[unyearning]

       a  midnight  apparition  cast  in  coldest  winter.                                                                                                            intro.  bio.  threads.

[ficklefablcs]

" I DON'T KNOW WHAT EVERYONE IS SO FUSSY ABOUT , " dorothy voiced , but the words were spoken between shallow and bitter breaths , having just teetered off the stage from a particularly grim performance ( the town's happenings had left little room for pallet - soothing whimsy , but perhaps her audience could have done without her celebratory merriment about the witch's fate ) . taking the scarlet fingertip of a stain glove between her teeth , dorothy tugged the costume piece off her tawny limb before discarding it behind her on the bar top .

" ─── anyone in their right state of mind would be relieved . feel , , , safer . " it were almost as if dorothy were self soothing ( as if she were one to talk about what defined a ' right state of mind ' ) , shifting her bite to show her opposing glove the same attentions she had gifted the first . then , swirling on the stool so she was facing bar side , dorothy collected her thick , loose hair and pulled it over her shoulder , beginning to anxiously thread it into a loose plait , only to run her fingers through it and start over .

over . and over . and over again .

her eyes find the occupant of the seat next to her , eyes like that of a sleepy pup's as painted lashes framed droopy lids . she was so tired , their features blurring , a yawn burning her throat that she didn't let surface .

" i think we should give whoever did it a proper thanking . "

a 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for 𝘋𝘖𝘙𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘠 𝘎𝘈𝘓𝘌 set at 𝐩𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐩𝐢𝐞 the eve the news broke of the murder . ( @detr1tus , @gravemist , @lcgendaries , @einchants , @daydreambeliiever , @unyearning / @unforsworn )

[unyearning]

“the  fuss,  dorothy,  is  that  we  have  not  seen  violence  of  this  ilk  since  the  calamity,  the  exodus,  and  that  this  murder  will  inspire  the  same  sort  of  fear.”

sovay  stabbed  the  dead  cigarette  they’d  been  pulling  dregs  from  for  nigh  on  an  hour  into  the  crystalline  tray,  where  a  small  mound  of  ash  was  massing.  tiny,  lace-fine  strands  of  tobacco  curled  from  the  mashed  rod,  crisping  languidly  in  the  half-light. 

the  pulse  of  the  music  which  had  enervated  the  establishment  ran  down  and  through  every  limb,  so  that  their  fingers  quivered  ever  so  slightly.  darkness  settled  as  a  fine  film  of  dust  on  each  fixture  and  on  their  mind,  lined  every  valve  of  their  heart.  it  was  not  the  same  as  the  lightlessness  that  always  lent  the  pudding  &  pie  its  nocturnal  quality  (regardless  of  the  hour),  and  yet  it  was  the  same.  the  stage  lights  flickered,  panging  with  gentle  loss.  it  was  not  true  bereavement,  not  grief,  but  it  was  well  on  its  way.

they  watched  on  as  dorothy  took  herself  apart  with  the  machinations  of  a  doll  who’d  leapt  off  her  music  box—entirely  off-kilter,  and  unsettling  to  boot.  the  skittish  ritual  of  her  plaiting  and  unplaiting  gave  sovay  no  solace.  “watch  it.”  the  warning  came  whip-quick;  a  wyvern’s  cutlass  tail.  they  did  not  bristle,  as  a  less  equable  fable  might  have,  but  the  stare  they  levelled  at  dorothy  was  unyielding  in  its  solemnity.  “you  do  not  want  to  be  overheard  by  the  sort  who’d  take  you  at  your  word.”  and  it  will  not  be  with  my  connivance.

“it’ll  be  a  few  hours  yet  before  they  make  an  official  address.”  they  gestured  to  the  lounge  with  an  incline  of  their  head.  “you’re  drooping.  catch  some  sleep.”

[blackliights]

⟢　　﹒ starter ; open to anyone ⟢　　﹒ setting ; event pt 2, on the steps of the woodland apartments

her frown is almost permanently in place ever since she heard the news. did she know the victim? no. did she still feel sympathy? yes. she's just made her statements, and has decided to sit down on the steps in front of the woodland apartments. it's a cloudy day, the sun hiding, and she's glad that it's not raining. mali's pulling her hair over her shoulder, fingers instantly tangling into the thick black strands as she looks up towards the sky, wondering if the weather will actually match the mood of the day.

she perks up when she hears the doors open, and her head swings around to look at the fable who had just appeared. "finished your turn?" she asks, giving them a small smile.

[unyearning]

when  sovay  emerged  from  the  woodland,  they  were  beset  with  a  disposition  as  dark  as  the  silken  hair  that  poured  down  mali’s  back.  (wood-black,  black  as  the  arcane  and  primordial  terror  which  had  begun  to  mortify  their  hearts,  to  call  to  mind  the  calamity  which  had  brought  them  here.)  she  was  one  of  our  own.  the  day  was  clouded  with  a  lambent  haze  which  seemed  to  depress  everything  in  its  grasp—even  the  flowers  propagating  in  the  grass  of  the  courtyard  seemed  pallid  and  unbreathing  when  they  usually  irradiated  life. 

“yes,  only  just.”  they  halted  before  the  first  step,  a  little  ways  from  where  mali  was  curled,  stroking  her  hair.  sovay  acquired  a  cigarette  from  a  pocket  and  lit  it.  “what  a  tragedy.  and  i  don’t  just  mean  the  frau—this  is  a  powder  keg,  and  sooner  or  later,  someone  will  implode.”

then,  sotto  voce:  “do  you  think  it  could’ve  been  someone  beyond  the  town?” 

[ber3ave-deactivated20250711]

open to. anyone — come one, come all ! setting & notes. remembrance day gala event, well into the night. feel free to assume connections if not plotted yet, or this can be their first interaction if you'd like.

      while their current environment deeply constrasted their homeland of thebes, the sheen of tonight's event, gilded in excess and glamour, was, truthfully, nostalgic to antigone. colonades and open corridors were traded for sweeping hallways, lined with glass, reflecting the twinkle of its surrounding kingdom. all of it conflated into a pool of guilt-ridden nostalgia, one that pooled deep within their gut, diminishing them into a former form, a mindset arguably foreign to whom they have become. perhaps it reminded them of better days, or rather easier ones, a childhood of royalty, nobility as their norm, only turned upon its head when the self became a pawn — coward. alas, tonight wasn't the occasion to dwell, to seethe, every other day is wrought with such distress ... would it be so wrong to indulge, just once ? even if so, tonight was for celebration, for others, for the kingdom.

      they positioned herself tacky-stuck to the wall, perpendicular to the spanning ballroom, eyes flicking between clumps of assumed friendships and pockets of comfort. she merely lingered, sips of a cocktail between curious glances. only the click of a heel upon polished wood forced their attention to waver, " the attendance is abysmal, or perhaps it's my doing, for being so late. " despite judgements, their tone remained unwavering, only characterized by its usual deep, billowing timbre. " i've seen more people wafting about in the corridors outside. — more so a business meeting than a ball, no ? "

[unyearning]

sovay  could  scent  it  in  the  air:  a  certain  agitation  in  the  attendants  which  they  could  not  place  as  either  malign  or  benign.  it  was  tangible  as  their  own  gloved  hands  and  starched  attire:  a  power  suit  of  exemplary—and  utterly  mundane—make,  replete  with  large  lapels,  sharp  tailoring,  and  cast  in  ivory.  they  had  fetched  it  some  weeks  prior  on  a  day’s  trip  to  the  crooked  mile  as  a  reprieve  from  their  managerial  duties  on  the  farm,  and  on  an  uncharacteristic  whim.  it  was  a  magnificent  thing,  but  so  thoroughly  singular  to  the  mortal  world  (they  had  on  occasion  seen  it  on  the  frames  of  mundane  women  and  college-going  girls  on  the  upper  west  side)  that  sovay  could  not  have  fathomed  why  it  struck  them  so  profoundly,  why  they  took  so  much  pleasure  in  it  tonight.

“and  there  are  more  wandering  about  in  the  gardens  below,  playing  games  and  instruments,  or  admiring  the  statues  of  swans  and  gargoyles,  or  the  flowerbeds  that  bloom  in  perpetuity—there’ll  always  be  those  who  prefer  to  stray.”  they  glanced  sidelong  yet  with  open  interest  at  antigone,  marked  their  affinity  with  the  wall;  a  creature  enclosured,  drawn  and  quartered.  “it  has  been  so,  don’t  you  think,  since  bluebeard  wrested  the  mantle  of  deputy  mayor  from  ichabod  crane?  it  was  no  accident  that  all  of  his  indiscretions  came  to  light  in  such  rapid  succession.  no,  i  think  this  is  precisely  what  bluebeard  designed.  the  town,  a  transactional  affair,  with  his  money  as  its  kingpin.”

[unnatvrals]

time: halfway through the gala.   location: the rooftop, the woodland luxury apartments. status: for @fallensroses, @faeritells + 2 open spot(s).

briar's  brown  eyes  scan  the  room  around  her  and  an  easygoing,  albeit  small,  smile  tugs  at  the  corner  of  her  rose  tainted  lips.  there  is  a  sense  of  safety  in  being  surrounded  by  so  many  people  (  however  minimal  and  undeserved,  especially  with  what  is  known  about  what  goes  on  outside  of  the  safety  of  the  magical  ward  around  fabletown  )  and  briar  lets  herself  be  surrounded  by  the  familiar  faces,  the  chatter  and  the  clink  of  glasses.  it's  easy  to  forget  her  problems,  the  unknown  figure  that  brought  her  back  from  slumber  not  with  a  kiss  but  something  else  ━━  something  strong  enough  to  pull  her  out  without  any  problem.

just  the  mere  thought  of  it  is  enough  to  create  a  crack  in  briar's  good  mood  and  she  excuses  herself  out  of  the  gala's  room  ━━  the  sleeping  beauty  slips  away  and  in  a  snap  of  fingers  it  is  if  her  familiar  slumber  calls  to  her,  just  as  she  allowed  herself  a  moment.  briar  reaches  the  rooftop,  a  small  garden  just  above  the  celebration.  she  opens  a  small  container  and  downs  one,  two,  three  sips  of  it's  contents.  it's  then  that  she  hears  someone  else's  footsteps  and,  as  if  caught  red-handed,  briar  stops  mid  sip  and  looks  at  her  newfound  company.  "i  know  what  this  must  look  like  and  it's  not  booze."  briar  smiles,  shaking  the  metal  container.  "it's  coffee.  you  can  have  a  bit,  if  you'd  like."

[unyearning]

the  ebony  palm  of  night  lay  cool  against  their  cheek,  the  silver  mirror  of  the  moon  elucidating  their  features  and  the  rictus  in  which  they  were  fixed.  their  eyes  were  entirely  darkened  ⸺  if  not  with  melancholy,  then,  perhaps  …  foreboding.

a  tangle  of  crows  speared  the  sky.  footfalls,  fleet  and  unimposing,  spelled  the  arrival  of  another.

sovay  observed  her  with  a  measure  of  curiosity  they  found  peculiar,  for  it  was  not  in  their  nature  (the  disposition  of  one  who’d  been  compelled  to  transact  guilelessness  and  naïveté  for  cutting  cynicism)  to  be  so  wholly  enraptured  ⸺  they  had  known  of  briar,  to  be  sure,  but  there  had  until  then  been  little  opportunity  to  make  an  acquaintance.  she  moved  sensually  as  if  in  a  dream,  and  with  an  unspeakable  tenderness  befitting  the  fine-spun  tales  which  sovay  had  gleaned  from  the  idle  chatter  of  their  fellows  on  the  farm. 

sovay  was  struck,  in  both  voice  and  stance,  by  how  irretrievably  briar  reminded  them  of  the  swans,  the  girls,  who’d  kept  with  her  by  the  lake  those  centuries  past.

“that’s  alright.”  they  gave  pause.  “does  that  help  you  with  the  lethargy?  the  coffee,  i  mean.”  it  sounded  inane,  that  something  so  mundane  could  slight  an  enchantment  as  deeply-entrenched  as  briar’s  curse  of  slumber,  but  sovay  had  long  learnt  to  forego  their  preconceived  notions  of  what  ought  to  hold  water  in  a  world  they  were  not  certain  they  understood,  even  through  the  prism  of  centuries.

[zendeyas]

Taylor Russell wearing LOEWE – 77th British Academy Film Awards

[milksockets]

'dying swan - natalia marakova' in max waldman on dance: photographs (1988)

[vincekris]

Silvino Mendonça

[somedaywewillshinetogether]