#‵ *.: ⚘ :.*・❨ 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 ❩・ ⏤ god only knows what kind of tales you tell. ′

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ comets & cicadas ･ ′

There is something chilling about Benjamin Banneker's poetic assessment of cicadas and their likeness to comets. Excerpts of the analogy flash occasionally in her mind, like sepia-toned memories playing beneath closed eyes.

"... but they, like the comets, make but a short stay with us..."

She is on the rooftop, knees tucked against her chest while her eyes scan the night sky. The soft purple of dusk clings to the edge of where land meets the heavens before surrendering to the inky dark of night's domain. Constellations are captured within cobalt depths, mapping out pieces of her history ⏤ transmission signals between past and present. The line of communication is not apparent, but it's there is dialogue in the form of thin wires suspended within the atmosphere, wavering to and fro like waves. Eventually these strings start to tighten, she feels it pull within her. She cannot stay where she is for long. Something calls.

"... their lives are short, they are merry. they begin to sing or make a noise from first they come out of the earth till they die..."

When a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis, it is rebirth. It rises from the broken rind of its former life anew. From beneath, when gold emerges in the form of cracks along her skin, is this something new? Or something she forced herself to bury like some unknown precious mineral? Or something she lets sleep, dormant until it can't any longer and emerges out screaming?

She remembers how it burned when ichor overtakes blood ⏤ striking lightning, forming roots and branches out of gold ( is it no coincidence that they all look the same, as though Nature intended it? ). That was before it became as natural as a snake shedding its skin. She doesn't know what to make of it, and thus, she lets herself soar, as above, but tethered, so below.

"... the hindermost part rots off, but it does not appear to be any pain to them..."

Flowers, fungi, or bones. It's hard to determine on weathered marble bas-reliefs of women reverently holding the potential aforementioned aloft, bewitching many scholars alike. However, what still remains to be translated are the mysteries of which the ephemeral incessantly reoccurs, like a once-bare branch exalted in bloom in spring after winter. Perhaps incessant isn't quite the right world, but rather, inevitable.

Roxanne would have to guess that inevitability extends to cicadas having to dig their way past mulching petals, mycelium, and hollowed, splintered bone to breach the surface only for a short taste of freedom and merrimaking before they too, must return to the earth rotting away. She would also figure that it goes the same for comet tails pinching off and dissipating into the void of space when they return for their short, appointed hour in dramatic fashion. One would think borrowed time is a sad waste... a loss, but no, it's a small victory. At least to her it is. It doesn't hurt anymore.

"... for they continue on singing till they die..."

For now, she can celebrate what she leaves behind in the wake of the days she mourned what she thought she lost. She feels there is no sense of feeling the weight of being so disproportionate to the rest of the world, like an incorrect measurement of whatever this is. Bearing the burden of ancient ills on her shoulders and carrying out good will in the creases of her palms felt normal to her, at least now she thinks it should... while relieved, at times she wonders if such serenity in embracing this is as limited as the lives of comets and cicadas.

The soft cool of the summer evening and the chirping of crickets ground her again, edges of roof tiles softly digging into her legs to remind her that such familiarity is still to be found. Her neck starts to strain from her fervently staring past the Moon's pale face to the stars twinkling beyond. Message received. The wires run slack and she finds her way down with ease, pulling imaginary wavelengths close to her heart. This is something new.

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ cold mirror ･ ′

Seldom do people heed the fineprint found across the bottom of side-view mirrors warning drivers that "objects may be closer than they appear." Though, it cannot be blamed, most perils are not clear nor evident at first. For instance, an alligator's reflective eyes beneath the surface of a lake at night could be mistaken for a pair of stars placidly burning in the darkened sky ⏤ a mere reflection; ghost-light in comparison to the real marvel above, but you are still drawn in. In the end, you don't know you're within striking distance until it's too late.

For Roxanne, change came with surgical precision and without anaesthesia. There are days where she feels like she's been flayed and skewered before onlookers in an operating theatre, and then re-stitched again with unsaid wishes, expectations, and desires from said onlookers. Voiceless appraisals from the unseen make her muscles convulse and seize involuntarily, paralyzing her under their wide, watchful gaze, waiting on bated breath to see what she'll do next. Or worse, salivating over the fruit borne from malpractice in her ( re ) creation and ( un ) making. It makes her sick, it all makes her sick.

There's not a day where she wants to claw out ichor clogging her veins, burning her from the inside like a lethal injection. She wished ever so terribly to not feel like some part of her is drowning, smothered by something else ⏤ something so meticulously grafted within, disjointed and mismatched with all that should be there. The worst part is, she isn't the only one aware of it. Others are finding her too disharmonious, her being beyond comprehension like static channeling through a broken staccato. This is where she finds herself tightroping along the periphery, unpermitted to enter and yet forcefully pulled into places she will haunt. She can feel herself enclosed within temple walls, holed up and bounded by architecture that she has no desire to call home.

So she lashes out, a carnage that cannot be merely described or seen. Beneath wary gaze and clenched fists, it appears far too modest like the red blossoming beneath her palms from her nails biting into her skin. Especially in comparison to the volcanism erupting within fissures on her brain, vision swimming in hot and blinding light. She swears she can feel divinity foaming storm-like in her mouth; everything tasting like hot iron. It's a surprise that she hasn't gone on a rampage with slivers and dust lodged in her skin from trying to break out of her self-imposed prison of imaginary embossed shrines constructed out of ceramic and plastic. She doesn't believe it's where she can blossom and grow ( forever entombed in a gold-veined, vacuous mausoleum ), above all, not within myopic vision blurred by tears shed over a life long forfeited.

She is a broken constellation. A million pieces, crushed, tamped, shattered over and over again. The only thing keeping her centred is pure ire and disdain that no syllables can truly pronounce, that no proper words can form when teeth are firmly locked in combat with grief ⏤ a soft-tissued, wriggling, demure little thing resigned to its resentful keeper. Her. The forming apparition within its confines, seething like acid unable to chew through impassive walls. Her. A fractured conglomerate of stars dancing across the surface of the water where, in reality, she is the heated, reflective glare staring back from below.

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ from where there are no heavenly bodies ･ ′

There are no fair negotiations for things that lie beyond one's control. Of course, there's a more succinct and colloquial way of putting it: life is not fair.

Fingers idly pluck at steel strings, thrumming out a continue empty twang in the air, buoyed only by some sort of forlorn idleness; as though passivity seized all motor control in a soft-palmed hostile takeover. Roxanne hardly does anything without intent, she's never aimless. The thought, "Was any of this ever mine?", never crossed her mind until recently. Everything at this point might as well slip through her fingers like sand imbued with shards of glass. It's not like she can tighten her grip in hopes that the bleeding will stop and cycle back into her veins.

But perhaps, there might have been something she could have done in order to allow herself the peace to not be… for once.

A string snaps loose and whips against her finger, leaving a pink wake upon her skin. She stares at it for a while, watching it fade the instant it appears. It's a small lapse in concentration, in which she easily remedies by taking the string and refastening it. Nothing really stings, it's pale. Bloodless.

By the time she finishes the menial task at hand, she suddenly doesn't feel like playing anymore and sets her guitar back on its stand. With nothing but pure instinct leading her, she ambles out of her room and finds her way to the front porch. She stares at the house ahead, her neighbour from across the street emerges with her golden retriever-poodle mix. She smiles and waves at Roxanne, and Roxanne returns a wave of her own but the smile on her face is as artificial as plastic petals.

She can't remember if there was a time where things were far more simple, the memories feel like a collage of someone else's life. Akin to patchwork, swaths of fabrics sewn together but the colours and frames fail to fall in line with the overall scheme and design. She wants all of it to work ⏤ to be hers. And so she pulls herself into frenzied nights out with friends, dissonant laughter in hallways, music flourishing but not quite reaching its peak. Empty promises to herself to live on her own terms. She honestly thought she could get herself a cut of a self-congratulatory slice of cake and eat it, too.

So, count your parts and measure them twice, because you can only cut once…

Whatever semblance of normalcy she once had was proven a falsehood, there's no form to really return to other than blissful ignorance. A time where she felt alive, but now all of her history seems to be composed of someone else's memories. A fever dream. Images fluctuate and bend into each other like a kaleidoscope. She is merely the spectator, taking in everything and nothing all at once. For all the times she attempted to rehouse, reshape, and rebuild a sense of belonging, the home she ended up creating still remained untrustworthy. A life built off artifice ought to do that; foundation as fragile as a porcelain vase.

There is no turning water into blood.

What exactly is there to trade in exchange for that? Roxanne internally asks herself, and she has no intention of really getting an answer. Could she have gone another way home? Could she have avoided that gateway demon? Could she have dutifully wore the charm her guardians meticulously crafted so that she does not fall into awaiting jaws of a world that was kept from her?

Such questions make her vision fog over, so she turns back inside the house after mere minutes of being outside ( to her it felt like hours ). Her steps remain aimless when she retreats down the halls and finds herself plopped on the living room couch, muscle memory guiding the remote into her hand and she flicks on the TV. She hopes it will silence the slow drone from which every cell in her body is being replaced by something other than human. Mindless chatter from flickering channels do little to tame the turmoil haunting her mind, like a thundering echo within an emptied bullet chamber. Her feeble attempt in her continued search for something to keep her rooted and real has finally landed her on a live news broadcast featuring a local farm, celebrating the birth of a two-headed calf from last night.

Something trembles in Roxanne, but she only stares blankly. A two-headed anomaly, unexpectedly blessed with the ability to gaze upon twice as many stars the night it was born. In her case, so she believes, it would be an overwhelming relief have that second head removed immediately. The poor thing would have hours, or if lucky enough, mere days left to spend on Earth. Wouldn't that be a fair trade? To cut out a part that is only measured by its remarkability in exchange for an unexceptional life that will be well lived and untouched by misfortune?

She doesn't even notice Mallory entering in, the shadowed goddess standing by the screen and partially illuminated its glow. Her beloved guardian felt so far away.

❝What is it my child? I sensed you were in trouble.❞ Mallory closed the distance, kneeling next to the couch and enclosing Roxanne's face within the palm of her hands. They were cool but never truly devoid of warmth. ❝What is wrong?❞

❝Nothing...❞ There is a strange fizz accenting her voice, ❝Is mine. Even if I tried.❞

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ on divinity ･ ′

She feels it course through her veins on occasion; ichor barreling through like a barrage, bracing itself to and gilding every cell in her body until they all sing in unison. It thrums loudly, like rolling thunder, sending lightning through, bouncing along nerves to remind her ( and others ) who she is. 

Roxanne doesn’t forget those who shy away from her, acting as though she were an unyielding flame. She throws a cursory glance at her companion, Sadyrra, bearing the skin of a woman hiding a wolf beneath. While the other woman worked away on her laptop, Roxanne can see the tense sinew of her hands roving beneath brown skin. All ligaments, tendons, bones, and muscles working in tandem to emulate movement not too dissimilar to a wolf pawing in the soil, flexing its clawed toes and leaving troughs in the ground. 

❝Hey, ‘Dyrra?❞ Roxanne pipes up, her voice soft yet clear through the quiet, through the soft slant of light coming in through the window, through the dust motes swirling gold. ❝What do you see when you look at me?❞

The shifter pauses for a moment, acrylic maroon nails no longer furiously typing away. Sadyrra swivels in her chair to face Roxanne, eyes that are a pale shade of green meeting her deep cobalt blues. The she-wolf only holds her gaze for a moment before suddenly shying away, her demeanour uncharacteristically that of a shorn sheep. Strange. The shift in behaviour coaxes Roxanne’s head to a tilt.

❝I see… a lot, and it’s sorta scary.❞ Sadyrra admits, her eyes flickering towards Roxanne for a moment and then away from her again.

❝How so?❞

Sadyrra takes a moment to recollect herself, leaning back in her chair and propping her arm against the backrest. Then her maroon-varnished nails now tap against the arm of the chair in a rhythmic and steady drone. The godling’s eyes flicker to Sadyrra’s hand once again, now recalling their first encounter. It was a simple greeting, an affirmation of camaraderie that established some sort of connection ⏤ a bond forged by a legacy tied to a cause. Roxanne recalls how Sadyrra’s hand suddenly recoiled from hers within a few seconds of their palms meeting for a handshake. The memory of the she-wolf immediately shrinking away with eyes wider than plates, brought a resurgence of the guilty and confusing pang in her chest from their introduction. Then it starts to make sense. At least, by a small margin.

❝You’re a lot.❞ Sadyrra is finally able to turn and face her fully, ❝When we first met, it’s like I was actually struck by lightning… there was a bright flash that blinded me for a couple of seconds. It’s as if somebody smashed a flash grenade into my face and left me to deal with the consequences. And then… your eyes have this intense glow and your veins light up, and that’s something you already know from… well… anyway...❞

The imagery summons up memories of liquid inferno running through her body, threatening to break out at the seams. Her skin cracking to reveal molten gold underneath, her eyes taken on an unearthly shade of blue. Moments where she almost surrendered herself to ascension, a supernova contained in such a fragile form. Already, she feels something needle at her from within, threatening to remind her once again. 

❝Yeah, okay… so that’s not n-❞ She abruptly cuts in, wanting to dismiss the feeling.

However, Sadyrra interjects, ❝But there’s something else, the space around you… no… the room… or wherever we are… when you come out… it’s like everything's pitch black. We only see you and we only feel you. It’s just you. In the dark. And it feels like if we stare too long, we’ll explode.❞

❝What?!❞

❝Well… yeah? You’ve seen how we reacted before we got used to… you.❞ The she-wolf shrugs after clearing her throat. She then returns to her laptop, her focus suddenly reignited. ❝That’s how everybody knows what you are…❞

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ dream in phosphorescence ･ ′

Something about the sun strikes everything gold; the foaming crests of waves, the tips of pine needs, and the thin veil of fog. Fortified into something precious, the form doesn't change nor does the nature of it, rather, it's a flimsy, pretty costume that is temporarily donned until the light disappears. The sunset sinks as slow as resin bleeding out of the trunk of a tree. As it disappears, the amber dew against aged bark flash like gold beads momentarily before night stakes its claim over the sky. The whole world is none the wiser of sharp eyes of the deepest blue greedily seize and chase the golden hour as it slips away.

[pararennial-archived]

*‵ ･ uncanny valley ･ ′

She wonders how long it will be until she, herself, becomes uncanny? She won’t emerge anew as she did when she rose from the broken rind of her former life, no. Divinity will embalm her body, ensuring that everything remains but only as a facsimile. Like… an artificial flower. 

One day, she examined the rivulets of vermillion dried from a long-healed wound running down her arm. To the undiscerning eye, she bleeds as a normal person should. But when the sunlight catches and kisses her, threads of gold mesh with the red, as thin tendrils that whisper of the inevitable. Whatever tangibility of what made her real, natural, human, a person, might as well be cremated within the apotheotic flames of godhood. She fears that she would no longer be able to form her own image. How can she? From plastic petals, stems, and leaves? How long will it be until the red of her blood will be rendered to molten gold? Like embalming fluid, merely preserving what is already there but replacing all the substance. 

As all artificial flowers, posted in a vase on a mantelpiece ⏤ she cannot shake the foresight of a future within an encased altar; being a wasteful, guzzling thing that fed on nothing substantial but on the appraisal of others, to be displayed as something sublime, counted upon for security, a promise of something evergreen. Eternal. She does not want that. She does not want to be broken down to a mere concept housed within a beautified outer shell, a human parody, of essentially what was. She is not meant to encase a summary of ideations and desires, as though she were a vessel that held no water; not for her to drink, nor for others to drink. The thought of it churns her stomach, and with a misplaced sense of relief, the sensation reminds her that she is indeed who she claims to be, wants to be, and wishes to remain so. Maybe… that was something that could be preserved.

Although, she can only remain familiar for so long…

[pararennial-archived]

"I... grow tired of this."

Whomever spoke bore the exhausted wrath of thunder moving windward after it has wrought its destruction. The stench of iron along with sulphur hung thick in the air, anointing the lamp-lit street with a heavy miasmic presence. Bathed in yellow, Roxanne turned towards her newfound company. A demon with its claws dripping in viscera, it's hollow eyes glowing pinpricks of red. The face it bore was that of a stag's skull, but it had the teeth of a wolf.

The godling blinked in response, somewhat tense, uncertain if there was ill will in the demon's intentions. But then it spoke again.

"I used to revel in the punishment of foul humans. But now, I am exhausted. I was created for this, to enforce what should be. But they never learn. They remain wicked. All of them. They still persist even when I am here. Collecting their lives like debts owed and they do not see that I am what they should fear for their misdeeds. I am inconsequential. Inadequate."

She drew out a soft breath, it hollowed her chest and she relaxed.

❝Do you want a hug?❞

The demon hesitated, shifted beneath the halo of dim streetlights. Its hulking frame still, save for the rising and falling of its massive shoulders. The low snarls that echoed with each breath softened as she drew closer, momentarily away from the safety of the lights and crossed into the darkness to meet it. When she was close, the demon leaned into her outstretched arms and embraced her, large claws interlocking around her shoulders.

"I do not like this work."

❝I know, and you want only comfort, not advice.❞ She replied, her hand already smoothing down the creature's umber mane. ❝It's not fair with what is being asked of us, that we do as what nature instructs us. We have done all we can to keep the world in balance, but it feels like nothing has really been made better by what we do, does it? Like you, I do not like it all that much myself.❞

A shaky sigh reverberated in Roxanne's eardrums, it eased into the very core of her chest. The demon's bared rib cage slotted against her torso, she could feel its bones rattle and shake. She responded with a sigh of her own, comfortably resting her cheek against her companion's furred shoulder.

❝You found me because you know that I know, is that right?❞

"Yes. You... understand."

❝Go... rest. You're still needed here.❞

"As are you."

[pararennial-archived]

worldbuilding tag dump.

[pararennial-archived]

Tag drop 2.

[pararennial-archived]

‘ follow the thread on the other side. ’

something sweet, something threatening...

            The advice eventually worms its way into memory, surrounded by the preternatural glow of this plane of existence. While lost in this strange bioluminescent world, she manages to find her bearings enough that she avoided the ire of the denizens that roam this foreign terrain. She is an outsider and they’d be more than happy to dispatch her, especially when her still-living vibrant soul resounds like a beacon. 

             Her eyes flit about nervously, taking in the surreality of the situation and she tries to recall what was shared with the allotted moments of quiet:

             ❝If you ever find yourself in a situation where life and death are in limbo, remember, your path will make itself known to you and you only. Follow the ‘thread’ to the other side.’❞ Eerie’s voice rings out with a gentle baritone, while they lift the kettle off the element and poured a cup of hand-harvested tea. A blend of rosehips, nettle, and wild mint. ❝You’re somebody who’s more intuitive than most, your ‘Aunt’ would have known with the way she raised you and your brother.❞

             Eerie passes the mug to Roxanne, filling the gap between them with the sweet scent of the herbs brewing in the water. The godling looks at Eerie, brows raised, ❝What do you mean?❞

            The noaidi paused, returning the same look with their brows raised as well. For Roxanne it is difficult to read the other at times, even when they are being amicable, they still hold an infrangible stoicism. Eerie fixes her with the same cool, turquoise stare the first time they met and then they settle themself into the chair opposite of her and leaned forward.

            ❝While you don’t have the makings of someone who can easily tap into the spirit world like most shaman, it’s undeniable that you have a way with the world.❞ They pause to ensure she’s following them, and she was, but the look on her face betrays wonder and intrigue, and they could easily sense more questions just dancing on the tip of her tongue. ❝Your strength lies in your empathy, Roxy. You can feel and sense things that most people can’t.❞

           When they were met with silence as a indication of Roxanne still digesting this information, they use the privilege of said silence to draw a sip of their tea. All the while, their eyes are still trained on the woman, sitting across, still pondering and likely recalling moments where this gift manifested.

          ❝In short,❞ Eerie barges in amidst her reverie, ❝You’ve got the tools, Roxanne, and you should use them. Pay more heed to what your senses are telling you. And like I said, if you get caught somewhere otherworldly,❞ they pause and lean over, and tapped Roxanne’s forehead with a smirk, ❝Don’t fuck it up.❞

               She opens her eyes into the dimly lit world once again, and she feels her gravity centred. And yet at the same time, she feels herself pooling around her feet, seeping into what cannot be described as earth but it is the ground she stands upon. She feels herself reaching out while remaining where she stood until she feels something tug in her chest. Roxanne squints in response to what she thought she saw. It wavers in and out of tangibility and visibility until it shimmers in the soft glow of the realm and finely tapers itself into a thin line. Her “thread.” 

           The once forlorn godling instinctively reaches out and grasps at it, although, it felt like nothing but she’s certain there’s something there. With renewed confidence, she strides forward. 

           ❝Let’s go.❞

@dethqveen

[pararennial-archived]

‘ something to confide in. ’ ( fUCK YES )

sleep token? more like weep token

       Finally, he relents and squirms his way in, which regrettably she hasn’t been able to customize the makeshift blanket fort to his large stature. After awkward wriggling, and shifting around, and muttering did Ash finally settle somewhat comfortably next to her. Albeit, at her rather aggressive insistence. With a sigh, she settles in her new spot, which is nearly being squished against the side of whatever furniture she draped the blankets over. 

       ❝Yes, I’m absolutely happy now.❞ Her voice drips with surprisingly good-natured sarcasm, ❝See that wasn’t so bad now?❞ Ash only replies with a grunt that can easily be mistaken for a rumble of thunder. She rolls her eyes at the weak display of irateness, knowing well that he is not going to begrudge her any longer. Despite the cramped quarters, she makes sure to leave at least a modicum of space between them, as to not make this any more awkward or uncomfortable as it is already.

        ❝Dude, I know you think this is dumb or silly, but it’s necessary.❞ She knows what to do, she has to, there are no questions about it. She takes a moment to gather herself, wanting to make sure the words she will say next have been chosen carefully. ❝You’ve got a lot going on, and I’m starting to see it with Blue.❞

         Dead silence. The statement wedges itself between them, rendering the so-called Blanket Fort of Safety, a battleground where both sides reach an impasse. Cobalt meets crimson. Roxanne’s eyes don’t break away from Ash’s hardened gaze; unflinchingly, she gives him a rather pointed look. Although, softened by a gentle expression ⏤ one that she always wears when around close company. 

         Finally, a sigh tumbles out, slightly muffled by his mask and his shoulders sag, ❝Is that so?❞ He runs a hand through thick tresses of hair, just grazing the single horn that remained. The demon averts his eyes, demeanour changed to that of a shorn sheep. Roxanne waits for him, and she always will. And hence, no further prodding is needed when Ash is ready to face her again, his expression noticeably softer. Even when the mask on, she can see how visibly relaxed he looked, there was a huge difference when his face is pulled taut by a frown. 

         ❝It must be getting to him, after all he’s been through. Because of me, because of what we did, because of fa-❞ He abruptly stops and falters, uncharacteristically clapping his hand over his covered mouth. Roxanne involuntarily leans forward, attentive to what he might say next. But he doesn’t say anything, he trembles. He inhales sharply, eyes swimming with emotion that Roxanne has never seen. The demon cannot bring himself to say anything more, especially not in front of her. No. No. No.

      Suddenly it is as though Roxanne isn’t present with him at the moment, and the blankets feel like a lead shroud hanging over him. Caught in a haze of nauseating white noise, echoing with voices of the past and the cacophony of bloodshed that was his former life. His only saving grace is the abrupt movement in the corner of his eye and Roxanne’s voice cutting in rather jarringly through the din, ❝Hey, no need to say more.❞ 

     Ruby eyes flicker back to Roxanne, whom was already beginning to pull the corners of the blankets out of the crevices of couch cushions. Rather suddenly, he grabs ahold of her wrist, startling the godling. The alarmed look on her face brings him back to reality, and he slumps against the cushion already mumbling apologies. 

      ❝Don’t worry about it, that was too much for me to ask.❞ She replied, with a look of relief and guilt on her features. ❝Are you okay?❞

      ❝Yeah... yeah, I am.❞ Ash says, his voice sounding incredibly worn. ❝I just... I think I need a little more time. And it’s a lot.❞ He looks up at Roxanne, eyes bleary and still full of the indescribable emotion from minutes prior. He can’t be around her, and yet he doesn’t want her to leave him alone with the past. ❝Will you be okay with ‘a lot’ when I’m ready?❞

     ❝Of course.❞ Roxanne assured, and resumes her place with him amidst the now half-collapsed blanket fort.

[pararennial-archived]

‘ nobody else can pull me out. ’ (talking about his bro 100%)

sleep token? more like weep token

     Seldom does one have a choice in their fate and seldom do people find a way out of it. A realization made from what was supposed to be idle chit-chat and now potentially a blown-out therapy session. Roxanne sits half folded, elbows on her knees atop a concrete barrier, overlooking blackened waves, crested by moonlight and neon. She picks her head up and looks at her companion. 

      ❝I’m fucked either way.❞ Blue mumbles, staring rather forlornly at the flickering lights of the cityscape resting over the inlet. The godling only stares back for a moment, trying to find anything to say for the sake of consoling the other. Her gaze lingers onto the smouldering blue embers forming in his hand, a solemn reminder of what he is. 

       ❝Even if I can go back or stay, I’ll still be stuck.❞ He continues, ❝At least Ci- I mean- Ash, is here, but that’s because of me.❞ She notes the stumble, but is willing to dismiss a possible artefact of their past lives. Although, she may have found her response and the words that may follow. She sits up a little, and maneuvers herself on the concrete barrier, so she can face Blue. 

      ❝Maybe that’s it, you still have Ash.❞ At that, the demon turns his eyes onto her, weary and bearing a dubious look on his face. ❝Just hear me out,❞ She replies, ❝I know that shit is pretty tired, but you’ve got family. I don’t know what it was like between you and him in the past, but I think he’s really trying.❞ 

      The demon’s fists clench, quivering blue flames flicker between paling knuckles of ruined flesh. His nails are digging crescents into his palms, but Roxanne doesn’t flinch. He isn’t angry at her, no, but rather resentful of the fact that she may have a point. But how could she know? He meets her eyes, almost matching in colour, and stares hard. All he sees is a resigned look, like sadness far beyond her years. If Blue could describe it, it was a sadness that weighed like lead, like water wearing away stone in a river bed. The sight makes Blue turn away, morose, but almost sorry for the way he responded.

       ❝I can’t say the same for those who supposedly share my blood.❞ Roxanne says with finality, and pops up onto her feet, turning away. ❝I wanna say that it isn’t easy but having each other is important. Although, at this point I’m spewing useless bull here and I’m definitely overstaying my welcome, I’m sorry, Blue.❞ With a defeated sigh, she poises herself to leap off the barrier and take her leave into the shadows. But then her attention is pulled back by a soft rumble. Blue is on his feet, too, and taking his side next to her. 

       ❝I... look... sorry for being an ass. I spilled my guts and you tried cleaning it up when you didn’t have to.❞ He says gruffly, ❝Besides, it’d look bad if I let a girl go off on her own in the dark like that.❞ Roxanne gives him a reassuring smile, trying to stave off the doubt and unease gnawing away at her conscious, knowing everything is far from fine. But for now, she takes his word for it and hops off the fence. Beckoning him over, she calls out, ❝We’re still cool, even if I was absolutely useless in that department. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.❞ 

@caerulcum​

[pararennial-archived]

‘ we can spend the night in fascination. ’

sleep token? more like weep token

       The night brings strange things, terrible things, beautiful things. They stand at the crossroads of the weird and brilliant, staring deep into the pitch black of the forest. The dark seemed infinite, extending yards into the deepest parts. Transfixed, Roxanne sways, utterly mesmerized by the gravitational pull of the mystery, paying no mind to her companion. Saima is just as drawn, the unknown is just so intoxicating. 

     Gravel and soil begin to shift under their feet when they start to move towards the pitch black void framed by trees and shrubbery. That is until Roxanne sets foot on the lip of grass, finding that the sensation is now akin to walking into the maw of some unearthly beast. The godling snaps out of her trance and begins scrambling backward, wild eyes looking about trying to find Saima. Eventually she finds them, just as frightened as she is. For a moment, they look like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, finding a way back to safety.

    ❝Saimz!❞ She calls out, to her relief, they look her way with the same amount of relief as well. ❝You felt that too, right?❞ It’s hard to keep the trembling out of her voice after having nearly been caught in the clutches of whatever that thing is. 

     There was a beat of silence, as Saima warily stares back at the void that they were once so enraptured with, only to suddenly realize the danger of the thrill. The sensation is akin to desperately grabbing a safety line, whilst getting caught in the riptide, holding on for dear life. Finally, when the feeling subsides, they look over at Roxanne, still trembling in both awe and fear. ❝Yeah... I did too.❞ They wheeze out, ❝We need to get out of here...❞

     And so they left...

@seekesotsibteadmist