#farsights

the stripped faithful stand beneath the wings of the twins, their voices the echoes that you hear when shouting at the abyss, requested by @farsights

Let them bury the side of the story they’ll never learn. It’s our time.

@farsights

In the middle of a riverbank, ankle-deep in the cold, flowing waters of a nearby spring, Roland crouches low and searches in the sifting sand and milky mud for his chosen Token in spare: a stone, a piece of a raw gemstone, something shiny and precious with which to Gift, for Trade.

He sifts a handful of stones and bits of shells and crawdad skins and shakes them a bit in his palm; looking through with his fingers, his brow furrowed and thus Wanting. He squawks in a sudden, happy surprise, and places all but three pieces of something Precious back into the soil, undeterred and made as if ‘twere ne’er disturbed as thus.

It had been a day or two without a vision; Charlotte typically had several a day. To say that she was uncomfortable about what was to come was an understatement.

So Charlotte did what she knew worked best: she painted. She had an entire room in her apartment set up like a studio full of paintings from previous visions and of things that caught her fancy.

Today, she filled her whisky tumbler, changed into clothes she didn't mind getting dirty; an old, oversized pink t shirt and holey jeans; pulled up her hair in a messy bun, and got to work.

She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that nothing came by the end of her first paint stroke, but nonetheless, she continued and allowed her unconscious to take control of the painting.

With some time, her painting was starting to look more complete. A grayscale image of a thin man with dark, curly black hair sitting at a bar. As she went on, there was no color in the painting except for the gold in the man's irises and the subtle golden aura emanating from him.

She finished the painting, and her whisky, and stood back to admire her work. Eyes rolled back into her head and the glass she was holding slipped from her grip.

The man in her painting was sitting at a bar, her bar, drinking a beer. The bar had a different atmosphere than most nights, almost dangerous. Charlotte gazed back at the mysterious man in front of her as she was pulled back to reality.

She quickly snatched the glass just before it shattered across the hardwood floor. Sighing, she sat on the cold floor and looked up at what she had created and feeling uneasy.

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Later that night...

Charlotte was working the closing shift and feeling slightly on edge. The unfortunate part of her visions is that she never knew when they were to happen, just that they are to happen.

That evening was the first time she had ever accepted a shot from a patron and it definitely helped with taking the edge off.

Just when she was starting to believe that her night was going to be just like every other night, he walked in, the man from her vision. Her breath hitched in her throat and felt the color drain from her face. 'Okay, play it cool, just make sure he's safe. Play up the charm.'

Others must have felt her attitude change, because all eyes went between the newcomer and Charlotte. The air became charged with a strange energy she hadn't felt before in the bar. 'Interesting. Had it been possible that I created this?'

Shaking off her thoughts, a smile spread across her lips as she greeted the new man, "Well, hello there darling, what can I get you?" She made sure to accentuate her breasts and make physical contact to get his attention. He replied wanting a beer.

Nodding, she got him a bottle of beer and stood in front of him. The scene lined up exactly how it was in her vision. This time she noticed the envy that the other patrons were glaring at him with.

Leaning back in, she spoke just barely above a whisper, "So, call me mad, but I Saw you earlier today in a vision right here, right now. I don't know what happens next, but usually my visions mean that someone needs help. Are you okay?" Her intense blue hues focused on his stunning golden ones.

there are those that linger, that peek into the fabric of the universe, the worlds of prophecy and vision, requested by @farsights   

the uninitiated then believe the prophetic language is ambiguous. the listener distrusts the prophetic messenger. instinct tells you how the utterance blunts the power of such words. the best prophets lead you up to the curtain and let you peer through for yourself. Frank Herbert, god emperor of dune

プロンプトなし

Head laid on crossed arms upon the tatami floor, framed by obsidian silky hair strands that like a waterfall fell on her exposed shoulders. Glistening from interest eyes are focused on the man's lips, taking in every word with eagerness. She is enthralled by her visitor... his words are playing with her mind, diving in the labyrinth of her thoughts and putting the gears she had let to rest for a long time, finally in use.

Lips covered in a paste made of Beni “紅” split but silence prevailed in the room. Sluggishly the woman rose her head, hands following the motion pressed on the floor to support her torso. The soft fabric that was loosely hugging her form allowed a little glimpse of her feminine curves.

"So?" she finally spoke in a low tone arching a brow in inquiry and her voice gradually changed into the usually alluring lilt

"Would you dare eat the plum...?"

Though she loved the sea, Niamh could not deny that she loved the forest as well -- with the tall trees, the soft grass, the sound of the wind rustling through leaves.  It was not home, but it could have been a second home, if she ever wanted.  When she wandered away from the sea, the forest was where she would go.

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Do you ever look at sexy gif or picture and are...

ME

bloodied knuckles  ･ tear stained cheeks  ･  rust  ･ a busted lip ･ claws  ･  fangs  ･ a bloody nose ･  chattering teeth  ･  a dark space underneath the bed ･ scratching noises on a wall ･  creaking metal  ･  fog ･ dancing under moonlight ･  blood dripping lips ･ heavy breathing in the dark  ･ a feeling of unexplained dread ･ a figure in a dark corner  ･   dirty peeling wallpaper  ･   a bloody handprint on the wall  ･  sobbing in the dark ･  bite marks on the skin  ･ eerie whispers ･ a hood covering a stranger’s eyes ･  the growl of a hidden animal ･  the sound of a blade being sharpened ･ a deep, dark forest ･  walking on the streets alone at night ･  a cobweb-filled, abandoned building ･ eyes darting in paranoia ･  a heavy beating pulse ･ the feeling of being trapped ･  struggling to get out a scream ･  boards covering broken windows ･  a quiet graveyard ･  a gas station in the middle of nowhere ･ a road that never ends ･ heavy fog rolling in ･ the scent of blood in the air ･  eerie old photographs  ･ walking along traintracks at night  ･  a chill going up the spine ･  gathering crows ･  a dusty, dimly lit study  ･  mist over a deserted cobblestone street ･  ghost towns ･ shadows around a campfire  ･ the sound of chanting ･ church bells tolling ･  an orange harvest moon  ･  a broken down carnival  ･  a dirty stuffed animal abandoned  ･  wiping bloody hands on fabric ･ nightmares ･ waking up in a panic ･ a power outage  ･heavy lightning storms ･  a secret trap door ･ the feeling of being watched ･  fear from trauma  ･  a ouija board set out on a table  ･  an eerie doll  ･ a scream of anguish & pain ･ withered plants  ･ a room that’s been forgotten & gathered dust ･  owl eyes in the dark ･  curled, dead tree branches ･  a ritual altar   ･  flickering candles ･ a lantern held up in the dark ･  fear of being followed ･ creaking floorboards ･ repressed, horrible memories  ･ clenched teeth ･  soft, echoing piano keys  ･ an old book covered in dust ･  many pairs of glaring eyes  ･  stumbling in pitch black darkness  ･ being stranded in the middle of nowhere ･ tarot cards on a table  ･ a trail of blood

Tagged by @farsights