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ind. The Darkling

[tmiina]

# TMIINA :  the yawning void inside him stretches wider.   ind.  writing  blog  for  ALEKSANDER  MOROZOVA  /  THE  DARKLING  of  the  grishaverse.  book  based.  low-activity,  private  and  selective.  heavily  plot-oriented.  mostly  iconless.  written  by  mara.

GUIDELINES  •  PROMPTS  •  PROMO  •  PINT. BOARD

[markantonys]

if you are here to convince me to vote for your uncle, you’re wasting your time.

[vjeranski]

Melih Dönmezer

[derangedrhythms]

He saw the darkness turn in upon itself, churn, and spasm. He watched it reach out for him, felt it first caress, then clutch and fondle him.

Robert Jones, Jr., from 'The Prophets'

[poeticque]

“You fear the wrong things. Your fear is the wrong fear.”

Short Talk on No One to Talk to, by Anne Carson.

[vjeranski]

Melih Dönmezer

[tmiina]

a redemption arc? don't know her

[vjeranski]

Stacy Caldwell

[markantonys]

I MEDICI | 2x08

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

He has to seek with aching eyes through the sodden darkness of ruin and remembrance to maybe see that clear space where nothing is forgotten, nothing forsaken, nothing familiar.

Ursula K. Le Guin, from “After the Fire,” Finding My Elegy: New and Selected Poems 1960-2010 (HMH, 2012)

[milksshrimp]

gold

[xshayarsha]

Am I not you in the dark?

Alice Notley, from Certain Magical Acts.

[pokekumo]

He rises from the throne. "Come, have a seat." His voice is replete with danger, lush with menace. The flowering branches have sprouted thorns so thickly that petals are barely visible. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he asks. "What you sacrificed everything for. Go on. It's all yours."

Source: The Folk of the Air - The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

[softersinned]

@tmiina​​ said: ❝ were that to happen, losses would be incalculable. ❞

The moment she stepped foot on Ravkan soil, Astoria ripped the scrap of ribbon from her hair and tore her curls, matted and tangled as they were, free from their braid. She has not braided her hair since.

          It is a rebellion of the same shade as her insistence that her kefta be more closely fitted. There are practical reasons for it, just as there are practical reasons for her to twist and pin her hair up: less to grab, should someone try, and it makes it harder to pin her down. But mostly, it reminds her that she’s not Fjerdan any longer, and that alone is reason enough. She cannot so easily escape the way Fjerda built her, in her accent and the cadence of her words and her preference for the Fjerdan saints, and so this freedom from who she was, limited though it may be, gives her space enough to build who she is.

          He watches as she trains, sometimes, curious to see how her power will manifest now that she has a real outlet for it; in truth, he watches all of the students, determined to piece together an army that can hold its own, but she is new, and a recent distraction will almost certainly always win out over the familiar. He is the one to recommend that she work with a Heartrender, when he realizes her affinity for blood, and he is the one present when she finally, finally succeeds in making the cadaver’s blood boil. The sight and the smell of it are both gruesome, but she is pleased, and she very nearly feels herself evolving in his estimation.

          She is more than just an idle curiosity, after that.

Keep reading

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

I was carving my name into your side and you were calling me soft, calling me gentle. I do not think you were paying attention.

Trista Mateer, from “For the One Who Loved My Hands More than Anything Else”

[scrollsandyarns]

I swallowed darkness, and darkness swallowed me. I swallowed the night, and the night swallowed me.

Mark Lawrence, Prince of Thorns

[dog-teeth]

margaret atwood / rumi / s. osborn