[feminurge]

A WRITING BLOG FOR DHUFEAINNEWEDD, AS WRITTEN BY EVE (24). WRITTEN SINCE 2020.

YOU CANNOT DISOWN WHAT IS YOURS. FLUNG OUT, THERE IS ALWAYS THE RETURN, THE RECKONING, THE REVENGE, PERHAPS THE RECONCILIATION. THERE IS ALWAYS THE RETURN. AND THE WOUND WILL TAKE YOU THERE. IT IS A BLOOD-TRAIL.

[feminurge]

moved to @cuntlike.

[feminurge]

moved to @cuntlike.

[feminurge]

moved to @cuntlike.

[feminurge]

moved to @cuntlike.

[feminurge]

the ishtar hiatus continues BUT i did do the thing (gave my braincells to another blonde bisexual menace) @rozanovh

[nyktelya]

watching heated rivalry with eve. Interesting

[feminurge]

are you really friends if you don't watch gay smut romance together

[maurilyan]

curtains drawn, the scene is set: there is blood spilled all across the floor and they are a picture of fealty within it. knees are burrowed deep in its puddles, a crashing wave of crimson splashed across their chest with their hands warmed by its touch. there is blood, so much of it, pooling around their boots, drenching the ends of their cloak, dripping down their arms. there is blood and there is the stage they are upon, and leitha cannot remember where one begins and the other ends.

there is blood, so much of it. and none their own. a pile of orin's madness. it bleeds, stains their stature, fractures the voice in their mind. they have won another battle but what good has it bestowed, and of what use is it, when another dozen innocents meet torturous furor?

@feminurge , ❝ aren’t you angry? don’t you want revenge? ❞

the curtains fall. and all there is left is two: istar, standing above them, leitha, kneeling before her. fallen on both knees, chest pained and heaving for breath. the rancid smell of rust hits their tongue, travels down their throat and pools at the bottom of their stomach. somewhere along that journey it meets all the past blood they have seen, all the ones they had to swallow in order to rise to a stand once more. the bodies that were nameless and after hundreds of years have become: the ones that have began to turn faceless.

❝ enough. ❞ there are eyes staring up at them. they don't feel it, but they see their hand move. gloved fingers come to close this strangers eyelids. is it a sign of piety, regret and respect? or is it because leitha cannot stand to remember this strangers eye color? ashen gray now mixing in the fluid that surrounds them, a lagoon of their guilt.

the stormstar that the all-seeing cannot see , ❝ doesn't it just feel like there’s this hole inside of you? and it just gets bigger and bigger and darker and darker? ❞

thus it swallows them whole and they cannot see the stars or the moon anymore? but the darkness that consumes them within, reeking out through lilac flesh. their clenched fist pounds against the stage, feels the ridges of cobblestone imbed into their knuckles as they choke and whine and groan. not from the pain that rips through their wrist and up to into their shoulder, following the lightning scars there from a time long before the trees that surround them spurted from this dirt their tears fall into━━ but of the words passed. the words spoken, the words truthen.

their head falls back, their chin finally, finally, rises and points at the being above and the lunar lady has forbade them from looking up further. ❝ that's ... enough. ❞

they reach upwards. slowed, not to strike, fingers peeling back and grasping against the others wrist. they give it a tug, gentle at first, then, again, gripping and jarring. they are on one knee now and use this leverage they have gained to begin to rise. they loom above the other, a smallen human they stare down at. as there is blood on them, it now stains her as well. ❝ i don't need revenge. ❞ now, they can finally breathe. the lie tastes like candy, coats their tongue with honey. and the mage leans down, their head tilts, curiosity foreboding. and the rage lingers, nipping at their heels. ❝ but for you? you will tell me that it is different for you. hedonism is but an omen for such creature of the gods ━━it comes with such territory. you are such omen━━ not one far from what we find in these caves. ❞

[feminurge]

the scene is set; and so they dance accordingly to the strings pulling their puppet limbs into action. all that must die are dead, and thus the warden of destruction inhales the stale air (iron and humidity and something rather familiar, home without bones). all that remains is the moon child, kneeling in blood and infamy. they look so terribly defeated, though no scarring will occur on their moonlight-stained skin. they are well-- unhurt and safe in ways few can claim to be.

and yet.

"aren't you angry?", the human asks, "don't you want revenge?" as if to say, a hand gesturing at the mess, this is what leads to revenge. this is what gets you the brittle bones of your enemies; so you can make yourself a crown, which you'll lower onto your younger sibling's deathbed. as promised.

istar knows many things, but revenge is perhaps what she excels in the most. it is what made her, after all: bhaal ensured the child would be honed in wrath. it was the price of his love. it was the result of his attention. it was her running away and toward, always, the snake eating its tail; pleasure, yes, in the mess it made of itself. revenge pressed upon her spine until she crawled, until she walked, until she ran. revenge forcing her to spit sounds, to turn them into words.

leitha's enough barely registers. "no," istar starts to say, but the rest of it (it cannot be enough) (it'll never be enough) (the price for a life is a lifetime, yours to ruin and theirs to lose) gets mangled in her throat, a low growl that sounds more animalistic than human. the corpse's eyes get covered by pallid eyelids. they get to sleep.

the hole, istar mentions. the hole in which she presses her hand, reaching for corners she knows she won't find. the growing, hungry black hole of loss. do you not feel it? it is as if she is brandishing a mirror, asking for recognition and familiarity. asking for connection.

a hand reaches her; it holds her wrist and brings her down; no, brings the other up, up, up, until they are towering. for a moment, she is taken by the image of a fawn learning how to stand on shaky legs. (it is not enough) (blood shall sip into the earth and darken the very core of this planet) (the moon will call for the crimson tides to wash over the coast, you'll see) in other words: hedonism, yes, can be taught. and an omen is just a message one decides to interpret as threatening.

the pale fingers about to fall back to the elf's side are captured. an anchor of human fingers, bony & dirt-painted. it holds their wrist back, before falling to their palm, against which she presses hers. the blood stain spreads; she watches it with great interest. "is it not need, that craving in your chest?" the sorceress juts her chin up in clear defiance; the mage might be taller, it would take much more than a few more inches to intimidate such a wild creature.

"revenge tastes sweet; it would for you too, were you to dislodge that giant stick up your ass." a shrug, "though i suppose it is merely wishful thinking on your part. it is fine; you'll see that a bloody glass can turn out to be half-empty, when presented with the right candidate to drain from."

[feminurge]

how many kicks before life realizes im not just playing dead for fun

[abysswarden]

            It's deplorable, his mouth waters because he is, in all frankness — a cocktail man. Of course, at his base of being a manageable addict, he'll drink anything (  therapy in the void settled him with nothing but a troubled look & advice in the prognosis of 'well, just don't do it'  ). He'd take the kaleidoscopic cauldron of forty-three splashes over some bready IPA any day on this rotating rock. It looks like she's drinking a sunset, and it makes him wonder before he wrenches his head to look at a rowdy group of men in the corner. (   nobody saw the way his eyes narrowed & flickered like cold gold & kept his anger stowed away. )

            Slisae paws his fingers just under his eye at an itch, the fabric of his shroud aiding in resolving it while he glances over at her pet project. When he scans the room again without moving his head, it feels like he's seen this before in his own apartment, marker scribbles and a web of strings. His best friend said he looked like he was eaching conspiracy levels and to knock it off, clean the wall. Be fucking normal, she would have said.

            Slisaeqiothske, or more easily known as Sidney when he's out of the dark and into the light, is an unsettling haunt ( he tends to infiltrate places of life, easily unwelcome ). Her voice startles him at first; he had been poring over the woodgrain of the bar and how the lacquer seems to give. If he were a normal man, he might have offered a renovation — he was good at working with his hands and always needed things to keep busy. But carpentry was so far down the line of hobbies, even if he had the stature of a lumberjack, big boy ( — the truth was that he self-labeled as a fixer, but not that kind of fixer.)

            Looking up at her, because he hunches where seated, he studies the woman with curiosity under his veil. A man with no face indeed. The barest flicker of his lurid eyes is noticeable this close, and one could trace the way his eyes moved to Ishtar's drink. A long pause interims before the voidwrath grunts. ❝ — I am a cocktail man after all, ❞ his accent is heavy, English, and 'after all', comes out like 'afta oll' but hardly to be used as a stereotypical caricature ( the last man who had ridiculed him got a stiff fist hard enough to put him in for a nap amongst the scraps on the floor. ) 

            He loved honey, so it meant he liked a honeyed tongue from time to time — remaining smart enough to be able to tell when it was cut with something else. In certain angles, his eyes looked chartreuse; in others, just yellow gold. ❝ Suppose I could take a break from th' ol' gin n' tonic for once, ❞ scrutinizing, he find himself pursing his hidden lips, ❝ Who laid hands on you, dove? ❞

[feminurge]

at his accent, she grins-- the way a cat does with the canary's feathers between its teeth, all tail-wagging happiness at catching something fancy rather than the boring ol' kebbles mary left in a dirty bowl outside. without hesitation her drink slides from her to him, pushed by two thin fingers, with nails decorated by scraps of colorful (yet ruined) polish.

it suits the character, of course: beautiful in a way only forgotten things know how to be. wistful, perhaps, though more for the observer than the observee. strange, like a dream within a dream, the doll that keeps on grinning even after the puppet show is over. she looks like she comes from dirt, straight out of some farmer's wet dream, with cowboy boots that have lost their shine and a skirt too short to be polite.

but then there's the bright pink pantyhose, and the many rings, and the tangled necklaces that don't seem to match at all. the map of a country she should call home, though every place is threatened with new markings. a caricature that doesn't want to be on the canvas it was destined to, marching out with a raised chin and a wicked grin.

at least, she has the accent and the dirty footmarks-- enough to fool the gallery, surely.

she stares at his eyes for a long time; seconds that drop between them like a clock waiting for a tock that won't come. she barely moves her head, just so she might change the angle and watch as green becomes gold, but it's so very obvious that she is doing it. she feels no shame; doesn't seem the kind to ever feel those pesky emotions.

"'appened in a dream," she murmurs, already gesturing to her new bartender friend for another cocktail. "yunno, laid down thinkin' i'd dream of somewhere nice, and 'ere i was, gettin' 'it in the face by a man without one." she leans forward, just slightly, "it ain't me that was punched, of course, but dreams don't care 'bout that, right? dunno if dude even deserved it." she takes the new cocktail, straw between her lips, a slurp or two, before she wonders: "did 'e deserve it, mh?"

[feminurge]

said i'd be back and then opened photoshop for twelve seconds before disappearing again

[feminurge]

you ever think about vampires and how closely we connect the concept to money/wealth

[feminurge]

the trailer might have revived me we're revamping.

[feminurge]

this but its ishtar's hair for weeks after eryri's fire, because the friends who braided her hair and helped her take care of it are all dead and she refuses to touch it. it stays matted and a little bloody and full of ashes until it gets so unbearable she considers cutting it all off. in the end, it takes hours to untangle and clean, and it feels like everyone dying a second time

[feminurge]

do you know what you're doing?

a wall of smoke separates them, but through the opaque window, you can see her as she stirs a giant wooden spoon into a fuming cauldron. for a moment, perhaps two, as the mind attempts to make sense of the imagery it is presented, she looks every bit the swamp witch of the stories.

"do i? does anyone?" she asks, smile already growing like weeds upon her face; one stir, two, and then she is rising the spoon in-between them, dipping the index finger of her other hand into the bowl of the utensil. of course, she then dips that finger into her mouth-- which, from both color & smell, seems like a rather stupid idea.

"healing baulms are child's play, little king. i've done it a thousand times." the spoon is dipped once more. with a head tilt to the right side, she asks: "would you be so kind as to get me some more butterfly weed? the red thing, yes, that one."

[feminurge]

at work, my autistic ass got stuck with lunch service. kinda insane they keep giving me that shift when, every day, i do not manage to say a full sentence without stuttering

[feminurge]

continued from here. @allmonster

friend or foe-- do they even remember what they are? in the dying light of a torch abandoned on the muddy ground, ishtar is not completely sure of her aim; only that perhaps what they are to each other can be brought to a quiet end until the day begins anew & the king, once more whole, is fully aware of that new beginning.

approaching despite the growling of a suffering beast, the witch moves swiftly. no mistrustful glance is spared to the shadow of a bear, though it would be impossible to miss. it seems that eivor's essence takes much of the space in the cave, ishtar no more than a spark from the torchlight as she takes the next steps.

though she isn't tense, it is evident that she is prepared for a fight… the possibility of it is heavy & potent, almost a smell of its own in the wet surroundings. still, she appears calm-- as steady as the ocean in the darkness, only the waves crashing against stones & sand threatening the unchanging nature of the scene. "i'm going to help you. try not to bite my fingers off." -- though, those two she'd grow back. every part of her body has been rebirthed, pain her sole birthright.

another step, more careful this one. one hand is extended in the universal sign for 'calm the fuck down, i'm not here to hurt you', while the other tightens around the little bag full of what she'll need to make sure the wound does not get infected. "you won't heal fast enough on your own. let me help. we can fight about it later-- when you actually have a chance of winning. is that agreeable to you?" her tone, a soothing melody.