occasionally subtle
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
$LAYYYTER
noise dept.
Origami Around
Sweet Seals For You, Always
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Kiana Khansmith
Jules of Nature
Xuebing Du
Monterey Bay Aquarium
if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document
Three Goblin Art
AnasAbdin
#extradirty
DEAR READER
cherry valley forever
sheepfilms
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@deadun
#DEADUN ⋆ a dependent roleplay blog penned by paige for mistparted , featuring sophia " phia " wei , daugher of hades, master of half - dead hounds, the tender - hearted cain to her half - sister's show - stopping abel.
↳ about , pinterest & playlist .
When: June 21st
open to all
Where: Any location
"If you're here to help, I could use a snack," Izzy spoke up without looking at who had come closer, his eyes staring down at the many scattered books and noted. Information haphazardly sprawled before him like a cascade of drifting words. "M'just seeing who could be behind all of this, and somehow I've landed on a few possibilities, even if they are far fetched," he yawned, signs of exhaustion peppered his features as the hours had gone by.
The goddess of discord was a figure that would've reveled with delight at the sheer chaos running rampant across camp. The thinning of the mist, the gods in disarray, only a goddess like her would laugh at how the things Zeus built crumbled beneath him. He thought of other minor gods and even began to explore the idea of other pantheons, if all the stories were true, why not every mythos out there? Still, there was nothing Izzy loathed more than not having answers.
"I've also been working on team tactics, and it's sad to say but a rag tag team of demigods no matter how powerful are doomed to fail unless we learn everything there is to know about each other." he mused. "Our abilities, weapons of choice, things we like, and dislike...Maybe I'm just sounding crazy."
phia doesn't usually indulge in practical questions. her inquiries are more of the metaphysical sort, steeped in existentialism and epistemology. she hadn't given much thought to the mist's thinning beyond fretting about what seemed to be expected of them in fixing it. where were the olympians? where was zeus, king of the gods, while hecate was missing? why was the safety of their children not taking precedent for the olympians? what did their inaction mean for the value of their existence? she ignores their preliminary request, bypassing it. " i feel like i know more than enough about everyone already. " and phia knew very little. in fact, she preferred to give her fellow demigods backstories and motivations of her own. it was better that way. easier to navigate some semblance of understanding when they did things that made little sense to her without explanation. " maybe there isn't really much to know in the first place. "
James Baldwin.
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
fated for : open ⋆ for all .
location : sundown by the sound, the night of june 22nd.
miami had left a sour taste in phia's mouth that now refused to fade. even mr. d's overly - potent wine — the kind that she always refused on the basis that its taste clung to the tip of her tongue for what felt like days after imbibing — did nothing to wash florida from her consciousness. the quest was a mark, a tattoo, something she was stuck with. waking up in her bunk in the hermes cabin at daybreak on the 19th, morning mist clinging to the grass, she felt as if she'd fallen asleep first at a slumber party and her so - called friends had doodled unknown embarrassments on her features. perhaps it was a ridiculous thought, but the preacher in elk falls would baptize his congregation in the river, citing the divine capability of natural water sources. if the feeling refused to lift, then perhaps she needed to be reborn to be rid of it. antithetical, really. to who she was by her very blood. but last ditch efforts were rarely motivated by logic. she'd been wading around in the night - darkened water of sound for twenty minutes to no avail. she still felt wrong. being witnessed in this moment of — what? further weakness? a step beyond her usual pathetics? — regardless, it shames her. " just — don't ask, " phia calls from her position of holy sogginess, voice carrying easily over the water's surface, desperate to mitigate her strangeness in the face of the reputation she already had for it. she sinks into the water slightly, realizing too late and with heated cheeks that it's unlikely they would've spotted her at all if she hadn't called out.
fated for : @firebrvnds ⋆ mcgowan , billie .
location : midnight by the sound, the night of june 17th.
the prospect of venturing into floridian unfamiliarity without billie feels inherently wrong, like brushing a dog's fur in the wrong direction. it's childish, perhaps, for phia to mourn the loss of sharing the experience of her first steps outside of the box she'd drawn for herself with her dearest friend. part of her will always be thirteen, as thirteen as she was on the day that billie blew into camp like a miniature windstorm in a grocery store parking lot that picked up leaves viciously and laid them back down with an eerie gentleness. it still begged phia to be recalled years later. memorable in the mundane. that was billie. maybe theirs wasn't a love story, per se, but the word was peppered throughout it. lying on her back on the beach, arms stretched high above her head, fingers linked together amongst the sand — the moon looks so large that for fifteen minutes now, phia's been wondering if it's falling out of the sky. " i've been thinking about you in the underworld, and my brain kind of, just . . . won't accept it, " she admits, as candidly as her pen might admit it to her journals. " when i imagine it, it's like you but with your face blotted out. " creepy, maybe, now that she thought about it. but there's so much more to that thought. someone who phia was utterly devoted to in the domain of someone she wouldn't worship with the tip of a sword pressed to her neck. he who created her, but could not conjure her respect. " if someone offers you a pomegranate . . . " she trails off, the joke burning and dying in her throat like a fourth of july firework. its ashes choke her, and she swallows them down.
WHERE : THE EVERGLADES ( STILL ) WHO : @deadun
THEIR SURROUNDINGS ARE SEEMINGLY ON REPEAT, a cycle of green, of swamp, of identical hanging branches that snag like a thief's fingers on their clothes as they pass. salt-crusted shirt sticks uncomfortably to skin, the humidity pressing in from all sides wearing away at the edge of his elation at being out of camp. the group lapses into uneasy silence.
five minutes pass, ten — the everglades swallow all sound and even the squelch of shoes sinking into boggy ground feels muffled. there's a heaviness ezra can't shake, so in a bid to distract himself he drops back four paces, near shoulder to shoulder with phia. voice is conspiratorial, uncharacteristically muted as words drop between them, overheard only by the boughs that secrete their conversation and the dog that trots beside, ❛ you okay ? ❜
phia wishes that she could use scotty's resurrection as an explanation for the way she has retreated into herself. in truth, she feels out of place. who is she in the middle of florida? who is she outside of elk falls, kansas? who is she if she steps even one foot out of line on the the path from the sunflower state to camp half - blood and back again? who was she when piper was not near enough that phia could act her foil? she was a girl standing in half a foot of mud, crusted in sea salt with the sun beating down on her head. ezra's nearing presence brings relief, both at the distraction and at the fact that he does not bring with him the imminence of death, that little - experienced perk of her paternity that phia has been hyper vigilant about encountering since they'd left camp. she musters a thin smile on the wings of said relief. " yeah, " she affirms simply, squinting upwards towards the sun. ezra, in all his familiarity, has had thirteen years to learn the art of seeing straight through her — invisibility aside. " i doubt we'll make it out of the swamp before dark, though. " her voice is tainted with uncertainty, with a nervousness characteristic of a child who had not been allowed grace in responsibility and had since grown into a neurotic adult.
fated for : @omorfias ⋆ myung , ga eun .
location : the bonfire, the night of june 17th.
normally, phia would be seconds away from nodding off at this hour of night. tonight, however, her brain would not stop moving a mile a minute. the light from the fire flickers on her features, as if communicating something she can't quite make out. she stares back regardless, desperately seeking divine wisdom. perhaps it was hephaestus on the other line — the call not quite coming through. why he would contact her, phia wouldn't know. she only hopes that he'd have some advice to offer concerning tomorrow's quest. she's aware that she is not alone — keenly so, her stygian iron gladius laid across her lap, having just finished re - wrapping its hilt with painstaking care. " are you nervous? " she asks, recognizing the voice as her own but unsure how the words had come to slip from her lips without leave.
⋆ when the world ended — when she died, would she end up in the same part of the underworld as piper ? @claervoyants
house of the dragon s1e7 "driftmark" (dir. miguel sapochnik), girls against god by florence + the machine, young & sad by noah cyrus, louise glück, amy burning jo's book in little women (2019) (dir. greta gerwig), character list in antigone by sophocles, [loving] by jack veasey in handful of hair, the case of bucky briar by jack van cleaf, golden girl by frank ocean, the other boleyn girl (dir. justin chadwick), genesis 4:9
OPEN. JUNE 8, 1977. WHEREVER POOR, UNFORTUNATE (BUT MOSTLY POOR, THANKS JIMMY) SOULS COLLIDE @ CAMP HALF-BLOOD. EARLY EVENING.
eoin finnegan emerges from the tombstone chic confines of cabin one looking as rested as a live wire. exhaustion, however, is a privilege reserved for the perishable goods called people and the uniformed guns called the police. look alive, soldier. no home other than this one to fight for. no cannon fodder other than the cracking voices consonant with campfire songs from the fields of punishment to keep from wandering into the woods and turning up spouting theories about the comeback of ulster paramilitarism as ignited by a coalition of squirrels to die for. he sighs loudly enough to send a hurricane spinning towards south africa and descends to find a trustworthy source of fashion advice.
in one hand, you see: an oversized reefer jacket handcrafted by only the most arthritis-having artisans in the world. there are splotches of navy blue reminiscent of the great brine and its unknowable depths next to splotches of russet brown reminiscent of dog poop. not even daedalus could divine the structural destruction that is the conga line of mismatched buttons. wool lining houses little over ninety-nine per cent of half-blood hill’s rodent population for incredible prices.
in the other hand, you must know: the exact same fucking jacket. with the exact same fucking stains.
it takes all of five seconds for him to find someone worthy of stroking his ego. he taps them on the shoulder. tap is a generous term for the action that demonstrates his generosity with lethal force. he preemptively decides to deny indemnification, which is more thinking than what’s been put in this encounter. trust him, most honourable person in a powdered wig since orpheus or george onslow or whomstever it was in that overpriced painting on the overpriced postcard, he was just helping them out of lyre tuning duty. that’ll do it.
“help.” a demand, not a suggestion. the rollicking, maverick charisma of his monotone voice holds their attention hostage, he assumes. even now his eyes scan, as though staring hard enough will attune them to the frequency at which sirens slice through the sound barrier. the ugly kind, that is. “which should i wear when they come back?” the musty, misshapen lumps of linen nightmares are presented with a flourish. after a moment, he clarifies: “to avoid arrest.”
phia always knows when the son of zeus approaches, because she swears she can feel the air thicken. a characteristic calling card for the son of storms, she thinks it a neither a hop, skip, nor jump away from impossible that she could be imagining it. the alternative is that his presence begets anxiety — shortness of breath. an outcome just as likely. people with personalities like characters on the silver screen existed in a realm beyond phia's, and when he speaks, its as if she's hearing him from behind a pane of glass. the blows to her shoulder are absorbed some by her relative fuzziness — she grew less and less solid as the day went on. evenings, in terms of her poltergiestliness, were hit or miss. despite her loose grip on her tendency towards invisibility, phia solemnly vows to disappear completely if the impending conversation turns down a road she doesn't wish to traverse. she swears it to jesus. if there were truly a first time for everything, surely this would be the moment she snapped in and out of visibility on a dime. " um — " she exhales in a small, quiet huff, wishing it was a death rattle, wishing her father would suck her down into the underworld so she could avoid the next few moments of her life. the sweaters are the same, and phia concludes that he's making fun of her. she'd only spent five years in public school in kansas, but she knew this tactic well — the way they circled, laughing like hyenas, waiting for you to make a fool of yourself and making it all but impossible not to. say something ridiculous that debases you in the eyes of the peers that already think you freakish. say it, or nothing. the latter was a fate worse than death. phia would know. " they'd probably both get you arrested in the right circles. " yeah, by the fashion police — something she imagines her sister would say. instead, she commits to her non - answer, shoulders bobbing up and down once, dark eyes trained on the grass below his extended hands.
LOLA TUNG as BELLY CONKLIN THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY (2023)
"Me, either," Homer agreed. At least not here, and as of late. His past didn't matter much, and he was on a strict budget to stress the sudden promise he seemed to have made to keep it true. Then again, Camp Half Blood was probably the longest and cheapest trip he'd ever taken if he didn't count some of the psychological trauma inherited as a demigod. "Terrible for you. Who needs Lucy in the sky with a diamond when we know it's a guy with horses on fire?"
For a moment, he wondered if he had shared with the wrong person. Then again, any complaint about reefer was surely not at the top of their list of priorities. The smell of it, of course, could have only helped sell the lie that they were all here as a means of peace, harmony, and whatever else was scripted for their endeavors secluded from the mortals.
"It's weed," He clarified, and then tapped his head. "It's what gets this thing to act like it's suppose to— well, sometimes. Makes the world a little less scary. But no worries if you're not into it, just don't tell anyone else, yeah?"
the clouds above the horizon over homer's shoulder look like mountains. phia wrinkles her nose, gaze still averted, but homer's earnestness coaxes a smile on her face at last. it inches its way there reluctantly — a sore loser. " nobody, i guess, " she agrees, though without much gumption. it was how she did most things. she knew what the tin contained, she just didn't know what category of drug marijuana slotted into. the fear kicked up by the 1930s film reefer madness had long - since subsided, and phia imagined weed was probably the young people of today's drug of choice. however, they were an ingroup that phia technically, but not truly belonged to. she exhales quietly through her nose, leaning back onto the railing, weight on her palms. " don't worry, " phia shakes her head with sincerity, and piece of dark hair escapes her characteristically neat, single braid. " your secret's safe with me. " the sentence is so scripted, one that she's been waiting what feels like eons to be given the chance to utter. but she's glad to have said it, a small smile still ghosting at her features.
fated for : @niightshde ⋆ ogawa , yukiko .
location : the strawberry fields.
the wind whistling through the strawberry plants is not the kind that provides respite from the heat. its warmth makes it seem viscous, like a warm bath. regardless, she picks on, hoping to gather enough to skive off her strawberry duties for the rest of the week. she had a date with a new book — the bell jar by sylvia plath. the potential approach of a child of demeter sparks anxiety, her heart rate picking up ever so slightly as a shadow falls over her. " i know i'm rushing, but — " she pauses, slowing her hands, picking with a more gentle purpose. " i haven't broken any stems, so. " so she didn't want to hear it. she lays out her defence like a lawyer in court, not looking up from the task at hand. sylvia awaits.
ARCHERY RANGE, CAMP HALF-BLOOD. June 8th, 1977, shortly after 8 PM.
IN THE HUSHED AFTERMATH of the camp's tumultuous restoration, rosalynn seeks refuge in the archery range. her desire for familiarity guides each arrow's release, a rhythmic heartbeat synced with the target’s absorption rate of her unspoken thoughts. time blurs, seamlessly transitioning from daylight to moonlight during her ceaseless practice.
at some point during her ritualistic movements, a subtle rustle disrupts her concentration. she reacts instinctively, bowstring frozen in mid-draw, an arrow pointed with silent precision towards the disturbance.
her senses, finely attuned through years of training, dissect the surroundings without a need for visual confirmation. the archery range harbors an unexpected visitor, a presence that does not yet seem ready to reveal itself.
after a moment, rosie eases the tension on her bowstring, lowering the arrow but not the wariness in her gaze. ❛ either you've got a death wish, or a compelling reason to be lurking in the shadows of my solitude. ❜
her voice, measured and cool, breaks the silence like a crack in the stillness of the night.
❛ choose your next step wisely. this is not a sanctuary for the undecided. ❜
phia is used to maintaining a phantom - like silence. at home in kansas, she haunted the dusty rooms of the house she and mother shared — more a gaping wound than a home. but she should have known better than to assume that someone who had been twenty - five years old for nearly twenty - five years would not have experience with ghosts of her own. " there are worse fates than death. " she speaks monotonously, for rosalynn has already torn open the night's silence like a greatly anticipated birthday gift. happy twenty - fifth . . . again! " i think if you wanted to send an arrow through my head, you would have already. " phia confronts the hunter, holding her most recent journal in front of her hips with both hands, weighty with the recently - recorded word of dostoevsky. she waits, bathed in moonlight, the june heatwave's mugginess making her hair stick to the back of her neck despite the sun's retreat. or maybe it's the adrenaline, the way their conversation thins the veil between this life and the underworld, if only minutely.
closed ft. @deadun LOCATION: the hermes cabin
he recognized the back of her head from a distance, weaving in and out of campers between his cabin and her spot on the hermes cabin porch. his hands fidget with the tiny celestial bronze leaf that was once intended to be an applique for a project that was recently discarded, certain that it would find a better home with her than lost among the multiple piles of scraps scattered throughout the forge.
" i was looking for you. " he comes around in front of her, shy smile painted on his face. phia isn't a new person to camp, she's been there longer than him. but she's always existed just outside of his periphery. their paths, their lines of trajectory, hardly ever crossing for any sort of real reason. " forge still feels weird even though everything was put back, and i can't find my hammer. " the comment is breezy, despite the thread of tension that the mortal's visit has woven into it, that's still settled somewhere in against his back, just between his shoulders. calloused fingers turn the leaf, index finger pulling the curved bend while the point and stem are held fast between his thumb and middle. his boot sets right next to hers as he takes a seat opposing her, his eyes search her face, find her there. the corners of his lips tug further upwards in a teasing smile, " you think someone inside took it? "
most of phia's nights were spent waiting for the sun to rise, marvelling over its unwillingness to rush. eight hours felt like a lifetime when she could not get her thoughts to quiet, and so sat on her bunk, listening to the sound of oc's steady breathing (if she was there), and anticipated the light's emergence from under the cabin door. the previous night had been of that variety, but her fatigue felt suspiciously like peace. the heaviness of her eyelids were a comforting weight — her weary mind had not the capacity to worry as it did in waking moments. she sits, pen raised over paper, but nothing begs to be written. madden and phia were acquaintances, linked only by the demigodhood that tethered everyone at camp. what sets him apart is how he looks at her. like something to be picked out of the background, rather than something that was actively blending into it. phia wonders at what his mother must be like, to have raised a son so courteous — most likely a good christian like her own mother. she shuts her journal on a finger, though the page remains blank. its openness is frightening regardless, like the words she'd written might fly out into the open without warning. he was looking for her. she doesn't dare ask for the reason why. " well, i didn't, " she insists, absolving herself of any potential misplaced guilt. " but i can keep an eye open. i know most of their hiding spots. " she offers a wry smile, suggesting that the discovery of her cabinmates' stashes had not come without labour.
DAWSON'S CREEK 4.20 - "Promicide"
ga - eun is used to a quiet life. work had been the only social life she had. it wasn't that ga - eun craved isolation and being alone, but more so she adjusted to the independence. it's different now that she's at a camp surrounded by other demigods every way she turns. she hadn't exactly envisioned that her first time at camp would be like this. maybe she should've dreamed a little bigger. it's also why she can't hide the surprise on her features when she opens the aphrodite cabin door to reveal phia. "did you lose it?" is what she greets the other demigod with, though stepping back into the cabin and returning seconds later with a small box. "i believe sharing any sort of lip product is icky so i always have some backups. no one wants to walk around with cracked lips, do they? take your pick!" she opens the box and holds it out to phia, taking a brief moment to look at the other's lips. "did you lose it a while ago? your lips don't look chapped at all. you must be taking good care of them."
each time phia arrived at camp half - blood, she began an arc towards self - confidence that was cut short with the arrival of september and her return to elk falls. the finality of the moment was akin to a period's closing off of a sentence. back home, phia would not dream of asking one of her neighbours for anything. most wouldn't allow her a cup of sugar — not with her strangeness, nor her darkness. but for tonight, she is still on the upward slope, the night breeze is in her auburn hair, and ga eun is terribly sweet. she offers a wide smile, one that perhaps signals a bit more relief than phia would like to show. " no, i think it was borrowed, " the emphasis on the last word is more answer than the sentence itself. perusing the box's contents, phia feels a wave of pressure to make the right choice, whatever that choice may be. she plucks out a tube that most closely resembles the one she'd lost, clutching it in both hands girlishly. " me and my last lip balm were fairly inseparable, " she jests, " like orpheus and eurydice, sort of. "
