𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒚 / 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅.

@quartlet​ tolled the dead:     the bones are pliant,   easily broken,   yet they are arranged in such a way that is deceptive,   as if they were adorned as a bouquet.   in-between them there are the stems of dried roses and brittle thorns. 🥀

                                                    unprompted.

          nestled within the heart of it all lies the bones of a sparrow.   macabre bouquet of calcified bloom,   resting at his feet like an offering to a being sublime.   oh god,   my god,   my necromancer’s moon,   your blessing is all i need to make my hunt safe and secure.

mannimarco picks up a bone,   pinched delicately between gauntlet - clawed fingers and it splinters easily,   as if made of ash and coal.   he is not disappointed but rather enlightened.   one could never expect a formidable being to be created from these pliant bones.   no,   never,   not with how fragile they are.

he is reminded of—

(   i want to kiss the bones of his arms;   and name them   —   radius,   ulna,   long and slender,   firm and steady.   i want to kiss the bones of his hands;   and name them   —   carpus,   metacarpus,   phalanges,   hewn and rough,   worn and sharp.   i want to kiss the bones of his back;   and name them   —   cervical,   thoracic,   lumbar vertebrae,   curved and bowed,   strong and tall.   i want to kiss the bone of his face;   and name them   —   frontal,   sphenoid,   nasal,   zygomatic,   maxilla,   mandible,   smooth and heavy,   bared and windswept.   i want to kiss the bones of his body;   and name them   —   mine.   )

—something sentimental,   something best left in another life.

mannimarco scoffs.

“     quaint,   but nonetheless useless,     ”     he comments,   riffling through the bones,   and the lie is veiled behind a shroud that not many is able to pick their way through.   useless,   yes,   and quaint indeed,   but not so useless where he throws them away.   but another bird for the pile of carcasses the cat brought in.

maybe it is more of an offering,   like one would give a god;   ambrosia to soothe the soul and nectar to fulfill one’s goals.   perhaps that is not the intention behind them.   mannimarco knows it is not.   and still he sees no other reason behind the gift other than dedication to the craft.

this man,   being,   knows mannimarco.   either he is a fanatic or a fool.

“     they will do little more than serve as ashes for urns.     ”

maybe it is a threat ?   hardly.   mannimarco is not stupid enough to think that something this grandiose comes oat the behest of promised death.   he samples one of the dried roses and turns it over in his hand and a few of the petals falls to the ground.   he turns on his spot,   careless of his step,   and the crunch of a few of the petals beneath his heel is swallowed up by the structured walls making up his temporary keep.

“     pity that the sender did not stay to give it on his own,     ”     mannimarco looks at the glint of gold in the far corner of the cavernous room and lilts his tone,   tilts lip up enough to show a fanged smile   (   i see you   ).

@anonymous tolled the dead:     ayo king twunk happy thirstday you sexy little worm

                                                 unprompted.

@maaiar​ tolled the dead:     '    not once did i say it was.     '

                                          poetry sentences.

          not once did the seas reign,   not once did the mountains whisper,   and not once did the dead rise again.   those are the spoken truth among mortals and what they say is law.   yet they’ve forsaken the rightful rule of nature.   we conquer,   they say,   and we will best what can not be bested.   for the sea they make boats and sail on the waves,   for the mountains they dig cavities into the sides till the earth aches,   and the dead   —   the dead,   six feet under,   left to rot rather than perfect the soil.

mannimarco is a man who takes and perfects and thus bodies will never rest forever.   he takes and takes and the soil will bend and turn;   like flowers they’ll rise,   beautiful and in bloom.

he laughs,   a reverberating thing.   in the deep cavernous expanse it echoes and is then swallowed,   so far beneath the earth,   so deep within its hurt,   that the abyss takes all sound after a second or two.

(   i could raise you an army.   the bones of the first age have not sunk yet.   is it hesitation that holds you back,   my lord mairon ?   —   not once did i say it was.   )

“     yet you did not deny my claim,    ”     mannimarco responds,   doesn’t relent,   carefully leaning down to look over his   ‘ lord’s ’   shoulder.   there is a great darkness swelling before them,   of long past days and coming times,   and in the middle blazes a fiery eye that sees everything and watches all.   were mannimarco a foolish man he would have been tempted to reach out.   but he is not.   he knows not to play with fire.

“     i am not wrong,     ”     a hand places itself on mairon’s shoulder,   the gauntlet on it wicked and sharp,   black as the night.   mannimarco slowly drums his fingers,   one - two - three - four,   one - two - three - four,   in a rhythm akin to a heart beat.   it’s uncanny,   it’s unnerving,   but perhaps not to a lord of darkness and a king of worms.     “     but i am not right.   so tell me,   my liege,   where i went wrong with my assumption.     ”

happy   ( late )   valentine’s day !

                                             𝑨:    recklessly,   like a horse running as fast as he can.

you've been told that the way you love can never last,   and that heartbreak is inevitable.  but you don't want to love carefully.   you want to love with reckless abandon.   you want to love with everything you have,   and you want to be loved the same way.   you don't want them to worry about tomorrow.   make today worth living for.  

tagged:   @bladewarde​

whispers of a cult soon arose south of the high elves’ forever spring land,   and in tirisfal the first appearances of people wrapped in cloth emblazoned with worms and unknown tongues surfaced from the dreadful soil.   in the steps of the damned they wandered,   though at the plaguelands they stopped.   a minor branch of the damned,   the black worm stays secret,   merely a shadow of the larger being.

“     arch - lich,     ”     mannimarco croons,   haughtiness in tone a dangerous game,     “     are we not beyond making fodder for slaughter ?   all that these ghouls know is how to devour !   they will merely gnaw on the nearest bone they can put their gums on.     ”

they have been known to butt heads,   kel’thuzad and he,   for differing views,   for differing ways to create their life’s work   —   but they both remain.   a good competition is healthy,   some say,   to make the work better,   to improve out of spite and jealousy.

mannimarco takes the nearest ghoul by its jaw,   uncaring that it drools all over his hand,   and turns the corpse’s face left and right.     “     not a single thought behind those eyes,     ”     he says with mock sympathy,   and digs gauntlet claws into its cheeks,     “     i could do better than this.     ”

perhaps,   had the scourge seen mannimarco’s ambition grow ten - fold,   they would have not lost such a staggering force when it mattered the most.   a large portion of their living followers,   men and women and people between who dreamt of death and ruin and wanted to kiss the life’s warm lips farewell,   had turned to walk with him;   the cult of the damned faced a staggering blow and the cult of the black worm found roots in both silverpine and tirisfal,   where the soil is black and dead and the wolves howl at the resplendent moon.

but mannimarco stretches out a hand   —   and as the hymn goes,   beware the worm king’s awful touch   —   offering kul tiras’ daughter of the sea a place by his side,   an alliance befitting the cold touch of death.  

(   they forget that although water is a body associated with life it is also the most nefarious murderer of all.   )

“     you wouldn’t have to hold back anymore,     ”     the quel’dorei speaks;   theramore comes to mind,   then everything after;   is your kindness not running dry,   jaina proudmoore ?   no human is a saint,     “     the anger.   the rage.   the betrayal.   and neither would i.   what more perfect union would you ever find ?   lordaeron would be yours to do with as you wish.     ”     just as the rest of the realm would be mannimarco’s playground for raising the dead.