𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜.

        the penitent one          ✝          BLASPHEMOUS

      ☾ What little remnants of snow left on the ground crunch under the doll’s boots, soon coming to a halt as she comes across the seated figure of the stranger on the clifftop. Though she originally wandered over here out of curiosity, what awaits her is something even more curious. Namely, the man before her, who’s armour is reminiscent of not only some hunters, but some beasts, as well.

     Which could he be, she wonders?

      ❝ It is new to me, as well; a sight such as this, ❞

       A MEANINGLESS SHADOW, HE IS OF STONE; not even the CRUNCH at his back dissuades his silence, nor his posture. he is still, paying no mind to the stranger who now haunts his solace. the man cares little for company, just as he cares little for anything outside the realm of his duty. it is not so much annoyance as it is apathy, ingrained in him since birth.

        the penitent one          ✝          BLASPHEMOUS

𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨  &.  𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭.    suburban  july.  scraped  knees.  bruised  knuckles. blood  in  your  teeth.  bare  feet  on  hot  concrete.  restlessness.  your  high  school’s  empty  parking lot.  love  poems  in  your  diary.  a  window  open  to  coax  in  the  breeze.  burning  inside.  an  ill - fitting  party  dress.  a  t - shirt  you  cut  up  yourself.  the  time  you  tried  to  give yourself  bangs. biking  to  your  friends  house. bubble  gum. gas station  ice.  the  feeling  that  you’ve  met  before. rebellion. a  car  radio  playing  down  the  street.  cheap  fireworks. a  heart  drawn  on  the  inside  of  your  wrist  with  a  sharpie.  switchblades.  red  solo  cups.  dancing  in  your  bedroom.  screaming  yourself  hoarse.  running  out  of  options.  the  forlorn  looking  basketball  hoop  at  the  end  of  a  cul - de - sac. climbing  onto  your  roof  at  night  while  your  parents  are asleep. flip - flops.  a  eulogy  written  on  loose - leaf.  the  merciless  noontime  sun.

𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐞𝐭.   speaking  in  a  whisper.   holding  your  breath. a  browning  garden. a  half  remembered  story. furniture  covered  with  sheets. fog  at  dawn,  mist  at  twilight.  losing  touch. the  ethereal  space  between  winter  and  spring.  the  soft  skin  at  your  temple.  the  crack  in  the  hallway  mirror.  things  you’d  say  if  you  knew  the  words. uncombed  hair.  books  with  writing  in  the  margins.  books  with  cracked  spines.  books  with  lines  scratched  out. prayers  on  all  souls’  day.  a  chipped  ceramic  bathtub. a  cold stone  floor. the  uncomfortable  awareness  of  your  own  heartbeat. the  sparrow  that  got  in  your  house.  shadows.  the  creek  you played  in  as  a  child.  a  dirty  night  gown.  an oversized  t - shirt. a  collection  of  your  favorite  words.  soil beneath  your  nails. ghost  stories. the  strangeness  of  your  own  name  in  your  mouth. deep  silence.  exhaustion. a  cliff  with  a  long,  long  drop  down.

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐭𝐡  𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.   wicker  deck  furniture.  new  england  summer.  large  sunglasses  and  a  blonde  bob. a  storm  over  the  ocean.  patio  umbrellas  flapping  in  the  wind.  the  smell  of  chlorine. muffled  laughter.  sarcasm. starched  cuffs.  day  drinking.  bay  windows. the  idea  of  love.   love  for  the  idea  of  love.  love  for  love’s  sake. hangovers. wandering  over  the  sand  dunes.  a  vagabond  with  a guitar.  fishermen  with  tattoos.  a  pretty boy  with  a  slacked tie.  a  lighthouse.  growing  too  close. boat shoes. feeling  yourself  change. big,  floppy  sunhats. double - speak. a  song  you  keep  listening  to.  turning  red  under  their  gaze.  margaritas  drank  on  an inflatable  pool  lounger.  string  lights  on  a  balmy  night.  sleepy  june  days.  fights  you’re  unprepared  for. hope  you  weren’t  expecting.  pranks  that  go  too  far.  bad  poetry.  pining.  becoming  less  of  a  stranger.

𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐡.   the  space  where  your  grief  used  to  be.  a  bird  that’s  lost  an  eye. old  blood  stains.  heavy  blinds.  the  smell  of  sweat.  the  stillness  after  a  battle.  a  fake  smile. a  curse.  the  taste  of  metal  at  the  back  of  your  tongue. your  house,  unfamiliar  in  the  dark. a  dusty  crib.  the  smell  of  sulfur.  an  orange  pill  bottle.  streaks  in  the  sink.  a  black  cocktail  dress.  your  hand  on  the  doorknob,  shaking. a  chilly  breeze.  crunching  from  the  gravel  driveway  on  a  moonless  night. clenched  hands.  a  rusty  swing  set.  a  flashing  digital  clock  stuck  on  12 : 00.  a  snake  that crosses your  path. an  owl  that  watches  you. a  dog  that  runs when  you approach. red  smoke, dark  clouds.  cool  steel. tile  floors. footsteps  in  the  hallway  late  at  night. a  baggy  suit  that  used  to  fit  before.  visions.  insomnia. headaches. nursery  rhymes.  being  too  far  in  to  go  back  now.

𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡  𝐚𝐝𝐨  𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭  𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.   the  high  drama  of  small  towns. a  pickup  truck.  military  supply duffel  bags  in  the  hall,  hugs  all  around. tulip  bulbs. a wraparound  porch.  a  pitcher  of  iced  tea.  a  rubber  halloween mask.  someone  on  your  level.  ill - timed  proclamations. stomach  clenching  laughter. rushing  in. not  minding  your  business. crepe  paper.  white  lies.  secrets  written  down  and  thrown  away.  southern  hospitality.  homemade  curtains  in  the  kitchen.  a  sink  full  of  roses.  hiding  in  the  bushes. old  friends.  the wedding  dress  your  grandma  wore,  and  her  mama  before her.  a dog - eared  rhyming  dictionary.  chamomile  with  honey.  the intimacy  of  big  parties.  lawn  flamingos.  gossip.  a  crowded  church. friendly  rivalries. unfriendly  rivalries.  stuff getting  real.  love  at  five  hundredth  sight.  not  realizing  you’re  home  until  you’re  there.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫.   cement  block  buildings.  power  lines  that  birds  never  perch  on. the  end  of  the  world.  useless  words.  rainless  thunder,  heat  lighting,  a  too  big  sky.  arthritic  knuckles.  broken  glass.  chalk  cliffs.  the  pulsing  red - black  behind  closed  eyes.  something  you  learned  too  late.  wet  mud  that  sucks  up  your  shoes  while  you  walk. a  cold  stare. empty  picture  frames. empty  prayers.  the  obscenity  of  seeing  your  parents  cry.  a  treeless  landscape.  bloody  rags.  grappling  in  the  dark  with  reaching  hands. the sharpness  at  the  the  tips  of  your  teeth. the  blown  out windows  of  a  skeletal  house. decay.  jokes  that  aren’t  jokes. biting  your  tongue.  prophecies.  aching  muscles,  tired  feet. stinging  rain.  invoking  the  gods.  wondering  if  the  gods  are  listening. worrying  that  the  gods  are  dead. white  noise. shivers.  numbness.  the  unequivocal  feeling  of  ending.

𝐚  𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫  𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭’𝐬  𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦.   the  smell  of  wet  soil  and  dead  leaves. listening  to  music  on  headphones  with  your  eyes  closed.  wildflowers.  the  distant  sparkle  of  lightning  bugs.  fear  that  turns  into excitement. excitement  that  turns  to  frenzy.  mossy  tree  trunks.  a  pair  of  yellow  eyes  in  the  darkness.  night  swimming.  moonlight  through  the  leaves. a  bass  beat  in  your  chest.  a  butterfly  landing  on  your  nose.  a  kiss  from  a  stranger.  a  dark  hallow  in  an  old  tree.  glow  in  the  dark  paint. drinking  on  an  empty  stomach. a  twig  breaking  behind  you. spinning  until  you’re  dizzy.  finding  glitter  on  your  body  and  not  remembering  where  it  came  from.  an  overgrown  path  through  the  woods.  cool  dew  on  your  skin.  a  dream  that  fades  with  waking.  moths  drawn  to  the  light.  giving  yourself  over,  completely. afterglow.  the  long,  loving,  velvety  night.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.      small towns.   big cities.   forest that goes on forever.   six thirty curfews.   lights that take the place of stars.  blanket nests.   light through the blinds as a wake up call.   found family.   finding a single star in the middle of New York city.  window shopping.   watching something terrible and enjoying it.    growing numb to the sight of injustice.   wilted flowers.   faded caricatures.  bright, bold colors.

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.      crickets and lightning bugs.   car engines and a/c units.  a phone call to mom / dad.  laughing with friends.  jokes that are so bad you have to laugh. the clicking of computer keys.   noise canceling headphones.   the sound of silence.  muffled music from another room.   drumming fingertips on a table. clicking of pens.   listening to a clock and swearing the ticks get slower.   ringing in the ears.   the voice of someone you love.  pitch shifted songs. a cappella singing. a pencil scratching on paper.

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇.      being held close during a long night.   fleeting reassurances. holding hands when you’re scared.  hugs that are too tight.   brushing fingers through strands of hair.  freshly dried clothes.  bruises on your knuckles.   silk and satin.   your favorite pet’s fur or feather.   wringing your hands anxiously.   snuggles. comforters in the dead of winter.   nails against skin. cold metal. leather in summer.  

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄.     coffee in the morning.  tea in the evening. bubblegum that lost its flavor.   alcohol burning the back of your throat.   homemade cooking, no matter what’s made.   blood in your mouth.     stale air.   mint.    fresh vegetables.   that processed taste of citrus candy.  the first meal you cook by yourself that tastes good.  foreign sweets.   fast food.  bittersweet.  sour. spicy.   sweet.  bitter.   too much salt on fries.

CROW---

       THE CROW is a very interesting, complex familiar to have, and seems to have a lot of personality to its behavior. though it is seen by some as representing evil, it is in fact a sign of luck as well, either good or bad, and is strongly tied with magic as well. despite its worse side of its reputation, it is not a trickster, but in fact very wise and adaptable. In the same way, you are a very intelligent and creative individual, though you may be misunderstood by your peers.

       the crow familiar brings good luck to their master, acts as a mentor or guidance to them, and inspires them with bright and creative ideas.

     ✾ █ IT’S a little strange to see him without adorning his usual helm… However, it’s something Dani finds to be welcome. Perhaps she had forgotten that a human lay beneath all that armour, bruises and dried blood so to finally see his face… Well, she can’t help but smile a little brighter because of that.

     ❝ Yes, it’s for you, I said! ❞ she insists with a smile, motioning it forward for him to take. If he dares to peek inside, the Penitent One will find a single cupcake within the box; vanilla frosting and a maraschino cherry on top.

     ❝ I thought you’d reject a lot of gifts… So I decided to go with food! Well… Even though I don’t know what foods you like, ❞ she trails off for a moment, thinking to herself before she blinks and lays her blue eyes back at the other.

     ❝ Anyway, I hope you like it! It’s a vanilla-cherry cupcake. Not too sweet but still good, ❞

       SELDOM DOES HE WELCOME THAT WHICH SERVES LITTLE PURPOSE; it seemed foolish to entertain something without reason, thus dictated his pragmatism. gingerly raising the lid of the box, he attempted to make sense of her explanation. perhaps something designed for the sole purpose of sustenance? it smelled... sweet, like nothing he had known before. he did not understand the need for such fleeting joys and decadence, for his existence has been built upon far less. he did not know indulgence, only necessity--- this was no weapon, nor blessing to further his goal, but something small, expendable... but not without significance however, something that one glance upon her sincerity gleaned in an instant.

       with one last lingering stare, the penitent turned away from her to retrieve his helm from the dirt, and replace it over his head. he knew not her name, nor why she bothered with his affairs, but nonetheless, he accepted her offer, slowly and with a delicacy unbecoming his calloused hands, he lifted the box from her palm.

 LEARN ABOUT MY MUSE’S PHYSICAL FEATURES      ✟      not accepting.

     @bluewhiplash​ PRAYED---  ❝ hair, eyes & face! ❞

     HAIR.

       a dark and dirtied brown, course like straw; unkempt and frequently shadowing his face alike a mane. he makes no attempt to tame his tattered locks, for there's no viable purpose in him doing so. thus they remain, untempered, nearly sitting atop his shoulders in length, matted by blood and filth. he has sporadic patches of hair elsewhere, including his arms, legs, and chest, as well as dark stubble somewhat uniformly dusting his top lip, chin, and jawline.

     EYES.

       something haunts his tired gaze, it's molten gold hue dulled by a weariness unlike any other. where he is devoid of expression, his eyes more than make up for that emptiness, for it's where every death, every sin, every ghost lie. in lieu of voice, his eyes seem to speak, sometimes in whispers, others in tortured screams. his lashes are barely there, the narrowed manner of which they are set into his face almost accusatory; laden with warning in every stare.

       there is pain and caution in those eyes, both in excess, perhaps even overflowing.

     FACE.

  LEARN ABOUT MY MUSE’S PHYSICAL FEATURES      ✟      not accepting.

     @charmingsecretary​ PRAYED---  ❝ [skin]: obviously colour, but also if they’re inclined to run hot or cold, do they have any blemishes or unusual markings, are they inclined to blush, are they freckled, do they tan, what does their skin feel like, etc. ❞

     SKIN.

       albeit his minimal exposure to the sun, his complexion appears gently kissed by its light; lukewarm, olive tones, though not without many blemishes. his skin is rough, weathered, and ravaged by wounds both old and new, whether self-inflicted or otherwise. he is peppered by scars from head to toe, primarily on his torso.

     The wilderness was a tender foster parent, providing respite away from an unfamiliar and cruel world far beyond his understanding. The bustling noises of city streets accompanying harsh lighting; he finds solace within the forests, learning of the new flora and fauna with each visit. To find another was unsurprising given the few man-made forest trails, but to find one in engrossing garbs, donning a pointed helm with intricate designs…? His curiosity compels him to follow - to watch in silence. 

     He’s hardly time to correct a misstep before the sound of the thin, decayed branch snaps under his footing. The sound carries and to his surprise the stranger is far quicker to react than himself despite pride in swift reflexes. Caution mirrored as the hold on his shovel blade tightens and raises defensively - and yet, in the same breath, his stance falters just so at the mere sight of the stranger’s face. A heart all too big, eager to help, despite intimidating wears and a hostile personality built to shield such vulnerabilities. His breath hitches, soon finding himself in a needless struggle searching for the right words.

“ My apologies. I’m not here for a fight. ” The rusted blade in his hold only continues to lower. “ …Forgive my prying, but are you alright, ser? Such harrowing injuries should be treated with great haste; should mine eyes not deceive me… ”

“ …I’ve no aid to offer you in the forms of remedies, only my own honest words. However, there is a man here who’s learned the ways of healing magic. I could lead you to him, should you wish to seek his assistance. ”

       TRULY THE SPLINTERS HE WIELDED could no more than bruise his supposed enemy; a mere construct of wood shaped without intent nor hope to kill. where there was seemingly absent the biting words of a threat however, his eyes promised blood, and a hell of his own make. it was not with rage, nor malice that he raised his weapon, but a twisted solemnity fostered by the aches and scars that for a lifetime ravaged his body. he was cold, bereft the will to summon his anger nor sorrow to the surface where then it would be felt by his adversary.

       but no, there was nothing. nothing but a weathered shadow of a man, features carved of stone, every shred of humanity naught but ash in the wake of his trials--- torment no man should ever have to endure. and yet, for all his silence and muted expression, his eyes screamed, filled with something incomprehensible. his sufferings were no fault of the stranger, only the fires in which both he and his blade had been forged.

       he remained steadfast, commanded not by reason, but caution. where his stance did not betray him, his thoughts however would toil over the offer. he had no use for healing, even if they had the power to wipe away the scars and stitch together the holes in his heart, but he was not exempt from curiosity. though veiled by a mane of ragged locks, a twitch nagged his lip, but still he said nothing, merely lowering his blade, and turning away to retrieve his helm. placing it back upon his head, the penitent then met the other’s gaze once more with that of his own; steeled, and empty, but somehow expectant.