#victo1re

[zalimbane]

✏️ OOOOO

⌈ * send me✏️ for my muse to draw your muse . ⌋

[selunight]

this is a quiet, endless place; so unlike the heat of battle celeste has just been so unceremoniously pulled from. if it is soothing, that is only by repetition. the air is calm and faintly cool, the architecture grand like a courthouse - efficient like a war room. her goddess stands between two pillars of white-gold marble. her mask faintly askew, her hair in disarray - on this rare occasion, vitorîya is unabashedly imperfect. " oh, celeste ... my would-be martyr. come here. sit with me. "

her chest still heaves, rising and falling with great exertion - the ghost of weight along her skin from armor and a shield and her mace... all gone from her form here, but still somehow so heavy. almost as heavy as the weight of what she was prepared to do...

or, rather... had been preparing to do.

it takes a moment for her mind to untangle the confusion, to break out of the cocoon of peace and safety that being in this place has always provided. the switch from her reality - all the blood and violence and certainty that the battle around her was to be her last stand - to standing before her goddess, unharmed and alive...

she approaches, the gentle shake in her hands hidden by the way they clench into fists. and, while a seat beside vic is open and available, celeste finds herself kneeling at her feet instead, looking up at her with equal parts reverence and stubborn will as she firmly speaks, "send me back."

[zalimbane]

he’s a ten but he overcompensates like crazy with those steel watchers smh

                                             𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐍 , 𝐁𝐔𝐓 -----

 ❝  one  cannot  understate  genius  .  ❞

[zanaluna-a]

@victo1re, act 𝓲. scene 𝓲.

the traveller looks upon the crowd and cannot help but compare it to the rats at the docks - any other day, there would be at least an attempt at a gentler comparison, but cities have always set her teeth on edge, and she finds herself stretched thin. gerwin had been kind enough to do her hair for her, and the dress certainly has its charms, with the embroidered birds of prey silent guardians shifting with her every move.

a useful addition, she thinks wryly, given the company she keeps tonight. gluttony hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive.

❝ you'll have to be careful with me, ❞ she laughs, allowing more of her accent to slip through, strong, crisp consonants and lilting vowels. strong enough to be picked upon, if not placed. her gaze pivots to her own footwork rather than the woman leading the dance. it gives her a chance to centre herself. ❝ i am unfamiliar with the steps of your dances. ❞

[anquenin-archive]

" come on. have a taste. "

it sounded like a devil talking. tempting. and there was the thought for astarion to think, that certainly there was a devil talking to him. the woman before him. salvation. no other gods would listen, no one cared. and he knows to an extent that astarion is convinient. but here it's safe, and here it's decadent, everything he could've wished for. no longer had he had to be bound to the chains cazador had him in. the rules changed, and maybe his luck too. and he starves. he starves, and has been like this for so long. blood spilled calling for him. drawn, he walks slow. doesn't trust her. he would never trust a vampire again. he did that mistake once. ( but she seems different. it's all the same. but different. ) she was the one to kill cazador, he understands it is not out of the goodness of her heart. but when she extends the blood in a cup. when astarion has been hungry. barely fed. it's hard to deny himself. it's over, he can have everything he could possibly want. starting now, starting today. he takes the cup and holds it to his lips. the smell dizzying, perfumed even. red eyes look at her. trying to figure out any emotion. anything happening, before he drinks. and it's nothing like he has had before. it overflows, drips down the edges of his mouth. stains his shirt. it feels almost like a gift. a promise. of what's to come. of what will be. he doesn't trust his voice to speak. he doesn't say anything. eyes on hers. did he tell you he did not feed us properly? did you just know? astarion instead licks his lips. "-it's warm still." he points out, not as a complaint. just to say something. he says it with difficulty, like he's still processing it. the blood, the taste. the delicacy in it all. it could be his. it would be. it was.

@victo1re

[anquenin-archive]

receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it (lol. lmao even)

astarion slowly puts himself back together. only to turn, tilt his head and be welcomed by victoria and what used to be a person. the sight is violent, there is no rhythm. there is no grace. just pure unadulterated viciousness. and astarion who is used to gruesome scenes, who has even had a little fun in violence. ( he had no choice but to make violence a home, to make violence his entertainment. to find the joy in what has been used against him. he cannot be the only one to suffer. ) and he stares, the fight is over. they won. covered in blood and for a split second astarion sees himself. after the tomb. all those years ago. how starved he felt, how the only thing he could want was blood. was to kill, tear down. leave nothing but gore in his path. it makes him shiver. he does not know entirely what compels victoria, what makes it so she ends here. but he knows how it feels, what it does to you. how one would do anything not to indulge when it is not one's desires but something else part of you, but not entirely you. he stands there, dares not focus that attention to him. how she is covered in blood. ( and his hunger calls too. not as how it once used to, victoria lets him feed after all. but it's there. the smell intoxicating. ) "-victoria, dear, you have managed to absolutely eviscerate the poor fellow, come now. we have other business to attend to." he talks to her, normally at first. it's to see how awake she really is, how much control she has or the lack of it. if it was him behaving like this, well, he would hate for others to act scared. he would hate to be coddled unless asked for. he plans to offer further help, once he was sure he was not set up to follow in the corpse's footsteps.

@victo1re

[triickst]

( @victo1re )

` talk about a rocky landing. it's wild luck that the two of them are safe with their heads firmly attached to their bodies rather than broken over the stony alcove that caught them. wild luck has always served midge well and her disposition is as bright as it was on the ship. perhaps the experience of hurtling through the air ( on fire ) is a natural state for her.

` but now the night has fallen and this foreign forest is still, and the only fire is the one crackling in the center of their camp to ward off the encroaching darkness. quiet for once, other than the symphony of the trees. a moment of stillness that allows midge to approach her new . . . empty companion.

` and so she invites herself to victoria's side, plopping easily beside her. " how does your head fare? memories still in disrepair? "

[feminurge]

her eyes went jet-black before the father's hold stole the last breath from her lungs, a clumsy attempt at paternal love in the form of a knot around the neck. the leash was too tight, that at least became abundantly clear when the spasms were few-- became none. in the end, the puppeteer's strings are cut with a slash as silent as the temple that welcomes victoria's limp body. only the noise of knees meeting ground can be heard: two wizards have fallen. one, in peaceful oblivion. the other, in terrifying despair.

there is a choice that has to be made, and the sorceress finds herself completely devoid of the desire to make it. satisfaction and horror mix within her chest and bubble up in her throat; victoria, there, lying pretty as a corpse could lie no more, and her lover appears delightfully broken. finally, desperately, absurdly silent. in the end, solely istar remains; with the key & with the knowledge. whatever type of monster she decides to become is entirely up to her-- and what a terrifying thought, indeed, that she is her own again, at last. victoria's hold has snapped, perhaps, with the broken light in her eyes. she will be back, istar knows that much, but it does not mean that istar has to make it easy for her. it does not mean she has to be kind.

it is a choice. will she make it?

she steps forward. whatever seethes inside her does not possess enough animal teeth to truly hurt. it barks and barks and she does not relent to the fury. her fingers find the wizard's shoulder, and they dig uncomfortably in the meat there. "pull yourself together, wizard." she commands, and in the empty temple of a now-jilted god, her voice becomes law. (isn't it amusing, too, that she spent decades in his service, and that he views her rebellion as unworthy of even a word? how pathetic.) the more gale kneels, the more she presses her fingers in his flesh, until it has to be painful.

"this is just an empty carcass. look." she moves to face him, and grips his chin with her free hand to force him into actually looking at the corpse. she will remain there until the glassy eyes have cleared. it is important that he sees. "look. she isn't here anymore." now she brings his gaze back to her, and her hold on his shoulder drops so she can hold his face. it is more comforting, almost friendly. holding all the pieces from crumbling further. "but i know where she is. will you come with me? to get her back." @netherill / @victo1re