the sword

irelia night. wytch. demi-god. maiden. the church of night. Powers: Mediumship, Empathy, Telepathy, Psychokinesis, Teleportation, Astral Projection, Healing Factor, Clairvoyance Immortality

[amsnight-deactivated20211218]

mabel-mott‌:

* ╱ 𝓂𝒶𝒷𝑒𝓁 𝓂𝑜𝓉𝓉

when: may 28, 2019 where: phi phi omega sorority house with: @elysenight​; @irelianight​; @amsnight​

there had never come a time when mabel mott felt in a position of judgment. she could do no wrong in the eyes of her grandmother, by whom the rest of the motts faced a wrath never experienced by the youngest herself. things were easy for the wytch and if she kept her head down there was never an opportunity for others to scold her or berate her for anything. surely there were the incidental moments where her sisters may not be pleased with her brazen disregard for clothing limits. truly the last time mabel mott remembers feeling nervous for tense interaction was the morning she returned home after a week’s disappearance whereby she sat on a couch very much like the one she finds herself in now and awaited the punishment her mother and grandmother were sure to give her. ironically, the women had been more than grateful for her safe return that nothing further was said on the matter. this, mabel realizes, is nearly as suspenseful as that very moment in her childhood, and surely would not end as well in her favor. 

elyse’s kind words meet her ears and a weak smile forms upon the blonde’s lips. as much as she wants to believe the girl, she finds it hard to keep up with the nearly exhausting optimism at times. her blossoming friendship with elyse night has been nothing but a positive experience for the wytch, and she is more than thankful at the girl’s incessant willingness to take her under her wing and provide her with a bond of loyalty mabel thought only existed between herself and her twin brother. when elyse suggested merging their friendship with the likes of her sisters, mabel knew it would be the girl’s optimism getting her through the situation. after all, mabel mott is not known to have many friends beyond the likes of her immediate family. a damaged girl keeps to herself, and all of that.

“i appreciate your optimism,” mabel whispers, hoping the now approaching duo are unable to hear the wavering in her voice as she stands to greet them.

Elyse always liked the see the best in people, whereas Amara was a bit more wary. She was like a little ball of light, always wanting to believe in the positives and quite honestly, Amara was a little jealous of how easily her sister formed friendships with most. She wished she could be so carefree and let her guard down just for a little but she knew better; as soon as she showed the tiniest bit of vulnerability the vultures will come feeding. Someone was always watching and waiting for the opportunity to attack and Amara wasn’t going to let them have that moment. She learnt to treat her peers as competition and Mabel Mott was no exception to that. 

She wanted to try to make an effort with the girl though, just for Elyse’s sake but she was never good at hiding her true emotions when it came to her sisters. Part of it was due to being bound to each other and the other part was due to the fact that they had pretty much spent every moment together since they were sixteen. There was no point in trying to lie to them because they would be able to suss her out in no time. 

“I don’t know about you but I don’t like this.” she mutters to Irelia next to her as she sees Elyse with the blonde. “Like what do we even know about this girl. Not a lot.” Her voice dripped with displeasure, contrasting from the forced friendly smile that she had plastered. Deep down she knew that wasn’t the case but she couldn’t help feeling that twang of jealousy in her chest. She had already been abandoned for another Mott and she for sure wasn’t going to let that happen again. “So Elyse, are you going to introduce us to your friend?” It wasn’t supposed to sound so patronising and bitter but it ended up coming out that way. So much for trying to be friendly and welcoming.

[irelianight-blog]

Forced socialization is something Irelia assumes she only has to suffer during rush week. But Elyse is so insistent on introducing one Ms. Mabel Mott to her sisters, Irelia realizes there is no way she is getting out of this one. Evening of, she’s working her way through figuring out a new spell, has her notebook open in her left hand and a pen tucked behind her ear. In her right hand sits a small flame. Irelia multi-tasks as she and Amara leave their little cloister of rooms to head down the stairs.

Amara hates this. She can tell. So can she, for what it’s worth, but so in-tune is she with Amara, that words are redundant, a mere thought can cross the chasm of space between them.  

Do it for Elyse. She thinks, loud enough for Amara to hear her. We don’t owe Mott anything.

She lets the  fire disappear from between her index and thumb and Irelia reaches out to give Amara’s hand a quick squeeze - one that hopefully communicates I fucking hate this as much as you do or possibly even, we can make this as quick in an entirely different way. The contact is for her as much as it is for her sister. The empath uses it to even herself out, keep her emotions steady. Her powers are more awake around her sisters and she has to keep a firm grip on them or stray ones can lead to trouble. For the most part though, Irelia finds peace in this house. Aside from her empathy, as a constant medium, death cycles through her and her body is rarely her own. She lives and she dies continuously - in the outside world. The Phi Phi Omega house, what with its preliminary charms and safeguards, is a sanctuary. No wandering spirits in this place. 

Which is why it’s weird when Mabel Mott, for some unknown reason, lights up like a little red flag. All of a sudden, Irelia is more on guard than she expected to me. 

“Hey” is all Irelia says when they land in front of the two other girls, giving the new-comer a short nod. She snaps her grimoire closed, but she keeps it in front of her, ready to flip it open once more should she find conversation less than enthralling. She can’t help but let the small smirk curl her lips up at Amara’s greeting. So much for trying to be friendly and welcoming. Atta girl. 

[irelianight-blog]

voidfulprince‌:

He moved silently through the darkness, the landscape transfigured itself into another world. The sands were laced in a deep shade of crimson. They stood upon the surface of the planet of Mars. A storm seeped by as a smile appeared on his features before his lips parted ways, “I, myself possess no book. The book you did sign is owned by the one I hunted down and devoured. Lucifer’s memories flow through me just as the many others that fell to the same fate.” he replied as he turned around, the crimson in the skies begun fading away, the landscape twisting and turning as the landscape shifted in appearance it was unscathed - untainted. The planet was lush and beautiful, full of life. Overruled by the pantheons. As it was before the celestials came and ravaged the universe and made it their own. A flash erupted in the outer reaches of the cosmos revealing a figure with large six black wings that spread forth into the void, crimson fabric stretched out swaying causing cosmic storms in its wake. 

Lucifer stood idly by as he gazed up at the presence of netzachs arrival his shadow devouring the light of the sun plunging the solar system into an utter dark. The start of his universal war. Four flashes erupted in the dark before scattering into various locations of the system. One crashed before the two, wings spread forth as his hand stretched out holding a sword within his fingertips. Golden irises shimmered, his flesh untainted. This was his former self; the one who was known as Samael.the void-born archangelus. Time stopped and Lucifer walked towards the image of his former self standing beside it. the mirror images of the past and future. “The one you saw earlier was my mentor, Death. And as such they taught me many things. Putting me on the demiurge of conquest.” he said as he stared at Irelia. “You still have much to learn, but understand this cannot but the father you need. I created you with the purpose of you to be free, such a gift was not given to myself,” he paused as he closed as his eyes, “But then again I was born of a different nature. Much darker than the other celestials. And as such I was labelled as an abomination and titled as a void-born archangelus.” he added as he reopened his eyes. Such power flowed through her, but it was dormant, unawakened. But he could hear it, how it yearned to be free.

 “You still have much to learn, but understand this I cannot be the father you need. I created you with the purpose of you to be free, such a gift was not given to myself,’

Suddenly, her lungs were made of paper and Irelia was certain that if she inhaled too sharply, she would tear a hole right through him. What - what was this thing saying? The air cackled with the electricity of the cosmos as Samael stood before them and that very electricity took the shape of realization - it tore through her skin, ran up her spine. The Lucifer she’d been told was gone, consumed by this one - the one that supposedly -

“You created me?” She was having trouble breathing. Was this what it felt like to get hit by a train? She couldn’t breathe. Was this why she couldn’t die? Was this where her magic came from? Was she created - just for him to see if he could? What child wanted to to hear that from their father? She couldn’t breathe.

“Demiurge of conquest. So is that it then? You’re going around consuming,” Killing, “the Gods simply for… more power?”

Beneath the shock, anger was growing. How did you wake up from a dream that you no longer wanted to be a part of? Usually she could start herself awake, convince herself to sit up in her bed -  and even the worst of her nightmares had an end. This was different though. How much of this dream was still hers? Did he control the entirety of this and was she in here for as long as he wanted her to be? No, she’d been a passive spectator to the memories he’d shown her, but she’d dreamed up the beach, hadn’t she? Did that mean -

Irelia whirled on him. Lucifer. Sameal. Side-by-side. Alright. He was the thing keeping her anchored here. She wanted to get the fuck out, she wanted to be in control again. 

“I don’t feel free.” 

She closed her eyes and concentrated then. Ignored the way she was dizzy with disillusionment, so much that she felt like she was going to be sick. She dreamt up a sword, one to match his, but one that sat in her hands instead. It was heavy, even in her dreams, but she clasped it with both hands, widened her stance - and then, without much warning at all, she swung with all her might, hoping to split this Lucifer in two.

It never made contact. The sword dissipated - turned to smoke and disappeared completely. All of a sudden, that cosmic energy that coursed through her was gone too. Irelia was left shivering on the sands of Mars. She could feel a prickling between her shoulder blades, like seeds sprouting, or the beginning of wings growing. She didn’t even bother reaching over her shoulder to feel them. How badly she wanted to cry, because of how much sense this all made. 

“You’ve made me live in obscurity my whole life. Not knowing what I was, not understanding what I was.” The anger made her voice louder. “That is not freedom. I have lived for far too long for you to not have any answers for me now, for you to not be the father that i need. Even you had Death.”

That word - father - on her tongue felt so strange and foreign. She’d whispered it only to herself, in the quiet privacy of her room when she wondered what her parents were like. Such innocence would exist no more. 

She dreamt up the sword again. Even if it had proven useless, Irelia was the kind to keep swinging until something gave. 

[midnight-charm]

[punkrockgrantaire]

One day I’m gonna say “fight me!” and someone’s just gonna fuckin deck me

[irelianight-blog]

voidfulprince‌: 

The dreams landscape manifested - altered its very nature into something darker. It’s will bending to that of Lucifer. This however was not a dream but a memory, a distant one that will forever be engraved upon his core. A figure stood in the shadows speaking to another that kneel’d before it, “Our goal will dawn O’ Lucifer. Go forth and set it into motion” Lucifer tilted his head upwards towards his mentor as golden irises shimmered in the shadows, “Blood in the Heavens – Blood on the Earth.” he responded as he walked between the two his body laced in his war-born armor as he held his sword tightly within his hand exiting as his generals stood at the entrance. This was but the start of the war for heaven. Time begun to speed up,the ground  lifting underneath their feet as they found themselves floating above the fall towards damnation. Four archangels including Lucifer jumping down into the dark abyss. Growls resounding within the further they fell. Time speed up once more shifting between a battle between the void-born archangel and the mighty Leviathan that ruled as a gatekeeper. “Submit or die.” echoed far into the abyss.  Lucifer was now by himself standing before a beating heart.in the darkest part of Hell..Veins stretching forth deep into the deep dark.His hand stretched out forth as he grabbed it pulling it free, “It is all going according to our plan O’ Death.” he muttered before taking a bite out of the Heart of Hell, cracks rippled throughout his body as dark mist seeped through the cracks. The whiteness in his sclera begun to fade away into a deep blackness leaving only behind his fiery irises as he turned towards the real Lucifer a deep stained crimson ran down his mouth. Darkness. He stood before his daughter white hair flowing steadily as he took a step forward, “We all have our origin stories. That is mine.The birth of the one who’d be known as Lucifer.” he responded as he kept his gaze upon the other.

The landscape was kaleidoscoping before her, fracturing and fractaling into new images, to show her a reality that this creature was painting for her. Her dream came apart at the seams - a dream no more, but rather, a memory. She knew the story she was watching well. Her youth at the orphanage and growing up amidst the pews of the Church of Night meant that she could recite the tale of The Fall before she could even hold a conversation. 

Irelia was in the clouds one moment and falling the next. 

Her stomach lurched as she dropped - she fell with the archangels, backwards into the dark abyss, sunlight of Heaven pouring down from above. She heard the sound of wings unfurling, catching against gravity. This was the tale of the descent. Irelia remembered learning about how when the mighty fell, they only came back stronger. But to be told a tale was one thing, to see a memory - it ignited something else in her entirely.

She was at a loss for words as she plummeted, her heart in her throat, but she managed to repeat his words and the world around her seemed to echo with them:

“Blood in the Heavens - Blood on the Earth.”  

Blood in her body too. Irelia felt all of this in her. She looked at her hands and her veins glowed with a fiery ichor that now pulsed through them. Her irises glowed with that very ichor - turning from a white to a gold - though she wouldn’t know it till much later. She and the creature fell, alongside the fallen princes, all the way from Heaven down to Hell. And when Irelia finally caught ground and looked up, she looked upon the Heart of Hell.

Death. What did Death have to do with this? What plan? Irelia’s golden gaze turned on the creature like a lighthouse. She was still standing next to him. Were any of the priests here, they would expect her to kneel. She was, after all, speaking to a deity. Her Deity. But the wytch was trying to put the pieces together and this was what she’d come up with: she’d signed her name into the sacred book of the prince Lucifer when she was 16. It was a full eight years later now, but surely time passed differently in different universes. Time dilation. 8 years here was possibly a mere few seconds elsewhere. 

That’s what was happening right? She’d signed her name into the Book of Lucifer and here he was - Lucifer himself. She’d heard of supremes and priests who’d had such experiences...

He walked to stand in front of her, in his true form, and it was a wonder she didn’t fall to her knees. 

“My origin story is nothing like that.” She managed to say, steady and firm. “I am Irelia. Daughter of no one, Maiden of the Church of Night. When I was sixteen, I signed my name to your sacred book.”

When I was seventeen, I tried to kill myself because I wanted nothing more to do with you - but she did’t say that. She watched the dark mist seep through the cracks of him. She looked to the sky, to see if she could see the little bit of Heaven from which they fell, but down here in Hell it was so so so far away.

Darkness pressed down on them from all sides and yet, she did not mind. She felt at home in it. Her mind was still working furiously, to examine this dream turned vision to its full extent. Who was that figure he’d talked to? What plan in motion?

She was a loud thinker in times like these, her questions written on her face. 

“It seems we all answer to someone. Even you. Who was that? They aren’t in the accounts they tell us.”

[irelianight-blog]

bleederudite‌:

she keeps looking away from him. rafael cannot help but notice these things - he is intent on noticing, on observing, on seeing what should not be seen. so of course he looks, and he sees, and he tries to put it together. there are a few options, ranging from the supernatural to those more benign. it’s hard to tell which. then the girl storms across the street, certain and confident, somehow angry even if he was just expressing concern.

maybe she read something specific about him. but she stops a specific distance away - not within distance to touch, which may be wise. perhaps she knows what he is. perhaps she suspects. or maybe she is just suspicious in general. maitland isn’t the same as deadwood, a town currently under siege with the amount of bad things happening to it at once. this isn’t the same town. there isn’t as much of a place for that kind of paranoia, even if such an emotion spreads easily outside the confines of one small town.

so he doesn’t look away either. rafael watches, unmoving, just as cold.

“it is a little late,” he offers, almost genial. it’s as if there is nothing but things calm and casual to talk about. “it’s not like we’re standing in deadwood right now, though. maitland has its problems, of course, and its stories, but we are not presently under curfew.”

the girl sounds like she hates the prospect of even speaking to him. that’s fair enough. so he tilts his head a little, thinks back - mediumship is rare but not unheard of. he’s read through more than one documentation of it, and he has seen it a few times scattered across history. still, though, rafael smiles, small and a more intent kind of interest settling on hi face. “i have seen it a few times, actually. i just wasn’t expecting it here.” he gestures around at the streets of rosy hill, innocuous and suburban. “so forgive me for my attention. i couldn’t help but notice.”

She follows the action, as he gestures.

“Um, in case you haven’t noticed, people die everywhere. Even here.”

She mimics his the movement of his hands facetiously.

Next to her, the spirit shifts and moves away, flickering out of Irelia’s sight, though she can feel its presence still, and now that she’s seen its shape, she can almost find in the air, as the air wavers at the stranger’s side, as though the atmosphere has liquified and she is staring at the ripples on the surface of a pool. Her eyes stray only briefly to this apparition one more time– hear its muttered words, even if it thinks she can’t - and she feels the cold in her clamp down. Dangerous. Irelia has never thought of herself as dangerous, but others have.

Religious men and women who figured she was a child of a devil or a bad god.

Children her own age who see her fits, the possessions that had ransacked her childhood, and worried the sickness could be catching, or that her nightmares would spread.

Paranoid men who thought she could see the ghosts of their pasts, the skeletons in their closet, who thought she might reveal these secrets to others.

Dangerous– Irelia is only dangerous to those who feared death. Naturally, that meant most people. But she isn’t dangerous to ghosts.

Or this vaympire apparently. Not with the way he keeps standing there, talking to her. 

The blase attitude makes her shoulders relax, though she keeps skeptical eyes on him. Truth be told, she wants to ask about these other mediums he’s met. She’s never met another quite like her and she wants to know.

Do we all hear the same ones? How do you lay yours to rest? Are your irises white like mine too? She wants to understand.  

I want to go, her ghost whispers then.  My wife, he adds even weaker.

That’s right, Irelia still has a mission. Medium or not, strange ghoulish specter or not, she has a mission. She has a wife to find, a body to bury, a couple to reunite. It’s her job. She knows the favor means little and in the end, dust is dust, and death is death. But she’ll do it anyway. Help others find death because when she slits her wrists, for some reason, she can’t.

What of this stranger, then? She doesn’t want to leave him, if only because– despite his status as a vaympire, she is excited, deep down, to learn more about these other mediums.

So she tilts her head and smirks a cold little smirk at him, her white eyes searching his dark eyes, and in that matter, she thinks, yes we’re the same, because their eyes are eyes that see beyond graves. The immortal and the girl who can’t die no matter how hard she tries. Looking into his eyes, she already feels – understood.

“I’m Irelia,” she says. “You can call me Ms. Night, though. I’m on my way to bury a body.” Pause. She tilts her head up again and pats her pockets down for a cigarette. “You can come if you like. Sounds like you’re from around here. I need to find Rosebush Road.”

[irelianight-blog]

goldendichotomy‌:

Alec doesn’t wake up particularly early.  That war between his dreams and his need for sleep over leads to him resting for too many hours, rising closer to lunch than any other hour with a weariness clinging to his bones.  He stays up long hours anyway so it makes sense, creates a proper circle for him that has so far done well enough for life.  Waking up early is all too much for Alec on most days.  Too many hours in the day, too easy to get overwhelmed and exhausting will be biting at his neck for the rest of the day.

It seems that his body hasn’t decided to follow this general natural, though.  Morning comes and comes too early, a time on his phone that leaves Alec groaning and tossing it across the bed as he rolls over.  Rubs his knuckles against his eyes and tries to lower himself back into sleep.  

Fuck, he thinks, as minutes slip by sluggishly and leave him wide awake.  No way.  

Leaving bed feels almost impossible.  He rolls out with a groan, fumbling to pull a robe on over his t-shirt and sleep pants badly wrinkled by a night of endless tossing and turning.  Every muscle aches, reminders of things that have never happened to Alec, actions he has never taken.  All belonging instead to that terrible thing inside of him that rolls and twists as he staggers his way down the stairs.  Finally it settles around his ribs.  Always feels like it’s pushing his insides out, but when Alec touches he can’t feel a difference in his body.  Just flat as ever.  

Goosebumps tingle on his arms, and he staggers into the kitchen.  Coffee.  It’s far too early for any of this without some caffeine in his system.  The machine begins to brew and he leans both forearms on the counter, peering out of his window in a bleary gaze that only slowly becomes something palpable.  

Something, Alec slowly realizes, that doesn’t make any sense.  There’s a girl out there.  Tromping through his flowers to pluck at herbs, seemingly oblivious to the other things around her like fruits and vegetables, or the trellises of berries.  No, never mind.  She’s found the eggplants, and this is very much not something that he’s half dreaming into reality.  Someone has chosen to steal from him in the brightness of sunlight, and not even anything of particularly valuable worth.  

He takes his coffee, freshly finished and brings it to his mouth on instinct.  Drinks despite how scalding it is.  Then, without much of a decision, Alec heads for his front door and unlocks both locks.  Pries it open before stepping onto his porch to look at this girl in a long moment of silence.  Clearing his throat seems too obvious.  So he takes another drink, then sets his mug down on the railing in a distinct chunk of a sound.

     “Are you stealing eggplant for breakfast?”  Alec calls out to her, more bemused than anything else.  “I suggest oregano, not rosemary.  The latter’s too perfume like for eggplant.”

She’s never been very good at playing innocent. (That is much more Elyse’s wheelhouse.) So when Irelia is caught, she is only three counter clockwise stirs from finishing her potion and she decides to finish doing just that. One, two, three. She stops then to get a good look at the man that’s emerged from the house and when she does, Irelia thinks that she could not have picked a more boring person to have stolen from.

“Oh, hello.” She says. “You know,” Her tone is deadpan. “You are rather terrible at this whole ‘getting robbed’ thing.”

Alternatively, he makes the best kind of target. Not that it matters very much any way. The deed is done. The goods stolen. The potion is made. Irelia has every intention of packing up her shit and getting the hell out of here when -

Well a few things happen all at once. One - a garden rabbit darts across her path and she mostly blames the suddenness of that, two - there’s the unexpected sputter from the concoction too and three - the sun - whatever. The list goes on but it all amounts to one thing happening.

Shit.

The potion spills, glass vial shattering and Irelia drops to the ground, watching it seep into the earth, not really minding the way her her skirt and her stockings get mulch and dirt on them. The potion, a dark navy blue, bubbles as it hits the soil.

Shit - shit - shit.

It’s gone, swallowed up by the ground. Her hard work, gone. She scrambles to her feet and offers the stranger a wide grin - an action that feels so foreign on her stiff face. It’s a move she’s stolen from Amara and it doesn’t sit there for long. It doesn’t fit. It slides off her face quickly enough like a runny egg. But her mind is already working on making an anti-potion - thinking of the anti-thesis of every ingredient that went into her little experiment seconds ago.

“So,” she says in a tone that is still very much her - which is to say it is moody, dark and unaffected. “Do you want the good news or bad news?”

Next to her, Irelia feels the plant rustle and, were she to look down, she would notice that it was the eggplant doing all the moving. It rolls over, as if it were trying to sit upright and and a slit has split it in half. If Irelia didn’t know any better she would have said it was giving itself a mouth.

[badgestay]

where: the deadwood morgue time: 11:30 am who: @irelianight

sometimes he thinks he’s too desensitized to all this.

the curfew is terrible, of course. the deaths are terrible. but deadwood has been like this for as long as he can remember, periods where the murder rate sharply increases, and then it fades again. it’s like someone doesn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves, but they’re very poor at it. it would be comforting, to think that the murderer this time is incompetent enough to not realize that this many murders grabs attention. but considering how good they’ve been at keeping themselves concealed, he doubts that case.

it’s probably someone who thinks that they’re showing off, which is worse. so at this point it’s good to find a body that looks slightly older than the timeframe of the current talk of the town. sure, the guy whose dog found it had one hell of a fright, and garrett sat with him a bit while the morgue was more concerned with gathering the somewhat scattered remains. he doesn’t want to think about why they couldn’t find a leg. that could mean a lot of things, and he would prefer the less violent explanations.

still, by the time he gathers statements and talks to the right people, filing all the damn paperwork, he doesn’t get out there until the next day. he makes his way over to the morgue by mid-morning, coffee in hand. some of the new deputies get a little freaked out by how well he can handle the corpse, but at some point, it becomes second nature. after a burn victim, there’s nothing left to be afraid of.

“alright,” he says. the girl who works there - irelia - will sometimes give him shit for everything, and he deals with it with a kind of fond acceptance. “what do i need to know about this guy?”

[irelianight-blog]

Irelia switched out her pair of gloves for a new, fresh pair as the Sheriff wandered into her office.

“Everytime you walk into my office I can’t help but be impressed by the fact that you aren’t dead yet.” Irelia quipped. The wytch was attuned to the pain of others, always had been. Odd-quirk, she suspected, of the way she’d bonded to her deity of choice. Whenever she was in the vicinity of Sheriff Riegel, she felt the worn down pain - a dull, steady ache. And it always put her in a good mood. Irelia smirked now, impish, and her lips quirked upwards.

Irelia beckoned for the Sheriff to follow. 

She’d rolled the victim out from the cooling chamber and they sat ready for them in the autopsy suite for viewing. She gestured to the other side of the gurney before grabbing the clipboard for herself.

“We still need your help ID-ing him. He died in good health. Looks like he was out hiking for quite a bit - if the samples from his boots are anything to go off of. Oh and I guess we should talk about that -”

Irelia said and she poked the man in the chest. Or rather, she poked him where his chest should have been. There was a hole about the size of a football, torn clear through his torso. His heart? Gone.

But Irelia found that part rather obvious and made itself clear without saying. The Sheriff, as much as she doubted him, wasn’t completely blind.

“Heart-attack.” Irelia deadpanned. “Literally.”

The victim was a relatively new inmate at the morgue and so Irelia hadn’t quite had a chance to sit with him and her mediumship just yet. But even now he seemed… well, like death had come too him to swiftly for him to leave behind any sorts of regrets or a spirit. A barren spiritual wasteland of a body. 

Stange. 

She left the sheriff to take a closer look then, handing over the clipboard. The wytch followed this up with leaning against the wall, wondering how much he would mind if she smoked in here. Deciding that there was really only one way to find out, she pulled out a cigarette and waited for Garrett’s verdict of the victim. 

[irelianight-blog]

elysenight‌:

The young witch figured it was no easy task for Irelia to just accompany her to the cemetery but she did anyway and Elyse did have to wonder how she’d managed to justify such support. They’d been good to each other for years but there were often moments where she was awestruck, stopping herself to allow for proper gratitude over the sisters she’d come to have. Though she did not choose her family per se, if she knew then what she came to know, she would’ve actively chosen them if given the choice. Without them Elyse didn’t see herself anywhere, trying to imagine what a future looked like without them was a void where no good existed. 

“Most of these guys seem a little too dead to care about how loud we are.” 

Elyse smiled but there was a pang of loss that echoed from rib to rib and landed in the pit of her stomach. Her parents surely were dead, both buried atop each other and the guilt gnawed at her like maggots to decomposing flesh. Each Mother’s day she’d add another sorry to the list of wasted words that fell on dead ears. Father’s day was even worse, she hadn’t known how to speak to her father when he was alive and in his passing speaking to his name etched on a tombstone had proved even more difficult. She could feel herself welling up but she did everything she could to will it away. 

There were times she wondered if she’d like to be able to see those trapped in the in-between and the answer always changed. There were some days where she wanted to bare her soul to her parents, to tell them of her truest self and ask all the burning questions she never had a chance to. Most days however were dedicated to trying to piece together what positive memories she could and think of them fondly, the suffocating remorse still everpresent. 

“Where’s the fun in being quiet, Li?” While a bright grin sat on her lips tears dropped slowly from her eyes, her hands quick to bat them away. Though she wished it didn’t, the hallowed ground of Hawthorne Cemetary changed her energy. As soon as she approached her parent’s grave she’d feel a chill in the air even on a humid summer’s day. Elyse took a glance around at the lonely stones that stood feet apart, the rows and rows of different losses. Her eyes moved back to Irelia and she thought for a moment. “Do you want to be quiet? Is it loud around here?” It was her own way of asking if they weren’t alone, if Irelia’s gift meant that idle words between sisters were easily muddled in that of the lost and damned’s eery messages. 

How well Elyse could read her - was it really written so blatantly across her face? It was loud. Too many spirits wandered this way when they were lost and looking for peace. You’d think a cemetery would be the last place one would want to hang out if given some sort of second chance. Yet, the compass-less and the restless found their back here, drawn back to the decay of their mortal coil.

Elyse washed the stench of death away. It made Irelia forget about the dead lover wandering the maze of tombstones or the pianist sitting under the skeleton tree. It was almost enough to make her miss the couple standing side by side only a few feet off. They were absent one moment and then there the next. Two people. A quiet pillar of a man that made her think of a snake - so much that Irelia would not be surprised if he spoke and his tongue was forked. A short woman - also quiet, and truly, the only reason Irelia noticed her was because, for a second, she’d believed Elyse had teleported. So alike was their resemblance.  

The wytch’s heart stood still.

There was no denying who these people were. Unlike the lively ghosts around her, these two stood stock-still in a moving purgatory. This was the case with older ghosts, ones that were a little more used to their circumstances. They stood, staring at Elyse, unwavering statues.

‘There she is.’

Elyse’s parents. Irelia was on her feet in an instant. 

“It’s so loud.” She stuttered. She took a gulp of air, felt it rip through her lungs. She paced the length of the grave, suddenly feeling the need to leave. What was she supposed to do?

“Do you think - “ She continued. She floundered for the words. Words. Aside from their purpose in her spells, Irelia found words so useless. Hated them. Wasted breath. She tried again - and found herself asking a rather loaded question. 

“What do you think you they would say if they were here now?”

The inquiry slipped out before she could stop it. Find the problem, fix it. That was the way.  Being a medium was second nature. But even as she asked, Irelia refused to make eye contact with the specters that observed from the line of gravestones like sentries. She felt the heat of their gaze turn on her as soon as she asked the question. And then, like the ripples in a pond, they flowed towards her and Elyse, till they were only standing a hands distance away. Still silent, but now their gaze ever-watchful. Almost curious and daring to see what she would do. A slight chill came along with them. 

‘Don’t be so naive, ghost-girl.’

‘We’ve given up on peace long ago.’ 

‘You’d do well to not depend on her.’

Their words were so quiet, echoing through the realm of limbo. Each syllable dripped with such subtle poison.  Irelia wanted them to be gone, to be done with - there was nothing kind in the way they gazed at their daughter. She only knew so much about Elyse’s parents but...well...the thing was - spirits found peace only when they found the thing that they were looking for. And Irelia was coming to the sudden realization that whatever they were looking for was the very thing that would hurt Elyse. 

She hoped she could make it quick - like a band-aid. 

[winthrop-twins]

The girls of Phi Phi Omega: @elysenight, @irelianight, @amsnight, @lenxivy, @nixplorer, @winthrop-twins and their House Mother, @noospherica. 

[musicovercoffee-blog]

[irelianight-blog]

Tell my sister don't cry and don't be sad I'm in Paradise with Dad Close my eyes and then cross my arms Put me in the dirt, let me dream with the stars Throw me in a box with the oxygen off You gave me the key then you locked every lock When I can't breathe, I won't ask you to stop When I can't breathe, don't call for a cop

I was naive and hopeful and lost Now I'm aware and trapped in my thoughts

[irelianight-blog]

[astranemus]

Old light in the bones, ancient songs in the blood; the revenant flesh exalted.

[irelianight-blog]

bleederudite‌:

you get used to seeing odd things, after you live long enough. rafael has lived a long, long time, and seen stranger things than most people can conceive of. but what he’s learned to focus on are the small oddities. dramatic differences are all well and good, but what is truly fascinating are the smaller differences. and the more attempts are made to hide them, the more obvious they become to him. rafael likes his late night walks for this reason. people are more honest about themselves after the sun goes down, and they reveal things about themselves.

the only time for true monstrosity is after dark, pertaining to both tradition and convenience. everyone else shuts themselves up in their little suburban boxes, yellow light spilling out of the kitchen window and across manicured lawns, and other things decide to move around the streets. still, he pulls on a coat that evening and waits until it’s dark enough, watching his room grow darker and darker until it’s finally dark enough. he could go hunting for some unsuspecting victim, but that isn’t the mood he’s in tonight.

he feels more like an observer tonight, distant from himself and his own meandering path through the boxy identical houses of rosy hill. he is there and yet is not at once.

what catches his attention is another silhouette - smaller, walking with more purpose than he might expect at this hour, when everything is certainly closed, right across the street but a little ways ahead of him. he speeds up just slightly, enough to start gaining, and enough to hear her talking. first calm. then annoyance. he can make out a few specific words at this distance - bury, and wait, and that’s enough to truly grab his interest. she stops for a moment, enough for him to approach. still giving her plenty of space. room to run, if she feels like it, though he really isn’t interested in that kind of game tonight.

he’s more curious than anything. so many questions can arise from a few words. why here? what is there to bury? and why at this hour, so close to midnight? her gaze finally moves to him, and she sounds more than a little upset.

he shrugs. folds his arms. “are you alright?” he calls in response. “i’m sorry. i just couldn’t help but notice that it seems like something’s upsetting you.”

polite. nothing too presumptuous. he won’t even mention the words that he overheard, snapped at something that doesn’t seem to exist. the little oddities, like he said.

He’s a vaympire.

That was what her ghost says. Irelia’s gaze leaves this man’s so she can look back at her ghost, who is, in turn, looking at the man, sort of warily, as though he is not sure whether or not he wishes to be there. That is fair– plenty of ghosts do not like to visit, anyway. They prefer to reach over the threshold with their voices only, sending their messages crackling over the feedback of Limbo, which Irelia then picks up for them. When a ghost visits, it is a show of trust.

Her ghost vanishes out of sight then. But she can still feel him lingering around, his presence making her shiver, the air around her colder than it should be, which affects her despite her jacket. Irelia clocks the man’s answer with the same sort of wariness her ghost carried. She doesn’t trust him. Her ghost told her this was a vaympire, and she believes her ghosts.

The dead rarely– if ever– lie. They have no reason to.

She stalks directly toward the stranger, closing the distance between the two of them rapidly, fixing her eyes on his, not letting him look away (and even if he looks away, she pins her gaze, she does not quiver, waver, or blink).

As she nears him, she can feel her ghost follow and she can feel– yes, she can sense that life and death flow through the stranger’s body in a different manner than most living things. Irelia’s mediumship is a practiced one. Her skin is sensitive. Her eyes are keen. Her gut is empty, if only for ghosts to walk in and out of. So she knows when she is talking to something other.

Definitely vaympire. She stops a few feet away, wondering how much he’s heard and if he’s going to give her any trouble for it. Or just give her trouble, in general.

“It’s a little late to be out walking, don’t you think? I’ve been told there’s all sorts of dangerous creatures out and about this time of night.” 

Irelia speaks at him– with a cold snicker. It does nothing to hide that she is blunt and hard and distrustful.

“But yes. I’m fine. What? Haven’t you seen a girl talk to the dead before?”

[irelianight-blog]

voidfulprince‌:

Golden irises watched the horizon afar entering ones dreams was something the ascended archangel had done long before he and his generals retreated from Heaven. In the garden of eden to the many pantheons. All the gods he has hunted down during the service to his father remained clung to his memory. A constant reminder that he is a warrior. Darkness shifted from his shadows as it whispered in inaudible tones - growls echoed within as it spoke to Lucifer. But like the darkness he too was born in it - a void-born with the touch of divinity within his veins yearning to devour. always hungry he was for something more. Something far greater than what he was forged to be.  His body shifted towards the females presence, his form shifted as he stood tall as long white hair ran down his back swaying from his aura. A disguise was no longer necessary in the realm of dreams. After all he could control this time and space with ease. Lips remained pressed together briefly as the cracks scattered throughout his features slowly as his skin begun forming into a porcelain shade.  “You’ve grown Irelia.” he at last spoke as he stood fully before his creation. Last he had saw her was twenty two years ago when he last set foot upon this earth. A beacon she was, so he may find his way across the vast multiverse in his search for Yggdrasil the mighty life-bringer. 

Did a person breathe in dreams? Surely they did, how else did she catch her breath when she saw him? She’d finally had a chance to get a good look at him, and his features were strange and familiar all at once. She could feel it now that she was closer, every molecule in her body was attuned to this creature. 

(And a creature he was - man was too confining a term with the way dark cracks scattered his body. It was as if his human shell was not strong enough to hold back what it contained. Maybe if she could get close enough, she could peek through those cracks and catch a glimpse of really lay beneath.) 

The water from the beach rushed in, till it was pooling around her ankles and rising and rising and rising. ‘Who... what are you? Why do you know my name?’ She wanted to say, but Irelia was certain the the air between them vibrated with the unspoken words so fiercely that saying them would have sounded redundant.  She felt an angry bitterness too. It rose through her chest and spread across her tongue at his comment. How would you know if I was grown? You certainly were not around to see it happen.

The world was filled to the brim with ocean now, so they were underwater. The two of them stayed rooted the ground, which was now the ocean floor. The sky above, was now miles away. 

Irelia looked at this apparition in the face and didn’t flinch. As she breathed a little heavily and kept eye contact, she felt her quiet, controlled anger behind all her bravery–but she felt something else. Like a trickle of a stream, something else was flowing into her from the creature, the longer she stared into its eyes, something that made her feel calmer still. She suddenly knew–and she couldn’t explain this–but she knew that they were one and the same.

Same eyes.

Her hands curled into a fist by her side and she debated conjuring up some sort of dream-weapon. The wytch dug her heel into the sand, lifted up her chin. “I think it’s only fair that if you know my name, I should know yours too.”  

[irelianight-blog]

when: Saturday, 6:00am where: Alec Gibson’s front yard  with: @goldendichotomy

She hated being in her room these days. Her bed sheets, tangled, too cold, strangled her awake every time she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Her entire bedroom reeked of sage and whatever potion she had tried to brew. After morning lit through her curtains, she’d pull herself together as best she could and, a phantom in her own skin, all sharp bones and sharp stare, she’d crawl into the morgue and pretend she didn’t notice the fleeting glances of her co-workers.

But tonight, Saturday night, once she finally accepted that sleep would not come, Irelia pulled on the jeans she had worn that day, tied on her boots, forgot her jacket but remembered her grimoire and messenger bag, then escaped the asphyxiation of loneliness as she shrouded into the shadows of the Deadwood streets. A bar, she supposed, would do the trick – nameless faces, distractions, idle and meaningless conversation, where she would creep between forgotten figures to silence that unsatisfied itch inside her and ghost away before the sun would rise to remind her of the start of a new day.

Except - it was already a new day. She’d spent the whole night awake. Well, fuck.

Her boots trampled through a back alley, carrying her through muck and spitting her out the other side. Her path continued despite her distraction of fumbling for a cigarette, biting it between her teeth, igniting it with a lighter. Above her head, the sky changed color. The cold air patted her cheeks. She slipped out of the darkness of the alley and towards the row of houses.

There was a garden, pristinely kept, just down her path. The sun crested over the horizon and the way its rays hit the plants caught the wytch’s eye. Irelia was already reaching towards her grimoire trying to find that thing she’d scribbled into the margins of her notes just the other day. There was a potion she’d wanted to try... there it was. She dug around her messenger bag and, sure enough, she had everything else she needed.

She was hopping the fence before long, not really caring about the concept of the private property, trodding through the petunias and begonias and whatever-the-fuck-else was planted here, kneeling down into the earth to pluck bundle of leaves from its parents.

Once she’d neatly tucked away the rosemary she’d just harvested back into her bag, Irelia eyes fell to the garden she was trespassing on. You know, it was still early. She could probably give this little potion a go right here and the owner wouldn’t even notice. Besides, it was still early. Chances they were awake… eh.

Irelia walked the perimeter of the garden. It was meticulously modeled. Eyes scanned the flora that was planted in neat line. She crouched down next to the eggplants and began unpacking her messenger bag. The sun climbed higher into the sky.

[irelianight-blog]

when: time is an illusion  where: the dream realm  with: @voidfulprince​

Irelia was always aware of her dreams now, lucid, awake, even when she was resting she wasn’t really. She’d paint landscapes with the illusion and trickery of her own mind. She loved the cold north and often she’d crush snow between her fingers when her eyes shut. Other times, she’d dive to bottomless underwater trenches of the blue ocean and let her hands run over foreign coral. Tonight, she swam through the inky sky and examined the fullness of the moon from the clouds; she counted each star woven into that blanket of black.

She stretched out into the darkness, letting her limbs brush up against whatever her sleeping brain believed stardust to feel like. The moon dipped towards the ocean, a full of reflection of sea to the sky. And even though Irelia was taking the night to herself, her brain was always ticking - and with it came a familiar melancholy. The young wytch had her sisters, and yet she felt terribly lonely. This was a symptom, she knew, of misunderstanding. She was incapable of being understood by others - which was a tall demand when she barely understood herself.

Waves crashed on the beach below the sky she lazed in. And there - right there! - was a figure. She was miles above, all the way up here in the sky, but she could hear the way he shifted in the sand, as if she was standing next to him as he walked. Odd - who was he? He looked up and noticed her and so she took that space between them and stitched it closed. The world tilted, there was a mist that guided her down, back towards the earth. Who was this? A manifestation of her subconscious? 

That’s all that dreams were in the end, right?

Earth met sky and her toes touched cool sand. What are you? He was so much sharper than all the blurry specters that crossed her dreams. He was standing right there, a hands distance away from her…and they did just that for a while. How long did they stand like that? A few seconds? Centuries? All the measures of space and time seemed so arbitrary here and so Irelia found herself letting go of them.

She finally leaned closer to get a better look.

“Of all the ways for my subconscious to manifest -” She said, and her tone teased as she eyed the figure of her dream. “You are the last thing I expected.”

But even as she said this, she felt a pang of something sweep through her heart. Of how wrong her own assessment of the situation felt. This was more than a dream - even though logically she knew it couldn’t be so. She curled her fingers at her side, hoping to feel cotton sheets of her bed fist between her fingers. She’d wake up, stick her foot out from underneath her comforter and she’d feel the night cold of her room chill her. The young wytch did her best to shake herself from this reverie, but all she felt was a beach breeze. Above the stars in the sky she had just been swimming through twinkled innocently. And this figure watched her - just as she watched him.