prvssianblve:

“you are literally the first familiar face i’ve seen.” prussia scoffed. he smiled a little at the mention of his friend. while he and francis had disagreements in the past, he’d always felt the other understood him in a way. plus, it was easier to be friends than enemies. especially now., knowing he was on borrowed time. prussia found having enemies, while awesome, often was too much work. having friends was much easier.

“i guess i’ll have to look around for him… mmm….thanks.” he begrudgingly muttered. “wanna grab a beer? i’m dying here and beer makes things better.” He cracks a grin at the morbid joke and claps him on the back in what was probably a bit too hard to be in a friendly way.

     “I see the end of times certainly hasn’t dampened your spirit any,” Arthur groused, glaring halfheartedly at the other’s offending hand. The offer itself came as a surprise, really; he had fully expected Gilbert to run off at the first mention of any other Nation, much less one he got along on better terms with. Then again, he himself had been lucky to meet someone he knew – Francis, unsurprisingly – within a few days, instead of weeks, of being in this city, and even then he had been relieved. With that in mind, it felt like a cold refusal would almost be cruel.

     “Fine,” he said, “O-only because I have nothing better to do today, mind.” Though he tried not to look too enthusiastic about it, he couldn’t help giving the other Nation a curious look. “Do you know a place around this sector?” he asked, though knowing this was Prussia, a few weeks’ time was more than enough for him to locate a source of his favourite alcohol.

erizipel:

🌹 : Obedient and direct, intuition could not be more correct if given opportunity! Though give some credit to clerk, they had pointed out other to for any advice should they had sought it. “Wonderful, you’ll do well then.” Take backseat to momentarily, as if before mentor’s lessons  they led onward with implications. An appreciation for not to overwhelm with too many options at first, giving only two. Though, even she knew of one. “Earl Grey? I know of a stubborn mule who prefers the taste.” Reference that would fall to wayside, as attention diverts to other choice given.

“I know not this one in particular, but name alone has captured attention!” A snatch of box, such was implied to choice but not affirmed just yes. Moment to read box over, as they voice a thought that would be dismissed not by will but- “..My funding does not allow taking a massive haul this rotation.” Yes, yes. Something unfamiliar to but learning as she went along to manage. Budgeting. Still, steady. “Though, I did come intending to take no less than two.” That.. should be okay? “Pray tell, what of their Oolong?” Speaking of course, only from ones known. Lest she look like a fool stepping beyond her reach.

     “Hmm…” The Nation thought back to when he’d last tried a batch of the indicated flavour, “It’s alright, I’d say, but I’ve had better.” It was hard to top China’s own skills at making one of his most famous teas, after all, and a few dozen times of that would raise his standards quite high. Come to think of that, though, England wasn’t too sure whether he ought to be proud or offended that his Earl Grey and India’s Darjeeling were apparently easier for this shop to make well. He settled on feeling thankful that he still had access to a high-quality supply of his favourite tea in this city, and left it at that.

     He glanced at the box in the girl’s hands, noting that it was one he hadn’t tried before either; a name that he’d also never heard of back home. Rather interesting. “So you don’t know this one either, but you do know Earl Grey and Oolong. I take it we’re more likely than not to be of the same world, then.” Of course, it was hard to say for sure, since there were apparently worlds similar but completely separate from theirs, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “What country did you come from, back home?”

erudorago:

‘Captain Drake!’   She’s heard it before. From the masters and whatever crew she can muster, but the way it leaves the man’s mouth tickles her memories and the name has more weight and earnest adoration.  It really was him! A smile spread across her face along with the slightest hues of pink on her cheeks. He meant what he said. Rare for the captain,she giggled, but it quickly turned into a delighted laugh. “Nor did I think I’d find you here either. Still a rascal, eh?  Glad to know the drink still has its charm!  Last I saw you was celebrating after we made it back home. That was a good night! Hardly remember it, Hahahah! ”   She set the drink down in front of him, and among her reminiscing, came another question. The journey was harsh ,with several people and ships lost until only her ship remained. As captain she encompassed the success to become a Heroic Spirit, but her crew went unnamed in history. To see one after all these years was astounding in its own right.” But we shouldn’t celebrate so soon, I spent all my gold and life those centuries ago, but the drum calls for me again so I’m summoned back from the dead, yanno?  I don’t mind if I get to see my crew again. What have you been up to, Kirkland?”

     “Cheers!” England eagerly accepted the glass with a word of thanks, immediately bringing it to his lips. Ah... With the familiar taste and the Captain’s voice in his ears, it was almost like being back with the old crew. “I remember some parts of that night,” he laughed at Drake’s account, “Don’t regret a second of it, even if the next morning was hell. Sorry I never said my proper goodbyes though; things on land caught up to me too quickly, you could say...” Namely, the repercussions of completely ditching his Nation work and cutting off contact for the better part of three years to join in the journey around the world. It was bad enough back then; he could only imagine how his bosses would react if he pulled something of that caliber in the modern day. Probably something that would result in him dying a few times. Not that England would give up that time spent on the ship for anything, though.

     He paused at Drake’s next question. The full answer would, of course, span the entirety of over four centuries she’d been ‘dead,’ but as much as he liked the Captain, it felt like too awkward a topic to casually breach after such a long time. For now, he settled on an easier answer. “I’ve been exploring the city! Met some people I knew before too, but no one from the crew until you. Though… this whole resurrection business…” It was all too weird, and the high quantities of supposedly dead people were starting to make him worry a bit, as though he himself could be permanently dead as well, dwelling amidst other deceased unaware of their statuses. And it he were permanently dead, then all of his people… “Do— do you remember how exactly you were brought back, Captain?” he asked, looking up with an expression he hoped was the right mix of nonchalance and curiosity to not inspire too much alarm, “Was it right in this city?”

     The clink of keys and the sound of boots along the stone floor were the first things England became aware of, though sight quickly caught up to hearing and took in the rows of cells along both sides, shadowed outlines shifting within some of them. He didn’t recall how he entered; this was another dream, then. Having experienced enough of those in short order, it didn't take much for his consciousness to begin working again, though he did wonder what business he could possibly have deep in the heart of the medieval war prison he now found himself in. His gaze fell on one figure in particular, the sole occupant of a cell who had left the darkened corners enough for her face to be visible.

     Her. England froze, the true context for his surroundings finally falling into place. Why would she be here? The Nation had had his fair share of dreams, nightmares, however they may be labeled, about the saint over the past centuries, but they had always, always, been at the burning stake. He’d caught glimpses of her and her standard from the midst of the battlefield, back during the war, but her death had been the only moment that had forever etched itself into his conscience, and thus his subconscious, up until the moment he met her again in the city.

“They’ve only just captured you…” England took a few dazed steps forward, stopping just short of arm’s reach of the metal bars that separated them, “This is before the trial, before—” Before her sentencing, before the execution. If things just played out differently… England eyed the ring of keys hanging from his belt, noting a single untarnished key amongst the lot, pure silver and gleaming. Of course. This was as good an answer to her question of ‘why’ as any, wasn’t it? He looked back up at her. “I wasn’t involved in your capture,” he blurted, suddenly feeling the need to clarify, even if it was something she’d likely already know, “Not here, or in the past. When it really happened. We... we usually don’t interfere with the humans’ fight.”

                         ( @teapirating )

          SCENES CHANGE RAPIDLY, SHIFTING BETWEEN one of victory and triumph to the current setting she finds herself. the ground beneath her is cold—hard, even—as she begins to realize she was somewhere else. metal bars line around her, a darkened silhouette resting in one of the prison cells beside her. familiar, this was all too much like she recalls. though she knows she is in a dream, briefly she wonders just whose it was. whether it was her own or another’s, she would have to wait and see as she observes her surroundings.

          armour had been stripped from her body, only the dress which she had been given during her time in these prisons. so this was sometime in the beginning of her capture, getting up as she steps forward to grab the bars and attempt to peek out down the corridors. before long a set of footsteps sound, soon revealing a face she had met before in the city prior.

                                    ah, was this dream his, then? or perhaps it was both.

          ❝ England— ❞ that was what he had said he was, wasn’t it? the last time they spoke. ❝ Why am I here again? ❞

     {{Tagging @prvssianblve because it’s most immediately relevant to Prussia out of all the citta hetalia muses, but anyone else familiar with the series at all is welcome to comment!

     Hello! So I was going to just ask you in the tags of the reply I just sent out, but it got way too long so I figured I’d tag you in a separate post instead. I’m quite curious what your thoughts are on why the ex-Nations stay alive for a while after their country ceases to be! I don’t think canon mentions it in depth, but there’s been a few interesting details, like there was a strip where modern-day Prussia is shown to heal wounds at a much more human rate than before, and then one of a bedridden HRE set after he’s stopped being a Nation? And then a micronations one where Niconico Republic was stated to have ‘gone back to being a normal Japanese citizen’ or something to that effect.

     From all that, I’ve gathered a tentative theory they have a ‘grace period’ of immortality/agelessness after losing Nation status, perhaps roughly proportional to how long they’ve been a Nation (idk like maybe around a tenth or a twentieth of how long they’d lived)? so that they can… get their affairs in order or train whomever is going to replace them as the Nation in charge of that piece of land that they occupied. And throughout the grace period their healing powers and Nation senses and strength and stuff would diminish gradually, leaving them weaker and weaker (eventually bedridden), until at some point the grace period runs out completely.

     And then I figure one of two things happen from here. For the more ‘veteran’ Nations like Prussia or HRE, who have racked up countless injuries and deaths over the years, their bodies are probably not going to be able to cope with all that once there’s no more magic supporting them, so I kind of think they’re likely to just… die on the spot. Either disappear or fade away or whatever happens to permanently dead Nations. But for the ones that haven’t been Nations that long or intensely (like a micronation who has never seen war, for instance), they would ‘become human’, in that they’ll begin to age and function completely like a normal human and eventually die from what would kill a normal human (old age, illness, accidents, what have you); the only difference is that upon their death, they’d also disappear/fade away/whatever form Nation death takes.

     I’m tentatively tagging this with my headcanon tag, but since you’re the one with an ex-Nation muse, I’d love to hear what you think! Thank you and sorry for rambling so much ;w;}}

prvssianblve:

“sorry i’m not allowed to sit at the big kids table anymore and go to your boring ass world meetings.” he sneered a bit, not hiding the bitterness in his tone. he was holding on by a thread – a loophole that any day could decide to slide closed. at least here he was fairly sure he was safe from disappearing. “a few weeks ago. been killing time since then.”

     No one forced you and your brother to get involved in the World Wars. He bit back the retort that was on the tip of his tongue, lest his bitterness from the awful memories of the past century could lead to unnecessary conflict here. He knew, really, that the Nations don’t exactly get to choose their own wars. Some might be more enjoyable than others, but in the end, it was foolish to hold eternal grudges against an enemy Nation, especially if they weren’t going to be around all that much longer.

     Instead, he merely let out a noncommittal noise to acknowledge his second answer. “You haven’t met anyone else yet then? Francis is here too, you know.” For some inexplicable reason, those two got along better than most, despite probably being enemies in battle more often than allies, especially in the major conflicts of recent centuries. Then again, the previous point of Nations not getting to choose their own wars still held.

chivalour:

It’s cute, he thinks, how the young man portrays and behaves himself before him. It should be something a king is more than used to, but Richard the Lionheart has always been more of a knight than a king - such formalities he had long ago banished from the vocabulary of his closest peers. To be called King Richard once again brings back a wave of nostalgia that is certainly not bad, not at all. He may have always wished to be more casual with those around him, always shrugging such important title off his shoulder like it mattered little, solely because it was never supposed to be his, but at the end of the day, it’s definitely welcoming.

Richard is not king anymore. As a Heroic Spirit he may be fragments of the past, of the memory of King Richard I of England, but current day he is truly just that - memories. A page in the thick book called human history. Ah, but really… it feels good. To be spoken with so respectfully by someone else other than William Marshal himself.

“Estr d’lannde, huh.” A sweet taste to his tongue, is how it feels to speak a language so common to him in the past. He may have been King of England, but it’s only one of his many faults, the fact the man had always been fonder of spending time in his lands in France or in their capital itself than anywhere in his kingdom. Richard crosses his arms, the term certainly not weird on his tongue, less so on his ears. He has heard that before.

“I have heard of it before, a rumor. From sober minstrels, no less - the veracity of their words aren’t to be trusted as much. Some said it had been the Church’s idea to spread the stories, but I hardly think they would engage in such a thing.” Because they were boring, he thinks, but it’s not something Richard would come to say out loud for now. Despite all they had gone through, he was still remembered as a Crusader before a King. “Mostly what I have heard was how they are fae who take the shape of humans to watch over their people. Immortal, of course, and as old as the land itself. Mostly a tale for kids to learn to be kind and respectful of others, in case one of those turned out to be the land they are so patriot about. Honestly, I have never been much interested in those stories.”

The reason for it being obvious, of course. First and foremost he has always been much more worried about his own affairs, both ears willing to listen only for any and all rumors involving King Arthur Pendragon and his knights. And secondly, what manner of patriotism is Richard allowed to engage in when for all the titles he is known for, he is also known as The Wandering King, who spent not even six months of his reign in his own birthplace? “So? You found King Richard himself to speak of an old rumor? I feel almost pressured, truly. Like I’m about to be scolded. I can hardly remember the last time someone wanted to scold me for the things I did while alive - though I don’t blame you in the least. People of modern day really enjoy talking back to royalty, don’t they?” What happened to ‘he’s more of a knight than a king’? Well, in the end… Richard I is a king through and through.

     “A-ah, no, I— that was not my intention, Your Majesty…!” England couldn’t help reverting back to the formal title of address as he answered hastily. It was unsurprising, when he really thought about it, that his king would take his question as a veiled, allegorical condemnation of sorts, as though he would follow up with a comment that his Nation would be disappointed in his lack of patriotism. England knew Richard the Lionheart had not set foot in his own lands for very long, of course - neither had he himself during the king’s reign, for that matter. To be a Nation, especially in days of unrest, meant following the sounds of battle wherever they led, and England had not sat around idly during the Third Crusade. He’d remembered being homesick out in the battlefield back then, lonely even, due to having to keep his distance from the humans, lest his physical age raise unexplainable concerns.

     And yet, perhaps in part influenced by the feelings of his people, in part his own somewhat idealised view of a hero-king he’d never come to know, he hadn’t ever really thought of faulting the king at all for that long stretch of isolation. Certainly didn’t fault him for it now, as it were. Even if the general opinion of King Richard I weren’t as positive as they were today, England’s firsthand experience alone could testify that ‘never being around’ was by far not the worst thing one of his monarchs had ever done.

     “I meant no disrespect by bringing up the legend,” he said, once he regained his composure, “I bring it up because… because it’s true. Partially, anyhow. The estr d’lannde – just ‘Nations’, nowadays – are immortal beings, their existence and fate bound to that of their territory and those who occupy it. They share in their struggles, their triumphs, in war and peace… More than any human could claim to love their homeland, they would do well to know that their Nation loves them infinitely in turn.” England’s voice was full of emotion as he spoke, the feeling of pride in his identity, solidified by his land and his people, not at all diminished by the current separation in this city. However, he did fall silent for a moment after, mentally bracing himself for what he was about to say next. Talking passionately in support of this supported ‘legend’ was one thing, but actually touching on his identity ran the risk of ending this conversation and precluding the possibility of any further ones, if the king thought him a liar, or mad. Still, he reasoned, it was now or never, and even if he weren’t believed straight away, he’d stop at nothing to try to persuade the other. England took a deep breath.

     “…I’ve told you all this… because I am one such Nation, King Richard. Yours.”

AESTHETIC MEME ⚜ ARTHUR KIRKLAND

a gentleman is one who puts more into the world than he takes out. @teapirating

vulcanheritage:

He knew these woods were Terran, based on the leaves and soil his boots crunched over as he searched for an exit. He could not recall how he got here or what he had been doing beforehand, and now he was a bit worried that he would not be able to find his way out. 

He reached to his hip and found he had a phaser, but no comm. Without one, how could he contact the ship? How could he find Jim?

His ears pricked and he turned to see someone raise their weapon at him. It was quite the primitive weapon, so Spock did not fear.

“I am certainly not your enemy. Vulcans have no war.” He raised his hand in the ta’al salute, hoping this person recognized the otherworldly greeting of peace.

“My uniform is of Starfleet. I believe I have gotten separated from my crew on a mission. If you say an enemy is lurking, it is unsafe for us to stay.” It was also unsafe for the other members of his party to be out here, assuming he was not alone. But logic dictated he had to save himself first.

“Do you perhaps have a base somewhere that I can use to send a message. I need to find my Captain.” 

     Vulcan. It was not a term England knew, but the stranger didn’t seem to be in danger of attacking anytime soon, instead raising his hand in a gesture that was oddly familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. Warily, he lowered his blade a fraction, though he kept an eye on the other’s hands to make sure he didn’t get outdrawn when his guard was down. “A fleet, you say?” Then they would probably be near the ocean, which is something England had never really thought about when he was walking earlier. For now, he managed to have the sensible thought that he should at least figure out something about his situations before the enemy was upon him. A base, as the other stated, seemed to be as good a start as any.

     “I should try to go find my base… Well, I’ll let you come with me,” England said, in a tone that was almost an offer, before he hastily backtracked, “N-not for your sake, mind you. Enemy or not, I can’t just let a random stranger wander about the battlefield by himself. I suppose a message isn’t out of the question once we get there, provided you have some means to contact them… Though if we find your fleet first, then perhaps you could just leave with your crew.” It was likely the flag their ship was flying would tell him more about how much of a threat they were than any claims of questionable veracity from this man, so England could afford to withhold judgment until then. “Let’s be off then, er… What’s your name?”

@vclours​

     Carefully, England finalised the last of the runes around the summoning circle, the residual magic from his writing igniting the air around him in tiny, incandescent bursts. He wasn’t truly focusing on the thoughts in his mind, but that was alright; he’d done this enough times to know what he’s doing.

     Preparations complete, the Nation spoke the incantation, watching with satisfaction as the circle’s glow became brighter with every word he uttered. Then came the final line of the spell – and then there was a great whoosh as the circle became engulfed in swirling smoke, the shadow of a figure visible from within its center. England waited patiently for the smoke to clear, and the figure to be revealed, speaking only once he could see the other’s face.

     “So you’re the Bringer of Doom that I’ve summoned?” he asked, nodding as he gave the man an appraising look. From physical traits alone, he wouldn’t have expected his designated ultimate weapon to resemble a rather harmless young man, of all things… but of course he of all people couldn’t judge power by appearances.

     The familiarity of his surroundings was only undermined by the eerie silence, and England found himself looking around the tent, running his eyes over the empty beds until his eyes settled on the lone upright figure working at the operating area. His first thought was that she looked familiar, somehow. Like he’d seen her before somewhere... but then there was something different, in her mannerisms and in her gaze, and added onto the oddity of the situation, it made for an unsettling atmosphere. It almost startled him to hear her speak.

     …Wounded? Awareness piqued by the question, the Nation checked himself over; to his surprise, he was injured, blood seeping from a gash along his right forearm and beginning to spread visibly through his uniform. He hadn’t realised it before this moment, as despite looking quite deep, there was no pain whatsoever in his arm, an anomaly even for their physiologies. A memory stirred as he stared at the wound – feeling more distant than he would’ve thought for one so fresh – of a reluctant but desperate Lithuania, slashing out with his weapon… England frowned in confusion, before looking back up at the familiar woman.

     “It’s just a cut,” he replied, downplaying his injuries in an attempt to avoid undue alarm, “It’ll be fine if I leave it alone for a bit, so there’s no need for concern.”

@teapirating

  Night had fallen. Darkness engulfs the borders of the campsite and blots out the stars, with the only sources of lights being lanterns that are strung up between medical tents. It’s possible to mistake this place as being completely empty; there are no nurses rushing about, nor are there any soldiers that moan with pain or sob at the fear of death. However there’s the unmistakable shadow of a figure hard at work by her lonesome, lit against the fabric of her workspace. Within is the smell of chemicals and medicine as the nurse works methodically and quickly on the still patient who rests upon the operating area. It’s difficult to tell whether they are alive or dead, but blood coats the woman’s white gloves. 

  All is quiet, until she peers over at what appears to be a figure of a man. Her voice is cold to the stranger whose presence had taken her out of her trance, and yet she regards him as yet another patient.

❝ …Are you too, wounded? ❞

!! (spins )

Send ‘!!’ for a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective (no longer accepting!)

     I still can’t believe the great Captain Drake is back! She’s one of the humans I’d recognise anywhere, even if history did remember her as a man - well, I’ll admit we went along with that too. You know, unless someone else from the crew were brought back to life like her, I’m probably the only one who’d known her in life as well as now. If I had to compare her to someone else I knew... she does resemble Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, quite a bit. Enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if anyone mistook them for each other, though even if I didn’t know the both of them well enough to tell by sight, there’s always my leader sense. Their personalities are different too - it’s never boring with Captain Drake around, that’s for sure. She knows how to have fun, but she cares a lot more about her crew than one would think at first. And you should see her in a fight! All in all, if I were prone to choosing favourites from my people, she’d definitely be one of them. Some things that happened during my pirate age, I may be less than proud of nowadays, but circumnavigating the globe and beating Spain’s Armada are definitely not amongst them. Those will forever be great feats, and Captain Drake was the one who made all that possible. Being with her reminds me of home and the good old days, which is certainly something I needed in this city!

!! (if thatsssss ok!!)

Send ‘!!’ for a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective (accepting!)

     It was surprising, to say the least, seeing a king from long past wearing civilian clothing of today. I'm glad my leader sense hadn’t been taken in this city, along with the connection to my land and people, because I may not have recognised King Richard I otherwise. I know His Majesty’s face well, of course, from paintings, but it’s still easy to miss someone in a crowd, especially when one has no reason to expect them there. Especially not His Majesty, even out of all my monarchs... I mean, I never knew him, after all. I remember he was always ‘busy elsewhere’, and I still looked too young to reasonably hold regular audience with the monarchs back then. He’s much more... easygoing than I would’ve imagined, which I suppose is a relief, but calling a monarch by name to his face, after having courtly etiquette so ingrained into my being, is, er, difficult. Not believing in Nations was a foreseeable hurdle, now that I’m away from the customary routine back home, and though I can’t exactly deny being a little disappointed, it’s not the end of the world, and I do hope I can still convince him. Overall, Richard the Lionheart is one of my national heroes, though... I guess not really from firsthand experience. The Third Crusade wasn’t too bad, as far as those went, but it was, after all, still a war. My people are very favourable towards him in general even today, so I do suppose that’s coloured my opinion a bit. In the end, I’m... very glad for a chance to get to know him.

Send ‘!!’ and I’ll write a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective, including:

Their looks

Their personality

And who they are to my muse

+ Etc!

@vulcanheritage

     There was a sense of purpose in England’s steps as he stalked through the outskirts of the battlefield, keeping a distance from the warring humans in his search for his target. If he stopped and thought about it, the Nation would realise he couldn’t quite remember what war he was taking part in, how he had gotten to the field, or even which Nation he was fighting. France, maybe? It was always him, after all. Though sometimes it wasn’t him, right? But England had no time to think about that kind of thing, not when he had to focus on finding the enemy, whoever they were.

     Then all of a sudden, there was a human – or some creature that looked like one; he met so many of those these days, didn’t he? – right in front of him, and England froze, eyes darting from the other’s face, to his unfamiliar attire, then to the odd, gun-shaped object on his person. He raised his own weapon.

     “I’ve never seen your uniform before; you’re certainly not one of my people. Are you the enemy I’m fighting here?” Dimly, he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that his words lacked a certain rationality, but he didn’t quite stop to clearly think himself through. There was a fight at hand, after all.

     It was no exaggeration to say that being in the Sector 004 tea shop was just about the most comfortable place England could be in this entire city. Everywhere else, no matter how superficially familiar, was tinted with the perturbing not-quite-home feeling he had come to know well, but tea was still tea, no matter where he went. He had walked the aisles so many times over the course of his stay that the shopkeeper already recognised him on sight, and so he wasn’t at all surprised when someone – a girl, though with an air of command that reminded him strongly of his monarchs of old – called out to him, apparently requesting a recommendation.

     “Well, you’re not wrong in that I do come here often! I know tea better than most,” he replied, pride discernable in his voice as he ran his gaze along the rows of products. The dictatorial tone the other took didn’t bother him nearly as much as it probably should – after all, self-respecting Nation or not, this was how most of his bosses had spoken for the better part of his entire existence, only starting to change in the recent decades. “I’d say the Earl Grey here is the best, but if you’re looking for something with a milder flavour, the Darjeeling does go well with a light sandwich. There’s also many teas that I’ve never even seen before, but I haven’t quite had the chance to try them all yet!”

@teapirating

🌹 : Such was the issue when an establishment offers far too many choices.. decisions lead one to obscure interpreting, shrouding ability to make an accurate conclusion. Especially when server had nerve to claim all was amazing! Though to no surprise, when chained to a cause one must support it yes? Then ask other behind her, certainly figure would contest without a bias to follow. Though considering he intended a product himself? Some knowledge should flow through him.

“You, Gentlemen.” Point with hand, till it retreats. “Offer your aid, you may.” Raise index finger once more, as she aims it toward chalk with colors littering the board entirely. “I sense you visit often yes? Pray tell, what are your recommendations?” Brews seemed all fine a well, she knows generally a few of the herbal mixes, but little beyond base.

tzarov:

THAT SOMETHING LIKE THAT ‘OF COURSE NOT’ could be said. But he too would have declared the very idea absurd, beyond divine plan and imagination. But here he stood, testimony to ruin. And his conversation partner, though clearly shaken by the idea, reached out for further knowledge as if he himself had lost something in that broken world. It was a cruel fate to befall a world, but for someone who appeared used to this city and its possibilities the shock was too deep-seated. He continued, feeling as if his words weren’t wasted and this man was worthy listening to the rest of the story.

“ALL WHO SURVIVED, THOUGH FEW THEY WERE, BECAME AS I. MY LAND AND ALL OTHERS,  TAKEN BY BLIZZARDS ETERNAL: DEMONIC BEASTS CREPT FROM OUTSIDE REASON INTO REALITY.  TO SURVIVE, WE CHANGED. WE ELECTED TO CALL OURSELVES THE YAGA,  AS TO DISTANCE FROM THE OLD KIND, HUMANS THAT WERE UNFIT FOR SURVIVAL.  HOWEVER … MY WORLD PERISHED IN THE VERY END, DENIED EXISTENCE. THOU SHAN’T FIND ANOTHER LIKE ME. THAT MAKETH ME NOW, THE ONLY SURVIVOR INDEED. “  He paused, now turning finally to what he wondered about himself. “THERE ARE COUNTLESS WORLDS THAT DOTH MEET DEAD ENDS, AS MINE DID … THEY DIE IN HUSHED SILENCE, AWAY FROM AWARENESS AND EYES OF OTHER TIMELINES. THOU HAST NOT ENCOUNTERED ‘TILL NOW A SOUL FROM A SUFFERING OR DYING WORLD HERE? … I ENVY THAT BLISSFUL IGNORANCE, YET APOLOGIZE FOR UNDOING IT.” 

     “The end of the world…” Of worlds, if the other’s claims were true, and at this point the Nation had no doubts about the sincerity in his tone. England unconsciously touched his forearm, gripping it slightly as though to ensure, to himself, that this version of him still existed, was still alive and well. By a certain definition of such, at any rate. And if he, the Nation connected to the life force of his very land and people themselves, wasn’t dead, then surely everything back home was still alright too, even if he couldn’t quite sense them, even if he was stuck in this city, right? He couldn’t let himself have even the tiniest bit of doubt about that, lest he get completely consumed by worry. Instead, he questioned the other once more.

     “You… what’s your name? And what Nation— what country, were you from? Before everything ended…” he asked, his tone subdued, and just barely approaching something that could be described as sympathetic. Though England thought the… Yaga, was unlikely to be one of his men in the past – surely he’d be able to feel it if someone like this were, no matter how far weakened his Nation sense had become in this city, right? – he did still feel the need to know, if only as a tribute to the fallen Nations of that desolate alternate timeline. If nothing else, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of intrigue, curious at which Nation would have produced the sole survivor in an entire alternate timeline.