#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ
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#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#kylo ren
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Oh? The dark into which she pushes rustles against her undaring fingers, a phantasm lacing for a handhold. She breathes transgressions.
Persephone is a taker. So they must give.
Ren shifts. These hands are very real, which further their intent past her arm. Which trek with such deliberate softness as to cast what he is in illegibility anew; this revenant, this scourge. His printless fingers twine with the deathbringers about her, relieving steel from sheath, teeth from home. She may keep none safe and secret. The shadows take care of those unreachable. Her blades clatter on the floor.
These are excess. You muzzle yourself. You are the violence. You are the blade.
One palm, bleak and otherly, comes to ebb in the hollow neath her jaw, and skull. But he does not touchโhe waits, that she would backwash into the black of her own naked will.
The shadow comes to take her tide out to sea.
DARK ON DARK. eyes on hollows, mask-to-face, breath-to-breath โ does he breathe? does he? does he? pull the mask off. find out. no โ do not disrespect.
paralyzed.
pushing in, touch-starved even for the caress of the dark. she exhales, shaky. the wound opens. โ yes. show me. โ
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#howlrs#:: ren persephone.#giggling over myself. uuuugh
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#kylo ren#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ
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renhara is actually a sitcom @petitsdieu
#when you try to hit ren *twice* and so he gets weirdly intimate with u#this is the funniest shit i've seen all week#(haren?)#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#ren v. hara: within thy nightmares mine shadow awakes
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#kylo ren#: helm.#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ
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@huntershowl //starter from the Ren.
||
The thing represents their blindness. Itโs a transport shuttle with all its parts ungreased, all dead. Theyโre stunted to an old age by the remnant vistas of their power as though it still is what only was, at one prior time, advancement.
The shuttleโs present dwellersโlike limbs of a breathing weaponโknow steeper powers.
They donโt fear us.
That one, crawling into the recondite film of the Shadow, is Vermis; passerby, or patron, fingering into such ant-bitten places as to turn out the innermost of wounds. There are several corners here in the belly of the shuttle, which now glides over a wall like a colosseumโs cracked ring around an outfit of unlit cratersโthe preferential truth beneath any great rule. She keeps to one whilst bleeding over all the others, scrawling her vapors over the porthole whereon her neuranium exoskull hooks.
They donโt know us.
This muck their ship courts, well, itโs no wonder. Before long, however, the droid valetโwhose likeness is man enough that he gives his unimportance away, overstrung in the spine where he pilots at deckโs fore, perhaps a serf or experiment but altogether useless to the Renโtakes them down from the murk of the stratos. The shuttle folds like an insect into a wet handhold. Into sight, they sink.
A shadow unspools from its crouch and becomes a monolith across two strides. It hangs over the half-droidโs back, and gazes out into the Duskโs bleak quick.
A childโs eyes might see nothing. The night might have scooped out the world from beneath them, replaced it with something breathing and sick. But the monolithโKylo, the body, the one they have already begun to call, simply, Renโhas witnessed such nothings as to lay the black beneath them naked.
โWhat is it?โ Vermis wonders, materializing there, her voice like a hangnail throbbing.
And Ren, like the low, skulking crackle of dry bone, โAn ocean.โ
Within the void clutch, a mount, whose age could be any or none. Ren holds there, the city and life already forgotten as solidity drags underway, with his formless, glistening eye like a mouth roused to open.
Then, as their course shifts, โAnd this?โ
Inorganic death, sprawling for miles across a shipyard. Those of oblique, hostile fingers slouched along a sandbed, perhaps the fortuitous shrine of some humanoid ship; or white, milky ovoids like shapeless spidersโ eggs, clusters under clusters of energy staring out from the side of a hill; and hereโapproachingโthe formless dance of light from sources unseeable, steepling toward the great house like a thousand airborne coelenterate.
The pilot catches himself between answers. He, unlike the Ren, has never witnessed anything.
But he does nowโVermis leans around the controls, small, boneless thing that she appears to be, and settles her pin eyes deep.
โEnough.โ
The eyes leap to Ren like floating red germs.
โThey will show us.โ
|||
The attendant ogles them as though they are the lucky ones.
To see inside the invisible, then, is even among their own such a privilegeโand the deeper their small company wades, a dark blur encroaching on the periphery of a monument, a dome, the further the cipher appears to coil. The smell, too, emits a facade; a feat of nature, a sweet place for the sun, to enshroud what dust and depth crawl underneath.
Vermis thinks the attendant should feel lucky to keep his eyes hereafter.
Instead, once upon the irisโ vault, he halts; he holds to his silence like a celibate; he puts his back to his masterโs vaulting door, and waits.
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#; ๐๐๐ง๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ง๐๐ฉ๐๐ค๐ฃ.#huntershowl#:: ren persephone.
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@deficd sent: i didn't remember, exactly. but my body did. (( kavra at ren ))
Remember?
The firmament's northmost hollows bloom the pinkest. The Ren had come and gone with the first snowfall, dragging down their pall from above. It matters little to their headmost what greater body was cut here, sluicing of the taiga a battlefield. What endures is only iodine, dust, and remnants from the infant fig of a sun; and this, only this, is lasting.
Until the next scourge comes and goes, and the sun dies again anew.
Ren's hand holds still. His silhouette a shape across whetted snow. He turns his visor'd thoughts to Kavra, waiting, as cherried blood and viscera cool.
Memory is transient, he concedes, and multifarious.
His hand smells of singed metal and memento mori. Only the quelled saber keeps it warm.
Your searching will end only when destroyed, or lain to rest.
Far ahead, her figure a hard slice atop hill, the Ren's Axis shifts her stance, remembering herself the destruction, and the rest.
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#deficd#:: kavra of ren.
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@deficd sent: โ your fascination with me will be your death. โ (( feyd at ren ))
โMmm.โ
They are no such soapbox orators. Even the Diae keeps a subtler cadence.
โIs this a threat?โ
The thing strips Feyd-Rautha's dressing room down to a tryout. He has less sway in the dark. His rows of knives and grislier blades look toothless under its way; the languid handfall across which the penumbra may yet reap. The mount of a body, which began before and will begin again.
Ren's unimpressed stride peruses an architect's love letter to strangleholds, with his starless eye ungiven, and unturned.
โWould you have me be threatened?โ The black-chip sound is meanest when so sober. You'd only guess whether it contemplates neutering either receiving ear.
Snoke believes all Giedi Prime threatens.
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#deficd#:: rautha ren.
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He lets go.
It might be more than she deserves. The Ren would hang his head on the bleakest swathes of Purgatuum if they were so abled, if they could speak the same way as he has done. For now, they'll bay at his choice to give her what she does not want. They'll say she doesn't deserve this pain. They'll say he should have her cling.
Till it kills her.
Ren's arm falls back into form. He steps off her livewire quiet, reminding her to remember the defiled mount on which they stand with the cast of his gaze. She will feel him looking if he wants it so. This is but one price she'll begin to pay.
Ren says, once last, I will not deny you forever. He's already halfway elsewhere, between planetary parameters; his shadow lapses into liminal space.
Peran is out there, in the milky between. Waiting.
Forever is an unsacred plane.
This hold is Alode.
Is power in her wherewithal? Or the lack of it.
Hara doesnโt need to see his face now. She feels all she needs to. If body talks, his hand tells nothing. He is as Pulseless as they come. If she'd only look with the eye behind her eye, see the squid ink of him staining her palm already.
Too busied looking at his.
She slips on new language. Right through frontal to occipital bone. Voice fills. This is a conversation unlike she's known. Never speaking through force. No one's accessed her like this; she's never accessed anyone like this either. This is as intimate as they can be. Or allowed. She could have giggled again.
Show me?
The Princess is a hothouse flower. Her lungs breathe warmth. In the end of Earth chill, Her palm reacts in a harsh, noticeable flinch, from his. Too distracted to listen to her inner โ this coalition would have her wilt.
To let go?
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#petitsdieu#ren v. hara: within thy nightmares a shadow awakes
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@protectmypeople *
It lets him go the very same way it took him: clemently. Cruelly.
Bellamy's throat is its own weapon. He has not realized this. He hasn't aged, yet, though he will, beyond their viscera-pink folds, where they are not just mindsโ bound in plastic, evolving perpetuityโ but bodies. One body, of the Ren.
He thought he was alone? He should beg, then. Beg that they excise him from their organs before he grows, before he rots.
Bellamy, still with his boy name, has not walked their bodied plane, but they have his. No other violation will cherish him so intimately so long as he lives. Nor after.
Ren had unspooled himself like a grave marker across the storage egress. Shadow could've bled this little space dry, what trifle it's been reduced to by the guilt of the meek; another day, and he would have. Instead, he'd hung himself over Bellamy's sorrow. For its taste.
Now he but waits.
โIt will.โ Simple. Like a physical law, although the others would sooner pluck out Bellamy's eyes than let his conscience rest. Than let him wear one upon his face.
Ren, however, is perhaps curious. His vocoders crawl a resonance like wonder from a taciturn stock.
โYour guilt runs as thick as your blood; it doesn't sprout from nowhere. It has a seed.โ
The Corellians did not die softly. These were runners of the same cloth within which traitors are born. The farther Rims wilt and deliquesce on death's prow, devolving at the behest of First Order flagships. But these trade mutts, disposed, always, to cling to an age forever unforgiven in the eyes of the Ren, will not even be allowed the peace of a black sea, or of ghosts.
โYou degrade yourself with your shame. Do you believe it spares you?โ
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๏ฟฝ๏ฟฝ๏ฟฝ๏ฟฝ๐ง๐๐จ#protectmypeople#:: bellamy ren.#( longer than intended but i'm ~inspired. )
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โ fix me. โ (whatever/whomever inspires)
โFix?โ
The Valkyrie would rise as a stave to the fated end. An isolated margin on the Styx of time. This, her purpose, she and her sisters all. Or so went the stories, before it was over.
โYou haven't bled enough?โ
Ren is interested in the silence. In that black and charged mote between pens where they bleed their holy words. Ren dips his fingers for what is secret, yet unhiding.
โYou are lost.โ
So the Ren's servile had said. So he had said without opening his mouth or otherly spill at all.
โYou do not wish for ends. You are nothing so paltry.โ
Ren's solid footfalls like the faraway, thumping heartbeat, shimmering among the darkest mists. He comes to a pause before Brunnhilde's kneeling curl, his head a black, downcast ray. He has been wrong before.
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#valkxrie
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@rensect *
Numberless nights and as many days. Figless, monoblack days.
He comes, as he has done, as a foreigner, native to nothing. And neither requiem nor dirge speak wherefrom he afflicts his shineless voice upon the wind.
โThey speak to me.โ
Scraping, this wind. That is not just the putrid froth of enshrined metal elbows. That is not solely the voltaic tang of tomb carrying over tomb. Cleaner still is the song which oppresses this rudderless, hollow prism, which only stranger pigments pass through. Shaven off in refractions.
He comes in more or less than shadow. Wonderer, tonight. Faceless as her voice, though bodied by its blade.
The spinal jut of his chin angles down, two metal glares fixing, mixing. Emergent as of this nocturnal globe's macabre glim.
It stares until it is a body whole. A body in the den of a forsaken prayer.
โTell me of your wantless blood.โ
In the repose of vicious mockeryโit knows. Wantless is the blood, instincting apart from them.
#โthe vampyrโ robin carolan.#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#rensect#:: pernix ren.#โthis isn't from july is it?โ yes. yes it is
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He had come alone. Had he plucked forth his weaponsโany one of them, numerous and resplendent in their glory as well as their painโfrom ventricles of their one bodyโdepthless, dismal meadow become formโthey would have come. He needed only say; or gesture, tilt the sheath of his undying gaze. Tip the crest of his fist. Silence would be enough.
Ren did nothing. The color of his power was that of sombre escarpments in abyssal skies. Edifices made of the same sand that brushes cheeks, and topples cities. He had no soul to speak of.
The tatters of what may have been, once, many deaths past, were gone with their ghosts. Perhaps what Ren now put forthโsomething dogged, an achromic body hewn to its most vicious and, thus, primordial armamentsโwas the husk, blood, and bone. Perhaps he lay with his shell.
But his presence was no answer. It was only the question. She pried, teeth, tongue, and claw, and all her valorous devices besides, he suspected. He perched, cross-legged, beneath the spattered soul of the world laid out across the sky; like retinal capularies, blooming. Endless.
โWill you sing the songs of this annihilation?โ Ren but angled his helm. โYou are of the Valkyrie. The women reapers. I've heard the stories; I know of songs woven by blades.โ He'd come to see if there were such things as holiness, falling. โWhat would you sing to the wake of a ruin?โ
Ren's arms hung over his knees, the edifices of his shoulders concealing the mountain of his form. The blade she spoke of lay, small and unignited, upon soot-blackened sand.
โI give you no pity, Valkyrie. I have none to give. Still. I wonder at what such a place must once have been; this failed relic of a realm.โ
โI will gouge out the throats of the holier than thou.โ (Ren.)
@nightmarefuele
Disparate. Ungoverned. Godless. Lawless. Standing in the ashes of a planet that had once lived and breathed but now existed only as a husk. As a shell. As a monument to the folly of a one-eyed god whose realm had been snuffed out and replaced with the teeth and hide of wolves.
Ragnarok. No mouth uttered the word, but it reverberated through each mind. Over and over; a howl, a growl, a promise. Asgard was gone, Valhalla was empty, and the souls of a thousand by a thousand warriors coloured the sky as a bloody aurora.
The echo of the battle would have rippled through the realms. A sonic boom that declared death. Few remained; listless, aimless, unshackled. Wandering the universe. Her sisters were gone; scattered to the stars. Dismissed to their own devices.
He had spoken to her there; as she stood in the skeleton of a home perched on a cliff. Blonde hair soot stained. Elegant hands coated in blood. Wings still armoured, still unfurled. Humming with power for those who knew how to sense their silence.
Fingers closed around a spear, made of a metal not yet known to man. Her gaze climbed the black of him. Her eyes sought to see past his armour and find the colour of his power. Of his soul.
"You will need a bigger blade."
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#valkxrie
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@petitsdieu asked,
โ oh wellย โย i hope itโs a quick death โ ( one dead brother pls. ) ( can also be pass tense to โit wasโ if needed, ) PART II.
She should be well used to disappointment.
โIt wasn't.โ
The Stygian menhir drops a body in the round at her sandaled feet. By design of whatever shelled Belarilian genus, the floor undulates forever against the head that smacks there. Without objection. There's a wet hole the size of a pointed finger opened in the seat of the boy's larynx. Like it was coerced there, pried outโ on a glaring glimpse of hard, which is boneโ against a thumb. As indelicate as not. Generous.
Its socket seeps plums, perfect round globules as overripe as the fruit. As stiff-solid. It makes somewhere between a pop and a gurgle for sound. Like the tongue's trying to fill the space. Or the pus-white nose. The chewed cheek sutured out like mealworms.
โHe isn't dead.โ
Heir brother, no more now than a boy, will rupture his throat for a valley if he tries to speak. And this is not the worst of it. This is only his throat, what she can see.
Ren has prowled backward, soaked in the liquid grim of shadows. There's a moon tugging around the glass doors that ring their circle, private but not pristine. High and low. He makes of the south wing a purgatory like so many other realms.
What he is stays where he is. His breadth crawls no further. His vocoders have unlearned the language of explanations; so has his epinephrine machine-pulse. Nothing unasked is worth offering.
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#petitsdieu
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โ do not stop until you are no longer yourself. what comes next will handle the rest. โ

โช๏ธ sporadic activity โช๏ธ
muse directory. anime companion blog @maskfetisch.
if you follow first, please reach out first.
or shoot over a prompt from your lists or mine. (#.nightmare.fuel)
#.nightmare.fuel#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#: ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐ก๐ค๐ง๐ ๐๐ฉ ๐๐๐ฃ๐ฉ๐๐ช๐ข#: ฮนฮทัฯะผฮทฮนฯ
ะผ#: ๐ค๐ ๐ง๐๐ฃ.#: otherworld.#: the stranger โค qimir.#: ๐๐๐ ๐๐ผ-๐ฝ๐ผ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฟ-๐๐ผ๐๐๐๐ผ#: ๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ณ๐ช๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐๐ถ๐ณ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ#: ๐ข ๐จ๐ข๐ถ๐ป๐ฆ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ค๐ฉ๐ช๐ฆ๐ง ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ#::๐๐๐ฃ: ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐๐ง๐ง๐ค๐ฌ ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฝ๐ค๐ฃ๐#::๐๐ฎ๐ก๐ค: ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐ค๐ช๐ฃ๐#::๐๐ ๐๐๐#: ๐น๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ถ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐
๐พ๐๐พ๐๐#{ poets' repository#{ artists' repository#{ audiophile#: ๐ท๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ถ๐ฃ๐ช ๐ท๐ข๐จ๐ข๐ณ๐ช๐ด
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Would she envisage him thus? In her unlucid eyes? Would she try to?
Mmm.
More acknowledgement than most are likely to receive. He's more with her than he is with many, even as a real thing.
Interesting punishment, Ren doesn't voice (here, there, wherever) โ sensible. With his own hands he has been made to chain down a knight, and he called this servitude. He's pained them with substitutes for pain.
With his own hands, he has clutched himself awake across a tremoring world of skin, which was his, long ago. Every now and then, the piece of the dark he calls Master buries him back, back, into that boy skin. 'To remember, and learn.'
Why wait?
The rumble of him sticks there, contemplating. To give answer would be as worthwhile as his silence. But . . . she asked. And he, too, wonders things. ( He wonders about what he recognizes, even a liminal space away. )
I know because I wished to. And others were looking; you aren't discreet.
@nightmarefuele said:
"Did they lock you in here?" (from yk who.) protective starters. ACCEPTING
โ THEY MAY AS WELL HAVE. โ THE WORDS contain no bitterness directed at her employer. only exhaustion โ at the circumstance, and at herself for being stupid enough to get caught in her most vulnerable state. โ they can get me out any time they want. this is as much a punishment as a direct hand. โ somewhere, fletch waits for what they deem an adequate moment to make the call, the blackmail, the infiltration. usually a few days. sometimes weeks.
despite the hound's complete inability to fight back, the imperial military soldiers sent in lieu of bluecoats still clapped full-block shackles over the creature's ankles and hands. this time, they didn't make the mistake of processing her; they simply used the immortal emperor's warrant to bypass fair trial and threw her in solitary.
it was a smart move, they have to admit. the last time they tried to lock her down, she killed fifteen inmates because their de facto leader tried to lay a hand on her. sometimes she wonders if fletch keeps her here just to see what she will do.
the voice reverberates through persephone's skull, fingerlike, as disconcerting and familiar as the singing rush of blood through muscle & vein. they cannot see him in the pitch-dark, but there is no need to. he is not here โ he cannot be. the prison would have sounded the alarm if he were.
if persephone were any less exhausted she would have reacted defensively. aggressively. but the kill they committed today, and the world-eater tide of rage that fueled it, leaves her shaking and spent. in truth, they aren't even positive this interaction is real โ it would not be the first time they hallucinated after a kill.
โ what do you care? how did you know? โ
#: ๐ซ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ฉ๐๐ข ๐ช๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐จ#huntershowl#:: ren persephone.#the other one has been sitting almost fully finished in my drafts since the day you replied :') i am not here rn i am sludge
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