FELINE

Endymion: Sentences.

location: kova, undetermined

status: closed to @seraphimslayer

Violent, sustained bursts of brilliant luster — a stream of starlight, the indiscreet sign of a celestial traveler as she slinks precariously closer towards the Kova-Tsuki border in a fit of uncontrolled temper, unrestrained violence. Can she be blamed for it? It is in her nature, above all else. To wreak havoc, to rake her teeth across planets and claim them with molten rage. Mine, mine, mine. But this is a planet already conquered, no? Does their silvered empire not reign a careful, teetering superiority over Cosmos’ beloved creation?

So, then why?

Why else than the love she bears for her savior? Selene, who had given her holy, unholy purpose. Selene, who let her bloody her palms until the madness of a millennium slowly dissipated into a mild flicker of candlelight within her chest, a quiet thrumming called upon now only when needed — no more wild as it had been, once. Selene, who had called upon her golden seraphim to pull her wretched, scorched bones from fever flame; who had given her back her brother, where their creator had split Endymion from her.

The very same beloved figure who now sought to rip him away from her, who let him believe that this inglorious, inevitable death was his duty to her. Deeply, privately — she felt anger and betrayal and vengeance rise slowly up within her, like ghosts which had secretly haunted her. Dark wraiths, heavy phantoms. Alongside adoration, she felt a tiny, superficial hatred. 

So, then why?

But she has always been disobedient, loyal to a fault. Today, she feels a loyalty to herself and to her other half. But really, was her brother not a mere extension of herself? It were almost as if Endymion were no more than a fraction of her own existence, which had been cut out of her. Almost as if they were no more separate, moving parts than they were a glorious, divine whole. If she did anything in benefit of herself, then was it also not in inherent benefit of him? But the answer is beyond her when she feels the presence of something cold and iniquitous brush against her spine, a tiny surge of instinctual terror felt in her stomach, which she ignores. 

“Unless you’d like me to separate your head from your neck, I suggest you leave me be,” and it is not a careful warning, but an unadulterated threat conjured from deep within her throat — a snarl at the rear of her tongue, unfettered by her own small fear. But was she not an arrogant god after all?

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse

location: the lunar court

status: closed to @whiteknightendymion​

If there was a single thing which she could not abide, it was stupidity. In any given capacity, she felt a deep, inconsolable rage at the exercise of it — at being underestimated, at the idea that humanity reigned above the celestial in unmatched perfection. Idiocy, ineptitude. Above all, and especially, the audacity which her brother had to gamble away the life of one he had obsessed so impractically over, that spot of moon-kissed brilliance which he swore to protect ( which they had all sworn to protect ). But perhaps she had overestimated his devotion, no? 

Their sisyphean affair, between regent and her protector, it took place solely through the imagined, Endymion’s ravaged headspace — where he could conjure up the impossible, entirely improbable actuation of an illicit attraction. Where he could adore her, within intimate seclusion. Or at least, this is what Ysra’s imagines, the impression she has of this tedious situation. To withdraw, even marginally, from the precipice of intractable fury, this became her conclusion. That his adoration had blinded him, that this damning arrogance could be put to rest.

Entirely too optimistic, to be certain. Uncharacteristic to her crippling sense of realism.

But the truth of it was that she had vastly underestimated his adoration, the vanity which had been allowed to dominate him in its licensed existence. She had told him before, hadn’t she? The extremity of stupidity in his fondness, the infernal ignorance of it. Though, he has always dismissed her, as if he felt a grand superiority in self-awareness, above even her well-meaning judgement. Who was she to play a hand of god in his life, wasn’t that right?

But when had it stopped her?

“You know, Endymion,” and there is a poison slick upon her tongue, careful — almost indistinguishable if not for the rigidity of her hateful gaze, “I have always known your reckless fondness for Selene, but I never knew you to be insane in it.”

“And you must be, to believe you are not insignificant against Nehelenia. As if you and Selene are not going to be an addition of bones to her throne. No, you must be stupid.”

location: the crystal city ( some bougie ass place )

status: closed to @cevenus

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. 

This false aristocracy, and Ysra among them — strangled within their company so often as she was, their thick white fur coats and tightly wrapped chignons ( always gilt, always golden ). A facade of perfection which they clung to, as if their chests did not conceal an abundance of decay and rot. And she found it disgusting, especially beneath a thick veil of fury. How tedious, to entertain them at a time such as this — as if the gamble being made of that harpsichord of lifelines, all laid precariously within Selene, was inconsequential. As if she were inconsequential, and she finds this especially hard to believe. How useless, this affair. 

Yet, she sits aside Cedric — nothing coy, nothing sly in her eyes now. There is only a threat hung heavily with violent intent, viscous inclination ( and perhaps, a shade of drowsiness which is inevitable to the daylight, and dreadful functions such as this ). In response, the table is undoubtedly tense — rigid in the company of an angry goddess, all coiled up as though they were metal springs ( waiting to be released, held precariously in place ). No doubt on account of the way she grips a knife in between her fingers, twists it with casual, measured grace. 

Cat goddess turns to Venus, half-lidded and well beyond any poise. “If I have to listen to them bait you for an invitation any longer, I think I’ll surely stab someone,” and an abrasive edge is unmistakably laden on her tongue, unabashed from menace. Especially as she gestures towards one mortal in particular, absent a sterling cuff-link in his sleeve as he was any shame. And she cannot help but notice its absenteeism as she watches his fingers deftly brushing against all edges of Cedric which are exposed to him — his thigh, the exquisite hands and star-seared waist. Without restraint and without reproach, until Ysra. 

“Touch him again, I dare you. I won’t hesitate to cut your throat out on this very table.”

location: the sapphire

status: closed to @zoyaridzel

Pure havoc, ridden harshly upon her dark, onyx eyes. A correspondence, still unanswered, crushed with her palm. Ysra ebbs with only fury, none of the mischief. Oh, and watch as the dim light shifts on her face, dips beneath her brow bone — those same eyes are molten, fluid with rage. If ever there were a time to hold ultimatums over her head, these scrawled warnings, then it was not now. But was it ever, truly? One wonders, no? 

Regardless, she waits — or rather, she seethes within an empty, curtained room as summoned ( and it boils within her, the mere idea that she could be invoked so inconsequentially ). What was godliness, if it could be stripped down by only written word? 

Yet, perched upon her seat, there is the numinous, wrathful vision of a goddess. And it hisses quietly from her clenched jaw, this choler. Though, in truth, all which may be plainly gleaned from her is simply an unsettling serenity, this strange tranquility ( anywhere but the salient eyes ). Ysra would never bow to terror, when the very thing trembled at her feet. 

“And what, exactly,” the words come acidic and thin as the curtain draws, this black mirror presented before her, “makes you believe that I will not break your neck with my teeth right this moment? What gives you such confidence that you would think I cannot smell your filth, that I won’t trace it back to you?”

“Tell me, I am supremely curious.”

Camille likened herself to a bird fluttering around in a cage during events such of these. She merely flies from one guest to the next, perching on the arms of new and old money alike. She knew her role well– to keep guests happy, to chat about the wonders of Paol and how brilliant her sister will be as their queen. She felt her words coming out as beautifully as her own beloved birds’ song. She often found herself being free to fly wherever her talents would take her, but she would allow herself to be stuck in a gilded cage for her family.

Of course, her whispering and perching couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering over to her sister. She knew her sister to be a peculiar thing, one that used to call the shadows her home, and it was odd to see her out in the light. She knew her sister to be a sharp thing, something that one would be careful around, and she worried about her. Everyone knew of the game she played with the god of Mars. Everyone watched with bated breath as the two circled each other during these gatherings. It scared Camille, but she didn’t entirely know if she was scared for Daphne or for Ilo. 

Camille managed to draw her eyes away from her sister and flit back over the room. She spotted a patron of hers and decided to head over to pay him a visit. Perhaps he would even be interested in another painting from her if she played her cards right. She, however, found herself with other plans when she hears a recognizable voice beckoning her forwards. 

“And what is it that entertains you, celestial? Dancing, the arts? Perhaps just some conversation?” 

Let this delicate creature be pristine avian then, fluttering within a gilt cage in contented, purposeful ignorance — it suited her, this blunt-edged diamond in the Paol crown. After all, there is nothing sharp, nothing formidable which Yrsa can observe with the naked eye, and it should turn her away. Yet, and it is a word made for exceptions such as this — yet, she draws in with slow, careful footsteps; enclosing, enclosing. And watch, as a sleek-bodied panther replaces the gilt cage, all its familiar comfort, and circling tightly against dove-feather wings — trapping her in with promise of something, not quite tangible to this Paol princess yet. 

But it does not relent, this predation. Unabashedly, her fingertips fall upon the gentle slope of this girl’s shoulders, the slender angle of her exposed neck. So this was the perfection which Cosmos had imagined? It seems impossible, and yet all at once understandable. To be so cruelly, devastatingly finite is to be without such infinite fatalities. Ysra undoubtedly possesses them, and it is why her creator had turned away. Had not only turned away, but struck a blow against her which would burn a thousand years later, and a thousand more beyond that. 

Although, what did this mortal know of millennia of agony? What could she possibly understand of the centuries in which Ysra had ridden the universe between her thighs, conquered it with such an unparalleled ferocity? Nothing at all, and there was a startling purity in that. An innocence which this cat goddess aims to take between her teeth: to swallow, to taste. 

Who would stop her?

“Is your idea of entertainment so linear, human? I can’t say that my inclinations are so easily pinned down,” and it is a simpering remark, made within the cusp of her ear— as if this feline creature had no regard for boundaries. And she didn’t, to be certain. “How would you suppose to entertain me? I’m interested to know.”

location: summer palace, paol

status: closed to @camillepaol

In the measure of her patience, there were certainly times that she would be found irrevocably lacking. Most times, to be entirely honest. Regardless, it felt to her as though centuries had surely passed since Ilo had disappeared with his glittering, little Paol trinket — without even a glance spared to Yrsa, but instead fixated entirely upon his useless, frangible paramour. As to that, was it any wonder, the indignation she felt? She had sunk claws into his arm, had tried to hold him there as if she were cemented to the ground. Yet, she had not been. 

Rather, he had shaken her off — as if she were no more than a nuisance, a petty creature which bothered him exceedingly. To say it had infuriated her would be to underestimate her petulance, her immense discontent. But she would convince herself otherwise, and it swelled within her this conviction — to be insouciant, to be indifferent. If he had taken up some vapid plaything, she would just as well. Would not allow her time to be wasted, as if she were not plentiful in it — centuries ridden on her shoulders, millennia written upon her brow. Let it be a proving ground, their summer empire: saltwater braided into her hair, waves of heat rolled over her spine. 

To be in a place which echoed, even so weakly as it does, of her home: it is an advantage to her, in this game which has conjured all on her own. And something within her stirs, a molten temerity — hot and alive. “Little thing,” and she says it to the first creature which passes her, not expecting such a prize until glimmering dark eyes fall upon her prey. Little thing, this Paol princess.

“Entertain me a while, hm?”

DATE: Early Aries, 998 A.L.

LOCATION: The Lunar Court, Moon

STATUS: Open

From a distance, he looks like a fever mirage: some smudge of golden brown in the pale light of space, nestled serenely upon a chalky precipice, barely there. Move closer, and you’ll see the gentle groves of his face - fair, timeless, serene. The Venusian has swept out from his chambers tonight to consider the stars. Without an atmosphere, they sprawl before him like shards of glass upon a velvet sky, sparkling and vivid. One hundred thousand pinpricks of light: each one the tethering point to an angel’s heart.

Such a sight has always made him feel small. Against this infinite canvas, Cedric is reminded of how little noise he would truly make, should his own world collapse. They are, all of them, particles to a greater design - echoes and afterthoughts to a god who had abandoned them at the end of one era, leaving them to forge the next alone. One thousand years of opulence, of sangria and bronze, has made him forget this - but now, more than ever, Cedric remembers.

Before him, Earth is rising. Silent and steadfast, just as it has since the day of its inception under Cosmos’s careful hand. Each day ushering forth the arrival of night; each night promising the return of day. Before the Millennium, Cedric had spent eternities looking upon it from Venus, lustful and reverent. Earth had represented to him some sliver of utopia - some untouchable paradise. Ruin and havoc wreaked across other worlds. Devastation unfurled from prophetic tongues for other gods to face.

“It all looks rather peaceful, from here,” Cedric observes. He doesn’t move for a moment longer, gaze trained steadily upon the blue planet. Mortals are impatient, anxious creatures - and as brief as two months may have felt to him beneath this black tide of stars, Cedric is sure he will return to a storm of imperial inquiries; demands; lamentations. Finally, he turns away from Earth - if only to smile decrepitly upon the figure who has crept out to greet him.

“As if nothing is awry at all.”

If he is made silvered by moonlight, then she is made to match him — dressed in its luminescence, accenting the slope of her shoulders. It turns her opalescent, almost delicate ( in exception of the dip of her collarbone, the slope of her neck which pool with a reflected darkness instead ). Except that she was anything but, and stalked towards their Venus with a sharpness hidden in the curve of her mouth. Then, it was always there, no? Let there be a deceiving softness, but there will be a hooked tongue to match. 

Though, Cedric often strips her of anything particularly formidable — with only a look, even a touch. Blades clatter to the ground, knees with them. But she has never minded, not when the reprieve from rage tastes so sweet. She thinks, if the gods ever truly drank ambrosia, then he was it. Although, in regards to Cosmos' beloved creation, she cares nothing for Earth as Cedric looks on it pensively — almost an indifference about him, if not for the near imperceptible anticipation ( perhaps not quite that, but a feeling of expectation all the same ). 

No, when she looks down on it, the lips curl up— twisting, writhing as if they were burning. There is nothing she feels but a superiority, and beyond that: underlying contempt. He was right, to think that humans were impatient, anxious creatures. In that, she found them flawed. In that, she found fury in their assumed perfection, by the same hands which had molded her. 

Was the immortality of her rage not just as magnificent? That even this molten rage would survive beyond her?

“No doubt we’ll be spending much time together soon,” and she implies the salvaging that he will have to do of their alliances, all sugar and honey from the tongue as she languishes coyly at his side. “A saving grace, no doubt.” Then, something slow and sharp moves in her countenance as she strides beside him, sly hands already taken up with his collar ( tracing the hem, knuckles grazing the neck ).