OF THE POLES

i think there is no innocent landscape   ( anselm kiefer )

[polarean]

POLAREAN.       a study in   :   the violence of landscapes, the isolation of the arctic winter, and the bone - biting cold.   or  a multimuse, featuring muses from classic and contemporary lierature, mythology, and more.   written by evered.

current activity level:  medium

                                           carrd.   rules.    muses.

[polarean]

i'm gonna finish editing the fanfic i wrote like a month ago and then maybe i get to write here... as a treat...

[hasturs]

he  would  curse  the  eldritch  if  he  thought  it  would  care.  if  it  would  do  anything.  the  idea  withers  with  surprising  speed:  a  boot  cannot  be  angered  by  an  ant,  it  cannot  even  be  annoyed.  it  will  only  stomp  faster.  so  here  he  is,  then,  prying  his  body  up  with  a  grunt  and  trying  to  parse  the  world  through  ringing  ears.  politically  charged  registers.  he  curses  under  his  breath  in  a  language  no  one  alive  speaks.  

there’s  doubt  that  hastur  knows  politics  anymore  than  a  star  knows  the  distinct  times  of  day  on  earth.  so  far  away  and  vast  is  it  that  the  idea  is  something  absurd  in  and  of  itself…  but  it  still  has  a  veil  of  plausibility  about  it,  if  only  because  of  his  pounding  headache  and  the  fact  that  his  better  self  is  still  slightly  scrambled.  the  sight  of  a  pleasant  smile,  vulpine  and  coy  though  it  is,  does  not  help  this  matter.  

❛  sorry,  ❜  comes  from  his  mouth  even  as  the  word’s  meaning  still  eludes  him.  he  rights  himself,  runs  a  hand  through  dirty  blond.  something  like  the  taste  of  alcohol  still  lingers  at  the  back  of  his  throat.  good  gods,  hastur  had  him  drinking?  it  shouldn’t  surprise  him.  what  is  a  bar  if  not  a  tourist  trap  for  the  deified?  ❛  really,  i  am.  it’s  —    i  have…  yeah,  no,  sorry.  i’ll  buy  you  a  drink  to  make  up  for  it,  how  about  it  ??  ❜ 

[polarean]

put a concussion on whatever was happening before, and you get . . . a hot guy who doesn't seem to want to take you home anymore. this is more disappointing to jameson than whatever medical consequences the goose egg on the other's skull is gonna cause. he's gonna be outta the picture by the time those effects manifest. men who whisper in strange tongues and drop to the floor unexpectedly are definitely not long term prospects. but jameson had been having a good time. and now, something has changed. how fucked.

" well, don't you know how to break up a party. " maybe the bartender should get an ambulance on the line. maybe this guy has amnesia from whacking his head on the hardwood. ugh! jameson leans himself against the bar, taking another swig of his drink.

he's watching, the entire time : ice - blue eyes flicking over the change of posture, of expression. others who'd seen the fall seem to be looking on as well, and jameson is tempted to turn to them, pick out his next meal. but this guy is like a car wreck, and he can't seem to look away. " anyways, we're well past the can - i - buy - you - a - drink part of the evening, pal. you know, if you got the ick or whatever, you can tell me. you don't have to say weird shit and then hit your head about it. " yeah, that's probably what it is. some hijinks that really could've been solved with the sort of good, honest rejection that jameson swallows like a champ. " are you fucking with me, or are you for real forgetting the whole night? "

[pauvreange]

“ i suppose i'll stay up then! that way i'm already up. ” another earnest declaration, dark hues briefly popping out of their sockets. within a few seconds, her gaze unnervingly drifts away from him almost as if unshifting itself mid-sentence. ( it's not the worst habit, but it does freak people out sometimes. ) tomorrow is on the tip of her tongue, a mere several hours away. the next day is not promised, yet charles has vowed to her that will. his oath to her is honey sweet to an almost sickening degree --- after all, he is a man of his word.

“ people call me a wild card for a reason, i wouldn't be the first person to drown in a shower. could i have it steaming? i want to feel like a har gow at dim sum, it's the only way i'll feel clean. ”

[polarean]

" you stay up, then i stay up, but it'll make us both miserable. " and yet, seems as though it may be necessary : the harder angelique goes at the no tomorrow of it all, the more worried charles is that it isn't a passing terror, borne in their flight from the law. if it's serious enough to call it that ---- no serious effort will go into apprehending them. they'd been chased out of a place they shouldn't have been, empty - handed and, unless some canny officer had recognized one of them, unidentified. they should be throwing a party. they should be having popsicles on the fire escape and laughing at the nypd. the i'm - gonna - drown - in - the shower energy unnerves him.

" anyways, you get warm water. no steaming yourself like a dumpling. weather outside's already hot enough. and if i hear any choking on water sounds, i'm coming in there. i mean it. we're safe now. let's keep that up. "

[bitethroats]

ᯓ☆ it  has  no  intention  of  making  this  PARTICULAR  affair  a  constant.  and  yet,  despite  this,  it  still  finds  itself  standing  just  beyond  a  cabin  door.  pale  blue  grocery  bags  full  of  HALF-DECENT  pick-ups  hang  from  its  elbows,  its  hands  shoved  into  its  pockets  in  an  attempt  at  appearing  nonchalant.  said  attempt  is  currently  causing  HELL  for  it’s  arms,  but  it  doesn’t  care.  anything  for  atmosphere.  lavender  takes  a  breath,  clears  its  throat,  and  calls,

❝  hey  LADY,  i  brought  you  some  stuff.  consider  it,  uh…  y’know,  PAY  BACK.  ❞ 

@polarean / starter call.

[polarean]

this creature again? roksana thinks, when she hears the tread in the leaflitter around her home and sneaks to the window to watch it approach. she'd been taut at the first noises, ready to arm herself and dispatch whatever monster found her cabin, or scare away any more wayward demigods. lavender had been enough social interaction for the year. and yet here it is again : carrying grocery with what roksana can only imagine is the sort of premium fodder that fills the stores she cannot enter.

a frown plastered across her face ( this is not for lavender specifically, but her resting expression, ) roksana goes to the door, unbolts it, and opens it to the horned demigod. " i get you out of woods, and you decide to get lost in it again? what did you bring? "

[sanguinisa]

The question struck Nan oddly in a way she didn't expect. It was such a simple thing to ask, but not something she'd properly given thought to before, nor indeed the type of thing you tended to ask someone else anyway. Was she happy? Was she happy here? "I guess so, yeah."

"I'm safe and warm, and I got things to do, and I got you..." It wasn't as though she knew nothing else, but the first week or so of running blindly through the snow to escape herself seemed so far away now. The starving, feral ferocity snarling in her gut, the burning heat in her veins -- nothing like the warm glow of the hearth beside her, nor was the sharp bite of the cold anything like the way Roksana's sharpness had become a familiar comfort. Nan almost took it for granted nowadays. Certainly the world would be far more lonely without it. "I guess that makes me happy."

[polarean]

it is an animal happiness. safe, warm, in another's company. roksana had strained to feel it too, but when ever had she had these necessities met all at once? they are now. should that make her happy? . . . is roksana happy, in the way nan says that she is? in sooth, she doesn't know : she had never considered it and isn't really considering it now, except that nan and she have all the same things, and nan says that these make her happy. worse, does she make nan happy ---- is she an ingredient in this wretched brew? roksana cannot imagine anyone spending time with her and being happy about it, but nan defies reason.

" it is only safety, warmth, and things to do, " she corrects, ready to see if nan will insist that roksana should be added to this list as well. she doesn't know what she wants to hear from this. she's cast the line blindly, unaware of what she might snare on her hook. " or you mean to say i make happy? "

[pauvreange]

[ SMS: charlie boy ] so many of these evil men get to live long lives. i think we need the guillotine back.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i run a strict program when it comes to kids and technology. no brainrot or family vlog channels for them.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] my poor spellcheck has to deal with three different languages on the daily.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] very obvious biases.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i'll try to do it but idk i can do it well.

[polarean]

[ SMS : ange ] the guillotine (had to google that 💀) is kinder than what'd happen to them if anyone out here got to em

[ SMS : ange ] come on, you gotta let the kids have brainrot. the kids yearn for the brainrot. i had to get my childhood brainrot on a library computer, and i think it's why i turned out so bad

[ SMS : ange ] hey, three languages but you're at least typing in real words. never a given over here

[ SMS : ange ] whatever taking charge looks like to you, i'll like it. let the bias work in your favor

[hollowprompts]

` * 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 : a mix of dialogue and action prompts. sent "+ reverse" to reverse the roles.

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 :

➔ you're gonna be okay , just keep your eyes on me. ➔ don't move - you're going to make it worse. ➔ it's not that bad. ➔ you saved me once before , now it's my turn. ➔ you fucking idiot , you weren't supposed to take the hit for me. ➔ i told you not to do that! now look! ➔ you're lucky that i know basic first aid , or you'd be dead! ➔ stay with me, okay? stay awake. ➔ i'll be as gentle as i can be , i promise. ➔ you're bleeding - oh my god , you're bleeding. ➔ you told me it was a scratch , this is not a fucking scratch! ➔ there's so much blood. ➔ next time you want to play here , just don't. ➔ stop fighting me and let me help! ➔ you're banned from doing anything remotely dangerous. ➔ you could have died , what were you thinking? ➔ if you die on me , i'm going to be pissed off. ➔ you didn't have to be so reckless just to prove a fucking point. ➔ the wound will heal but you'll have a scar.

𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 :

[ carry ] sender carries receivers muse to safety after finding them injured. [ stitch ] sender stitches receivers wound. [ hand ] sender holds receivers hand during a painful procedure. [ wound ] sender cleans receivers wounds with gentle and shaky hands. [ panic ] sender panics while trying to stop receiver's bleeding. [ patch ] sender patches receiver up using makeshift materials (i.e. torn shirt). [ fire ] sender drags receiver out of a burning building. [ pressure ] sender puts deep pressure on receivers wound while yelling for help. [ mouth ] sender gives receiver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. [ change ] sender helps receiver change out of bloodied clothes. [ wash ] sender helps wash dried blood off of receivers face. [ shower ] sender helps receiver shower after an injury. [ broken ] sender tries to stabilize receivers broken limb with rope and sticks.

[polarean]

ok laptop seems to be working as normal so FINALLY i can be here. thank fuck.

[fatestaken]

yet the fact that he had hesitated in the first place to accede to a request that she had been so confident would require not even a second thought from others...such a hesitation could not so easily be forgotten even if she told herself it was naught but a quirk of the man she had married. after all, did she not thrill at the thought that he was a man who knew his own mind? and after all, there were doubtless many at anna pavlovna's who had once balked at the thought of enduring such consistent company and yet now counted themselves as regulars! surely such a miraculous evolution could be possible with andrei if she only guided him past the threshold of the salon on a regular basis.

the more realistic possibility of compromise, of accepting that each should be left to their own pursuits did not cross the dark-haired young woman's mind. why should a husband and wife not be together always and enjoy all of life's enjoyments together? 'i am sure that i will.' she very much doubts it but for once, she will not launch into a distraught monologue over the monotony of the countryside. she will humor him. 'just as i hope that you will see the pleasure of society. all things in good time, mon chéri.'

a slender dark brow arches with intrigue as she considers the prospects of the unfortunate pierre, 'do you think such good fortune truly possible for your friend? i believe prince vassily believes that there are relatives in the family more deserving of such an inheritance given that pierre is not, strictly speaking, his father's son. ' here the strictures of society curb her tongue as she grapples for delicacy, 'i think you give him far too much benefit of the doubt. all that influence and wealth as count bezukhov may certainly reform him or it could just as well make it easier for him to be led by anatole.' and then the young woman concludes her theorizing with a slight shrug. 'but of course, you know him far better than i so i am sure it will be as you say.' and to consider count bezukhov amongst their intimate friends would be no small thing if he indeed became a man of such wealth.

'we should invite him to dine if we see him. if he is so dear to you then i wish to know him better and would you not be glad to spend more time in his company?' a guest for an evening would certainly be a pleasant diversion and she would delight in arranging the meal and playing the part of hostess. 'and the more time he spends with you, the less he spends with less desirable company.'

[polarean]

an inheritance is a sharp - edged blessing, served on a quivering bayonet blade or in a stinking sick room, and prince andrei knows that pierre will understand this in a way lise will not. as much as it is wealth, for pierre, it will also be a title, estates, a name that mustn't be smeared, lest its other bearers drown in the mud ( those more - deserving relatives, the mamontov sisters, will at least be spared this disappointment. ) andrei hopes, once the weight of that name, and all its wealth, rests heavy on his friend's shoulders, he will settle into the rut of nobility. he will be better suited to the fetes and soirees than andrei is, even if the bolkonsky name will come out cleaner.

and he is better suited to the bolkonsky dinner table : lise's idea to invite him is perhaps the first, this evening, that has andrei's genuine agreement ---- no wearied or reluctant concession resides in is assenting nod. " he is overdue for a visit to bald hills, i agree. you must write him to invite him, if he is not in attendance : he will know it is dinner with our family if the invitation is in your hand, and so he will behave himself more amiably.

" even if such an inheritance does not reform him, it will make him less idle. he will have less time for wasting his money away with the likes of kuragin. he needs work, occupation, as much as he requires decent company. i am certain we all languish without it. " his eyes dart to the windows that line the sitting room, and look out over the estate's lands. all of these, his own father's holdings, the management of which the old man delights in, in his grumpy way, even as andrei more and more often intercepts his edicts and corrects them, so as not to embarrass them all before the serfs and the villagers. he cannot imagine pierre doing this capably. but, should it fall to him, he may have enough wealth to hire out any such responsibilities.

turning his cool gaze ( in rich brown eyes, such an utter lack of warmth ) back upon his wife, andrei continues, " but, of course, we must hope old count bezukhov recovers, and pierre might be reformed before society wants anything of him. perhaps you must direct him towards better influences at these salons, given that he is our dear friend. i am sure he would be much obliged, as this is your domain more than it is mine. "

[polarean]

[ @normaltothemax ] "Nope!" Marko is just going to hook an arm around Michael's shoulders and steer him in the opposite direction. "You don't wanna go in there. Trust me." David and Star are at each other's throats, and god save anyone that gets caught in the crossfire. "Come with me if you want to live."

michael doesn't need to see it to believe it. because star and david have been at each other's throats ( michael doesn't know what to do about it, or if he should do anything about it, but it has made an already awkward time even more uncomfortable ) . . . but also because his new, preternatural vampiric hearing had warned him. he'd headed to them out of something like instinct. marko's hands on his shoulders, directing him away ---- probably for the best. but his shoulders are tense, and as his body moves away, his head swivels, trying to catch scraps of conversation.

" how long have they been at it? " he asks, an edge of worry against his throat, once they're something like a safe distance. he hates listening to them fight, hates the smallness it makes him feel, the knot that grows in his stomach. he looks at marko, shaking his hair out of his eyes like he's trying to shake the feeling out of his head. " actually, don't even tell me. " his guitar strumming his gotten gradually better under the other vamp's teaching. " wanna drown them out? "

[storiesbreathed]

it was a strange thing, how quickly things could change. one little meeting with this boy who shined brighter than the moon and filled her with something she did not know she was lacking until that sweet moonbeam had shone upon her, handing her a stuffed bear. gentleness, sweetness that was unlike anything that star had ever known and had no idea that she was missing until that very moment. he gave her hope, and despite herself, star took all of her remaining hopes and put them upon the boy, this poor boy who’s now just as stuck as her. guilt seizes her, but not completely, for it does not stop her from smiling at both michael’s words and his sudden closeness. she’s tempted to apologize again, but she doesn’t. “ if only. ” she says again, hesitating before letting her head rest on his shoulder.

closing her eyes, she tries to imagine it for a moment- the pair of them, his bike, and the wind, nothing and no one else. “ we could make our way to los angeles, san diego. or maybe we could just ride along the ocean till we find where we want to be… ” until they run out of borrowed time on their second chances- or until david finds them, which she knew he would. star opens her eyes, looking up at him, the anxiousness and sadness clear in her eyes, but for his sake, she played along. “ where would you want to go? ”

[polarean]

a road winds up the coast ---- michael has seen it in the movies. there must be miles and miles, days and days, of that road, with cliffs and towns on one side and the pacific on the other. that's where he wants to be. along that stretch of highway, between towns and between landmarks. him and star on a place that couldn't be pinned on a missing poster or named on the radio. it's just not here. " anywhere, " he says, at last, sound spilling like breath into the coolness of the night. " we could go to hollywood. we could stop at every beach town until we hit mexico, and then keep going. just . . . anywhere. " he doesn't want to call this what it is : running away. but what's here for him? what's left, that cannot be packed on his bike?

it's just star. that's all that's here. and she could come too. her head on his shoulder is ---- it stirs something in michael that a kiss doesn't, every time her head is on his shoulder, or her arms encircle him in a hug. the feeling is bigger than he is, more than what he knows how to handle ( star was right ---- he can barely keep up with her. she leaves him breathless, ) and almost frightening, the way it makes him want to drop his guard around her. the sky above is glowing. " what's stopping us from doing whatever we want? "

[polarean]

i forgor earlier, here is my new lad, montellier! he is extremely baby

[andessence]

The eyes, bright, the toxic glow of a poisonous animal — they stare at Louis as shades of shame, relief, exhaustion, and desire flicker over them. But there is a vacancy in the depths of that blaze, a void that sometimes deceives one into calling it hunger, want, affection, admiration… but that is only, after all, emptiness. It always has been. Even if he scrounges around inside himself for something to say to appease Louis, what can he find? What would matter enough to be worth the effort of expressing? Isn’t it enough that he is here, taking the blood, letting himself be pulled back from the brink? Don’t seek answers in his ashes.

But it wasn’t about Daniel. His surrender to the sunlight did not have a thing to do with his and Daniel’s fractured companionship, or with any desire to drag him or Louis toward any particular feeling on his account. The Veil. It was about the Veil, about Him, and the certainty, in that moment, that he could die for the perfection of that ikon. The fire hadn’t started with the sun, but with that face upon the Veil, burning him from the inside. The char, the desiccation of him only followed naturally. 

Not made by human hands, he had cried! The veil, the imprint, human, ghostly, perfect, whole, incarnate — What think ye of Christ? Whose son is he? — Heart aching, aching at the thought of Him so close, and so impossible to hold onto. His lips break from Louis’s skin with a ragged gasp.

‘You will never understand,’ he says without the words, and his fangs refasten in Louis’s flesh for another bite, feeling the jerk and slip of the tendons glancing off them. And eyes, eyes hollow, gorging on Louis’s ire and giving nothing back. It isn't an accusation, just a resigned, quiet lamentation. ‘No words could make you. Never.’

[polarean]

louis gasps ( an involuntary response, one he regrets, that slips past a hardened expression ) at the depth of armand's teeth, bites back his own fangs, presses them into his tongue, tastes his own blood. he thinks : i don't want your stupid words. he thinks : i've always hated you more when you're stone, when you're maitre, resigned and ancient. sinking back into armand's usual bullshit had been a danger the very moment daniel had discovered his maker upon that roof. louis' hate is a shield. louis' hate protects them, him and daniel, from the ruin that comes to your house when the devil walks within it.

this is the usual bullshit ---- this ' you can never understand me ' fuckery that louis has watched armand hide behind over and over again, decades upon decades of strained companionship. him, never caring to ask more, never wanting to understand. any affection, love, even, that might've spurred his curiosity had vanished, and louis notices armand's habit like he's watching them from above, the omniscient god that had denied them both, at some point or another. frankly, it's easy not to love armand : louis hadn't loved armand since all his good feeling toward the world had died burning in the sun on a paris stage.

but it's harder not to care, now, when his daniel is so motionless above that louis wants to hallucinate his heartbeat, just to make him present again.

and what will armand be when he is strong again? the liar, the manipulator, no longer laid low by the charcoal that now composes his flesh, but able to widen his eyes and voice his pitiful, deranged lies until the world ---- and daniel, daniel most of all ---- doesn't mind that a horror seethes beneath cupid's lips. louis doesn't want to play the fool this time. this time, he's not the risk.

" it's not me who you gotta explain yourself to. " louis snaps it aloud, where he knows the sound will echo up through the creaky house, into the rooms above, into daniel's ears. " i don't give a fuck 'bout understanding you. but someone does. " he clenches his teeth, speaks into armand's mind, so daniel won't hear it : ' i wish he didn't. wish he realized what lovin' you gets anyone. this bullshit. '

[sanguinisa]

Nan's used to Roksana's brusqueness by now. She grins all through the false insults, her smile only growing wider when Roksana makes a real joke. She's getting distracted from the task at hand yet again, stirring thoughtlessly as she admires Roksana's face, her rough expression, her clever hands. "Y'know, I'd wear a bonnet if you asked me to." A pause, as she considered her words. Then, she added, "I'd do just about anything you asked." With any luck, Roksana would abuse that power sooner rather than later. Nan wouldn't make any overt advances, but she wasn't above stoking Roksana's ego in the meantime.

[polarean]

roksana almost laughs at the idea : a pristine, white bonnet, the kind grandmothers wore, tugged awkwardly over nan's horns. maybe on her next supply journey, if she saw one that was easy enough to snatch from a closed - up cottage, she'd bring it back to nan. because nan would do it. she just said so ---- roksana is convinced that there are words that are not meant for her, but there is no one to deflect them to. she doesn't like the sudden rush in her stomach, like anger but a little lower and much, much hotter. " this is dangerous thing to say. " she says it sternly, as she says everything, every single word that has ever left her mouth, but there is a gleam in her eyes. " maybe i become a tyrant, hm? then what is poor farmhand like you to do? "

[pauvreange]

[ SMS: charlie boy ] it's something i've just learned to live with. is autistic burnout, normal burnout, or both?

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i don't know if i'll ever feel that, but i appreciate your concern <3

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i'm less overwhelmed now that he's here. the adult to child ration is more balanced now.

[ SMS: charlie boy ] i'd rather they be here than on the streets.

[polarean]

[ SMS : ange ] either way... maybe there's a way to help you get less burnt and more like. lightly charred.

[ SMS : ange ] more adults is good. i'm getting closer, i can take those kids off both yours hands when i get there

[ SMS : ange ] i know places we can tell them to go for the day too if you're worried about them running wild

[maereor]

❛ its like , amazing that i'm still kickin'. statistically , i mean. i've been on my bullshit since i was . . . thirteen ? cigs , fireball straight from the bottle . . . i was a lot of fun ! ❜

↪ @polarean / jameson . . . welcome back one-liners !

[polarean]

" you're still a lot of fun. come 'ere. " jameson rolls himself atop his lover, leaning over him to capture his mouth in the millionth, maybe billionth, kiss of the evening. " i think i got you beat there. i was taking my dad's keys and stealing sips of the communion wine at eleven. it tasted fucking rank. "