⸺ ⟳ # 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝟑𝐍𝐃 ⋯ a study in a hymn sung in screams, a requiem carved into the marrow of your bones. Survival where survival was never meant to be, where every breath is a borrowed thing and every scar tells a story you never wanted to remember. Birth into ruin, baptized in blood, shaped by hands that should have held you close but instead led you to the altar. Faith twisted into a noose, devotion turned to decay. The ones who gave you life offering you up to the abyss, whispering promises of eternity as the poison took their breath, as their bodies folded like dying stars. And you, the one meant to follow, left among the corpses — a girl unchosen, abandoned even by death.
Learning that hope is a fragile thing, a sandcastle crumbling before the tide. That love, once given, is a blade pressed to the throat. That sometimes, the ones who should save you are the ones who let you drown, pouring your rage into guitars strung too tight, microphones kissed by the tremble of a voice that refused to die. Dressed in defiance, stitching your pain into rebellion, let the world mistake your recklessness for strength. The quiet despair, that endless gray, a specter trailing steps.
Presently stationed at @helltownfms. Kindly refrain from further interaction unless aligned with the aforementioned group. Created and overseen by rei.
𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬, 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗘𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗘𝗫𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.
⸻lily-rose depp, twenty-five, cis-female, she / her ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of MORRIGAN "MORGUE" SILVER. they are TWENTY-SIX, and have been missing for ONE MONTH IN ARCADIA. when the sun rises, they work as UNDECIDED / FORMER ROCK STAR. rumors in town say they can be ADDICTIVE and MAGNETIC. they chose to live in THE SETTLEMENT, and have an uncanny resemblance to Mia Wallace ( Pulp Fiction ), Nancy Downs ( The Craft ), Jesse Custer ( Preacher ), Emily "Junkie" Kaye ( The Heroin Diaries ), Selena Kyle ( Batman ), Peter Graham ( Hereditary ). can they survive another night ?…⸻ a specter of sound and sin, stitched together from cigarette smoke, stage lights, and the echoes of a scream that never quite left her throat; Smudged kohl eyes that hold the weight of forgotten prayers, lips split between a sneer and a plea, the rasp of her voice dragging like a blade against soft skin; Chaos draping itself over her like a second skin — fishnets torn at the knee, a crucifix swinging loose over bruised ribs, the scent of whiskey and regret lingering in the fabric of her existence.
INQUIRIES ;
How did your muse spend their first night in Arcadia, and where?
You were supposed to be dead long before that night.
Maybe the first time should have been in that house of corpses, staring into the glazed-over eyes of the people who called themselves your family, their mouths frozen mid-prayer, their hands clasped in reverence as death claimed them. Or maybe in that motel bathroom, needle still lodged in your arm, staring at your own reflection like a specter waiting to fade. You’d lost count of the times you should have slipped through the cracks, how many nights you’d tempted the abyss just to see if it would bite back. And yet, there you were again. Somewhere between the world of the living and the dead.
The last thing you remembered was the rush of fluorescent lights overhead, the ambulance doors rattling in their hinges, voices too far away to belong to you. Hands pressing against your ribs, forcing breath back into your lungs, dragging you — kicking, screaming — out of the void. You hadn’t wanted to come back. Not really. But something always pulled you back from the edge, something cruel, something stubborn, something that refused to let you rest. The confusion came next. A blur of movement, voices pitched in panic, the sound of metal groaning, tires skidding against gravel. And then — nothing.
Blackness.
You thought you were dreaming. Thought maybe the overdose had finally done its job, that this was just another fevered hallucination, another unraveling of a mind too far gone. When the howls came — deep, guttural, hungry — you thought they were echoes from your past, the ghosts you never quite managed to outrun. You told yourself this isn’t real, told yourself it was just the drugs still playing tricks on your system. But when you woke, the nightmare hadn’t ended. Morning bled through the blinds of the clinic, carving sharp angles across the room, white walls too clean, too sterile, too still. A voice drifted in and out, saying things you weren’t ready to hear — you can’t leave, you’re stuck, this is your new reality. You sat there, silent, limbs draped over the too-thin mattress, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a curse. You didn’t belong here. Not in a town that wasn’t on any map, not in some purgatory where the rules bent and monsters howled in the dark. But the way they looked at you, the way they explained the rules with tired eyes and voices dulled by too many repetitions, made it clear — this wasn’t a joke, this wasn’t a nightmare you could sweat out.
And yet, shock didn’t break you. Because nothing ever did.
Or maybe it was the pills dissolving in your bloodstream, the ones you swiped from the cabinet when no one was looking, their bitter taste a familiar comfort against the ache creeping in. You weren’t ready to feel — not yet. So you let the drugs wrap their arms around you, let them dull the edges, keep you floating just above the surface of it all. You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t beg for answers like the others probably did when they first arrived. You just sat there, tapping your fingers against the mattress like you were keeping time to a song only you could hear. Outside, the wind howled, and for the first time since waking up, you let yourself wonder if it was calling for you.
Because if there was one thing you knew for sure — the dark always came back for what belonged to it.
Why did your muse choose to live where they do?
You chose the Settlement, though you wouldn’t call it home. There was something about it — the way the people moved, the way they spoke in murmurs thick with reverence, the way their hands curled in prayer beneath the shadow of that tree. It should have unsettled you. Maybe, at first, it did. The whispers, the blind devotion, the eerie hush that settled over the town when night fell.
But it wasn’t unfamiliar. Not to someone like you.
You had been raised under the weight of rituals, your childhood steeped in bloodstained doctrine and candlelit invocations, the air thick with incense and whispered oaths to something unseen. Your parents had worshiped, bowed, offered themselves up as sacrifices — and when their time came, when their bodies collapsed to the floor like puppets with cut strings, they had expected you to follow. You didn’t. Maybe that’s why you were still here. And maybe that’s why the Settlement felt like the only place that made sense. You understood these people. They believed in something bigger than themselves, something that held power over life and death, something that could give and take with the tilt of its unseen hand. They feared it, loved it, bled for it in equal measure.
You understood what it meant to exist under the thumb of something greater, something unknowable. And so, you stayed. Not because you believed. Not because you wanted to be one of them. But because — for the first time in a long time, something was calling you back. And this time, you were listening.
What was your muse doing when they came across the tree?
You were dying in the back of the ambulance you came in on. The world had collapsed into a tunnel of flashing red lights, the siren a distant wail swallowed by the fog. Someone had been pressing against your chest, calling your name like it belonged to you, like it was something you should fight for. You remembered the sting of the needle, the rush of cold spreading through your veins as they tried to keep you tethered. But you had already been slipping. Slipping into something deeper. Something darker. The world outside the window was wrong — twisting, unraveling, the road curving where it shouldn’t. You thought it was the drugs. Thought maybe you had finally done it, finally tipped over the edge you’d been dancing on your whole damn life.
And then — impact.
The metal screamed. The world spun. A final breath punched from your lungs, and then — stillness. You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? Maybe you had never woken up at all. The back doors of the ambulance had been torn open, the stretcher tipped, IV lines still hanging like veins cut loose from a body that had been left behind. The paramedics were gone. The road? Gone. Nothing but trees. Nothing but mist curling through the branches, swallowing the last fragments of the world you used to know. And in the center of it all — the Tree.
It stood before you, ancient and gnarled, roots splitting the earth like veins, its branches stretching impossibly wide, dark, endless. The air around it pulsed, thick with something you couldn’t name, something that sank into your skin and pressed cold fingers against the inside of your skull. You should have run. Should have turned back, screamed, clawed your way away from whatever the hell this was. But you didn’t. You stumbled forward, bare feet dragging across the dirt, a weight in your chest that wasn’t entirely your own. It was calling to you. Not with words, not with sound, but with something deeper — something stitched into the marrow of your bones, something that had been waiting for you long before you ever set foot on this cursed ground. The Tree had seen you. And it knew you. You reached out, fingers brushing the rough bark —
And in that moment, you saw everything. Not in flashes, not in glimpses, but all at once. Blood in the dirt, soaking deep, feeding the roots. Faces carved from shadow, watching, waiting. The screams of those who came before you, the ones who tried to leave, the ones who never did. The cycle, the suffering, the way the town bent and twisted itself around this one, single point.
And at the very center of it all, yourself. Not as you were. Not as you had been. But as something else entirely. The past, the present, the nightmares clawing at the edges of your consciousness — it was all there. And for a single, terrible moment, you understood. Then the Tree let you go.
Your body collapsed to the dirt, the world spinning back into place, and when you gasped awake, the town was waiting. Your life before this? It had been borrowed time. And now, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
Has your muse left anything behind that they are desperately trying to return to or escape?
You left behind ashes and echoes, but nothing that would mourn you. No lovers tangled in the sheets of your absence. No family waiting by a phone that would never ring. No home beyond the motels and green rooms where you spent your nights, the places where you drowned in music, in vices, in the kind of oblivion that tasted like freedom but felt like chains. What was there to return to? A band that had already started to forget you, their lives moving forward while yours remained caught in the wreckage. A name scrawled in neon, flickering and dim, in venues where your voice once shook the walls. Unfinished songs, half-written lyrics smeared across hotel napkins and drugstore receipts — verses that bled with confessions you weren’t sober enough to say out loud.
You were always running. Running from the cold grip of the past, from the ghosts that sat heavy on your chest when the high wore off, from the memory of your mother’s vacant eyes staring back at you across a circle of corpses. Running from the fact that you were supposed to be one of them. You never asked to be saved.
Not when the paramedics pulled you from the brink, not when your body seized and your veins burned from overdose, not when you woke up in the back of that ambulance with another shot at a life you weren’t sure you wanted. And now, here you were. Not dead, but not alive. Stuck. Yet even in this godforsaken place, with its haunted streets and whispering trees, the past had its claws in you. You could still hear it calling, like the distant hum of an old song bleeding through static, a melody that only you could recognize. Maybe that’s why you kept a pack of matches in your pocket, half-used, the scent of sulfur still clinging to the tips of your fingers. Maybe that’s why you ran your fingers over the scars on your arms like a blind woman tracing a map to somewhere she was never meant to go. Maybe that’s why, sometimes before nightfall, you stood at the edge of the forest and listened — just listened — to the way the dark seemed to breathe, to the way it felt like something familiar watching you back. Because no matter how far you ran, there was something left unfinished. And whatever it was, whatever still tethered you to the life you tried to burn away — it wasn’t done with you yet.
