#quartlet

[chickendquartlet]

fukkit whatever man draw your sona with your fave do what you want forever

[aevyternal]

                         ❝    Play  something  for  me ?    ❞        It’s  a  soft  request ,   soft  pads  of  her  fingers  skimming  over  the  glossy  finish  of  the  piano .   Silvery  gaze  flickers  towards  him ,   a  smile  touching  upon  her  lips .   She’s  HEARD  him  play  before ,   seen  the  way  fingers  dance  over  ebony  &  ivory  keys .   There  was  something  always  HAUNTING  about  the  music  he  composed ,   even  if  it  was  a  known  piece ,   the  emotion  he  put  into  it  always  changed  it  in  the  most  INTERSTING  ways .   Perhaps  it’s  too  much  to  ask ,   but  it  didn’t  hurt  to  at  least  try .                           ❝    I  always  enjoy  listening  to  you  play .    ❞

                   @quartlet​

[mannimarko]

@quartlet​ tolled the dead:     the bones are pliant,   easily broken,   yet they are arranged in such a way that is deceptive,   as if they were adorned as a bouquet.   in-between them there are the stems of dried roses and brittle thorns. 🥀

                                                    unprompted.

          nestled within the heart of it all lies the bones of a sparrow.   macabre bouquet of calcified bloom,   resting at his feet like an offering to a being sublime.   oh god,   my god,   my necromancer’s moon,   your blessing is all i need to make my hunt safe and secure.

mannimarco picks up a bone,   pinched delicately between gauntlet - clawed fingers and it splinters easily,   as if made of ash and coal.   he is not disappointed but rather enlightened.   one could never expect a formidable being to be created from these pliant bones.   no,   never,   not with how fragile they are.

he is reminded of—

(   i want to kiss the bones of his arms;   and name them   —   radius,   ulna,   long and slender,   firm and steady.   i want to kiss the bones of his hands;   and name them   —   carpus,   metacarpus,   phalanges,   hewn and rough,   worn and sharp.   i want to kiss the bones of his back;   and name them   —   cervical,   thoracic,   lumbar vertebrae,   curved and bowed,   strong and tall.   i want to kiss the bone of his face;   and name them   —   frontal,   sphenoid,   nasal,   zygomatic,   maxilla,   mandible,   smooth and heavy,   bared and windswept.   i want to kiss the bones of his body;   and name them   —   mine.   )

—something sentimental,   something best left in another life.

mannimarco scoffs.

“     quaint,   but nonetheless useless,     ”     he comments,   riffling through the bones,   and the lie is veiled behind a shroud that not many is able to pick their way through.   useless,   yes,   and quaint indeed,   but not so useless where he throws them away.   but another bird for the pile of carcasses the cat brought in.

maybe it is more of an offering,   like one would give a god;   ambrosia to soothe the soul and nectar to fulfill one’s goals.   perhaps that is not the intention behind them.   mannimarco knows it is not.   and still he sees no other reason behind the gift other than dedication to the craft.

this man,   being,   knows mannimarco.   either he is a fanatic or a fool.

“     they will do little more than serve as ashes for urns.     ”

maybe it is a threat ?   hardly.   mannimarco is not stupid enough to think that something this grandiose comes oat the behest of promised death.   he samples one of the dried roses and turns it over in his hand and a few of the petals falls to the ground.   he turns on his spot,   careless of his step,   and the crunch of a few of the petals beneath his heel is swallowed up by the structured walls making up his temporary keep.

“     pity that the sender did not stay to give it on his own,     ”     mannimarco looks at the glint of gold in the far corner of the cavernous room and lilts his tone,   tilts lip up enough to show a fanged smile   (   i see you   ).

the bouquet of roses and bones is taken with him.

[rilive]

@quartlet for — firefly – ori checks on jhin in the middle of the night

    for a brief time, orianna had considered the possibility khada jhin was not human. he had seemed not above being human. just not — right. more like looking at a person through a kaleidoscope. certainly, he had to be human, or something of flesh, or at the very least, mortal.

    he was not like her but he was not like anyone else and this thought had been weighing on orianna. it was a frequent tick in the back of her mind: a gear forever out of sync with the rest.

    the dance through his traps remains a simple task, even in the pitch black of night. what she misses, the ball does not, and it edges her out of their path. one step, two, three, four — the rhythmic click click click of metal on the floor.

   her voice rings out as she nears the end of the stage: " it is orianna. are you — awake? "

[multimoose]

@quartlet​ liked !

                    𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓    𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐒    𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋    𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑    summoned    visage,    blood    moon    mask    tilted    over    the    demon’s    hidden    face.    This    is    not    the    first    time    that    Khada    Jhin    had    summoned    Them,    &    certainly,    it    won’t    be    the    LAST.    Kalista    knows    he    is    a    show    -    off,    likes    to    kill    just    for    the    sake    of    killing    .    .    .    a    waste,    at    times,    but    She    still    enjoys    working    at    his    SIDE.    There    is    an    artistic    twist    to    his    sacrifices    that    make    them    almost    bearble,    at    times.    If    only    he    were    to    close    his    mouth,    once    in    a    while    —    but    She    would    never    say    that    aloud    to    HIM.

                    ❛   𝑱𝒉𝒊𝒏.    ❜                    A    familiar    greeting,    one    between    old    friends    (    or    perhaps    enemies    :    Kalista    was    undecided    yet    on    the    Cult    ).    Kalista’s    voice    is    cool,    the    overlapping    of    many    within    one,    &    as    she    retracts    a    spear    from    behind,    she    leans    onto    it,    a    momentary    rest    before    what    she    is    sure    will    be    a    SLAUGHTER.                    ❛    𝑫𝒐    𝒚𝒐𝒖    𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆    𝒂𝒏    𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈    𝒇𝒐𝒓    𝑼𝒔    ?    ❜

[solliium]

@quartlet

    the crickets are loud, piercing through the darkness with a comforting melody. humidity leaves the air thick, smelling of rain and jasmine and wet earth. misri thinks of a childhood where nights like this were warm. navori is different. its nights always seem cold, no matter the heat of the day.

    misri hugs her shoulders together, hands clasped around a cup of oolong. the warmth sinks into her palms. there’s a teapot left on a window sill, an empty cup beside it.

    she places herself in the center of the garden: an empty space, framed by flowers and greenery. almost-not-quite a spotlight, one encircled by crooked shadows. she takes a sip of tea.

     and then misri waits.

[trifarix]

         RED FALLS AND BLOSSOMS LIKE A BLOOM;   course,   flow,   stream down flesh and bone !   passion,   how it guides thine hand,   a weapon,   a shade   —   khada jhin is more devil than man when it comes to gun play.

“     impressive,     ”     when darius removes his fingers from the curve of his cheek they come back carrion red,     “     but cowardly.     ”     a ghost,   if not for the faint  smell of powder and smoke.   no,   khada jhin is no ghost,   no spectre to speak of in frightening stories.   he is merely a man with a devil by his side.   hazel,   turned reddish - brown in evening sun,   scans area and horizon   —   where a pinch of gold hides,   biding his time.

“     of course,     ”     he says,   unflinchingly,   an immovable object to the golden demon’s unstoppable force,     “     that is to be expected of men who refuse the true path of guile.     ”

@quartlet​          /          starter call.

[bismortem]

                   ❛   oh  ,  you are beautiful  .   ❜   

             such flattery  !  he is hardly sparing in their company  &&  perhaps it is simply to be expected from the artist whom lovingly crafts each piece with  death  as its finishing touch  ,  that he should not think anything less than perfection of it  .  &&  yet  .  .  .               beauty  .  they hear it plucked from his shuddering lips now  &&  then with the ecstasy of found religion  &&  the sanctity of a lover’s embrace  .  it is the highest of praise he has to give  &&  now  ,  turning fresh from finish of the most recent hunt he has offered their way  ,  the single half of kindred standing before him stills  &&  so does the world  .

                     ❛   is that so  ?  he believes us to be beautiful  ,  dear wolf  .   ❜                opposed to common course  ,  wolf is leisure  ;;  in its own manifestation at their most  esteemed  admirer’s side  &&  in the manner it suffocates the air         

     ❛    IT IS SO  .  BUT DOES HE KNOW WHY  ,  PRECIOUS LAMB ?!   ❜                               &&  how it envelops  .  fills the space between porcelain  &&  skin  ,  cloth  &&  skin  ,  skin  &&  skin  .  wolf coats the back of his eyelids  .  fills the ears of khada jhin with oil woven into words  .

             ❛    IS IT WHAT HE SEES  &&  HEARS  ?   ❜   nostrils are suffused by inky shadows  .  they coat his tongue  &&  fill his throat  &&  line the inside of his lungs  .   ❛   DOES BEAUTY HAVE A SCENT  ?  CAN YOU TASTE IT  ?   ❜  

               an inhuman hand takes hold of his  &&  turns his palm outward  &&  the lamb asks  ,  lacing fatal digits between his own  .   ❛   does it feel like wool between the fingers  ?   ❜  it lifts his other thereafter  ,  allowing the prosthetic to sit motionless by the balance of his palm resting flat against their own  .   ❛   does it feel like anything at all  ?   ❜

                                  @quartlet​               the bear  &&  the nightingale