Izunia Lucis Caelum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
founderinglight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
phantasmalrift2018-04-06 03:57 pm
founderinglight) wrote in phantasmalrift2018-04-06 03:57 pm
one day the light of love, though it may seem far away
Who: Grandpa Sleepy and you!
What: Izunia has some projects catchall!
When: Late march and a couple days into April
Where: vvvvvarious
Warnings: None YET
March 28-April 3, daylight; space between the station and the lighthouse
[Sticking out in his black coat against the outline of the roof, here's Izunia -
And then he suddenly isn't, with an impressive throw of a greatsword that's nearly his own height spinning through the air. It embeds in the ground, kicking up sand, and he follows in a flash of blue before it vanishes. And then again, straight up into the air - and back down with an explosion of sand.
Or perhaps you catch him with a series of... cards? floating in an array around him, before he suddenly sets one to spinning and conjures a burst of water or ice from the ground. Or, rapier in hand, setting fire to the blade in a... mostly controlled manner. Ignore the singed grass.
Either way, it's clear that he's practicing - putting his abilities on full display for probably the first time, aside from that fateful seagull fight. And perhaps a sparring buddy wouldn't be out of the question...?]
April 4th, east laundry, afternoon
[Well, it's not a total mess. But a keen eye will spot Izunia at one of the sinks - for once, sans scarf. In fact, sans shirt entirely. The reason why is clear in what he's bent over - a bit of dark metallic blue dye and a teeshirt that used to be entirely white. Clearly, he didn't want to risk the rest of his clothes getting stained.
And, well, he was right to be worried, considering that there's a streak of the blue dye running up his forearm to the elbow from where he mistakenly leaned it against the edge of the sink as he works. Also, there's that tattoo on his chest - a flock of crows, indeed, an entire murder, flying away from a series of cracks directly over his heart.]
I suppose I should have done a test run, first...
April 4-5th, late evening/early night
[And once the shirt is finished and hung up to dry securely in his room (and a towel streaked with the dye that mostly came off his arm), Izunia settles himself back in the kitchen again. There's the smell of something in the oven - cheese? garlic? - and while he waits for it to finish, he sets with a notebook at one of the bench-style tables. There's an array of sketches (mostly, now, people around the station), a deck of what seems to be metal playing cards, an empty fountain pen, and directly in front of him, a journal written in neat handwriting...
...Completely in what someone from Earth would recognize as Latin. And unlike the majority of writing around the station, this doesn't seem to want to translate if you sneak a peek.
Good luck sneaking up on Izunia, though, because chances are he hears you and closes the notebook when you approach. There's that usual smile in place, but it seems a bit emptier than usual.]
Good evening.
And also the usual places at the usual times
[If those projects don't interest you, perhaps you've caught him somewhere having a nap, or out on the viewing deck some sunrise or sunset? Strange as he is, even he has a routine.]
What: Izunia has some projects catchall!
When: Late march and a couple days into April
Where: vvvvvarious
Warnings: None YET
March 28-April 3, daylight; space between the station and the lighthouse
[Sticking out in his black coat against the outline of the roof, here's Izunia -
And then he suddenly isn't, with an impressive throw of a greatsword that's nearly his own height spinning through the air. It embeds in the ground, kicking up sand, and he follows in a flash of blue before it vanishes. And then again, straight up into the air - and back down with an explosion of sand.
Or perhaps you catch him with a series of... cards? floating in an array around him, before he suddenly sets one to spinning and conjures a burst of water or ice from the ground. Or, rapier in hand, setting fire to the blade in a... mostly controlled manner. Ignore the singed grass.
Either way, it's clear that he's practicing - putting his abilities on full display for probably the first time, aside from that fateful seagull fight. And perhaps a sparring buddy wouldn't be out of the question...?]
April 4th, east laundry, afternoon
[Well, it's not a total mess. But a keen eye will spot Izunia at one of the sinks - for once, sans scarf. In fact, sans shirt entirely. The reason why is clear in what he's bent over - a bit of dark metallic blue dye and a teeshirt that used to be entirely white. Clearly, he didn't want to risk the rest of his clothes getting stained.
And, well, he was right to be worried, considering that there's a streak of the blue dye running up his forearm to the elbow from where he mistakenly leaned it against the edge of the sink as he works. Also, there's that tattoo on his chest - a flock of crows, indeed, an entire murder, flying away from a series of cracks directly over his heart.]
I suppose I should have done a test run, first...
April 4-5th, late evening/early night
[And once the shirt is finished and hung up to dry securely in his room (and a towel streaked with the dye that mostly came off his arm), Izunia settles himself back in the kitchen again. There's the smell of something in the oven - cheese? garlic? - and while he waits for it to finish, he sets with a notebook at one of the bench-style tables. There's an array of sketches (mostly, now, people around the station), a deck of what seems to be metal playing cards, an empty fountain pen, and directly in front of him, a journal written in neat handwriting...
...Completely in what someone from Earth would recognize as Latin. And unlike the majority of writing around the station, this doesn't seem to want to translate if you sneak a peek.
Good luck sneaking up on Izunia, though, because chances are he hears you and closes the notebook when you approach. There's that usual smile in place, but it seems a bit emptier than usual.]
Good evening.
And also the usual places at the usual times
[If those projects don't interest you, perhaps you've caught him somewhere having a nap, or out on the viewing deck some sunrise or sunset? Strange as he is, even he has a routine.]
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[He comes up out of the sink, though he doesn't even glance at his arm. On the other hand, he doesn't seem to mind her looking, and while he might be slim as a rail, it's a surprisingly muscular rail.
(I heard the Founder King had an eight pack, that the Founder King was shredded.)]
I'm afraid that won't be going anywhere for a while. This dye is quite tenacious stuff.
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Jetshard overcomes the moment of awkwardness quickly enough that she hasn't been polishing her glasses for an additionally awkward period of time, and puts them back on; her usual green-lensed pair, although she's left the loupe in her room for the moment.
She's just going to salve her dignity by pretending that her interest is academic. Convenient that he's physically fit enough that it's easy to identify different muscular structures, then.]
As long as it's not an irritant, I guess.
[At least, she's just going to assume that Izunia has enough sense to avoid dying his clothes with something that's going to melt his skin off.]
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[Anatomy! That's what a nipple looks like, Jetshard.
they're dude nips I can say that.She'd probably notice a few scars, too, but they're pretty typical for someone that's a skilled fighter, and probably wouldn't even be worth noting to a troll. And then, of course, the tattoo, really obvious when he turns around and leans his back against the edge of the sink instead.
(That will probably also have a line of blue.)]
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What are you using it for? Other than turning the sink blue.
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Needed to modify a shirt. It may not be worth much, but if it gets me even a second of hesitation from those who fairly justifiably want to stick any number of large, sharp objects in my brother, I consider it a worthwhile effort.
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Someone I should be aware of?
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His tone is fast-paced and clipped, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a bandage as fast as possible.]
My brother is the vessel of a daemonic apocalypse plague, schemed and murdered his way through the destruction of multiple countries via political manipulations and "rediscovered" technology, and finally brought a ten-year-long night down upon the planet that utterly destroyed the ecosystem and very nearly all of humanity.
[Deep breath.]
Largely because he wanted revenge on me and my entire bloodline by extension for one accidental fratricide and thirty-six very intentional ones, which was my extremely ill-advised reaction to the previously aforementioned "vessel of a daemonic plague" development.
[And now he wants a drink.]
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It takes her a moment to realize he's done.]
...I can see where the entire civilization getting caught in the crossfire on an attempted extractermination would leave some people inclined to stab first and ask questions later, yes.
[Another half-beat, as she tries to figure out how to put what she wants to say next.]
I'm sorry. That that happened to your household. Infectious disease rarely inspires well-advised choices in anyone.
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And yet... Now it's out there, released into the air of the Station even if no one lse is listening. And at least one person, it seems, won't judge.]
A bit more than infectious; probably past even 'malignant.' The end result of most Starscourge infection is daemons - twisted and rabid creatures of the night, always supernatural, usually highly dangerous. It's a death sentence either way, but many choose to take merciful action against the infected before it progresses far enough that they'll become daemons. There have only ever been two powers capable of removing the infection - the healing power of the Oracle... And Ardyn.
[Scarf, he needs his scarf - it appears very suddenly around his neck from the Armiger as he turns to start drying his hands, dark blue on his bare skin.]
The power the gods gave Ardyn... was not to heal the infection, the way we were led to believe. He simply took it. He healed... Thousands of people, taking their infections into himself, becoming the worst among daemons and yet still wearing a human skin.
[There, hands dry one some towel that won't be ruined by the stain.]
The last person he healed... was me.
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(She's run the necessary blood tests recently and knows she's in no danger. Thinking about it makes her want to do it again. She won't, because she won't let it run her life more than it already does.)
Jetshard thinks she understands, a little at least, but she has no idea what to say other than what she's already said:]
I'm sorry.
If you need a moment, I can go.
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No, it's - it's fine. Please, don't.
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[She's still not sure what to say, but at least she trusts that she isn't unwelcome. She's given him the out to get rid of her, and he hasn't taken it.
Behind her, the washing machine finishes filling and kicks into an agitation cycle.]
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Daemons can't abide sunlight and thrive in darkness. That's why it makes me so skittish.
[His fear of the dark is, in context, perfectly rational.]
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...maybe it's just my own history of pulling up roots when things go bad speaking, but I'm glad you're clear of that world. You and the boys. Even if there's still fallout that might find you here.
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Unfortunately, some things you can't run from. And even prior to the twisted plague immortal development, Ardyn was always unbearably persistent.
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[Troll twins would be, but troll twins are uniquely interdependent among wigglers. She's not sure how well that translates to humans.]
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Nearly inseparable until early adulthood and still quite close after that, yes. Except for his healing powers, we shared everything.
[He is unaware that that particular phrasing will imply Actual Psychic Bond Twins in a troll context.]