☎️ For Irene.

She didn’t answer at first.

Not with words. Just pressed her face deeper into the familiar line of his shoulder and let the silence hold everything that should’ve broken her by now. He was still warm. Still solid. Still Riven. And that —that was the part that undid her the most. Because even after all the miles and blood and years stretched tight between then and now, even after all the things she’d killed and buried just to keep walking—he still felt like home.

A softer kind of breaking settled in her ribs.

He wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She didn’t have to reach anymore. Didn’t need to go on tiptoe to wrap her arms around him. But somehow, being in his arms made her feel smaller than ever. Not in a way that made her afraid. In a way that made her want to stay. Because if Riven was here, if he was real, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all lost yet.

And then he said that—Try that knife on me.

Her whole body went still.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him, the truth of him, to believe he wasn’t going to vanish. Her eyes searched his like she was trying to see the seams, the trick of it, the thread that would unravel this illusion if she tugged too hard.

But there was no illusion.

Only him.

“I would never,” she said, and her voice cracked right down the center. “No. No, never. You hear me?”

The words trembled out of her like glass under pressure, but the weight behind them was steel. She shook her head once, sharp and certain. “I’d put a bullet in my own skull before I ever hurt you. Don’t you—” Her breath hitched again. “Don’t you say shit like that. Not to me. Not you.”

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Then his next question hit her like a cold wind through a cracked door. She huffed a sound —not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. A hollow thing.

“No,” she said, plain and simple. “No. Nothing’s okay.”

Not her mom. Not her dad and certainly not her.

And then, softly, almost dazed, “What do you mean, how did I find you?” Her brows knit, like the question itself hurt. “We live here.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

And the moment she said we, the world righted itself.

The old house. The protective circles. The soundproofing, the wards, the runes scrawled under the windowpanes. She’d kept it all running. For just in case.

She pulled back a little more, enough to take his hand in hers, fingers curling like they used to when she was smaller and braver and full of impossible belief and hope. Just like she used to do when she wanted to drag him away from danger, away from fights he didn’t need to take for her. Back when she still thought he could fix everything with just a smile and a soft hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dropped to something gentler now, touched with something like hope.

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s not far. You’ll be safe there. I don't want them to see you.”

She tugged at his hand again —not demanding, not pulling hard. Just like always. That quiet, steady kind of insistence. A lifeline, knotted in memory.

I can't get to have this.

He wasn't what she remembered. He was no longer gentle and kind— a boy, just as lost as she was, just better at navigating the halls of their haunted house. Who reached to catch her when she stumbled, and stood between her and the dark like it was instinct. A big brother, of sorts. Her shield.

Now he felt like a stranger wearing the skin of someone she used to need.

Would she be disappointed, once she learned the truth? His smile was tight, yet there, just enough to give her something to hold onto. "You can try that knife on me," he said, "See if I’d bleed." Usually ghosts didn't. It was a tease, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite laugh. .

When all the weapons dropped and arms wrapped around each other, Riven remembered the last time he’d held her this close. Back then, she barely reached his chest, going up on her toes. She wasn't little anymore, her head fit neatly against his shoulder, no stretching required. And still, she clung to him like he was the only thing left in the world that could save her. Christ. He couldn’t even save himself, let alone her. "Is everything okay?" No, he supposed not from the way she was shaking in his arms, but the words slipped out anyway, as his hand rose to comb gently through her hair— "How did you find me?"

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

Irene

Most admirable quality: She's got a lot of compassion. I think she tries to hide that sometimes, but I try to pay attention when people are reaching out a helping hand to others, and she does it a lot. She's a good person. Most attractive physical feature: Eyes are the window to the soul, right? Hers are really pretty. Most annoying habit: She like to keep things vague and short sometimes when she speaks, and I kind of thrive on details and explanations. Something they would like to do with them: I should really pay her back for bringing me that lunch, so maybe grabbing something to eat together?

//@ireneclermont

She shouldn’t be out. She knows she shouldn’t be out.

The wind was picking up by the time she stepped off the curb with her bag of essentials —a few candles, batteries, water purification tabs, and a box of matches she’d definitely pretend she didn’t already have four of. Enough to make her look responsible, not enough to make her feel less like she was just pretending at being calm.

The spell at the house would hold. It had to. The wards were layered, written sharp and tight into the corners with salt, red thread, and sweat she hadn’t meant to cry. It was good work. She rarely admitted to being proud of anything lately, but that spell… it would hold. Long enough for her mother to sleep through the worst of it, anyway.

And Irene? Irene needed air.

The streets weren’t empty yet, but they would be soon. Most windows had already been boarded, the sharp metallic tang of storm-braced magic riding the breeze. Her boots left muddy half-prints on the uneven pavement as she walked, head down, the plastic bag swinging at her side. She didn’t have a destination. That was the point.

Anywhere but home. Anywhere but there.

The docks called to her—not because she liked the sea (she didn’t) or found solace in its violence (she absolutely didn’t)—but because it was the last place anyone with sense would linger. She could pretend for a few minutes that she didn’t belong anywhere else either.

And that’s when she saw him.

At first, just a shape in the distance, upright and dark and laughing in the rain like something pulled too fast from a dream or a warning.

Her steps slowed.

It wasn’t the figure that stopped her—it was the feeling. The storm recognized him. That’s what it felt like. The wind didn’t whip around him, it curled. Familiar. Like he belonged to it, or it to him. She didn’t know which was worse.

“You’re either insane,” she called out over the howl of the wind, voice even but thin from disuse, “or looking to get dragged straight into the harbor.”

Irene stopped a few feet off, the grocery bag bumping lightly against her knee. Her hair was soaked, curling around her jaw, her coat clinging heavy to her arms.

“And you’re laughing like it’s funny,” she added, quieter now, more to herself than him. “God. What the hell is wrong with you.” What the hell was wrong with her?

But she didn’t leave. Not yet. Let the wind scream. Let the sea rise. She wasn’t ready to go home either.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         thing is, césar knows the smell of a storm. 

         it’s fiercer, now, when he’s far more wolf than man, so much so that dark fur covers every inch of him, deep sharp canines lie behind a curled lip. giving way to the monster of his body is supposed to let him feel free, feel wild, but all it’s managed to do since coming home is make him paranoid. a wary, feral animal, nobody likes him at all. it doesn’t make him useful, only dangerous. césar likes it this way, keeping everyone out without even having to touch them at all. just the threat of him is easy enough.

         thing is, césar should know the smell of the storm, should know better than sticking around as the clouds start to darken and churn, how the air begins to taste of ferocity and the water grows vengeful. but, honestly, he just doesn’t fucking care.

         he cares just enough to force his body back into human shape. dark curls, and dark eyes, and the same kind of wild imbued in him as there was moments before, as a wolf. he walks through the city, watching as the weather just begins to worsen. some unfortunate soul has left their laundry out in the pouring rain, césar plucks it from the line. even cold and wet, it suits him just fine. now clothed, he watches the sky, the water, lets his eyes trace over port leiry, even hurricane ridden. the storm is beautiful, the ocean wild, he feels right at home. the boats are sure to be dust by dark, similarly to any person sticking around, and the docks …

         the docks.

          huh, how about that. yuisa’s pride and joy, soon to be swallowed by waves. césar laughs. he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. as he wipes both an amused tear and a sweep of rain from across his face, he finds that his own hurricane plan doesn’t matter as much. he’ll figure it out along the way, wonders if his previous indiscretions at that college party two years ago would bar him from entry of the stadium. césar tips his chin up to the sky, and breathes it in.

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

WHO: @erisinblood WHERE: downtown.

The bell above the shop door gave its usual tired jingle as Irene stepped out into the night, one hand tugging her coat tighter against the chill. Behind her, the faint scent of lavender and burnt mugwort still clung to her sleeves — the kind of smell that never quite left, no matter how much she scrubbed. She didn’t bother glancing back at the storefront; the lights were off, graveyard shift covered by the new girl with the shaky hands and too many questions. Irene had done her part.

Now the street was hers. Quiet. Dim. The kind of quiet that hummed a little too loud in her ears when she was alone with it for too long.

Her boots echoed against the pavement, rhythm steady, clipped, her hands shoved in her pockets. The streets in this part didn’t sleep, exactly. But they did doze—lights flickering in windows, the odd car sliding by like a ghost. The kind of in-between hour where anything felt like it could slip through the cracks.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Not really. Just felt that prickle at the base of her neck. Not danger exactly—just…attention.

She kept walking.

Then—

“Dianne?”

It hit her like a slap.

She stopped mid-step. Her lips parted slightly, sucking in a breath. And for a second—just a second—she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Like if she stood still enough, the moment might slide past her unnoticed.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Her fingers twitched where they curled in her coat pocket. Then, slowly, Irene turned.

The woman standing behind her wasn’t a stranger. Not quite. Something familiar hung in the shape of her —like a half-remembered song on the edge of a dream. Irene didn’t blink.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said, voice even. Too even. Too smooth. A lie she’d used a thousand times, so well-worn it might as well have been armor.

Her voice was tighter now. And under the streetlight, her eyes gave her away —just a flicker, a crack in the calm.

Because Dianne had been gone for a long, long time. And no one had said that name to her face in years. Not unless they knew something they shouldn’t.

She let the silence settle for a beat, weighing the woman with a look that was too sharp for someone trying to play innocent.

But beneath it all, something ancient and uneasy stirred in her chest.

She looked like her mother, sure. But that didn’t mean she was her.

And gods help her if someone else could tell.

She didn’t flinch when he told her to take the boots off—just paused, took it in, then bent down and did it. No argument. No attitude. Just leather against fingers and a soft thud as they settled by the door like a quiet offering.

Irene knew when she was being measured. Not weighed, not judged —measured. Tetsuya Goju didn’t need words to take a person apart. She could feel it, that feather-light graze of something older than suspicion moving over her like smoke, like spellwork. She didn’t fight it. Let it come. Let it see. She had no illusions about what she looked like from the outside—fists wrapped in habit, a stare too practiced in the art of hard things, a body that only knew how to settle when it was bracing for impact.

Her bare feet touched the tatami like they weren’t sure they belonged, but she moved forward anyway. One step. Then another.

The silence in the dojo deepened with each one.

She didn’t bow. Not out of defiance —out of honesty. Irene didn’t lie about reverence. Didn’t fake what she didn’t carry. But she did nod, this time slower, and there was weight in it. A kind of understanding. A kind of respect.

She caught the layout as she moved—wing chun dummies, the kata markers on the floor, the polished edge of the bokken rack. A hunter would’ve gone for the weapons. Something with reach. Distance. Control.

Irene stopped in the center of the open mat.

“I don’t want a sword,” she said, voice low, almost soft, like the storm had worn itself out in her chest but left its echo behind. “I’ve had too many things in my hands that made it easy. I want to feel it. Every hit. Every miss.”

She looked over her shoulder, just enough to catch the curve of that almost-smile on his face.

Then she turned, faced him full.

The shape of her didn’t carry power like most hunters he’d trained. She didn’t posture. Didn’t square up or lean in or wear her strength like armor. What she had was older. Worn in. The kind that came from losing more fights than she’d won and learning how to stand up anyway. Quiet resilience. Dangerous only because it didn’t need to announce itself.

“I’m not here to be better,” she said simply. “Just... less breakable.”

There was no pride in it. No plea. Just fact.

She exhaled, steady now, the chaos in her chest pressed quiet by the room’s stillness. Then, bare feet planted firm on the mat, she met his gaze again—clear, level.

“So. Where do you want me?”

She's a new student. Her name is on paper in his office, but that means very little to him on a grander scale. The language of the soul, of the mind and the body speak volumes more than most ink will. Yet, Miyazaki cannot see the depth of her flesh as easily as most; he's always trusted his magic, even as it feathers along her, feeling out a stranger with a violent desire. But it lifts away when a dull thud of something that gives him a moment of pause. An energy that similar of the purging organisation Tetsuya has no interest in entertaining.

He has more of a weariness, suspicion about why a hunter may wish to train in his walls. There are plenty of things to hit so crassly in a city that the arrogant can break.

It's disrespectful that she treads boots on the tatami.

Even if it's merely a toe.

"Off." There is a gentle but firm motion of his hand, dismissive of her brazen display. If a hunter wishes to be welcome in his walls, then they will respect where they stand. Miyazaki would shatter every bone in her feet, if she did not abide the basic expectation. There needs to be no enlightenment, if that is not what she seeks. He is no enlightener; no kindness in the dark of whatever haunts her. The sensei does not have spare time to teach those unwilling to receive the knowledge he's willing to part with.

His hands fold behind his back as he lightly crosses the mats, because he does not allow himself indulgences that are distractions. If she would like something to hit, she has plenty choices on each end of the dojo; wing-chun, if she favours Hong Kong, and the kata. Maybe kendo, if she favours weaponry, like many hunters before her.

Him.

If she dares want an accurate target to strike. Something familiar in the way of what she hunts, but entirely out of her realm of ability. A smile forms out of his stoicism. He waits for her to slip her shoes off, and step into the field of practice. A real sign of her intention within the dojo. Tetsuya's quiet easier than his is disciplined. On this occasion, it speaks volumes of: Take your pick. He may enjoy watching another of this generations hunters.

It has every potential to be another solemn waste of his time.

Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.

When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.

“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.

She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.

“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”

She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.

Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.

And for once, she didn’t mind the company.

Juniper nodded along. She understood very well trying to get around another person's idea of order and organization. It was only her own luck that made it so her brain seemed to work the same way as her grandmothers. Everything had a place, everything had a label. Did the places make sense? Most of the time. Were the labels legible? If you understand the language it’s written in, sure. It was something she had always had to help her grandfather with. Married for almost 50 years and he still had a hard time reading her vine scrawl sometimes. 

She conceded. This was not a place or time where she could help. And she really did not want to get Irene in trouble if it came to that. She was reserved but very kind. Reading her felt like looking at one of those magic eye optical illusions from her youth. Everything you needed to understand what you were looking at was right there. You just needed to know *how* to look at it. So she instead tucked herself into a corner near the exit watching the world outside pass by as she waited. Sage playing with her hair all the while. 

It was a nice type of calm. One that felt nostalgic. The scent of dry herbs and burning candle wax, the sound of a busy world through glass. If she closed her eyes she wondered if for even the briefest moment she could go back to a simpler time. Back when pain didn’t linger in her bones and smiling wasn’t in defiance of the world that surrounded her. 

She lost herself in the process, vision going blurry; she wasn't really paying attention to the glass or what was behind it. Instead focused on some non-existent space in between the two until her attention was brought back to the present. Turning to see Irene approach, her smile returned. 

“Oh- that was fast. Alright. Shall we?” She held the door open for the other before exiting herself. Taking a deep breath of the cold air to clear her head and fully return to the here and now. 

“Will you be working in the morning? It’s not much but I would be happy to bring a pick-me-up in the morning when I pick up my order. Pick your poison, coffee or tea?"

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”