[closed] august catch-all!

[ua_duibhne]

Who: Diarmuid & Zelda, Diarmuid & Berserker
When: Throughout August.
Where: Around the city
What: Reluctant modelling during Lúnasa, failing to drink unexpected emotions away, and other good shit.
Warnings: N/A!

Comments

its called FASHION mom | closed to zelda

[ua_duibhne]

[As a woman wearing a scarlet ruff applies flakes of gold paint to his cheeks, leaving his love spot conspicuously uncovered, and instructs him on which way to turn at the end of the runway, Diarmuid has to wonder how exactly this happened. He doesn’t remember ever agreeing to taking part in a show but, at some point in between accosted on his way back from the Coven and now, the words must have left his mouth. Or, more likely, whatever he did say was duly noted and ignored like it so often tends to be.

Ah, well. It can’t hurt, can it? The designer had looked so grateful to see him that he felt a little guilty for thinking about walking out; he’s never been one to turn away a lady in distress. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. And, if nothing else, being tugged this way and that and buckled and laced and primped into place takes his mind off of more complex personal matters.

That doesn’t make it any less of a pleasant surprise when his mysterious partner-in-modelling is escorted into the booth to meet him. Diarmuid glances up from where he's been attempting to coax his curl- the one that's normally so adamant about hanging directly over his face- back forward to find himself face to face with a familiar blonde woman. So, that explains what they meant by a fairytale aesthetic; judging by the matching clothes and gold accents, they’re clearly being cast as the prince and damsel in the narrative of this seamstress’ collection. She even has a small crown balanced atop her veil.]

Ah, so they got you too. [Diarmuid gives her a smile along with an abbreviated version of his normal bow as he rises to meet her.] Though I fear you carry it better than I do. You look beautiful, Lady Zelda.

closed to berserker

[ua_duibhne]

[Lúnasa made for an... interesting festival, partly because of its similarities to one he knows from home but mostly because he ostensibly had someone to spend it with. Not that he did; for the majority of it, he was been rushed off his feet dealing with the double curveball the mirrors threw at him in the form of Fionn and the Lady of Shadows herself. So, it's a little after it draws to a close- and the dust has settled- that he invites Berserker out. As absurd as it is, as much as he knows that he's a man with little inclination towards being romanced, Diarmuid can't help it.

By the time the two of them meet at the harbour, the sun's mostly dipped out of sight, turning the sky over the ocean the deepest ochre in the last few seconds before it fades completely. Most of the dock workers are starting to pack up and those that remain are clocking into shifts at the warehouses or watches for unexpected vessels, leaving the two of them more or less alone. It's not that surprising, really; as clear as the sky promises to be tonight, the leftovers of that cold spell are still in the air alongside that crisp, salty tang.

There he is.

As Diarmuid turns to greet his Bonded, breaking into a smile warm enough to cut through the chilliest of coastal breezes, the studs in his newly pierced ears glint. They're still a little sore- God knows why he let Giorno do it- but at least they're even? They're the last thing on his mind right now, though. The bottle in his bag is hefty but the keys in his pocket seem heavier somehow. It cost him a little coin and a day's work to get them- here's hoping that it was worth it.]

I'm sorry, it's a little windy. [He laughs softly, head to the side so that he can look the other Servant over.] I like your wings more than when we first met. They suit you.

[curruid_coinchenn]

[ It's hard not to feel a sense of trepidation about this meeting. This is completely unfamiliar territory for Berserker and knowing what the festival entails, it will continue to be unfamiliar. It's so rare for him to be confronted with anything that puts him off of his normal decisive nature.

That unease doesn't let up as he approaches Diarmuid, but it's not necessarily a bad feeling. Like most everything else he's experienced, it's simply new and that newness makes him uncomfortable. If it's for his Bonded's happiness, though, he's willing to try, at least.

Berserker spreads his wings out for just a moment, the leathery skin shining red in the moonlight. ]

They're more of a nuisance than anything right now.

[ As he looks the witch over, a faint smile crosses his lips. ]

Were you feeling left out? [ A gentle jab with no bite to it at all. He has an idea once they heal, but he'll hold onto that thought for now. ] You didn't want to meet me just to compliment my wings, did you?

[ua_duibhne]

[It earns him a nudge and another chuckle but it's clear that there's no sign that he feels at all hurt by it.]

Perhaps- and a little jealous too. I've always wondered what it's like to fly.

[Alas, it seems the witches here don't ride brooms like they do in stories- it looks like he'll have to make do with living vicariously through Berserker. Teasing aside, they really are fascinating- and lovely- in their own immense, powerful kind of way and he spends a few moments more admiring them and the way they catch the light.]

Flattery ill suits the both of us. [Diarmuid shakes his head.] Come on, I have something planned.

[With that, he turns and begins to pick his way through the cobblestoned streets, pausing occasionally to turn back to the dragon as he talks. All around them, magitech lights are flickering to life as the less advanced gaslamps are lit.]

... have you met my old lord yet? Fionn Mac Cumhaill? He arrived alongside your master.

[he has no idea what an awkward topic this is welp]

[curruid_coinchenn]

I haven't tried to fly yet. [ A sort of unfortunate admission. There hasn't been much opportunity and he's unsure about actually flying. ] ...If you're curious, I could always take you on a flight.

[ There's a thought...But by all means, it's practical -- he should get used to his new abilities and the kind of advantages they afford him. Being able to carry someone with him while flying is something he's never done before and gives him an advantage when fighting alongside allies.

Pushing those thoughts aside for now, he follows after Diarmuid. His expression sours for a moment. ]

... Yes, I have. You've met my Master, haven't you?

[ Something is telling him that... ]

[ua_duibhne]

[Really, Diarmuid should be more concerned by the fact that, not two seconds prior to his offer, Berserker confessed that he hadn't even attempted to fly yet but he's really not.]

Ah, like wearing weighted armour to train? [He grins.] Try not to drop me, though. Heights are a touch more of an issue than they used to be for me.

[Still, that smile falters just a little at his reaction; that look says everything that Berserker apparently chose not to out of- uncharacteristic but very much appreciated- courtesy. The Lancer makes a soft humming sound.]

He's a man of great honour but... I understand that he can be a challenge sometimes. Lord Fionn has his own quirks and foibles but you get used to them with time- he means nothing by it.

[Making excuses for him already. Oh well. As for Scáthach...]

That I have- and I [was a little awestruck and she walked all over me] enjoyed her company.

[Berserker might notice that they seem to be getting further and further from the heart of the Harbour District. Though they started amidst a buzz of taverns and winding down markets, the path Diarmuid leads them down winds along the backstreets, drawing closer to the docks themselves. They also seem to be on a bit of an upward slant. Strange.]

[curruid_coinchenn]

I promise I won't drop you. Or I'll catch you before you hit the ground.

[ Where is Diarmuid taking him...? It's hard to focus on the conversation at hand right now, his mind wandering to all the places he could be leading him right now. It takes a few moments for him to turn his attention back to what the Lancer said. ]

He's an idiot. [ Ouch. ] ...I'm tolerating his behavior, though.

[ Which says a lot; it's been very trying for him to not throttle Fionn for saying stupid things. He even gave him useful information and didn't just flee when he realized Fionn wasn't going to leave him alone. ]

... I've been trying to keep what we have away from her. [ It's a very, very complicated and delicate situation. ] But if you didn't mind her company, that's...a good start.

[ Things would change when she realized their relationship. He's content to delay the inevitable as long as possible, though. Caster won't tell her and hopefully neither will anyone else that knows. Things have gotten infinitely more complicated in a very short amount of time. ]

[ua_duibhne]

[Well... it's not the worst thing he could have said about Fionn and Diarmuid does genuinely seem grateful for his patience. He even pauses to reach out and clap a hand to his arm.]

It means a lot to me to hear you say that. My thanks.

[He's not entertaining any fantasies quite as absurd as imagining they could potentially be friends but knowing that he might at least call him an ally one day is enough. After everything that's happened so far, the last thing anyone needs- particularly Berserker, looking at that still nibbled-looking ear- is more in-fighting.]

I understand. I didn't mention us at all but... [A pause.] If there's a problem, we'll deal with it.

[Their relationship is a strange contradiction: strong and beating with dizzying intensity but made fragile by uncertainty. Fragile enough that he was wary of even calling Berserker out tonight. Regardless, it's an obstacle they'll have to navigate in some way or another- it's hardly the first time he's had to fight for a lover.

Finally, as the buildings open up onto a wide panoramic of the coast, Diarmuid's pace begins to slow. A little way ahead of them sits the harbour's lighthouse, its beacon piercing through the settling veil of darkness across the waters.]

Here we are. [First, he produces the key. Next, a bottle of fine whiskey.] I made a few arrangements with the keeper- we've got the place to ourselves until midnight and there should be clear skies all night. I know it's not much of a surprise but I... I suppose I wanted to spend some time together. Just us.

[curruid_coinchenn]

[ He almost says "don't thank me", but stops himself. Ghosts from their past can be a problem to talk about later...Even if they're currently a part of their present. It's fine. There are other, less stressful things at hand right now.

Berserker hadn't been out this far and the view actually gives him pause. The sharp smell of seawater, the chill on the breeze...Faint reminders of home. ]

... It's a nice surprise. [ Time alone together was precious when they both lived with others. It was isolated out here and they could truly be alone. ] It'll be nice to be alone with you for a little while.

[ And, you know, the idea of drinking right now is welcome. Things have not been easy lately -- this would be a welcome reprieve. He takes Diarmuid's hand in his own, deciding to take the lead on something for once in his life. ]

closed to waver

[ua_duibhne]

[This month has been trying for everyone, it seems. As Diarmuid struggles with the altogether cruel combination of magic use being looked down upon on festival days and the sudden desire to do just that, the build-up in his body becomes downright unbearable far quicker than he could have ever anticipated. Lúnasa is over now, the need to obey social graces abated, but the sensation remains and it hits him like a freight train the second he steps into the apartment this particular evening.

It hasn't escaped his attention that, with the Full Moons, Waver's own instincts seem to be in the midst of a rebellion of their own. Time to do kill two birds with one stone.

Saying that, he has no idea how to go about it; as the Lancer heads to Waver's room, tugging off his tie and leaving it hanging on the handle of his own door, he seems almost tentative. By that same note, regardless of whether the door is open or not, he'll still stop to knock.]

Waver? I'm sorry to interrupt but...

["Can I hold your hand for a while?"; "Would it be a problem if I just lay down next to you for a while?"

Hm.]

I've overestimated my resistance to magical build-up and left things a little late. Are you free to- can we...? [Gods, it sounds like he's soliciting. He shakes his head and tries again.] We should reaffirm our Bond.

[tryhard]

[ Waver hasn't been participating in many of the festivities. All of it is foreign to him, seems awkward and too intimate a festival in many ways. Already, he spends much of his time either at work or in his room, and nothing about what's been happening lately has changed that.

He'll look up from his book at the knock, calling out for Diarmuid to come on in when Waver recognizes his voice. For now, Waver remains stretched out on his stomach atop his bed, knees bent and feet up, gaze curiously lifting toward the doorway. ]

Diarmuid...? Are you all right?

[ With the closer proximity, Waver can feel the pent-up energy in Diarmuid's magic like the unpleasant buildup of static electricity, a distant hum of a current waiting to lash out.

Shit.

The book snaps shut. Waver twists around, moving to sit up. ]

Close the door.

[ He scoots over, lips pursed. Pats the bed beside him without quite meeting Diarmuid's eyes. ]

Sit.

[ua_duibhne]

[Maybe it's simply that Diarmuid's thoughts are too much of a disorganised mess for him to focus but it's actually difficult to read Waver's expression as he heads into the bedroom. He feels a fool for leaving it so late, of course, but that's his mistake to bear and he's already resolved to take whatever dressing down the young mage might subject him to on the chin.

So, he does as he's told and obediently sits on the bed beside him, at first with an almost comedic tentativeness but gradually relaxing as the proximity alone begins to calm his mind. All they need is contact, correct? Then this shouldn't be too awkward- it's not as though they haven't done as much before.]

... my apologies for not acting sooner. [He glances over, expression sober.] And for neglecting my own responsibilities to you.

[tryhard]

[ On the one hand, it's a bit awkward, and Waver's always been a little shy about physical closeness even though he clearly finds comfort in it. But on the other hand-- it's instinct, and they both need it. It's just the two of them, and Diarmuid already looks so vulnerable and castigated all on his own.

The tension of the magic surrounding him makes Waver's room feel less cozy and more crowded all at once, like the air itself is settling with new solidity around them. He takes a deep breath.

Slowly, Waver reaches for Diarmuid's hand on the bed between them, placing his fingers over it with the same sort of almost ridiculous tentativeness. They're both terrible at this. ]

Then you understand. Apology accepted.

[ Right now, there's no point in scolding him more. It's clear that Diarmuid's berated himself over it enough, and the last thing either of them needs is an overwhelming surge of negative emotion when Diarmuid feels so close to snapping, and the Moons are waxing fuller by the day. It isn't a problem for Waver yet, but-- well, he can't say he hates the feeling of being close to his Bonded right now either, even when he's in full charge of his faculties for now.

Waver looks up seriously, gently squeezing Diarmuid's hand. ]

How can I help?

[ua_duibhne]

["Whatever you're doing right now but more."

Not much of an answer when Waver is simply sitting next to him and holding his hand but it's exactly what he needs. As their hands meet, he can already feel the steady pulse of their Bond, stronger for the contact and soothing. In spite of himself, he edges closer and moves forward so that he can rest his forehead against his. Diarmuid closes his eyes, taking a moment to enjoy the shiver of magic and the soft, cool feeling of Waver's hair against his skin.

A long, relieved sigh- and then he opens his eyes once more and glances down.]

... tell me if this is too much.

[By this point, it's fairly obvious that his hesitation is more out of an awareness of Waver's boundaries than his own. The sudden urge to put his arm around him goes ignored for now but he rests his free hand on the bed behind them so that he can lean closer. It's almost an embrace. Almost.]

[tryhard]

[ Waver doesn't move back. The hesitation in his movements echoes Diarmuid's, like he isn't sure if this is what either of them really want. His partner's tentativeness leaves Waver feeling equally uncertain, worrying he's not doing the right thing. ]

I'm the one who asked what you need, [ he reminds softly, just above a whisper; it's loud enough between them with Diarmuid's face so close. ]

You didn't answer my question.

[ His skin is warm, almost as warm as Waver's -- whose basal temperature has risen by a couple degrees since his changes began. With Diarmuid's face so close, it's difficult to focus his eyes on him or know where to look. Waver lets his gaze drop to his chest, eyes not-quite shut.

His own heartbeat is already going embarrassingly fast, but when Diarmuid shifts in what seems to be an invitation to lean closer, Waver follows tentatively. ]

So, er... How did it get this bad?

[ Is talking making it less awkward? More awkward? Damn. ]

[ua_duibhne]

I... this is fine.

[For now. After skirting the edges of an overload, it's hard to be entirely satisfied with the level of contact they're sharing now but it's probably for the best; Diarmuid has always been a master of self-restraint, after all, and feeling it slip even a little is unsettling. If nothing else, it's a good way to reacquaint himself with Waver's unique presence.

Unconsciously, he reaches up and begins to stroke his ears.]

... I'm not sure. There's something in the air that...

[He sighs, struggling to find the words to describe it. Throughout this month, he's been overwhelmed by the desire to cast stronger spells, push himself further, and resisting it has been a trial all in itself. The consequences are self-explanatory.]

Regardless, it was my own foolishness that brought us here.

[There's a brief silence- and then, as though it were someone else using his voice, he finds himself breaking it.]

Would it be improper of me to put my arms around you?

[tryhard]

[ With his eyes nearly shut and his focus split between Diarmuid's words and the gentle pressure of their foreheads touching, Waver doesn't even register the new movement until Diarmuid's fingertips slide down the back of one of his newly-canine ears.

At first, when he'd begun changing, they'd been itchy and achy, and the process had left Waver uncomfortable with touching them even himself. The reaction to having Diarmuid do it is involuntary: Waver's breath catches in surprise, one hand reaching out to catch Diarmuid's knee as the closest place to brace himself or catch his attention. The fuzzy ear beneath his fingertips bends of its own accord, twitching away-- then back, flicking nervously.

He missed half of what Diarmuid was saying. ]

Ah--

[ It hadn't hurt, though. In fact--

His breath picks up, startled more than anything. Very slightly, Waver shakes his head. ]

N-no. You can.

closed to caster

[ua_duibhne]

[Crash.

The dummy, bespelled to dodge every blow thrown its way, crashes to the ground, stuffing flying as Diarmuid rips his spear free from its chest with a flourish. That makes the second he's torn apart today and he might feel bad if it weren't for the way, owing to its rather eccentric enchanter, it raises a hand in a wobbly thumbs up. The Lancer drops back out of his offensive stance, twirling Gáe Dearg one last time before setting it across his shoulders.

The Wilder watching over this section of the encampment gives a little scoff as she nudges the dummy with the toe of her boot.

"Well, I certainly don't need to tell you how to use that thing. Maybe you need an actual opponent. How about..."

The witch glances around, looking for any trainees not currently engaged in combat or some kind of exercise- and spots a likely candidate in no time at all. After all, there's one particular man here that stands out immediately and he's simply talking ("Doing nothing important," she decides.) with another Wilder.]



[With a short wave, she calls for him to come over and join them- and with her lined, serious face, it's probably not advisable to disobey her. Not that Diarmuid was planning on it; he's been temporarily caught off guard by just who it is that he's going to be fighting.

"Right! So, this is your new sparring partner. Play nice."]



[Does this mark the first time they've been properly face to face since...? Of course, they've seen each other at the Coven, exchanged brief greetings and shared a few breaks together but it didn't feel the same as before. It was nothing like-]

... I'd be honoured.

//screams forever// you are incredible how dare u

[futhark]

[ Playing with the dummies is definitely not enough for a knight who knows how to handle his weapon, the Wilder had a good eye and made a good choice. Diarmuid is far above this level of weapon training— and so is Cú. Throwing two dummy-wreckers together is the best option from their perspective.

Caster makes a short pause as he's being pulled away and given a living, breathing opponent. No one else but Diarmuid ua Duibhne. For the time it takes for one exhale he waits, waits for the turmoil of those emotions he refused to name to wash over him and— and nothing of such happens. Just a surprise, excitement over the challenge, acceptance and that "long time no see, friend" feeling.

Bonds and their strengthening of magic along with keeping both participant safe from the eventual demise were most often praised points. But the leveling of emotions, control, lack of this constant irritation— That feeling of being in charge of own head again? Best thing in the world. ]

Honor is mine—

[ Another Wilder comes with two training staffs, taking note that both of the man hold actual weapons, pointy edges and all. Caster's face split in a wide, toothy grin as he glances at Lancer, at staffs offered and back to Lancer. ]

Do we want to start with a friendly warm-up, or are we going all-out from the start? [ Pffft, staffs, seriously. ]

'3-

[ua_duibhne]

[There's that smile. Sunny and effortlessly charming, truly befitting of the Child of Light- and it heartens the Lancer far more than he could have anticipated. The only tension to be found is in Diarmuid's own expression, something that fades as realises that things between them have settled once more. Gods, it's a relief- and it shows in the drop of his shoulders as he lets out the breath he was holding.

In fact, Caster seems different to the last time that they met. Subtly, perhaps, but different and the pulse of magic within him feels more stable. Could it be that he finally Bonded? Or did he find another outlet? Either way, it's not his place to ask; if he wants to reveal what changed, let him do it on his own terms.

Besides, there's a battle that needs fighting. They can talk later.

He flashes his fellow witch an equally cocky smile. It's a shame they won't let them do this with actual spears; he'd give anything to test his own skills against the greatest spearman Erin ever produced.]

Well, you did promise me a challenge, Caster. [In an unabashed display of showmanship, he lets the staff play across his fingers before elegantly spinning it back into his grip.] Don't tell me you've grown rusty with a weapon...? If you need to warm-up, I certainly won't deny you.

[a little bit of playful smack talking never hurt anyone]

[futhark]

[ Caster whistles, also taking the staff. It's true that they would frown at them using actual weapons, but he isn't concerned about a frown or even about a bit of disobeying the discipline. What's the worst they could do to them? ]

I don't need the warm-up but since you're the one who chose the staff— I promise to go easy on you. [ Friendly smack talk is a Celt thing. Art of flyting, at least they're not doing that in a verse. Caster is a show-off as well, but his twirl of the staff is shorter because he immediately falls into a stance and zips in a low dash, mud, and dirt miring him down enough to give a bigger window for reaction than intended. He uses the full length of the staff to bridge the distance between them even faster, aiming a wide swipe at Diarmuid's ankles. It's just a poke, a test, friendly greeting.

Fortunately (?) neither of them can be as obnoxiously quick as they would as Servants. ]

[ua_duibhne]

[Those few seconds the churned up ground beneath them buys Diarmuid the time he needs to react but not to respond. The head of the staff slices through the air where he was standing just moments before as he dodges backwards, the soles of even his hard-worn boots sliding across the mud and bringing him further away than he would have liked. Quickly, he adjusts his stance, spreading his legs wide for balance as he swings the staff back forward. Still on the defense, it seems.]

Damn-

[It's barely even a whisper but there's a new glint in the Lancer's eyes. Now this is interesting. Diarmuid flashes him a cocksure grin.]

We never did settle on a wager, you know. [Though his grip on the staff tightens, he leaves room for it to slip across his palm and giving himself the chance to switch up his form.] Are we still game for three rounds of drinks and a story for each night?

[futhark]

[ Cú Chulainn was never the one to fight like a disciplined soldier (but then he never was one, he was a knight, not a footsoldier)— when Diarmuid breaks off, he lets him, letting their weapons clash once on the goodbye. Instead of pursuing a silent admiration of graceful display, as graceful as their battleground lets them (shut up, mud) ]

That— sounds just about perfect.

[ A beat ]

Just to make sure; anything goes or is there a hard no on something? [ And to better explain what exactly he means by that, he hooks his teeth into top of the long glove on his left hand, and starts to pull it off. As the fabric slides off it uncovers strings and swirls of shapes and runes painted onto Caster's forearm. He throws it away with a shrug. His all too relaxed stance being an opening ] It's a Witches training, no?

[ While most of Witches here require training in weapons first since they know magic, they don't need to train their spears skills— but how to use them along with their new spellcasting knowledge. ]

[ua_duibhne]

[He watches with great interest as Caster removes his glove, eyes widening just a touch as he finds himself looking not at skin but a canvas of runes. Ah, so that's it. It's an ingenious idea and, for a moment, he's furious for not thinking of it sooner; he's been experimenting with enchanted wraps to strengthen Gáe Dearg but painting the spells directly onto your skin? That's something else.]

No holds barred. I'd be offended if you were to pull your punches, Hound of Ulster. [He chuckles.] Magically speaking, that is.

[Rather than taking advantage of the relaxation of Caster's guard, Diarmuid focuses on flexing his own magical prowess. As he lets the staff slip back through his fingers, he mutters something- and even if the Lancer-turned-druid doesn't recognise the specifics, he'll certainly feel a shiver of arcane energy in his words. For just a brief moment, the whorls of the wood's natural grain glow, as though filled with light from within.

An enchantment.

But there's no more time to waste on talk. The only signal Diarmuid gives of his advance is a tightening of his grip on the staff as he propels himself forward. Not a deflection this time but an entirely offensive swing aimed directly at his spear-arm.]

[futhark]

[ Caster had thought about setting enchantment on self, but he quickly found out that just writing or painting things on yourself gives no results. It was one of the Dreams that tipped him off it was something doable, but he perhaps was using the wrong approach.

His studies focused nearly only on Enchantment since then, and he found someone to teach him the trick of enchanting living flesh. It's been a work in progress since then, but gave him something to focus on.

Just this practice makes him realize that Diarmuid just had cast an enchantment on his weapon, but he is unable to tell what kind of spell exactly it was. Oh well, soon he will find out—

Caster's reaction is instant— he takes the staff, rolls it in a tight spin over his wrist, before gripping with both of his hands. That's trading force for maneuverability as he's focusing on blocking the incoming strike. No dodge, no twirl on his feet; Caster figures the sooner he figures what Diarmuid's spell is, the better he will be able to adjust his strategy.

The block naturally, keeps him occupied, keeps him on the defensive. Just for a second or two.

What happens when their weapons collide? Is the staff heavier? Sturdier? Will it release some kind of effect on hit? ]