#muse; ender

[theanomaleum]

❝  half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. real gods require blood.  ❞ (( for ender! ))

"What does that make us? Are we half gods? Are we their children?"

[sheyri]

Snowfall

Most people don't understand why you moved up here. The Frostcliff Mountains are so cold, they say. Only desperate hunters, wild mages and pathless scum live there, they say. Why leave your comfortable life in the south behind, they ask.

But you don't need people around you all the time, and the cold never bothered you. The scenery is beautiful, it's quiet and calm.

Especially on an evening like this, when the snow is falling thick and heavy. Time just seems to stop. No noise is carried through the air, nothing moves. Only the snowflakes, drifting to the ground.

Your past worries are buried under a thick layer of white, like everything else. You exist in the moment, no past, no future. You look out over the land and see peace.

[darkcacaocookieandfriends]

"Why'd you have to summon Satan himself? Remember what happened last time."

"That's how...the dilf war started."

[fivepebsi]

everyone behold my fucked up mindscape

[bellamysgriffin]

so if im thinking what my ideal ending for amy/rory would have been i think we would have nixed the whole river is her daughter storyline for so so so so so so many reasons, but the reason she leaves is... yeah she gets pregnant and realizes she wants to raise a family with rory. OR! something more like she knows rory's still going for her but he's ready to settle down and live life one day at a time and she kind of does it for him. like another version of her choosing rory/a family with rory/family life in general over the crazy adventure life with the doctor which i think suits her arc

alternatively, i think god complex is a good ending if it had been the proper ending.

[quillheel]

if you were a deity, what would you be the god of? // weather & calamity

how he appears at first glance; ━ trickery & mischief. twisted and playful, you view humans as nothing more than mere toys or puppets. people provide you with offerings and keep their heads down so as to not upset you. you’re expressive and dramatic, though often lying and quite skilled at manipulation and illusion.

how he thinks he is in the nature of the hero; ━ nightmares & discord. your intensity is fearsome. when you feel hurt you don’t often seek out equal and fair revenge but rather drown them in hysteria and watch them burn. you’re temperamental and your emotions are on display for the world to see. you’re the last one any human would want to upset, because even though death would not directly befall them, doom and chaos would ensue, surrounding their life until their death.

what he truly is; ━ weather & calamity. tempestuous and fearsome, your moods are hard to read and you strike on a whim. not a soul can avoid you as disasters strike across the land. you have your own standards for what makes sense and what you value, and if anyone dares challenge you there will be nowhere for them to run.

tagged by ━ @balladetto thank you sm!!!!!!!!!!!! <3333

tagging ━ @wickedlittlepuppy : @lncanting / @manebloom / @tendercoded : @playedbetter (for harry!) : @theaterrush (for icarus!) : @12pirit : @rathalascendant / @shamisenson : @fantomevoleur : @vitrumbra (for either!) : @gloryseized (for akira!) : @deathwis (for dennis or maybe tyler on your other blog?) : @askganondorftobadragmire and YOU

check readmore for tags bc they're too gd long

[highfunctioningalcoholic]

Drops of pinot noir sprayed against the white walls of the cabin, the back of his hand reaching out to wipe his mouth. That was the tenth glass, the tenth varietal he tried and they all tasted like shit. What once was his water, his life source all tasted like vinegar to him no matter what the kind; chardonnay, pinot gris, zinfandel, etc. Brands and wines he loved now all tasted sour and undrinkable. “GOD DAMN IT!” He screamed out throwing the wine bottle at the wall where the light red drops were slowly falling. His vision blurred as hot tears began to form in aggravation and despair. It was silly to get this upset over something so trivial to others but to Ender– Wine was his everything. 

He could remember the first time he had a sip of a table red during a dinner party his mother hosted. The way the flavors danced across his tongue exploding as the tannins and acidity mingled together. He had only been living in Italy a few years when she snuck that glass of wine across the table with a knowing little wink. It had been their little secret, as if she knew how much it would change his life. How much he clung to that blend ever since she died, longing to taste her cooking and hear her laughter once again… Every time he had a viognier, Ender was taken back to his wedding day. The way his husband’s eyes shone with love, laughing as he let Ender drag him to the dance floor and spin him around. How he could taste the honeysuckle and mango notes on his tongue as they kissed under the stars while their family and friend’s watched, whispering promises of forever in between breaths. 

Even pinot noir reminded him of Greyson and the night they met and it was one reason that Ender often reached for it while he was at camp. Soft and smokey just like the nightclub where they first hooked up, having no time to catch the other’s name. Wine was his life, his driving force and everything in his life was tied to a viraital that could snap Ender back into a memory just by the taste and body of the wine. Or at least it used to before it all turned into vinegar on his tongue. Falling to his knees, Ender reached up to cup the wound on his neck as a few tears he was unable to keep inside fell down his cheeks. Mourning his first love. Head tilting up towards the sky he calls out in his second language, “Padre, dove sei adesso?” Father, where are you now? “Il tuo dono più prezioso per me, il nostro amore condiviso, è stato rubato.” Your most precious gift to me, our shared love, has been stolen. “Come posso essere tuo figlio– come posso dimostrarmi degno se non riesco a sopportare il sapore del vino?” How can I be your son– how can I prove myself worthy if I can't stand the taste of wine? There was silence in his prayer as if he was waiting for a sign, an answer before he breaks out into a broken sob and lets out a scream of pure gut wrenching agony, mourning for all those memories that were tied to wine that was now lost. His entire being shaped and molded around fermented alcoholic grapes and now…

If he couldn’t love wine, then who was he? 

[hopeful-hugz]

A masked gaze is cast upon the chimera before her, sword brandished at her side before the blade is raised to be pointed directly at him. If he wanted to play games, they certainly could. A battle was always well worth the adrenaline rush it gave her, and this little beast in particular seemed the type to give her a good one. No holding back, those white eyes narrow scrutinizingly, everyone is watching after all. (@d-ecrescendo)

Mix-Breed Snares were the worst: You get caught above the wrong timeline and you not only end up stuck there until the snare is removed or wears off, but you end up temp-dead and displaced as a result. The most he had managed before that had happened to him was a message to Hope with coordinates.

Just the soldier's luck that divine planes would pick up on a Mix-Breed Aetherling treading about the world and and decide not to believe a word he'd say. Like anywhere else, his kind were scum of the earth; at the very least he got a chance to fight for his existence. Teal should be grateful.

"I suppose this means I can assume you lot's policy on Mix-Breed Aether and Nagete is about the same as ever other divine realm." A blank expression is all that sits on the starry-bodied soul's face, not looking his opponent in the eye. "I shouldn't be surprised, at this point."

The angel lifts her sword and he lets his shield spawn on his arm, but doesn't make a move other than that. He wasn't the one attacking here. He really had no reason to. "Go on then, give me a reason to fight back. Because I'm certainly not giving any of you a reason to cull me because 'he struck first'."

[hyperfixatinglove]

Since the original story is in Italian & the game is originally in Korean I'm gonna say that P is multilingual handsome puppet

[katyapetrovs]

ender & katya: musing. the foreshadow.

[planetsank]

ender tags.

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / ic. ) 

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / musings. ) 

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / aesthetic. ) 

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / study. ) 

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / ships. ) 

۰ ⸼ ۫ ˖ ་     🪐    ( ender / other. ) 

[malusrecord]

[riftrive]

Also love how we have like

Chaos: A creature who is a chunk of the void and a world ender that doesn't remember their purpose after their "death" and body split into two different creatures who haven't met each other (yet)

Renzo: Blackhole who acts as an influencer of destruction for fun and to feed on the energy caused by these actions

Cube assassin: device to help bring the destruction of realities via dispatching those in the way and information gathering

But then you have

Blacklight: immortal human criminal

Willow: poltergeist who causes problems for fun :)

Clubs: also criminal heist-er whose aim is a payday

[penultimate-step]

Lately, I've been thinking about the effect of real-world time on perception of media. Or, wait, let me start from the beginning.

When I was 11, I read the book Ender's Game for some school assignment or another. I don't remember ever considering Ender a relatable character, but certainly my understanding of the events was shaped by being of an age to see the protagonist not so much as a young child but as someone of my peer group, someone who could have been slotted amongst my classmates without anybody batting an eye.

Over a decade later, I read the sequel, Speaker for the Dead; it takes place many years later, when Ender is in his thirties, and my feelings about the in-universe time skip were undeniably shaped by the real life time gap between my reading of the novels. Reading the first book back then and then the second book now created a feeling where it's almost like, I'm browsing the facebook page of someone I had known in middle school but lost contact with, checking up on how they're doing today. The real-time factor caused me to perceive it less like a timeskip, and more like a reunion - the feelings were closer to "oh wow, that's my boy! I haven't seen him in years! Wonder what he's up to?" Which in turn gave me a better position to appreciate the parts of the narrative about him struggling to find a place in his adulthood than I would have been had I perceived it more strictly as a quick skip from 11 to 20 to 36.

While musing about this, I considered a VN I played a few years back, which took place over three in-game days - except at the end of one in-game day, the game would lock you out from progressing for 24 hours real time. So that as the in-game investigator protagonist was ruminating on the information that had been discovered that day, the player would be forced to do the same. In this example, by forcing the player to experience the same timeframe as the in-game characters, the sense of it being an in-depth and extensive investigation increases, even though without the forced pauses the game would be short enough to blow through in a handful of hours real-time.

Which brings to mind how time effects things in long-running serial works. It's well known that an audience which watches an episode or reads a chapter week by week has a very different experience than one binging through whole seasons or volumes at a time, but I wonder if the real time relative to the in-universe time makes that effect stand out more? Fight scenes, for instance, have been known to take up several chapters in certain manga or webnovels. What does it do to the reader's perception, if from their point a view a fight takes a whole month, while for the characters they read about it's only been a couple hours? Readers might feel that the situation is more stressful, since the pressure of the fight has been ongoing for a long time for them, while in-universe it was a rough afternoon but no more than that. Contrastingly, when a series skips ahead or otherwise has long periods of time for characters that feel short for readers, it can feel like no time has passed and everything is still the same, unless the author really stresses the differences in world-state that occurred offscreen. Because the reader hasn't changed at all.

No conclusion here exactly, I just think it's interesting how often an audience's response to a work, the emotions felt, are more closely tied to their real-life timescale, something almost completely out of the author's control, as opposed to in-universe time, which can be intentionally shifted or played with for the sake of the narrative.

[quillheel]

☕ (My Harry & your Kim)

Send me “ ☕ “ for my muse to drink tea uniquely flavored after your muse, and I’ll tell you what my muse tastes! // accepting!

When the thermos is passed, Kim is dubiously hesitant to sip its contents. Glances spared into the dark metal container where a thousand tiny lights reflect back up at him off the angles of glitter that seem to consume the liquid, bouncing off the sharp lines of his glasses, highlighting the ridges of his face; cheekbone meeting upper-eye meeting the crease of his nose between. He questions, and the answer he receives is likely as inane but incredulously trustworthy ━ which is to say, only Kim would trust it ━ and he is prodded to drink. A sigh, a murmuring of If you're trying to poison me, at least have an alibi… before it's raised like a chalice to the lips and, tentatively, he drinks.

He swears the glitter clogs his through the moment he does, and he chokes. ( although, the choking may not all be from the glitter. ) Like congealed blood, glitter clinging, he can feel the pieces cut micro-ribbons of flesh down his esophagus as it slides down in a wet mass, leaving behind it a terrible feeling of glitter lining the space between his lungs down, down, down. The taste is indescribable ━ sharp and salty and sweet and bitter and tangy all at once, apricots and rotten fruit and alcohol, the taste of sweat and iron and cinnamon, unpleasantly cold at first which becomes kinder as it soothes the roughness of the throat's wounds before the heat hits the way habanero in coffee does. like dark chocolate, like stale cake frosting, like pleasantly unpleasant soreness, sweet-sour wine, cloying cheap children's medicine, nausea-inducing cigarette smoke.

Indescribable the way cubic measurements of atmosphere containing updraft are indescribable, not indescribable the way metrics too large and too small become nothing. indescribable like space, like music, like sea.

Like God, he thinks, like Innocence. he corrects; Like God. Like Pale. Innocence is a dead language they've been trying to read, and neither of them, neither of them, were born enough to be that again. But maybe they were, once. Like Pale. Like dreaming. Like oblivion. ( Apricots still linger in it like fruit floating on saltwater, fermenting on waves, cracked wide as geodes and spilling guts, spilling light. Beneath it is an oil spill 300 kilometers long from a model of motor carriage that has not been made since the day he was born, mingling, separate, beneath, above. Like tainting it, like swallowing it whole, like becoming more by virtue of what he gives, by no virtue at all. ) Like God, he thinks, like Innocence.

Kitsuragi's composure returns to him, and with the embarrassment of a freshman being handed a drink he couldn't handle, he screws the thermos shut again, and passes it back with the more guttural-than-usual sound of clearing his throat. He pulls off a glove and swipes the flesh of a hand over his mouth, bottom lip coated in the shine of something like lip-gloss beneath the chunky square glitter clinging to it. Stubbornly, pieces remain regardless of how hard he scrubs it away, caught in the cracks between lips, before he sighs, slips a glove back on, and resolves to chew on the skin for the rest of the day, if only to hide it, until he can attempt to better extract it somewhat mournfully with the bristles of a toothbrush. A small part of him asks him to let it stay, and the rest of him refuses. A moments consideration, but little else ━ at least for now, anyway, at least for now.

As the flavor lingers on his tongue like an unwelcome guest, progressively, it shifts. never does it lose the sharpened edges, the quality of chaos, the almost fermented kind of age & simultaneous unblended freshness to it, all mixed together and separate all at once, but over time it mellows, perhaps, or maybe Kim just gets used to it. the acidic highs mesh better with the taste of artificial fruit and the heat lends itself as he considers it to the taste of cheap coffee and dark chocolate. grape sugar with the salt and bitter not better but a different taste than they would be alone, iron manageable with the undertone of something other than the blood ━ maybe it becomes more palatable the longer its in his mouth, accustomed like an acquired taste king of all acquired tastes, or maybe it just burns itself out the longer it's left to mix with something other than itself. Saliva like a neutralizer to however many medications he can feel, chalky, on the underside of his tongue.

The heat subsides and the bitterness erodes, slowly and fast all at once, and a smoother kind of flavor emerges from beneath all of it. soft lime and distant haze of honey and a kind of watered down cocktail, no longer sharp with alcohol, but cold anyway. like something hidden, like something suffocated, like something that couldn't afford to come out unless it knew, really knew, it wasn't going to be rejected. the craze of the rest does not die, but the aftertaste offers a different kind of kindness, like hangover medication after a bad night. charcoal pill, cool water, dimmed lights. ( acts of love, acts of not wanting to see someone dear in pain, acts of staying with them; staying with them; regardless of how wretched they were the night before. people cant get that sad, she said to you once, or you thought she did, but people will love you enough to kneel at your bedside and hold your sweaty hand and close the blinds so the world can't see you for just a little while more. people will love you and be loved and try to save you, and maybe you cannot be saved, no one can, there is no messiah waiting at the foot of your bed to cure you, the world just doesn't work like that, and you can't keep waiting for it, but people will love you enough to wash the stains out from your favorite shirt so you can keep it a little longer.

people who bring cold cloths when you are sick and sweet coffee when you need something to keep you warm, people who can't save you but can in the same strokes; where it's not saving you, it's giving you the means to save yourself. people who work you through it as you lift the stones you're building castles out of, hoping, praying that you don't smash them down again. people who stand proud for you at the checkmarks in the road, and tell you that you're doing good, and wait for you when you can't keep running, or even when you turn back and decide it's easier to give up than to sink in deeper. people you've treated bad before, and cannot stay forever, and cannot save you, but they love you enough to stay a little longer. they love you enough to hold you when you need it, and hold you down when you need that too, and make the hard calls you'll hate them for. they love you hard enough that it turns into hate when it's fed the wrong things, giving dogs chocolate, but they love you, love you, love you. )

it soothes pain of his throat, and Kim does not concede to the fact he finds himself wanting another sip, another shot of chaos and that sweeter smoother aftertaste, knowing what he's putting in his body and deciding to come back anyway, wondering, but he admits; quietly to himself as he holds the pieces of glitter in his hands like the shed skin of a disco ball in his little bathroom in the Whirling that night; that maybe the pain is worth the reward. that maybe he's crazy, but maybe they both need a little sanity, a little less, a little something else.

( kneeling at your bedside when you are too afraid to sleep, he traces the scars nickering your hands, and cleans his glasses, and slowly; slowly; the apricots stop mattering. as you notice a little more how the oil spill gleams on the crest of waves, as the oil spill becomes something different. )

-100 HP. +660 HP.

[quillheel]

( why is it always when he's out of the room. )