cautionarytalcs

[cautionarytalcs]

        it is a cruel fate to be subjected to, in the depths of this mind surrendered to sleep even escape claims to be a dream.　　a labyrinth,　　and the maker, their mother. sweat sheens a gloss over an alabaster complexion, one that holds the appearance of someone of the living visited by the dead. jolted awake, all the blood has drained and weighted eyes are encircled with darkness, the sort that only comes from weariness, but it is a small price paid for comfort. here it is only found in this shared demise, she is plagued by this too, how to sanctify holiness spawned from a memory.　　it comes as a warning tonight.　　the weighted touch of a sibling's head against a burdened shoulder and her words, spoken as if she is declaring his own. “ it is what i fear. ” his voice, though drowning in sleep ladened murmurs holds a vulnerability reserved for her alone, but what remains is swallowed down like a bitter poison.  “ she's warning us ... and i cannot claim to know what it means. ” but how quickly defeat finds itself replaced by a familiar desire emerging.　　a refuge.　　the one that would come with bare feet against stone floor illuminated by candle light and in the dead of night, laeya conjuring the words of ink against parchment by the hand of their mother. a study of what should and will be done, but here, are they left without? “ is it with you? ” this holy text inherited.

in private chambers where the witching hour holds fast to her children, unopened mouth providing answers to questions they do not yet know to ask. wake up, @cautionarytalcs.

it is knotted in her belly, its teeth in her throat. drawn to him like a child lost to a night terror: barefoot, cotton mouthed, a damp humidity clinging to the thin curls at her nape and the neck of night dress. the moon crests, but only the thinnest veils of silvereen slip through closed tapestries, locked balcony door. hardly more than a shadow brushing warm hand over brother's shoulder, wishing not to startle him — but finds, as she often does, the same perspiration under his neck. this dream, the mother's dream, is a shared beast. still a child seeking the comfort of a brother, he who survived with her, she fits herself easily to his side, " it has followed us even here. " cheekbone leans into pretty shoulder blade; heavy eyes unable to slip into an easy rest. " there is more to come of our invitation than an oath of fealty. you know it is true. "

[cautionarytalcs]

Carmen Laforet, from Nada

Text ID: this language of blood, pain, and creation…

[cautionarytalcs]

        is there to be reprieve here? tucked away after the words that did little for their intent to be likened to wrapping an animals hide in an ice ladened land — comfort, instead swallowed down in garden's sunlight. but even the finest of honey and wine do not sweeten chosen words that come to a low murmur in the shell of visenya's ear. “ it looks contrived. ” a warning first, an observation second and said with such ease that he does not cast his gaze upon the youngest of their bloodline until she no longer possesses the expression that he likens to their father, where tension is held in the mouth nearly quivering the lower lip. the same habitual reaction he too finds himself the default of when a facade is to slip, and if he is to break his own, he must hers too. “ you are too lovely to appear contrived, sister. ”  does she know?　　it is often assumed she must, his eyes do not wander for some sort of malaise for her company. quite the opposite, but shaded violet harboring judgment search for the hand she will take as if the gods will bless them with the answer. no, not the gods　　　...　　　their mother. it is her hand, ghost - like, he feels on his shoulder that guides him and it is pity he feels for the one adjacent he then looks to who does not know the familiarity of it. “ and hiding. ” 

presented to　visenya celtigar　　( @celtigvrs )　　　on the day one　　of the gathering of the lords.　　in the gardens.

[cautionarytalcs]

the  capital  of  king’s  landing  welcomes  vanarr  of  house celtigar,  the  ruling lord  of  claw isle.  news  borne  by  raven  sends  word  that  they  are  reputed  to  be  formidable,  but  with  the  eyes  of  court  watching  their  every  move,  they  might  prove  to  be  machiavellian.  when  songs  are  sung,  their  verses  speak  of  crystalline waves thrashing against unyielding rock as soothing as the soft melodic tune of a lullaby, the pride of a mother's son standing on the shoulders of the mundane sins of a father, a hand grasped around the chalice of the lotus - eaters, alabaster against ivory.  whispers  throughout  the  seven  kingdoms  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  house celtigar and house targaryen of dragonstone,  where  they  conspire  to  proliferate the influence and standing of the celtigar bloodline.  but  in  the  end,  fealty  means  little  when  you  play  the  game  of  thrones. 

        it is a tale sung by the bards of the very personification of the holiness of a ghost, one that haunts the stone ladened halls of claw isle. where a second born a year to the day of the first has taken birthright, grown in the image of the mother he will one day raise in worship above the seven he claims public allegiance to. an idol out of what was taken. and the years spent curating this love are followed in the wet sea salted footprints of the accidental twin. this is a love that can only serve one, forever bonded even when death takes the hand of a mother, guiding her into the steps her own sister had walked. but with such sweet sentiments reserved, what is offered to the father? it is a part of vanarr he has starved, where emptiness collects and like spoiling fruit, the rot of regret seeps until it has poisoned it whole. where blamed is placed, a sacrifice for her return that instead has caused resentment to grow. how wicked it must seem, but justification is found in the mirrored image of his sister, a striking resemblance to the mother lost and like a child weaned on poison so do they too find solace in memories both known and created in the quill ink parchment laeya keeps against her breast, safeguarded until they seek their mother's wisdom. yet, childlike comforts of the deceased do not fade away but grow, this seed planted on her death day that too tear at the bond of the ones that do not remember, for what comfort can they find for the one they know and what hostility can grow from the one the others favor, the father vanarr has carved his own marble pillar of to detest, to despise, to gaze upon with the eyes of his mother as the very image of everything he grows to detest. it comes upon each name day, a new attribute to find contempt for, to regard as nothing more than brawn vanarr too is versed in until the name day to claim his title. but what is a ruling lord without experience, his own hero's journey that spans the corners of westeros and dares to look upon essos from afar where he is to find himself lost at sea, gasping for air and swallowing the very salt poisoned waters he once found comfort in the melodic crashing waves upon rocky shores of claw isle.

( did i somewhat give up at this point? yes, yes i did. )

washed upon the shores usher in his return home where his title is placed upon him and a father's choice is met with the whispers of a curse that, much like the accidental twins, comes in pairs. the voices in the howling wind that claim house celtigar is not without fault and it is those who are to claim their hand who suffer most. what have they done that the gods might not favor them? or is this the pain of the rebirth house celtigar demands, to rise from ash, a bloodline that will not perish, kept living just as the ghost that haunts the halls of claw isle's castle walls, but what sacrifices must be made?

[cautionarytalcs]

[cautionarytalcs]

 ‍  ‍ ❝ memories do not always soften with time ; some grow edges like knives. ❞

`  𝑪𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑪𝑺  `　　associated with　asobai.　　　　a portrait of　:　i will hallucinate your halos, your holiness  ,　the pride of a mother's son standing on the shoulders of the mundane sins of a father  ,　dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.　　penned by di.

featuring ,　ruling lord vanarr celtigar.

[cautionarytalcs]

“Speech is a powerful master, which by means of the smallest and most invisible body accomplishes most divine deeds. For it can put an end to fear, remove grief, instill joy, and increase pity.”

— Gorgias, Fragments, B11