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𝙾𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙻𝙾𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙳 . . . a private and selective villainous original character. a story of hubris, autocracy, the corruptive force that is pride, illuminating unimaginable abominations, the exploration of what it means to be the enemy, to be vile, to be war and ash. prefers and prioritizes long-term writing partners that focus on plot driven threads. low activity. ( bloodied by 𝚅𝚛𝚘 )

( dead dove, do not eat ) . . . this character is deeply flawed, dangerous and unsound. navigate cautiously as extreme dark themes are being explored. read the rules for more on this. this blog is only for those who are over the age of twenty one.

𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 : @hexenjagd

#pinned

the-bar-sinister

Obsessed with villainous displays of affection.

violence on their beloved's behalf.

deranged compliments and praising bad deeds.

stealing nice things for their beloved.

jealousy and possessiveness.

encouraging their beloved to be worse.

crimes together.

#he

anonyxsideblog

YOU CAN WRITE HORRIBLE MUSES AND NOT CONDONE THEIR ACTIONS.

You can write horrible muses and not condone their actions.

#occ

yocalio

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) Dir. Peter Jackson “Nine he gave to Mortal Men, proud and great, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the dominion of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants. Long ago. It is many a year since the Nine walked abroad. Yet who knows? As the Shadow grows once more, they too may walk again.”

swordreign

“Nine he gave to Mortal Men, proud and great, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the domination of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants.”

Dark Riders by Alan Lee

jessaerys

i think it's beautiful that cats eat you if you die in your apartment and nobody finds you for a while. i don't know why it's used as anti-kitty cat propaganda as if eating you means they don't love u. if i died and no one found me for a while i would want my kitty cat to eat me bc i love her so much and i don't want her to starve. it's not her fault i'm too dead to give her her fancy feasts. she's going thru something scary ok. i don't know a single cat owner who doesn't feel the same way

#Pulled by the wine of his lips toward the edge of myself [Felix]#amberedcorpse

amberedcorpse

For a moment he waited, feeling at the stillness. The shadowy god beneath his heels seeped into their surroundings, roused and focused. Something of Adal’s wayward charm had caught the old poet's attention. A sign of things to come, he thought. Felix gazed into their half blinded eyes, lamenting the darkness that eavesdropped on their every word (, and on the secret fluttering of his chest.) The torment he brought upon the world by means of his own deathlessness, of existing where he no longer belonged, but was crammed into being by merciless hands. A part of him wished to reach out then, and warn the other man as an augur would a warrior on their way to folly. But the pause and the brief softening of his expression was all that Mischief would allow. Tactfully, he glanced down at his heels and kicked at the remnants of a stubbed out cigarette.

“Music’s the temporal ordering of sounds and silences that establish rhythms and harmonies.”

Cold, unfeeling, words wholly unbecoming of an artist. Yet there was an unmistakable sense of clarity to them, like the ticking of a metronome timing his breaths. In reality, Felix believed the stolid and technical minutiae of the arts to be as warm as flesh. There was no less feeling in the counting of beats-per-minute than in the thudding of one's heart. Life started in that same fashion, after all, in the thoughtless drumming up of blood and in the clanging of primitive synapses. “It’s in the birds trilling before the sunrise. In the wind and trees. In the breath and voice of every person you’ve met. The pattern of all living things. Whether by design or by happenstance, music is everywhere and in everything.”

His hands toyed with the bottle between his thighs, tearing at the label with red colored nails. “That being said, while I appreciate all kinds of music and musical experiences–” He frowned, strengthening the pout that was ever on his face. “The radio here’s starting to wear me out.”

It had all but driven him mad. He’d never so disliked a station and its host before. Pompous and false in every sense of the word. A wretch sat high upon his tower, observing the going ons of his domain and its people like specimens he’s kept in a glass case. An insufferable man, and with such little respect for music that he lazily puts the same couple of tapes in rotation. Why use the station at all then? Why have the families play it through their speakers? Was this a new form of torture?

“That's what I wanted to get at, actually.” A shy admission, accentuated by the subtle reddening of his cheeks. Felix tried never to complain about the conditions of his stay. A bed at Gomorrah was better than lying on the cold, hard ground anywhere else. But especially out in the Mojave. The people were desperate in the desert, splitting at the seams for an escape, no matter how brief or how grave the consequences. For them or himself. A dangerous game to play with an eager thing like Mischief around, always scheming for its next bit of fun…Though Felix paid for his current shelter on hard terms, it was better than suffering the revelries of his god each and every night.

Every few nights would do.

“The same couple of songs, the same, grating voice flaunting his power in between tracks. I don’t know what’s worse, the monotony or the fool pretending to be a genius. I wish it would stop.”

oathloathed

What he had feared to become a stagnant and one-sided conversation about something he really did not know a whole lot about, the explanation that he was given to a question half-hearted brightened something at the back of his eyes that could be interpreted as growing understanding. The more Felix talked, the more those words made the Enclave remnant draw comparisons he had not before. Because for sound to be categorized as music, or music as a variant of sound, suddenly the thought of being an avid enjoyer of it did not feel so far fetched anymore.

For the voice to be considered music sounded the most plausible for him. Having heard patterns of speech such as metaphors or similes, he too had caught himself equating and likening the human voice to a song. Felix's voice, to be exact. Sitting there, darkened by shadow. The fact alone that he talked rejuvenated Adal's perception of it.

Instead of dwelling on sympathies and admissions however, his mind moved on. Clinging to other descriptors and drawing his own conclusions with the newly-found pen laid into his hands. To sounds he knew intimately and that he was made to see in new light. Like the noise of Vertibirds and the distinctive sound created by their rotorblades. The percussive noise of their blade vortex interactions, occurring when the rotor blades hit the air vortices created by the preceding blade, creating loud, sharp impulses. It played in his inner ear, the one still functioning properly at least.

Thup thup thup... whup-whup-whup... tocotocotoco...

For a brief moment, it even was as though he could feel the soft vibration from within it, hitting the poly-laminate composites and lightweight metallic alloys, from which they would echo off the ceramic platings of his power armor. Seeing it like that, even the subtle, rising hum or whine during the charging-up, produced by their plasma weapons due to the electromagnetic containment coils engaging could be a song.

For a moment his thoughts remained there. Stuck in what once was, fed by pondering if it still were, somewhere. Then his focus returned to the much softer, much more living song of the voice of the man besides him. Adal turned to look at Felix again, then dropped his gaze to that frown, only saw the plumpness of his lips, from which his gaze dropped and traveled to feed on the form and shape of his thighs again. Holding the stolen wine bottle and keeping it warmed and sheltered, and it was strange to suddenly feel and be reminded of how cold the night in the Mojave desert could be and how hungry the moon was to eat the remnants of its blazing lover that it even stole the warmth from stone.

Was it the drinking that had him drift in and out and right back into whatever that hazy state of mind was? Had he drunk that much? Not enough, the voice inside him retorted. Not with the glimpse at wine. Back awake, he lifted the glass and drank from it.

I wish it would stop.

To voice this openly was brave, Adal reflected. Funny how he felt the same way about the radio as Felix did. How he had come to hate that lazy, sleazy tune repeating all hours and late into the night. The first days, at least it had drowned out the moans. Now all droned together inside his head into a cacophony befitting Gomorrah's title.

„Is this you asking me to turn it off?“

#amberedcorpse

blixtrandetorst

”What of me do you judge then?” Dieter preposed to him. The words broad in their appeal, as if to verbally mimic the action of opening his arms and prompting such an answer in without protest. An invitation to do just that. Whatever precise reason. The vampire more curious than insulted. The years having eroded what part of his ego that would've taken things in such a manner. Only wanting to see what had struck this mountain of a man to hold such a sour attitude.

Dieter, himself had many guesses. Ones he could’ve guess only after seeing them in himself had such a thing happened to him. And others he nipped from those he had come in contact with. Their blood telling him everything about them. Such as the man he just had, who could not stand the tapping of fingers. Minute details that clung to the back of throat to better get at his spine. But not one of these ideas broke his statuesque unreadable face. Standing in perfect patience for an answer he hoped would come.

After all, the subjects of such observation were rarely told why when their watchers scribbled furiously in their notes. They were only to know they would be watched. To act as normally as possible. To tell when things got uncomfortable. Perhaps that was what Adal was hoping Dieter would turn into. A mouse. Control group or not Dieter had had this happen before, and he had not been reduced to such a fragile nimble thing then either.

He knew his bones were thicker, held more weight, carried him taller than any mouse could hope. Asking closely after, his politeness culling any hint of sharpness from his next question. Purely curiosity it sounded as. Surely subject were allowed simple questions. “Or are your subjects not allowed to know?”

oathloathed

Not really, he almost said, then stopped himself because Adal reminded himself that would mean he acknowledged that he cared. His inability to turn a blind eye had gotten him more involvement than he felt comfortable participating. It was a curse. Truly. Those voices that would not give him rest. To not just be but be there and partake in it. Its taste returns to his tongue, acrid and bitter. Not burning like bile but coating and filling like a swig of water to a dry mouth. Like cold tea that was left to sit for too long and painted a grimace when drinking from it. Adal was not blind to notice his own faults but he hated every second of it.

He should not care, really. There were better things to do with his time. Now he was trapped in a confrontation of his own making and the only way out would be to turn around and leave. Pride stitched to his spine never let him turn his back to a killer, however. Especially not one so covered in blood.

The Brute tried to calm himself by distraction. Tried guiding his thoughts a different direction to defuse the ammunition depot that was him. To why the blond remained so calm, instead. To how he managed to not shift mien at his rebuttal. Tried to see in those eyes a hint of malice, partially wishing it to be there, because a physical altercation would be easier to deal with than having to talk when he really did not wish to any longer. A long, slow intake of air rose the width of his broad chest, only to slowly let it sink again as he breathed out.

“You are messy”, it leaves him then. Simply and reasonable. He was only dragging it out more for himself. There was truth in the realization that none of this did concern him. He looked at the body in question. "Did you actually drink his blood?"

#blixtrandetorst

pissbataille

You know the money shots in porn films? Well, this was a different substance: it was red.

– Director Roberta Findlay on the relationship between pornography and horror.

#Pave my path with corpses. Build my castle with bones [isms]#blood cw #violence cw

"And did the suffering make Saints of us?"

„Is that what thou doth tell thyself to find solace in slumber?“

his voice a tectonic rumble. Much the sound of something slowly shifting beneath the surface. There were remnants of it. Of how his words were once spoken so much as they were exhaled—a warm honeyed thrum that would fill the room with a tender care not expected from the likes of a man such as him.

Changed now, distorted. Not as evidently for those that did not know him, that had not spent a millennia or two hearing his tall and hefty presence stalk the shadows stretching off whatever was with them. That guttural murmur that was not soft for the sake of it but tense. Stretched-thin by something gnashing and gnawing wildly at her presence, trying to bite its way through his prideful and rigid countenance in the shape of the beastly thing it was; threshing and growling and seething at the edges, that steam-bearing hot-blooded grotesquerie. Full of venom and bile. It hid, in his voice. Showed itself in that one note too low for the air but perfect for the chest.

He looks at her the same way. A glint in his eyes that spells it all out for her. What he thought, what he felt. How much her words were insult to sore and festering injury.

„You fancy thyself a saint... ?“

#hexenjagd #oh no #bro mastered selective hearing by the way

Sometimes I come back to Marais Executioner's Sword (my beloved) and then I think of Eochaid and how there is really barely anything known about them at all

#ooc #what is known of them only fits him so so #but !!#that means there can be more that we do not know that fits him