May Catch-All Log [ota]

[luciing]

WHO: Somnus and You
️ WHAT: Catch-all, TDM prompts, etc.
WHEN: Month of May
WHERE: Around
WARNINGS: Individual warnings below

TDM Prompt: Casino Bidding CW: Alcohol, gambling

[ Do the rumors involving the existence of such rare hourglass coins have any merit? Perhaps not, perhaps so; whatever the case, it warrants investigation.  Thus he ventures into the depths of the casino, where the atmosphere is heady and heavy with smoke and the clamor of clinking drinks and calls for bids. His usual attire, that of archaic robes, is met with head-turns of the younger fae and approving nods from the older misers of the club. It is with the latter that he interacts-- one old soul to others--  in a few rounds of card games involving a number of buffs and keeping one's visage as steel and unreadable as can be. He makes a sizable sum, because of it.

Somnus' alcoholic drink of choice is a deep, red wine, and he holds a goblet-full of it in his hand as assistants begin to set up the bidding stage. Dressed in gaudy, sparkling outfits, the fae parade the items one by one out to pedestals: the feather, the glacier, the flower, and so forth.

However, it is the first one that garners his attention the most, but rather than interest, he appears dismissive. Somnus frowns, speaking to whichever other-worlder has joined him. ]

A feather that may resurrect the dead...  What nonsense.

TDM Prompt: KnotsCW: none

[  So.

You and he now have their wrists linked as one, and all thanks to one of the pesky fairies that are running this booth. Somnus tugs at his wrist, which may move your own upward with his to bring the linked limbs between you and him.

His voice, naturally deep and grim, carries fuel edges of disappointment and weariness to it. This isn't the first time the fae have played tricks, and it seems that even the markets are not safe. ]  Their enchantments never cease.

Idle Training: Forward-Dated to May 9th CW: ig he's shirtless

[ The notably more pleasant weather of late spring allows for more outdoor, leisurely activities... for those who are idle. The one who is decidedly not is none other than Somnus Lucis Caelum. Outside of Camelot, one can find him on a field practicing the sport of javelin-throwing, and he seems to have a decent set-up. Nearby are a series of polearms wedged into the soft ground, and some meters away are markings on the ground to measure distance. An array of already-tossed spears, halberds, and javelins are already embedded near or past the furthest line.   By now Somnus has worked up into a healthy, hearty exercise, although one might not know this by the serious, severe expression he wears, and his practice has gotten him heated to the point that he's already undone the upper half of his robes, allowing the fresh, cool spring air to soothe overworked brawn.  As another sings silently through the air, it strikes right next to a previous one, but he is nowhere near done.

The muscles of his back and arms grow taught with tension, positioning himself as he corrects, then re-corrects his stance, and his eyes narrow to a dangerous, hunter's expertise as he marks yet another yonder goal. Without warning, he sprints and whips his arm forward, snapping the javelin into a ferocious torrent through the air. Sweat beads and breaks off the strands of his long bangs with the momentum, his chest heaves with a reactionary, much-needed inhale. A few seconds later, the toss ends its sail with a defeating crack as the weapon splits down a previously tossed polearm.

After sending another one flying across the field, he pauses to regain some of his disheveled composure, bringing his forearm up to wipe at the perspiration dotting his brow, then proceeding into a stretch of his arm crossed over the other. A soft exhale that may have been for relief doesn't appear to help whatever strain, mental or otherwise, has overcome him, and after a moment, he reaches for yet another javelin...

For those that know him, despite the immense focus require for the sport, he may appear more preoccupied than usual.  While he may appear to be practicing alone, others are welcome to join in the sport or ask for instruction; alternatively, this prompt can be incorporated with the massage TDM prompt if one were to offer him a knot to relieve whatever tension wracks him. ]

Wildcard

[ Have an idea? PM this account, drinksteapots, or Jade294#6977! Somnus is also open to current Quests. ]

Comments

[luciing]

[ Is there a god to be thanked for either of their presences here? She is dead, and so is he. Rather than be cynical, once more she sees the fortune of their circumstance. Once more, his chest feels tight after speaks. Ever so softly, and with it in mind that admitting a truth may release their bonds, he say this: ] I, as well.

[ It is one thing to be cautious to even admit this. It is another thing to make oneself vulnerable enough to do so. Finally, it is something else entirely to trust another that, in light of that vulnerability, that they will not trample upon it. He knows not why he feels it is safe to admit anything in her company.

No, that is a lie. He knows exactly why.


Somnus rolls his wrist against hers, which undoes the last of the thread that binds them. It seems his confession, so benign a thing, had been grand enough to satisfy its conditions. ]

Would you care to sit with me?

[ Should she agree, he’ll unclasp his cloak and lay it upon the ground for her. ]

[silvergarden]

[Somnus's arm falls untethered, but his presence remains; the understanding that he doesn't intend to leave pleases Rinea more than she expects.]

I would be delighted.

[As Somnus prepares their makeshift blanket, it strikes Rinea that this reminds her, almost... of being courted? But that is a silly notion. Avalon has changed her understanding of human interaction, and so little of the traditions of her time apply. Still, the nostalgic acts of courtesy are comforting in their familiarity. She feels pleasantly warm even under the shade of the willow boughs.]

Hehe... [She smooths her skirts as she sits. ] Shall I leave the flower selection to you?

[luciing]

[ Given that he’s existed incorporeal longer than he had been alive, it has been ages since he’s weaved any laurel. Nevertheless, when Somnus sits beside her— with a courteous distance, on the soft ground itself— he begins plucking a few of the other wildflowers within reach, the muscle memory of the craft guiding his fingers. The willow blossoms he had taken earlier will make for the base, with the others will adorn it further, but he pauses before integrating the first flower.

Somnus’ eyes lift to meet hers. What a soft and pleasant sound, that laugh. ]

As you wish.

[ He’s ignorant of flowers’ meanings (save for two in particular), but in this moment, he considers that going forward, what they mean is something he should attempt to study if only to be able to converse with her about them. Somnus places one pink five-petaled wildflower into the crown, then a white, lacey-appearing one.

…He should try to say something. ]

During spring, Star comes alive with flowers. Do not fret if the laurel feels fragile… for just like the season, it is not made to last. Should petals fall upon one’s shoulders, consider it a blessing.

[ …Privately, of course, the look of flower petals dusting along a woman’s hair or shoulders is quite flattering to him. Seeing as there is no need to tell another truth, he will not be admitting this. ]

[silvergarden]

[Rinea listens carefully, but she watches perhaps moreso. The juxtaposition of a statuesque, austere Somnus against the whimsical flower blooms is... actually not as jarring as she expected. Perhaps that is proof of how much better she knows him, now? That she can see the man beneath the detached demeanor?

Though... if his minute expressions are anything to go by, the excessive amount of thought he's putting into the laurel is charmingly funny.]

Very well. I shall treasure it while it lasts.

[In preparation of wearing it, Rinea reaches up to unclip her hair ornaments from their customary position above her ears. Once she's gotten them both she pauses, her gaze arrested at the sight of them between her fingers. They... were a gift from Berkut, once. One of the first. Everything else she has put away-- even her ring-- but these yet remain. They are remnants of something lost to time... an old fondness she's held onto.

She places them in the pocket of her skirt.]

I hope you did not take offense to the longer-lasting press I made of your last floral gift. [A joke.]

[luciing]

[ Somnus’ focus remains upon the laurel as he weaves it. He selects another bloom, delicately integrating its stem into the braid of the others. ] It is a thoughtful… [ He turns his head to look at her, lips parted as the rest of the sentence fades from his lips. This is the first he has seen her without those hair ornaments; that he hasn’t is a reminder that their presence must be quite significant to her. ] …keepsake.

[ No doubt those flowers in her hair are a similar treasure. Perhaps offering a laurel is inappropriate, and the lighter jest at the end functions as a cover for her discomfort, as good as a conversationalist she is.

Somnus’ head inclines. Best to err on the side of caution, as a courtesy to her. ] This needn’t replace the ornaments in your hair, if you do not wish.

[silvergarden]

Ah-- not at all! [Rinea's fingers crumple into her skirt, anxious to reassure him. How astute of him to pick up on her undercurrent of nostalgia, though his conclusion is unnecessary.] I would not have accepted your offer if I did not wish for it, after all. Please.

[The twine bracelet no longer binds them, but Rinea feels almost compelled to over-explain herself, to admit the sentiment behind her decor. Still, the words die away in her throat. For some reason, she doesn't really want to let Berkut's shadow hang over them any longer than it already has that afternoon.

It's that thought that returns her strength: the strength of making a conscious choice.]

I do wear them often, but I shan't wilt without them. I promise. [It's a silly notion, but in the face of Somnus's inevitably solemn reception Rinea cannot help but titter at her own jest.]

[luciing]

[ He watches her as she speaks, noting the sincerity in her tone, and just like that she reassures him that this is neither an imposition nor overstep. And—

”—I shan’t wilt—“

”—wilt—“


He pauses in his task, bringing one hand up to his jaw, moving it as if he means to prevent some other expression from showing. But there it is: a twitch at the corner of his lips, so quick, so faint, that if she’s not looking it will be as if it never happened. His brow furrows afterward; very likely, that almost-expression had been foreign enough to be perplexing.

(When is the last time he had been amused by… anything?) ]

Very well.

[ A laurel is not full crown, and with one last pink blossom added, he holds the completed piece up, shifting the way he sits towards her. ]

May I…?

[silvergarden]

[Rinea is quite nearly convinced she imagined whatever emotion Somnus just had... but real or not, it seems she got her meaning across.]

Yes! It looks lovely... Please do.

[She sits up a bit, leaning in on one arm to offer her brow. Should she... should she close her eyes for this? The intrusion of a stray stem or petal might spoil things, so after a moment's pause she does so, eyelashes brushing over her cheeks.]

[luciing]

[ Her eyes close as he gently lifts the laurel above her head. This is a curse in itself, granting him a moment to study her features beneath the patchy shade of the willows above. He sees kindness in her features, innocence, and the beauty of one who understands and forgives, who gives to others, who overcomes her grief. This is a beauty unique; this beauty is hers. Would that be all he sees.

Treacherously, it is not. For that same moment is the only one he needs to memorize the length of her lashes, the smoothness of her skin, the delicate angle of her jaw, ...and, indulgently, the rose of her lips. The curve at the corner of them, the echo of her voice within his head, the smile she had given him but a moment ago, how lovely it is, how soft they appear...

Perhaps her closing her eyes is a blessing, too, for she will not know this moment, this weakness that has manifested in his hesitation. He's frozen in place as if he means to lean further in, but wills himself to not. The iron into which he casts himself makes the thunder of his heart resound louder within.

...

She'll feel the feather-like weight of the laurel positioned upon her head, blossoms curving up and above either side of her ears, his fingers working to secure stems into her hair. When he's finished, one hand falls away from her, but the other lingers at the side of her head. His finger crooks, moving to untuck a strand of her hair from behind her ear, allowing it to frame her face. There, his touch lingers upon the side of her cheek warm but distant for a moment, two moments too long...

When she opens her eyes, he withdraws his hand. A shade of peach dusts along his right upper cheek, slight but obvious against the pale tone of his skin. His gaze is thoughtful, reserved, and somehow-- more youthful than it's ever been, speechless as he gazes at her. ]

[silvergarden]

[Somnus's touch is impossibly gentle. The care in his work, each stem and petal dexterously placed, each strand of hair tenderly arranged, warms her to the bottom of her soul. How can such delicate intimacy exist in a person so determined to close himself off? It is enough to make anyone weep.

When his fingers finally fall away, Rinea opens her eyes. Her smile is arrested halfway by the sight of him. She cannot help but stare-- only for a moment, but it is as if time itself has slowed. She feels like she's seeing something she shouldn't. She feels like she should look away. She feels like Somnus should always look like this.

Her traitorous heart flutters. Her smile completes itself with embarrassment.]

Do I look... strange?

[luciing]

[ The laurel upon her head momentarily returns him to a different time, memories blended to one of fields of white flowers at dawn or of golden wheat at dusk, where all else is silent and nothing but the woman in front of him exists, so close yet so far. It is peaceful. With her it is peaceful.

Strange, she questions? Rather, extraordinary— and he’s just about to say as much when he reconsiders, tempering the enthusiasm that wishes to declare, righteously so, that she is nothing but wonderful.

As she holds his gaze, he struggles between faltering and answering, a turmoil of which is, by some miracle, not betrayed by his stony features. Yet the shy smile she gives him twists his heart, wringing it for every last drop, and the faint tinge of color to his upper right cheekbone remains. If he continues to look at her, he will surely fall further…

…Or he may do something he shouldn’t. ]

Daughter of Rigel… [ He speaks again, the usual steel smoothed over. ]

There are none fairer. If there is anything you should wish for in this moment, I would grant it.