#frostkingoftheapocalypse

[fcllederage-moved]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse said: 🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆🔆 🔆

AAAAAH THANK YOU BB 😭😭 Imho I don't see you, Haetta, Grimm or Arethas nearly enough on my dash 💖👀

[fcllederage-moved]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse

There was nothing in the entire Universe that could top the feeling of the bright, burning Sun on her skin, of the gentle shivers that ran across her entire body as it slowly warmed up, of not having a single care in the world. All she had to do was to allow herself to exist and, somehow, it came so naturally to the queen who had always been so self conscious. She did not need to be anyone she was not, did not need to worry about the way she came across. It was just the Sun, the grass hugging her body, birds chirping all around, and herself.

Happiness. That was it. That was what she felt and, although the feeling seemed estranged - she had not been able to feel it in years - it was slowly making its way back to her heart, like a lost animal that had finally found its way back home.

A butterfly had landed on the tip of her nose but she only realized when the delicate touch of its wings brushed her high cheekbones. Eyes fluttered open and the butterfly away. All she could see above her head was an endless sky of blue hues and fluffy cotton white clouds. A sight she could have watched for hours, until it was printed in her retina. But soon, curiosity took a toll over her and she sat up. She was not disappointed by what she saw.

The entire time, she had been laying in a field of luxurious grass and colorful flowers. Butterflies fluttering all over the place. It was a gorgeous valley with mountains casting their soft shadow in the distance. Just a few yards away had grown the biggest Japanese cherrytree she had ever seen. It had grown so wide and tall that it seemed like it had wrapped itself around the house next to it. It was an incredible house with a style she could hardly define and intricate wooden decorations around every door and window.

There was something about this house, something that drew her towards it. Not one second she did try resisting. With light steps she walked down to the front foor and knocked. Once. No sound came from the inside of the house, although it must have been inhabited. It certainly did not look dilapidated enough. Strange. A cold breeze on her bare thigh that not only made her realized she was wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt but that she also seemed to be wearing her iconic long blonde wig and light makeup. But in this very moment, she was more interested in the source of the breeze.

The letterbox.

It was open, she realized as she kneeled in front of it, and that was where the cold came from. There, she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. A shape. A living shadow that, just like her, had kneeled in front of the letterbox, but on the other side of the door. Their eyes were closed, as if they were just listening. And so, she sat in front of the letterbox, patiently waiting for the shape to move.

But, once again, Hyacinthe let the curiosity take over, embracing it fully. "Hey, salut," she breathed in a soft voice while a playful smile blossomed on her lips. "J'te vois, tu sais."

translation: "Hey there." "I can see you, you know."

Darkness was peaceful. Not out of any joyless or wretched reasonings: Yggdrasil’s King savoured light as most surface-born peoples of the apocalypse did. A dawn-riser, he revered the eternity in the moment where an indistinct horizon of mountain and icefield turned pastel, glinting, glittering. Jötunheimr shared their star with three others: it was a small enduring cluster of ancient unstable gas, and it was close, dangerously precarious, kept at bay behind the broiling rises and disc-like shapes of Muspelheimr. When it tracked into a hazy view, it was to see only the aura of it refracting around their hostile neighour.

But a free breath above ground held connotations the old King could not shake. And so his dreams, his private domain, was the heavy, silky indigo of night.

He did grieve in daylight hours: a reverent crack in his armour, a rare relief of his unveiling, travelling solo across the realms, the months that he did not have to bear the influence of his consideration and presence over his peoples. He did not resent it, that primary nature of his, it was duty and pride. But that did not lessen the exposed nerve of his feelings.

Those whose energies he touched in their last moments filled his lungs like drowning. The last of anything, especially a civilisation, was the hardest to compartmentalise.

Indigo and ink. Hazy sensation. The King’s dream sat at the bole of the dead tree. He recognised it in his sightless, unfurling, gentle touch, sensitive fingertips finding the bark by his cheek. It had spoken to him until the few remaining cells in it had succumbed to the frost, no longer speaking its final tale, and the elder’s own tear-tracks had formed grim, frozen lines into his beard. He was not surprised to find it here, in the unconscious realm.

The flicker of light around the tree’s corner however.

Crimsons narrowed. It had the paranoia of being shoved off a cliff for peering over the edge, punishment for his vice of knowledge. But one could not have iron will over all their internal domains, train for that as one may. You could not choose how you processed the passing of daytime in your sleep.

The King’s dream-body was glacial slow as he coiled back into a hunter’s posture, not responsive enough for alarm bells yet, but getting closer as he approached the dream-lure, those spears of solid sunlight through the sliver of a root-gap. He had never seen light like that. Golden. A true gold. Curiosity burned a taut rope along his posture: a dim simulation of his waking hours, but even reduced to this. This vice of his was a force.

The light seared him as the King jerked back. Grimacing. The shock stirred enough wit into him now to wither at it internally, a tense scowl at his idiocy: this piercing light harsh enough to thrust hard-defined lines into the dark? A light that could slice through a pitiful splinter between roots? One might as well have stared unblinking into the fire in a torturer’s dungeon set before your face, speeding up the intended blinding of you, hapless little fool.

The King’s back was a solid ache as his jaw ticked away, struggling to think. He had the dread, quicksand feeling of importance - so lucid in this moment that waking up was a disaster away from being his reality. There was something, beyond that gap. The Norns had their claws in his lungs. A warning. A sinus pressure, like an alarm bell that wherever his body rested in the waking realm, he had ceased to breathe with it.

He crouched. Doing the only thing that there was left to do, and praying it was enough as he set his ear against the gap, the well-worn V of his brow keeping eyes closed as he ceased to breathe and listened.

@ncrthernattitude​

[ssolessurvivor]

What is your Anger Language? 

The Full Read

Whoever pisses you off is in for a rant that exposes every single one of their deepest insecurities and issues. your rage gives you the clarity to hunt for weak spots in a person's mind. your brain works fast, firing off insults at a rapid-fire pace that terrifies everyone within a ten mile radius. this is usually followed by buckets of guilt.

Borrowed from: @frostkingoftheapocalypse

Tagging : anyone and everyone! 

[untamedtempest]

[asgardianhammer]

჻ϟ჻

As the morning peaked over the horizon, some of it filtering through the thick canvas that sheltered them, the Jötun Prince woke. Sluggishly, as if he had never once in his life risen at dawn to train every day since childhood. Face flattened and mouth open into a mass of warmth and muscle that, after a moment, registered as one Thor, or well, the back of one Thor. A still snoring Thor that had been crushed and used as Haetta’s pillow without complaint or issue, apparently. The weight of Haetta shifted then with a semi-conscious, confused huff, teeth clamping lightly over a visible bruise now bright and cheerfully purple-yellow on the golden slab of his lover’s shoulder.

——

[ ϟ ]—– So peaceful as his slumber had been, so prickling and provoking was his waking, nerves firstly registering a sharp sting. Then, still semi-conscious, came the slow and languid awakening of the rest of him, the pleasant glow beneath his skin where sleep still attempted to remain, the dull aches that were dolloped across the vast expanse of his shoulders, weight against his back that was distinctly cooler than his own form.

‘ Violence before breakfast.... elskaður .... how unwise of you....’ 

A lion-like stretch and curl, ever so casual and relax to the untrained eye, the act itself however a very calculated move to rub himself closer to the other.

[apogexnarchive]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse

The time and dedication it had taken her to conceive and successfully implement this ingenious plan of hers was commendable. Not only had it taken precise planning with two separate parties, it also required transport, housing (of a sort), and the transferring of funds. It was amazing what she could accomplish (without force) with just a calculative mind and the right amount of money. It seemed that the decades hadn’t entirely wiped out her sea captain instincts.

Vasilija had instructed Hætta to meet her at the square plot out back of Loki’s property that afternoon. The grassy bit stationed between the main house and the stables. Further information had not been provided but this was not an uncommon practice for her. Being infuriatingly vague was her specialty. What mattered was that she was there, dutifully waiting, her stetson slightly askew atop her head. Had there been any concerns as to her reasons for meeting here, her body language would be enough to assuage any worries: she stood leaning her weight on one leg, arms folded over her chest, and her eyes gazing at her surroundings languidly. The picture of an outlaw who was contentedly hanging around.

“Howdy,” she greeted. “I’ve got a surprise for you, cowboy.”

[monarcha]

question starters | @frostkingoftheapocalypse​ asked:‘  are  you  lost?  ’

It was a spell gone wrong -- very, very wrong. He’d known it the second he’d felt the breath go right out of his lungs, felt the strange gravitic pull of magic. And then, with an unceremonious thud suggesting that Loki was far heavier than his frame appeared, he was plopped...somewhere. He stood with a groan, meeting the eyes of a stranger, and wiped his palms on his suit. Oh, he hoped it wasn’t ruined.

“I...that is a strong possibility,” he said, brows furrowing. “Where am I?”

[kingoftheravensarchive]

                                        SEEKING OUTLAWS

feat. @frostkingoftheapocalypse​ and @apogexn​

This town was a dusty place. A film of dirt and grime that settled into every nook and cranny available to it. Different from the smog of the eastern cities where smoke was the primary antagonist, this was nature trying to bury the town in a shallow grave. Unforgiving, like the sun that beat down on them, yet a place Loki was quite proud to call home. From his vantage point out the big bay window in his office he could watch the dusty people go about their dusty ways with a sort of grim satisfaction. People that had worries of their own, unique errands, choices and knowledge that differed from the next man. He wondered what horrors they had seen that were comparable to his own, what trials they had faced in life, if they knew death as intimately as he did.

Ah, but that was a morbid way of thinking and Loki, though a decadent personality, rarely allowed himself to employ morbidity unless in a humorous way. That was the brilliancy of personal thoughts: no one else could hear them.

“Sir.” From the office door, Keir’s head appeared, his hair neatly combed as ever and his suit pressed to perfection. It seemed dust never settled on the corvid regardless of where he went and what he did. Loki turned to acknowledge him, both brows raised in silent questioning. “Two people here about your flyer.”

“Ah, very good. Send them in.”

The flyer in question had been very particular about the character (or characters) it desired. Loki knew the law was of no use for him in these trying times because they were rarely ever of use in normal day to day occurrences. The idea of sending police after a mob was laughable and no doubt would be used against him the second the police were annihilated. No, no, Loki required a specific skill set that only outlaws utilized. He needed people who were adept with the blade, who understood the barrel of a gun, who did not shy from blood and gore, and who had an intimate relationship with death. And yet, he had to be careful. The wrong outlaw would sooner gut him for his money than do what he asked in turn for reward. He needed someone with a good head on their shoulders and a level of bravery to match.

He was, after all, offering an incredible amount of money in payment.

Loki turned fully from the window and braced a hand on the back of his chair in preparation for a greeting. He had, thus far, interviewed three other sets of people and had been left sorely disappointed in their wake. Either untrustworthy, unskilled, or terribly dull. Out in these western reaches of the U.S. it seemed like there was no end to the amount of outlaws running amok, and yet the second they were required they made themselves scarce.

Two people walked in and Loki was quick on his feet, directing them to the two chairs opposite his desk just as he reached the small side table where a decanter of alcohol rested. A man and a woman, that was all he committed to mind in those brief seconds, too focused on the task at hand to pause for the minute required to take these characters in.

“Sit, sit, sit, please. Scotch?” He poured three glasses without awaiting a response and set two of them on the surface of his desk. His own he held in hand, returning to his position just behind his chair. “Hello, hello, glad to meet you acquaintance. I’m Loki Iversen. You saw my flyer, yes? Good, good. Well, please, tell me a bit about your exploits, your talents--don’t worry about the police. I can hardly trust the fellas myself or they would’ve been involved in this. Bloody well can’t trust the law anymore than your own damn self, it seems. Anyway, hah, please, your names?”

The words came out fast, but the breath he had was sufficient enough and with the end of his ramble he punctuated it by downing the entirety of his glass in one go.

[utt-a]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse​ said:  ◊

Put a "◊" in my ask for a sticky note left on your fridge in the morning by my muse.

[yellingmetatron]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse

Malachia, they called him here.  Malachia della Libano to those who had an inkling of where he was from, Malachia D’Angelo for people who got confused by the translation name Malak and were of a particularly redundant bent.  Well, it wasn’t that much of a change; among the Turks he was called Melek Lübnanlı.  Malak, like all seasoned travelers, knew to wear names lightly, and at least the basic idea was intact.

Italy was not so barbarous as he’d been told.  Oh, Florence was no Damascus (or even Tripoli), but those Medici had surprisingly good taste for a bunch of power-mad bankers.  And the streets were a hell of a lot cleaner than they’d been in Cairo-- or Rome, for that matter.

Then there was the novelty of moving in a country where Christians were the rulers.  The Mamluk Sultans had never been friendly to Malak’s people-- Saladin’s example of tolerance seemed to have died with his dynasty.  The Maronites had been driven inland over the course of a few hundred years to ensure that what Malak was doing now would be as difficult as possible, but talent and belligerence opened many doors.

This particular door was slightly crooked, and looked all the more askew from the play of moonshadow.  The artist sighed.  One of the downsides of his profession was that everything started looking like art, and some of it just seemed to terribly hackneyed.  Readjusting the satchel on his shoulder, he pushed his way into the inn.

It was wasn’t so dim as to strain the eyes, smelled of smoke and spilled wine, and was just crowded enough that the murmur of conversation made picking out individual words impossible.  Anonymity would be easy enough, then.  Dressed as he was, he could easily pass for an Italian, save for his accent, and even that he’d managed to present as Sicilian in one or two cities-- rural Sicilian, nothing like Palermo or Messina.  They’d bought it.

He looked to the table he’d been instructed to find, and there sat a man of the description he’d been given-- tall, bearded, and dangerous-looking.  Malak suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.  The description could just as easily describe himself-- people were often shocked to learn he was an artist and not a soldier.  He would have objected to needing a bodyguard at all save for the fact that the last of the Sultan’s agents had actually managed to wound him.  So it came to this, whether Malak liked it or not.

He took his seat opposite the man, looked him straight in the eyes, and gave his half of the code phrase: “They say there’s a storm coming from Egypt.”  When the stranger answered with the correct response, Malak relaxed just a little.

“You know who I am, then.  Might I have your name?  I like to know who I’m working with-- our mutual patron notwithstanding.”

[fcllederage-moved]

mains list

Mains are the blogs/users who have the priority on interactions. They are the peeps whose threads I will turn to when I have replies to queue and who will have theirs instantly posted. It also means that they're people I've already chatted/plotted with an extended amount of time and who can basically DM me any time for anything, spam me with memes, headcanons and so on. Overall, if you're on this list, you're my baaaaaaby 👀 If you're not, it doesn't mean I don't want to interact with you, on the contrary!

@frostkingoftheapocalypse (Haetta)

@hatigave (Credence & Dennis)

@mxlevolence (Ghostface)

@soulsuckrrs (Jason, Lance & Aidan)

@therelentless (Nandor)

@sprnkles (Jackson)

@wynterlanding (Landon)

[agcntwells-archive]

6 😚

@frostkingoftheapocalypse ;; meme 

Liza leaned her forehead against his, finding comfort in the softness of the gesture, the way his fingers brushed against her chin. To think of all they’d been through, the uncertain start, and even rockier after that, but now they’d finally found peace– at least between the two of them. The court’s elders and the scholars that served as advisers still didn’t seem swayed in their opinion of her, though, but in moments like this she found it difficult to care much of the opinions of others.

Her hand came up to close around Loki’s wrist, trying to keep his hand where it was. “Do you have to go?” She asked, allowing her selfish desire of wanting to keep him near come out for just that moment. Liza didn’t know what the meeting was about– more nonsense ignoring the threats that seemed to come from everywhere– enemies and nature alike. She knew, of course, that he had to attend, that it was his duty. Sighing quietly, she brushed her nose against his and found his gaze. “If you must go– could I not be permitted to join you?”

[sigrvif]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse​ sent:  He blamed a distraction of thoughts on his slow reflexes; dropping the armful of arnica flowers as he caught her about the shoulders where she burst out from his front door. He had been about to step inside. Collision accident avoided with a sharp inhale, and a quick release of his hold, but so too was Sigyn now covered in a thick coat of yellow blossoms.

Large hand clasped her shoulders, steadying her and slowing her rapid footwork. Panic falling away in his steady presence, and she settled there, dark eyes lifting once his fingers release her. Watching the bright colors of petals falling all around her. The flowers piling at her feet and on her shoulders; the scent filling her nose, sweet and fresh --- how she loved it. 

❝ Sorry, ❞  She giggled, looking at him finally. Carefully, she plucked one flower from her shoulder, holding it up to see it better. ❝ Arnica? ❞ Bending down, she piled a few in her hands. A small attempt to help him clean up the mess. ❝ I love these little ones. The color is one of my favorites. So bright and happy. ❞

[untamedtempest]

@frostkingoftheapocalypse​​ said: 🌶 😏

Send 🌶 to learn what my muse thinks is hot about yours  / Not accepting.

"There is something about a man in perfect control of his entire being, most of the time... particularly when there's so much of him to rein in."

[asgardianhammer]

"Could we ... five more minutes without discussing our mission." it was not oft the Jotunn expressed a thought for anything but work, even in private, and the lowered lashes hid well a tired edge as Loki sat back down, exposing a string of bell-like yellow flowers in hand. He gave no reason. Only began to tuck them, stem by stem, with utmost care into the long waves of reddish gold unbound across Thor's spread cloak.

[ ϟ ]—– For a prolonged time he had spoken, thunderer realized, and despite what his splayed out form suggested it had been far from a calm, serene sort of monologue.

When it came to some matters, matters of the heart, of war, of reason and injustice, and diplomatic dealings, his vigor affected thoughts and mouth, until he found himself speaking sentences with a galloping, nearly harsh enthusiasm.

The kind that no doubt would wear down even the most patient of companions, and seemingly had affected Loki to the point of quite literally giving up on speaking himself.

' Aye...' the Asgardian agreed with a tender smile, warding off the urge to ask the Jötunn where he had learned such a humble, delicate working as weaving flowers in one's hair. Did Jotunheimr hold flowers of any kind at all, would land enveloped in ice and snow even be able to hold such things in it's hardened soil?

A moment or two passed whilst the storm within settled further, now even his mind finding some peace under the ministrations - nay, simple workings, he musn't forget these were not ministrations -, and his gaze is fixed upward, eager as he was to read every minute change in companions features, should they occur.

' I suppose it sometimes bewilders you, my actions and my words, in the dealings with others... I am well aware of my ... rowdy nature my friend.'

[apogexnarchive]

‘Is the sea not your home?’

Home? Vasilija's look of incredulity was, for once, raw and open. As clear on her pretty features as her impassivity usually was. The idea of "home" was a foreign concept to her. That stability required, the comfort, the permanency. This was true even when she did live beneath the waves---there had been nothing stable, comforting, or permanent about living with other sirens. No, it was violent, tense, and dangerous. Despite what memories flashed behind those cold, blue eyes, Vasilija never spoke of this portion of her past. Never vocalized how terrible her kind truly was.

The siren turned her gaze away, fixating on the textured bark of a tree some feet across from her. An American elm. She could tell by the studded trunk, the tapered point of the leaves. It was partially lit by the flickering flames of the fire they had built, a soothing white noise in the otherwise quiet outlands. Vasilija's knife was in her hands. Where before she had been fidgeting with it, studying the way the firelight danced across the shining blade, now she held it in a vice grip, stilled by thought.

"Hell no." There was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, the dulling images of her ship, The Siren when it still rested proudly atop the waves. That was the closest thing to a home she had ever had. Perhaps, by proxy, that made the sea her abode. A distant home purposefully kept arm's length. It was a different existence living atop the sea rather than inside of it. "Even if it was, I can't go back. They'd rip me to shreds."