#once again felt like the scribe of god
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all6pistols · 2 months ago
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goin for the funniest guy ever award (´ε` )♡
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seraphiism · 2 years ago
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❀ ゚. ༄ ┊ 𝐄𝐆𝐎 , 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 , 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐑-𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐍-𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 ( 𝐩𝐭. 𝐢 ) ;
( it seems to me that the dead only return for love or for revenge WHO DID YOU COME BACK FOR? )
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characters : scaramouche / alhaitham / xiao fandom : genshin impact quote cr : lexie liu ; helen oyeyemi a/n : reincarnation!au
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↬ scaramouche ࿐ ࿔
◸✦◿ ; ( you ask yourself every question you can think of : what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger )
& A PUPPET WILL BE FREED FROM THE CHAINS OF DAMNATION, REBORN INTO A LIFE HE HAS YET TO GRIEVE FOR. it will be his undoing & uprising one in the same ; he will recognize you in a place that you once knew as the beginning of a happiness shared between two souls.
you stand before each other, reminiscent in the bittersweet nostalgia that lingers on your tongue, fills your mouth with the taste of iron.
you will know this feeling as love found and reunited. he will know this feeling as the fourth betrayal.
( how much must he endure, this trial of brutalities? it feels like something is torn from his chest, ripped away from his soul, and crushed beneath the weight of it all. )
because it is a blessing and curse, this fateful meeting, and a wanderer feels his heart pound with rage and relief. what a foreign sensation this is, the racing of wavering altruism in his chest. he has found you again, desires to seek refuge in your touch, just as he always has in all your previous lives together.
but to find you again means he will lose you again, and this cycle will repeat until your lives are no more and the gods have granted you forgiveness to rest in the depths of the earth, bodies side by side as you fall in eternal slumber.
this will hurt. it always does.
he steels himself, holds his breath as you take a step towards him : cautious, gentle, almost apologetic.
this will hurt. it always does. but the pain will be worth it. it always is.
you hold your hand out to him, pray he does not notice the way it shakes in both joy and fear of what is to come in the beginning and end of this cycle. how delicately the tears fall from your face, pierce his heart in ways he cannot explain. your lips part, fragments of the past nearly relived as his former name dances on the tip of your tongue. but you stop yourself , feel a gentle smile bloom on your lips.
"come, tell me what name you have chosen for yourself in this life."
↬ alhaitham ࿐ ࿔
◸✦◿ ; ( i forgot softness because it did not serve me )
HE WILL ONLY KNOW LOVE AS A DISTANT BEING, THE SCRIBE WHO ONLY KNOWS OF LOGIC AND RATIONALITY. in a world of survival, alhaitham knows that to bear the softness of oneself is a death wish. to harden oneself, create a shell of what is meant to be protected is the only means of living. it is foolish to do otherwise, and so he will deem those who wear their heart on their sleeve as cowardly.
so what is it that makes you different? in a time where he does not remember the past & previous selves, there is something that draws him to you. he does not catch the way you look at him, a fondness in your eyes and all the right words lodged in your throat.
because you remember him, you do, but he does not remember you, and maybe it's better that way. because you are far too different, humanity embracing all feelings and instinct, while his humanity only knows of logic and nothing of what it means to succumb to the heart. your love was a strange thing -- the way you broke down those walls, waited so patiently until he allowed himself to understand what he felt for you.
how you miss those days, yearn for the sensation of his hands on you. how gentle he was, words and expression softening in your presence. you keep your silence in this world, know what is meant to happen will happen, even if days and months have passed and passed.
but alhaitham has always been intuitive, knows that there is something more to this friendship you share. there is something deeper, something that goes beyond lifelines and lifetimes. there is something about you that is unforgettable, his dreams filled with hazy scenes that almost feel too real.
"i dreamt of you." he tells you one day, gauges your reaction carefully, notes how you tense up, instinctively tear your gaze away from his.
you are nervous and you do not know why. you almost excuse yourself, realize perhaps you are not ready to remember what love is like once more, but he stands before you, purposely blocks your path.
"we have met before. who were you to me?"
your soul freezes, feels a trepidation at the possible rediscovery of memories. you do not know if fate is cruel or kind in this moment. you swallow hard, watch as he observes the devastation and longing in your eyes. that look in itself is enough, he decides, but he awaits your answer, knows that it will be the beginning of something you both have been waiting for all along.
"i was someone you once loved, alhaitham."
↬ xiao ࿐ ࿔
◸✦◿ ; ( i wept because i have lost my pain and i am not yet accustomed to its absence )
OH, BUT A YAKSHA DOES NOT KNOW A WORLD WITHOUT CRUELTY, THIS PEACE SO FOREIGN AND DISTRAUGHT. xiao has carried his pain and sins throughout many lives, relived them over and over again until this cycle. it is too strange, the serenity in this life with you, and he cannot relax entirely. because it is meant to happen, isn't it? he has hurt too many, stained his hands with blood as they bathed in sanguine in uncontrollable massacre.
the punishment must be coming-- is what he thinks, day by day, year by year, yet it never comes. but it must be, it must be, because xiao does not know what to do with mercy, and he does not know if he is worthy of living such a tranquil life. it makes him feel guilty, makes him feel ungrateful, because he loves you so, loves spending these moments with you, but carrying the weight of the world has taken its toll on him and he does not know anything else but that.
you wake to a silence, your slumber disrupted by a nothingness except for a weary heaviness. you blink, take in the darkness, listen carefully, but there is nothing there. you close your eyes, hear a subtle shift from the warm body beside you, hold your breath, listen, listen : and you hear it.
"love?"
he does not answer immediately, wipes the tears and gathers composure before he answers you with a hum of acknowledgement. you sit up, concern plastered all over your features as your hands cup his face tenderly, feel the tears that trail down his face reach your fingers. seldom is it that you see him break, his facade always so carefully crafted and held together.
you do not speak, hope your presence can be more than enough in this moment of vulnerability. the clock ticks, the minutes pass, and the tears dry. you have spoken of this before -- this peace that neither of you can quite accept, the lack of fighting and struggle in these golden days. it dwells, visits him far too often, and he cannot escape it.
"xiao," your fingers trail down his cheek, leave a quiet strength in their wake, "you can be happy."
he trembles beneath your touch, finds haven in your arms, buries his face in the crook of your neck. how the tears still fall, their warmth felt upon your skin.
"it's alright, xiao." you hold him close, know that his grief is yours as well. "you have always deserved to be happy, whether in this life or another."
so you'll hold him until he falls asleep, hope that he will one day, eventually learn that this is the ending he has always meant to have.
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quote cr : ↬ scaramouche : jennifer salaiz ↬ alhaitham : catherynne m. valente ↬ xiao : anaïs nin
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cuddlytogas · 2 months ago
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yesterday some friends and i went to the special ancient egyptian pharoahs exhibit at the ngv, and i got so utterly entranced by a linen funeral shroud, i think i saw god and/or went completely insane for about fifteen minutes
the fibres were so fine. and not just fine, they were uniform. it was from the roman period, so only (only!) 2,000 years old, but the fibres were still so fine and uniform
i'm not good at identifying weft and warp on a piece of fabric - i think i got it wrong while i was looking at it - and obviously it's very hard to know what's inherent to the fabric and what's the product of degradation over time or mishandling, but there was this long, thin tear right down the middle, and i thought it was maybe a seam that had come apart, but the painting alignment didn't quite fit that, and there were a few threads crossing through it that i could see, so i wonder if maybe one or two weft threads had degraded or torn or been pulled loose. but the tear was so straight and exact, and held together at one end by the other fibres, it was so incredible to see
and there were a couple of places where i thought there were slightly chunkier threads - it happens all the time in modern linens - but when i looked closer, i could see that actually it was two threads in the same part of the weave (warp threads, i think?)
and again, okay, could be a product of the degradation, or damage - but also... it could so easily have been a slight fault in the manufacturing, and i don't know the first thing about ancient egyptian weaving techniques, or what kind of loom they did or didn't use, or any of that - but still, it was so easy to imagine these two warp threads being set slightly too close together on a loom, and being caught together by the weft, and leaving this slightest bulge, this perfect imperfection in the cloth
it was beautifully, intricately, colourfully painted, too, yes - but underneath that, i can only imagine that lovely dun, beige colour was unbleached and undyed; and yet again, yes, of course it would've darkened with age and use - it was a funeral shroud, there was a corpse under it once - but to look at this linen and see the colour of the flax two thousand years ago, it's just - absolutely mind-boggling
the whole exhibit was deliberately structured around highlighting the craftsmanship behind the artefacts, as well as the power, social structures, and cultural significance they represented, which was fairly well done. I watched that video after seeing the exhibition, and in hindsight, yeah, I did notice that many of the labels highlighted the detail and excellence of the items, and they had things like jewellery moulds and scribe's tools, as well as the big impressive statues and murals. at least a couple of the room introduction wall texts made sure to mention craftspeople; and there were a few places dedicated to both the bureaucratic structures, and working people and villages, that created and kept up the temples and palaces.
but there was also definitely a slight lack of information, i felt, in regard to the crafts, especially if that was their goal. i might also just be underestimating the general public, but there were a few times where we were wondering what something in an image was, but found nothing in the label; and it would've been cool if they, perhaps, had images or recreations of craftspeople in the period showing how the items would have been made.
like, obviously i'm biased towards the fabric, because that's my craft - and to be clear, the shroud was part of the room on jewellery and adornment, with the label pointing out the jewellery worn by the painted figure, rather than the craft of the item itself. but it would've been cool to have, in this example, either a contemporary image or a recreated one of what tools would have been used for the spinning and weaving of this cloth, and by what groups.
there were many parts of the exhibit where you could see on the glass where people had pressed their hands or noses or foreheads to try and get close, to see the intricate work on tiny rings or murals or votive items, the engraving and carving and painting done with such incredible skill. and again, they had those scribe's tools, and jewellery moulds, a few weapons, and (iirc) both ritual and functional builder's tools. which i DID VERY MUCH appreciate!
but fibre arts are already often devalued in our culture, and with industrialisation, we've really lost sight of the work and skill that, for thousands of years, went into making fabric. i would've loved to have seen them highlight not just the image of jewellery on this shroud, but the shroud itself.
because, yeah: this linen was beautiful. and to see this cloth, with these fibres that are finer and more uniform than many modern fabrics... like, obviously it's very good linen - the label only said it was for a woman called Isetweret, not what her status was, but i think it's a safe bet she wasn't the proletariat - but still.
just. i really fucking love history, oh my god
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daemon-in-my-head · 8 months ago
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No but Gortash is actually an insane madman. That man saw a massive dragonborn with 2-4 rows of a lot of razor-sharp teeth and figured "I'm gonna stick my dick in that."
BUT THAT ISNT EVEN WHERE IT ENDS. There's a plethora of gods in the death domain, each and everyone serving and symbolising another aspect of death. Kelemvor, Lord of the dead and their judge; Jergal, Scribe of the dead; Anubis, Guardian of the dead; Myrkul, Lord of the (un)dead. AND WHO THE FUCK DOES GORTASH DECIDE TO SMASH? Yeah, the gore baby of the only death god that is the literal personification of death, as in dying, as in the Lord of Murders test-tube baby. Out of all the death god's, only one motherfucker claimed the process of dying itself for him. And Gortash decided he wanted to be that guy's son in law.
And once again, there's more. Not only does he not value his life or that of his dick, that man is incredible fucking salty and malicious compliance if it came to life.
Gortash likes the iron throne. Spend years there doing mad scientist shit and repurposed it into a prison nowadays. But if you so much as come close to it, even if you couldn't care less about the Gondians and just want to check his diary collection, or, if you're durge, check out what happened to your families heirloom, that guy fucking blows it up. There's like a plethora of other things he could've done but no, he just straight up obliterates it. AND THEN HE HAS THE DAMN AUDACITY TO DECLARE THE ALLIANCE NULL CUZ HE FELT SALTY. Brother in Bhaal I didn't even touch your little workers, I just wanted to read your dirty little secrets. Keeping the Gondians alive is too painful.
As for malicious compliance, not only is that guy fucking quiet quitting, doing the very bare minimum he's required to do while mourning his late wife's passing, he's also doing what he's told but not the way he should be. He's following Bane, he's supposed to be a tyrant, feared by his subjects. Yet that MF is being revered and celebrated as hero. Yes sure he's ruling the city but in the wrong fucking way. Yet Bane can't say shit, cuz Gortash is still wonderfully vile and feared by the Banites, just not anybody else.
What I'm getting at? Gortash is a maniac. I want to dissect his brain and figure out how exactly he manages to work this way and got as old as he is. Also he's hot, I would.
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oh-no-its-dragons · 3 months ago
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ao3 is down so I'm posting omegaverse here
Violet stumbled down from the parapet, the anger she'd felt at Jack dissipating almost immediately. Being an alpha was going to get her killed at this rate, and not just because she'd been sent to the Rider's Quadrant. She'd had six months to get this anger under control and she was still threatening to stab people in the balls.
Not that Jack fucking Barlowe hadn't deserved it.
"Come here," someone said, putting a hand on Violet's shoulder, and at least she didn't growl at Rhiannon when she spun on the woman.
"You okay?" Rhiannon asked.
"No. Yes." Violet corrected herself.
Before she could say anything else, she was being escorted off to the side of the courtyard and she realized she recognized the scent. Dain was there. Gods, she'd been looking forward to seeing him again but this was not what she'd pictured. She watched him and Rhiannon snap at each other before Dain pulled rank to get her to submit.
Squad leader, huh? she said to herself. Good for him.
She let Dain get her up to his room and wrap her knee, and the support- both literal and figurative- helped her get her balance back.
"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
Oh, right. She'd had this conversation five hundred times right after she presented, but she hadn't had to do it in months. First year cadets weren't allowed letters or contact, though, so there'd been no way for her to warn Dain about any of it.
"I presented, just before the Solstice. I'm an alpha, so the scribe quadrant was out of the question, and my mom insisted."
"Nobody presents that late, Vi, are you sure?"
She blinked slowly, trying to tamp down the anger that was trying to fight to the surface again. "Am I sure? Don't be ridiculous, how could I not be? You were sure, weren't you?"
Dain hesitated before he answered, but Violet was too pissed to think much of it. It didn't matter that he didn't answer the question. He was already walking her back to the courtyard and then he disappeared into the chaos of Conscription Day.
The hardest part was not finding Rhiannon again, nor was it watching other cadets run and get set ablaze for their trouble. It was the fact that she could. not. stop. looking at Xaden Riorson. Every time she met his eyes- because of course he was looking at her too- she felt the feral claws in the back of her head. Something in her wanted to maul the fuck out of that man.
Rhiannon elbowed her in the side gently. "Violet? You're growling," she whispered.
Why had anyone ever thought throwing several hundred alphas together in an enclosed space was a good idea? Well, it was only really an enclosed space for the first few months, because once you bonded you got to fly. Violet wasn't thinking that far ahead, though. She couldn't. She had to get through three months of proving herself, one day after another, before it was a concern.
"We can sneak you into the Scribe Quadrant," Dain offered for the first time after Imogen nearly tore her arm off at assessments.
"No, there's no way they'd take me. And I can't do it, I can't go in there now." She remembered patience, distantly, missed
"I'll protect you." Again.
"I'll sneak you out." And again.
"Let me protect you." And again.
It was a refrain that was driving Violet out of her goddamn mind, and by September it was painfully clear to her that Dain did not believe she was an alpha. Did he think she was lying? Did he think her mother had somehow brainwashed her into believing she had presented?
Did he think she was this fucking angry all the time because it was fun? If anything, her temper was shorter than his, he ought to know how much effort it took to maintain that much composure.
She hated to think about it, but it seemed like a lot of the alphas in the Riders Quadrant were either much better at controlling their anger or just didn't get the alpha stereotypes in their genetic lottery. It seemed cosmically unfair that she was the least-likely alpha she'd ever met and also one with the hardest time controlling herself.
When she'd mentioned it to her squadmates, Rhiannon had a theory.
"Maybe it's because you were late presenting. I'd been dealing with it for four or five years before I got here, and you still haven't had a full year."
That made sense. Violet was pretty sure she'd heard something similar from a healer not long after her mother found out about her presentation. 
"No, it's… well, maybe it's that too," Sawyer hedged when Violet and Rhiannon both glared at him, "but there's something else. I didn't figure it out until after I washed out last year. But not everybody here is an alpha."
"That's not possible," Violet stared at him, "is it?"
"Nobody admits it, not really, but once you look for it you can't unsee it."
"Now that you said it, I can see it," Ridoc grinned. "Picture Riorson and put Aetos next to him. One of those men looks like an alpha, and it's not our squad leader."
Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "Come off it, if it was that easy to tell, you wouldn't be here. You sure as shit don't look like an alpha."
"It's not supposed to be obvious since we're all on suppressants anyway." Violet frowned when she thought about it. The idea of other people just… ignoring their biology when she was stuck here because of it made her twitch. 
Sawyer was right, though. Now that someone had said it, she couldn't stop thinking about it when she looked at the people outside her squad.
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melon-colli · 5 months ago
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Yapping about Inscryption
Just 'finished' (that's in quotes cause I'm not convinced that the games not DONE done) Inscryption and overall I really enjoyed it! I stopped live blogging after a certain point so heres a post to get those out.
!Spoilers for the whole game under the cut!
>I wasn't too sure about the art style change in Act 2 at first, and the fact that I was dog water at the new card mechanics didn't help, but it really grew on me and so did the new gameplay!
>The other scrybes were really interesting, there wasn't a single one I found boring. If I had to rank them I'd go Leshy<Grimora/P03<Magnificus. Grim and P03 only occupy the same space because I love them both equally.
LUKE CARDER INTERLUDE
>He's so quirky! Love him! Seriously though he was an endearing main character, truly creepypasta protag material. Seeing him get shot in the end really caught me off guard, and honestly shook me a little. Idk but why I didn't expect him to die, especially like that. Expected like a computer monster birthed from the old disk to get him, not for the GameFuna rep to cap him in the face. Had my chest tight for a second. Anyways rip bro, raising my mantis god to the sky.
>As for Act 3, I liked it! P03 is such a delightful dickhead, who I just know would be so annoying about Pokemon natures. Botopia was less immersive than Leshy's campaign, and I like what that says about P03's character, who cares way more about gameplay. This chapter's talking cards have my heart. Lonely Wizard specifically, but Angler was nice for the 5 minutes I knew him. (I traded him for another card specifically because he said 'choose me'. Sorry man I thought you had a plan)
>Obligatory Goobert Mention. Great guy, glad his pain was lessened by the tubes. Idk why you still want to go back to Magnificus, but I wont tell you what to do.
>The Uber bot bosses were still pretty interesting for a bot who supposedly doesn't care much abt crafting characters. I made my own special hell for the Make-your-own boss. Where for every dead card, another is drawn. P03 tried to stop me multiple times, but I was determined. For phase two I just chose leap bots for every dead card. Silly boss. Golly was also a sweetheart, loved the mole. As for the scribe Uberbot, the file deletion threat didn't get me nearly as bad since I came off of Kinitopet and knew the game couldn't actually do something like that and be on steam, but it still had me a little nervous lol (cause like what if it did?).
I got weirdly giddy at the prospect of finding the pelt man again. Idk why because I despised him in Act 1, Got a few pelts but never actually found him. Got scammed at the mart cause I thought buying the pelt would make him show up lol.
>Falling into the factory and seeing the 3 scribes just standing there scared me a little, thought they were gonna jump me.
>After that part, going back to P03 knowing what's going to happen, I felt a bit bad. At first. Sure P03's a smug jerk, but it just wanted to be free right? The walk back when it's reminiscing about the game amped this feeling up, but I love that the game yanked the rug from under me and went 'yeah no this puter just sucks' once it starts gloating. Lol. lmao. Also I didn't expect Leshy to just rip its head off wtf bro.
>Saying goodbye to everyone at the end was sad. Having one last game with the Scrybes was so bittersweet. Grimora's game was interesting, and its a crime we didn't have time for a boss battle. Leshy. Leshy I love you so much. I like that Magnificus wasn't going gentle into that good night at first, but his insistence to keep going lost him the chance to shake our hand. I was never super into his play style, but his game was really cool looking, even if im not super into that stuff. (I know the arm thing had something to do with Yugi-oh but I know nothing abt it sorry).
>The lead up to unzipping the Old Code was done so well. Grimora may have nuked the game to get rid of it, but Luke's curiosity still doomed him in the end. The totem lady's last words before we found it were quite unsettling. I don't know what was on that zip, but whatever it was clearly messed Luke up.
>I loved the ending of the game. Already talked about it in the Luke section, but it was so abrupt and final. Idk what I expected but I knew it was over when Luke opened the door for the Funa rep. Rip.
Overall, 10/10 game. There's still something called Kaycees mod for me to do, but all in all I really enjoyed it!
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illarian-rambling · 7 months ago
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Thanks for the tag @cowboybrunch!
5 Lines Tag
My lines:
a line with suspense a funny line a line with color a loud line a line you’re proud of
I'll pull from End Times :)
A line with suspense
Her mangled Janazi characters bled as the wine seeped through the napkin, twisting their meaning even further. Twenari had taught Izjik and Sepo—or tried to teach, in her case—how to write in Janazi back on Nace. Sepo, of course, had picked up the language frighteningly fast and with a studious intensity that had left him with the handwriting of a scribe. Izjik, on the other hand, had never written anything before. Halawema’ishi didn’t have a written counterpart like Llanaodan, so she wasn’t super familiar with the concept to begin with.
Unfortunately, End didn’t have the patience to wait on her. All Izjik managed to scribble down was ‘Find Devaris. Help—’ before her captor took control and she was shunted once again to the back of her mind.
A funny line
“Look for dry wood in a variety of sizes,” Sepo acquiesced with a sigh.
Djek smothered a giggle. “And I’ll bet you’re an expert at looking for dry wood in a variety of sizes, huh?”
A twig flew out of the darkness and impacted his forehead. “You’re a child.”
“Avoid any Nabafyrian cedar,” Twenari added. Either the innuendo had sailed over the girl’s head or she just didn’t care. Honestly, it was a toss-up. “It can explode when exposed to intense heat.”
“That’s…. Sure, whatever. Exploding trees.” Djek cracked his knuckles with a sigh and began to make his way into the underbrush. “Run fast if you hear me scream.”
“The head start will be appreciated.”
“Run towards me, dumbass!”
A line with color
Flicking into her arcane awareness, Twenari could see a great hurricane of whirling threads—black and yellow and purple like a fresh bruise. The mass of it covered the sky, turning the rays of the moon already dimmed by her focus on the magical into little more than candlelight. It crouched over Sepo and his miraculous music like a bloated giant. Almost, Twenari could see the bare impression of a face pressed into the rotting strings leering down at him.
From the fiddle flowed magic as well. Twenari had seen divine magic before, both in the All-Temple and making up Izjik’s torn cloak. It had a finer weave to it, a different texture under her discerning eye. The magic Sepo played wasn’t quite that. It shared elements—the burning blue threads flowed like water or honey, as smooth as silk—but held the tell-tale snarls of mortal magic.
Mortal magic was imperfect. Sometimes, that was where discoveries were found, or what transformed a stale hymn into a fiery concerto.
A loud line
Before her was a far more damning sight. End didn’t wear its carapace of night. It didn’t need to, facing only mortal threats on a floating piece of flimsy wood. Twenari felt the terror of teleportation replaced instantly by sickened rage. She’d imagined it would be hard to see past Izjik to the demon wearing her skin, hard to separate the flesh from the thing within, but her friend never would’ve smiled with such sadism. Her friend would never have worn Djek’s blood on her knuckles like a trophy.
The Amaranthi’s eyes were wild with terror as he looked back at the newly arrived reinforcements from where he struggled to stand up from slick ground. Fading whips of shadow pulled uselessly as End’s arms and legs.
“Where the fuck have you been?” was his screamed greeting.
A line you're proud of
Breathing hard, she sat on the edge of the slowly sinking ship, letting the southern sea wash the ichor from her sandals. The stars stared down at her with naked hatred and Izjik knew it would be this way every night for the rest of her life. Despised by the heavens, feared by the gods.
“I hate you,” she whispered, but the words were hollow. A desperate grab for the last embers of fury to keep her warm. Terror seeped into her veins like icy poison. Izjik looked down at her shaking hands—did blood even flow within them? Or just black ichor?
It was done. She was free. So, why didn’t she feel that way?
I'll tag @apolline-lucy @melpomene-grey @nebula--nix @theprissythumbelina and anyone else who wants to play :)
Your lines are:
A whispered line
A line with sass
A pretty line
A blue line
A brutal line
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thefallofophanim · 4 months ago
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INCIDENT
The church's mournful bells are distant, as if encased in glass. My mind is deaf, closed, as my condescending gaze judges the dozens of figures kneeling around the sacred coffin. Aliosha's funeral is glorious and empty, a perfect reflection of his life. He is and will never be anything more than a pretty face, slowly forgotten, degraded by the cruelty of human indifference. Once I die, I hope I won't have to suffer such humiliation, I think to myself, swallowing back the bile irritating my throat; sick in body, sick in mind.
"They stole his life." A whisper. Beside me, Anouk is pale, her lovely brown skin livid and her jet eyes glistening with hatred. Ever since her birth- a mistake of gods and men- ever since the beginning of her truncated and painful existence, it's as if Anouk had never not felt hatred, anger, in the depths of her being. I could see her shadow, long and cast on the tiled floor, trembling and taking shape; that of an animal figure - a canine, perhaps - with vengeful, sharp fangs, ready to devour everything around her. I blink, and the shadow is again that of a young woman. Next to each other, we wait in silence for this tortuous ceremony to end.
Shortly afterwards, Anouk became obsessed with escaping from this nightmarish place. For the first time, in front of the remains of a loved one, she saw beyond the bars of her gilded cage.
I look up from the piece of stained glass, and the memory washes over me. The Angel's accusing gaze falls on me, and I don't lower my head.
"Is this where your revenge began?" asks Aliosha in his heavenly voice. I don't answer-not out of fear, but out of rebellion. "What can a simple Angel do in the face of human resolve?"
Do you remember your first meeting with him?" asks Anouk innocently, almost making me miss my letter - a magnificent J, decorated in gold, opening a new page of sacred text. She knows I need silence to concentrate, but doesn't seem to care today. I click my tongue, letting my annoyance show, and Semione chuckles at their own desk, on the other side of the room. "Don't be like that, Lysander. You're already a very dedicated pupil- seriously, you've been working too much lately. Dozens of new pages each day. At this rate, you'll be the most hard-working scribe the Silk has ever known. And as proud as that can make me, I am sure you can also afford to spend some time chatting with your friend that came to see you", they mock me. Semione has been looking so unusually melancholic ever since I heard their encounter with Confessor, and I find myself unable to talk back, now that they seem to be sincerely smiling. I sigh deeply, and turn to Anouk.
"Fine. Is 'him' referring to Aliosha?"
"Are you being stupid on purpose?" she retorts. Even Whiskers, curled up in her left hand (these two definitely get along well) seems to be giving me a disapproving look.
"I am not!" I exclaim quickly, only mildly offended. "It was about two years ago, in the Monastery Library."
"Didn't he try to steal some of the texts?"
"More or less. Let's say that forbidden borrowing would be a more fitting term. All he wanted was to know more about pre-Metamorphosis History." My fingers curl around soft paper.
"Aliosha was a very curious person, as insufferable as he could be" sniffed Anouk. "At least, he wasn't pretending to detain all of humanity's knowledge in his hand, for once."
"Ha-ha. Right." The paper is as white as the Angel poisoning my mind. I let go of the paper sheet.
"How did he react when you caught him?"
I clear my throat. "I am pretty sure he thought I was the Messiah Himself for a second."
The girl laughs, terribly amused.
"I hope he got on his knees and begged for forgiveness for at least four and a half minutes with his little Choir songs."
"I am afraid he did not, but he did walk directly into a bookshelf while trying to escape and certainly spent [at least] four and a half minutes putting all the books back to their initial place."
Semione rolled their eyes. "He damaged a masterpiece of mine. And one of the scribe before me. I was enraged. I thought for an instant I would break my vow of nonviolence."
I hum approvingly. "If it wasn't for the rules, I would've shoved my fist into his face without a second thought."
"And that's the most dedicated Child of God for you" remarked Anouk teasingly. Striking a pose against my desk, eyes closed, I throw my head back theatrically. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."
Laughs echo through the scriptorium, and the voices of the Ophanim are silent, for once, for now, allowing me a break from their endless supplications.
Suddenly, Anouk caresses my hand. It's gentle, innocent, but all I can feel is a harsh, sickly familiar grip around my wrist. I flinch and move my hand away, nearly slapping what I think, for a second only, to be Confessor in the process. She doesn't say anything, but I can sense disappointment. Pain, even. I can't bring myself to apologize. No apology would ever be enough, and we both know it, as much as we would give to a Being of Light to remain blissfully ignorant. Our insides are tarnished, I think as she covers her stomach with her cloth- an old sweater she refused to let go of. Uniformity has never been to Anouk's liking. She starts speaking again, of the way she met Aliosha, the offense he took at her not refusing to bow before him. Aliosha was never one to be humble.
That evening, I returned to the Monastery bookshop, ignoring the snide Angel hidden between the shelves.
The first incident occurred the next day. Whispers throughout The Silk, a wave of fright amidst a crowd of Angels, Scribes, Luthiers, and all the Others I've never spoken of. A trail of blood on the church's marble staircase, a life gone. I imagined the body - displayed beautifully, twisted, before the empty clouds of a cold morning. A premature departure for Heaven, and more importantly, a voluntary one. A member of the Choir. Ophanim laughed and weeped. 'Doubt in his mind', murmures the crowd. 'Loss of faith', they say.
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french-toast-enjoyer · 7 months ago
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Writing Share Game:
Rules: share some writing!
thanks to @rkmoon for the tag, here's a snippet from a symbrock fic I'm not sure is good enough to continue! I also submitted it to @funkycave so if you see it on their blog hey, same hat. lemme know if I should actually write this:
To the world, he was once known as Ediliaphon. The scribe of creation, and the angel of all to be known by man.
Now his collar simply reads “Eddie”. A bastardization of the name given to him by the god he once loved. The God who had abandoned him for daring to question his divine plan.
The God that had left him there, in the writhing city of Pandemonium with every other rejected angel. Tossed like an unwanted, unruly pet. Weighed down with a rock and thrown in a river to die.
And he would’ve died.
For nine full days after the collapse of Lucifer’s army, Eddie and all other now fallen angels had lay in the depths of what was now hell, paralyzed with the never-before-felt sensation that would come to be known as pain.
That fateful period had brought to birth several new, unbearable concepts.
Suffering came forth in the physical anguish of broken bones and hellfire-charred skin. Agony crept into the faces of those lost, regretful angels. And annihilation–
It claimed half of all lower angels on the first night.
Without a master or cause to tie themselves to, without faith in either their love or hatred of God, many of the regretful, lost souls had simply ceased to be. Succumbing to their injuries with no hatred to empower them to stand up and keep fighting.
But for those who did hate?
It disfigured them. Morphed their wounds into splitting heads. Their faces became permanent snarls, their halos had cracked into horns, and their bodies had melded into darkness from days of bitterly crawling on their bellies.
Eddie was lucky. Eddie had avoided both fates, somehow.
It eluded him, how he had fallen without shattering his soft white wings. And how he felt so little in the advent of his fall that malevolence had not consumed his broken, once divine body.
Much like the others, however, he was frail. Fading in real time without a deity to uphold him.
On night one, his wings had wilted, night two, his skin began to burn.
He'd have given up forever to touch God again. Just once.
There were nights when he’d remember his time as a scribe. Appointed by the Father to pen the histories of all that had been created. It'd been so brief, yet so blissful. To think he gave it all up, out of pride. Out of the want for more accolade than the ultimate honor of witnessing the birth of all the world. What a fool he was.
He would’ve died. But on his knees, something had found him.
It called itself Venom. A manifest of sin much like those conceived with Lucifer’s first betrayal. In perpetuity, it was meant to be the lord of treason. Of biting the hand that feeds.
He'd been despondent when the entity had found him. Useless. Too tired to curse God and too prideful to beg for forgiveness.
It had sensed the angel’s weakness. Known it to be the closest thing to a lamb this wretched pit could offer. Only in appearance, of course.
Much like that which tempted Eve, it'd crawled to the angel on its belly, whispering sweet nothings about divinity and reclamation. Offering him protection in exchange for devotion.
Eddie, feeling bloody tears welling in his eyes, knew that his choice was either to obey, or so begin the process of fading away completely.
He'd looked to the heavens. They couldn't be seen. God was not coming to forgive him, much less save his life.
In short, he'd agreed.
So began his life, given up to the first and last entity that'd shown him mercy.
Herein begins the true fall.
I'm gonna tag @spibbb and @bunsofhoney because I like what I've seen of their writing! as always, no pressure to participate:)
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mercysought · 8 days ago
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❝ The crown is always a burden… but it cannot be borne if you cannot stand. ❞ ( jamie for anora! )
black sails season 3 // accepting // @immobiliter
   “Jamie." she breathes in, keeping herself from snapping at him. Her eyes close and she has to force herself to open them once more. The burning was blazing and she felt her body shiver from fatigue. "Two blights." there weren't many in Denerim's palace of her own scribes and diplomats that were sleeping much these days. She would be no different, whatever influence, whatever contacts she had. She needed to make use of them quickly "Two elvhen Gods wielding the Blight as a weapon."
It sounded like lunacy. That the elvhen Gods were themselves real, and wielding the blight with a mastery that she had only heard of when the chants were spoken. That they should be able to raise not one but two archdemons. And that it should happen in her lifetime.
She sounded like she was losing her mind, the more she repeated that the less she believed it. The reality was that the reports from the field did not lie. The darkspawn were indeed on the move again. Anora hadn't seen any evidence of elvhen gods meddling but the Inquisitor had little reason to lie. She had no more army, and Anora had asked to be sure that the Inquisition wouldn't at the end of the Exalted Council, however, that didn't mean that they sorely didn't need one now.
They would need all the help they could get. And they needed to understand: was it just Ferelden again, or was it coming from everywhere? Sleep would need to wait.
Her attention finally moved from the missive to her husband, who looked at her with worry weighing on his brow. She is unable to keep the shaping from her breathing as her hand finds his.
   "Every time I close my eyes I think back to when Denerim was taken by the darkspawn."
She didn't think she would remember it so brightly. Truthfully, she had made her best effort to forget it, to pretend that she didn't remember what it was to be locked in a tower in a city on the edge of collapse with an archdemon screeching in the sky just outside her window.
And now? Now it wasn't just her city, her own life at stake. Their eldests had gotten wind of what was happening, how could they not? They wanted to fight, to protect their country like Jamie and Anora had done before. She had so much more to lose now. Her hand feels freezing, and clammy when she touches the side of her husband's face, holding it firmly whilst putting down the quill momentarily "I cannot bear that to happen again."
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all6pistols · 16 days ago
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I am made ill by these freaks.
from this very funny
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rockislandadultreads · 1 year ago
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New Title Tuesday: Sci-Fi Picks
The Deep Sky by Yume Kitasei
They left Earth to save humanity. They’ll have to save themselves first.
It is the eve of Earth’s environmental collapse. A single ship carries humanity’s last hope: eighty elite graduates of a competitive program, who will give birth to a generation of children in deep space. But halfway to a distant but livable planet, a lethal bomb kills three of the crew and knocks The Phoenix off course. Asuka, the only surviving witness, is an immediate suspect.
Asuka already felt like an impostor before the explosion. She was the last picked for the mission, she struggled during training back on Earth, and she was chosen to represent Japan, a country she only partly knows as a half-Japanese girl raised in America. But estranged from her mother back home, The Phoenix is all she has left.
With the crew turning on each other, Asuka is determined to find the culprit before they all lose faith in the mission—or worse, the bomber strikes again.
The Book of Witches edited by Jonathan Strahan
Witches! Whether you know them from Shakespeare or from Wicked, there is no staple more beloved in folklore, fairy tale, or fantasy than these magical beings. Witches are everywhere, and at the heart of stories that resonate with many people around the world. This dazzling, otherworldly collection gathers new stories of witches from all walks of life, ensuring a Halloween readers will never forget. Whether they be maiden, mother, crone, or other; funny, fierce, light and airy, or dark and disturbing; witches are a vital part of some of the greatest stories we have, and new ones start here!
The Saint of Bright Doors by Vajra Chandrasekera
Fetter was raised to kill, honed as a knife to cut down his sainted father. This gave him plenty to talk about in therapy.
He walked among invisible devils and anti-gods that mock the mortal form. He learned a lethal catechism, lost his shadow, and gained a habit for secrecy. After a blood-soaked childhood, Fetter escaped his rural hometown for the big city, and fell into a broader world where divine destinies are a dime a dozen.
Everything in Luriat is more than it seems. Group therapy is recruitment for a revolutionary cadre. Junk email hints at the arrival of a god. Every door is laden with potential, and once closed may never open again. The city is scattered with Bright Doors, looming portals through which a cold wind blows. In this unknowable metropolis, Fetter will discover what kind of man he is, and his discovery will rewrite the world.
The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa
The dust may have just settled in the failed war of conquest between the Holy Vaalbaran Empire and the Ominirish Republic, but the last Emperor’s surrender means little to a lowly scribe like Enitan. All she wants is to quit her day job and expand her fledgling tea business. But when her lover is assassinated and her sibling is abducted by Imperial soldiers, Enitan abandons her idyllic plans and weaves her tea tray up through the heart of the Vaalbaran capital. There, she learns just how far she is willing to go to exact vengeance, free her sibling, and perhaps even secure her homeland’s freedom.
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historitor-bookshelf · 1 month ago
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Warhammer Kinktober 2024: Day 15
Day 15: Psykana: Biomancy | Word Bearers | Religion Other tags: Lorgar/FemOC, implied gangbang, Discussion of Body Fluids (Blood, Pus), Vaginal Sex
“No suitable inspiration?” Lorgar folded his hands and looked at the rubricator in kneeling in front of him, her jead bowed. “Lord,” Afra said. “I- I was referring to the parts of your book dealing with the Youngest of the Gods of the Warp. The Dark Prince boggles my mind. Every illustration I attempt to sketch a draft of, every line of every word just… doesn’t fit. I would not dare to even attempt illustrating the manuscripts intended for your brothers if I cannot even sketch something that would even be remotely suitable.” She remained in her position, not daring to look up. Lorgar’s cool fingers touched her chin and lifted it up. “Look at me.” Afra did, finding herself starring in the golden pools of the Primarch she served, the Primarch who had raised her from a mere scribe to the head rubricator. She would follow him into the void without hesitation.
“Afra,” he said softly. “Is that really it?” “I wouldn’t dare to lie to you.” She whispered. “Never. I just… cannot think of anything that would suit the Dark Prince.” Lorgar nodded, slow. “The others?” “Lord?” “You have drafts for the other Gods?” “Of course!” She jumped to her feet. “Let me show you, Lord-” Lorgar followed her around the table, she noticed. But this was so he could see her designs. “For the Lord of Skulls I thought about using red ink mixed with blood or finely crushed brass. For the Architect of Fate I inquired around for crystals, to make them shimmer. Ideally would be colour-changing, but it turned out to be to much for the weaker minded of the scribes. The Grandfather’s ink I dulled with plague fluids - handling it with gloves, of course, and praying in the correct manner.” Lorgar nodded as she prattled on, showing him the designs, her fingers sliding the parchment sheets around. He stood closely behind her, one of his large, slender hands on her elbow. “And the Youngest?” Afra bit her lip. “I am stumped even at the choice of the materials.” She admitted. “Even using the the most brilliant pigments and inks seem to lessen the impact of your words, Lord. It does not fit. There is no other way of describing it. Not to mention that I do not know what to mix in, as with the others. I thought about Aeldari Soulgems, crushed, but it seemed like a poor imitation of the Architect of Fate’s ink-” Lorgar pushed her ever so gently onto her front. She squeaked, trying to figure out a way to not scatter or crush her drafts. “Hush.” He lifted her up further until her upper body rested on the table. “I am impressed by your designs so far. Allow me to help inspire you when it comes to the Dark Prince’s excess and indulgences.” “Surely someone else-” Lorgar hushed her again, his hands sliding her robes up beyond her rump. “Let it be me, first.” His rough hands began to encircle her hips as he turned her over and they were, once more, face to face. “My dear artisan,” he whispered. “Let me be your muse.” Warm, gentle fingers slipped between her legs and Arfa keened. Lorgar’s mouth wandered over her neck, down her shoulder, pushing the fabric of her robe aside to open more skin to his inquiring fingers and lips. Lips, that closed around her nipples gently, as if teasing a soft blossom into bloom. Fingers that traced runes and letters of various languages across her skin. Just the slightest bit of force from his fingernails, to draw white lines along her limbs, along her bones, along her arteries. Maybe it was him, maybe it was what he wrote and drew on her skin, but Afra felt how drenched she became as she rutted against his thigh he had pushed up against her core.
“Yes,” Lorgar whispered against her lips, his fingers sliding down to her clitoris, gently teasing and massaging it. “Enjoy the feeling. Enjoy the ecstasy. Submerge yourself into the sea of lust. Do not hold back anything that comes to you.” Afra moaned loudly, her hands digging into Lorgar’s bald head, smearing the golden ink on his scalp. Every single movement he made left a trace of fire, her clit rubbed and massaged until it felt as if an ember was stoked by his fingers. She came with a loud shout, her legs wound around his hips, jerking and rubbing up against Lorgar. “Yes, yes, my dear scribe.” He kissed her, nibbling at her lower lips. “Let it all out.” He stepped away from her, loosening his robes before he slid his hard, hot length against her cunt to let her own juices lubing him up. His cock then pulled away, before he pushed into her. “Lord!” She clutched at his shoulders, at his head, at his neck to deal with the sudden entrance in her unstretched cunt. He pulled her onto his cock, only her ass balancing on the edge of the table. “Such a soft channel,” he cooed. “So tight and warm. Made for the exhileration of the flesh. For fucking.” She struggled against his grip, against the hand on her ass that pushed her down on his cock. “Lord, that was-” “Relax.” He kissed her again, whispering against her lips. “Listen to how much your body wants this. How the energies of the warp making up your beings lead you here. Let my body merge with yours in this ecstasy.” He settled her back against the desk and then began to move. The fire in her, still lit but dimished through his forced entry, was stoked again with every time the cock head pushed its way back into her, stretching the tight ring of her entrance. She came again, whining and crying his name, too caught up in his fucking to recognise his fingers sliding into her ass, spreading her juices there. “Will you allow more to show you the ecstasy of the Prince of Pleasure?” He whispered against her ear, his fingers in her rear pushing deeper. “Yes!” She sobbed. “I need more. I am so close to seeing it.” He kissed her again. “As you wish.” She wrapped her arms and legs around him as much as she could, until he came with a loud moan of his own. Lorgar pulled out, watching his seed dribble out of her vagina. “I will call for more… teachers.” Afra whined, reaching out for him. “Patience.” A quick kiss to her temple. “There will be far more to experience.”
In the evening, he received the report that Afra finally had her spark of inspiration she had so desired.
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okamirayne · 1 month ago
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Hi! I've been rereading BtB these days, and I realized there's something I've been wondering. How do you come up with such accurate metaphors to describe such abstract concepts?
Two examples that come to me are, when the psychiatrist explains the nature of a fracture psyche and compares it to a loose fist, and how integration/functionality is similar to tighten the fingers of said hand. The other one is when it's explained Shukaku's internal fail-safe mechanism to contain his trauma, is searching and killing one of the twins each night, and repeat the process all over again the next day.
There are, of course, more descriptions that are outstanding among the serie, but these exacts ones, personally struck me like lightning. I don't mean to intrude in your privacy, I was just wondering how was the process in constructing such complex imagery. Did you expect to reach such depth? Was it carefully crafted and cultivated or more along the lines of unexpectedly unavoidable once you were in the trenches of writing?
Truth is, ten years ago, I would have benefited a lot had I known how to express both of these situations with words. About the fractured psyche I used to described it as grabbing water with bare hands, but it was never a satisfying metaphor all in all :"D
The magic of writers I guess, the first time I read your works I felt like a kid that watches the rabbit being pulled out of the hat for the first time.
Obligatory, english-isn't-my-first-language warning/apology in advance.
Love you author <3
Hey there @dirty-tako 💖!
Wow! Firstly, thank you for your patience as I finally get round to responding to your lovely message. And also, thank you so much for crossing the language barrier to reach out to me 💖🫶🏼💖. I would never have suspected it wasn't your first language and wish I could command another tongue as eloquently and brilliantly as you! 🙏🏼
I've been rereading BtB these days, and I realized there's something I've been wondering. How do you come up with such accurate metaphors to describe such abstract concepts?
Ah! So, so chuffed to hear that you've revisited BtB recently, my lovely. Thanks for jumping back into that world. As for how I come up with my metaphors?
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I honestly don't know how to answer that, luv. Pictures flood onto my mind-screen and I literally just write what I see, or what the characters 'say'. When I'm in flow with my writing, the imagery often takes care of itself. The two examples you gave of Dr Mushi and Shikaku are perfect examples of that. I 'saw' both those metaphoric instances playing out visually and I just scribed what I saw - it tends to come organically from the characters, if that makes sense? I know that sounds quasi-woo-woo but that's the honest to gods' truth. I wish I could say there was a specific process I used, but it always tends to come from the characters that I'm inhabiting when writing from their POV.
There are, of course, more descriptions that are outstanding among the series, but these exacts ones, personally struck me like lightning. I don't mean to intrude in your privacy, I was just wondering how was the process in constructing such complex imagery.
Gosh, thank you for your very kind praise of my writing. I don't find it intrusive of you to ask, sweetie, and I'm touched you find my insanity a point of interest. 😅💜 The process is always 'character driven' for me...I don't even know if it's helpful explaining it that way, but I can't think how else to describe it. When I'm in their skin, the metaphors tend to flow from them given their model of the world or the moment.
Did you expect to reach such depth? Was it carefully crafted and cultivated or more along the lines of unexpectedly unavoidable once you were in the trenches of writing?
Absolutely the latter, Tako. Unexpectedly unavoidable. You nailed it with that. Very much a spontaneous and organic process when it comes to the metaphors and descriptions unless I need to describe a very specific structure or do my research on Japanese architecture, specific items, or particular interior designs etc. in a scene.
Truth is, ten years ago, I would have benefited a lot had I known how to express both of these situations with words. About the fractured psyche I used to described it as grabbing water with bare hands, but it was never a satisfying metaphor all in all :"D
Oh wow! 😍 Now you see, that's such an interesting and unique take; the image you've described gives a whole different feel to a fractured psyche because you've gone with an element that is so deliciously nebulous and lends itself well to the mind. How can you hold onto consciousness with your bare hands? Beautiful. I love that.
It's strange isn't it? While you say it didn't quite hit the mark for you, for me, I find your example such a brilliant take on the mind. I could go wild with that water analogy. See? You've inspired a whole flood of images for me by sharing your personal visual perspective on the fractured psyche. I bloody love it!! 😍
The magic of writers I guess, the first time I read your works I felt like a kid that watches the rabbit being pulled out of the hat for the first time.
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The magic of readers and writers connecting in the worlds that come spilling outta the ether. It's beautiful. I'm so ridiculously happy that my words touched you and vibed with you, luv. That lifts and lightens my spirit! Thank you for connecting with my work and for reaching out to connect with me. I appreciate you so much. 🥰🙏🏼
Big Love coming at you, dear reader 💜🫶🏼💜
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oops-i-accidentally · 1 year ago
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Ruins of the Mad King Pt. 2 - The Gods
The pantheon of the world, the deities that guide and protect the mortals through their lives. Though they reside in the Celestial Plane, their presences are still very much felt in all aspects of life. In the busy docks of a seaside town and the hallowed halls of the courts, in songs a bard sings and in the swing of a warrior’s blade. In the the act of comforting the weak, the act of protecting the wilds, and the act of putting one to rest, the gods stand besides the mortals.
At least, they should.
Ereindal The Matron of Endings The goddess that created the worlds and realms beyond. She was once held captive by The Broken One, her eternal energy feeding its eternal hunger, until she managed to escape into the Material Plane. From there, she created all that mortals know to be in life, from the dirt they tread on to the forests they explore. It was a tragedy when, in order to save her creations, she sacrificed herself to lock The Broken One away once again by acting as bait. Her loss was felt through all the realms.
Ar’sogthel The Broken One, The Lurker of the Gate, The Serpent Between Realms, The Nameless Mist Hunger and destruction incarnate, the destroyer of worlds. This beast is Ereindal’s opposite, the thing that balances her creation, but it cannot survive without her. Like a snake that eats its own tail, it can only ever consume to extend its life while only nearing its demise. It had been freed from its cage after a plot that spanned multiple millennia, causing the apocalypse in its wake. It was only returned to its space of nothingness by bringing Ereindal with it, to once again eternally fulfill its hunger.
Luxas The Master of the Tapestry The deity of fate, the first celestial being made after Ereindal was free. They were her right hand and oldest friend, the calm rock for her childish storms. They are a hermit, avoiding interaction with the mortals for as long as religious history can remember. Despite that, even they have been strangely quiet for the last 50 years...
Larhena The Scribe of the Past One of the three Fates, the helpers of Luxas, Larhena is in control of the past. She is the eldest of the triplets, but has a deep mischievous streak that’s only tempered by her siblings’ more calm personalities. She is the holder of all of the world’s history, that which is known and that which has been lost is all held within her sight. Though she once directed the threads of fate, she is now more involved in the affairs of the mortal world than any of the gods in the past millennia.
Larasil The Seer of the Present One of the three fates, Larasil is the omniscient watcher of the present. He is the middle child and is the rock of his two siblings, between Larhena’s mischief and Laremis’ flights of fancy. He keeps watch over all of the current affairs of the mortals to ensure none of the strings he weaves are cut or entangled against the plan, working where none can see him to keep order in the chaos. Currently, though, he finds himself tasked with cleaning up Larhena’s messes more than anything else.
Laremis The Oracle of the Future One of the three Fates, Laremis is the one who worked with Larhena to ensure the tapestry the threads of fate make up are plotted correctly. They see the big picture, the end result, while Larhena laid out the base. They are prone to daydreaming and getting lost in their imagination, for what they imagine are possible futures for the mortals they weave together, and are only held down by their siblings. Nowadays, however, they seem to be missing from the picture they once helped weave. All that is left behind are cryptic poems warning of what is to come, obvious only when it’s too late.
Desgaus The Mistreader Desgaus is the deity of magic, and is mostly commonly attributed as the creator of monsters. They're commonly depicted as a figure hidden behind a fabric shroud, their face forever and always a mystery. Desgaus is known to be the lover of Lenua, called the dark side of her moon, and the pair are rarely (if ever) separated from each other. They are one of the more rarely worshiped gods, usually by arcanists with a more religious streak. Their holy animal is the crane.
Lenua The Starwalker Lenua is the goddess of the moon and the night, the twin sister to Solis and lover of Desgaus. She keeps watch over the sleeping mortals during the night and is said to protect them from the dangers lurking the shadows, offering solace in her silvery light. She is most commonly worshiped by travelers and thieves, and even the creatures of the night are said to hold a reverence for her word and power. Her holy animal is the fox.
Solis The Dawneye Solis is the god of the sun and the day, the twin brother of Lenua. He watches over the mortals during the light of day, allowing the plants to grow and work to be done. He is known as a joyous god, encouraging others to show jubilation in his light, and is rumored to be more involved in mortal affairs than some other gods may be. He is most commonly worshipped by travelers, lawmen, and farmers. His holy animal is the kestrel.
Athres The Firespiller Athres is the deity of war, and lover of Contra and Dionsia. He is the one who watches over all mortal conflict, judging each side’s causes and giving blessings to those he feels deserve the rights of victory more. There have been times where it’s rumored that Athres himself took part in a war, or worked in close quarters with a chosen mortal to act as his vessel. He is commonly worshiped by warriors and soldiers, and called upon in times of conflict by leaders. His holy animal is the lion.
Contra The Soulweaver Contra is the deity of love, and the lover of Athres and Dionsia. Her domain included all types of affection a mortal may have for another, not purely romantic love. Some even posit that her true realm of power is the mortal soul, for what is a soul if not the ability to feel affection? She is the most widely worshiped deity of the pantheon because of this, held in the same high regard as Hesret, for no being is exempt from feeling affection of every single kind. Her holy animal is the bird of paradise.
Dionsia The Joywriter Dionsia is the deity of revelry, and the lover of Athres and Contra. They are also known as the deity of creativity, oftentimes blessing creatives of all art forms with inspiration and energy to create. As the deity of revelry, they are known to take on mortal forms to enjoy the riches and bliss only found in the mortal realms. They are worshiped by creatives, writers and artists, as well as anyone who lives a life more hedonistic and chaotic than might be wise. Their holy animal is the leopard.
Kemphra The Lifebringer Kemphra is the goddess of the earth. She works with Vastrom and Pelus to protect the wild places of the world from the destruction that mortals are prone to, for the land is just as much a child of Ereindal as the mortals are. She is known as a chaotic deity prone to quickly shifting moods, as calm as a serene pool in one moment and as furious as an erupting volcano in the next. She is most widely worshiped by farmers. Her holy animal is the rabbit.
Vastrom The Tideshaker Vastrom is the god of the seas. He is the protector of the waves and all that live underneath the waters, just as Kemphra and Pelus protect their own domains. While he is not as chaotic as Kemphra, he is known to be rather mischievous and plays tricks on sailors long out at sea. It is well known that he and Riventen are at constant odds, the fickleness of water coming to blows with the rigidity of mortal responsibility. He is worshiped by sailors and fishermen. His holy animal is the albatross.
Riventen The Peaceholder Riventen is the deity of leadership. They are widely regarded as the king of the gods because of this domain, leading and keeping the other deities in check for the mortals’ benefit. They are the judge of those that affront the gods, and work with Mortos to decide the destination of souls once a mortal has passed; either reincarnation, or an eternity in the hells. They are often depicted as being blinded, a cloth wrapped over their eyes, as they hold aloft a set of scales. They are commonly worshiped by leaders and lawmen, and courthouses are commonly also used as their temples. Their holy animal is the eagle.
Mortos The Endwatcher Mortos is the deity of death, and the leader of the hells. They are tasked with keeping the line between life and death, never allowing it to be crossed. They and their devas work as psychopomps to ferry the souls of the deceased. They are known as a cold deity, one that isn’t known to harbor the warmth that most of the other deities show, and as such are less worshiped and more feared. Despite this, a small sect has dedicated themself to Mortos and their worship in the Church of Mortos, who act as grave tenders and keepers of cemeteries. Their holy animal is the raven.
Pelus The Vinerunner Pelus is the god of the wilds, the forests and jungles of the world. He works with Kemphra and Vastrom to keep these spaces protected, though he tends to achieve this through fear rather than mischief or chaos. He oversees the delicate balance of the ecosystems and these ecosystems include monsters and beasts that would easily rend a mortal body to shreds, which he does nothing to prevent should a mortal wander into his lands. He is worshiped by druids mainly, but has been known to take those who also refuse to conform to a mortal society into his good graces as well. His holy animal is the monkey.
Hesret The Hearthkeeper Hesret is the goddess of the home, and is also known as the goddess of safety. She is the patron of those that provide and care for others, and advocates endlessly for peace in the mortal realm. Her followers are known to provide for the weak and forgotten, and acts of charity and compassion without repayment are seen as worship for the goddess. She is known to be worshiped by a large variety of people-- any who wish for the safety and warmth of home, really. This includes mothers and caretakers, innkeeps and those that provide care for the injured and sick.
The next post will be about the player characters of the campaign, and what their deals are! Stay tuned!
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whereserpentswalk · 1 year ago
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For it was long ago that the battle between existence and void first formed. When all gods stood together against the nothingness, and no pantheon was named, and no division made between lesser and greater nor rebel and king. There was only the emptiness of space, when no stars formed, and no planets grew.
And at the helm was void and chaos, the tyranny of pure annihilation. Though it was an army no names could be given to those who fought, for no names could define the chaos, for it was pure nothingness, and pure refusal to exist with any boundaries between itself. And though a thousand warriors stood with the void they were but nothing for they could be thought as one and one million at once, and none could define their form. Only did alilation stand, in the moment when matter and antimatter fought. For this was only the universe's refusal to exist within the chaos.
Yet against them rode freedom, and the desire to exist, and each had a name though it may not be known today. For there rode the armies of the gods. And at the helm was Mars, and his blood was napalm, and his breath was mustard gas, and his shield was made of treaties and his sword was a nuclear bomb, and with him the first fear was felt as Mars struck the void and creation demanded to exist.
And a thousand gods followed him. Freya stood with a crown of promises upon her hand, great cats carrying her forwards as valkyries followed her on blood machines half alive. Set taunted the void from the cavalry, turning his form a thousand times in mockery. Bal stood proudly commanding from afar, the fate of a thousand worlds within his hands. The horned god laughed upon a chariot of redwoods and soil, pulled by the tears of the stars. And in fiery passion Prometheus broke the shield walls, calling upon the universe in glory with a hundred mouths. The scribe of death Cthulhu wrote of the battle upon a piece of lithium, his skin a thousand colors under a beard of arms. And the lord of the moon, whose name is known only to elephants glowed from above, and looked at the void with hatred in his heart.
And for that day hatred was good, and satisfaction was evil. For hatred was the desire for creation to exist, for it was hatred of annihilation. 
And none shall know if it was a thousand years or a thousand moments, for time itself was built in the throws of the battle. 
And when the battle ended the void was banished, to beyond what we could even imagine, within the hearts of black holes, and to places far too far away for its light to even have time to meet the eyes of earth. 
And in their innocence the gods thought themselves free of pain, for none would ever know the fear of nonexistence again. And they built themselves a temple to rest upon the shores of planets yet to be discovered. And in that day Jupiter and Juno ran together naked like children, and quetzalcoatl coiled up and remembered colors that no eye could see, and Thoth looked upon every atom and wrote them a name, and Odin lay down a spear made of antimatter, and for a moment admired the greatness of existence.
Yet it all fell. None today knows who spoke the first word, for whom the first squabble commenced. Perhaps it was nothing, a disagreement none should have festered over, the color of the curtains, or whether a lightswitch should have stayed on or off. It was nothing. It should have been nothing. Dear god let it be nothing. The gods would have prayed to themselves if they only knew what faced them.
Over the years the arguments festered, even in paradise there was imperfection. And it became everything. Zoroaster began to look down upon Amun-ra, and Tiamat and Marduk were already at eachothers throats, and Odin hated all of Loki's children, it had all become so bad that poor El had been so traumatized he thought himself the only god, and called the rest of family devils.
So in their loneliness they sought for a new world. For all the world they lay upon was too perfect for any land but flat marble, the scribe Thoth had found truth in his studies, and he found that life could come from nothing, and build itself through a thousand generations. And he opened his curved mouth and read from a script made of stardust, speaking of life evolved from itself, and built from nature. And the gods knew at once that they could be with that life, and for souls would be so plentiful that they could divide up the world, and each would have their own nation of followers. 
And they came upon earth, where men were godless. And for the men there lived as many do today, knowing only a world made by nature and satisfied for it, and for when they died they would pass into nothingness and for none were disturbed by such notions for they were grateful of what nature had given them. Yet when the gods came to men, they were filled with joy and knowledge that they had never known before, and awakened, and those they spoke to would give to them and be taken upon. And the world began to worship the gods, as each faction of gods took a nation for themselves.
Yet El had been the weakest and most paranoid of the gods, and in his unwillingness to share he had found nothing in his hands but the small isle of eden in a salty and dead sea, where fruit was rare and cattle wept. And yet El hated all other gods, and in his arrogance called it the true paradise of earth, and with so little wood upon the island none upon it knew better.
And El spoke to the king of Eden, "You will be my first son. You will be my hero, my anchor. And for through my words you will never know death or even sleep. Through my power you shall not just be a king but a warlock, and through your power you will become a lich, and not Hel nor Pluto nor Anubis will know you."
And Adam, king of Eden bowed, and took off his crown of driftwood to reply, and for he had never known of a god before he spoke, "I know not your name great being, yet I am king, I do not know why I would wish to exist beyond myself, or why my sons would wish to never take my throne?"
And El lied upon him, and distorted the name of one of a thousand women who had rejected him, "If you are to die your brain shall live beyond your death. And Hell shall take you, and you will know only fire and pain for that is what you will be without me."
And Adam, naive to godhood, replied, "Then may I first have a gift, if you are so holy? If you are divine may I not have a divine bride? For I hear your voice yet I see nothing. There is only this life for me as of now, and if I cannot add to it what may I have?"
And El promised, "And for a wife I will give you. And she shall be called goddess, yet you will call her devil for you shall make her feel as if she was the most awful and vile of beasts that you must punish with your body."
And El flew across the sea, and came upon Israel where their gods were given gold and silver and all those shining things that El had denied himself when he chose Eden. And he came upon the desert where for thirteen days he stalked the goddess of the night, Lilith, queen of the owls, whose eyes shone like diamonds, and whose torch was named liberty and whose sword was named freedom. 
The shadowy form of El pounced upon Lilith, and as she struggled against him he whispered to her that it would be for the best, and told her that submission to him and to the king of Eden would be better freedom, as he tore at her feathers and made her bleed until her wings could not fly away. And as she cried beneath him he still swore it would be for the best. 
And before Adam lay Lilith, hugging herself, naked and afraid. And El asked upon Adam, "Feast upon her, and make it not love, for only I am love."
And as Adam touched her Lilith growled and hissed, for the torch of liberty still burnt bright in her eyes. And Adam drew a sword of bronze and clashed with her, and they dueled for moments and equals, and as they clashed as great warriors Lilith wondered if he could have been her husband if he was the subject of a different god, and she wished she could have known him. And it mattered not for what he had become, and as she ran he fired arrows at her back in his hunt, and seeing his chest unarmored she struck him, declaring her freedom unquestioned, and leaving him laying for dead on the ground. She flew righteously, and as she crossed the desert skies humanity knew there was hope for freedom.
Adam awoke, weeping. He had lived, her his cough was that of blood, as a rib had been torn from his chest, and within the capital of Eden he was healed by the medicin women of Eden. And his heart had no love anymore, not for his people, not for his land, not for nature, he had given it to El as his possession. And he looked at his nurse, young and twenty as he was, though his battle made him feel old, and he forgot love or even lust but felt only the desire to conquer, and wished to own her as he did his hunting dogs.
And Adam asked El, "May she then be my first woman? If she is nothing, can you make her goddess and demoness?"
And El replied, "She shall be. And then you shall be lich and warlock for me, and you shall reign over all of the earth."
And her name became Eve, for she was Adam's to name. And he took upon her, and she had no freedom under the eyes of Adam, and the queen of Eden would weep each night as Adam brewed his potions and prayed upon the shattered stones of sea, and did every dark ritual he knew, and he thought of eternal life for the first time, and knew he would one day taste the blood and skin of a demigod as if it was wine and bread. 
And every night the queen of Eden wept, yet her name had been made Eve, and she had been called goddess and demon. And all her prayers were answered by El. And no answer gave her anything but pain.
Yet the words cried over the world. And as the other gods cherished their kingdoms, they had all agreed not to leave, and they wished to not affect Eden for it was El's. And when they met in secret they argued. 
And Lilith cried, "For who will support us? For who will cry for freedom? If El took me it is proof his tyranny is a threat to liberty anywhere. And who shall say the folk of Eden do not have the same rights as all of humanity?"
And Horus argued, "If he comes again he will be fought back to Eden. But Eden is his, it is our law."
And Hel replied, "But if Eden's borders grow will they not then be a danger to all?"
And Athena refuted her, "You speak only for your care of the people of Eden. But you and I both know they will not expand, for they are barren in their name and lands."
And for seven weeks they argued, as their people felt fear without them. Until Quetzalcoatl stopped them all, "There are many words yet no actions, my radiance will meet with that of one soul in Eden. And if that is enough for El to fall, so be it, if not we may weep for them." And Quetzalcoatl bid his people farewell, hoping he would one day see North America again, as he knew he would soon be under the dark skies of Eden. 
In the garden of the king of Eden, where trees had been dedicated to El and his power, Eve wept in the night. And in front of her appeared Quetzalcoatal and he was radiant and powerful, with ten hundred teeth, and scales of gold, and feathers of every color, and Eve knew not of any other god so she called upon him, "Serpent? Why have you come upon this land? Why walk in the garden of Eden when you have wings, and thus can be free?"
And Quetzalcoatl replied, "I walk here for I know of the eternal life your god El speaks of. I know that when your husband shall be a lich he shall have no knowledge of good and evil, and the last ability for him to love without El will fade from his heart. And Adam will make his armies conquer the world, and bring the fear of El upon all the peoples he can find and kill."
And Eve asked the feathered serpent, "Then if you are god as he is, then could you defy El. And with that power could I be free of Eden?"
And he bowed his head, and his teeth like daggers spoke of comfort, "If I am God as El is god then you may defy him as, and with that power you will be free of Eden as Lilith was."
She asked, "If that is so, how do I defy?"
As Queztalcoatl spoke, she flew away, "If he forbids the fruit of those trees then you must eat of them."
And Eve freed herself, and tasted the fig seeds that El called his own. And she knew that El was not god, and that good and evil were her own to decide. And she felt the curls of her hair and knew they were her own, and felt the black robes on her body and knew they were her own. 
Adam rushed in the garden, having seen the glory of the serpent flying away. And as he saw Eve weeping on the floor he saw the tears he had once made Lilith cry, and saw a being free from all tyranny for her mind was her own, and none could call her thoughts crimes. And for a moment he felt the smallest love, and knew what he could have felt for her, what he could have felt for Lilith, would have been so much more than any love that came from serving El. And as if he was still in the innocence of before she knew of gods, he ate of the fruit as well. 
El felt anger that night like he had never felt before. Rage that only a god who thought he was the only creature who deserved to be called god could feel. And he was their God, and as God he burnt Eden and said that its name could never be known again, and knew then he would be the God of the world.
And Adam and Eve would crawl the world together and barbarians, and found a dynasty that El would hate as he would hate all things. And the god Quetzalcoatl would be stripped of his wings, and forced to crawl the world with them, and he would not return to North America, but in his stead would come the barbaric warriors of El, as the feathered serpent could only weep from a far. 
And El swore to the heavens of greater gods, "I shall be the only god. And I shall conquer.”
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