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USERNAME: unsafety netzach library of ruina TEXT • AUDIO • VIDEO • ACTION • OVERFLOW

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november storybook time

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[ Beyond the forest's darkness, past iron gates and heavy doors, shelter from the stormy night presents itself in the form of a too-empty manor. Nothing within disturbs the stillness of the building's halls, where only a few lit lamps cast their dim glow a ways down each corridor. The manor's sole visitor tonight and in some time has the freedom to wander about at his leisure, for now. If his boots track mud and rainwater trails across the floors and staircases, these vanish before long.

Inside, tucked into one of the building's wings, Netzach can find a bedchamber for his use. In contrast to the chilly gloom shrouding the rest of the manor, the warmth radiating from the fireplace fills the room's interior. Here, he might catch the faint notes of a distant melody carried through the walls, beneath the unceasing noise of the storm outside.

The bed is untouched, however, despite the waiting change of clothing laid out nearby. One garment is provided as sleepwear, arranged atop the covers, while the others hanging upon a rack offer the option of something clean and dry to replace Netzach's current attire. All of the items seem tailored for his exact measurements.

These are his immediate choices: to accept the manor's hospitality in full, to go to bed as he is, or to explore. ]

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[the most annoying thing about the stories, he thinks, is he truly does feel wet and cold, soaked from the weather outside. he shivers, absolutely shameless in peeling off his drenched clothing, and after taking a minute to dry off and investigate the clothing available to him now...

hm. he doesn't know who he'll find here yet, so dressing for bed and wandering around is a bad idea, not to mention that it's chilly. if he's going to find them, he Will need to wander.

netzach dresses himself slowly, pulling on a fitted pair of pants that contrasts with the loose white shirt and its billowing sleeves, its neckline dipping down below his collarbones. the boots are taller than he'd like, coming almost up to the thigh, and then the final accessory is... what is that, actually?

he works out that it's not really a corset, that it only goes around the waist and laces there in the back, noting in the mirror how it accentuates his slight build. if he laced this thing tight enough, he bets someone could circle both hands around his waist, but he doesn't have any particular interest in sacrificing breathing for fashion. he simply pulls it tight enough to stay, then wanders out, the click of his boots against stone flooring blending with the faint melody he can hear from somewhere.

that has to be it, and so he listens carefully, trying to follow it to its source.]

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[ Soon enough, following the music leads Netzach through a set of open doors, into a large room containing only a casket. A flash of lightning illuminates it, bright on the other side of the arched windows; the light of the candles lining the edges of the room flickers. Then, as the doors creak shut, the melody grows distinct — its source is a music box, and Netzach is not alone.

The figure there with him, as if he has materialized out of nowhere (and he has, yet to regain his bearings), stands still for some moments, the music box resting upon one palm, held out like a gift to hand over.

This story is particularly disorienting, Yesod finds. Something immediately feels odd, the instant that he realizes that his surroundings have changed yet again — he perceives them much too sharply, from sounds to scents. It's rather overwhelming all at once, dizzying, until his senses are drawn to the beacon of a presence they discern with perfect clarity. They fix upon it as not only familiar and welcome, but something that he wants impossibly close, his to keep here with him for all eternity, absurd notions to drown out sensible reminders that this is another script to obey to uncover the exit.

The result is Yesod regarding Netzach in a daze another moment too long, increasingly perturbed by his latest role. Finally, shaking his head to clear it, fingers closing tighter around the object in their grip, he focuses on resisting his lines for now, casting about for a way to mute the heightened sensory input enveloping his mind. ]

...Netzach. You're...

[ Here, he might have meant to say. He takes in Netzach's appearance, gaze drifting from the exposed column of his neck and the slope of his shoulders to the lines of Netzach's slender waist and long legs, and then back up to linger on his throat. None of these are things that he notices only now — allowing himself to admit to his thoughts and feelings and wants, indulging in new experiences associated with them, has made him more and more aware of everything that constitutes Netzach's presence as it is. His current thoughts can't be attributed entirely to the story, then. ]

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Yesod...?

[so they're in another one--? at least it seems it's just the two of them this time, in this huge, empty place. the big room with its coffin, yesod with his music box and an outfit matching the same theme as netzach's: tailored to fit him well, to suit the shape of him in this old-fashioned style.

the candles don't quite make the room warm, only softly lit, and a slight shiver runs through him. his hair is still faintly damp, loosely put up to keep from the same fate befalling his shirt, but that certainly isn't helping with the chill.]

...your hospitality's appreciated, [he says, following at least a bit of the script,] but aren't you cold in here?

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[ He notes Netzach's shivering, and he can smell the scent of the storm on the draft breaching the manor's walls as raindrops strike the windowpanes, trickling down the glass in thin trails, but the chill doesn't reach his own body; he feels nothing of it. Raising his free hand, instinctively, he manages to pause for clearer thought, comparing this desire to touch Netzach with the gestures that they have gradually come to exchange with greater ease, no matter which one of them initiates the contact. It's a craving, a form of hunger, no longer unfamiliar, not even in its intensity — it's as if the unexpected freedom to cultivate and notice such impulses, directed at a specific target, and to treat them as permissible, acted as a switch activating his capacity for it tied to Netzach.

But something is altered to fit the story's purposes, it seems, and it causes what must be unusual hesitation by now, given his conscious efforts to fully express what he feels for Netzach without restraining himself. Netzach isn't his alone, after all. More precisely, Netzach isn't a possession to belong to anyone.

It feels ridiculous to pretend that the two of them are strangers meeting for the first time — and in such a disconcerting scenario. Yesod holds on to that to find his footing. His gloved fingertips brush against Netzach's cheek before they catch a stray tendril of green hair, smoothing it into place behind the shell of Netzach's ear. The script informs him that if he were to remove his gloves, his touch would do nothing to warm Netzach.

What he is, here, prompts a frown. ]

...Not any longer.

[ The script tells him of countless years of solitude, too, an existence binding him to isolation or a cycle of hunting humans and facing hunters. Yet now that someone — not just anyone — is here only to seek shelter, and this guest has availed himself of the manor's offerings, has ventured into this room without recoiling, these unending dark nights might become a little brighter. ]

You will stay?

[ He has a cloak draped over one arm, a new realization as he continues to adjust. While Netzach wears this story's costume well, whether or not he is aware of it himself, perhaps another layer would help against the cold and shield both of them somewhat — his neck, within easy reach, is an expanse of tempting warm skin and the steady beat of his pulse in his throat.

Yesod moves to tuck the music box within the cloak's folds, to wrap the fabric around Netzach's slim frame. ]