in order to avoid Asura's grasp. They know this well: should either of them be whisked up and away into Asura's arms, they will be ushered inside of their home with no escape, and mercilessly made to adhere to the law of bedtime even though their parents are away!!

"Too slow, uncle Asura!" Luciana boasts with pride as she manages to narrowly evade Asura's reach, her little feet carrying her away post haste to the safety provided by a stone pillar. Asura, of course, makes a show of bemoaning Luciana's great speed, huffing and puffing for breath which he does not need as he places his hands upon his knees in a (quite frankly completely overdone) display of fatigue.

"Be kind to this slow uncle of yours, then. He cannot keep up!" the Asura of memory pleads, and where Luciana peeks from behind the pillar, more suspicious than anything, Valerius...! Ceases to dart about, a small furrow upon his brow as he considers Asura, his laughter quieting as he nears his godfather and uncle, wearing and expression which is serious beyond his four-and-a-half years. A gentle pat of his tiny hand against Asura's leg indicates his decision, one which both Asura and Luciana are wholly shocked by in turns.

"Luci, let's be nice, Valerius solemnly decrees, "Uncle is tired. He needs bedtime!"

Naturally, Luciana retorts: "It's a trick, Val! He'll make us go to sleep, instead!", but Valerius stands firm, leaving Asura to strike a deal (right, right, leave it to the fae) between the two parties.

"If you come inside with me, I can rest, and the both of you can watch a movie." And holy hell, he hopes it's not that horrible film about that talking Volkswagen Beetle again. "But not a single word about this to your parents, all right?"

"Deal!" Valerius and Luciana chime in victorious unison, and Luciana scrambles out from behind the pillar to stand beside Asura with an expectant look, one which is mirrored by her brother, almost like...

"Okay, okay. I get it." That even though Valerius and Luciana did not lose this particular game of tag, they will not stand to miss an opportunity to be carried inside and glimpse the world from Asura's towering height. Bending down, Asura scoops the both of them up (look at him, the King of Summer, with a child in either of his arms) and jostles them both with a shake (predictably, they shriek, positively delighted) before heading indoors. And with the closing of one door—

—another opens. Time passes, and the memory lapses, reforms again. The Asura of the past is now garbed in only black, absent of his Summer colors as he stands before two funerary wreathes at a memorial service. Where Asura remains solemn, the young man he converses with (Valerius, now grown) is made wrathful when burdened with the weight of new knowledge and the loss of his parents both.

"I don't understand it! I don't understand you! If you are half the monster you say you are, why weren't you able to protect them?! Answer me!"

In the end, Asura has no answer for him, and Valerius leaves him to stand as solemn guard over the proceedings. Luciana, always the more pragmatic of the two siblings, approaches Asura next, and she is the spitting image of her mother with her auburn curls and beauty mark.

"He will need time, Asura. As will I. Our family's business will still support you and yours-- your people are the backbone of our ranks, and for that we will always be grateful, but... " Shaking her head, Luciana purses her lips, looking to Asura with immense sorrow and fondness both. Her eyes are red-rimmed, though she sheds no tears, remaining steeled as she makes to distance herself from her uncle; one of the few family members she has left.

"Val and I, we need to learn how to stand on our own two feet. Val is right, you know. You couldn't protect our parents, and you won't be able to protect us, not always. It's about time that we learned how to protect ourselves."

Shifting up, onto the balls of her feet, Luciana presses a delicate kiss to Asura's cheek. Runs her hand through the fall of Asura's hair much the way Gianna had, on that fateful night when Valerius had been born.

"Take care of yourself, uncle Asura. But leave the rest to us for now." ]

Letting go, trusting in them to do the right... [ —the Asura of the present speaks at long last, standing side by side with Sokie in view of this new memory, the very last of the ensemble. As though he were agitated, his fingers curl and flex, ill at ease with the notion that he may very well never see either Valerius or Luciana again. ] There is nothing in this or any of the realms which can prepare you for it.

[ Here, Asura's attempt at a smile is lukewarm at best, but... how else can he regard Sokie, especially now that she's witnessed this? ]

@alex (event)

[mirshikar]

[ The Asura of memory is difficult to perceive for long, his appearance too otherworldly; too inhuman in a way the Monsters of Talam are not. Seated upon a mahogany and crimson throne before an assembly of clamoring Courtiers, he is the very sun depicted overhead in bronze sculpture, golden light limning from his skin. But for all that he is radiant in every aspect of the word, the look in Asura's eyes is distant— as though he were staring far beyond the crowd of Ogres and Elementals, Wizened and Beasts, his attention held rapt by forces which only he could see. That he seems at once a fathomless existence, his presence much too large to ever be encompassed by the meager breadth of the throne room, is no mistake: already the mortal realm itself cedes to him, the newly crowned King of Summer, the laws which govern it bending so that tall, prairie grasses and seasonal wildflowers might grow from the marbled flooring at his feet. ]

I understand that I have been chosen to lead you. [ —the bass of Asura's voice is liquid and slow, his gaze distant still. And from where Alex stands as witness to the events which unfold (she is close to him, the Asura of memory, her travel through the mirror placing her at the side of the throne), she will notice that the expression which Asura wears is one she has seen before. When they had been imprisoned, trapped within that vile pit of stone, in those moments when Asura's focus hadn't been upon Alex herself, he had become silent and removed: no different than he is now.

Above Asura's head, the Summer Diadem whirls in its ever-present manifest: a circlet of shimmering spear-tips and wisps of heat vapor, it is an irrefutable marker of his worthiness of the throne, and yet for some it is not enough. Breaking through the line of Courtiers, a hulking man steps forward in challenge— an Ogre, stone-skinned with a voice to match his jagged exterior: ]

"You, lead us?" [ —the Ogre sneers, and a number of the Courtiers present echo the sentiment. ] "An interloper cannot lead our people. You have only just set foot in this world-- you cannot know our plight, and you stink of the Gentry still. Even now, you look down upon us as though we are nothing to you!"

[ It is wrath, then, which brings Asura's focus to the present, his green eyes narrowing to gleaming slits in survey of the Ogre who approaches the foot of the throne in rankling contention. And where another might have riled, become lost to the anger which held sway over all Summer Courtiers, Asura remains stoic— composed, as he stands, walking with fluid steps to greet his opposer with open arms. ]

Did I not toil beneath the yoke of the Gentry's oppression, no different from you? Was I not enslaved and changed, bound to the service of some beast lacking a True name? [ —like rolling thunder, the cadence of Asura's speech, its intensity electric, infecting and swaying even some of those Courtiers who had initially sided with the Ogre. ] Your plight is my own, and I have bled for it.

[ Here, Asura's expression softens, his arms lowering to his sides as he stands before the Ogre, close enough to touch. ] ...and I will bleed for it still. For you, and for all those present here.

[ To protect them. Because though Asura is crowned as King, that does not mean he will not fight alongside those who may as well be his family— his brothers and sisters who had been Changed, just as he had.

But the Ogre himself does not bend, his fury greater than before: ] "You're right about that-- you will. You'll bleed out in front of everyone here when I rip Summer's Diadem from your fucking corpse!"

[ And the room, now divided into two, becomes a din of hollers and jeers as a ring of burning thorns surrounds Asura and the Ogre both, obscuring them from view.

Then, from behind Alex, Asura's voice sounds again— it's light, bearing none of the gravity held by the Asura of memory, because the man that comes to stand at Alex's side...? It's the Asura that she knows, the one who had employed his draconic wings as an umbrella for her benefit. ] ...the circle of flames, it's called the Crown of Clashing Fire.

[ Ducking his head, as though he were ashamed, he cards a hand through the thick fall of his ravendark hair, grinning as he confesses: ] Of course, I only found that out much later.

[sing_for_me]

[ Alex had never been in the presence of a court before, much less a king, which she can only assume Asura was. The way he carried himself, the way he shone, it wouldn't be too surprising that someone as charismatic as himself would be a leader. But Alex's imagination was no where close to the picture portrayed before her. Never had she felt more out of place. To have been touched by such kindness by someone so ethereal, quite literally bathed in light, she couldn't comprehend.

But the look in his eyes, that brought him back down to Earth, to her level. Back the the cold, dark cages they were kept in. The familiar emptiness reflected in those emerald eyes pulled at her, making the merrow want to reach out to him. Then the ogre speaks, challenging him, clearly unhappy with the position granted to Asura. Alex watches the exchange, clutching at her chest as she heard Asura give a glimpse of his story. The way they spoke was nothing like what she was accustomed to, but she could still pick out what was being said here and there. Asura, bold, boisterous, powerful Asura, a slave...?

Then the thorns appear, forcing Alex back as they encircle the two. But she stops when she hears Asura's voice--the one she knew. But she hadn't seen him like this, the way he lowered his head, almost like how she often did. ]

What..what is that? Why is it called that?

[ She asks, reaching out to touch his arm, concerned with both the scene playing before her, and also Asura's current demeanor. ]

[mirshikar]

[ At the touch of Alex's hand upon his arm, Asura lifts his head, the slit-pupils of his green eyes locking upon her. Why, she's asked of him, and Asura knows that if he does not speak, she will lay witness to a too-gruesome scene and think it only to be a horror. Her understanding is imperative, if only to make sense the meritocracy of Summer and know it to be more than untamed wrath and violence stoked before a savage audience.

When he begins, Asura entertains no illusions that his explanation will soften the blow that he is, in fact, every bit as bestial as he appears to be. But it will prepare her for how the memory is to end, and give reason for the sharp grunts and howls of pain (not Asura's own) which emanate from behind the circle of flame. ]

It is magic employed when one Summer courtier seeks to duel another uninterrupted. [ And for the battle to be thoroughly unrestrained. ] In this case, to the death.

The crown I wore – Summer's Diadem – is something which many consider a blessing. [ Though perhaps Asura hadn't at first, judging from how distant he'd been; how very empty his eyes had looked when he'd sat upon the throne. ] It was imparted upon me by the season itself, incapable of being removed.

[ And for a time, Asura had considered the crown to be every bit a shackle and chain as the manacles once placed upon him by his Master. The Ogre had not been wrong in his accusations, not when he'd bellowed that the new, interloper of a King did not understand the plight of their people— the proud courtiers of Summer who would gladly lay down their lives in service to the very crown which Asura spurned. ]

The only way to unseat a monarch, even one as green as I once was, is to see them dead. To let the forces that be select another person worthy of the throne.

But I did not fall. [ As Alex well knows. ] Though my contender...

[ And all at once, the circle of flames is extinguished. At its center stands Asura— Asura, who is bloodied, though it is clear that the crimson which slicks his forearms and hands is not his own. Rather, it belongs to the Ogre, their severed head held high within the clasp of draconic talons in a testament to Asura's swift and decisive victory.

With the flagrant display, a hush falls over the crowd of courtiers, though it does not last for long. It starts with one Beast (a Venombite, their features positively snakelike) thudding a hand against their chest. Then, an Elemental follows suit, paving the way for a Wizened soldier to join in. And soon, the throne room is filled only with the steady drum and beat of fists pounding against chests and over hearts in acknowledgement that the Ogre had been rightfully bested. No a soul could doubt the new King's prowess, for the Ogre that had fallen...?

They had been the Iron Adjutant, second to only the former King. ]

I could invite no more insurrection. [ His gaze straying from Alex, Asura looks to the crowd of courtiers, at peace with his decision of old, but so too knowing that revealing this side of himself (the dragon whose only talent was violence) had cost him the companionship of humans before. It had driven his godson away; had pushed others to deem him as little more than a monster. And for Alex to see him (truly see him) in this way marks a similar loss: she will never look at him as she had before. ] One dead spared the lives of many more, and yet...

I was told that he was a good man. [ One who had not been wrong to challenge him. ] The right hand to the late King. I came to know him through stories, but I would have liked to hear the tales from him instead.