APetty Collective of Elves

Eilithe and Eilonwy Duskbringer- Ibormeith Bogfollow- And Others-- Epsilon Phase 47849 - Faction Neutral- Blog is sometimes NSFW.

[pettyelves]

AU Time 2: Electric Boogaloo- What would Ibormeith's life be like if he grew up without the influence of The Folk? (Feyless Boglands or just Born Elsewhere however you wanna chew on it)

Oh, this is an ancient ask I forgot about. I literally can't conceptualize 'main stream' Ibormeith, like running around Ashenvale attending Elunite services. So it would probably be a Feyless Bogland situation. Given the types of things that dwell, it would probably be dangerous all the same. I like to imagine there would still be marsh walkers, that led groups to and from the main village. HOWEVER! Singing would be far less magical and any sort of magical properties to the tribe would be nonexistent. I can imagine they'd be fearful or untrusting of magic, even the more "acceptable" form of it. I still doubt they'd be super welcoming to things like large temples or Malfurion followers, so even druids wouldn't be a thing. Imagine they'd still have rites, but they'd be more centered around proving oneself a capable fighter and hunter. So, lmao, it'd be like the Shal'thera with 80% less sneaking about. Rite of Drowning would be replaced with sending an age group deep into the marsh and having them navigate back. I still think that without the fey, their culture would be deeply deeply DEEPLY interconnected with each other. The Thala clan would likely be replaced in some manner too-- maybe by some manner of creature that the dwellers tame as teenagers. Like the Thala, the 'line' of these beasts would work alongside the elf that tamed the ancestor. EG: Ibor tames a saber at like 18/19, and has that saber until it dies, but that saber's kittens are considered bonded to him. Less master/pet too, and more companionship. Which I realize that'd semi what already happens with Kaldorei but it'd of course have its bog-flavor on it.

[feral-ballad]

Jihyun Yun, from Some Are Always Hungry; “Reversal”

[Text ID: “I so want to survive this. Please lead me whole into another season so I may dare begin again.”]

[cottageaesthetic]

[pityroad]

— from Girlfriend, Marina Tsvetaeva, translated by David McDuff

[text ID: Perhaps my look is too tender / for air that is barely warm. / I am already sick of summer — / though hardly recovered from winter.]

[xenofae-deactivated20241108]

my heart has become a shriveled pomegranate, beating with death

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits

[themonkeybaby]

All was ever-still as the dancer stood upon the wooden stage, cast in the cool blues of the night above and the lovely reds of doom below. All was ever-silent.

All was ever-still [a petal-stained pallid]

All was ever-silent [yet searing cold-hot and raw all the same]

The performance began, mutely so-

Bare feet twisted the would-be specter in a sluggish, hazy pirouette, until bird-bone and snow-lilac unfurled. A spine curled upright, twiggy limbs twisting.

[mutilated vivisected disemboweled]

Orchid petals peeling open in a grotesque display of agony.

There was no respite found in the ever-present stare of the moon above, but wretched cold stretched skyward nonetheless, eight fingers ever-starving. The boughs, too, offered little grace- Moonlight stung her cheeks. A gaunt face would-be windburnt.

It was that same gore-blue chill that forced the dancer stagnant- Sinew and bone shifted under thin pale skin, more music box than would-be willis.

The figment spun the midst of self-carved massacre [no respite in ghostsongs for wretched reds], snared in bear-carved quietus and petal-bile, arms aloft in something ever-sacrilegious.

This dance? No return to stillness. It was the swan-song throes of something dying.

A teeter then, with the first utterance the dancer had offered since the performance began- A deep, guttural, harrowed breath.

[What's the matter, Magdal?]

Searing pain blistering out from a bird-bone leg. Eyes cracked open to meet lovely red. Wretched cold curled and pressed into wood grain. The doctor rolled until stain met flesh- Until silver met the ever-staring selfsame silver hanging in the heavens above.

[You fell. You fell hard. Then left what was left behind.]

all was ever-still [Aris i aris]

all was ever-silent [Aris i aris]

self-carved massacre [Aris i aris], snared in bear-carved quietus and petal-bile

[That's how it's supposed to go?]

[derangedrhythms]

It smells oddly disquieting, sweet and rotten, like something that has been forgotten and is now covered in mold.

Olga Tokarczuk, The Books of Jacob, tr. Jennifer Croft

[pettyelves]

🎬ibor skeet ropes

You thought I wouldn't answer this, but I'm a maniac.

His brow knits tightly, breath in the crook o-- HE STANDS UP! HE GRASPS. FIRMLY! AND THEN, LIKE A FUCKING SPRINKLER SYSTEM WITH BUILT PRESSURE! TSSTSSTSTSTS TRRRRRRRRT (sprinkler noises) And the whole time her waving his arms around like he's standing on a slip n' slide and he's going "WHHOooooAAAAoooAAAHOOooooOOOOa."

[bad-rper-deactivated20241120]

[pettyelves]

STOP IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW

[pettyelves]

🎬ibor skeet ropes

You thought I wouldn't answer this, but I'm a maniac.

His brow knits tightly, breath in the crook o-- HE STANDS UP! HE GRASPS. FIRMLY! AND THEN, LIKE A FUCKING SPRINKLER SYSTEM WITH BUILT PRESSURE! TSSTSSTSTSTS TRRRRRRRRT (sprinkler noises) And the whole time her waving his arms around like he's standing on a slip n' slide and he's going "WHHOooooAAAAoooAAAHOOooooOOOOa."

[bad-rper-deactivated20241120]

beatitudes

Rarely, he picked up a pen. Hesitant, as ink would be gone, paper would be gone, notebooks would be gone, quill would be gone, words would be gone. Delicate was a world of would-be-gones.

“Today, he told me he loves me.

       After that, he told me he loves me.

                Erelong, he told me he loves me.

           Just before, he told me he loves me.

                         Soon after, he told me he loves me.

                                                    In a while, he told me he loves me.

Even now, he told me he loves me.

What bliss have I afforded this poor man.“

Schlock in his hands, it rested better on his tongue. But that would be gone, too.

[onceness-deactivated20240321]

Antonio Machado (translated by Robert Bly)

[pettyelves]

🎬 The ritual in Tirna Bren

Each massive stone mouth stretches open, awaiting a song to sing back to. Tonight, it is the lowest ring that leads the song. Long, hoarse rings that droned out and pitch the world in violent red. If the color of his love was black, his soul must be all red. The Answering song has not changed in a single word for the eight thousand-odd years, yet with each completed Rite-- the song has never sounded the same twice. He offers up the wrath bubbling in the pit of his smoke. He offers up the oppressive weight of sorrow coiled around his heart. Soon, he is out of body--driven out by the low rings in his own chest, the bidding of the tenor song, and the shrill trills of the soprano. Tild-ra lo aite-r, Ibormeith. The voice speaks from the water, sometimes it is his own mother's, sometimes it is her's. And soon it will steal His voice too. It will speak in a smooth tenor, it will sound like rung bells, and songs sung softly in the nighttime. Tild-ra lo aite-r, Ibormeith. Tild-ra lo aite-r, Ibormeith. Shan cae tha shan pleth nis. His song is answered in bursts of colors, and his sways faster-- his mind further. The black water is comfortably cool around his ankles, he knows that the mighty CRASH of his body into that pit would be DISQUIET! Shan nis, cae si e. Cae si ia. He tells the insistent voice. Shan nis, acht irima. Irima.

[pettyelves]

☎ for your muse’s info in my muses phone (Cici & Eebs) (im cheating idc that he's not my toon)

Written simply in Ibor's phone as Him, the two probably don't text often as both prefer the romance of pen and paper. When they do? It's probably something like this:

[pettyelves]

☎ for your muse’s info in my muses phone (mags & ron)

In Ron's phone, Magdal's entire name is Doctor Detective Magdal Fogeye Du Bois. The whole thing. Their conversations often look like this:

[pettyelves]

☕ cannibalism (lony)

The sound of sharp teeth puncturing, the sensation of racking claws into the first layer of skin. "I couldn't do it," she says suddenly and chews through each word's tough texture. "I couldn't do it because I have a mother that showed me kindness. Because I have not been chased to the fringes of the world. Because I have never known hunger which could not be alleviated by sitting at a table with my family."

A thumb nail digs into the cuticles of her opposite hands. "But if I didn't know?" She passed air through her nose. "Complicated--we're so much meat. So many bones. [Da mylithe].. our skin." "So if I didn't Know maybe then I couldn't stand to see all we are rot and be nothing but waste. Maybe it is better to kill because you are hungry than to kill because you are frightened, or angry."

[pettyelves]

☕ druids (eebs)

"That depends entirely on your definition of 'druid'," he said curtly. "Something covered in fur and playing house pet? I would sooner put an arrow in it than speak to it." He waved his hand, "But other druids are...acceptable. Tolerable."