ashoney | (no subject)

(no subject)

OPEN RP POST;
meme spillover & etc, drop-ins welcome

["For her," is all Sunday can ask for. Aventurine has spun the truth into lies before, but he wouldn't harm Robin. Sunday has to believe that.

Slowly, hesitantly, he parts his feathers just enough to glance at the Stoneheart.]

...Thank you.

[The luminous golden eyes that peer out from between silver pinions are still those of the Oak Family's Head. Still bright and full of fire. But the sly, predatory gleam isn't there. Instead, there is sorrow and uncertainty.

He isn't the everburning Sun anymore. He is a man.

Stripped of his wings and bound to the earth. He isn't sure if he'll ever get used to this, but he has to try for Robin's sake. And for the sake of his promise.

The feathers close, obscuring his face once more as he sits back with a low hiss.]

[ Sisters who catch and carry every burden, who face more, work harder, and think faster than anyone gives them credit for, who take care of foolish brothers that fail to see just how resilient they are -- they deserve more than a flat roll of the dice. Sunday is right. She doesn't deserve to suffer for his sins.

Aventurine tries not to think of who waits for him in the next aurora, who was not there on Nihility's other side. He can't -- and won't -- shield Robin entirely, but there's a path through this that benefits everyone, he is certain.

Not even out the door, and already his mind buzzes. Time is limited, but a few messages to the right folks should set the ball rolling. Lines form between links in the great web of Penacony, something takes shape in his imagination, a big payoff... or a considerable bust. He likes his odds. Maybe Jade will even forgive him overplaying his hand in the Sweet Dream.

It's here that he catches a glimpse of Sunday, that soft little bird hidden beneath the Bronze Melodia's wall of haughty arrogance. Another good bit of advice, he thinks, would be for Sunday to break that little bird's neck and bury it outside, deep, where no one can dig it up and exploit that weakness. But he doesn't say that. ]

Relax, lean into your restraints. It hurts less. [ A pause, he works his jaw. ] And the next time they put them on you, tense up as they're secured.

[ Now, finally, he raps his knuckles on the metal door. Clang! Clang! Clang! It's especially loud in this awful, dark room. His eyes stay fixed on Sunday, hiding away again, as he waits to be set free. ]

[For a long time, Sunday remains still, as if he hasn't heard anything.]

Hm?

[Another bitter laugh rattles from his throat.]

Ah, right. You've been in chains before, haven't you?

[Now that he is the topic of conversation, the cynical ice returns to his voice and his shoulders square again. He can be arrogant about his own life and safety.

Beneath his feathers, a wry grin snakes across his lips... then quickly dissolves. Aventurine doesn't deserve this sort of bitter treatment, not when he is offering to help Robin.

So Sunday relaxes into the restraints and feels some pressure ease off his body. Not enough, however. Not nearly enough. The pinch of metal even through the fabric of his clothes makes him uncomfortable. The weight of the chains dragging on his limbs is miserable.

His head aches, and his back feels too tense.

But maybe a prison cell is supposed to cause discomfort.

As a youth, he thought cages were safe. Not every cage is safe.]

You're right. [He says finally, not bothering to part his wings from his face.] It doesn't hurt as much.

[ Even now Sunday retreats into his pride, shielded by tattered wings and a broken crown, though they offer no real protection at all. It'd be funny, this former beacon of lawful virtue clinging to his own deadly sin for a scrap of dignity, but Aventurine is too aware of how painful it is to have each layer so carefully peeled away. There is a tired part of him that wishes he could simply delight in the misfortune of someone who'd so thoroughly wronged him, but the shape Sunday takes now is closer to knife than swordsman; responsible for a great many wrongs, but crafted by others' hands to serve that purpose.

Ngh. If only things were simpler, but they're all hell bent on staying in character until the theater burns down, it seems. Aventurine looks away when Sunday speaks, unsure of why he's chosen this moment, after everything, to fluff the truth. ]

You're an unconvincing liar, little bird.

[ There's a hint of amusement in his voice. It's what he leaves Sunday with, a soft drop of something close to sunshine, as the metal door swings open with a heavy, aching whine, and the Stoneheart of Stratagems leaves his tormentor behind to send a few messages and spin fate's wheel for all of them. ]

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