#frostkingoftheapocalypse
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It was foolish how ones breath deserted them over the tiniest nothing. Seized by senseless tenderness, a visceral bruising. Thor's head had tipped forward obligingly, his long rope of braids draped aside to expose his nape where little golden wisps curled. Immediate. Defenceless. Willing. HĂŚtta stilled there where he had been tightening companion's armour straps, and tucking metal into place. Full mouth in a thinned-out line, and something complicated passing across his looming study of it.
[ Ď ]ââ Beneath gilded plates, under thick metal and chain, and layers of leather and linnen, his heart emits heavy, deeply resonating thuds, as if protesting.
It was indeed, in a fashion, responding to the inevitable, to the current proceedings and to what awaited him, a loud, rhythmic denial that seemingly grew stronger with each tug.
Until it stopped.
And with the sudden rest, with the sudden stillness around him, with no workings to distract him, the would-be-king uttered the few words that had lingered in this mind for far too long.
' You can not leave.'
Here he becomes suddenly aware of the sound of his voice; grander of stature he had become, grown in height and breadth, and even locks had inched closer and closer to the waist where belts of his youth had been changed for regal straps. And yet, despite the strength, the depth, the subtle rumble of thunder within the vocal cords, his request, his plea, once again sounded child-like, weak somehow...
How was he to convey this, this sorrow washing over him in waves, when he was standing tall and prepared, grilled and trained into future king in appearance and intellect, stronger than ever yet hurting? Only a few days from now he would be crowned, the Spear finally held in one hand and becoming companion to trusted hammer, oaths solidified and all the worlds, the entirety of Yggdrasil placed under his guidance and protection.
'We need you.'
The emphasis on that first word is evident, a non-verbal reminder for the other what is truly meant - I, me, I need you -, and here Einarr is thrust back to the past, back to when young prince has pleaded with HĂŚtta in a similar fashion.
' Your counsel, your words, you... Asgard is nothing, I am nothing without you... my lord.'
Often the title had been dismissed, often had he forced himself to change, adapt, use different language and avoided to speak them, but in this moment they seemed the only words that carried the proper weight, the proper reverence he needed so desperately to convey.
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@frostkingoftheapocalypse said: đ đđ đđ đđ đđ đđ đđ đđ đđ đđ đ
AAAAAH THANK YOU BB đđ Imho I don't see you, Haetta, Grimm or Arethas nearly enough on my dash đđ
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[ Ď ]ââ A frown had formed, slowly vining into existence during the first stage of their wading through the water, curled and eventually settled in a stance so characteristic for thunderer's expression of utter concentration and curiosity.
Keen eye-sight or not, he failed to register what companion was holding, cradling more like, and what was noted in peripheral vision received a haphazard wave. A non-verbal instruction for the Aesir guard to relax, stand down.
Asgardian prince heard HĂŚtta's whispers, a vague rustling of leaves nearby, and the soft clang of a spear relaxed against the guard's armor. He saw however nothing of note in the giant's hand, not yet.
' What is it ' he questions softly, as if his very breath would disturb or scare whatever it was companion was listening to. ' A sprite? The Vanir speak of many creatures here...'
---â
@asgardianhammer
The stream parted around the two behemoths crouched mid-river. Sodden up to their chests, and yet planted firmly, both barefoot in the soft mud. Above the water, HĂŚtta's palms cupped the floating, luminscent little form that had called to him from a river-plant, a lonely ping of Seidr, wanting to talk to these foreigners in a language inaudible to the ear.
Translating, HĂŚtta whispered,
"She wishes to share news." a quarter size the JĂśtunn's nail, the transluscent layers of petal-shaped appendages rippled open and closed. She did not have eyes that they could see, but clearly she could see them. At the centre of HĂŚtta's mind, the lyric-less message thrummed, crescendoing, passionate and alien, "'Tis a song, HĂĄtign. Of the construction upstream."
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#v: power of the heart ( au )#c: horned menace#c: travels 001#(( have some smol werds...
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What is your Anger Language?Â
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!Â
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#frostkingoftheapocalypse#c: tango del cuore (froststorm)#(it's the lase focus stride for me#while she is pro huffing and all the things
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@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 hadnât entirely wiped out her sea captain instincts.
Vasilija had instructed HĂŚtta to meet her at the square plot out back of Lokiâs 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.
âHowdy,â she greeted. âIâve got a surprise for you, cowboy.â
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#â â v: partners in time ( OLD WEST )#[what's really commendable is that I managed to make this short. WOW!]#thread â A GIFT
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question starters | @frostkingoftheapocalypseâ asked:â  are  you  lost?  â
It was a spell gone wrong -- very, very wrong. Heâd known it the second heâd 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 wasnât ruined.
âI...that is a strong possibility,â he said, brows furrowing. âWhere am I?â
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                    SEEKING OUTLAWS
feat. @frostkingoftheapocalypseâ and @apogexnâ
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.
âSir.â From the office door, Keirâs 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. âTwo people here about your flyer.â
âAh, very good. Send them in.â
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.
âSit, sit, sit, please. Scotch?â 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. âHello, hello, glad to meet you acquaintance. Iâm Loki Iversen. You saw my flyer, yes? Good, good. Well, please, tell me a bit about your exploits, your talents--donât worry about the police. I can hardly trust the fellas myself or they wouldâve been involved in this. Bloody well canât trust the law anymore than your own damn self, it seems. Anyway, hah, please, your names?â
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.
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@frostkingoftheapocalypseâ said:Â â
Put a "â" in my ask for a sticky note left on your fridge in the morning by my muse.
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@frostkingoftheapocalypse
Malachia, they called him here. Malachia della Libano to those who had an inkling of where he was from, Malachia DâAngelo for people who got confused by the translation name Malak and were of a particularly redundant bent. Well, it wasnât that much of a change; among the Turks he was called Melek LĂźbnanlÄą. Malak, like all seasoned travelers, knew to wear names lightly, and at least the basic idea was intact.
Italy was not so barbarous as heâd 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 theyâd 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 Malakâs people-- Saladinâs 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 wasnât 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 heâd managed to present as Sicilian in one or two cities-- rural Sicilian, nothing like Palermo or Messina. Theyâd bought it.
He looked to the table heâd been instructed to find, and there sat a man of the description heâd 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 Sultanâs 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: âThey say thereâs a storm coming from Egypt.â When the stranger answered with the correct response, Malak relaxed just a little.
âYou know who I am, then. Might I have your name? I like to know who Iâm working with-- our mutual patron notwithstanding.â
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#verse: Italian Renaissance#sorry for throwing a novel at you#also seeing as you have a better knowledge base with this stuff#feel free to correct me on anything
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Hand on the closed tent flap, Haetta paused as he turned back to the midday sun. Too bright for the slumbering, exhausted figure within. Cautiously he manoeuvred his large frame to block the worst of it as he entered into the muted dimness. The armour he had managed to remove from his companion lay by the entrance, clean now, a neat pile atop a laundered cloak. Nothing had been touched since he left, or added to: the rest of the set still half-clad upon the thunderer.
Concern twisted at the Princeâs belly despite his resolve. Fighting himself between leaving the basket of freshly warm bread, dates, and dried meats for the other to find when he awoke, and a sinking feeling, so unused Haetta was to seeing obvious fatigue from such an animated race âof which Einarr was absolutely a fitting heir to.
The basket creaked as it was set by the sleeping roll. And then, delicately, cool fingers touched the curl-plastered forehead, while mind ground through its archives to assess if this truly was the right temperature for the Aesir.
[ Ď ]ââ Consciousness was restless, an erratic movement of his perception from what existed at the present moment to darkness and unfamiliar, clouded void.
Oh there was pain, even there, in what is commonly blissful nothingness, an aching in his bones and tendons, sinew still affected and nerves still protesting. Prickling, irritating...
Rage was a monster so difficult, at times near impossible to kill...
And it lingered, refused to leave his body just yet, hovered under the god's skin like smoldering embers in dying hearth. Stubborn as he, resilient as the very fabric of his physical form, just as volatile...
Then it was suddenly subdued, partially, and in startling fashion, contact between ice and fire so unexpected it disturbed, wrecked the slivers of energy that refused to leave him only a moment ago. Skin registers the cold, and mind rushes, leaps into awakened state whilst body attempts to follow, jolting upward.
The gasp is a labored, aching endeavor, lungs pulling at the air to chase more oxygen.
Once he had become somewhat aware, of Haetta, of the other being so near to his heaving form thunderer wishes to flee and return to the darkness again, guilt and shame adding more hues of red to heated, crimson colored skin.
' Apologies.... ' a rumbling, hoarse forming of words, eyes darting towards the giant only for a brief moment before they find a point to focus on, edge of the make-shift bed near his feet.
' I am sorry... truly... you had to witness that...'
Earnest regret turns voice raspier, and words roll outward from him, uncontrollable, harsh, judgmental in nature and riddled with chagrin.
' It was not my intent, it was not...'
Nothing would remain the same after this, he knew; any influence on Haetta's perception of him, any respect he had crafted and any comfort he had offered, it was surely ruined now. Mind scolded him: surely trust was broken now, and the worst of it all, they were kindred spirits no longer. For how could someone as composed, as calm, as respectable and in control as Haetta, understand all of this...
Amidst the shame there was the now rising bitterness of regret, and an overwhelming sense of loss, tears flooding his eyes. More than outward destruction something else was eradicated, something more precious and valuable than mountains and land and trees... Something he had hoped to keep pure and unbent, unbroken, forever.
#submission#frostkingoftheapocalypse#v: power of the heart ( au )#(( sits back#i dont even know wtf this is to be actually honest#but it is what it is
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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 đ 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)
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@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: Yggdrasilâs 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. JĂśtunheimr 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 Kingâs 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 elderâs 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 treeâs 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 Kingâs dream-body was glacial slow as he coiled back into a hunterâs 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 torturerâs dungeon set before your face, speeding up the intended blinding of you, hapless little fool.
The Kingâs 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.
@ncrthernattitudeâ
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#//me too ugh they're gonna be disgustingly soft đ#spirited away (dream soulmate) â verse!private#we might be dead by tomorrow â interactions
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@frostkingoftheapocalypse ;; memeÂ
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 theyâd been through, the uncertain start, and even rockier after that, but now theyâd finally found peaceâ at least between the two of them. The courtâs elders and the scholars that served as advisers still didnât 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 Lokiâs wrist, trying to keep his hand where it was. âDo you have to go?â She asked, allowing her selfish desire of wanting to keep him near come out for just that moment. Liza didnât know what the meeting was aboutâ more nonsense ignoring the threats that seemed to come from everywhereâ 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. âIf you must goâ could I not be permitted to join you?â
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#v; swords for silk ( frostkingoftheapocalypse )#( SUCH SOFT#MUCH CUTE#liza just wants to cling to him and i'm just ^-^ )
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@frostkingoftheapocalypseââ said: đś đ
Send đś 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."
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#(might have something to do with the fun you have making him lose it#c: tango del cuore (froststorm)#and what often happens after#b: answered prayers (asks)#b: when i was girl the sky called me home (queue)
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âIs the sea not your home?â
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."
#frostkingoftheapocalypse#â â v: partners in time ( OLD WEST )#â â ANSWERED ( IC )#[THE LOOK SHE'S GIVING U RN HAETTA LMFAO]
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