Recent content by Hazanko Miya

A hint of a laugh came from the Mistborne's mouth, his eyes full upon her and her cool confidence. "Now I see," he said, and let his eyes come shut as he leaned back in his chair. Casual and sure. "That I have lead an enchanted life," he proclaimed, and lift his nose to the air. "For I have...

If he was surprised by the implications of the story, in regards to her own age, he did not show it. His brows raising with curiosity as each little detail and event unfolded. Much like the curled beads of tea, some part of his mind thought. The full experience, coming only after a bit of...

A wry twist to his smile, and a near pained squint of his eyes. "Tea?" he asked. Voice high with a strained belief. He laughed. "You would lose rest to see more tea?" His hands busied with the pot. Measured and steady, he moved with a quiet confidence. No rush in how he lift and carried the...

The curl across his lips grew the little wider, as he set his cup down, empty. Aetochan traditions dictated that when the host's cup was empty, the guest's cup must be filled first, before the host could refill their own cup. "Hoarder of secrets," he teased. and let his smile play a little...

To hear such a sound escape her brought another bounce of laughter from the Mistborne. Soft and round as a pebble tossed into a lake. As she spoke, he reached for his cup, and let his hands curl about the warmed earthen ware. Breathed in the vapors that set his heart to slow. His lungs felt...

His eyes fixed to hers, held their gaze, without waver. "Are not the most tireless of minds, the most need of rest?" he answered easily, his look as calm and undisturbed as a tranquil pool of water. A body far smaller than the great splendor of life and all around that was reflected in it. A...

Hazanko's face played at souring, the corners of his eyes and lips, pinched just so. Left him more tart peach, than ripe lemon. Playful and deceptive. Firm and crisp, where one might look for soft and sweet. "What of dreams? Do you subscribe to those?" he asked as the last of the beads fell...

From his robe he pulled a small box. A thing of fine craftsmanship. Seamless and smooth, it came apart at a hidden hinge with a twist of his hand. "No," he said clearly, and wholly unbothered. "But what if I did?" he teased. If only for his own amusement. Inside the box were what seemed to...

A moment of silence between them. "I will join you," he said simply. "And follow this current you've sprung before me," he drank the last of his cup, and set the vessel before him. "To have more knowledge of the bitterfrond fruit will be," he smiled. "Invaluable," His hands went to the second...

He gave a bow, and held a long moment to welcome the words of thanks. His own cup of fresh brew, steaming there, as he cradled it close to the chest. Felt its warmth, ebb through the fabrics of his starkly colored robes. Each cup they shared, was a bit of nourishment. Restoration. For tea had...

He did not avert his gaze. He did not flinch or retreat. Still and calm, he remained before her as her true eyes showed themselves. He was here with her. If only in that moment. He bowed his head, and moved his hands easy, tender as boughs and branches set to sway. His fingers took up the...

While the scarred shaman sat still upon his seat, within the walls of his mind, the mists swirled. A landscape of grey. Thin veils, draped and shift with each word uttered by the woman he sat so across. Those lines of history he had willed to be with each symptom he had listed, vanished as...

Common poisons. Yet no remedy. The Shaman of Mist let those words brew within the drink of his mind, as he held the cooling cup in the palm of his hand. His eyes came shut, and his lungs filled with breath. The fragrant scents of the cup, eased him into the journey. "Fevers, lack of...

With the precision of a crane, she plucked at his worries clean. "A fresh current?" he sounded, brow quirked. Come the question of poisons, he let his breath spill from his lungs. Let the worries of fate and duty snake their way back into the darkness of his mind. "I am Mistborne," he said...

Hazanko's lips curled at their corners, like the feint fingers of steam, come curl against a cooling breath. "Is it the leaf's duty to sail the river's current? Or is it fate that has the ice melt to carry it out to sea?" He asked simply, though his voice tightened, just. Too close to his own...