#divinesol

Send 📐 + your character's height to compare with one or more of mine!

!!!! HIS TINY LIL DAUGHTER *LIFTS HER UP TO SHOW EVERYONE* LOOK AT MY TINY DAUGHTER <3

unprompted ask || always accepting

Curumë was so close. He could almost grasp the purse the woman was carrying at her side. Stretching his hand a bit further, he pulled back just when his victim turned to greet someone she knew. Or so he assumed. He didn't have much time to think about it.

The man bumped into him without even so much as an apology. Curumë lost his balance. With a silent gasp, he stumbled forward, right into the woman.

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐞: 𝐀 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐞 || Open!

11. If you could recommend one game or one book, what would it be?

[I did a game for the last one so I'll do a book for this one (even though I've been terrible about reading lately 😭). Off the top of my head, one of my favorite books is Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo. It's the first book I read in the Grishaverse and UGH. It's so fucking good. I've read a good portion (maybe all? haven't checked in a minute) of the books in this universe, and Six of Crows still stands out as the best to me. And no, I haven't watched the Shadow and Bone series, but I kinda refuse to lmao. I've only heard a little about it, but what I did hear I was like eeeeeeh. I'll stick to the books.]

15. Are you superstitious?

[To a degree? It's more in a not serious way, but I think I can still count it. So, sure. Just a wee bit.]

7. What is a sound that makes you happy?

Send " ❗❗❗ " for your muse to suddenly and unexpectedly kiss mine.

        The other had stumbled right into an expansive spiderweb — one that spanned several feet, stretching clean across the path from one side to the other. That alone was reason enough to pause with caution. Maybe Ros had been in her head... maybe she'd been looking down... or perhaps the threads were simply that fine — gossamer-thin, nearly invisible, delicate as breath. Beautiful, really. The pattern was intricate — the kind of weave only time & patience could create.

        Drogar, trailing just behind, hadn’t noticed — his attention had been elsewhere, admiring the landscape in that quiet, awestruck way of his. It wasn’t until he heard the sharp yelp & the sound of someone huffing that his gaze snapped back & there they were. Not just Ros, but the whole group... tangled up from head to toe in spiderwebs. He blinked once... twice — then huffed out a low laugh, soft & surprised. Usually, he was the one unlucky enough to get wrapped up like a festival hog. But today? Apparently, the gods had chosen someone else. “Here, here — relax! I got ye.. I’ll git th’ webs,” the paladin assured as he strode forward, his voice calm despite the snickers & curses shared between companions. While the others worked to free each other, he focused solely on Ros.

        Drogar knelt to one knee, unfastened his helm, & set it beside him with care. Then came the delicate task — large hands plucking gently at the clinging strands. They were stubborn, sticky bastards, but he worked steadily. Starting with her legs... then her arms... & finally the crown of her head, where the web had tangled through strands of hair like thread through silk. “Geez... I’d hate t’see the spider that made this. Reckon they’ll be pissed, yeah?” he joked — softly — eyes flicking up to watch her expression as he helped peel the remaining strands away. A gloved finger traced her cheek, careful not to press too hard, lifting a swath of web away before he brushed a few stubborn wisps from her lips. He was gentle, conscious; slow enough not to irritate her skin, but not so slow as to embarrass.

✧ what, if not a monster? - accepting

the manor breathes with the memory opulence, its halls steeped in candlelight and memory - where even the walls remember grief in gold leaf. he's watching the amber-soft fire, or perhaps just the shadows it casts - brittle things, dancing like ghosts around them. his one arm rests over a raised knee, the other nothing now but a decaying memory swaddled in linen. her words reach him like a muffled echo, and something in him flinches in recognition. he knows the cadence of kindness when he hears it, it always feels like drowning.

for a long time, he says nothing - he finds no response to mercy. beneath the quiet, thoughts churn - slow, black tides of tar in the hollow of his chest. monsters. yes, that word fits him too well, slides neatly into the groove the abyss left behind. he remembers how to kill, how to forget, how to survive until survival becomes its own cage. he remembers his hands slowly deteriorating beneath the drying, matted paint, the shape of remorse swallowed whole. and now, she speaks plainly to him - not in fear nor in pity, it seems - just … truth, raw. and he doesn't know what to do with that.

"monsters devour what loves them." he murmurs at last, his voice a low rasp.

(they forget how to hold without breaking. how to be held without recoiling.)

his eyes remain fixed on the firelight, old mimicry of stars, gliding over the wreckage of the present. the imagery comes to mind, unbidden - not just his, not wholly. once, in another life, he had read poetry in the darkest hours, tracing each line delicately, like a blade's edge. in those days, before tragedy and madness swallowed him whole, he'd written too - scrawled in margins and scrap, little offerings to no one in particular. he'd read keats under scaffolding, let dante's ghosts climb his spine, whispered baudelaire to bricks cooling under the sun. he had marvelled at blake's dark symmetry, how even angels could be monstrous in the right light. he knew how poetry moved, how it breathed - a kind of magic that didn't need chroma to reshape a soul. it had shown him how to see, how express how he felt.

but now he fears what might still live inside him, fears that everything tender has been excised from his jagged memories. he used to think poetry could make anything beautiful - even the broken, the hideous, the beasts.

(but he doesn't know if any stanza could hold him now.)

he turns then, finally, gaze catching her expression - warmth in the gloom; it scorches him more than any sun ever could.

"but-- thank you, ros. perhaps there is a reason I am still here, after all. not ... love, but usefulness."

@divinesol : "there are no happy endings because nothing ends." ( @cleaobscur unpainted to painted clea? hehe )

love never dies ;; accepting

Her head hurts, it's unlike anything she's ever felt before. It's a grip of icy iron meant to torment and torture, a worm eagerly feasting in the depths of an apple about to rot from within - this digs even deeper though, through flesh and thoughts alike and leaves her as if stunned. For she cannot believe how suddenly her life has been forced to take a turn for the worst, nor what is standing before her. Who - who is standing. It's her, her "mirror". And though she looks exactly like her, she's also a vision of nightmares. Clea is quite sure she has dreamt something akin to that very scenario, once or twice in the past - but now that terror, that loneliness and the headache won't disappear at a pinch on the arm.

She's in her hands, the other's words are like sharp talons of a hawk around her neck - keeping her enthralled, for they treat of things no one but Clea would know - and yet it's impossible ! It's threat and dread mixed together, an endless pit of discomfort. Moreover, she has no idea where that other Clea has taken her - it matters not, really - she tries not to pay any mind at the golden hues of the sky, the ground of black stone, but it's difficult.

Her "mirror" looks at her with a weird light in her eyes, the pause in her narrative made of paintings, doppelgangers and her true identity granting Clea enough time to protest. She scares her, but she has to say this. ❛ Liar - ❜ she first mutters under her breath, rage overcoming her as a memory resurfaces. It's hers ! It's Clea's, it's her Lumiére crumbling and shaking to a violent earthquake. It's her brother and sister, her father, their faces overtaken by pure horror as the sky changes its twilight hues and darkens and the waves by the harbor rise as high as mountains. In a blink of the eye, she had been separated from them, to be taken there in that nothingness... yet she thinks about them, Simon, everyone she has ever known and loves back home. Waiting. Safe, she hopes. ❛ This is your happy ending. Mine has been destroyed the moment you showed up. ❜

She's almost tempted to rise to her feet and confront who proclaims to be the true Clea eye-to-eye, her seat on the cold stone pavement of that faraway place suddenly growing too uncomfortable and her blood pumping with more intensity. Her heart follows suit. But she stays still, her hand simply clenching. Each tale the other spun made sense, each memory awakening long-forgotten feelings in her... no, no she does not want to listen anymore.

aside from her weapons, she always has the following with / on her: her family's symbol that doubles as an amulet of nondetection, her druidic focus (which consists of a sprig of holly, what looks like an animal's claw and a small collection of raven feathers) and a holy symbol of lathander, usually hidden underneath her clothes. she likes to be prepared and undetectable wherever she goes!