🕷️🕸️MDNI! 18+ No Minors!🕸️🕷️
(rules and info below the cut)
Lo, behold! 'Tis I, Zestial, the ancient sinner... who hath endured myriad exterminations unscathed! I hath witnessed the ascent and demise of civilizations.
RMH
Misplaced Lens Cap
trying on a metaphor

izzy's playlists!
NASA
h

JBB: An Artblog!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Andulka
hello vonnie
Show & Tell

No title available

No title available
YOU ARE THE REASON

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

⁂
noise dept.
Sade Olutola

Discoholic 🪩

seen from Germany

seen from India
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Singapore
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from Spain

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Australia

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Spain

seen from Germany

seen from Japan
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from T1

seen from Singapore
@zestialmorde
🕷️🕸️MDNI! 18+ No Minors!🕸️🕷️
(rules and info below the cut)
Lo, behold! 'Tis I, Zestial, the ancient sinner... who hath endured myriad exterminations unscathed! I hath witnessed the ascent and demise of civilizations.
A Reintroduction Post
Hi! My name is Evie! Or Pseudobun, or Bun, or whatever you want to call me, lmao. I’m a 24-year-old lover girl living in the Eastern US (Central Time, though my sleep schedule is so wonky it hardly matters).
I've been doing this art thing for a few years, so I decided to rebrand this blog into an art-exclusive blog now that I’ve gotten more confident in my abilities. I wanted to keep my art from getting buried on my main! This should also help with commissions, since I am officially reopening them, so this will be your one-stop shop if that interests you!
I plan to periodically open requests as well, so lots of big things are coming! Come say hi!
Just a normal day at the Carmine building.
just overlord things
Mod Post
If you’re seeing this, I’ve finally cleared my inbox! Meaning, with a couple of exceptions, I’ve answered everything that was in there, and it’s all now posted! I thought now might be a good time for a little OOC check-in, because I’ve missed doing them. (under a read more bc yap city)
A soft hum leaves the small woman as she rounds the corner. Given today she is unbusy, she has decided to take up the quest of getting to know some Sinners. Today, she has sought out Zestial. "Ah, yes.. you must be Zestial, I presume?" She looks up, then adds "I am curious, just how long have you been in hell?" ( @demonxdoll )
Zestial turns at the sound of her voice, composed as ever, though there is a brief pause of appraisal before he answers. His posture remains calm, hands loosely folded behind his back.
“A fair presumption,” he says softly. “I am he.”
At her question, his gaze drifts slightly, as though the answer requires him to reach backward through far more than memory alone.
“Long enough that time has ceased to feel like a companion,” he replies at last. “Centuries, by mortal reckoning. Enough to witness cities rise in ambition, and fall in exhaustion.”
A faint, almost wry exhale follows.
“I arrived when Hell was less… structured. Less theatrical. And have remained through every refinement since.”
His eyes return to her, steady but not unkind.
“May I ask what brings thee to seek such histories?”
You and Maestro seemed to have things in common (in timeline lifestyles atleast) do you two have somewhat of a friendship with each other? (Other than with Carmilla)
Zestial’s gaze flickers with something unreadable, then settles into calm neutrality.
“Maestro is… a man of certain parallels,” he says carefully. “Shared sensibilities do not always yield shared company.”
A faint pause.
“We are acquainted. We are… civil. Beyond that, I find it best not to force a definition where one is neither required nor particularly useful. Some connections are most effective when left… undefined.”
Helloo, so I'm wondering if you were to give Carmilla a gift what would it be?
Zestial considers the question with quiet care, as though the answer deserves precision.
“Something chosen, not extravagant,” he says at last. “Carmilla has no need for excess. She values purpose, refinement… control.”
His gaze drifts briefly, thoughtful.
“A piece of music, perhaps. Commissioned, not common. Something composed to her taste, performed only in her presence. Or a rare vintage, aged with patience rather than flaunted for status.”
A faint, knowing softness touches his expression.
“Or simpler still… an evening uninterrupted. No dealings, no demands. Merely quiet, and the courtesy of being seen beyond her station.”
He pauses.
“She would not ask for such things. Which is precisely why they hold value.”
Which springtime pleasures do you enjoy most?
Zestial’s gaze softens, as though something gentler has brushed against his thoughts.
“Spring, to me, is best enjoyed in quiet ways,” he says. “The return of warmth upon stone, the slow stirring of gardens long neglected, the scent of life insisting upon itself once more.”
A faint pause, almost fond.
“I find particular pleasure in walking where things are beginning again… and in sharing such moments with company that knows how to appreciate them.”
Would you still love me if I were a worm?
In a haze between the waking world and a world of slumber, Angel smiled as he spoke. His words were gravely from the time spent silent though they still held his usual lightheartedness.
(( @the-porn-demon )) Zestial’s gaze softens, his posture stilling as the question settles.
“My dear… thou dost dress it in jest, yet there is a tenderness beneath it that I cannot ignore.
Would I love thee, if thou were made small… diminished in the eyes of the world, overlooked, set aside?
Aye. I would.
If thou were a worm, I would not leave thee to the mercy of careless feet or cruel chance. I would fashion for thee a garden of gentler design, where the soil is soft and the roots kind, where nothing within it would harm thee. A place where thou might wander in quiet safety, and I might learn the slow language of earth and rain, that I might remain near thee still.
And if such a garden were not enough, then I would bring that sanctuary within my own walls. Glass and green, warmth held steady, the seasons bent to thy comfort. Thou wouldst not know hunger, nor cold, nor the indignity of being unseen.
But I think… this is not truly what thou askest.
Thou wouldst know if my regard is tethered to what thou art now. To thy voice, thy wit, the spark thou bringest into every space thou enter.
It is not.
If thy voice were stilled, I would hold dear what once was spoken. If thy touch were lost, I would not call it absence, but memory made sacred. If all that made thee bright were to fade from sight… I would not follow it into oblivion.
I would remain.
I would love thee in quiet. In stillness. In whatever form thou might take, or lose.”
He pauses, the silence deliberate, as though honoring the weight of it.
“And if thou were reduced further still… beyond form, beyond presence, beyond anything I might hold… I would yet love thee. If thou became only memory, I would guard it. If even that were taken, then I would cherish the very idea of thee, as one keeps a flame against the dark.
What I feel is not so fragile as to be undone by change.”
A faint softness touches his expression.
“So yes, my dear.
Be thou worm, or whisper, or something less than either… I would still love you.”
Evening Zestiel look at this lovely dinnerware set
I think it should come in emerald green
Zestial studies the set in silence, gaze tracing each curve of glass, each careful cut that catches the light like captured embers.
“…A striking collection,” he murmurs at last. “There is a certain drama to it. The red calls to mind garnet held to flame… or wine in low candlelight. It does not ask for attention. It commands it.”
His fingers hover as though he might lift one of the pieces, though he does not.
“Such tableware would not suit a casual meal. It demands occasion. Intention. One would feel almost obliged to speak more softly in its presence, lest they disturb the atmosphere it creates.”
A pause, thoughtful.
“But emerald…” His eyes shift, considering. “That would lend it a different temperament entirely. Less indulgence, more refinement. Like ivy climbing old stone, or the quiet depth of aged glass in cathedral windows.”
He glances back, faintly amused.
“I suspect the choice depends upon what one wishes to evoke. Passion… or poise.”
Have you introduced your spider pet Kitty, to the Carmine girls, Carmilla, Clara, and Odette? And how are they getting along?
Zestial’s expression stills for a moment, as though recalling a scene both recent and faintly absurd.
“I have,” he replies, voice measured, though a hint of dry amusement lingers beneath it. “Kitty was… received with enthusiasm by some, and tolerance by others.”
A slight tilt of his head.
“Carmilla, as ever, remained composed. She afforded the creature a polite acknowledgment, though I suspect she would prefer it kept at a dignified distance. Odette showed curiosity, measured and cautious. Clara…” A brief pause, the faintest breath of amusement. “Clara has no such reservations. She has taken rather a liking to the little thing.”
He folds his hands behind his back.
“As for Kitty, she appears quite content. Whether that is due to their company or Clara's insistence on stuffing her with treats, I could not say.”
Hello Mr. Zestial, I have a question:
What would you do if you possessed Alastor's soul?
Zestial is quiet for a moment, the name settling into the air like dust disturbed.
“What a curious avenue of thought,” he says at last, tone even, almost mild.
His gaze drifts, distant but not unfocused.
“The ownership of a soul is not a trinket to be admired, nor a game to be entertained with hypotheticals. Such things carry… consequence, beyond what idle speculation tends to afford them.”
A faint pause.
“And Alastor is not a man one reduces to if. I find I have little interest in imagining chains I have not chosen to forge.”
Is there anything that makes you sad you can think of?
Zestial is still for a long while, the question settling upon him like dust upon an untouched surface. When he finally speaks, it is measured, careful, as though each word must be chosen and weighed before it is allowed to exist.
“It is not a kindness, to dwell upon sorrow,” he begins softly. “One may examine it, as a scholar might a fragile text… but to linger too long is to invite it to rewrite thee in its own hand.”
A faint pause. His gaze drifts, unfixed.
“And yet… there are absences that do not ask permission to be felt.”
His hands come together behind his back, a posture of quiet restraint.
“I have lived long enough that memory itself has begun to erode. Not in great, obvious fractures, but in small, insidious ways. Details first. Then names. Then… meaning.” His voice lowers, touched with something almost imperceptible. “There are moments I know were once precious to me, yet I cannot recall why. Only that they mattered.”
He breathes in slowly.
“I cannot say, with certainty, whether the sky above the living world was once blue. I remember that it was… vast, open, unmarred by the weight of this place. But the color has dulled in my mind, as though time itself has worn it thin.” His brow furrows faintly. “It troubles me, that something so simple… should slip beyond my grasp.”
A longer silence follows.
“I do not remember the name of my first love.” The words come quieter now. “I remember the shape of devotion, the presence of it… but not the name I once spoke with such care. It is… an absence that echoes.”
His gaze lowers further.
“Nor can I recall my siblings' voices. I know I had them. I know there was laughter, once. Conversation. Perhaps even quarrel. But the sound itself… is gone. Replaced by silence.” A faint tightening at the edge of his expression. “To lose a person is one grief. To lose even the memory of them… is another entirely.”
He turns his head slightly, as though listening for something that will not come.
“I cannot remember a wind that does not carry sulfur upon it. Nor rain that does not burn when it falls. The senses adapt, as all things do… and in doing so, they forget what once was different.”
His voice grows quieter still.
“There are days when I wonder how much of myself remains intact… and how much has been worn away so gradually that I did not feel it leaving.”
A breath. Slow. Controlled.
“I have known loss. I have endured it. That is not what saddens me.” His eyes close briefly. “What saddens me… is that time has taken even my right to remember what was lost.”
When he looks up again, his composure has returned, though something softer lingers beneath it.
“But I do not speak of this often. One learns, in time, to carry such things without allowing them to define the whole.”
A faint, distant note of something almost like a smile.
“For even now… there are still moments worth keeping. And I would not see those fade, too, by giving too much of myself to what is already gone.”
I feel like you'd enjoy the Sherlock Holmes books...
I can send you some
Redbat anon
Zestial’s gaze lifts with quiet interest, a faint glimmer of curiosity stirring behind his composure.
“Sherlock Holmes…” he repeats softly, tasting the name as though it were a relic unearthed. “A mind devoted to observation and reason, if memory serves. Such company would not be unwelcome.”
He inclines his head, measured and sincere.
“Thou art kind to offer. If it brings thee no trouble, I would receive them with gratitude. Books have ever been the most enduring of companions.”