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𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐓. ㄑ

[ … ] a private ⅋ selective writing blog, where the stage is taken by an 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 from an 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕﹔ of unresolved trauma. of gnosticism. the exhaustion of performance. a loss of identity. the shrapnel of unspoken struggles. disillusionment at the state of human condition . . . with a myriad of verses available. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 ⅋ 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗. literary-heavy. permanent low to sporadic activity. narrated ⅋ orchestrated by 𝚅𝚛𝚘﹙thirty+﹚

₍ ! ₎ This blog covers dark, adult content. 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. only accepting followers twenty-one-plus. ╱ 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃

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3feetfrompeace

i in fact do NOT have a pocket full of sunshine, that is a glock

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: isms.

church-on-a-lakeside

"His laughter is directed against the ignorance of the world, which thinks it knows him."

Bart D. Ehrman, The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot: A New Look at Betrayer and Betrayed, pg 111

Fun fact, Yoshua/Jesus never laughs in the canon Newer Testament gospels. He does so four times in the Gospel of Judas, and various other times in various other Gnostic texts.

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: isms.

co1one1jgr

The Marshal’s silence was met with silence of his own. Deliberate and snide, the crackling of the flames filling the void with an under pinning of smoldering. The Colonel’s eyes slowly widening in the wake of what he was just told. Life. The man they had was full of spit and therefore bounding with life in his bones. He was given proof of it. The insults at his expense left to wallow in the dirt. Insignificant, not to such a headstrong man.

Yet he heard every word. They all reached his attention and only then filtered in favor of what he wanted to know. The only concern he gave any of it was his being unwell. That his need of his flask had been more and more noticeably. It was to be considered. To be more careful. As careful as this asinine job would allow him to be. Because of course he was unwell. A Cavalry Colonel commissioned to catch a thief. The law in this land being so incompetent that the army was contracted to do it for them.

He wasn’t working his purpose, at least not in the sweeping charges he imagined when boarding the boat to make the journey. It drew his ire. One started in small nods, “I am unwell Marshal.” A crude smile drew up his face, a sting from his fresh wounds making his eyes twitch in the pain, difficult but not impossible. Not for him. “Although not in a way that would let anyone be rid of me.”

The his attention wheeled back to where he come from. To where that man was kept in captivity. The originator of these words. The ones that injected their life into the Colonel upon hearing them. He seemed vaguely crazed, and pleased with it. A look indescribable took his eyes watching the mere direction of the man who supposedly said them. As if to make him regret from afar. Transfixed there and far from his fireside companion.

malefikant

„Aren't we all“, he said, to the air more than to himself, to the man he was sitting with. The verdict of a distant observer, or what it should have been. Because the Marshal was no longer just an observer. Past was the time he stood by and watched and listened with no side carrying the weight of his boots, the barrel of his gun. It was a revelation that had been slowly creeping, growing in shape and presence that it took overwhelming form now. Alexander had to finally admit there had been good reason why his travels had been lonely and why he was not wounded by the ignorance and repulsion of people picking up on the strangeness of his presence after all.

No, no. What had been thought lost still had its roots within him. Rearing their heads after a light shower wetting desert ground. He realized then that it had been a mistake to spend all that time pondering about the self. To question what he was and wasn't anymore. He really did not like the answer.

His men would come. That was a fact. All they had to decide now was whether to continue as they were doing and wait for it to happen, or work on finding a way so that surprise was on their side, the rationality of his disguise told him. Both horrible cards that he was dealt. If only the Colonel and him could work together.

The other side of him...

The Marshal looked up; skywards. Waiting for a sign again that would not come.

He breathed in, deeply. The sighed all the air out of his lungs again. Following was a low groan and the rustling of fabric joined the soft cackling of the fire as he shifted and moved, before getting up from his spot. With the flat of his hands brushing some of the fabric straight and some of the red sand off, the man reached for his hat, fix it back into proper position.

„I will talk to him.“ First time stated officially.

With the same words, the Marshal stepped around the fire and the Cavalry Man, not looking at him once after. Removing himself from the warmth and the light, his figure seemingly gave in to the call of the dark with how easily it melted into its welcoming embrace. Left as a shadow his form made over to where the Russian was kept. The last time the Marshal was seen this night. The following morning the Colonel would wake to the news that the Russian had miraculously disappeared...

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Verse III.#co1one1jgr

treerie

@malefikant whispered: “and maybe i am supposed to feel sad. maybe it’s karma. maybe I do deserve it.”

"i'm in the same boat. sorry, don't mean to make things about myself, friend." ramona pouts gently, feeling a tad awkward, pushing a strand of her raven hair behind her ear. she's unsure whether alex would appreciate the reply. still, she is merely trying to relate to him. she casually sips wine poured into a mug, because that's all she has in her hand at the moment. "what i mean to say is, it's easy to blame yourself for everything gone wrong in your life. i do it all the time, even if everyone's always tellin' me it's not my fault, i couldn't stop it, yadda, yadda. like, have you ever been told that before? that isn't your fault?" ramona downs the red wine, her head swimming when the alcohol immediately reaches her brain.

"okay so, i guess you're not going to like this next part," ramona sighs, her finger circling the rim of her mug. "it's... probably not your fault, and you don't deserve it. you're allowed to feel sad. that's what everyone always says to me n' all, and you should feel sad, too. but it ain't your fault." at least, she doesn't know. she doesn't think it is. she doesn't like to think she could be wrong. "what did you do anyway? did you massacre an entire town? eat babies? either way, you don't seem all that bad to me, alex. what could you have possibly done to deserve any bad karma?"

the wine doesn't sit well in her empty stomach; she's beginning to feel a little sick, but she holds it back. "you want something to drink?" she holds up the bottle.

malefikant

It was sweet of her. So sweet. A rarity for someone to sit with him and listen, so much that he did not really know what to even say. Even rarer that someone opened up about and shared so carelessly about burdens, making themselves vulnerable. He cannot say that he had experienced the same as she had. People never told him that catastrophes were not his fault. Only gave him strange looks that said more than a thousand words.

He was fiddling with the bottleneck clasped in his two hands. Tracing its shape with the pads of his thumbs. It had not been his intention for their conversation to take the turns it had and Alexander did not know why he had ended up opening up as much as he had. Perhaps the alcohol had left him too impaired, though his speech was still normal and not slurred. He felt strangely light and strangely stripped of burden. Some, at least. This explicit courier just had a way about her that made him feel like it was okay to talk...

„Not enough, maybe.“ Alexander spoke feebly. On his face lingered that weak, soft, almost too-unbothered smile absolutely not fitting his inner turmoil. The mess he liked to suppress. Make its ugly self known to be much greater than the struggle over a single mistake. How many mistakes needed to be made to become deserving of karma?

„Maybe I just didn't do enough.“ He tilted his head a little, looking at Ramona. The smile did not reach his eyes. „What if I could have done more?“

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Verse II.#treerie

blixtrandetorst

This question drew the vampire closer. A few had asked before. Their tolerance or naivety to his true nature promoting them to do so. It would quickly be followed up with something about his eyes. Dieter never paid attention past that point, his teeth were already deep inside their muscles sheering what was there from the fascia and other connective soft tissues that held it all together. Dieter never learned to be gentle. It never fit him. Not in what he was initially tasked to do, not still with his own personal preferences to taking his meals.

Man never calculated how much he needed anyway. Only remembering the feeling of their own stomachs full with the night’s feast, liquid was different. More condensed, with its thick viscosity. That alone would allot more to be taken, however a vampire of Dieter’s age made him difficult to sate so easily. Four to six liters was all a man held, and he could take so much more.

Still, the fun of this question never got old. He found new exciting ways to keep himself entertained each new time, this time being no different. It was novel this time to slip his hand underneath Voronov’s drawing it back up so the palm was upright just as it had been before, when his past was read just as easily as another mystic would tell the future. Gentle, barely there. Only needed to really have the physical presence of his own to put it back in place. His eyes fixed on the wrist barely showing between leather and his sleeve.

”You have been ever so accommodating especially for such a pushy new acquaintance.” He spoke, his thumb moving the fabric back so he could see the veins hidden under. They were frosting, he could feel it by sight. Cold he didn’t need in his already cold body, or on such an equally cold night. “I will not take from you if that is what you believe my intentions to be.” A single run of his thumb pad on those blue lines and his hand was back behind him. “I need more than you can provide in any case.”

malefikant

The touch was an uncomfortable reminder. On how much he hated being touched. On how much he disliked the feeling of touching certain spots himself, even, never fully settling with the sensation that made his stomach knot and his nerves sing with how tense they were. The thumb of a stranger was enough to reel him back into a state of being that made him question his own body. Whether it was even truly his. Disconnected from this part of his body. Removed so far inside himself as though he was inside his head, looking out from his eyes. Reactions had been worse before he had suffered years of exposure therapy.

Which did not make being touched a pleasant experience and the way his eyes sank to the spot and lingered a moment even after the Vampire had let go of him and this delicate spot bundling major nerves controlling feeling and movement said everything. The weight of the touch to his veins did not leave him. Not even after he slowly let his hand sink again. All he could do now was take it as it came. The beginning of a sickness that was none nudging the back of his throat before it spread its infection throughout the rest of his body.

The words in his mouth wanting out felt heavier. The truth took nothing off his shoulders. It brought no relief. It solely swapped one burden for another...

„I cannot let you do that...“ His tone was low, his pronunciation slow. As if spoken while still half-thinking, duty did not chase away the initial fright. He looked up at the creature of the night with regret visible on his face but profound, unshakeable will reflecting in those two pools of glacial silver-white.

„I cannot let you feed on these people.“

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Verse IV.#blixtrandetorst

enruint

even the act of breathing had become a farce lately. what reason was there to breathe when all you did was take that very essence of life away ? to move around in a manmade cage, a metal coffin that kept broken apart together, what right did one have to want to breathe ? the knight knew the answer but pretended not to: it was better to accept the lies than be confronted with the truth. your own shattered truth. for within that truth lied the reason for his existence. why he awoke after every death and donned the same armor. why he gripped sword or spear.

a purpose. a need. a desire to be of use ( what was a knight if he could not be used ? ). he'd long forgotten his first oath. or was it his first chain ? the leash which kept him tied and bound. there was a reason. even if heart no longer beat in his chest, limbs were too tired to move and voice was taken from him completely: even then there must've been a reason ! was it to be someone ? a knight. a knight. a knight. or was it to become someone ? a knight. a knight. a knight. a grunt was given in lieu of an answer.

"You could always make a new purpose for yourself, if you have stopped remembering..."

the helmet within clawed gauntlets was gripped tight, a veil of golden threads framed face and for a brief moment hid the anguished look within eye. jaws clench, teeth grit and the knight looks up. meets the sharp gaze of @malefikant. and he looks, he stares, he drinks him in. throat closes but words are pushed through regardless. broken, raspy, hope wrapped in the guise of a warning sign. ❝ then ... give ... ❞ it hurts to speak, always does, but the scar around throat burns brighter now. ❝ give me ... purpose. ❞ a haunting request, signing alexander's name within the pages of death. pulling him into the endless cycle of cruel rebirth and scattered oaths. he moves to lower himself down upon a knee, helmet held underneath arm and does he not look like a dog waiting for a command like so ? staring up at him. ❝ cannot -- give it myself. g-give me ... purpose. ❞

malefikant

What a haunted thing to ask of someone. Sullying perfect innocence between two for the purpose of one stepping above the other. It was disheartening enough to see a man only take step through the guidance of a leash, which bore in itself unspeakable acts of animosity and selfishness and as he is he cannot help but wonder the lengths of them and for how long it had gone and what was the first that made the collar close around the throat, tight-pulled leather cutting into the skin and rubbing it sore with every taught pull of forced direction.

Had the knight ever been anything else but a dog? Was there even anything left of the once or had all made space for the now? The nothing. The voices that must be speaking as loud as his own were in the dark of the night. May as well be they spoke even louder to this one. Time did not heal anything. It forged. How were you supposed to leave a shape you were made into that was not you?

He cannot hide the pity reflected in his eyes, then, underlined by a slight tilt of the head. The hurt felt when seeing something broken. Nothing should ever be.

Especially nothing that breathed.

„Live for yourself“, it is said. Calm before the kneeling man despite all repulsion and revulsion at the act, because he was the least worthy to kneel before and he was the last to tether or chain. Where he did go no one should follow. Exceptionally not a man that needed saving. „Learn to make your own choices.“

#⸺ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Verse IV.