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Peter Solarz
sheepfilms
Love Begins
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
YOU ARE THE REASON
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izzy's playlists!
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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DEAR READER
Claire Keane
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@mirrormasquerade
Corpselight Decadia | “You love me for everything you hate me for.”
In the faintest sense, I am a whisper - telling you all things you will never hear. A brush of silk, feather light against the skin, I make you shiver at the lies you’ve dressed in. Pretty little smiles lure in favor, you think yourself clever. I breathe your lies, your secrets, the dead lights dancing just behind those dark eyes. I know you best.
"I am your shadow."
//You silence us each night, we come back louder.//
Sweat stood out against pale skin, the chilled air drawing in quickly through a tight throat and dry lips.
"Not again.."
The mask maker's eye scanned the impermeable darkness, seeing nothing beyond their sleep addled eyes and the lack of light from the hearth. The room was still, the air stale, and yet everything was rushing - racing around. It was the third night in a row that these dreams had plagued the haze of Dante's subconscious mind.
A wall of faces, voices roaring and chattering like a great waterfall around them. It was consuming, suffocating, and they felt themselves drown in the weight of the words. Since the days before Nore was a place called home, every now and again these terrors would come, stealing not just sleep but the sense of self the mask maker had come to hold dear.
For so long there was only a faceless boy, staring back at them with a hollowed gaze. "Who am I?" he would ask, and Dante could not answer.
But Dante knew.
And the dream would come again and again. And with each turn another person stood with the faceless boy. They returned for months as the sun would rise and fall, and one day, when trapped in the void of vacant stares, they screamed, "I don't know who you are! Go away! Leave me alone!"
A hush fell upon the crowd and Dante threw awake as if tossed into the frozen ocean. It had scared them, shaken them to the very foundations... but the dreams stopped. They blessedly stopped for a very long time, long enough to be forgotten and chalked up to being nothing more than a fleeting nightmare.
Now, years later, they'd made a horrific return. The cascade of screams and pointed fingers accosting them in the night. Dante was tired, exhausted if one really could tell, but they'd be good and goddamned if a word of these dreams slipped. What would the Norns think of their precious mask maker being haunted by the very things he created?
The poignant thought made a breath catch in his lungs, paling further at the realization.
“...This is just the beginning.”
The Reaper and the Flowers | Dante & Victor
The smile that crept across Dante’s features was that of a cat in the cream, decidedly evil and unapologetic. Squeezing his arm a bit tighter as they single handedly turned the key and drug the other man indoors.
The shop was warm, the hearth having been let to keep the dimmed room comfortable while the mask maker went to fetch Victor. Dante was giggling, chirping like a song bird with the unbridled joy - this surprise was going to floor him. They’d released the poor dear once past the threshold, finally answering, “No choice at all~! Honestly, it would be lovely if you ate with us more often. All the salacious gossip and rumors of the day over bread and wine, how could you deny such fun?”
Of course it was meant jokingly, flitting across the room to gather up a small stool for the taller to sit upon. “Now now, we’ll have plenty of time to work darling. First, I’ve something to show you!”
Grabbing Victor’s hands, they vibrated in anticipation, bringing him to sit upon the worn wood of the stool. Once they’d rather demand pushed his shoulders down to sit, Dante smile grew a mile wide, “Close your eyes, and absolutely no peeking! I want to see you be really taken by the majesty.” Oh they were one for words, especially in the variety of self praise, though with skills so unrivaled, who wouldn’t?
Floor boards groaned, the hissing crackle of tinder, and the delighted footfalls of the mask maker’s retreating were all that remained.
“You must know by now I am not one for rumors,” Victor said with an embarrassed smile. More than a few rumors had been spread about him over the years, and he felt it best to keep himself far removed from such business as possible. Though, it was harder for him to decline the mask maker’s request for a shared dinner. It did sound like great fun, but Victor worried that the tension between himself and Dorian would come to the surface. That would be decidedly less fun than Dante was hoping for. “Perhaps if work permits, I shall be able to join you for a meal one day. But you know my schedule tends to be quite hectic.”
Satisfied that he’d not gotten the mask maker’s hopes up, Victor focused properly on the next words that left Dante’s lips. Forced to sit upon a wooden stool, Victor waited patiently for Dante’s hands to leave his eyes. But still he was made to wait, his delicate lashes fluttering against his pale skin. Whatever could this surprise be? A mask? Or some other sort of gift? Victor certainly hoped the man hadn’t gone to too much trouble.
Left to ponder these possibilities in silence, Victor couldn’t help but to feel even more anxious…and excited.
Dante couldn’t help but offer a pout of protest, knowing that the other man’s line of work did demand his time. Much as the mask maker had offered to “buy” him to free his evening, Victor had declined.
He was terribly modest and moreso concerned with Dante’s reputation than the mask maker themselves. Still, it was endearing and if Dante were a more humbled person they’d appreciate it more. Still, even if dinner was not to be shared today there was no doubt that Victor would be stolen away for a meal soon.
Having since left the willowy wonder upon the stool, they could be heard chattering with excitement and giggles, shuffling a few things about. Finally the sound of footfalls returned to the parlor room, Dante grasping happily at the bundle wrapped in their arms. “Keep your eyes closed a little longer~” The tone was sing song, light and abundant in its joy, the room stilling again as something soft and weighted came to rest in Victor’s hands.
“Open them now!”
Arzusun | Dante & Cynwrig
Boots crunched ice and snow like thunder in the desolation, plumes of fog roiling and weaving past parted lips. Dante’s lungs burned with cold, having been taking in air sharply as the trek began to wear on them. Despite the warmth of the layers they wore, their entire body was damp and sweaty, providing the cold a nesting ground where skin became exposed. They long since given up on the scarf bundled under the cloak, its haphazard placement shifting as it fell completely.
Dante didn’t notice for several paces that the garment had come loose, huffing in exasperation as they trod back to its resting place. Of course, their little huffing fit was not appreciated by a god and they promptly found themselves belly up. It had been so sudden, so quick that air caught in their lungs and light zinged in their eyes. There was a sharpness, then dulling, duller, cold and ache. The undignified mask maker lay on their back, a lesson in humility in the most gracious of ways - a fall. Briefly, Dante lay there in an attempt to right the world and contemplate their life choices up to this point.
Such musings were interrupted by - wait, what are..? Eyes blinked owlishly up at the bobbing and weaving lights. Dante must of have hit their head harder than they thought, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again.
No. Still there.
Surely the gods were being most cruel today, laughing at his expense. Why on earth were these little glow sprites dancing around him? Who sent them? And then the chime rang in Dante’s head - Cynwrig. Flushing red, Dante believed that the dark witch had witnessed the entire fall by some seeing-eye spell. They took care to stand up carefully, dusting ice and snow off and finding they were soaked. Once on his feet the red lights bobbed excitedly, shooting a few feet ahead, expecting them to follow.
“W-Wait! Wait for me, please!”
Hiking up their snow-heavy garments, Dante trotted behind the lights, following the will-o-wisps to the awaiting Sanctuary.
Cynwrig hadn’t been paying Dante half as much attention as they feared. Once the little seekers had been sent off, the witch had returned to his desk, pouring over his tomes once more. The spell that was meant for Dante required a bit of a refresher course on the witch’s part. Though it was a spell he knew intimately, it had been some time since he’d brewed it, and he wanted to ensure that no mistakes were made. It was a delicate process, one that could easily go awry if not handled with the utmost care. So he’d spent hours detailing the process, memorizing each instruction to the letter.
By the time his seekers had closed in on the Sanctuary’s doorstep, he was forced to call himself prepared.
He rose when he felt the approaching magic, leaving the door ajar so the mask maker might enter. Looking through the heavy snow, he could see his slight form coming closer and closer, the balls of light guiding his path. Once finally Dante was within earshot of him, he allowed their light to dim. There was no further need of their guidance today.
“You may come sit near the fire,” he said by way of greeting. “I will not tax you until your mind and body are properly prepared.”
The flitting balls of light seemed as excited for Dante's arrival as they did, though far less winded and worn from travel. How lovely a life it must have been to be a sprite without a cumbersome form - free to float and bound with ease. Such trains of thought were interrupted as the mask maker came within view of the Sanctuary.
The deafening surge of blood rushed to their ears again, mouth dry as sand and eyes wide. Truly, this was the point of no return and any fears that had quieted culminated into a raging thunder as the light landscape became sculpted in fierce reality.
As they lay footfalls away from the door, the seekers bobbed a final time before dimming, Dante desperately reaching for one as if to save it. While they were beings of magic, the mask maker felt a bit of a soft spot for the round little sun spots. But they faded far more quickly than could be caught and their outstretched hand fell against the parted door.
Cynwrig's voice was level, calm, perhaps even aloof and Dante made no move to argue his request. There was a brief moment of hesitation before the lithe form of the artisan slipped in. Cloak and boots were quickly discarded, left to hang and dry as they sat by the fire. Dante was immensely thankful for the warm and focused on the crackling heat just beyond the stool.
"Thank you, its quite cold today. More so than usual."
The Reaper and the Flowers | Dante & Victor
The quiet insistence of his tone bought the mask maker back around to the present, lips curling in a smile, “I am right as rain, do forgive me, my mind is reeling with excitement for today.” This was true, especially in the fact that Dante had something very special waiting at the shop upon their arrival.
Dorian had long since left for the day, off doing “anything to get you out of the house” in Dante’s own words - leaving an opportune window of time for this surprise. They could scarcely keep their tongue at bay, twisting and writhing like worms in the sun. There was always excitement when it came to unveiling the latest and greatest mask, especially during the holidays, this was no exception.
However, it was seldom that a friend was to be on the receiving end of such a momentous occasion. Dante’s smile broke into an airy little laugh, hooking an arm around Victor’s while their other hand came to his shoulder. “We are going to have a splendid day, just you wait! Food and drinks, laughter - oh! That reminds me, I’ve made a same feast and you will be staying for dinner.” Of course this came as more of a direct order than a question. Victor was far too polite to accept if it was offered in question, and Dante had learned quickly that it was better to do than to ask. The stoic giant was quite gentle, shy in his own right, and almost too polite - he’d had a great deal of trouble accepting much from Dante since this began.
The mask maker had always been a stubborn sort that would knuckle people under with their charm and charisma - poor Victor was no exception. While conversations were often left to dead air and silence, Dante was grateful of the patient ear lent by the melancholy. In numerous ways he’d helped be a well of creativity for an artist who was in dire need of something new - in company and creativity. And whether the other man spoke it or not, Dante considered him a dear friend.
It seemed as though the trek to the shop was slow, staggeringly so. But finally they’d arrived and Dante could feel jubilation crawling beneath their skin. Everything was going to be absolutely perfect!
Well, perfect if Victor liked it.
It seemed that Dante had a full day planned for him. And having gotten his prayers out of the way earlier that morning, he wasn’t unopposed to the idea. But he would have to stop in and check on Clara at some point during their festivities. Still, he offered a smile to the mask maker. “It does not sound like I have much choice in the matter.”
Dante’s somewhat demanding nature often reminded him of Clara. Well-meaning as she was, there was little room for argument when it came to her. The same could be said of the man on his arm, grinning and laughing like a giddy child. How had he come to befriend such doggedly determined people?
He hadn’t much time to ponder over his choice in friends before they finally arrived at Dante’s shop. It was certain to be thriving with life once the celebrations started to get underway.
“Oh!” he exclaimed as they started towards the door. “But if we spend so much time on our merry-making, whenever shall I have time to help you with your masks? I thought that was why you had asked for me, though it is generous of you to receive me so warmly.”
The smile that crept across Dante's features was that of a cat in the cream, decidedly evil and unapologetic. Squeezing his arm a bit tighter as they single handedly turned the key and drug the other man indoors.
The shop was warm, the hearth having been let to keep the dimmed room comfortable while the mask maker went to fetch Victor. Dante was giggling, chirping like a song bird with the unbridled joy - this surprise was going to floor him. They'd released the poor dear once past the threshold, finally answering, "No choice at all~! Honestly, it would be lovely if you ate with us more often. All the salacious gossip and rumors of the day over bread and wine, how could you deny such fun?"
Of course it was meant jokingly, flitting across the room to gather up a small stool for the taller to sit upon. "Now now, we'll have plenty of time to work darling. First, I've something to show you!"
Grabbing Victor's hands, they vibrated in anticipation, bringing him to sit upon the worn wood of the stool. Once they'd rather demand pushed his shoulders down to sit, Dante smile grew a mile wide, "Close your eyes, and absolutely no peeking! I want to see you be really taken by the majesty." Oh they were one for words, especially in the variety of self praise, though with skills so unrivaled, who wouldn't?
Floor boards groaned, the hissing crackle of tinder, and the delighted footfalls of the mask maker's retreating were all that remained.
harry potter character aesthetic: luna lovegood part II
character aesthetics: helen blackthorn
I am honest now I am reformed, forgiven and reborn
Modern au: Mourning Aesthetic
What You Don’t Know || OPEN
It was an interesting time, a time of justice, a time of infamy. Word drifted as the swift wind of Sol's Tragedy. What horrific news the morning light bought, and with it - the world wept. King Dominic was a kind and just ruler, his daughter a glimmer of such reflection in Nore as queen.
The royal family was in no doubt distraught, grief stricken, and hollow. To learn of a loved one's passing was never an easy thing. Even less so when it was unexpected. Blinking and then gone like a candle being snuffed out. The streets were lined in ghosting apparitions of white, Frey's voice a silent wave falling over the stones as a whisper. Truly it was a sad, sad day.
As others had done, the mask maker had seen to adorning the store in white - having used pale ash from the brazier to draw the mark of the goddess 'pon the door. The usually lively artisan was substantially more reserved today and with good reason. They'd considered closing the shop out of respect but knew doing so would leave them to the thoughts surrounding the news. Dante sighed, having knuckled under to their own logic and opened the shop front. Dorian had stayed in bed late today, Dante was thankful for this as the news would likely steal the boy's joy.
It had stolen everyone's joy.
While their condolences went to the kingdom and the royal family, Dante felt in some way there was a need to show a greater sympathy. And in the only way they knew - to create. Cloaked in white, eyes sullen and sunken, they sat quietly at the oaken work bench. Fabrics lay carefully in controlled chaos, threads and needles kept in clusters secured by a cushion - even the materials reflected the encompassing sorrow. Dante sought to create a tribute and by day's end place it in the window for all to see. Or perhaps purchase.
They were never one to garner business and accolades from the misery of others, and while this act would seem such to others, to Dante - it was tribute. What finer way to express yourself than to wear a mask of sadness that could be easily removed. For one to be able to remove the emotion like a layer of clothing aided the healing of hearts. Everyone wore masks, it was a matter of knowing which was truly the face of the wearer. Something of which the mask maker knew about intimately.
Again came the passing of breath, tried and true, as thin fingers reached to brush back the stray hairs in their face. Dante's eyes strayed to the glass portal, watching as the spirits of Nore roamed the streets in the sound of silence.
"What a dreadful day..."
Arzusun | Dante & Cynwrig
{ mirrormasquerade: }
What seemed an eternity had come almost too quickly after the setting of the last sun. The mask maker had since buried themselves in work to distract from the nagging well of fears that threatened to spill.
Dante could so easily lose track of time working as diligently as they did, but in this instance, it seemed as though thoughts were inescapable. Nights spent tossing and turning, days spent in a fog of worry and racing thoughts - until now. The sun rose, the grey of Nore coming into a lightened view, the bustling of her people - and a silent dread. When Dante rose from bed that morning a pit lay like lead in their gut. They sat in bed for some time, Dorian coming in to wake them and only finding the mask maker already up. The boy had asked in quiet concern if Dante was feeling well, to which they said they were, shooing him off to the shop below. It had already been discussed that Dorian was minding the shop today, talk of it being about a business venture was said. Though in a sense, this venture was for business, just of a personal sort.
It took them a long while to groom and dress, not even focused on the showmanship of all they did to keep perfect appearances - no, Dante’s mind was concocting every worst case scenario. Until finally there were no more sashes to tie or hairs to brush, it was time.
Before venturing out into the crisp morning air, they bid farewell to their charge, and began the trek toward the witch’s keep. Passing by all things familiar it faded into a dull hum of colors and sounds, heart beating loudly in their own ears. Dante counted each step they took, further and further still, as the city faded and all was a sea of white.
The Wastes..
There was little to indicate if they were going the right way and Dante wished they’d actually thought this through. A horse would have been grand, a cart, anything! But instead they’d walked headlong into a place where fate and destiny abandoned hope.
The sunrise saw Cynwrig’s back, his disheveled mane of blond hair draping carelessly over his shoulders. He too had not slept that night, though it was not anxiousness that had kept him awake. No, it was his work that kept him preoccupied, pale eyes keeping a close watch as a potion sat a-brewing.
He’d been doing much more spell work of late, he noticed, a thing which he could not complain about. It was his passion to brew potions, to fine tune his skills, and he was glad to have the opportunity to keep up his practice. But with every spell he brewed, a sense of doubt tickled at the back of his mind. What if he should fail this time? What if he further proved himself to be lesser than his sister? There was a chill within his chest, something akin to fear, and it took several moments for Cynwrig to will it away. But he silence those cruel thoughts with determination, with focus, as he continued to toil away.
He would prove to her, to everyone, that he was not to be underestimated.
So preoccupied was he that he nearly forgot the visitor he was meant to accept. Dante, the beloved mask maker, was meant to find his Sanctuary this day. But when the witch gazed out the window, the snow practically blinding to his vision, he knew locating his residence would be difficult even for Maeve. Ah, what an inconvenience it was, to have to guide weary travelers to his doorstep. But despite his annoyance, the witch rose to his feet, a few murmured words conjuring several globes of light.
They glowed red like rubies in his palm, seeming to dance with an anxious excitement. Whispering low unto them, he opened his fingers to let them fly. They would guide the mask maker to his doorstep, and soon his work could continue.
Boots crunched ice and snow like thunder in the desolation, plumes of fog roiling and weaving past parted lips. Dante's lungs burned with cold, having been taking in air sharply as the trek began to wear on them. Despite the warmth of the layers they wore, their entire body was damp and sweaty, providing the cold a nesting ground where skin became exposed. They long since given up on the scarf bundled under the cloak, its haphazard placement shifting as it fell completely.
Dante didn't notice for several paces that the garment had come loose, huffing in exasperation as they trod back to its resting place. Of course, their little huffing fit was not appreciated by a god and they promptly found themselves belly up. It had been so sudden, so quick that air caught in their lungs and light zinged in their eyes. There was a sharpness, then dulling, duller, cold and ache. The undignified mask maker lay on their back, a lesson in humility in the most gracious of ways - a fall. Briefly, Dante lay there in an attempt to right the world and contemplate their life choices up to this point.
Such musings were interrupted by - wait, what are..? Eyes blinked owlishly up at the bobbing and weaving lights. Dante must of have hit their head harder than they thought, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again.
No. Still there.
Surely the gods were being most cruel today, laughing at his expense. Why on earth were these little glow sprites dancing around him? Who sent them? And then the chime rang in Dante's head - Cynwrig. Flushing red, Dante believed that the dark witch had witnessed the entire fall by some seeing-eye spell. They took care to stand up carefully, dusting ice and snow off and finding they were soaked. Once on his feet the red lights bobbed excitedly, shooting a few feet ahead, expecting them to follow.
"W-Wait! Wait for me, please!"
Hiking up their snow-heavy garments, Dante trotted behind the lights, following the will-o-wisps to the awaiting Sanctuary.
The Reaper and the Flowers | Dante & Victor
mirrormasquerade:
It had been quite some time since the mask maker had absconded Victor into being a model for their masks - well, inspiration rather. Nearly everyday since then, they’d met in the square and walked the distance to the shop. Often times Dante regaled the man with frivolous gossip and the ongoing of business, usually anything that came to mind. One thing could be said about the Dante Brun - that’s they are a bird that likes to chirp.
The silent company of the other man had become a thing in which Dante found common place and the thought of not waking up and fetching him had never crossed their mind. Victor was an ever present fixture when it came to the creation of the Alvasidhe masks. What Victor did not know - by careful planning on the mask maker’s part - was that he’d be wearing his very own.
In the early hours of the mornings and the latest of nights, they’d toiled with the utmost determination to put together a piece for the stoic, willowy man. Victor was elegant in his own right, sharp and cast long like the shadows of bare trees, and yet soft as smoke laced through ghost’s fingers. There was an earthen energy about him, rooted and yet in constant motion, ever-changing like seasons in a land far from this one. There was no denying that Dante often observed Victor when the man was not looking, sketching quick studies of his features cast in firelight. He had the perfect cut of jaw and bridge of nose, his tired eyes sat deep and sullen - but beautifully so. As far as subjects went, Dante had found sacred geometry in the lines and contours of Victor.
Artists often found beauty in the strangest places, though the folk of Nore would wager that the mask maker was looking in the wrong places. It wasn’t until the sound of their name called through the haze of thought that Dante realized they’d not said a word.
Stopping for just a moment in their walk, Dante looked to Victor, smiling in apology, “I’m sorry darling, my mind wandered away from me for a moment. What were we talking about?”
Victor had become quite familiar with Nore’s ever-popular mask maker over the past few months. Though there was precious little time when he found himself apart from Mr. Brinon, it seemed the mask maker had a way of needling in on his time. Not that his presence was unwelcome. In fact, it felt odd not speaking to Dante on any given day. But Victor had never been the particularly talkative sort, so their conversations were rather one-sided. Still, he’d become accustomed to the mask maker and his chattiness, and the quiet left in his absence had become something quite unusual.
So as they strode towards the mask maker’s shop, Victor had expected to be bombarded with the latest Norn gossip. But today, instead of the mask maker’s fluttery voice, he was met with silence. There was life all around them, people in costumes already prancing about the Market Square. Certainly Dante would not be lacking for any topics to discuss, and yet his lips remained firmly pressed together.
Was there something the matter? Something on his mind, perhaps? Though they were little more than acquaintances, Victor couldn’t help but to be concerned. “I asked if you were feeling alright,” Victor said with a frown. “You seem…quite unlike your usual self. Is there something the matter?”
The quiet insistence of his tone bought the mask maker back around to the present, lips curling in a smile, "I am right as rain, do forgive me, my mind is reeling with excitement for today." This was true, especially in the fact that Dante had something very special waiting at the shop upon their arrival.
Dorian had long since left for the day, off doing "anything to get you out of the house" in Dante's own words - leaving an opportune window of time for this surprise. They could scarcely keep their tongue at bay, twisting and writhing like worms in the sun. There was always excitement when it came to unveiling the latest and greatest mask, especially during the holidays, this was no exception.
However, it was seldom that a friend was to be on the receiving end of such a momentous occasion. Dante's smile broke into an airy little laugh, hooking an arm around Victor's while their other hand came to his shoulder. "We are going to have a splendid day, just you wait! Food and drinks, laughter - oh! That reminds me, I've made a same feast and you will be staying for dinner." Of course this came as more of a direct order than a question. Victor was far too polite to accept if it was offered in question, and Dante had learned quickly that it was better to do than to ask. The stoic giant was quite gentle, shy in his own right, and almost too polite - he'd had a great deal of trouble accepting much from Dante since this began.
The mask maker had always been a stubborn sort that would knuckle people under with their charm and charisma - poor Victor was no exception. While conversations were often left to dead air and silence, Dante was grateful of the patient ear lent by the melancholy. In numerous ways he'd helped be a well of creativity for an artist who was in dire need of something new - in company and creativity. And whether the other man spoke it or not, Dante considered him a dear friend.
It seemed as though the trek to the shop was slow, staggeringly so. But finally they'd arrived and Dante could feel jubilation crawling beneath their skin. Everything was going to be absolutely perfect!
Well, perfect if Victor liked it.
The Reaper and the Flowers | Dante & Victor
It had been quite some time since the mask maker had absconded Victor into being a model for their masks - well, inspiration rather. Nearly everyday since then, they'd met in the square and walked the distance to the shop. Often times Dante regaled the man with frivolous gossip and the ongoing of business, usually anything that came to mind. One thing could be said about the Dante Brun - that's they are a bird that likes to chirp.
The silent company of the other man had become a thing in which Dante found common place and the thought of not waking up and fetching him had never crossed their mind. Victor was an ever present fixture when it came to the creation of the Alvasidhe masks. What Victor did not know - by careful planning on the mask maker's part - was that he'd be wearing his very own.
In the early hours of the mornings and the latest of nights, they'd toiled with the utmost determination to put together a piece for the stoic, willowy man. Victor was elegant in his own right, sharp and cast long like the shadows of bare trees, and yet soft as smoke laced through ghost's fingers. There was an earthen energy about him, rooted and yet in constant motion, ever-changing like seasons in a land far from this one. There was no denying that Dante often observed Victor when the man was not looking, sketching quick studies of his features cast in firelight. He had the perfect cut of jaw and bridge of nose, his tired eyes sat deep and sullen - but beautifully so. As far as subjects went, Dante had found sacred geometry in the lines and contours of Victor Zephrin.
Artists often found beauty in the strangest places, though the folk of Nore would wager that the mask maker was looking in the wrong places. It wasn't until the sound of their name called through the haze of thought that Dante realized they'd not said a word.
Stopping for just a moment in their walk, Dante looked to Victor, smiling in apology, "I'm sorry darling, my mind wandered away from me for a moment. What were we talking about?"
A rose by any other name || {Victor & Dante}
The pang of sadness that seemed present in his tone became heavier whenever a question was answered. The melancholia within this willowy man was palpable even for a stranger such as Dante. Their intent was never to cause Victor more self deprecating despair, it was more along the curiosity of knowing this new creative by more than name. Dante smiled, however, upon seeing the flood of color rush across the man’s face. “My dear Victor, art is what you make of it. Some do it for money and others for the sake of doing.”
They gave brief pause, turning to smile more and trying to meet his downcast eyes, “I’m sure there’s many a hidden talent in you, you’ve just not found the key to unlocking them yet.”
Thankfully they were not much further from the shop, Dante having done most of the talking on their short excursion. Definitely a bird that loved to sing if there ever was one, and for the quiet man at his side, that could be a blessing or curse.
Victor didn’t know if he really possessed any talents worth unlocking, but he chose to keep that comment to himself. There was no need to make the man pity him any more than he already did. And as he saw the mask maker’s shop come into view, he felt something like relief come over him.
But that relief was quickly overwhelmed by worry. What should he do if Dorian were lurking about? Surely the lad would not take kindly to his presence. He thought for the briefest of moments to tell the mask maker of their training sessions near the river. But as he tried to force the words past his lips, he found himself incapable of speech.
Or, at least, he was incapable of speaking the truth.
“You are much too kind, Sir Brun,” he said, offering the mask maker a weak attempt at a smile. “It is a gift, to be able to think so highly of people. Have you always been this way? So optimistic? I must say, I envy that in you.”
A chuckle passed Dante's lips, not such to be meant as mocking, but more so warmed by the way Victor chose his words. Dante had been called many many things in their day, optimistic was certainly very new. Foreign even.
The mask maker had little to complain of and often was in a chipper mood, perhaps that gave them the appearance of optimism. Yes, perhaps it was that. Funny how so many different words settled around their name but very few were true. Dante smiled, looking to Victor with a flourishing motion of hand, "Oh darling, that's quite sweet of you! I only speak truthfully in regards to others, well, unless its town gossip of course."
They paused briefly, tapping their lip with a finger, "Of course most of that gossip does tend to be about me. Heh, but I do speak the truth, you likely have a hidden talent just itching to be out."
Finally they'd come upon the shop, Dante opening the door and calling out to Dorian to let him know they'd returned. Though of course, the mask maker quickly remembered they'd given the boy the day off.
"Oh."
Arzusun | Dante & Cynwrig
What seemed an eternity had come almost too quickly after the setting of the last sun. The mask maker had since buried themselves in work to distract from the nagging well of fears that threatened to spill.
Dante could so easily lose track of time working as diligently as they did, but in this instance, it seemed as though thoughts were inescapable. Nights spent tossing and turning, days spent in a fog of worry and racing thoughts - until now. The sun rose, the grey of Nore coming into a lightened view, the bustling of her people - and a silent dread. When Dante rose from bed that morning a pit lay like lead in their gut. They sat in bed for some time, Dorian coming in to wake them and only finding the mask maker already up. The boy had asked in quiet concern if Dante was feeling well, to which they said they were, shooing him off to the shop below. It had already been discussed that Dorian was minding the shop today, talk of it being about a business venture was said. Though in a sense, this venture was for business, just of a personal sort.
It took them a long while to groom and dress, not even focused on the showmanship of all they did to keep perfect appearances - no, Dante’s mind was concocting every worst case scenario. Until finally there were no more sashes to tie or hairs to brush, it was time.
Before venturing out into the crisp morning air, they bid farewell to their charge, and began the trek toward the witch’s keep. Passing by all things familiar it faded into a dull hum of colors and sounds, heart beating loudly in their own ears. Dante counted each step they took, further and further still, as the city faded and all was a sea of white.
The Wastes..
There was little to indicate if they were going the right way and Dante wished they’d actually thought this through. A horse would have been grand, a cart, anything! But instead they’d walked headlong into a place where fate and destiny abandoned hope.
Lady in the Moon Vogue Korea (Sep 2014)
Editor: 스타일리스트 / 서영희
Photographer: Kim Jung Man
Models: 장윤주, 송경아, 이현이, 이혜정, 김성희
Hair: 김정한
Makeup: 최미애, 타투 에이치(Jo Di, Hoshi),
Florist: 유승재(헬레나)
It was not as if this hadn’t happened before, as if they’d not battled with the lingering whisper that was the mind.
Dante sat awake again in bed, hands wrung and shoulders heavy. There’d not been another that knew of the dsyphoria they felt, no one that could make sense of the feelings or lack there of. It had been contemplated time and again, a yearning that bore an ache unspeakable in the breast. The mask maker had spoken to no one of this, and if only as a hint, none could gather the depth of this longing.
Perhaps if Dorian were awake they’d have a kindred spirit to confide in, but he could not vent these frustrations on one so young. But again, the cold of night and the crackling of the hearth were the only company the mask maker would have.
The witches words... they rung out so loudly just beyond the fringe of reason, and Dante clung to them. The word of men was a fleeting thing in most cases, but to them, Dante believed the words that Cynwrig spoke just mere days ago. This ageless being, a savior, would grant peace and fulfillment - more than any could.
A breathy sigh passed into the still air, a hand lifting to the thick braid over their shoulder. Despite the promise of freedom from this body, a lead weight sat in both breast and stomach. What if something went wrong? What if their body rejected the magic? What if..what if they weren’t themselves afterward?
Chill crept as frost on the water’s surface, Dante clutching tightly at the braided darkness over shoulder, “Will I forget myself?”
It was something so easily taken for granted, and yet, it’d not really occurred to Dante before until now. The body would be different and more accurately reflect what was felt within, but then what? Would life continue to be the same? Would they need to change all they’d worked so fervently to obtain?
The stress of worry took place of the cold, a tightness in their heart, painful and unrelenting. Never before had self come crashing so fully down, to question who it was that Dante Brun was truly. Hands folded atop their lap, eyes lifting the to the dancing shadows across the ceiling, “...Mamana, if you are listening, hear my prayer. I am not a man that often seeks the aid of gods.. I have worked tirelessly for all I have, but..”
A voice strained against tears, stripped of vanities, whispered to the darkness again.
“..if it has been you helping me, looking upon the child that left your lands, I thank you. I long abandoned that life, left behind the face I knew and the life I could not lead - and yet I turn to you. I am sorry to ask of you.... if you find it within your heart, please, please Mamana....give me strength so as not to forget myself.”
Those desperate words, born of the fear of a child, were met in silence. There would be no answer, none that they could hear - only the hope that these prayers were received. A stuttered breath passed their lips, body sinking back into bed with the wish for sleep to come. The night would be long and the days longer still until their time came.
....Remember my name.
Dante had been holding a breath unknowingly and at Cynwrig’s words every apprehensive, tense, twisting in their stomach melted away into nothingness. Time slowed to a halt and the voice within him cut clean in the silence.
‘He will help. He will.’
If he’d not gotten hold of his emotions in that moment, arms would be wrapped tight about the Dark Witch, a sight that would no doubt earn gossip. Instead, he clasped his hands to his chest, painted lips pulled into an aching smile, “Th-Thank you, I must do something for you in return. Please let me make something for you, it is the least I can do.” Generosity wasn’t typically an attribute most would associate with Dante, but in the case - they’d given everything for this deed. Cynwrig aimed to make a distant fantasy, a dream extinguished, into actuality - for Dante this meant the world.
Notoriety and fame tasted sweet on his palette, the premiere mask maker in the Kingdom of Nore, a shop of they’re own - Dante had worked hard for all of these things. But no matter the work put in, this one thing could not be granted by hard work. It could not be granted by any but a witch.
Every emotion burned white hot behind his tearing eyes, mouth gone dry, and fingers trembling. He’d not visited this forgotten place and while fear settled into his gullet, Dante would go. He would go into the jaws of the wild beasts if it meant that the Dark Witch would grant them this.
“I am willing! Oh, I am! Tell me when and I will be there with all that is needed, Cynwrig.”
It was so sickeningly heartfelt that the witch almost could not stand it. Had he looked like this back then? Had he been so desperate? So weak? He knew the answer to those questions before he even posed them. Centuries ago, when his body was not as it should have been, he had sacrificed everything to make himself whole. His mother, his people…all of that had been abandoned for this life he had now. And as horrid as it all had been, as bitter and somber as the past had made him, he would never go back to what he had been. For even a bitter, somber life was better than living a lie.
“I do not cast spells for gifts. I am a witch. This is what I do.” There was nothing Dante could offer him, after all, that he really wanted.
Rising from his seat, Cynwrig met Dante’s eyes once more. “In a week’s time, you will visit my Sanctuary. You may wish to make the trek during the daylight hours. I will have gathered all I need by then, and we can discuss the finer points at that time. You need not bring anything but yourself. Is that clear enough?”
The look exchanged, even in brevity, was enough of mutual understanding and Dante felt that at their core. Among all the people of Nore it was this man, this witch, who looked beyond the mask the maker wore. A hand lifted to their eyes, rubbing lightly at the beading moisture, "To me you are not just a witch. You are more than can be said for what you do for me."
The forwardness of their words held no negativity, it was an honest expression which they hoped Cynwrig would appreciate. There was a saying in the lands of Dante's birth - 'Mother is god in the eyes of a child, fore it is she who gives life and takes life.' While the Dark Witch was not a mother, to Dante, he was god for the gift he would bestow. A thousand thoughts rifled through and a thousand more still were silenced as the witch stood.
"I understand perfectly. In one week's time I will see you again." They nodded, feeling small in Cynwrig's presence, "Thank you.. thank you for this."
Dante feared if they lingered any longer before the Dark Witch that they'd throw themselves about him, sobbing and making a scene. But that would warrant quite the gossip, gossip that they didn't care about now. Again thanks was offered, and before Cynwrig could speak again, the mask maker fled as tears broke free.
