★ bala qestir★ balmung★ conjurer & botanist (in training)★ this is a sideblog, mostly for shitposting and screencaps but some IC/RP stuff will also show up here from time to time. all likes, follows, asks and replies etc from @nightingaletherobber.
XIII. DEATH. — End, mortality, destruction, corruption; also, for a man, the loss of a benefactor; for a woman, many contrarieties; [...] Reversed: Inertia, sleep, lethargy, petrifaction, somnambulism; hope destroyed.
V. THE HIEROPHANT. — Marriage, alliance, captivity, servitude; by another account, mercy, and goodness; inspiration; the man to whom the Querent has recourse. Reversed: Society, good understanding, concord, over kindness, weakness.
XV. THE DEVIL. — Ravage, violence, vehemence, extraordinary efforts, force, fatality; that which is predestined but is not for this reason evil. Reversed: Evil fatality, weakness, pettiness, blindness.
"...And then— And then!! He called me 'Coincounter' — can you believe that!? I thought we were hitting it off, but nooo, the fucking NERVE of that guy..."
"Uh... Do you...want me to keep going, or...?"
"What? Yes, fucking, obviously, did I tell you to stop!?"
looking through all of the gposes i've done over the past few weeks that haven't been posted over here yet and trying to decipher which ones won't get my shit slapped clean off by tumlr's amazing auto-mod system hmm. hmmmmm
Before Rook can even turn his head to respond, Violet drops into the couch cushion directly to his right, leaning bodily against his side and inserting himself into Rook’s personal space without a visible care or second thought. In other words, business as usual.
What’s less than usual is the tiny object cradled between Violet’s fingers, one Rook recognizes with only the scantest of glances as Violet turns it from one side to the other. He pauses.
“You could always ask before you go rummaging through my things, you know.”
Violet answers with a scoff, the bulk of his focus still centered squarely on the thing in his hands. “That’s no fun. Tell me.”
Rook shifts in his seat, setting the book in his hand to one side before letting his own focus settle on the object in question: a small flute, just big enough to fit in the palm of Violet’s hand, carved from bone into the shape of a round bird, painted in what must have once been vibrant hues, now well-faded, chipped and flaking where the patterns haven’t already been worn away.
Again, he pauses.
“I don’t know.”
Violet finally turns to look up at him, the expression on his face landing somewhere between skeptical and annoyed.
“What, is this another one of those things you ‘don’t remember?’” Even without the accompanying gesture, the air quotes are perfectly audible in Violet’s voice. “Or is it just something you don’t want to talk about?”
To that, Rook simply shrugs.
“I don’t know,” he repeats himself, his own voice every bit as level and unbothered as before. “It really isn’t any more complicated than that.”
And, to that, Violet’s ears flick back as his lips purse into an irritated frown.
“Why do you have it, then?”
He’s finally learning how to ask the right questions, it would seem. Rook tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling while he mulls over his words.
“It was one of the only belongings I had on me,” he finally says, after far too long a silence, his gaze still turned upward. “When they found me, at Carteneau... At least, that’s what I was told. I couldn’t remember; I couldn’t know if they were telling me the truth.”
The silence that follows then is far, far too long. Terrible wings, impossibly huge, stretch wide across the entire span of his memory, casting all that came before into darkest oblivion.
“You never told me you were at Carteneau.”
Violet’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, so much so that Rook can’t help but look back down to him with a raised brow.
“You never asked.”
He says it plainly, matter-of-factly, in that usual, teasing way which almost never fails to rile Violet into answering with outsized indignation. But Violet doesn’t respond at all, not even to turn to look back at him; he continues to stare down at the little flute instead, his ears lying back, his brow furrowed, his expression inscrutable.
“I guess not.”
Violet finally speaks, but his mind is clearly somewhere else, somewhere too distant for Rook to reach. He cants his head to one side, briefly, and deliberates over his next course of action...for all of a moment, before he makes his choice: to wrap one arm about Violet’s shoulders, letting his hand come to rest between his ears, to which Violet responds by curling inward, settling the entirety of his weight into Rook’s embrace.
In other words, business as usual, each and every thing in its proper place — aside from the flute still clutched in Violet’s grasp.
in GOLD, it blooms, taking root in the rotting corse
of a wretched existence, shaping life anew
from that which ended as fate had ever decreed:
dyed in RED, the stain of ignominy and fear.
turnnoffyourmind
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