#keeper;

[deathsreflection]

Whatever they want, say no.

[deathsreflection]

[deathsreflection]

Modern Aesthetics

Dirthamen: Oversized hoodies. Sleeves long enough to hide his hands. Floor-length skirts, thigh-high boots. Gold eyeshadow. Wears ballgowns around the house. Sleeping on couches in coffee shops and bookstores. Long acrylic nails, painted red. Long silences on phone calls, just listening to Falon’Din breathe any time they’re apart. Smokes cloves and pipe tobacco for the smell. Mi’Enasalin: Leather jackets, fishnet shirts, leather pants. Spikes on everything. Weapons hidden everywhere. At least one gold tooth. Used to get a tattoo for every kill, until he ran out of room. Constantly-changing accent; no one knows where he’s from. Does coke before every job, gets drunk after. Pays extra to be allowed to leave sex workers bleeding. Sleeps with a gun under his pillow. Listens to classical music. Sulahn: Crisp business suits. Heels just an inch too high to be proper. Smells like top-shelf bourbon. Soft French accent. Wears a wedding band, has never been married. Perfect Mom Voice, makes grown men snap to attention. Gold bangles, gold necklace: a matching set. Got Dirthamen’s name tattooed somewhere, won’t say where. Minimal makeup, likes applying lipstick. Tells every barista and waiter they’re her favorite, tips 25% no matter what. Halan: Subtle floral patterns. Sweaters and sneakers so old and worn-out they’ve got holes, when not wearing scrubs. Fingerless or latex gloves. Long hours spent pacing hospital halls. Hums while they work. Likes wearing lingerie at home, too embarrassed to do it even alone, wears flannels instead. Vanilla chapstick. Wonders if they can pull off winged eyeliner. Wears an old locket with nothing in it. Washes their hands too much: they’re red and raw. Likes the smell of Ivory dish soap. Hates the smell of lavender. Wears glittery body lotion when they want to feel pretty. Terrified someone will ask about it.

[deathsreflection]

26. — protection 

The Keeper of Secrets is a selective god: his blessings are bestowed but rarely, his protection even more so. The others among the Evanuris rule cities beyond number sworn to their service, temples that sprawl into grand cities of their own - Dirthamen keeps but one temple, its location a careful secret, and few cities. Very few. They are hidden among the mountains, the deep forests, the fringes of civilization - but they are his, beloved in their seclusion, their isolation. Their wisdom. He cannot use them as he does his priests - exposed to the changing world as they are, the knowledge would only corrupt them - yet still he grants them guidance, leadership, steering their paths as smoothly as he may to protect them from whatever the future may hold. ...Or from a dragon. Your creature, Mythal? He watches the beast circle overhead, majestic in her lazy grace. The dragon’s mind is beyond him: he cannot determine whether she serves as some message from his estranged mother or not... and he supposes, in the end, it does not matter. The dragon threatens his city. She must be eliminated; his people cry out for his protection, and he must answer. Three days wasted already: three days spent learning the art of creation from Ghilan’nain. A mere child among them, she has honed a skill unlike any yet seen among the Evanuris; even Andruil’s creations are a pale shadow of Ghilan’nain’s art. It is a pity she is, herself, a shallow, petty creature, whose creativity has ever been bent toward madness; a further pity - a travesty - that she had been allowed to be elevated to stand among the Evanuris. She ought to have been bound, her talents put to better use, her mind tightly leashed and controlled... but no, little Ghilan’nain is a goddess now, and Dirthamen must pay court to her if he desires her knowledge; he cannot simply wrest it from her mind and risk leaving her shattered, no. Idiocy. Calm, calm. He closes his eyes, takes half a step into the Fade, reaches for the forest which surrounds his mountaintop city. There is a wealth of debris here, much of it left by the dragon’s incursion: fallen trees, shattered rubble. He stitches them together with magic into a creature of immense size - strong yet agile, imbued with a desperate single-minded need to protect. Protect this city, protect these people. Let no threat pass unmarked, let no harm come to anyone here. They are his. His, and so is this creature. Varterral. Satisfied, he unleashes it upon the dragon; with a piercing shriek, it pursues its new quarry, single-minded in its rage. Satisfied, Dirthamen returns to his city, where the citizens and their elders greet him upon their knees, weeping in joy and relief. No, they could never be priests, these poor fools; too easily does emotion break them, too easily do they show precisely what it is they feel. And yet they are his: he feels their devotion surround him like a second cloak. He could ask anything of them. He could ask for their lives, and they would give them, thanking him for the opportunity. “Words cannot express our gratitude, our Keeper,” the eldest among them says, her voice quivering. “If I may-” At his slow nod, she swallows. “The... the creature you summoned to fend off the dragon...” “The varterral will remain.” He cannot tell if the expression she wears is one of relief that their new protector will not vanish as soon as he departs, or of fear of the same; indeed, he suspects she is uncertain of her own response. He tries to gentle his tone, tries to soothe. Speaking is difficult, but they are his; they must understand. “It will not harm you. It serves my will.” “Oh,” is all she manages, somewhat dazed. In the far distance, the dragon roars a single, defiant cry, cut abruptly short. The woman recovers, shaking herself back to the present, recalling that she is the leader of this city; she must remain strong. “Your will be done, our Keeper. We are honored by your gift.” A gift, yes. A blessing. He bows his head once in acknowledgment, looks once more over the gathered throngs: a small gathering, this, compared to the teeming masses who dwell in his brother’s cities... but these are his. Such a heady thing, is power; he could linger here for a time, basking in their adoration... and yet there is much else to be done elsewhere. Wars to plan. Empires to grow. He’d left Falon’Din’s side only for this, only to grant these people a guardian who did not demand his presence. And it was time for him to return.

[we-as-constellations]

I’m so worried about the two of you and I wish I could help more. I really do.

[kiihkoton-blog]

on gold’s history | un.

          i haven’t really gotten much of gold’s backstory for the sister of wisdom verse down pat, but!! imagine. imagine gold waking up for the very first time in their entire life. imagine gold opening their eyes to stinging fluid and these weird things staring at them. the ‘things’ are the team of researchers / scientists who aided in gold’s creation, of course, but they don’t know that. they don’t know a lot of things, to be quite honest. they don’t know where they are, who they are, or even what they are.

          imagine this literally born yesterday homunculus distressed to the point of a panic attack. imagine all the different assortments of magic they contain within themselves mingling and mixing together. imagine that build up just coming out of gold in uncontrollable, lethal bursts of pure power. they wreck the entire room in a matter of a few seconds and literally blow anyone within their vicinity away.

          imagine their terror and pain. they can feel the cluster of unremitted magic lurking and writhing around beneath their skin and it hurts because their body is still such a weak vessel and they can’t breathe properly because of the mask strapped to their face and they can barely move because they’re too wracked with hysteria to even try. the bursts of magic keep coming. they’re getting bigger and more frequent because of gold’s rising panic and it hurts, it HURTS, make it STOP.

          and then they hear a loud crack. the bones in their right arm shatter because of the pressure and the limb folds in on itself and adopts an unnatural shape and angle and what the fuck just happened, why isn’t their arm moving. they could at least get a twitch out of it before but now it’s completely still and numb and useless and it HURTS, MAKE IT STOP.

          imagine them attempting to rip off their right arm. imagine them trying to pull it out of its socket because it HURTS and if they make it go away then the pain will go away too.

          imagine hylia’s arrival.

          imagine hylia finally arriving at the scene only to find the room completely destroyed and those machines costed a LOT, what the FUCK happened here? and then she sees them. she sees this sopping wet kid crying and shivering and wheezing and holy nayru, they’re going to rip their arm off.

          imagine the language barrier. imagine gold not being able to understand a word of what hylia’s saying and they’re so scared of this new thing, leave them alone, go AWAY. they scream at her and their magic keeps her away for maybe five minutes before they just collapse from fatigue and exhaustion.

          needless to say, gold’s very first memory of the world isn’t all that great.

[madantya-blog]

     [ like this post for a short starter! ]