#Boundless

[banesberry-anomoly]

Two Clefs talking about their daughters

Gift for @thedeskofaltoclef

[ko-existing]

Real vs. Unreal? — It's "THAT" & "THAT"

"THAT" does not discriminate between what it sees "in reality" and what it sees "in imagination" there is just Oneness. One. ONE!Not two. As soon as you say "well... but i can't feel it with my senses" you are creating duality / two-ness where there isn't any. Awareness is aware. "IT IS". Nothing else. It's simple but you're overcomplicating it.

Reality = Imagination

Imagination = Reality

@infiniteko // Koda📿 • Chen

[remash]

to breathe | constellation ~ kimsooja | image credit: pinault collection

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Boundless Ch 1: The Rigid Hunter

summary: he’s looking for her— hunting her.

pairing: witch hunter!marc spector x witch!reader

contents: enemies to lovers, mentions of murder/torture, marc is a broken asshole, injury, blood mention

gif credit: @perotovar

wc: 2.4k

an: welcome to the boundless universe! i’ve really enjoyed writing this so far, i love the concept. i’d really love to build it together, so if anyone has any questions, thoughts, headcanons swirling around in your brains please feel free to come talk to me about these two! i hope that y’all like this and i’m excited to hear your feelings on it. 🤍

boundless masterlist | moonknight masterlist

Marc remembers the day he found out the legends were true. Say your prayers, lock your doors, and sprinkle your salt because they’re out there. Witches and wizards walk the streets looking for opportunities to spread pain and suffering. They look like us, and talk like us. But they can’t feel like us, love like us, care like us.

He was 10 years old the first time he witnessed the violence that comes with being in his family . He watched with horror as his parents tied up one of his teachers. She spewed nonsense, objects flew, and fires burned. Each hunter chose their weapons and that day he’d watched his parents use daggers he thought were for show.

He was afraid at first. He didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to be violent like her— like his mother. And though eventually he had succumbed to violence, realizing that there was no way to fight it, that it was in his blood, he always vowed that he would be different. Despite his disdain for witches, he has never been ruthless. He has always killed them quickly, painlessly with mercy, never been one to taunt them as they meet their deaths.

Today, almost 20 years later, Marc’s crossbow is slung over his shoulders, one of his hands resting over the dagger on his hip as he slowly makes his way through the forest. He’s hypervigilant and jumpy, eyes roaming the greenery that fades into orange and yellow and red. He’s ready to defend himself at the drop of a hat.

He’s looking for her— hunting her. The full moon is tonight, and witches always flock to their dens, charging their crystals, infusing their spells with the magic of the celestial being. Her den and a handful of others are in these woods, just on the outskirts of a camping resort so as not to draw too much suspicion. Time and time again witches fail with anonymity— he and his family follow the breadcrumbs they leave and pick them off one by one.

He’s looking for her darkness. He’ll know it when he sees it, he’s seen many dens and killed more witches than he can count. They surround themselves with smoke and blood and evil. This one will go down just like all the others, he’s sure. She’ll be just as vile, conniving. Just as eager to beg for her life when he lines the tip of an arrow up with her eyes. Emotionless and self-serving with a heart that bleeds black.

It’s easy to get distracted by the sights around him. He loves autumn, the symbolism of how even as an organism fails and dies, there’s beauty to be found. It gives him the hope that maybe there’s something to be found in him too despite all he’s been through.

There’s something soothing in the sound of leaves crunching beneath the weight of his boots. There’s a waterfall in the distance that feeds into the creek he’s following. Where there’s water, there’s life.

He continues up the stream, noticing the remnants of a paper sailboat coated in wax tangled in some brush on the bank. He bends to pick it up, noticing words sprawled across the side.

Sail under Hecate’s moon.

The words heighten his senses— she’s close, within walking distance of the area. And while that can mean a wide variety of things, Marc is prepared for the worst, to walk miles and miles if he has to. Standing quickly his eyes scan the area, wary of her. There is no one to be found, not an inkling of life in his sights so he carries on.

He nearly makes it to the waterfall when across the creek he hears the rustle of leaves and his heart lurches in his chest. No matter how many times he faces a witch, there’s always the unpredictable— they could have anything up their sleeves. Thousands of spells and enchantments and potions, each one more horrible than the next. His hands slick with sweat reach back, drawing his crossbow to line up with his sight.

Deer.

Two of them make their way to the bank, bending to drink, paying him no mind. His heartbeat slows and shakes his head, letting out a silent sigh of relief as he lowers the bow.

Marc’s eyes return to the waterfall that’s a short distance in front of him. He could simply go around, and walk a short distance so that he could get to the top of it at a steady incline. But that would be too easy for him. He was taught to never take the easy way, that anything that holds weight in this life is a challenge. It must be difficult for it to mean anything in his mother’s eyes. He still doesn’t quite understand why after all this time, her opinions have a hold on him. He bats the thoughts of her away as he eyes the rocks to the left of the waterfall’s mouth.

They are damp sure, but not completely slick and unclimbable. The summit of the waterfall is much higher than it looked far away, but he thinks nothing of it as he steps forward and begins to climb. The hood of his cape falls as he puts one hand above another, exposing his dark curls.

A bush behind him rattles and he glances over his shoulder, eyes going wide as he realizes how vulnerable he is right now. There’s nothing he could do if he were to face her now, this high up is too far of a jump to do it safely. The best course of action is to finish the climb, it’ll grant him a better vantage point to get his bearings and height is always an advantage in combat. But when Marc turns around, looking up to his goal, there’s a crow— the largest crow he’s ever seen in his life, cawing loudly in his face. He’s startled, losing his grip on the rocks, feet slipping as they try to find purchase and he falls, grunting as he hears his flesh and bone tearing and cracking before he goes unconscious.

When Marc wakes sometime later, he hurts all over. There’s a splitting ache in his head, and a pain much sharper and dangerous sitting in his leg. He can handle pain, he’s been trained his whole life, day in and day out to handle much more than a slip in some gnarly wood. He blinks up to the trees, taking shallow breaths. If he can just lay here and gather his strength he should be able to get up.

What would his mother say if she could see him? All the things she said all his life, he imagines. Baseless shouts of this is not his calling, that he was meant to weld or harvest or research. That his attempts at living for Randall are in vain. Like he wasn’t bred for this. Like the mistakes he made has tainted his blood, taking away his right to hunt.

He tries to sit up and pain screams in his side. Had he broken some ribs? He lays back again, trying to get enough air to his brain so he doesn’t pass out again. His attempts are futile and soon, he drifts out again.

Somewhere in his mind, he can hear the graceful patter of feet near him. He feels when he is picked up by something as large as it is fluffy. A wolf maybe, taking him back to her cubs for a meal. He wonders if it would be such a bad way to go if it meant he’d never see his mother again.

A little while later his surroundings change. He’s somewhere soft and warm. Everything inside him is on edge. His instincts tell him that he’s unsafe, that he must get up and go, but his body is in no state to do so. He can’t even open his eyes, can’t speak a word, let alone take any steps.

Something—someone guides his head up, tipping a cup to his mouth. “Drink this,” A soft voice says to him gently.

He wants to resist but he’s weak to this person’s will. Whoever it is pours a steady stream of the liquid down his throat. It’s thick, warm, and tastes like black currants, mint and citrus. His body goes a little numb, relaxing further into the bed he’s laid in.

His pain waxes and wanes even as he sleeps. Though he isn't conscious, sometimes can feel the way his body cries and aches. He can feel the heat of healing, feel his muscles and bones scraping against each other as they slowly move back into place. He’s grateful for the braviety, happy to sink into a deeper place of unconsciousness, to run from the discomfort.

Marc wakes gradually. He first wiggles his toes, feeling the numbness in his right leg. He taps his fingers softly, enjoying the fullness of whatever bed he lies in. He tries to stretch his neck but he’s quite stiff and decides to just open his eyes. To do the inevitable and face his reality. When his eyes open, he frowns at the sight of paper boats hanging from the ceiling.

Paper boats, covered in wax, sailing under Hecate’s moon.

Marc knows right away where he is. He’s too warm. He can smell moss. The room glows from the outside in, candles lit but somehow he still feels the darkness. Maybe it is the deep dark reds and purples of her linens and furniture. Maybe it’s the white wolf that sits near the fireplace, eyes as dark as the night sky as it watches him. Or maybe the sense of dread as he takes in his surroundings, as he realizes he’s been made. He tenses, turning his head until his eyes meet hers.

Marc’s mouth drops open, going dry. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen— her soft mouth raised in a smile, her eyes clever. There are no words, just sensations that contradict each other. He feels wonky like his body can’t decide if he wants to stay or go. His brain tells him that he should fight, that he should leave. His heart pounds loudly in his chest as adrenaline builds. But in the pit of his stomach, there is nothing but ease as he looks into her eyes. All of this leaves him utterly confused and then some.

When he continues to stare at her quietly, she says, “You’re awake.”

He’s in the witch’s den and here she is, smiling down at him because she’s got him in her grasp. He’s not sure why she hasn’t killed him yet. He should be more afraid. He should kill her.

Where’s his weapon?

“Don’t. I don’t want to hurt you. Or paralyze you, drug you— maim you. Especially after fixing you up, I’d be destroying all my work,” She muses playfully, looking down into her book.

Marc’s eyes go wide with shock. Is she being funny?

“You know who I am,” He states, ignoring the way his heart starts to beat more quickly.

She nods, looking up from the pages, “The sigil on the crossbow made it pretty obvious.”

“You saved me anyway.”

“The wolves would’ve eaten you alive.”

“That would’ve been better than being taken hostage and killed by a witch.”

“You aren’t taken hostage— I’ve nursed you back to health. If I wanted you dead I wouldn’t waste my energy. I would’ve watched them feast,” She says matter of factly.

“Spoken like a true witch,” Marc scoffs.

She narrows her eyes at him, “You know nothing about me.”

“I know everything about you. My whole life is about you. Your kind,” He corrects.

“News flash Spector, I’m just as human as you are.”

“You might look human but our hearts don’t beat the same. You’re a monster, it’s in your blood.”

His words punch her in the gut. She knows that witch hunters are cruel, she’s been taught that all her life. Spell writing, potion brewing, ingredient harvesting, and the all-important learning to murder witch hunters in any and every fashion. There are many rules to be followed in witchcraft— regardless of one’s craft or coven but the most important of them?

If you see one, there should be one less in the world.

She knows they’re raised to hate her as much as she’s raised to hate them. But the hate never stuck. It was drowned in curiosity, in a yearning for peace and understanding. Because how dare she want to live a life that is fruitful and soft. How dare she see the humanity in them. She blows out a breath, eyes raising to the ceiling as she tries to keep her tears in. Even as her heart aches, it roars, begging to retaliate. Begging to lash out and hurt him. She ignores that urge like she always does, wiping at her eyes.

He sees the way her tears twinkle in the soft candlelight— she truly is beautiful. He quickly bats the thought away again. Beauty can only run so deep in her, she is a witch after all. It stops at the surface, he knows that. But, he feels bad for making her cry. She’s a witch, the bloodsucker of the human race. He shouldn’t care if she lives or dies, let alone if she cries. But before he can think better of it, an apology sits on his tongue. He doesn’t get the chance to say it.

“You’d prefer to be alone,” She sets down her grimoire and stands, reaching for a cloak that’s hung on the wall. “I’ll go to look for matching wood to repair your crossbow, part of it broke during your fall. Don’t try anything stupid, your leg is still setting.”

The white wolf that hasn’t taken its eyes off of him makes growls under its breath and Marc glares.

“Neither of us is going to hurt you. She simply wants you to be kinder to me. How a wolf knows that and you don’t….” She clicks her tongue in scolding, turning to look at the wolf, “Come along, Nimbus.”

He watches them leave, letting out a deep breath when he’s finally alone. He’s still confused. He doesn't understand her.

Kinder to her? She must not understand their dynamic— she must be out of her mind. That much is clear since she’d brought him back to her den to help him instead of killing him. Could he really trust that? A witch so unstable? She could’ve brought him here to nurse him back to health for a challenge, all to kill him again. That makes more sense, that aligns with all of his previous experiences. There must be ulterior motives for why she’s brought him here. He won’t fall into this trap.

let me know if you'd like to be tagged (18+ only)!

boundless taglist: @campingwiththecharmings, @grogusmum, @ninebluehearts, @mdnigts

[imaginal-ai]

"Leap of Freedom"

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Legend of Drizzt - Boundless Cover Art by Magali Villeneuve

[usefulquotes7]

I wanted to tell you that wherever I am, whatever happens, I’ll always think of you, and the time we spent together, as my happiest time. I’d do it all over again, if I had the choice. No regrets. Cynthia Hand, Boundless

[princefleabitten]

*Throwing my Boundless Sketches in your face

My job is done here

[brumeraven]

🍂: Interview with a Boundless Candidate || dolls, boundless, creativity, transformations, saints, cute?, sorry to the confused

"Please state your name for the record."

"..."

"Nothing?"

"names are...well, they can't be self-assigned."

"Good catch. Sorry about the trick question, but you understand why we have to make you jump through all these hoops."

"it's fine."

"How long have you lived as a doll?"

"my whole life. or, well, maybe that's just how i've been treated."

"How you've been treated?"

"sorry, how this one has been treated."

"So the whole world treats you like a doll?"

"more or less, this one supposes."

"But how long has it been since you decided to just accept it? To stop fighting back and just give up your personhood?"

"it did not make the decision; this is...it's just the way it is. the way it's always been."

"Mm, fair. Dolls don't choose."

"dolls don't choose."

"And you believe that you'll be happier as a doll?"

"i...it has never really...understood the concept of happiness."

"You're unhappy being treated this way?"

"this one has never seen happiness as attainable."

"But you need this to feel comfortable?"

"no, not really."

"Then what exactly do you expect to get out of this?"

"congruence. alignment of expectations and reality."

"My point is, what do YOU want out of this? You, not the people around you."

"...this one does not want anything."

"Rather not say?"

"no."

"Well, let me take a stab at it. You just want to feel wanted. Want to be given worth, want to be a valued pet, a cherished possession, because you can't find any self-worth, so you need extrinsic reassurance your life has purpose and meaning."

"..."

"You're afraid of responsibility. Afraid of agency. Afraid of fucking up your own life any more than you already have. You'd rather a Witch, or even a human, fuck it up for you. At least it wouldn't be your fault, then; at least you could pretend you're worth shit."

"..."

"Well let me tell you something, kiddo; those are bad fucking reasons to throw away your humanity. Because, hate to break it to you, but you aren't worth shit just because someone likes you."

"it's not like that. not for this one."

"No? Then why don't you tell me what it is, hm?"

"it's just...well, efficient."

"Efficient?"

"i can't stand it. this one cannot stand it. it wastes so much time worrying about what to do, what not to do, prioritizing and tracking and deciding."

"You're looking for...what exactly?"

"this one has value; it is certain of it. it is capable of great things and has several useful skills. time management is not one of them. it's greatest fear is that it will waste its entire existence shaving yaks."

"Shaving...yaks?"

"it simply wishes to be able to work without the cruft of life getting in the way. without wasting its time worrying about what it should be doing at any given time."

"...So you want a manager, not a master."

"this one wants a scrum master."

"..."

Interviewer Comments: NOT THE WORST REASON I'VE HEARD

Verdict: ACCEPTED

~🍂

[tallyverse]

Time and Space

[thepersonalwords]

Let the boundlessness be your boundary!

Mehmet Murat ildan

[insomnia-poet]

Night Light

You are moonlight.

A reflection revealing

Mountains in shadows.

You are guidance in flight,

A hug after a fight, a radiance

admired by owls and tired eyes,

And a vibrant painting in cold skies

Whose brush strokes in the night

Are a warm and welcome sight.

[ko-existing]

Can you seperate "this" from "THAT"?

What happens when you transcend labels and concepts? What if you recognize that you don't know anything for certain?

As you observe your surroundings without labeling, what do you perceive? What is the 'space' where events unfold?

How do you know something is happening in the first place? Isn't "Awareness/Knowing" a requirement that comes first? Can one be unaware yet know that something is here?

If an earthquake is happening, you are aware of it; you can sense things shaking around you or see it on the news. Now, if you were in a different country and your friend tells you an earthquake happened, you didn't know of it until your friend told you about it. What does that point you to? Doesn't it mean that for you to know something, you have to be aware of it?

You can't Know or Experience without "Awareness/Knowing". Everything relies on it, making existence dependent on awareness.

-> Knowing = Direct Experience

There's this example Swami Sarvapriyananda used. He said, "Can you separate a pot from clay?" And the answer is no. The clay is shaped in the form of a pot. That's why you call it that. But you cannot separate the pot from clay.

You cannot separate your phone from your "Knowing/Awareness" of it. Which means that, in order for your phone to appear here in front of you, it doesn't need senses. No, it needs the "Knowing/Awareness" of it. That's it. See for yourself. Can you separate what you're looking at from what is looking? Can "Knowing or Awareness" be detached from the concept of a body?

Look closely, is there a beginning and an end?

- @infiniteko PB / W

[cyberebel]

[nathanbatemanfucker]

summary: a witch hunter is injured in the woods and is nursed back to health by none other than his target. she’s nothing like he imagined— full of compassion, infused with sweet magic and more beautiful than any woman he’s ever seen before.

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, witch hunter!au, enemies to lovers, violence/blood/wounds, weapons, witchy shit, angst, resistance, longing, pining, eventual smut, love confessions

I. My Dear Nemesis

The Rigid Hunter

The Eclectic Witch

II. Their Burning Flames

The Oathbound

Beyond Chaos*

EXTRAS:

Boundless Aesthetic

Boundless Playlist

a ways away but let me know if you’d like to be tagged <3

[theladyregret]

Hmm just an interesting tidbit I missed with my first reading, that in one of Drizzt’s journal entries he comments on the fact that he feels Jarlaxle puts him on a pedestal that he may or may not actually agree that he belongs on...and that it’s somewhat his concern that this could lead to his death some day. That basically Jarlaxle’s habit of holding him up as some kind of symbol to other Drow, particularly male Drow in Menzo, continuously keeps a target on his back.

It’s a casual observance so he doesn’t seem upset by it but it is an interesting little bit of insight towards his feelings about it.