mahmur

[mahmur]

𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐌. in the beginnings of the van der linde gang, that becomes a kind of parable for john and everybody around, something unspoken, but known. it does not mark him as soft, just other. he does not fear the water; he waits beside it, as if someone might finally turn and teach him how to move through it without sinking. no one does. the skill becomes a private absence, hollowed out by neglect rather than lack. fishing trips vanish into whispers before sunrise. dutch, hosea, arthur, already gone by the time the camp stirs. coffee cold, fire low. john stands beside the coals with hands in his pockets, breath silvering the morning, eyes fixed on a treeline that offers no answers. no one ever says he is not invited. they just leave without him.

he watches their backs disappear with the same blank stare he wears when he is bleeding, jaw clenched, eyes dull, like he can will himself into invisibility through sheer restraint. the hurt, when it comes, comes quiet. it always has. hunting does not sharpen him. it strips him. rabbits skinned wrong, shots too slow, hands too unsteady. a hopeless mess, and he half-agrees. he feels it in his bones, dull, lingering. like something fractured that never got set right. a knife kept blunt by someone else's hand.

one day, they say he is dutch's golden boy. but gold does not live under fingernails. it does not grind against the teeth when you are hungry. gold does not bruise easy, does not get dragged through mud and come up tarnished. and yet, john carries the marks. shoulder to rib, all the places pride should rest. he wears them under shirts and silence, each one a lesson dutch swears was for his own good.

the truth is, dutch does not shape loyalty through praise. he sharpens it with humiliation. with absence. with enough warmth to keep john circling the flame. defiance amuses him only in public. behind closed doors, it is an irritant. the boy he lifted from dirt should know better than to question the hand that feeds him. but john has always had a tongue that resists the bit. dutch hates that. he just has not said it yet.

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐇𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐌 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒.

john stands near the wagons, fingers clumsy with a cigarette he is trying to roll. the paper splits where his knuckles are raw, split open from yesterday's work. dutch appears like he always does, soft-voiced, silver-tongued, promising skies through smoke. words like freedom, brotherhood, loyalty, drifting across the humidity.

but john has heard it too often, and too recently. the lies do not come dressed in velvet anymore. they come frayed. worn through in places. he listens, but only with his body. his mind is already someplace else.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐒. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐒. 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍.

𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇 : sure, they're chasing us hard, because we represent everything that they fear. but if we stick together… and we stay tight now… there's gonna be tough times ahead, i can promise you that… but we are going to make it to paradise.

john does not flinch, but his voice cuts more urgent than expected. the word ─ paradise ─ lands wrong. he has heard it before, in fireside speeches and botched getaways, dressed up in promises that never survived the week. it sounds thinner now. stretched. worn to the threads. behind dutch's voice, john hears the creak of wagons packed too often for nowhere, the sound of horses overfiring on hills.

dutch stills. something in him locks. he stares, not with rage, but with the chill of insult. like john has cracked the veneer of something sacred. he steps in, slow, calculated.

❝ no... not maybe. maybe is doubt. doubt is the end... ❞ dutch breathes it close. someone at the edge of camp shifts. no one interrupts. ❝ yes, dutch... say it! ❞ he presses, tone wrapping around the camp like a noose. the words hang like a sentence. john does not blink. his shoulders stay square. ❝ …𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐡. ❞

dutch claps him on the back like a father proud of a son who learned his place. ❝ i know it's hard… i know it's hard… but together… we can achieve beautiful things. alone… we're sickly bison, waiting on the wolves. ❞ john nods, because there is nothing else to do. he watches dutch walk away, posture triumphant, voice rising again into myth. but the cold stays behind. inside john, something splinters. not loudly. just enough to make space.

quotes ( i. ) / ( ii. in-game dialogue between dutch and john ) / ( iii. ) / ( iv. )

[mahmur]

my blog could stay a-tier but also become s-tier

and i only need to add one ingredient...

[mahmur]

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛 ! · ╯@adamanteine ,

melina walks the length of a dead lord.

bone rises on either side, vast and sun-bleached, reaching skyward like the fractured supports of some collapsed world-engine. moss curls through the debris. remnants of flesh have long calcified into mineral, grey-veined and streaked with the shimmer of oxidised gold. each rib curves above her in impossible geometry, more gesture than cage. wind howls through them, a high, discordant keen that bears no resemblance to breath. it sounds like a force to turn around.

beneath her, farum azula holds still. its silence thrums with the pressure of recollection. it is not a place that forgives. nothing here is still because it is empty. she has crossed sanctuaries built from ash, paced battlegrounds where time still loops in blood. she knows the feel of endings, their weight, their posture, and this place is an aftermath. as she follows the spine’s spiral into its hollow centre, the descent appears to be a kind of disclosure. she is being let in. at the ruin's heart, a figure waits. as if time here obeys her. something ancient simmers on the horizon, some long war between light and storm. melina halts just before the circle carved into the floor. she doesn't cross it.

the air tightens. it vibrates in the skin, behind the teeth. a heat rises through melina's chest, unexpected and bitter. shame? it arrives fully formed, without context. not the shame of being unworthy, but the shame of being seen and found partial. she has knelt before fractured idols and stood among god-corpses. in that pause, melina wonders if it matters whether she will be enough. the fire she carries flickers once beneath her ribs, uncertain whether it was given to her, or merely abandoned for good.

❝ you brought me here. say what must be said. if it is judgment, i'd rather hear the charges. ❞

[mahmur]

Wanted to start posting art here again so this is for all the Nero fans out there✨

[mahmur]

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛 ! · ╯@wh0rehome ,

❝ you're late, ❞ says felix.

the wind tilts when felix speaks. his voice is quiet, but the syllables disturb the air like a pressure shift before collapse. no force behind them, yet everything listens. moros hears the shape of it, voltage, intention drawn to a fine edge. it does not request attention; it compels it.

they meet in the remains of a drowned keep, a carcass half-claimed by salt and time. the walls weep mildew. their edges have gone soft, blunted by the slow abrasion of years. stained glass lies scattered across the stone like forgotten scripture, its reds and violets bleeding into fractured patterns beneath their feet. above, a chandelier hangs crooked in its iron yoke, emptied of light, its arms stretched in rusted surrender. nothing moves, but everything leans in.

moros gaze drifts to the ironwork above, to the ceiling's broken ribs, where vines have crawled in through gaps once sealed against storm. this place once held names. his reply comes forth without urgency. ❝ i arrive when conclusions ripen. ❞

wood creaks as if remembering pressure. motes lift into the light and fall again. moros steps forward, though the wood beneath him stutters under the weight. it resists. so he leaves the ground behind and floats, unanchored. movement without burden. felix remains still. there is no fear in him. that, moros notices first. the boy who once begged doom to overlook him is gone. in his place stands something steadier, more condensed. there is mass in him now. layered. built from sediment. the slow deposit of years that did not kill him, but did not spare him either.

felix watches him, and moros sees the calculation behind the stare. a readiness. the body braces not for the inevitable consequence. moros' voice speaks lower, quieter than before. ❝ you've opened it. ❞ the doorway behind felix. the arch is caved inward slightly, ivy pushing through the cracks, as if even the structure is unsure whether to keep out what's coming, or hold it in.

[mahmur]

i got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine. i got a love and i know that it's all mine, oh, OH-OH!

[mahmur]

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛 ! · ╯@darkdevour ,

tonight, heavy hearts exhales beneath the city's gloom. a forgotten chapel dressed in glass and static. the sphinxes blink above the sofa in bruised jewel-tones. violet and gold casting their riddled light settling on exposed skin. shadows stretch long across the floor, not cast so much as conjured, as though they carry old confessions tucked beneath their hems. the things they must have witnessed here...

hands sits beneath the cats' gazes, his posture curated into calm.

the tilt of his shoulders, the stillness of his spine. an orchestra of restraint in slow rehearsal. one hand balances on the rim of a cup he has no intention of drinking, just yet. the other rests palm-down on his thigh, fingers gently coiled, a gesture that suggests patience, or a poised position to quick venom. the silence around him is not empty. it is trained. a quiet he has raised, fed, and tamed. a trademark, if you will. then vasya enters. arrival, here, is its own theology. the room inhales her. pressure shifts and sound recalibrates. even the lights seem to hesitate. her presence carries the hum of something just before ignition. he does not immediately lift his head.

control is a choreography, and delay is its most elegant step.

❝ ah, v, ❞ words poured smooth across the grain of the moment. ❝ you do bring weather with you, ❞ she takes shape at the edge of his stillness. too much of her remains unsaid. too much of him is waiting to hear it. ❝ personal complications, have a curious talent for trespass. they don't knock. they seep. into boardrooms, bedrooms, battlefields. even the best-locked rooms will open for the right kind of ruin, ❞ his smile sharpens. ❝ you arrive tonight, wearing urgency like a second skin. i presume this─isn't a visit born of leisure? ❞

[mahmur]

Red dead depression

[mahmur]

dad's bbqing outside, says i should take a pointed pepper, i trust him, but little did i know that i'd be fighting for my life later

[mahmur]

desdemonaa <3<3 ohhhhhoooooohhhhhhh !!

[mahmur]

wait, did they add new characters to the photomode, or was i just too distracted by so mi? 😭✨

[mahmur]

Phrolova

[mahmur]

okay guys listen my the alters oc, aslıhan malbora. a small rundown :)

dr. zeynep kicińska a rising exobiologist and trauma-focused technician assigned to the variants mission. an early earth-led effort to explore the potential of rapidium after jan dolski's discovery. she was chosen not just for her scientific acumen, but also for her matching psychology profile (according to the algorithm).

zeynep is one of the first humans to undergo an accidental alter event. it happened during a radioactive surge and unregulated rapidium exposure (whose effects had yet to be researched) to a root which they had extracted from "rd-5" (rapidium dome five) and planted in an abandoned off-limits site "variant field-γ". the official record lists her as a stable survivor, but ever since zeynep has never been sure if she is the original… or just an alteration who got out of there alive. manipulated to believe she is the one where it all started to help them regain control over the situation.

now back in their hq, where rapidium is still experimented with, zeynep continues her work for erca (extraplanetary research & control authority) signed under ally corp.

she is a regulator, a hybrid field scientist and containment agent tasked with neutralising the rogue alters spawned in the wake of the "echo contagion". privately, she keeps a journal: part logbook, part confession, part proof she's still herself. unfortunately, it is missing the first pages.

zeynep is hunted by an alter of hers, calling themself the stabiliser, who blames the original for abandoning the team during containment breach at the site (variant field-gamma).

abilities: temporarily sync with compatible alters, borrowing their knowledge (at a mental cost). quarantine unstable alters within her, deactivating their bodies. though success depends on compatibility. all abilities are not genetic or a mutation; they require devices/other resources and cannot happen out of a whim or by the snap of her fingers. the methods and calculations are her design, and she is the only one authorised to perform them.

[mahmur]

sorry, i need to obsess a little more but if you don't mind minor spoilers here's an example of what it's like + they got their hands on the actual voice actors 😭

i broke my promise. 😔 i post yet another ooc post but this time to announce that i'm free, on holiday and just finished 'the alters' my game of the year. a survival game that really tests your morals and priorities with brutal consequences. your choices actually matter! though you might not even see the outcome immediately

and apparently that's what it's like living with yourselves...

also the range of him? i didn't even need to check for names, whenever one of them called or talked behind walls? i knew exactly which jan it was 🙂‍↕️

[mahmur]

the following muses will be removed : mizrak and foenix. reasons vary, but for the most part, it is because i no longer feel motivated to engage much with the fandom/source material─outside of casual curiosity.

these blorbos will replace them : jean grey and asajj ventress.

[mahmur]

hey, so would anyone like a short starter from my latest additions?

melina 🔥

hands 📞

ezio 🗡️

thane 🦂

yennefer 💜

phrolova 🦋

moros 🦌

of course the others are an option too just lmk in any way if you prefer an oldie 🙂‍↕️✨ or would like to plot beforehand/along the way 😚

[mahmur]

@fractempyreal's 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐋 ( accepting! ) ∘ ∘ ∘ ❝ run. run and don't stop. ❞

the sky splits like a wound. above them, the world has lost shape, folded into teeth, the ground cracks under the weight of something ancient. mundus rises from the black, throne and shadow, his voice a rumble that shakes the bones of the dead and the dying alike.

nero stands in the thick of it, boots half-sunk in broken stone, sword slick with blood that steams where it lands. his breath comes hard. each inhale tastes of sulphur, of metal, of the kind of magic that chews at the fringe of reason. vergil is ahead, yamato humming low in their hand, the blade a shard of stillness in the chaos. their coat tears in the wind, hair wild for once, face unreadable. vergil does not look back. doesn't have to.

they hiss run. run and don’t stop.

at first, nero believes it is meant for someone else. a stranger. perhaps for the boy he used to be, before the order, before the truth of blood carved itself into his spine. run. his body does not move. not forward, not back. he sees what vergil means to do, and it hits him like a slow collapse. the shape of sacrifice. not framed in love, not even in penance, in necessity. vergil, cold as ever, begins to wield their final gesture with the threatening slant of their blade. keep nero alive. die with purpose. seal the gate. the end, or what?! nero tightens his grip. red queen purrs in his palm, eager. stubborn. just like vergil.

vergil’s back is the shape of distance, of choices made too late. nero has had enough of distance. enough of being left behind. ❝ no. ❞ the word slips out, simple and brutal. ❝ you want to disappear in some self-made legend? go out alone in a blaze of sharp edges and guilt? screw that. ❞ he steps forward, each pace a rebellion, a refusal, a vow of change. the ground shakes violently beneath him. mundus looms, rage building a second storm behind the first. nero keeps walking, until he is beside vergil, shoulder to shoulder. not as a novice seeking approval. not as the child waiting to be seen. as someone who finally begins to see himself.

❝ you want an ending? fine. we write it together. no running. not this time. ❞ and something changes, not in vergil, all nero can see is how they remain a sculpture carved from restraint, but much more in the space between them. a fracture sealed by presence. the enemy roars. and the world bends.