#VERSE: A Moth to Blue Light

[ghostlyrps]

"Vox..." Ghost shrank back. "Let's... not do anything rash. Please?"

They didn't dare move- afraid Vox, the predator that he was, would chase them if they did. He was staring them down like prey, like he was about to bury his teeth into their throat and thrash them around like a shark. But they did try to seem smaller, metaphorically rolling over to show their boss- their owner- their belly.

"I- I noticed around the same time. I thought you were just shifting the hours!" They squeaked frantically. "I didn't realize they were better at first, I promise! I'm sorry! I should have checked with you!"

Don't hurt me. They pleaded silently. Don't hurt me- please don't hurt me.

"So you confronted him then." Vox said snarky and cutting, the shark teeth baring just a centimeter more as he just followed the conclusion on what he wished would have happened. It was not a gift. It was his money. His. It was just a phrase but it definitely seemed to rub the media overlord the wrong way because he stopped pacing and closed the minimal distance between the two of them in just a step or two, but slowly, crowding them. Giving Ghost time to decide whether or not they were going to back away or stand their ground. His posture said that there was a right answer, but both of those choices had served Ghost at one point. It was a loaded trick question at best.

"And the scheduling. Tell me about when you noticed the schedule was wrong." His voice was growing more tense.

[victorluvsalice]

Merry Christmas Newt!

@dont-offend-the-bees You simply said that, if I was inclined to write something, it could involve ghosts or ghost detectives -- so I threw Edwin and Charles of Dead Boys Detective Agency into the Valicer In The Dark verse. ^^; Hope you enjoy your favorite ghostly duo getting very confused and worried by Duskwall!

--

“Mate, I think that last mirror hop went a lot more wrong than we first thought.”

“Really?” Edwin murmured, looking around the misty street where he and Charles currently found themselves. “What tipped you off? The lack of familiar landmarks to navigate by? The frankly Dickensian architecture around us? Or the fact that the moment we tumbled through the glass, we were met by a woman who promptly started screaming ‘SPECTERS! FETCH THE SPIRIT WARDENS!’”

“Definitely the latter,” Charles replied, one hand deep in his backpack as he squinted into the gloam. “What do you think a ‘spirit warden’ is, anyway? Something like the Night Nurse?”

“Perhaps – I don’t recall ever hearing the term before, and unfortunately, as of right now, our library is off-limits to us.” Edwin glanced at Charles. “Perhaps, should we encounter one, I could encourage you not to immediately go in swinging with your cricket bat? The Night Nurse proved able to be reasoned with – perhaps they could too.”

“Yeah, well, I think taking a few to the face and getting swallowed by a sea monster for a bit is what softened her up enough to be reasoned with,” Charles argued, frowning back at him. “And I’m not letting anyone separate us. Not after what we’ve already been through.”

“On that point, we are thoroughly in agreement.” Edwin looked around again – or, at least, tried to. “Even if, right now, I think anyone could sneak up on us and have the advantage. How is anyone supposed to find their way around in this?”

“Guess the locals are used to it.” Charles rummaged around a little. “Know I’ve got your little alchemy set in here somewhere...you think you could brew up something to–”

“...this way, you said?”

“Yes, there’s definitely some ghosts around here.”

Edwin and Charles both froze as three hazy figures appeared at the end of the street, coming toward them fast. “Shit,” Charles hissed.

“Calm, calm,” Edwin said, as much to himself as to his friend. “Again, we might be able to talk to them. Maybe.”

Charles opened his mouth to snap something back – but before he could, the trio were upon them, features resolving themselves into something more definite than mere foggy shapes. They were a bit of a bizarre bunch – a young woman in a black-and-white dress and black cloak, holding a knife that glowed with a peculiar gray light; what looked to be a young man about the same age in a bright yellow vest and black pants, peering at them curiously with what appeared to be yellow eyes (another cat king?); and a second taller, paler man in a black suit and long dark blue coat, wearing a mask that appeared to be made out of twitching moth wings and carrying a pole with a loop at the end in one hand. They stared at Edwin and Charles for a long, quite worrying moment...

Then the fellow in the mask sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Oh – it’s all right,” he told his companions, collapsing the pole and stowing it away in a pocket. “They’re Reconciled.”

“Oh good – I really didn’t feel like getting into an electroplasmic scrap tonight,” the woman said, holstering her blade. She tilted her head as she looked Edwin and Charles up and down. “Though – that doesn’t explain why they’re in full color. I’ve never seen a ghost who wasn’t all blue or gray before.”

“Me either – maybe they’re a new type of ghost?” the other fellow said, before giving them a bright smile and a wave. “Hi! I’m Smiler, and this is Victor and Alice! Just a quick question – you’re definitely not interested in sucking our life essence, right?”

Edwin blinked a few times. “Ah – no,” he finally said. “I’m – certainly not currently inclined to do that.”

“We’re not local,” Charles added, not taking his hand out of his backpack – Edwin was deeply suspicious that it was clutching a certain cricket bat. “Don’t suppose you lot could tell us where we’ve ended up?”

“Duskwall, in Akoros!” Smiler provided, grin not budging. “Are you ghosts from another part of the Isles then? Oooh, maybe from Tycheros?”

“They don’t seem to have any of the usual tells, though,” the woman – Alice – said, squinting thoughtfully. “Victor?”

“I...” The masked man – Victor – stared hard at them, his eyes glowing with that strange gray light Edwin had seen on Alice’s knife. “They’re definitely not regular ghosts, but I’m not sure h-how precisely they’re different. Not hostile, just not – right?”

“Ah – lovely. A mystery for us to solve in the middle of the blind hour on our way back from a heist,” Alice grumbled, folding her arms. “But if they’re sane, then at least we can talk to them. Where do you two hail from, then?”

Edwin exchanged a baffled look with Charles. “We’re...we’re from England,” he said slowly, starting to get quite the bad feeling in his lack of stomach. “And I believe we’ve gone terribly astray.”

[mielmoto]

Wing Anatomy, Texture, and Appearance

( a.k.a. "what has bird been overthinking to the umpteenth degree for the last two weeks", and "why do i keep seeing words like 'chitin,' 'lamellar,' or 'lamina', etc." )

To say that fey are portrayed with diverse anatomical properties is the understatement of a millennium; as helpfully highlighted by the recently-trending 'fairy alignment chart'. Many fairies aren't portrayed with wings at all– but it's fair to say that, perhaps, the 'typical' fairy which comes to many people's mind does have wings, and those wings are usually insect-like in nature; reminiscent of dragonflies, butterflies & moths*, etc. And while this holds true in some of Honey's verses / iterations, eagle-eyed viewers have likely noticed it's not exactly true of her portrayed full-fey form.

*both belonging to the family lepidoptera. noted for further use of the word 'lepidopteric,' referring to this family of creatures.

At a glance, the silhouette of her wings evokes something more bird-like, feathery in texture— or, indeed, leaning more divine, with the placement and structure evoking classical depictions of seraphim / nephilim. This is not incidental, but it's also not quite accurate either; so here I am to shed a little bit more light on ( and through ) the ethereal fibers on this fairy.

Rather than vaned feathers with barbs, as most birds have, the individual 'plumes' of Honey's wings are a rather elongated version of the lamellar-type scales which give lepidopteric wings their color; covering a thin chitinous** under-structure which gives the wings their basic shape. In the model below, the closest shape / gradient comparison for Honey's lamina*** are the scales modeled in G / G' / G", next to J. attiles— though her color scheme skews more toward pink, purple, and golden hues than true blues.

Where many of these lamella overlap, the wings are mostly opaque, but by-and-large: her wings are translucent, with a slight iridescence to them, both allowing light through and reflecting it back.

**chitin being the keratin-like fiber which makes up the hard outer carapaces of many insect or crustacean bodies, but also the tissue-paper-thin kite of moth & butterfly wings. neat! ***'lamina' referring to: "a thin layer, plate, or scale of sedimentary rock, organic tissue, or other material." in this case: a blanket term for the layer of scales / 'plumes' which cover the wings.

The skin of her fey form generally has a silkier texture like that of a butterfly's wing, as well, and is decorated in patches of scales / chitin, especially around the joints: shoulders + shoulderblades, knees, ankles, neck & spine. Her shoulders and collarbone also flare off along the bone lines with what look like mini wings or otherwise curly tufts; these are more traditionally downy or even 'fluffy,' reminiscent of fuzzy moths ( especially the rosy maple moth ).

Her hips also flare off into what could be called little winglets, and can be manipulated as such. Whether the primary function of this is flair or efficiency? The world(s) may never know.

...And it also bares saying: all of this is approximation. Her wings and their segments are 'more like' this than that, but being an esoteric, unearthly creature, it's probably safe to say they aren't 'identical' to any structures / anatomies we're familiar with, and the tangible properties reflect that. Her wings are by and large soft, flexible, and flowy, but I think that gentleness can become cutting and bladelike in a second, if necessary. [addition 1] A good example of this physical "unrealism" is that Honey's wings are fully articulated— all six of her back wings can be bent and curved, from their bases out to their tips ( to encircle herself or wrap around things in general )— without any actual vertebrae structure which should make this possible.

Pixie / Fairy dust, in Honey's case, is produced primarily in the smaller, denser clusters of lamella which hem her wings near where they meet her back and reach slightly out along their initial length, but is also shed from the larger quills— luminous and infused with the magick which makes the fey what she is, it can act as a powerful reagent by spellcasters, alchemists, or other craftsman alike... and is sometimes actively sought, by some, ( usually at their own peril ).

[ghostlyrps]

Ghost hesitated another moment before embracing the Radio Demon tightly, briefly hiding their face in his coat. They took a deep breath, shifting to rest their cheek on him- mostly so they could breathe, but also so he could hear them.

"...thank you, Al. You have no idea how much all this means to me." They said after a moment. "I won't let Vox win."

Not a question he thought Ghost would level in his direction - But if anyone were to get a pass to do so...

He would be aggressively stubborn about it, however, giving a sigh as though he were being asked to do something much more strenuous, eventually opening his arms up to the other. Though he would direct his gaze elsewhere. On purpose.

Do not acknowledge that this is happening, his expression said. But he would allow it.

[mywifeleftme]

309: Junior Kimbrough // All Night Long

All Night Long Junior Kimbrough 1993, Demon Records (Bandcamp)

“Crawling around in the dirt. Crawling around in the dirt between the rows of blooming, blinding white cotton in the field to the side of Junior’s old country juke, and this woman, Lord she must have been sixty, she was out there crawling around in the dirt, with me, I’m not lyin’! Both of us out there in the sun, drunk on white lightnin’ in the middle of the day! And it was a Sunday! Amps turned up all the way inside the shack, drums making the floorboards boom, you could hear it fine. Yeah out there in the dirt.”

That’s how Robert Palmer, an eminent rock critic turned filmmaker and music producer whose 1992 documentary Deep Blues sped along the rediscovery of Junior Kimbrough, opens his liner notes for All Night Long. It reads like a white New York Times writer trying to summarize a scene from True Detective in the voice of Toni Morrison, but there’s nearly always some degree of authenticity fetishism in prose about the blues. Palmer describes Kimbrough’s juke joint performances as orgiastic rituals, a head full of voodoo and a belly full of moonshine, sweaty, droning, folks drawn to the shack like moths to a light that could destroy them. It’s that thing that whites have found alluring and repellant about Black music since they first encountered it, the way it seems to provide something people desire in their gut without asking moral permission to do so.

Not having been by Junior’s place, I can’t really speak to Palmer’s assessment of the scenes (maybe he’d’ve described a college club in Provincetown called Hedonism in similar terms, who knows), but he made the right decision “producing” these recordings as little as possible. Kimbrough’s music does feel like something completely unreconstructed, these endless trudging jams with their reptilian pulses closer to African trance music than the tidy verse-chorus structures imposed by physical singles. He plays at ear-bleeding volume, unmindful of feedback, with a bone-dry tone that wouldn’t be out of place on a noise rock record. These are horny moan-songs about feeling good (often in the near-abstract way you get to drinking right before the spins hit) and staying out, though there’s a throbbing vein of violence and despair at the bottom of it.

Chances are my local Blues Society parents would have some trouble with his “You Better Run,” a bleak-humoured seven-and-a-half-minute nightmare about a woman pursued by a knife-wielding rapist. Kimbrough delivers it like one of those brimstone sermons about the perils of sin, only here there’s no sin implied, no God or Devil present, just this stalking, inevitable wraith, this thing that desires you as hungrily as a yawning grave. Kimbrough rescues the woman in his car towards the end of the song, but as he drives her home he drily warns her he might decide to rape her himself, only for her to reply that he won’t have to because she loves him. It’s a grim joke, but one that no doubt got a huge reaction from his regulars the same way the nastiest shit talk in a diss track gets people going—it’s the daring they applaud, the swagger of being badder than a bad world.

309/365

[faet0ld]

PHYDRA ARAB'AATH.

NAME. phydra arab'aath PRONOUNCIATION. fee-dra ah-ruh-bath NICKNAME(S). phee, phia TITLES. eilistraee's chosen, dark lady, moon singer, sword dancer, peace bringer, life chanter GENDER. trans woman, she/her. ORIENTATION. pansexual panromantic RACE. seldarine drow AGE. 219 years ( roughly the equivalent of her late twenties - early thirties ) PLACE OF BIRTH. undermountain, in a cavern system not far from the promenade of the dark maiden. CURRENT RESIDENCE. promenade of the dark maiden ( undermountain, below waterdeep ), currently travelling. FAITH. eilistraean, devout.

HEIGHT. 5'2" BUILD. lithe and lean; she has a dancer's body with toned muscles especially sculpted at her legs and core. EYES. her left eye is naturally a very pale lavender, her right eye is a blue prosthetic following volo's unsuccessful surgical procedure. HAIR. platinum white, wavy in texture and grown incredibly long as tribute to eilistraee. it is kept in a long, loose braid when adventuring, but left loose in camp. it is brushed meticulously and well cared for through the use of oils. SKIN. dark grey DISTINGUISHING FEATURES. white face paint to distinguish her eilistraean worship, long pointed elf ears, a silver septum piercing

MOTHER. ulvirthara arab'aath, protectress of the song in the promenade of the dark maiden. FATHER. keldirn arab'aath, former lolthite drow converted to eilistraean now a silverhair knight. SIBLINGS. merryn arab'aath ( younger brother ), nizana arab'aath ( younger sister ) SIGNIFICANT OTHER. verse dependent. ANIMAL COMPANIONS. scratch ( dog ), nudge ( owlbear cub )

CLASS. cleric, light domain ORIGIN. acolyte ARMS. silver chainmail armor, a silver shield engraved with a silver moth in the center, a pendant the size of her hand worn on a mithril chain depicting a silver bastard sword before a full moon made of moonstone, and a blessed sword with a large moonstone embedded in the hilt SKILLS. her fighting style is more similar to a dance than classic swordplay, she moves in fluid graceful motions and is specially trained in nonlethal takedowns. she is a skilled dancer outside of combat and a wonderful singer. she is a skilled healer even without the aid of magic, a talented cook, and is proficient with the harp.

POSITIVE TRAITS. kind, generous, compassionate, creative, gentle, open-minded, forgiving, honest, intelligent, loyal, outgoing, optimistic, modest, observant, romantic, warm, graceful, decisive, merciful NEGATIVE TRAITS. dogmatic, stubborn, sensitive, fanciful, sentimental, over-forgiving, proud, impulsive, obsessive, vain, overimaginative ALIGNMENT. neutral good, verging on chaotic good KNOWN LANGUAGES. drowic & high drow, and drow sign language, common, undercommon, and elven

[st4rs0ng17]

lovers from the past

a boy with a shaved head, a cheap watermelon vape, a father with fickle fists. my cherry blossom button up, coppery snakes of hair brushing the indent of my waist, i was his antithesis. my love for him was a performance, an exhibition of my stubborn contrarianism and his youthful desperation. when he kissed me i closed my eyes and pictured the girl who played bass. i still see him, but now we pass a mahogany pipe around circles of unconventional characters, appreciative of each other's good company, yet mutually satisfied with nothing more. i love him, i do, i do, the same way i love rain against my window at 10 pm, the way i love the morning walk to the bus stop. to me, he is a keepsake of the headstrong teenage girl i used to be. he is strong, somehow managing to retain the human birth right to tenderness even through all the chalky bedside table lines, the wanton persecution and a childhood overflowing with every invitation to cognitive corruption. he is my friend, i love him.

a girl who played bass. my first kiss, my first real love. she was seashells, warm summer evenings. she wore a silver peace sign around her neck, never took it off. we were only 15, and oh, how i loved her. she sang in a band, and she was incredible, prodigal. every time she spoke, i could hear the profound melodies brewing in her throat. burned into my mind is the memory of us sitting in the school band room while she crooned radiohead into a microphone. i hummed along, under my breath and out of tune. i would hang around an extra half hour after school finished so she could kiss me against a grimy bathroom wall while she was supposed to be practicing her 90's guitar riffs. in the months after she left me, i was hollow. i was so young, i didn't know how to proceed with caution. what do you do, when you've given someone your whole self? when they have your heart in their pocket, when they up and leave without giving it back? i loved her like i had never loved anyone before. and of course, we tried again. it was summer, my skirts swirled in ocean tones around my ankles. i left her, in the end. she wasn't mine anymore. i didn't cry. now, a year later, we laugh about it all, buy each other diet coke once a week. we talk late into the night sometimes. the bitter aftertaste of nostalgia has long disappeared. the warm light of her affection does not fascinate me any longer, i am a moth only to flames of my own making. she is my friend, i love her.

a girl with blue hair, a silver nose ring, a pretty face. we met at a halloween party, in our friend's garage. we went out for a month. i remember she adored oasis, i remember she was a very sad girl. i really did try to be good, but i wasn't. all i could find in her cerulean rockpool eyes was vague affection, suppressed echoes of thom yorke's bass line lullabies. she was beautiful, so beautiful, in her own right, but i my vision was shrouded by a haze of yearning for what i had lost. she was my friend, she was not meant to be my lover. i see her sometimes, in the hallways between classes, and we smile at each other, but don't talk. i left her a november ago, i did not cry.

a girl made of stardust and unequivocal loveliness, who was shy but dazzlingly clever. she was pretty, so pretty. i badly wanted to love her- she was the sort of girl i should have adored. she was written in verse, tasted like cherries. i remember she had a document on her busted-up laptop covered in stickers, page after page of poetry i couldn't quite understand, no matter how earnestly i tried. our souls spoke in different tongues. an emotional language barrier, one i couldn't for the life of me overcome. i did like her, how could i not? she was inexplicably pleasant. it confused me and my ferocious passion. i discovered, through her and her unfaltering niceties, that i cannot force myself into indiscriminate understanding. i left her soon after i found her. i did not cry. she was sad, so sad, and the guilt of it consumed me, but i do not have the willpower to linger where i know i do not belong. time has passed, she is my friend. i love her. she is so different now- still beautiful, achingly so, but unrecognisable. she has come to know the power of pretty. there is a boy she loves, who rides a motorcycle and loves her back. now, she is bewitching, an enchantress in distressed denim and oversized t shirts that hang from her willowy form like babylon. gone is the timid flower fairy who was a question mark inscribed in shimmering coral ink in the margins of my classics notes. she is my friend, i gaze at her spellbinding smiles with loving indifference. she is my friend, i love her.

a boy with sea glass eyes. from the second i met him, i was infatuated. his quick (yet somewhat dim-witted in retrospect) humour, his reckless nights out, his slender frame and the hollows of his cheekbones. i would have given him anything he asked. i believed without a doubt that i loved him. i met him by mistake, and that same night us and an assortment of others slept awkwardly tangled up in my twin sized bed. i slept with my head on his chest, my body cramped and compressed, butterflies in my stomach while i counted his heartbeat and memorised the rhythms of his breathing. three weeks later, he kissed me in a primary school playground. i still remember it all in meticulous detail. his clumsy professions of affection that i took as gospel, the soft bite of the night air, the way my organs flipped upside down when our lips touched. for a month and a half, i was devoted to him completely. i thought the world of him. he was so casually cool, so undeniably beautiful. we spent friday nights drinking and smoking ourselves half to death, and then crashing at his best friend's house, bodies knotted together, interlocked. he would wrap his arms around me as tight as he could, as if i could have flown away. as if i would. i had the biggest crush on him. but to him, i was a metaphor. once the novelty wore off, once my tempestuous outbursts weren't exciting anymore, he was mean. once he had stripped back layers of beauty and gumption he found a storm he was not willing to brave. he made me cry, and i left him. it felt like hell. i missed him terribly. i had been heartbroken before, but this was different. i felt the pain physically, like he had ripped out my heart, gently kissed my still pulsating arteries, and haphazardly shoved it back between my blackened lungs. i went a little insane. i ripped up our pictures, i took a pair of scissors to the stickers he asked me to adorn the filthy city walls with, i lay on my bedroom floor gasping for air between sobs and dry retching over my mother's favourite stainless steel pot. i went back. of course i went back. he had made me feel like i was somebody that mattered, somebody that was beautiful and worthy of adoration, of respect, he let me believe that he loved me. it only happened twice, when alcohol had clouded his judgement enough for him to forget his inability to stomach my affections. the last time, he passed out drunk with his hands on my ass. i stayed up until the sun rose, laying on my back, and crept out the sliding door before he stirred from his stupor. my eyes stayed dry as i walked down to the bus stop. glorious indifference had overcome me, and i found my sympathy for his unfeeling apathy had run dry. we don't speak anymore. sometimes i think about him, but i don't miss him. he is not the boy with the sea glass eyes anymore. i often see him- small town, mutual friends, shared pot habits- but i don't see him. it's okay. truly, it is. i am almost grateful. i have learnt, and i will never let a person hold that much power over me again.

a boy with coal coloured curls and not much else. he was handsome, or at least tolerably so. i met him at a skate park piss up. he sat up by the water towers with me and showed me his second hand camera collection, played cheesy 80's music from his tinny phone speaker. i don't think he asked me a single question. i told him i wasn't cold but he insisted on draping his jacket around my shoulders. he was glaringly unremarkable, but i thought that was what i needed. it never crossed my mind that i could find contentment in solitude. the second time i ever saw him, he asked me to be his girlfriend with a jolly rancher and a buttercup he had picked from my neighbour's lawn. i said yes, but i didn't mean it. before he left my house, he grabbed my wrist and slid my hand down his torso and under his waistband. it was three weeks, i think, of sweaty sex and clunky small talk until i left him. the day before i told him i was done, i kissed the girl who played bass, drunk out of my mind at some party somewhere. i felt guilty, i really did, but there is a limit to how much you can feel for someone you never really knew. i haven't spoken to him since, and i never think of it. i could never love him. he was so painfully boring, and the sex was bad. oh well.

[ghostlyrps]

"Are you going to order a drink or...?"

Ghost didn't even turn to face the Overlord, too busy checking their stock- and honestly hoping he'd leave.

Maybe he wouldn't recognize them if they didn't turn around. Their wings couldn't be that recognizable, and Ghost was sure they weren't the only moth Valentino had gotten into his bed.

"This seems like something to discuss with Mister Vox." They added, taking down a bottle and reading the label. Someone put it in the wrong place. "I get paid two bucks an hour. Not much I can offer you, sir."

They really didn't get paid enough to bother with Valentino. They didn't even get paid enough to show the respect they usually showed Overlords(but that they lacked for the Vees), but they were trying to get on Vox's good side.

[ Valentino ]

"You know, I've been thinking. Everything should be mine. And I do mean everything. Including but not limited to everything. Every. Single. Thing. I want all of it."

[ghostlyrps]

@cannibalxroses

Ghost was halfway through a second glass of wine.

They weren't quite tipsy- it was enough to give a nice warm and fuzzy feeling and lower their inhibitions, but they would not be getting drunk here. They didn't want to make an ass of themself in front of Miss Rosie.

They were also sure Miss Rosie would be making them into dinner should they forget their place.

However, they had the most brilliant idea to thank her for the invitation- and that was information. Gossip, one might say. Just as long as it wasn't traced back to them, they'd love to embarrass their master a little bit.

Not long ago, Ghost had managed to accidentally hand over their Soul to Vox. They had assumed he'd kill them when they took his head, and instead something much worse happened. It was shameful, embarrassing- who else could misunderstand something that badly?

They perked when they finally saw their hostess, taking a sip of wine to soothe their nerves in speaking to the Cannibal Overlord, before approaching her.

"Miss Rosie, hello again! I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I hear you quite like a bit of gossip." They smiled, flashing a bit of teeth, tilting their head at her.

[devoutpriest]

bloodiedwolf:

there’s something dangerous about this priest’s kindness, arya decides, she gasping slightly in her mind of moth eaten brown ragged shift – the sort of person to whom one could end up telling ANYTHING, if they weren’t careful. she’s well-versed in lies and secrets, so she doesn’t, her eyes pale white, and he has an earnest face, pretty blue eyes like the ocean; the light shining on his concerned features – she doesn’t think he’s doing it on purpose, or out of any malice – but nonetheless, he’s asking too many questions. sooner or later, he might identify her, and she doesn’t know if she can trust him enough to risk that. she wishes her wolf nymeria was here with her, but she had escaped into the forest. after biting joffrey when her owner had defended her friend mycah from him. she had hit nymeria with rocks on the ground in haste, she seeing the wolf stare at her, as she said to nym, ‘go, they’ll kill you when they have the chance.’ the wolf had then scampered away, and she always wondered what happened to her, nym haunting her nightmares. the toe of her boot scuffs quietly under the table, eyes sharp on his face but yielding very little else ; she decides to disregard his query, instead responding with one of her own. ‘ WHY’RE YOU so interested in all this? ’

she had a point with her words, and they sound only marginally less harsher than ragnar’s confronting rebuttal of his question about the gods.

he thought about her response, for a long moment. he supposed it was his curiosity that wanted to understand about this event, interest that also interspersed into his knowledge gathered from his travels and books.

yet, there was also a need to know why people would do such brutal things, and it paralleled a little to lindisfarne. he knew now that the raid in lindisfarne was purely just that, to pillage and conquer. this situation of regicide dressed in the guise of a wedding, seemed FAR more complicated the longer he thought about it. it made some sense about POWER, but why at a wedding? his eyes look back to her sharp ones.

“i just want to understand, cat…“

[maydens]

PHYDRA ; ABOUT

NAME. phydra arab'aath PRONOUNCIATION. fee-dra ah-ruh-bath NICKNAME(S). phee, phia TITLES. eilistraee's chosen, dark lady, moon singer, sword dancer, peace bringer, life chanter GENDER. trans woman, she/her. ORIENTATION. pansexual panromantic RACE. seldarine drow AGE. 290 years ( roughly the equivalent of her early thirties ) PLACE OF BIRTH. undermountain, in a cavern system not far from the promenade of the dark maiden. CURRENT RESIDENCE. promenade of the dark maiden ( undermountain, below waterdeep ), currently travelling. FAITH. eilistraean, devout.

HEIGHT. 5'2" BUILD. lithe and lean; she has a dancer's body with toned muscles especially sculpted at her legs and core. EYES. her left eye is naturally a very pale lavender, her right eye is a blue prosthetic following volo's unsuccessful surgical procedure. HAIR. platinum white, wavy in texture and grown incredibly long as tribute to eilistraee. it is kept in a long, loose braid when adventuring, but left loose in camp. it is brushed meticulously and well cared for through the use of oils. SKIN. dark grey DISTINGUISHING FEATURES. white face paint to distinguish her eilistraean worship, long pointed elf ears, a silver septum piercing

MOTHER. ulvirthara arab'aath, protectress of the song in the promenade of the dark maiden. FATHER. keldirn arab'aath, former lolth-sworn drow converted to eilistraean now a silverhair knight. SIBLINGS. merryn arab'aath ( younger brother ), nizana arab'aath ( younger sister ) SIGNIFICANT OTHER. verse dependent. ANIMAL COMPANIONS. scratch ( dog ), nudge ( owlbear cub )

CLASS. cleric, light domain ORIGIN. acolyte ARMS. silver chainmail armor, a silver shield engraved with a silver moth in the center, a pendant the size of her hand worn on a mithril chain depicting a silver bastard sword before a full moon made of moonstone, and a blessed sword with a large moonstone embedded in the hilt SKILLS. her fighting style is more similar to a dance than classic swordplay, she moves in fluid graceful motions and is specially trained in nonlethal takedowns. she is a skilled dancer outside of combat and a wonderful singer. she is a skilled healer even without the aid of magic, a talented cook, and is proficient with the harp.

POSITIVE TRAITS. kind, generous, compassionate, creative, gentle, open-minded, forgiving, honest, intelligent, loyal, outgoing, optimistic, modest, observant, romantic, warm, graceful, decisive, merciful NEGATIVE TRAITS. dogmatic, stubborn, sensitive, fanciful, sentimental, over-forgiving, proud, impulsive, obsessive, vain, overimaginative ALIGNMENT. neutral good, verging on chaotic good KNOWN LANGUAGES. drowic & high drow, drow sign language, common, undercommon, and elven

[ghostlyrps]

Ghost didn't say anything, but they were glad Tammy had gotten his gift.

Things between the two were tense- understandable, since Ghost had gotten Tammy killed.

Confronting them wasn't something Ghost wanted to do, so instead they left a gift for the axolotl. It wouldn't make up for it- it didn't even start, really, but it was something.

At the moment, they were at the sink, cleaning out glasses and drying them. They nodded to Tammy to acknowledge him, but didn't say anything. They'd learned to keep their head down.

Noticeably, their neck fur had been cut short, and their neck was wrapped with bandages.

@ghostlyrps

[There's a gray plush cat waiting for him on the counter. It appears to be "sleeping", eyes closed and curled up.. It's hand stitched and has a cute pink nose. Attached via a ribbon around the neck is a tag: "For Tammy"]

When Tammy came in to work- far too soon- because he was threatened with what felt like martial law- (you'd think he worked at a hospital- not a bar) he was advised that there had been something left for him. He was also advised that it shouldn't happen again. Which is always what they said.

When he picked up the cat, the ribbon loosed, showing the 'for Tammy' but didn't say who it was from.

He asked a few coworkers who shrugged and said they weren't watching. It was cute though. Looked made intentionally... Tammy tucked it away in his locker giving it a little pat before closing and locking it. Then went to start his shift- sorely. He barely felt recovered really.

[rake-rake]

Oberon & Vortigern. Jujutsu Kaisen verse.

Name: Oberon // Vortigern.

Alias: Fairy King Oberon, Oberon the Liar // Abyssal Worm, Vortigern the Liar.

Gender: Trans male // Agender.

Species: Natural born Special Grade curse.

Age: Late teens to early twenties.

Height: 164cm // 174cm

Eye color: Light blue // Bright blue.

Hair color: Light brown with pink tips // Washed out black.

Skin color: Fair // Pale and grayish.

Orientation: Demiromantic heterosexual // Grayromantic homosexual.

Alignment: Chaotic Good // Chaotic Evil.

Likes: Britain, little curses, sweets, beer, gullible people. // Blanca.

Dislikes: Nothing in particular. // Everything, particularly Britain.

In Britain, where curses are referred to as "fairies", Oberon materialized. He's gallant and carries himself with the poise of a true king, just as the stories say. However, he's also a liar by nature and often gets into troubles regarding money and unfulfilled promises. He resides in the Autumn Forest in Welsh, Ireland, and protects all of the small harmless curses that live in there and revere him as their king.

Truth is, "Oberon" does not exist. He's a character from old Folklore, little more than a fictitious figure from old literature. All this Oberon is is just an involuntary mask covering what is underneath. Its true name is Vortigern, the Abyssal Worm. A special grade curse born by the very island of Britain due to its hatred by itself, in order to destroy it and its people forever.

These are two different people inhabiting the same body. Normally, Oberon is the front, while Vortigern watches everything from underneath, but he will surface if the chance is given, usually when Oberon is asleep, unconscious, or injured. Oberon is not aware of Vortigern's existence beyond strange feelings and suspicions, but Vortigern is fully aware of Oberon and actively works against him. While Oberon wishes for nothing but to live peacefully among his pairs in Britain, Vortigern's very purpose to be is to destroy Britain.

Whenever Vortigern takes over, Oberon's body morphs slightly. His hair turns a washed out black and his whole body takes a de-colored and corpse-like appearance, with grayish skin, sunken eyes, and prominent bones. His legs and left arm also turn into an insect ones, and his very presence seems to attract all kinds of bugs toward him, crawling all over him and dropping from beneath his clothes.

Currently, Oberon has ran away from Britain and into Japan due to Vortigern's machinations, leaving his adopted daughter, a sorcerer, in charge of protecting the Island. He's realized he's a danger to Britain, even if he doesn't know how, and intends to find a Jujutsu Sorcerer to put him down. However, Vortigern will not allow this to happen until his purpose is fulfilled.

Oberon and Vortigern are accompanied by a little white Moth curse named Blanca. She's fully aware of who and what they are, but aids them nonetheless, out of pure love and affection.

They have flimsy dragonfly-like wings. Oberon normally covers them with his cloak, but Vortigern will slit the back of his clothes to let them out.

Oberon and Vortigern are a chrysalis. The true entity they are is the Abyssal Worm, hidden underneath their skin and flesh, to burst out to eat Britain once the day comes.

Literal bugs shed from Vortigern whenever he's present. Centipedes, spiders, flies, and ants. They seem to come from underneath his clothes, or maybe even deeper than that.

[swordancr]

ABOUT

NAME. phydra arab'aath PRONOUNCIATION. fee-dra ah-ruh-bath NICKNAME(S). phee, phia TITLES. eilistraee's chosen, dark lady, moon singer, sword dancer, peace bringer, life chanter GENDER. trans woman, she/her. ORIENTATION. pansexual panromantic RACE. seldarine drow AGE. 290 years ( roughly the equivalent of her early thirties ) PLACE OF BIRTH. undermountain, in a cavern system not far from the promenade of the dark maiden. CURRENT RESIDENCE. promenade of the dark maiden ( undermountain, below waterdeep ), currently travelling. FAITH. eilistraean, devout.

HEIGHT. 5'2" BUILD. lithe and lean; she has a dancer's body with toned muscles especially sculpted at her legs and core. EYES. her left eye is naturally a very pale lavender, her right eye is a blue prosthetic following volo's unsuccessful surgical procedure. HAIR. platinum white, wavy in texture and grown incredibly long as tribute to eilistraee. it is kept in a long, loose braid when adventuring, but left loose in camp. it is brushed meticulously and well cared for through the use of oils. SKIN. dark grey DISTINGUISHING FEATURES. white face paint to distinguish her eilistraean worship, long pointed elf ears, a silver septum piercing

MOTHER. ulvirthara arab'aath, protectress of the song in the promenade of the dark maiden. FATHER. keldirn arab'aath, former lolth-sworn drow converted to eilistraean now a silverhair knight. SIBLINGS. merryn arab'aath ( younger brother ), nizana arab'aath ( younger sister ) SIGNIFICANT OTHER. verse dependent. ANIMAL COMPANIONS. scratch ( dog ), nudge ( owlbear cub )

CLASS. cleric, light domain ORIGIN. acolyte ARMS. silver chainmail armor, a silver shield engraved with a silver moth in the center, a pendant the size of her hand worn on a mithril chain depicting a silver bastard sword before a full moon made of moonstone, and a blessed sword with a large moonstone embedded in the hilt SKILLS. her fighting style is more similar to a dance than classic swordplay, she moves in fluid graceful motions and is specially trained in nonlethal takedowns. she is a skilled dancer outside of combat and a wonderful singer. she is a skilled healer even without the aid of magic, a talented cook, and is proficient with the harp.

POSITIVE TRAITS. kind, generous, compassionate, creative, gentle, open-minded, forgiving, honest, intelligent, loyal, outgoing, optimistic, modest, observant, romantic, warm, graceful, decisive, merciful NEGATIVE TRAITS. dogmatic, stubborn, sensitive, fanciful, sentimental, over-forgiving, proud, impulsive, obsessive, vain, overimaginative ALIGNMENT. neutral good, verging on chaotic good KNOWN LANGUAGES. drowic & high drow, drow sign language, common, undercommon, and elven

[melodicwitchlight]

rcbcrn ☀️ athelstan :

‘ All of the feeling inside me isn’t raging, no, they were muted, much like the colors of something that have been left outside in the rain for too long. I didn’t FEEL like i once did, didn’t feel the same thump that my heart would make near Ragnar, didn’t feel sadness as i once had. It was like everything was draining away from me but this form stayed, ‘ Athelstan grimaced at his words and pursed his lips.

At this point, half translucent and ignored by all, he didn’t think that meeting his God only to be cast into HELL would be worth it. “I once read, ‘When love is lost, do not BOW your head in sadness; instead KEEP your head up HIGH and gaze into heaven for that is where your broken heart has been sent to heal.’ I did not think that it would ever apply to me; I never believed I would fall in love, but, it seems relevant now,” hands reached for shoulders and dug into skin as well as they could. Blue met blue and Athelstan’s eyes dug holes FURTHER into the younger him. Words could not be found to tell him what he should do.

they are under the shelter of the straw house in kattegat, watching the village, light rain falling down the roof. he sees his self, athelstan, in future remembrance.

‘ a ghost, ‘ the older had said he was, to the one looking at his grey blue discolour, a white shirt clad on his torso and pants which were a little long ( so he rolled the sleeves up ).

he himself, aethelstan, is wearing a light brown shirt with flowing sleeves ( embroidered at hem ) and the same pants. he sees athelstan has a faint scar on his hand, from being crucified in the cross, asking ‘ could I touch your hand? ‘ pain is echoing in his chest, as he folds his flowy arms and sees the other.

he missed lindisfarne, where ragnar and the vikings had raided. kattegat was quite strange in its ways, it having shaken him. they saw him as a virgin monk to be slaughtered and sold, and did not care about him or his lindisfarne family ( he seeing his brothers hung crudely with a rope tied to washing lines and logs of wood for campfires. )

as athelstan speaks to the younger, having seen him when praying at the seashore, he and ragnar were talking about paris in the sand. he remembers being in a raid with his fellow vikings, his black purple hair swaying in breeze and sighing in wistful sadness ( as he is on the boat to england ). there was a bookstore of manuscripts in lindisfarne, which he touched the yellowing crackle of paper ( with beautiful calligraphic ink ).

there was a beautiful mountain overlooking the sea there, which aethelstan liked going to during his monastic studies before the vikings pillaged and plundered, to see and hear the rushing sound of the waters trickling through. it brought him peace and calm, as did the silver cross he wore.

god keep my head above water, don’t let me drown, it gets harder.

modern reincarnation;

I. Modern reincarnation new athelstan ic.

II. Stayed intact on my multimuse.

III. Vault cottage username channels : athelstan - blinded by faith. usernames in full ( new ).

IV. Verses.

V. OOC.

VI. Positivity.

VII. Headcanon : Modern.

VIII. Found peace and pain in storm and rain in modern emergence in the roleplay community.

athelstan had felt sorrow and sentimental, in furrowing of his brows and slight groove of his forehead in touch, a brown moth moving its wings in the paper. as aethelstan touches the other’s hand. he enjoyed photography, and colours of the landscape. �� low key colour, ‘ he continues. ‘ I was in the grey storm waters, holding out my hand to ragnar. ‘

he had said to ragnar to be there for his sons, after the words of mercy.

he remembers when cooking fish in the house, that he was less interested in escaping now, as he talks to the wider eyed man, ‘ I never believed I would fall in love, ‘

ragnar had been at church with him, and they were fighting in a battle against saxons. the dane warrior had seen a bleeding wound with mud on his friend’s cheek, and had handed some green herbs 🌿 and water to fight the infection. athelstan cradling his cheek with them and tree bark bandage, and saying he was kind and tender-hearted. he had draped on a brown woollen coat with blue grey armor.

[ghostlyrps]

"Too bad you're down here. I hear Jesus was a carpenter."

They think they're funny.

I broke my fucking chair