#monachyric

[jewelstole]

magnetic-regent-magneto asked: " To what do I owe this ... pleasure? " - Stephen (@monachyric)

she curls her wine glass in. feline green eyes do not leave her reluctant host for several moments. " thought i'd drop in. you don't mind , do you ? " a cat on the prowl . . .

lithe form makes way towards a stylish armchair. she'd blend entirely with it , be consumed by it , had it not been for those piercing eyes.

[untamedtempest]

magnetic-regent-magneto asked: ❛ even your rage is beautiful  ❜ - Stephen Strange (from @monachyric) <3

Random inbox / Always welcome.

"Strange?" It had to be magic carrying his voice. Her winds were a deafening roar with the palest of lightning threaded in their whirls, destruction their only goal. Conversation and rational thought were miles from the goddess' mind until she heard him. Where- A flurry of concrete and metal swirled on all sides while concern deluded her fury.

Nothing should breathed right now except her and the fires, yet she found a cluster of familiar atoms encased in a bubble, not of this world. Thank goodness.

"Attempting to calm the tempest with flattery..." It was working her pulse was slowing, and the storm soon followed. "Good job... perhaps I should bring you along instead of Gambit next time the mission requires a charmer."  

[alwaysxinxtrouble]

continued from here {x}

Floating in a void of nothingness, Matthew couldn't help but wonder if this was the end. If this was where he came to be in his death. Not heaven or hell, just nothing. It was peaceful. Something he had never in his life; weightless peace. Until what felt like a string through the darkness began to tug him forward towards an unseen surface. He couldn't fight against the pull, limply dragged back into consciousness and pain enveloped him.

Sightless eyes blinked open behind the cowl, senses numb to him and competing against the pain that came with every breath. He wanted to let himself fall back into nothingness with his eyes falling closed again, though the string wouldn't allow him to. With his sharpened senses slowly returning to him, the sound of a heartbeat other than his own filled his ears and his eyes snapped open again.

Despite his body's protests, Matt rolled stiffly to the side to remove himself from the man's lap. Hands slide beneath him to shakily begin to push himself up onto his knees, hissing between clenched teeth at the sharp pain that came with the movement, head spinning with the room lurching violently around him.

@monachyric

[iobartach]

The designation fit the role that was embraced. To cause obstruction was his intention, delivered at once when from the abyss stirs the physicist's bane, the moniker old but entrusted to a successor. By a man who had plucked its dusty remains out of the records of history, before it could become tarnished by corporate greed.

He was a product of his dystopian environs as much as any other other oppressed soul, but be it upon the streets of New York, or the futuristic amalgamation built in the decades since. But what he did know with certainty counted for a significant amount. The doctor that stalked and yowled before him was a hazard that needed to be moved.

"Speak for yourself," opines a masked menace, but he isn't content to leave it at that. Following a pause, he began to move forward, hands spread outwards from his sides as his feet gathered pace, walking, then sprinting, until finally cumulating in a lunge that aimed to tackle Octavius onto the ground.

⠀⠀ ⠀-- {{ @iobartach }}

⠀⠀ ⠀THE MACHINE DEVOURS ITS MAKER.

⠀⠀ ⠀The machine is build for good. Its intentions are good. And then it shall fall to the intentions of evil and greed.

⠀⠀ ⠀Green neon light fills fogged up traffic in an ever-lasting dark. But deep in the underbelly something built from the wreckage of past minds, welded together with genius and ruin in equal measure. In dim fluorescence of destroyed memorials, Octavius adjusted the round glasses on the bridge of his scrunched up nose. Eyes like burning embers of a fallen star stared intently at the display of data.

⠀⠀ ⠀Spider-Man-- no, something worse. A creature wearing the skin of tomorrow, tangled in the web of its own making. An aberration of progress.

⠀⠀ ⠀The years had not dulled him. The marking of theorem. It will be a theorem: unbroken, undeniable, eternal.

⠀⠀ ⠀" You are a problem, my dear boy. " Octavius growls.

[bladedsoul]

" everything is going to get worse from here . " - Stephen (from @monachyric)

" WORSE? " a groan, loud and exaggerated, is punctuated with the heavy thud of her back hitting the mat beneath her. legs uncross to stretch out until she's lying flat, chest raising and falling with a lengthy inhale. " i don't think anything is worse than meditating. " yawn is stifled by a clench of her teeth, caught once already dozing off while he was explaining something she's sure was important: but she couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly it was. " can't we just skip to the good stuff already? "

@monachyric

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

So... I did a thing @monachyric

[jewelstole]

magnetic-regent-magneto asked: " Drop it " - Stephen Strange (from @monachyric)

diamonds were not only a girl's best friend it seems. she had a soft spot for all the shiny assortments in life. garnet , ruby , amethyst ... you name it , she'll steal it.

" or what ? " she purrs. " wait , don't tell me .. you're here to arrest me while wearing .. " she'll look him over , drinking in every part of him with ease. " .. that ? " a smirk. " i mean .. you're kind of cute. not really my usual type but .. what kind of girl would i be if i didn't admit i am a little intrigued ? "

[lrdvyke]

Vyke's breath comes out in a huff behind his silver helm. Pale eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, assaulted by the quick flash of gold; that which marks the arrival of another. Unwanted. Dangerous. One that towers as steady as the trees ( perhaps just as old as they too ) and adds himself to the natural forming cage that once felt so open before. Vyke's grip around his warspear tightens—the point is aimed downwards, almost scraping the dewy ground, but no less loose to swing upwards should it be deemed necessary.

Tarnished hunter. He has heard of them, seen their kind patrol the Lands Between, but dared no closer than that. This one ... this one is different. No black shrouds him, but horns jut forth like that of the omenkind. Vyke reassess his position. He does not attack.

❛ Seems no different than what has taken up residence here, omen, ❜ Vyke says then, wary of the steps the other has taken across the ground. ❛ With such limitations you place, no one is allowed here. Including you, from what I gather. ❜

A quick motion to the side of him; his Maiden shifts and moves half from the tree, watching. Vyke does not act as if he noticed. Perhaps the other has not either. Tarnished hunters often turn into Maiden killers after all ...

❛ But I do not have reason to stay longer than is welcomed. Merely passing through, if you would allow—no harm will come to here, this I swear. ❜

⠀ ⠀-- {{ @lrdvyke }}

THE MIST HANGS THICK TO DAMP EARTH AND BLOOD IN CRACKED RIBCAGES.

⠀ ⠀Gilded rot clings to the ruined, a tarnished opulence, a whisper of ruin masquerading as splendor. A distant rattle of armour on the carcass of fractured splendor of polished ground. The forest hollows quiet splinters and festering weeping. It had taken over the once golden marble and stone.

⠀ ⠀The omen strides accustomed to ruin; a careful prowl of a hunter in the footsteps of a mark. His shadow is an old story-- half remembered and veiled. The cracked gold of his flesh caught in slivers of weak moonlight, fractured by the canopy above, casting reflections as jagged as the crown he did not wear. His tail curled, idly striking against the roots of an ancient tree, dislodging the hush with a whisper of movement. He is a king who has been unseated, a son who has inherited a kingdom of bones and ash. His fingers twitch beneath the hem of his robes, where his sword rests as the golden glow in the dark.

⠀ ⠀" Thy presence here is a mockery, Tarnished. Thee step onto the ground of the sacred nature with no regard. Even the roots recoil from thy stench. How typical of thy blighted kind... Thee warrant no rest. " Margit speaks in low threat-- an offering of mercy for the doubtful. There is no peace here. Not in the endless, spiraling green that seems to mock the very idea of tranquillity.

⠀ ⠀Another man who bore faith like a banner, like a curse. Another fool who sought a throne that would never be his. A warrior drowned in the flame of loyalty, a knight who should have been greater than fate allowed. Once a name spoken with reverence, now a warning carved in scorched ground.

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

-- mun ||: making my multi @monachyric has been so satisfying and meditative because its a clean slate, and I know so much more of blog making now and I enjoy html.

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

once more going to point to my new multi over on @monachyric

[irnmade]

　　　❝ YEAH ? and there is something to be learned about having an actual filling system , but here we are . ❞ he stood amidst the chaos , a storm of arcane texts orbiting him with a mind of their own . he manages to not flinch away when a particularly aggressive grimoire snapped at his wrist— just a tilt of the head , gaze looking over strange like a man who had long since accepted that the laws of physics were more like a gentle suggestion around here .

　　　❝ before you start with the whole meddling with forces beyond your comprehension spiel , trust me , i'm aware . i'm just here for a favor . a little consultation , a little collaboration— maybe think of it as a professional courtesy . ❞ the words were light , easy , but his jaw was set ; the dark circles beneath his eyes deep enough to suggest that he hadn’t exactly been sleeping soundly . a hand lifts as another particularly persistent tome flapped at his ear like an angry bat . he swatted at it , then pointed at strange with the same exasperation he usually reserved for board meetings , ❝ can you call off the literary attack dogs already ? ❞

⠀ ⠀-- {{ @irnmade }}

⠀ ⠀THERE IS A MOMENT, BETWEEN THE STRIKE OF THE CHISEL AND THE SHATTERING OF THE STATUE, WHERE THE MARBLE STILL PRETENDS TO BE WHOLE.

⠀ ⠀The silence before something breaks. Candlelight licked against the sharp angles of his face, drawing out the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the weight pressed into the furrow of his brow. The electricity was perhaps the most volatile in the mansion.

⠀ ⠀The cape upon his back twisted in unease. " Yes ... I have not heard him in a while. " The sorcerer rumbles, being tugged from his coffee by the window towards the hallway. The sound of vinyl music hollows distantly and echoing to lure him. The Sanctorum rendered mortal imagination void-- until Tony Stark never fails to challenge its borders.

⠀ ⠀" Tony ? " His voice was sandpaper dragged across a philosopher’s tongue-- hoarse, precise, laced with something old and weary, like a sorcerer who has bargained away his patience with too many gods. The man rubs his moustache as he halts in the doorway to the sight of Tony being encased in flying books, papers and opened drawers in a room that was the closest to resembling the imitation of a living room. ⠀ ⠀" There is something to be learned about calculated, acceptable risks. "

[doomologys]

Doom     did     not     cast     spells     as     lesser     sorcerers     did.     He     did     not     petition     reality     for     its     favor,     did     not     shape     it     with     the     delicate     hands     of     a     fool.     Doom     commanded,     and     reality     obeyed.     Strange     had     not     been     transported     to     Latveria.     That     would     of     been     far     too     simple.     Too     crude.     No,     Doom     had     rewritten     the     very     concept     of     his     presence,     his     anatomy     being     unmade     in     one     space     and     reconstructed     in     another,     but     not     really.     The     body     that     stood     before     doom     now     was     not     quite     the     same     one     that     had     lain     in     the     his     own     space,     in     the     Sanctum     even..     The     bones     had     been     instructed     to     stand,     the     muscles     trained     to     stillness,     the     nerves     made     obedient—not     through     force,     but     through     authority.

The     spell     was     no     mere     binding.     It     was     a     fundamental     restructuring.     It     was     the     nature     of     the     spell     that     made     it     so     utterly,     profoundly     terrifying.     There     was     no     struggle.     No     visible     strain     against     bonds.     No     clash     of     wills     that     could     be     seen     or     measured.     There     was     simply     an     absence—the     silent,     suffocating     realization     that     the     body     which     had     once     belonged     to     Stephen     Strange     no     longer     responded     to     Stephen     Strange.     That     the     concept     of     his     autonomy     had     been     neatly,     surgically     excised     from     existence.

Doom     did     not     gloat.     He     did     not     need     to.     His     stance     was     composed,     his     presence     absolute.     He     simply     stood,     and     that     was     enough.     "You     persist     in     this     folly,"     he     said     at     last,     his     voice     measured,     heavy.     "You     believe     yourself     beyond     control.     That     the     mind     of     Stephen     Strange     is     a     thing     unshackled,     a     force     unto     itself."     The     castle     walls     stretched     higher     than     they     had     any     right     to,     warping     at     the     edges     of     his     vision,     shifting     in     and     out     of     angles     that     shouldn’t     exist.     The     air     had     a     taste     to     it,     bitter     metal     and     burnt     ozone,     like     the     skin     of     reality     itself     had     been     singed.

"What     I     have     done,     Strange,     is     unmake     an     inevitability.     The     universe     conspires,     as     it     always     has,     to     deny     Doom     his     rightful     claim.     The     stars     whisper     their     defiance.     The     threads     of     fate     tremble     like     a     rat     caught     in     the     fangs     of     a     serpent.     But     I     do     not     bow     to     fate.     I     do     not     beg     before     the     altars     of     lesser     gods."

⠀ ⠀⠀-- @doomologys ||

⠀ ⠀⠀DREAMS ARE FOR THE FOOLISH. NIGHTMARES BELONG TO MEN LIKE THEM.

⠀ ⠀⠀Doctor Doom didn't knock. It was an insult to them both.

⠀ ⠀⠀It began with a whisper-- no, a tremor. A ripple through the astral, thin as a knife’s edge, sharp enough to shear through the feeble veil of sleep. Stephen Strange did not dream like mortal men. His rest was a battlefield, his mind a library of incantations that wrote and rewrote themselves in shifting script upon the backs of his eyelids.

⠀ ⠀⠀So when the walls of reality twisted, when the bed beneath him ceased to exist, when gravity forgot its duty-- he was already reaching for a counterspell⠀ ⠀⠀Strange heard the whispers of walls-- the protective wards and sigils from the ceiling to the frame of his bed shift and glow. He stands up hurriedly, grabbing his robe, throwing it over and making a knot in the belt. He almost stumbles as his foot is caught in the blanket.

⠀ ⠀⠀No rest for the Sorcerer Supreme. The world turns with forced translocation. The great columns of castle Doom rose to the floor. Or ceiling.

⠀ ⠀⠀" Victor. " A long pause as he hangs upside down, the folds of his robe falling, face scrunched in a grimace. His hair is messy from sleep, his beard mussed. Strange knows he has not been summoned lightly. " What did you do? "