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Private  - prophesy to the wind, to the wind only;

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Played by Offline Griffin [PM] Posts: 465 — Threads: 50
Signos: 2,388
Vagabond Citizen
Male [He/Him/His] // Immortal [Year 496 Winter] // 16 hh // Hth: 52 — Atk: 48 — Exp: 102 // Active Magic: Water Manipulation // Secondary Magic: // Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)

There is a gale howling on the mountain. Above, the clouds are a heavy bruised gray, but these and everything else are made invisible by the snow falling thick and furious. The wind moans, gnashes its teeth, seeks to dislodge any living thing from the path. What trees there are this high up rattle their thin bare branches like a warning. 

Inside Asterion there is a howling, too. 

There must be an empty place within his chest, for such a sound and such a darkness. He has never been empty before, but always too full, full to overflow, of love and want and worry and dreaming. He is finding that it’s easier, to be hollow. 

Ice coats his lashes, snow clings to his sides and buries the stars there. Each breath is a wisp of smoke whipped away by the wind and still he climbs. There is a part of him dimly aware that he is calling the storm, that his magic is crying out for the rain and oh, the clouds obey. At one point he rounds a corner and staggers against the wind, leaning for a moment against the slick stone of the mountain, sensing but unable to see the precipice yawning before him; and then he puts his head down, pushes on.

So it goes until the air is so thin and frigid it feels like swallowing icicles, until the only remnant of warmth is the burn of his muscles and lungs, until his eyes ache with cold. And then the path twists again, and rises once more, and he is above the storm.

The change is as sudden as stepping through a doorway and leaving the world behind. Asterion blinks against the sudden midday sun and blows out a shuddering breath. From here the clouds look like the surface of the sea - tumultuous, dense enough to drown in. 

Ahead waits the altar of the gods, but the stallion makes no move to continue. For the first time in his life, he feels like a god himself. 

The sea has many voices,
many gods and many voices

« r » | @Euryale


Played by Offline aurora [PM] Posts: 62 — Threads: 12
Signos: 1,075
Dawn Court Entertainer
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 6 [Year 499 Winter] // 16.1 hh // Hth: 10 — Atk: 10 — Exp: 22 // Active Magic: Aerokinesis // Secondary Magic: // Bonded: Lilith (Timber Wolf)

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

euryale snarls and swings her long sword, crashing it against the marble.  she desecrates the statues, with every trembling thrust of her blade, destiny.  the marbled effigies rattle and crack beneath her delicious fury.  her sword sings through the air.  slicing, and whirring, with a trembling violence.  she laughs into the silence.  she laughs with her blade.  the passionate clamour of steel, as it rings through the air with maddening assailment.  she throws her silky head backwards and howls with her sensual madness.  she has lived for so long in her hollowness.  it is her own emptiness, that laughs back.  each fervent echo of she. consuming her.  devouring her.  forever, euryale.

maybe, her hunger had escaped her.  maybe,  her hunger feels, unleashed.  fore the hunger of the gods, torments the skies now; they were reflections of euryale's internal universe. the zephyrs scale veneror peak with a vengeance, with a titan-fury. the mistral winds, toss and turn. they are savage wolves in the foray.  savage lovers, amid the tempest storms of hera. sheets of pale violence, unseen amidst the snowy curtains. yet their holy burn, lays within each lightening whip of windstorm.  with each virulent caress of stormy desire, drawing taut and wicked against flesh; raw, and tempestous as the sea.  to the kings and queens of the mountains, however. where the air is aching-thin and, ever gasping.  where the air feels piercingly morbid, wintry cold, with both need and violent desire.  somehow, the silence up here above the mortal kind, and kingdoms below, always proves to be most consoling for all her unabashed, violence and hunger.

here lies romance. here lies tragedies.  there is acceptance up here, amongst the gossamer clouds. there is eternity within the nothingness of gray space, and stars buried so high, and heavenly.  within the frigid mountain air, that sucked at lungs like sleek vinyl trapped over hot, sweaty skin.  there is holiness here.  the promise of desolation.  such songs of alleviation, becomes a means to an end.  fore there are endings up here, too.  the end of all things - allowing for new beginnings.  new worship. new love.  and maybe that is why she is up here, lost within the intimacy of her thoughts.  amidst the foggy chill, the bruising clouds, with winter's wrath pouring her snowy deluge. chilling scarlet skin and layering slivers of snow, upon euryale's eye-lashes and slender backline.  fore is that not the mantra for sea? for sky? for water? for wind?  constantly changing.  constantly evolving. never the same, yet always restless - forever damned, beneath its stoic waves and reflective, catatonic stillness.  is this why you are up here so? to lay yourself beneath the mountains, to rise above it - rise again, and again. renewed. reborn.  and from the ashes of our worship, from the bedroom cries of our wild religion; i will make you; i will call you, i will claim you; i will love you;


when she turns to face him in the still-shadows of winter, it is her gaze that pierces him and not her sword.  her sword points at his heart like a come-hither talon, and her lips curl upward into an almost-smile, as dark and empty as her soul.  when her song finds him, her voice is desire, incarnate;  soft, dark poetry of her lips. her voice sings scalding hot, compared to the gelid vapour that leaves her sensual mouth, in smooth plumes of gentle, mountain-mist.  her voice is blazing silk.  her voice is fire and ice, as she sings for him.  a ghostly caress, wrapping tightly against her tongue. winding against her fangs with all the hungry, venom-sweetness of lucifer;  her voice is the lucifer. there is no playfully, wicked laughter in the tone of her voice now.  nothing unabashed nor coyfully taunting. not as it was, the many nights before, during their first meeting by the ocean, where she whispered like a mermaid whispers to a drowning sailor, 'king'. there is no seductive spells of silver-siren words, she yearns to cast upon him.  her voice is bedroom-whisper, instead.  a low, husky whisper that sounds equal parts primitive growl, and equally so the alluring, croon of a vampiric queen. 

"so far from the sea,"  another dark, silk-whisper leaves her saccharine lips, and the lilac-haired temptress finds herself circling him with the delight of a hurricane.  circling him, and yet not touching.  her blade lifts the earthen snow.  her sword drags through the white powder, like a knife drags through pale flesh, behind her.  she is the tempest.  she is the storm.   this is her calm.  only the brush of her flank, finds his muscled side.  only the promise of her lips, shadowed along his spine, gives way for both her desire and need and consumption.  the most subtle of caresses, it could have been a ghost that kisses his skin, instead.  

her silken blues, were no longer the tattered veils of a corpse bride. they swell heavily, upon the barren floor.  swaying against the snowy earth like draconic serpents, rippling with all the gracefulness of a gown. grecian robes, unfurling in their Athenian wake, how they curled around him in all their translucent beauty.  her sultry thighs, revealing themselves, then hidden away; her dark skin, glowing beneath the tumultuous folds of satin-blue.  euryale draws, nearer.  they are so close, now, his breath feels hot when it falls like sensual invitations along her face.  she holds herself in purring defiance.  she feels ever so guarded, and she guards her heart, viciously.  she has always known him and his potential to be dangerous.  and now, now; he looks dangerous.  with his tousled hair, unkempt in its obsidian tendrils.  with the hollow hunger of his gaze, sharper than any blade.  

"what has become of you?" such sensual lyrics, honeyed-syllables, falls from her lips.  euryale calantha wants to step even closer.  she wants to put her shoulder into his chest. she wants to whisper those words against his ear.  she wants to end the distance between them with a kiss.  she wants to fill the spaces between them within the shadows of their embrace.  she wants to pull him close.  warm his cold body, with hers.  But there is danger in that, too.  the sea calls for you.  you do not belong here, dear king.


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

─ she pins you to hotel doors, not a goddess anymore ─
but she still looks like religion in high heels; she kisses you, godless
whispers, we dress like princesses to go out and kill kings.
moodboard 》《 playlist


Played by Offline Griffin [PM] Posts: 465 — Threads: 50
Signos: 2,388
Vagabond Citizen
Male [He/Him/His] // Immortal [Year 496 Winter] // 16 hh // Hth: 52 — Atk: 48 — Exp: 102 // Active Magic: Water Manipulation // Secondary Magic: // Bonded: Cirrus (Pallas's Gull)


If he was ever alone in the peace above the storm, the sacred quiet of the mountain, it was not for long. Asterion turns at the word that sounds to him like a rap against armor. His dark eyes travel up the length of the sword, from tip to fur-wrapped hilt, and to the woman who holds it. There had been displeasure in his expression when he heard the voice, and then surprise as he found the speaker, and now a smile blooms on his dark mouth.

“Lady Euryale,” he replies, low. When she draws near he makes no move save to broaden his stance, to feel the sunlight (thin though it is) warm his weary muscles. It is a pleasure to watch her, he thinks - the steadiness of her gaze, the motion of her ribbons a current around her. The line the sword draws in the snow. He wants to ask her why she’s brought it here, what she hunts. He wants to ask her if she’s used it to kill, the way he’s always wondered about her teeth. Who are you really? she’s asked him once, and now, as he has many times, he wonders the same of her.

She is the brightest thing in this faraway world, and his gaze leaves her only briefly, to glance across the clouds as though he could see through the storm to the ocean at the horizon. “But nearer the stars,” he says, still smiling, though the smile is heavy, slow. If there are stars in him now, they are in eclipse.

What he does not say is that the sea is always in him now, murmuring, ebbing, churning. His blood obeys the same tides, his mind is a whirlpool.

But Asterion does not want to think about these things, or the sea. Not when the softness of her brushes against his shoulder. Not when her breath warms him better than the sun. The caress of her ribbons raises a shiver to his skin and he drinks in the color of her, vivid as a venomous snake, a warning he doesn’t intend to heed. He wants to reach for her in turn, an impulse unlike him. At last the sword falls still, and the woman too; they are close enough he can see bits of ice in her lashes, hear the whisper of her veils.

He wants to touch her, to share her warmth, to forget the bite of the wind and the howl of the gale and the feeling of being alone. (And the thing within him, it wants to touch too - to take.

At her question he meets her eyes, bright tourmaline in the bone white of her face. There is another world behind his own gaze - a sick place, a holy place, where dying and creation are the same.

“I am free.”

The wind picks up, scattering snowflakes around them like diamonds, or magic. And the once-king reaches for her at last.

The sea has many voices,
many gods and many voices

« r » | @Euryale


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