polyhymniar

[polyhymniar]

𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒔

                        ❝  ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒  I’m    so    glad    to    see    you    again,  ❞        The  Courier’s  voice  is  soft    &    warm  as  he  wraps  his  arms  around  her  in  kind,    full  with  emotion  as  he  drinks  in  the  joy  of  their  reunion    &    the  wondrous  scent  of  her  wafting  to  him.    When  the  embrace  is  ended,    he  gazes  at  her  as  the  finest  treasure  in  all  the  land,    dark  eyes  glimmering  with  the  deepest  emotion,    his  hands  settled  lightly  on  her  sides.

                            ❝  It’s  been  a  real  whirlwind  but  I  am,    I’m  well.    What  about  you  ?    Did  you  find  everything  you  wanted  to  out  there  ?  ❞

                    𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙸𝙿𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 remain settled on the outer edges of shoulders.  she bears a kindly smile never dissolves.  ( as pure as sun-bleached birchwood. witch hazel. )  strange, discolored eyes remain plastered onto 𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙱𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙽 with such narrow features despite the roundness of his overall facial structure.  ( he is safety ; a home that carries with it the enticing, warm scent of cinnamon & caramelized apples, vanilla. )  retracts one hand to find purchase on a jawline 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆.  a whisper creeps underneath passing thumb to sing the quietest of hymns.

❝ & i you, ❞ she says,  ❝ i was implored to return home for some time.  we now have a tiny, new addition to our tribe that i assisted in bringing forth, among other things, ❞

❝  ‒‒‒‒& i have not come empty-handed.  i have brought you some gifts. ❞

[polyhymniar]

𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒔​

                      ❝  ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒  You’re  back  !!  ❞

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄, swiftly devouring the distance between them to throw her arms 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 to reel herself into an initiated embrace, showering him in a sweet floral fragrance.  thereafter, a palm crawls toward the back of his skull whilst a smooth cheek meets his sandblasted skin.  a hundred-watt smile across 𝙿𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙳 features.

❝ i’ve missed you greatly, ❞

❝ you look well.  praise be vuzayali, you are truly blessed. ❞ 

[polyhymniar]

@royalmuses​  ( twig )

[polyhymniar]

✧   SEVERINGBLADE​   :   𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙰𝙽

⋰ F E A T H E R S ⋱ D E S C E N D I N G ⋰ S O F T L Y 

There is something p r o v o c a t i v e about the progression of night across a lonely and silent forest. The s h a d o w s, they tend to d a n c e in the strangest of ways, sometimes aided by the flickering of branches and other times, by the flickering of one’s own f r a n t i c imagination. 

The eyes of a W i t c h e r, however, cut through illusions rather v a l i a n t l y. Those weaved by c h a o s or by the c o r p o r e a l. They can tell the difference between m a n and b e a s t. 

All in the way they w a l k. 

But this one is tricky. She walks like a w o m a n. Can see the graceful femininity f l o w i n g in her appendages and center of gravity alike, yet a pair of h o r n s peak proudly from her skull. And her height … her skin … 

By the time he makes himself visible, it is slow and careful. U n t h r e a t e n i n g. The weapons he carries remain holstered at his back. His chin angles down, seeks out her gaze by angling his eyes upwards and d e c i p h e r s the civility there. Whatever she is, she is more w o m a n than m o n s t e r, and that alone is enough. 

﮴ This forest weaves treachery during the night and b e a s t s prowl. There’s safety close by but I probably don’t seem any less dangerous than what I’m describing. At the very least, if you’re lost, I can point you in the right direction.  ﮴

      a  presence so  gargantuan  that  one  must  wonder  how  can  the  suit  of  skin  hold  such  a  mass  of  bones  that  appear  as  though  they  have  a  metric  ton  density?    even  in  the  fickle  darkness  of  forestry  &  thickets  of  trees,  of  birchwood,  her  skin  𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝚂𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃  ;  glittering,  even.   shadows  do  little  to  obscure  the  view  of  her,  save  for  the  sharp  angles   of  chiseled  facial  structure.    the  man’s  returned  gaze  does  not  unsettle  her,  for  she  is  used  to  eyes  (  wide  or narrowed  )  brimming  with  both  curiosity  or  anxiety  worn  by  those  who  have  never  encountered  her  kind.    adaar,  her  name  was  made  of  blades  &  teeth.    a  tall,  beautiful  creature  of  magick  &  an  infernal  contract  with  one  immortal  ELVEN  GODDESS,  power  &  control  of  some  of  the  most horrifying  creatures  down  below  within  a  drop  of  blood  &  an  ancient incantation.  

      scant  branches  bowing  &  whispering with  every  gust  of  wind.   it  has  rained here  hours  ago  with  the  scent  of  petrichor  still  present  on  damp  leaves.   chlorophyll  piquant  &  sweetening  the  clammy  patches   of  earth  peering   through  healthy  blades   of  grass.    &  in  his  slow,  passive  approach,   she  picks  up  on  other  oddities  ;  slats  of  pupils  encased   in  bright,  molten   gold.    𝚁𝙴𝙵𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴  not  unlike  that  of  a  feline  ——  reflective retina  ;  tapetum lucidum.    in  thedas,  there  were  so  many  “unique”  people  by  human  standards,  plenty of  eccentric  sorts, &  then  there  are  people that  aren’t  people.    & he  is  certainly one  of  those: people  that  aren’t people.    but,  maker, did  she  smell  the  CORROSIVE RANK  of  something   especially…  interesting.  it  isn’t  quite  this,  but  not  quite  that.  adaar  cannot  place  what  it  is,  but  it  was  there.  ( antiseptic  notes  of  birch  water, witch  hazel  &  ethanol,  sharp  &  pulpy  as  citrus &  pungent  licorice   &  fennel  ——  akin  the  color  of  strands   growing  from  his  human-like  skull! )  flooding  acetone  in  her  nose.   like  she,  his  blood  does  not  belong to  him!

      it  is  an  old  habit  of  hers,  to  idly  trace  the  onyx,  burnished  choker-like band  around  her  neck  when  in  deep  thought,  gently stroking  the  precious  metal  glittering  like  galaxies.    there   was  a  time  where  adaar  could  remember   it  not  being  there,  reminding her  of  the  day  since  her  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝙳  𝙱𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙸𝚂𝙼  that  she  is  chained  to  a  savage   fate,  a  shackled existence  ‘til  her  bones  turn to  dust.    the  other  hand  remains  fixed  around  her  witchwork  staff.   the  enigma  speaks.   &  she  parts  her  lips  only  to  answer  his  query  with  one  of  her  own.   questioning  the  intent of  such  WILLINGNESS  to  show  courteousness.    direct.    succinct.

❝ what  do  you  seek  to  gain  from  such  a  gesture? ❞  

[polyhymniar]

* · ☾       @phantombs​  CƯỜNG   ASKED   PYTHIA  :  She's... Familiar, comfortable, something like a sweater he's long worn holes in, and Cường stares a little, stares a lot, and blinks. "You feel like I should know you. You feel like home."

         a woman looks like the moon.  unnatural look to her ; pale hair & translucent skin.  all ten of her fingers that rest on a hardcover book are decorated with rings.  some of bronze, some of black metal  —— some that sits only between the upper tiers of knuckles.  ( such couture are of the kind age old mystics would showcase while wriggling their fingers not unlike glittering maggots over an all-consuming hearth during the witching hour! ) smoky, shadowed lids with 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙴𝙳𝙶𝙴𝚂 shut for but a fraction of a moment as the stranger whom has sought her out speaks.  the anticipation flooding her veins before a flash of lightning.  

        such a strange individual crawls into her realm of esoteric, infinite vastness.  a repository of knowledge, of otherworldly humming never quietens.  he brings with him the piquant scent of grapefruit & black pepper of a dated artifact.  scroll paper.  he is not all that he seems, the mask of a beautiful young man that hides himself in a perfectly fit suit made of human limbs & flesh like royal milk tea, the ebony of his hair as black as pitch or more so the celestial heavens in the 𝙰𝙱𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃.  many lives permeate this individual.  when jolene’s eyes open, she studies ; a blue-violet ringed with a scorching hot cardinal magma.  something in the back of her mind clicks ; a double-jointed limb of the divine activated.

❝ of the great hound with eight eyes & a taste for blood that resides in the shadow.  you dreamt it too? ❞ she speaks, finally. a whisper cutting into the milliseconds of silence that passed between the two.  time is quite relative when the occult is involved.

❝ ——you were never alone, i have always been there. you will always forget as you once have before. ❞

[polyhymniar]

starter for @arzhur​ 

           a long trail of obsidian cloth trickles on the rich-colored carpet behind her like a river of ink.  the figure is tall & alien  —— unearthly.  the stares in which the herald receives from those residing in the court are of confusion, revolt.  unease.  ( has the world ever seen such a creature of inhuman height? ) all of which she graciously ignores.  steps are soft, quiet.  wispy fabrics over boots makes her appear as a 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙴𝙳 wraith gliding down the aisle with translucent & iridescent skin wherever torchlight hits. a slender hand keeps grasp around masterwork witch staff that resembles a sun-bleached skull being consumed by thick, thorny branches it sits atop.  halts just short of the throne’s stairway where this nation’s king resides.  she lowers, tips her regal head.

❝ your grace, ❞  comes her voice, an echo. it is as though all the air is sucked out of the room & turned chilly.

❝ i am the herald of andraste, leader of the inquisition reborn, named by most holy, divine victoria, first of her name. i bring tidings of a great disaster. ❞ 

[polyhymniar]

✧   ROYALMUSES  :   𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙶 

          ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ The  unmistakable  thrum  of  cazadores  approaching is perhaps the single most bone — chilling sound in the Mojave.  The loud buzzing of their angry red wings is sharper than knives,  heralding deadly stingers  &  vicious flying predators.  Twig knows that V.A.T.S. could help him to pick off at least some,  but to stand his ground  &  fight against a whole swarm is to run the risk of getting the both of them stung.  In this case,  it’s strictly to be used as a last resort.

          So the courier quickly obeys the mystery woman,  taking her hand   (  warm  &  smooth  &  dainty ;   if  only  he  had  a  moment  to  appreciate  the  contact  )   &  scrambling then to his feet.  He has her bag still ;   he slings it over his shoulder as though it were his own.  He puts his arm around her to help support her,   heart  picking  up,   they’re gonna need to find a place to hide rather than hoping to outrun the ghastly things.  His mind’s working a mile a minute.

          ❝ Here,  here,  I gotcha, ❞    he tells her briskly,  his voice carefully quiet.  Cazadores hunt by sound,   &  while the swarm’s plainly already heading towards them,  it’s better not to draw any more attention to themselves than is absolutely necessary.  They can at the very least buy themselves extra seconds to make their retreat,   &  every second counts when it comes to a  cazador  swarm !!

          He’s guiding her back the way he’s come,  away from the horrible din of the insects.  His back throbs,  his hand aches for the pistol,  the soreness of the stranger’s fall is making itself known more  &  more in his muscles.  He ignores all of it,  swallows it down.  He just wishes they could make faster progress.  His attention’s more on his unexpected companion than anything else.

           for a fraction of a second, pythia feels small with his arm draped across her back.  she hunches her back  —— a twinge of alarm in the unfamiliarity of it all.  ( she shrinks, almost losing her loci! & yet her conviction is swiftly being revived in favor of self-preservation & the welcoming warmth. ) escorted to a path without a plan. a path to simply lose sight of the cazadores whose wingspan are that of an adult’s length.  the oracle takes wide steps to match his hurried, quiet steps : marching like a woman possessed.  & now, the pain is a 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾 on the other end of her brain ; in its place, salt & bile creeps into the corridors of throat.

          gripped with savagery & instinct, the distance in which the cluster of mutated creatures have covered is steadily closing in.  moving faster with the beating of red-orange wings. its positioned leader’s pinched waist arching a canorous abdomen inward  —— brandishing exposed 𝙺𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙴-𝙴𝙳𝙶𝙴𝙳 stinger, barbed with liters of venom.  ever eager to propel itself with the heft of its weight. no sentience but the desire to destroy :  kill.  meanwhile they struggle to keep a wide berth, pythia scans with squinted eyes the layout of their current situation: possible paths to propose a split-second plan.  they are too exposed.  quarter of a mile out in the desert, down a hill is set of old, roofless duplexes ; some cracked open like shells of ammonites.  

❝ we are in open space... ❞ she breathes, feels her pulse in her mouth. feels sand in her mouth.  but never stops moving.

          the largest & fastest of them shoots forward like an arrow, crimson eyes reflecting the lavender twilight, hopping like a wrathful, angry cobra ; targeting the man in blue, the hiss from its wings like boiling water.  her regal head whips over just in time to perceive the deathly seriousness of its proximity. a cold sweat & chill shoots up her spine.  a gasp!  & as a reflex, she shags him off of her shoulders & uses her left to a tackle with the entirety her mass can muster. winds up stumbling in the process. narrowly missing a 𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶-𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃 strike of stinger.  down the slope they go.  & its descent is anything but slow or gentle. sand, rocks, other assorted debris grazing skin, clothing.

          what feels an imperfect eternity, they reach the bottom.  

[polyhymniar]

✧    WASTEDINAWASTELAND   :   𝙱𝙴𝙽 𝙴𝙻𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙶𝙴

— @polyhymniar​​  ♥’d     /     sc.

           ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ The  quiet  almost  seems  too much for someone like Ben.  He settles poorly into routine,  into civilized places.  Generally he prefers the loud  &  the spontaneous,  the cities where men are animals  &  smiles hide secret knives ;   the vast stretches of desert in between them.  It should be no surprise how much trouble that’s gotten him in over the years.  But maybe he likes the trouble,  just a little.  Maybe it’s all he knows to make him feel all right.  Maybe he’s got to have the conflict,  got to be kept on his toes,  to make sure he remembers he’s still got a beating heart inside the irradiated chest.

          ❝ I don’t think I ever stayed in one place more than a few years,  tops, ❞    he comments of this,    ❝ Time’s weird when you’re a ghoul,  y’know ?   What’s th'  farthest you’ve ever been ? ❞

         she watches him intently, studying him. & her tattooed neck is craned.  he looks like the memory of a man, & that memory is slowly fading away.  he’s a blurred, world-weary apparition in the woven tapestry of canyons & valleys.  while benjamin speaks, fingers are crushing minerals with a 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙰𝚁 & 𝙿𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴 until the pulverized viscosity stains her moon-colored skin. floral shades that are kind to her uncanny presence & the celestial utterings that often call to her. magic in the stonework whisper & the oleander shaman listens to them —— hushed words spoken in ancient verses that seep through the mortar, oozing & weeping like the brightly-hued dyes.  

❝ with your longevity, it only makes sense there is much of the world to see,  ❞  she replies, mellifluous syllables emerging from the cradle of her soft jaw.  ❝ ——so much wisdom attained, many lessons learned...  ❞

        there’s a momentary distant look upon her face, quietly ruminating on what’s just said.  there are many a questions to ask, but he is one whom guards 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙴𝙲𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚂 with his very existence.  

❝ i have been to colorado ; its river connects to faraway lands.  lands that have remained sacrosanct.  you have said once that you spent time with various tribes. what sorts of things have they taught you? ❞  

[polyhymniar]

ORIGINS

the oleander tribe was amassed in 2189, founded by a woman named atepa. the community takes up space at the pre-war boston athenaeum library & the strip of land around it.  she used religion to help make a point, appropriating one of the most important festivals in the tribe’s history of long-winded war she won, conquering the land–wresting power from a previous tribe of cannibalistic marauders desecrating the place.  atepa  paid scholars of the time ( interested in settling ) simply to think & use their brains. she encouraged research & scholarship on a purely academic, intellectual, idealistic level.  education is held to the highest regard in their culture.  highly diverse, it is a melting pot of disciplined scholars.

CUSTOMS

though founded & built by a woman, during its experimental phases, culture for the oleander tribe was patrilineal i.e. allowing a husband’s family to make all major decisions, women have traditionally carried a large amount of responsibility in the family. the children at an early age learn gender expectations at a young age & young girls traditionally learn household skills from their female elders by the age of six. besides taking care of the household chores, the women also plant & harvest fields with their husbands. they take up various duties in areas of expertise such as medicine, agriculture, scouting/reconnaissance, procurement of new supplies, hunting, priesthood, tattooist, etc.   at this point, the power is split equally with both genders.

it is custom that the women like to braid each other’s hair & insert beaded accouterments which is covered in an ochre mixture dipped in many colored dyes. men & women of higher regard wear elaborate headdresses & decorated with bundles of crow & raven feathers during singsings ( celebratory festivals ).

they are reputed to be strong warriors who hunt for food & live closely with wild animals. dressed in dyed cloth & colorful beaded jewelry, the warrior men & warrior women proudly adorn themselves with the sun-bleached teeth & skulls of the animals they kill.

BELIEF SYSTEM

they are a monotheistic people & believe in a god they call “the-all-seeing-one” or vusayali & will often liken their everyday lives.  ( though, they do believe in other deities, vusayali reigns as the creator of creators ! ) they have a greeting “ draṣṭā vusayali a zinthu “ which translated from formal oleandic means simply “may the all-seeing-god spare you”–which is reciprocated, in response, it becomes “i may be spared by him”.  where the tribe’s shaman is highly respected, those close to this figure is also of affluence; many are tried to apprenticeship, but few pass its harsh rite of passage. they believe that one’s soul may never rest until it has completed its purpose & thus it reincarnates until such purpose has been achieved.  the vessels one is given is another riddle which must be solved.  to return is to err.

LANGUAGE

the language that the people of the oleander tribe speak is a distinct conglomeration of many different already existing languages to form what is called traditional oleandic. having descended from a highly diverse people, it melded into one largely-used set standard in terms of linguistics, one may hear some chinese, pidgin, yoruba, french, maori, spanish, latin & arabic influence.  each member brought with them their mother tongue & fit the pieces together.

[polyhymniar]

HANDWRITING CAN TELL YOU A LOT ABOUT A PERSON.

go here & repost with your character’s name in their handwriting!

          pythia at a young age was trained by the tribe’s scholars to master a legible penmanship -- such being a form of cursive writing that emulates that of the old texts found in the athenaeum. it is fortunate that she does possess artistic skill, if there’s anything she is good at. it’s careful, & her palm never pass over the paper so as not to smudge the ink. all documents are always signed with her given position & role in the tribe, rather than her birth name “jolene”.

tagged by :  @wastedinawasteland​   [ ty friendo! ] tagging : steal this! 

[polyhymniar]

INQUISITOR ISSALA ADAAR 

[polyhymniar]

@nightwontlast   :  𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝚄𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼  HERE.

            ada is the eerie elongation in his shadow, a splash of dark that blooms in the doorway of flickering lamplight.  it’s an affront, subtle as the tone of a synth’s voice can muster ; barricades her in.  but he doesn’t even twitch or flex an offense.  ( mark of better judgment on his part ; bred from the predatory, cajoling flicker in her eyes & expression ! ) she’s of an uncanny skill of making the meek meeker & the strong feel rather provoked in all but a look.  in the same vein, those same spidery lashes can melt in a flutter or doe-eyed gesticulation.  man, machine, purveyor of justice.  the one who calls himself nick valentine plays quintessential hard-boiled detective in her plot, without all of the bureaucratic backing.  no official sanctions  ——  but still has the MAKINGS of a literal complication. 

            intermittently, during the blockade, she seeks to light an ornate cigarette ; stuff’s not of places the likes of these. 

❝ don’t like it huh? ❞ she asks with that nasty lilt of hers. expels smoke from magenta-glossed mouth in his direction & flicking ash off to the side,  ❝ ——get over it, honey, ❞ 

❝ as i said before, that’s all i know.  beyond that is entrapment.  & you, detective, would have to treat me to dinner for that sort of thing. ❞ 

[polyhymniar]

✧   ROYALMUSES  :   𝙱𝙴𝙽 𝙴𝙻𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙶𝙴

          Oleandic ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒   how the idea draws him in.   The ghoul lifts his head slightly at the offer,  as if he’d been called by name.  He is curious,  he is intrigued.  Flattered,  yet again,  by her attention  &  her offerings  (  too  many   &   too  great,    but  he  always  was  a  greedy,   selfish  man,   with  both  hands  always  open  ).   Thirst for cultural knowledge,  for  language  &  understanding a defining trait,  roused at once by the thought he might gain a little bit more.  That Pythia would chose to share it with him ;   that he could be invited to share it with her.

         Ben   (  Benjamin,   she  calls  him,   &   he  wonders  idly  why  she  does ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒  why  he  lets  her,   why  it   should  come  so  naturally  )   breathes in slowly,   &  it feels like he is breathing in the desert,   &  she with it,   &  letting his lungs be filled with her essence  &  the warm spice of those incredible scents she carries.  Even anointing him with them,  as she adorns him with those magnificent beads.  No,  it is not too tight.  It feels like he is treasured. 

          Of course he would act nonchalant when he feels this wanted.  He has never known how to accept kindness,  much less when it’s so full  &  so deep  &  so gentle.  Her pale deft hands don’t have any cruelty or violence in them.   The wanderer,  cursed,  doesn’t know how to understand hands like those in a world like this.  Can’t fathom having no need or desire to do harm,  much less that someone can mean him no harm.  He’s a scoundrel,  he’s a ghoul.  

          The way she touches his hair is so singularly intimate.  It’s not many people who have touched his hair over the years,  not merely because of the great pride he takes in it but because it’s often just not safe to let them do so.  Even when he’s had his trysts,  they were never so affectionate he’d just let someone brush or braid or play with his hair.  So it has this effect on him that’s almost tranquilizing,  making him sink down a little,  which is probably helpful considering his unusually great height   (  people  aren’t  as  tall  these  days  as  when  he  was  young,    but  he  was  exceptionally  tall  by  the  standards  before  the  War,   too  ).   His hazy eyes lidded.   Wondering just so what he will look like when she’s finished with him.

            ❝ It feels fine, ❞    he answers softly,    ❝ It’s  .  .  .    kind of nice.   &  I’d like that.  To learn. ❞    He would teach her one of the languages that he knows as well,  but it’s not yet time for him to think of offering.  He’s such a reserved man,  where it counts.

               tourmalines glitter winsomely on dun-colored braids weighed down by the resplendent beads  —— like dainty hinges of rubellite, paraiba, watermelon & even silvered chrome framing his inhuman features. ( the aesthetics are deathly important to the oleander tribe ; there are always some jeweled accouterments somewhere on her body or she feels shamefully naked. pythia of oleanders i has to be perfect & exquisite —— or gut-wrenchingly close to perfection ! ) the oracle has soaked up enough of the outside to peel the stars & extract celestial ore from the sky & place them into his hair.  he is being CHRISTENED by the blessed hand of the divine.  by the hand of the vessel & vicar of a capricious, perpetuating god.  

              there is a kind of catharsis in combing her fingertips through the sea of silk.  purifying & above reproach. ben’s usual surly, averting body language seems to have melted away during her greatest efforts to ultimately INFLUENCE an environment where he does not need to glance over his shoulder for fear of an impending assault.  her strange eyes are neutral, calm.  i will not hurt you. & despite how gentle her touches are, she is not spared from the art of taking lives. every evening she prays to the all-seeing-one for forgiveness ; she takes no pleasure in killing. & in introspection, wonders what all have the ghoul seen over the past couple of centuries for so many demons to hover his SPIRIT.  & why such a gesture seems so singularly prolific to him at the very core level.  it’s implications are cause for joy.  cause for sorrow. 

❝ this makes me so happy, ❞ she responds, with the corners of her lips upturning a smile.  toothy & genuine.  ❝ you have such beautiful hair. ❞

              takes an additional small section of hair near his ear to manipulate into another plait, loops a set beads.  he’d find that what is done with one side is always done with the other. symmetry is also art.  the pair is pulled back & skillfully connected to a third braid & then outfitted with COLORFUL embellishments.  her companion is of such vast height in comparison & it helps greatly so that he is tilted where she can reach without having extending her arms with strain.

❝ mājhē zita e benjamin.  my name is benjamin, ❞ dictates while gently petting a hand across his head, ❝ mah-zeh zee-teh ee benjamin. ❞

[polyhymniar]

✧   ROYALMUSES  :   𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙶

          ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ He’s  worried  to  see  his mystery woman in such pain ;   even a total stranger so shaky  &  hurt strikes a chord with him that has Twig very much alarmed.   His uncanny luck may have seen him through the worst of the fall,  but that doesn’t preclude there being any harm done to either of them,  much less both.  He may be hurting,  for his own part,  but he’d be the first to say she’s obviously got it worse.

          When he sees the blood,  it makes his concern multiply  &  grow.  Thinness of her voice cutting him through  &  making his stomach twist.  He reaches for the bag from his awkward position,  hefting it up with a thick,  gloved hand   (  the  forearm  encased  in  a  genuine  Pip — Boy  3000  connecting  to  the  glove  ;    fortunately  appearing  not  to  be  broken  in  the  ordeal  ).   Opens the knapsack up for her  &,   with a glance as if for permission,  begins almost gingerly to search through her things for the necessary medicine.

          ❝ What’m I  .  .  .   oh,  is this it ? ❞    he shows her a container found in the bag.  He’s unsure what to do,  but eager to help.    ❝ Easy,  now,  take it easy.  I’m gonna help you,  I promise. ❞    His voice is quick.  It’s not got much force behind it,  he’s breathless but he’s holding himself.  The cloying soreness is starting to escalate to something much angrier,  throbbing in his back with the promise of getting worse once he’s used the muscles again,  but goodness knows that he can’t stop  &  lie here.  He’s got a hurt woman here,   &  they’re both out in the open,  terribly exposed.

           a faint buzzing vibrates from the near distance.  it is bee-like, but unlike that of bees, it is low-pitched, thrumming  —— with mass & has many more numbers.  searching.  whirring like the pain in her right leg ; it fast arrives in pulses now that pythia is upright. & relentless.  a peculiar pair of red-ringed, mauve irises stares down the way his hands gently ( yet hurriedly ) peruses her sturdy leather bag.  she also jots down a mental note of the hesitant glimmer in his gaze in search of proper AUTHORITY ; in response, she presents him the confirmation he needs in a nod that translates as ‘go ahead’.  ( the oleander shaman never forgets a micro-gesture as revealing & as prolific ! it grants her a reflection of his very aura:  in him, she envisions downy feathers of pale birds —— doves. purity. ) 

          he has her medical toolbox in hand & yet she cannot help but divert attention to the strange contraption covering the span of his forearm. one such she’s seen before on another individual. ( a young man, red of hair with a sullen, brooding personality.  he would press all sorts of buttons, flick the screen & the technology would recognize it as a command : a marvel those things are !! ) there are many a questions of it SEEPING in the span of her thoughts she wishes to tack onto him.  however, for the sake of relief, an arm extends to take the container into her possession, forcing herself to get closer.

❝ yes.  that is exactly it. you have my deepest gratitude, kind stranger, ❞ she sighs, then lumbering over to the nearest piece of boulder to plop unto.  

          for some reason or another, she does not get to work just yet.  a sudden feeling of dread washes over her.  ( the blood rushes quickly into her heart, a painful tingle & ice cold shiver shoots up spine although the weather isn’t chilly. ) she’s overcome with anxiety & adrenaline to the point she momentarily forgets the localized pain & decisively stands up & rushes over to the man, shoving the container back into the bag. offers a HAND to help him upright ; a beckoning bend of fingers.

❝ we cannot remain here.  we are in danger, ❞ an admission,  ❝ this place is rife with anger, with venom. we must flee.  now. ❞

          just as she utters her last word, bright, wasp-like shapes begin to close in on them.  fizzing sounds growing in force.  LOUDER.  with angry red eyes contrasting reflective obsidian bodies. wings fluttering with purpose.  linear purpose.  her head shifts in the direction of  the predatory creatures.  counts five.

[polyhymniar]

✧   ROYALMUSES​  :   𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝙳𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾

          ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ He’s  got  too  much  class  to say what’s on his mind   (  it’s  not  what  he’s  willing  to  swallow,   but  what  she  is  ),  but that doesn’t mean he’s not on the same page nonetheless,  accepting the offered cigarette with a scintillating smile dripping with sordid intent.  It feels something like home,  some siren angling for something out of him,  an exchange promised in gesture if not in word ;   she’s a lot less forthcoming with her story than most,   but it’s as intriguing as it is cause for concern.  Despite his easy expression,  he’s guarded.  Very much so.

          Not so much that he wouldn’t spend the evening enjoying her company,  of course.  She’s a rare breed,  a kind of beauty you don’t much see these days,  all carried with the grace of some Old World vixen,  the kind he used to devour on weekday nights when he wasn’t performing.  He’s nothing if not a consummate professional, after all.  He has the distinct feeling that she is as well,  but precisely what her profession is remains to be seen.

          She’s certainly putting on a good show.  He’s got boundless appreciation for that.  A feast for the eyes on two legs wrapped like presents,  dress  &  movement all carefully designed to tantalize,   &  it works,  too ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒   not to be cliché,  but it would be a lie to say he isn’t intrigued about what delights lie under that little red dress of hers.

            ❝ A pleasure,  Miss Wong, ❞    Dean replies fondly,  voice rolling from the throat over the tongue,   ❝ Or should I call you Ada ? ❞    

        He nods to her,   &  from his jacket produces a silver — plated lighter with a domino pattern etched into it ;   no salvaged artifact,  but his own carefully kept through all the years, since he was young  &  the world was still turning.

            she can feel the thrill of the words building ever so slightly.  something in her smoky eyes flash during the exchange of clove.  a dark, yet radiant vixen of the night, with luxuriously cropped black hair, a milky & fair complexion.  has all the makings of a devil woman ; a beast of the shadows who hide & calculate her moments of influence & manipulation upon an unsuspecting world to be shaped to her liking.  not to be mistaken for some two-bit GRIFTER, she has far more finesse & technique in her arsenal & with far more assets to play the long game —— if the need arises.  talent.  ( ada wong finds that a good punchline is one that ages like fine wine ; vineyard grapes hit the bloodstream most effectively when properly fermented! ) kisses a gulpful of kretek & the smoke arising seeps from her mouth & smiling teeth & extender like an ominous engine of a locomotive.

            first comes the doubt.  doubt she must play past whilst profiling this world-renowned pre-war celebrity. an individual such as dean domino is accustomed to getting his way ; he can do whatever he wants.  nobody ever says ‘no’ to him.  the way he carries himself with a confidence & a dangerous richness in his voice that’s shrouded in ‘strange & dark past’.  where is your locus mr. domino..? the realization is both ILLUMINATING & tickling. the stratagem is to harness those DOMINEERING energies he harbors into something productive & in her favor  ——  turn him out.

❝ mm...just ada. i’d like it better if you say my name, ❞ she replies, cajoling.  double entendre, perhaps?

            & such is the reason she gravitates to his type:  men who are intelligent, powerful.  ada wong flourishes best with those who come off wicked, SINISTER & knows she is no ingénue.  she doesn’t scare away easy.  for she might even be hell itself coated in nectar.

❝ come now, how about that drink?  it’ll loosen up my lips just a little.  would you like that, dean domino? ❞ takes a bold few steps further with a couple of heel clicks & invades his personal space ; making the air hazy with her eerie eau de parfum.  blatantly sizing dean up. ❝ ——i think you would. ❞

[polyhymniar]

✧   ROYALMUSES  :   𝙱𝙴𝙽 𝙴𝙻𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙶𝙴

          ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ He  stands  by  her  like  an  ancient  Joshua  tree,  a natural sentinel,  as she pries free the boards obstructing the way.   Keeping up with her has proven little trouble for him,  all long legs  &  lean,  tempered body.  A ghoul’s eyes are not keen at the best of times,   &  this is far from that ;   he should be fast separated from her were it not for his own swiftness in following the nigh — otherworldly seeker as she rushes through the sands like a vision   (  how  fitting  !!   how  ridiculously  on  the  nose  ).  

           &  he would have offered in own knife in her endeavor of breaking down the boards,  but she’s a little quick on the draw for him.  So he watches.  The winds still a howling shriek just behind them,  but no longer whipping at their flesh or their hair ;   the relief is so great that it’s like stepping into warm water,  but it leaves his skin tingling all the same,   &  a soreness in his radiation scars that doesn’t quite feel like pain just yet.  Ben hums,  but it can’t be heard above the din outside the crevasse.

          A gloved hand rests on the unyielding red stone.  He’s come far enough to trust Pythia with whatever happens next.  He reaches up with his opposite hand to push the thick waves of his hair back out of his face.  He has a feel for where they are,  but the route’s unfamiliar.  The markers have been lost to the blinding sand,   &  his eyes are still adjusting to the dark space inside the rock.

         Anyway,  seems the desert’s vengeance is not going to reach them,  this time.  It falls just short,  not impotent,  but simply evaded.  It’s the way of survival in the Mojave.

         ❝ You got it ? ❞    he asks her,  still obliged to keep his roughened voice loud.  He’s a little hoarse,  too.  Small price to pay.  He’ll feel better once he’s gotten the chance to rest  &  wash his clothing.  Mind stays in the present,  though.  They’re not there yet.

              it isn’t much, their temporary sanctuary, but it is safe & spares them a great deal of the desert’s undulating wrath.  make something out of it.  nevertheless, an awkward silence, while she’s worked her little knife into those spaces —— right up to the point that she ends up with a stack of two-by-fours.  reflecting on what to say next ; words that can further drive home the importance of his pilgrimage. with how readily & WILLINGLY he follows her down a path of uncertainty,  pythia consults with herself that the need to do so is a moot point.  ( there is an old proverb that her mentor, a learned old shaman, uttered to her whenever her heart filled to the brim with doubt, ‘if the mountain will not come to muhammad, then muhammad must go to the mountain’. ) it is not until gruff intonations reverberate across the dried cavern-like locale does regal oracle skull rise.  rejuvenated & eternally grateful for his confidence in her.  blind confidence.

❝ ah.  yes, thank you, ❞ she says, offering a nod for emphasis.

            she casts an eye to the small crevice behind him, examining the current state of things.  a dust storm rages on, kicking sand no more than two feet into the opening every now & then.  not enough to assault them. ( the path to zion will remain as unyielding as one’s faith ; for the next-in-line oleander shaman, vuzayali has good-naturedly lent his ear to her ! she prays for victory over the elements. ) her companion is in the same predicament as she is ; grounded by the sand & undeniably calm & vigorous in his positioning.  just so, turns attention back unto where pale-as-space dust hands lie & works in less-than-ideal condition of minimal lighting as best she can.  carefully, digs blade’s tip into nail-punctured areas to SCOOP out the studs —— for a ‘purer’ quality of firewood that the steel will otherwise hinder.  

❝ we are very fortunate for the wood being here.  it will serve well for an outside campfire, ❞

            after the tedious, pre-emptive manual labor, she stands upright with the stacks of plank under her arm, just to set them in his arms via a gesture, & pushes the door open. dark, but she can make out a few wooden beams & columns holding the place together from moonlight. reaches behind her for a smallish lantern secure by a metal implement on leather knapsack & then procures some home-cultivated paraffin oil ( just a few droplets inside the cylinder! ) & flint.  a filter of an orange glow awash the space ; mostly bare, smells ANTIQUE, like an old grapefruit & waterlogged without having ever touched a lick of moisture.  piquant like salt.  earthy.  sets the thing down dead center of the shed.  & her bag near it, now crouching down to rummage through it.  

❝ have you ever been to the sacred land where man has not salted the earth? ❞ 

[polyhymniar]

✧   DRAGNSLYR​  :   𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳𝙴𝙽

@polyhymniar  ( for morrigan )  :  starter

❝  do you have any songs written about you, morrigan ?  ❞  supper had been heartier than usual, crafted from the spoils of a surprisingly bountiful marketplace they had passed through the day before. markedly better than the quality they had been reduced to as of late. his noble privilege had ill-prepared him for the repetitiveness and simplicity of his new diet. full and warmed, he rested with his back against a tree near her separated encampment, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the ground before him. he had approached morrigan with the hope that the night’s good feed would have also raised her spirits, leaving her more amiable to company than she was on most other days.  ❝  i’ve heard the ones about your mother. they’re fine and all, popular enough and most of them memorable, but what about you ?   ❞

            morrigan is hard-pressed to eat around others if it can be avoided.  the very idea of it creates an illusion of openness  ——  a concept that the apostate would quite like to avoid, like a plague.  the most those from their places in camp can see is her in a sifted off corner, taking a few lackadaisical bites, whilst her nose is shoved into a rather LARGE BOOK sitting atop lap ; some highfalutin dissertation of magical & fade-related subjects written by a scholar.  frivolous as it may be, there are some useful nuggets of knowledge to be mined from this cesspool of coal.

            it is only when his baritone voice fills the airwaves does she decide to lift her chin, settling an amber gaze upon him with a gleam of ‘i’ll humor you’. 

❝ ah yes, the bard’s tales. exaggerated recounts thrice removed from the truth. i especially fancy the one where my mother is described as a decrepit old shrew with sharp teeth & claws, ❞ she says, folding the page where she intends to pick up later & shuts the book, ❝ ——t’is not entirely wrong. ❞

❝ thankfully, i’ve been fortunate enough to be spared of such irksome fate.  one can only imagine what pathetic sorts of descriptions an unscrupulous musician could brew up for an ‘apostate’ such as i. ❞