#ofpsalms

[undeadunalive]

@ofpsalms​ ∣ sc

“It’s quite all right, Ms... I’m not going to harm you. Truly. Please, lower your weapon.”

[soulmissed]

@ofpsalms, lyric sc falling up – falling in love

hiding. a skill utilized throughout his life. reaction to threats both immense and minute. (tonight, his threat appeared in a thunderstorm.) his hiding place: a closet. where he can hunker down and shut his eyes and wait it out. 

should’ve gone to nico. should’ve ignored the persistent voice in his head. you’re just a bother, a hassle. he doubts he’ll ever genuinely shed a reluctance that hinders his bloodied, breathing heart.

another roar of thunder folds his hands. and praying, clumsy but determined, “ always, always, you are with me. ”

[sparrowsfall]

@ofpsalms​​ ! ( sc. )

     “ Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum ... ”           [ Oh my God, from all my heart I am sorry for all my sins ... ]

Latin words are hushed. Frantic. Frenzied. Tumbling off the wicked tongue stained by blood that is not his own. The flavor filling his mouth a cocktail of iron and the saccharine heat of gore. The scent defiling this most sacred of cathedrals a potent mix of BLOOD and BRUTALITY and THE MOST ANIMALISTIC OF ORIGINAL SIN. 

It feels like sacrilege to dare recite the Act of Contrition here. Now. But he had come here, crawled here, deep into the gullet of these grounds most hallowed in search of absolution--- No. EXORCISM. From this dark thing that sleeps in him, weaves through his insides as the Serpent would, squeezing his stomach and sinking its fangs into the chief, life-giving organ that no longer beats, long halted by the venom of the thing he once called a sacrament. Once called holy. It tempts him not to bite the apples of trees, but the apples of throats.

The HEART is sorry for the half-gored state of the body shut away in the adjacent confessional booth. Neck torn open, cavity of the belly haphazardly emptied in search of more blood hidden between every muscle and marrow and web of fat. The thin wooden screen was not enough to muffle the echo of a thundering heartbeat. To keep the man separate from the beast. To protect the poor, unassuming priest safe from the thing that dressed like him and spoke like him and made a mockery of their matching white collars ( the monster’s own now aptly stained red ).

                 The HUNGER, however, will not apologize. Will not relent. 

     “ Eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris ... ”           [ And I detest them, not only because in sinning, I deserve the penalties that You have justly established, but especially because I have offended Thee, who art the Greatest Good, and worthy beyond all my love...]

Moonbeams pool through the the windows of the apse, the brilliant gold of the cherubs and angels that congregate around St. Peter’s Throne set alight against the otherwise darkened basilica. He remembers coming here in his youth. In seminary. A young man humbled before the many Glories of God. His heart and soul were so very full then. Now, he finds them empty and black, devoid of God’s Graces and replaced by WRATH and GLUTTONY. His body an ever-widening chasm of starvation, only ever sated by the most precious of fluids and the LIVES he must steal to obtain it. 

In the daylight, it is easy to roam the holiest walls of the Vatican unnoticed. Yet another tourist in the crowd. But under the cloak of night, St. Peter’s Basilica is less a cathedral and more a court. Knees and elbows are bruised, healed, and bruised again, pressed into cold ancient tile of the altar steps, as he prays--- No, as he grovels before the ever-watchful, ever-wrathful eyes of his JUDGES, be they carved from stone or molded from bronze. Eyes he cannot escape from, now made the sole subject of their ire at such a lonely hour. Ancient gazes who he once thought warm and loving, turned cold and scornful against the SINNER who has dared to desecrate their Holiest Temple. He cannot lift his gaze high enough to meet the central stained glass pane of The Spirit. All pristine white feathers and golden rays of light, still radiant under a midnight moon. The olive branch, His Will of Peace, caught between its beak. It flies so, so high above him as he feels himself slipping further away ; down, down, down into the ravenous dark. 

A part of him prays the gates of hell to open beneath him. To swallow him right up. To get it over with.

     “ Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa... ”           [ Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault... ]

He smells her long before he hears the echo of her approaching footsteps. A sweet warmth that cuts through the dense, cold stench of death that has all but engulfed this sacred architecture. Settled into every nook and cranny, seeped down into the very foundation. He can already feel himself salivating at the scent of his new company. Can feel the drool merging with the blood that still drip, drip, dips off his chin and into the crimson puddle collecting beneath his bowed and cowering head. Spitting out strings of saliva that hang from his jaw, falling away only between the desperate and rhythmic mumbling of Latin incantations. It's been getting worse. It’s been this way every night for the past week. Some twisted, grotesque OUROBOROS of sin and repentance, gluttony then prayer then gluttony again. An ever-spinning wheel of destruction and self-flagellation. And not even here, not even in His Most Holiest of Houses, will the Lord grant him some reprieve from his hunger. Nor grant the world some reprieve from him. 

     “ Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum ... ”              [ I firmly purpose, with the help of Thy grace, from henceforth to sin no more and flee whatever leads me to sin ... ]

The utterance of ‘ amen ’ dissolves before it can escape his throat. Something tells him he cannot finish the prayer. Not yet. Something tells him that the night has only begun. That there will be other sins for which he must seek forgiveness from a God that has foresaken him. That does not love him any longer.

And the trembling silhouette of what was once a holy man raises an open, shaking, bloodied palm. The head turns slightly, reveals enough of his face so she might catch sight of the viscera still dripping from his maw, the coagulated liquid dyed black in the bath of the moonlight. And his eyes --- his eyes that glow like two full moons themselves --- plead with her to heed his caution.

     “ Please... P-Please stay back. ” 

I don’t want to hurt you --- These precise words not given shape by his mouth, but are woven through his warning with whatever sparse threads of humanity he has left. “ I’ll go. I’ll be gone soon, I just... I am trying to repent. And then I’ll leave. I swear, I’ll leave. ”

[drkroots-a]

          @ofpsalms​

               “It looks to me like you’ve got a lot on your plate.” Eyes shifted from the other to the spread of open books and notes. “ From one hunter to another, just let me help you.”

[filiat]

@ofpsalms​   //   to be human by marina.

         ‘ the missiles and the bombs, they’re... ’ filia isn’t looking at anything in particular, but her ocean-dark eyes are distant with horror. ‘ the sound like symphonies gone wrong...! and if there is a god, then... ’ a pause, where bile rises in her throat and yet something warmer simmers in her chest. she swallows hard, and shakes her head as she finishes dejectedly, ‘ ...then they’ll know why it’s so hard to be human. ’

[erromes]

real time footage of nahia and @ofpsalms​ on hunts

[withinycu]

@ofpsalms​ has long been at death’s side

Death kept in lockstep with hunters and their little groups. There was The order of Saint George, The Third Order of Mihai in the east and a thousand others with names and purposes sprouting and fading across the centuries Death always following at their heels picking up what they left behind, waiting with the patience only Death could know. 

“Don’t you know me Nicolette Rosaria De Angelis? Your kind are some of my most reliable company.”

[mcnecter]

@ofpsalms | x.

                         ‘ are you lost, vânător... ‘

                         ( the bride remains hidden, unseen to the human eye. deep, DEEP in the shadows obsidian gaze remains trained on the hunter, FIXATED &. unblinking. she is young, too young ... perhaps planned DECEPTION by the SANCTIMONIOUS holy men who sent her here to PERISH. her skill must be great to be sent ALONE against a target as deadly as centuries-old STRIGOI. preternatural muscle is tensed, TAUGHT in anticipation, alert to every clumsy human movement. even here, perched high &. SHROUDED in night her scent PERMEATES every sense, prickling her tongue - &. julia is STARVED. shifting in the dark, desiring blood to STAIN her maw, vocalization is finished in the same steady ACCENTED rhythm echoing within the confines of imposing castle RUIN. ) 

                         ‘ ... or just very foolish? ‘