#ophelia writes

[wlwaerith]

— zofeia viljarand | graveyard dancer.

when one thinks of necromancy, one imagines a corpse raised from its grave. but what of corpses that are laid to rest while their spirits are chained, invisible, to a world that has altogether forgotten them? altogether, perhaps, with the exception of one mourner whose grief ill fits her.

Two sisters—twins, a mere twenty minutes separating them—one warm and brilliant as the golden heat of summer, the other cold and sharp as winter’s first snow. Proud and bold was the elder, the heart of a lion beating within her breast, while the younger was silent and shrewd. Where one danced with embers at her heels, the other watched with frost at her fingers. The summer child was named Lillina, where winter was named Zofeia.

Their mother: a severe, unfeeling woman with a face of marble and a heart to match, yet she loved her daughters each, even as she refused to so much as hold their hands. Their father: a light-hearted, good-natured man.

Until he was not.

Within the lesser Baldurian noble house of Viljarand, rumours spread that the lady had once not been so cold, that it was the lord’s capricious whim and changeable temperament that had locked and barred her heart. Yet, for all his cruel mockery, for all his jests at the expense of his wife and daughters, for all his shouting and slamming of doors and drawers, none ever thought their lord capable of violence. None ever thought their lord would raise his hand against his own.

And indeed, he did not—not when he could make his kin dirty their hands in his stead.

It was the night of a grand feast, the seventeenth celebration of the twins’ birth, that it happened. The guests had departed or retired, and only the family remained awake in the grand hall. The mother remained, as ever, in stone-faced silence as the father twirled and tossed his dragon-tooth dagger, sprawled in his seat. His eyes glinted with a joviality they had not seen in quite some time.

Perhaps no blood would have been spilled that night, had all present seen the venom hidden just a little bit deeper in their amber depths.

The father bid the daughters come stand by him as he twirled his dagger. The girls, joint at the hip and dutiful as ever, approached him obediently. Once by his side, he began to muse on the stifling nature of not one, but two children so close in age, both eligible and willing to inherit. Lillina, twenty minutes her twin’s senior, met him only with confusion. She was no fool, but she believed too readily in the goodness of people. Zofeia, however, was born with blackest suspicion in her heart, and caught her father’s intention before his command left his lips.

The succession should have been obvious, unspoken, belonging to summer. But the father, foul tempered despite his pleasant smile, hungered for his blood-sport. Inspecting his dagger, then his daughters, he smiled again and made his demand: one must cement their claim in blood.

For several long moments, the twins were silent. For several more moments, longer still, the mother, too, was silent, even as her heart broke for summer. Poor, gentle, sweet summer, who had none of winter’s ruthlessness.

The sisters had always been close, loved one another dearly, but winter remained the second child. The second child of a madman.

Such as it was, the refusal had barely left the elder’s lips when the younger struck, snatching the father’s dragon-tooth blade from his callused, cracked hands. It had been lost upon her twin, but the unspoken threat was clear: should one disobey, or turn the blade upon herself before her sister, more than one would die at the table that night.

And there it was on the pristine white tiles that summer met her end, her warmth snuffed out by winter’s coldest steel.

Not a word was spoken, and the servants were deceived: what twin?

It was safer to accept an obvious lie than to question the truth, lest innocent staff, too, be sent to the lord’s cutting-room floor. The mad father and the cold-hearted daughter continued as they always had, yet the stone-hearted mother retreated into herself, becoming scarcer and scarcer until there was never a sign of her. During the day, she sat still in her rooms and stared at walls. During the night, she ventured through twisting corridors, robed in black with only a candlestick for light, and lingered in the room of her eldest’s murder until the gloom began to recede. A living ghost, some came to call her.

Yet she was not the only ghost to stalk those haunted halls.

The younger, since the night she had wet her hands with her sister’s blood, had taken it upon herself to commune with the deceased. Let it not be said that there was hate in her heart, for darkest grief cast its shadowy pall over her, and her sister’s ghost was allowed no rest.

So it was that the younger became less and less desirable as she grew, with none at all wishing to see her when she reached the age of one and twenty. She had always been cold, but now rooms were leeched of warmth completely when she entered, and some spoke of two shadows following her, of reflections that were not hers showing in mirrors. Whether a haunted girl or an instigator of haunting, fewer and fewer wished to see her, with fewer still desiring her to unite their house to hers.

It mattered little to her, though, for all had gone back to the way it should: summer, once more, was at her side—ever on her heels.

[i-prefer-the-term-antihero]

This one is for everyone who knew and loved Ladynepthyss

For anyone who does not yet know, it is with deepest sorrow that I inform you all she passed away this past February due to medical complications. (I don’t know more about her death than that, so please don’t ask).

To everyone who was kind to her, everyone who was a friend, everyone who followed her work, who sent her encouraging asks, or commented on her fics, I cannot thank you enough. You brought joy into a life that could often be quite dark and difficult. Thank you so much for being there for her.

I am making this post because I need the help of anyone willing to give it.

I have been trying to find her writings to keep to remember her by. However, this is proving difficult because Ophelia had a tendency to delete old writing.

If any of you happen to have copies of works and chapters that are not currently here on tumblr or Ao3 that you feel comfortable sharing (especially her hetalia stuff), I implore you to send it to me. I would be forever grateful.

Also, if any of you have kept any of her edits, especially her faceclaims, please send me those too.

In general, if any of you remember

her physical descriptions and/or face claims of her characters (and locations) in her stories (especially I almost shiver)

A scene from on her fics (especially I almost shiver) that would make a good cover piece for a book of her works

Know any artists who she followed/liked

Please please let me know

I hope you will all remember her fondly.

Keep her in your heart. For our wonderful Ophelia writes no more.

[limesquares]

Phantom Visions

[wlwaerith]

hi oblivion girlies i wrote a fic where my hok eats everyone in the cheydinhal sanctuary after killing them if thats ur kinda thing

[ophieslibrary]

Thinking about Task Force 141 & Reader when they believe someone has betrayed them.

All evidence keeps pointing at different members. The blame keeps getting pushed around and this found family you have been blessed with is starting to fracture.

First, it was Johnny. There was an attack on base near the Captain’s office. A highly lethal explosive was used to infiltrate the building. Investigation found signs of a signature that had only been seen on explosives set by the Scot. He thankfully had been on a 2 week mission with you at the time so his alibi was solid

Then, it was Gaz. A file had been lifted off of the Captain’s computer. The access code used belonged to him. It took a little longer to clear his name than it had for Soap. Thankfully he was able to prove that the code used was a code he had burned years prior. You were able to prove this by looking at the coding embedded in the access code usage from Price’s computer.

The Lieutenant was barely even considered. Someone mentioned that he was absent at the time of the attack and he didn’t need to say a single word to silence those rumors. He leveled one steely glare at the recruit and any talk of him being the traitor happened behind his back. Where was Ghost? He was on a covert operation for Laswell in Ukraine. Definitely above board and not a black operation in any way.

Next, the Captains himself was in the hot seat. He was the only one of the team that would have known Soap’s signature for the bomb and Kyle’s access code, current and previous. He also knew when Ghost would be off base and when you and Soap would be on assignment. Orchestrating the best time to attack.

Finally, the pointing fingers found their way to you. You also would’ve known Soap’s signature. You didn’t know where Ghost was going but you remembered saying goodbye to him before you went to debrief for the mission you and Soap were being sent on. You were also the best at computers and hacking on the team. It took the longest to clear your name, and even while you were put on leave while the investigation was ongoing recruits and other CO’s continued to theorize. Throwing around ideas that it was a team effort and that we were all a cell of terrorists planted in the military.

As accusations continued to rise and your own teammates began to turn on one another you snuck back into Price’s office determined to get to the bottom of this and to save the found family you have grown to love so much.

Turns out the access code used to frame Kyle, could be traced back to a cell tower in Russia. You took your findings to Laswell and the two of you busted down the door of a run down apartment. Inside were three women strung out on lord knows what, and a man passed out with no less than 12 bottles of vodka surrounding him. Viktor Kuzmenko. Number 7 on the CIAs most wanted list. Further investigation and interrogation would later reveal he was behind everything that your team was being blamed for.

You would do anything to protect your family. Even if it means getting your hands a little dirty and doing things in a less than ideal way.

xx

A/N: This was supposed to be much shorter, and I didn’t really proofread this. Sorry if there are typos☠️

Requests are: OPEN

[themurderofcrowscollective]

stretchin' those beans

BEHOLD...

you're welcome ✨

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Blush

beautiful words with "blush" to try to include in your poem/story

Ablush - blushing

Blush rose - a grayish red that is bluer and duller than bois de rose or Pompeian red, yellower and duller than appleblossom, and bluer and deeper than livid brow

Blush wine - any of various pinkish table wines

Blusher - one who blushes

Blusher veil - a short veil that is worn over the face (as by a bride) and that is often attached to a longer veil

Blushful - to become red in the face especially from shame, modesty, or confusion

Outblush - to blush more than or to exceed in rosy colour

Unblushing - not blushing; shameless, unabashed

If any of these words inspire your writing, do tag me or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists

[feral-ballad]

Roaa Abaza, Into Womanhood, Through You

[Text ID: “For Ophelia doesn’t know / how to stay tender / with that much blood / in her mouth.”]

[joifee]

"xB", M.C. Joifee, 2023, Digital Drawing with Medibang Paint Pro, 30.2 x 19.9cm, uploaded on the artists tumblr-blog

This artpiece was drawn during @shepscapades hermit character-design event all through june. The artist M.C. Joifee was inspired by the painting "Ophelia" by the british artist Sir John Everett Millais, drawn 1851-1852.

The imagine depicts xBcrafted lying inside a shallow river in a similar pose to Ophelia in the original painting. Other than Ophelia his eyes are closed, making him appear more peaceful than Ophelia. He is surrounded by floating cherry-blossom, choosen by the artist due to the current 1.20 update of minecraft, which introduced the cherry-grove biome.

The river is surrounded by minecraft-typical fauna. On the shore of xB's right side is an azalea tree is growing from the ground. On the left side sugarcane is growing next to a sandy beach. On the left side of the picture, parts of a stone bridge is visible. Possible a bridge build by xB himself or another unknown to us hermit.

Floating particals let us assume that theres a sporeblossom and a cherry tree nearby.

[themurderofcrowscollective]

As the one to clean up our emotional issues, I keep yelling into headspace 'IT'S FINE, YOU'RE OKAY, I KNOW YOU MESSED UP THAT ONE TIME BUT YOU'RE OKAY NOW AND YOU LEARNED, IT'S FINE. PUT THAT DOWN. PUT IT DOWN. DAMMIT, PUT. THAT. TRAUMA. DOWN.' It's not fun sometimes, but I'm good at what I do.

loudly going "YOU'RE GOOD YOU'RE GOOD" to myself to ward off the memory of every embarrassing thing i've ever done

[bitesizedpoetry]

[ophelia-soren-characterprofile]

ophelia søren; a moodboard

"hey that was kinda mean y'know,"

[starry-carrousel]

Posting the girls on this beautiful Flower Thursday

Read Flower if you haven’t already!

[themurderofcrowscollective]

A lot of us tend to be like this Some of us want this, not all of us but some of us but then again we're terrified of emotion and people having a crush on us cause no thank you

[REDACTED] moodboard

[thedeathdeelers]

feel

she couldn’t technically feel him.

he was a ghost, a spiritual representation of what he used to be — a soul without a physical presence.

she knew this. it was fact.

but there was just something about him..

luke shifts on the sofa beside her, the slight flicker of light the only indication that he had moved at all.

julie leans her head against the back of the couch, legs tucked underneath her as eyes make their way up from his ink-stained fingers (how did that work?) to his forearms and exposed biceps.

warmth floods her cheeks when her eyes linger too long, quickly shifting her gaze to the frayed edges of his sleeveless tee. her fingers itch to tug at the loose threads, to see how soft the decades old tshirt could be. but she knows she’ll only be disappointed — knows her fingers will phase right through him as if he never even existed.

swallowing down the lump that was quickly forming in her throat, julie’s eyes finally come to rest on her writing partner’s face, a bittersweet sense of calm wrapping itself around her heart like a warm blanket.

she’s gotten too used to this sight, she thinks, the corner of her lips ticking up at the sight of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he scratches his head in deep thought.

julie lets out a sigh, eyes lingering on luke for just a few more minutes before letting them slide shut.

she doesn’t know how long they sit there, how long she lets herself dream of an impossible future where they both celebrate their 18th birthdays. she thinks she might have even fallen asleep, a memory or a dream of a lingering touch near her cheek.

she only knows that when she finally opens her eyes, goosebumps running all the way down her spine, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, she finds luke sitting much closer to her, face merely a few inches away from her.

“morning sleepyhead,” he whispers, a gentle smile lighting up his eyes.

“m-morning,” julie manages to stutter out, suddenly all too aware of how much she can feel him.

feel his presence, both spiritually and…physically.

was it all in her head? was she dreaming?

and it’s only then that she notices luke’s hand by her face as he reaches out and tenderly mimics the action of swiping his thumb across her cheek-

except she….

she can feel ihim.

her eyes widen at the feeling, his face only mirroring her wonder when he sees the goosebumps erupting up and down her arm.

[thereweresunflowers]

Ophelia and I go swimming (first draft)

it needs polishing but i like it a lot already. thinking about ophelia fresh-water swimming thinking about how much it means to her identity thinking about her heaving herself out of the water and living.

text under cut!

Ophelia and I go swimming

In the river, at dawn. 

Her arms cut through the morning water,

muscles taut with definition and supple

in the way a carp is, staunch against the current.

The arching fins of her shoulder blades lift with

water carving down them like mountain streams.

Her short hair drips rich with river,

curling around her forehead and sticking

to her cheeks. I want to reach out and brush it

but she splashes me. 

Laughing, both laughing now, 

fickle as fish with our voices running

downstream where no-one can hear us.

Water shimmering in the air like confetti. 

She pulls herself out of the river,

all her weight on her arms as she clambers

onto the bank,

lays panting in the dewey short-grass 

with the sun all over the droplets of water on her skin

– nothing as gaudy as diamonds but instead fresh glass –

I watch the golden light fall in shafts on her belly

as it rises

and falls

and rises.