𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐊 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃

   *  //   𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐆 .

NOVEMBER 19TH,   1970,   18:27PM ███████ MANOR,   WESTCHESTER COUNTY,   NEW YORK,   UNITED STATES.

ZERO:   𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎,  𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔. BIG BOSS:   𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. ZERO:   𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚜,  𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍,  𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.    𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.    𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘,  𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔.    𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎. BIG BOSS:   𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘,  𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍.    𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍-𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛. ZERO:   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔,  𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎.    𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚎𝚜.    𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗,  𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛      ——      𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚘𝚗,  𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚋. BIG BOSS:    [𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐] ZERO:   𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗.    𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍.    𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝.    𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎,  𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚖,  𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.    𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜,  𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐈𝐒  𝐇𝐎𝐖  𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃    𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇   𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉   𝒂   𝒕𝒆𝒏   𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅   𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒓    champagne flute in your hand,  putting a convenient face whilst mingling  ‘midst a room of serpents and pink-cheeked sycophants,  the crowd of self-christened ‘elites’.    here you are,  their  concocted idol,  exchanging  forced smiles  and  ingratiating salutations  with utmost reticence as they gather around you like a  band of hawks   /   suffocate you   /   make you feel  less  like a man and more like a dangling pound of  fresh meat  on display for the ravening masses,  salivating   /   eager to feast off  carrion fame.    you nod mechanically   /   uncomfortably,  move out of every casual touch,  a drunken shoulder clap,  a girl trying to chat you up      ——      they are  blind  to the blood clots  on your teeth   /   the hands smirched  red-matricide-regret   /   the mutilating grief transmogrifying your heart into one great abscess    [    it refuses to go away.    ]      ——      you do not need their emptied congratulations,  seeds of anger sprouting at the accursed title of ‘big boss’ spilling reverently from forked tongues,  an epithet so sorely  pyrrhic-won.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑  𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐘𝐎𝐔.     you have never been good at feigning  normalcy,  wearing ill-fitting human skin,  civilian clothes unbecoming of a man that wild.    you feel like a twarthed   /   naked   /   trapped animal.    (    no,  you don’t need any of it      ——      what you need is to clear your head because your chest is too tight,  the crowd is  too close   /   too loud,  they are taking up all the oxygen and it’s gotten too hard to breathe and you want to escape   /   lash out   /   rip at muscle and bone and claw your way out before you   -    )    check your blindspot,  case the room  :   there is no clear through-line to the exit.    east,  there is a door      ——      but you cannot say where it leads.    (    better to make for the kitchen,  take your chances in the service tunnels.    they checked your gun at the door,  but you’ve made do with  a knife  in worse situations.    you   -    )    see a window of retreat near the banquet table.    you turn,  make your way there in a hurried stride,  wholly undismayed by the expressions of annoyance you receive at the  rudeness  of your escape. 𝒚𝒐𝒖   𝒄𝒂𝒏   𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆   𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒕’𝒔   𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆   𝒐𝒏   𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓   𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌    as you evade the throng of bodies and approach a lengthy table brimming with saccharine delicacies.    you stop   /   breath   /   tamp down  instincts  to flee when the burgeoning leonine hunger pangs.    frowning,  you stare at the multicolored appetisers   /   most of which you have never seen before   /   till you take a pair of  meat skewers  and start gnawing at them like a  beast of prey.    a sudden presence at your side provokes chin to rise   /   eye to meet a crown of gold,  wintry blues  peering at you under the heliacal glow of a crystalline chandelier,  and you   -    (    remember the passive  coldness  of her face,  standing in that field as white petals whipped around your ankles.    she gave  her body  and  her child  to her country,  carried her scar as proof,  was willing to mactate herself upon  flowered altars  for a purpose beyond comprehension.    how does she expect you to do the  same  ?    you don’t understand,  you   -    )    see red,  press your eye shut but the petals remain,  like they’re stuck to the flesh of your eyelid.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇   /   𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃   /   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘,    shake your head      ——      she is not here.    she is dead.    this is reality.    you turn back to your food   /   get a proper sidelong look at the woman,  recognize her  for who she truly is  ;   lunafreya nox fleuret,  the  sovereign  of a protectorate in the middle of a political scuffle,  more of a  figurehead  on their machinations than a queen    [    much like you.    ]    her brother is a soldier,  acting as her dutiful custodian      ——      you recall shaking his hand briefly in the crowd,  he seemed as  disinclined  to be here as you.    you store the  information  away   /   attempt to be conversational:             ❛    leurs brochettes ne sont pas mauvaises.    mais je préfère encore manger du serpent que ça.    ❜    you say,  french fluently falling off your lips without much pondering.

@moonichor

𝐀 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 :   painted thickly with a layer of varnish, framed in pale fools gold  —  and she, a simple corner ornament.  she was made for this ;  noble-bred, a carefully hand-crafted icon.  wrought for the masses and self-appointed deities to utilize.  they seized and struggled for symbols in order to secure the slightest figment of influence, and if it were not over her, then they would compete over someone else.  they picked their gemstones to toss in the treasure chamber, leaving them without the glimmer, adulterating them within the shadowy obscurities, never to be seen on the television screen.  their ghastly tongues prattled inconceivably, in unison, to attribute to a synchronized white noise. 

with appetite did they seek her attention, too ;  ignorant of the tattered brims which remained proof of military sin and the crime to weaponize innocence like a volatile explosive.  it was a slow killing of a girl who had come to understand this as the typical behavior of hierarchical leeches, demonstrating their feigned relief to have just barely so slipped through the war-cracks.  of course, this was merely show, as they so blithely monetized the shed gore and radioactive bones.  this enormous gauge of politics spanned itself over each head, slithered with haughty threat, ‘twixt the pillars of it all where one specific chancellor watched over every singular motion of hers.  in sickening amounts so, that she urged to swiftly disappear among the crowd, toward the other side of these halls where she found …  you.    (  a trojan paradox, agonized with frauds, and praises for valor, and terrible expectations.  )    curiosity begged for satisfaction and dictated her walk, feather-light, beside you, only to sense a deeply rooted pain projected and carved into her marble-frozen apparition.

then  —  a perplexing dialogue.

“ pardon ? ”    unexpectedly widened brows and eyelids for commentary this macabre.  she fell through clouds.  etiquette quickly revised and staggering back into composure.  here she stood, not a single inch moved, silver-graced and primly kept, soft-handed and crystal-adorned —  in audience with a beast :    a rawed-up, wild child, clad in a man’s muscular structure, bearing its patron status like an ill-fitting crown, which it’s been so compelled to remove.  aggressively.  something equivalent to horror and awe struck her still, an astonished sentiment, existing between a deer and a bear.  suddenly, illogically, her personal tatteredness did not matter.  someone was always frayed more crudely, the eyes more bloodshot, the lungs more filled with desert-dust, the flowerbeds more stained with a carmine shade.    “ vous semblez être un homme avec un sens du goût incomparable. ”    at last, a response to indulge the attempt.  it might also be her individual attempt to shake off the paralyzation.    “ forgive me if it was my approach that caused you to jolt.   but you gave the impression to be in distress.  are you unwell, sir ? ”

Victoria Chang, Obit

*  𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒 // 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐈 : 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂 . 

i.    latin is the most common language eosian nobility and royalty have derived their names from.  nonetheless, the fleuret line, at times, does also use a variety of freyja’s names for their daughters.  the norse goddess freyja had gone by several identities during her voyage in search for her lost husband, as well as those that she assumed as she was impaled and burned three times by the aesir and then happens to be reborn each instance.  

this includes names such as :    gef / gefn  ( the giver ) ,  hörn  ( flaxen ) ,  mardöll  ( sea brightener, or the one who makes the sea swell ) ,  skjálf  ( shaker ) ,  vanadis ( the dis / fate spirit of the vanir ) ,  gullveig  ( gold-thread ) ,  and heidr ( bright, clear ).

not every child would have been bestowed a name that referenced freyja, however, here could be examples of this practice :

gullveig was the first healer-oracle after aera and ardyn’s demise, and built the fleuret royalty.

lunafreya may be partly named after her maternal grandmother freyja.  an oracle who could have immensely committed to the purification of the dead, and was therefore occasionally nicknamed valfreyja  ( the lady of the slain ).  she had two daughters :  sylva and hnoss. 

the mysterious oracle whose temporary successor was a lucian king could have had one of frejya's names, like mardöll.

ii.    the standard arm of the oracles is a trident, the symbolism of which is found in lunafreya’s name entirely.  it primarily comes from the connection between freyja’s father being the sea god njördr and the greco-roman equivalent of the oceanic god poseidon / neptune whose iconic weapon is the trident, in addition with the fact that the moon has magnetic control over the tides.  

iii.    the trident is not the only tie to water that is evident for the fleuret house. the sylleblossom as a native flower to tenebrae, en masse, resembles a whole sea in the clouds.  this opens the door for the assumption that societies and cultures in the tenebraen lands used to have a deep spiritual connection with water and the seas, as opposed to the ancient peoples of solheim, who worshipped the fire ; and the earlier oracles, perchance, still were tethered too those beliefs to praise water’s purifying qualities that would cleanse the souls of those that perished of the still wide-spread disease. water is both purifying and symbolized death for the ancients, which is visually portrayed within luna's death sequence.

iv. those of fleuret blood are semi-immune to the flames of the lucii ring.  while the ring drains slowly the vitality of the king who wears it, the holy fire is a defense mechanism for those unworthy and would claim their life either instantly, or as a price for the temporary use of its power.  there are two instances of exceptions that were spared from this.  ravus nox fleuret, who was of fleuret blood and unworthy, would be branded but not wholly engulfed.  and ignis, who was of no particular blood, but was given the power as a necessity to protect its true bearer, and was as reward excused with the price of his sight.

Melancholia - Yoko Shimomura. Final Fantasy XV.

url change from moonichor to selenorites

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃.    t’was between sisters where angels fell on deaf ears, where their choirs ceased so abruptly it rendered time breathless, drowned out by humming bird songs.  as seemingly humble nothings meant everything amid cosmic malediction, what else could she do than accept sweet offers, which may, one day, stand still at a moment's notice ?    “ how could i say no ?  i am in the mood for a little adventure today, and this book can certainly wait.  to what wondrous place will you guide me, i wonder ? ”

It’s not the whisper of a hymn or a hallowed prayer, but the breath of a dying melody curled along the oracle’s tongue in a hushed hum.  ❝ Would you have time to partake in a sightseeing walk with me, Luna ?  There’s a lovely spot not far from the town. It is but a short carriage ride away. ❞ — @moonichor

Forugh Farrokhzad, Deevar (The Wall); from ‘Lost’, tr. Sholeh Wolpé

▬ ❝ On my honour as Oracle, I will not rest until the darkness is banished from our world and the light is restored.

Send ‘K’ for a kiss from my muse.