[ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg
[Worship] as twilight is oft to become, - Printable Version

+- [ CLOSED♥ ] NOVUS rpg (https://novus-rpg.net)
+-- Forum: Realms (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=5)
+--- Forum: Ruris (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=6)
+---- Forum: Archives (https://novus-rpg.net/forumdisplay.php?fid=96)
+---- Thread: [Worship] as twilight is oft to become, (/showthread.php?tid=5175)



as twilight is oft to become, - Thana - 06-29-2020

FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.

The air is dense and deep and dark as the bottom of forest when she wanders up the thirsty mountain. A storm is dying in the distance, thunder and hail trickling off into a cold wind. Shadows stretch out around them, the unicorn and her monster made of violence and sand, and each wraps around the bent willow trees and the towering evergreens. Rocks cry out as them tumble down the steep sides of the trail. Each cry is warning (muted when the twilight fog rolls in) that the valleys are as thirsty, and hungry, and hollow as the mountain pathways. 

And perhaps if there was religion in her blood instead of death she would have sunk her horn deep into the marrow of the mountain and pleaded for safety. Perhaps she would cut lines into her sides and called the blood prayer and sacrifice. 

Perhaps there is a world where she is not a blood-red unicorn with rot instead of blood. 

Thana is too full of black-magic and wanting, and she is as thirsty as the mountain. She only wonders why the mortals of her court whisper of the ghosts and gods lingering in the mountain path. Tonight, in the twilight fog and the dying echoes of roaring thunder, there is only Thana and Eligos and their silent steps that promise war instead of scripture. 

Together they come to the meadow carved out of the mountain peak, with the grass that is not grass at all but steel, and gemstone, and magic left behind from gods and mortals. Together they move into the hallways of marble, and the pillars of amethyst like wolves coming to the tall-grass of the elk. Their steps do not echo or rumble with the thunder. They whisper, and coo, and carry their shadows like chains and spears dragged across the hollowed stone. 

They hum as darkness hums and bleat as dying lambs do. 

They wander the hallways and pause to drag their noses through the dust of broken statues and altars. They etch lines in the decay with horn, and claw, and fang. Ivy withers around their necks when it falls from the forgotten archways and violets left in a vase tilt blackening heads towards them (as if they are the sun instead of the moon-black). Marble trembles and falls like stars around them as it quickens in its mortar like a century has passed with the humming war-song of her heart. The echoes sound like thunder. 

Like they are calling the storm back, and home, and here, here, here

Like they are storm-clouds instead of flesh and bone. 

And their eyes flash like lighting in the twilight fog when they turn towards the steady echo of another soul in the dying church in the mountain. Together they smile, and nicker (as much as wolves can exhale in welcome instead of wrath), and step towards the mare who looks as elegant in the shadows as they look feral and wanting.

<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
CADAVROUX | BERB



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Euryale - 07-13-2020

my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral

when she ascends the mountains, she feels like an angel ascending heaven.  she feels both broken and alive, for heaven is for the faithful, and in the same breath; a trick of the light.  every breath she takes is exaltation.  every feeling is euphoria.  euryale laughs into the night and her song carries on the wilderness like unholy sacrilege.  every song that leaves her becomes a snarl that ghosts her lips in ritualistic hymm. each heartbeat becomes a wolf, that thrashes in her veins.  gathering in a sea of teeth and ardent, violent hunger that keeps on sinning.  below her, the forest fades beneath the abyss.  above, she can hear God's voice, and they are calling to her like a moon calls to her wolves, with siren-silver promise and so much ache.

when the evening whispers to her with those same promises, she feels her soul gasping in its mortal coil.  is this what it feels like to be immortal?  is the ache in the hollow of your chest, but a mere reminder of your beautiful awe and fragility? when the moon shines down with retribution, the horizon suddenly becomes too-sharp.  too much like dark religion in a universe of indifference. the rays pour down upon her crown, shining like a halo against her elegant skull.  beneath feral beams of light, they invite sin.  they twist against flesh like ghosts twisting between parallel realities.  when euryale steps into the gardens, she looks more like a haunting apparition.  just as sin came to embrace adam and eve in the form of an alluring serpent, sin is here.  alive, and in the body of a beautiful woman.

she is made of such sin and pleasure.  she is made of tragedies and wicked desire.  she is made of hunger and loss.  the temptress that leans against the statue of oriens.  the pale-haired succubus that lies by his altar in ardent worship and whispers to his stone-flesh like a lover might whisper for, more.  by the bed of a god, she sprawls like the devil.  by his temple steps, she undresses her soul.  until the fabric of her flesh is filled with the faith and virtue of him.  she, with eyes of blood-red and a heart made of more iron, than love.  the flourish of curls and impossibly slender limbs.  her too-long, disheveled hair that spills across her skin like an endless ruin of lavender. when their curls descend her shoulderblades, they flutter like waterfalls, like new beginnings. her visage were adorned in apathetic worship.  her every facial curve, laced in the memory of gluttonous want.  even the curl of her lips, so cold and perfect, betrays the beauty of her face.  

they all scream with a strange kind of emptiness.  they all cry out with an ancient, otherworldly pain she shares to no one, neither man nor woman nor god.  euryale feels so dead and vacant, but her eyes burn crimson, and her soul whispers to thana, let me suffer. undo me. make me.  become my new religion.  

the witch's face is stark against the moon's silver blight.  the lunar kiss highlights her profile, a wretched, blazing thing, and it is hard to say who is brighter, who is holier, who is hotter.  the moon, or the siren-promise that is euryale.  "have you come to pray," the syllables drip from her lips like poisoned affliction. her voice is too soft, too sensual. it barely leaves her lips, when it sounds more like her soul, that reaches for thana's in the darkness.  her song could have been mistaken for the night's breeze, or the coo of a goddess who straddles a throne of bones.  euryale steps gracefully from behind a marbled pilllar.  with her, burns a black candle.  with her, drags a veil of shimmery, translucent blue.  they curl around her like serpents of eden.  they spill across the earth like spoiled milk, gathering by the unicorn's feet in teeming, unruly ribbons.  this unicorn who prowls like a lioness. who feels neither too violent, nor too gentle.  

and like a wolf knows the secrets of the forest, euryale knows she is gazing into the deep-welcoming embrace of death.  but she is unafraid, not of the feral unicorn, nor her mighty beast that stalks the shadows. she welcomes the darkness that is thana, with a silk-whisper and sultry breath.  "or be prayed to?"

@Thana

the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you




RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Thana - 08-03-2020

FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.

Perhaps in the great, black and gaping jaw of the night with a crown of storm clouds between it there is a certain romanticism in the meeting of two wolves. Perhaps it is only in the certain way their bodies curl both in the space between them and away from it. Or perhaps it is nothing more than the way the dust and the flame tease each other in the blackness, each a spot of not-quite color in the nothingness.

And maybe they are two wolves meeting between the teeth of the gods.

But if the mare with her whisper of a voice is a wolf she is only sinew, and stalking start of a hunt, and a howling chorus at the moon.

Thana is the kill, the blood, the crack of ribs breaking and shattering like porcelain.  There lives in the curling song of her horn the poetic tale of the ruin of the herd. In her eyes there is not the color of lilac but the color of blood coagulated and begging for rain beneath the moonlight. She smiles and her teeth are flat, strong as a stone, and prepared to devour and desiccate despite the way the shape of them begs for blade, and fern, and fruit.  

They step closer. Lichen blooms across the marble tiles, each darker and more rotten than the last bloom. The air, the wind, the smell of cloying black candle, becomes weighted with the acrid sweetness of mold, and rot, and time on a corpse. A prayer collar left as a sacrifice on an altar turns to dust when her shadow falls across it. Candles crumble, flower weep and bend towards her like sentries and guards. Her smile does not fade, or falter, or waiver when she dips her nose in a greeting that lowers her horn to the mare's brow.

There, her horn seems to say, I would unmake you there..

“There are no gods here.” She says. The soul of her magic is still fat with slumber, and bloated with the old kills. There are are no gods here to wake it and hollow out the belly of it for more, and more, and more. Until there is nothing left. More. “There is only you, and I, and him.” A growl in her belly sounds like a laugh, a howl, a bray at the moonlight begging to be worn down into a sickle in the other mare's eyes.

Again she steps closer. The blank candle flame flickers against the shadows of her face and fills them with something more profane than red-light. Eligos pulls back his lips and nips at the satin lapping at their feet like a nest of snakes. His teeth sound like an explosion in the black jaw of the night. And after that, when the crack of bone on bone fades into the humming of their hearts and the lulling coo of their lugs--

After that it is not the unicorn who loves a king that speaks.

“If you are clever you will pray to none of the three.” Another bit of marble falls beside her like a dead star holding tightly to a wish. Her belly snarls. “Are you?”

It is not that unicorn at all.


<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
CADAVROUX | BERB



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Euryale - 08-05-2020

my lover's got humour
she's the giggle at a funeral

unholy desires, the scent is fetid death. death unlike beauty, leaves a repulsive stench; though both are eternal. the odour makes you recoil. there is no elegance in death, only affirmations, only oblivion and earthly demise. the aroma is putrid; juicy, wretched, like old rotten things. left too long in the spoils of winterland. the rotting, unclean. capped, beneath ridges of hard, hard ice. the poetry raw, primordial. an ancient dance of life and decay and beauty come undone. the beauty within the rotting corpses, is only a whisper of a dream, from the midsummer's grave. it feels like spoiled meat - tastes like wet, dank cancerous earth - no matter how beautiful the unicorn's red fur shone in the ephemeral moonlight; as blood-red and bright as a freshly-opened wound. as ravishing as steel swords and equally terrifying. the unicorn and her beast were like gods in the darkness. euryale feels like persephone.  almost helpless.  almost in love with death.

euryale almost wants to turn away from the ugliness it brings. she feels nearly embarrassed by so much want. yet she does not, she will not, turn away from the red unicorn. she only holds thana's gaze like a steady storm, waiting to explode in gunfire and smoke. euryale finds beauty in everything. even destruction. even death. even decay. so the violet stone upon the unicorn's brow, catches euryale's gaze, like an eagle catches sight of something shimmery and utterly reflective. euryale wants to take the stone in her mouth and leave a kiss like a diamond on thana's temple. it makes the blood-red unicorn look even more beautiful. as thana nears, the lilac-haired banshee leans over in a graceful whisper of soft motion. enough to scrape her porcelain cheek ever so lightly against the unicorn's spiraling horn. enough to draw blood - so faint a trace - like red rose petals, dashed against december snow and pricked by a knife's kiss. it stings her flesh like serpents writhing in her heart. it hurts. but it hurts so good. "like a diamond in the dark. the stone on your forehead is beautiful. like you."

euryale whispers to thana, the same cold, deathless whisper. there is no emotion in her words, only icy affirmation, only truth wrapped in fangs and venomous silk. having always lusted after danger, the witch realizes then that she wants this warrior queen too much. yet apart of her wants to bitchslap the other, until the blood pours from out of their mouths. another part of her wants to throw thana on the bed and ravage her, alive. bite her neck. bite her lips and hips and thighs, until the night descends into a sea of red, fleshy hunger made for sex and suffering. another part of euryale, the secret dark side of euryale, wants to do all of the above. euryale feels both attraction so intense, and fear of something, unfamiliar. how can she feel this way towards a woman, when she is not even a lesbian? when she is not even attracted to the female body? why do thoughts pour like black oil in her mind. she feels like grinding the unicorn into the earth until they are nothing more than a tangle of blood, tears and sweat. nothing more than a goddess of love, wrapped in the deadly embrace of the goddess of death. where hell would be their bedroom, heaven their battlefield. a coffin of roses finally laid to rest.  tarantula and black widow.

yet still, euryale remains motionless.  unreadable as stone; her thoughts hidden, like the sociopath she is. euryale ignores the unicorn's raw question with a soft, gentle laugh. not out of elusiveness, but genuine truth. her voice suddenly darkens, a gauzy hush like secrets unearthed, tonight. painful secrets. tired secrets. secrets so violent and heavy and hateful, apart of euryale's heart breaks, even though her face remains perfectly ivory. "something was taken from me," she confides. she wants to say that her innocence was stolen, devoured by hungry men - brutally taken away, like wolves take lambs - but she can't. she is no longer a lamb, and she wears her scars like artform, like religion. she tells herself she let herself be devoured. "my son was taken from me. i want my son back. and i will fuck every god and devil here, until they give him back to me," and it doesn't take cleverness to make love, in order to gain what i want. euryale's sensuous body loosens in its sensual shrug; lithe shoulderblades sprung by ruinous lilacs and blues, sliding easily into a wildcat's crawl. and euryale's eyes says it all; dovely, obsidian-lashed rimmed in the blackest of black. to me, praying is like fucking. i just want it too much. 

if thana is death and decay and absolute destruction, euryale wants to be the savage bonfire and wild gypsies that dance like sin and pleasure all around her.  and only the craziest things are the most beautiful. like love. like religion. both lead the blind; both drive you to hunger and leave you either fulfilled, or broken or starving in utter madness. there is much euryale wants to tell her.  but she refrains.  maybe those are stories saved better for a rainy day.  o, but if euryale could only tell her story, it would begin with something like, once upon a time in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a young girl who loved darkness and moonlight. "i feel like I've seen your face before.  were you at dusk while asterion ruled?"  a breeze makes it's way through her lilac tendrils, ruffling her curls.  the candle euryale holds gets snuffed out.  now it's pitch black, and wonderfully dark.  now euryale's whisper, ever hushed, ever soft and frenzied, sounds more like silent screams of hunger echoing in the dark.

@thana

the only heaven i'll be sent to
is when i'm alone with you




RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Thana - 08-10-2020

FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.

Death does not turn away, paint in kisses of salvation and lust, or do anything but consume with its hollow, wanting that is never full. The blackness is eternal, unending, inescapable. It creeps. It is sudden. It gnaws like a cancer and spreads like a vine born from her king's magic.

And Thana, looking at the mare with her secrets tucked away like cells begging to be cut out, becomes not a unicorn, or a red-monster in the black night, or a master of the desert-beast at her side.

Thana becomes death as much as she consumes it with each brass drum inhale and exhale of her rotten lungs.

Even the air, the frankincense, the flowers, and the dust bloated with useless  religion, do not survive the touch of her black-magic blood. The parts of her, those small sparrow frail parts, that know how to love start to wither in the death-want and the death-knell whisper of mortal flesh when it's pressed to her horn.

She does not wonder if the mare realizes, as clever things never do, that there is nothing to touch upon her flesh that does not maim, and desiccate, and destroy. She lets her begin the unmaking, smiling as a wolf will with teeth and froth and hunger, when the mare presses her cheek to her spiral horn.  The iron and copper smell of blood sits just below the smoke and prayer smell as the drops start to puddle on the floor like tears from an innocent thing. “It has always been the dying things that flatter the most.” Thana steps closer as the mare pulls back and drags her horn through the wound like a bow to a violin. It's a gesture that promises an answer to every secret-thing-not-said in the mare's words. It promises song, and almost sacrifice, and the only religion that the earth knows to pray too.

It promises that even gods, even holy relics, even already dead things discover a new unmaking with just a kiss (only one kiss, only one gentle touch of  horn or lip) from her. Thana knows that the moment the mare touched her she had marked herself for the unmaking. And like a god, like the things the mare has promised to fuck, Thana listens.

She lowers her horn to answer the prayer given in touch and flattery. It points at that mortal heart now, that fragile little thing that hasn't learned yet the quick, frantic beat it should be singing. Clever things never learn. Not until it's too late, too late, too late (and the mare did not say she was clever).

“You bend to the wrong gods, mare. They cannot give your son back to you.” Her voice is more than another trembling strand of night between them or another bone deep purr of Eligos as he licks his lips. Her voice is everything. Thana hides no secrets. She only gives them away like the clouds peeling back to reveal the stars (look there, in the belly of her jaw, constellations).

Thana steps closer and taps out holy writ with her horn against the mare's shoulder. Tap. tap. tap, like a knock, tap. Their shadows tangle together, like vines and veins, in the moonlight creeping in through the marble arches. She exhales against the mare's skin and with it there is language and scripture. “It does not matter where you have seen me. Not when I can give your son back to you.”

She replaces her horn with teeth.

“I will not even ask you to bend.” And in the darkness, with her monster pressing close, the true-gods and the true-death, ask for no sacrifice. They only offer.

And then...

Then they will take.



<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
CADAVROUX | BERB



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Euryale - 08-12-2020

Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

her heart calls for death, merciful death, the way angels call to god. "art, like us, can be deceiving. the body moves, but the heart is empty, the soul consumed," euryale's gentle voice threads the unicorn's mane like bone-comb does. her silken syllables pouring from intoxicating lips. the press of the unicorn's horn against her wound feels like euphoria. feels like intimacy, like living. even the sharpness of its sting, feels as sweet as any rose-thorn to a dead-living thing such as euryale. euryale feels parts of her being brought back to life. being swallowed whole by thana's beautiful darkness. a million whispers fill her heart; a million more whispers, etch her soul. ruining. consuming. eating, the guazy fabric of her mortal coil, as blackness - like blood-sucking leeches - silently, devours her spirit. when the moon hides behind diaphonous storm-clouds, and a flash of lightening revels from the courtyard, a shifting silvery-veil overwhelms the now too-empty, too-dark church. 

outside the windows, the weeping-angels mourn the transient moon from the graveyard. their tears, trapped in stone. stygian gargoyles, looming across the roof-tops; drip of incense and wretched mold from their sable talons. how their rotted marble-wings stretch high above their skulls, like hungry dogs begging for bones. tonight, the church sings with violent hymms of the damned in the deep throes of wilderness. tonight, the angels are resting and it's the demons who sing. tonight, the crowned kings are fast asleep. tucked, within the autumnal valley of shadows. but their queens - o their beautiful, ravenous, malevolent queens - roam the mortal plane, like a pride full of untamed lionesses. ready to hunt. to engorge. to feast. euryale finds solace in the unicorn's deathly promise. euryale finds only peace.

"some gods can bend, too; when the soul tastes irresistible, o, how they bend. hot and heavy, like lovers at dusk. if the soul is worth thirsting after, that is," a soft, famished purr, a silky mumur of feminine guile - something like desire, something like grievance, something like eternal sadness - leaves the witch's blood-stained lips. she feels her hallowed heart being penetrated by rivers of mystic blackness. each sliver of blackness, swallowing each sliver of moonlight, till the ruins of the cathedral echoes with dark bedroom whispers from the grave. from the pit of her stomach, the witch's emptiness slithers outward like primal ruin. scaling, the sides of her waist with all the seductive wickedness of lucifer. euryale's lived too long. her bones ached to sate and carry her soul. nothing else satisfies, so now the dark angel only sought solace in the long-awaited embrace of death. if the unicorn is infinite darkness and destruction, euryale is expansive appetite and beautiful ruin. the hunger that follows this same sad emptiness, stirs violently within euryale; as raw and ancient as beauty and death. 

"a son, yes, i had a son," her whisper sounds like a mad thing. a psychotic thing. another drop of blood drips from her scarred cheek, and euryale licks at it with a gilded, feline purr. she feels bits of her blood blooming metallic ribbons, as her ivory flesh slips across the death-unicorn's horn once more. such slender bone-white skin, caught against an exquisitely sharp, caressive blade. each blood that drips is a fevered song. each drop of blood becomes a new world of deathless invitation, as the red liquid holds bits of euryale's soul within its crimson seas. her heart roars beneath her breast. veins part like oceans. the vermillion tears, marring the huntress' porcelain cheek a beautiful shade of red that glows, glows. like ichor glows lively against a faint beam of ethereal moonlight; a color so beautiful, so glorious, so visceral it is better left nameless and therefore, holy. 

"my son," she whispers again, remembering fractured memories. almost mad, almost like new religion. always beautifully, euryale. her voice becomes a carnal prayer against the scarlet darkness of the unicorn's flesh. the hunger that spurs within the witch is ancient tragedy, as rotten as death, only hidden by amorous beauty as if made to be the perfect deception. why are the pretty things always first to die? but there is no lies tonight. not before the dark goddess thana. not before this all-consuming blackness and hunger that is the wild red unicorn. this is wilder than sex. hotter than passion. Crueler than religion. this torment feels more like making love under moonlight. more like blood-victories led into battlefields by armies infinity. to be made. then unmade. to be wretched wholly, and to be broken - broken - yet finally, satisfied. to be chiseled by God's teeth and kissed with veneration so holy, that even their angels sing for the promises of death. 

euryale lets the other tangle against her with a sensual shyness to rival a doe's. the press of the unicorn's body to her curves only deepens the unspoken ache. she feels submerged in blackness so wicked, even the earth stirred with a raw, passionate hunger. the grave-soil beneath her hooves, becomes a rumble of vulgar carnality that hissed and hissed; forgive us. give us. save us. "what must i...?" what will you do? euryale wants to ask. she wants to press her lips to thana's ear and whisper to her all these sinful, sinful secrets. she wants to leave a string of kisses along thana's slender jaw, till each kiss becomes both a whisper for more, and a dark, silky moan of wild retribution. the unicorn taps her horn upon the flesh of her shoulder - tap, tap, tap like so - and euryale gazes at her beneath a dreary stare. observing the dark ritual. as the unicorn pauses and replaces horn with teeth, euryale feels her heart flutter like a butterfly against those feral lips. her heart feels like a delicate thing, a beating thing, that rests dove-like against wolf's teeth. "how can you bring him back to me?" and her whisper, o how sensous her whisper - dark and softly alluring; nearly mistaken for a broken prayer.  nearly a moan.

@Thana

There is a fire inside of this heart
and a riot about to explode into flames



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Thana - 08-17-2020

FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.

Magic, that terrible beast of death, rises from fever to wildfire. It makes teeth out of her veins, organs out of her sinew, sentient thought out of the pits where her lilac eyes watch the mare. The horn on her brown turns to throat  and the blade at the tip of her tail to stomach. Black magic and rot reach out through Thana's jaw of constellations and drag lines with a unicorn's teeth across the mortal's shoulder. They draw the arcane patterns of anointments lost in the tombs of sacrificial lambs.

Thana's heart and soul are bloated enough that there is not a thing in this world, this coil, that would have the depth to consume her. She is ripe with all the things in this made form of hers-- ripe for the rend and the ruin

Beneath her skin all her joints are steel and sword (all the things that do not bend, do not submit, do nothing that is not destroy). She leans her weight into the mare, her teeth turned to stones laid down one after the other on fresh grave-dirt. “They are false gods and idols, mortal, if it's your soul that makes them bend.” And when she pulls her teeth away, leaving her words behind to hang like wounds on that pale and bloody skin, it is the only gift she plans on giving the wayward mare with her silken scarf and her fragile lust.

The darkness continues to bloom around them, between them, and in the places were the air leaks into their blood cells. Candles melt without heat. Skulls lament in the silence as their jaws and their horns turn to dust in the wind  whipping through the unholy hallways.  Between them all Eligos starts to purr a beckoning and the dust rises up into shapes that gallop like wolves around Thana and her kill. Their paws make no sound but a sigh.

It's the same sighing sound her horn makes (that cosmic whisper of yes, yes, yes) as she lowers it to point at that cavern crease in the mare's chest. Already she can hear the hum of her doe heart and the bleat of her embers that will never learn how to be truly wild. Thana whispers as the darkness does and sighs as the dust monsters and weapons do. “I have already told you how.” Distance grows thin and worn between them as Thana and her monsters press in like a tide to a willow too close to shore.

“You only need to say yes.” And when her tail blade whines against the stone like a harp even that sounds like an echo of yes.

Thana does not want the soul. She never has.

She was made to want only the heart.




<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
CADAVROUX | BERB



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Euryale - 08-18-2020

Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

her wounds sings, like scared fire. she is baptised in her own blood, a ravenous ache. sensations of blood and visceral desire, leaves her reeling. She wants this holy moment to last forever. She wants to be free of sin, free of suffering. She wants a mortals' pain, and from this agonizing pain, she wants immortality, too. her heart greives. her heart weeps. It cracks like a glass dove. weaknesses flushed out with the vermillion sea, parting before the unicorn's horn, like God parts the sea for holy messiahs. the unicorn's darkness squeezes her like an anaconda squeezes a soft, white fox. One predator more vicious than the other, but in the end, the softer one eventually succumbs; fore absolute beauty, is a price that only death may take. 

darkness sweeps the earth. darkness uncoils like a great-bellied serpent, laughing. hungering. rot clings like black dragons to the unicorn's flesh. making a monster out of the death queen, who now drips of rotten decadence like blood drips from a sacrificial altar. Euryale embraces the darkness like a wild lover. with kisses tender, and sighs, soft. she feels the unicorn's mounting hunger - an insatiable appetite - rise all around her. Echoes of yes, yes, yes. how fervently they swirl, hurricanes gilded in wolven paws, dance with promise of the kill. each chant echoes with madness and fervent longing. each syllable from her lips and the unicorn's lips, cooes with both intimate promise and vehemence. euryale's doe-heart pulses wickedly, aching to be freed from feeble, mortal flesh. Aching to step into a throne where immortality awaits her. where kindoms await princess persephone, if only she swallowed those pomegranate seeds. her soul stirs with maddening desire. snarling to escape the visceral body it has taken all these years. her soul wants it's heart back. it's real heart, and it's son, too. a life for a life.

crimson drips from the now freshly opened gash. euryale's porcelain breast, now stained vermillion by the unicorn's violent kiss. euryale's face is cold-stone, yet her mortal heart is the steady flame-pulse; rising hotly against the lioness' bloody teeth. they sink. they skin. Those blunt canines, feeling more like hammers than they do blades. they pull her, and take her. euryale lets the unicorn drink, sate her fill, whilst a gilded purr half-pain and half-pleasure escapes her lips. when the unicorn pulls back the kiss, euryale's skull lowers with a dark sigh. a violent exhale of words, like a gasp; "yes," she whispers at last, like surfacing from near-drowning. her whisper, dark and bloody with a hunger of its own, that is half-wild and not so innocent at all. 

lilac curls tumble across her shoulderblades. across the scarlet wounds. euryale pulls herself into the black-devouring thing that is thana, and with a chaste kiss, lays her lips against the all-consuming void of what would have been the unicorn's cheek. "Take me. Consume me. Let me serve you. I am yours, if you will have me," euryale leans in the shadowy tentacles of the unicorn. she feels death ripping her soul apart, and her heart, o her heart. her heart feels like the phoenix, rising. "i want to live in your darkness, forever," like a goddess loves her god, euryale aches to hold the woman close.

@thana

There is a fire inside of this heart
and a riot about to explode into flames



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Thana - 09-04-2020

FAITH IN THEIR HANDS SHALL SNAP IN TWO,
AND THE UNICORN EVILS RUN THEM THROUGH;
SPLIT ALL ENDS UP THEY SHAN’T CRACK;
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION.

Heaven, and salvation, and religion have no place in this gloaming darkness and dead candlelight. There is only room in the chapel of dead gods for the monsters, and the master, and the howling of their hunger as it echoes like thunder in their chest. It's all hunger and darkness, thunder and snarl, iron and copper and blood dripping down between them like wishes in a well. The ground turns fat and hallowed with the blood of lost Euryale and the ghost of her son (and maybe there is the bitter tang of her lust in the air too).

Thana smiles as the mare impales herself on a kiss of horn as if Thana has promised life instead of death. Her magic roils and purrs in her stomach, eager to swallow down another mortal like the desert soaks up tears and rain. There has ever been nothing in the wake of Thana (only rot, and blackness, and silence) and yet Euryale, like all the rest see words in the darkness and relgion in the quiet that exists in no place other their their mortal, fragile, hope.

The blade on her tail whines against the stone. Again and again and again-- a whine, a moan of thunder, hunger, and hunger, and hunger.

Everything black magic and wanting lives in the howl of her blade as she lifts it towards the mortal mare. Thana leans into the kiss against her cheek as if she's eager for the touch of flesh and heat against the winter of her skin (and it's a lie, it's a lie for anyone but Ipomoea). She purrs a come closer that sounds like wasps caught between tongue and teeth. Dust monsters nip at the space around them, their teeth scraping against both unicorn hock and horse hock. Their snarls rise in a chrous of yips and barks until the silence is wild with sound above that drip, drip, drip of blood and rot. Marble continues to fall to the ground around them like more and more stars.

A universe is falling around them in the idols of false gods.

“Hush mortal. I do not need to hear you beg.” The magic-made unicorn says to the mare bloated with wanting, need, and lust. Her eyes turn dark in the shadows as she pulls her cheek from the mare's lips. Eligos pushes between them dragging his teeth along Thana's skin in a warning and a begging prayer that only Thana knows the sound of.

Thana almost turns to leave. She's still riding the black magic racing through her in wave after wave. Her bones tremble with a hundred insincts that Ipomoea's unicorn pretends not to understand. But the king is not here. The gods are not here. There is only Thana and a mortal, magic and false prayer. There are only monsters around them snarling for the want of hunger.

And then there is the whine of her blade as a warning.

She drags it across the mare's throat (pulling back at the last moment as something like guilt and want run down her spine like lightning) It's not enough to kill, not with the way it waivered at the killing strike like a petal in a storm. But it is enough to make her teeth ache at the scent of blood and life and need on the air. She snarls with the violence of her magic as it presses against the backs of her eyes like a tumor. And she does not want to discover how hard the magic can push before she turns to leave.

“Make it down the mountain if you want to live as a thing claimed by death. And if you want only the gift of your son stay here until the dawn. Either way you are still mine.” She says. But the way she turns to look over her shoulder, before she dissolves into the darkness with her pack of monsters,  seems more of an appology than a promise.

And maybe it's the closest Thana will ever come to saying, I am sorry.




<3 | @Euryale
"Speaking."
CADAVROUX | BERB



RE: as twilight is oft to become, - Euryale - 09-06-2020

Crash, crash, Burn, let it all burn
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

"o, we are not nearly loud enough," euryale's laughter is soft, maniacal and devilish, as she presses those hushed, silver words to the curve of the unicorn's ear. euryale's insanity, a ravenous creature; makes alluring siren-music of her deranged, and derisive whispers. her madness becomes the drug. her madness becomes the release. her madness, feels dark and beautiful and angry, as they hunt like frenzied locusts alongside her bloated lust. they were proverbial insects, that preyed like a pest upon her mind. toying, her fragile sanity with the idea of unraveling the unicorn's flesh, like a bloodied dress too visceral to wear. now, now, her mind whispers, playfully, coaxing yet again. teasing, even, like fingertips running through lace too sheer, too warm, it could be running through skin, instead.

her curves press the unicorn, lightly, as together they tangle alongside one another like two serpents in eden"s garden. the witch's maddening hunger, becomes raw with a silent-screaming rage, even as she feels her heart, her body, decaying by thana's magic. euryale steels her appetite with an ache, all too familiar. she feels crazed, with both violence and heady want, drunk enough to behave so coyly. she feels the heavy weight of temptation, arrest her. the marbles around them continue to crack, cracking. the moonbeams, filtered through a curtain of rancid decay and dust, becomes floodlights of silver death that laugh and scream and dance with chaotic music. as crystal-clear as any knife, and its metallic purring. still, euryale, does not shy nor fear the teeming mass of rot. still, she is tangled with the unicorn, as their undead wolves riot around them in a howling storm of malevolence, carnage and hunger. still, death breathes its destructive kiss along euryale's skin. hot and kindling with a fire that wants to consume, too much. "not enough," euryale laughs again, her voice goes from bedroom whisper to screaming shrill. almost unheard, in the unicorn's whirring music and violent arcana. will i ever be enough for you?

death, slips like a vengeful lover, spilling around the curvaceous edges of euryale. the blackness, thickens; the red unicorn appears engorged by euryale's blood, as the rot clings to wounded flesh. the shadows, becoming animated predators in the dark spaces breathed hotly between them. euryale feels no fear. euryale only sees the beauty of the unicorn's face, hidden among the nest of chaos and ruin. a face she would gladly kiss. still, euryale's desire feels all wrong and hungry and wretchedly empty. consumed, only by a twisted kind of immoral desire, which screamed borderline masochistic. perhaps, the added sharpness of the unicorn's tail-blade running slowly beneath her neck like an eagle's talon, feels more like a nail-filled caress dressed in the language of threat. perhaps, the unicorn's dark beast, looks no more than a lurid shadow with gaping white teeth, as it pulls along the red unicorn with fabled promise and bestial purr. and where euryale expects death to completely consume her. destroy her. she only feels the sudden fading of the immortal's magic, as the red mare pulls away, with words both spoken and unspoken. 

euryale does not reply to the last of the unicorn's words. she watches the red creature leave with her beast and her ruinous gods in tow. euryale does not follow her into the darkness, even as she ached to lunge and scrape her teeth along the woman's thigh as she left. the lilac-haired temptress only stands by a decaying statue angel. the witch only watches through a broken, glass-window as death leaves and the night continues, on and on; singing songs, of moonlight and shadow. only when dawn breaks, a first kiss of blazing red along the horizon, only then does euryale break free of the spell. only then, does she descend the mountains, covered in blood.  covered in scars.  only then does she press her lips to the tall grass, and follows the unicorn's scent.

@thana (thank you for such a wild thread)

There is a fire inside of this heart
and a riot about to explode into flames