[poisonedeweth]

idle worship // paramore

[quotemadness]

I can only connect deeply or not at all.

Anaïs Nin (via quotemadness)

[booksqouted]

Life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the community.

Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (via booksqouted)

[booksqouted]

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (via booksqouted)

[booksqouted]

It goes a long way back, some twenty years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself.

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (via booksqouted)

[venettaoctavia]

You are shaking fists & trembling teeth. I know: You did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean you were kind.

Venetta Octavia, excerpt of “THE BURNING”, from my chapbook, “What We Left Behind” (via venettaoctavia)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I am the ocean; the earth; whatever dies for you.

Alice Notley, from In The Pines: Poems; “The Black Trailor (A Noir Fiction),” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[libratis]

🔫 write leona

I tried, therefor I cannot be blamed // always accepting

   On a nearly unreachable peak of Mount Targon, the sun struggles to shine.

   The crack of her sparring sword resounds far too closely to Leona’s head to prove comforting; she can feel it in the slide of the dirt beneath her boots that she’s losing ground, and from the straining of her muscles, tensed to the point of aching, she can also deduce that she will not be regaining it.

   When Leona is pitted against Vasili, the outcomes almost never vary; she will get close, so close, to forcing him to the ground and keeping him there, but he is an expert at extorting weaknesses Leona never even knew she had. In a few seconds, she’d taste the dirt and walk home sore and blue.

   With the remnants of her dwindling leverage, Leona shoves against the pressure keeping her sword hovering just over her brow, pushing Vasili back enough so that she gains the room to sweep the handle of the sword behind his knees. He is no novice, however, and is aware of the weakness he’s exposed to her; even as his back collides with the ground, Vasili uses Leona’s forward momentum against her. With her head dipped forward, it isn’t difficult for Vasili the bring the hilt of his sword against Leona’s helmet.

   And though she is the sun, Leona sees stars.

   Vasili doesn’t bother to pin her like a win in training usually requires - it seems arbitrary when it takes Leona a good minute just to summon the strength to accept his outstretched hand. He hauls her to her feet, and Leona forces herself to remain steady even when her knees shake and she blinks sweat out of her eyes.

   “Healer!” Vasili calls over his shoulder. “ The Chosen is bleeding.”

   Leona is confused for just a moment as the healer rushes over, only realizing what Vasili means when she brings her fingers to her aching head and discovers that it’s blood clouding her vision, not sweat. The overly-anxious medic leaves Leona with just a bit of cloth to staunch the bleeding after the Chosen, with her wounded head and further wounded pride, waves her away. Vasili she allows to accompany her to the edge of the sparring area, and she unceremoniously dumps herself into the grass with her hand still holding the previous flow of crimson at bay.

   “It was a strong move,” Vasili tells her. “If you had kept your balance even, the match would have been yours.”

   Leona nods, careful not to upset the delicate balance she’s struck with the wound beneath her fingers. “I will not forget it for next time.”

   Vasili tilts his head to the side, the reproachful look his only reply.

   Leona sighs, focused now on the rust-colored stain on her glove.

   “I’m to lead them, Vasiliou. If I am to succeed, I cannot forget anything.”

   He only claps his hand over her shoulder, the best thing anyone could have done for her. It seems fitting to her that the sun, the real sun, should grace them now, spreading its waning rays over the temple before it set for the night.

   “You won’t,” he assures her. “You will be the leader the Solari need.”

   And with the sun on her skin, Leona only answers, “For them, I will not fail.”

[libratis]

try + karma !

I tried therefor I cannot be blamed // literally always accepting

   Darha thinks the day Karma became her soul is the day she died.

   Not all at once; the spirit of peace is a river, not a tsunami, and it does not kill by consuming. It is a gradual, steady descent into something far bigger than Darha could have ever imagined for herself.

   Self - a concept lost to the many voices of Karma.

   Today, she is Darha for some time; Darha steeps her morning tea leaves, Darha climbs the fragrant hill to the Lasting Alter, Darha is the one who sips her tea and scrutinizes the sunrise.

   It is a small boy, unclaimed and frail and only ever bearing the name Karma who lifts the cup next; the aged and withered Yailani cradles the cup in their lap as the sun tops the horizon, and when it has reached its peak, Alar is left only the dregs, though the cool breeze that has abandoned him for so long mollifies the ancient wistfulness.

   Darha sees them, us, we, complete the cycle, hardly more than a bystander in her own skin. She cannot say that she despises this; though war has been ushered away from her land, Darha possesses a restless, seeking soul. Those who share it bade her to bask in the peace, as they are wont to do themselves.

   And at the insistence of Yailani, and Alar, and the boy who was plucked from nothing, Darha does; she has promised this time to Ionia as repentance, and she owes the disquiet in her soul some amount of soothing. If not for her, then for the Karma that will inexorably follow.

   It is the ultimate test of faith and of strength to delve into that vein of thought; Darha knows she is gone, she knows she will succumb to a truth death eventually, and she knows she is less and less in the present. Despite this, she clings to the faith that brought her to the Alter in the first place.

   And she hopes against hope that she may carry that strength into her next life, should Karma ever need to call on it again.

[ghostlyrec]

SEND  TRY + A CHARACTER  YOU’D LIKE TO SEE ME ( ATTEMPT ) TO WRITE !

[libratis]

❝ Men will read all sorts of things into a knowing smile if you let them. ❞

way too lazy to find the link again // not accepting

   “A ‘ knowing ‘ smile?” Akali asks, her voice saturated with skepticism and disgust. Disgust, yes, because Ahri had spilled such a sizeable pool of blood that Akali was sure it was choking her, cloying at her nose and the back of her throat. Behind her mask, she threatens to heave.

   Her hands were so far removed from bloodless, but this… this was horror a nature of which Akali had not seen before.

   “A man does not read that far into a mere smile,” she says. He does not go doe-eyed and slack-jawed to his death for it.

   Though perhaps she should have been grateful ( because what other reason would Akali have been here too, than to clip this man and return to Shen? ) to Ahri for relieving her of such gruesome work, but Akali remains wary, and if honest, afraid. The fox had merely curved a finger and the edge of her lip and convinced a man that would have fought Akali to the death to willingly allow her to rip him apart. What manner of beast does so, and then carries a conversation about the wiles of women immediately after?

   Her blades are her comfort, and Akali only thanks the stars that Ahri does not smile at her, too.

   “Be wary, fox; balance will not fall in line with your appetite forever.”

[lifeinpoetry]

         I’d like to belong

                                                    to myself.

— deziree a. brown, from “ishtar’s redemption.” published in Puerto del Sol

[libratis]

❝ Noble words, but words were easy. Deeds were hard. ❞

x // accepting

   Ah - and just like that, Yasuo has cut right to the wilted edges of Akali’s loyalty. If he had been a free man in another time, if Akali had been as rigid as she once was, such a sentiment would have been a betrayal; thoughts of that nature were barred to ones who had tethered their souls to ideals like honor and duty.

   And now… now balance was subjective, integrity was lost, and the pair found themselves so far removed, so lost.

   “At first,” Akali agrees. “For me. You know how I was bound.”

   The samurais knew well of the Kinkou, as was the opposite true; the bond they made to their duties was life itself - it was unbreakable, it was everlasting, and it was never to be questioned. It was a sort of torture, then, an undoing, that Akali forced herself through so that she might - at the least - begin to think that her path may have curved somewhere dark.

   The first time is never the easiest; Akali’s initial disobedience, secretive and nearly ineffectual to all but her, brought back stinging, fuzzy memories of bruised, aching skin, the dusty smell of training mats, disappointed glares and expectations so high Akali could only reach the peak of them in her dreams. It had been drilled into her, time and painful time again, to serve. And not herself - never herself.

   But Yasuo was right - words were merely just that, and an entire country suffered at Akali’s indifference. Unwittingly, Shen and her mother had given her the strength to become more than a bystander to Ionia’s death.

   And Yasuo, tragic Yasuo, who had never come across the stars or called for Akali’s blade; the wrongfully shamed man still found it in himself to do, even when the world bade him differently.

   “But don’t you find it now to be the opposite? To act feels so easy as breathing. To continue the rhetoric that I restrained myself to for so long…”

   Traitorous. Wrong. Akali should shut her mouth, never speak again.

   But in the company of the equally damned, “I would rather die than to return to a life of no true meaning.”

[soracities]

Euripides, from “Orestes”, An Oresteia (trans. Anne Carson)

[nalolnews]

Nunu Rework Splash Art

[bladesurgence]

❛ You always knew who I was, what I am. ❜

     A red wind, rusted with night’s shadow, croons through the air. It rustles between the branches of the magnolia tree, between each petal of its white flowers, between the cadence that sits between each of their words.

     “Not always,” Irelia admits. “I took a chance. A lucky guess.”

     The Kinkou wore masks to conceal their faces. Akali stepped in and out of twilight’s veil as she delivered justice, her form a sinuous shadow. But the real mystery confronted Irelia when Akali stood in front of her, in plain sight. What did she live for? What did she want to accomplish?

     Irelia shifts, adjusting her position on the branch. She looks over the edge of the small ridge where the magnolia hangs over the Lake of Mirrors. Its white surface surrounds the ridge on three sides, and Irelia feels that she’s looking at the sky instead of a body of water.

     As a leaf falls onto its surface, and a small ripple pulses across the water, the illusion breaks for a few seconds.

     According to legend, the gods had placed a ball of pure white jade in the mountains of Navori, the domain of the White Tiger. As it clashed with the Azure Dragon of the East, the dragon’s flames spread across the land, and melted the jade. The liquid pooled into a basin, and became the Lake of Mirrors, known for water the color of snow, as translucent as glass. It was said that anyone who swam in it would have their heart and soul opened, and their true intentions known.

     One of Irelia’s guardsmen had once become a thorn under the Fist of Shadow’s eyes, an aberration that needed pruning. But Irelia intervened, stepping in between Akali and the guard, even as she told Irelia of his crimes, the threat he posed to balance.

     “He is under my command.” Irelia stood firm. “I believe he has the capacity to change. Or would you strike him down before hearing his side of the story?”

     Akali did not stand down, but she did lower her kamas.

     “If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll take on the consequences myself. But I don’t think the story is that simple. Have you never questioned an order?”

     And Akali told her she did, many times, especially during the invasion.

     That day had been Irelia’s first foothold in her efforts to scale the web of mystery that surrounded Akali. There was no doubt in her loyalty to the order. But something else, a shard of doubt in the form of flawed humanity, punctured the perfection of discipline. And as Irelia continued to speak with her, the more Akali’s character began to shine through - as if she had plunged into the Lake of Mirrors and laid her soul bare.

     “It was a thread,” Irelia continues, swinging her legs over the edge. “But I followed it to the end, and… I think I learned some things.”

     From where they sat, one could almost see the bottom of the lake, despite how deep it was. A testament to how clear, how pristine its waters were. Irelia leans over, and she can make out her outline in the water’s reflection.

     “You know the story of this lake, right?” Akali nods, her eyes narrowing, as if she’s catching onto what Irelia wants to do. Irelia reaches for the ribbon tying her hair back, loosening the knot and tossing it at Akali with a gleeful wink.

      “I trust you, peragi,” she tells her, removing her silken sleeves and letting them hang on another branch, before turning with her back to the water, and giving Akali one last look.

      Then, Irelia smiles, leaning back, and she plummets backwards, falling into the whiteness.

      This is who I am, Irelia mouths to Akali as she crashes into the firmament.

[ysambre-fauntography]

“R A V A G E S . II” ~ © Ysambre fauntography 2017