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I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via fierydog)

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                                        he smiles ( less often ) now.

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Goetic Sigils.

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can’t wait to bring back this look

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A scar does not form on the dying. A scar means I survived.

Chris Cleave, Little Bee  (via wordsnquotes)

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Fire Emblem Awakening - “Don’t speak her name!”

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║ ✧ MODERN AU where these three losers are all roommates and live next door to the literal angel Dareios. Fenrir owns a pair of shorts that says SLUT on the back. Asad is not to be trusted with a lighter and an aerosol can. Errhendyle wakes up at 2 AM to work out for three hours at the gym and never goes to class. Meanwhile, Dareios shows up at the most inopportune times with baked goods and when all three of them are looking the most stupid.

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Ink flowing between the cracks in a human hand

Video

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nothing makes me happier than seeing you happy

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The one thing I don’t want to be is a burden to anyone.

Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)

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║ ♢ Halt his blade does, for she trembles, anticipation, apprehension, appetite. Blind justice, she weeps! The humanity and the horror! She screams with the children’s cries, the bloody skies, her people’s demise, she scratches the surface, hungering for the meal she will never know, for how can Errhendyle ignore the soul of his father’s blade, Forseti? Peace, valor, justice, a spirit like no other now trapped in the forbidden palace’s charm room. Made into a trophy, power stripped away. Leave it be he cannot, disrespect his Father he cannot, bring upon the calamity of the godless wrath he cannot. He too wishes for his afterlife to be filled with ale and laughter, this duty he must complete.

         ╚ ❝ You better not be tricking me. I was never FOND of Loki. ❞

        With one well-placed hand on his back the prince is shoved to the ground. Errhendyle wastes no time, having Koumei’s hair pulled tight in his hand, his blade pressed into the other’s back.

        ╚ ❝ Let my gods hear my vow: My father’s blade will                be returned to me, or so help me, LIGHTNING                will cast a shadow upon your sky and strike your                kingdom down. Kou will return to the ashes from                where it rose. Do not PLAY with me, Prince Koumei.                Unlike yours, my gods do not celebrate betrayal.

               Now MOVE. ❞

「♔」;; ——

Perhaps “run” was too kind of a word to describe the prince’s actions. After all, he was stumbling over himself, wearing night-time garbs that dragged him down, fabric trailing over his feet and brushing against the floor, and sandals which hindered his ability to move with the haste that was necessary in this life or death situation. So when he glances behind him to see the redhead hot on his heels, he is not surprised.

Just as he is about to call for the eldest, Kouen, for whom this man would stand no chance against, Koumei’s head is forcefully yanked back, and his body follows, as his hair is tugged ruthlessly. His shout for help is caught in his throat as the familiar, cool feel of tempered metal meets his jugular. Hands raise up to curl into the man’s swordhand, fingernails bared and digging in as far as he could muster. This was it. Fate had mapped out his death at this man’s hands, and although cruel, there was a bit of justice to it all. 

Koumei shuts his eyes, embracing it. There was a sword at his neck and he was at its mercy. As Koumei fixates on the blade, he is recalling more. There are foreign letters etched into the blade’s surface, and they are similar to another blade kept within the royal treasury. A plan hatches, and the tactician realizes this might be his only ledge, his last stand. For his true strength lay within reason and words, and there was a chance he could talk his way out.

“Halt your blade.” Swallowing his hesitation, he speaks, calm and crystal clear. It was almost as if he wasn’t knocking at death’s door. ”After all, wouldn’t you wish to retrieve your father’s blade? It is in my possession, and should you slay me, you’ll never see it ever again.”

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║ ♢ There is a moment of silence where Errhendyle spares maybe one patient second, one pitiful look, one painstakingly obviously pointed stare, for he is well aware that he just knocked the prince’s weapon right out of his hand. This prince, the one who stormed his homeland with his strangely dressed troops, his strangely quiet weapons, and his strangely subjugated goddesses. The one who took everything away from Errhendyle, his mother, his father, his brothers, his home, his people. His weapon, just so, so simply, knocked out of his hand and clattered onto the cobblestone. And forgive him for staring, for he just thought that the man who had such enormous and unforgiving power would put up more of a fight, that maybe he’d secretly trained his body to be stronger than it looked, because from Errhendyle’s perspective, the man was basically paper. 

        Welp, unfortunately for Koumei he proved Errhendyle right,         which brings a clever grin to his face.

          ╚ ❝ Oh believe me sir, TALK we SHALL. ❞

        One can say that Errhendyle saw this coming. Judging from the gradual inching away and the hurried tone in his voice, the Zhezzuwan picked up on the signs of a coward if he ever saw one. He watches for one moment. Maybe something in his heart told him to wait, to give the prince a head start. Honor? Taking hold of his heart? Clearly he is insane to still have his honor so as to refuse hitting an opponent without a weapon. Ah, but this opponent so clearly deserved it. It’s child’s play, really. The head start is the forgiveness, the chase is the retribution.

        Errhendyle hates running with every fibre of his being, which means he has plenty of time to regurgitate all his hate for the Kou prince. Forgiveness? HA!! Where? He never felt a shred of pity. Now it’s all anger. Red hot and boisterous, and NO ONE was here to stop it!

        He catches up to the sluggish ball of disgust in what he’d like to call no time, but being so bulky admittedly weighs him down. Lucky for the Zhezzuwan, he had a good scaffold to grab onto as soon as he saw the red head of hair (soon to be missing due to scalping, stupid fool keeping his hair so long). A strong TUG!! and Koumei is being snatched right where Errhendyle wants him. Valha is singing now as she is pressed flush against the other’s scrawny neck. His lips, curled up and giddy, ghosts along the bastard’s ear. Laughing, laughing, oh he hasn’t LAUGHED like this in a long time, but he is laughing now.

          ╚ ❝ Do you have any last words, foreigner?                  Just remember, if you scream, you won’t                  be allowed into the gods’ castle to dine                  with them. ❞

「♔」;; ——

A moment’s glance, and Koumei is trying to match the man’s face to his memory. There isn’t anything that jumps out to him immediately, screaming an identity. This is a telling sign that this person was of no consequence to him, so he merely regards him with curiosity. After all, he clearly did not hail from Kou, so one had to wonder how he had managed to singlehandedly sneak into the palace walls. 

There is a moment of respectful silence as Koumei watches the mysterious figure caress the hilt of his blade with a tender kiss. Tilting his head, he analyzes the strange curve of his blade, the decorations upon the sheath. Now this is a tangible piece of his memory, and he racks networks of neurons to come up with the name of a region in the north. Ah yes, a particularly brutal conflict. Koumei had crafted the strategy himself, managing to outlast the nation with careful resourcing and the help of Dantalion.

But this means that he was in trouble, for there was no way a Zhezzan slave would be armed with a blade. Meaning, this free man was here for vengeance. This belated recognition of danger is reinforced by the announcement of impending bloodshed. Of course a savage from those brutal lands would seek to attack an unarmed prince—

That is, if Koumei was indeed unarmed. The prince clutched his metal vessel, raising the metallic hilt up to deflect the blade’s swing. This would have worked if Koumei had the physical prowess to back it up, but his arms are weak, and this assassin is strong, so his fan hits the ground uselessly.

”Ah.” He is staring at the fell vessel, and for once in his life, feels exceedingly stupid. He looks back up at his assailant. “I remember you now. You’re from Zhezzan. I recall the chieftain, Varrick. You attacked us once before. Perhaps we can… talk this out?”

Smart move. This man clearly just wanted to ‘talk’, after all. One look into those eyes, and Koumei could see his own death, skewered upon his blade. So Koumei takes a step back, and another, then turns tail and runs.

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It is impossible, after a certain point, to go back to a previous way of life, a previous way of thinking.

Henry Rollins, Solipsist (via jrbookman)

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║ ♢ The same goddamn treatment as before, huh? The first time he declared death to the Kou princes was too many years ago to count, but can this pitiful excuse for a human not even remember his bright ginger hair? His violet eyes? HIS GODDAMN ACCENT?!

        He brings Valha close to his face and kisses her hilt for good luck.

         ╚ ❝ May the gods bless the blade that draws your blood near!! ❞

        And swinging he goes.

「♔」;; ——

Was Koumei supposed to recognize this man, spewing venom in his face? “Simmer down, even the palace’s night guards deserve some rest now and then.”