#arielshepard

[epivlavis-blog]

The stars above them have only passingly caught the eye of the serpent. A mystery in the darkness beyond that came to her thoughts in the late evening, when the first star stirs itself awake against the half-blackened sky, twinkling in fragments before illuminating. To the west is Mt. Targon - it is there that they believe in celestial beings. Noxus has no time for such beliefs. Her skyward philosophy lasted for a single evening, nursing wine.

Then, the sky opened itself. Men and machine. The harvest. Runeterra was not yet ready - Piltover was but an anomaly, the machines remarked. A flower budding in a growing garden. The machines will not take them. The Bastion, however, will do just nicely.

It is in the audience of an emperor that Cassiopeia allows her form to be revealed - the veils of shadow cannot hold her when there is a woman of black diamond to behold. Noxus has not had an emperor for several hundred years - the Grand General has made room for the galactic presence and her daughters. The word sits strange on her tongue, forked and curling, unfamiliar. Against the sky, the ship stands, visible from the balcony the women have collected themselves upon. The Emperor, her daughters taking watch, and the two women of House DuCouteau. Her sister has taken a momentary leave.

Cassiopeia believes she is speaking to the Hand about their company. Let them politicize among each other. Speak to one another about the concerns of ships and invasions. The stone that Noxus Prime stands upon will last. It is the words spoken between emperor and courtwoman that matter. Secrets are sharper than blades, after all.

‘Galaxy’ is a word the Machines brought. The Targonians call what lays beyond this planet apotero. But galaxy is a much more beautiful word.

“The audience you have gifted us -” she holds a stem glass made of azirite with champagne within. The red crystal colours the drink a dark colour. A similar glass rests next to the emperor, though it is empty, dry. “do you often grant it when arriving planetside?”

Planet is another word she is unfamiliar with. Cassiopeia lounges upon a half-back couch in order to sit at a comfortable height and match her company - her tail stretches away from her company, flicking slightly.

She drinks from her glass.

“It is an honour to be in your presence, nonetheless.”

@arielshepard

[mxdam-a]

{ ; 3 & 8 !! }

3. Is there a kind of music they associate with their loved ones or time spent with them? 

ooh! she probably associates ballroom music with francis, because. Party Couple. she definitely associates @monstricidal with whatever tunes Dad Alana plays while she’s building decks and grilling barbecues and whatnot…

8. What levels of intimacy does your muse have with others? Do friends get regular cheek kisses, cuddling, hugs? Or does it take more work for people to see your muse’s ‘soft side’?

margarethe does NOT get intimate with people quickly. she might generate a kind of false intimacy with others, by seeming to draw them into her confidence, or giving them unexpected physical contact (like a cheek kiss as though they’re old buddies when really they don’t know each other well), but that’s a powerplay, it’s about being controlling. (actual friends do get regular cheek kisses btw, but it’s way more likely to be an air kiss than full on Skin Contact.)

most people could actually be forgiven for thinking she’s as shallow as a puddle, for how long and how actively she keeps them at arm’s length. and of course because she’s so voluble you can’t really tell that she’s not giving everything away? so there are probably some folks who think they’re very intimate friends with margarethe when they really know heck all about her actual feelings.

you have to work VERY HARD to be emotionally intimate with margarethe, and you basically have to be willing to give a LOT of yourself up before she’ll give you even half a scrap in return.

sensual sunday. :: @arielshepard.

[vitalzerg-a]

      ‘    we’ve  awaited  your  arrival.   ’    voice  echoed  as  zerglings  swarmed  with  anticipation  to  the  dark  mother;    wings  hummed  as  their  chatters  &&  hisses  grew  loud.      the   QUEEN  of  blades  towered,      skeletal  wings  twitched  before  folding.    ABOARD  the  leviathan  she  had  brought  her  DAUGHTERS;    beautiful  horrors,     made  in  her  image.      ‘    there  is  MUCH  to  discuss.     ‘  

@arielshepard  /  the  wife  is  here.

[smocthcriminal-blog]

@arielshepard  || when u want in on the space madness apocalypse dynasty             Oh. She’s positively sublime. An immaculate monstrosity peaking out from behind a mask, from the body suit of an elegant woman. But there’s something off about her, he’s got no clue how he knows. But behind that seamless skin, manicured nails and wings of kohl that streak out like blades in a street fight, behind the blonde...There’s something profound and ugly, something deep and dark and full of teeth. The stale rot of death clings to her beneath perfume, something overripe and nearly sweet. He wants her attention. And he’ll get it.             “You....Whatever you are,” that tongue flicks to the corner of his lips like there’s an old sore to worry. “Marry me.”

[astramessiah]

              HE FOLLOWED THE call to Korriban, up the broken steps of an abandoned Sith academy. Once-inert stone made living with the cold hum of alien technology. She waits for him behind closed eyes, the gentle dark a cradle to rock away the cruelties clearly promised to him in his dreams. Her name is an unholy hymn, brimming with a stygian divinity the galaxy no longer knows how to decipher. She unwrites the narratives of eternity, cracking the languages of existence apart until her voice in his head sounds more like the desolate howl of solar winds than a song he can sing along to. 

               His human throat && mortal flesh aren’t made for the kinds of noises she uses to communicate. His mouth is not yet wide enough to swallow worlds. He faces her fills him with the kind of speechless horror that turns even the wisest men’s words into hollow pantomimes. Anakin is afraid. But he has never not been afraid. The galaxy chose him to bear its weight && now he stands before a being able to tear it all asunder. But he’s less afraid in front of her than he is at the foot of the Council, or in the face of his master’s disapproval, or in the arms of his most beloved. 

     ❝ It’s you. ❞ Don’t you hear how awe strikes his voice through the center? You are terrifying as you are great, && I flew across the stars to find you. ❝ I’ve seen you— in my dreams. ❞ ארק םותהער / DARK MOTHER. 

@arielshepard​

[upshuring]

@arielshepard |   starter call | not accepting

     She has always been darkness and terror, the beauty of a thousand dying galaxies and the screams of those within. When they come to her, it always holds the same way humans would come up to their gods; although where these filthy, unworthy worms like the one they inhabit and use these days can only fake devoutness, they bare their throat and let her take. Often metaphorically, sometimes literally. While they cannot give her what she can better take herself, they do offer the lives and sanity of the hundreds they take in between. A small offering, maybe, but given willingly.

     They trust her not to tear apart more than needed, and even if she would — a death by her hands, her teeth, would be a blessing.

     (However much gods like them, even if just minor, can die, of course.)

     The swarm buzzes beneath his skin, threatens to break out to embrace her. There's black blood seeping out through old wounds, painfully alive. More alive than the host is.

     They spell out — we missed you, in a thousand languages and none that could be comprehended by a human mind. They offer submission and lives taken before their time. They offer everything. A lover bearing gifts upon their return.

[spectrepath]

                         @arielshepard // sc.

          It was no secret that Avitus prided himself on his air of composure; on drifting through the shadows without ever giving himself away, refusing to allow his fear or other weak thoughts to consume him. But that was only a facade - one that was beginning to fall away in the aftermath of Macen's death and the role of 'Pathfinder' was passed onto him. SAM, once meant to lighten the burden, was now growing to be a hindrance; at least, that was what he convinced himself. A malfunctioning AIs causing him migraines and nightmares was simpler to accept than his own inability to cope.

         But the same sense of terror and panic once easily dismissed as errors returned as she stepped foot in the room. Static on his skin, the sickening sense of ‘calm’ before a lethal storm, uncertainty gripping at his chest; the irrational, illogical thought of  ‘This was Saren’s fate; beginning of the end.’ briefly ran through his mind. An intrusive thought that he forced away; he would not allow himself to succumb to it.

   “What do you want?” Avitus had meant it to sound steadier -braver- but in the end, it was only fearful. Uneasy. Broken.

[vicemirrored-a]

arielshepard replied to your post: i feel like everyone in their lives either thinks...

{ Ariel Shepard: observes them thru her opera glasses }

ok because of the background image i have for my dash part of this message was obscured for a second and i misread it as ‘devours them thru her opera glasses’ and i just wasn’t gonna question it