starpathe

[starpathe]

“The word elf is found throughout the Germanic languages and seems originally to have meant 'white being.'” fantasy authors everywhere took this so literally

#( witcher 3 im making direct eye contact w/ you ) #( not my elf<3 peace and love ) #tbd #- ̗̀ * ✴ my starting class is muscle wizard * . ooc

[starpathe]

your carrd is the sexiest thing ive ever seen wow

oh heyyyyy, heyy. thank you so much. this made my little heart pitter patter. i appreciate you op ♥. if you ever want graphics or anything,,, youve got my address and ive got this photoshop subscription and together we can make something happen

#( you are my ~fire~ ) #( this is so kind fr. merci. danke ) #̗̀ * ✴ my starting class is muscle wizard * . ooc

[starpathe]

@starfrckled   /   emìl.

𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃  𝙵𝙻𝙾𝙾𝚁  𝙸𝚂  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚃  𝙱𝙴𝙳  𝙷𝙴  𝙷𝙰𝚂  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁  𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽 .  it  always  welcomes  him ,  soft  and  pliant  under  his  back  ——  the  only  touch  that  never  hurts  him .  hand  moves  on  rusted  leaves ,  his  fingers  gentle ,  the  promise  not  to  singe  silently  conveyed .  his  magic  is  a  burning  black  sea ,  all  buried  rage  and  stifled  screams ,  but  it’s  quiet  now ,  dormant .  he  can  only  have  peace  in  fleeting  moments ,  half  forgotten ,  and  it  always  ends  much  too  soon .  wake  up  ——  here  it  comes ,  the  end  of  the  dream ,  the  moment  he  has  to  leave  behind  sun  kissed  glade  and  go  back  to  frost  covered  landscape    /    hellscape . ❛  i  was  not  dreaming.  only  resting .  ❜    his  dreams  are  not  nearly  as  nice ,  but  this  he  keeps  behind  his  teeth .    ❛  where  are  we  going  ?    ❜    moon  child’s  tone  is  carefully  detatched ,  void  of  both  honey  and  vinegar .  a  cold  stream ,  coals  hiding  beneath .

HE   LOOKS   TO   HIS   KIN   AND   IMAGINES   HIM   A   MOUSE:      every   morning   made   of   writhing   snakes   /   every   day   tangled   in   a   nest   of   vipers,   biting   off   his   own   whiskers   in   a   bid   to   feel   anything   other   than   foreboding.      (   or   perhaps   that   little   bit   of   grief   lives   in   all   of   us,   and   caranthir   simply   projects   onto   others   what   he   denies   in   himself.   )      gaze   lingers,   lifts   to   the   heavens   on   the   backs   of   an   arctic   gale,   and   stares   off   into   the   empty   void   it   has   come   to   recognize   as   home.      ❛   you   are   going   hunting.   ❜      in   the   distance,   a   bird   tucks   tawny   feathers   against   its   body   and   plummets   towards   the   earth   like   a   stone.

❛   come.   i   will   open   the   way   for   you.   ❜      he   does   not   gesture.      does   not   deal   in   invitations.      he   simply   walks   away,   posture   held   rigid   with   the   confidence   of   one   who   has   come   to   expect   compliance.      ❛   close   your   heart,   lloerwedd.   ❜      a   warning,   a   demand   /   a   wilderness   and   a   howling   wasteland.      pass   this   test   ––   one   of   many   done   /   one   of   many   yet   to   come.      ❛   do   what   you   must.   ❜

#( I WAS NOT DREAMING ONLY RESTING ) #( things that live in my brain rent-free ) #( i love him. growls ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i ��see humans but no humanity * . main verse #starfrckled

[starpathe]

@cryptales   /   yennefer.

“No.” A curt answer as sharp as her stance. She was caught between lies and pretenses to keep herself alive. If the Wild Hunt ( Eredin, only Eredin, ever so his greedy self ) ought to drag her down into the abyss, she would drag them further.

She asked a litany of questions but did not want to hear the answer. Redirect the questions to the Golden Child, sections of braids framing his face ; Tattoos gracing the left side of his face. Ask what the symbols mean, but she recoiled like the viper that she was, caught in a trap. 

She squirmed in tandem with him, and the longer she tugged and tore at her shackles, the quicker she exhausted herself ( The glint within her shards of amethyst faded, slowly dulling and debilitating, as though something were draining her of her powers ) “I don’t care. But we are to wait, are we not? You and me, alone in this block of concrete where no light falls.” She spat on the ground. For once, not as an insult or mockery, but from the foul taste upon her mouth. A blend of sweat and tears that had long since withered when she was alone in her cell and the darkness had diffused, glacial cold seeping into frigid bones and sluggish words.

“What will knowledge of your kind grant me? You know ( almost ) everything there is to know about Cirilla. Perhaps even me. I know nothing.” She flinched from the prospect of losing Ciri, not his eyes. Not the sextant. Not even death at his or Eredin’s hands. “Leave, then. Task another Rider to guard me, or open the chains and let me walk.”  An act of persuasion, velvety words leaving her dry and cracked lips. “I can’t run away from you. I have no recollection of what happened and where I am.”

the   reach   of   his   godhood   is   thus:      caranthir   has   a   shelf   of   voices   to   choose   from,   and   still   he   is   drawn   to   reach   for   the   same   thing   over   and   over   again   ––   hubris.      WHO   AMONG   MORTALS   COULD   CHALLENGE   YOU   AND   WIN,   STARCHILD?      (   open   the   chains   and   let   me   walk.   )      he   lowers   himself   to   one   knee   before   her,   careful   to   avoid   the   spot   where   she   has   sullied   the   ground,   and   touches   the   metal   around   her   wrist.

DIMERITIUM.      they   did   not   have   such   shackles   before   the   race   of   men   smithied   from   precious   metal   bonds   to   keep   chaos   at   bay.      (   power   is   power:      it   may   be   beaten   or   it   may   be   won,   but   it   cannot   be   repressed.   )      if   one   is   to   bind   their   enemies’   hands,   they   should   braid   the   rope   themselves   ––   sinew   and   bird   bones   /   fashion   the   cord   from   spruce   roots   and   tie   it   at   the   wrists.      caranthir   closes   his   fist   around   the   chain.      the   nipping   taste   of   iron   and   salt   stings   his   tongue;      he   grits   his   teeth   against   it,   swallowing   the   feeling   and   inviting   the   poison   inside   /   for   a   moment   sharing   in   the   hollow,   liminal   space   that   the   shackles   make   of   her   body.   

❛   remember   this   well:   i   have   already   spared   you   once.   ❜      with   his   free   hand,   he   pulls   a   key   from   the   hook   on   his   belt.      ❛   i   do   not   like   to   repeat   myself.   ❜      as   firm   as   the   manacles   claim   to   be,   they   fall   away   as   easily   any   other   once   he   turns   the   lock.      caranthir   looks   at   her,   unmoved,   as   the   chains   release,   slip   through   his   hand,   and   clatter   dully   to   the   floor.      no   sooner   is   she   set   free,   he   makes   of   himself   a   shackle   colder   than   iron   and   grabs   her   by   the   wrist.      he   leans   in,   eyes   glittering   with   the   cruelty   of   a   bouquet   of   dying   stars.      ❛   remember   this,   too:   i   do   not   need   you,   sorceress   ...   but   i   will   always   find   you.   ❜

#( much to unpack here! ) #( MUCH TO UNPACK ) #cryptales #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse

[starpathe]

dont care didnt ask plus you cant even comprehend the horrors im about to summon

#﹠. —— aes. 「 musings 」 #( exactly ) #queue.

[starpathe]

BORNOFBLOODANDWATER   /   xiomara.

              Sparing  a  golden  glance  to  the  Elven  councillors  on  her  right,  before  the  ambassador  even  speaks  there  is  an  odd  behaviour  about  them,  some  visceral  discomfort  uncharacteristic  of  their  commonly  serene  countenance.  The  overbearing  atmosphere  of  fear?  Respect?  

At  least  he  has  the  grace  to  look  her  in  the  eye  with  a  challenge  on  his  tongue.

A  low  hum  sighed  past  petaline  lips,  the  young  siren  rises  to  her  feet,  the  rest  of  the  court  standing  with  her  as  she  nods  them  their  leave.  Only  she,  the  elven  mage  and  the  remaining  guard  left  in  the  breeze  kissed  warmth  of  the  courtyard.  A  mark  of  trust  or  confidence?  ❛  I  thought  perhaps  with  all  your  elegance  and  perceived  diplomacy  you  might  be  mannerly  and  refined,  not  simply draped  in  airs  thinly  veiling  distaste.  ❜  Coming  forward  around  the  grand  table  laden  with  plans,  maps,  correspondence.  Her eyes  not  leaving  his  face.  Posture  clear  and  managed,  speaking  not  with  sweetened  voice  but  the  darkening  tone  of  a  Queen  offended  upon  first  absent  greeting  ❛  You  certainly  know  how  to  make  a  terrible  first  impression.  ❜  She wonders  aloud  with  all  the  concern  she  would  care  to  grant  this  stranger.  Is  this  how  they  wished  to  present  their  proposal?

Eyes  turned  to  his  face  through  dark  glossy  lashes,  not  gracing  him  with  raising  her chin  to  the  emissary.  This  is  her  land  and  she  refuses  to  be  domineered  and  scowled  at  by  a  guest.  ❛  As  for  my  councillors,  they  and  my  kin  alike  call  me  Vasílissa.  I  have  not  asked  the  loyalty  of  the  Aen  Seidhe  only  their  respect  and  proficiency.  Their  loyalty  came  naturally  with  my  merit  and  power,  not  empty  words  lavished  in  court.  Speak  your  intentions  or  at  least  your  name,  Xenos.  ❜  Each   word  of  her  final  command  shivering  on  the  fringe  of  her  power.  No  change  in  her  approach  only  the  tender  brush  of  compulsion  at  the  edges  of  each  letter.  A  warning  of  the  tenuous  thread  he  plucks  more  so  than  a  threat.

Oh  for  that  disenchanted  gaze,  how  she  wishes  she  could  bring  him  to  his  knees  with  all  the  fear  of  the  gods  /  of  her.  Forge  a  bond  with  his  mind  and  bring  him  to  new  realms  of  terror.  A  behemoth  shuddering  in  her  diminutive  shadow.  Considering  that  might  be  quite  …  impulsive of her,  she  holds  herself  back

                                                                                                                  for  now.

HE   HAS   SPENT   HIS   LIFE   COMING   UP   WITH   A   THOUSAND   WAYS   TO   PRAY,   only   to   reach   the   disappointing   conclusion   that   reverence   is   as   useless   as   the   gods   ––   and   monarchs   ––   themselves.      forgive   him,   then,   if   he   does   not   kneel.      his   body   has   forgotten   the   motions   /   his   mind   forgone   them.      she   comes   around   the   table;      she   reminds   him   of   the   ruthless   fury   of   summer   winds   and   the   relentless   crashing   of   august   waves.      her   tone   cuts   a   warning   into   his   palm,   the   cold   edge   of   the   knife   pressing   against   his   skin.      caranthir   smiles   thinly,   the   edges   of   his   lips   as   brittle   as   dragonfly   wings.      the   warning   wound   she   carves   into   his   hand   bleeds   apathy.      ❛   apologies   ––   i   did   not   mean   to   veil   it.   ❜

he   looks   idly   at   the   door   that   the   last   of   her   court   passed   through,   letting   her   words   wash   over   him   like   a   saltwater   tide.      he   inclines   his   head   and   seems   to   listen   to   her   voice;      in   reality,   he   listens   to   the   whispering   of   the   winds.      there   are   two   who   flit   through   the   heavens:      one,   native   to   this   realm,   rolls   of   the   backs   birds’   wings   and   cautions   him   against   the   power   of   a   kingdom   he   does   not   understand;      the   other,   the   northern   gale   he   has   brought   with   him,   urges   the   clouds   to   devour   the   sun.      a   sniff,   or   perhaps   a   scoff.      ❛   caranthir,   ❜      he   grants   her.      ❛   ar-feiniel.   ❜      when   again   he   meets   her   eyes,   it   is   with   the   distant   glimmer   of   a   beast   who   recognizes   the   challenge   of   a   hunter.

❛   today   i   come   to   observe.   ❜      each   word   carefully   plucked   from   its   grave   and   given   new   life.      (   how   does   it   go?      today   red,   tomorrow   dead.   )      he   holds   the   future   and   its   secrets   closely   to   his   chest,   showing   her   only   the   cards   that   bear   the   prettiest   of   promises.      ❛   there   is   little   written   of   your   people;   even   less   of   your   kingdom.   tell   me   ––   is   it   that   the   dh’oine   do   not   respect   you   enough   to   write   of   you,   or   that   they   are   so   frightened   that   they   have   destroyed   it   all?   ❜      he   knows   what   it   means   to   be   dead   to   history.      (   they   say   it   is   written   by   the   victors,   but   reality   challenges   poetry:      history   is   written   by   those   with   ink   and   accepted   by   those   who   resemble   the   author.   )      they   made   ghosts   of   my   kin   too,   siren,   and   we   have   not   once   bowed   before   the   thrones   of   men.

#( caranthir fail comp ) #( rolls up under the pretence of diplomacy and spends the next century poking xia in the ribs ) #( clenches my fist ) #( they make me so [bus crash noise ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse

[starpathe]

TREPPENWITZZ.

time    has    always    been    an    act    of    liberation    ___    time    was    a    friend’s    hand    on    a    shivering    shoulder,    not    really    warmth    but    the    promise    of    it    ;    and    the    girl,    homeless    &    isolated,    had    always    vowed    herself    that    a    time    would    come    when    this    feeling    would    shiver    itself    out    of    existence.    she    would    not    be    alone    forever,    surely.    the    days    would    pass,    steady    &    ineluctable,    and    she    would    hope,    and    hope,    and    hope,    with    the    certitude    that    the    ourobouros    would    not    always    mean    despair,    for    there    would    be    no    cycle    at    all    if    she    was    doomed    to    live    catastrophe    after    catastrophe.    time    meant    saving    in    times    of    emprisonment    and    each    new    tally    on    the    walls    of    her    cage    meant    a    day    closer    to    her    release.    that    is    how    a    young    girl    had    endured    the    end    of    her    worlds,    one    after    the    other,    and    that    is    how    she    had    planned    to    survive    the    rest    of    her    existence    :    as    the    moon    rises    in    an    empty    sky,    illuminated    by    the    promise    of    tomorrow’s    sunlight    __    a    cycle    after    another,    that    time    would    always    deliver    her    from.

but    now    that    the    serpent    has    gone    full    circle    ;    mad    and    in    love    and    in    love    with    being    mad    and    mad    at    being    so    in    love    ___    there    is    no    more    to    do    but    face    the    next    step    that    awaits    for    them.    the    problem    is    that,    while    the    process    is    absurdly    familiar    (the    serpent    is    indeed    trying    to    bite    its    own    tail)    it    is    no    delivering    act    at    all.    agony    is    the    word    that    the    mind    supplies,    but    agony    is    too    inadequate    ;    it    does    not    truly    encompass    the    way    his    hand    grazes    her    cheek    &    traps    her    hand    against    her    own    damp    skin.    besides,    there    is    not    much    more    to    include    :    the    rest    is    only    a    matter    of    memories,    more    sandcastles    to    build    and    to    see    being    washed    away.    the    snake    ;    she    feels    it    as    if    it    were    her    own    teeth,    too    sharp    not    to    be    fangs,    against    the    tender    flesh    of    their    days.    the    hunger    of    him    &    the    fear    of    starvation    :    just    a    little    more,    just    a    little    longer.    we    have    done    this    before    &    we    keep    doing    it,    and    it    will    never    be    anough.    a    cycle    after    another    cycle,    the    never-ending    loss    of    themselves.

«        i    don’t    feel    strong,        »        she    admits,    hidden    against    him,    lips    pressed    against    his    collarbone.    strength    resides    in    another    cycle,    when    days    would    end    in    smoke    and    she    would    rise    with    the    night    as    a    bad    omen.    strength    was    when,    too    young    to    care,    the    child    would    turn    herself    into    the    harbinger    of    fate    for    fun.    strength    was    when    she    was    prophet    and    mother    and    friend.    strength    was    in    all    those    roles    that    felt    like    hers,    that    did    not    need    white    beaches    and    blazing    sun.    but    this    ?    this    __    sadness,    and    this    love,    and    this    anger    …    they    demand    so    much.    so    much    of    her    and    so    little    of    him.    in    another    world    she    is    all    alone    with    her    grief    and    the    story    follows    its    natural    course    :    fate    could    erase    him    from    the    narrative    as    surely    as    one    would    get    rid    of    a    rotten    limb.    in    the    grand    scheme    of    her    loss,    he    barely    matters    __    and    still    ishtar    clings,    and    still    she    hopes,    and    still,    jaw    cannot    let    of    go    of    its    prey.    i    love    him,    and    this    is    not    fair.    therefore    she    can    admit    that    strength    is    not    what    she    possesses,    in    this    very    moment,    nor    what    she    incarnates.    truth    be    told    ___    she    does    not    have    nor    is    much    as    we    speak.    a    mess    of    unsaid    promises    and    phantom    pain,    perhaps.    a    fractured    doll    begging    for    relief,    if    one    was    inclined    to    read    her    silence.

he    does    not    feel    very    strong    either,    now,    does    he    ?    she    can    feel    it    without    having    to    ascend    ;    pain    slowly    bubbling    to    the    surface,    trying    to    achieve    its    climax.    this    is    not    fair,    she    thinks,    and    leaves    it    at    that.    the    thought    tastes    like    a    prayer    and    smells    like    a    spell,    but    is    not    spoken    outloud    :    the    burden    on    caranthir’s    shoulders    is    so    heavy    already,    and    the    unfairness    of    him    having    to    leave    her    would    surely    add    even    more    to    the    weight.    she    had    forgotten,    for    a    second,    that    they    would    not    face    his    fate    together    and    that,    at    the    end    of    his    life,    he    would    alone    meet    the    freezing    waters    of    his    fate.    

to    his    words,    she    does    not    reply    ;    what    would    she    say    to    his    admission    ?    ____    i    understand    ?    she    does    not.    or    perhaps,    she    understands    all    too    well    his    reasoning,    and    she    cannot    forgive    him    for    it    :    she    does    not    have    the    luxury    of    making    that    choice.    and    if    she    does    not    resent    him    for    choosing    his    own    path,    she    surely    can    be    mad    at    not    being    taken    with    him.    these    words,    she    keeps    them    __    heavy    on    her    tongue.    it    would    not    be    any    fairer    to    him    ;    and    if    she    is    selfish    in    every    way    that    matters,    she    forces    herself    not    to    impose    it    on    him.    let    it    be    peace,    if    it    cannot    be    life.    and    so    she    rises    ;    watches    him    with    quiet    eyes    as    the    shivers    and    the    sobbing    subdue.    he    is    so    terribly    sad,    and    that    too    is    another    fracture    in    the    doll’s    body.    but    it    is    a    gentle    pain,    as    it    brings    forth    more    important    realisations    :    time    has    always    been    a    delivering    act    ___    and    maybe    today    it    is    not    her    shackles    that    she    has    to    get    rid    of.    the    grip    on    her    heart    had    been    so    violent    that    her    duty    had    slipped    from    her    mind    ;    but    now    she    remembers,    as    long    as    fate    has    not    taken    him    away,    he    is    still    hers.    prophet    of    his    fate    and    whisperer    of    possibilities.    and    as    such,    she    knows    that    this    has    to    end    to    end    again.    (you    cannot    take    the    next    step    if    you    refuse    to    leave    the    ground    floor)    that    is    the    only    purpose    of    events,    of    suffering    &    joy    &    love    ;    all    of    it    ends    &    ends    again,    and    there    will    be    no    peace    if    she    cannot    let    go    of    her    solid    grip    on    his    soul.    this    cycle    is    his,    and    it    cannot    completes    itself    if    the    tail    is    still    between    her    teeth.    one    cannot    bite    harder    than    she    does,    exuberant    child    refusing    to    let    go    of    her    favorite    toy    __    but    for    another    gentler    spring    (wherever    that    might    be),    she    will    have    to    unclench    her    jaw.    time    is    an    act    of    delivering    &    she    discovers    herself    as    his    prison    guard    :    lips    soft    as    they    meet    his    tears,    key    in    each    lock    to    deliver    him    from    the    weight    of    her    own    fate,    collecting    salt    water    from    his    skin    with    a    kiss,    two,    three.    the    gentleness    of    it    slowing    time    itself.    he    is    hers    and    she    will    not    fail    him    further.

«        byddwn    wedi    mynd    gyda    chi,    pe    baech    wedi    rhoi'r    cyfle    imi.        »        muted    confession    pressed    against    the    marks    of    his    bone-deep    fatigue    ;    nothing    more    than    wishful    thinking.    the    fingers    that    had    gathered    proofs    of    her    weeping    escape    the    cage    of    his    hand    to    find    his    hair,    thumb    following    the    ridges    of    a    braid.    «        i    cannot    grasp    fates    from    other    universes.    when    i    left    __        »    another    cycle,    another    pain.    another    sandcastle,    darker    than    the    rest    ;    one    made    of    discs    that    she    was    unsure    his    tide    would    be    able    to    swallow.    but    it    is    done    &    it    is    gone,    and    the    cycle    of    their    madness    has    ended.    «        we    were    no    longer    in    the    same    world,    i    could    not    tell    what    would    happen    to    you.        »        the    story,    his    only    wish    :    a    promise    that    somewhere    else,    happiness    is    brighter    than    the    sun    ;    and    if    not    shining    on    them,    then    pouring    its    light    on    their    reflexion    in    the    looking-glass.    «        perhaps    you    are    right.    there    might    be    a    universe    where    this    ___        »        this,    which    is    to    say    us,    which    could    mean    our    love,    our    failures,    which    is    to    say,    everything    ___    the    sentence    knows    no    end,    as    it    cannot    endure    to    be    untrue    :    stuck    in    the    throat,    a    burst    of    tears    that    she    refuses    ;    it    is    what    he    wants    and    she    will    deliver    it,    as    she    intends    of    delivering    him.    if    he    sinks    into    the    dark    waters,    it    will    not    be    from    a    weight    on    his    shoulders    that    she    put    there.    «        in    some    other    universe,    we    must    have    found    a    way.        »    a    smile,    gentler    than    the    rising    water    on    wet    sand,    a    caress    that    erases    all    claw    marks.    «        i    fod    â    ffydd    ynom.        »

it  all  feels  too  contrite  ,   this  aberration  of  who  he  is  meant  to  be  compared  to  who  he  is  ,   in  this  moment  .     (  who  she  has  made  him  ,   a  body  of  emotion  and  regret  in  place  of  flesh  and  bone  .     no  longer  a  hound  of  war  but  a  mewling  pup  .  )     ishtar  rises  ,   besetting  him  with  the  gaze  of  a  distant  horizon  ––  blue  and  unwavering   ,  in  sunlight  as  in  moonlight  ––  and  he  feels  exposed  .     vulnerable  .     the  cool  of  her  lips  against  the  fire  of  his  cheeks  is  near  too  much  to  bear  ,   like  the  blistering  heat  of  ice  against  bare  skin  ,   or  winter  sun  rays  searing  squinted  eyes  .     he  fights  the  urge  to  look  away  (  to  retreat  into  the  cavern  of  himself  ,   staring  at  shadows  dancing  across  stone  and  calling  it  ‘ life ’  .  )     instead  ,   caranthir  forces  himself  to  look  at  her  /  to  allow  her  to  look  at  him  ,   truly  and  honestly  .     he  is  a  child  with  disheveled  braids  and  dark  circles  under  his  eyes  ,   while  she  is  a  prophet  with  knowledge  enough  to  bring  nations  to  their  knees  ,   meant  for  something  bigger  than  this  .     better  than  his  .     (  bigger  than  him  /  better  than  him  .  )     he  swallows  his  sorrow  like  bile  from  the  tongue  ,   condemning  sobs  yet  unspoken  to  the  catacombs  of  rattling  ribs  that  constrict  as  he  tries  to  control  uneven  breaths  .     she  makes  him  feel  more  mortal  than  holy  .     she  makes  him  feel  as  though  he  is  loved  by  something  more  than  human  ,   even  though  she  has  read  the  future  he  wrote  for  himself  in  blood  like  ink  ,   and  that  ...  is  absolution  .

❛   i  have  faith  in  us  ,   too  ...     oherwydd  mae  gennyf  ffydd  ynoch  .   ❜        he  does  not  need  this  alternate  fantasy  to  become  a  fundamental  reality  .     he  does  not  need  her  pretty  lies  to  become  an  ugly  truth  ,   nor  even  for  this  unsung  future  of  hers  to  become  a  spoken  past  of  his  .     all  that  is  required  in  this  moment  ,   shard  stolen  from  the  hourglass  of  time  ,   is  for  her  to  accept  the  one  last  thing  he  has  left  to  give  :     trust  .  it  is  not  gold  and  glittering  like  a  coin  newly  pulled  from  unplundered  coffers  ,   for  the  riches  of  his  being  were  withdrawn  ,   long  ago  ,   by  another  who  claimed  to  have  his  best  interest  at  heart  .     (  but  even  copper  pieces  have  their  value  .  )     it  is  not  a  flower  growing  strong  among  its  earthen  hovel  ,   for  he  was  plucked  at  the  stem  many  years  past  and  pressed  between  the  pages  of  a  book  much  too  heavy  for  brittle  leaves  .     (  but  even  dried  petals  have  their  beauty  .  )     ‘ because  i  have  faith  in  you ‘  :     take  this  dirtied  ,   battered  part  of  me  /  tuck  it  in  the  space  between  your  heart  and  your  ribs  /  know  that  it  lives  there   ,  forever  ,   no  matter  what  happens  to  me  and  no  matter  what  the  ‘ truth ‘  of  our  alternate  selves  might  be  .     (  i  trust  you  ,   ishtar  atta  isil  ,   in  a  manner  that  i  thought  i  was  no  longer  capable  of  .  )

he  does  not  smile  at  her  the  way  she  smiles  at  him  ,   for  this  bartering  of  raw  emotion  between  them  is  not  a  simple  exchange  of  goods  .     her  smile  is  a  comfort  ,  and  in  return  caranthir  offers  her  the  most  earnest  of  all  expressions  ,   his  face  stoic  ––  even  despite  the  damp  remnants  of  tears  that  glitter  upon  his  cheeks  /  even  despite  the  trembling  bottom  lip  that  he  fights  so  hard  to  keep  stiff  .     if  her  love  language  is  happiness  ,   then  his  is  solemnity  .     it  does  not  mean  that  it  is  any  less  genuine  ,   nor  even  that  their  respective  displays  are  of  differing  values  :     this  is  simply  who  they  are  .     this  is  simply  ...  them  .     and  if  he  does  not  smile  ,   it  is  only  because  he  wants  so  desperately  for  her  to  know  how  much  he  cares  .     (  affection  is  a  serious  business  .  )     she  is  gentle  where  he  is  not  ,   and  perhaps  that  is  why  their  souls  find  comfort  in  one  another  ––  hers  ,   the  ebb  and  flow  of  sea  waves  /  his  ,   a  beach  with  sand  piled  high  like  castle  walls  .

he  reaches  ,  once  more  ,  for  her  hands  ––  with  a  disorientation  that  is  foreign  to  one  so  practiced  and  self-assured  ––  as  he  fumbles  to  control  trembling  fingers  for  long  enough  to  grasp  her  own  .        ❛   thank  you  .   ❜        and  while  it  is  true  that  words  are  not  his  allies  (  that  they  hang  in  his  throat  like  unfinished  tapestries  and  stall  upon  a  frigid  tongue  and  wound  with  sharp  edges  those  upon  whose  ears  they  fall  )  ,   it  is  also  true  that  these  frank  two  syllables  carry  within  them  the  magnitude  of  his  entire  spirit  .     he  looks  away  once  more  ,   and  this  time  it  is  a  more  permanent  affair  .     during  moments  of  introspection  ,   it  is  much  easier  to  stare  at  the  earth  .     (  the  ground  ,   after  all  ,   does  not  judge  ;   it  does  not  even  bother  to  stare  back  .  )     he  runs  his  thumbs  along  the  backs  of  her  hands  ,   taking  note  of  the  dips  and  ridges  of  every  bone  .     if  the  universe ��deigned  to  give  them  more  time  ,   he  thinks  that  he  could  one  day  know  her  body  as  well  as  he  knows  is  own  .     perhaps  even  more-so  .

❛   perhaps  it  is  better  this  way  .   ❜        only  fools  and  madmen  can  convince  themselves  that  death  is  a  noble  art  form  /  that  their  demise  is  the  golden  thread  in  this  wicked  web  called  life  .     (  for  a  living  corpse  ,  he  sings  the  notes  of  the  song  swan  surprisingly  well  .  )        ❛   at  least  ...   ❜        bold  assertion  tapers  off  ,   as  if  he  is  aware  of  the  absurdity  of  his  words  .     caranthir  blinks  ,   batting  away  the  remnants  of  tears  that  cling  to  his  vision  like  raindrops  upon  windows  .     he  feels  the  urge  to  weep  anew  ,   but  a  stubborn  mind  refuses  to  acknowledge  why  that  is  .     (  do  the  lies  you  speak  really  taste  so  bad  ?  )        ❛   at  least  mae  gennym  gyfle  i  goleddu'r  eiliadau  rydyn  ni  wedi'u  cael  a'r  rhai  rydyn  ni  wedi'u  gadael  .     time  is  finite  ,   but  memories  are  not  .   ❜

#( caranthir: crying ) #( ishtar: perceives it ) #( caranthir: wait no * forcibly retracts the tears back into his eyes * 😔 ) #( also ) #( ishtar activating mom mode when others are sad around her 💀💀) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse #treppenwitzz #long post / #long post cw

[starpathe]

,,,,,,,,,, johnny

#( sideblog baby boy ) #tbd #( not set up yet 😔😔 work destroyed my brain ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ my starting class is muscle wizard * . ooc #( im love him. let me throw him into your inboxes tbh )

[starpathe]

somebody  make  him  go  to  bed  .

#( sir 😔😔 ) #( how does it feel to be the prettiest member of the hunt ) #( second place only to ge'els 💀💀 ) #- ̗̀ * ethereal / almost ghostly * . aesthetics #( hey @ artbreeder ) #( where's my ' something else ' slider 💀💀💀 ) #artbreeder / #eye contact /

[starpathe]

BEINGSTORIES.

“tell eredin—,” the swallow stops. her chest heaves in a rapid succession and righteous anger makes her fingers itch to grasp her sword, the sword geralt had given her many years ago, and destroy. we may be corpses, but you are death. “—tell him i, or geralt, will kill him before he can have a drop of my blood.” or maybe she’ll die before that, if avallac’h is incorrect in his belief in her being a savior. you are death. you are death. you are death.

@gwehelyth· for ciwi the traumatized angey

❛   tell  him  yourself  .   ❜     a  sneer  kept  at  bay  ,   ever  the  dog  straining  against  an  iron  muzzle  /  a  fettered  leash  .     (  i  am  not  your  fucking  errand  boy  .  )     he  tilts  his  head  ,   searching  ghostly  fingers  and  meadowed  eyes  for  a  sign  of  resistance  ––  any  excuse  to  rob  her  lungs  of  breath  and  deflect  the  blame  with  claims  of  duress  .     all  that  is  required  is  a  single  misstep  in  this  fateful  dance  of  theirs  and  one  life  /  one  pawn  will  be  struck  from  the  chessboard  .

❛   ––a  drop  of  blood  is  never  enough  .   ❜     (  trust  me  ,   swallow  .     i  would  know  .  )     ❛   first  they  will  take  your  body  ,   and  then  your  soul  .   ❜

#( idk why he's being a cryptid on main ) #( like any second he's gonna show ciri a tupperware full of dead worms 💀💀 ) #beingstories #( anyway ur honour im love her :/// ) #( uwu ciwi ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse

[starpathe]

TEMPRED.

❝ how am i   supposed   to sleep when it’s this cold ?     a crown of twelve stars   does nothin’ for warmth. ❞

❛   burn  your  gods  ,   ❜      comes  the  suggestion  .     as  if  to  verify  her  claim  for  himself  ,   he  raises  his  face  to  the  sky  ;   dark  lashes  blink  languidly  against  winter  mother’s  breath  ,   expression  unperturbed  despite  the  frost  that  nips  at  his  skin  .     (  it  is  a  well  practiced  routine  ,   to  feel  empty  while  the  world  is  ending  .  )     ❛   –––or  else  ask  for  cover  and  see  if  your  request  falls  upon  willing  ears  .   ❜

#( douchebag energy is having blankets but making her ask for them instead of just. giving her one 😔😔 ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse #tempred

[starpathe]

I hope this doesn’t come off rude but aren’t the wild hunt mostly genocidal, imperial, world-conquering slavers?

hi! no, this doesn’t come off as rude at all and i think you do bring up a valid point. absolutely, their motivations are abhorrent and i’m in no way here to justify nor glorify them. genocide, imperialism, and enslavement are inexcusable regardless of impetus. is the world of the aen elle dying due to the white frost? yes. does that in any way defend or rationalize their decision to conquer the continent that the witcher is set in? no. (and, to be clear, their use of humans as slaves originates from long before the white frost became a threat, so the white frost wouldn’t be a valid excuse either way.) the relationship between elves and humans is complicated across all fronts—particularly between the aen seidhe and the humans, since the aen seidhe were effectively colonized by mankind. yes, the aen elle take humans as slaves. there is no excusing that. but humans genocided elves and non-humans long before that practice started, and the aen elle themselves occupied the continent before the first human even stepped foot there.

my choice, as a person of indigenous descent, to use an indigenous faceclaim is based on a desire to diversify what is otherwise depicted as an incredibly white cast of characters (not taking into account the tv show). additionally, the aen elle are the people of the alders; literally “the people of the trees.” they, like the seidhe, are direct descendants of the aen undod—the original race of elves. they are said to more closely resemble their ancestors, who were the original inhabitants of their world before the conjunction of the spheres. i understand the dissonance between indigeneity and colonization and the complexities of a character who, by virtue of a choice that i made in terms of portrayal, inhabits both of these roles. for my own purposes (and at this point i am absolutely speaking only for myself and not for anybody else in the rpc nor anybody else of first nations descent), i think allowing an indigenous character to be something other than the oppressed, colonized archetype that is prevalent in fantasy and literature is itself an act of resistance. indigenous characters are usually depicted as being weak, as suffering, and/or as dying as a result of the white man. elves, in the witcher series, are often depicted as suffering and/or as dying as a result of humans. if the issue here is writing a character who is part of a society underpinned by racism, slavery, and genocide, then –– quite frankly –– that issue can (and should) be extended to humans in the witcherverse (who actively genocided non-humans and the aen seidhe, as well as segregated some of the aen elle into a vassal state resembling a reservation). it can also be extended to yt characters in modern settings.

this, again, is not to justify nor overlook the inherently problematic nature of the hunt and their actions/motivations. they are colonizers and murderers—and don’t even get me started on the avallac’h/eredin and ciri stuff. sapko wrote them to be as gross as possible, and while i am not here to negate that, i am here to engage in a process of ‘meaning making’ whereby i explore the intricacies of personal character motivations and relations within the hunt, rather than eulogizing their macro-level ambitions (because those are, objectively, fucked.) i am engaging in a critical exploration of a difficult topic; nowhere on this blog will you find me excusing caranthir individually or the hunt as a whole. this is not genocide worship; this is the breaking down of complex issues through the medium of creative writing. is tumblr rp the place for this? it is for me. it doesn’t have to be for anyone else, and i respect that. i tag everything accordingly and do not expect other people to be comfortable engaging with topics that i am comfortable engaging with. 

thank you for sending this in; i realize there’s a lot that i’ve said here. i have no problem answering questions or speaking further on this stuff; i think that writing a problematic character entails a responsibility to acknowledge their faults and how their actions impact others. it also entails a responsibility, i think, to make sure that those who see/interact with my blog can be as safe and comfortable as possible. feel free to follow up. my DMs are also always open!

#anonymous #psa tbt #( i just want to reiterate that your ask wasn't rude ) #( and that i am here and willing to answer questions. ) #( although ) #( @ the other anon from a few days ago ) #( i am under no obligation to defend my heritage and blood quantum to anybody ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ my starting class is muscle wizard * . ooc #genocide tw #slavery tw #imperialism tw

[starpathe]

Margaret Atwood, Interlunar; from ‘Eating Snake’

#( ayuh ) #( activity gonna be a lil sporadic until the 16th ) #( i have hella exams to do 🥵 ) #mobile tbt #musings tbt

[starpathe]

TREPPENWITZZ.

the    way    pain    has    no    color    __    and    still,    the    thickness,    its    metallic    aroma    on    the    tongue    ;    she    imagines    it.    upon    meeting    it,    one    shudders    and    one    cries    out    and    that    is    all    there    is    to    say    about    dolor    :    it    molds    the    body.    turns    it    into    something    unrecognizable,    a    pityful    creature    made    out    of    whimpers    and    tears.    pain    without    proof.    it    just    is,    within,    ingrained.    some    are    born    with    and    never    exist    without.    some    have    a    knife    for    a    hand,    condemned    to    cut    their    way    through    life.    pain    is    still    as    thick,    still    as    black,    but    it’s    not    theirs    for    the    spilling.    they    give    to    the    fire    and    rejoice    in    the    lit    path    ;    they    refuse    to    care    about    the    wooden    dolls    they    had    to    cut    their    way    through.    some    are    axes    and    some    are    trees    ;    you    either    feed    the    fire    and    find    a    way    to    pay    the    price    for    your    light.    that    is    all    there    is    to    pain    ___    she    has    learned    that    a    long    time    ago,    making    pyres    on    her    way    to    oblivion.

so    what    he    asks    of    her    ;    it’s    a    menial    task.    it’s    a    favor.    take    it    off    &    do    not    stop.    some    time    ago,    she    would    have    done    it    with    a    smirk,    counting    to    three    &    ripping    it    off    at    two.    a    flirting    joke    __    buy    me    dinner    first.    some    time    ago,    a    stranger    would    have    asked    that    of    her    and    she    would    have    laughed:    do    you    not    have    servants    ?    a    doctor,    perhaps    ?    some    time    ago,    it    would    have    been    metal    againt    slashed    skin    &    her    teeth    gleaming    in    satisfaction    at    being    useful.    today    however    the    mirror    is    broken    and    the    reflection    doesn’t    sit    right    on    the    fractured    pieces    :    see,    she    has    this    problem,    this    small,    terribly    inconvenient    little    flaw.    she    loves    him.    and    that    changes    a    few    things    :    you    can    see    it    in    the    trembling    fingers    that    press    absentmindedly    on    the    black    metal.    promise    me,    he    says,    and    she    clenches    her    jaw    so    hard    you    can    hear    the    grating    of    bones.    promise    me,    and    somewhere    in    her    chest    the    echo    of    a    negative    answer    is    all    that    resonates,    don’t    make    me    do    that.    

find    another    torturer, ��  she    wants    to    say.    take    your    open    wound    and    ask    someone    else    to    hurt    you.    we’ve    done    this    before,    you    and    i,    and    i    almost    ___    she    remembers.    the    desire    to    press    fingers    into    flesh    until    she    could    picture    the    weight    of    his    heart    between    her    hands.    gods,    had    she    been    angry    that    day.    but    she    had    stopped    herself    ;    smashed    the    cruel    voice    under    her    barefoot    and    had    left.    she    had    left.    she    had    stopped.    she    had    not    hurt    him,    not    like    that.    (but    you    are    back    where    you    started    :    those    hands    have    never    been    good    for    anything    else)    how    unfair    it    is    that    pain    is    all    she    knows    how    to    wield.    she    takes    a    deep    breath,    murmurs    :        «        don’t    look.        »    pain    has    no    color    but    it    wears    your    skin,    gets    under    everything,    screams    for    you    when    you    cannot    utter    a    sound    ;    she’d    prefer    if    there    was    no    witness    to    his.    would    prefer    if    he    did    not    see    her    being    the    one    to    inflict    it,    the    echo    of    another    girl’s    sword.    «        mae’n    ddrwg    gen    i.        »    she    says    it    as    she    starts    to    lift    the    armor    ;    how    she    can    feel    resistance    from    coagulated    blood.    how    she    knows    without    looking    at    the    mirror    that    he’s    in    pain,    and    she’s    the    one    causing    it    and,    she    cannot    stop    or    it    would    be    for    nothing.    

love    is    a    line    of    stitches.    is    alcohol    on    the    red    flesh.    is    gauze    on    the    wound.    her    jaw    hurts    from    the    pressure    she    exerces    on    her    teeth.    promise    me    ;    love    is    a    healing    cut.    is    desinfectant.    is    a    bandage.    not    this.    fuck.    she    really    wanted    it    not    to    be    this.    she’s    not    strong    enough    to    lift    it    completely    out    of    the    way    ;    the    moment    it    is    over    his    head    she    barely    manages    to    take    a    step    to    the    side    before    it’s    falling    in    an    enormous    thump    on    the    ground.    she    looks    at    the    abandoned    protection.    can’t    bring    herself    to    turn    towards    him.    i’m    sorry,    she    wants    to    say    again,    and    it    makes    no    sense,    for    she    has    not    been    the    one    piercing    flesh.    a    shuddering    breath,    a    hand    on    her    face,    from    brows    to    mouth.    «        can    you    go    –    sit    on    the    bed    ?    it’ll    be.    easier.        »    

squared    shoulders    as    she    goes    to    retrieve    a    basin    of    clear    water    &    a    cloth    ;    alcohol    &    gauze    ;    whatever    she    remembers    her    father    having    in    his    small    bag    every    time    he    had    to    take    a    look    at    blood    oozing    out    of    a    fresh    wound.    she’s    still    not    looking    at    him.    when    she    returns    to    the    elf,    she    has    yet    to    unclench    her    jaw    or    stop    the    trembling    of    her    hands    ;    she    is    vibrating    with    anger    or    sadness    or    pain,    something    in    her    chest    aching.    «        it’s    not    fair.        »    the    tone    is    cold    like    a    winter    night,    despite    the    warmth    in    her    eyes    ;    if    one    wanted    to    be    precise,    one    would    have    to    call    it    worry,    or    anguish.    but    ishtar    is    out    of    words    and    feels    furious.    at    whoever    did    this    to    him.    at    eredin    for    sending    him    on    a    stupid    mission.    at    caranthir,    for    leaving.    at    herself,    for    waiting.    for    expecting    anything    but    crimson    staining    her    hands.    «        you    coming    back    to    me    like    this.    dyw    e    ddim    yn    deg.        »

don’t  look  ,   she  beseeches  of  him  .     don’t  look  ,   ishtar  murmurs  .     (  he  closes  his  eyes  .  )     don’t  look  ,   avallac’h  says  sternly  .     caranthir  glares  at  him  indignantly  and  swings  his  legs  up  ––  holds  them  straight  ,   sticking  out  from  the  chair  he’s  sitting  on  like  he’s  a  wooden  doll  .     avallac’h  sighs  as  if  someone’s  nicked  his  lungs  with  the  tip  of  a  blade  ,   eyes  rolling  up!  to  the  ceiling  and  then  down  to  the  bandages  held  within  his  palm  .     caranthir  stares  at  his  knees  ,   all  scuffed  up  and  torn  jagged  ;   he  feels  numb  ,   as  if  pain  is  impossible  ,   but  the  sight  of  blood  and  broken  skin  makes  him  imagine  what  it  feels  like  .     avallac’h’s  sigh  stings  a  little  as  it  brushes  against  the  wound  ––  just  enough  to  bypass  the  adrenaline  ––  and  caranthir  really  wishes  he  would  stop  .     the  breath  wouldn’t  hurt  ––  wouldn’t  even  reach  his  knees  ––  if  only  his  father  would  look  at  him  .     (  other  children  have  the  privilege  of  seeing  themselves  through  their  mothers’  and  fathers’  eyes  ;   he  can  only  see  himself  through  his  own  ,   and  sometimes  he  can  barely  stand  to  look  .  )     avallac’h  presses  the  bandage  against  the  first  knee  and  his  mind  explodes  with  a  swarm  of  a  thousand  fireflies  ––  dazzling  flashes  of  pain  ,   twinkling  in  and  out  of  existence  as  they  bedeck  his  vision  with  spots  .     the  wound  is  much  deeper  than  he  thought  and  the  blood  is  much  gummier  than  he  thought  and  it  hurts  and  it  hurts  and  it––––––––––

caranthir  clenches  his  teeth  so  hard  that  he  can  no  longer  feel  his  jaw  .     it  simply  ceases  to  exist  .     she  lifts  the  armour  and  with  it  his  skin  ;   he  wishes  that  it  ,   too  ,   would  simply  cease  to  exist  .     (  hopes  that  as  she  hoists  the  chest  plate  over  his  head  that  she  will  take  with  her  all  of  this  flesh  and  this  blood  .  )     his  body  threatens  an  aggrieved  moan  but  he  strangles  it  /  chokes  on  it  /  holds  it  in  his  throat  ,   tethered  among  gnarled  roots  ,   and  refuses  to  set  it  free  .     (  how  it  would  assuage  him  ,  to  shed  this  fallible  prison  and  let  bone  fall  to  ash  like  star  dust  .  )     nails  sink  into  tensed  thighs  ,   clawing  at  fabric  and  skin  and  muscle  in  an  attempt  to  detract  from  the  pain  blistering  upon  his  back  .     her  apology  is  a  distant  swan  song  ,   drowned  by  the  ravine  of  blood  that  thunders  against  his  ears  with  every  frantic  heartbeat  .     it  is  not  your  fault  ,   en’ca  minne  !  he  wishes  to  say  .     (  but  the  singular  thought  that  manages  to  stake  any  claim  in  him  is  that  fuck  ,   he  feels  ill  .  )     only  when  he  hears  the  armour  clatter  against  the  floor  and  feels  disheveled  braids  come  to  rest  ,   once  more  ,   upon  his  back  and  shoulders  does  he  risk  a  breath  .     eyes  open  slowly  ,   the  light  within  them  withered  and  infirm  .     (  rotted  flowers  /  crumbling  permafrost  .  )

he  rises  to  wearied  feet  ,   palms  pressed  to  the  armrests  on  either  side  of  the  chair  as  he  braces  against  them  the  brunt  of  his  weight  .     (  enough  of  the  will  to  go  on  or  not  to  go  on  .  )     once  straightened  ,   trembling  fingers  make  to  undo  the  front  of  the  overcoat  .     as  soon  as  the  ties  have  been  undone  ,   he  shrugs  it  off  with  relative  ease  .     (  enough  of  the  kneeling  and  the  looking  inward  and  the  looking  up  .  )     he  unhooks  the  sextant  from  his  hip  ,   then  undoes  the  belts  at  his  waist  ;   each  is  set  upon  the  vanity  ,   firmly  ––  with  the  air  of  one  who  cannot  correctly  gauge  the  distance  between  hand  and  table  .     (  enough  of  the  longing  and  the  ego  and  the  obliteration  of  the  ego  .  )     tarries  in  place  for  a  second  longer  ,   blinking  dazedly  against  the  fog  that  settles  about  his  vision  and  his  mind  .     (  enough  of  the  brutality  and  the  murder  and  the  pointing  at  the  universe  .  )     tentative  step  forward  and  then  another  ,   as  if  learning  to  walk  for  the  very  first  time  .     once  he  assures  himself  of  his  own  balance  ,   the  remaining  distance  to  the  bed  is  swiftly  conquered  .     (  enough  of  the  ‘i  am  alone’  and  the  ‘i  am  desperate’  .  )     pulls  the  shirt  from  his  body  and  grunts  ,   but  the  removal  of  the  armour  severed  the  fabric  from  the  wound  and  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  could  be  .     (  enough  of  the  sorrow  and  the  animalistic  impulses  .  )     once  over  his  head  ,   he  lets  the  bloodied  fabric  slip  from  his  fingers  and  onto  the  floor  .     she  draws  near  ,   eyes  averted  ,   and  the  look  about  her  face  is  enough  to  inspire  his  own  gaze  to  lower  ––  shamed  .     (  i  said  enough!  already  .  )     he  stoops  over  some  ,   withholding  the  wheeze  that  raps  against  the  interior  of  his  ribs  ,   and  presses  feverish  lips  to  ishtar’s  forehead  .     (  i  am  sorry  .  it  was  never  meant  to  be  this  way  .  )

❛   no  ,   it  isn’t  .   ❜        he  agrees  with  her  ,   words  mumbled  against  the  warmth  of  her  skin  ,   yet  the  concession  itself  is  of  little  comfort  ;   how  could  the  acknowledgement  that  life  is  cruel  be  anything  more  than  bitter  melancholy  ?     it  was  not  fair  when  cirilla  tore  the  glory  from  his  crown  of  thorns  and  it  was  not  fair  when  the  universe  decreed  that  she  ,   dhufeainnewedd  ,   should  walk  the  earth  alone  .     (  nor  will  it  be  fair  when  his  blood  becomes  the  sea  and  she  a  ghost  among  a  graveless  burial  ground  .  )        ❛   cyhyd  ag  y  gallaf  ddychwelyd  ,  dychwelaf  .     you  have  my  word  .   ❜        muffled  yet  earnest  all  the  same  .     caranthir  lowers  himself  to  the  bed  ,   and  without  the  armour  it  is  easier  /  without  the  armour  he  does  not  forego  his  balance  and  fall  .     eyelids  lapse  shut  in  spite  of  themselves  ––  some  subconscious  retreat  into  the  safety  of  his  ignorance  ,   where  the  pain  is  muted  and  the  nausea  subdued  .     he  swallows  thickly  and  shifts  so  that  one  leg  rests  upon  the  mattress  /  the  other  foot  on  the  floor  .     stripped  of  bloodied  shirts  ,   he  feels  so  very  cold  .     (  threadbare  tapestry  /  mountain  ridge  plucked  of  greenery  .  )     but  ishtar  has  light  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  skin  ––  the  warmth  of  a  (black)  sun  ,   so  novel  and  foreign  that  he  can  barely  comprehend  it  .     caranthir  turns  his  back  to  her  and  bows  his  head  ,   yet  clumsy  when  it  comes  to  the  motions  of  vulnerability  .        ❛   ––––is  it  bad  ?   ❜

#( ew this is so long and only bc im incapable of not rambling ) #( 💀💀💀 ignore pls ) #treppenwitzz #( no reason for him to kiss her forehead except 😔😔 i feel bad for her and it's what i wanted ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ i see humans but no humanity * . main verse #long post cw #long post /

[starpathe]

your  honour  im  love  him

#( johnny gets a sideblog 😔 ) #( got a url and everything. ) #( but the multi is still happening i just gotta 💀 finish my exams huh ) #tbd #- ̗̀ * ✴ my starting class is muscle wizard * . ooc

[starpathe]

“i am nothing // if not determined to recreate myself as a god.”

— Laura Villareal, from “baby teeth,” published in Palette Poetry

#( laughs in god complex ) #- ̗̀ * ✴ holy places are dark places * . musings

[starpathe]

avayuck’s  wiki  :   “   he  created  and  trained  caranthir  ,   who ,   although  he  had  left  avallac'h  ,   knew  the  sage  wished  him  the  best  .   “ me  :   im  sorry  i  didnt  realize  we  were  putting  on  our  apologist  hats  today

#( not sure where you got THAT impression ) #( 💀💀 ) #( yeah that's what avallac'h wrote in HIS notes but ) #( pretty sure uh ) #( being actively undermined and belittled and eventually replaced ) #( doesn't FEEL like being ' wished the best ' ) #tbd #( i need to get off the wiki i hate it here ) #( anyway rip to caranthir for being passed from avayuck to eredin when ultimately neither of them gave a shit about him 💀 ) #( also rip to him for being dumb enough to believe they cared ) #( ok bye im gonna go brood in my corner and do drafts )