ic inbox ( ǣfenglōm )

[digiorno]

"buongiorno! sorry i missed you; i'll happily get back to you as soon as i'm done with whatever business i'm on. leave a message!" ⯈ text ⯈ voice ⯈ video ⯈ action

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8/12ish, Action

[long_live_the_queen]

['Can you fight?' Kaede had asked, almost on a whim. Maria certainly could, and was probably listed specifically in the dictionary definition. But Giorno Kaede was less sure of. The mansion was big enough that, shower incident aside, they could go for long periods without seeing each other. But every time they did cross paths was a...neutral experience at worst.

Enough of her suspicion had worn off that curiosity could start to fit into the same space. Who else was in this house with her, really?

And, of course, the easiest way for Kaede to connect with people was something she personally was comfortable with, rather than something lower key like visiting a cafe or a quieter class. Or talking. She'd considered suggesting the Wilders' latest recruitment drive jokingly (as far as Kaede could joke), but...it didn't seem much like one, on second consideration.

So: violence as a bonding activity? Violence as a bonding activity. The idea had been more than enough to bring her out to the forest.]

[digiorno]

[If it was a joke, it was one he appreciated as much as she did. Close to the full moon as it is, he could use the exercise; and then of course, while he very much enjoys a nice afternoon at a cafe, he's perfectly happy skulking through the woods with the full expectation of having to fight for at least limb if not life.]

[The question of whether he can fight is a weird one, though. Yes, with weapons, and also technically hand to hand, but his power is so different here. It's surprisingly hard to get used to being a vampire. Still, his senses are at their peak in the quiet of the forest, hearing focused on every rattle of leaves, information coming on every gust of wind. He's always moved quietly, but he moves more quietly, now.]

. . . Look. There's more of them.

[The trails of flowers — not exactly straight, sometimes meandering towards water sources or copses of trees, but never wider than a foot or two. They look like a path. It seems so improbable, though.]

What are you thinking?

I sure did forget to finish a sentence

[long_live_the_queen]

[The closer to full the moons crept, the louder their incessant calls echoed in Kaede's head. Inhuman sounds, inhuman impulses. Whispers in the dark.

But they were distant background noise this time, easily ignored when there were other things to focus on. The Chimera's tapered ears swiveled after each sound, not unlike the very deer they were following. She didn't need to turn and look to find where her companion was--especially when he began whispering. A real sound, here and now, not something her mind imagined.

Kaede's eyes were good in the dark, and picking out the trails of flowers that weren't like the other wild blooms was a simple task.]

We should follow the biggest one.

[She wasn't the best at tracking, but to her mind a larger trail either meant a larger animal or several following the track of the first.

Direction wasn't so easy to deduce, though. The Chimera slowly crept closer to one of the flower trails with quiet steps, peering through the stems to look for something, anything. Some bent grass there, but that only said something had been by. And recently--nothing had worn away the scent of old dirt and mildew.

--there, in the soft ground. Half a track, at best, but sharply pointed in front like a deer's hoof. There were more smudges and blemishes in the ground, but Kaede wasn't certain if they were more tracks or something...else.

She was glad she was wearing shoes, though these sandals seemed inadequate now.]

This way.

[Kaede's head lifted, and while she didn't point with her hands, started walking in the same direction. Slowly, so she didn't crinkle any leaves underfoot.]

10/5ish, backdated

[digiorno]

[Coming up on this meeting, Giorno can't help but feel unbalanced. There has never once in his life been a situation where he had to introduce one person he cared about to another person he cared about. There simply haven't been enough people in the world to take up both hands' worth of fingers, let alone people who didn't already know each other. This is an entirely new experience for him, and not one he expected to be as nerve-wracking as it is.]

[Beyond that, he's painfully aware of how his own nerves are being transmitted to Zelda over the Bond; how every spark of anxiety in the hours leading up to their post-sunset meetup in the park roughly between their houses. How those sparks have been flickering up since the first, since he broached the subject with Zelda in the first place. And now—]

[She can probably track his actions as she approaches the park; his feelings are that clear. Anxiety, irritation (a clear side-effect of the anxiety), a few stabs of genuine fear, and, once he's finally sat and got Fugo sitting — fussiness.]

You should have worn something heavier. It's cold.

[The reason for meeting out here is . . . complicated. They can go to a coffee shop or something later, he'd actually like to, but this whole thing is so unpredictable. Not one of them, he knows, wants to make a scene.]

[unholey]

[Fugo's jaw aches. This is because he has been clenching since he woke up this afternoon, to a sky on the verge of darkening, because tonight is the night Giorno is going to introduce him to his Bonded: a woman named Zelda, who has his trust and his respect. Which is obvious, given the circumstances of the Bond, but still worth remarking on.

Giorno trusts her. Giorno respects her. Even more than that-- Giorno likes her. His warm friendship with Zelda is what made the Bond possible to begin with. She is obviously an important ally of his in this city; someone with whom he has trusted his very heart. He has been on edge about introducing them, for what Fugo can only guess are the usual reasons.]

If I wore any more layers, I wouldn't be able to button this coat. [His words, so factual in his head, come out sour and cross in the open air between them. Fugo really has tried his best to dress appropriately for this meeting; no patterns, no loud colors, nothing even remotely outrageous. Even though he added a non-offensive, Giorno-approved before they left, he still hasn't managed to get it right.] But I'll keep it in mind for next time.

[Fugo sits, still as a statue, from where Giorno left him to pace back and forth in front of the bench where Zelda agreed to meet them. He has his hands tucked into his pockets to keep from fidgeting... and because it really is cold. Or maybe it's just him. His hands were cold long before they left the house; it's no surprise that his gloves haven't done much to keep them warm.]

[sageprincess]

[He's anxious. This she knows as well as the rising and setting of the sun. It's an ever-present itch on the edges of her consciousness, a twitching nerve she just can't settle no matter how she tries to massage it down with calming thoughts and redirected focus. It's also at least partly her fault for not slamming down on her own homesickness sooner, for giving him cause to think she might reject this friend of his out of hand, and so she can hardly feel frustrated about it.

She's outnumbered. She's the outsider. She's the one intruding upon a history she cannot possibly know. And yet despite these thoughts nagging at the back of her mind, she forces herself to breathe and quiet them, because if Giorno gets caught up in a positive feedback loop of anxiety he might actually explode. And then where would any of them be?

So, a woman approaches their park bench, boots clicking against the cobblestone path. As the sun sets below the horizon, a little orb of golden light floating around her head illuminates her immediate surroundings as well as her features as she pulls down the hood of her cloak, revealing blonde hair, long, pointed ears, and a tiara perched upon her brow.]

... They will have to build a canal out here should you pace much longer.

[She comments to Giorno with a slight curve to her lips-- light, polite, and harmless. Because someone has to keep their wits about them and she supposes as ever it's going to be her. This being said, she glances between the two of them, an obvious curiosity in her gaze as it lingers on Fugo for a moment before returning to Giorno.]

I hope I did not keep you waiting.

sometime in november idk, time is fake;

[sageprincess]

[Giorno will awaken one evening to a message waiting for him on his watch and a gently nervous buzzing across the Bond.]

Good evening. When you have a moment, I would like to discuss something of relative importance with you. Nothing urgent, I promise. I simply wish to hear your opinion on something.

my newest flex is to go into a fugue state for the second half of november

[digiorno]

[Oh. What's this? Instinctively, he sends her something soft and reassuring — the emotional equivalent of everything's okay or a pat on the shoulder.]

i've got time now. is everything all right?

time. is fake.

[sageprincess]

[The buzzing does subside a bit with that reassurance; it gets her out of her own head long enough that she can remember to breathe, deep and slow. The worst thing that can happen is him saying no. Hardly anything world ending. She'll figure something else out, if that turns out to be the case.]

Yes, for the time being. I was just wondering...

[A pause, as she wonders how much she should say right off the bat. Probably not a lot, even if she trusts Giorno.]

Well, I suppose there is little point in beating around the bush here. I wanted to know your opinion regarding the possession of multiple bonded partners, if you have one at all.

modranicht gift!

[fulgency]

[It would seem that neither death nor resurrection was ultimately enough to dissuade Ozymandias from giving Giorno something for the holiday. The wrapping on the box itself is not particularly ostentatious. Well. Somewhat. The gift itself is carefully wrapped in gold and blue, letting it be known exactly who the sender is, but it's not literal gold. So, it's relatively plain.]

[Once Giorno unwraps and opens the box, he will find inside a cape. It's not particularly useful for the weather at present as there is no scenario in which it keeps its wearer warm or dry, but let's be honest: nothing is really about function with these two when there's fashion to consider.]

sometime in december - action

[unholey]

[When Fugo began studying magic, he also began a journal. He's kept meticulous track of the spells he's been taught and what happens when he casts them. He makes a small check mark next to entries that are a success, while failures get a red x.

There have been a lot of entries with red marks lately. The farther he gets away from Octeuril, the lower his success rate becomes. He's tried to push through it; the Coven's teachers have made it very clear that Witches, especially those without Bonds, must practice their craft. Otherwise the magic inside in them will build up inside of them, until it literally explodes.]

[Lately, he's been itchy. No, that's not the word. There is no word for it. His skin tingles and prickles and crawls. His whole self feels like the shell for something else that has been outgrown. It's a suffocating, claustrophobic sensation. Most days, especially the days when he's practiced, he can push the feeling away. He hasn't been able to consistently practice lately. His magic sputters out and disappears without warning, only to suddenly come back with full force. He's been manic. He's been irritable. It's been bad. But the storm has passed. He can practice again. It will get better-- it has to.

It has to.]

[This was his idea: brew a pot of warming potion in the kitchen it, bottle it, distribute it amongst the refugees. It's a very basic alchemic spell, one of the first he ever learned. It has never failed. This is the reality: the sizzling, foul-smelling, acid green concoction on their stove is not safe for anyone. It's dissolved the wooden he was using to stir it with; the piece he has left is scorched and smoking in his white-knuckled grip. Frankly, he has concerns about the cast iron pot it's simmering in.]

God fucking damnit. God-- [Frustrated, he drops the spoon into the pot and turns the stove off. On top of everything else, his concoction is thick and viscous; even as the spoon burns and dissolves, it sinks slowly below the surface.] --fucking damnit, you stupid bastard.

[He scratches the back of his neck. It itches. Of course, even though the spell is too strong, it's far from enough. He'll have to try something else.]

[digiorno]

[It's an illusion, confirmation bias or something like that, the idea that he can sense Fugo's magic building towards a breaking point. Giorno knows that, on a sensible, logical level. He's not a witch. He has a certain sensitivity towards the taste of magic, the sense of it, but that doesn't mean he can feel it, or the pressure behind it in an unBonded witch.]

[Logic doesn't stop him from feeling that he feels it, though. The ease with which he recognizes Fugo's tells doesn't mitigate the illusion, either. Fugo's movements are pressurized, more and more so with every passing day. His posture gets tense; his speech gets terse. There is the palpable feeling that eventually, something is going to blow.]

[Strangely, Giorno doesn't find himself afraid. Not of Fugo; the concept is laughable for reasons that he wouldn't explain even if he was asked, might not be able to in the first place. The primary burst of emotion in him is concern, not for himself but for Fugo, over the outburst he walks in on in their kitchen. With one glance he takes it in: the dissolving spoon in awful, stinking, thick liquid; Fugo snarling at the stove, cursing and spitting like a cornered thing; the way he twitches, like Zelda did.]

[Just like Zelda did.]

Fugo—

[He takes a step into the kitchen, hesitant to get in the way but determined not to leave Fugo alone with his frustration.]

How can I help? Let me help.

[unholey]

[Caught in a fit of temper, Fugo first flinches. Before he turns around, his whole body is a snarl of tension; clenched jaw, bunched shoulders, fists at his side. One hand trembles with the effort to keep still-- he can't snap, can't shove the pot on the floor. Breathe, he tells himself, the bit of totally useless advice that everyone gives him, except he barely can. His lungs feel frozen. Keep it together. He turns slowly, face pale-- but still. And when he speaks, his voice is even and at least sounds calm.]

It's fine. It's just a spell gone wrong. I need to dispell it before it-- [Here, he can't keep himself from grimacing. He closes his eyes and takes as deep a breath as he can through his nose.] Goes worse. Don't come any closer.

[It's fine-- but don't come closer. There's a clear contradiction in his words, but he won't acknowledge it.]

modranicht gift;

[sageprincess]

[Giorno will receive from Zelda a... glass jar of water? With a bit of driftwood, enough pebbles to cover the bottom, and an odd, grassy orb settled in the middle of it. A guide for apparently caring for the orb is also supplied.

They're apparently quite popular little "pets" overseas according to the merchants down by the harbor, Zelda will explain. She thought it would be the kind of thing Giorno would find charming. The successor to Dobble the Cobble.

(And they don't require direct sunlight, so you know. That's a definite plus.)]

Modranicht gift

[thejoyrider]

[The package left on his doorstep contains a plate of homemade cookies from Marie and a fresh lily flower.

“Happy Holidays! We are not friends yet but I hope we can become friends in the coming year.” is what the attached note says]

(Belated) Modranicht Gift

[unholey]

[Giorno has already had his fair share of struffoli. While frying them and then later when portioning them out, Fugo has threatened to not give Giorno any after all if he didn't stop stealing them. This threat did not stop Giorno from stealing them. Probably because he knew it was empty, given that Fugo sighs and hands over Giorno's extra large portion and all of the leftovers at the end of the night. It comes with a frankly ridiculous greeting card and an absolutely hideous pendant. He also receives a few carefully folded paper frogs. They jump!

But the real gift is a pair of thin leather gloves. Although simple, they are well made and soft to the touch-- and easy to pair with all sorts of clothing. When Giorno pulls them on he'll be able to notice what's special about them immediately: there's a spell on them to warm the hands of the wearer. There's a little note in the box: "Let me know if the spell is too strong. If I can't fix it, I'll have it adjusted."]

12/25

[showsnopiety]

[Looks like Giorno got a gift! And it's...vials of emergency blood? And...a voucher, worth one set of earrings? There's a note in the box that the gifts came from, simply reading:]

I didn't want to mess with your tastes, so I thought it would be better for you to pick them out yourself. Enjoy.

-Caren

dream nonsense, early february;

[sageprincess]

[Giorno Giovanna... has a dream.

--No, not that kind of dream. Though he does dream of a castle - and a throne room, specifically - the cool grey stone adorned with gold-embroidered sky blue tapestries does not bring to mind any buildings in Napoli. None of the people within wear anything close to modern clothing, either; most of them are all draped with colorful, yet heavy fabrics though picking out the exact form of each is... difficult.

The vast majority of people in this court are little more than watercolor blurs, vague approximations of people filling the scene. The knights, garbed in silver and blue, have a little more detail to them as they hold a path open through the crowd between the throne and the door, but even their faces are... generic, unmemorable.

Three figures are held in absolute clarity in this scene. The first is the king sitting upon the throne, obvious in his authority. An older man, his pale blonde hair is starting to go grey underneath his crown and around the edges of his closely trimmed beard. A cool, almost chilly air seems to surround him as he watches his court with practiced neutrality; he's clearly ruled for a while.

The second is surrounded by a much warmer aura, despite her tall, imposing figure and stern expression. She stands on the king's left hand side like a solider at parade rest - a strong and proper stance that displays both her pride and her commitment to the duty her apparent position requires.

And finally, standing just in front of the stern woman and barely coming up to her hip... is a girl, ten years old at most. Her finery and position indicate a close relation to the king, as do the little curls of blonde hair that peek out from under her headdress. Bits of baby fat still cling to her cheeks, making the frown she wears as she watches the door on the far side of the room look much more like a grumpy pout, but Giorno will find her big blue eyes quite familiar...

Anticipation hangs heavily in the air. They're all... waiting for something...]

cries again about baby zelda

[digiorno]

[This is not his dream. Giorno realizes this as soon as his eyes open. There are a lot of tells. He has never seen this castle, or in fact any castle like this, in person; it looks like what one might find in a history book, or in a fantasy movie. Furthermore, this isn't the type of dream he has. He dreams of the grandiose, the mundane, or the terrifying. Nothing so foreign to his own experience.]

[Of course, there's one other big sign that this dream doesn't belong to him. He doesn't look like himself, although the sense of his soul is the same. If she remembers this when she wakes, Zelda will know that it was Giorno in her dream, but he looks like a different person entirely, with short dark hair and dark eyes that gaze unreadably around the room. The creeping sense of familiarity applies not only to the boy himself but the skittish wildcat air he gives off, as though he might bolt at any moment. She's felt it before, through the Bond. More than once.]

[But for now, his Zelda isn't here. There is a court scene, again like out of a fantasy film, full of people whose pointed ears have become as familiar as the back of his own hand. It isn't until his eyes alight on the girl that he really understands, though. Whatever this is, that's Zelda. There's no question about it. No matter what else is going on, he needs to be with her. That's why he's here.]

[Going around the edge of the room to approach her seems like a truly stupid idea and a great way of getting an arrow through the head, but he moves to do it without even thinking. It's only halfway through the motion that he recognizes it as the mistake it might be, but by then he's already made up his mind.]

Your Highness? [Murmured once he gets close enough, attempting to be unobtrusive and knowing that he's failing.] Is everything all right?

she was adorable before the trauma

[noblabbermouths]

[It's... not a great idea, no, but maybe some part of Zelda's subconscious recognizes his presence, as the knights make no aggressive moves to stop his approach. The woman standing behind the younger image of Giorno's Bonded, however, does take some issue with it; her large hand falls upon the girl's shoulder protectively, not quite pulling her away from Giorno, but clearly ready to put herself between the two at a moment's notice.

It is her job to protect the princess, after all, and it is something she will do, even within said princess' mind.]

Please, step back, young man. [Her voice is as steady and immovable as the rest of her seems to be, though she is not terribly unkind in her warning.] If you have business with the princess, you may speak with her after the proceedings.

[But as for the princess herself, Giorno's question is enough to tear her glare away from the distant door, though she makes no move to answer it, comfortable under her attendant's protection. Zelda... doesn't seem like she knows quite what to make of him, however, looking at the dark haired boy with a confusion that speaks to more than just being surprised someone would dare approach her like this in her father's court. He doesn't look familiar, and yet...

A loud voice rings out across the room, and her gaze snaps back to the doors.]

If I may have your attention, please! Announcing his Highness, Ganondorf Dragmire, Prince of the Gerudo!

[The doors open, and another man steps through in perfect clarity. He is easily over seven feet tall, dwarfing everyone else in attendance, even Zelda's attendant and the king. The smile he wears as he strides towards the throne is confident, knowing.

Unlike the king, who simply feels a little uncomfortable to be around, this man almost seems to carry an aura of poison around him, like every step he takes is an affront to nature in some way.

Zelda, so small, so young, with her angelic little face glares daggers at him.]

backdated to 1/1

[unholey]

[In another world, the sun would be setting on the first day of the new year. But Samuin was months ago in Aefenglom. To the people of this city, the first day of Ieneuer is no more or less special than any other first day of a new month. The city moves around them much as it always has, buzzing with news of the ship from Dorchacht, tense with anxiety over the refugees.

In hindsight, Fugo doesn't really know why he picked this particular date. When he finally worked up the nerve to ask Giorno if he would go through the Bonding ceremony with him, they could have gone straight to the Coven right then and there. But he didn't-- want that. He thought he needed the extra time to prepare. There's a vow involved. Even if this whole arrangement is out of necessity, he doesn't want to just-- say something trite, or stupid, or meaningless.]

[So he didn't sleep well. Hasn't slept well for a long while now, but last night was particularly bad in that he didn't sleep at all. Nerves are nothing new for Fugo, but it's rare to see him so fidgety in public; smoothing down his long jacket, picking and nibbling at his fingers, anxiously pacing the halls of the Coven while they waited for their entirely unnecessary appointment. And now that they're standing in front of the door to the magic circle where it will really happen, his back and shoulders feel like one knotted tangle of tension. He turns to look at Giorno, heart racing, eyes wide with worry.]

Are you ready?

[It's a stupid question. He hates it, even as he can't stop himself from asking it. He's the one who's dragged his feet to the point it's become risky for him to work even simple, beginner's magic. Even now, he can feel the magic smoldering just underneath his skin. But he has to leave that door open. Just in case Giorno has changed his mind, but doesn't know how to bring it up.]

[digiorno]

[It still feels significant to him. A new year, spread before him like an elaborate buffet, free for the harvesting. The night city is tense behind them, outside the walls of the Coven that still feel like an enemy fortress. But that's not the part of this that he chooses to hang onto. What matters right now is this: his year is beginning now. He will choose a clean slate. He can decide that for himself, because no one else can determine how he perceives the world around him.]

[There are only a few moments left before he and Fugo secure their Bond, but already Giorno feels as though he doesn't need one to know exactly how Fugo is feeling. He doesn't even have to look in Fugo's direction to feel the tension crackling off of him, sparking all over his skin and arcing between them. Maybe a better metaphor than he intends, considering how unruly Fugo's magic is right now, but then — it will be better soon.]

[It will be better soon.]

[He's content and calm when Fugo turns to look at him, wide eyes met with a soft expression and not quite a smile, something hovering gentle and only slightly nervous around the corners of his eyes. There's no hesitation before he reaches out to bridge the space between them, catching Fugo's hand in his and twining their fingers together.]

I'm ready. [He tilts his head, birdlike, eyes bright against the green and gold of his jacket.] Are you?

[unholey]

[There is a long, quiet moment where Fugo doesn't say anything. He just stares at Giorno's face, the corners of his mouth turned down in a worried frown, searching for something. Dishonesty, mostly. Any signs of reluctance, or regret. No matter how long he looks, he can't find a single sign of those feelings. Giorno, with his quickly-shifting moods and subtle expressions, is never a simple person to read. But he thinks he's gotten better at it.]

As ready as I'll ever be. [He bites the inside of his cheek. He finally looks away from Giorno's face, down to where Giorno has taken hold of his hand.] ... mostly, I just want to get it over with.

[It feels like the wrong thing to say, given what they're about to do. But it's true. At this point, as worried and anxious as he is about it, Fugo just wants it to be over done with.]

action, berryquest;

[sageprincess]

I wonder what these things even taste like, if they are in such high demand...

[Zelda says as she consults a sheet of written directions, a wicker basket hung over her elbow. Tonight, they're killing two birds with one stone with their traditional walkabout; if they're exploring the outer city anyway, they might as well make a few quick (and legal) cunes while they're at it. The air is still warm and rather humid with the promise of early summer, but it's a bit fresher amidst the fields of farmland than within the more crowded streets of Aefenglom proper. A little orb of golden light floating about her head lights their way.]

We should be close... Keep an eye out for a tangled web of bushes somewhere around here.

[digiorno]

We have the opportunity to find out, you know.

[Yes, it would make more sense to put all of the berries in the basket in order to make the most money possible during this errand. Yes, Giorno loves money. However, if he has the option to get both money and a sweet snack that's also slightly stolen? That's the option he's going to take.]

[He walks shoulder to shoulder with her, hands in his pockets, posture easier than it is at any other time of day. This is a good tradition, one that soothes him. Berries improve it, but only marginally. He reaches up to graze his fingertips against the golden orb.]

Whatever they taste like, I think the demand is mostly because the supply is so limited. People exaggerate the quality in their mind because they can only get it so rarely. [Giorno are you even looking.]