ashoney | (no subject)

(no subject)

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

[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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