[there's no two ways about it: it's late. even for a man whose lifestyle has always involved late-nights and more recently has grown to involve later, more demanding nights (something he'd not really considered possible, at one time), it's well beyond his normal timeframe. even so, he can't say he particularly minds visiting Sylus after-hours if the man requires something. vampires tend to be particular creatures, after all. some, he'd refused to return to altogether, to the tune of a couple of ugly new scars. others just didn't seem to prefer him as a blood source for one reason or another. it makes the mafia boss particularly unique then, considering they both get along and he seems content with the taller man's regular company. if he weren't just superstitious enough to know better, he might even say they could be loosely-defined friends.
the thought is an amusing one, as he follows the echoing halls to what's become their meeting room, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. little more than a brief exchange later, and he takes a seat on the comfortable couch, legs crossed while he waits. a short time, he expects—Sylus is nothing if not timely, and that's when he's not in a circumstance causing this sort of "emergency."]
[Sylus arrives with the weight of centuries pressing against his bones.
He loathes feeling like this—frayed, unmoored, the hunger curling inside him like an ember refusing to burn out. It is not the gnawing, desperate thirst of fledglings, nor the frenzied, fevered craving of the starving. His hunger is something else entirely. Old. Deep. A creature of its own will, biding its time until he lets it sink its claws into him.
Tonight, he has let it wait too long.
He feels it in the way his skin prickles, in the way his senses are too sharp, his patience worn down to its finest edge. The scent of blood lingers everywhere in his world, woven into the air, into the fabric of the city, but he has spent long enough among the living to know control. He is a master of it. He has learned to let the scent of human life wash over him without breaking.
But the world has a way of testing its monsters.
Tonight had been one long, ceaseless stretch of aggravation. Negotiations with men who thought themselves powerful simply because they had not yet been devoured. Deals laced with threats, with unspoken violence, the stench of fear curling beneath the expensive perfume of their cologne. Sylus had entertained them, played the part of a man patient enough to let them pretend they had control. He had let them leave intact, a mercy few have ever known.
And yet, the restraint has cost him.
By the time he had stepped away from the last of them, from their posturing and their feigned bravado, he had needed to feed. Not wanted, not desired—needed. His body had sent its warnings, sharp and insistent. His muscles coiled too tight, his nerves alight, his mind buzzing with the weight of it. And yet, he had let it fester, pushing it off, unwilling to satiate it on something fleeting, something meaningless. He does not take from just anyone.
That is why he had called Michon.
It is not something he does lightly. There are plenty who would offer, who would beg for it, hoping to carve out some meaning for themselves in the act. But Sylus has never cared for desperation. He prefers something steadier. Someone who does not flinch, who does not treat it as reverence or fear, but as what it is—a transaction, a simple thing.
That is why he favors Michon.
Michon does not yield, does not plead, does not make himself small before him. He does not cling to delusions of reverence. He offers, and Sylus takes, and nothing more is needed.
And yet—tonight feels different.
Because tonight, he calls on Michon not out of necessity, but out of failure.
Sylus is slipping. He knows it the moment he steps into the room, the moment his eyes settle on the familiar sight of the man waiting for him on the couch, exuding that same quiet confidence. Unmoved. Unbothered. Unafraid.
Sylus does not like to ask for help. He does not like to need. But tonight, his hunger makes that choice for him.
[There's always a sense of wonder, when it comes to Michon's thoughts regarding Sylus. Maybe it's what keeps him from the precipice of foolish reverence, from falling in with the metered calm and charm the vampire operates with. The tenuous suspension of disbelief that he stands on equal footing with a being like them, simply from a business standpoint.
The wait feels no different than ever, a stretch of time he can imagine in footsteps not unlike his own, echoing down corridors like protracted ticks of a clock. Michon does not know if Sylus requires the walking, or if in his grace and power he simply glides over the floor as any silent predator with no need to intimidate, but it's a pleasant way to spend the time for a man whose life has been largely spent waiting.
The wait feels heavier than normal, perhaps owing to the time of night.
What he doesn't expect, as the other steps into the room, is the way the energy changes. A steady, controlled tension gives way to something more... erratic, a chord of danger that hangs heavier and more sinister than expected. Something is wrong—at least where Sylus and his facade are concerned.
Of course it leaves him questioning, even in the breaths before the vampire speaks. He would have to admit to some fondness for the man that stems from familiarity... not with Sylus himself, but with the situation. There isn't so much difference between Onychinus and the old famiglia, in the end. But to the point—he doesn't ask, doesn't question the unsettling rasp in his speech. The only sign to his concern is the faint press of his brows as his gaze follows the voice to its source.
Something is wrong here, and it should probably concern him more than it does. Perhaps he's more tired than he thought.]
There's been no notable delay. [It's both an acknowledgement and a dismissal, weight shifting as he pulls his hair back over one shoulder.] I've always operated on your timeframe. It's flattering that you would call on me so late.
[The wording is at least partly intentional, placing the nexus of control back in Sylus' hands. Not the urgency in needing him here at this hour, nor that same chord of something lingering there. He's not stupid, and Sylus knows full well by now that he's perceptive.
Long fingers slip down to unbutton his jacket, pulling the delicate fabric away from the tattooed skin of his neck. It's impossible to hide the faint shift of breath and heartbeat from a vampire, but this, too, suggests awareness over fear—curiosity, even.]
I needn't remind you of our terms, I'm sure.
[So don't torture yourself any longer, he doesn't say.]
( someone's in a bathroom cubicle with a pouch full of protocores and five very angry mafia members about to bear down on her. one may venture to call it a bit of a kerfuffle. )
[It hadn't been easy, spreading awareness of himself in the N109 Zone, but Aalto is not a man who operates on what is easy. He'd already set out the bait, flashy as ever: not many would blatantly announce they're looking for information in the zone. Little crumbs laid out for the right eyes, the big fish, the card dealer. It feels like it's been ages since he started on this job, but the solid weight cradled in his palm makes it all worth it.
They're always worth it.
Mist swirls around his feet with every step, rising up to create a thick blanket over the area. It's a comfort to him, and a convenient method of travel, slipping along the wisps from one space to the next, until he's arrived at the safe area he'd set up. A shrewd businessman doesn't risk losing what he'd worked so hard at finding.
... even so, it'd been surprisingly close. Patience is a virtue he has in spades, but time... time is a much crueler mistress. Even with an item worth only the sentimental value of the old geezer who'd made the request, and even if it had been taken by a Wanderer, there's always a point of no return. Lucky for him, his net had been cast wide enough.
Exhaling a sigh that's swallowed up by the fog, he lifts his gaze to the sky above the high walls and twinkling lights. A few more days and he'll have to rendezvous with someone else, too. Well, he can't say he doesn't look forward to meeting up with Encore again either.
And then his gaze twitches toward something, behind his sunglasses and imperceptible under the circumstances.]
Didn't expect to be the only fool taking a walk on a night like this. Careful you don't trip on your own feet.
[The tone is cheerful, considering he has no idea who he's going to be speaking to. That presence is... significant, to say the least, and it belongs to someone who moves with a similar easy confidence to his own. A coincidence, way out here? Maybe, but Aalto doesn't trust coincidences.]
[Sylus never really bothers to announce himself. And if Aalto is as good as his reputation suggests, then he’s already been noticed, recognized. It’s a game of patience now—who speaks first, who gives away more. Sylus isn’t in the habit of being the one laid bare.
He steps forward through the mist, unhurried, his presence as much a force as the swirling fog that refuses to cling to him.
His voice, when it comes, is low and amused, not quite a challenge, not quite an invitation. Somewhat of a low singsong to contrast with Aalto's softer tone.]
It wouldn’t be much of a walk if I did, now would it?
[His crimson gaze flicks to the object Aalto holds—brief, pointed. A glance that speaks of recognition, not of the item itself, but of its weight. He doesn’t step too close, not yet, but he doesn’t stay far either. He lingers at the edge of personal space, deliberate, like a slow inhale before a flame ignites.] This area isn't exactly a tourist spot, either.
[two men unaccustomed to proper friendship, and endlessly careful with their selves. it should be a tense clash, perhaps.
but there isn't an ounce of tension in Aalto's posture, even when Sylus steps closer. he doesn't spook, he doesn't move.
why should he, when he's here for a perfectly legitimate reason, backed by all the right channels? (are you really, Aalto...)]
Don't you think so? I think it's pretty quaint, if you view it in the right light. [fingers flex and the object flickers into view a bit more—just an old, tarnished necklace otherwise obscured by the mist.] Buuuut I can't claim to be a tourist, that's true.
[he doesn't know—couldn't find—the rightful owner of Onychinus' identity (to his endless frustration, thank you!). but Aalto is a clever man, and if it were to be anyone, he would certainly not put it past the deliberate almost-threat of this lingering presence. a little taller than him, though not much.]
You have my word as an information broker that I have no nefarious plans here, sir. [pushing off the wall, he swivels to face the stranger, a flick of fingers sending the pendant... somewhere. into one of his many pockets, perhaps, as he bows theatrically.] I was just helping an old friend find something he lost. Irresponsible to lose it here, don't you think? Luckily, I thrive on customer satisfaction, and I never disappoint.
[ dan feng had expected that this day might come, someday. after all, his duty is to his people, to his kingdom, before anything else, and that means that he must make personal sacrifices - even when it comes to the people that he chooses to love, and bind himself to. as the high elder of the vidyadhara, yinyuejun, drinker of the moon and bringer of the rains, he has a responsibility to his kinsmen, to bring their peoples together and bolster their ranks.
he had hoped that he would have more time before being married off, but.. it is what it is. dan feng is not able to leave xianzhou, not when his people rely on his power, so his betrothed instead comes to him - they are to be married the very day that he arrives, with little to no time to get to know one another before the proceedings.
it doesn't matter, he supposes. they met long, long ago, when they were both still very young - dan feng remembers his face, and the sound of his voice, but it has been decades. they were children then, now men grown. he cannot guess what sylus may look or act like, now. but that, too, does not matter.
they have a scant few minutes together, now. dan feng waits in his gardens, dressed in comfortable silks, his long hair lightly bound, standing on an arched bridge that overlooks a large pond. koi swim through the waters below, streaks of white and orange darting between lotus pads, lifting their mouths to the surface in search of food, but dan feng hardly sees them. though his eyes are on the water, his thoughts are elsewhere, on the near future, on the man he is to marry in a scant few hours, on the shape of the rest of his life.
footsteps approach from behind, and dan feng closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. ten minutes is all they have, before they must go their separate ways to prepare for the ceremony. straightening his spine, he clears his throat and turns toward the man behind him. ]
[Even as a child, Dan Feng had always been beautiful.
It is a quiet, cruel sort of beauty, the kind that does not demand attention but rather makes it impossible to look away. The Vidyadhara are a people of grace, of elegance, each one seemingly crafted by the hands of ancient gods, but even among them, Dan Feng stood apart. His features were fine, sculpted with the careful precision of an artisan’s final masterpiece. His hair, dark as the night sea, shimmered like the edge of a blade catching the moon. His eyes, sharp even in youth, carried something ancient; too knowing, too weary, as though he had already glimpsed the weight of his own future before he could even name it.
Sylus remembers watching him back then, from the vantage point of the abyss, a creature of deep waters and unfathomable depths. The Abyssal Sovereigns are not like the Vidyadhara, not delicate in their grace, not creatures of rain-kissed petals and moonlit reveries. Where Dan Feng is ethereal, Sylus is titanic, a being whose very presence makes the sea restless, whose existence bends the tides to his will.
Their kinds are cousins in lineage but not in nature.
The Vidyadhara live in the shallows, on the banks of rivers and lakes, in the arms of rain-fed valleys, their forms meant for beauty as much as for war. They are an enduring people, but ephemeral in some ways, tied to the cycle of reincarnation, to memory’s slow decay. The Abyssal, by contrast, do not forget. They do not shed their past lives like a second skin. They carry every century, every battle, every grief like a crown of deep-sea pearls, forged under the crushing weight of time itself. To the Vidyadhara, the abyss is a place of mystery, of things that should not be disturbed. To the abyss, the Vidyadhara are a people of impermanence, of fleeting echoes cast upon the surface.
And now, a bridge has been built between them.
Sylus watches Dan Feng from where he stands, the koi below them pale in contrast to the man above. He has not changed, his beauty has only sharpened and refined itself into something sculpted by centuries. Even for a dragon, even for a Vidyadhara, he is otherworldly.
Sylus has seen empires rise and fall. He has drowned warlords in their own ambition, and crushed entire civilizations beneath the weight of his domain. He has watched the abyss claim even the proudest of creatures, swallowing their names and legacies until only the tides remember them.
And yet, Dan Feng remains.
Standing before him now with the same eyes he once possessed as a child. Almost bored, though now, they carry the full weight of the years between them.
Sylus steps closer, the space between them narrowing. He does not offer pleasantries or idle words. Instead, his gaze traces over the man fate has bound to him, the weight of inevitability pressing against his spine. He doesn't allow their shadows to merge.]
Do you resent me?
[Because he knows other things take precedence, even if he does love romance so much.]
( one learns new things about sylus every day. this time around, the information nugget that drops on her lap is a juicy one: he cannot quite hold his alcohol. her colleagues had been enamored with 'skye', and 'skye' in turn had been quite sporting, right down to downing a couple of shotglasses at once.
soon enough, however, kiyomi spots the red ears and the gently flushed cheeks. despite the friendliness of present company, the much-feared boss of onichynus getting tipsy makes her protective. she gracefully drinks the rest for him, and it's easy enough for her to bring the boisterous, cheerful night to an end, citing an early start to the weekend and to spend more time with skye (although that was drowned out by more cheers and catcalls), and finally, she takes his hand and guides him out the door, amused. )
C'mon. Your keys. You're sleeping over at my house tonight.
[Sylus hadn’t intended to drink. At least, not much. A sip here, a half-hearted toast there. He’d been prepared to play along, to keep up appearances, but somehow, 'Skye' had been roped into something a little more spirited. Kiyomi’s colleagues were good-natured, the kind of boisterous that didn’t grate, and their camaraderie was infectious in a way he hadn’t quite anticipated. For once, he didn’t mind.
Maybe it was the ease with which they accepted him, despite the careful mask he wore. Maybe it was the way Kiyomi had laughed, genuine and unguarded, as he’d humored their antics.
(It was, mostly Kiyomi.)
So when the shots were poured, and the clamor rose in a unified challenge, he’d met their cheers with a smirk and tipped the glasses back without hesitation.
The warmth had been pleasant at first. A slow burn spread through his chest, loosening something wound tight in his ribs. But then, too soon, it spread further up his neck, to his ears, creeping into the edges of his thoughts like ink in water.
He realized his mistake when the room’s edges softened in a way he couldn’t quite blink away. When his fingers, usually so deft, hesitated just a fraction too long over the rim of his next glass. When Kiyomi’s gaze sharpened at him in that way that meant she noticed.
And now—]
My keys? [the words are slower than intended, mouth catching up to thought with an uncharacteristic lag, and he frowns, like he's not sure why.
A pat-down of his pockets. There’s a moment of fleeting indignation, the instinct to insist he’s fine, that he’s handled worse. But Kiyomi’s grip on his wrist is firm, grounding. He exhales, slow, watching her through half-lidded eyes as a smirk tugs at his lips.]
Fine, [he finally concedes, tilting his head, voice dropping to something near a murmur as he gets the set of keys from his jacket pocket.] But only because you’re being very persuasive.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Understandable.
Do you want to talk about it?
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There was another explosion like the one that killed my family.
I'm coming over, I'll tell you more about it when I get there.
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vampire aus... good
the thought is an amusing one, as he follows the echoing halls to what's become their meeting room, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. little more than a brief exchange later, and he takes a seat on the comfortable couch, legs crossed while he waits. a short time, he expects—Sylus is nothing if not timely, and that's when he's not in a circumstance causing this sort of "emergency."]
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He loathes feeling like this—frayed, unmoored, the hunger curling inside him like an ember refusing to burn out. It is not the gnawing, desperate thirst of fledglings, nor the frenzied, fevered craving of the starving. His hunger is something else entirely. Old. Deep. A creature of its own will, biding its time until he lets it sink its claws into him.
Tonight, he has let it wait too long.
He feels it in the way his skin prickles, in the way his senses are too sharp, his patience worn down to its finest edge. The scent of blood lingers everywhere in his world, woven into the air, into the fabric of the city, but he has spent long enough among the living to know control. He is a master of it. He has learned to let the scent of human life wash over him without breaking.
But the world has a way of testing its monsters.
Tonight had been one long, ceaseless stretch of aggravation. Negotiations with men who thought themselves powerful simply because they had not yet been devoured. Deals laced with threats, with unspoken violence, the stench of fear curling beneath the expensive perfume of their cologne. Sylus had entertained them, played the part of a man patient enough to let them pretend they had control. He had let them leave intact, a mercy few have ever known.
And yet, the restraint has cost him.
By the time he had stepped away from the last of them, from their posturing and their feigned bravado, he had needed to feed. Not wanted, not desired—needed. His body had sent its warnings, sharp and insistent. His muscles coiled too tight, his nerves alight, his mind buzzing with the weight of it. And yet, he had let it fester, pushing it off, unwilling to satiate it on something fleeting, something meaningless. He does not take from just anyone.
That is why he had called Michon.
It is not something he does lightly. There are plenty who would offer, who would beg for it, hoping to carve out some meaning for themselves in the act. But Sylus has never cared for desperation. He prefers something steadier. Someone who does not flinch, who does not treat it as reverence or fear, but as what it is—a transaction, a simple thing.
That is why he favors Michon.
Michon does not yield, does not plead, does not make himself small before him. He does not cling to delusions of reverence. He offers, and Sylus takes, and nothing more is needed.
And yet—tonight feels different.
Because tonight, he calls on Michon not out of necessity, but out of failure.
Sylus is slipping. He knows it the moment he steps into the room, the moment his eyes settle on the familiar sight of the man waiting for him on the couch, exuding that same quiet confidence. Unmoved. Unbothered. Unafraid.
Sylus does not like to ask for help. He does not like to need. But tonight, his hunger makes that choice for him.
And he hates it.]
Sorry for the delay. [He rasps.]
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The wait feels no different than ever, a stretch of time he can imagine in footsteps not unlike his own, echoing down corridors like protracted ticks of a clock. Michon does not know if Sylus requires the walking, or if in his grace and power he simply glides over the floor as any silent predator with no need to intimidate, but it's a pleasant way to spend the time for a man whose life has been largely spent waiting.
The wait feels heavier than normal, perhaps owing to the time of night.
What he doesn't expect, as the other steps into the room, is the way the energy changes. A steady, controlled tension gives way to something more... erratic, a chord of danger that hangs heavier and more sinister than expected. Something is wrong—at least where Sylus and his facade are concerned.
Of course it leaves him questioning, even in the breaths before the vampire speaks. He would have to admit to some fondness for the man that stems from familiarity... not with Sylus himself, but with the situation. There isn't so much difference between Onychinus and the old famiglia, in the end. But to the point—he doesn't ask, doesn't question the unsettling rasp in his speech. The only sign to his concern is the faint press of his brows as his gaze follows the voice to its source.
Something is wrong here, and it should probably concern him more than it does. Perhaps he's more tired than he thought.]
There's been no notable delay. [It's both an acknowledgement and a dismissal, weight shifting as he pulls his hair back over one shoulder.] I've always operated on your timeframe. It's flattering that you would call on me so late.
[The wording is at least partly intentional, placing the nexus of control back in Sylus' hands. Not the urgency in needing him here at this hour, nor that same chord of something lingering there. He's not stupid, and Sylus knows full well by now that he's perceptive.
Long fingers slip down to unbutton his jacket, pulling the delicate fabric away from the tattooed skin of his neck. It's impossible to hide the faint shift of breath and heartbeat from a vampire, but this, too, suggests awareness over fear—curiosity, even.]
I needn't remind you of our terms, I'm sure.
[So don't torture yourself any longer, he doesn't say.]
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I do have free time tonight.
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i'm sorry for the tl;dr
no don't be sorry, this is a masterpiece
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it's humanly impossible to curve a bullet, right? no matter what that movie we watched last night said
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more like mechanical ballistics
( someone's in a bathroom cubicle with a pouch full of protocores and five very angry mafia members about to bear down on her. one may venture to call it a bit of a kerfuffle. )
unless ure around
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» tfln prompt #3
Everything imported from Mondstadt to Linkon is expensive. You’ll have to be more specific.
Re: » tfln prompt #3
This is a harvest that's been awarded plenty of times. Five, I believe?
So, which one is it?
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[ :) ]
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They're always worth it.
Mist swirls around his feet with every step, rising up to create a thick blanket over the area. It's a comfort to him, and a convenient method of travel, slipping along the wisps from one space to the next, until he's arrived at the safe area he'd set up. A shrewd businessman doesn't risk losing what he'd worked so hard at finding.
... even so, it'd been surprisingly close. Patience is a virtue he has in spades, but time... time is a much crueler mistress. Even with an item worth only the sentimental value of the old geezer who'd made the request, and even if it had been taken by a Wanderer, there's always a point of no return. Lucky for him, his net had been cast wide enough.
Exhaling a sigh that's swallowed up by the fog, he lifts his gaze to the sky above the high walls and twinkling lights. A few more days and he'll have to rendezvous with someone else, too. Well, he can't say he doesn't look forward to meeting up with Encore again either.
And then his gaze twitches toward something, behind his sunglasses and imperceptible under the circumstances.]
Didn't expect to be the only fool taking a walk on a night like this. Careful you don't trip on your own feet.
[The tone is cheerful, considering he has no idea who he's going to be speaking to. That presence is... significant, to say the least, and it belongs to someone who moves with a similar easy confidence to his own. A coincidence, way out here? Maybe, but Aalto doesn't trust coincidences.]
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He steps forward through the mist, unhurried, his presence as much a force as the swirling fog that refuses to cling to him.
His voice, when it comes, is low and amused, not quite a challenge, not quite an invitation. Somewhat of a low singsong to contrast with Aalto's softer tone.]
It wouldn’t be much of a walk if I did, now would it?
[His crimson gaze flicks to the object Aalto holds—brief, pointed. A glance that speaks of recognition, not of the item itself, but of its weight. He doesn’t step too close, not yet, but he doesn’t stay far either. He lingers at the edge of personal space, deliberate, like a slow inhale before a flame ignites.] This area isn't exactly a tourist spot, either.
[AKA you're not from here.]
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but there isn't an ounce of tension in Aalto's posture, even when Sylus steps closer. he doesn't spook, he doesn't move.
why should he, when he's here for a perfectly legitimate reason, backed by all the right channels? (are you really, Aalto...)]
Don't you think so? I think it's pretty quaint, if you view it in the right light. [fingers flex and the object flickers into view a bit more—just an old, tarnished necklace otherwise obscured by the mist.] Buuuut I can't claim to be a tourist, that's true.
[he doesn't know—couldn't find—the rightful owner of Onychinus' identity (to his endless frustration, thank you!). but Aalto is a clever man, and if it were to be anyone, he would certainly not put it past the deliberate almost-threat of this lingering presence. a little taller than him, though not much.]
You have my word as an information broker that I have no nefarious plans here, sir. [pushing off the wall, he swivels to face the stranger, a flick of fingers sending the pendant... somewhere. into one of his many pockets, perhaps, as he bows theatrically.] I was just helping an old friend find something he lost. Irresponsible to lose it here, don't you think? Luckily, I thrive on customer satisfaction, and I never disappoint.
[why are you like this.]
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arranged marriage;
he had hoped that he would have more time before being married off, but.. it is what it is. dan feng is not able to leave xianzhou, not when his people rely on his power, so his betrothed instead comes to him - they are to be married the very day that he arrives, with little to no time to get to know one another before the proceedings.
it doesn't matter, he supposes. they met long, long ago, when they were both still very young - dan feng remembers his face, and the sound of his voice, but it has been decades. they were children then, now men grown. he cannot guess what sylus may look or act like, now. but that, too, does not matter.
they have a scant few minutes together, now. dan feng waits in his gardens, dressed in comfortable silks, his long hair lightly bound, standing on an arched bridge that overlooks a large pond. koi swim through the waters below, streaks of white and orange darting between lotus pads, lifting their mouths to the surface in search of food, but dan feng hardly sees them. though his eyes are on the water, his thoughts are elsewhere, on the near future, on the man he is to marry in a scant few hours, on the shape of the rest of his life.
footsteps approach from behind, and dan feng closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. ten minutes is all they have, before they must go their separate ways to prepare for the ceremony. straightening his spine, he clears his throat and turns toward the man behind him. ]
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It is a quiet, cruel sort of beauty, the kind that does not demand attention but rather makes it impossible to look away. The Vidyadhara are a people of grace, of elegance, each one seemingly crafted by the hands of ancient gods, but even among them, Dan Feng stood apart. His features were fine, sculpted with the careful precision of an artisan’s final masterpiece. His hair, dark as the night sea, shimmered like the edge of a blade catching the moon. His eyes, sharp even in youth, carried something ancient; too knowing, too weary, as though he had already glimpsed the weight of his own future before he could even name it.
Sylus remembers watching him back then, from the vantage point of the abyss, a creature of deep waters and unfathomable depths. The Abyssal Sovereigns are not like the Vidyadhara, not delicate in their grace, not creatures of rain-kissed petals and moonlit reveries. Where Dan Feng is ethereal, Sylus is titanic, a being whose very presence makes the sea restless, whose existence bends the tides to his will.
Their kinds are cousins in lineage but not in nature.
The Vidyadhara live in the shallows, on the banks of rivers and lakes, in the arms of rain-fed valleys, their forms meant for beauty as much as for war. They are an enduring people, but ephemeral in some ways, tied to the cycle of reincarnation, to memory’s slow decay. The Abyssal, by contrast, do not forget. They do not shed their past lives like a second skin. They carry every century, every battle, every grief like a crown of deep-sea pearls, forged under the crushing weight of time itself. To the Vidyadhara, the abyss is a place of mystery, of things that should not be disturbed. To the abyss, the Vidyadhara are a people of impermanence, of fleeting echoes cast upon the surface.
And now, a bridge has been built between them.
Sylus watches Dan Feng from where he stands, the koi below them pale in contrast to the man above. He has not changed, his beauty has only sharpened and refined itself into something sculpted by centuries. Even for a dragon, even for a Vidyadhara, he is otherworldly.
Sylus has seen empires rise and fall. He has drowned warlords in their own ambition, and crushed entire civilizations beneath the weight of his domain. He has watched the abyss claim even the proudest of creatures, swallowing their names and legacies until only the tides remember them.
And yet, Dan Feng remains.
Standing before him now with the same eyes he once possessed as a child. Almost bored, though now, they carry the full weight of the years between them.
Sylus steps closer, the space between them narrowing. He does not offer pleasantries or idle words. Instead, his gaze traces over the man fate has bound to him, the weight of inevitability pressing against his spine. He doesn't allow their shadows to merge.]
Do you resent me?
[Because he knows other things take precedence, even if he does love romance so much.]
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soon enough, however, kiyomi spots the red ears and the gently flushed cheeks. despite the friendliness of present company, the much-feared boss of onichynus getting tipsy makes her protective. she gracefully drinks the rest for him, and it's easy enough for her to bring the boisterous, cheerful night to an end, citing an early start to the weekend and to spend more time with skye (although that was drowned out by more cheers and catcalls), and finally, she takes his hand and guides him out the door, amused. )
C'mon. Your keys. You're sleeping over at my house tonight.
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Maybe it was the ease with which they accepted him, despite the careful mask he wore. Maybe it was the way Kiyomi had laughed, genuine and unguarded, as he’d humored their antics.
(It was, mostly Kiyomi.)
So when the shots were poured, and the clamor rose in a unified challenge, he’d met their cheers with a smirk and tipped the glasses back without hesitation.
The warmth had been pleasant at first. A slow burn spread through his chest, loosening something wound tight in his ribs. But then, too soon, it spread further up his neck, to his ears, creeping into the edges of his thoughts like ink in water.
He realized his mistake when the room’s edges softened in a way he couldn’t quite blink away. When his fingers, usually so deft, hesitated just a fraction too long over the rim of his next glass. When Kiyomi’s gaze sharpened at him in that way that meant she noticed.
And now—]
My keys? [the words are slower than intended, mouth catching up to thought with an uncharacteristic lag, and he frowns, like he's not sure why.
A pat-down of his pockets. There’s a moment of fleeting indignation, the instinct to insist he’s fine, that he’s handled worse. But Kiyomi’s grip on his wrist is firm, grounding. He exhales, slow, watching her through half-lidded eyes as a smirk tugs at his lips.]
Fine, [he finally concedes, tilting his head, voice dropping to something near a murmur as he gets the set of keys from his jacket pocket.] But only because you’re being very persuasive.
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