𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄

Aphelion • Jesper Kyd feat. Melissa Kaplan

👁️👄👁️ excuse me sis, do you have the time to talk about our lord and savior : bhunivelze. 👁️👄👁️

luna vc : why yes sis, i serve him 👁️👄👁️

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 / 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 ;    some sacred agonies were simply overbearing, over-gobbling, the cosmos eager to sunder and disassemble.  one side too real, the other too dead.  too holy, too eldritch.  they took root and vine as rotten artery-roads through a gilded body.  though your words rang true, your softness lied.  always, always were there lies. ( like hers, like anyone else's.  ) along with the ghosts you soothed you faded before her, and to this, she was regrettably blind.  oh, what feats she would undertake  ---  moving mountains, parting the seas, bending the skies for her twinkling asteria's happiness !  perhaps, this might have been the reason she shan’t know the hidden meaning. your ailment a secret by volition of cold light.    “ fear does even plague ghosts, it is unfortunate such inflicts those who have yet to meet their end, in turn.  ”   herein the irony manifested between two fleuret women and their empathic attributes, their shared compounds tempering sorrow like a balm to a bruise.  hers, a gift to the living    /    yours, to the unliving.  she did rather not admit her particular understanding of a ghost's reasoning for its lingering obstinacy, and that in her own dismays she would stir waters to tremendous dimensions.    “ even so —  i could not blame them.  the light of yonder is too bright and terrifying, too cryptic for them.  what else will it cleanse aside from memory ?  some may not be able to let go of their pain… ”    and their wailing may never be heard, in silence they must weep. 

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 for those whose eyes sees the unknown. the markings of a goddess, it’s plague clouding her vision towards a death-screamed spiral. it suffocates her. the desperation of fallen corpses clinging onto her soul : hungry for vengeance, craving for existence, and when they speak it was honey sung words reaped with veiled treachery. the chaos in her eyes is marred with blood stained tears, yet the night star no longer mourns for its injustice. instead, she carries on pretending she is unbothered / pretending she is above the terror which torments the earth. smile, play her role, she has always been good at acting and running away.  ❝  ——  hmm, what do you think they say ?  ❞  look how patiently the stars deflects their response. her dialect spoken with an air of spacious wonder, dancing on the cusp of religious taboo, with falsehood innocence to match.  ❝  the dead who remains... often feels very wronged.  ❞  there will always be some semblance of truth to her words, but because you are her holy sister, she offers you nothing less than sincerity.  ❝  they do not want to part with the living, so they choose to ignore the summoning of the light above. it hurts them too you see, so they hurt others. or at least some of them do. many of them simply hides. ❞

Lady Lunafreya

You know what would have been neat ? A dramatic wedding scenario

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐊 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 ;   neither sincere enough to show teeth or gums, nor sharp enough to paint a scoffing picture, although she did manifest scoff in the one-second frown pinching between her flaxen brows, for between humility and glorification would doubt cast its long shadow.  regrettably, oracles observed the shadows too intimately for comfort, the silhouette of vedrfolnir stretching distortedly wide it became its own line, the line that warned of what happened when you overstepped.  the foreboding signs of degradation, of grace melting off the halo, of aether dripping out of the pores.  it was a sight incomprehensible and eldritch, a premonition so terrible it may as well be sacrilege to spell it out, and each coming day announcing its own uncertainty brought along the crumbling of her own self-control to hold her tongue.

“ and if nothing lasts forever, soon then, i hope, what comes to an end, too, is your bad habit of praising your brother too much, and you, yourself, not enough.  a man can lose grasp of his own humanness if he indulges the spiritual pursuit for too long, and i much prefer an anchor to stay grounded. ”  because the call of the sky for me, my body’s festering desire growing like a tumor, it scares me and no one wants to be scared.  no one wants to be scared of touching something as romanticized as the stars.  “ well, then, if i am not to worry about the subjects i pick for our exchanges, let me ask this :  why are you here, dáinsleif ?  i do not mean here, in this moment, next to me, nevermind that i do enjoy your presence.  i mean why are you in the position you are in, where all you do is look up to someone or something, but not meet them eye to eye ? “  have you not been more than this, once ?

Indeed, what she says is cryptic— ominous even, as it speaks volumes of the knowledge she professes through what couldn't be considered less than an universal truth. For the long living such as them, this may look like the same sights as any other year's whenever the inteyvats bloom for two weeks before they find repose in the abode that is the stellar graveyard at their roots. Dáinsleif shakes his head slightly, meant to reassure and put the oracle's mind at ease. ◜Worry not. I may not be as profound as my brother is in the realm of spirituality, but I find truth in your words, nonetheless.◞ That's right, for he is far more detached than Vedrfolnir would be as the Visionary. Being a vessel for visions of the future to come to the present can do as much to a man, he can only hope that the sights he has of times to come aren't horrifying nor paralyzing enough to interfere in his daily life now. Only realizing now that he was back at admiring his older brother's prodigy and the traits he had gained from it thereafter, Twilight Sword proceeds to clear his throat awkwardly. ◜When you talked about the unchanging nature of a scenery for the long living, I mean. The ephemerality of these moments serve as a reminder that all must come to an end one day.◞

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 .    //    SEL ACCEPTING .

‘ i seek scandal and low companionship. ’     //    @leadingmcn

𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄’𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐁 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓’𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐈𝐏 ;    and neither seethed its owner with scornfulness, although this could have been a matter of personal grudge. through wide-open windows leaked nocturnal breeze, beddings all undone and disorderly, pearls and gems scattered across invaded tilings ;  those were witnesses to a criminal scene which succeeded not according to its plunderish schemes.  this lady’s heritage was both sheltered and targeted, her belongings rumoured and sought after, and within merely a question of ' when ' would she fall victim to games to this extend --- this much she could fathom and for this much she prepared. 

one night, to her dismay, she failed to read the warning signs : the silence of owls, the flutter of crows, the peering balcony-glares shadowing behind her tender shoulder before she rested ‘pon her familiar mattress, all that ignored only for them to wake her with a rustling of treasures.  the following miniscule wrestle amounted to a moment ‘twixt oddly opposing personas of parallel nobility, and the grin of yours ; a mischief, socially offensive like any other theatric trickster in tales, pinned against ornamental walls.   “ and you concluded to find those by trespassing my private chamber ?  well, at the very least, you are an intriguing character, albeit a thieving one. ”    cold jest, dry lips, bruised dignity. lungs may be pressed by inconvenience, but her hands, firmly clenched 'round weapon's pole, shan’t afford to waver nor shiver.   

“ you have accomplished the scandal ; now, the latter explains the pitiful deeds. ”

😘❤️

damn

you materialize in the corner of my eye like sephiroth

𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎    /    𝐀 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐌.    quietly, its hymns resounded within her very anatomy. a flicker's rush through spectral atoms as the familiarity of such concept would nudge on the heart ;  a loose memory, too stubborn to be adjusted smoothly into entire recollection.  she pondered on fragmented nostalgia, and a gentle kind of curiosity bloomed from the corners of an unrecorded woe.    “ it does sound demanding, enormously so.  yet, in spite of such strain, you speak so fondly of them.  do you share an affection with your aeons ? ”

❛       aspiring summoners pray to the fayth ————   it can take days for the fayth to respond. if they respond at all. the amount of mental fortitude a summoner requires is astronomical. but if one does succeed,  the fayth heed your call & grant their power. that is how aeons came to be. it's a strong connection that cannot be replicated or broken. every aeon is special. every fayth, unique.     ❜    @moonichor