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inbox @ comesailaway
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
( shiptalk | direct messages | group messages | action )
no subject
Selectively intangible goes to the top of the paper: probably the most important issue, if the captain isn't physical, he can't be attacked.
perhaps. ]
We can see that he can either transform into smoke or simply be incorporeal at his discretion. It's likely that he allowed you to land a blow on him; it's arrogant of him, even if he wasn't truly wounded. Even if we don't know what exactly his... constitution is, we can consider attacking the void inside him or something else. [ the captain is a body after all, even if he contains or is made up of... something completely different. ] I would guess that if you attack his heart there might be that same void, but if you felt something different in there, it's worth trying. It might require that knife of yours rather than a blunt object when you struck his head.
Now, for my idea...
Have you considered attacking or containing him while he's incorporeal, as smoke?
[ his smile at her is small, encouraging. even still, he doesn't prefer to lead or be a vanguard. he had always been support, gentle guidance as the wind; a hint of his idea brushes to reach to her in the form of a small breeze from him, carried with a single white feather.
there is another one of them that could turn incorporeal besides the captain. ]
no subject
that's a new idea. one she wouldn't have ever thought of herself, honestly.
and what's more, she's not stuck on the question of how do you fight smoke? not grasping at straws with the same human failings that couldn't figure out how to fight a wave of fire or stop death. no, she has a source here to ask for specifics. clarke looks at venti carefully, momentarily if she has to tiptoe around the fact he might be divulging his own weaknesses and promise not to use them against him. but ultimately, she needs to know — )
Would that work on you?
no subject
clarke's question is perfectly legitimate though, he actually cocks his head a bit in thought. ] Would what work, exactly? [ well, he has a few ideas for trying to combat the captain as smoke but actually... this is a good question, he'd never considered something or someone trying to capture himself. ]
Hm~ you know, I've never quite been attacked as wind. Not many people back home know I was their god, most don't even believe me when I told them. [ because. look at him. does he look like god material at all. imagine being a country's deity and being a slacking drunkard, who would want him as their god? ] But wind and smoke are two different beasts, I'd imagine. Winds can disperse, but also gather.
[ a lift of his hand brings something new, rather than feathers: a swirl of invisible void, a pull of gravity and air towards the draw of space above his palm. an ability he'd actually only shown to one other person on the ship.
and he could make a void considerably stronger than this. ]
no subject
if he's there when she needs him to be, almost all other shortcomings can be forgiven.
it's on the tip of clarke's tongue to ask if they could try bottling his airy form — to ask what it would take, how long it would last, what they'd need to accomplish it, if it'd be enough to trap something so powerful instead of killing it outright... but then there's a suck of air within the room. like a breeze originating from the wall behind her, pulling her undivided attention — and any loose strands of hair into an erratic dance — towards venti and his magics.
it'll never get old. seeing something that so expressly didn't exist in her world. much like flying with his glider attached to her shoulders, this experience is other-worldly enough that it almost doesn't feel real — power pulsating just a few feet from her, and most notably not meant to cause any harm. yet. maybe. a void is a void, and like humans have questioned black holes for centuries, clarke has to wonder what's at the center of it.
but instead of asking what happens to something passing through that windy void, clarke just... finds a stray pen on the coffee table in front of her. and throws it at the warped spot of air hovering above venti's palm. )
no subject
also speaking of visions, his is noticeably gone now if she might look, but he never needed it anyway. ]
It's my Wind's Grand Ode. I could strengthen it until it could lift people, or even several. [ or even more than that; in eras past he could throw mountains out to sea, terraform a country, the voids he could create could be as devastating. such incredible power was lost as he disappeared from sight in his own country, when of course faith in an absent god may falter.
the void flickers then indeed intensifies as if with a blink of black space like an eye within a storm, the pen cracks in half, papers ruffle and threaten to tear off the wall.
and then he closes his hand and the grand ode whispers into nothingness with a sigh of wind, as the broken pen falls to his lap. ]
I can't say whether I could contain the Captain, but I would certainly try.
you ever start a tag and realize halfway through that your character's a full on slut for OXYGEN
needless to say, clarke's a little transfixed by the void in venti's hand; purses her lips, stares, ignores the way her mouth goes dry and hair blusters all a mess. something in her eyes burn in that distinctly mortal way when they're confronted with pure power so close they could touch it, hope to harness it, wish to use it. and then he closes his hand, and the room settles. clarke swallows her heart from it's new lodging in her throat back down into her chest, and tries to compose herself. )
Even knowing that if you tried, and failed, he might kill you? And I mean permanently, if you actually threatened his hold on everything here.
he will personally be clarke's oxy dealer okok
his look at her is again with a mild smile that doesn't quite reveal anything. ] Miss Clarke, you struck him with that utensil so viciously, didn't you fear retaliation too? Or even if you did, you knew you had to at least try to beat him. [ despite the risk, despite the unknowns, despite everything. it was the same feeling he had while staring at the captain from across the room, idly fantasizing about summoning his bow and firing off his grand ode right at the man's face--
he didn't but it might be a matter of time. ]
If you were in my position, if you had the power I do, would you hesitate?
prays to the o2 gods
...I didn't think about retaliation at all. I just wanted him dead.
( despite the risks. despite the unknowns — what happens if the captain is vanquished and this entire pocket dimension of his just vanishes with him? what if one death means the end of more than one life, not all of whom believe they're dead at home and have nothing to return to? in the moment, clarke hadn't spared a second thought about the rest of the people on board, just brushed her fingers across the cool metal of the lobster crackers and... acted.
fruitlessly. pitifully humanly. weakly. don't ask her what she'd do with absolute power, venti — everyone from her home world knows that would have just ended in more killing.
a slow shake of the head, tossing her hair around her face while burning blue eyes fix on venti's face like she means to pin him there with her intent. )
I'd do it again. With or without godly powers. But I'm still not going to ask you to do the same without at least acknowledging what failure might mean.
no subject
morax and raiden were war gods.
however he was too--a participant in that war, in a cataclysm long ago. and by now his mind had finally finally ticked on from pathetic misery to something of that old war-readiness, against a foe that might not exactly be god or man but had to be opposed. his gaze back at her doesn't waver at all, finally, whereas back at the dance he would be so carefree to chat lightly and offer another dance and wouldn't quite look her in the eye, avoidant, flighty. he might still be but by now would fly towards the storm. ]
I'm willing to do what it takes. Just keep in mind the Captain got the better of Miss Jenny and I'm younger and a lot less powerful than her. Don't pin all your hopes to me, but I would put all my power to restrain him as smoke, if he's in that form and we confront him.
no subject
clarke's shaking her head ever so slightly, side to side, the faintest dismissal driven home with — )
I don't care how young you are, Venti. Show me something worth believing in, and I'll champion your cause like a head priestess. And I'll cut down doors for you like the relic of a holy war hammer.
( all a very flowery way of saying i'll believe in you 'til my actual dying breath.
once upon a time, clarke's only hope for god was that he was forgiving. and now she just wants one that will fight for her. )
his turn to be a slut for faith
through thousands of years the wishes of his people were there, a continuous whisper like background music or faint wind in his ears. he could not answer all of them. he might not even answer a decent amount of them, when he abandoned his responsibility of godhood and barely ever appeared to his people at all. some in his country wouldn't care about him and yet a good amount still would believe in him through the centuries that he's been entirely absent from the nation's history. there's the statue of him, there's his church full of sisters and devotees, there are even worshipers from nations afar who were inspired by and believe in his creed. he would not command his people to give him faith, every single person does so freely.
yet of course they give faith to 'barbatos', that idealized serene winged image of him as a god. and all the time venti the bard would go and get wasted in bars and pass out in alleys and there were a good few amount of times he could claim, 'you know, I'm your god! Barbatos descended from above, do you not feel blessed?' and anyone would doubt him because who could possibly believe this drunkard is their deity? clarke has seen how he ran from responsibility but now still offers this faith--
all of those prayers from his people, so constant through those years, had disappeared so abruptly once he came to this ship.
this newest faintest prospect of faith now hits him practically like a new buzz and not even from alcohol. he finds himself almost speechless, the wind flaring up around him brief in surprise or even fluster. of course she is not really a follower, he could not perform a miracle from a single wish and defeat the captain and bring them home--
but the new faith makes him really, really want to try. ]
I'll do it. [ actually, the moment he saw the captain appear from smoke the idea had flickered into his head--I could contain him, I could try. ] If he's smoke I'll hold him as long as I can, or even... [ he'd always fired that void, that stormeye to capture and incapacitate people in mid-air, he wouldn't strengthen it enough to truly crush in ruthless gravity and lack of air. but he could try. ]
... Miss Clarke, could I trust you with my name? If you invoke me with my god's name, I would fly there to support you.
no subject
...wait. wrong conflict. though there have been multiple moments during her time on this ship that clarke's ended up wondering if she'd make the same decisions she made in mount weather if it meant saving her people, or at least sparing them. how many people here would she kill if it meant salvation for the few? how many of the people that had helped her would end up being expendable? ideally, they'll never have to find out.
anyway, clarke catches wind that she's hit upon something venti values, and like a predator with the throat of a prey animal between it's teeth, she squeezes. recognizes the power of reverence, and has followed the script of bowing to powerful leaders before. intimate, secret admissions call for something a little closer than just seated across the room from one another, and she's finally peeling herself off the sofa and drawing closer to venti. holds his gaze with the same unflinching intensity she'd held the captain's not twelve hours ago, but (sorry iva) doesn't move to strike him down.
instead kneels on the plush carpet at his feet. trust would be earned, but that remaining wariness of one another won't keep her from tilting her head. whispering — )
What's your name?
no subject
he'd like to think he can totally keep a cool head and know that this may as well be a transaction, that she can offer faith and... it's not as if she knows his history, his creeds, but--no, she actually kind of does. he had told her about his country. she knows, mizuki might have told her, that he refused to rule over it. she might not be from his world or know everything but does she have to? it didn't matter. faith is faith. he was no longer a god but millennia of receiving those prayers even if he was the weakest deity... that belief had disappeared so suddenly when he arrived on this ship and the hint of it now appears like a mirage in a desert.
he had told only one person on this ship his name previously. yet he finds himself now with a hand alit softly to the top of her head like transferring a blessing. ]
My god's name was Barbatos. [ in another world, the name of a duke of hell. it might just be that if you squinted at them even in teyvat, gods were cursed existences. ] If you call for me, as long as the wind blows and hears, I would answer.
Miss Friday and I assume, the Captain don't know my name. I'll trust you with it now, Miss Clarke.
[ like a sacrament, a lost prayer. he was never really that cryptic with his identity back in his homeland, when almost nobody would believe he's their god. but here in this other realm controlled by the captain it might be more prudent to possibly--keep it secret, keep it safe. ]
no subject
( for coming from an insular community, and adopting a strong, problematic sense of us vs them upon initially ending up on earth, clarke had ended up easily adopting aspects of other cultures she'd encountered. her trigedasleng was childish and rusty, when she looked at the flame that held the consciousness of every grounder commander since bekka pramheda she still saw more technology than mysticism. mass religion hadn't survived on the ark, and when the elders on board had prayed, it'd been to a small tree that'd managed to survive in space for almost 100 years. and, on principal, usually an adult putting their hand on her head felt condescending and demeaning.
but venti's soft brush of the palm against her hair feels... different. weighted, in a way clarke's never experienced. reverent affection given in return for pure reverence, like a parent beaming at their child. and she supposes she could see how this would bring comfort to those who'd devoted their entire lives to their deities; who believed fully in their abilities, and had since they'd been born. she can absolutely see the allure of belief in god. gods. something larger and stronger and wiser and more aware than simple humans, at their back in times of strife and offering guidance and protection.
whatever importance of a sacrament is still lost on her, the sentiment of a secret hits home. she plays his name over in her mind a few times, just to familiarize herself with it, then locks it away like a nuclear weapon behind launch codes. and nods lightly, not to upset the hand on her head until venti choses to drop it. )
...you know you can just call me Clarke, right?
no subject
he recalls back when he first met her--even at that moment he could remember her conviction, that burning fire of inner strength and drive, how gods can identify this and be drawn towards humans of such ambition. that she accepts his touch almost like a mark though he no longer has godhood, no longer can distribute blessings... the glow of it warms in his chest. he had never asked for followers, honestly a part of him since millennia ago when that storm god's tower fell, he had thought he would be perfectly happy without them. yet people believed in him and something of their faith comforts. the comfort of it would be less important than the power, and even greater power if he sought to control believers--yet he never had, and that was the point of his weakness.
there are gods who seize and pursue power for their own purposes, gods who don't care about people at all. and then there was the pantheon he was a part of, who genuinely wished to guide humanity. that bond where people give faith and gods bestow miracles--his wings nearly flutter into existence to want to fulfill it again, as his hand lifts. ]
Consider the wind at your call. And I did say that I would fly you over gaps or whenever you need wings... I'll pledge my wings, winds, and my Grand Ode if--or when you confront the Captain.
no subject
though, every now and then, a crusader was necessary. )
When, ( clarke sees fit to correct. then has to pause to consider: ) When I do again, I mean.
( because the only, only thing certain here is that — through a blur of failure, shame, and desperation — come morning, clarke's resolve would have reformed and hardened. they've got a new plan now, a fire stoked beneath her heart, and a new hope swelling in the back of her throat. a new comfort, of having something powerful at her back, no matter how often it had flinched and shied from conflict before hand. looking in venti's face now is more like staring into a mesmerizing pit of wisdom and potential, and —
for a second, just for a second.
clarke's gaze drops from his eyes down to his mouth. then from the soft line of his lips, further down to fix on the way his throat works when he swallows.
briefer still, the edge of her tongue comes out to drag across the black, faintly scabbed over split in her lower lip. courtesy of the captain absolutely donkey kicking her off the head table earlier, and meeting the ground with her face. there's still that tang of copper alighting across her tastebuds, and a sear of pain when she graduates from tonguing the small wound to dragging her upper teeth across it.
then back up to meet his eyes once again. )
At my call, huh? Do you really promise, Venti, or...
no subject
'promise' is an interesting word, for him. his look goes from slight surprise, to something like uncertainty, to something a little more secretive as he taps a hand to his chest, his small smile with a twitch of his mouth that's almost sly. ] You know well how unreliable I am, Clarke, but I've trusted you with my name. I hear all prayers and wishes to my name, whether or not I still count as a god. [ there are times, many, and increasing in frequency as he stays on this ship, that he wishes he could be more steadfast and reliable and trustworthy. he's genuinely trying to be now. but even before he was a god, he was wind. wind may be as flighty a surprise snowstorm in may, a hurricane brewing from the stir of a butterfly's wings, a tempest; reliability is not in his nature when he is born from nature.
he loves his country and yet he left it for long periods, he would wake and return and save it from calamity but maybe damage would already be done. he isn't as steadfast as bedrock, as powerful as strikes of lightning, he comes and goes. but the wind finds he wishes to linger around her since meeting, since drinking and talking godhood, since dancing far too carelessly at the party. and now since she offers faith, the first person on this ship to do so even knowing all his considerable faults. ]
I promise as much as I can, for what that's worth. [ jinx already hates him for not being there for her, even as he said he would. maybe he has to own up as honestly as he can to the fact that it's simply not who he is, someone who can be trusted on to always be there rather than leave. ] More than that, I would offer myself. Where there is wind, I would be there. My wings, my stormeye, and...
Could I offer you something else right now? [ his eyes flicker to the cut of her lip; the wind around him has been restless ever since her promise of faith, something he hadn't even consciously known he'd wanted until just now and the sudden craving for it makes him lowkey dizzy. something that had echoed in his ears until it was gone and now the slightest whisper returns, tempting.
the wind flows to coax into her hair, over her cheeks. there are times mortals capture the attention of gods indeed. ]
no subject
and if there's something clarke rarely feels — here, or anywhere else as of late — it's safe.
but venti's still talking, offering himself and then something more, and the light brush of air around her face catches any remnant trails of drying sweat and sends a shiver down her spine. the wires between reverence and desire run side by side and sometimes they cross. he's in her room, perched on the edge of her bed and promising power in her corner while clarke kneels and offers unpracticed faith. ask her an hour ago where they would have ended up, and she'd have guessed talking about mizuki affixing himself to ebalon's side regardless of his actions during the battle royale. and then ask her ten seconds ago where she'd like to be, and the only aspect that would change is which one of the two of them was on the floor between the legs of the other. )
I want —
( realistically, the people on board this ship who seem to gravitate towards her presence need to stop looking at clarke griffin like she's stronger in her convictions than them. she is weak to all things every other human is, including the hint of touch and pleasure. and her heart rate picks up at the prospect of not feeling so relentlessly alone if only for a moment. )
...I didn't know anything else was on the table.
( or the bed. because vocalized hesitance aside, she'll inevitably be the one to breach the gap between their bodies first; leans forward just a tad, until her shoulders are bumping along the inside of venti's knees. )
no subject
but that belief from her was so dizzyingly potent it made him reel. the way she kneels as if offering prayer to an idol, it claws onto the primal part of him that was a god for thousands of years. he never made or even really truly wanted people to pray to him but he can't deny who he is--wind deity, and faith gives him power, the rush of boldness and wind in his ears. he once had so much more power than he did now, even if he was weak among the pantheon, he once could throw mountains out to sea...
his hand runs lightly into her hair; the blue-green of his eyes nearly glow. the fixation of a deity to a mortal of interest. ] Clarke, you smashed open the Captain's head. And you brushed it off, like it wasn't the most substantial wound any of us had dealt to him. [ whether the captain is man or immortal or god or a god-wannabe, it doesn't even matter at the moment. it was kiiind of a turn on if he really had to admit it. ] Could I reward you for it? For working so hard all this time, for everything--and for even offering to believe in me, however you might...
[ he hadn't a hint of belief until now; he had offered his name to jinx, his aid to her. he did so to clarke just now, pledging his wind and stormeye. he'd told clarke how faith empowers gods so she may as well just want to pique him but if so, mission succeeded because just the taste of it, just this much, practically stunned him how much he'd missed those prayers to him. no matter how much he'd fly away from the responsibility of godhood, no matter how he lives incognito he is divine or ex-divine, it runs through his veins like ichor.
his other hand drifts down to the collar of her shirt, fingertips brushing over bare skin and hem of fabric. the cool of his touch like spring wind and the breeze seems to intensify around him. in the back of his head he knows he should think of mizuki, should think of... but the image of her on her knees, that promise of belief washes over him like the buzz of the strongest liquor or ambrosia. ]
Can I? [ in exchange for belief--some kind of reward, for the girl who said his god's name. the first time he'd heard it since coming to this ship. people had prayed to him for freedom; she might be the first to think of praying to him for power, but something of that ambitious faith feels punch-drunk. ]
no subject
beneath wind-chilled hands, clarke's skin most likely feels like fire. the remnants of the searing deathwave that'd brought her world to its knees regardless of who the people prayed to; that feverish desire for action, boiling for conflict just beneath the surface. but all the hint of something more distinctly human — the swell of her heartrate in her chest, the rise of pitch black blood flushing up her neck when he traces the lines of her collar bones, creeping further into cheeks when venti softly pulls fingers through tousled hair. )
You could. ( and there's the permission, spoken aloud. a willing — willful — acceptance of this extension of a godly blessing. touch for touch, both her elbows find purchase on venti's kneecaps, followed by both palms smoothing across his thighs as she raises up on her own knees. they're on a more even level now, clarke could arch her neck and brush her nose along the cut of his jawline if she wanted to, but —
pauses. considering unspoken factors for a second, allowing the way her gaze drags from his eyes to his mouth and back again to be all the more apparently this time around.
he'd told her his name to call upon when needed. but what if, at least right now, she just wants — )
Please, Barbatos?
( the highs and lows of his worldly lore aside, there'd be no convincing clarke griffin that a creature capable of commanding the winds was a minor god. she'd grown up in a place where every breath of undiluted air was a luxury; had been choked to the point her eyes had rolled into the back of her head, and almost drowned in water and smoke alike. and there is nothing, nothing more sacred, more invigorating and lively than that first inhale. )
no subject
it's enough, the lure of it like this.
time to make some bad bad decisions. that 'please' does it, his god's name in her voice does it, he captures her mouth with his, just about trying to lick the taste of it from her tongue. barbatos guide us, the resounding echoing prayer from his nuns and sisters in his church. the nature of gods to accept faith from followers, to gather more by... performing miracles, performing destruction to inspire awe and fear--what a give and take relationship it might be. gods across worlds over could just take an interest in their followers, mortals of interest, priests, their vestal virgins. not that he'd take a guess whether clarke is one but on god he might want to make her see god. if there's any 'please' that needs to be said, it's clarke please reconsider your life decisions.
he pushes her back into bed--enough kneeling now, it's making him far too light-headed and even more prone to bad decisions as he normally is, which is an accomplishment. the tips of his braids glow blue-green as wind and air stir yet more briskly around them. the taste of him is almost inhuman, practically with the brisk cool of spring wind, air that would flow from him to her delivered by his tongue. how completely ridiculous it is to get carried away by that promise of potent faith, she may as well just be wielding the promise of it to wield his power but that's fine, apparently he'd been this yearning for it. sing to him his name when he's dying of thirst.
and it's also time to undo her shirt. ]
no subject