[dhufeainnewedd]

A WRITING BLOG FOR DHUFEAINNEWEDD, AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER SET IN MULTIPLE UNIVERSES, ORIGINATED IN CD PROJEKT RED'S THE WITCHER III : BLOOD HUNT. follows back from @favoriteache.

mutuals only, private & selective. following back from the multi-muse blog, @favoriteache.

basic rules apply, don't be a dick.

due to the source material, graphic depictions of violence, mature and explicit content will appear. browse at your own discretion. triggers are tagged: trigger / and are emphasized with dead dove: do not eat when necessary.

force-shipping all kinds of dynamics through memes is heavily encouraged. memes in general are the best way to start interacting.

ABOUT ISHTAR.

full name: from elise le bescond to ishtar atta isil to dhufeainnewedd to (don't say her name in case you actually summon her) age: either 25 or a thousand years old. who knows pronouns: she/they sexuality: bisexual species: human? height: 5'2

see full information and available universes here.

facts :

overpowered gremlin. chaotic threat. evil minx with a nefarious plot she won't tell you about. watch your back (find her oggling your ass)

autistic menace. bisexual flirt. cockroach under god's boot, still wriggling its little body & throwing a wink for good measure

a mask beneath a mask beneath a mask beneath a mask. manic pixie dream girl whose own reflection is a blurry mess of stitched up parts

fate's forgotten. fate's little spy. time means nothing to the timeless: whatever piece of trivia you hide behind a clenched jaw, she probably knows about

came from dirt, still choking on it

[fairycosmos]

what’s the big deal about being avoidant. like ohhhh im dodging the bullet quick everyone lets mock the bullet dodger

[childactress]

@dhufeainnewedd: what do you think you need? a cheerleader? a fuck buddy? a girlfriend?

everything sounds like a joke out ishtar's mouth: profane, sticky, whispered into her ear at the end of a bar. at the end of an alley, the end of the telephone, wherever the end is, that's where she'll be (not a herald or harbinger, not a godly gift of message — the world's already ended. the storm passed. the apocalypse came and went and chose to leave ishtar behind). figures that the end of her rainbow dropped her off to mara.

so mara laughs. nothing's funny, she remembers a split-second later, it's all about her and her angst, the bleeding broken heart she so courageously carries with her, the shatter of a devastating, raw-throated public fight with — fuck, what's his name. ❝ i need assisted suicide. or assisted homicide, i don't know. ❞ her cigarette's burnt itself into a stub; she sends it to the ground with a flick of finality. she feels around her waist for where she tucked her carton, aha, she draws it out, flips it open, finds it empty. isn't that the poor girl's luck. she looks through her lashes to ishtar under the streetlamp, a pout rather than a please. ❝ do you—? ❞

[dhufeainnewedd]

two facts:

life is a joke

mara really pulls off the clown nose

which is to say, little miss star has no idea what spectacle she's the star in, only that she's bright and beautiful under the spotlights. and ishtar is being particularly benevolent when she tries to spell it out for her. she could be kinder about it, sure, but that's the kind of hypothetical she doesn't really entertain. what's the point of shifting the axis toward kindness? they'll still end up here: ishtar saying, "i ain't killin' ya, if that's what yer gettin' at'" while mara starts patting herself because she spent her first cig blabbering about what's his name, and the humiliation, and the heartbreak.

ishtar doesn't even wait for her to locate the pack to start digging into her own fanny pack. she knows the dance: woe is me, but i can still do magic, watch this! (then mara opens the carton and, of course, it's empty, because she's a shitty street magician. the audience that was ready to clap just burrows further into their seat. it's a sad, sad sight). some nights, ishtar lets it happen. this time, however, she stares at mara: the lowered lashes, and the way the streetlamp's shine highlights her cheekbones and darkens her eyes.

ishtar hands her the parliament pack. she closes the fanny pack she only carries because she likes stealing shit people leave lying around. she idly wonders if that's what she's doing with mara: picking up what's left because no one is going to bother checking up on it. "maybe someone's gonna put a cool audio an' it'll turn into a dancin' trend. did ya think of that?"

[vitalphenomena]

@dhufeainnewedd said: there's no need to be afraid of me.

CAUTION ISN'T THE SAME THING AS FEAR. Caution is prudent. Judicious.

Choso isn't careful to an infallible degree. Neither his curse characteristics nor his human traits allow this. But he wants to be. He needs to be—if he wants to stay tangible long enough to protect his remaining brothers.

Dhufeainnewedd must not have any siblings. She does not live the way that Choso endeavors to live at all—then again, nobody does. Nothing does.

<<I'm not afraid of you.>>

He's keeping his distance and maintaining the appearance of cold indifference for more practical reasons. (He's tired.)

<<You don't have any purpose.>> Broadly speaking, really. (Does any curse?) What he mostly means is: <<You don't have any reason to be here.>>

So why appeal to him tonight?

[dhufeainnewedd]

she smiles at him. it is not a grotesque thing at all; the scars scrunch up kindly, until two dimples dig into her cheeks. she looks like a girl, if a girl was stuck by lightning, bright bright bright from the inside. and bursting.

she doesn't care much for fear, even when she tastes it on a person's breath, right before she plucks at the thread hidden in their ribcage. fear tastes stale, and ugly, and strident.

purpose, though, is much more her speed. "bold accusation!!" and it is! how dare he, little chimera that he is, half curse half human, and entirely out of line. she grins wider. she likes that he would rather ask her than try to send her away; it never works, and the repetition bores her beyond belief.

on thin air, she sits cross-legged. "what's your reason, then? to serve, to protect?" she seems rather peaceful as she decorticates his being into simple rules. the ones to abide by, the ones to be caged in. "it's not about you at all."

[dhufeainnewedd]

not so fun fact but ishtar didnt get her records officially removed from the lds church. you need a notarized resignation letter and 18yo on the run ishtar couldnt pay for that/had no support to do that. so she got a new identity and erased that name

[dhufeainnewedd]

every time i go to write ishtar i think about the villanelle 'this is so boring' monologue

I have real trouble telling the truth. I don’t understand the concept, actually, but… but somebody told me it was important, so… here it goes. Most of the time… Most days… I feel… nothing. I don’t feel anything. [She sighs.] It is so boring. I wake up and I think: ‘Again? Really? I have to do this again?’ And what I really don’t understand is how come everybody isn’t screaming with… with boredom too. I… try to find ways of making myself feel something… More and more and more, I… It doesn’t make any difference… No matter what I do, I don’t feel anything, I… I hurt myself, it doesn’t hurt. I buy what I want, I don’t want it. I do what I like, I don’t… I don’t like it. I’m just so bored.

[dhufeainnewedd]

the world splits itself in shades of red. neither of them has slept, nor will they now that the day imposes itself loudly, with the chirping of birds and the road ahead's activities. istar doesn't know whether to talk or not-- finds that the urge to do so is a strange thing, almost like a second person sitting between them. it wants to poke at eliana's soft belly: she must be weak, now, witnessing the world as it wakes up. people tend to be, when faced with the impossible sight of a world that does not wish to shatter them-- it's a cradle, that's what it is, this world when it wakes up. it wants to hold you gently, and so do you.

"baldur's gate's close." she tells her, though it's less of a piece of information and more of an emphasis on an uncomfortable truth, "you should have slept a little." then, because she can't help it, the shadow of a smirk on her face, "the wizard certainly would have made some space for you in his bedroll."

&&. @lattehearted : ( 🌅 ) : for our muses to watch the sun rise together.

[dhufeainnewedd]

hey, what if you sent me something for ishtar?

[dhufeainnewedd]

@divineviclinist, ( 🧾 ) : for our muses to argue over who owes what.

"darling nicki," she coos. the endearement slips out of her mouth like a snake waiting to bite. definitely something borrowed. she taps him, once, claw digging between two ribs because that's approximately all she can reach from where she stands. one day, she'll finally voice a complain about the sheer size of the vampires following lestat like baby ducklings-- something to say about his type, surely, but she is still walking on a razor-sharp edge since the last time she voiced any complaints outloud. so she'll refrain. to maintain the peace!

"ya owe me, yunno?" he probably doesn't know; the witch-vampire counts tallies in a way that neither mortal nor monster completely fathom. your fate is an ugly thing she keeps in a dark corner of her mind; all you can do is believe her when she tells you she's steering you away from the worst parts of it. of course, you could forsake her entirely, and meet your destiny head-on... most actually do. "and we both know he'll prefer to hear it from ya than lil' old me... come on! have i never done anythin' for ya?", she takes a surprised breath then, completely fortuitous, a glance upward to see nicolas' face. "--ain't no need to answer that, actually."

[dhufeainnewedd]

going back to the basics!! @cuntlike → @dhufeainnewedd

[dhufeainnewedd]

a drag path but it's me copy-pasting / rewriting the same verses for ishtar from carrd to carrd to carrd since 2020

[trenchcoma]

the cold seeps into your bones

[tyrran]

mutants ought to consult mutants and leave men out of such sordid affairs, or so it's said, except it's a bitter poison capsule when it turns out said mortal men are the catalyst for (in their eyes) equally sordid relations. the payment he's been offered to mediate between the village alderman and the reclusive sorceress will feel tainted within a few days of collecting it, and vann will be glad to spend it if only to see it gone. the north window is open but a middling crack, and through it the scent of salt comes in with middle notes of, almost impossibly, magnolia and woodsmoke. it's not the first time he's glad for his keen senses: he fixes his attention on that saline note and though he be a learned witcher aware of common superstition, vann wonders if it'll protect him from evil.

he's had to hide his medallion under every layer of armor and clothing, because the magic in this small - yet - larger - than - it - seems house won't stop making vibrate. it is a dull tickle against his sternum by this point. " you haven't told me what you want from me yet, " says the bear witcher, shifting slightly in his seat. the scent of flowers seems to develop a will of its own, because it overpowers everything else. " but i doubt you take coin ... or anything conventional. what's a witcher to offer dhufeainnewedd in exchange for help, so that he himself may help with a curse? "

s.c., ft. @favoriteache / @cuntlike.

[dhufeainnewedd]

the traps are there to ward off the weaker men; small enough to veer off the less desperate. only the ones who truly hunger for a solution are welcomed in. the deals are often worth the hassle of opening the door: they'd part with anything, if it meant living freely.

it doesn't surprise her, then, when one is not desperate enough to endure her games himself: how forseeable to be greeted by the sight of witcher, humming mediallion out of sight but not unseen, for the witch knows of magic the second it passes the threshold of her makeshift home. in the kitchen where she invites him to sit, she is a small thing; the shelves full of plants and spices and books spread high and wide around her. "coin," the witch scoffs, "the poison of men."

she continues to mix the different herbs into a concoction she then buries into a pot of fuming water. for a moment, it seems as if she will not be answering the question. then a blink, a stir to the right, two to the left, and she is saying: "what do you have that might be of interest to me, witcher?" a smile, a wicked little thing, like a bird of prey in its youngling years, "pouch heavy with poison… without home and without possession but this mortal coil…" the unblinking stare, the rising steam that colors her cheeks red. she seems to be watching him & watching beyond him.

"i will take what is left, i suppose."

[dhufeainnewedd]

"how does it work?" she asks, dangling face down from her branch. it's late afternoon & others are resting at camp while the day wastes away. to rest. she too would enjoy the rest, she thinks, if the nights were not made of blood and bones. "being made." a beat, a swing, going back up the branch to sit on it. "being godly." a smirk, a smile, a sweet lolling thing.

&&. @chth0nia

[agnes-nielsens]

three cheers is a great album for people who have normal relationships with the truth

[dhufeainnewedd]

"all this blood," the witch smiles; it seems to bring her great joy. it was not in her nature to hunger for these things, but time has robbed her of everything else-- now this is all there is: little joys in the little drops of blood scattered across snow. on the precipice of another catastrophe, she can't help but reach out. the little queen wants so much… an army and dragons and respect and safe children and a behaving kingdom. will she bleed for it? how terrible it is to ask: one son as payment, has she not paid enough? that is the sad truth that the witch can't whisper: death does nothing but claim more. it is, like her, a well without end. cruel teachings, yet rhaenyra will have to learn on her own. "are you quite sure it is what you want?"

&&. @ordyneir

[dhufeainnewedd]

"miss okojie," a murmur that does not come from the door, nor from the window; a sound that grows thick and travels from the hollow of your throat to your ear, strange and off-putting as an unseen bug tracing your skin. there is a silhouette blurring as it passes the window threshold, and suddenly here she is: sitting in the chair facing the desk, as if she had never been anything but. "i brought ya a little somethin'." a cheeky smile while a box from another age is put onto the desk.

&&. @netc0de