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[diarmad]

Diarmad envisioned the emptied body, his eyes tracing the stark elegance of the exposed ribcage, the hollowed expanse where life once thrived. To his discerning eye, the corpse was not a macabre spectacle, but a poignant tableau, a silent hymn to the transience of flesh. He saw the beauty in the absence, the potential in the void, like the stillness of a held breath, waiting to be exhaled into a new existence. The spores, still flaring, transmit images and sensations back to Diarmad, allowing him to see the truth behind the grisly scene. The Dreadnought looked more akin to an artist, a veiled butcher of lurid intent - all motivation of a tame ilk, a chaotic climb to the top, drenched in acrid salt and sea.

'D-d-d-i-i-i-d-d-d-h-h-h-e-e-e,' did he~ 'd-d-d-i-i-i-d-d-d-y-y-y-o-o-o-u-u-u?' did you~ There's a chorus of laughter as Diarmad, stoic, gaunt, and carved from horror, knelt at the breast of the hollowed-out bassinette. The laughter, not falling from Diarmad, echoed from the unseen spores that filled the air around the pair of men. The genasi's azure eyes looked beyond just the flesh but the death cradled within, listening to the flora on the wind, and the rot on every corner of this island. 'D-d-d-d-i-i-i-i-d-d-d-d-h-h-h-e-e-e-b-b-b-b-e-e-e-e-g-g-g-g?' did he beg~ Chitinous laughter erupted from the chorus of countless tiny voices speaking on top of one another.

"Behold this vacancy, this hallowed space," Diarmad murmured, his voice a soft, rhythmic incantation. "A silent proving ground, where once the organs sang blighted symphony. A chorus of decay, an echo of rebirth-" He let his finger screw itself into the cavity as he felt the spores sinking into the exposed flesh; the environment here was so ideal. So pristine, dark, warm, moist - yes, everything Diarmad could hope for and more.

With a slow exhale, Diarmad breathed forth a cloud of spores, each mote a seed of transformation, a whisper of metamorphosis. They descended, gentle as the first snow, into the hollowed shell, alighting with a tremulous, expectant energy. His eyes, gleaming with reverence, watched as the spores began their dance, weaving tendrils of dissolution and genesis.

"In this emptiness, I see the first page of a new grimoire, awaiting the ink of existence," he intoned, his voice a hushed paean. "The flesh pales, a canvas primed for the pigments of putrefaction. Veins darken, tracing the pathways of a labyrinthine descent into decay, a journey towards a new, twisted ascension." Diarmad stood, and bloomed with fungi, the murdered man seemed to as well, his skin a sunken green, and different mushrooms, moss, and other flora sprouted from every visible cavity. The spores that whispered in The Dreadnought's ears

Diarmad had come here to walk the stones, instead he'd plucked a prize from the gutter. Haste made waste. A few gold pieces came to Diarmad's hand as he shuffled them from palm to palm, appraising the masked cretin with focal intention. "Those items on your person," Diarmad stated, "how much?" This was Caribella, everything had a price.

who?: open to all where?: some dark back alley on caribella when?: during all that aventia stuff you know kian didn’t give a shit

When someone drowned themselves in liquor, it was only natural to help them out. The Dreadnought was familiar with drunk pirates and how to heal them. With Dr. Blythe hovering out from beneath his cloak, restoring the liver was hardly a challenge, however his services weren't. The poor man was too drunk to consent to care and was in no position to negotiate pricing, so The Dreadnought collected what he thought was fair all on his own. Bladder, intestines, kidney, lungs, each organ removed surgically and placed into his mysterious case while Dr. Blythe kept the drunken pirate alive through the entire operation even as his internal cavity became barren.

He was content leaving the liver behind while keeping the remaining organs as payment. He would’ve removed the ribcage as well if not for sensing the approach of an observer. He wasn’t one for putting on a show so The Dreadnought slowly rose to his feet, ending the spell that conjured Dr. Blythe from his flesh as he slowly turned to face the onlooker. With the same careful, sluggish movements, he brought his fingers to his throat to modulate his voice. The Dreadnought didn’t take chances. “This poor man drank himself to death. How unfortunate,” he says, the temporary vocal cords he wove distorting the pitch of his words, making his voice impossible to recognize. “I did all I could for him, but I’m not a miracle worker. What a shame.”

[diarmad]

Just a short time longer. Then it could end. And he found he was beginning to look forward to that end just as much as Lews Therin did. You promised we could die, Lews Therin said. I did, Rand said. And we will. The Gathering Storm. Robert Jordan.

[diarmad]

I can post a little Josha thirst, as a treat 😌

[Rand al'Thor voice] I must be HARD, hard as iron, etc.

[diarmad]

[diarmad]

[diarmad]

body horror tw insect tw

Tall and gaunt, Diarmad stood out starkly against the backdrop of the abyssal fog that permeated the ritual site. Red and unkempt hair was a fiery contrast to the pallid skin stretched tight over sharply defined cheekbones, his appearance perpetually emaciated and cruel. His eyes, a piercing and unsettling shade of blue, burned with fanatical devotion with each cruel twist of his tongue.

As he stepped closer to the nithing pole, his long, bony fingers traced the runes carved into the desecrated corpses, and where he touched, the flesh rippled and warped, sprouting tendrils of pulsating, vein-like growths that writhed and squirmed. The bodies convulsed, their forms distorting as Diarmad's power coursed through them, bones snapping and reforming into grotesque parodies of life. The air filled with the sickening symphony of cracking cartilage and the wet, slapping sounds of mutating flesh.

"Let this land bear witness to the true face of the Dark One," Diarmad hissed, his voice like the rustling of dead leaves. "Let the bodies of the fallen sprout twisted decay, let them entangle and consume the living. Let their flesh bloom with pustulent growths that burst and spew forth crawling, gnawing horrors, let them burn, wither, and bloom." Diarmad's eyes gleamed with malicious glee, though there was nothing but cruel, haunted horror on his gaunt features.

Diarmad's hands clawed at the air, leaving trails of inky blackness that coalesced into a swarm of buzzing, biting flies. They descended upon the corpses, laying their eggs in the rotting flesh, birthing squirming maggots that fed on the decay, growing and mutating at an unnatural pace. "Let the land be infested with vermin that feast on the living and the dead alike," he spat, his face contorted with disgust and delight. "Let every breath be filled with the stench of rot, every step a journey through a mire of putrefaction. Let this curse be a testament to my devotion, a reflection of my soul, and a promise of the dark rebirth to come."

Unravel one thread and the tapestry came undone. All the hard work of generation upon generation to keep it whole, just to be erased with a simple tug. Chaos, mastered by those willing to sell their souls to drag the world to the depths it tried to hide behind a veneer of civility. Power, delivered at the feet of those determined enough to seek it above all else, even pesky morals. 

There is a then, and there is a now, and as Belladona stands tall in the epicenter of a garden of grotesque blossoms, she understands her place. Precise runes are carved into the skin of the corpse blooms, frozen features marred with the terror of death and the tendrils of the blight. Familiar faces, those she had guided deeper into despair as the Dark One’s machinations unraveled before their eyes. Familiar faces, those whose hope she had snuffed with malicious glee, ever hungry for the terror owed to her within her demain. 

A worthy sacrifice, a worthy offering, for the lord that had given them so very much in exchange of a set price. The devil is always fair, taking what was due, and after five centuries of labor, Belladona was ready to repay her debt. 

“Let the scales decay beneath this Blight,” she continues where Diarmad leaves off, a predatory look on her face as she circles the center, weaving her magic in tight spirals as it spreads in concordance with the fog, leaving behind a compulsion for all those who step into the fog to lay their weary heads and fall into a never ending nightmare. An echo of Munin’s masterpiece, she means not to reproduce it but to use the echoes of what once was to cement the fear of the survivors. An ever present reminder that there is no escape to the sickness that spreads through their home. “Let the wheel break, the fates come undone, and the tapestry rot. No more past, no more future, only the terrible now.”

[diarmad]

The shadow appeared and produced what he'd been set to fetch, diligent and adept. Quick and efficient. Diarmad took chance on people, he couldn't help his bleeding heart - where one person saw a corpse on death's door, the genasi saw a useful treat.

The potion that Diarmad was working on required some unique parts that couldn't be grown naturally but rather had to be harvested in very specific ways. In the bag, a pair of elvhen ears cut with the silvered dagger of a harvest blade looked up at the genasi. It was on this occasion that a smile spread on Diarmad's slightly-crooked features, he did his part not to anger his neighbors, which was where the assassin came in.

"You followed my instructions?" Diarmad asked, the potion would not work if done out of step, the pattern was as fickle as it was defiant to the dark. From planetary alignments to time of day, how and when you chose to pluck a flower would change its properties drastically. "I'll know if you've deceived me." Free-thinkers that weren't possessed by his decay were dangerous, they could, at any moment, have a thought for themselves - but they were necessary in moments like this.

Any creature that proved alive and not a friend of these spores would likely keel over in face of the stagnant miasma which greeted them. An assassin, one often with stealth on his side, felt completely out of his element when faced with the chittering of bugs and the mud and muck which clouded the footpath forward. Had Theon not been here once before he would have made a gauche attempt to bound over the spores and rot which leached into each grit of sand and each drop of muddied water.

He was an undead soul, something the bog flies barely stirred for, and Theon tried to remedy his surprise that Diarmad had come to easily sense him. This was where the genasi was strongest, a domain catered to him, and even Theon with his own realm of stealth couldn't fabricate something hidden from him.

"They didn't give it up easily," a remarkably agile leap allowed him upwards upon the massive tree Diarmad was perched on, one sunken and half rotted away within the murky water it had called home since. A swift walk forward, down the expanse of the trunk allowed Theon to deftly drop the pouch right before Diarmad's lap; it was ginger enough not to agitate that which was inside.

[diarmad]

@truthfulbelladona location: dark ritual site in an undisclosed location notes: i saw your note on your intro, but if you don't give me house of usher gifs I drop the thread <3 tw for gore and violence !

War bred such a need for simplicity, chains of command, and blind ignorance. Deserters who'd stare into the face of the blight and then soil themselves as they turned and ran. Men and women who wandered into the fog of war, expecting to find darkspawn and happened upon something far worse instead. This crushing tide of blight was the beginning of the end for the continent, string by string the Dark One had burnt holes in the weave until, and now the pattern was about to unravel completely.

The ritual was one he'd taken from the runecarvers of Iskaldrik, old memories written in their stones inscribed nithing poles to hold their curses. It was a shame they hated everything as much as they did, but had things been different maybe their druids never would've produced magic like this. Munin was dead, but his legacy did not end with his demise - there were other genasi, just as devoted as he, eager to carry on where the abomination left off.

Dozens of bodies had been painstakingly carved, runes etched into their skin and arranged in a ritualistic fashion. Some were pulled from the battlefield after the darkspawn were through with them, others had been taken down by the genasi themselves. Legionnaires, Olympians, elves, druids, humans, werewolves- in death, their bodies would serve the Dark One still. Through a united prayer, Diarmad plunged the pole into the center, adorned with the power of twisted rot and nightmares, and a fog began to roll in. Necrotic and confusing all at once.

"Let this curse stand for a thousand years," Diarmad chewed on each word, spiteful in his way, "let it burn and twist, and leave nothing behind." The scent of burning flesh permeated the mist as the flesh was eroded from the bodies left behind, the trees and the creatures that the fog touched sizzled and slowly began to melt. "Let this land be a casualty of war, let Munin's death not be in vain, but birth a nightmare of our design."

[diarmad]

[diarmad]

@theonxepialos location: the woods notes: for the desperate assassin connect

Stagnant air settled peacefully over the bog, the air was heady and thick carrying with it the acrid taste of virulent spores. Half-sunken trees broke the surface of the stagnant water in places; their roots, entrenched in the dark waters below wove through the placid features like the veins of ancient felled beasts. On the oldest of one, Diarmad perched contemplative, sharpening stone arrowheads against the smooth, flat surface of an old stone he'd fished from down below.

Between the buzz of the bog flies and the distant screech of a heron, the subtle scrape of stone across stone echoed through the sparse trees. His home was not far from here, but as far as the bog extended, Diarmad's garden and domain reached. Bones upon bones, rotted bodies, and mottled skin were long trapped in the mud below the water. Over their carcass came the weight of his cultivation, embedded in the trees and lingering in the air.

Reclusive as the genasi might be, he did enjoy visitors.

"Welcome back," Diarmad greeted, not fully looking in Theon's direction but feeling his presence through the spores just the same. He was not easily caught unaware here. "did you get what I asked for?"

[diarmad]

THE ABSENT ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP SPECIES. Genasi ( Spores ) FACTION. UTP OCCUPATION. UTP

Three of you came into this world together, three druids bore at once, it wasn’t just rare, it was the only occasion in recorded memory. Fate must have stepped in to personally weave your tapestries together, to wind them and bind them so that you three would walk together joined in purpose and intention. You were always the quiet one, reserved and thoughtful. To the arches you three went, together you would face your fears together and together you planned to emerge from the other side. You’d spent your lives growing up side by side, learning lessons the hard way time and time again. Stubbornness was a common trait, but when you stepped through the other side you saw one sibling, but not the other. The brother born first had not come out the other side and all at once the taste of whatever fate might have conspired for you soured in your mouth like the rotted decay that you came to command. Pain festered like an infected wound, before anyone noticed it had already spread to your blood; a split palm and a dark pact brought you power and freedom from whatever destiny had in store. You’d spend your life attuned to the Blight, a rotted beast of spores and decay, death, life, and along the way maybe you’d find the means to restore what was lost.

CONNECTS

THE VOID: Brother.

NOTES

N/A

this skeleton is currently taken

[diarmad]

Josha Stradowski

[diarmad]

About ll Skeleton ll Spotify ll Mirror ll Soundtrack ll Self Para ll Musings ll Edits

Born on Caelia Cove

Triplets: Diarmad, Dimitrios, Deimos

Circle of Spores

It's always the quiet ones.

Mother taught him astrology + star charts + runecarving

Triplets went into the Arches together but Dimitrios did not come out :(

Was already unstable and then went a little rot boy fall crazy

Likes to plant people in the ground and turn them into decay.

Big expert on diseases, genasi, lives in that forest between the Deadlands and the Feywilds.

Reclusive, will sell you rare and exotic fungi and plants in exchange for organic material he can't grow himself.

Alternates between toxic curly red hair and toxic buzzcut season.