#equius tag

[subjectivemortality]

there he is

[subjectivemortality]

D --> 🎶

[real-as-shit]

Equius Zahhak

Name: Sophia Nerodia

Personal blog: lenomestsophia

Timezone: Central

Estimated activity: hella.

Character you wish to be: Equius Zahhak, noble aristocrat and equine fancier.

Why: This dude was probably one of the first characters I ever connected with. He was also the first character I really got into rollplayin as in my life. To be honest every Void character touches my heart, its their lostness, their emptiness, their ultimate hopelessness that gets me. That they are defined by truly Nothing, yet can live such concrete, self-challenging lives. Yes they can be forgotten, they are meant to be, but do they forget?

Interpretation of the character: Canon Equius is rather complicated. You could read him and initially be disgusted and put off. Why all these beastial phallaces? Why the unpalatable obsessions with STRENGTH, subjugation, and caste system? Even his attitude is less than approachable, there is a lack of gaiety and an abundance of sternness. However, he is not some random nonsense character, in spite of Hussie's original intent. You see, he is very deliberate, he sensed the nothingness within him, and did not cede to it, neigh, he realized he was nothing and began deciding exactly what he wanted to be. Unlike Horuss, he did not try to fill his void, he tried to actualize himself, or raise himself out of it. From there on, there is conflict between natural tendencies and ideals. Whether its falling in love with a lowblood or the bow, he struggles (with the hemospectrum and his own body, respectively). For the ideals he has chosen are that of the aristocracy, he will be reserved, he will be noble, whether he likes it or not. In this rp I hope to retain that attitude of a boy striving to be so much more than a boy. He will continue to retain the faulty value system of blood purity and racism (though he will not be wicked to those he perceives as beneath him, as canon Equius is not), and he will very likely continue to live willing away it's flaws (finding mudb100ds to be charming or something). He is raised believing might is right in all situations (mostly due to financial and social privilege), and so comes to value strength itself as a virtue. Thus, he endeavors to be as strong as possible, both on the physical front and the magical. I would like him to have been raised in a 100% wizard household, with very absent parents. He was practically raised by his butler, but he doesn't bemoan the fact too much.  House (if default, no explanation needed; if otherwise, please explain): While he is very intelligent, I must disagree with placing him in Ravenclaw, as he does not judge by the brain, but by the actions, and by the blood. I would put him into Slytherin, on account of his values and methods. Cunning, resourceful, ambitious... These traits remind me of the conversation between Equius and Vriska, apparently cunning manipulation to your own ends is a blueblood trait. In this rp, I would set his ambitions at self-cultivation, attempting to raise the honor of his house (and it's elitism), and attempting to fit perfectly into the hierarchies he perceives. Chumhandle: crioulosTentacle Sample para in this AU: Equius makes his way down to his first Care of Magical Creatures class, somehow managing to keep from sprinting. As he follows his fellow first years his mind fills with fanciful creatures, almost all steedkind, wondering what kind of creatures he will be introduced to in the coming months. What kind today? He's a ball of excitement, but you could not tell were you to walk beside him. On the surface he seems distracted and aloof, though a bit more intense than usual. He has to be, to keep himself collected, as he should be, naturally. As they approach, he spies the teacher, standing incredibly large, a respectable silhouette. The is holding a large covered cage. They gather around him in a semicircle as he greets them and introduces himself. His words are lost on Equius, as he tries to guess what is in the cage. He held it so easily, it must be light, or perhaps he is underestimating this giant's strength? Eventually he need not wonder, as the man finishes his speech and reveals them. Pygmy puffs. Equius deflates, greatly disappointed. Hagrid explains handling, but he seems to gloss over it, before beckoning the children to pair up and begin their first lesson.

[poorfrankie-blog]

here is a frankly bizarre and rather morbid (but very short!) fic i wrote a while back wherein feferi is a magical girl with #mind control powers. also there's #death #suicide #alcohol #violence and #blood !! you're welcome

You are the daughter of a vengeful God, and you have learned to wear a great deal of lipstick when performing your miracles.

When you're twelve years old an ugly boy about your age comes in with his teeth clenched, wringing his sweaty hands. You pour him a glass of water but his funny hands shake and break it. He tells you he's worried he has no place in your mother's empire, which is stupid because you can tell who his father was just by looking at his hook-shaped nose. "You'll go plenty far," you reassure him, and you pull out a pair of scissors. "You've just got to get out of his shadow!" The boy blinks up at you like he's stupid enough to think you don't know who he is, and you nod in the direction of his long stringy hair. "You'll sweat less when you don't have that to worry about."

He crinkles his nose and stutters an apology and sure enough, all the water in him is on his skin. His mouth is like a desert and his broken teeth feel funny against yours: funny bad, not funny good. You help him cut off his dorky locks and when you make him try his bow and arrow again, he hits the target dead center every time-- three perfect holes in the center of your mom's best china cabinet. His hands are shaking when he thanks you, and he drinks three glasses of water on his way out. "Not milk," you instruct him, "people will tell stories if you spill that on your face."

When you're thirteen, the consort's boy tells you you need a boyfriend but you're pretty sure he means he needs a girlfriend. "I've got to change my clothes," you say and while he turns around and counts to a hundred you undergo an amazing transformation-- from one pink outfit into another-- with no wand to speak of but enough imagined music to impress an entire orchestra. He says ninety-nine just as you tap him on the shoulder and he sputters around and opens his mouth to wax moronic about your stunning beauty. He's taller than you so you step on his toes and bite his lips and when he stops kissing you his eyes have fallen and he leaves your quarters as soon as you lift a finger, staggering and sniffling and punch drunk with the weight of his first rejection.

The next time you see the boy he isn't punch drunk, he's just drunk, and you fling his fruity pink drink out of his hand hard enough it breaks on the carpet. "It needs more lime juice," you tell him, and you suck on his mouth until he stops wibbling. All it takes is a peck, after all, and next thing you know you're free of him but for the stench of his carcass hanging from your willow tree.

When you're fourteen there's an earthquake and most of the servants end up buried under the bookshelves. You close your eyes and cover your ears and scream for all you're worth; you run in a thousand useless directions until your muscles swirl and burn. Even you aren't stupid enough to think you can stop a bookshelf from squashing you whole just by flapping your lips at it.

But in the end, nothing hits you, and your spine remains intact. When you peel one eyelid open you can see two bookcases staring each other face to face, respective corners inches from collision but frozen into place. Neither one of them pays the laws of physics any heed, and they're both glowing and buzzing and shifting, red-blue-red-blue and in and out of focus. A glance around the room reveals a boy with pupilless eyes and hair like a haystack of crow's feathers. Blood dribbles from his nose and saliva from his chin, and his teeth are bared, chest pushed forward-- he calls to mind a warrior until you see his frail heaving chest, and then you imagine his little baby bones snapping like stale pretzels. He's got hands raised up like claws a foot ahead of his face, and he's squatting and clenching like he's trying to take a dump in the woods.

It's just you and him in the room, because everyone else is dead, or squabbling so pathetically they may as well be. It's a nameless massacre and you and he are as gods, protected from this mortal pedantry. In three quick strides, mercifully languid to balance out his quaking, the distance between the boy and you is swallowed in a pile of sawdust and broken glass. You can feel the tendrils of your dress coiling around you of their own accord, but the dress has never been wrong before so without further consultation you kiss him to say you're grateful. It isn't an instruction, not a command or a twisting of wills-- it's a thank you; a token, a story, and a seal every bit as official as your mother's branding fork. The lines of his face soften into relief, and you can hear furniture clattering to your every side.

By the time you release him you're fully a witch, and you can see him shuddering for a brand new reason. "Thanks!" you chirp, with a flash of your teeth, and glide back the way you came. Your feet sting and crunch and bleed with broken glass, and as you exit you can hear a final bookshelf clatter and snap his spine in two. Pity, your mother would have said, he would have been a lovely bit of machinery. What she doesn't understand is that this is a mercy killing-- a thank you note for a boy who saved your life.

When you're fifteen you go sailing, but you're sick of it five miles out of home. Instead you hitch the boat up onto the muddiest shore you can find-- wild with grass so long and sharp it slices your bare legs where your tingly stupidfingers didn't already in the shower this morning. This is you on level with the rest of your kind, you'll say if they press you on it; you are merely mingling with the commoners, like every princess ought to once in a while. Your mother will spit in your face, as she's the only one whose lips you don't own, but the rest will bow and nod and wipe away their tears of gratitude.

With that in mind you march your little self straight into the brush just south of the river bank. It's a joke of a forest, but rips your muddy skirt to shreds like a champion. It gives a justification to your need to shred things apart: all these tatters clogging your stride across branches and mud and tiny bugs, it just won't do. You stare down with an animal's glee at the growing pile of pink fabric on the floor-- perfectly constructed bows and satin and lace ruined beyond repair with gray browns and grass greens. This is what you think of your place in the kingdom. 

Your arms grow so tired they burn with lactic acid and when you look up there's a boy across the clearing, looking at you with predator's eyes and a smile as lazy as a dog. Within seconds you have trapped him in a handshake. "My name is Feferi Peixes," you say, eyes like glittering saucers. "I am the princess and this is me on level with the rest of my kind."

The boy frowns and his grip on your hand goes lax. Now he is cracking his strong wiry knuckles, looking at you with suspicion from under the brim of his hat. "And what ain't you on level with the rest of your kind, sister?"

You frown and tell him to check his grammar; he snorts and tells you to check your privilege. A beat of silence passes, and then you tell him he's right. "I'm not different from anybody else!" you giggle, as a dress you never will destroy curls around your feet in gentle licks. "I'm just lucky." 

And you kiss him, and you pat him on the head, and he tells you he was wrong, your kind really ain't so bad. "That's racist," you chide, and he bites his lip like a scolded dog.