tyrian aurelius. intro. bio & dossier. threads.

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

tannertan36
trying on a metaphor

roma★

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Today's Document
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

if i look back, i am lost

★
todays bird
Jules of Nature

⁂

ellievsbear
Sade Olutola

izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
cherry valley forever
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@pyrrhikos
tyrian aurelius. intro. bio & dossier. threads.
“In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set; from time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall. It’s this moment we’re both trying to explain, the fact that we’re at ease with death, with solitude. My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn’t move. She’s always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image capable of life apart from her. We’re very quiet. It’s peaceful sitting here, not speaking, the composition fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering— it’s this stillness that we both love. The love of form is a love of endings.”
— Louise Glück, “Celestial Music” (via marcescentfleur)
@wnterstcrms
“We cannot wait / for angels. We’ll be our own gods now.”
— Nancy Reddy, from “Ex Machina,” Double Jinx: Poems (via wildfairy)
@healeds
this obliterated me
Antigonick, Anne Carson
@dcybrck
encased in a linen envelope, the sheaf of parchment has been spelled to appear as an ordinary missive to any but the intended recipient. in the place of the high lord’s seal is the sigil of the healer to whom he has written : twin swallows, inked in black, the larger of which holds an olive leaf in its beak. beneath, the initials c. p.
miss pennyroyal,
it is my earnest hope that you have managed to find solace in the days after what i must now ( and grievously ) call the trappings of another blight upon prythian. it seems just yesterday that we were poised to salve the lesions of war and to birth ourselves anew like the earth after a deadening winter ; prone as i was to bid my court to combat the first time, i confess that i would have liked, if even for a spell, to watch her recuperate.
what a rare thing it was ( and no small miracle ) that i made your acquaintance those centuries ago, when we were but adolescents and war was a ghastly thought to be entertained privately and never uttered. my libraries are ever at your fingertips, should you require their amenities at any time for study.
here, i turn to more pressing affairs. i know you would balk at the notion of me keeping tally, but as it stands, i am beholden to you. if not for your skill and swift attendance to the yet-nebulous effects of faebane, i fear what might have become of azrael. if i should feel sound in entrusting his health to anyone, it is you.
i have grieved sufficiently for the tremendous weight we must now carry, and what must be brought to bear. were our situation less perilous, i would not have to seek your support again and so soon. yet, the foreign body of pain must be culled before it can dissolve fully in our blood.
please advise me on a date at which you may be disposed to pay a call on peritia —— you will have all that you need here.
keep well, tyrian aurelius
for @wnterstcrms. clove pennyroyal.
where's my beloved where's my beloved where's my beloved WHERE is my beloved where is he where is MY beloved
@azraehl
for @ofwrxth, elysia arantes. peritia of the day court. palace of light.
the chapel’s high, arching doors sighed open for him at a mere nudge, humming with the heat of the afternoon. ancient though they were, their brass still gleamed as if newly-cast and the latticework, an elaborate motif of a sundial, bore no rust. as a boy, he had marvelled at the palace’s undying splendour —— too green to understand that the price of beauty without time was exacted, not on skyscraping spires or ceiling frescoes, but upon the head of every child bred beneath the finery. and so it was that he had been a boy of ten when he first chanced upon these doors : they had not parted for him then, still fettered as tightly to his father’s whim as he had been. and so it was, too, that tyrian had brought a small, quavering hand to the sun-warmed brass and shattered every ward that the late high lord had seared into the bones of the palace across three centuries.
there was always a price.
the chamber was by no means cavernous. its modesty and practicality had pleased him then, when he had sought a sanctuary without serrated edges, and it soothed him now. shadows bruised the nooks that light could not touch —— he indulged, briefly, the sweetest yearning to take shelter in the shade before turning to face the pulpit. the platform had been hewn nearly a millennium ago, but the cedar still shone as if it had been lacquered yesterday. his footfalls were muffled by a scroll of carpet that ran the length of the chamber and at the end of his approach, tyrian halted before the basin by the altar. tipping his face down, he marked the herbs that saturated it —— dittany, foxglove, and comfrey —— before bathing his hands in the water. as he dried them on a cloth, he marked also her draughts, the distinctive manner in which they were stoppered and labelled, and how the priestess had writ herself into the space with admirable surety.
“ lady arantes. ” his voice felt strange in his mouth, like a piece of a puzzle that had been dislodged and could no longer find its place. “ pardon me for the absence : it was not my intention to sequester myself, but i fear the lack of inhibition that took charge of me when my powers fled. ” the frankness was no new courtesy between them ; tyrian had offered her tutelage with this exact brand of candour when she had yet to don her circlet and he, the mantle of high lord. “ your efforts under the mountain were venerable —— for that you have my gratitude. ”
a faint tension settled on his brow, and it was some time before he spoke again. “ i’m afraid it is imperative that we locate the cauldron first. before even the dawn court. ”
reflection
male nude - gustav klimt (1880) // 9x01 // the dying gladiator - pierre julian (1799) // patroclus - jacques-louis david (1780) // 9x03 // male back with flag - michelangelo (1504)
“蔵焼けて 障るものなき 月見哉 (Since my house burned down I now own a better view of the rising moon)”
— Mizuta Masahide, 17th Century Japanese Poet & Samurai
Jonny Bolduc, Ending
“So tell me, where did the blood on your palms come from? Self-divination, or sacrifice?”
— We All Crucifix Ourselves in Our Own Ways | k.l.