𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔶

[veinwitch]

ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔡-𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔬 𝔦𝔱 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔡 . . .

ꜱᴇʀᴇɴᴇɪ ʙʟᴏᴅᴡʏɴ // daughter of Bhaal. Blood Sorcereress. independent | semi-selective | literate novella. bg3 / d&d / forgotten realms based. canon-divergency may be present . mature themes abound — minor muns and muses strictly and kindly do not follow.

a study on : the monstrous feminine. blood as memory, a curse mistaken for purpose, escaping ties that bind, religious trauma, body as battleground, lost identities, self fulfilling prophecies.

Haunted by Nadi, she/ her | twenty 9 | mdni | heavily triggering themes . prompts. pinboard. visage. headcanons.

Full information regarding Serenei here . tw: mentions of blood, sexual trauma and escaping cults.

activity ebbs and flows due to life happening -

[majestativa]

Oh Queen of Pain, beaming in blood like a regal ruby casting her scarlet flame. […] In your eye dwells the satanic shiver.

IWAN GILKIN — La Nuit ✣ “Amour d'Hôpital”, (1897)

[veinwitch]

gosh, the lovest @lunarscorching sent me this and it's so captivatingly reminiscing of my stupid, sanguine daughter ughhh

[veinwitch]

I cannot stress this enough, so here we go once more: Please, please, please keep me out of any relationship drama and projecting certain narratives onto me.

This is a fictional space, I. Am. Not. My. Character.

thanks.

[veinwitch]

@lunarscorching continued from [x] because I cannot trim no posts for the life of me !

The vows reach their crescendo —a tremor of certainty and rehearsed forever— and something in her vision shifts. It is not sight in the ordinary sense yet it is not imagination either. The red cast through the stained glass deepens, thickens and for a pulse too long, it stains the groom’s collar like arterial spray. The bride’s gold pales into the waxen hue of a fevered brow. Serenei blinks once. She has learned not to react to what only she can see. The colors settle but not entirely and the metallic scent beneath the lilies sharpens. She sees it the way she sees most things; distant, final. Some moons from now, the city quieter than it should be, doors marked in chalk, smoke rising not from hearths but from pyres outside the walls. The young groom is thinner, hollowed. A bed dragged closer to a window for air that will not help. His hand wrapped around hers, uselessly warm against skin already cooling. The flux maybe, or the sweat, who knows saving the Gods themselves. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and the vision thins like mist burned off by sun. The couple remain at the altar, bright and trembling and alive.

Serenei’s gaze remains forward. “For now,” she answers, voice even. “And for a while, it’ll be enough.” A small pause settles between them, thin as dust in the light. “They will be happy,” she continues, voice lowered and unsoftened. “While it is still simple and unchallenging to be.” The organ hums beneath the priest’s blessing. Enjoying each other is soft and easy on the heart before the air turns. The priest asks for the rings. The bride laughs, nervous and bright. Applause trembles at the edges of the pews. “They should enjoy this,” she adds, watching the couple as they beam at a future already thinning at the edges. “It’s the only part they’ll get to keep uncomplicated.”

Bells. Laughter. Tears of joy and praying words invoking Lathander's guiding light upon the newlyweds.

“Before the plague reaches them.”

Her body feels heavy today, a slow pull low in her abdomen reminding her that blood answers to more than magic. Hemomancy sharpens the ache, makes the loss feel deliberate rather than cyclical, as though her body keeps accounts. She feels it behind her eyes and in the slight weakness in her fingers. The raven-haired woman's voice drifts again, softer now; sandwiches, dainties, sweet treats hidden somewhere beyond the nave. Serenei exhales through her nose. “I–didn’t look when I came in,” she admits. “I was distracted.” By omens and the arithmetic of breath and absence. Oh to be distracted by the quiet cost of existing in a body that insists on spilling, and spilling, and spilling. “Something sweet wouldn’t be unwelcome,” Her thumb presses into her palm, grounding herself in the steady rhythm there. “although we should move before the children descend.”

[lunarscorching]

Haleth listens idly, the kind of attention that is pleasantly afforded to a stranger when matters of the mind are more pressing— that is more so, matters of the growling stomach. As her ears meander between the vows and the sullen commentary, she wonders drastically what kind of couple they may be: the bride's dress wrapped her tall as a godly spire— traditional then, white cake with sweet vanilla cream icing; though both were rampantly youthful, so perhaps something more on trend, like fat-baked cookies, stuffed with a plethora of toppings that crumbled like fresh baked bread.

"I am plagued by starvation." Comes her reply, impassive, her voice washed as even as the black lakes of her home, midnight-still, reflecting the stars like an expanse of wet silk. But the threat of serious competition— dastardly-quick little fingers— spurs Haleth to stand with silent force, slipping past the other with the slightest nudge to encourage her to follow. "Let us make haste." Afterall, she felt as though she had watched and appreciated enough to earn a treat or two.

The reception area is markedly brighter, tufted and danced in white ribbons and banners, reminding her of puffs of white snow, staged around the architecture of a winter-sleep garden. The Knight descends upon the table, stark in her impressive height, baleful, with flesh void of any colour— save for bruises peaking out from behind bandaged fingers— she takes two heart-shaped tarts.

Bone white spades descend, and the pastry nearly puffs into doves and floats away; such a flaky crust, with center more tart than saccharine, salted with a hint of warm spice. "Chocolate." She confirms, and for the first time she looks upon the other, a glance that carries the weight of the unblinking eyes of the forest all turned at once to watch her. "Here," and she hands her one, "it is certainly the best tart I have had, only better if it was blackberry."

[veinwitch]

The bells follow them out of the nave, bright and insistent, who knows, maybe sound alone could ward off decay. Serenei rises when the willowy dame does. The movement costs her a fraction more than it should, a faint swim behind her eyes, a reminder that bodies—her body—is not an infinite resource, no matter how deftly she commands it.

I am plagued by starvation.

“That one I can sympathize with,” Serenei replies quietly. The reception room is all light and white ribbons cascading from the beams. Tables gleam beneath sugared displays, candied violets and elderflower fritters. Laughter rebounds off stone with none of the restraint kept for sanctuaries. For a moment, the brightness feels excessive and Serenei's body feels thin inside it. She watches the woman descend upon the table with a kind of solemn decisiveness, claiming territory like a mountain wildcat. The height, the pallor, the bandaged fingers, striking against all this confectionery softness. Two heart-shaped tarts disappear into her grasp. The scent of chocolate cuts through sugar and mulberry wine, warm and dense, almost medicinal in its richness. Serenei's gaze drops briefly to the offered tart when it is extended toward her. For a second, she simply looks at it, the neat crimp of crust, the dark center glossy beneath a thin glaze. How very carefully made and briefly existent. Serenei accepts it with a small nod. “Thank you.” Her thumb brushes the underside of the pastry, the crimped edge uneven, a small crack along one side where filling has bubbled and set. The crust flakes against her lip, filling is darker than it looks—more bitter than sweet, salted just enough to hold it together. The sugar hits her system quickly and the dull pressure behind her eyes eases by degrees.

She exhales, subtle but relieved. Around them, guests crowd the long tables. A boy darts in and nearly collides with her elbow before being dragged back by an apologetic mother. The half-drowess glances at the couple across the room being congratulated in waves, hands clasped, cheeks kissed.

“I’d need a drink before the third round of well-wishers.” She takes another smaller bite, more measured this time–she hadn’t expected to feel this hungry, but it was only natural since she had left her rooms skipping breakfast, distracted and not entirely steady to begin with. Bloodwork —magical or otherwise— rarely left her room for appetite beforehand. She glances sideways at the woman beside her. “I never asked your name. I'm Serenei.” It feels overdue now that they are sharing stolen provisions like co-conspirators. Her gaze dips briefly to the bandages before returning to the woman's face. “Those look recent,” she adds, quieter. “Occupational hazard?”

[thunderousmemes]

ETERNITY BLED DRY

mythic & immortal tragic lovers — gods who fall, monsters who ache, and love that outlives the world but never finds peace

LOVERS OLDER THAN HISTORY

when centuries cannot dull the ache

“I have watched empires rise and rot—and still I look for you in every age.”

“We have died a thousand times and still find each other.”

“The world keeps changing. You don’t.”

“I remember your face in every lifetime.”

“Immortality means never forgetting.”

CURSES, PROPHECIES, AND FATE

love written in omens and warnings

“The oracle said loving you would end the world.”

“We were never meant to survive this.”

“Every prophecy ends with one of us dead.”

“The gods warned me to choose eternity over you.”

“Fate keeps demanding a sacrifice.”

GODS WHO BLEED

divinity undone by devotion

“I gave up my throne for you.”

“I was a god until I loved you.”

“The heavens fear what we are together.”

“They call me eternal, yet you are the only thing that lasts.”

“Worship never felt like this.”

MONSTERS WHO LOVE TOO MUCH

immortal beasts with human hearts

“I was built to destroy, not to ache like this.”

“If they see what I am, they’ll kill you.”

“I tried to stay away. I failed.”

“You touch me like I’m still human.”

“Loving you made me monstrous.”

DEATHLESS GOODBYES

partings that echo forever

“We have said goodbye in every century.”

“I will wait for you again. I always do.”

“If I don’t let go, the world ends.”

“This is where eternity breaks us.”

“I’ll find you after the stars burn out.”

ONE MORTAL, ONE ETERNAL

time as the true villain

“You grow older. I don’t.”

“I will bury you and keep breathing.”

“I hate time for loving you.”

“Say you don’t regret this.”

“I’ll remember you long after the world forgets my name.”

LOVE THAT DEFIES DEATH—AND LOSES

descent into underworlds, broken laws of life

“I walked through hell to bring you back.”

“The dead don’t return unchanged.”

“We broke the laws of gods for this.”

“Death will never forgive us.”

“If loving you damns me, so be it.”

AFTER THE WORLD ENDS

what remains when eternity is empty

“There is nothing left to rule.”

“The stars are gone. You are not.”

“I won—and lost everything.”

“Eternity is unbearable without you.”

“I would trade immortality for one more moment.”

 A LOVE TOO BIG FOR THE COSMOS

truth without mercy

“Some loves were never meant to be saved.”

“We were beautiful. We were catastrophic.”

“The universe still echoes with our names.”

“They will call us a warning.”

“And still—I would choose you again.”

[berlogauwu]

destroy everything

[seasonofhorror]

GONE GIRL

2014, dir. David Fincher

[veinwitch]

Okay, this is officially the most scrumptious, perfect Serenei faceclaim if I ever saw one PUH-LEAAASE.

[pmamtraveller]

[chlomarie8]

“You have my permission not to love me; I am a cathedral of deadbolts and I’d rather burn myself down than change the locks.”

— Rachel McKibbens, “Letter From My Brain To My Heart” (via feellng)

[lunarscorching]

[veinwitch]

@lunarscorching the orange is the sweet treat after they rejected the sins of their fathers.

[veinwitch]

@lunarscorching continued from [x] because I cannot trim no posts for the life of me !

The vows reach their crescendo —a tremor of certainty and rehearsed forever— and something in her vision shifts. It is not sight in the ordinary sense yet it is not imagination either. The red cast through the stained glass deepens, thickens and for a pulse too long, it stains the groom’s collar like arterial spray. The bride’s gold pales into the waxen hue of a fevered brow. Serenei blinks once. She has learned not to react to what only she can see. The colors settle but not entirely and the metallic scent beneath the lilies sharpens. She sees it the way she sees most things; distant, final. Some moons from now, the city quieter than it should be, doors marked in chalk, smoke rising not from hearths but from pyres outside the walls. The young groom is thinner, hollowed. A bed dragged closer to a window for air that will not help. His hand wrapped around hers, uselessly warm against skin already cooling. The flux maybe, or the sweat, who knows saving the Gods themselves. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and the vision thins like mist burned off by sun. The couple remain at the altar, bright and trembling and alive.

Serenei’s gaze remains forward. “For now,” she answers, voice even. “And for a while, it’ll be enough.” A small pause settles between them, thin as dust in the light. “They will be happy,” she continues, voice lowered and unsoftened. “While it is still simple and unchallenging to be.” The organ hums beneath the priest’s blessing. Enjoying each other is soft and easy on the heart before the air turns. The priest asks for the rings. The bride laughs, nervous and bright. Applause trembles at the edges of the pews. “They should enjoy this,” she adds, watching the couple as they beam at a future already thinning at the edges. “It’s the only part they’ll get to keep uncomplicated.”

Bells. Laughter. Tears of joy and praying words invoking Lathander's guiding light upon the newlyweds.

“Before the plague reaches them.”

Her body feels heavy today, a slow pull low in her abdomen reminding her that blood answers to more than magic. Hemomancy sharpens the ache, makes the loss feel deliberate rather than cyclical, as though her body keeps accounts. She feels it behind her eyes and in the slight weakness in her fingers. The raven-haired woman's voice drifts again, softer now; sandwiches, dainties, sweet treats hidden somewhere beyond the nave. Serenei exhales through her nose. “I–didn’t look when I came in,” she admits. “I was distracted.” By omens and the arithmetic of breath and absence. Oh to be distracted by the quiet cost of existing in a body that insists on spilling, and spilling, and spilling. “Something sweet wouldn’t be unwelcome,” Her thumb presses into her palm, grounding herself in the steady rhythm there. “although we should move before the children descend.”

[thelxstdrow]

[ TAKEN ]  receiver has a small injury and sender wipes away some of the blood then licks it off their hand. // I've been summoned from the shadows I guess lmao

ᒥ🕷ᒧ—      He had been grazed by an arrow, nothing worthy of concern in his book. Rinnill had suffered more grievous injuries and survived. Having removed his leathers and undershirt, he was preparing to clean the weeping slice when she approached.

"I do not need assistance for--!" His eyes widen as Serenei swipes her thumb under the small wound and licks the crimson liquid with ease. A warmth stirs within the pit of Rinnill's stomach, and he knows the glowing cerulean of a blush is blooming on his cheeks to the tips of his long ears.

Though unsure of what exactly caused him to feel flustered and aroused by the display, he could not deny that it made him feel strongly in such ways. "..." What could he say? He felt at a complete loss for words. Rather, his mind drifted to the pleasure bubbling within and making the crotch of his pants tight.

[veinwitch]

Serenei did not look at Rinnil's face when she tasted him, instead she watched the gaping wound. It was shallow, an indignant slice beneath the collarbone, red welling slow and bright from parted flesh. The arrowhead had only kissed him, but even kisses could spill some blood. Crimson gathered there in a trembling bead, too vivid against the pallor of his skin, too alive to be ignored.

She dragged her thumb through it, slow and firm enough to coax another thin spill. She shivered at the heat of him sinking through her skin's storm. His pulse was strong as ever. She lifted her hand to her mouth and drew her tongue with feline slowness along the pad of her thumb. Copper and salt. A faint bitterness at the back of it—fatigue, perhaps, the residue of battle. She closed her eyes for half a breath to listen closely, for blood always spoke to her in fragments. It told her of strain in his shoulder, of a bruise blooming dark along his ribs, of the quickened flutter in his chest that slithered downward and deepened and had nothing to do with pain. Resin and rain on stone, the faint metallic sharpness of adrenaline still dissolving in his veins. It burned lightly at the back of her tongue, vibrant and awake, as though his body resisted even this small surrender. And under all of it pulsed that steady, stubborn insistence on survival that lingered against her senses long after she swallowed.

Slate mauve eyes looked up at him and found him staring. The flush climbing his cheeks was almost luminous in the low light, a cool cerulean rising beneath his skin and traveling outward, cresting at the tips of his ears. His breath had altered, subtle, but not to her. She let him bloom against her tongue, watched the rise and fall of him grow uneven then searched for the place where his body gave itself away. Her thigh brushed against his–feathery light, the contact fleeting and certainly intentional. Her body betrayed her in quieter ways—the subtle arch of her spine, the way her hips angled instinctively toward his rigid warmth. She felt the ache pooling low, answering the heavy strain in him and it would be so very easy to close the distance.

“If you are in pain,” she remarked softly, eyes heavy and unblinking wandering everywhere but his, “you...should tell me.”

[veinwitch]

God-ridden god-infected —

Oof, it's finally here, Serenei commissioned to the very talented One, make sure to go check their other stuff too 🤌

[veinwitch]

" Do you think me handsome? "

The soft spill of white curls at his temple. The pale sweep of lashes that cast faint shadows against his cheeks when he blinks. The way his shoulders are just slightly too stiff. The way his gaze does not quite meet hers after the question leaves his mouth. He says it like it’s a joke. Like he’s tossing it into the air to see if it sparkles. Serenei rises and steps closer, slow enough not to startle him.

“Yes,” she says softly. Her hand lifts, hesitant for only a second before she lets her fingers brush along his jaw. Her thumb traces lightly beneath his eye, mapping the faint tension nesting there, where sleep never quite settles.

“You are, very much unfairly so”

[veinwitch]

”You have pretty eyes.” Not that he’s not told her this before, but… It bears repeating, right ? Gateway to the soul and all that.

Serenei looked at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, the dim light catching the faint red flecks in her irises. Connor’s skeletal grin didn’t change, and part of her wanted to roll her eyes—but part of her… didn’t. Slender hands moved over the mortar and pestle, crushing fleshwort and cassil with steady, deliberate presses. The scrape of stone against stone was almost conversational, keeping rhythm with her words.

“They’re just eyes,” she said softly, almost dismissively, rolling the pestle between her palms before pressing down again. “Pretty or not doesn’t mean much when the rest of me is… well, whatever this is.” Her gaze lingered a moment longer on him, assessing. Then, almost reluctantly, she let a ghost of a smirk touch her lips. “But… you seem to like saying it, don’t you, Connor?”

[relentlessgrief]

"All of you is pretty to me. But I feel like I see more of you beyond the physical when I see into you through your stare."

He is practically like the reaper in the way that his presence swallows up the energy of the room--at least, that's what he's been told in the past by his friends. Strangers would get quiet and uncomfortable, their breaths would quicken, and some would enter into fight or flight mode. So many eyes would watch him like a startled deer in the forest. And so many eyes has he had the discomfort of feeling locked onto him at once.

Some were prettier than others.

Serenei's were easy to handle.

His distance is polite, not wanting to get too close, too personal. Anxiety in how he is perceived and if he is too much is what keeps him practically in the corner of the room like a slinking shadow and creature of the night.

"I could always compliment your hair if you'd like. Or your voice. I like your voice a lot."

[veinwitch]

The pestle worked beneath her palm with slow, even pressure, grinding fleshwort into a dark, resinous paste, cassil seeds cracked under the weight of stone sharp and bitter in scent. She kept working; the sound was steady, domestic almost. Something ordinary to anchor the strangeness of the room. Serenei listened to him without interrupting, head slightly inclined, as though weighing him

“All of me?” she repeated quietly, not quite believing him. She tipped the bowl slightly, examining the texture of the crushed herbs, then set it down. Her hands were dusted green. Dusky eyes lifted searching his hollow stare for the fracture most people carried behind pretty words. She was used to rooms tightening around her and used to glances that skittered away too late. He held himself apart, as he always did. Careful with distance, careful with space. A presence long accustomed to watching others recoil. “You see more,” she murmured, watching the powder gather at the bottom of the bowl. “Most people see enough and decide it’s too much.”

Her gaze drifted over him, bone and shadow, he kept his distance like he expected to poison the air. A faint exhale left her nose, almost a breath of humor. “You don’t have to change the subject to my hair, no” When the mixture grew fine enough, she paused to sift it through her fingers, feeling for stubborn fragments. A larger shard of stem caught her attention; she plucked it out and set it aside. From a small vial at her belt, she added a measured drop of oil, then resumed grinding, folding the paste back into itself until it darkened and bound. “And my voice,” she added after a while, softer now, “has said worse things than it’s worth liking.” She brushed the crushed herbs into a small folded parchment with careful fingers, movements precise and controlled. Containment was a habit. So was deflection. “When you were mortal,” she asked, as plainly as one might ask about the weather, “did people look at you differently? Or did they stand closer then?” Her gaze remained steady on him. “Talking about my voice. My hair. My eyes. Tell me about yours. Did you laugh loudly? What colour were your eyes? Did you take up space?”

[diidona]

BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA (1992) dir. Francis Ford Coppola