Before he knows it, Hwylryn's stone is wrenched from his grasp. A mountain crumbles to ashes in a fit of rage when names that have no business being uttered fall from the noisy creature's lips, halting his rampage. The shaking of the earth stops then, replaced by a cold dread that coils around his heart, and Mithra is soon whisked away in a carriage with next to nothing on his person.
Folding his arms, he palms an elbow throughout the ride as he watches the shifting scenery through the window with half-lidded eyes. Although he's yet to change out of his recent threads, he finds himself in no mood to do so or to make himself appear any more presentable. His vision eventually glazes over, replacing the blur of colors with the flashes of prismatic gemstones glinting in the sunrise beyond the horizon. It's only once the carriage jerks in place that Mithra blinks with the realization that the view has come to a still.
His boot falls on a handful of flower petals, crushing them underfoot on his descent down the carriage steps. He sweeps his gaze past the trail of petals to the gates ahead, beyond which lies the towering castle of the production site—a glorified prison. Mithra's stomach tightens, and he half-heartedly narrows his eyes while the rattling of another carriage as it pulls up sounds behind him.]
there's being dragged from place to place, world to world, at the random whims of others. there's getting attached to something, getting it taken away. there's the empty peace of having made a choice of some worth in a winding spiral of empty mistakes, a lack of control, only to continue to persist.
... all of it makes milla think: of course. it was supposed to end, but even at the end, it doesn't.
the ridiculous premise of the thing doesn't matter. no purpose could be more incredulous than what she's come from, and having one is more than she can claim recently. maybe she can focus on how that's "merciful", rather than the twisting anxiety squeezing in her chest at the threat of what lingers at the end as punishment for her cluelessness. she doesn't, of course. if she's already so unpleasant, the organizers can only blame themselves for making it worse.
she steps out of the carriage expecting nothing, a hand over where her sword should have been, hesitating when it's not there. whether that force of habit looks ridiculous to the man she sees in front of her, surrounded by extravagance, well... that's not her problem. ]
This is it, then.
[ muttered to herself, first, her gaze running through everything around them before it finally settles on mithra. the self-defense mechanism of a prickly exterior kicks in automatically, choking down thoughts of worry and doubt that were allowed to fester in the silence of the trip here.
milla draws it back only a bit, knowing it wouldn't do her any favors. ]
... So? Who are you? Someone else they dragged here, or the unfortunate one on welcome duty?
[ it Will be dragged back depending on his answer, though she's more inclined to believe it's the former. ]
[He senses her before he hears her. The spirits of this region that were sedate just now stir upon Milla's arrival, acknowledging her presence from the nature all around them. Nothing else in particular stands out when Mithra cranes his neck to get a better look.
As expected, he isn't in the mood to socialize. He has half a mind to turn around and leave for the castle right then and there, only for his foot to stutter as it grazes the dirt. If he spurns this opportunity, what will become of Rutile and Mitile? He swallows, stomach curdling from the thought. Judging by her words, she must be another participant.]
. . . Northern wizard, Mithra. [He pulls the words, slow and apathetic, like teeth while the invisible weight on his chest grows.] I arrived just now. Who are you?
someone else dragged into this mess. whatever choice words she might have prepared for whatever reason deflate then, under the knowledge that his circumstances are probably the same as hers. do they really expect them to socialize, all carefree, with what they're pulling...?
milla would comment on how enthusiastic this "northern wizard" seems about the concept of speaking, if she didn't understand it. had she the choice, she'd choose to retreat and coast through this entire show doing nothing. ]
Milla. [ mm. ] Just Milla.
[ the lord of spirits on the tip of her tongue, a title for a title, is pushed aside. there's a silence where it should be — a moment for her to consider if it's even worth it.
it isn't. ]
... If you'd rather break something than talk right now, I won't keep you. It's not like they set the mood for something as ridiculous as this, and we'll be here for a while to "play nice".
[ is the totally social thing she thinks of to fill in the space her distance has left, as casually as she can say it. honestly, it's half mercy, half cowardice. that much she can admit to herself. ]
The novelty of it does little to detract from the fact that he wants neither to play nice nor to entertain anyone's suggestion. If anything, her reminder kills what lenience he built up on the journey to the castle grounds. It's the idea that his heart can be coaxed into moving in a certain direction—like he needs permission to act one way or another—and with it there's a sharp twinge of annoyance.
He tilts his head ever so slightly. Even this much is a chore. He doesn't think about how he has to keep this up for another month or so.]
Then you won't stop me when I destroy this castle?
[There's no try. He can reduce this entire section of land to rubble in seconds—not that he cares to at this moment, but she must know how absurd she sounds. As if anything less would satisfy him.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Before he knows it, Hwylryn's stone is wrenched from his grasp. A mountain crumbles to ashes in a fit of rage when names that have no business being uttered fall from the noisy creature's lips, halting his rampage. The shaking of the earth stops then, replaced by a cold dread that coils around his heart, and Mithra is soon whisked away in a carriage with next to nothing on his person.
Folding his arms, he palms an elbow throughout the ride as he watches the shifting scenery through the window with half-lidded eyes. Although he's yet to change out of his recent threads, he finds himself in no mood to do so or to make himself appear any more presentable. His vision eventually glazes over, replacing the blur of colors with the flashes of prismatic gemstones glinting in the sunrise beyond the horizon. It's only once the carriage jerks in place that Mithra blinks with the realization that the view has come to a still.
His boot falls on a handful of flower petals, crushing them underfoot on his descent down the carriage steps. He sweeps his gaze past the trail of petals to the gates ahead, beyond which lies the towering castle of the production site—a glorified prison. Mithra's stomach tightens, and he half-heartedly narrows his eyes while the rattling of another carriage as it pulls up sounds behind him.]
no subject
there's being dragged from place to place, world to world, at the random whims of others. there's getting attached to something, getting it taken away. there's the empty peace of having made a choice of some worth in a winding spiral of empty mistakes, a lack of control, only to continue to persist.
... all of it makes milla think: of course. it was supposed to end, but even at the end, it doesn't.
the ridiculous premise of the thing doesn't matter. no purpose could be more incredulous than what she's come from, and having one is more than she can claim recently. maybe she can focus on how that's "merciful", rather than the twisting anxiety squeezing in her chest at the threat of what lingers at the end as punishment for her cluelessness. she doesn't, of course. if she's already so unpleasant, the organizers can only blame themselves for making it worse.
she steps out of the carriage expecting nothing, a hand over where her sword should have been, hesitating when it's not there. whether that force of habit looks ridiculous to the man she sees in front of her, surrounded by extravagance, well... that's not her problem. ]
This is it, then.
[ muttered to herself, first, her gaze running through everything around them before it finally settles on mithra. the self-defense mechanism of a prickly exterior kicks in automatically, choking down thoughts of worry and doubt that were allowed to fester in the silence of the trip here.
milla draws it back only a bit, knowing it wouldn't do her any favors. ]
... So? Who are you? Someone else they dragged here, or the unfortunate one on welcome duty?
[ it Will be dragged back depending on his answer, though she's more inclined to believe it's the former. ]
no subject
As expected, he isn't in the mood to socialize. He has half a mind to turn around and leave for the castle right then and there, only for his foot to stutter as it grazes the dirt. If he spurns this opportunity, what will become of Rutile and Mitile? He swallows, stomach curdling from the thought. Judging by her words, she must be another participant.]
. . . Northern wizard, Mithra. [He pulls the words, slow and apathetic, like teeth while the invisible weight on his chest grows.] I arrived just now. Who are you?
no subject
someone else dragged into this mess. whatever choice words she might have prepared for whatever reason deflate then, under the knowledge that his circumstances are probably the same as hers. do they really expect them to socialize, all carefree, with what they're pulling...?
milla would comment on how enthusiastic this "northern wizard" seems about the concept of speaking, if she didn't understand it. had she the choice, she'd choose to retreat and coast through this entire show doing nothing. ]
Milla. [ mm. ] Just Milla.
[ the lord of spirits on the tip of her tongue, a title for a title, is pushed aside. there's a silence where it should be — a moment for her to consider if it's even worth it.
it isn't. ]
... If you'd rather break something than talk right now, I won't keep you. It's not like they set the mood for something as ridiculous as this, and we'll be here for a while to "play nice".
[ is the totally social thing she thinks of to fill in the space her distance has left, as casually as she can say it. honestly, it's half mercy, half cowardice. that much she can admit to herself. ]
no subject
The novelty of it does little to detract from the fact that he wants neither to play nice nor to entertain anyone's suggestion. If anything, her reminder kills what lenience he built up on the journey to the castle grounds. It's the idea that his heart can be coaxed into moving in a certain direction—like he needs permission to act one way or another—and with it there's a sharp twinge of annoyance.
He tilts his head ever so slightly. Even this much is a chore. He doesn't think about how he has to keep this up for another month or so.]
Then you won't stop me when I destroy this castle?
[There's no try. He can reduce this entire section of land to rubble in seconds—not that he cares to at this moment, but she must know how absurd she sounds. As if anything less would satisfy him.]