CONFLAGRATION!

—— flesh on fire smells like something disoriented... a creature running blind.

[bioshocks]

“Women like me have gone through hell. Women like me now breathe fire.” -Funke Olotu

[ladyhierophant]

francisdaumantas​:  

Francis sleeps late and rises early, a trait undoubtedly picked up for all the same reasons as Kithri’s restlessness. Being a child on the streets of Tyrholm was not easy; food was scarce, and death was always lingering just around the corner. To survive, one had to be alert, and one could not be alert in sleep. Though many years have passed since Francis last slept beneath the stars, though warm beds have replaced their memory of cold, hard dirt, they still sleep just as they did on the streets of Tyrholm: lightly, and very little. 

It is no surprise that Francis rises with the sun. When they enter the Sanctum, they are not particularly surprised to find Kithri, either, standing before the altar of the Undying God.

“Stay,” Francis replies, smiling at Kithri. It’s neither an order nor a suggestion, but rather an invitation. Stay, if you’d like.

Of all the people in Tyhrolm– in all of Markholm, really– Kithri is the closest Francis has to a friend. It’s rather ironic, considering who ( and what ) both of them are, but the circumstances of their lives have bound them together whether either of them wanted it to or not. So few of Tyrholm’s street rats grow up, let alone grow up to be somebody– relatively speaking. They are, strange as it may seem, the lucky ones. They made it from dirt to the castle, in their own ways. They survived.

“You’ve come all this way,” Francis continues, hands clasped idly behind their back, “you must have had good reason.” 

Kithri was aware of the way her shoulders lost their tension in response to the smile and invitation she received from Francis, though she would not call attention to it. They were one of very few she would dare to call a friend or ally in the pit of snakes that made up Tyrholm. She suspected they could do little to help the predicament that faced her, but could not deny that she felt some ease for the first time since the tourney had erupted in fire. 

She hummed in consideration of their suggestion that she had a good reason for her appearance. She did not know if she would call it such, but nonetheless offered her answer. “Death,” she remarked, “mine, in particular.” 

“I’ve imagined it hundreds of times, of course -- thousands, even, since I was a child and learned what I was.” She’d thought through scenarios that were bloody and brutal, and through scenarios that were soft and painless -- but she always doubted the Undying God would offer her any fucking solace, even in her last moments. “I cannot recall imagining dying for someone else’s crime in particular -- but I’m sure at one point it must have crossed my mind.” 

“The thing that I overlooked, though, is what comes after. For someone like me, I mean.” 

[ladyhierophant]

tasmindeclair​:  

The sight of the assassins made her nervous. It wasn’t the thought of the king’s life potentially ending that spiked her nerves—- it was the thought of her own powers and the impression held of those with inferni magic. She didn’t possess the ability to spark flames, but she endured the same effect as those that could possess fire. She wasn’t as dangerous as some of the other powers, but she could still be perceived as such if her secret came out. It was the sight of the man on fire that made her overly aware of the dangerous path she was walking. 

And yet some people didn’t tread through that path with a sense of fear overriding their systems, some people blazed through it like the true inferno they were. Kithri was a person that caught Tasmin’s attention right away. She watched the woman’s fire. She stared at the familiar burns that marl her skin. Questions hovered in the air whenever she was close by, but she never had the courage to address any of her questions. She found herself drawn towards the woman, but she would always pull away before she got burned by her fiery gaze.

This was one such example. Her eyes had followed the mage as they wandered into the dining hall, and she found herself slipping away from her seat. Light feet led her towards the mage, but she stopped once the woman spoke. Questions raced through her mind: Are you capable of setting a man on fire like that? How do you deal with the repercussions of such magic? Could you give me some advice? 

But of course, the questions died on her tongue. She hesitated as the woman addressed her. What would she tell her? That she had questions about her powers? That she didn’t believe she set that man on fire? None of those ideas slipped through. Instead, she came up with a measly reason why she’s near the inferni.

“I—” She started, glancing back at the dining hall. Should she just go back inside? Say she mistook her for someone else? She thought about it, but she was already there. “I was headed towards the library. It’s in the same direction.” 

The unsure tone of the girl who had followed after her drew a harsh huff of air from the mage, and Kithri turned her body to look back at the other with a scowl firmly in place. The younger girl was one whom Kithri only barely recognized: she was a face amongst the sea of faces at court, and stood out to her very little. Her fine dress betrayed her status as noble-blooded, and as Kithri looked longer, she thought she could recall seeing the girl occasionally seated nearby the Prince during the King’s long dinners and subsequent hours of often-humiliating entertainment. She did not know the girl’s name, and did not care to learn it. 

“The library,” Kithri echoed, her tone suggesting that she was unconvinced by the girl’s claim. It seemed likelier to her that the girl had followed after her for some sick interest in seeing the inferni mage who had tried to kill the King, or something of the sort. “It was my impression that you seemed to walk in my footsteps, but perhaps I am mistaken.” 

She turned back on her heel then, and began to walk forward once more -- aware now of the girl who walked only a few paces behind her, apparently headed in the same direction. She spoke again, assured that the girl was listening. “I trust you are not frightened, lady, to be so near to a creature such as myself. The walk to the library is not quick, and as you said, we have a similar path to walk.” 

[ladyhierophant]

undyingpriestess​:  

STATUS: for @ladyhierophant​

DATE: seventh of the tenth month

TIME: dawn

LOCATION: western wing – court magi quarters

    Levana knew that many assumed that she wore the make-up upon her face as a means of marking herself as part of the Temple, as one of the necromancers, as one of the court magi. They were a menagerie of oddities and they were expected to look the part. In truth, though, the reason she chose to wear her makeup was a rather vain one. Her nights were restless, the whispers of ghosts interrupting what would have been a dreamless slumber – and each time she awoke she tried to discern the voice of the Undying God from the murmurs that there were. It was easier to hide the cost of her power with the black kohl painting her face. Often, her eyes looked bruised, the dark circles vivid against her pale skin. 

    And how terribly dark the circles were since she had not slept a wink, deliberating the next move that would be most effective – what move would ensure progression in the face of this unaccounted-for set-back while protecting the most vulnerable against Septimus’ rage. 

    She looked at the window, pausing in her journey to Kithri’s room. The wind was so restless for being so early in the day, combing through the trees. The pink hues of the sun’s light colored the once-dark sky, painting the clouds into something far more romantic than Tyrolhm deserved. Her gaze slid back to the door, knuckles rapping against the door quietly. There would be no need to wake anyone else and alert them of this visit during the ungodly hours of the morning. It then occurred to her that Kithri might be sleeping, so she knocked once more, this time a little more firmly. 

    “It’s Levana,” she added quietly. Although, upon further consideration, she was not entirely sure if that would help her efforts. 

    When the door did open, she did not bother to don a small, polite smile. She was far too tired to do anything other than incline her chin in lieu of a proper greeting. “Before you begin your day, I think it’s important that you are informed about a number of things. May I come in?”

In the wake of the attempt on the King’s life, Kithri’s evening had been marred with sleeplessness: she sat awake contemplating her impending end, and pushed her limited knowledge to discern ways in which she might avoid it. The clearest answer was that another would need to receive the punishment -- and if it was the true assassin, it was all the better. The mage could not deny her curiosity in learning who had been so bold and so foolish.

She also considered that avoiding blame and death might be an impossibility -- in which case, she pondered if she was willing to sacrifice the innocent lives that would no doubt be caught in the flames should she use her last breath to burn it all to the ground. Though many of the blue-blooded bastards who kept company with the King deserved to burn alongside him, there were others who had not earned such a fate: the servants and commonfolk chief among them. 

She had reached no clear answers by the time dawn broke, and when a knock sounded at her door, Kithri assumed it was the guard come to arrest her for the crime. The mage lingered for a moment before doing anything; watching the door and considering what little time she had to make her decision. When a second knock sounded, and the person standing behind the door revealed themselves to be the necromancer, Kithri’s expression twisted with confusion. 

The mage opened the door to reveal a sliver of her face, her brow already furrowed with displeasure as she locked eyes onto the singular form of Levana. She said nothing in response to the woman’s question, and merely opened the door to allow her inside. 

“If you have come to tell me where I might go to shield myself from the King’s wrath, I won’t hear of it. I will not hide.”

[ladyhierophant]

TIME: the seventh of the tenth month; late evening LOCATION: castle tyrholm; kitchen STATUS: closed to @shadowrcith​

Another day had come and gone, and Kithri had retained her freedom in the King’s court. Or at the very least, the version of freedom she held onto as one of the King’s favored trained dogs -- permitted to move about the castle as she pleased, and yet wary to leave the grounds for favor of the city below.

Though she had not been arrested and charged with the assassination attempt, she was nonetheless wise to the accusatory glances and suspicion-filled whispers which clung to her like a second skin. Valeria’s suggestion that the mage avoid unnecessary movement and call upon her allies was not baseless, even if Kithri had chosen to ignore the caution. In the mind of the inferni mage, if she remained hidden in her chambers it would signal to the court that she was fearful -- and in her opinion, fear indicated guilt. 

Despite this, Kithri also knew that in the absence of a caught assassin, the blame would undoubtedly be shifted to her. The nature of the attempt made it all too easy to point to her without the burden of evidence -- and she doubted the ability of any would-be ally to save her from death. Her survival rested upon another falling victim to the executioner’s sword.

The mage had never much been in the business of gossip, but she knew the kitchen and it’s hearth to be the source of it in the castle. If there was some whisper of another wanting to see the King dead, it was likely to be heard there of all places. With little other recourse, Kithri made the journey and perched herself close to the roaring fire: any onlooker who drew too close would note the way the flames seemed to gravitate towards her with an undoubted magnetism.

She had not lingered for long when she caught sight of the King’s spymaster drift through the space: the sight of them caused a lurch in her gut, and the fire beside her briefly engorged before settling. Of any, Kithri expected Wraith to have some knowledge of the investigation and any additional suspects thought to be involved in the attempted assassination. Their willingness to provide any of the information they had was another issue entirely -- but Kithri could not allow the opportunity to fade without any attempt.

“Wraith,” she greeted -- more familiar than she cared to be with most, and more familiar than the dynamic between them would suggest. And yet, there was an inherent familiarity to them as beings who had outlived their stories. “I am surprised the King would allow his confidantes to drift so far from his side.”

[objetpetita]

“Destroy, destroy. […] Destroy Oedipus, the illusion of the ego, the puppet of the superego, guilt, the law, castration.” ― Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, Capitalism and Schizophrenia

“Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay;” ― William Shakespeare, Richard II

“She wanted to destroy something. The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.” ― Kate Chopin, The Awakening

“―Destroy.” “―What did she say?” “―She said destroy.” ― Marguerite Duras, Destroy, She Said

[ladyhierophant]

👀 fmk: wraith, marceline, tasmin

"I cannot think of a reason why I would care at all for the life of some fucking noble-blooded girl -- but I’ve at least heard some tell of Pelagius’ father, who supposedly had more balls than the lot of the men of the court. If that’s at all passed on, and given the choices, I’d marry Marceline and kill Tasmin. Wraith and I exist on borrowed time, and so I think it would be unfair to kill or marry them -- that leaves the obvious, doesn’t it?”

[ladyhierophant]

fuck, marry, kill: francis, valeria, saif

"The opportunity to be rid of any blood of Septimus is not a chance I’d miss -- I might take some pleasure in killing them, but more than that I’d like to see the King mourn Valeria, and reckon with the fact that he’s left with only Reynaud and Aurelia. Of the three, I can stand Francis the longest -- and I will not linger in this world long enough to be a burden in that regard. And I suppose that if I were to fuck Andros, perhaps he’d be satisfied enough to leave me be.”

[ladyhierophant]

👀 if you could place whoever you wanted on the throne, who would it be?

“That is the problem with these whispers of change -- it always leads to the question of who comes next, without any ever considering the idea that it could be no one at all. Take even the most pious, humble person and sit them on a throne -- they’ll become just as much of a fucking thorn as the one that came before them. But you lot are too fucking afraid of change, and will try it anyway if you’re not stopped. Put a crown on the old pirate, and see how long it takes him to turn.” 

[ladyhierophant]

👀 + fuck/marry/kill/kiss - the royal fam

“Since you’ve forced me to choose amongst them, the Prince is the one I’d kill first. Between Valeria and Calliope, only one of them has fucked the King -- and so I’d consign myself to just kiss the Queen, and fuck the Princess. I suppose that leaves Aurelia to marry -- I never imagined I would be so happy to know that I’ll die young.” 

[ladyhierophant]

honor-among-th1eves​: 

Feivel had narrowly escaped another long evening subject to the court and their self-indulgent sense of entertainment. While he wasn’t exactly a high ranking official but there had been evenings when it seemed King Septimus was keen on having the former rogue in his immediate presence for the duration of the night. Typically, the invitation and attention materialized when Feivel had provided some sort if useful parable or perspective, or when he’d put a name to some long-forgotten relic. This made his presence in the receiving hall on those long nights of revelry seem to him like a reward for a dog who had performed some trick to its master’s satisfaction. Since he had done little but rest his boots on his desk and doze in the afternoon sunlight that filtered into his office in the library for the past few weeks, he was able to excuse himself with little consequence.

The man had nearly made it out of earshot of the receiving hall when the sound of laughter erupted. He paused, briefly, and glanced over his shoulder vaguely wondering what frivolous happening might have entertained the nobles so much. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark-haired fire wielding mage exit, the one with the lashing tongue and cutting eyes. A moment’s more observation revealed to him that she was undone, her neck and forearms exposed. He knew in an instant what the source of the laughter had been. His stomach soured and his temper roiled beneath his flesh, only to be further provoked by the handful of guards trailing behind the woman as if to rub salt in the wound.

The moment the men made their intention to follow and further torment the woman, Feivel was moving across the room in a deliberate path toward the guards and the mage. In one fluid motion, his hands unclasped the half-cape from around his neck and swung it off of his shoulders. She seemed to be pretty well handling herself with the barrage of flames she produced that pushed the soldier’s back a few feet. Feivel’s ire gained a second wind as he saw the trio persisted.

In an instant, he was beside Kithri, his cloak held about her shoulders so as to shield her exposed skin from the view of any onlookers and so that it did not make contact with the blistered, raw skin that threatened such pain. The dagger at his hip was made plainly visible without the need to make some showy attempt to brandish it, his dark eyes narrowed on the trio of guards in a manner just as piercing as any blade.

“I suggest you listen to the mage,” Feivel commented in a grim tone of voice, ready to snap up his dagger and come to blows with the guards at even the slightest hint of their retaliation. He knew his own skill level, and paired with the mage he had little reason to doubt their odds.  

Kithri was not disillusioned into believing that she created the impression of being the model courtier. She was all too aware of the way that her lips nearly twisted into a scowl when she was paraded before the court, just as she was aware of the way her voice sometimes grew tight with barely-contained anger when forced to speak with the noble people of Castle Tyrholm. Despite this, she had not yet done anything outright treasonous -- and nonetheless found herself increasingly shadowed by guards under the Captain’s command. What Captain Andros thought of her, Kithri did not know -- the leader of the guard was apparently too much a coward to confront her themselves. It was clear that she was perceived as some kind of threat, or someone to watch. It was a near-constant inconvenience. 

Had the mage not already been humiliated for the entertainment of the King and his brood, she might have been mildly impressed by the boldness of the soldiers who withstood a fire-breathing inferni and held their posts. Instead, she was filled with misplaced wrath. 

A second attack on Kithri’s part was halted when Feivel suddenly appeared, draping a half-cape about her exposed neck and taking a decided stand against the trio of guardsmen. This unexpected development seemed to momentarily bewilder the guards, the closest of which taking a half-step forward as he uttered: “you are interfering with the business of the guard, Asturias --”

“ -- the only thing he has interfered with is my burning of your extremities,” Kithri snarled, “though I am happy to still oblige.” When the group still lingered uncomfortably, their hands itching towards their swords, Kithri spat flames at them once more -- this time the barrage of fire danced too close, and two of the three panicked to pat out the fire that had caught on the fabric exposed amongst their armor. “Fuck off!” She yelled, obviously pleased when they at last retreated.

Still smarting from her unfortunate evening, Kithri was quick to turn on her unexpected ally, muttering: “I needed no assistance.” 

[ladyhierophant]

                                            CONFLAGRATION!

prologue: firebird suite: the infernal dance – igor stravinsky.

i. motherless children – steve miller band (father do the best he can when the mother is gone, but there’s so many things he just don’t understand) /// ii. arsonist’s lullaby – hozier (when i was a child, i’d sit for hours, staring into open flame. something in it had a power, could barely tear my eyes away) /// iii. bravado – lorde (i’m faking glory, lick my lips toss my hair) /// iv. my blood – ellie goulding (and god knows i’m not dying but i breathe now) /// v. let the flames begin – paramore (i give it all my oxygen, to let the flames begin) /// vi. already dead – the pretty reckless (i’m cold, already dead) /// vii. seven devils – florence and the machine (i don’t want your money, i don’t want your crown, see i have to burn your kingdom down) /// viii. the wild one – suzi quatro (i’m a red-hot fox, i can take the knocks, i’m a hammer from hell. honey, can’t you tell?) /// ix. destruction – joywave (oh my god, there’s no one who can set me right. i’ve been sent to torch the palace down in broad daylight) /// x. whore of babylon – zheani (i’m naked, dancing frustrated, the brighter flame has you faded)

epilogue: concerto l’estate RV 315 (the four seasons: summer.) – antonio vivaldi.

[witchernews]

Two thousand orens if you can tell me what exactly killed these people.

[ladyhierophant]

valeriavalmont​: 

The title princess had never suited them, but it did not boil on their skin like poison until it came from Kithri’s throat. Valeria wondered if they had done anything to deserve it, with a faraway curiosity that would not last. The royal family had a thousand enemies, and they would have a thousand more; Valeria would add Kithri to the list.

It was a shame. Valeria’s fancy caught on the jagged edges of Kithri’s every word. They, too, would fight any accusation laid at their feet. All that wrath and contempt — Valeria recognized it. It only came to visit them in their most private moments, when no guard could see and no friend of the king could hear. Kithri drew it out of them now, this whisper of treason and waft of traitorous smoke.

Perhaps Kithri could be an asset. An ally. Valeria did not dare entertain the possibility of a friend. The spear in Kithri’s eyes promised to pierce through their belly if they even considered it. “It matters little what I think,” Valeria answered honestly. Even for all the trust they curried with the king, they could not protect a soul in Tyrholm from Septimus’ wrath. “The king holds the final say.” Pointedly, they glance at the guards who linger barely within earshot. “You would be wise to show him your loyalty in the coming days.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Kithri replied, the mild-mannered statement replacing her preferred utterance of bullshit. “You are the King’s beloved kin, after all.” The clear affection Septimus bore Valeria was another factor which eased the mage’s tendency to consider the Princess to be just as much of a sore on Tyrholm as the King himself: there had to be something in Valeria that Septimus recognized in himself, which he apparently did not see in his own two children. “His word is law, but certainly your opinion curries some favor.” Kithri had no power to sway the King’s mind, but she did not doubt that they had some ability to push Septimus towards a certain conclusion. 

“Or perhaps I am completely wrong,” Kithri said, an empty smile briefly stretching across her features before disappearing. “Despite my years in this court, there is much I still do not know.”

When Valeria spoke of loyalty, a muscle in Kithri’s jaw jumped. “All that I am is due to the King,” the mage commented. This was true, if purposefully misconstrued: the anger and thirst for vengeance that roiled in Kithri’s gut was as a result of Septimus’ unending humiliation of not just her, but her kind. “But your words are wise, Princess. How do you suggest I demonstrate such loyalty?”

[ladyhierophant]

bardglory​:  

She rejects his offer summarily and he finds it stings, but on the surface level – a slap on the wrist rather than a slap to the face. He hums, nods his acknowledgment, and tries to keep pace with her regardless. He is admittedly gluttonous in no small number of ways, has to curb the disappointment that builds in the pit of his stomach that she would so quickly set his offer aside. That will be something to worry about later, he thinks, when he’s not trying to wheedle words out of her the way someone might squeeze blood from a stone. He’s under no disillusion that it will work. He know it won’t. Her tongue, however barbed, is often kept to herself.

“I think you’ll live to see tomorrow, you know,” because he does, and then: “half the men in this place are too stupid to even put two-and-two together. It won’t be the guardsmen you’ll have to worry about.” The Captain of the Guard, however capable he professes to be, is going to take some time before pulling himself together. Armel’s almost entirely sure of it. “There are other things to worry about. Other people, I should say.” The corridors are warm from torchlight, and Kithri herself seems to radiate heat by default. He tries not to think about tugging at the neck of his collar, the heavy fabric that covers the start of his throat.

For a moment, they walk in silence: Kithri chews her fruit, and Armel keeps his eyes set forward, chewing on his words. “If I were to gossip, to be the only one who says anything… would you still participate? You couldn’t be held accountable if you kept your mouth closed and let me yap on like a poncy little dog.” It’s a joke at his own expense, something he’s become more skilled at than he ever expected to over the years, but no less true than the fact the sun rises in the east. He does… tend to chatter.

“Perhaps,” the mage responded, “though I find your argument to be shallow.” Kithri was not politically minded -- she had tried her best to sharpen her mind and be two steps ahead, but found it unfairly difficult to content with those who had been educated or simply seemed to have a mind for lies and manipulation. She knew the court from her years spent there, and could anticipate how the greater forces at play might react to certain stimuli -- but changing their courses or preventing events from taking place altogether was not a skill she had mastered. She could guess at the thoughts that would be going through the King’s mind in the wake of his near-assassination -- she imagined Septimus craved the opportunity to publicly punish someone -- but doing something to thwart that reality seemed well outside her reach. 

For their failure to prevent the attack, Kithri similarly imagined that the guards would be anxious to find someone to lay blame at the feet of. She did not trust the Captain whatsoever to seek out the truth. “Their stupidity is the exact reason I imagine my innocence would matter very little -- the culprit behind this attempt on His Grace’s life is likely long gone, as I would be had I tried and failed at such a thing. The King will want to see someone suffer for this. In the absence of a true attacker, I imagine that I shall make a very fitting stand-in. Maybe it will be my final punishment from the Undying God,” she mused, the apple core in her hand suddenly combusting in a contained burst of hot blue-purple flame. The mage dropped the ashes that remained in her palm onto the stone floor beneath them, and sighed. “The fucking cunt.” 

It was Kithri’s impression that the silence which followed was either the direct result of her blasphemous comments regarding the Undying God, or the result of her pessimistic view of how the hunt for the would-be assassin was likely to play out. When Armel spoke again, her brows quirked, and her dark eyes slid to offer him a sideways glance. “You did not seek me out because you were hunting for gossip,” she remarked, “because you had already found your own, hm?” 

The pair arrived at a split in the hall: one direction would lead swiftly to Kithri’s quarters, while the other would take them further away, albeit in the same wing. The mage considered her options for a silent moment, and then nodded her head in the direction of the hall which would lead them away. “Speak.”

[ofhotheads-blog]

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

No deleting questions, either!

[thewitcherdaily]

THE WITCHER | 1.08 ‘Much More’