#scraphim

[elains]

MYTHOLOGY MOODBOARDS • NYX for anonymous

“The great roots of night grow suddenly from your soul, and the things that hide in you come out again”. — Pablo Neruda, from The Light Wraps You.

[thewinedarksea]

f/f myths → jaci & iara

requested by @scraphim

[undomielle]

“My dearest, tenderest one, I love the star-infused melancholy of your face,”

— Alexander Blok, from Selected Poems; “Retribution,” wr. c. May 1913

[cavarage]

mythology meme: hades — greek god of the underworld.

[lapleuvoir]

fangs bared raw / honey drips from silver tongued lips / shadows bow at their golden-clad feet / the devilish court of the unseelie

[starlitwritings]

🖋️ !!

This has been on my drafts since forever and I admit: I forgot it was there. I picked Light is not Good + Dark is Not Evil, and this is kind of a concept for a wip of mine. Anyway, hope you like it! :)

They meet in a space between nowhere and everywhere, a gap between what is and what will never be again. Above them lies a realm of ash and dust and ruins, haunted by unspeakable horrors woven from a dead god’s blackest nightmares; below them, a land bursting with life and beauty, thriving in blissful ignorance, built by a dying god’s fragile hope.

Around them, reality is a fragile, fickle thing, making and remaking itself over and over again. The seams of the world lay exposed, the fabric of reality torn asunder, and their presence is enough to send its threads into utter disarray.  

She is gold and life and the light of endless stars. Fiery flowers adorn her moonlit hair, and when she smiles, they bloom into small suns and supernovas. The world— reality itself— holds its breath; it awaits, eagerly, longingly, for her command.

“Life cannot be stopped,” she says, and the world answers. Life explodes around them, creation beginning anew, filling the gap with foreign colors.  Flowers grow from nothingness and beings that never were before and never would again rise from the dust. “It’ll find a way back. It always does.”

She is beautiful— and lovely, and bright, and wrong.

Across from her, he stands, darkness and death and the sorrows of endless souls. Shadows embrace him like armor, snuffling out all the light; blood falls from his crimson hands, bleeding and bleeding without ever stopping. The world — reality itself— cries in terror of his existence and awaits, fearfully, anxiously, for his command.

They stand there, between nowhere and everywhere, a scion of life and a scion of death, gods-blessed children given powers none should ever have; mortals who had become something else, something more.

He remembers what they were before: a man blessed at war and bloodshed, a harbinger of death, destruction and misery; a woman with a gift for healing, a priestess full of love and life and simplistic wisdom. He remembers the feeling of falling, of rising again—  their own mortality, long buried, desperately holding on to whatever it can.

She no longer remembers being human.

Now here they stand, equal and opposite, children of a dead world and gods of a new one.

“You are right,” he acknowledges, and the world screams. All around them, life turns to ash and bones and blood and nothingness. “But I shall hinder your progress, for as long as I can.”

She laughs, amused despite herself. Around them, reality is in chaos— equal and opposite, the pull of their forces, and it does not know whose will to heed.

“They’re lowly animals, flawed and imperfect to their core. Why protect that which is only a step to true perfection?” Her voice as melodious as a bird singing under the morning sun, as sharp as the wind and cold enough to burn. She has starlit eyes— distant and capricious and long past caring.

“Because you have forgotten how to,” he whispers, sadness and regret as cutting as obsidian shards. He stares deep into her eyes, those twin stars that once brought hope to the world— even his own. “Because you’re my sister.”

She just smiles, beautifully, brightly, emptily. There is nothing human left in her, only light and life and the mercilessness of existence.

They say nothing more. They do not have too.

A goddess of life, hungry for death— and a god of death, sworn to stop her.

[theivorypiano]

@femmefatalenet get to know each other event: for @thewinedarksea

golden age of piracy

The Golden Age of Piracy is a common designation given to usually one or more outbursts of piracy in the maritime history of the early modern period. In its broadest accepted definition, the Golden Age of Piracy spans the 1650s to the late 1720s

[mightyhecate]

@hogwartsonline may event: motherly figures

Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs. Weasley held him to her.