#ABJURATOR, a multi-muse. written by julia. slow reply, usually trapped on my phone. 21+. basic etiquette applies. check under the cut for general blog guidance & muse roster.
ROSTER:
TELEVISION & FILM
charles vane, black sails.
madi, black sails.
sevika, arcane.
striga, castlevania.
VIDEO GAMES
anhain lavellan, dragon age: inquisition.
marian hawke, dragon age series.
ruby the instigator, disco elysium.
sten, dragon age series.
LITERATURE
augustine the first, the locked tomb.
john gaius, the locked tomb.
pyrrha dve, the locked tomb.
TESTING
guts, berserk.
bolded = higher in muse.
RULEBOOK:
+ written by julia. i’m 25+, live in the mst timezone, am a tme butch lesbian, and use he/him pronouns. virgo. english major. i work in the pot industry. 🌿
+ general dni rules apply. this blog, by default of the genres it covers, is 21+. if your age isn’t stated somewhere clearly on your blog i probably won’t follow. racist, zionist, islamophobic, antisemitic, transphobic/terfy, homophobic, or otherwise bigoted behaviors will get you blocked immediately.
+ my depiction of most of my muses is largely headcanon based and i will only write with my mutuals. i can sometimes take up to a month (if not longer) to reply. when i say slow reply, i mean it - so, as a result, never feel rushed or worry about quick responses to threads. that said, i’m always around to dabble with asks and meta* and love to chit-chat. please say hi!
*i am frequently canon-critical of the media i consume. it's part of my hater's disposition to critique the things i love, out of love. critical posts will more than likely show up on this blog. if that's not your thing, no worries, but be aware it may pop up from time to time!
+ i don't format my posts much beyond bolding & italicization. format your replies however you like. i write replies on my phone a lot.
+ if i've followed you, it's because i want to write with you! if you want to plot something out, hit me up. otherwise, the best way to kick off interactions is to like an interaction call (starters, plotting, memes, etc.,) or to send me an ask (feel free to turn any asks into threads, i don't mind). i usually like to plot a little before sending out a starter, and i prioritize long-time writing partners when it comes to replies and other interactions.
for a community that prides itself on having moved past its anti mary sue days or whatever you wanna call it the # of people i’ve seen that go out of their way to loudly denounce any bias against femme muses while simultaneously prioritizing interactions with (frequently white) cis men muses is kind of fucking crazy LMAO
“ how are you doing? ” it was a simple question. simple enough to brush past. simple enough to lie through. they weren't obligated to answer. but it carried weight from the place he had for them in his heart, their turbulent history aside. ekko did not ask things he did not mean.
his eyes lingered on sevika a fraction longer than the words required. he wasn't passing judgment. he wasn't holding them under any unwarranted suspicion. it was genuine care. with ekko's rowdy childhood from puberty to adulthood, he saw the highs and lows of many older folk in the community.
the rise.
the fall.
the relapse.
poverty grinding pride and dignity down to atoms. love curdling into something horrible. shimmer seeping through the cracks of grief. he had seen strong backs bend in ways a human body shouldn’t be able to do. it was hard to come back from the hard places.
shadow work was not easy work. surviving zaun meant surviving yourself first. you don't ever clock out from that kind of work. it did not wait at the door. it followed you home. it sat in your chest. it lingered there until something gave.
so when he asked them; “ how are you doing? ” he was not asking for a placeholder answer. he was asking: are you sleeping? do you feel right in your body? are you still white-knuckling it, or did the shimmer find its way back in? are you eating enough to stay upright? are they — piltover — leaning on you harder than they should? are you carrying something you haven’t set down?
"i can feel my teeth in my head." it's the first thing out of her mouth, and the first sign that she's lost her fucking mind. piltover presses too much. asks for more, offers little. she spends her days listening to the inane ramblings of people who have never known anything worse but act like they do, and when she comes back to the undercity, she's met with the faces of many who are familiar with worse. intimately.
if silco could see her now, he'd probably laugh, that craggy, frog-in-his-throat chuckle, right in her face. she's been working on it, the shimmer, and ekko — it's sweet of him to ask. he's a good kid. the undercity deserves him more than it deserves her. but that's what this all is: she saves them face up top so he can do the harder work below. she doesn't want to tell him the truth of it: teeth rattling in her skull, the constant pressure wrapped like a band around her head, the ache in her knees, at the socket for her arm. she can't sleep, and eating is harder than it should be.
she's not embarrassed, necessarily, that she's slipped. how many times in her life has she stepped up just to stumble? too many. he's seen it in plenty others. he knows it. she rubs the knuckle of her thumb against her lower teeth, an idle, thoughtless gesture. pins him down from the corner of his eye. "you're lookin' ragged, kid." worn-down. he's not bad at keeping his spirits up, but sevika's only human. she has to wonder when their boy wonder will break down, if ever, what'll be the thing to do it. "what're they feeding you? they are feeding you, aren't they?"
i suppose you must feel very pleased with yourself.
that stings. it surprises her. screw over enough people and you start to grow numb to it. betrayal looks the same on everyone, after all. ruby isn’t really any different in that respect.
usually, she isn’t around to see it. by now she would’ve shed klaasje and her quiet misery like an old coat. instead she’s here in the marshes, among the reeds and patches of melting snow. a muddy buoy on a rope clutched in her hand. the brackish water pulled back to the horizon, a distant sheet of topaz.
❛ i feel like shit, ruby, ❜ she says, low and gravelly. scraped out from within. perhaps the first honest thing she’s said to @abjurator. ❛ i didn’t have a choice. you get that, right? ❜
she's not looking at klaasje's face. she's not expecting anything like a real answer; she'd divvied the question out as a poor man's attempt at a low blow. more clearly, she understands, now — or at least thinks she does — what she's dealing with. does klaasje think she's the first woman in the world to ever hurt her?
nah. she's not naive enough for that. neither of them are. ruby is watching klaasje's hand, the way it curls around the rope. she's got pale, thin fingers. she gives ruby a real answer. this is what makes her look up.
elegant face, pale, yellow hair the color of butter in a ceramic dish. ruby hates the way looking at her makes her feel. she was never good at not feeling. you get that, right? she grunts an affirmation. "sure. but i wouldn't have..." done it to you. this is the petulant answer a child gives. but she's hesitant to give klaasje much else.
he speaks and breaks her concentration. the only noise otherwise is the looping ceiling fan overhead. it's rare that the place is so quiet. somewhere, there's a rowdy thirteen year-old threatening to blow something to pieces out of angry, teenage impudence, but sevika's not ready to deal with that headache. not yet.
needle and thread, pulled tight: she's got one heavy, false hand on his arm while she stitches him up. it's been a rough morning. they'd been ambushed in the lanes, on the way to collect a scheduled payment. she'd told him not to come. he hadn't listened. some idiot with a rifle and a dream had come close, nicked his forearm, a long, thin, nasty gash. she'd turned that man's brain to mush, but now they're here, back below, the opening hours for the last drop edge closer and closer, and she's doing this. she wants a drink. or shimmer. both.
there's something to the fact that he trusts her enough to do this, given he could probably stitch himself up. the arm serves as a weight, anyways, to keep him from moving. she doesn't slow, one steady stitch at a time, but her expression draws into something more tight, a furrowing of the brow, curl of the lip. she speaks now to @inl4ndempire less like the king of the undercity and more like a friend, tone verging on concerned: "you think i don't know that?"
"i’m sorry. i just wanted to help." nona's very quiet. uncharacteristically so. everything about @drunivers, so far, has been chalked up in volumes. screaming, shouting, yelling, laughing, vibrant and bright-loud up in every inch of the skull. pyrrha, with her hands wrapped up in feet of long, ink-black hair, stills. it's a half-second of a pause. it sounds so much like her that she feels the fear crawl right up into her throat.
she hadn't thought that muscle memory would be a thing to worry about in gideon's body, but here she is, choking on her own spit and trying to swallow it back down. it's a fleeting fracturing. get your shit together, she hears herself think in gideon's voice, so she does. every single thing she does is backed by the echo of gideon, gideon, gideon, and he was always so good at getting her back into her body. she misses him like the mouth misses its own bit-off tongue.
nona is talking about the mess she made at dinner last night, not a tantrum but not not a tantrum. she hadn't wanted to eat, pyrrha had been exhausted, and palamedes and camilla had clearly gotten into some sort of tiff. nona had offered to help with the dishes, a strange new first, pyrrha had told her directly to go to bed—things spiraled from there.
the rest of nona's braid is a sloppy mess. she should redo it. but nona is squirming enough already. she wraps the braid up into a sort of crown on nona's head, knowing by the time she sees her again it'll be unrecoverable. "let me ask you something, no-no." anything can be an experiment. anything can be an attempt to figure out who it is inhabiting nona's body, even if she already has that horrible, sinking suspicion. "what makes you want to help? what do you feel?"
they have been sitting for some time in the encroaching sunset, the world painted a malleable blue-orange-red. they're in various states of undress. she's almost awed by the sight of him. what a strange shape he cuts, leaned against a light-made chair, his whole weight sinking. he holds himself up well enough in front of his men, but in these moments alone he almost cannot help himself from slouching. she understands, in some ways. he carries a heavy burden—she does, too. he just... tilts against it differently.
they've spent the evening speaking of nothing; they've spent the evening speaking of everything. in an cool voice, distant from the memories herself, she tells him what she can afford to of her childhood, in halting steps. of eleanor and their girlish, unassuming whimsies, the power eleanor so openly yearned after and the things madi wanted but could not admit to. she is not surprised of what depths she's fallen to: she remembers that eleanor was no less desperate when she fell and skinned her knee.
but then that leads to the thought of her father, and she goes quiet for a very long time. john (she always finds herself thinking of him as john, not silver, not whatever legend he's cooked up for himself) doesn't push. he's very good about it. she tries to pry at him, after a time. she asks of youthful birds, what he thought he would become, when he fell onto a ship and why he decided not to jump into the sea outright when he first met flint and his crew. he's a clever talker, weaver-of-tales. but he draws himself up, eventually. it's like he can't help himself:
why are you so fascinated by that?
she turns her head to @ownmyth. her eyes fall to his bare chest, the light scrape of all sorts of scars, birthmarks, near misses. her mouth draws into a firm line—softened at the edges. not quite a frown. "why am i fascinated by you?" it's not that she doesn't understand the question. she understands it quite well. but here is a man who will talk stories around himself, not about himself. she feels close to him, and very far away, despite the fact he's had his mouth on hers, on her neck, her breasts, between her legs.
the best way to get john silver to talk about anything, she's concluded, is to make him feel like he isn't forced. she reaches out and places her hand on his thigh. she tries to turn it against him: "why do you think i wouldn't be?" here she smiles, wily and clever, in a way only he seems to be able to get her to. "i know you don't think so little of yourself. you're an interesting man." haughtily, just so: "you'd have to be, for me to want you."
ianthe calls, from the other side of the room. they are bracketed by mirrors, left and right, in a viciously nauseating mockery of the training hall in canaan house, with its vaulted mirrors that allowed you to see your own faults from every single angle. augustine was never interested in that particular flavor of self-punishment, and clearly, neither is @drunivers.
she thinks all that glitters makes her gold. his eyes slide down to the gold-wrapped skeleton arm, body and strange. the ninth, he has to admit, has a lick of talent when it comes to the warp and weft of bone, and ianthe has wielded it well enough. but she is still sweating, unkempt, and plainly desperate to succeed. he draws himself up to full height: they meet at about the same height, which is almost refreshing. mercymorn and john are both shorter than him. gideon beats him by a few inches, but he's also never around—and never himself.
"no," he barks out. "really, my chick, if i were impressed every time you flicked your wrist," augustine nods wholly to the built arm, "i'd have died a long time ago of shock and awe." he can't decide if she's so wholly invested in his approval or if this is some sort of demented third house act. he reaches back to rake his hair away from his eyes. ten years ago he wouldn't have been able to recall a time where he broke a sweat; nowadays, it is exceedingly normal, in anticipation of facing down the end of their collective worlds. "besides, you didn't make it yourself, did you? what did you give her, for that?"
the sea eats at the shore every minute on minute, hour on hour. he watches it move in and out, pulling on a well-rolled smoke and thinking of—nothing. nothing at all. from the ship he can see the coast of nassau, bright spots of orange and reddish flame among green-worn buildings leaning into each other. this place used to be something, he thinks.
behind him, @sordidery and @drunivers lurk. well. anne lurks. jack skulks, the two of them lean and hungry shadows of one another. they've been sailing together for some time and he'll never understand the way they fit together so well while also being completely fucking disjointed.
they have another price to pay in nassau, another score to settle: when do they not? but they're waiting, with this one, playing the long game at jack's insistence. he'd called it politicking; vane doesn't know what else to think of it as besides cowardice. he's almost inclined to think anne would agree with him, but most of the time it's anne-jack and vane, not anne-jack-vane, so he hardly leans on that point.
he turns his back on nassau and turns his attention instead to them. the cigar is more or less finished. it gets tossed into the sea and extinguishes, sinking. there is no red point to watch fade. it's just there, and then gone. empty-handed, he rubs his fingers against the heel of his hand. "you know," he drawls, "you've never told me how you met one another."
the following is a collection of sentence starters from the netflix original, castlevania.
i’m going to get something for your cough.
don’t move. i’ll be right back with some medicine.
i hate that you’re not here, every day.
i’m amazed any of you are still alive.
what do you need? tell me, i’ll give it to you.
i will not be silenced. just let me help!
please, you don’t know what you’re doing.
you don’t know what you’re going to bring upon yourself if you harm me.
i’ll leave. you’ll never see me again.
stand up like a man.
what the hell was that?
you can’t hate livestock. they are simply what they are.
you understand why they all must die.
the matter is closed.
you sicken me. do you understand?
stop whining about cruelty. this is the world.
only the death matters now.
and i’m standing here sad and angry because they’re together, and i’m alone.
this is the part where you’re supposed to tell me i’m not alone, (name).
you are really very not good at this.
i learned to travel alone early in life. maybe i just got too used to it.
you had a family, though?
i know a little bit about what you’re feeling. i’m sorry.
i was right about you the first time, you know. you are rude.
i’ve been called worse.
i actually came to apologize for my outburst.
i should have held my tongue, so i apologize.
i’m a nice person. i am. i know how to be nice!
so, how do we proceed?
i want to go home.
have you been drinking again?
i was under the impression it was destroyed.
you’re guessing though.
fortunate, then, that i chose not to kill and eat you, (name).
such a merry band we are.
eat shit and die.
yes, fuck you.
i’ll be honest with you. i don’t have a better idea.
i’m trusting you, (name). don’t make me regret it.
everybody regrets it in the end.
you will cease this infantile squabbling.
and what insights have you, (name)?
i will speak with you alone.
i suspect he still wants to sleep with me.
what advantage does my anger buy you?
i’m still not completely clear on why you don’t catch fire in the daylight.
god, you still think you’re funny.
he’s gone mad, and from that, there’s no recovering him.
oh, the world will still be here, (name). trees will still grow, birds will still sing, animals will still hump away in the undergrowth. but you won’t be here. none of you.
the sun will still set, but you will not see it rise.
you hear that?
no further.
what did you think you were gonna learn?
please don’t be angry with me anymore.
even after everything in your life, you’re still a sweet boy who believes in love.
i’m sorry. i just wanted to help.
i love you too. that’s why i do this. this is how i love you.
you stop fucking around, you do as you’re told, you never use the word ‘love’ again.
no such thing as love in this world.
[why do you do that?] / choosing my own actions and injuring myself to a world of horrors.
you struggled so hard to come back home.
you came home regardless.
do you really think that’s enough, (name)?
your intellect cannot be denied.
i believe you are actually worried about (name).
the fire in him has gone out somehow. it’s as if we’re looking at the embers of the man.
there are things we can do that don’t require his decisions.
why are you so fascinated by that?
we need to ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands.
is it you?
tell me what you need.
they must be stopped. culled.
my fellow humans have never treated me with love, and i’ve punished them for it.
i wouldn’t have them suffer.
will you join me?
it’s hard to imagine you playing.
his was your home?
you grew up here?
wasn’t the worst way to grow up.
who remembers that sort of thing?
is there a point to these questions?
i’m disturbed to find that o had more of a childhood than you did.
just help me clear it.
i didn’t know it was a fucking magic door.
are you coming or what?
my family. all that’s left of us.
bloody hell. is that what i think it is?
careful, (name). you almost sounded excited about something.
it couldn’t be. could it?
what on earth is that ugly thing.
you’re not even a little bit impressed?
may i speak to you?
are you going to continue questioning me?
get out before i slit you up the middle and bite out your heart.
this isn’t a war, (name). it’s a suicide.
i’m not gonna fuck you, (name). i’m too pissed off.
you stupid bastard.
what the hell was that for?
no, no, no, that’s not fair.
just tell me what it is.
you’re a cockwart, (name).
you are an adult. you do not have to rise to his every barb.
he’s pissing me off like it’s his job, (name).
i just want to do my work, (name).
you don’t say something like that out loud in this place!
say the words. so that i know you are still my friend.
you saved me. the only person in the world who ever lifted a hand to protect me from anything.
you are still my friend.
i have no fear of death. it always sounded peaceful to me.
i will be loyal to the end — and beyond.
they will never see us coming, and fuck them if they do.
no one has a right to your true beliefs.
you’ve given me purpose, and treated me with respect. a lie wouldn’t change that.
you don’t owe anybody anything.
i believe you are the only one who grasps the necessity of it all.
are you still my friend?
are you okay?
tired. a … bit lonely.
my dusty old sheet is big enough for two.
i’m not sad.
i wish you would stop doing that. it’s sick.
you would betray (name)?
it’s not betrayal unless the old man decides to be difficult about it.
thank you for showing me the truth.
my work here is almost done.
the end of this will be practically merciful.
i am also concerned that you enjoy him too much.
am i not working hard enough?
you’re afraid. you worry that you might have made the wrong choice.
perhaps you’re just an angry teenager in an adults body.
i don’t think i’ve heard you tell a joke before.
(name), you are a marvel.
you have caused this to happen. be proud.
i admire your resolve.
but those times are long gone.
i no longer have the strength for these petty decisions.
that’s all that matters. they all have to die.
do you know why i had to do it?
when i say ‘what’, that doesn’t mean i’d like to ask even more questions.
would you please — oh, you are the most annoying — just stop!
see? god hates me!
are you asking my advice?
so long as it brings silence.
well, i’m armed with a … a stick. so i’ll understand if you want to run away now.
you have nothing left but me.
you did it, (name).
i’m pretty good, right?
you’re the best.
they will not reach you while i live.
you would give your mortal life to preserve my immortal one?
you have a soul, i think.
perhaps you simple deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.
i choose my death, as i chose my life.
i told you before, i won’t let you do it.
i grieve with you … but i won’t let you do this.
you couldn’t stop me before.
i am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.
you didn’t kill me before. you’re not going to kill me now.
you want this to end as much as i do.
this entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.
not quite close enough.
my boy. i’m — i’m killing my boy.
i must already be dead.
(name), step back. let me finish this.
you’ve saved countless lives. but it’s alright to mourn the man, too.
he died a long time ago.
what do you think he’s going to do now?
i do not break things.
you’re giving me your home?
protect it. make something out of it.
keep moving. i’m not in the mood.
what do we have here?
is that really the best you have?
i simply don’t have time to deal with shit like you every time i want to sit and take a drink.
why would i want to stop now?
how on earth did you come to that decision?
this is the closest thing i’ve had to a life in … i don’t know when.
you’re the closest i’ve had to a friend.
so they’re barricading their homes and sharpening their stakes? that’s fair. can’t say i blame them.
you won’t stake me to death with that, (name).
where will you go?
i’ve been thinking about it all day. i still don’t understand.
(name) is dead. does that trouble you?
poor (name). stand up for me.
don’t worry. we’ll look after you.
(name) — what are you doing?
go to hell!
you are my pet now.
be well, my friend.
don’t let that idiot get you into too much trouble.
