𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚊

HIATUS NOTICE : so, I've finally come to some sort of a decision about the fate of this blog. I am going to move blogs with a notably shortened character list. So this blog will be on a semi-hiatus until it is archived. I'll still be floating around the dash, commenting and liking, but probably not writing any replies until my move is done.

If I removed the muse you were primarily interacting with, I'm sorry !! I just realized I'd decided to take on a bunch of muses in the hopes of writing with certain people, but for some silly reason it was really stressing me out to actually write those muses. Obviously, if those muses are gone for you, I'll understand if you don't follow to the new blog.

HIATUS NOTICE : so, I've finally come to some sort of a decision about the fate of this blog. I am going to move blogs with a notably shortened character list. So this blog will be on a semi-hiatus until it is archived. I'll still be floating around the dash, commenting and liking, but probably not writing any replies until my move is done.

If I removed the muse you were primarily interacting with, I'm sorry !! I just realized I'd decided to take on a bunch of muses in the hopes of writing with certain people, but for some silly reason it was really stressing me out to actually write those muses. Obviously, if those muses are gone for you, I'll understand if you don't follow to the new blog.

This was at least the second time that Nico'd dealt with something primordial and generally-not-good-for-his-health-to-be-around, and he didn't like it any more the second time. He felt like a scared cat, hairs on the back of his neck prickling up and legs a bit too stiff as he stared at the person, not at all sure what they were doing, but definitely not liking it.

"Well, now... I should think that depends entirely on one's perspective."

It both is and is not an answer all at once : in truth, that is the space that Ashiok prefers to occupy. Something in-between. The boy appears to be doing everything possible to put up a good act, but that fear is painted across their skin in colours that they can see with ease. The planeswalker makes no move to approach, knowing better than to get too close to those they would prefer to use in their artwork.

And this boy does seem as if he would make a beautiful canvas.

Her response is a lot... but Scanlan supposes he had it coming. After all, he's been poking the metaphorical bear this whole time. It was only a matter of when--when something would finally be said.

𝄇𝄋𝄋𝄆 < ❝I... scare you?❞

His stomach drops. Suddenly, Scanlan's whole body is on fire from the burn of his shame, feet aching with the urge to run. He really doesn't feel this kind of thing often, but Pike always seems to drag that shame out kicking and screaming. The gnome sighs, small and defeated.

𝄇𝄋𝄋𝄆 < ❝I'm not... sayin' you're entirely wrong, but I'm not sayin' you're entirely right, neither. Look, for what it's worth--❞ He sighs again, harder, just slightly frustrated at himself for not getting the words out right away. Words are his thing, dammit!

The clarification is so important, and she says it firmly -- with all of the resolve she has in her, to make it clear that what she's so spooked by isn't Scanlan himself. Difficult conversations seem to be their norm as of late, and she isn't certain when their relationship had shifted this way.

"Just... the intimacy stuff. And I know it's... just something you don't even really think about. I mean... c'mon, I've spent most of my life with Grog, I know that you guys don't really think about it. You just... like you said, you just have a high libido and that kind of stuff... isn't as off putting to you."

"𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓," spoken only in a high-ranking military woman's straightforward manner. no smiles or friendliness given. the hawk's eye turned mustang's own personal babysitter gets a WARY glance and steel demeanor, though nothing exceptionally different than what the major general offers most. "certainly not," as the eldest daughter, she has to set the example and not be so dependent like her sisters and dumb younger brother. even when seeking the head of family position, they ought not to expect constant company out of her, the next fuhrer of amestris. "i trust you'll omit our little run-in from any future conversations between you and my brother."

furthermore, olivier DOESN'T CARE for anything south of fort briggs. living in the north takes guts---- it's a very harsh, demanding lifestyle that demands a specific amount of resilience out of your spirit, and that she understands and has been especially molded by. soldiers in the south are afforded the luxury of acting soft.

"this place is insufferable. how does someone with your reputation approve of such nonsense?"

What a shame their goals couldn't have been more closely aligned, but she finds nothing so dislikeable about the Major General.

"Of course. I'm not particularly inclined to gossip, as it is." There's humor toying in her words, though it does not fully make it to her expression; neutral as ever, she watches closely to try and read the woman in front of her. INSUFFERABLE felt somewhat strong, but she cannot say she doesn't understand the perspective. Even her own work has had her growing complacent with the more relaxed atmosphere.

@missallanea asked: ‘ let your darker side give in.’ / ashiok @ kratos because if he thought the norns were unpleasant…

Kratos stood, the youngest and most promising captain Sparta had seen in an age, at the head of his army, facing down the barbarians that threatened their home. They numbered in the thousands, but that had not stopped the Spartans before. It would not stop them this day.

But Kratos was wrong. The barbarians outnumbered the Spartans by more than they could count, and as the hours passed, as the battle raged, his men died around him. Kratos knew in that moment, that he and everyone on this field was going to die.

He was not going to give in; he could not be so easily defeated by mere barbarians!

"Ares!" the warrior cried out, looking to the sky, praying the god of war might hear him and heed his prayer, "Destroy my enemies, and my life is yours!"

It meant little for him to pledge his service to the god of war; as a Spartan, he already led the armies, and they had taken home a victory each day before today. Why should he not serve Ares?

And the god of war heard Kratos, and he answered. Ares descended from Olympus and saved Kratos, determined to turn him into the perfect warrior, his servant on Earth.

Kratos knelt before the god and swore an oath of loyalty, one that would bind him to Ares, irrevocably: "My life is yours, Ares. From this day, I shall carry forth your will."

Once the oath was spoken, once Kratos's soul was pledged to the god of war, Ares did as Kratos had entreated. He destroyed the barbarians that would have slaughtered Kratos and his men. The bodies fell like rain across the battlefield, with some barbarians simply exploding, others bursting into flames with a scream, and still others were crushed in upon themselves until every bone in their body was broken and they were little more than a smear upon the ground.

There was only one thing left to do. A servant of Ares required more than a simple sword and shield to spread the might of the god of war. Ares brought forth the Blades of Chaos, that only his mightiest warrior might wield. The Blades were affixed to Kratos's arms, chained and seared to his flesh, to his very bones, a part of his body. They would serve as a permanent reminder to Kratos and the world, that he carried a vow to Ares within him.

And Kratos used the blades as Ares had intended, conquering armies, bringing chaos and war and death everywhere he went. There were none that could stop him, nothing that could slake his bloodlust. The more blood he shed, the more frenzied he became, the more desperate to appease Ares, to serve the god of war.

The temple dedicated to Athena barely gave him pause, even when an oracle of the temple tried to warn him away, to tell him not to set foot in such a sacred place, not when he was covered in the blood of the goddess' faithful. Kratos pushed her aside and threw open the doors, intent upon slaughtering all within the temple, for they were not serving Ares.

And in his rage and his bloodlust, he did as the god of war had hoped: without any concern for the fact that there were women and children sheltering in the temple, Kratos slew everyone inside.

It was only after their bodies lay dead at his feet that he realized his last victims had been calling out to him, had been pleading with him to recognize them, to snap out of whatever stupor he was in. And he had slaughtered them anyway, heedless of their pleas, of their cries.

Kratos sank to his knees, the body of his wife and child lifeless at his feet, their blood staining his hands.

But even as he watched, the image shifted….and it wasn't just Lysandra and Calliope at his feet. There was one more body, one more victim of his senseless rage.

Atreus had curled around his older, much smaller sister, trying to save her from their father's rage, one hand outstretched, as though to try to reason with Kratos. His blood spilled, spreading around him the way it had that day he'd first transformed into a bear, the day that Kratos had thought that it would happen again, that he would have another of his children's blood that he would never be able to wash away, would never be able to take back.

He looked down his hands, horror and despair flowing through him, in a way he had never felt before. Kratos let out a roar of absolute anguish, whirling around, trying to find whoever was doing this, whoever was playing with his mind.

It hadn't happened like this; he hadn't killed Atreus, he would never willingly raise hand or blade to his son, to his family, not the way he had, the way he'd been tricked into doing.

The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all the same, echoing off the inner most corners of Kratos' mind. There was nothing particularly original to be found within the Spartan, nothing beyond that delightful twist of fate that had those ashes clinging to their skin through the centuries. What a cruel, beautiful trick — they almost wished they had created that themselves.

Their hands move then : not Ashiok's, but those of the deceased children and wife, stained with blood and dust as they reached out and clung to Kratos' legs. Smearing their own gore down ashen skin as they moved inhumanely — necks broken at obscene angles, bones pierced through skin and muscle. The smallest one's skull was caving in, face aghast as she pleaded with her father. Begging. Screaming. A thousand voices coming together in a deafening volume, accompanied by the ever present sounds of bodies breaking.

The most exquisite cacophony of sound.

And then — just as quickly as it had begun, their playthings fall still once again. Releasing Kratos, they fell back to the dirt in silence, skin and muscle slowly melting away until there was nothing left behind but bone.

"I had thought a being with a reputation such as yours would have something original to offer me..." They are there, then : only a short distance off from the Ghost of Sparta, the Nightmare Weaver hovered with what one could only assume was amusement on their face. Or, perhaps it would be more correct to say, what remained of their face.

They had expected a great many things, coming to this place. They had expected something new from their gods, from this so-called ghost who had ascended from his humanity into something else, and who had brought his wrath down upon everyone and everything that came between him and his vengeance. "I expected a god. Instead, I've found... just another man. Haunted by his choices. Toying with his regrets."

A wicked smile crosses the creature's face.