#oldchants

[chaosentity]

hello ma'am have u come to hear the word of the church

wanna hear about my pussy

[hxntr-a]

follow me 4 gons new mom

fool gon only has one mom

[oldmagics-a]

puts up a no witches sign in front of her house

burns the house down

[holykniight-blog]

oldchants replied to your post: ♡ + harellan's thighs

leliana on the other side of the confessional: just fuck her and go to sleep it’s 4 am

DONT ENCOURAGE HIM LELIANA

[six82]

@oldchants​ said:   ❛ Movement is never mute. It is a language. It’s a series of energetic shapes written in the air like words forming sentences. Like poems. Like prayers. ❜

the stench of decay hangs in the air,   A FAMILIAR PUTRID SWEETNESS.  relentlessly,   it follows the behemoth around.    there’s neither room nor time to lament decomposed entrails.     ❝   -LIKE BEGGING ON YOUR KNEES.  MANKIND WOULD BE WISE TO LEARN THAT SHAPE.  THEY WILL NEED IT.   ❞     exposed ribs and flesh.   a body coils around itself,  protecting something invisible to the naked eye :    anger.   rage vibrates through every vertebrae,  but what the serpent needs is patience.     ❝   YOU CAN KEEP YOUR PRAYERS.   ❞ 

SUSPIRIA (2018) ACCEPTING.

[chaosentity]

" You should not be here . " the cathedral had become naught but an empty box now. its pews unfilled and it's only patron kneeling before a bloodied altar. " This is still a place of worship, even if it is my I alone who still prays . "

WHO WAS SHE to care about what the other worshiped ?    she   ...   unholy.   from her cloud of smoke she steps on the ground,   cursing it with tendrils of blue to wave & dance in the air,    mingling with dust,   & only contributing to the ghastliness of the atmosphere. 

‘  i do not care much for the holy.   the only thing that brings me here is the end of the trail i tracked.    ’   on the ground the beast kneels, but not in prayer,    ‘  what is so special of this place,    tell me.  ’  

[corvidei-m]

“ you were just trying to defend yourself, weren’t you?”

interrogation   //    @oldchants   .

                        she   doesn’t   rise   when   the   voice   of   clarity   sings   through   the   mess,   head   bowed   where   she   still   sits   as   she   continues   to   stain   the   purity   of   the   handkerchief   and   uniform   she   wears   with   patches   of   dingy   brown   and   brilliant   red  ;   blood   spilled   both   her   own   and   that   of   another   hunter,   much   too   proud,   too   arrogant,   to   think   he   could   have   survived   her   touch   .   accustomed   to   the   baiting   nature   which   came   from   yharnamites   who   saw   her   for   her   origin   rather   than   occupation,   rather   than   the   work   she   had   dedicated   to   herself   to   in   hope   of   healing   this   growing   plague,   her   patience   and   poise   had   shattered   with   the   burning   of   her   people,   sharpened   by   rage   and   aguish   into   a   web   of   thorns   around   her   heart   that   acted   far   quicker   than   her   mind   could   think   .   impetuousity   would   see   her   failure,   see   her   locked   away   like   the   beast   they   saw   her   as,   and   so   instead   she   buried   herself   away   within   the   labyrinth   of   the   cathedral   to   lick   her   wounds   .

                        ❛            you   would   be   the   only   one   to   pose   such   a   theory,   vicar   ;   best   to   keep   it   to   yourself   .             ❜

[corvidei-m]

“ we can talk about it, if you’d like.”

inhumans   //    @oldchants   .

                        tears   spilled   are   made   weapons   in   her   hands,  a   protective   shield   that   goes   unseen   by   those   who   look   upon   her   with   mistrust   and   loathsome   eyes   that   denote   her   heritage   .   the   last   of   her   kind,   a   heritage   bled   and   burned   for   existing   outside   the   bounds   of   the   church’s   wretched   chains,   the   same   which   bind   her   in   white   and   blind   her   from   the   crumbling   world   at   her   feet,   she   only   hears   the   sound   of   cainhurst   burning   .   weeks   pass   and   still   the   executioners   linger   with   blood   upon   their   boots   and   crooked   smiles   which   stab   her   in   their   passing,   knowing   eyes   always   provoking,   just   wanting   to   see   her   draw   her   fury   and   anguish   against   their   ranks   ;   she   can   do   nothing,   a   simple   pet   of   the   church,   member   of   the   choir,   and   when   the   vicar   sits   beside   her   in   the   pew   lined   cathedral   there   still   is   nothing   .surprise   might   have   once   coloured   her   features,   now   drained   of   saturation   she   looks   more   like   her   origins   suggest,   undead   and   yet   her   chest   still   heaves   with   breath,   with   pain,   and   with   great   sorrow   .

                        dark   eyes   do   not   rise   from   her   clasped   hands   as   she   leans   forward   over   her   thighs,   staring   through   pale   fingers   to   dark   boots   .   perhaps   there   is   a   kindness   she   might   have   once   reciprocated   towards   the   other’s   inquiry,   but   all   that   comes   from   dry,   cracked   lips   is   a   hoarse,   ghostly   sound,                                            ❛             there   is   nothing   to   talk   about,   vicar,   lest   you   have   need   of   an   ear   to   listen   .            ❜