#ohuwak

[pinkcopy]

from swain to janna : jan'ahrem. i will not waste what little time i and the demon have with you. you possess information that i and many others want. i understand a stubborn instinct in refusing us, but it is an understanding that is not infinite.

「 ANSWER to @ohuwak's prayers 」 ♡

the wind does what the wind does,     it welcomes her figure as if she were the wind itself,     but it does not deny him,     nor his company.     her posture is unthreatened,     light and merry,     as if no vile thing could be asked of her.     jan’ahrem,     perched atop broken remnants of her northern temple,     there in the periphery with noxus,     as she plays with broken remnants of an eastern flower,     twirling its pieces until they hover joined,     as if it had never been de - petaled in the first place.     little attention is paid to the crimson cold of his eyes,     or the demands made with them.     who is he,     a man turned horror,     to demand anything of a goddess    ?     she still sees him as he was,     there is a pervasive concept even in the fluidity of the skies.     a cloud is a cloud,     no matter its darker weight,     and there is no storm in his demonic magic,     that could sway her worries.    

‘ do you remember that monsoon on your day of founding    ?     it was funny,     ’ she smiles to herself,     never did she learn to be completely ethereal,     there’s a trickster spirit in her countenance and the manias of all her avatars past and future, and the awkwardness of a woman that forged her own godhood ages past.     ‘ i have seen many things,     but never a flock of soldiers stubborn enough to march still.     you looked comfortable from under your awning.      ’   no,     she claims no part in whatever ridiculous story she remembers from decades past,     but in this riddled speech,     she finds the salvation to ignore his query.    

‘ i understand a stubborn instinct in power,     ’ she says dreamily,     mocking as a breeze that ruffles a cape,     ‘ but it is an understanding that it is not infinite.     ’

[lamorts]

⬩ for @ohuwak .ᐟ ⋆˚࿔ & ᵃ s̲t̲a̲r̲t̲e̲r̲ ̲c̲a̲l̲l ᶠᵒʳ ˡᵃᵐᵇ ⬩

ᵒʳ ᵒⁿᶜᵉ ᵘᵖᵒⁿ ᵃ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵉˢᵉʳᵗ — wₕₑᵣₑ ₛₜₒᵣᵢₑₛ bₑgᵢₙ ...

at the beginning of every story, there is fire. the first one begins in darkness — once upon a time, in the belly of the dark, there was nothing until there was light. turn the pages and a chapter later, men sit by the first fire they could name and make shadow which moves as if alive. that was their first tale which repeats itself still. obsession is innate to flesh. most stories are the same if you open them up and look at the entrails, look for the pattern on the underside of the skin. words which were not yet words but that echoed in the night all the same. that had been enough then. the first story pinned on the wall like an animal and soon dismembered, devoured, until men learned to have a taste for it. three hundred thousand years later and the shadows still dance on the wall & the fire burns.

there sits a ghost by the fire — not a ghost but the closest thing to it. what is a name for a body that is haunted by the soul which inhabits it ? possession is not the word, but it rhymes. call it by what is is: obsession. a ghost is a creature of small addictions, little hungers not easily quenched. vacant room unfolding into more vacant rooms, the long hallway of the self sits waiting. nothing there to name itself but what once was and still remembers. what is there to remember ? the hunger remains.

& now the wind blows, but he only moves closer to the fire and starts to roll his cigarette with the careful, deliberate effort of a man who knows his own hands. the fire flutters, an animal which answers to my voice. the man is not very different, i suppose. ghosts are inherently attached to stories, which is to say they are inherently attached to me. & stories are inherently intertwined with that which is old.

❛ roll one for me too, will you ? ❜ there are many old places in the world — intricately contradictory. we sit in the desert now, the first page. a grotesque beast most of the time, that which burns without flame, or sometimes, a place of such emptiness one can see the ghosts wandering in the distance. either memories of the past or impressions of the future, all of them walk towards me. & the vastness stretches on until the night and the ground are one, the yellowing white sand that is the color of bone. ❛ it's not the same when others do it. ❜

[alchaemist]

it's around half - past three that he starts getting antsy — his life is one spent in a state of perpetual motion, each minute a train to catch, each second another step forward ... and here the colonel is, holding him up as usual. he adds it to his ever shifting, ever growing list of things he dislikes about the man, which has conveniently been running through his head in a condensed form for exactly the last seven minutes, becoming more and more desperate with every tick of the clock:

point one: colonel mustang looks like an asshole point two: colonel mustang talks like an asshole point three: colonel mustang was meant to be at this meeting thirty minutes ago and he's still nowhere to be seen so fuck the bastard, if he's not here in the next five minutes i'm out — yearly assessment be damned

it's just as he's decided to grab his things and leave that he hears it ... the familiar clip of military issued boots just down the hall, his tormentor approaching exactly forty - five minutes late. he sits completely still, every muscle in his body tensed for explosion, every particle of him waiting to give that fucking asshole of a colonel a piece of his mind and — ❛❛ oh, hey lieutenant. ❜❜ he deflates at once, slumping back into his seat with a defeated sigh. ❛❛ you haven't seen the colonel have you ? i was meant to hand in my yearly assessment at three. ❜❜

@ohuwak ( for riza, starter call ! )