kryetara

[kryetara]

HOPE IS A DANGEROUS THING FOR A WOMAN LIKE ME TO HAVE ( BUT I HAVE IT ). ——  independent, fandomless crime / thriller original character. 21+ only, mature / triggering themes.

martyred by rylan.

[kryetara]

i’ve moved! please come see me here x

[kryetara]

brutlist​.   /   heugh.

     "     𝐨𝐡 𝐧𝐨 , 𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 . i just don’t give a shit is the thing .     “ 

@kryetar​ // sc

     “  ...    right.  ”

        “   -   i appreciate you  ..   not giving a shit,   then.   thanks.  ...   could you just  ...  pretend you didn’t see anything ?   ”

[kryetara]

ira has terrible hayfever. TERRIBLE hayfever. spring happens and he is just streaming from his eyes and nose for a good solid four months. this man has anti-histamines in the hundreds. he has nasal sprays in his desk at work, his desk at the blind wolf, his bed, his bathroom, his car, and two coat pockets. april 1st ticks over and ira just feels this sense of dread. please Know his struggle

[kryetara]

perdefinitio​.     severin of mercia.

The  distance  between  them  lingers  distressingly,  even  with  Ilias  momentarily  gone;  even  under  the  protective  shelter  of  darkness,  even  with  all  pretence  rendered  superfluous.  In  these  faithless  shadows,  there’s  echoes  of  even  colder,  crueller  nights  –  only  now  they’re  apart  when  they  could  be  right  beside  each  other,  only  now  the  prince  barely  moves,  barely  speaks.  A  hollowed  husk,  Severin  thinks,  skin  and  bones  without  any  of  his  burning  spirit  to  hold  together  what  should  amount  to  him.  It  stings,  this  image  of  the  man  he’d  lost  and  thought  he’d  found  again;  stings  just  as  much  as  if  he’d  reached  out  to  plunge  his  hand  into  the  flames.  "No,  Ira.“  A  disobedient  animal  by  nature,  he  refuses  to  capitulate  so  easily:  neither  in  front  of  Ira’s  baseless  contempt  nor  the  torturous  loss  of  his  temperament.  "Listen  to  me”,  he  implores,  looking  up  from  the  fire  with  similar  blaze  behind  his  eyes,  "listen  to  me.“

                                They  sit  too  far  apart  to  be  anything  but  incidental  accompaniment  on  an  arduous  journey  across  the  land.  And  isn’t  that  alone  glaring  misery,  injustice  that  cries  out  to  the  heavens,  to  discover  them  so  far  removed  from  each  other  after  such  long  years  of  separation?  Severin  finds  himself  gesturing  at  it,  this  tall  nothingness  between  them,  frustrated  and  uncertain.  "This”,  desperately  wanting  to  sound  inflamed,  though  lacking  the  fortitude  for  it,  "this  can’t  continue  to  stand  between  us.  You  must  see  that  he  belongs  with  us.“  And  he’ll  insist,  and  he  knows  Ira  knows  he  will;  and  when  Ira’s  anger  is  so  much  easier  to  dismantle  than  this  gaping  desolation  inside  of  him,  Severin  cannot  be  blamed  to  pounce  on  the  more  palpable  target.  "I  wouldn’t  be  here  with  you  if  it  wasn’t  for  him.  I  wouldn’t  be–”  He  cuts  himself  off  when  he  has  to  look  away.  Alive,  he  wants  to  say,  only  they’re  both  aware  that  can’t  be  true.  A  willing  participant  in  life?  A  man  more  than  an  empty  hull?

                                He  can’t  help  the  sigh,  weary  enough  for  an  entire  regiment  of  men,  that  escapes  when  he  realises  he  lacks  the  words  for  this.  That  he  lacks  the  eloquence  of  a  man  like  Ira,  before  he’d  forgotten  how  to  be  himself.  "Ira,  please.“  With  his  stick  thrown  to  the  flames  –  a  childish  display  of  aimless  aggression  –,  he  shifts  to  move  a  little  closer.  "I  know  you  to  be  kinder  than  this.”  Finally,  his  hand  finds  Ira’s  knee;  one  calloused  palm  beseeching  him  for  peace.  "Why  won’t  you  listen  to  me?“

while  severin  seems  frantic  with  energy,          trembling  with  static,              ira  is  the  opposing  force;       almost as if the magnetic electricity between them that has crashed the pair together has been put under a weight so significant it severs them apart even still,      despite their now proximity.        as if ira has turned poles,       steadfast in facing the opposing side,        whether he knows it or not.       he observes the other’s rampant pleas without moving an inch,       rooted in non-motion,      though he is almost certain the sharp-gazed mercian can spot the slips in his expression of a long - aged defeat.       organs writhing under his skin with discomfort,        ira squeezes the fingers of his left hand with a calloused right to spare his attention elsewhere from the way his stomach muscles tighten,       aching incessantly.       as if in preparation for the way this expanse between them   might never end.       rather destructively,      there is a part of him,      shadowed in the far corners of his mind,        that yearns for the holy numbness he had succumbed to not so long back.       𝖆 𝕸𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘,       𝕲𝖚𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖂𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙.       his palms sore without either the want of machinery prayer,      or the aged leather hilt on the spiritless claymore;       either of them destined to demand some blood recompense.        he had perceived himself a man so clad in chainmail armour,        so hidden under dust and white tabard,        that he may not have even been a man at all,       for some time then.         the contrast stings him.          once a thoughtless agent of chaos,          now weakened,         exposed,         defenceless,         optionless.         all of this so much so,       in such intensity,      that he automatically flinches under severin’s touch.

the hurt becomes a   violent apparition   in the other’s eyes.         ira would have given everything to peer in them again not so long ago,       but now he can hardly look without scolding himself;        he has allowed the reaper to shelter him from the pain of loss,       but now the reaper demands payment for it’s services.       his whole self bare to severin,       the God - fearing man is small without his armours,       shrunk without his weapons,        and isn’t entirely certain who he even is now.       wordless for a moment,       without idea as to what it is severin wishes for him to say,        to show;        he lets a moment as thick as smoke push past them.

“  i’m sorry,  ”        is all ira manages.       and sorry he is,      for not being what severin had been dreaming of in all their time spent apart,       not being quite able to accept their unplanned new way of life,       for being as closed a book as he is a   desperate shell,       aimless in seeking where it’s soul went.         ira is sorry for allowing the wrath of his namesake to fill him up and push everything else out,       for in it’s infernal wake,       he has become hollow.        he feels not the warmth of severin’s hand,      nor the shiver of the fire before them;        and while this lack of feeling inspires his screams,       his petrified cries,       ira can hardly curse the very thing that has kept him alive in his lover’s absence.        it seems too close for comfort still,       that pervading memory of the day he found himself alone for the first time;        sunken to his knees,       scraping his fingernails bloody in the dusty earth,        howling with agony in a way almost inhuman,      crying out for him.        trauma seems to bubble away under the surface of his skin.          all too suddenly,      it seems far too much to hold without it becoming apparent about him;         a knot chokes in his throat.        returning to emotions other than anger and grief have chastised ira so gracelessly that he squirms around them,        uncertain of how to remedy it.      juvenile,      shrunken,      perhaps even      guilty,         he finds himself closing the gap between them further still;        his body earths itself between severin’s legs,      his face slowly comes to hide against his shoulder.            “   i  ..  ”          words fail,       lips parted;     ira might spill over with a noise indicating his suffering instead.       the road ahead of the three of them is certainly long;       but the road ahead of ira seems to the man impossible.

[kryetara]

bythieves​.      victor.

            its  strange  to  hear  what  he  can  only  assume  is  a  compliment,  and  this  shows   before  he  can  consciously  think  to  hide  it;  amos  is  the  expert,  his  immediate,  jarring  first  thought,  not  me.  never  me.  there’s  a  moment  of  blinking,  like  a  machine  processing  a  new  command,  before  he  shakes  it  off———returns  to  his  expressionless  state,  simply  quirks  a  brow,  offers  the  smallest  nod.  this  close  proximity  makes  him  feel  unsafe,  almost  cornered;  he  wonders  when  that  happened  to  him,  when  distance  from  another  became  security.  

            victor’s  thoughts  jump  from  one  topic  to  the  next  and  he  realizes  he  must  look  jumpy,  fidgety;  a  hand  reaches  back  to  scratch  at  the  base  of  his  neck,  and  subconsciously  he  takes  a  step  away.      ❛  alright.  ❜      a  simple  word,  scratchy  in  his  throat,      ❛  give  me  a  number,  an  estimation,  and  if  its  good  enough;  i’ll  try  my  best  to  sort  this  out.  ❜      that’s  not  good  enough.  amos’  voice  enters  his  head  again;  not  try  your  best,  you  will.  he  quiets  it  with  a  final  puff  of  smoke.      ❛  and  considerin’  you’re  askin’  me  and  not  goin’  through  my  boss,  i  reckon  this  is,  uh  …  meant  to  be  on  the  down-low  ?  ❜

needless  to  say,        when  ira  had  earmarked  victor  as  the  one  to  carry  this  task  out,     he had done so with considerable thought beforehand.     he’ll take in the younger’s step backward almost as a sign,     despite thinking it’s hardly as grounded in tactics as it is for seeking comfort;      ira can assign time later to thinking all of this meeting through,     though.    there’s a look of momentary relief on him.     he’s not even entirely so desperate to get their stock back;      he’s more concerned about circling whoever they work for.     noting victor’s findings for later on,     as and when it’s required.     picking up the goods is only a minor benefit.

“     -   that’s right,    ”       he returns.      this isn’t something ira wants the general population of their shrapnel world to be aware of,     and will likely keep this from as many people as possible.    (   even maria.  even severin.   )      he pulls in a breath and lets it out audibly,     a sigh to snap away some of the anxiousness.      “    so if you can keep this between us,    i would appreciate it.    ”          there’s something distinct in that.      whether victor necessarily thinks he can trust ira or not is one thing,     but they’ll be sharing this knowledge  regardless of the outcome;       ira is allowing the lines between his role and kel’s role to blur intentionally.       “    -    if we have a deal,   i’ll let you know later today how much is in it for you.   ”

[kryetara]

they got married

[kryetara]

to have and to holde, from thys day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, to love and to cheryshe, tyll death us departe. ——— —  marriage liturgy, book of common prayer  ♥  @kryetar

[kryetara]

“  YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I CAN TRUST.  ”      @hammurabicomplex​ .     (  sentence starters;   accepting  )

                         in  the  glittering  lights  of  the  infamous  city  that  sits  gregariously  before  him,    ira supposes he looks quite different to the man who first arrived here to see her,     mere weeks ago.      las vegas isn’t  exactly  the sort of place he’d envisioned himself in,       in all truth;      he had more openly resigned his world to duller,      quiet corners,      isolated structures or lonely flats,      solitary peeling leather armchairs,        unloved exceptions to humanity to wallow in.          needless to say,      it’s with a great surprise to him that he finds himself  enjoying  it this much.         one unknowing of his nature would simply see a handsome patron of the summers that sin city has to offer,      with a sharp suit,        and an even sharper gaze;        perhaps a gambler,      a business man,      perhaps anything.       ira finds himself somehow fond of this anonymity,       this slip of something unwary.         if vegas is good for anything at all,      it seems to be an excellent spot to reinvent yourself.

it’s pat’s words,     however,     that commit his attention,     and tug forward his focus.      he peers at her with an expression somewhere sauntering between      gratitude and pride.         “   i can’t be the  only  one,  surely ?   ”        he queries;     a front enough to hide some of the softer ways in which it   connects him to her,     separates them from the space they share.      he looks very 007 with that vesper martini in his hand;       and what a pair they must make together.     under a small,    meaningful smile,      “   ...  does it help if i said the feeling is mutual ?  ”

[kryetara]

perdefinitio​.      SEVERIN.      year 1223.

@kryetar: ❝   everyone who isn’t us is an enemy. ❞ ( meme: game of thrones prompts; accepting )

Between  them,  the  crackling  fire  casts  long  shadows:  the  gloom  of  darkness  rendering  Ira’s  features  unforgiving  and  cruel.  His  furtive  whisper  sounds  almost  part  of  the  spit  and  hiss  of  the  flames,  nearly  as  harmful,  certainly  just  as  unkind.  It  is  not  his  Ira  speaking  but  one  from  many  lifetimes  ago.  It  is  as  though  they’re  transported  back  into  another  century’s  perilous  woods,  freshly  alive  and  clawing  constantly  at  each  other’s  throats  –  only  now,  Ira’s  animosity  is  directed  not  at  him,  but  someone  else.  Curiously,  it  pains  him  so  much  more  this  time  around.

                                "Which  us  are  you  referring  to?“  It  isn’t  the  late  hour  infusing  tiredness  in  his  tone,  but  the  repeated  return  to  the  subject  at  hand.  Like  Ira  simply  cannot  let  it  go,  like  a  man  possessed  by  his  own  self-righteousness.  Try  as  he  might  (and  he  has  tried  desperately),  Severin  cannot  understand.  "You  and  me?”  He  glances  at  him  above  the  soot  and  smoke;  not  enough  by  far  to  challenge  him,  his  warning  weary  at  best.  "Or  all  immortals  except  one?“

                                Perhaps  it’s  his  own  fault.  He’d  underestimated  the  toll  it  would  take  on  Ira,  spending  so  much  time  deserted  in  Jerusalem.  Perhaps  it’s  him  who  is  being  impatient,  who  is  asking  too  much  of  his  companion.  He  thought  Ira  would  see:  that  they  have  been  blessed  to  find  another,  to  count  a  new  brother  in  their  midst.  That  they  have  Ilias  to  thank  for  reuniting  once  more  at  all.  Instead  all  it’s  caused  is  strife,  and  for  ancient  regal  malice  to  return  to  Ira’s  gaze  –  and  caught  between  the  two  frontiers,  it  is  slowly  tearing  Severin  apart.  "He’s  one  of  us,  Ira”,  he  tries  for  the  hundredth,  perhaps  the  thousandth  time.  His  anger  you  know,  we’re  all  the  same.  Dejected,  he  starts  poking  between  the  burning  timber  with  a  stick.  "He  always  will  be.“

ira  scolds  like  the  fire  before  him.    his gaze,      distinctly set to focus on nothing but the way the purifying flame seems to shake and wind in the darkness of night,       there is a volcanic temper to him,      that despite having been somewhat maintained for the day,       oft threatens to erupt at any moment.       had it been those endless hours without severin by his side that had made home for  shadow ?       had it been the ugly earthiness to the bubbling apathy for humanity ?      or had it been ilias alone that lit the coals ?       these questions seem to frail without answer.     even with the norseman gone,      searching for firewood or something or other,       ira senses that the remainder of their trip home will be taxing.       he had been so alive in their pilgrimage to jerusalem,      so satisfied with simmering under the west asian sun to bring those that defy righteousness to their inevitable judgement day.     so filled with rapture to stand where Jesus himself might have stood.       now all he wishes for is for it all to never have happened in the first place.       isolation,     and isolation under God’s violent and penetrating gaze,      has rendered the disgraced prince burnt and raw,     struggling to accept any warmth,     agonized to accept any comfort from having grown used to life without it.

“  i know,  ”       deepened like the distant sound of lingering thunder.     perhaps to add further insult to injury,     he can feel severin’s discomfort,      and could watch it pull deft creases on his face that simply do not belong there,     if he was daring enough to look up.       if he had enough hatred of self to let slip attention to rest on his rebel,      his severin.      a cavern seems to have swallowed them both whole,     and has implemented them apart,      positioned them on opposing sides;       may they stumble through the squalid darkness to find one another again,       but not without letting some of that waning  penumbra  in.       being separated from severin has tortured ira in ways too much for him to bear,     too great for him to comprehend just yet;      the nightmares that come thick and fast,      unrelenting in their assault,       threaten to penetrate his skull forever,      the rest of time,      the entirety of their lives from this point forward.       the truth sits before severin,     plain as day;       ira has drowned in his grief,       and with lungs still full of water,      can hardly speak without letting it spill,      spit everywhere,      all over him,      and all over everything.      unfortunately for ilias,       he makes for an exceptional scapegoat.

still,        in spite of the dwindling effects of more than a decade of suffering,      the crusader,      the warrior of the Lord,      clutches his rosary in a way almost childlike.       at last he risks a look toward his lover.       perhaps there is hope for me still,      ira wonders;       even if the man is threatened by pain,       he is there.      he sits before him,      he is real,      no fragment of his mind this time,      no vivid delusion.       some scraps of ice pull off his expression.          “  are you hungry ?  ”        spoken quieter then,      as if an effort is being made beneath the surface to begone of the clouds.        as if he is  trying.       (  at the very least to change the subject.  )          “  i have some fruit.  ”

[kryetara]

“ BEING MURDERED IN COLD BLOOD ISN’T NONSENSE. ”     @crimewrought​ .        (  sentence starters;   accepting  )      year 1929.

how  warm,          how  weathered  the  chuckle  must  sound,          mellifluous  cotton;      while there is some degree of severity to her tone,       ira can’t seem to help but find the  humour  there,       as though their world is some grand aging sketch.       he supposes maria has much yet still to learn about life.       in part,     it’s perhaps  cruel  of him in some way to draw attention to the apparent absurdity of the concept at all;      perhaps a little callous of him to let it inspire a laugh.      even still,       ira suspects that she might too find the spring of comedy in things one day,        just as he did.     “  you lose your aversion to it eventually,  ”       tone certain and assured,       the pair of them walk in unison down the beaten track,    as it winds through lush english countryside to the cottage.      birds busy themselves in the tops of oaks and willows around them,      shafts of yellow sunlight sneaking the leaves.       severin is home,    he knows;      the thin plumes of smoke rising from the roof gave it away.

“   i’m not  entirely  certain whether or not that’s  meant  to be a good thing,   but it definitely helps.  ”        ever still though,     the great death,      the final whistle of breath in the lungs,      lurks somewhere faceless in the corner of his mind.       it’s with this thought,      then,      that he looks to her.       while she is justified in her apprehension of it,       ira imagines himself capable of at least easing  some  of her worries.          “  there’s  very little  any  of us can do to change what will happen,   min bearn,    nor can we see what the future holds.   if it’s meant to happen,  then it will.   all you can ever do is try to make sure you’re happy with the choices you’re making.  ”        a small pause;    he pushes his lips together.       “   -   and i think  ...   being kind to yourself helps too.   we might live differently to everyone else on the earth,  but that doesn’t mean we have to have all the answers.  ”         conscious of appearing too much the preacher,      there comes a small smirk.��       “  just make sure that if anyone  does  get the best of you,  you give them hell when you get up.  ”

[kryetara]

in  a  quiet  museum  somewhere  outside  budapest,          severin  and  ira  make  an  unfortunate  discovery  in   a  display.     part 1.       @perdefinitio​ .

                                    paramount  to  the  way  in  which  they  transverse  through  the  summers  of  the  earth,            two  bodies  that  renew  despite  the  hazards  of  life,     time seems to come grinding to a halt.         under shining spotlight,      ira is the driver,       he who slams forth the rusted wrought iron brakes;       severin’s energy seems scattered,       fragmented.          he sensed this,        as he sensed the man’s growing unsteadiness,     too;        may it masquerade itself to others,       or be as simple as daylight.         he cannot remain in shadow to the long-lost prince,       nor does ira believe he ever wishes to.        the magnitude of the moment between them seems significant enough to push waves on a Richter scale;         ira has a honeyed gaze trained on his husband,      as though to look away is to commit a cardinal sin.         there is something burning behind the glass.         why else would he retract so apace ?        for what other reason would the cool,    effortless breeze of the rebel-hearted mercian,       shift so corruptly to an exhausted downpour ?         he sensed this in him.        hunger growing for it’s source,       ira cannot hear severin’s pleas.        centuries of devoting his mind,     his soul,        his body to him,        has rendered the man incapable of playing devil’s advocate.         he will seek out the source and he will eradicate it.

heavy steps,     weighted,      take the man forth,      as though he were a knight on some valiant trail to glory.       indicative of the hundreds,     if not thousands of times he has marched onward for severin,     and for severin alone.         though it pains him to perhaps pay semblance into his love’s disquiet,      ira is not such a timid man as to simply lay bare to it;        he is a lore,       a legend,       THE WINCHESTER WIGHT,         the terrible    𝔚𝔲𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔣𝔬𝔡    that smirks the rotten forests with sharp teeth and sharper blades;          he will not sit idly by and watch severin ache.          though he may wish it were simple as a bodied foe.         when the ancient eyes find author of the other’s alarm,        he,      too,     is shaken.

the lights in the glass casing are harsh and bold,      synthetic.      there isn’t a scrap of activity beside them;      the pair are in the room alone together.       the room itself is peeling,     unloved,       with draping grey cobwebs in tall,     unreachable corners,        and splintering wooden floorboards.         some scrap of carpet in the corner is stained,        perhaps having seen hundreds of onlookers.       in-keeping with the theme,     it seems,        there is no  wholesomeness  to the way the letter is displayed.        blistering under the spotlights like kindling.         as if that’s all it was ever for.         ira’s gaze widens.

“   ira,   ”          the name seems to lose itself in the ether,     sound appears to fragment.        “   let’s just move onto the next room,   please ?   ”

but the man is silent.        there isn’t a thing severin can do to remove his focus,     nor can he detract from the severity of the situation.      this letter,     damaged through time,     marked here and there with the bloods of dirt,      is not so simple as a shred of history;       this letter is a whistle-blower.      this letter is a mark of the oppression they have faced their entire lives.       this letter,     in writing so obviously severin’s,      is a heron,      and it caws at him as if it were hellish;          this letter is,    quite simply,         trauma.          he doesn’t recognize it,      can’t place it’s nature,      and can’t seem to dedicate a year to it,    either.        simply that it speaks of a time they had been apart,      and that it had been lost along it’s way to finding him.      from how he has written it,       ira wonders if this had been in separation forced;      how long had it have been at this point ?        where was he,     if not by severin’s side,     where he is to belong for eternity;         when was it from ?          WHY WAS HE NOT THERE ?           somehow,      underneath the stoic exterior,     though no sound breaks the barrier,        ira feels himself lose breath in a motionless whimper.       the spring of his confident guise slips almost immediately into a    cold,      harrowing winter.        every moment he has ever spent away from the other seems to taunt him,     suddenly,      as though the room floods with cackling demons.

if severin speaks to him again,       ira can’t hear him.        it’s only when he feels the man’s touch,       open palm flat against the brace of his forearm,       that he breaks the fog.        his gaze retreats to meet the other’s.        oh,     the agony you have had to endure my love,       and the agony i have not been present to remedy.      he can’t move,     can’t uproot his boots from the spot;       an oak destined to stay put,     stay still,      to wait,        to wait for severin to arrive,       to watch that pine doorframe until the small hours of shivering morning,       and still remain without him,        still remain frozen,        still feel the scolding chill.         ira blinks.

“    i can’t leave it there,   ”          he manages.      his voice is too ruptured,     too split apart with anguish.     he searches severin’s eyes.       there is too much pain there to cope with all at once;       the perpetrator is not some gall-faced thug,    this time;      no.       the perpetrator of severin’s pain is     loss.        ira cannot wield a sword to it,       can’t cut it open for it’s wrongdoings,       can’t remind it of it’s sins by squeezing life from it;         for he,     in some sense,     is the cause of it.        there is a small shake forming on his fingers.        “   i can’t,   sev.   ”

[kryetara]

❝ why do people have to tell lies? ❞

❝ i don’t bite, unless it’s called for. ❞

❝ why me? ❞

❝ being murdered in cold blood isn’t nonsense. ❞

❝ it’s the truth. ❞

❝ you’re blocking my view. ❞

❝ i think i sprained my pride. ❞

❝ isn’t there something constructive you can do - like start an avalanche? ❞

❝ that’s a face you don’t forget. ❞

❝ you’re the only one I can trust. ❞

❝ i’m very confused. ❞

❝ what’s all this got to do with me? ❞

❝ it was quite unintentional, i’m sure. ❞

❝ do you know what’s wrong with you? nothing. ❞

❝ i’m having a nervous breakdown. ❞

❝ any morning now you could wake up dead. ❞

❝ how about making me vice-president in charge of cheering you up? ❞

❝ i don’t want to be alone. i’m afraid. ❞

❝ how would you like a punch in the nose? ❞

❝ i wish you’d let me help you. ❞

❝ are you quite sure you know who i am? ❞

❝ words can hurt. ❞

❝ stop treating me like a child. ❞

❝ we’ve got to do something! ❞

❝ promise me you’ll never lie the way they did. ❞

❝ it’s terrible. you just made it up! ❞

❝ that’s all i ask of anybody - the simple truth. ❞

❝ quitter. you give up awfully easy, don’t you? ❞

[kryetara]

todays revelation (courtesy of these fine specimens) is that ira cannot handle spicy food whatsoever. yes the water is too spicy. leave him alone

[kryetara]

–––––– many of the cages that you are trying to escape from,  don’t exist at all.            indie & selective crime oc.  a study in moral ambiguity and consequence of choice.

[kryetara]

“so are you good guys or bad guys?” — “depends on the century.”     //     an immortals group verse feat. @asynjja + @stfreds + @kalixus + @kryetar + @crimewrought, inspired by the old guard.

[kryetara]

while  the  crusades  rage  on,     FRED  comes  to  find  IRA  disillusioned  in  the  dead  of  night.      featuring @stfreds​ .

                      POMEGRANATE  SEEDS  CHOKE  BETWEEN  HIS  FINGER  TIPS,       spitting burning red poetry on otherwise coarse skin,     weathered from decades of unending warfare.        he,   too,    is weathered,    a man eroded by the dust of time immemorial;     it is under an honest and unfailing moonlight that he sits,     in the encroaching mercy of,     imploring a sky adorned in sparkling pin-pricks of stars for answers to the questions he perhaps dare not voice aloud.      for in some sense to simply speak them is to make them real,     to attend focus on the misery they speak of.      severin has been gone for years now.       as sweet as the thought of the man may once have been to him,     the red rose stem harbours an unholy secret,     and much as though the thin,    watery juice is in truth that of ripe fruit,     an insightful eye may consider it     blood,     and may consider the seeds to,   instead,    be    thorns.

an ache lingers cruelly in the base of his stomach,     though for it,     the  usurped prince  has no such appetite to speak of.      he lets the seeds spill on the earth beneath him,      limp and lifeless.      what a waste,     he will consider briefly.      though will continue to crush them,      one by one.        he may take the remainder of the white flesh and squeeze it together in the maw of one merciless,     God-fearing hand,      should the need for something more tangible arise.     bright drops of vermilion colour drip from his finger tips and stain the limestone step,     like some glorified offering to the heavens above.       this is when he feels he is no longer alone.

a short glance to his side confirms the suspicion that had reared itself;      at the very least,     the copper tresses of fred’s hair may inspire some repose,     if simply to get the silent,     grizzled wolf to speak.    while his attention may return on the seeds,      “  i couldn’t sleep, ”         ira admits.      the usually brass contours of his voice seem burnt to a crisp under the unending heat of the west asian sun.     how irreparably cruel it is for a man so devoted to the Lord to sit upon his saintly doorstep,     to at last take root in the Holy Land,     and yet to feel further from Him than ever before.         “  ...   i needed some air.  ”