#Mists of Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

libramoon2 · 6 years ago

Text

twilight (in progress)

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~ Degree of my natal Hekate -- a liminal year for the dweller on the threshold. The search is for clarity, expanding borders, introducing elasticity as integral character. To see, to feel, to merge and undulate through; to discover, uncover, swim in the glory of original grace, ecstatic beauty. To see, to feel, to breathe in all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold, transmit as cellular energy. To paint upon translucent canvas subliminal etchings, private symbols generously revealed. Sagacity gifted, re-gifted, planted in potent fertility of visions, of cantations. The tinsel of starlight; the subtle scent of conflagrated pain; the feather touch of eternity. I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form. Move with the rhythm; caressed within word and worlds' mysteries. Resolutions and revelations. Look into the molten glass, sparking visions Clean star twinkles ask not, glorying in terpsichore, no written lines obscure wide sky, open beyond horizon mistily expanding into rolling sea. Drink to the season, to oblivion, to ecstasies bequeathed in excess emotion, rolling, amniotic, amnesia of expectation. Breathe -- vestigial gills awaken. This is the first measure of the first movement, a pirouette, a dervishly delightfilled whirl. Cast upon this rocky estuary, dance inner wise third eye calling dawn into destiny. The new day dawning, dawn's cloudy brew. Cumulative immersion with pollution, anthropic chemical solution under which we were formed. It will encounter clouds and hailstorms, turbulence and destruction. The curse took no notice of time or circumstance. I existed in a liminal state of vague dream images, static discharge of random sensory neurons. I did not expect; I did not wait; I was not aware of being. Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn Formerly someone, lost without form Back to that question you asked being born and the answer that started when? At the crossroads, past midnight, just before dawn, the power of peeping dawn high in colors of awe. Songs that entwine backbrains, insist we all dance one foot, one mind, one goal or another. Face off, blinded, emit sonic rays as walls so steep, so hard, so badly soiled. In quiet dark before twilight, before time, vagrants paint with bloodied fingers, examine interstice and flow. Slowly, as viscous waste, then quicker pick up of pace, then light takes hold, caresses gentle as a kiss of friend intent. Will you let it in? Will you let your vision bend, extend, begin? Beginnings never warn of battle flame or drunken dares. They only promise vague adventure, valiant possibilities. wild in the sun, in the shadow, against the highway moving I to I in the twilight anticipate memories to come. There is a viscosity to twilight Cut from the core fruit of neural womb, gestating decades sluggish, subject to cravings, livid dreams Within the secrets of the seed, occluded aspects of beginnings, unfolding petal by petal sacred in the morning dew enticing fragrant fields as if myths foretell our lives twilights of harmonic symphonies when Sun touches green horizons. Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens, counterstroke to what is to come. as twilight melts into familiar constellations, migrating like flying life, early harvest still feeds celebration. Liminal Spaces Twilight, the wee hours, the dark of the moon liminal spaces, places where magic reigns, crossroads, crises, cusps. There is static on the radio. A song my voice was singing taking flight to surround me, the sound of music, a comforter of down to ease my soul. I've been trying to define a taste, a sense of bittersweet and salt. I've been trying to find a trace a footprint in the desert, a sound, a scent, a memory. I've been trying to find a trace of me, a piece to fit the puzzle, my contribution to the grand design. Seeking in the shadows, the space between myth and matter, those places words cannot define. On those insubstantial plains of myst and awe, the stuff of dreams, threshold of wonder, creation begins. A brief eternity before dawn, supplicating the night sky for solace, this soft moment before, an unmarked road to ride along home. That liminal space Between my body and the airwaves Creates a dance. Rather like a spell, you know. Those dawning tendrils sneaking through my windowshade. But it's much too early to be rising. So I'll dally in enchanted romance without recalling I've no one to wake to beyond the dawn. Simple acceptance The dancer with the dance enter pre-dawn mystery quiet interval, incanting music. Undulating reverie glistening in firefly light tell a rollicking tale, we demand of the piper we have paid all the long seasons of darkness it is time to reap an early harvest of dreams dancing to dawn Every dawn could be inspiration, bounteous gifts free of obligation, uplift of energy gleefully received. Symphonies, drums at dawn Inspiration and instruction carried forth through song and stage vibrant murals painting onward age to age Taking up the challenge of the tale that twists, turns, meanders providing kaleidoscopic opportunity ever to begin again wrenched gut throbs, eyes blurred to the howl Twilight crowd a'clamor for loud resilient community; tranced instant glamour distant from day's insanity entrains yearn for humanity Learn flexible grace staggering tribal stadia; fade lines between day and night as you play Grooving through the twilight Twirling through the fade Relax into madness, dark magic masquerade After images, ash sparks in the twilight, take flight, swirl within echoed breeze Readiness, relative to the free winds of chaos Here, in a world of fog and fury, blurred in twilight vengeance. Crows, ravens, portents of black flight circle above, a crown of shrieks, feathers cascade, rain like pestilence. No blame in blindness. "I could not see through feathered fog; could not save you." Signpost in the fog. Thick dry-ice blue billow emits formulations. Liminal, portals rise back, diminish time, disarrange context. Sear of light, brutal panic. Quiet. High-pitched sonic memories Eternity of now burns through bone, marrow -- flimsy narrow gate Liminality is waiting That liminal dimension between the pain and the screen selection of feeling, immersion away from meaning: what you don't mean Twilight passages when possible expands. Pre-dawn messages, first-draft images subconscious doodles before thought can capture plan. Empty enormity celestial map demands. Continuum of spectral light draws sight against backdrop of shadow’s span. Midsummer twilight, fairytales brought back from sleep. Sprinting across that abyss, goblin mouths, hungry ghosts. Dusk’s purple sky imagines snow, shoveling, streets aglow in festive lights, flights of fun. By liminal command, young aggressors channel to sport, fantasy battle, adventurous work. Next level survival demands we assess, re-learn. last of dying light first return liminal twilight -- dusk, dawn Oblique bands dapple into twilight Far away forests call Peace floats softly in trailing starshine mystically inviting. Dusk whirls of wilding sands. Gentle twilight, before the night, before all the freeze of laughter, bubbling partying, high hats and hands, desperate to ignite, to touch ice to ice and become. free of temporality, ephemeral, rare and precious and of the fleeting moment, exquisite beauty without further responsibility. Yet again, "be here now" ever changing landscape; ever changing dance of me to you. I am leaning into the whole illusion theory. Too many coincidences/synchronicities, object lessons, deja vus. There's too much that makes too much sense in a totally fantastic way. I feel like I'm slipping down the rabbit hole, through the mirror, into the Twilight Zone. Welcome to the Twilight Zone Welcome to the twilight zone for twilight presages the night the beautiful, magickal night where anything can happen any dream can be revealed. I ride a marvelous nightmare over evanescent swamplands, mysterious passageways into undiscovered treasure hoards. There is so much, mirroring its way into the future, recombining images, sounds, visions, eery macabre skeletal touch. Endlessly morphing images, whirling through me, each fleetingly touching its sweet taste onto my tongue, eternally cherished in a magnificent instant. There is no future in the night, no past, no present, only dreams and surreal landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes. There is an anticipatory quality that moves and dances, ever out of reach, never coalescing into form. This is the essence of magick. This is the promise, the curse, the incantation, the lion's roar. This is the homeland of vampires, lycanthropes, sorcerors from beyond. This is the holy see, the mist shrouded mountainpeak, the smokey lake, the boundaryless mystery. Welcome to the twilight zone, the band of pale purple light that draws us home. Darkening into heavier compression Molten heat compressing Density increasing toward event horizon. Twilight on the apocalyptic battlefield. Inside the box are we dying or transforming? another rainy day allowing dawn to hide behind weeping clouds Sunday into Monday, weekly transition Giving in to who we are despite our dreams Look! Listen! The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures Anticipation . . . Or merely another day? Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening? Do you count the countless stars, knowing a miracle is on its way? Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination? Light coalescing into sound into waves into sea? What is the demand of sky of sea of fire dripping through the twilight? Reflections half moonlight, half mind. Someday soon the piper calls a merry tune you're too afraid to answer; you are no dancer Still afraid at dawn chirping birds upset you Those who have not met you no longer matter Mad as a hatter you open your soul to the night and find though blind in your flight better ventures than fright now bid you to believe your fate It may not be too late too close to the dawn I hear the nightbirds pleading for just one more song Like you, I've learned everything I know from late night movies lyrics on pre-dawn radio. I look behind to shining grace realize my place out, far from grim, grey dawn upon dawn listening for enchanting pipes of Pan to follow past the painted sky Longshoremen, in early dawning stinking of dead fish seagulls' wet crying Desolate, the sea entwined with sky casting about into another day. Dream Street Bright colored lights, Boisterous music, Gaily chatting people drawn in by wares. Carnival beauty painted so prancy whirling romance casts off daily cares. At the dark end of the street quietly peaceful drawn in to the pre-dawn air. birdsong, voices conflating the sum of experience let loose into this foggy dawn colours, still subtle arranging catch liquid dissolve in undulating air tell a story Coloured atmosphere, diffracted light The many metaphors of dawn Layered clouds, clarify ecstasy perfect inspiration dissolves the lock twixt everyday and magic. Times, forms, enemies change. The game goes on. Bright golden Sun absorbs mist a glorious dawn. The smell of lonesome prairie after the train's rushed through. On this side of the bars, life is slow awaiting judgment. A brave touch twixt worlds Can change minds into consciousness with such subtlety "Of course, we knew it all along." on the threshold before the eclipse before the dawn before we are given our missions, sent forward in time we must be ready must rise to the challenge without map or guidebook to prepare we endure the patience to exercise control over every capillary, every synapse, of our being it's not the believing, but the seeing a better world needs a new kind of ware be a ware for peace, for life, for consciousness before the wake quest Deep in our ancient lives Far from our daily chores Hidden within our minds With no bright line to follow Could I be true? Breathing, a mist so fine sprayed from brave ocean floors Seen in dreamlike design shades dark and blue Dawn's pink-purple hue breaks through over time while I wander in dreaming What could be true? Torn by my primal cry how would you answer? Words of Peace speak beyond structured language sharing profoundly in joy graceful dancing to music of each dawn morningbirds Welcoming the light creamy purples into day so swift the change (when it happens) from predawn mysteries. Trees sway gracefully. Morning birds are singing. Primeval emotions awake in my dreams before I remember to whom my day is promised. Old King's Cold/Grail King And the old King dies. Sends out his mortal ghost to dance on Olympian plains. I am the mighty he; ruled wisely while I was allowed; sold my soul to please the crowd; withered on the vine divine. There is no more of me. Drink from the golden Grail, Oh New Found King. You are triumphant. A bright dawn upon the kingdom offers sparkling hope, new dreams aborning. Don't despair old peasant folk, though you think despair all you can cling to. The Fisher King has returned from his desert adventures. He brings the tides to slake the thirst of this arid land. I beg you yet again to take a stand. Take harness, plow your pastures. Believe that the seed will take hold. Listen to the heralds shouting lines in the sand. They know a flood is coming after many a hard rain -- but don't despair! It is a flood of fertility, a harbinger promising carpets of grain and lush vegetation. All this is promised if you do your part. The old King, so long dying of his festering wounds, has poisoned you with ill-fated rule. Cast out the poison from your hearts. Tend your fields with a will and a song. Never forget you are free. Never forget that responsibility. May I say, I am awed by the way your presence echoes, keeps time and space at bay as if you create each new dawning day A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding. We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog, early, early, the world still dreaming. Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass., lost in the fog, unsure of time or space. Sometimes there is singing: something about a "Yellow Submarine" or "Strawberry Fields" or sometimes haunting melodies without words. But it's all about the words, even those implied by the music. Wine can help. By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help (tho sometimes even wine betrays me). The stinking debris of mornings after the night before, or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish, the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning -- I remember that too. That no more mornings could touch me, that I could hide contented in the night dreaming flying dreams so none could touch me. Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light, let them be all right, feel cared for. Let the nights protect us from the days. Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . . Coming to the Light My mind playing tricks on my eyes That golden glow bringing me into worlds of pumpkin coaches, Valkyrie in flight, neverlands that never were, yet so much more real than what passes for day to day. Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness, truth succumbing to convenient lies. Joy is opening all the senses into the spectrum of beauty. No moderation, no limitation, no convenient structural captivity. Let the stars be shining beacons calling us home. Let the wind be a magical cloak, the rain an exultation. Let the cold, dark night be a treasured, inspiring friend. Let the night take me forward Into everfulfilling fantasies The never empty cup, the magic wand/magic word, sprinkled with faery dust, toasted with the fine bubbles of celluloid champagne. Let us, the night and I, sneak off into exotic adventure. Let us learn the secrets of the Moon and Stars, ancient runes and alchemical wonders. Let us play upon the backs of dragons, learning to fly, learning to breathe fire, learning to explore the mountainpeaks and caverns of our chthonic fears and spin them into gold. The new day dawning it will encounter clouds and hailstorms, turbulence and destruction. It will be a day of startling showers and unsettled wind, of unreasoned pain and empty solace. It will be a day to try our souls. But it will be a day of infinite possibilities. Let my good friend, the night, join me in play to help prepare me for the day. Let the earth and fire and rain and wind infuse my spirit that we all be fellow friends in the new ventures coming with the light. Early morning dawn awakening to a season of wild abandon a golden moment of sensation In a flash -- alive to an open season Alive to a new awakening Alive The future descends from the fear-embroidered skies the vision is of holocaust -- when everybody dies A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm? We have a chance to make our mark but is it right or wrong? They dream of liquid floating in suspension and do not understand. We are the product of their dreams. We suck you of your life fluids, moving mouths on every part of your body. Vampires of experience, we will not let you go till we have sucked you dry. Like a vampire's victim, you will crave the life, the experience of others, will suck them dry to gain eternity. We suck you and lick you clean, fondlingly. We again enter you through every opening, cleaning you through. You have been exhausted. We complete our ritual cleansing as you lie immobile, beyond response. We symbolically cut off your genitals, cut out your heart. We now own your soul. It has been a good night. Dawn has long since risen; they will wake soon. Soon they begin again, another day of their busy aimless lives: rise, work, unwind, sleep, and, oh yes, consume those predigested market-attractive packaged products of the mass media, the mass brainwash, the mass society. Silent, the singers are searching for voice They know in their souls it's a matter of choice They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoyce, A newly turned path to felicity. A new day is dawning, but where is the sun? Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun. The symbol of power overrules everyone 'Til we create our own electricity. But under cover of darkness a banner's being stitched Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze As we march to freedom's song. Dreams drifting by The neon letters "LOVE" lit up in the air A poem in pictures and sound. Rather like a dream, you know Those dawning tendrils Sneaking through my windowshade But it's much too early to be waking So I'll dream on of morning romance Without remembering That I've no one to wake to beyond the dawn. Reaching to the stars, Tarry in eternity: This is all. If life were simple, childish agonies dispelled with dawn's bright kiss, we would laugh cross-purposes, cross-talk easily sorted out in counsel. Cast into sorted cells with little thought to empower; we could harness the Sun, Moon, birth of stars, simply allow minds to grow. Growing Out of Liminality Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s, to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals to any who wish to apply. Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure -- until they decide to move on. Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, like any other candidate. The test to be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication. The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees to do so, based on evidence of better result to be gained. The wizards do not make the laws. Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely. Wizards do have veto power. Wizards do not control the economy. That is the province of the market. The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources. They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a comfortable, secure livelihood. They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life. They are not paid an outright salary. They are given comfortable living conditions that their minds may be free of personal want. True shamans aren't ready for this world, dreamcatching from all hallowed and harrowed. Wrapped in a cloud of moonbeams -- query and call; capture fleet answer and call -- Eerie, yet wondrously apprehended in glory of original grace, ecstatic beauty, to remember we only borrow tomorrows on our return to eternity. ...a liminal epoch for the dweller on the threshold. Internal search for perspicacity, expanding borders, authentic elasticity as integral character. Letting go Earthly gravity. Crafty synaptic flow. To see, to feel, to merge and undulate through; to discover, uncover, burst renewed. Uplifting notes, affecting themes, track social rhythm, mark liminal time. Lyric, simple sweeps of tone and cue, never meant to trip up but evoke true meaning. In unknown dark, shadow hosts deep thought to lark and lounge. Dawning form seeps toward reward, to speak out what’s been found. promotes liminal wisdom promotes calm acceptance of non-rational realities, promotes reintegration of self as programmer promotes self-reprogramming in alignment with self-progression to a place of bliss and dharmic awareness in which every piece fits, magically finds its place in expanding space eternally unwinding. Being, not being, letting it be. Day upon night swept by twilight. Vague images coalesce, remain an instant, slowly disintegrate. Ghosts in smoky distance reset dimension, eternal reconfiguration. Twilight of Goddess Revelation What twisted so maliciously your mind? Your God -- Created that greedy leaders may more easily prevail? Is it guilty shame, seeded by consistent training insisting that you fail? Lost to balance, whole possibilities, unable to be free or sane. Eternal life is yours, we scream, while you destroy our birthright in service to conjuror's dream of denial. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start, each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart II. Born other than imperial, torn into what we are told is real without power to protect ourselves from venal brothers of the order spreading hatred like any venereal disease. We no longer need to meet you cowering on our knees. Karma's a hot potent bitch unschooled in mercy. Witches reclaiming noble heritage, reframed herstories will prevail. Though born, forced to service, in our master's jail, lost and lonely midst the masses, masked to fit expected forms. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start, each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart III. Listen, little one, watching every moment for our chance, we will break free to adventurers' romance; dance away the chill of foreign hills enrapt in leaves and grass. Hiding in primeval castles, tightly aligned to a bright inner sphere, holding to hope of life to hold dear. Learning to fly, ride to some unknown side, escape from the herd hate stone, can't be as hard as learning to stand alone. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart So she drifted through the night, content, serene, laughing at silly little private jokes, singing wisps of songs as they floated by, making up fantasy landscapes and stories from the shadow shapes as she passed through. As dawn approached, shapes became more distinct against the color infusing sky. She understood that her journey was over, as the memories returned in one last burst of clarity. Leaves twinkle falling. Stars arise in twilight. Their song soft, insistent siren call. Lost to primeval moorings. Washed by eternal storm to awake transformed. Twilight at the Dark of the Moon Moving inward. Spiraling into deepest silence. Feel me here, oh my most darling. Here is the free-est flow, river of bliss. Bounty of years of grey resistance, incrementally awakened to swirling shades -- mystic purples, mad magentas, sky-eyed blues. There is ancient music, crescendos to peals. Layered millennial ears, creatures of seas to trees murmur through. Ripples of soundwaves, broker wisdom not yet condensed into words. Romances spun of clay and sand, woven into fashion’s fabrics. Hearty voices join, create regaled mythology. Star-shaped world story reverberates with chill and heat. Nascent strive for enriched clarity that must open ever more widely, a luminous spiral up, out, in, around. Come, brave as you imagine. In that brief eternal interval all of energy coalesces. Imagine the day that dawns when you are no longer dreaming.

#hekate #liminal #dusk #dawn

3 notes · View notes

alterundying · 2 years ago

Text

Here are all the Quotes enjoy

""Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!” Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:— “Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.” Then he rose and said:— “But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom…. I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!" - Dracula by Bram Stoker

"I had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony. I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of being asleep." - Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

"I hovered in place and, with a sudden surge of inner strength, resumed the shape of a man again. There was no light of any sort here, either, but I hardly needed it. The clustered bodies of the bats shed enough warm illumination for me to pick my way around the crypts and piles of guano. A few of the creatures knew me, perhaps recognizing one of their own in some way. They flapped down and lighted on my shoulders and arms, greeting me with joyful chirps and twitters." - I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire by P.N. Elrod

"'Let me in,’ the voice whispered, and Mark was not sure if the words had crossed dark air or were only in his mind." - Salem's Lot by Stephen King

"How do we seem to you? Do you find us beautiful and magical? Our white skin, our fierce eyes? 'Drink,' you ask me. Do you have any idea of the things you will become." - Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

"You want a love that consumes you, you want passion and adventure and even a little danger" - Vampire Diaries by L.J. Smith

"I am the Dragon of blood, a relentless prince of pain" - Dracula by Iced Earth

"But first, on earth as vampire sent. Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent. Then ghastly haunt thy native place and suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife. At midnight drain the stream of life. Yet loathe the banquet which perforce must feed thy livid living corpse." - Lord Byron

"They say no two persons are alike. Never is that more true than when it comes to our desires. Some cherish what others abhor. One man's precious cargo, is another man's poison. Some prize what others revile. Prize what you will, prize what you can, but always remember, even he who dies with the most prizes…still dies." - Forever Knight

"I am the ancient, I am the land." - Strahd von Zarovich

"Tonight is the night of the vampire" - Night of the Vampire by Roky Erickson

"’d never seen anything like it. First a trial, then a few murders, then dancing. Life goes on. Or, in this case, death continues." - True Blood Charlaine Harris

"Trains aren't a problem." "You turn into mist?" "No, I step out of the way." - Tanya Huff

"When the last vampire is extinct, who will mourn our passing? Will she? Will anyone? Can anyone understand this pain, this loneliness?" - Vampire Hunter D: Blood Lust

"there was something in her, something that was…pure horror. Everything you were supposed to watch out for. Heights, fire, shards of glass, snakes, Everything that his mom tried so hard to keep him safe from." - Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist

"Mortal terror reigned, Sickness now then horrible death, Only Lucy knew the truth, And at her window, Nosferatu." - Nosferatu Blue Öyster Cult

"The Vampire Masquerade, Mask of jewels across a pale face, Disguise the evil that makes no mistakes, Drops of red blood on delicate white lace The body lies still and only time awaits." - The Vampire Masquerade by S.L. Ross

"Whoa. Fangs. She had fangs." - Dark Lover by J.R. Ward

"Full circle. A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever. I am legend." I am Legend by Richard Matheson

"The blood is the life!" Dracula by Bramstoker

"Sometimes I think … the humanity of him is all hollow, a mask … he is only an old animal, so ancient it has lost even the taste for food, but it hunts on nonetheless, because that is all it remembers, that is all it is, the beast." - Fevre Dream by George R.R. Martin

"Eternal love or eternal damnation Tears of Crimson" - Michelle Hughes

"I am neither good, nor bad, neither angel nor devil, I am a man, I am a vampire" - I Vampire: The Confessions of a Vampire by Michael Romkey

"“Believe this," he whispered, and kissed her with the sharp, sleek kiss, the silver kiss, so swift and true, and razor sharp, and her warmth was flowing into him." - The Silver Kiss by Annette Curtis Klause

"You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one forever." - Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

"In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli, Bodies of holy men and women exude, Miraculous oil, odour of violet. But under heavy loads of trampled clay, Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;, Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet" - Oil and Blood by W.B. Yeats

"Vampire, Share your secret. Turn into a black bat. Quench your thirst before the day dawns. Drink blood." - Being Bold: Quotes, Poetry, & Motivations for Every Day of the Year by Richelle E. Goodrich

"I have seen an evil thing this night,' he said; I have seen how the dead drink the blood of the living. And the blood is the life" - For the Blood is the Life and Other Stories by F. Marion Crawford

"You can run from the grave, but you can't hide." - One Foot in the Grave by Jeaniene Frost

So I wanted something Unique and Goth for my wall, I made this and then decided I would share it with everyone. If you want to print it out for yourself feel free. All the pictures are public domain but some of the fonts are not. Please do not claim this is your own but feel free to share etc. If you want the original with all the layers let me know and I will see about sending it to you.

Tomorrow I will repost this with all the quotes listed so you can see where they all come from.

9 notes · View notes

thefaithlesstheologian · 7 years ago

Text

The Council of Angels

Somewhere, deep in the primordial mists of time and space, an angel guides a weary soul along a mysterious path. As it followed Azrael, the spirit’s embrace of the cosmic mist forged uncertainty and fear in their being. No wind blew, no voices cried, indeed nothing but these two seemed to disturb the gaseous plane. Having been reduced from a body to little more than the spark of life the soul felt a keen vulnerability much like that of a freshly molted crustacean.

They began to doubt their guide and thought that they perhaps were false and indeed a kind of hallucination or Demon meant to tote them along a sisyphusian path. The hooded figure bore no face and carried them forth in impersonal silence refusing to answer any questions presented serving only the task at hand.

It was not until sometime into the vexing journey that the angel finally stayed his course and spoke:

“Now my dear friend, before I take you to our next destination I must ask you this:

Do you fear Judgement?”

The soul, embittered by Azrael’s former evasiveness and overwhelmed by such a sweeping and personal question, remained silent for a time, Death with his everlasting patience waited until the final moments when they answered in a feeble affirmative.

“I see, now, come this way.” Death said grimly.

There was a sudden flash of light, and at first, it seemed the angel of death had gone. Seven more beings had taken his place, surrounding the soul as small stars in a crescent.

The centermost, a star of pure white which flared with violent arches spoke in a thunderous voice:

“Here now sits this soul before us

Uncertain, unweighted

Let us calibrate the scales!”

Then, in turn, the stars began to speak. The first of which was Raphael who took the form of a golden sun not dissimilar from Earth’s:

“Once this soul knew faith,

Indeed in their youth

Their voices uttered prayer

Pleads for mercy and forgiveness.

Yet as youth faded

So did their resolve

And they rejected the name.”

Then spoke Raguel, a smoldering red ball of gas:

“In desecration they decried us!

Smote our god with contemptuous words!

Accused his laws of injustice!

Claimed in arrogance they knew better!”

He was followed by Gabriel a cool blue sphere:

“They took no value from life

Entranced by only taboos.

The shadows spoke to them

And this soul spoke back

Entreated their mysterious calls

Off of the narrow trail

To create their own.”

Ariel whose flame arced about him as mane growled:

“For a great while, they hid

The light had scorned them

Like the vampire, like the demon

It sought to smite them

To prey on them

Indeed they feared the very day.”

Cassiel, whose lights danced whimsically attested thus:

“Pain was your sovereign

Agony your unholy creed.

You found it and still you did not retreat

From shadow nor devil

As the cosmic clock

Trickled its way around to midnight

Further, you retreated from our sight

Charting lands forbidden

Connecting to them your road!”

Then Michael that silver star and the most critical of all:

“A path was laid out for man

So as to keep them from pain

Yet the soul appears to seek it

And at every pass ignored the voice

Of brother Gabriel and brother Azrael alike

Strayed deeper into the shadows

Where devils may lurk.”

The soul quivered under their might. Their judgments, their criticisms had all been heard before in another life. It suddenly felt as if they were in a nightmare, where some damnable echo chamber had formed to torment them for their iniquity. For a moment they wondered how angels could be so cruel when they were so full of grace. They wondered how the path, if so safe, is so easily strayed from. They wondered what devils might say!

Then, the last and wisest of all the council spoke:

“Now my brothers, stay your wicked tongues!

You speak with vitriol and grief for our child

Yet none of you know of hypocrisy!

You speak of their sin

As being pure iniquity

And yet you think little of consequence!”

It was the river-like voice Uriel, the bearer of all truths whose gnosis was sprung forth unto the council so as to fertilize their desolate and dreary manner of thought.

Michael then protested:

“They strayed that path,

that one route

And found shadows where the unknown lurks

They found pain on their own

And lost faith of their own.”

Michael’s callousness stirred Raphael and softened his heart:

“Now my brother, perhaps Truth is being fair

Never once did I look in the shadows

For this lost soul.

Never did I heal them in their abandonment!

I must ponder how many were abandoned

By my oversight my objectivity

How many damned wander

Where they do not deserve

When we so selfishly withhold our light?”

Raguel then intervened as a prosecutor:

“Laws are as such

And must be enforced.

Our rules were laid out for us

And no exception may be made

Not even by the almighty himself!”

Cassiel then returned and said:

“Now my rowdy brethren

Perhaps we have missed

Something vital here.

What is the manner of consequence?

Did this one not create, just as our Lord did?

Are we not a similar mold?

Do we forget how the spark of creation passes

from one unto the other?

They created joyous works

Of flesh and earthly materials

Did they not fulfill their duty?”

Raphael returned:

“Indeed, tortured as this soul may be

Wounded and crumpled

They cast not their pain unto others

No! Indeed they healed others

Comfort and solidarity,

They brought them to ease

Such as where I failed

They succeeded!

Pain turned to Empathy, the mastery of such!

It was only then that they did not suffer!”

Ariel then spoke:

“Indeed with strength and dignity

In the face of the tumultuous shadows

They carried forth, not prey to demons.”

Michael furious at this tumultuous argument:

“Yet was it not the same shadows

Which consumed brother Lucifer?

Is it not the mystery of shade

The mastery of pain

Which led him to cruelty

And cast him unto the pit?”

Uriel:

“Yet here they stand

Neither a devil nor demon’s soul in sight!

You must wonder if Lucifer fell of his own

Or if simply we thrust him below

What wonder could there have been

If our brother angel was treated as such?”

Michael:

“You speak blasphemy!

I will hear no more!

This has scorned us

To Hell, it goes forevermore!”

Raguel now moved by Michael’s indignation met him with his own:

“No dear brother! Your word is not the only!

Our brothers speak in turmoil

And so no decision may be made!

Due process is also law

And this discourse must yet be resolved!”

Uriel, pleased by this continued:

“You worry about faith

But what does that mean?

What is God but a name?

What are we but a brand?”

Raphael:

“Yes indeed, although no prayers were uttered

They carried our virtues.

They healed the sick.

Held firm and awarded upon them

That which they justly deserved,

Held true in their self

Their ideals

Their Kin.

How could we condemn one so righteous?”

Gabriel:

“Yes, yes! Now I see!

Brother Raguel I know your tender heart!

Surely you can see out of all of us

That there are those dance neither in light

Nor shadow!

For that is where you live!

That is where you work!

That is where this one followed!

They judged not the shadows from afar

But with their own senses!

And brother Michael, temperamental art thou!

Mercurial, don’t you see

That this soul is your kin?”

Uriel:

“Indeed I must say

I have had enough of this masquerade

We are not stars

Nor are we scions!

Brothers our nature our souls must reflect!”

It was then that the spirit of Uriel flashed and flickered. The star imploded casting its dust through the primordial lands in a red haze. Upon its clearing the angels no longer stood, Indeed there stood seven men each reflecting familiar character to the soul.

Michael most of all resembled them, almost mirror-like and in response spoke in lament:

“I see my brothers perhaps

I speak with shame

They treat us with such revelry! Such praise!

How can we ever bear that standard?”

Uriel now a wizened entity:

“We can as long as we continue this discourse!

In days of old, we taught the humans!

Now, perhaps we allow them to grant us insight!

We too are but men of God

And even then what is he?

Perhaps its because we know that

Infallibility is myth

and we forget

that is what exalts us!”

Azrael reappeared to the soul and in his wake his brothers vanished, returning to their kingdom to spread their new insights. The Angel of Death drew back his hood, revealing a kindly face of a man with a short grey beard and gentle hazel eyes. He reached his hands took hold of the spirit then spoke calmly:

“Now you see my friend, the question was not ‘Do you fear Judgement?’ But rather do you fear your own? You answered what you thought would be truthful, your one and only sin. For clearly you do not, for never did you waver in character, nor did your call upon the demons of Pride and Envy to thrust it upon others even in the direst throes of pain.

Come now weary friend, come! Your wisdom will be invaluable in the next life, just as it had been now. Come! We are proud to call you our kin!”

2 notes · View notes

thenightling · 7 years ago

Note

What is the best vampire movie you have ever seen? I am in desperate need of some good ones to quench my thirst. Lol I apologize for that joke XD

Hehe. I love the pun. I like cheesy things.

1. Dracula (1979 version). This version of Dracula is one of the few romantic incarnations of Dracula that still seems to enjoy what he is and isn’t suicidal. I chose to believe he faked his death at the end. Also the Mina character (renamed Lucy) is delightfully aggressive and Laurence Olivier plays a fantastic Abraham Van Helsing.

2. Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Though this version is more faithful to The Dracula Tape by Fred Saberhagen than it follows Bram Stoker’s novel it’s the only version to leave Quincey Morris in tact and still the most faithful film adaptation to date despite the added love story between Mina and Dracula. And that odd origin story they gave for Dracula’s vampirism.

3. Dark Prince: The True Story of Dracula. This film can be found on Youtube for free. It stars Rudolf Martin, who also played Dracula in the Buffy The Vampire Slayer episode Buffy vs. Dracula. It’s surprisingly respectful to the history while also implying Vlad the Impaler became the famous vampire after death and actually works as a very good prequel to most recent (within the last thirty years) adaptations of Dracula.

4. Fright Night (original 1985 version). If you love eighties music, traditional vampires, and loving homages to classic Hammer Horror and Dark Shadows I strongly recommend this movie. You don’t see too many serious modern vampires able to turn into a bat, wolf, or mist anymore and it’s just a fun movie. Also Roddy Mcdowell played Peter Vincent (a sweet homage to both Peter Cushing and Vincent Price) masterfully. You see excellent and well portrayed character growth and I highly recommend it and even it’s 1988 sequel, Fright Night: Part 2. I miss the traditional vampire powers to summon storms and change form into a bat, wolf, or mist and age and de-age at will and most of those lost powers make an appearance in this movie but not in the 2011 remake which lacks heart and passion on the part of the film makers behind it.

5. Lost Boys. Much like Fright Night this is a fun eighties movie. Like Fright Night it has an excellent soundtrack and humor with the horror. The sequel’s not very good but the third one is decent. Not as good as the first but decent.

6. Interview with the vampire. Despite what Anne Rice hopes I doubt she will ever be able to make a better film adaptation of the original source material than this movie and it’s a shame that a version of The Vampire Lestat was never made by the same people. If you can find it the San Francisco (NOT the New York) adaptation of the Lestat musical actually works pretty well as a direct sequel. The San Francisco version of the Lestat musical was never officially released to video but there is a good quality bootleg out there.

7. Let the Right One In. An eerie and beautiful platonic love story between a boy and a vampire. The film is adapted from the novel of the same name. Also it’s far better than it’s awful American remake.

9. The vampire Lovers. Despite deviations from the novel and two character name changes this is still a far better adaptation of Carmilla than many other film versions and it does capture the atmosphere and ambiance of the original novel, something few adaptations seem to manage.

10. Demon Under Glass. This one is extremely low budget. It’s so low budget it might as well have been filmed in someone’s basement however it has a very clever premise and a tie-in novel (with twice the plot) by the woman who wrote the script. It deals with what happens when a kindly doctor is roped into working with the government in regard to studying a captured vampire.

11. Scars of Dracula. This was Christopher Lee’s favorite Hammer Dracula movie to work on and you can tell.

12. Nightbreed. Not specifically dealing with vampires the main character does rise from the dead as a vampire who craves blood. Seek the director’s cut or “Cabal Cut” if possible. It’s based on the novel Cabal by Clive Barker. And it has a haunting score by Danny Elfman.

13. Monster Squad. This is a mulltimonster movie but Dracula is the ring leader and it’s fun. Another 80s gem.

Bonus mentions: F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu. Though I hate that people now think the word means a bald and bucked toothed vampire when it just means vampire. Vampire The masquerade helped popularize that idea and this movie popularized the idea of vampires burning in the sun, which didn’t exist until the movie. However, as terrifying as Count Orlock might be, I like Murnau’s Faust better than his Nosferatu. His adaptation of Goethe’s Faust is very underated and I highly recommend it even if it’s not a vampire movie.

And of course the 1931 Dracula starring Bela Lugosi and the Spanish film also made at the same time using the same sets. Who can forget those? And Dracula’s Daughter. Son of Dracula. House of Dracula and House of Frankenstein and Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein. (those require watching the other Universal Monster movies first).

The Subspecies movies. Cult classics and very under-rated. Radu (named after the real life Dracula’s brother) is not a sexy vampire but an intriguing one.

The Hunger starring David Bowie, based on the novel by Whitley Streiber.

Hammer’s Dracula movies: Dracula (1958) AKA Horror of Dracula. Brides of Dracula. Dracula: Prince of Darkness. Dracula has risen from the grave. Taste the blood of Dracula. Scars of Dracula. Dracula 1972 AD. Satanic Rites of Dracula (AKA Dracula and his vampire Bride).

Innocent Blood. This one deals with vampire mobsters after a female vampire bungles a feeding and has to team up with a cop.

For vampire comedies I recommend Love at First Bite, What we do in the Shadows and Dracula: Dead and Loving it.

TV shows: Castlevania (new animated series), Dracula: the Series (not the awful NBC series, but the 1990s kid friendly one, it’s weirdly respectful to the novel despite giving Dracula blond hair). Forever Knight. And Buffy The Vamprire Slayer. True Blood’s first few seasons were good but around the Lilith / Billith storyline it went down hill and never recovered. The “Hep V” storyline was God-awful. Midnight Texas is pretty good but not strictly vampire related. And for anime Hellsing and Hellsing: OVA.

For “So bad it’s good” I recommend Dracula 2 (sequel to Dracula 2000) and Dario Argento’s Dracula or as my friends and I have nicknamed it “Mantis Drac.” It’s like the Plan 9 from Outer Space of Dracula movies. And the badly dubbed anime Dracula: Sovereign of the damned (which can be found on Youtube). It’s meant to be an adaptation of Marvel’s Tomb of Dracula but they couldn’t get the rights to Blade and had to work around him. They also tried to condense years worth of comics into an hour and twenty minute animated movie.

For comic books I recommend Tomb of Dracula from Marvel. Morbius The Living Vampire, also from Marvel. Legion Of Monsters (2010 version). And Dracula: The Company of Monsters (independent and very good graphic novel series).

For plays I recommend the musical Dracula by composer Frank Wildhorn. It’s pretty much a musical adaptation of the 1992 Bram Stoker’s Dracula movie.

For novels I recommend the sorely under-rated Dracula books by Fred Saberhagen. There are ten in all and three short stories. The first book is The Dracula Tape. The audio books are available on Amazon and Audible (but sadly not the printed versions except used or digital) and the audio books are brilliantly read by Roblin Bloodworth (I kid you not. That’s really the reader’s name.). I strongly feel Fred Saberhagen’s Dracula novels deserve more positive attention than what they get.

And of course other books: Dracula, Carmilla, Let the Right One In. The first three Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice (and possibly Tale of the Body Thief for comic relief), All the obvious staples. But also try Quincey Morris: Vampire by P. N. Elrod.

For short stories try Box Number 50 by Fred Saberhagen which can be found in the Saberhagen vampire Tales and the Dracula in London short story collection edited by P. N. Elrod.

I’ll probably think of some better ones later. My mood about these things changes on a whim.

#Vampire #Vampires #Dracula

7 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 11 months ago

Note

🥂💋 because Mikhail can never say no to this kind of thing.

Champagne Kisses || Accepting

Beth has never been the sort to be wholly interested in fashion. She has closets full of designer dresses that were mostly foisted on her by the Admiral for this event or that, gifts from her Auntie because every girl simply needs millions of dollars to look pretty, and her own comfortable threads are considered by most to be vintage classic but that look is so twenty or more years ago. But tonight she even with a princess's dowry worth of jewels strewn at her ears, wrists, and fingers, Beth feels like a tiny brown sparrow. It isn't that he's done anything more than worn a stylish, classic tuxedo. The black raw silk strikes the same wound against his shirt as his hair and eyes do the pallor of his skin.

He is lush.

He is the very flame that can take him away from her.

She is dust-motes and ashes as he takes her securely by the waist and the hand and loses them both between the music and the onlookers. She half wonders if he would be so flawless amidst his own kind, and what whispers would arise. Certainly there'll be comments in the morning's paper about them though no photographer will be able to sell the once in a lifetime photo of the heiress and her beau. A little magick amongst the sleepers, the Kine, takes care of that. "…It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It's pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical…" When he dips her, her hands become stronger than they appear, and she pulls herself up to be but a breath away from his lips. "S novym godom, lyubov' moya." She seals the kiss between them with the faintest prick of her teeth as the twelfth chime dies.

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Dangerous Creatures|Kindred and Awakened #Brooklyn Stories|New York #{{also..excerpt from Poe}}

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 11 months ago

Text

Advent Day XII ~ The Long Night Draws Near @thebiggestlies

She's been counting down from Thanksgiving to now with ever increasing excitement. She imagined it a thousand times as she stood in shopping lines. She buys a few things she has no intention of anyone else seeing, at least not in day-to-day life. And once it finally arrives? She's shoving Andy out the door reminding him that he swapped shifts with some of his work friends so that they could spend the holidays with their kids. A few kisses and shoving treat trays for the other detectives and there he goes. Yes, it's only three in the afternoon but she has some work to do. Instead of carols, she throws on one of her more sensual playlists and takes a long hot shower. A sea-salt scrub, a new shampoo and conditioner set that smell like pikake flowers, soft and subtle and sweet. She applies lotion to her skin though she avoids her inner thighs, her throat, her wrists. Mists herself with warm sandalwood and blood orange essential oils. Layers herself in silk and lace, complimentary textures. She leaves her hair down, she leaves it in its natural curls rather than straightening it to within an inch of her life. The only make up she bothers with is a touch of mascara, some eyeliner, and a smokey lid shade to enhance the natural colours of her irises. She sips a half a glass of mulled wine and makes sure the spices and apple taste lingers on her tongue, her lips, in her blood. Makes a present of herself for him to unwrap tonight a little at a time. Oh she has other gifts for him; a first edition of Anatomia Humani Corporis by Govard Bidloo, published in 1685, complete with 105 engraved plates after Gérard de Lairesse, who himself had been a devotee of Rembrandt. Another is Mayakovsky's A Cloud in Trousers. Вашу мысль мечтающую на размягченном мозгу, как выжиревший лакей на засаленной кушетке, буду дразнить об окровавленный сердца лоскут: досыта изъиздеваюсь, нахальный и едкий. ~Your thoughts, dreaming on a softened brain, like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee, with my heart's bloody tatters I'll mock again; impudent and caustic, I'll jeer to superfluity.~ Her Russian is getting better. She thinks he will appreciate that sentiment toward most kine that are not his herd, and she bears no jealousy toward their hunger for him in return. Her Poet will return to her always, and she has the luxury of centuries to dance his attendance. Tonight though, is the Solstice, the longest night of the year. The sun will set in an hour, and will not be reborn until well after seven in the morning. Even the universe wants them to have this time together. So she doesn't waste a single precious moment taking herself and her gifts to his haven, letting herself in. She waits for him in candle light, perusing through his Ferlinghetti.

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year ago

Note

Autumn Starters: (from Mischa) "The longer the nights, the better."

Autumn Offerings || Accepting Beth sets down the copy of ~The House of the Dead~ she had been reading. Not that she saw any correlation between Dostoevsky's novel and her beautiful Kindred, rather its written in the author's native tongue. Beth suspects that if not the original, it is at least a first printing and one she hasn't read yet. Mischa is a dragon, his horde of words are as vast as the night he speaks of, and there is always something new to captivate her when she makes those seldom and distant visits to his domain. "I don' disagree," she murmurs with the faintest of smiles. Her reasons are purely selfish. Night is the only time they have together, dawn robs her of him as surely as if he were dead. And he is a dead thing, his life stolen in crimson sips, usually from her own veins. She wonders if its potency offers something to him that he cannot find amidst his herd. If there is something special about it that isn't simply the fact that she can give and give without succumbing to her own demise. "I've heard stories dat...dere is a place in Alaska...Utqiaġvik, dey call it but used to be Barrow. Dey say dat sometime in da middle of November da sun sets...an' no rise again until sometime in da middle or end of January. Not a single peep of daylight for two monts." She rises from the settee and crosses the floor with soundless steps, her poetry simple motion as she approaches her Poet. Her slender arms encircle his waist, and she presses her cheek to his back, eyes half closing as she takes a breath. "If I were brave, I'd walk da razor's edge, where fools an' dreamers dare to tread. I'd nevah lose fait', even when losing my way. What step would I take today, were I brave?" A song, no more or less but the question lingers within the lyrics. Would they dare make such a trip? She would give up what warmth autumn might bequeath winter, if she had a wealth of days that they might be together.

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year ago

Note

Á : Is your muse loud in bed? (Mischa verse)

Sin a little Sin || Accepting

Beth is not loud. If anything, she tries to take up as little space as possible, and the room she does have to by virtue of being a person, is forever accompanied by apology. Mischa paints her in faery hues, sometimes seems to think of her as some small sliver of sunlight that he's not been privileged with for centuries. And Mischa holds all the mystery of night and dark that she doesn't have to fear. He lives within himself, and part of that life comes from her veins. She becomes lost in the music of him, the unheard refrains and the poetry that falls from his lips. When he finally bites into her ~this is a courtship, an endless dance where he woos her each and every time~ the most that might be heard is a blissful sigh. A whispered intonation of words in her native language that even most of the kama'aina do not remember, the words like the stories behind them stolen from them when Mischa was still a living man. She might, in a particularly wicked mood, murmur encouragement into his hair or along his brow. She might tell him to drink deeper, or perhaps slower, and sometimes she's as silent as nothing else can be, only a breath and a lost into a sensation she can barely describe. Some day, she'll sing. Some day, she'll possess the ability to whisper back every glorious bit of poetry she knows.For now, though, she cannot bear for Andy to overhear. She cannot allow herself to be a threat to him, her beautiful Kindred. The loudest sound comes though, only when the threat of dawn steals him away. But then, she reminds herself of the old Verbena adage: blood will always call to blood. He will never be gone so long as to break her heart.

For now, she's simply content to curl up and lick the tiniest splash of her own fluids from the corner of his mouth, her hand all but curling around his throat.

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 2 years ago

Note

a risky kiss between forbidden lovers (for Mischa and Beth)

I Ask No More Than This || Accepting

The rules of Elysium are strict, he tells her before allowing her into the car that he's hired for the evening. The Masquerade must be kept at all costs when mortals are around, something he promises she doesn't know, and if it looks like she does, he will regrettably have to make it so. She is both radiant, sparkling like a jewel hung before him as she meets his gaze, and eager to please, nodding just so that the faint glitter on her skin catches the streetlight's glare and refracts the light. His little sprite, indeed. They go over other bits of rules and regulations ~she can't help giggle at the formality of it all, and then more soberly compare it to many of the military functions she's been subjected to~ while she curls up at his side, occasionally tracing patterns against the pale flesh of his cool hand. She agrees to abide by every one, questions why others exist or what a particular word or phrase means. There are certain things though that Mischa cannot share about his nocturnal world. He softens the rejection by bringing up the scandal of her turning up at one of her neutral places with him on her slender arm. When he kisses her inner wrist, it hardly seems to matter at all. The night proceeds to go well. She makes him smile more than once over an observation here or comment there. He never confirms or denies which of the gathered are his kind and which are not. She promises either way she isn't cheating. And she isn't. It would be unsportsmanlike. Toward the end of the evening though, when he's glutted on gossip and pageantry and watching others try and curry favour ~she did pick out the Prince as one of the most fascinating people here before the entire retinue retired~ there's an incident that thankfully had nothing to do with her. Unfortunately, she won't remember a single detail later. What stays with her is when he bears his teeth on full display to the offending leeches. One dangles from his hand, feet unable to touch the floor. "If you cannot even control yourself on Elysium grounds, then it was a mistake to release you from your Sire. You are no longer recognised by the Primogen Council as a Kindred and you will need to seek a sponsor to teach you our laws and ways again until you earn the right to be seen!"

Mischa is utterly stunning in his wrath...

...And he barely makes it out the door before she's taking hold of him and pressing him into the brick and shadows that adorn the salon's edifice. She is half afraid he'll turn to ash from the heat of her skin as her lips find his throat and she leaves deep kisses that would mark for weeks if he were human. His hand grasps her chin, raises his face so his lips crush into hers. Each kiss becomes hungrier than the last and his head dips into the space between her jaw and her shoulder, his fangs caressing the pulse of life so strong it drowns the echoing bass from the music inside.

His arms slide under hers and around her back when her knees weaken and she finds herself in the very same spot he'd been a moment ago. Her thighs clamp around his knee. Nothing that's never quite happened before, just not nearly so public. At least until there's the sharpest pang that sweeps through him, and she draws a drop or two of turbid blood into her mouth, despite all his prior laments of how that could not be...

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #blood tw #Mischa tw #Dubious consent?#{{She is NOT sorry}}

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year ago

Note

12. What pet names would your muse want to be called?

It Came From the Lost Meme Lagoon || -

She had known that Mischa was in the apartment, even if she couldn't see him. One thing she'd noticed about him is that his disciplines might fool her eyes at times, but this does not extend entirely into her more magickal perceptions. There is absence where he stands; not merely of life, though that is certainly an aspect, but dust motes don't dance in the open air and light bends but only if one looks closely. Human senses do not reach that level of scrutiny, they can't. But. He must have his reasons for haunting her space rather than presenting himself in totality. She might have questioned how long he had stood there as she put down the days thoughts in her journal, snippets of thoughts and ideas, events no one else will ever bother to read though it helps her on the days she's more disconnected from the world around her, at least until he manifests in his full dark glory. Until he bids her the question. It tells her that he heard Andy on speaker phone telling her his flight is being delayed by another three days. He calls her jelly bean, like he has since before she was born. Family mythology is that he once asked her mother how big the baby was, and she'd answered that Beth was maybe the size of a jelly bean. It had made him, four years old and so curious about the world, laugh and imagine that she would always be so small. She finishes her passage and then sets the pen and journal on the window ledge. Turning her face toward him she tilts her head in contemplation. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." She teases him by stealing the Bard's famous words. But she scoots closer to the window and lifts the afghan affording him a place to ensconce himself at her side. "Quite like when ya call me 'sprite'. Makes me feel soft and dreamy. I found my blood turning to ice dat one time ya called me 'Yelizaveta', but den, really, only one who uses da haole version of my name in full is da Admiral. Like 'Ljúšik' an' 'Ljúšečka' mo' beddah." She slicks her lips with the tip of her tongue before that innate timidity rises to the surface, and she ends up looking away from him. "Or ya could, f' like, call me...yours."

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year ago

Note

“The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality…”

Tennyson’s words continue, telling the tale of a man gifted unending life and cursed with endless aging. Unlike Tithonus, Mikhail’s hair stays black. He more closely claims peerage among the portraits they stroll through, a Tudor-era collection on loan from some British gallery, all of them faces frozen from a lost time.

The Toreador primogen has arranged the night-time access. Art, so important, and while he must attend for political reasons, there is at least Beth’s company as reward. “Perhaps arrogant of me to think there is no better partner for you than myself, dear sprite.”

The poem ends and his thoughts begin, spun from an invisible tangent. “I can keep your mind fed and your body sated. I know all that you are and aren’t, and would raze this city to ashes before any could harm you. While I cannot join you in the sunlight, this is true, I do not claim to be a perfect being. Only that I am as ideal for you as any undying creature can be.”

A Million Reasons || Accepting

Tawny fingers slither around his bicep with the wool beneath doing little damage to her as she's temporarily altered her own body to compensate for the allergy. She leans her head closer to him. The slender column of her throat exposes itself for a single flirtatious moment of throbbing pulse before her hair hides it again. In so many ways it is a microcosm of what Mischa's voice does to her, wrapping her up in the silk of its measure,and warms her throughout as so little else in the world does.

She listens closely. Navigating intent and art to find the truths that he wishes to share. More often than not, Beth aches for him. Even if she extended her own life beyond any conceivable measure, she too, will have to leave him. That is the point of a life measured against the Tapestry. But that's not what she wants to think about, not when everything around them already whispers of death and time. She slows their measured tread as they pass one particular painting, and for a moment she half wonders if he'd not sat for it, though this one does surpass even his formerly human years in age. A relative perhaps. A doppelganger. Some Sidhe who dreamed Mikhail into existence across centuries. "Arrogance is the exaggeration of one's own importance and ability or skill, Kuluaumoe. When you speak as you do...is called truth." She enunciates carefully so that her meaning isn't swallowed up by the cracks in her native pidgin. "I would like to think, for so long as you wish to keep me, that I can feed your body and quiet your mind. I know what you are and I stand not afraid. And I know that if...if you were to be taken from me, that the world would drown in blood until I raised you back up, or else I would be content to twine my roots in your earth. I don't need the sun, when I have you."

He is perfect to her just as he is, and even he can't dissuade her from that. She gives his arm the slightest squeeze and stares up into his midnight gaze. "Why I love thee? Ask why the seawind wanders, Why the shore is aflush with the tide, Why the moon through heaven meanders; Like seafaring ships that ride On a sullen, motionless deep; Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand Where the waves sing themselves to sleep And starshine lives in the curves of the sand".

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 2 years ago

Note

😏 - Mischa, with sex being a broad word

Love, Love Me Do… || Accepting

How physically attracted they are to your muse:

"…if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me…" She whispers the poet's words with each stroke of her brush. Each dab of oil paint caressing the canvas to tease out the shape of him. The beauty of his bone structure, the gleam in his eyes like polished dark tourmaline. The candlelight casts its shadows on him and he envelopes them in his stillness. Porcelain skin. Supple curve of lip. Long lithe muscles. Even as she is she can see he is beautiful, in body as with soul. Even as she is, she knows better than to sink down beside him and while away the night. But she grows moth wings still. Dares to flit closer and closer. She sets the brush and her palette down. Pours herself over him and casts her head to the side. Lets life thrash and pulse beneath her skin and speak to him.

2. How romantically attracted they are to your muse:

…Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores… She drinks the words of Keats from his tongue, copper-tinged her essence wets it like honey, instead of what now flows in his veins. These are entirely different sorts of kisses between them. His of satiation, and hers the eternal hunger to partake of him as easily as he does of her. But he won't allow it. He brushes his knuckles over the arch of her cheek and maybe just once she sees a certain kind of sorrow in his eyes. He tells her she is Enlightened in her own way, that his would drive the light straight out of her soul. She acquiesces for the sake of peace but her dreams remain fitful. She would not mind so much the consequences, even if he swears it could strip her of her will. Doesn't he see it is already done? And this is how all the cautionary tales are born. With a smile, with the softest touch of a hand, with the desire to be more than a passing occupation of time. She cannot be the first of her kind to become so enchanted by his, otherwise there would be no whispered rumours and dire warnings to try and dissuade. Her ancestors tell that nature is all things but even in nature is balance between life and death. And what are they if not this dichotomy made flesh?

3. How often they would like to have sex with yours:

…Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chance. We are too poor to be late… His head is buried in the crook of her neck and she glides her fingers through his hair as the ecstasy of the Kiss sweeps through her. She doesn't know if its minutes or if its hours strung together and pulled apart like liquid glass. She only knows that no matter how long they remain like this, it is never enough. Dawn comes far too soon and for maybe the first time in her life she wants to curse the sun in all its entirety for stealing Mischa away from her. Though he does his level best to keep himself warm, his skin is cool except where it rests between her thighs. And she finds herself daydreaming of what it would be like if…just once… he could redirect his efforts elsewhere and let her feel him sink into her with something other than his fangs. But even as he licks the wounds he's made until they close, as they come back down into themselves from whatever aetherial realm they've climbed to outside of themselves, she doesn't ask. She doesn't know if it is even possible, all things considered and so, she remains as shut on the matter as the gates of the Winter Palace that he's described down to the smallest of details. And in the grand scheme of things, maybe it's better this way. After all, that desire only seems to crop up when he drinks from her. Otherwise she enjoys his companionship for what it is, and his mind is more than enough for her. 4. Where they would most likely have sex with yours:

…Upon my flowery breast, Kept wholly for himself alone, There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him, And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret As I parted his locks; With his gentle hand he wounded my neck And caused all my senses to be suspended.

I remained, lost in oblivion; My face I reclined on the Beloved. All ceased and I abandoned myself, Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies… She wonders if his sanctum, that place where he sleeps the day away, has space enough for two. It isn't that she objects to him coming to her, makes it easier not having to find continual excuses about where she's going once the sun is set. She knows it's more than coincidence that Andy is often out on shift or busy with something else when he chooses to spend his longest hours with her and they aren't out soaking in the false day of Manhattan's brightest lights and billboards. She doesn't ask about that, either, as it feels so intrusive, so pushy that it would make her feel somehow dirty. Besides, he's given her free reign over his library and has hinted that there might be, amongst the tiered treasures, some written in his own hand. That alone could keep her occupied for years. 5. Whether they think yours would be “good” in bed: …I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young, And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine, With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove, Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart, Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part… The pangs of passion, he tells her, close to her ear, his mouth moving against her skin, were wasted even in his youth…and while she writhes like a living kelp bed swayed by his currents, Beth cannot help but to think of what a sad, lonely existence that he must have lead. She reads enough romances ~classic literature and lurid modern tales~ to know that part of the human condition seeks to find a mirror of itself in pairing off; love is love and nearly every person is fundamentally programmed to dream of such things. Even a bonafide monster still retains that spark. After all, wouldn't he have simply drained her and discarded her remains somewhere if she'd not captivated his imagination? If she did not provide him with something he could lose himself in? But in many ways she thinks they are alike; the sensations and the emotional nourishment of the Kiss goes beyond mere flesh and the ways they can interconnect. It is fulfilling in and of itself, and even if Mischa could, she is not so certain she would want to…well. Make love to him in a conventional sense. It would be a waste of his limited resources in that regard and…she's honestly not sure that either one of them would be very good at it. The idea of taking so much time and care to do…it… and then it turning out to be a monumental disappointment? It's a little more than she can bear. It has absolutely nothing to do with her being able to tell herself that his fangs in her flesh and her blood in his mouth is perhaps less sinful than sex outside of marriage, and the will of the Church. 6. What titles / nicknames my muse would like to call yours during sex: …What is my name to you? 'T will die: a wave that has but rolled to reach with a lone splash a distant beach; or in the timbered night a cry …

'T will leave a lifeless trace among names on your tablets: the design of an entangled gravestone line in an unfathomable tongue… "…Jus'…no." "Mmm?" Like a wave, one sleek dark brow raises above an eye, and there is a hint of amusement in both his tone and his expression. She hadn't realised that she'd broken the silence for the first part in over an hour. Theirs is a companionable sort of nightly ritual, each allowing many hours to the other to go about their interests and business with the constant need to interact. Hence the bright flourish of colour in her cheeks as she looks up from her phone, guilt stricken. "I…a friend…jus' aks me if…I had any pet-names for my secret paramour. Dey gettin' nosy about you, apparently. I'm a little mortified t' admit…dat she suggest I call you…" A shudder of revulsion shakes her from base to summit of her small frame. "…Daddy." She can already see him starting to inform her that they have no familial relationship, paternal or otherwise, and that he'd have no intention of claiming her for his tradition in the future but she holds up a hand to stop him. "Please…jus'… let's pretend I nevah say any kine li'dat." In her mind, she associates him with the word Naʻauao, which means enlightened but it isn't really so much of a pet name as it the virtue she sees most in him. She already has the diminutive Mischa that he's come to accept over Mikhail, and if she might venture off the beaten path, she might let slip a soft miliy, or darling.

7. Up to 3 kinks they would like to explore with yours ( with consent of course ):

…Moments after you curated my undoings on your tongue, we lay in silence. My bed sheet a museum

of introductions—your palm greeting the ditch between my thigh and backside, your two-fingered

come-hither to which I said hello, hello, and oohh—the silence in which my neck buttered

itself with your teeth’s sickle-curve. I should tell you, no one prepared me for this; the tension…. She's never seen Mischa sleep before. She can't call it anything else, it hurts to know that while the sun sails across the sky, he is as dead as any of her ancestors, but also still alive in the same way. And while normally he would never be caught in so vulnerable position ~on his back, his hands folded in funerary fashion above where his unbeating hear is lodged~ this is a testament to his trust. While she'd bought the most expensive black-out curtains and put foiled cardboard into the windowpanes to blot out the sun's rays to any normal eye, she's also woven enchantments from the Arts of Elements to ensure there are no mishaps. No light pours in. No sounds drift up from the Brooklyn streets. No slight inconvenience to disturb him. And better yet, the Crone's Cloak that protects her by fading her from the memories and thoughts of others ensures that there will be no uninvited guests. Even Andy. Maybe especially Andy. He's flown Tabby out for a weekend in California wine country. He proposed it as a business trip, and maybe he'll actually incorporate her work into it, but Beth knows her brother better than that. Which means she has a blissful week to herself with no surprises or intrusions. She looks down at Mischa's arresting features. He is achingly beautiful. She wonders what it would be like to watch him feed off someone else. Would his face hold ecstacy or would it be a mask of intense hatred and self-disgust? Would he feel it a chore? Would he shy away from the mere suggestion? Would she feel murderous envy that he'd be so intimate with someone else? She can't say for sure but as curious as she is, she can already feel the teeth of jealousy nipping at her heels. Maybe she's not ready for that kind of openness after all. Despite the chill of his flesh, she curls up beside and rest her cheek on his still chest.

8. What sort of sex they’d prefer to have with yours ( slow & sensual, quickie, etc) : …Desire to us Was like a double death, Swift dying Of our mingled breath, Evaporation Of an unknown strange perfume Between us quickly In a naked Room… Mischa's fangs retract and ever so carefully he licks the last traces of blood from the inside of her thigh, then closes the wounds. Somewhere in the passion-fogged recesses of her brain she wonders if it's a matter of habit or if he simply let her be if the wounds would seal up of their own accord, even if they didn't quite so quickly as when he does it for her.

He kisses his way back up to her shoulder, tracking the expanse of her skin the way a man might wander the desert. Contemplative to his existence and his place in the world. She never knows what he's thinking; not where lover intersects with monster nor where madness is merely heightened inspiration. Regardless, Mischa tries his best to ensure she is sated, she is nurtured by the castoff of his dreams, that she is welcoming him back the next time they end up in her sheets. When he collapses back onto the pillows, she nestles her head onto his chest.

The tentative question hanging off her lips catches his eye and he nuzzles her hair, bidding her to ask. "You're…always so careful. Like I know ya nevah wanna hurt me an' it's all very roman'ic, you know? But…what would it be like…ya equivalent of quick an' dirty an' gone wi' lust or hunger or…ya know. Wha'evah ya call it?"

9. What type of relationship my muse would like to form with yours. ( typical couple, friends with benefits, etc.) :

…To live in this world

you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it

against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go…

She pushes her food around on her plate with the ease of a chess grand-master plucking victory away from an opponent so as to hide the fact that she's not really eating it. The last thing she wants is for Andy to start some kind of Inquisition about why she's not hungry, that she's looking a little pale and run down, that she's not been herself lately.

She can't tell her brother that she's having boy problems. First he'd insist on meeting the man and putting a Templar and a Vampire in the room together is not exactly what she would consider a good time, especially knowing only one of them would be likely to walk out from it.

She and Mischa haven't had a falling out, nor has he been in any way inattentive. If anything he's oft willing to give her as much time and space as she might ask, is very aware of her work schedule and they make time for each other more often than most couples.

But Nan from Radiology was flashing her new engagement ring at work. Sherryl in Maternity asked if Beth could cover her own leave and considering the woman's as big as a beach house, Beth couldn't say no. Other happy occasions flow around her. Anniversaries, group dates, lives lived openly. She's happy for them all, really, she is.

Until she gets home. She and Mischa will never get married. Even if she weren't broken on a fundamental level, they'll never have children. They will not grow old and grey and retire to some quiet place where they'll sip coffee together in their rocking chairs on the porch and watch the sun come up.

Beth knows that they can both be killed ~and if each of their Traditions knew about them, the likelihood of that would skyrocket~ but she doesn't know how many mortal years she has. If like her maternal grandfather she will swim Sea or rove grandmother's land forever unchanged, or if she will have more or less a human lifetime, or most likely…something in between.

Mischa…will remain Mischa until he is consumed by the beast inside or he grows too weary of the world, unable to stomach centuries of sleep. There is too much treachery in his circle of associates and some day he might be toppled from his throne before he can abdicate to someone more envious of it. So many things could happen but the most common thing she can imagine is simply… he grows bored and disenchanted.

"So what do you want?" Andy asks her.

She blanches. "Wh-what?"

"I said… what do you want? For dinner tonight."

"Oh."

She doesn't really know, and certainly can't ask him, can she?

"Wha'ever's fine. Not really picky."

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #blood tw #which of course it says it right there in the tag...VAMPIRE so don't be shocked

2 notes · View notes