#arcareum

[arcmoonsoo-blog]

fear and loathing.

@arcareum ; 10:25pm, the labyrinth phase 3

all things considered, moonsoo should be in worse shape than he is. the maze thus far has been built away from his strengths; enemies that won't sit still long enough to listen to his whims, a mechanical being lacking the sort of cognitive function needed for him to be useful. but moonsoo has always been adaptive. not in the way one would list out as a positive trait, but adaptive nonetheless. it's born from cowardice, pushed forward by selfish desires and the assumption that his needs are greater than everyone around him. so he'd reeled in someone in the first phase to act as a shield and weapon all in one, had run into mona after the ever changing walls had pushed them together, and she had been the perfect destructive force to rip the spider limb from welded limb. 

so he stands as prideful and poised as ever as the grinding of the walls shift again. new corridors, a strange sense of unease, and it has moonsoo hunting down his next puppet to keep him out of harm's hands. eventually he finds her, lost in a perfume of heavy copper with exhaustion gripping at her bones. she wasn't as lucky as he was, it seems. but she never really is. 

"areum." he calls out,  one hand sliding against the rough stone of the wall as he wanders her way, lets it drop in favor of tucking two fingers under her chin, turning her this way and that like he's looking for damage. not that he could really do much of anything if there was, areum had always been in charge of stopping up their wounds long enough to keep them both from dying. the air feels heavy around them, and moonsoo drops his hand when he decides she's not about to keel over. "which way?" he asks, shoulder fitting to the wall as he lets it bear his weight, one hand slipping into the pocket of his pants "or do you need a break? you look a little worse for wear." he asks her, and it comes out nearly mocking. but then, he was never raised to be a very compassionate boy.

[arcyeonghun]

ᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀɴᴛ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀɴᴛ

Blooming blossoms are the most dangerous and fragile, for they have a way to incarnate their sole existence with every season yet with much more strength than their passing.

Exuberance tainted and troubled those with the lack of divulgence in transient, trivial matters which created the speckles of dirt that clung to the corners on the underside of children's nails or shrouded them with peppered droplets of polluted water that seemed to fabricate from the muddy cotton that spilled over their heads. But the intangible concept that warped and wandered between the ribs of the incumbent would diminish as age devoured the drumming existence of curiosity.

With exceptions, of course.

And he himself, could be considered a Lost Boy, his carcass simply a shell that grew to be a home for his physical mass that clung to the sticky inner walls to contain the bits of him that never seemed to stop molting. Fortunately, he would never have to be “thinned out”, with the consideration that his visible growth signified “good” health rather than deceit. At least in the society he lived in. But he often found himself overambitious when it came to certain feats, perhaps due to lack of experience – and the obvious lack of mental growth – especially tasks that were not particularly familiar to him.

Gardening just happened to be at the top of his list for the time being.

With careful, lanky fingers locked around the forest green plastic that cradled the saplings whom dared to puncture through the rich fragments of earth, he turned the sign of vegetation around as if he were observing a porcelain doll. Much to his liking, the hue of the plant seemed to adhere to the descriptions that carried amongst the mouths of the beach dwellers.

It must be you.

The lack of associates – and general company, rather – within the nursery left Yeonghun to his own devices as he scoured through the aisle of thick trunks layered with bristles tickling the back of his neck to the boxes of confetti-colored spheres peeking out of mulch and soil. But at the very least, he knew he was a beginner and when he overheard eavesdropped that there were plants that needed very little attention and thrived regardless, he was dead set on getting his hands on one.

But the more he observed the plant settled in his hands, the more he wondered if this was the one they had called succulent. It had the properties of succulence, round and plump with a voracious appetite for chlorophyll that dyed the body. With a sheepish expression, he craned his head about the quarters – which were just as empty, minus the female an aisle down, as when he had entered – and so he leaned in close to the plant.

”…Are you a succulent?”