#aarhir

[votive-candle]

02 / 04 / 19

MEIJIKAN:

a super-self-indulgent kinda B&W comic, focused on some amateur philosophy on religious ceremony, and how dedication to it leads to Aarhir going blind

full comic at 1/5 size

[tales-from-vesuvia]

i’ve been rethinking some of Aarhir’s background for the Macabre Verse (Vesuvia)

In this adaptation (which is now Aarhir’s main verse, he’s graduating from Tolkien), Aarhir is from a hold of Vesuvia called Thalassia (pronounced Ta-la-see-a), a coastal hold to the far south-east of The Medulla Common. I’ve based Thalassia’s culture mostly on a mix of Polynesian cultures, namely Samoan and Hawaiian. It’s home to the majority of Aarhir’s species of elf. In his timeline, the country has been colonized by the northern holds for a few hundred years, with elven families from the north and east given joint rule of the territory.

Aarhir’s given name prior to “the incident” has always been Aarthan - but i’d like to change its pronunciation/perhaps the spelling to Aar’tan. It’s a small change, but still.

I’ve changed some of the circumstances of what happened between him, Carwith and Cerwin. Cerwin in this verse was one of those aforementioned eastern elves that was charged with ruling Thalassia, he’s very powerful and the reach of that power goes well beyond just the coast. Thalassia is certainly not as utopian as Rivendell either, which combined with some imported north-eastern traditions creates this toxic mess of animosity between Aarhir and Carwith’s families over time. In fact I might explain that in a separate post soon because that

In Middle-Earth I originally mapped out his timeline to last about 500 years, with his age hovering about 430 for the majority of the time I’ve roleplayed as him. In this verse, Aarhir will be much younger, and more reckless. Carwith’s death and his own outcast will probably occur when he’s about 23, as opposed to say 50 in Middle-Earth. He stays with his half-elf uncle, Akamu, until 25. He kills his first man and meets Cherry, Dora and Seabright at the brothel at around 26 years old. His ears get cut off somewhere between that time and the debacle where he kills Gwynne about ten years later. The situation with Gaiath and Oswyn later on probably kicks off when he’s about 90 years old. So far he lives indefinitely, I’ve not decided on a canon death for him yet, and elves are still “immortal” to a degree (I still very much want to keep that Tolkien idea that depression can lead to death for elves in this verse).

thats all for now but i’ll probably come back talking about “The Incident” later because right now i just want to immerse myself in a blanket of Aarhir feelings and disappear

[votive-candle]

15 / 09 / 18

aarhir is officially going blind

OCs: Aarhir

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[tales-from-vesuvia]

After a few hours, his skin starts to lose its bounce. The cold took him a while ago, and the muscle of his arms stops resisting Aar’tan’s fingers when he gingerly squeezes them. He’s spent from his grieving, eyes red and swollen, gazing hazily through Carwith. Hands tacky, clothes soaked through with his blood.

[tales-from-vesuvia]

The wood is dead and rotted with damp, and silverfish creep from the drafty holes from which you can peer into the woodland dark beyond. He does so, twists his tattered nails into the soft cabin walls, and presses the thick of his body against it, watching violence with a hunger through the fractures in their refuge. Outside, their prisoner cries for mercy in the hands of his steely companion. He growls something wretched and cruel in his ear, and tightens his grip on the prisoner’s chin. Aarhir stops breathing for a time as it nears, tense and trembling and full of fear, anxiety, disgust and want. 

Just as the screaming begins, Aarhir gasps and the blade carves lazily across the man’s throat -- ear, to pointed ear -- ripping, rather than slicing. Faruq would have it last a while, and watch his eyes flutter as the centuries drain away from him. There’s knot in Aarhir’s belly, so full of tension it reopens his wounds, and they weep through his linens and dribble down his hips, and stain the moss-coated walls as he grinds himself into them. Faruq lets the man’s lifeless corpse drop to the floor, and Aarhir sighs, and wishes it were him.

[tales-from-vesuvia]

The blade is straight, and rusted with blood. He likes it to be dirty, to scrape against the throat. Aarhir holds his head high as it carves into his skin, and looking the man in the eye, he gurgles through grit, bloody teeth. “You’re terribly good looking.”

“I know this.” Itsuki says. “Now you look at me as I watch you bleed, Aart’an. I want to see the life draining out of you.”

Aarhir’s eyes roll back in his skull and he twitches, just a little, as the blood drools down his chest. Yet a few moments later, he regains his balance, and stares deep and empty into Itsuki. 

There is a moment of silence between them. The assassin looks confused. And Aarhir, tired and sweat soaked, speaks a tired little sigh. “For the love of all the gods, sir, I wish you could have made that work.”

[tales-from-vesuvia]

“Seditious, he is. A rabble-rouser. Never can leave well enough alone.”

This doesn’t ring true of Aarhir at even his lowest points, he’s been known to outrun lunch if it’s a few degrees too hot to swallow. Abe squints at the barmaid and rattles his nails on the counter. “Seditious, y’say? Well then, it seems I’m after one of them Pinocchio types, all masks and strings and what ‘ave you.”

He pitches what’s left of his tumbler down the back of his throat, and places it deftly back into her hand, all two-faced in his manner. “I’ll need me a bottle of the pissier stuff if I’m to make it through this one, dear Agnes.”

[tales-from-vesuvia]

“Words fail me...” 

There’s a restless energy that buzzes in his fingertips as he drags them up and down all the swollen, sunken hills that make the landscape of Faruq’s battered face. Though he can’t see it through the haze of spiritual delirium -- the blinding light and dark that follows him everywhere now -- he feels the blood, congealing and crusted and dripping from his ears, nose and mouth. He doesn’t feel like Faruq anymore, but Aarhir can breathe him, and taste him on the tip of his tongue. With a gurgle or rattle, he isn’t sure which, he feels a lifetime rise out of his skin. This time, he knows that it’s the fault of his wandering. The fault of his own curiosity.

No apology or offering in any time or place will ever make up for this betrayal.