the tongues of angels, i cannot swallow

❝  — as the sun sets on an evening in celebration of the approaching BLOOD BRAWL the great flower of hokuei removes herself from company to lay alone with ILYAS.  ❞ @stygianprophet

with a look, she becomes his lovely shadow. a silhouette delayed by only a few moments, in the wake of ilyas comes yena, trailing after him amongst a pool of smouldering, burnish silk. there is a ceremony to the procession, a ghost parade the rest of the room ignores. it ends by being swallowed, by opening up the jaws of the balcony’s great doors and slipping between them, the pair as close as blood on a tongue.

yena presses herself to his front, one palm against chest.

“it’s so terrible. so awful,” she sighs, forehead coming to ilyas’s great chest. she wants to curl into the hollow of his collarbone like a maiden in the sticky pollen-centre of a flower, drawn to sleep and isolation in his warmth. she wants blood-red petals over her milky thighs. 

her voice is high, soft, wounded. warm milk, a fresh wound. ready to be lapped. “why must they do it?”

Yena leaned into him, and he wasn’t sure if he felt suffocated or sustained by the embrace; wasn’t sure if her aim was to press herself to his defenses and push until something essential was squeezed out of the edges, or to simply tilt an ear and listen for what lingered beyond reach. It was an ever-recurring uncertainty, stirred in the wake of each drifting touch and every mindless gesture. Yet stronger than the doubt was the pull of the surrender that unfailingly tugged on his bones and stroked along his walls, each and every time loosening and coaxing him into blind, unburdened indulgence in the companionship of the other. This instance was no different from all those that had come before and all the ones that were sure to follow in that regard; as Ilyas found himself impulsively cushioning her delicate fall, hand rising to trail tentative, restrained fingertips across the slope of Yena’s chin.

The doors of the Temple slowly yawned open around a groan not unlike the call of hunger from deep within the gut, easing wider and wider before finally coming to a silent, expectant halt, open-mouthed and slick-lipped. Before it stood a dozen vampires claimed by gleaming Cicada crests, which they bore with the same militant pride and curbed prowess that blanched their hands around the crates and cases speckled among them. Carried within those containers was cargo of the utmost value; an assortment of weapons and armor, crafted for the exclusive use of serving the Moths’ needs. It was the foundation upon which the diplomatic relations between both houses stood. Cicadas provided the supplies required for security and guardianship, and in return Moths gave away a portion of their prospects for turning; subsequently boosting the Cicadas’ ranks and man-power. 

Ilyas watched the ancient exchange unfold with idle familiarity, eyes tracing the rigid march of the vampires as they ventured through the gaping doorway. He had long since grown numb to it, the sight of the Cicadas heaving the fodder of violence into the once-unbloodied maw of the Temple. Its pacifistic tranquility was long-lost, ever since the age of war when the careless ideal had left the Temple pliant before so much chaos and carnage. Though the withered conflict surrounding that was a distinct one for Ilyas, as it was not rooted in regret over the tarnished peace, but over the belated violence. He had always objected to the defenseless state of the house, believing that its holy cause must be protected at all costs and without bounds. Such was precisely what he had fostered coldness towards; the bitter, burning knowledge that he had, eventually, finally, harnessed blade and fang in the name of his house, and the act had been all but barren of the sacred purpose he had believed it would hold.

A sharp sigh carved its way through his nose as he ventured backstage; the aggravation curled around the sound forcibly dislodged by his momentum and sent cascading along his form until it found its anchor in the arches of his feet -- where it made its presence flagrantly known, hardening his steps into a firm, clipped cadence that all but rang in declaration of his haste to fulfill his needs and make his exit.

In his eyes, it was by far the most distasteful location within the arena, even more so than the Blood Dome. After all, what need was there for searing spotlights and callous crowds to remind one of the purpose served by these grand designs, when one was standing in the very heart of the spectacle? Surrounded by the garish array of weaponry, the anticipatory hum of the fighters, and the blaring echo of pummeling strikes and splintering bone from the training rings, he felt like he and his fellow vampires were merely pets corralled into a well-dressed cage -- to be pampered and prepped for the awaiting eyes of those who stood at the end of their collective leash. And worse than the awareness of that was the recollection that the horrid performance was one that most, if not all, of them had offered themselves up for willingly.

Within the hallowed heart of the Temple, he sat like a prophet swallowed up by his pedestal. The back of the cathedra loomed behind him, sharp and spire-like, stretching far above like the horns of an imperious god, spun from the shadow and chant of ritual. Below it lay the stool upon which the disciples poised themselves, fangs bared atop the altar in serrated anticipation of the sustenance that it would bleed. And beyond that, in a languorous curl of pale, pearlescent cloth, was the tail-end of his temple robes, spilling over the broad step that lay past the dais; the only tether grounding him to the mortal plane.

The vision might as well have been a portrait of myth no different from the artful, ethereal carvings that haloed the dome of the Temple above his head. And much like the divine depictions as they stood in vigilant concealment of the brutal, blood-soaked truth behind them, the scene in which he sat arranged its saintly visage in a manner that was nothing short of deceitful. Though the cuts and tears along the shroud were nonetheless glaringly visible if one knew where to look -- in the absentminded dullness of his eyes; in the weary arrangement of his limbs; in the detached tilt of his chin as he braced it against the heel of his hand.

He stood beneath the statue as though hovering within a vacuum, empty-eyed and hollow-hearted. He had once sought its shadow with fervent desperation; after all, when plunged into darkness at every turn, it was only natural for him to drift towards the depths marred by his Oracle’s grace. But then the unholy hand of death had snuffed out her light in its callous grip, and from that moment on, the shadow of the Oracle’s idol harbored nothing but the splatter of her blood before his eyes and the tang of her ashes upon his tongue -- its darkness washed by the stain until it was at last unclean and untouched.

Now he found nothing within its embrace but empty space and lifeless stone. He could look the towering monument in the eye; he could shatter it and crush its rubble between his jaws; he could lay scornful waste to it and smear it with his sullied blood -- and none of it would make any difference. It remained a vacant trace of a long-forgone past, much like every portrait, verse and rite contained within these ancient walls. It didn’t even wound him to gaze upon it as he did now, though he couldn’t tell if it was because he was indeed unscathed, or because the hurt was aimed at a scar that has yet to stop bleeding.

— 001. ABILITIES

power enhancement » giving blood to others enhances their strength and unique abilities. blood must be sacrificed from his own body.