𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙇𝘿 𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙉𝙀𝘿.

          look at what the cat dragged in !   independent,   private and selective   multi - muse,   featuring characters from   league of legends,   overwatch,   granblue fantasy,   ffxiv,   and more !   i would appreciate a   reblog   or a   ♡   if you show interest,   and also to help me find more partners !

@chaotides​ wailed:    you’re always so right.   it must be such a burden.   ( to emet ,   from pandora )

                   mabel:   a podcast sentences.

          THE BURDEN OF CERTAINTY LEADS TO A FRAGILE MIND.

hydaelyn’s champion speaks,   waits,   and speaks again.   the language of mortality flows,   a dialect of what was once whole;   once broken,   forever shattered   (   he doesn’t want to realize,   the wound is still open,   it hurts,   it burns—   ).   the ugly tone carries and scrapes its way into his ears,   nails on chalkboard and the sound of steel swords breaking bone.   emet - selch scowls,   corners of mouth turning far south   (   and maybe that’s where his grandson got it from   ).

pandora’s box opens—

“     that’s not a question.     ”     emet - selch says with a bored tone,   thumbing through one of one too many books the cabinet of curiosity has to offer;   of light,   of night,   of all that lacks sight.   he sighs,   closing book with a resounding   ‘ clap ’,   pushing a tale of two worlds into its designated spot on the spiralling shelf.     “     don’t presume,   hero.   meager words won’t reveal the whole story.     ”

—and sickness spreads and fester within the land until all that remains is the deceptive expectation of coalescing hope.   pyrrhic victories are damnable,   unwanted at most;   let me win or let me lose,   i don’t want the bittersweet,   the awful taste of loss.

no,   the burden is heavy,   world - weary.   emet - selch feels it on his shoulders,   how it pushes down,   a weight that almost feels physical;   he slouches even more forward in response,   waving a dismissive hand at the questioning look the brave and oh so valiant   (   and blinding;   the sun has ever been too bright to those who favored the night   )   hero throws at his back.

“     ‘tis only logical that i aim for the spot,     ”     only a week pushed forward and he’ll have aimed at the turned back of a fool who dared to syphon an earned plight,     “     and ‘tis only logical that i never miss.   i’ve had centuries to practice,   hero—     ”

millenia,   eons;   twelve - thousand years spent in the deepest trench.

emet- selch pushes away from the bookshelf and rolls his shoulders back,   loosening mortal muscles of borrowed corpse.  

the burden still weighs heavy.   he’s not sure he remembers when it didn’t.

     there’s  a  reason  the  entity  sends  them  to  ormond  when  their  picture  is  burnt.  worth  a  thousand  words,  is  that  how  it  is?  not  that  she  cared  much.  susie  was  too  fond  of  losing  the  little  things  like  that,  not  having  any  sense  of  permanence  in  her  life.  a  picture  was  just  the  same.  worth  a  thousand  words  on  the  life  she’s  never  lived,  on  the  moments  thats  never  lasted.  not  that  it  mattered  here. 

     her  arms  help  keep  her  sitting  upright,  legs  swinging  over  the  edge  as  she  waits  with  the  patience  of  a  saint  whose  name  she  never  knew.  they  are  limited,  to  say  the  least,  with  their  exposures  to  the  world  outside  of  the  realm.  music,  which  was  susie’s  favourite,  was  especially hard  to  come  by.  her  braced  smile  hides  under  her  mask,  but  it’s  more  than  a  mask  by  now. 

     ❛  next  song  or  two.  ❜    it’s  risky,  listening  while  in  trials.  but  susie  has  done  it  once  or  twice.  tucked  the  walkman  against  the  elastic  of  her  skirt  and  ran  the  headphones  under  her  hoodie.  she  doesn’t  do  it  often,  but  it’s  a  strange  euphoria  when  she  does.  

     they  are  not  friends,  yet  danny  is  the  closest  outside  of  legion  that  she  knows  of.  amanda  is  too  isolated,  the  rest  of  them  are   “ freaks ”.  she  pulls  her  legs  up  into  a  criss - cross.     ❛  this  place  sucks.  i  feel  like  they’ve  released  some  new  stuff  since  we’ve  been  here,  but  i’unno. ❜

          THE WORLD WOULD BE A MUCH CRUELER PLACE IF EVERYONE WERE HONEST,   which is why they’re not.   honesty hurts,   aches,   stabs in the way that lies won’t.   when the red ribbon ties around the throat it’s easier,   better,   to shush and stroke their face while the skin turns a sickly blue.   you’ll be fine,   you’ll be fine,   the masked man murmurs,   hush hush,   baby,   it’ll all be fine,   see ?   the cops are coming soon;   the animal cries in jagged tones as blood trickles down its front.   the man hums a tune.

danny doesn’t listen long enough to the current song before he’s clicking next on the walkman,   at least a couple of times,   and the intro to   ‘ smells like teen spirit ’   blares into his ears.   entertain us,   kurt cobain sings,   and he thinks of how little he has recently been entertained.   this and that and here and there   —   he almost pouts at the thought;   who’s the big lady above’s favorite this week ?   he thinks it might be that backwater prick;   not the little cannibal lady,   no,   never her;   that big lug who never learned that it was frowned upon to run with scissors   (   or,   in this case,   a very impressive chainsaw   ).

“     fuck if i know,     ”     he huffs and rips the headphones off of his head once the last note draws to a close.   the band catches on the top of the mask,  knocking it askew;   he drops the walkman,   the knife,   everything in his hands immediately to fix the poisition of it.   he then claps his own cheek,   a congratulary little thing   (   perfect reflexes,   johnson   ),   leather glove creaking.     “     last i heard of ‘em was when   ‘ incesticide ’   came out in 1992.   after that ?   boom.   nothing !   dead - fucking - silence.     ”

ugh.   danny collects the knife,   not the walkman,   and instead curls his legs up to his chest,   leaning back and away from the ledge of ormont ski resort’s top floor.   he toes the walkman with the tip of his boot,   sliding it over towards susie with the stretch of a leg.   they’re all a little sick here;   some more than others,   he muses,   and almost falls prey to the urge to write that down as something he can say to the plague,   a hilarious motion as he can laugh and she’d do nothing but tilt her head and drool.

canaan shattered.   it’s for the best.   the isle was never meant to last,   was never meant to be anything more than rubble and ash.   no mortal realm shall last forever   —   no plane needs a king who faces old age and chagrin.

the skyfarer is recognizable,   a thorn in his side,   a buzzing fly   (   but you are the lord of the flies,   the ruler of rot and maggots   );   beelzebub draws the hood over his head even further,   claws curling,   carving,   into the fabric.   purple - painted lips furl,   like a corpse flower blooming,   into a smile;   it feels odd,   off,   entirely wrong   (   too wide,   too sharp,   why are there so many teeth—   ).

“     like a bug,   you are drawn to death,     ”     he murmurs,   rolling a shoulder     “     mine,   or yours ?   look at all that bite ...     ”     a look;   ah,   a lack of a crew   —   waiting,   hiding ?   no legion of theirs will,   in the end,   keep them alive.   beelzebub hums.    

“     ...   but where’s the venom ?   try as you might,   you cannot kill me in a way that matters.     ”

they say that vanity leads to a number of passion crimes   —   a sense of envy,   of question of why can’t that be me ?   it builds,   it rises,   it turns to unabashed rage,   a spark of madness in the midst of blissful generosity.   the entity likes to feed on hope,   but they don’t talk about how it likes to feed on the wrongs too.   i will remove a sin,   it croons,   if you take a life;   what will you give to feel holy again ?

“     isn’t this a surprise.     ”     a mass rather than a singular point;   carter’s voice echoes in the way that only something that resonates through the very mind does,     “     i would’ve expected our dear trapper before you,   but he’s oh so shy   —   he hasn’t come in for his check - up yet.     ”     it’s not so much a sour note in his voice as it is one that is dark.   it quickly fluctuates,   a buzzing drone,   before the doctor claps his hands together,   sparks flying,   as he gestures with never - still hands towards the inside of léry’s with a cheery tint   (   a small,   giggled hint   ).

“     ah,  ah !   manners,   carter   —   come in,   come in,   mister largo;   tea ?     ”

rhetorical,   really.   the entity doesn’t supply them with drink or feed,   not when they don’t need it to cooperate.