monstrum.

[junocalidus]

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[junocalidus]

florinamata​:

WHEN | THE MORNING OF APRILIS 11 WHERE | WISTERIA TRAINING GROUND WITH | @junocalidus​

it was a common misconception—that the only god in the arena was the fighter that still drew breath at the end, that had managed to keep their sword hand held aloft. there had always been two gods—the fighter, and the routine the fighter kept before they set foot on the sands. a moment of clarity, of absolute control, before the body and muscle memory overwhelmed the mind, before the animal instinct to bare the teeth and prove yourself the better predator, the better survivor, took over. 

for florin, it had once been about his armor—it had to be put on in a certain order, even early in his career when it had been cheaply made and incapable of stopping even the most blunt of swords. it was a kind of prayer—one word at a time, one piece of protection at a time, and after that was finished, it was up to the strength of the will, to unknowable thing that threaded itself through the sinews and marrow of the bones and separated the walking corpses from the ones that were bigger, somehow, than the simple act of combat. 

it’s been years, at this point, since he took care in the act of strapping on the various plates—he finds the memory is becoming soft around the edges, as he holds two gleaming arm guards with the maximus symbols forged into them. had it gone left and then right? had he pulled the pauldrons over his shoulders first? he can only picture himself wearing all of the pieces—he can only picture the bringer of rain, instead of the king’s hound. no rain to wash away the red. 

he lays the arm guards down on a nearby bench and exhales slowly, dragging his hands over his face before digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. when he opens them again, he catches sight of a familiar figure, assuming a familiar—not quite languid, but decidedly measured–pace through the training grounds, with an eye towards the arena. he wonders what a mind such as hers could be looking for, here among the rude mechanics of fighting, living, and dying–does she plan to test a new weapon, something even more dangerous than a finely crafted blade? is she there to support zeno, and her thoughts are somewhere in the ether of invention and reality? 

he grins wolfishly and calls out after her, trotting slowly in her direction. “surely you aren’t here to see me, to present me with some finely crafted favor to honor you with–” he drawls, “which begs the question of what has drawn you from the depths of your laboratory on this fine day, ma’am.”

. Brute strength — it was a lesser force — one that anyone could hope to scrape from the tear of tired muscles, and the dulled edge of fear. It was for the taking, a wealth of copper rather than say gold, or silver; deftly found, and more easily mined, still, with enough determination. There was a surplus of it in Celeia, more than the kingdom needed, truly; and just as many that should mistake that as enough to beat those more seasoned, those separate from such barbarians. 

It was those who Juno merited interest in. Those who tore at a fight with more than their bare hands, and chiseled swords; those who understood the mechanics of violence, and spoke its language with an adept tongue. She need not the wounds of battle, nor the sweat of combat to decipher such bloody dialect — though less its servant she was than perhaps its harbinger — it was as plain to Juno as it was those who had learned to mold it with crafty hands, those whom brutality could not fell, but rather bow to. 

It was an ever changing and fluid aspect of humanity; they grew stronger, and smarter with each passing day. It had already posed a challenge to the weapons of old, those whom great warriors had now bested in wars and conflicts past. Juno would be no more than a fool to underestimate them, those who had looked beyond the might and brawn to its sanguine patterns, the habitual bloodlust of man, where they should learn to unravel and best it.

There would be no greater show of such understanding than today, during the Tournament of Kings. It was there she would watch the strong, as well as the weak; to commit to memory that ever familiar design toward imminent victory, and just how, exactly, she might invent new and inspired means of razing it to nothing. 

If there’s one who should make her job more challenging, still, it is he who calls to her from a distance. His reputation had preceded him long ago, the echoes of it still carrying loudly; Juno should know, for every so often even she would indulgently angle her ear to hear of the great  champion, himself; the King’s very own Ares, cloaked in flesh and bound loyally at his side.

“Surely I have not,” Juno agrees as he nears, her own pace unhurried, “what is produced in my lab can be of no use to me applied anywhere but the world we live in. It begs that, on occasion, I should reacquaint myself with it.” There is little doubt why he, himself, would be in the vicinity, and Juno won’t insult him by asking — not Florin, though others...perhaps. “Looking forward to the tournament, are we?” She prods instead, a tilt of her head indicating the arena he had just exited, “or has your excitement for it deadened, yet?” 

[junocalidus]

olivianscons​:

Olivian’s footsteps falter just slightly when he sees the woman in front of him, that only those with the most practiced of eyes would be able to notice. Though he has to admit this woman does tend to have a more practiced eye than most. So, he does what he can to recover quickly, turning as Juno seems to more or less appear just out of no where– though to be quite fair it wasn’t as if he had been paying too much attention. His thoughts were elsewhere thinking about the next night and what interesting surprises it may bring. Hopefully something interesting or else what was the point of a party?

Either way, he hadn’t been expecting to see Juno of all people, not that he was disappointed. He liked her, in his own way. Well enough to take her money, at the very least. So, he gave her a pleasant smile, and an airy sort of shrug at her remark. “Would you believe that sometimes I am so in tune with other’s, that I may just appear even before they realize they have need of me,” he says, chuckling a little bit. If only it were that easy to show up when someone was deciding if they had a need for him. It would save him a lot of travel time, anyway. “Were you desiring an audience with me? That would be very lucky if you were…”

Though, as his eyes scanned over Juno he didn’t think that was the case— even if he could perhaps leverage something out of this chance meeting. She seemed like she was thinking of him, just as much as he had been thinking of her. Not at all. But sometimes, an opportunity would reveal itself when you weren’t even looking.

He motioned for her to walk with him, should she want to, as he continued his stroll. “I was curious as to what the next nights festivities may look like, so I wanted to take a peak,” Olivian admitted to Juno, an amused flicker in his eyes as he looked at her while they walked. “What about you? Are you here working so late into the night? I always say you need to take a break when you can. dear. Now I know, I know… The novelty of a week long celebration ended about 4 days ago, but I hope you’re planning on being at the fancy Ball tomorrow, at the very least.”

She knows, just as well as he, the castle is no place for a thief — at least not his sort. No, they’d allow only those whose covetous prints wore the mark of Maximus, those who may loot and be honored all the more for it, rather than penalized. Olivian’s steps waver just so, brief enough that had Juno blinked she might have overlooked his unease, but instead she clings to it, dissecting the haste with which he rights himself. What if they had been a palace guard? What might they have found if they demanded he empty his pockets and explain himself? Fortunately for Olivian he’ll never know, though Juno might guess at it.

“I don’t believe in luck,” she answers plainly, a slight tilt of their chin as she allows his gaze to travel. It was one of the things she had noticed about Olivian early on; how observant he was. She presumed it was as much a part of him as it was her; something he couldn’t gouge from himself if given the chance. It was innate — seeing the cracks, the fissure smoothed over, the elusive inch waiting to be unraveled for miles by a careful hand. It was quite possible the two’s similarities began and ended there; a hungry gaze so large it may collapse the stomach with it. It was their mouths, Juno determined, that made them most different, still. Their own; all sharp teeth and acrid poison, while Olivian’s dripped honey sweet, deceitfully saccharine. 

Juno falls into line at his beckoning, arms uncrossing so fingers might join at the small of her back as she matches stride. “Not one for surprises, are we?” she muses, gaze again traveling to the cosmos above, “and are they to your liking?” That’s what it was all about, after all. A grand display of wealth to laud over the heads of those beneath — to remind them of their place. Juno wasn’t entirely put off by the idea; only by the flimsy cry for unity they’d disguised it under. 

They can hardly remember a time anyone else has called them dear; not even their own mother, who seemed to know better, to recognize them as anything but. Yet, it falls from Olivian’s mouth seamlessly; a fearless child stroking the head of a ravenous wolf. They had no reason to bite — yet — and, after years of content, they both know it. Still, Juno does not dignify Olivian in saying so; besides, a break was the last thing she wanted...not when they were so frustratingly close.

“Of course,” she answers, instead, dark eyes turning to find his among the shadows, “a royal ball without the Maximus weapon’s master?” Juno hums; it would be an insult, for who should bring them greatness more surely than she? Yet, a nagging, bitter part of her is more certain it would be one to the King, himself — an unforgivable slight were Juno to bow out of such public appearance. How convenient then that the scientist was enamored so with all things decadent; neither should feel the sting of rejection...or its consequences.

“For business or pleasure will you attend?” It’s blunt, and to the point, a question Olivian may very well tiptoe his way out of answering, yet Juno is curious nonetheless. Who else within the walls of Stormhalt might, too, be familiar with him, or rather...his work?

[junocalidus]

laenasariadne​:

On the AFTERNOON of APRILIS 11, the sun blazes. It climbs and climbs the clear sky, until even spectators of the TOURNAMENT OF KINGS must wipe their brow with sweat. An injured Ariadne — licked with burns and marked by blood, only some of which belongs to them — nurses their wounds at the edge of the WISTERIA TRAINING GROUNDS. @junocalidus​

Her shadow is long on the ground, a warning all on its own. The sharp angles of her shoulders, the clean lines of their silhouette — it terrifies. It is the first thing Ariadne sees, there on the ground, and so they know it is only a matter of time before she will come with her demands, her orders. And so it is a choice, deliberate and a small revolution of its own, to deny her this small satisfaction.

I see you, they will not say. I recognize you.

They do not say anything at all, when her shadow stills and the wind shifts to bring the acrid smell of her hunger to their nose. Ariadne presses the damp cloth to their palms, where they let the flame linger on their palm and bite at the thin skin. They wipe at the streak of blood on their shoulder. But they do not raise their eyes to meet Juno’s, and in doing so, Ariadne denies Juno her godhood.

The silence is ruined by her nearness; they rage against the loss of it. Ariadne digs their nails into the cloth and against their wounds. When it stings and stabs, they do not wince, and they do not hiss in pain. Instead, they mutter, “You gave me the signal. I had every right to use my magic.”

Mercy — it was an often neglected, and wholly distant concept to a beast like Juno. She, who should play with her prey until it begged to be silenced, to welcome some dark semblance of peace from her cruel machinations. It had been plied from her mouth unceremoniously, ripped from the sheath of her throat before she could think to wrestle it silent — yet it was not for the poorly mage, though they clasp her pity now within their charred palms — always, it would be for Juno, for it bid only the language of greed. 

Ariadne denies their fill, dark hues cast to search the earth, that which they would sooner find themselves buried beneath if not for Juno — yet they would rather swallow their thanks, choke on the breadth of their gratitude — the fool. They would do better to taste defeat, to lie in dirt rouged by their arrogance; but not yet. Not until Juno may look upon them and see nothing of use, until they have already picked apart that most fragile, that which makes Ariadne glorious.

“I gave you pity,” she corrects, more serpentine than human, a hiss to punctuate their obvious discontent. They are loathe to taste a most familiar anger on the tongue; bitter, metallic — with it they forge it into a blade to wield, a sharp edge with which to cut. “Without it you’d have been carried from the grounds; a failure, no less,” it is a childish sneer, a reminder that Ariadne is little more than a hopeful to be dealt with in absence of Juno’s assent, “your life was in my hands — recourse was necessary.”

[junocalidus]

date: aprilis 10th location: nine daughters dock availability: closed for @allegrams​​

It was charming, really, how the now waning dock had tried disguising itself as something more, as something once again grand and alive. It performed for Celeia now in perhaps the same way a neglected child might; proudly presenting to you their inferior scribbles, if not so lowly as the family dog, itself, standing upon its back legs in search of scraps of praise — endearing, sure, if not equal parts pathetic. Yet, Juno entertained its cry for help nonetheless, striding its merchant booths with a critical eye. It was in vain, a gaze most elusive, but the scientist was always in search of inspiration, in some finery that might compliment their visions, both professional and otherwise; for Juno felt strongly that as weapons master it was their duty to dress the part, after all.  

Yet, it is no shiny bauble or glimpse of cashmere that tempts them in the end, no, but rather more, still; Juno’s tastes whetted by only the most exquisite — the bastard daughter herself, shoulders poised and chin lifted in the distance. It was early still, the Princess of the Dock not set to be formally announced for some time, surely, yet Juno should expect no less of the King’s advisor — prepared to a fault. Zeno, they anticipate, should be less so. 

They observe curiously from a distance, a long bloated moment where they opt to see her not as some thing they are rather fond of but as the heir to royalty, a polished jewel in the crown of Celeia, demanding the world view her as no less. Juno, herself, was in need of no convincing; only a fool should struggle to discern that which should be so painfully obvious — the wrong Maximus wielded the imperial scepter. 

In time, they approach, the corner of each lip rising as Allegra grows nearer, “so eager to show Celeia the face of its true princess?” A brow rises conspiratorially, “or have you come to scrub away at yet another mess on our dear King’s behalf?” The term of honor is little more than a punchline shared between the two, a teasing prod in Allegra’s side where Juno knows a bruise has bloomed, tender and aching since the royal invitations were first sealed.   

[salemwitchtrials-deactivated202]

Red Doc>, Anne Carson

[ID: To feel anything deranges you. To be seen feeling anything strips you naked.]

[junocalidus]

olivianscons​:

APRILIS 13TH | DAY 4 OF THE CORONATION ANNIVERSARY | OUTSIDE OF THE ROYAL GROUNDS | OPEN

There were some things that Olivian had never been able to let go of in his time as a Smuggler. In fact if he met anybody he had known from his previous life they may say he had attached himself even more to the material trappings of life than he had when he was younger. That was probably true. He’d had so much to worry about back then he hadn’t been able to appreciate things like nice well fitted clothing, or parties. Or mixing those two things together with something as novel as a mask to top it all off with.  This was all to say that Olivian was very much looking forward to the last day of these festivities and the Masquerade Ball that was coming with it.

Very much.

It was likely no surprise that during the fifth day of the coronation anniversary while everybody was out doing their last minute shopping, and getting ready for such a grand fanciful event so was Olivian. In his own way. He had done his own shopping ages ago. Options for an Outfit and Mask to hide his face had been picked out nearly on the first day. All he needed to know was what was the décor the Maximus Clan were going with for the evening, so he knew how to match it. Olivian couldn’t let himself assume the colors, and theming. Though he expected it to be … Well, let’s just say he did not see the group as the most tasteful, or fashionable. So, he needed to find out for himself. He didn’t want to clash with the curtains, did he?

Olivian found himself wandering the royal grounds to check things out for himself. Getting a peak at the Great Hall, as he wandered among the staff and servants working later into the night. At some point he even found himself in the kitchens seeing if there were any fancy foods laying out, but mostly things were only being prepared, so he left empty handed. 

He decided if he had been in charge, he could do better. Nothing revolutionary.

Having satisfied both his curiosity and the necessity to know what colors he could get away with wearing the next night, Olivian strolled from the Castle onto the grounds to leave, taking a breath of the cool night breeze as he went.  Walking as confidently as one would if they owned the place. If only, some might say. (Him, he was ‘some’). But that was the key to be where ever you wanted to be without pesky rule abiding types questioning you, and what you were doing. That was “Being Where you Shouldn’t Be 101”. Pretend like you were supposed to be there and most would leave you be. Most. 

It did not always work when you had a name and a reputation like he did, but most people left him alone.

How the rumors had spread through these great halls; a rot that had wound itself liberally about the tongues of many a staff and passerby alike. Even Juno, who was not particularly inclined to be on the receiving end of hearsay had her pick of rebellion and espionage with which to sate her prying. As surely as the gossip, so too had they glimpsed the reassurance; hands wringing and eyes wide as mouths hastily chewed away at their kingdom’s unease. She wonders if the Aulus throne was so quick to bandage wounds without first assessing their damage  — if they ignorantly bled out, laughing and captivating their people as its heart stuttered to silence.

Zeno has, no doubt, earned their reservations. Whether he should take the impression of such threats seriously or not, Juno had relaxed little; scrutinizing and revising the castle armory, eyes prodding for weakness, for debility. She doubted very much any army, even that of all of Celeia, could best her work — but one could never be too certain. Not even Juno. 

Still, it should prove futile. As she knew best, all the parts of a mechanism could work perfectly, and still it could fracture beneath the weight of an inexperienced hand; an unpracticed crown. 

After hours of careful inspection she has released herself — for now — legs at last stretching to carry her the long length of castle grounds, dark eyes peered above to the heavens, tracing the sweep of their starry touch. The night was clear, hardly even a breeze to disrupt the branches on surrounding trees — though a disturbance, still, Juno finds. He walks casually, measuredly, assuring them just enough time to traverse his path through the darkness with the curious rise of a single brow. 

“I don’t recollect calling upon your audience, Olivian,” she speaks when close enough, lithe arms crossing at the sternum, “yet here you are.” 

[cruellheaven]

“In the dark, my soul said I am your soul. No one can see me; only you — only you can see me.”

— Louise Glück, excerpt of Fugue (via antigonick)

[lifeinpoetry]

“the gods of small things become the god of all things in the dark”

— Camonghne Felix, from “Statement from Camonghne Felix on the Murders of Jesse Washington, Stephon Clark and her Attempt to Understand the Psychology of Lynchings:” published in Winter Tangerine’s Lineage of Mirrors

[mikaeled]

If you don’t come back here with the police and I survive… I swear, I will find you and I will kill you. Angela Sarafyan in A House on the Bayou (2021)

[narcissamalfvy]

“I have never been allowed to be holy, / I have never been forgiven for wanting.”

— Gwen Benaway, from “Boys,” Holy Wild (via lifeinpoetry)

[191195-deactivated20240210]

Women and monsters have a lot in common [..]. They are both outcasts; alienated, derided and feared by society. They are biological freaks with bodies that transgress and fluctuate, and they are both threats to male power.

Ellie Wriglesworth, The Harpy (via 581d00)

[voirlvmer]

“My rot is as hungry as me. & when God asks me about love, I always respond with cruelty.”

— Yves Olade, from Belovéd

[langlee]

“(…) to be embodied was to be the altar and the flesh and the knife. Sometimes the gods just want to see what you are going to do.”

— Freshwater, Akwaeke Emezi (via deformititties)

[godsopenwound]

Christopher Logue, Cold Calls (War Music, Continued)

[mikaeled]

Maeve is not for sale, and neither am I. Angela Sarafyan as Clementine Pennyfeather in Westworld S03E07

[endless-unfolding]

“Make a name for the dark parts of you.”

— Lisa Marie Basile, from “What Paz Took,” Rougarou (Fall 2011)