#rhysoiche

[diathan]

@rhysoiche​

a steady flow of light through the cavernous depths  --  the aching of rust,  long sleeping machine laid to bed.  the skittering of things in the dark,  awakening to a dawn morning lit with cold;  a smattering of frost across their hand that crackles and aches as they shift.  it is a beast better left to sleep,  but few things are so pressing as war.  the horned brow lifts,  and consciousness roils like a blaze:  a spill of darkness that extinguishes the cracks in the walls.  the day that twilight’s son has brought with him does not last beneath the shade.

“  hmm,  “  the ghost wears his displeasure in glinting teeth.  a beast,  stuffed into flesh that does not bare it well.  “  i know you.  “  angled as he is across this ancient throne,  its body a bed for his long rest.  the frost settled across his thigh cracks and dissipates as he shifts,  resting elbows to his knees to lean forward.  interest alights in low flame,  which is a black hole no worse than his rage.  “  a highlord,  in my demesne?  such illustrious company.  to what do i owe such pleasure?  “

[folkluredarchive]

@rhysoiche liked for a starter .

‘  you’re  asking  me  to  stay.  ’

it’s  not  a  question .  yet  something  in  feyre’s  tone  holds  a  silvery  thread  of  disbelief — a  shadow  of  doubt  hidden  in  the  spaces  between  words ,  suspicion  in  the  way  it  hides  behind  them .  she’s  long  since  learned  the  art  of  schooling  her  features ,  but  the  pinch  of  a  brow ,  so  small  the  average  individual  might  miss  it  ( and  he  is  no  average  individual ,  of  that  she  is  all  too  aware ) ,  slips  through  the  cracks  of  her  newfound  self  control .  posture  shifts  minutely ,  arms  crossing  carefully  over  her  chest  as  a  guarded  slate  gaze  stays  fixed  upon  him .  ‘  why ?  what  exactly  do  you  stand  to  gain  from  such  a– partnership ?  ’

[firehcart-archived]

@rhysoiche​ asked :  In war you must always choose sides. — deathless sentence meme / accepting.

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 does she walk with the LORD of NIGHT ; if she did not know better, she might think this yet another dream, the eerie darkness of what had once been her home surrounding her as his shadow cloaks her in proximity. So close, that her frame threatens to nudge his – she wonders almost idly if he would even feel it if she did, in this strange world he’s crafted for these brief moments they share.

When this time ends and she’s propelled back to her own reality, heir of ash and fire knows what she might awaken to ; pain, agony, darkness. An iron coffin that shrouds her even now, beckoning her back to her fate. He saves her if only for a moment, unaware of what torture has been crafted to stifle the embers that burn within her blood – but not yet. In this dream, porcelain flesh is yet unmarred, yet unbroken, the dark glimmer of fabrics that adorne her far beyond what she’s ever seen in all the time she’s been alive.

A dream of a dream.

His words echo in the eerie surroundings, and her gaze catches on the forest that ( in another life ) might have looked so similar to the home of her younger years. Still, smaller frame stops for just a moment, and when her eyes lift to watch him, there’s something a little more daring in her gaze.

“And what side did you choose?”

Silent. Watching. Waiting.

[faespring]

‘  what  form  does  your  fear  take  ?  surely  not  that  of  a  bear  or  a  lion.  such  things  are  too  assuring.  ’                                                    ↬   @rhysoiche​  !

CTHONIC  COURT,         LIFELESS  &  JOYLESS             :         a  place  where  the  waking  and  dreaming  cross  trajectories  like  interwoven  threads,         and  spirits  take  the  forms  of  wandering  vagrants  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  night.         there  are  no  stars  in  the  skies  above,         and  no  hymnals  to  be  sung  of  them.         instead  there  is  darkness  with  stalactites  like  sharp  knives  and  gloom  as  a  thick,         poisonous  miasma  that  obscures  one’s  vision  if  they  try  to  look         too  closely         at  the  terrors  etched  into  the  wall,         ancient  runes  with  grim  features  that  mask  tongues  as  well  as  secrets.           wicked  glee,           garish  delight,         a  permanent  aura  of  dolor  seems  keen  to  wrap  itself  tightly  about  the  throats  of  its  people  and  its  visitors.         unfortunate  souls,           do  you  know  it  is  as  though  the  light  of  you  could  be  snuffed  out  with  a  gentle  breath  ?

it  is  not  by  choice  that  the  springmaid  seeks  the  king  of  the  night,         and  presently  approaches  the  obsidian  dais  of  his  grand  seat,         a  thing  wrought  of  ash  and  blackened  bones         :         it  is  instead  desperation,         for  no  lesser  force  could  lead  her  into  a  snare  where  can  only  be  trapped  with  their  own  nightmares.         ❛    i         ...         i  am  not  sure  i  should         tell  you.    ❜    

tremulous  her  voice,           yet  unwavering,         as  it  seeks  neither  forgiveness  for  ignoring  the  laws  of  the  courts,           or  the  swift  retribution  of  this  ruler  of  terrors.         ❛    it  is  known  that  the  night  wields  a  scythe  more  powerful  than  an  unseelie  winter.         that  its  teeth  alone  are  colder  than  bitter  ice,         when  they  sink  into  skin.    ❜         she  hopes  these  words  do  not           seal  her  finality;         it  seems  unlikely  that  such  a  lord  in  his  own  lands  would  fear  too  greatly  the  consequence  of  devouring  another          (    is  life  not  forfeit,         to  come  without  invitation  ?         and  how  many  eons  have  passed  away  in  the  realms,         how  many  chimes  of  twelfth  and  thirteenth  hours,         since  the  night  court  extended  one  ?    )         

 ❛    perhaps  the  rarest  of  permissions  to  enter  the  garden  of  the  otherworld  will  sate  your  thirst           ———             i  dare  guess           it  will,           more  than  the  fodder  of  my  fears.    ❜