#dirthamenkeeperofsecrets

◊: Do you bing-reply or prefer reply-queueing?

bing-reply. i don’t think i’ve ever queued a reply, like ever. the real-time replying makes it feel more connected, personally.

♠: How many muses do you have?

one active, which is eritvita. i have one inactive blog still keeping home on this site, but turned into an archive: drowsybutch, the famed Homestuck fantroll blog. she was the beginning of most of my occult practices and detailed writing.

♥: Are you selective, if yes, what makes you selective?

i am selective, because this is a sideblog, and my main is my personal blog. i am selective over pictures reblogged, over comparing aesthetic, over complications of writing, good complications of writing, a literary labyrinth of writing where the ground is smooth enough to prevent tripping or stubbing a toe. sometimes i play favorites with canon characters. sometimes i unfollow when we never interact, or if we interact too little. sometimes i unfollow when our characters don’t seem to click right, positively or negatively. sometimes i unfollow to clear my following list, and follow right back a month later.

It was early morning, the sun only just showing it’s glow on the horizon, the camp still asleep, Isyris always woke up earlier than even the other hunters, she always liked to be first.

Walking out of the camp boy in hand and arrows on her back, she walked into the woods. 

       Deeper.

                    Deeper’

                                 Deeper.

Soon she found some deer, she crouched, grabbing an arrow from it’s place and placing it with the bow, taking in a breath she was about to release it. A loud crack and a bright flash of green.

♤ — my muse in a specific location ( asker’s choice )

at the entrance: “This is a rare gift, being bequeathed the key to such a strong, shadowed lock.”

at Fen’Harel’s statue, whispered/awed: “Such craftsmanship.”

at the first codex: “This place cannot be forgotten. Nevermind the godly tones dripping in Forgetting, this place cannot be forgotten. Not again, not once more, this is the first teacher of Knowledge, forthright!”

   Not every dream Orsino had made him wake with a jolt, nor trapped him in a chaotic landscape of burning dreams and lost family. He had closed his eyes that night to awaken in the Fade in an old classroom, a very familiar place to him. He had taught apprentices in this very room, specifically making sure to help every single one inbetween. He never considered it a waste of time, and many apprentices needed it. Sometimes, they just needed someone reaching out to them. To personally engage with them instead of droning on and on in front of a board, and scolding them when they dozed off or cast a spell wrong. 

   When he turned his head to look at the desks that had been previously empty, apprentices now sat there. Children he knew. Children he lost. They had wide grins on their faces, entirely intrigued by his lesson. A figment of the Fade shaping what he wanted to see, as they were never that happy. No matter how much he tried. But for now, it seemed like his mind was entirely unaware of the fact. He spoke as if he was teaching, his hands motioning with his words. What was he saying? Orsino was speaking the words, but a haze seemed to stop him from being fully aware of the sentences coming from his own mouth. Truthfully, it seemed to be everywhere. Blissful ignorance personified. 

   He considered this a blessing for now, much better than being forever trapped in Fade woven  labyrinths. Blazing and billowing with smoke that did not choke him, but clouded his way. Repetitions of screams that had never stopped haunting him. Demons of despair and rage and desire creeping around the corners, hoping to catch him off guard and worm their way into his mind. 

   Suddenly, the haze lifted, and the ex-First Enchanter became painfully aware that this dream  was not possible. He had smelt their blood, cradled their dying bodies in his arms, and swore to take revenge. They could not be here. And just like that, the apprentices that had populated the classroom disappeared. Evaporated into mere wisps of energy in the Fade. It was only now he realized the dream was truly slow torture. When he would finally wake, he would only remember what he had lost, and weep like they had died yesterday. 

   A figure approached, he could feel it. The hair on the back on his neck rose and stood on end, and he turned to face the approaching entity. A spirit, or demon? A familiar face greeted him, and he considered them to be no better than a demon. 

   “You again? I would have thought you’d have given up on trying to lure me into a sense of security.” Bitterness laced his voice. Was it because he wanted the being to stop hounding him, or because he thought they had lifted the haze? Or perhaps it was because he had seen the darkest depths of the mage’s mind?