#aonaran

quick warm-up request for @non-illustrary!

Error is a travelling mercenary, so he doesn't come by very often. but when he does... he makes sure to visit you. trysts are quick, desperate, and overwhelming (for the both of you). he has a lot to say and not the words to do it, so he tries to show it through actions-- but physical touch is difficult for him, and he can only manage for so long before he gets overstimulated. but he does his darnedest to make it memorable for you, so you won't miss him too much when he has to leave <3

when Nightmare rides through town it's usually for a supply run, or to remind the townsfolk that he's a force to be reckoned with. he enjoys watching them all duck back into the buildings and hiding behind the shutters on windows, pretending they're safe. but sometimes... sometimes he sees something different that he wants.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ my adult bluesky

AU Tags:

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ faeu-after-dark

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ mafia au

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ vampire au

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ yeehau (cowboys)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ deity au

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ concentric circles au (incubus au)

Character Tags:

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ ephialtes (nightmare)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ oneiros (dream)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ bravo (killer)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ reuben (horror)

Only realised this recently too, thanks embarrassing Sinn Féin ad.

Crowned with a thousand diamonds, Aonaran shines like so many jewels around the throne, placed together like precious, beloved gems and inserted protectively inside the composition. The royal tones are birthstones, evocative of a spacious land that we once knew, but one that now sadly lingers just out of sight, caged in the black tunnel of long ago.

The voodoo is inside the music, where mystical lights gleam off the surface, lighting upon icy shards beside broken crystal mirrors. White circular orbs, touched with the faintest of light, slink into the space, shining through the silence; a sparkling, pristine prism left untouched. Richard Moult’s music is kept well out of harm’s way, protected by something as ancient as music itself. The music is then able to shine its pure streaks of light, breaking out in a wide arc of humility and appreciation; thin melodic arrows shoot into the sky, rotating three hundred and sixty degrees.

The music is safe in its cocoon, which is just as well given our propensity to screw up. The presence of mankind isn’t far away – it slithers just out of sight. The vocal comes in, looking out over the silent edge at a journey plagued by loneliness, the desperate longing for the return of the past scarred into the voice like a deep incision, and some kind of faint memory that trickles in and out of the melody like a secret stream. It may be the smile of a loved one that triggers the taut, tense tug of remembrance, knotting up the stomach as if it were a bout of nervous tension. Beside the pale grief and the tight anxiety, the piano bathes in a comforting major tonality, dispersing the reluctance to move forward. The piano takes her place on the steep foothills of a green, kindly kingdom – the perfect, strategic position for victory when it comes to battle – washed in the pure river water and left to dry in sun-dappled chord tones.

The second piece ends on a sour, strange interval, bringing with it an air of uncertainty that slowly sinks into despondency. The lyrics play out a bleak drama – one of tension, anguish and heartache – buried in the very soil, the bedrock of the countryside. They are sensitive stories that aren’t shy to spill their secrets; the very branches rustle their knife-sharp tips as the tree oozes out the vocal poetry, sap running down the bleary, ancient trunk like tears streaking down the face.

Sadness trickles from the white keys; notes are stained by the running tears that fall from black eyelashes, found in between the keys of pale white skin. The minor notes are played in a lower register, conjuring up a mood of contemplation. Oboe and viola add some pastoral colour, but the music is ultimately streaked with grey. The chilly atmosphere paints the grass a touch paler. The fields lay down their dead in a landscape of bare sorrow, concealing the skull and bones of rural life and the harsh facts of mortality; animals once part of the livestock slumber in unmarked cemeteries, with jagged rocks as temporary gravestones. There is no closure to the past, tragic event of which the sorrowful notes recite. Thorns and prickly brambles share the land with the softer gem of the grass.

The piano lies beside the harp-bright, shimmering strings in a constant flourish; the comfort of home is brought together in unison, like the hot cup of Earl Grey tea waiting for you beside the fire. Ghostly echoes seep through the rural landscape, and strands of rising smoke can be seen in the distance as if from a November bonfire. Notes rise up on charred fingers, lifting a black, noxious cloud to the heavens, stretching out their arms and turning the music into a lengthy instrumental.

The weakened voice lets loose every little secret, divulging the life behind closed doors. Nothing is hidden. Tiring, the vocal drifts into the mist. The open, cold plains of northwest Scotland hide their historic ruin amid the worn rocks, the music spilling forth as if from the gaps in the ancient stone.

The barren land can be a reminder of our own mortality, our shy reluctance to stare it down. The bonfire coughs out the smoke, and black notes churn in the fire. The fire is out of control, the safe comfort of home wiped out. It is the constant burning of life’s pages, something that happens on a daily basis – it is life, left out in the stark countryside – read like the open book that it is. The throne – the one we made for ourselves – disappears into the mist. Tell ‘em that is human nature.

Richard Moult ~ Aonaran

Aonaran is the second United Bible Studies related release we’ve covered in the past month,…