a writing blog for multiple muses from a variety of canon and original sources, by byleth (they / them, 21+) . mutuals only, iconless, private and heavily plot-based. formerly known as @stelegy.
⠀ ᴵ carrd. ᴵᴵ prompts. ᴵᴵᴵ blogroll.
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@eintraums
a writing blog for multiple muses from a variety of canon and original sources, by byleth (they / them, 21+) . mutuals only, iconless, private and heavily plot-based. formerly known as @stelegy.
⠀ ᴵ carrd. ᴵᴵ prompts. ᴵᴵᴵ blogroll.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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not that she's an actual faceclaim or what, but i do appreciate how phoebe walker in seklusyon embodies the kind of unsettling and stern creepiness that i try to give mòrag
🙪 @nightorne : continued.
the mists have an appetite of their own. in the years that they have been both servant and jailer, he still cannot predict the measure of their unique hunger. perhaps it’s a symbiosis ; barovia is a stomach, and he is meant to digest what they swallow. here is a god’s signpost, but the signpost of a dark god, not those pompous braggarts of garish lathander or of riotous pelor. here is something the shadowfell knows as a daughter. look, the night clings to her like a shawl.
a feast is set for a party that will not come. if not a morsel, then she must be a messenger. or another pawn of the dark powers and their tricks. lest this is another dream, the subconscious making another desperate play for a creature howling at his own despairing loneliness. he pours himself another bottle of … wine, stares at her from over the rim and over the far stretch of the table.
❛❛ an emissary, perhaps not. but if it is a test, dark cleric, it is a poor one indeed to have put you unexpectedly into my path. i am many things to many holy men ; all of them are hateful, but none of them are wrong. ❜❜ it is not a threat or a boast, but all the same it sounds like the hesitation of a cautionary tale. despite himself, he smiles, and his sharp teeth betray his nature, as does the clawed, elegant hand he extends to her for a chair. ❛❛ if you will not eat, you will at least sit and keep me company, yes ? tell me of this she - goddess of yours, and why she would test you so cruelly. ❜❜
» BETWEEN TWO FIRES. sentence prompts pulled from christopher buehlman’s novel, between two fires. mature themes ahead. change as you see fit, ser.
i feared you, but now i pity your suffering.
if death means to take you, he may do it here as easily as on the road. he is already in this house.
you may not be wicked, but i’m wicked enough for both of us.
i don’t care if you shit yourself. you don’t deserve any better.
balls to that. i’ll swear if i please.
that’s not forgiveness, it’s justice. and wretched justice at that.
i can’t sleep. i’m too… agitated.
i’m sorry. i’m nervous. you know i talk when i’m nervous.
what a pain in the ass you are!
everyone lies at confession. around the edges, at least.
let us speak of something happier.
we don’t want to start liking you and have you up and die on us.
i suspect more than i know.
your joking is pleasant, but it doesn’t hide the hole in you.
when was the last time you had wine? and i mean good wine.
but i can suffer. god wants suffering now.
i think he liked being bad as long as it was for pretend.
help yourself. something bad goes on here at night.
if it made you smile, it’s not completely useless.
we all fall short of perfection.
that’s the beauty of being nude in a river; you’re nobody. you’re anybody you want to be.
i do what i say. which is why i don’t say much.
those big cities are tombs, and they’re hungry.
i’ll look after your soul. as for the body, that’s in god’s hands.
if anything knocks, don’t open.
you only have one task, and that is to live. see that you do it.
so you drink the fruit of your brother’s damnation.
the plague doesn’t care about nice.
i just… don’t want anybody’s eyes on me. if i have to do things to survive.
heavenly treasures and earthly ones are not the same.
please help us. in the name of mercy, i beg you.
if devils hide in beer, is that why you drink so much wine?
let us be loving with each other. there’s so little love anywhere.
many who ask for justice are sorry to get it, and so shall it be with you.
you know what we’ve come to do now, don’t you?
do you believe in luck, my lady?

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🙪 @whatsout ( from éowyn to aragorn ) : sacred high romance, receiver helps sender put on a piece of clothing or jewellery.
sunrise once meant comfort to the people of gondor, but instead of being heralded by fresh faces and new beginnings, it arrives in sombre ceremony, crawling across the horizon to perform its duty. the war - scarred of minas tirith saw only the dull slumber of unconsciousness through the days that followed, while their healers saw none at all. what he could lend of his hands made them work tirelessly, until they had turned raw and calloused. it had been worth it, however, to save what he could, and to put at peace those he could not.
he will depart with them again to check the pelennor fields for more of their dead, to put at peace the families of the city, if peace could be offered at all. already from the windows of the houses of healing he could see small clusters of soldiers making their way across the fallen. they are collecting what they can, like funerary carrion birds.
but he feels her behind him, a warm spot in the dawn dark. she had been the best to recover of the wounded he oversaw. perhaps it is the spirit of her uncle that lives on in her now that had given her such strength, or the vengeance of her cousin who could not live to see his promises through. he turns ; slivers of the daybreak latch desperately onto strands of her gold hair, becoming something of a lamp he could see her face with. she cradles in her wounded arms the woolen cloak that had also acted as her blanket in her sickbed. he could not smother the determination within her then, he is foolish to think he can do so now. it is difficult for him to take a full breath, he is so terrified, terrified. he has already lost so much, and so has she. there is no poetry to make more palatable a feeling like that.
he takes the cloak gently from her ; his hands scrape with difficulty over its texture, as if they are still accustoming themselves to soft fabrics after too long a time apart from them. his knuckles tenderly brush the bruises that purple her skin and it unfurls with a muted susurrus. the length of his arms reach behind her head and he fastens the cloak over her shoulders, pulling it closed at her breastbone. as if he had been tending to her wounds, his eyes follow every gesture that he makes and … why do his fingers linger where the latch is ? he is mesmerised by the tenacity of the skin at her neck, still unwounded, unblemished. a bare column of flesh. for a moment, his fortitude falters and he is shockingly, sickeningly dizzy with an emotion like fear, not wholly fear.
❛❛ i am sorry that i must leave you again, daughter of rohan. ❜❜ his words are chosen carefully ; he can only offer to her the best. he looks into her eyes and picks out the grey against green, the colour of her strength. even now. ❛❛ you shall hate me for sparing you another valiant death among the host of the west, but i am willing to endure such hatred. you cannot die. your bravery is what saved your people. it is what must sustain them here while they mend their wounds. stay here, and be brave for them. ❜❜ his gaze leans closer still, until he can feel the scent of morning effuse gently off her face. ❛❛ promise me, my lady. ❜❜
i'm so not gonna lie to y'all. i kind of am starting to hate arcane?
🙪 @tyrran : continued.
noxus does not do anything by halves ; that is where it differs from demacia, a country basking in its own complacency and lies of justice and dignity. but the effort is undoubtedly valiant. perhaps they will hear tale of this protector in the delverhold —— or even as far as uwendale —— and cry out against their shelter. the northern territories possess only fledgeling loyalty, but it is to be expected. what is subjugation without its thorns ?
too belatedly he realises he has brought an anomaly to the immortal bastion ; it has fought against and caged worse. because noxus is a tenacious and united front ; that is where it differs from ionia, a land uneasy with its magics, too divided to stand even on two feet. he inclines his head, less to bow and more to shift his expression into something tolerable enough to pass as a dismissive gesture. still his voice rings with the cadence of a general, even though he holds no loyalty to him. ❛❛ you are not a noxian soldier, and i command of you nothing. after all, you will continue to do exactly as you please, in service to the people of naljaäg, with or without my orders. ❜❜ he steps down, at first uneasy in his footing, then he steps again until he is able to establish an easy cadence down the dais. the pain in his right leg creeps up then dampers down with the sway, like the ebb and flow of a constant tide. ❛❛ i did not summon you to make a mockery of the deaths of my men, nor to insist like a petulant child that you cease your efforts. i am not so foolish as that. ❜❜
something inside him — is eager and hungry, ready to lap up the first spill of blood. but he keeps his left hand tucked behind his back, assisted by the shadow of his long overcoat.
then raven wings flutter like whispers on the wind. an ideal made manifest, organic matter disintegrates into light. then something darker, colder, on the far side of the world … she reaches for ice that will not bruise her skin. waiting, for the inevitable. ❛❛ do you know what you are, vannaspar ? ❜❜ there is too much to know, too much, and he stops at the first sensation of the overwhelming weight. their sides do not brush. ❛❛ you will not find your answers in merely protecting innocent lives. ❜❜
around her the wind whips cold and unsteady, indifferent to her minuscule lapses of judgement on her balance and posture. she kneels beneath the cover of a water cooler atop an abandoned roof deck. from her vantage point, she peers through her binoculars and tries to sift through the garish lights and visual sound to find the hatch entrance she was tipped off months ago. it is still there, unlatched and open. the district attorney’s men were so quick to betray him. was she too surrounded by liars like that, smiling and spouting platitudes one moment, accepting bribes for her downfall the next ? if she had been … if her mother was still —
a silent, soft thud. her coat billows around her restlessly like a curtain. she had hoped it would have been a dark colour sufficient enough to help her blend into the shadows, even if @veilmotel ( as felicia ) renders it pointless, quickly plucking her singular figure from the skyline and right into her playful, bemused attention. no rest for the wicked, right ?
❛❛ no rest for you then, maybe. ❜❜ her mother had not been wicked, but she did not have to resort to wicked measures. would she have been ashamed to raise such a striking bird of prey when she wanted a dove ? she lowers her binoculars and passes them onto the burglar, who is making herself comfortably languid at their vantage point. perhaps it’s intuition, or just the strength of superstition and paranoia, but already she feels uneasy next to her, as if misfortune would collapse its full weight on the whole operation if she wasn’t ready for it. hopefully something must counterbalance it then, and nothing will happen to the briefcase of documents they needed to steal. ❛❛ we’ll do this quietly. no one should know we’ve been in and out. ❜❜ that’s why i picked you, she thinks. her footsteps are still a little clumsy on balcony railings and over stairs, under cover. but she’s been through worse humiliations, and she can certainly swallow a bit of pride when it comes to comparing herself to a professional. as much as the thief’s amusement burns her nape. ❛❛ you’ll need to show me how we get in. no tricks this time. ❜❜
i'll try to link this across all my blogs, but here's my blogroll. i'm actually going to try my damnest to be on both lamb and aleksandr and fix stuff up, so give both a follow if you're interested!

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not to sound mushy or what, but i'm feeling very good on this blog and all the blogs i have now, which is something i haven't felt in such a long time. i remember a couple of months ago how creatively drained i felt, even considered leaving the rpc at some point (it got that bad, yes), i was unwilling and unable to write because of a combined strain of isolationist anxieties and deep-rooted insecurity over my own writing. i hoped archiving and moving clean would help with that ditch, and maybe it has. because i can say with some confidence that those hard months are now pretty much behind me. i feel like i'm writing what i want, with whom i want, and for people i care about, and who care about me. so whether we've known each other for years (read : you have endured some BULLSHIT from me for far too long, damn), or you've just began witnessing my shitty pentiment shitposting, i sincerely thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for giving me a space on the internet to let me be … well, me! 🥰
his world is little more than four walls and a sliver of sun, the faintest hint of morning light that creeps in over the grime - soaked floor. he pays it no mind, fixated instead on the mindless thumping of fist against stone, the rhythmic beat of his heart made flesh ... it has been three days, or perhaps a thousand, he does not know for sure. he lives in the narrow scope of a moment, in every breath, in every beat of his fist, focused wholly on the hope that he might find himself free once more.
but now, something new: the screech of hinges, the scape of wood — he blinks, he stills, and, after a moment, he speaks, his voice as flat as still water, "you shall set me free or i shall raise and rip you limb from limb." / @stelegy
a spatter of dried blood marks his hands, his fists. dishevelled, unkempt, look now upon a true knight of beloved king arthur ! he is very beautiful, to be sure ; it is no wonder her avalon queens desired him, maybe in ways she would find too hedonistic. camelot is home to only bright things ; it knows just sunlit days and warm, orange - blossom nights, and so sadistic cruelty ( not envy, never envy ) crawls up her neck like poison up blue ventricle veins. he must be dirtied even further, bloodied even more. the door clangs shut behind her. ❛❛ how pitiful to think such a threat could move me to fear. ❜❜ she gathers her skirts to meet him eye to eye, kneeling slowly and, not ungraciously, she takes his face with a pale hand, forcing it to gaze at her. ❛❛ if i kill you, will the king rush toward me in a rage, forgoing any strategy in battle, and barrel headfirst into danger ? ❜❜ then with a rush of unprecedented excitement, already imagining such delicious despair, such that only existed in her deepest fantasies — ❛❛ will the queen wither and die, so torn apart by her grief she could no longer bear a life without you ? ❜❜
hello gay people in my phone, i'm trying to get back into a more consistent writing groove and the best way for me to do that is to read, so please recommend me your 🫵 favourite lgbt+ books and novels!
the soirée is indisputably gauche. windows of crystalline glass keep the night at bay, lit from above by gold - plated chandeliers, which hang from brass ceilings, themselves adorned with garish carvings of muses, dryads, satyrs and centaurs, bacchanalia and dionysus ruling over them, instructing them as a conductor guides an orchestra, but the decadent chaos of his own carnal celebrations stand a loose contrast to the rigidity of parisian social customs below. how the woodland nymphs would have baulked at the stiff skirts and powdered faces of the women, how the satyrs and centaurs would mock the men and their self - important airs ! subtle jazz floats over their heads like inoffensive scents, garnishing the air with more noise to fill in an already tumultuous but altogether proper gathering.
he stands next to @vivrez where, introspective as they are, they gravitate to the walls in the hopes they blend in. he reminds her of his foregone knowledge and she scoffs, practiced in hiding her distaste for his coarseness. why ? because it’s personal and it’s painful. and it’s none of your business.
ah, and despite it, a smile touches his lips and he inclines his head to acknowledge his faux pas. ❛❛ of course. forgive my indiscretion, miss. ❜❜ his attention turns back to the throng, where he follows the thin threads of society through and through, connecting mothers to sons, employers to contractors, friends to enemies, until a web emerges, twisting itself further as they dance, and dance. ❛❛ there are, of course, solutions to your predicament. there are ways to silence those who should not speak. ❜❜ from the glint in her eyes, she can see it too, furtively glancing through the thinnest of gaps for her prize. creatures raised on vengeance are so little different. ❛❛ however, it is none of my business. ❜❜ and he moves to bow, excusing himself. ❛❛ miss st. just. ❜❜
🙪 @daylighter ( to ranni ) : casual yet intimate interactions, sender grabs the chair receiver is sitting in and pulls it closer.
it is not omnipotence. she had begun to miss the faculties of a body, namely the solidity it had once afforded her, its ability to effortlessly carve a tangible place in the world, a place that was ranni. but she persists always, always —— stubborn in ways her father would not be, clever in a way her mother never was. in her state she forgoes the automatic processes of the flesh : a heart pumping, blood and sinew calculating every sensation from her fingertips to her spine, the very act of breathing. such efficiency, which once operated these mechanisms in her body, finds itself idle. thus, the puppet itself is now a mind stored : the spirit and her words of pure calculus and introspection.
so she does not see him when he enters the highest room of the rise, nor does she hear the footsteps on the cobblestone. no, she senses him, the way one foretells rain through subtle shifts in the air. it is a kind of soothsaying, like she has brought him here through merely wishing it. he is difficult to look at ; staring directly at his eyes is like counting birds as they fly over the sun. ( the sun ! was there ever such a brilliant, deadly thing ? ) but she crouches behind the shaded brim of her hat, though not out of fear. a tremor echoes ; she knows he has placed his hands on the legs of her chair and is pulling it towards him. the books under her legs rattle like an animal threatened, her doll shakes with the shifting. she is only as tangible as he can perceive. the hem of her dress begins to brush his breastplate hesitantly, as if in fear of a texture that is not itself. she will not fall upon him.
❛❛ you’ll harm me not. ❜❜ if she says it, then it must be true. if she tilts her head up, will he be looking back at her, or will his gaze be averted entirely ? which is worse ? one of her four hands slowly reaches up and places a single porcelain finger over his forehead. ❛❛ or am i to see at last if thy curiosity shall be punished … my difficult, garish star ? ❜❜ power thrums mutely between them, a wave lurking invisibly under the water’s surface. a miniature perihelion.

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tirion did not know a war room. indeed, the hall itself was once an antechamber in the palace of finwë : a roof of boughs held aloft by thin pearlescent columns, where the king would have entertained his subjects or seek the counsel of his ministers. from this view, túna is at its most majestic, sprawling like a vast ocean endless across the horizon. but now a table, made from the felled trunk of some impossibly large tree, dominates what was before empty space. and where its surface was once dominated itself by an assortment of maps, reconnaissance reports, general’s letters, logistic coordinations, all in service to the arithmetic of war, it now sits empty. tirion does not know a war room, but it knows what a war room is meant to be ; it attempts to bend itself at unnatural angles until its new shape satisfies its craftsman, for that is the art of the forge. finwë is dead now, so what use is sentimentality ? he is all alone in the room, in some unbecoming, nostalgic effort to recall his life before the first exile. although his hands are still, his mind is restless. he will commit that arithmetic of war to memory, down to its last letter.
until @yharnum ( as galadriel ) emerges. she easily carries the grace and light of her mother but the even coolness of her father. but the sneer is hers alone, as she tests her own strength against what she would claim is his heirship fashioned into fetters. how long should i wait for you to drown your pride ?
❛❛ pride … ? ❜❜ he takes the steel of her anger, smelts it in the slow fire of his tongue, then reforges them into curled, sharp things. the run - on of his rage, new daggers all. ❛❛ until you are called by duty to destroy the greatest joy in all your life and all your lives thereafter … until your father, who is beloved to you and who beloves you also, is cruelly slain under the greed of a foe the valar turn so blind an eye toward … until you have lost everything and are called to debase yourself asunder and refuse … until you have felt this pain, artanis, speak not to me of pride. ❜❜
he moves to leave and passes her by, with only the air of their shoulders brushing. he would not approach her any further. ❛❛ whether you follow me to vanquish this great foe or refuse my call, that is a choice you alone must make. but from this day forth, tirion shall be home to only cowards. may you and your kin never find yourselves among them. ❜❜ with sharp eyes, he sees fractured light remembered in her hair. filaments and ribbons of silver and gold, braided at spectacular vertices and angles, shimmer around her head like a crown. even now, he can look upon her and remember such times when the sky was bright. he smiles, not without warmth, but not kindly. ❛❛ and if the valar are so desperate for the light of their trees to be returned to them, they need not demand of me the silmarils, but ask only for a strand of your hair. i pray you deny them not. ❜❜
a beast slinks towards beijing.
dialogue prompts from a beast slinks towards beijing: a novel by alice evelyn yang.
what month is it?
we were damned if we did, damned if we didn't.
what do you remember?
you look tired. are you in pain?
it's a 'three advil' kind of day.
you look familiar. do i know you?
something is definitely following you. whether you can see it or not is a different matter.
you look tired. not sleeping well? nightmares?
you're asking the wrong questions.
i'm not ready for that. i don't know if i'll ever be ready.
you cannot die. there are still things we need to say.
anything can be salvaged. nothing should be wasted.
some memories are untranslatable.
i don't know how to say it in words.
i wasn't going to go through with it.
breathe. it'll pass.
you could almost pass as human.
it was real. it was the realest moment of my life.
you haven't even said sorry.
i didn't ask to be the favorite. i'd give it to you, if i could.
you like winning more than anything.
what really happened? you can tell me.
does it hurt badly?
your unhappiness weighs on my soul.
it would have been better if i'd died. if i didn't exist.
you wear resentment like a second skin.
i don't know how much you remember.
no rest for the wicked, right?
do you want to sleep here?
why do you want to leave?
children, like animals, often have a preternatural sense for catastrophe.
i thought gods were supposed to be good.
we're like small toys to the gods.
you know how to spin a yarn.
i've never known someone with a dead ____ before.
you're everywhere, aren't you?
everyone's been listening to me talk about you for years.
i know when you're lying.
i don't like the way _____ talks about you.
i want to feel solid again.
you didn't try to find me.
you have a deceptively innocent face.
morality is a privilege we can't afford right now.
you hurt everything around you.
i don't want to be in the house any more than i have to be.
you haven't changed much. always taking care of everyone else.
you're not alright. you have a tell.
aren't you tired of it all?
all you're good for is running.
i've been looking for you for a long time.
i've never met someone like me before.
i'm what you made me.
the more you try to forget me, the more you become down to me.
do you think i was born cruel? i was made this way.
i wasn't built to be a caretaker.
am i awake? is it you?
why do you have to be a martyr?
i always hoped i'd heard from you.
why can't you just be honest?
i don't know how to live with this.
we've both done hard things to survive. that's human.
i can help you through it, if you let me.
i know more ghosts than living people.
i can't recognize you anymore.
you ruined me. i hate you.
i was afraid of how much i loved you.
reincarnate. become something else, something braver.
i wish you had stayed. even when it was hard.