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scrollsofeternity · 4 years

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im mean again now | arisa | trial 6 | re: hisato, ely

Once again, they’ve been played like fools. Arisa has once again shed tears for a tragedy that never happened. Well, it did (both times, actually), but it wouldn’t end the worst way possible. Her heart is still shattered in her chest, but its sting is just the littlest bit less knowing that Azusa didn’t create this. She had a hand in it, yes, but she didn’t force them to stay. She tried to save the dead. She felt horrible about this all. Arisa knew she had to.

Hisato didn’t have the luxury of Arisa giving a single shit about him.

Her sobs have quieted, first stilled from sheer shock at the sudden darkness and now through the rage she felt pounding through her veins. She snarls and turns to look directly at Hisato, putting her hands on her hips, spreading her legs into a scissor pose.

“English fuckin’ major, right? Here, lemme put this a way you’ll understand.”

And then, in shockingly proficient English, begins a small tirade.

“Bitch gon’ step to fuckin’ me bitch with them fuckin’ cow-whore fuckin’ boots BITCH DISGUSTIN’!”

She says, bending at the waist slightly and snapping her fingers before she says the last two words. She swaps back to Japanese for the rest of it.

“You’re probs just gonna get your fuckin’ chaps wet over me going at your fuckin’ neck, Buffalo Bill lookin’ headass, but I don’t care. I am SO beyond the point of caringgggggg!!!”

She claps rapidly as her voice’s volume raises over time on the last syllable.

“You ain’t like cursing!? Watch what I can fuckin’ do, pussy shit bitch! You fuckin’ walk in here, head held fuckin’ high like you’re some hot shit, talkin’ hot shit, lettin’ Azusa-chan take fuckin’ abuse meant for you?! You hand me those insults on a silver fuckin’ platter ‘cuz you want me to say it? Wanna feel cool ‘cuz you want me to call you stupid lookin’!? Bitch, I don’t NEED your factory, mass-ass produced fast fashion fuckin’ insults, I can come up with my own shit. Yeah your fuckin’ boots piss me the hell off, I should fuckin’ walk the hell over there and shove one down your fuckin’ throat, show you how inconvenient some goddamn spurs can be! Bitch! They! Will! Tear! At! Your! Skirt’s! Fuckin’! Hem! They teach you this shit in a 101 class--couldn’t be bothered to go to an ethics 101 class and CLEARLY couldn’t be bothered to go to a fashion one. NASTY ASS.”

Between each exclamation mark as she made her comment about his spurs, she clapped her hands together.

“And your FUCKIN’ GAUNTLETS!?!? That’s what those things supposed to be? Just lookin’ like some reject ass kaiju fuckin’ fursuit--why the hell you bring your hoe-ass kink into the goddamn trial room. I don’t WANT to know that shit, thanks very much, but I guess I FUCKIN’ DO NOW.

Also, whore, do you KNOW where a scarf goes because IT AIN’T FUCKIN’ THERE, SWEETIE PIE!! I WISH I could stop looking at that shitshow you call a skirt and accessory but GODDAMN I can’t! It’s like when you’re watching a car accident happen, and you can’t look away. Bitch you can’t DO asymmetric AND high-low at the same TIME!! You don’t end up lookin’ like anything other than a shitass clown in a piss poor circus! UGH!!! You make YACO look like a goddamn VOGUE MODEL while you’re walkin’ the fuck ‘round here like Victoria’s Secret CLOWN ASS HALLOWEEN EDITION!!!!”

She stops her tirade, chest and shoulders heaving from the fact that she took minimal breaths during her entire speech. It seemed like her cheerleader lungs hadn’t left her yet, and her pathetic display of public vulnerability that could have been avoided (again) had just pissed her off.

Oh for fuck’s fucking SAKE!

“Sakurayama-chan, would you PLEASE get your fuckin’ woman, jesus CHRIST!!”

She throws her hands in the air and drags them down her face. This place is a nightmare.

#ch6 #trial #arisa #submission

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dustingrayves · 7 years

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pairing: sormik WC: 1484 rating: T AU: witch hunt au notes: right so this is the beginning of an au i kinda abandoned, but i dont really wanna get rid of it cause it has a few nice lines that im actually proud of,,,, ://

theres an explanation of the au at the bottom -b

The night, with its twinkling stars and lack of any burning lanterns, provides the perfect cover. Slipping in and out of narrow, crooked alleyways, no one would notice a shadow, silent and quick.

A lantern, dark and smelling of hot wax, dangles in his hand, carefully gripped so it makes as little noise as possible. The other hand hugs a gray cloak close, its edges fluttering to and fro as he walks.

Just a little more.

He rounds a corner, and another. Ducks to the side, crosses the street in two calculated steps. Slips into an alley where even his skin shines likes the moon. Winding the cloak ever closer to himself, he raises one gloved hand and taps the leathered knuckles over a wooden door, thrice.

A tiny slit opens between the heavy planks, two eyes looking through it. They regard him, wait until he pulls the hood back enough to expose his face, his shining eyes, and then the slit closes again.

The door opens with a squeak that could be mistaken for a mouse. He wastes no time and slips inside, the tension fading from his shoulders as if on command as the door clicks closed.

"Is it Tuesday yet?" the guard -Edna, tonight- pipes up, but there's no bite to her barking.

"I had to see him," he sighs, turning to look at her. She had already retaken her seat by the door, a single chair propped against its handle, and is now twirling her umbrella. Opening an umbrella inside means bad luck, his mind supplies immediately. The last thing they need is bad luck. He pushes the thoughts that follow back, forcefully. "How is he?"

"Better," Edna says, as if it were that simple. The concern lacing her brow is still evident, however, no matter how hard she tries to cover it with her usual stoic mask. "Better than before."

Leaving Edna to her assigned duty, he twists on a heel and marches up the stairs, steps muffled by the imported carpet. The upstairs is quiet as well, but if he strains his ears, he can hear the hushed sounds of a conversation.

He follows it to the first door on the right.

They changed it again. The bed that used to be in the middle is now pushed to the side, with just a little free space left between it and the wall. Whether that's to keep it from the cold of the nightly bricks or to ease the access of anyone on cooling duty, he isn't sure. The table is pressed next to it, and the free space is now occupied by chairs, arranged around a smaller table. Three chairs, two occupied.

Lailah perks up, expecting Edna, her eyes calming from confused concern to just understanding, and her shoulders relax again.

"Sorey," she says, instead of a welcome. Zaveid nods his way.

"Hey guys," Sorey replies, pushing the hood back. His hair springs free, tousled and wild. The cloak ends up chucked over the backrest of the empty chair. He can’t resist asking, even though Edna already told him, "How is he?"

"Fever went down," Zaveid tells him. Sorey rounds the sitting spot, leans over the bed. His fingers right the snowy hair before pushing it out of the way so he can feel the Seraph's temperature himself. He isn't a physician, and can't tell if this is Mikleo's normal temperature, but it doesn't feel like his insides are on fire anymore. He breathes an unconscious sigh of relief. "He's been like this since last night. With some luck, he'll wake up soon."

"Thank gods," Sorey mumbles, pulling his hand away.

Like this, Mikleo looks like he's just sleeping. His face is calm, if a little paler than usual. His lips are chapped, but parted. The half empty cup on the table lets Sorey know that either Lailah or Zaveid had made him drink recently.

"Were you really that scared? If anything happened we'd tell you, you know?" Zaveid says, with his legs on the table. If Sorey didn't know him, he could easily take his teasing as nonchalance. But he also knows how much time Zaveid spent sitting by the bed, replacing the cold rag on Mikleo's forehead when he was wracked by the fevers.

"I know." Sorey offers him a smile, one that lights up even the circles under his eyes. "I just..."

Zaveid spares him the need to say the words. "We know, buddy."

Sorey pulls the chair away from the other Seraphim and sits by the bed, looking over the passed out boy with a valiant gaze. "Wake up soon, Mikleo," he whispers, low enough for the others no to hear him.

"-ake up! Wake up!"

He's shaken, but it takes a moment to come back to the land of the waking. Sorey's eyelashes flutter and he stirs, blinking up. Zaveid towers over him, even more than usual now that he's sitting.

"Wakey, wakey," the Seraph teases, "we got breakfast."

"I fell asleep?" Sorey asks sleepily, lifting a hand to rub the sleep crust out of his eyes. According to the crick in his neck, yes, he did.

"Yup," Zaveid confirms, "You'd make a terrible guard."

Sorey can feel blood rushing into his cheeks. "Sorry," spills from him before he can think.

"But you weren't the guard, so don't worry. You gave me some more private time with Lailah." Zaveid lifts his brows in an implication.

"I read his fortune!" Lailah pipes up innocently, a piece of bread with honey poured over it in her hand. She's eyeing it, paying close attention not to spill any.

Zaveid's brows come back down. And then furrow. "She said I would die alone."

"Well, you probably won't die alone," Sorey says, standing up and stretching his arms. His joints pop with satisfying sounds. "You'll probably get killed, and that means that there will at least be your killer around. Probably a whole crowd, in your case."

"Thanks buddy, really appreciate it," Zaveid deadpans.

Sorey drags his chair back to the table and accepts the butter knife Lailah hands him. He grabs a piece of the bread and spreads butter on top, following her example of a honey meal.

Zaveid joins them and they eat in silence. Somewhere along the way, Edna comes upstairs, pulling along her own chair, presumably from the other room (though Sorey wouldn't really put it past her to take it all the way from downstairs). She joins them with only a remark of 'Zaveid's really quiet. Finally.'

They finish their meal and Sorey grabs his cloak again. He does, however, pause in the doorway, eyes falling onto Mikleo's unmoving form again. "I'll come again tonight," he promises.

"You know it's dangerous," Lailah says, her brows furrowing. "What if somebody sees you?"

"I didn't get caught yet! Don't worry!" Sorey tries to reassure her, but he himself knows what would happen if someone were to see and -gods forbid- follow him. Associating with Seraphim is the biggest form of treason, and punishable by a Seraphic trial along the Seraphim. Edna might be able to survive underwater by building a barrier, but he sure can't. He shudders at the thought; pushes it back where it came from, to the dark corner of his betraying mind.

"Just be careful, I don't want to follow my brother's steps," Edna says, using a hendkerchief to wipe stray droplets of honey from her fingers.

Sorey's eyes lower at the mention of Eizen. He puts on his coat in silence, and in silence he also slips out, leaving them alone to tend to Mikleo.

The morning streets greet him with people already bustling about, erecting their stalls and hauling the night's catches over. He can pull the cloak off when he gets to the heart of the market, no one paying him any mind as they mill about, hell-bent on getting the best fish today has to offer before someone else swoops in and steals them.

Sorey stops at a stall and buys a pair of handfuls of freshly caught prawn, despite himself. No one spares him a glance as he's handed the clothed bundle.

No one knows.

It always sends a pang of paranoia through him, when he's around people. He'd be lying if he said he's scared for himself and the possibility of being drowned or hung as a traitor to humanity. What truly strikes fear into his heart is the thought of Zaveid getting set ablaze. Of Lailah being tossed to the bottom of a lake. Of Edna pushed off a cliff, bound and helpless.

Of Mikleo, still unconscious and weak, being buried alive.

He finds himself gripping the cloth bag so tight that his nails bite into his palm through it; his heart is hammering and breath short. He takes a moment to calm himself and slips through the ever-unaware crowd back home.

WITCH HUNT AU;

aka medieval au where all humans hate and hunt the seraphim. theyre very, very ostracized and humans arent allowed by law to even talk to one. getting caught helping one (much less four) is punishable by a public execution. even rumors are enough to get inquisition on your ass; be careful!

sorey grows up alongside mikleo, a boy he met by the lake. mikleo admits hes a seraph a few years down the line, because he trusts sorey. and, just as expected, sorey makes sure to keep him safe and sound.

they meet the gang eventually, because mikleo, being a seraph, can tell when there are others around. lailah gets herself backed into a corner by a mob after badly dodging a question about her looks. burn her. no, she is fire. kill her! drown her! sorey and mikleo snatch her and lead the angry mob on a wild chase around the city that they know like the backs of their hands. edna is outed when she tries defending eizen before his execution. its just wild luck that mikleo was around. it was absolutely coincidental that the lake suddenly formed a tsunami-like wave. absolutely. zaveid finds them. he tries to flirt with lailah in the pub. needless to say, the poor guy is let down. at least the beer is close.

they dont meet rose and dezel until later. dezel protects rose to the best of his abilities, almost to the suicidal edge. rose doesnt even know hes a seraph until they meet the guys

eli told me this is basically canon (the human & seraphim hating each other), so i kinda scrapped this idea since i didnt want to seem like i was. idk. wrongly copying the canon. i know nothing about berseria

#tales of zestiria #sormik #eso's fics #witch hunt au #noncommital shrug #mine

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