Discover Top Posts Tagged with #the perished

Daily Writing Challenge (May 2025) 5/27, Day 3 Gaze / Linger @daily-writing-challenge

{In response to this post}

On a regular day, Safrona’s gaze was fleeting. A professional’s intake, the passive observance that followed a trail of detailed information. Until some particular words or voice ensnared her eyes, and brought the lambent nebula that was her sight to meet them, soul to soul. Eyes were the window to it after all, and the hunger for the soul never truly abated in her.

In fact, that dark hunger only seemed to pitch higher beyond demonic design since her binding to the Loa and the other Perished beholden to Bwonsamdi’s pact. A boon and a curse, all at once. There was a lifetime quota of owed souls to bring to bear, and a Harvester’s senses were appropriately honed to the task. Beneath the serviceable mask of the Courier, she was the Perished’s Harvester, their acting Eyes until her pact of redemption was fulfilled. And she remained guarded as everyone’s Courier.

Of course, there were days where a Courier let herself be more, and as more in her employ fulfilled the duty of her legacy as The Courier, Safrona indulged more and more to simply…be. Life was more than existing. She lived in places where her demonic tendencies or void heritage were not condemned, where she did not have to censor her existence and speak in platitudes and half-truths for the integrity of business, namely her own Elysian Sojourn.

There were some that made the trek to visit, and she always found her small delight in their lives, the rumors that spun Azeroth, in the curiosity that could build in them for her. She was the Lady Shadowsun here, and her mysteries could always be unfurled with the right questions, and by the right offerings. Confessions fed her for days, soul-truths invigorating and staving off her unnatural ache for Life. With each drain of her glass of red, the mask of propriety and control slipped ever so slightly. Where she invited eyes to find her own, she could not help her nature to tug on the souls there, coercing them to uncork and let their secrets flow, as she did.

Yet, as the First of the Perished took the humble stage of her Elysian Sojourn now, her eyes swept to the man that bound her by ritual long before she ever invested her heart. He’d collected quite the list of names in his years that others knew to speak: Orchid, Soulsinger, Mister Blaque. Mr. Shadowsun, even. His crimson gaze found her capturing eyes in the audience and lingered intently as he brought his Ebon Beauty into his lap; she inevitably gave him the coy little smile she reserved for him, an unchanged ritual stretching back to the first days of delivering on his prized Highland Scotch. As his calloused fingers strummed the first idling chords to get his bearings for the chosen song, all other words and sound seemed to fade for Safrona in favor for the Man in Black.

When the Soulsinger performed, one knew better than to distract his wife’s attention. All other words fell uselessly on deaf ears.

{ @thefirstperished }

#maydwc2025 #mayday32025 #The Perished #Eyes of the Perished #The First Perished #Soulsinger #Daily Writing Challenge #safwriting #Safrona Shadowsun

THANK YOU ALL!

Lovely time at our Empyrean Star Trades Shoppe in Stormwind tonight! Thank you for coming and RPing with us!

@safrona-shadowsun @latildarommel @silverashwind

#Wyrmrest Accord #Empyrean Star Trades #Eclipse Syndicate #The Perished #RP

Unwanted souls need a new mother in 'The Perished'

Unwanted souls need a new mother in ‘The Perished’

‘It will feed on your guilt and be reborn…’

The Perished is a 2019 Irish supernatural horror feature film about a young woman haunted by the spirits of unwanted souls.

Written and directed by Paddy Murphy, the Celtic Badger Media production stars Courtney McKeon, Fiach Kunz, Conor Lambert, Noelle Clarke and Paul Fitzgerald.

Plot:

Dealing with a pregnancy termination in Ireland has been hard for…

View On WordPress

#2019 #babies #Conor Lambert #Courtney McKeon #Fiach Kunz #film #horror #Irish #movie #Paddy Murphy #spirits #termination #The Perished

Updated Site

(( Updated a few things and added a new page , “ Those of the Perished”. A full roster of those who have undergone the Ritual of Joining and are considered a full member of the Perished. It will be updated as new members are added to the fold.))

#The Perished #Roster

It was never difficult for the Harvester of the Perished to find marked souls. The pain and loss of the victimized filled a veritable goblet of rumor that was rarely wrong to hunt by. The morally bankrupt and monstrous were often messy enough in their debauchery to merit a 'collection', but Safrona followed on questions of autonomy first most - she had run into her fair share of enemies only acting under the sway of another force, and darker threads were always worth untangling from the mass.

Tonight, something more and less than a Courier unraveled a nasty outfit of extortionists supposedly serving a cultist mastermind. Working in perfect synchronicity with her Voidwalker, they crippled a dozen bodies that had attempted an unwise attack as she infiltrated the cavernous lair - the warlock's power was no mercy upon them, and neither was her hunger.

Still, Safrona kept her dark itch for the soultaking at bay, concentrating her effort on steeping the catatonic horror in one very terrorized sycophant with a Fel-afflicting curse. His body was wire tight in tortuous anxiety, the location pried of his leader falling from shivering lips. After his provoked confession, the horrified supplicant doubled over into his own pool of vomit and urine, causing Safrona to step back.

Grimly satisfied, the warlock cast a glance to her Voidwalker, her command spilling out through a mental repore as she marched on deeper within the cavernous conclave.

"Riskel the Chosen, likely a caster. Take him down slowly. Need the soul in this one."

She put emphasis on her instruction for good reason. Hathkath's demeanor, and even it's void-born strength had in some ways evolved...

The Voidwalker rumbled low in acknowledgement... a sound not unlike breath, but older, dragged from the belly of the Void itself. Yet as it shifted, the joints twitched, jerked - not from pain, but as though obeying some hand not its own. A marionette wearing a corpse.

"He is already dead, M̸̾̄ḯ̴̕š̷̊t̸͒͒r̸͐̓e̵̽̚s̸̾̃s̵͗͂..."

The voice didn’t simply speak—it hummed, shook the marrow, reverberated against the very foundation of the space. The walls seemed to recoil. From beyond the Courier’s steps, the shadows obeyed, folding inward like ink drawn to blood. Tendrils sprawled outward... floor, wall, ceiling... like veins racing toward a corrupted heart.

And at their core, where all darkness met, a shape bloomed.

Humanoid.

At a glance.

But its skin sagged like wet paper, jaw unhinged in an expression locked between agony and awe. Riskel—but not. Something beneath Riskel. Inside Riskel. The truth of him laid bare.

His limbs spasmed—not randomly, but in time with Hathkath's own as if they were twin dolls danced by a single, unseen will. The head bowed. The mouth slowly sealed. Black ichor streamed from vacant sockets—the Void, weeping through him.

Then, from above, it descended.

The shadows gathered—not poured but coalesced—curling into a familiar, foul silhouette. The Entity emerged like a riddle unwinding, like prophecy dragging itself into flesh.

“And oh, how he died…” The voice did not simply speak... it soothed, scraped, and sang, each syllable stitched with something intimate and unclean.

“His soul I drink with reverence…”

As if to prove the point, the remains of Riskel began to wither. Eyes collapsed inward, skin flaked in delicate, papery curls. Flesh sagged, fell, and rotted to nothing in seconds, leaving behind a skeleton clothed in ritual’s ruin. Then, with elegance and finality, the Entity released it. The bones struck the earth like punctuation.

Then the air cooled. Thickened. The silence after was almost devout.

“How nice...” it rasped, voice stretching with mock sincerity. "To see the Harbinger’s work in full bloom.”

Then the tone twisted unveiling smiling teeth beneath velvet. A blade beneath a bow.

“Tell me, little usher of ends... do many know how you tend your enemies? Or…” a pause, just long enough to cut, “…have I stumbled into a private, sentimental affair?”

The smirk returned not to the face, but to the presence, like the room itself was grinning with him.

“Do you mourn what you ruin? Or simply memorize how sweet it is to watch it rot?”

{ Rp with @allasticus }

#safwriting #The Entity #Allasticus #Warcraft #Rp threads #The Perished #Part 1 of many probably #rp snippets

(Previously...)

The air was still, as if her words had stolen the madness—if only for a breath. Then it struck again. A rush. A lance against her senses. A violation. An invasion. The cellar trembled, flickered—then vanished. In its place, the Empire unfolded before her. Writhing obelisks clawed at the horizon, citadels of darkness loomed skyward, and an endless tide of shadow-cloaked creatures stirred. Their lidless eyes turned toward her. Watching. Knowing.

N̵̋̆o̷̜͗..." The word trembled through the void, echoing without direction, without source. Then, as swiftly as it had come, it was gone. The cellar returned. A gift? A warning? A glimpse into something unfathomable?

"Y̸͋̎o̴͌͠ú̴̈—̶͑̂ȃ̵̝r̷͂͝ë̸́—the Greà̘t̶̛͂ ̵͌̈́D̷ark."

"It̶̂̔ ̷̃̒i̴͋̕s̴̿ buried."

"B̵̚͠u̶̽̑t̵̐͛ ̴̇͘ì̷̓t̸̋̒ ̸͑resists ̓y̴̒̾ő̵̩ú̷̒r̵̔ conce̓̀a̴̿̓l̵͐̂ment."

"It be̗ġ̸̇i̸͆̕n̸͂̕s̵̎͐ ̸̔͆t̸̆̂o̷ unearth̆̿ ̸̓̇ḯ̵͗t̴͒̔s̷̀elf...͋"

Another vision bled into place. Friends gathered—familiar faces, warm laughter. Clinking glasses, the rich scent of food and wine. Then silence. A shift. They turned toward her, their faces swallowed by shadow.

"Y̷͇̓ȯ̶̀u̵̓͠ ̷̄̒c̷̀̌a̷̔͝n̵͑not ̵̈́̎h̸̕͘i̷̾́d̴̉̚é̷̾ ̵from t̶̍̀h̶em."

"Y͊ơ̶͎ú̵ cann̕̕o̸͆͊t̸͎͂ ̵͒̔h̷̋̓ide from ỳ̷͊ṏ̷́u̵̅̐r̵͘̕s̵̆̆e̷̽lf..."

Then another vision. The Courier, standing atop the broken bodies of those shadow-touched allies. Violet tendrils curled around her arms, her legs—the Void itself bending to her will. An offer. A temptation. A gift?

"Ỳ̵́o̴̊̈́u̸͗͑ ̴͋̈́c̸̀̅a̵͊̃n̵͌n͝ot hid̋e̷ from ̴̃̅m̵͆̒e̵̪̋.̴̚͝.̷̏͐.̵̔̒"

The wine cellar reassembled itself, as if nothing had changed. As if everything had.

The lancing power of the voices drove her to her own knees, soaked in bloodwine. An inevitable violation, awakening in her imagery she had known and feared to be true. Small against the ancient empire, or perhaps absorbed by it, she stared in abject silence as she was forced to view an unspeakable truth of Beginning. Even as the vision of Ny’alotha dissipated and the stone walls of the cellar returned, the madness of their Voices continued endlessly. An endless sea of abyssal darkness, awaiting her return to the fold and be made whole in their eyes.

The many Eyes laid her open in this vulnerability, their invading tendrils following the threads of treasured voices and faces she had come to know and care for, to those that depended upon her. Her stomach crawled as the vision hollowed out their faces, staring on her like portals into Nothing. A sacrifice of Being in every one of them for the offering of the Void’s eternal caress.

She could not hide, no. And she failed to protect the faces and voices she held dear now in the wake of their violation of her mind now. A rough sentiment that made her heart burn with an acidic regret, an acid bite that reflected in the chests of her demons. In her First Perished. A beat of concern washed in from this Soulsinger, and she let it find her like a wave finds the shore. But the insidious Eyes bore their witness now too to this bond.

From him trickled the solidifying guitar strings she loved and knew him by, precious reverberations down the soulchain that connected them through memory and utter devotion. She had stolen his very soul from the Deathlands to bind him at her side, an equal until the very stars died. The smile was brittle and tender on her lips, knowing he would follow her into the Dark if she desired it.

Then, the gentle guitar strings intensified, like fingers raking across her soul to stir her from the static Void’s call. A primal percussion followed like the ghost of war drums, holding clarity in its ancient power. It was a stark reminder to what she did not belong, but to who she owed. The Warlock’s will seemed enlivened by this pact to an unseen power, even in her grim acknowledgment. The Voices had only come to the rumor of a Courier, a mask of convenience. They would come to know a Harvester.

“The Dark moves through me then, yes,” she uttered in a hushed whisper as she dug her fingertips into the red spilled out beneath her. “And no. I cannot hide. Maybe…I’ve been a fool to try.” The confession was released as her fingertips flexed, subtly working the bloodwine to her will as she let threads of soul fragments drift into the liquid.

“I feel your hunger and know it to be mine too. You want to know the world as I did, claim it. Them. Live through them. We are a hunger incarnate in this way. It’s the Void’s nature. To consume, and to know. From the beginning to the end of the universe.”

The lambent nebula of her eyes sought the many Eyes on her now, continuing with an almost intimate acknowledgement. “How cruel it must be, to be denied and buried time and time again. Eternally hungry and denied majesty. I was once empty, full of only hunger too. But I am fed, and I am taught to live for more. Every soul is a fascination for me. And the sweetest souls worship in ways you could never understand. They belong to me as much as I belong to them. Not all souls are meant for me to take, still. Some souls are owed. But you. You are different.”

“You invade with your many truths, and hunger for me to know you too. But I have my own singular truth that blurs everything you show me, offer me…” The suffused bloodwine fixed itself into place under her fingers, completing the circle around her with a motivating drive that spanned realms. “You are nameless, and empty, and I have no time for things with no name, and no soul.” The Harvester spat the last words with a vehemence as the banishing spell took hold with an angry glow.” Be gone from me, and go bleed in the Dark. You and your ‘gifts’ are as you say: Nothing. And nothing is not worth our effort.”