on my ninth life

[loathelys]

MUSES !

aramara i. montenegro (59, salma hayek): intro - visage - musings - threads

stellan graves (32, bill skårsgard): intro - visage - musings - threads

zelda romanov (30, florence pugh): intro - visage - musings - threads

[loathelys]

to: @mustnotfear's clem

The roar of the Colony House's annual party was a beast Ara knew how to navigate. She's dressed entirely in shades of black and grey from dyed or soot-darkened clothing with a few stray, pale leaves pinned to her shoulders and hair. It was a simple, almost solemn, last-minute outfit: a shadow.

Then, she spotted her best friend across the room, a familiar anchor in the sea of noise. A rare, true smile softened her features as she approached, holding out a second bottle of homemade cider she'd snagged from a nearby barrel.

"I come bearing libations," she said, her voice a low, warm counterpoint to the surrounding din. Her eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. "And I must say, you look significantly less uncomfortable than the man dressed as a sentient tree. I hope your costume doesn't involve itching."

[loathelys]

to: @mustnotfear's zephyr

The chaos of the Colony House party was a symphony, and Stellan moved through it like a final, dissonant chord. His costume consisted of a framework of skeletal, black-painted branches arched from his shoulders like wings. His face was a death mask, with smudged charcoal streaking underneath his eyes into voids of shadow: an angel of death. The cool night air sent a ripple of goosebumps across his skin, a shape, welcome counterpoint to the warm burn of stolen whiskey in his veins.

Zephyr was a whirlwind of vibrant, chaotic energy that was the absolute antithesis of his own calculated gloom. A slow, deliberate smile touched his bloodless lips. The bare branches of his wings caused a subtle parting in the crowd until he stood beside them, the air crackling with their shared history of butted heads and unspoken challenges.

"You create quite the spectacle. It's almost enough to make a man forget his vices," he let the noise of the party wash over them for a beat. "Almost." He leaned in a fraction, the movement causing a few painted twigs to whisper against each other. "A shame. An angel could use a little... divine intervention tonight."

[hxlfyourhexrt-deactivated202512]

although  he  was  nineteen  when  he  found  his  way  to  the  town,  jonah  didn't  remember  too  much  about  what  had  come  before.  it  was  a  defence  mechanism,  he  thought.  if  he  didn't  remember  life  before,  then  he  couldn't  remember  what  it  was  that  he  missed.  he  remembered  his  brothers  and  his  parents  -  brief  flashes  of  his  mother,  sounds  of  a  lullaby  being  sung,  her  soothing  voice  -  but  he  didn't  remember  much.  which  might  be  why  he  found  himself  inclined  towards  ara.  she  gave  him  something  that  he  felt  like  he  had  lost.  "  i'm  sorry  i've  been  gone  for  so  long.  "  he  sighed,  his  voice  gruff.  he  hadn't  spoke  to  anyone  for  a  couple  days  now.

jonah  watched  as  ara  attended  to  her  animal.  it  seemed  like  second  nature  to  her.  there  was  such  a  calmness,  a  gentleness.  he  wondered  if  he  even  had  that  sort  of  gentleness  in  himself.  he  didn't  think  that  he  did.

a  fond  smile  slipped  onto  his  lips  as  he  listened  to  ara,  "  people  are  going  to  think  that  you're  mad  if  you  keep  talking  to  the  animals,  ara.  "though  how  much  more  mad  could  they  think  she  was  in  a  place  like  this?  probably  not  too  much.  "  i'm  glad  to  save  you  of  such  a  problem.  "

[loathelys]

"The animals never tell me I'm mad," Ara didn't look over from the cow she was petting, her hands moving in steady, rhythmic strokes. "They just listen. I would argue it's a better conversation than most."

Finally, she stopped, her gaze absorbing the weariness in his posture, the gruffness in his voice that did little to hide the boy beneath. There was no reproach in her expression, only a deep warmth.

"You never have to apologize for the time you need, Jonah. Not to me." She let the silence settle between them for a moment, a soft and patient space. Her eyes studied the tension in his shoulders. "But the quiet has had a different shape to it these past few days," she observed, her voice as calm as the evening air. "Would it help to give it a voice? Or would you rather just stand here for a while? Both are fine."

[blankspaceforbadthings]

Stealthily studying the stranger, Kiran lifted his head a little, letting her talk. Seeing that smile, he returned one of his own. It was best to keep pleasantries until he knew when the best time was to not do so. She had yet to prove to be anything difficult to deal with. But that was how many wanted to seem at first, wasn't it. Kiran hummed a little, running his hand along Oliver's back as she finished, “I'd imagine.” He then commented. But given how they were being stalked by deadly creatures at night, it could have been any range.

“Do you get many who have gossipy stories to tell? Or, well, stories that aren't true. Like, maybe someone who comes to town thinking he's hot shit, and he's actually the laziest guy here?” Kiran asked in curiosity. Twenty-eight years was certainly a long time. “That's an entire life. You must be strong and crafty to deal with all that. I've only been here a few days, and the sample size seems a lot already.”

At the comment on Oliver judging character, he let out an amused, light laugh, “I suppose.” Quirking an eyebrow, though, he tilted his head slightly, “Is that so? Judging people?” Tossing his head from side to side a bit, he considered the weight of doing such, “I suppose it's simply natural for humans to do, right? Judging characters. Some characters are better for certain situations. Some, others.” He hadn't yet found his place in all of this, so far. Of course, he had yet to be given the time for it.

“Mhm.” Kiran nodded his head at that, smiling still, “Insulation is fine. Though, I suppose I'm still going to need to learn. I can't really know what it must be like to lose people you care about, over twenty-eight years. In a place like this, connection must be paramount to the need to also want to survive this place.”

[loathelys]

Ara's smile remained, a soft, unchanging fixture, but her eyes... the ones that had once parsed lies in the flicker of a microexpression, saw the calculation behind his pleasantries. It was a dance she knew well, and she moved through it with quiet, unshakable confidence, certain that patience and a non-judgmental ear would gain his trust just as it had for so many others before him.

"The stories are all variations on a theme," she said, the warm and steady tone laced within her words. "Arrogance, fear, desperation... they all look the same after a while when stripped down to the bone. The posturing never lasts. This place has a way of sanding everyone down to their true grain."

She watched him pet Oliver, her head tilting a fraction. "You're right. Judgment is natural. A survival skill, at its core. The trick isn't to stop judging. It's to learn the difference between the armor someone wears and the person who's wearing it." She paused, letting the words settle. "And you're also right about connection. It's the one thing this place can't truly take from you. It's why we insulate. Not to keep people out, but to keep the warmth in."

Her expression softened. "But that's enough philosophy for one evening. Are you finding everything you need? If you're headed back towards town, I was just about to walk that way. It's no trouble." It was a simple, genuine offer, a first step toward building trust.

[bygoneblackbcrds]

"forcing a hand is still playing a game and possibly winning. or at least keeping in it," adan half gestured as if the town was evidence of it. winning or losing, it was a lost thought. victory was survival as far as everything seemed. maybe that's why he had gravitated towards colony house in the beginning. more victories there in his mind. "sure there's plenty of that as well if it helps."

zelda. okay, that was easy enough to remember. "like the uh...like the princess yeah yeah?" he never played any of them, but he knew the name at least.

"shit," adan scoffed at the question, lips half in a smile, half in shock. certainly a new way to approach it. "think that the real advice i'd give is for someone who's been here for a bit more. bit more ready for what's beyond the surface stuff. practical otherwise? get good at shoe repair. never know when the next person comes through with your size in an extra pair they don't care about."

[loathelys]

"So my top priority should be... cobbling." Zelda deadpanned, her expression utterly flat. She gave a slow, deliberate blink. "I was hoping the first tip would be something a little more... immediately life-preserving, but I'll keep it in mind."

She tucked a stray piece of blond hair behind her ear, the gesture more flustered than she'd like to admit. The princess comment had landed with its usual thud. "Yup. Except I'm more of a feral, underqualified scholar kind of gal."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a thought (or the very real threat of a caffeine-deprivation headache). "Okay... scratch what I said. Forget survival tips." Her tone shifted from its usual sarcasm to something more genuinely, if awkwardly, curious. "What did you do? Before. I'm guessing it wasn't shoe repair."

[trcublemakr]

open starter where: a table in the barn, early afternoon

it's been three years and avery could still remember their first party in this place. they had only been here a few weeks before halloween and they could still remember how jarring and crazy it felt to be at a party after learning what they could about this place. three years later and it was still jarring, but it felt normal. not that they ever wanted this place to be normal, but they were used to it by now. they were never a big partier back home but in a place like this, it was nice to feel a sense of community. they sat at one of the tables off to the side with a book in their hand and rosie laying at their feet; a very common way to find avery most days. seeing someone join them out of the corner of their eye, avery put a finger in their book and closed it to look up with a smile. "having fun? or completely freaked because of all this?"

[loathelys]

"Would I be freaked out if I was wearing antlers?" The twigs dug into her temples, a constant, prickling reminder of her absurd new reality. In the quiet, analytical part of her mind, she was certain there was a solution everyone else had missed, like a variable unaccounted for. But that was her ambition talking, a desperate clutch at the last fragments of hope. For now, the goal was simply to convince her own nervous system that she wasn't about to shatter into a million little pieces.

She forced a shrug, the gesture awkward and stiff. "But more importantly," she continued, her tone shifting to a poor imitation of casual curiosity. "What makes you say that? I think I look pretty... chilled out." The mask, she was sure, had slipped somewhere in their conversation.

[machinedheart]

closed, @loathelys

“Humor me.” She motioned towards the others, towards the late afternoon sun starting to get dimmer by the hour. “You planning on staying?” The question lingered and she let out a small breath. She holds up a makeshift cornhole bag, tossing it in their direction. “Was pretty good at this back home.” She wavered her hand a bit as she talked. “There was this, rinky little bar I used to work at. It was good, the best place in town to get a drink and the wings were actually pretty digestible. So we made good tips and.. You know— people take this game seriously? Used to make bets. Have self appointed tournaments. Until they got too drunk to aim.”

[loathelys]

The sound of her voice was enough to make him turn. Fine... maybe it was partly the voice, and partly that it belonged to a pretty face he wouldn't mind looking at for a while. He let his gaze drift from her to the lumpy, hand-stitched cornhole bag in her hands, a crooked, appreciative smile instantly playing on his lips.

"You make that yourself?" Stellan asked, the words laced with a warm but teasing charm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken part in a casual, innocent game. His old life was a blur of curated luxury and chaotic, neon-drenched afterparties that left him hollow. Life here was different.

"You caught me," he admitted, shoving his hands in his pockets with a practiced, casual grace. "I was on my way to find something infinitely less interesting, it seems. I'll stay, but only because you put so much effort into that thing. Looks cute."

[charxma]

"You always speak in metaphors?" brow rose gently as she shifted in her seat to pull out a small cigarette holder. She offered one his way, before taking one for herself. "Suppose you're in luck," she said, and she placed the smoke between her lips, digging for a lighter. "I'm real fond of metaphors. And riddles."

Diana was no artist. She was also never particularly into music. It unsettled her, overstimulated her, distracted her. She preferred a good lecture, or a debate, over songs and albums. Preferred an audiobook, over the sound of instruments. And when she did listen to music - which was rare - it was the gentle and quiet kind, the old kind. Or the kind one could dance to, without feeling like suffocating. So when Stellan got stuck here with the rest of them, she could not tell rumors from the truth. He was a star, of some sort, a musician; that was really the extent of her understanding.

"Is that right?" must've been a shitty life, she thought, being drained of talent for a headline, a persona and a payday. "So why do it?" she asked, though at this point she was no longer expecting a straight answer. "Music, fame, all that. Why'd you stick with it?" Dee blew the smoke out, watching as his eyes travelled the line of her shoulder, feeding into her ego. She took liberties of her own, tracing his features, committing them to memory. Smile tugged at the lip when he finished his thought. "Sure, I'd take the lighting. With conditions. I'm that kind of person." rules, clauses, calculated risks.

Once he leaned forward, and the desk creaked and his eyes settled on hers reflecting the imminent offer; Diana did the same. She placed the cigarette between her lips again, considering. "You know, us normies call that 'a conversation'." she chuckled, teasing. "There is this game I call 'the art of assumption'. Would you like to hear it?" throat cleared, and she washed it with another sip. "We start by giving each other a neat little outline of our lives. Then, based on that alone, we make assumptions. If I assume something 'bout you correctly, you drink. If I'm wrong, I drink. Then, we switch." it was always her favorite way of finishing a bottle, of getting to know someone. "So? You game?"

[loathelys]

A wry, self-deprecating smile touched his lips as he watched the smoke curl from her lips. "A songwriter's curse," Stellan murmured, his voice a low, melodic thrum. "You start seeing the metaphor in everything. The cadence of a heartbeat, the silence between heartbreaks. This town?" He gave a slight nod towards the window, his gaze turning distant for a moment. "It's not a place. Just an unfinished, tragic symphony. And we're all just notes waiting to be resolved."

His eyes lingered on the cigarette holder, a flicker of interest cutting through his usual detached amusement. He accepted with a slow, deliberate nod, fingers brushing against hers in a touch that was fleeting yet deliberate.

"Family," he conceded, the word tasting like a forgotten lyric. "A music professor for a father, a performer for a mother. They said I had... some kind of gift. That I was meant for more than a quiet life." A dry, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "It was a game at first. Then the game became fame. Then fame became a drug. And you find you'll do just about anything for your next fix."

Normies. Her commentary shouldn't have felt like a key turning in a long, locked door. A low, appreciative chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Your game is delightfully cruel. Prying a man open with assumptions." He purred, leaning forward until the space between them thrummed with a new, electric charge.

"Alright. I'll play your little game." He held the unlit cigarette to his lips, waiting for her to provide the flame.

[bladesrunner]

Bill Skarsgård as Keith Barbarian (2022) dir. Zach Cregger

[buckybarnesj]

BILL SKARSGÅRD as ERIC DRAVEN in THE CROW (2024)

[sanguineos]

unable to hide the way her lip curled in distaste, wakana stared at the man beside her as if he'd said something entirely outlandish. maybe he had, since he'd told her to relax, which seemed to be a completely ridiculous idea in a place like this.

"wasn't exactly on my mind they'd come back. was thinking more about how they got there in the first place." she mumbled, glancing back to the graves and finding that she didn't want to spend another moment looking at them, nor was she sure she wanted to meet the gaze beside her. but his attitude riled her a little, and if he was intending to offer her bait she was foolish enough to take it.

"is that what you do?" she watched him turn, looking at the back of him now. "play the hero?" the way he carried himself was suggestive of some baggage, though wakana couldn't quite work out if it had come from this place, or from long before. "brooding spots were left out of my grand tour, funnily enough. is there somewhere you'd suggest?"

[loathelys]

"Hero?" Stellan let out a short, sharp laugh that held no real humor. "I hear the job's unpaid, hours are hell, and the retirement plan is a plot in a field. Not exactly a sought-after position."

He didn't turn around, his posture a deliberate show of indifference to her scrutiny. "Brooding is a free activity. Requires no real estate. But if you're in the market for a scenic view of existential dread..." He finally glanced back over his shoulder, his expression a mask of dry amusement. "The old church steps have the right blend of crumbling architecture and quiet desperation. Just watch for splinters. And the occasional... everything else."

Of course he was getting under her skin. It was almost too easy. Some people were wound so tight that a little sarcasm was all it took to make them snap. He could practically feel the heat of her glare burning into his back. A knowing, infuriatingly casual smile played on his lips.

"What's the matter?" He asked, turning to completely face her with a look of feigned innocence that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You seem disappointed. Did you want me to be your hero? Is that the fantasy?"

[charxma]

"Mhm." she smiled, eyes narrowed as he spoke. "Persistent and perceptive. Which is how I remain aware of your continuous deflecting." a shrug passed her shoulders and she brought the cup back to her lips. "You're free to continue. You're exceptionably good at it. But, I am aware." throat burned, she did not like the way it made her face twist each time. "Paid to avoid people like me?" she laughed, roped in by her own insatiable curiosity. "Please, elaborate." Dee's eyes fell to his cup, and the allure of his voice nudged her slightly forward. "I see." she took in a shallow breath, fingers toying with the ridges of her own glass. "Can't say I'm opposed to making things...interesting." head tilted to the side, smile remained soft, and sweet, though not entirely honest. "But I've a question, first. If you'd be so kind?" elbows on the table, chin rested atop intertwined fingers. "If secrets hold no real currency here, why are you so opposed to letting me in on yours?"

[loathelys]

"Opposed? Deflection is an art form. I'm not opposed to you seeing the painting, I'm just enjoying the process of you trying to figure out the brushstrokes." A low, resonant chuckle escaped him, the sound carefully curated even through the haze of cheap liquor. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his cup, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and warning over the rim.

"As for the people in question..." Stellan leaned back, the picture of relaxed arrogance, but his gaze remained sharp, locked on hers. "Let's just say my old life involved a lot of people who saw a headline, a persona, and a payday. They wanted a postcard of the storm, not to stand in the rain." He let the statement hang, his eyes tracing the line of her shoulder. "But you... you strike me as someone who'd rather feel the lightning."

He leaned forward again, the movement fluid and deliberate, closing the space he had just created. The wooden table groaned softly under his shifting weight.

"So, let's make a new kind of currency. A trade. You ask your question, and for every answer I give, you have to give one of your own. A real one. Not the polished version you tell everyone." His voice was a low thrum, as if it were a private melody just for her.

"That seems more than fair, doesn't it? Or are you only interested in my mysteries, and not in creating a few of our own?"

[citywclls]

who: @loathelys (stellan) what: not you... not you... where: colony house when: two months ago.

Wherever you go, there you are. You can't escape you. It's not the city that's the tar pit, it's you. Everywhere you go, you take yourself. All of the sentiments, just as common in reality as they were in pop culture (god knows she had recited her fair few 'wherever you go' type lines before), yet Ophelia had never accepted it as the god's honest truth. Maybe her sense of self wasn't steady enough to align with the sentiment of not being able to escape yourself, maybe it had yet to set in, maybe it would set in when her stash had fully depleted. In any case, as Ophelia saw it: she had escaped herself, she was not the tarpit, she had not taken herself! Until he was in her line of vision. Now, had she thought before damn near marching over, perhaps she would have thought -- oh, the reminders of the outside world! oh, the reminders of all the carefully covered chaos! oh, the reminders of a love that was just as fake as all the other love! oh, oh, oh- But that would be for later pondering, wouldn't it be? Or, more fittingly, back-of-the-mind all-in-a-split-second pondering. Even the grave new matter at hand -- the grave matter that he was also now trapped in the town -- did not enter her mind! Nothing really entered her mind, not enough to register! Instead of allowing any thought at all, instead of allowing so much as a moment of forethought, she defaulted to (very lightly, mind you-- something that could almost be mistaken as playful!) whacking him, the great love of her young life, in the chest. "What the fuck are you doing here?" As if he had a choice.

[loathelys]

Well, this wasn't the grand finale the brochures promised. To be brutally honest, Stellan's life was effectively over. Kaput. He'd hit a dead end so final it might as well have had a velvet rope and a bouncer. The band was gone, save for one, and the gaping hole they left was something he pointedly refused to examine. Call it shock, call it self-preservation... whatever it may be, he was focusing all of his energy on the simple, noble goal of not disintegrating into a million pathetic peices.

He'd finally washed the grim of the last... how many days had it been? The purple shadows under his eyes were a dead giveaway. The rest of the evidence was a gallery of cuts, now hidden under makeshift bandages of ripped cloth, and bruises... a lovely collection from their welcoming party to this charming house he'd call home. Seeing her here certainly hadn't been on his lottery card.

Her. The she-devil in Para. Miss "Do you even know who I am?". The It-Girl of the Apocalypse. Mrs. Perfecty-Put-Together-Barbie. And yet, a traitorous, tiny flicker of relief sparked in his chest at the sight of her. It promptly short-circuited when she ran up to him. He just stared down at her tiny frame, which looked decidedly less graceful in this unforgiving light. His brows furrowed.

"Oh, you know... just your own personal search party here." He left it hanging there, a brittle offering. She'd pry, of course she would. He could already feel the knot tightening in his throat at the mere idea of giving words to the horror, so he did what he did best: deflect.

"I should be asking you that, princess. How'd I get so lucky to be stuck with you in purgatory?"

[depuisfn-deactivated20260218]

jeremie couldn't believe his eyes. this town had been playing tricks on him for weeks, months even. he didn't understand how he got here, especially after almost a year. he stood in front of the familiar blonde and blinked slowly. "zelda." he stated. jeremie ran his hands through his long hair and shook his head. this was not what he had planned on doing with his day. he stepped forward and stopped himself from reaching out for her. "are you okay?" he asked. "are you hurt?" he continued. "has... has anyone talked to you since you got here?" jeremie asked, his voice breaking a little.

[loathelys]

"Seriously?" The word was a shard of ice, but the foundation was already cracking. Despite the fury thrumming in her veins, her mind was already running a differential diagnosis on the break in his voice. The hitch in his breath was a symptom, the shine in his eyes a clinical sign. And the diagnosis infuriated her so deeply because it was real.

"Okay, okay... c'mon..." she sighed, the fight draining out of her in a rush, leaving behind a profound exhaustion. "You are not supposed to cry. Actually, you really made me hate myself, and all men."

She crossed her arms, as if to fortify her own borders. "But seeing you look at me like... that... it's pretty inconvenient, Jeremie. Really contradicts the entire image of you being the heartless asshole I reconstructed you as for years. Can't you just... be mean?"

She took a step back, not in retreat, but to reassess the battlefield.

"No. I'm not okay. I'm gross, I'm stinky, I'm exhausted, and... and I'm alone."

[bygoneblackbcrds]

"allegedly. right. course." they all went through it. hell, some found it easier to believe that the others were just them dressing up and fucking with them at night time. those who thought like that didn't usually hold to it for too long though- those smiles were otherwordly. like hell itself was painting a picture of smiling. nothing natural about it.

"think we've all gone through that so it's a road well trodden. not that...that helps most, but hey- we've got experience with it."

a shake. a shrug. an overall air of noncommital actions. "hardly. i'd say not at all, but sometimes you meet someone before anyone else. not to say that that's you, just-.... no, no i'm not. i just see a new person and want to see how they're doing. adan. by the way."

[loathelys]

"Right. A real communal bonding experience, being hunted by some Creepypasta monster that came to life." Zelda said, her voice drier than the dust at their feet. She gave a slow, deliberate once-over of their surroundings, from the creaking porch of a nearby house to the menacing line of the forest. "And here I was, hoping the local folklore was just bad gas from the diner."

She accepted the introduction with a slight nod, a ghost of a cynical smile playing on her lips. "Zelda." She tucked her hands into the pockets of her worn-in jeans, her posture deceptively casual.

"So, Adan. Since you're just a concerned citizen and all, let's cut to the chase. Give me the one piece of practical, non-metaphorical advice you wish you'd had on day one. Besides... don't go out at night. I managed to figure that out pretty fast."

[citywclls]

If Ro had a nickel for every time a newcomer had a question about laundry and/or wifi and/or television and/or air conditioning and/or any given comfort that people tend to take for granted, they would have far more than two nickels -- they would have at least $100 worth! Nonetheless, they didn't tire of answering the questions -- what kind of leader would they be if they weren't equipped to deal with the culture shock every single person faced? "Get ready to put in some elbow grease, kid." And get used to clothes smelling less than ideal, no matter how well they were scrubbed (out, damn'd spot), but... easing newcomers into a life that didn't exactly smell like roses tended to be the better call, especially given the nose's tendency to get used to it before the question of if they will always smell even came. "We've got some wash boards and enough running water to do something with 'em."

[loathelys]

"Elbow grease. Right." Zelda gave a slow, deliberate nod, her expression deadpan. "I guess I should be grateful it's not a rock and a riverbank. Small mercies and all that."

She folded her arms, her gaze flickering from Ro to the town's general state of sun-bleached disrepair. "I'll tell you what, I'll get out of your hair if you can just point me toward the least depressing sink. I'm a fast learner, and I promise my existential crisis is mostly quiet and self-contained." She offered a wry, fleeting smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.