[ Prince ] Rhy Maresh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
londonbound) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2021-12-09 05:33 pm
londonbound) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-12-09 05:33 pm
[ OPEN ] these hands are growing cold
WHO: Rhy Maresh and OPEN
WHAT: shortly after being summoned, Rhy is having a Rough Time of it. wandering around the halls in Castle Thorne like a very sad specter, getting drunk because coping with feelings is hard, and trying to practice magic as a distraction.
WHEN: early to mid-December
WHERE: Castle Thorne
WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, self harm, terrible coping mechanisms all around. also uh, major spoilers for A Darker Shade of Magic, sorry. nsfw marked.
I; arrival & loss.
cw: self harm
[ The words wash over him like the dull roar of a faraway ocean. Names, reassurances, a welcome. Mages. A kingdom he has never heard of, in need of his help, for some reason that makes no sense at all. The answers to his questions all nonsensical, pointless, useless. The only thing he truly wants to know, they have no response to.
Where is Kell? Where is my brother?
Not here.
Rhy imagines he can still feel the echo of Kell's pain. It had been so bright just moments ago (it seems like only moments ago), when it had ripped through him, boiling in his veins, splashing blood on the orchard ground beneath him as he fell. Pain. And then darkness. And then... here. Alone. Where he can no longer feel Kell's pain at all.
It could be hours or days later, after he is shown to a room with more beds than he'd expected. He sits on the edge his mattress, a nightly ritual throughout the first week or so of his stay here. With his tunic off, crumpled on the bed beside him, Rhy's shoulders and chest are left bare, the distinct scar forming two concentric circles over his heart starkly visible against his dark skin. He is a well-muscled man, built like a statue, the sort of prince who would cut a fine figure for a portrait -- if his back were straight, if he'd been smiling, if he'd been any of the things Prince Rhy is supposed to be.
He is none of those things now.
Rhy slumps, head down, cradling his left arm in his lap. There are angry red marks on the inside of his forearm, deep scratches barely scabbed over: s o r r y. He has not allowed the castle's healers to tend to the wound. Each night, he opens one of the letters again, one at a time, with a sharp pin.
Each night, he wraps the bandage back over the bloody scratches and waits for a man who will probably never come. ]
II; sleepless in the castle.
[ Rhy hasn't slept well since he died.
The nightmares plague him, the guilt, the worry, the anger, the fear. It all comes out at night, the monsters that lurk in the shadows by day slinking out to sink their claws into his lungs whenever he lies down. Here, he doesn't have the draughts Head Priest Tieren had given him back home (one for calm, two for quiet, three for sleep) and he hasn't wanted to ask the mages of the castle, in part due to lack of trust but also because it seems like far too much effort. Too much shame.
And so, in the small hours of the night, Rhy wanders. Sometimes, he moves in a daze through the castle until someone stops him, redirecting his steps if his way is barred. He walks in circles, makes his way through the ornate halls like a ghost, hoping that eventually his body will tire enough to let his mind go quiet.
Sometimes, he goes down into the dining areas, seeking out other draughts -- of the alcoholic rather than prescription variety. In the middle of the night, he might be found raiding the kitchen cabinets for liquor (if the castle guard do not stop him), or carrying a bottle with him in the hall. When he finds a place to sit by a window overlooking the city and the unfamiliar stars, he perches there, drinking directly from the bottle, watching the streets below.
If anyone approaches, another sleepless soul like him, he might just wave them over and offer a swig. Or several. ]
III; magic studies.
[ Rhy has never been any good at magic. The only thing he ever showed even an inkling of a ghost of a talent for is fire.
So that's where he starts. He sits at a table now, a small bowl of oil which he cups his hands around, muttering to it in Arnesian as he tries to coax a spark to light. Just like Kell taught him, even though here he's been told it's not necessary, Rhy has drawn a circle in chalk around the bowl, a binding to keep the fire from spreading. ]
Come on, little flame... [ he tries again, slipping into the common tongue, brow furrowed and nose all scrunched up with the effort. ]
Please--
[ And, suddenly, there it is.
The oil sparks, then bursts into a flame the size of a fist, consuming everything in the bowl. And staying there, to Rhy's shock. Growing, in fact, the flames flicking up to lap at his palm.
With a gasp of pain, Rhy stumbles back from the table on instinct, moving his hands away and the flame with them. ]
No, no, no-- dispel! Go away! Fuck!
( ooc; hmu via PM or plurk if you want to plot out something else! or just. wildcard at me, i'm down to clown. )
WHAT: shortly after being summoned, Rhy is having a Rough Time of it. wandering around the halls in Castle Thorne like a very sad specter, getting drunk because coping with feelings is hard, and trying to practice magic as a distraction.
WHEN: early to mid-December
WHERE: Castle Thorne
WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, self harm, terrible coping mechanisms all around. also uh, major spoilers for A Darker Shade of Magic, sorry. nsfw marked.
I; arrival & loss.
cw: self harm
[ The words wash over him like the dull roar of a faraway ocean. Names, reassurances, a welcome. Mages. A kingdom he has never heard of, in need of his help, for some reason that makes no sense at all. The answers to his questions all nonsensical, pointless, useless. The only thing he truly wants to know, they have no response to.
Where is Kell? Where is my brother?
Not here.
Rhy imagines he can still feel the echo of Kell's pain. It had been so bright just moments ago (it seems like only moments ago), when it had ripped through him, boiling in his veins, splashing blood on the orchard ground beneath him as he fell. Pain. And then darkness. And then... here. Alone. Where he can no longer feel Kell's pain at all.
It could be hours or days later, after he is shown to a room with more beds than he'd expected. He sits on the edge his mattress, a nightly ritual throughout the first week or so of his stay here. With his tunic off, crumpled on the bed beside him, Rhy's shoulders and chest are left bare, the distinct scar forming two concentric circles over his heart starkly visible against his dark skin. He is a well-muscled man, built like a statue, the sort of prince who would cut a fine figure for a portrait -- if his back were straight, if he'd been smiling, if he'd been any of the things Prince Rhy is supposed to be.
He is none of those things now.
Rhy slumps, head down, cradling his left arm in his lap. There are angry red marks on the inside of his forearm, deep scratches barely scabbed over: s o r r y. He has not allowed the castle's healers to tend to the wound. Each night, he opens one of the letters again, one at a time, with a sharp pin.
Each night, he wraps the bandage back over the bloody scratches and waits for a man who will probably never come. ]
II; sleepless in the castle.
[ Rhy hasn't slept well since he died.
The nightmares plague him, the guilt, the worry, the anger, the fear. It all comes out at night, the monsters that lurk in the shadows by day slinking out to sink their claws into his lungs whenever he lies down. Here, he doesn't have the draughts Head Priest Tieren had given him back home (one for calm, two for quiet, three for sleep) and he hasn't wanted to ask the mages of the castle, in part due to lack of trust but also because it seems like far too much effort. Too much shame.
And so, in the small hours of the night, Rhy wanders. Sometimes, he moves in a daze through the castle until someone stops him, redirecting his steps if his way is barred. He walks in circles, makes his way through the ornate halls like a ghost, hoping that eventually his body will tire enough to let his mind go quiet.
Sometimes, he goes down into the dining areas, seeking out other draughts -- of the alcoholic rather than prescription variety. In the middle of the night, he might be found raiding the kitchen cabinets for liquor (if the castle guard do not stop him), or carrying a bottle with him in the hall. When he finds a place to sit by a window overlooking the city and the unfamiliar stars, he perches there, drinking directly from the bottle, watching the streets below.
If anyone approaches, another sleepless soul like him, he might just wave them over and offer a swig. Or several. ]
III; magic studies.
[ Rhy has never been any good at magic. The only thing he ever showed even an inkling of a ghost of a talent for is fire.
So that's where he starts. He sits at a table now, a small bowl of oil which he cups his hands around, muttering to it in Arnesian as he tries to coax a spark to light. Just like Kell taught him, even though here he's been told it's not necessary, Rhy has drawn a circle in chalk around the bowl, a binding to keep the fire from spreading. ]
Come on, little flame... [ he tries again, slipping into the common tongue, brow furrowed and nose all scrunched up with the effort. ]
Please--
[ And, suddenly, there it is.
The oil sparks, then bursts into a flame the size of a fist, consuming everything in the bowl. And staying there, to Rhy's shock. Growing, in fact, the flames flicking up to lap at his palm.
With a gasp of pain, Rhy stumbles back from the table on instinct, moving his hands away and the flame with them. ]
No, no, no-- dispel! Go away! Fuck!
( ooc; hmu via PM or plurk if you want to plot out something else! or just. wildcard at me, i'm down to clown. )