#macabre verse

[votive-candle]

19 / 08 / 2024 👑

Sovratska's royal daughters

outside of her duties as ritual & spiritual advisor of the court, Seiðr Ogla's most important role is to ensure that her little sister - Malvina, the Dóttur Becoming - occasionally cracks a smile while vetting suitors

#worldbuilding

[tales-from-vesuvia]

You meet a man with soot stained hands, black up to the crook of the elbow. He holds a cigarette in hand, and an oversight of hardship in feature. The line between his top lid and the bottom of his eye runs a crease all the way to his ear. It is clear he’s smiled rather a lot in his lifetime.

“You worship The Craftsman, little thing from the North?”

He draws from his cigarette, and holds to the smoke. If it ever leaves his lips it’s transformed to clean air, like the tar in his lungs has made a meal of the stuff.

“Might you worship me instead? I’ve produced more paintings than any artist in the world. How have I done this, you wonder, perhaps?” He taps at his ashes. “I make paint, you see. Black paint, moreover, the blackest you’ll find... I’ve made every shade of black you can imagine.”

[votive-candle]

10 / 07 / 19

i never introduced most of you guys to my OC, Kumakawa 

he’s an alcoholic bodyguard to Mitzutoshi’s daimyo, wears an ochoko (saké cup) as a necklace, and also winds up in a poly-relationship with Kaede here and future-wife, Sanyu

i’ll maybe post his original concepts if anybody’s interested

OCs : Sanyu __ Kaede __ Kumakawa

website __ patreon __ ko-fi

[tales-from-vesuvia]

An army stands reluctantly a ways across the marsh. Morag, in her axeless hand, snatches a bottle of sap from one of her company. She takes in a mouthful, swallows a half, and spits the rest to carry forth flames from her belly. The blaze of fire that plumes from her lips strikes fear into their cavalry, and embers into hoarse, very guttural roars.

“Come ahead, ye timid wee men! Down tae the water, wi’ yer horses and yer knightly prince of schemes and murder! Bogleuch has tae offer w’ir guests a wealth of welcomes – prithee, come hither, and take them as men!”

Only petite, she wears nothing but a nightshirt and the bog up to her shins to protect against their steel. Yet she beckons them regardless, and beats on her chest, screaming to rally her men for the fight. They’ve all heard the tales of her witching and evil. Only when she’s wide eyed, and foaming at the teeth for their blood do they recognize the threat.

[tales-from-vesuvia]

Musing and thoughts on Seidric, the Order of Martyrs, and the Visionist “rehabilitation” process (emphasis on quotation marks) :

#self harm tw  _ #abuse tw _ #torture tw

Previous devotees to The Order of Martyrs are known to outsiders as “strange”. They’re often quiet or mute, prefer to keep to themselves, and suffer deeply from agoraphobia and social anxiety. This is often misdiagnosed as a result of their lifestyles in the conclaves themselves.

The behaviours are more often a result of trauma during the “rehabilitation” process, which frequently involves physical and psychological abuse (ie: the purposeful infection of self-inflicted wounds, ice-bath therapies, social/sensual deprivation, etc.). The “rehabilitation” of Martyrs during the main timeline is controversial in that, with a population growing more and more dedicated to medical science, the process only boasts around a 50% “success” rate, with most subjects dying as a result of poor mental and/or physical health before reaching the integration process.

Seidric was incredibly social before rehabilitation - the Order encourages an (albeit very flawed) support system where all are considered family, and communication during ritual self-harm is emphasized heavily. 

Verbal communication does occur in some communes, but most (including Seidric) communicate through sign language. This is a trait which, depending on the culture and area, is discouraged among puritan Visionists. For Seidric, he was threatened with the removal of his fingers if he did not dedicate himself to learning “the common tongue”. Post-integration, he’s affected severely by agoraphobia and rarely communicates with anyone other than Zachariah (who, for his sake, learns and speak with him through signing), even having Z speak with their clients and patients on his behalf.

***Some of the more experienced and dedicated healers in the order of martyrs -- like Seidric -- may hide very small surgical instruments literally under their skin when faced with captivity and “rehabilitation”.

Seidric, when forcibly housed with Visionist puritans in his first years out of the conclave, could have fashioned himself a sort of hidden pocket of skin with some grafting and patience. I imagine it being on his inner thigh. Certainly somewhere that his “carers” would be reluctant to inspect. Just a little sleeve of slit, but healed skin where he can hide very small scalpels, or a sewing kit. He’s deft enough in surgical ability to create and/or stitch even serious wounds with comically small supplies so...

Off topic design rambles: Seidric has evolved from having very long, almond shaped eyes to being rather bug eyed. His eyes are black, now round, spaced quite far apart, and not very deep set in his skull. His cheeks suck in from tight, contracture scarring after years of annual ritual involving the splitting of cheeks. His lower jaw juts with a subtle underbite. He’s become more haggard since I first designed him, which I love and I’m incredibly comfortable with. He has more character now and I love him

[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

[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]

“Sex is quite a lovely thing, wouldn’t you agree?” She snuffs out the flame of many a candle, wandering off with her thoughts as she goes. “Lovely as it may be, I can’t seem to connect. To picture my body? In the hands of some good-looking stranger..? I’d hate to be a burden on his spirit with my sad little fantasies.”

Her eyes glaze over, just for a while, till she shakes her head in disbelief. "My brain feels like syrup when I entertain the thought. He’d surely be ashamed of me -- perhaps he is already, with the way he comes and goes!”