#theslowarrow

[lethanaviir]

( x ) @theslowarrow

Isilmë frowns, nose wrinkling in perfect mirror, unrealizing. He ducks to Ilwë, murmuring in exchange, and he returns to Alhem, solemnly: “Ráva.”

[godbetrayer]

@slowassan

       ‘That tree you carved. You left in it a mark I had not seen before. For what purpose?’

  His tone is light, lilting. But he approaches with a tentative curiosity, unmasked and open. He stops short of the branded elf with an animal’s wild caution, and a wary, uncertain shadow creased between his eyes.

[theeternalsun]

theslowarrow replied to your post: theslowarrow replied to your post: ...

i thought we were in the short club together

squint intensifies 

[asomniari]

@theslowarrow

Elves can see in the shadows, you silly lump of forgetfulness.

Not if they wear sunglasses

[mienhxrel-blog]

@theslowarrow replied to your post: do i hand in my assignment that is shitty and...

   ( you did your best bb and handed in assignment and sleep is better than handed in assignment and no sleep. your rest is important and is as vital as academical success, even more so. <3 )   

I ended up adding a few things that made it better rather than rewrite it entirely, so now it’s not terrible but I still get my sleep, but thank you so much for your kind words!!uwu

[ofrevas-a]

theslowarrow replied to your post: theslowarrow replied to your post: ...

for the revolution

revolution is coming the have-nots are gonna win 

[ofrevas-a]

theslowarrow replied to your post: *taps mic* The Evanuris suck!!!

!!! *beatboxes for you cheerfully*

quietly leaves this here

[lethanaviir]

scent: honey

There is sweetness to death.

Saccharine, the fetor rising from the flesh of the corpse.  A bouquet of illness, lighter than the living salt of an animate being.  It once seemed discordant, that such dulcitude mingled with such wrongness the sticky sap of honey.  An associate smell, the resin to preserve the dead as blood and sinew and soul preserves the living.  

This strange olfaction of honey and death lingers in cool caves, floor dusted in the passing of cancellous chalk and the ossuaries of those who passed forever into the Beyond, who rest in silence swallowed by the dark.

He remembers. But it is easily subsumed in the honeysuckle of the Orchard. The fragrance of a thousand burgeoning buds, hungry petals turned to their only Light.  The miasma of rot enfolded in greedy soil, of elvhen bodies blooming hosts for a fungal embrace.  

It is a long process, the mellification of the husks of the faithful.  Orchard fruits drip heavy and fat, suckling roots shooting eagerly through parched carotids.The rich amber of honey touches the air, sweeter still for the open freshness of it, for the mark of new souls given in greater purpose than arid channels cut through ancient rock and quiet, barefoot keepers to guide the ever more silent dead.

Thus grander is this, His Orchard, whose great hunger is twin to his own, a vast expanse of sighing beauty fed by the macerated and fleshy red pulps of the dead.  More satisfying, then, the sugared juices plucked from the biotic flesh of his flora, the taste of the fruit fed by sacrifice, the most honeyed temptation.