#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.

[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]

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.

[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

[atdutiesend]

Limit Break 3

Because I'm a nerd and was thinking about it!

Writer of Histories / Seeker of Hidden Truths / Secret Finder

Endwalker and post-Endwalker, Grim mains DNC, but is functionally an all-rounder with DRK and AST as his other semi-primary classes.

The only warning was that he abruptly stopped giggling, skittering back just enough to get the entire pack in his sights. Both chakrams raised, beautiful ribbons of silvery-blue and darkest green wove through the pack, before abruptly constricting, imploding with cosmic energy. The sound of the ribbons slicing flesh into screaming shreds broke through the sound of battle, ringing in the silence left behind by the screams.

Sweet Dreamer / of the Swirling Abyss / Echo of a Fallen Star

Dove mained DRK through Endwalker, with secondary classes of NIN and RPR. They are not an all-rounder, due to lack of healing class, but their DPS class shifts depending on the dungeon/encounter.

"I tire of this farce. Have your feast, my friend." Twin knives flashed behind the boss, stilling with as they thrust one into the ground, raising the other above their head. The eldritch glow of the symbols around them bled onto the arena in a sudden flood of suffocating darkness. It concentrated under the boss, a deadly pool that reached up with clawed hands to drag it down into the maw of an unseen force.

The Fourteenth Seat / Successor / The Heart's Beat

Enyo's classes - outside of their Harmonia verse - are WHM, WAR, and NIN.

"FALL!" Staff raised high, flowers burst into bloom as briars rose to entangle the enemy. Sweeping down in a cutting stance, they dug deep, leaving poison behind in the bleeding wreck should they survive.

Secret Keeper / Chief Mourner / A Requiem for Heroes

Phobos' class most resembles a staff-wielding RDM.

Staff raised high, then slammed down. "Peace take you!" Butterflies, moths, dragonflies, and beetles, all in colors seen only in the most toxic of creatures burst from the staff, swarming the mob with bursts of light. The damage is overwhelming, explosive, leaving behind a field of glowing lilies before they, too, faded away.

[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…“

[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.

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[caffeinated-problem-solver]

Byron Lennox

I've been meaning to write a backstory for my current D&D character. I am currently running him in "Out of the Abyss" which is being run by @msterdoctorman. Potential spoilers for that campaign (but probably not since we're not very far into the campaign). I figured if I'm going to write prose I might as well share it. I hope you enjoy.

Byron Lennox, in the course of his life, had never been missed; that is, until he was missed for exactly 3 hours, 24 minutes, and 19 seconds. Since then he has worked very hard to not be missed again, ever present and responsive. He has become the misser, professionally even. Byron fills his life with the death of others: grave digging, undertaking, and (most importantly) eulogizing. He can tell you a half dozen stories of any of the people occupying graves under his care, many of whom he buried himself. Yet here he sits, his back to a cave wall thousands of feet below the people he's missing.

He scratches away at a journal, his wiry frame lit dimly by a glow coming from his ink well. It's a neat trick he picked up some years ago, casting a light spell on the ink means he can write fairly comfortably in very dark spaces. The page fills with light as his well-practiced hand passes over the blank space; the script, tight and neat, seems to belong more to an expert scribe than a dirt-crusted man with a shovel. As the ink leaves the pot and subsequently the quill, its light slowly dies out as it leaves the source of magical luminescence. Byron expects this and doesn't mind. It merely tells him the ink is dry enough to turn the page.

The faint light shines in the deep dark of the cavern, the group has called it a night, not that that means anything down here. Byron volunteered for this watch as a chance to clear his head and do some writing now that he has his journals again. The shadows he casts on the wall blending almost seamlessly into his long, dark brown hair, pardon the few individual lines of silver that have grown in. His face is motionless apart from his cold, icy blue eyes, which dart across the page making sure every paragraph flows into the next. He looks over at the group of people he'd just escaped prison with, they were his to miss now too. Chronicling that many lives would take many, many "nights" like this. Even elves, with their hundereds-years lives didn't give him pause. The only life that he questioned could fit in his pages, is the one he doesn't think he'll ever write, the story of Byron Lennox.

Many years ago

Byron was the oldest of six children, with all the responsibilities that holds. After his father passed, he was offered a job at the local church, keeping the grounds. He managed to make enough to keep his mother and siblings fed. He began working on the headstones himself and eventually he became THE person to go to to make sure your dearly departed was treated well.

It was during one of his rounds of the cemetery that he met the new cleric, from one of the big seminaries near the capital. Percy was bookish with high flying ideas and a more novel approach to the rituals. Full of life and bright, Byron was drawn to him like a moth. Percy, too, for his part found Byron's words exhilarating compared to the boring verse from school. They fell head over heels for each other.

Things started to change when the traveling merchants started to tell stories about the roads getting more dangerous. Too afraid to camp in the woods, they refused to seek trades any further than a day's ride. Within a month, they refused to travel at all. Hobgoblin raiders were cutting off supply lines into and out of the town. They didn't ever pass the stone markers into town, but without supplies from the nearby villages and farms, famine spread.

The elderly and the young were the first to succumb. The deaths were so frequent Byron was running himself ragged trying to supply a proper burial to each soul. Percy finally convinced him that the need was for a mass grave; Byron shuddered to think of the piled corpses rotting together, but Percy swore he was going to do something for the dead.

More time passed and Byron had now buried each of his siblings and his mother. Alone in the world, apart from Percy who had become obsessed with finding an end to this siege and justice to the dead, Byron seldomly saw him out of the church library buried in tomes older than the cornerstones themselves. One night Percy declared that he had found a way, It'd take some careful study and math more akin to wizardry than divine rite, but he could undo it all. Byron had no idea what he meant.

It didn't matter, though, during the night the alarm bells sounded. The hobs had breached the borders and were sacking the town. Byron quickly threw on his long leather jacket and picked up his shovel, far from a knight in a armor with a trusted blade, but no less on a mission; Byron would not lose Percy. Percy was already in the library gathering ingredients and herbs that hadn't been fit to eat during the siege. Byron would make sure the invaders didn't make it onto the consecrated grounds of the church and yard.

The town burned, brightening the night. The church was safe for now, dark save for the amber stained windows into the library burning with candle light. A sign to Byron that his beloved was safe and alive. Turning from the warmth and hope of one light to the heat and desolation of another, Byron looked towards the town. A band of the attackers was now headed up the hill towards the church.

Byron was not an experienced fighter, but a shovel doesn't require an experienced hand. It came down hard against the skulls and ribs of the hobgoblins. Byron fought in a sort of fugue, having taken several slices across his body from their blades. It wasn't until he felt a heavy blow crack through his ribs and puncture the tissue he'd promised to Percy that he froze. A sudden recollection flooded through his mind as all heat left his body, each tender moment he'd shared with another. Each person he'd touched had died by now, Percy was the only person who would remember him, could remember him. In the windows above Percy, taking a moment to check outside, let out a wail that turned into a sob.

Darkness overtook the hill that Byron laid on, the invaders were in the church. As the creatures ransacked the reliquaries the light in the library grew brighter and brighter, eventually bursting out, shattering the windows. Silence filled the void left by the slaughter, fires burned down, the monsters, sated, left to wherever monsters go when the nightmare is done. The sun came up and with it, a staggered breath.

Byron bolted up from the ground, covered in blood, disorientated to say the least. The only thing on his mind, the only thing that could be, was Percy. Rushing into the ruins of the church, Byron found himself in the library. Circles and sigils that made his eyes blur were spread all over the floors and walls. In the middle of the room, prone and unmoving, was Percy. A knife stuck out of the robes he'd been wearing, he hadn't stopped the spell until his dying breath.

Byron stayed there, beside the vessel of Percy, for a long time. He wasn't sure how long but he'd noticed a sunset or two. He hadn't even realized he wasn't hungry, he felt nothing in those days. There was suddenly, at least to him, the sound of talking, shouts, and horses. An ironclad knight walked into the library, calling out, surprised to have found a survivor. He had been appointed by the church in the capital to retrieve a relic the church had housed. He surmised it must have been taken during the raid and asked several questions to the almost unresponsive Byron. Having gotten as much information as Byron had, he and his compatriots mounted their horses and headed of into the forests to seek what they saw as prey.

Shaken out of his stupor by the event Byron returned to what he knew best, preparations for the dead. The mass grave had made it simpler, as Percy had told him. Byron couldn't bring himself to put Percy there though. He spent hours carving a stone, more hours still a fine pine casket, and the longest time digging the grave, deep and even. A town, buried: a gravedigger, finished.

Byron walked out of town, intent on never returning. The walk to the shore wasn't exhausting like Byron used to think it was, instead it was meditative. As he heard the distant crash of waves on the stones, the sound of time wearing everything away, he felt peace. As he flung himself from the cliff face he felt a rush of wind. As he hit the waves and rocks he felt a now familiar rush of cold as life left his body. Hours later, as the sun set, he felt panic grip him as he jolted up: wet, sore, but alive.

Years passed and while it never made sense to Byron, things started to be clearer. Percy must have accomplished something that night, but certainly not what he'd meant to. Byron could never rest with his lover or his family. He'd never need someone to dig for him as he'd dug for others. The fear that had licked his mind that night so long ago would never come true. He'd always be able to tell the stories of others and ensure their immortality with his own. He began taking up the same work he had performed in his own town. Working there just long enough to not draw any attention.

Decades passed and Byron's body was much the same as it had been when he would lay in bed beside Percy, Percy's body had long since formed a rich soil that plants grew over. Byron had filled innumerable volumes with the stories of the dead. He'd studied and practiced the funerary arts of a hundred customs. On one day, which felt like any other, he dug a grave and as he dug the earth shifted and opened. He fell, a familiar rush of wind; thousands of feet below the surface, he stopped, a familiar rush of cold. He awoke, a familiar panic, in a dark cave, unsure if he'd see the sun again.

[ghostlyrps]

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

They think they're funny.

I broke my fucking chair