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atlaswav · 3 months ago

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EMPYREAN ☾

INFO: 4385 words, dr ratio x gn!reader, college au SYNOPSIS: Art is the practice of capturing life in still motion, and yet Dr Ratio can never seem to capture your beauty in its entirety in his sketches. His waking thoughts are clouded by images of you, the bane of his existence. He hates it, but can't resist. The Gods - if there are any - are cruel. WARNINGS: none! for once! except attempted kiss. AUTHOR'S NOTE: my head hurts so bad rn and i need sleep but there were thoughts in my mind. also i think its really boring lowkey but hey! i said i'd publish something by sunday! also i think his characterisation is really off today but oh well.

Divinity wasn’t real. There were no real Gods, they didn’t exist – couldn’t. Science proved such. Miracles were situations of insurmountable luck, and no one’s fate was “ordained” like astrology maniacs liked to think.

But when Icarus fell from the great skies of myth, reaching for the sun and Gods and the heavens beyond, Veritas Ratio was sure that the gnawing terror and morbid awe that seized that man at the sight below was familiar to him. That sprawling city touched by the sublime sun, smiled upon with the benevolent God peering through the clouds whose gaze melted fragile wax.

He was sure that that fear and unprecedented awe was the same as when he first glimpsed you.

His fall, however, wasn’t graceful or worthy of any legend.

“Oh– you alright?”

“My apologies, I–” he glanced up, leaning down to immediately pick up his sketchbook which had fallen to the ground, then he froze.

“...Are you okay?”

This, he wasn’t certain. You helped him gather his supplies again, and he thought he’d never see you again – there were so many buildings and so many classes, why would he? But as if fate was stringing him along, he wound up sitting next to you for his art studies class. The class he convinced himself he needed to take for a proper education.

Icarus’ fall was met with swift demise, and he was so sure that he would too. But who was he to compare himself to legends? Even still, why else would he be stricken by the malady of your existence, if you weren’t some overwhelming beauty that his greed desired to capture?

Art, however, could not capture life as any man would like. It could never catch the way light reflected in the eyes, illuminating the soul. Neither the delicate intricacies of a smile, a twitch of muscle, a beating of a butterfly’s wings, the delicacy of life.

Try as one might, however, Dr Ratio aimed to do this, anyway. Charcoal was his chosen medium, pervading clean paper, marking intent, focus and desperation.

He remembered you casting him a smile before seating yourself beside him, and all his doubts in taking the art course dissipated from his mind – despite your literal run in moments before.

You became immersed in the artwork at your fingertips as the professor chirped about something he should’ve probably been attentive to, but to him, it was now entirely meaningless. Your cheeks lifted when you smiled, creasing the corners of your eyes. Your hair fell over your face in graceful lines that framed your features, and your hands moved with such gentle dexterity that he yearned to capture them in his drawings. Your eyes narrowed in the slightest as your brush met the canvas, mouth agape with your fixation on your art.

The charcoal snapped, and Veritas Ratio likewise snapped from his immersion, frowning at the dark lines that marred the page.

In his sketch, your eyes were obscured by a wall of smudged black ash instead of the curtain of hair that covered your features. Ratio sighed, leaning back from the desk. Your eyes were now downcast on your palette as you mixed paints.

There was a divinity in you that he yearned to capture, like sunlight in a jar. Futile, but with noble intention, he swore to himself.

Then, there were more classes. More days that passed, more instances where he observed your habits, your artwork that had you enrapt, just as he imagined his own perverse captivation with you. There were more charcoal sketches in sketchbooks that never saw the light of day, ones where your smile was too wide, didn’t meet your eyes, or didn’t carry the exact expression that yours projected.

Art could never imitate life – Veritas was simply mortal. But mortals could always dream of something divine.

There were times where he left the classroom for a moment, and he feared you might glance over at his sketchbook to see the hundreds of sketches of yourself. Smiling and frowning and focused, the end of your paintbrush sitting absently between your lips, your gaze cast to the side, small splatters of paint smudged under your eyes and on your fingers. It was unsettling. He knew it himself. There had to be an extent to his observation when it became invasive, yet he feared losing your presence without ever capturing it in still motion.

This is when a man grows desperate.

“May I draw you?”

“...draw me?” you glanced towards him, reluctantly tearing your gaze from your own work. “Why?”

“A study.”

You smiled a half smile. An expression that he was familiar with, given that you were already halfway through the semester. Still, there was nothing to your encounters but smiles of courtesy and niceties (he’d never admit that he so desired more).

“Sure. Show it to me later.”

Now, Dr Ratio discovers, there are few things that may disturb a man’s endeavours when he is enrapt in his studies. None of which affected Veritas in the slightest as his charcoal became dust on his fingers and he clicked his tongue at the material’s reluctance to bend at his will.

None of which can successfully capture the being that is you, and he isn’t sure he wants to, anymore. Art isn’t made for the eyes of greed, it’s made for the soul that yearns for the cure of the senses. Or so the greats all say, but he thinks he cannot be one of them. He couldn’t imitate life, he was versed in the calculations of life instead.

Caught in his thoughts, he taps his – new – stick of charcoal on the edge of the drawing pad, frowning at the new sketch he was pondering.

“You’re really good.” your voice echoes from behind him.

He turns abruptly to find you standing behind him, head tilted as you examine his sketches. Your nose scrunches the tiniest bit, and your eyes crinkle with a hint of mirth.

“Does my nose really look like that?”

“Of course.”

You laugh at his blunt reply. “Can I see your other drawings?”

There are over seven thousand languages that still exist in the world, and Veritas Ratio cannot think of a better, more dire way to say no than to agree completely.

“Of course.” He flips through his sketchbook quietly, letting you glimpse his insanity. You were making him lose his mind, really. He watches your expression – how your eyes widen, your lips part, your brows furrow.

“Did you do all of this since the last lesson?”

No, but he wouldn’t say that –

“No, I've been studying you for a while.”

– Or maybe he would.

Your laugh is another divine thing that he wishes he can capture. “Oh God, I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. You make a good muse.”

“Do I?”

He nods, biting his tongue. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself any further than he already has, and he’s already become a stalker to you.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. Undoubtedly.”

“Consider me flattered, then…”

“Dr Ratio. Veritas. Veritas Ratio.”

“...Veritas.”

He loves the way your lips mouth his name. He’d never say it to your face, though. This, at least, would die with him.

“Well, thank you. You may return to your painting.”

You huff a laugh. “So formal. I’m nearly done, so I don’t really have anything urgent to worry about. Meanwhile you…”

He’s inclined to agree. The professor was checking everyone’s progress the next lesson, and he still hadn’t grasped what he thought to have been perfect.

“Ah. Right.”

“Do you want me to like… pose for you or something?”

He hesitates. Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe something about morality and art and the truth, but he doesn’t care anymore. “That… would be ideal.”

“Alright, but you’ll owe me as well. Deal?”

This is how Veritas Ratio finds himself pacing his apartment, fixing his hair in the mirror, dusting the tops of the bookshelves that line the walls and polishing the kitchen counter so that each surface is devoid of any evidence of his own guilty conscience.

His anxieties were immediately multiplied hundredfold when you knocked. He waited a couple of seconds – to not seem too desperate, with his heart racing out of his chest – then finally opened the door.

You stood there, smiling with such casual ease that he found himself wanting to know everything about you.

It was absurd.

A tiny, suppressed part of him welcomed it.

“Hey, Veritas,”

There it was again, the unfamiliar way you said his name, smile widening. He decided against a verbal reply, instead nodding and guiding you into his living room.

“You’re so… clean.” you glanced about the apartment, marvelling at how almost every surface had a shine to it. But it made sense, once you saw him sitting at the couch, already observing you with the unshakeable gaze you’d felt since that first class.

You weren’t entirely oblivious to his stare, just as you weren’t unobservant with the way his cheeks dusted with pink the day before – and today, it seemed – as he made eye contact.

You smiled, and watched him blink a couple of times before turning away with a cleared throat.

“Yes. I can’t stand a mess of any sort.”

“Figured.” you shrugged, standing next to him. “So, where do you want to start? What should I do?”

He hesitated for a second before directing you to the armchair across from him. “Just sit there for now. We’ll start here.”

You complied, allowing him to hurriedly arrange the folds of your clothes and angle of your limbs with fleeting touches.

He appeared nervous, but it was endearing.

Minutes pass by in silence, faint scratching of charcoal on paper filling the space between you. The sunset’s light poured in through the balcony behind you, casting a dramatic shadow over the armchair. Purple, orange, yellow – you wondered if that scrutinising look he gave you was disapproval or awe. There was no way of telling, with his complex set of facial-expressions.

But interpreting him through guesses wasn’t how you envisioned this would play out.

You cleared your throat, but he didn't glance up. He held the sketchbook up next to you, but quickly returned to the page, making harsh lines across the page.

“So… Veritas?”

His head snapped up, stray strands of violet hair splayed across his forehead. “Yes?”

“Why did you take art?”

His eyes narrowed on you. Examining, maybe. “I felt as if I needed to. For a well rounded study, of course.”

You laughed. “Of course you did.”

At this, he paused. “What do you mean by this?”

“Your reputation on campus. You have… what, four degrees? You’re famous.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, never putting down the charcoal, but tapping it against his fingers instead. “Oh? What else have you heard?”

“Well, they say you’re insanely smart, but you’re also pretentious.”

He frowned. The way his brows scrunched was endearing. “I’m not pretentious. Everyone else is simply far underqualified.”

“They also say that you’re an elitist.” you laughed.

Concern only grew on his expression. “Do you think this of me?”

You shrugged. “I’m yet to form an opinion.”

He nodded. “Good. Wise.” he said, almost as if reassuring himself.

“...How long will this be, though? I can only sit still for so long.”

He blinked, turning to the sketchpad again. “Not too long. I promise.”

“Can we go out to dinner, afterwards?”

At this, he choked. You stifled a laugh at the renewed blush on his cheeks.

“Dinner? Why?”

“You owe me, don’t you?”

This is when he realises that he was a fool in allowing you in, to allow the muse of his most divine visions to become human.

He’s greedy, though. No one and nothing can change this. He wanted more of you. He wanted to hear each thought that crossed your mind and know each little item that occupied your attention. He wanted to dissect your mind and examine your memories and behaviours like an insect splayed under a glass, and he wanted to understand you so well that he became sick with the thought of you. But in his mind, you could do no wrong. You were so divine; with your secret smiles that held secret thoughts, and knowing glances that examined his frame with an artist’s scrutinising eye.

“Fine. Just let me finish up.”

So you stay put, and you return to the thick silence that envelops the room. The clock ticking above the armchair only taunts you as your limbs begin to ache from lack of movement.

Scratching on paper, huffs of exasperation, the occasional tearing of a page, and he finally sighs, rising from the couch. The sun had long since set, only remnants of daylight still lingering on the sky’s deep blue. The light was gone. You wondered if he’d captured the sun in his drawing, as well.

“It’s done. Not good as the professor would like, but it will do for now.” he said, running a hand – dusted with black – through his hair. His forehead was coated in splotches of black thumb prints.

You similarly rose from the armchair, stretching, and walked over to the drawing on the coffee table.

You didn’t realise this was how you looked to him. Your features were only emphasised in the dramatics of the sunset, the slight turn of your lips and curve of your cheekbones accentuated with the shadows. He’d taken artistic liberty, you realised, in painting you within the sun’s dying light.

You almost looked divine.

“Holy shit.”

“Does that hold a negative connotation?”

“Veritas, you’re crazy.”

“...negative?”

“It’s so…” you met his gaze which was already searching yours for a reaction. “It’s brilliant. It’s so, so good.”

His shoulders relaxed as he sighed. “Good. Let’s go to dinner, then.” he turns to leave, but you stop him, grabbing his arm. You found that it was hard as chiselled marble, and almost want to find out exactly what’s underneath, but you dismiss the thought.

“You have something on your forehead.” you point.

He frowned, rubbing his forehead with the same hand that had been gripping the charcoal for the past hour. Smudged it even further. His forehead was thinly coated in black ash.

You sighed. “Here, let me.”

He leaned down for you to wipe the stains, hair hanging over his eyes. He smelled faintly of the library with its old books, and partly of ink with something deeper. His eyes darted around to meet anything but your gaze, long lashes fluttering, crimson red eyes matching the shade of his complexion.

You make him nervous, you confirm with delight.

“There. That’s the most of it.” you withdrew, and he stood back up quicker than you thought possible.

“Alright, dinner, then.”

“Dinner.”

“I’ll go and… wash up.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

He realised how much he was doomed as the sky started to pour with rain, just as the two of you stepped outdoors, beyond his apartment complex.

“How far is the place you wanted to go?” he asked you.

“Not too far. Let’s just keep walking.”

He shrugged, falling into step beside you. His steps were terrifyingly large, as would make sense with his tall frame.

“So what are your interests?” he blurts out, staring at the ground as he walks.

“Well, art, obviously,”

“Yes, of course, do you think I’m dense?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I will interpret that as sarcasm.”

You laugh, and as if the heavens had heard you, the rain began to fall heavier, darkening the landscape, tingeing the air with smells of petrichor and a cold that wasn’t there before.

Ratio thought it was ironic. A pathetic fallacy of his doomed fate.

“You have to be kidding me.”

He sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers. “We are unfortuitous.”

“...You could’ve said unlucky.”

“I choose not to associate myself with idiots.”

You chuckle as you attempt to cover your head with your arms, running to the nearest block for shelter. The rain, however, doesn’t desist. It continues to pour until you’re both soaked through – his hair soaking wet, sticking to his forehead, white shirt clinging to his carved abdomen that you desperately try to avoid looking at.

“Should we just go back?” you move your hair out of your eyes, squinting in the relentless downpour. Through the slight shelter of the building behind you two, the rain pours heavy as ever, unlikely to cease soon.

“I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion.”

“...Why didn’t you offer it first?”

Because he thought you looked good in the rain with wet hair. He wanted to remember the image – burn it into his eyelids – before he returned to sketch it. Number of things he’d never say aloud: two.

“I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion yourself.”

“Pretentious.”

“Thank you. Now can we hurry? It’s only getting heavier.”

His situation, ironically, then becomes even more perilous. A series of unfortunate events, unfolding like a train of misfortunes. First, your meeting – strikingly uncomfortable for both of you, he imagined (it certainly was for him) – then your failed attempt at dinner, interrupted by an unforgiving rain storm. He didn’t think it could get much worse. But there was always room for improvement, as he knows better than anyone, the academic that he is.

There are, now, puddles of water throughout Dr Ratio’s apartment that he hadn’t bothered to clean since you got into his shower.

You, in his shower.

He wonders if there is a God, somewhere out there, delighting in his torment. It was never supposed to devolve into such interactions, only observing you long enough to capture your beauty on the page.

He wonders if you know he is thinking about you often as he does. Thinks you’d be completely repulsed by him. This is what frightens him.

“Veritas?” your voice echoes from within the house.

He gets up from where he’s sitting in a puddle near the kitchen, racing to the bathroom at your call. Did he manage to miss something incriminating in his bathroom? He’d made sure that every surface was bare before you entered, had he not?

“Yes?”

“...This is embarrassing. Can you please get me a towel?”

This felt like one of those cliches in romantic comedies that Ratio’s colleagues liked to watch. Mindless scenes of dry humour and burlesque attempts at “comedy” he found appalling. It was happening to him, now. Spiting his academic rigidity.

“Of course. One moment.”

He tries not to think about you, standing completely bare behind the door, as he sticks a hand into the bathroom, head turned away. If you looked closer, you’d have seen the bright red shade of his ears – but to his merit, you take the towel, shutting the door, a muffled “thank you” audible through the door.

He sighs, sitting on the floor beside the bathroom.

Whatever Gods there were, were bestowing great suffering on him today.

It takes a couple minutes for you to finish up in the bathroom. Another few more for him to wash up, and another handful of minutes for you both to be seated on the couch together in awkward silence.

You wear one of Ratio’s old shirts and shorts, scrolling on your phone, and he is sitting, arms crossed, on the opposite end of the couch, staring at you again. Outside, the rain still pours in unceasing rivulets, dissipating any ideas for going out for dinner.

He thinks his clothes look far better on you than on him. Thinks that you were made for this world and its inhabitants, crafted so perfectly. Wonders what wouldn’t suit your wear, because he can’t imagine anything that you couldn’t look good in.

“Okay,” you say, turning off your phone to stare back at him, “I ordered. Should be here in about ten minutes.”

He nods, and averts his gaze.

You smile. His behaviour is amusing.

“Veritas?”

“Yes?”

“What are your greatest fears?”

“Excuse me?”

You shuffle closer, and he notes a glint in your eye that suggests mischief. Teasing, as he’d seen before. “What are you afraid of? Like, the dark?”

“Nothing.”

“Boring. Come on, there’s gotta be something.”

He frowns, brows bunching together as he stares at the wall. An easy, natural habit. “Nothing. Fear is irrational.”

“Right.” you laugh at his blatant refusal to cooperate with you.

“Am I being funny?”

“No,”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being so… unexpectedly childish.”

“What?” he seems to prickle up with indignation. “What do you mean?”

“Your stubbornness to just answer my question, and the way you’re…” you gesture to his posture, the way his arms are folded and he glares at the wall. “Behaving. It’s childish.”

“Well, what are you afraid of? Nothing, right? It’s a stupid question.”

“I’m afraid of insects, the dark, I could go on, really,”

Veritas glares at you, meeting your eyes for a second. “Fear is stupid.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you scared of holding eye contact?”

At this, he blinks. He turns to face you, still frowning, but his gaze flickers between your eyes and the rest of your face. Your laugh only makes him roll his eyes.

“You really can’t hold eye contact, can you?” you say through a fit of giggles. “Have you ever dated?”

“Yes, I can hold eye contact,” – but not with you, it seemed. You intimidated him – “And no, I haven’t, it’s a distraction.”

“From what I’m seeing, you can barely even be near me without blushing.”

He blushes, breathing a sigh of exasperation.

“Dr Veritas Ratio’s one fear is making eye–”

Then he grabs your shoulders, forcing you closer, and holds your gaze with such intensity that the words disappear from your lips. You blink as his stare bores into yours, crimson eyes deep, shining with something unfamiliar to you that you realise you want to decipher.

People like to say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and Veritas Ratio’s was ridden with something that burned like the sun's dying light.

It’s then that you realise how close you are to him, how his firm grip on your shoulders softens and his touch drifts to hover above your jaw, how he smelled so inviting, familiar and distant all at once, and how his lips were slightly parted, how they looked so soft –

Knocking, at the front door.

You both tear away, and he stumbles to the front door to collect your delivery.

You never regret anything more than this moment.

“Delivery.”

You nod, obscuring your face with your hair as he sets down your meal on the coffee table.

You’re both back to silence, pleasantries and common niceties as the meal passes.

Neither of you meet the other’s eye.

Time ticks away as you finish your food and clean up, wiled away by carefully weighed words and half-met glances.

He hates it.

He hates how you were looking at him with such curiosity, and he hates how he let you tease him. He also hates the delivery man for not being delayed by the rain, but he also hates himself for not ignoring the knocks on his front door.

“I think I should go now.”

Yes, that would be best. “Why? It’s still raining, you could stay.”

“Well…”

He knows your dorm is far from his apartment complex. He knows that you’ll have to trek through the rain, and yet he also knows that if you stay, he won't be able to sleep. He still has images of you – fresh in his mind – to sketch onto the page.

“It’s no trouble.”

“Okay. I’ll stay the night.”

“You can sleep in my room.”

“But–”

“Don’t argue.”

Somehow, you’re inclined to do as he says.

Time, like all things, passes too quickly and too slowly all at once. Without time, nothing exists, but with it, it’s all too agonising to live through.

This is exactly how Dr Ratio feels as he sits at the coffee table, the small space dimly illuminated by a lamp, as the entire apartment is still. You’re probably sleeping, as he reminds himself, tearing another page out of his sketchbook, unsatisfied with his own hand.

The rain was now tame, a steady rhythm to his never-ending endeavours to capture your beauty on the page.

Maybe it’s when the charcoal snaps in his hands, or maybe it’s when his lamplight flickers that he decides that capturing life in still motion is helpless – a pointless and impossible venture that can never succeed.

You’re too deific to fit into a world of his creation.

What are supposed to be your eyes – painted with fervour, but lacking depth – stare up into the ceiling as he dozes off, charcoal falling from his hand, eyes drooping closed. Slivers of moonlight cut across your painted face as he slumps onto the table, snoring softly.

—

You wake to sunlight in your eyes, blinding and harsh, and realise where you are.

It all smells like him – that scent that you can’t place that smells good, and a lingering smell of the library with all its papers. It all smells like him, and when you walk into the living room, you find that his own apartment is completely devoid of any sense of himself.

But when you find him slumped at the coffee table, lamplight still illuminating the space with its curtains drawn and rays of sunlight peering through, he’s obsessed with you.

You’re unsure what, exactly, to feel. There are abandoned pages scattered all throughout the space, and unfurling one, you recognise your own face staring back at you.

Each and every drawing is of you – your hair wet, clinging to your skin, you drowning in his clothes far too large for you, or your face painted with curiosity and entrapment.

It’s you through Veritas’ gaze, and you think that beyond all else, he made you look divine.

When Veritas Ratio wakes to his papers – all wrinkled and partly torn – sitting in front of him, neatly arranged with a note on top, realisation hits him, but he can only laugh.

“Veritas Ratio’s greatest fear: eye contact with the person he’s obsessed with. Completely irrational – even though he can draw me perfectly from memory. A shame, really. Looks like you’ll have to invite me over to pose for you again.

So you can get my eyes right, of course.”

written by @atlaswav , published 26th of August 2024

#dr ratio x reader #hsr dr ratio #ratio x reader #hsr ratio #dr ratio #veritas ratio #veritas ratio x you #veritas ratio hsr #veritas ratio x reader #dr ratio x you #ratio hsr #ratio x you #hsr veritas #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #ratio honkai star rail #dr ratio is desperate and really stupid giggles and kicks feet #his characterisation might be so fucking off im sorry #☁️. writing

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eternalstarlitwonderland · 4 months ago

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Piercing Starlight

From the veil shadows, a figure arrives

Confidently saunters through the pavilion

Wearing an oversized black cloak

Flopping in the gentle breeze

Narrowly revealing the figure's gender as female

Possesses a shining blade

The blade was made of a colorless diamond

That can not be shattered or broken by conventional means

Its handle encased in a sterling metallic silver

Truly making its mark

She set her sights on the battle

Wearing her signature expression

Sporting a serious scowl

Her determination is vigorous

She slowly approaches with each click from her heels

As she draws near, She gradually reveals herself from the cloak of darkness

Her hair is in a color of crimson

It's floor-length and tied up in a simple, yet chic ponytail

Flowing in the wind

Her forehead is completely covered by crimson

Coasting in the wind

Just barely revealing her forehead

Her eyes are in a brilliant blue hue

Piercing through those who are daring enough to gaze at them

Her dress is pure and brilliant, and luminous

The pure white silk satin intertwining with shiny and metallic silver was nicely woven

Into the heiress's tailored dress

The metallic silver embroidery on the gown

Her heels are shiny and metallic silver

The sounds of her heels clicking

Her presence resonates with a tinge of serious

Her crimson tresses are swaying left to right

As the battle drew close, she drew up her blade

She gets into a fighting stance

Her starlit blade is shining so brilliantly

That blinds those who are not aware of its brilliance

Having her signature nerves of steel

The battle has commenced with the sounds of blades clashing, A subtle track of an epic battle

Her quickness is unparalleled

She moves with grace and adroitness

Her movement was swift and expeditious

Her battle prowess was unprecedented

She fights with clarity and precision

She won't let her emotions get in the way

Her perseverance in the battle illustrates her steely resolution

The bleakest nights produce the brightest stars, that can shine so brilliant

Through the gloaming brume of the night

When things get dire, she slowly loses hope

However, she sees a glimmering light at the end of the hopeless tunnel

The starlight bestows her with its brilliance

The effulgent light softly graces her with a celestial chalice

An astral holy grail suddenly materialized above her

Holding the heavenly vessel and takes a sip of the auroral liquor

With a silvery flicker, she delicately glisters softly drifting over the battlefield

A refulgent spark, piercing through the dread of the witching hour with her brilliant glint

The blade's effulgent glimmer penetrates the armor of the adversary

Obliterates it into a million pieces

Vanquishes the darkness and purifies the ominous ambiance

The shattered remains overhead gleamed with phosphorescence

The shrapnel turned into an empyrean, lambent butterflies

Freely roamed around the battlefield, delicately scintillating with a starlit glint

Now, she directed her gaze at her defeated opponent

Looking down at them

Her brilliant steely sapphire blue orbs daggered their piteous leer

Her blade points directly at their throat

They were devastated by the defeat and desperately pleaded for her to give them a quick demise

She didn't say a single word or answer their plea

Her deafening silence was the answer

The starlight shatters their pride and obliterates them into smithereens

Again, they pleaded once more for her to kill them

Once again she didn't answer their plea

She turned her back on them and walked away

With a silvery glint, she vanished without a trace

Leaving a stunned opponent behind

The delicate glint through the ruins and the butterflies were fluttering around

Seeing them fluttering above and then they touch one of the incandescent butterflies, but it pierces them

Reminding them of their loss

They were sulking about their defeat when it suddenly dawned on them that she was the piercing belle of the starlight

#my writting #written by me #astronomy #stars #my words #words #original poem #starry writes #poem #poetry #piercing starlight

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starkinvs · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! Could I have a dark starfolk (Worldless) moodboard with fire, Transient Luminous Events (Especially red sprites and ELVES), deep sea stuff and space themes please? Thank you in advance!

~ @empyrean-demise

#alterhuman #starkin #alterhuman things #godkin #otherkin #alienkin #alterhuman community #demonkin #nonhuman #nonhumanity #moodboard

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empyrean-thrones · 3 months ago

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The story of a woman with a physical disability being a dragon riding hero was such a compelling idea to me and I love that idea so much, but I think a lot of Rebecca’s writing choices in the Empyrean series when it comes to the PoC characters are so thoughtless and racist this story is just kind of awful in so many ways.

Xaden, a MoC MMC being perceived as uniquely ruthless in the quadrant and never experiencing love before the white FMC chose him and Xaden being so desperate to save her that he is the one out of the two of them that becomes an evil wizard? The FMC’s mother scarring his back? Horrific storylines. Xaden’s story is depressing and in a lot of ways demoralizing and the way Rebecca writes him makes me nervous. I could see his character arc taking him to the “dark side” and I hope Rebecca handles his story tactfully. I know this is a love story, but I don’t want Violet to “save” his soul from corruption. I do not care if it ruins the female power fantasy, Xaden being depicted as emotionally and mentally helpless and dependent on the white FMC is not a feel-good romantic story, it is awful. I hope and I want it to be clear by the end of the series that Xaden is good natured and strong with or without Violet’s influence, I want him to save himself in the emotional/spiritual sense. Wouldn’t mind if Violet saved him from physical threats.

Also, Rhiannon, the bisexual Black woman that becomes the “best friend” hardly gets a storyline of her own and is depicted as a tough girl that does not have a committed lover and it is just so fucking tiring. I liked some of her conversations with Violet in part one of Iron Flame, when she was figuring out that something strange was going on at Basgiath. But Rebecca hardly ever does anything interesting with her character, Rhiannon wasn’t really given an emotional character arc. Violet lies to Rhiannon for months and Rhiannon seemingly gets over it pretty fast and shows mild annoyance and stays very loyal to Violet. Rhiannon could have saved Violet from Varrish or she could have helped Xaden save her from Varrish, she could have been pulled into the emotional storylines some more. It definitely feels like she gets sidelined from the story even though she is Violet’s “best friend”.

I’m so glad you feel the same way about the depiction of PoC in this series.

My thoughts on Xaden are… mixed, to say the least.

He’s the son of a noble duke who disgraced and deemed insane by the public for trying to do what’s right and faces the burden of carrying the weight of hundreds on his shoulders. If either of them step out of line, everything he’s worked for will be destroyed and he’d suffer the same demise as his father. No one trusts him and everyone paints him in a bad light because of this. His worst nightmare comes in the form of the daughter of the woman responsible for almost every awful thing in his life being permanently chained to his soul; so not only does he have to aid the secret revolution without getting caught and make sure none of people are getting killed/doing some stupid shit that’ll put a target on their back, he also has to deal with the knowledge that Violet will inevitably get roped into this mess and further complicate things.

And on paper, I’d eat this shit up. This is the kind of character that I’d be rotating in my head for months. But instead of this guy with a ton of trust issues and deep desire to help others so they don’t go through the same thing he did, while also being so laser focused on the end goal, he’s either unaware or unwilling to see the collateral damage he causes.

Instead, I got some quick witted snarky dude with shadow powers who has a hair kink, low key sucks at flirting, and is just like… a dick to people sometimes? I understand that his trauma keeps him from communicating in a healthy manner with Violet in Iron Flame but the things he does to her in that book might be borderline gaslighting at some points.

The thing that really turned me off this character was the part where he threatened to withdrawal his support for Poromiel and leave them to die because a random gryphon flier (who might not have known who he was) attacked him at an outpost. He even goes so far as to say that “if you’re asking if I’d rather your people die than mine, then obviously my answer is yes.” It made me wonder if he was so quick to threaten their entire country with death, why does he bother helping them? What are his true intentions? What’s his end goal? Cuz right now, it just feels like he’s doing this for brownie points.

When it comes to ruthless characters, I’m reminded of this quote from Animorphs:

"People don't understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It's not about being mean. It's about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It's about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the perfection of it."

— Marco, Book #30: The Reunion

There are a lot of good lines in this series but this one stuck with me the most for some reason. Whenever I think of Xaden, I think of whether his actions apply to Marco’s definition of the word. Can he see that bright, clear line or was his final act in IF just an impulse decision?

When the characters call him ruthless, I think they really just mean cruel. What makes this fact uncomfortable for me is that it’s not just Navarrian bootlickers calling him that. The Marked Ones even joke about it during their meeting under the tree at night. Cat says he’s incapable of love which… yikes. Violet thinks this:

“And it’s not just his body. It’s… everything. Even the darkest parts of him, the parts I know are merciless, willing to annihilate anyone and everyone who stands between him and a goal, pull me in like a moth to a fucking flame.”

Girl, can you name one positive aspect about his character that you like? Cuz if not, it’s giving “small pacifist white girl falls for large aggressive black man”.

And I agree with you on his status as a venin. I don’t think it’s up to Violet to “save” him. Yarros said she wanted the whole venin thing to be about the struggle for power and how much is too much power. I think Xaden could’ve worked as one of them if he hadn’t been a wingleader at the start and was given special privileges because people were too scared of him. If he was reduced to nothing in Navarrian society and drew from the earth as a last ditch effort to save his people, then I wouldn’t be so harsh. Maybe if the venin had more nuance than just “we love killing people,” I’d be more open to introducing them as this new threat but for now, they just seem uninteresting to me.

But yes, Xaden needs to be the one to save himself spiritually/emotionally. Just like how you can’t force a drug addict into therapy, Violet can’t force a cure onto him. He needs to realize that he’s the problem and needs to seek rehab. There can be moments where he relapses but that shouldn’t deter him from becoming a better person.

And then there’s Rhiannon.

My sweet, beautiful Rhiannon.

She is what I call the three B’s of tokenism in media: black bisexual bestie. She sleeps around with everyone but never has a proper romance arc of her own. She doesn’t have an arc where she drags her sister into the Revolution or anything. All she is is Violet’s cheerleader who inserts herself into the Cat situation despite having nothing to do with it.

I really believed we’d get some growth from her in IF since she was starting to get some conflict with Violet over the secrets she was hiding. I thought we'd be getting something GOOD. And then Violet revealed everything to them and Rhi was just like, "I'm not mad, just disappointed." I was absolutely livid when I read that part.

We don’t even get a scene where she and Violet do some sleuthing to figure out what the fuck is going on in the healer’s quadrant because our stupid MC keeps trying to gaslight her into thinking everything’s fine. She doesn’t challenge Violet in any significant way after part 1. If Yarros does nothing with her in Onyx Storm, I’m gonna be so pissed.

And don’t even get me started on how she’s only the only character who’s dragon is named after an emotion (not even a positive one at that). Why did she name the WoC’s dragon ANGER???

#Jey speaks #Fourth Wing #xaden riorson #rhiannon matthias #violet sorrengail

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fog-of-hydrangeas · 5 months ago

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an altar for Judgement, from @empyrean-demise

it was really lovely working with all the blues in this one <3 and the star symbolism! combining one of my favorite colors and imagery that i've associated with for a long time into an altar like this was really interesting and i'm very happy with the results :] here's hoping you are, too!

the paper cranes i've actually had for a while, included because they're analogous to stars in my weird, convoluted spiritual stuff :>(and ofc i couldn't stop myself from adding the star tarot card haha- i love putting those on altars.) they fit with the other birds, as well ^-^

you can get a better view of the card and some of the smaller items in the images under the cut!

#otherkin #alterhuman #altar #divinekin #seraph #the fog speaks #maybe i'll write about said “convoluted spiritual stuff” at some point #who knows-#i'm not sure anyone would be all too interested lol

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octahedral-chaos · 9 months ago

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Okay so I finally figured out a bunch of usernames for the Alterhuman blog... but I'm a bit indecisive.

#A lot of these are Astronomy references/ puns #OCTAfan says stuff #Avenposting #OCTAfan's polls #Alterhuman #Fictionkin #Ask to tag #tumblr poll #Polls

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blaiddfailcam · 1 year ago

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Okay fine here are some "brief" headcanons about Blaidd and his upbringing among the Carians. Totally not telling on myself how much I overthink these games but:

As far as "headcanons" go, these are more so my rationalizations of Blaidd's relationships, and why he's so uninformed regarding his nature as a bringer of bale. I do feel the game offers some complex emotional drama that's fun to dissect. In essence, this is how the chronology of their dynamics "make sense" to me.

I'm not one for entirely cozy-cute interpretations, nor anything too edgy, but the latter story ruminations might paint the characters as somewhat cold and melancholy. To me, there is a good deal of sadness behind Blaidd's hardened persona, which always had me wondering how lonely he must have felt, searching for insurmountable years for an elusive key to unlocking Ranni's dream and his own demise.

But I'll start with the nicer stuff, lol.

Childhood

Blaidd wasn't "born," but created by the Two Fingers from Ranni's violet left eye to be her animus—not unlike Eve from Adam's rib.

Upon creation, he appeared as a wolf-headed human child with grayish skin and scant fur, with pink palms and soles. He was repulsive to the Carian servants, reminiscent of a demi-human.

In-game, Blaidd never blinks. As such, I like to think he literally never closes his eyes, nor does he rest.

Ranni was quickly drawn to him. Her first word upon seeing his lupine head was, "Blaidd!"—Wolf. Thus, the name stuck: Blaidd the Half-Wolf.

Rennala was not immediately approving of him, as she appreciated the danger he posed to her Empyrean daughter. As such, he was kept separate from her and raised under Iji's watchful eye in Kingsrealm.

Ranni would regularly secret herself out of the manor to play with her new friend by the cover of night. When Iji discovered this, he gently allowed them to continue. To him, they were almost as his adoptive children, or so he dared to pretend.

Blaidd was tutored in combat, assisted Iji with his smithing, and partook in hunting and fishing on behalf of the gate town. Naturally, this latter activity was his preferred pastime, which culminated in his talent for tracking traitors to the royal family.

Neither Radagon, Radahn, nor Rykard ever met Blaidd. To him, the Carian males were as distant as the stars.

Knighthood

Blaidd was trained in mock combat by Loretta. Loretta criticized his ineptitude for sorcery, fostering a mutual resentment when he soundly defeated her with his brutish strength.

Understanding Blaidd's unwitting role as Ranni's shadow, Iji was unnerved by his speed and aggression with ordinary weaponry. As such, he fashioned a colossal sword not unlike the trolls' royal greatswords to serve as a suitable weapon, as well as an inhibitor in the tragic event he ever turned on Ranni.

Blaidd's earliest armor was somewhat lowly, not so dissimilar from the Bloodhound knights', sans a cape.

Seluvis attempted to tutor Blaidd in the ways of Carian sorcery, but Blaidd had neither patience nor interest. Instead, he preferred to play childish pranks. Feeling sympathetic for the caged cuckoo birds, Blaidd once released a number of them, and Seluvis was convinced he had devoured them. From then on, he rejected him as his pupil.

Her distrust of the Two Fingers mounting into adulthood, Ranni became detached from Blaidd, to his distress.

One day, she disappeared. Blaidd tracked her to the frigid north alone, fashioning his makeshift cape from the hide of a greatwolf. When he found her, she was half-frozen. Enveloping her in his cape, he carried her to shelter.

When she came to, she apologized—but even still, she achingly refused to reveal her intentions. She was terrified of how her treachery would hurt Blaidd, but her resolve was as iron.

After their return, Rennala spoke to Blaidd in private. To his surprise, she apologized to him for her distrust. She declared that he and Ranni must become close as kin, inducting him officially into the Carian royal family as Ranni's honorary stepbrother.

As such, Rennala commissioned Iji to fashion a proper suit of armor for Blaidd, and a sword befitting a Carian knight, inlaid with many-colored glintstones.

The Dire Plot

After Radagon's departure and Rennala's descent into madness, Ranni maintained the Carian estate with Blaidd as her dutiful knight, defending from the battle-ready Cuckoo.

Blaidd was not included in Ranni and Rykard's plot to steal the Rune of Death, nor the Night of the Black Knives. Seeing as this trespass would fly in the face of the Greater Will, Ranni was careful to distance herself from him, should he enact his role as her executioner.

When the time came, Ranni diverted Blaidd to Raya Lucaria using Seluvis as a diversion. Unaware of her plot, he swiftly made his way to the academy, but upon arrival was swiftly imprisoned. (Ya know, sealing spells and all that.)

Breaking free the next morning, Blaidd stormed back to Caria Manor. But in Ranni's place, he found only a doll—until she spoke, and a chill ran down his spine. She confessed to her treacherous crime, expressing her utmost determination to rid herself of her curse.

Although he was shaken, Blaidd swore an oath that her secret would remain kept, and that he would serve no master but her. From then on, he dutifully commenced his age-long search for the Eternal City of Nokron.

The Shattering

In his distance from Ranni, Blaidd became himself more cold and skeptical. He observed the Shattering Wars from a distance, indifferent to the bloody corpse mounds littering eastern Liurnia, and unperturbed by the blight of Deathroot that plagued the Lands Between following Ranni's plot.

During a skirmish en route to Caelid, Blaidd ambushed Malenia, not with the intention of killing or impeding her, but out of curiosity as to her resemblance to Ranni's Empyrean flesh. He challenged the valkyrie, but in a single precise motion, she pierced his chest below his sword arm—a lethal blow to most, but only enough to temporarily subdue a shadow.

Afterward, he never involved himself in the war beyond protecting the manor.

Until present

Ever since Ranni's betrayal, Blaidd would irregularly drift into unconsciousness. Unbeknownst to him, these fainting spells marked the conjuring of Baleful Shadows, fashioned in his image.

For as desperate he was to fulfill Ranni's ambition, Blaidd was consistently delayed by an insidious traitor. Old Iji, still greatly attached to his dear children despite their unraveling tale, dangled fabricated allegations with which to occupy the merciless hunter.

Even so, his good nature remained relatively intact, only teased by a select few friends met in his encounters. One such character, of course, was Kalé. When Seluvis discovered someone had made off with the eyepiece of his priceless telescope, Blaidd began a lethargic hunt for the culprit. Discovering Kalé south of Stormveil, he questioned the telescope he spied in the merchant's possession. Kalé insisted it was sold to him in his travels. Blaidd fully believed him, but gave up the search out of boredom.

Blaidd fosters a respect for wildlife. He is, after all, reviled by most for his half-wolven visage. Perhaps he feels some penitence for his zealous hunting in his youth, or maybe it's born of defiance for Seluvis's vulgar accusations in the disappearance of his cuckoos.

Blaidd totally witnessed Kenneth Haight getting his shit rocked at Fort Haight and did nothing. He found it funny.

◇◇◇

In general, I think Ranni and Blaidd do care for each other deeply, but I find it interesting how Ranni manages to distance herself from her emotions in retaliation against the Two Fingers. Blaidd was conceived to suppress her through their mutual admiration. Aknowledging such, Ranni takes on a distant air in equal parts for their protection from each other, and in full understanding that her treachery would inevitably destroy him.

To be clear, I'm not saying Ranni is a bad character. I think it's awesome to have such a determined character who actually makes you question the morality of her revolt. Do her means truly justify the end? Likewise, Blaidd strikes me as someone who tries his best to be good, but in his determination to betray even his own emotions for Ranni's sake, he steeps into a depraved thirst for vengeance. He's not exactly a critical thinker.

When Blaidd eventually is corrupted, I question whether it was entirely the control of the Two Fingers, or if he felt a relentless rage toward Ranni. He spent years working to fulfill her destiny, after all. He had loved her with all his being. Even still, she foresook him. Despite this, he rooted himself where he knelt, refusing to let his fury bring her harm.

They kinda freaks. Love me some freaks.

Anyway pls don't let this make you think I'm any less cool or well-adjusted

#my ramblings #not tagging more specifically because im afraid of being crinche lol #if u find a typo #no u didnt

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