#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.

[aedearly]

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑺.

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of loose verses taken from songs by precious pepala. writing/roleplaying prompts. some contain religious imagery and/or topics. most of these are angst, but some can be fluffy! feel free to edit these as you see fit.

❝ fill my lungs with holy water. ❞ ❝ memories... memories. i'm not sure. were they ever real or were they forged? ❞ ❝ have i been deceived by the light? ❞ ❝ should i even grieve? ❞ ❝ what if it was all a lie? ❞ ❝ give me a reason to say it's not me, it's you. ❞ ❝ give me a reason to leave. ❞ ❝ i promise i won't be sad if i catch you with red hands. ❞ ❝ i'm on my knees praying, you're the devil in disguise. ❞ ❝ if i get to those golden gates and he turns me away... oh, then you can say i told you so. ❞ ❝ i’ll burn forevermore like the sun that will rise even after i die. ❞ ❝ please, can't you see you're killing me? ❞ ❝ smother me with loving hands. ❞ ❝ secrets that i keep? oh, they’d keep you from sleep. ❞ ❝ i'm just a black sheep. ❞ ❝ so cover me in wool and pray, maybe i'll change. ❞ ❝ throw me to the wolves and say you're not to blame. ❞ ❝ i feel like i'm falling from heaven to hell. ❞ ❝ found the apple of my eye in you, and i want to take a bite. ❞ ❝ maybe you can call me eve; standing here under the forbidden tree. ❞ ❝ this love isn't holy. ❞ ❝ father, forgive me, for i don't know if i can change. ❞ ❝ i feel like the angel who fell. ❞ ❝ maybe i want to bring the devil to dinner one day. ❞ ❝ once in a blue moon, i let my guard down for someone like you. ❞ ❝ too many times, i've been left with scars. ❞ ❝ i will keep my cards close to my chest. ❞ ❝ heart ain't on my sleeve, you will never gonna see how i really feel. ❞ ❝ these tears are for my eyes only. ❞ ❝ my heart is made of glass—half empty and smashed. ❞ ❝ don't leave me alone with my head when i'm hanging on by a thread. ❞ ❝ this silence is heavy and it might be the death of me. ❞ ❝ the monsters from under my bed now live in my mind, and they're not very kind with me. ❞ ❝ don't leave me, don't leave me alone. ❞ ❝ oh shucks—i think i've gone and said way too much. ❞ ❝ i think i should've kept my mouth shut. ❞ ❝ i will hold out my hands, i'm ready for the cuffs. ❞ ❝ what are you laughing at? ❞ ❝ prepare yourself to live it again, and again and again. ❞ ❝ speak the truth you know they want to hear. ❞ ❝ tell a lie enough until it feels real. ❞ ❝ pray and everything will be alright... what a lie! ❞ ❝ hide the wounds and never let them heal. ❞ ❝ i'm getting butterflies, but they're not the good kind. ❞ ❝ the knot in my chest is getting too tight. ❞ ❝ this must be what it feels like to have a good time. ❞ ❝ mmmm, i want a bottle of wine… ❞ ❝ having fun yet? ❞ ❝ take a deep breath… ❞ ❝ i declare a thumb war (just so i can hold your hand). ❞ ❝ wrap me around your finger. ❞ ❝ 'guess i like when we play rough. ❞ ❝ break down my walls, and i'll sit right in the palm of your hand, darling. ❞ ❝ i need you to stay, need you to stay. ❞ ❝ i feel like you can't feel the way i feel. ❞ ❝ i'll be messed up if you can't be right here. ❞ ❝ when i'm away from you, i miss your touch. ❞ ❝ you're the reason i believe in love. ❞ ❝ you know that i know that i can't live without you. ❞ ❝ i'm a moth in a room of butterflies. ❞ ❝ don't say you miss me. ❞ ❝ i'm the death of the party. ❞ ❝ i know you all too well, but can't call you a friend, because friends don't make you feel this way. ❞ ❝ the devils i'm afraid to face resemble you more day by day. ❞ ❝ all i ask of you, let go. ❞

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. meet me there, I'll give you your roses .𖹭 ݁

﹙ characters. ﹚ ─── our selection of decadent desserts ” 

. . . darling specials !! 🍰 : we highly advise that you read our wiki to understand some character lore 

꒰  toppings : pinterest ˖ character playlists ꒱

꒰  verse 781  ꒱

tiramisu . . . . . . alessio arias

the unkillable mercenary ˖ male ˖  a punk goth immortal mercenary with a bad boy esque. flirty, charming and a cocky, chaotic bastard with a love for music and dance. an antihero taking down an evil anti-inhuman organisation with his reckless nature. 

strawberry shortcake . . . . . . rishen herrera

the hybrid hero ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a mantis-moth-spider hybrid and stem genius university student. a nerd with a heart of gold a determination to protect the city. switches between red smart and preppy aesthetic.

mango pudding . . . . . . zhào talisen

the poetic naga reaper ˖ male ˖ a dark academia poet. a grim reaper and naga who is quiet and aloof in nature. a hero in alias and an english literature student with a love for threatre. a beautifully macabre soul with a tongue of poetries.

black forest cake . . . . . . rishima singhania

the head scientist ˖ female ˖ a genius in all fields of science and a woman of stoicism. her cold heart gives way to surprisingly motherly tendancies. monochromatic 1960's aesthetic. the leader of a hero organisation across the multiverse and a renowned sceintist in her city.

affogato . . . . . . vespasiano agresta caliari

the charming vampire lieutenant ˖ male ˖ a vampire dilf - in reality simply a special opps sniper juggling between family and work. a man of charm, telepathy and shadow enthrall. suffering from the wounds of the heart and married to his job. serene, playful and tired to top it all off.

panna cotta. . . . . . pasquale agresta moretti

the adrenaline addicted poet ˖ male ˖ what contrasts the stillness of a poet? a wide open road speeding with cars backlit by red and blue lights. meet pasquale agresta moretti, intelligence agent by day and living on the line by night. . .

cannoli. . . . . . vinicio agresta moretti

the obscure shadow monster artist ˖ male ˖ the etching of paper drowns out deep, dark pools of silence. half-hung eyes to the sketch with a dozen open wide behind him, watching like a dark void. a haunted artist, vinicio agresta caliari, otherwise known as the boogieman. . .

  ꒰  verse 209  ꒱

croissant . . . . . . jìngyí herrera

the snake monster mad doctor ˖ male ˖ a yandere mad doctor who experiments on non-humans. all prim and proper, ever charming and serene on the outside - but is in fact a calculating and manipulative man. a poet tongue that knows how to deceive and twist the narrative.

red velvet cheesecake . . . . . . rishen herrera

the hybrid mad scientist ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a yandere ceo of a science and research company. effortless and charismatic. a man of cunning intelligence. classy red aesthetic and an indulgent individual that masks evil ethics and sadistic non-human experiments with deceptive charm. 

lemon meringue cheesecake . . . . . . zhào hǎitāo

the demon reaper mercenary ˖ trans male ˖ a cold and calculated member of the resistance against the . a grim reaper with a demon symbiotically bonded to him. intelligent and ruthless. he feeds off vengeance and vows to bring justice to this foresaken world. dark male aesthetic. 

  ꒰  verse 1311  ꒱

​​​​​​egg tarts. . . . . . . jìngyí agresta

the naga mechanist.˖ male ˖ a cunning and ice cold mechanic. a naga and grim reaper who performs as an electric guitarist. deadly silent like a predator with a knack for torturing those that cross him in his workshop. if people see him as a villain for fighting back against discriminating humans then so be it. 

vada. . . . . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the femme fatale admiral ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ the leader of a special agent originisation. and assassin and spy. a man of great intelligence and seductive charm. effortless and femme fatale esque with a sharp tongue. a master strategist with a sense of justice. sassy, sarcastic and a natural leader. scary never wore a smile before him. 

churros. . . . . . . . . alessio agresta arias

the rockstar rebel leader ˖ male ˖ an arsonist and rebellion leader. a callous man with a sick sense of humour with the destructive power of kinetic energy manipulation. a punk rockstar when he is not causing explosions and stirring fear. flirty, humorous yet ready to do whatever it takes to avenge all fallen inhumans. 

ba bao fan . . . . . . . . . zhào hàoyú

the demon casino owner ˖ male ˖ a grim reaper possessed by a demon that feeds on lies. always ready for a good gamble at his casino. villainous yet charismatic. quite the possessive man who enjoys taking sadistic measures. dark male aesthetic with twisted grins and manipulation. 

 

꒰  verse 164  ꒱

key lime pie . . . . . emerald mania ( alessio agresta )

the master of magic ˖ male ˖ the first sorcerer who is considered a corrupt magic god. charming yet sadistic, he takes on the appearance of a demon and dwells in twisted forest. catching poor wanderers and experimenting on their souls. all magic originates from him and he intends to make people remember that. the gods fear his name and the very earth quakes in his presence.

rhubarb and strawberry crumble . . . copper resentment ( zhào talisen )

the snake deity of deceit ˖ male ˖ a siren-like monster that dwells in a large, cursed lake. considered a corrupt god with the power to destroy and reshape universes. a poettic tongue that spills lies and stirs chaos despite his divine and proper appearance. often said to lure beings into the water and challenge the gods. the gods fear his name and the very earth quakes in his presence.

  ꒰  verse 9948e  ꒱

milk tarts . . . . . . alessio agresta arias

the malefic sorcerer ˖ male ˖ a vintage goth sorcerer with a destructive amount of power. dry, sarcastic and chronically tired. a former rockstar who grieves the loss of his lover. now known as a cold-hearted spellcaster on a mission to bring the dead to life. 

lemon coconut tart . . . . . . zhào jìngyí

the wandering guarding reaper ˖ male ˖ joyously whimsy, a grim reaper who roams the afterlife after his early passing. always cracking a joke, poet in his own way and soft in nature - yet able to switch instantly on those that underestimate him. he ventures through the realms to aid in missions of the gods. soft aesthetic. 

tres leches cake . . . . . . rishen aryielus

the devil in angel's robes˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a charming and attractive angel of pure divinity. raised by the gods with seemingly a heart of gold. but a frightening presence and terror amount of sword skill despite his benevolent appearance. making most believe that he might indeed be a demon. 

passionfruit custard tart . . . . . . zhào hàoyŭ

the rebel reaper˖ male ˖ a dramatic and charismatic grim reaper with a knack for art. ever as flirty and adorned in a punk goth aesthetic with vintage twists. ever as flirtatious and sometimes chaotic. the heart of a rebel who fights to change the system of his world and the divine while he's at it. a vexer of the gods. 

almon jelly . . . . . . zhao yìzé

the mercenary reaper ˖ male ˖ a casual, free-spirited grim reaper, with a job that requires morally grey standards he doesn't mind at all. his relaxed and extroverted behaviour often distracts his peers from the fact he is a trained, diciplined mercenary. and excellent soul collector.

mango pancakes . . . . . . zhào hǎitāo

the instigator reaper ˖ trans male ˖ a morbid and eccentric grim reaper mortician. who spends most of his hours working around the morgue of the grand zhao estate serenely. many consider him too creepy to be around. but once you get to know him. . . you might find you grow quite fond of him.

red bean bun . . . . . . yuè mèng yáo

the grim reaper mother ˖ female ˖ a woman of great serenity and traditional in her culture's ways. known for her wisdom and peace - yet also the frightening presence that she brings in her wake. the leader of a grim reaper sanctuary and a mother protective of her kids.

bungeoppang . . . . . . . kyung seong-jin

the diurnal reaper detective ˖ male ˖ a supernatural detective with no filter. a grim reaper who is cold in nature. the heir of a renowned reaper family with a dark male aesthetic. often considered rude - yet dutiful. he has no restraint in his blunt tongue - yet has a warm heart for those he holds dear. 

sakura pudding. . . . . . . shimada takara

the killer kitsune ˖ genderfluid ˖ a kitsune masking their nogitsune nature. chaotic and wild with a bite for thrill and danger. constantly seeking a way to keep themselves from boredom. he finds himself in rasui's mercenary syndicate to manage his violent tendencies. a mix of traditional and cyberpunk aesthetic. 

revani . . . . . . . rasui soheir

the fire elemental mercenary leader ˖ male ˖ a mercenary leader who is ever as regal and serene. cold on the exterior and strict in nature. a sometimes domineering fire elemental who tries to remain as callm and collected as possible. proper and formal in aesthetic. 

mango sticky rice . . . . . . . liang lisse

the fatale nature elemental merc leader ˖ female ˖ a charming nature elemental and the leader of the thorn mercenary syndicate. a woman of sweet smiles and sultry, batting lashes who prefers to lure her victims in, play around, before going for the kill. beauty is a weapon and her act of sweetness paired with seductive allure certainly does the trick. a sadistic woman who loves her flowers and tea.

kheer . . . . . . . shalika vaishya

the divine-scorned cultivator writer ˖ female ˖ a cultivator turned "gods' lapdog" as they call her. constantly running around and solving their bidding while uncovering the mess of magic within her city. a reporter trying to juggle her life as a cultivator scorned by the divine — and a dark voice whispering vengeance in her mind. instead she'll write it out.

peach & almond crostata . . . . . . nadia armetta stenskjold

the villain harpy sculptor ˖ female ˖ either dwelling in her famous sculpting store or wreaking havoc within elritea, the harpy villain. harbouring a blood lust not many understand, specifically for the renowned zhào family and it's lady. her fury deeper than the holes she drills into the rock of her newest work.

 

꒰  verse 9819  ꒱

caramel cheesecake . . . . . . . . alessio agresta arias 

the serial killer magician ˖ male ˖ the effortlessly charming leader of a crime specialist syndicate. a sort of robin hood and outlaw with a dark male aesthetic. serial killer of several politicians. cunning, witty and justice seeking. evading capture and playing games with the government council like the illuionist he is 

choc-raspberry pudding cake . . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the mastermind investigator grim reaper ˖ genderfluid ˖ an intelligent and cunning world renowned investigator with a thrill for danger. constantly searching for a possibility of him being wrong. old money aesthetic, brimming with charm and charisma. a confident, witty being trying to ignore his lineage as a grim reaper. he'd much rather solve crimes than reap souls.

éclair . . . . . . . . zhào jìngyí

the charming inventor reaper ˖ male ˖ an influential artificers and clock tower workers. a grim reaper and investigator. a brilliant man of many crafts and skills, with a mission to solve the most recent murders around the city. a sharp minded and wise man with a poetic tongue to riddle his suspects mad. charm and charisma yet manipulation and cunning tactics hide behind this alluring smile. a poet, an artist

strawberry cupcake . . . . . . . . denara agyros

the darling sorceress heir ˖ female ˖ a lunar sorceress and heir to a renowned magic family. gothic in aesthetic and a lover of horror. yet soft and optimistic. a tender soul with a dark side. a kind nurse fighting off her jealous nature. burying into her love for thriller writing. 

red velvet cookies . . . . . . . . zhào xīyáng

the grim reaper mercenary boss ˖ male ˖ a collected and deadly quiet mercenary boss grim reaper. frightening with a taste for danger. a mix of oriental and refined white aesthetic. cold in nature and has ever the blunt tongue mixed with dry humour. he shakes hands with the devil to protect his city. 

  ꒰  verse 9948v  ꒱

kulfi. . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the mad cultist composer ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a blank cultist with the ability to manipulate blood itself. a composer who writes with the very crimson he sheds. monotone with a dark sense of humour. cursed to glitch into phantom versions of his doppelgangers across the multiverse. a nercomancer with red esque.

mooncakes. . . . . . . . zhào hàoyŭ

the vengeful phantom ˖ male ˖ a phantom that haunts his world. sadistic and psychotic. careless with the souls he pulls from the afterlife to aid in his brutal massacres. possessive, obsessive and yandere in every way. with a morbid sense of humour and a smile etched on his face at all times. 

  ꒰  verse-less  ꒱

berry crumble . . . . . . . . jìngyí verseless

the demon alchemist ˖ male ˖ a demon with a frightful reputation. silent, sadistic and intelligent. best known for his alchemist shop in the dephs of hell. a dark oriental aesthetic with hints of modern. ever as graceful and beautifully macabre. loves to tempt his anger and remind others why he rose through hell's ranks.

kourabiethes . . . . . . . . valerius ariti

the hex demon lord ˖ male ˖ a serene demon lord who casts hexes through the multiverse. indifferent and ever ready to accept a deal so that he might play around with a mortal. regal and strewn in gold. divine to the point some consider him a god. refined and charming despite his brutal nature and vanity. 

cherry custard tart . . . . . . . . orion

the abyssal angel general ˖ male ˖ a silent and poetic angel who ranks as a general. known for his watchful eye over the abyss. cold in exterior and a strategic warrior. yet beyond caring with those he holds dear. a wise soul who can be a bit of a trickster at times.

[prophecyhaunted]

Poets Die Young

I read somewhere—on a research page that smelled like antiseptic—that poets die young. And so here I am drawing my own conclusion. I think poets die young because they wear the ache in their shoes. They lace it up each morning like boots still soaked with last night’s rain. They walk miles in that damp sorrow, and it bruises them, blisters them, but still—they walk.

I try to write prose poetry, but my sentences keep breaking their spines, begging to be verses. Longing has moved into my chest—it pays no rent, just scribbles on the walls of my ribs. Prose poetry—a contradiction so tender it bruises to touch. Like holding a scream inside a prayer. Like kissing with teeth.

Poets rub the fog off the windows with the backs of their hands, knowing clarity costs skin. They stare through the glass and sometimes realize: the truth is the fog. The blur is holy. The way pain smears the lens—that’s the only language worth learning. You can't just write an essay and name it poetry. You can’t file a dream under thesis. You can’t taxonomize grief.

You dissect the dream, but the dream dissects back. And still, sleep won’t come. The metaphors crowd the bed. They whisper like wolves.

Truth doesn't whisper. It howls. It shoves you into the snow and watches as your knees split open like fruit on the winter pavement. The poets—God, the poets—they spill their words like seasons that never change. Like a winter that thaws but never ends, aching, unmourned. They hold the thrum of existence like a pulse they’re afraid to stop. They write autopsies while the heart still beats, and they know—yes, they know that it’s too soon to remove the bandage. But they do it anyway, because the wound was never claimed, only buried.

Poets die young because they are asked to hold fire in their mouths and call it sweetness. They spill words like old wounds breaking their stitches in church. They write with the bones of everything they’ve buried alive. They hold a heartbeat in one hand and a scalpel in the other. They name the bleeding.

Poets die young because they carry the impossible. They hold paradox like sand in their palms, watching it slip while trying to name each grain. They write the eulogy for moths still breathing, wings still trembling with light. And when their own breath falters, when their ribs turn into cages, they don’t notice. They’re too busy weaving their wounds into verses.

The bandage was never ready to come off, but the world was already bleeding. It started the moment we pretended the wound was gone.

Poets cradle paradox like a dying bird that sings louder as its throat splits. They kneel before the ache and call it their muse.

Poets die young because their insides don't cauterize. They think the ache is healing, but it’s a weather system. It’s the color of every silence they tried to translate. Blue not as in sadness—but as in bruise. Blue like a secret the sky keeps forgetting to tell.

And by the time they realize the pen was always a scalpel, it’s too late. The incision’s already a poem.

Because before the salt met the sea the poets would cage their tears until they'd finally sleep. Icarus fell for he had soared. And poets soar because like Icarus they know salvation rests in our barehands like a prophecy hearkened by fools that dream of a savior.

The poets write the autopsy of a beating heart like they hear the truth in the pulse of something destined to be futile—for evermore.

And so I end this prose here.

I end this prose here because I–

I couldn't bear to pierce my skin with the dagger of salvation that lodges into my skull that I hold in my own hands, twisting deeper every time I write a poem. And so I end this prose here. Because i am not a poet. Not today. For poets die young.

Conclusion : Poets are a mosaic of every truth shattered by someone who pressed their fists against the stained glass carved with the prophecy that claimed that salvation is in our own hands.

@raysofpoetry222 @dreaming-in-daylight @cerulean-cries

[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.

[slayerdurge]

Sunday Snippet (or Another Day or Such)

Tagged by @shadows-aflame! Thank you! :D

I'm going to overshare, as I always do.

First, here's a bit from the upcoming chapter of "Secure Your Soul," which is my Cyberpunk 2077 AU where Corpo!V never leaves Arasaka. It's from Chapter 10, which is called "A Good Idea at the Time." Jackie and V are in her Rayfield Excalibur, flying away from Konpeki Plaza and they've just parked at the No-Tell Motel so Jackie can meet Dexter DeShawn.

“What’s your point, V?” he asked, matching her skeptical expression. “You didn’t bring me here just to try to talk me out of it at the last minute.” “No, I didn’t.” V reached over her seat, pressing the proper spot to open the AV’s hidden storage compartment. Her weapons stash was ample—perhaps excessively so, but she always felt it was better to have too much firepower than not enough. She selected a high-quality but inconspicuous power pistol and held it out to him. “My point is you could benefit from the proper tools and the proper backup.” He picked up the pistol and held it in his hand as if to shoot, testing the weight and balance. Evidently satisfied, he placed it in the empty holster at his belt. “Thanks,” he said. “But you can’t come with me, V. They don’t know you. You’ll make ‘em nervous.”   “I can talk them down,” V insisted. “You know how good I am at that.”  He chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Where do you think I learned it?” She raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise. Perhaps because their general approaches were so different, she’d never before considered the idea of Jackie watching and learning from her methods. “I really need to stop underestimating you,” she said, more to herself than to him.  “I keep tellin’ ya.” Jackie smiled at her briefly, then his face shifted to a more serious expression. He looked at her searchingly, and she suddenly felt a closer sense of kinship to him than she had in months. She wasn’t sure what exactly he read in her eyes, but he nodded at her. “All right,” he said. “We go in together.”  

Next, here's a bit from Meetings with Meredith, which is a Dragon Age II fic I'm working on about my pro-templar mage Hawke with a blue/diplomatic dominant personality. She's in Meredith's office, discussing an offer she's made to her. This takes place during Act III. It's from Chapter Two, which is called "Like A Moth to Flame."

“I see no reason for him to be aware of it.” “You would have me lie to him?” Meredith asked, voice measured but edged with quiet reproach. “Of course not,” Marian said, still unflinching. “There’s simply no reason to mention anything to him at all. I’m not asking for information with any degree of security surrounding it.” “There is but one Truth,” Meredith said. “All things are known to our Maker,” Marian continued. “And He shall judge their lies. Canticle of Transfigurations, first verse, fourth stanza. I’m familiar with it, of course. It’s one of my favorites.”  Meredith leaned back slightly. “I’m glad to see your father chose to raise you in the Maker’s light, whatever his opinions of the Chantry and the Templar Order might have been.” “I’ve always been faithful,” Marian said, quite truthfully. “My sister and I both.” She smiled softly at the memory. “We used to visit the Lothering chantry quite often. To spend time in meditation or to speak to the sisters and brothers who lived there. It was actually Carver who didn’t show up as often. He didn’t lack faith, but he prioritized swordsmanship practice.” “That's understandable,” Meredith said. “He had a family to protect.”  “You keep saying that,” Marian replied, resisting the urge to allow her irritation to seep into her voice. “But it wasn’t that simple. I was the eldest by five years. That’s quite a gap. And when the twins were born, we’d just moved to a new village and…. I’d just discovered my magical aptitude.” She did not mention that those two events were related. Meredith surely guessed it already. “My parents were overwhelmed. I had to step in to help. And as we grew, well…” She trailed off briefly, looking at Meredith, who was watching her silently and impassively. “I loved my siblings like they were my own children, Knight-Commander. It was my duty to protect them.” It was my failure. She did not say her final thought aloud. 

Finally, I'm going to share a bit from "Warpath" (formerly titled Durge Dribbles) which is my rewrite of the plot of bg3 with my lawful evil future Banite dictator Durge Carissa Tennebraum. The gimmick of the fic is that Durge never narrates, even though she's the main character. The POV rotates between various companions and other notable NPCs. This is from an Astarion POV chapter. It's the third chapter, and it's called "Sunlight."

Once he saw that Shadowheart was out of hearing range, he turned back to Durge. “Is there something more to what happened? Something you don’t want Shadowheart to know?” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he decided to try turning up the charm. He smiled at her mischievously. “Come now. I saw the way you looked after you severed that hand. Like you were finally alive. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”  Her eyes widened, and a smile crept onto her face. “Yes,” she admitted quietly. He kept his own smile in place, even as the nerves edged in. “I knew it. And it wasn’t a wild magic surge either, was it?” “No,” she said, quietly but with a completely level voice. “There’s something else. Some impulse in my mind, urging me towards darker deeds.” How quickly he’d gotten her to admit it. He was good at this. Always had been. Cazador had reaped the rewards of that effort for centuries. A part of him instinctively recoiled from the idea of using the same tactics now that he was free, but it was clear to him he’d be far safer with Durge as his friend than his enemy.  “The norm is to keep those kinds of thoughts to ourselves, darling,” he said, thinking she’d appreciate his making light of the situation. “But your way is fun too.” “I really didn’t do it on purpose,” she insisted, subtle frustration lining her voice. Then she laughed softly and shook her head as though to clear it. “Not that I wouldn’t, of course, given the proper circumstances. I am aware of my capabilities, you know. I don't suffer from that particular brand of delusion.” “I know,” he reassured her. “I can tell.” It was a calculated response, but also a true one. Other than her brief descent into madness—which, admittedly, had been catastrophic for the man in the portal—she struck him as quick-thinking and composed, if also more than just a tad prone to flights of morbid fancy.  “But that didn’t make sense! I’ve no idea who that even was, and…” Her face darkened again. “I don’t like not being in control.” “I understand.” He didn’t have to dig hard to find empathy to slip into his tone.  She cocked her head at him questioningly.  He sighed, almost unconsciously. “Look,” he said. “It seems to me like you’ve been dealt a vile hand…” He felt a familiar emotion rising within him—anger, born of injustice. “I say: play it.” Born of injustice, yes, but since grown into something harder. “Play it for all it’s worth.”

All right! Thank you for indulging my oversharing tendencies! Now for my tags...

@owlgirl18, @aureliaen, @knight-commander, @judithofcerberus, @andrewknightley, @merge-conflict, @illusivesoul, @luvwich and @ghostoffuturespast!

No pressure ofc! And it doesn't have to be writing specifically you share! Can be anything!

[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.”

[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.

[ur-local-cryptid-0]

The maid's hobbies | Walter x Alida (oc)

Hellsing's maid and butler having a rendezvous totally casual conversation. Alida knows exactly what she's doing.

CW: Nothing, just some old guys flirting

As Walter is walking past Alida's bedchamber, he can't help but stop infront of her open door. 'It gives her a sense of security to leave it open' he remembers. At first he found this reason a bit strange, but after some thought, it's understandable. And she could definietly sense if someone sinister was trying to sneak up on her.

He leans against the doorframe and examines what exactly she's doing. She's slouched over her table with her back to the door, tinkering with gemstones, bones, small chains and clasps. Alida has always loved trinkets of all kind, especially the ones you could hang on yourself by turning it into extravagant jewelry. She collected these trinkets from basically everywhere she went. If it was shiny and pretty enough, she took it. This eventually became another little problem of the Organization, as she was caught multiple times stealing precious gemstones from jewelers and pocketing dead bodies during her cleanups.

Only one of her moths are out of the shadows today. Her "winged puppy" (as she likes to call them) is resting on her left hand, she pets it with a finger every now and then. It was never clear what her moths actually were, and Alida never gave a clear answer about them, always just calling them her little helpers.

She is quietly singing a song, and Walter already recognises it by now, she sings it so much. Gloomy Sunday. The so called "Hungarian suicide song". It's quite the choice of song to sing, but it seemed to be one of her favourites to perform to the moths and herself.

The serene scene infront of him makes Walter forget about everything else on his mind right now, as he watches the delicate moves of Alida's hands and listens to the familiar melody.

"I was just quite interested in your work Miss, I'm sorry for disturbing you!" says Walter with a nod. "Ah, drop the act please!" Alida sighs. "C'mere, sit with me!" she pats the chair next to her. Walter shakes his head and sighs, but has a smile creeping on his face as he walks over to the maid and sits down beside her.

"Szomorú Vasárnap száz fehér virággal...¹ " she starts the verse, but stops suddenly, putting her tools down. "I know you are there Dornez, don't mess with me." she says, not even looking up from her work. There's no actual anger in her voice. Walter snaps out of his almost trance by the sudden callout. The surname-calling is also a habit of hers he needs to get more used to. He quickly collects himself, stepping into the room.

"What brought you here truly, Walter?" she asks smirking, turning her head so they can be face to face. She has her usual tired look, with a slight smile. "As I said Miss Alida, I am just curious about your work." Walter smiles back at her. "You just can't stay out of my room, can't you?" she says, followed by a teasing "Tsk tsk tsk!" while crossing her arms. He does not answer, only huffs and shakes his head slightly.

The butlers eyes start to wander around the many knick knacks haphazardly laying around her table. Bracelets made out of small rocks, crystal pendants, tiny insects in resin, gemstones in many shapes, extravagant necklaces with the teeth of some monster, and a worn and torn leatherbound journal with a tag, reading "Property of Alida Baráth", written unmistakably by her.

Walter found her hobbies endearing, it was getting harder day by day to try and hide it. Even when she got in trouble for her kleptomaniac tendencies and he was in charge to lecture her that day, when he had to decipher her angry ramblings, when he was faced with her unorthodox work methods, he was still drawn to her presence, like a moth to the light of the Moon. But he himself couldn't undertand these feelings, so he just put them on the back burner for now.

A particular pendant catches Walter's attention. It's a blue polished stone, adorned with thin silver swirls around it, ending in a loop at the top. The stone has a kind of raw look to it still, with it's sharp edges and asymmetry. His eyes linger on it for a while, until Alida's voice, yet again, snaps him out of his thoughts.

"You like that one?" She taps her finger next to the pendant. "Well yes, it's quite a beautiful pendant Miss!" he praises. "Well thank you so much!" she says in a kind of giddy way. "Polished and decorated it myself! This stone is called lapis lazuli, it was pretty hard to get my hands on!" She winks. Yeah, she absolutely stole it. And he'll choose to ignore it now.

"I have to admit, it's impressive handywork you've done on this piece!" the butler says with a nod of approval. Alida tilts her head, a teasing look creeping up on her face. "Ahh, no need to butter me up Walter, just tell me you want it, I won't mind, it's on the house Bogaram!² " That nickname again. Before Walter could even stutter out a word, she's already lifting the pendant next to his face, looking back and forth between them. "Of cooourse you want it, look how much it matches you! Like it was made just for you!" She then quickly snatches a slim silver chain and puts it through the pendant's loop in the blink of an eye, proudly showing it off.

"There's- there's really no need to give it to me Miss! It's your hard work after all!" he stutters out finally, putting his hands up in protest. The maid just shakes her head and stands up from her seat. "Nonszensz, nonszensz drága.³ " she whispers under her nose leaning towards him.

Alida slowly reaches to his neck with the open necklace in both hands. "Stay still now, the clasp is reeeeal tiny and your hair is also in the way." she mumbles close to his ear, clearly concentrating. Her accent is much thicker like this. Her cold fingers brush against the nape of his neck while she keeps mumbling something about his hair and the colors of the necklace in his ear.

It's like a dam in Walter's mind breaks.

After what feels like hours, the necklace is finally secured. "Great!" Alida whispers, still not moving an inch. "There you go, Sir." she says, almost like a purr. This is all it takes for Walter to basically short circuit. He quickly tries to hide it before the maid notices, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. Alida plops back into her chair with a satisfied smile.

"Sooo -" she starts, but the butler cuts her off. "I'm-" a cough "I'm sorry, but I have to leave now Miss Alida, I hope you'll excuse me!" He jumps to his feet, straightening his back. "What a busy man! No need to say sorry Walter!" she sighs. With that, he bows and takes his way towards the door. But before he can leave Alida calls out to him. "You can come by any time you want, okay? I appreciate some company." He turns his head back. "I certainly will, Miss." he says. Alida nods.

As Walter's basically strutting through the hallways, he reaches for the pendant proudly shining on his necklace, and looks down at it. Oh, he will certainly come by Miss Alida's room more often!

☆Translations:

¹ : "Gloomy sunday with a hundred white flowers"

² : "My bug" (nickname)

³ : "Nonsense, nonsense dear"

I hope you enjoyed this to some extent lol. My writing skills are a bit rusty but this was great practice :3

[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.

[neutrallibrarian]

As a 3 day old Wonderland moth, I just want to share my initial thoughts and impressions of Sky: Children of the Light so far

First off, the bad:

The price inflation of both real and in-game currency items is best described as Y I K E S

That said, the good:

I hate looking at the shops, I get vivid Identity V flashbacks from them all I need is a random lottery wheel that I have to shell out real cash for tickets because the in-game grind to amass enough tickets for it is ridiculous and this is just a crossover event my candles flicker in fear of a Seasonal shop. Speaking of grinds, I haven't had the pleasure of doing candle runs yet, too busy reviving the dead as you do, but I can tell hunting down them will be an... exercise

It's such a pretty game, everything looks some flavor of cute and cozy, flying is a genuine joy, the calls are adorable and don't startle me if I'm concentrating on something to the lessened awareness of my surroundings, the community seems very friendly and respectful, my first Guide aside from Rhythm in the Salon was Nesting and it was such a delight doing their quests now I just hang out near them as I calculate what I want to buy and how to get enough wax for it. The game is also very good at dredging up a person's protective instinct; I took two hits in Wastelands because there was another moth looking kid hesitating on when to cross and I just ran up, guarded their front and back, and diverted attention from them when I could.

Unfortunately for this game, I'm highly introverted and more sightseeing oriented so dropping down into an active communal space for the first time was legitimately as though I had taken the wrong turn in a hallway and walked into a conference room hosting a Batman: Across the Bat-Verse symposium and I was but a poor freshly orphaned black haired blue eyed baby boy with no accompanying guardian or minder in sight. The Batmans took one look at me, stood up, and said "okay, let's go and adopt this kid" to which I responded by running out of the room, adoption papers origami'd into batarangs flying out after me.

So my experience so far has actually been going great!

[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 ).

[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

[ghostlyrps]

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

They think they're funny.

I broke my fucking chair

[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