#malogranatum.

she loves body jewellery. all the pieces she has are gold, some lined with little garnets and topazes. she drapes them across her chest and down her back, she’ll also have pieces tied to her horns and tie them around her tail. 

if you think you’re possibly in possession of a cursed or haunted item, bring it to umi and she’ll see if she can banish the presence that might be lingering on it keyword is try she will ask you for a small favour in return though.  

when she isn’t wearing her trademark veils and hoods, she will adorn her hair with freshly plucked flowers ( usually always dark pink or white flowers ), ribbons, and sometimes ornate little hair clips she’s been gifted over the years.  

while she isn’t a seamstress she does have some experience with sewing and mending her own clothes, and piecing together costumes for when she used to perform. 

azem took on many roles,  the ‘ shepherd of the stars ’ was merely one. their purpose as a shepherd, as a guide and even guardian fluctuated in meaning and symbology. azem could never be pinned down as one specific aspect,  and they preferred it that way. 

they worked heavily with doorways, gateways and the boundaries between one place then another, befitting the aspect of the traveller.  they recognised the importance of cyclical change both metaphysically and literally. 

usually carried around a “ lantern ” and some type of staff,  much like a crook.

hence their symbol of the sun, of light, specifically a guiding light that travelled amongst the constellations. 

Inside me is a death.  A fragile,  almost shy thing.  It weeps when it is plucked at,  when the reality of the world folds around it and by extension,  me.  I have not bled so openly before,  but I know what it is to be consumed,  to have discovered that death inside myself.  I can feel myself burning,  only this time it is cold,  cold and cauterised,  scorching through my vessels and my veins until I am nothing again.

She had been such a pretty face in life  ;  all flushed cheeks and carefully combed eyelashes, her mannerisms akin to a fair lark,  or perhaps even a young swan. Dying young had always been such an easy tragedy to swallow whole, many do because they cannot simply acknowledge nor accept that death lingers above wide eyes,  never being a gnarled hand or a crooked branch.  How tragic,  how soft.  She had so much to gain,  so much to sing for and to take.

I do not think I could speak her name again, I fear what might come of it,  but I remember each syllable and each letter singularly and then together like a sack of marbles. She died alone,  as so many do.  They die as they feared they might,  without a hand to hold or a person’s smile to cling onto.  An easy thing to want for,  really,  for we are born being held by wet hands and we must crave for that same safety again and again.

I remember how she clung onto me and I remember realising what was happening when that same creeping languor poured over me.  A horrible sensation,  or rather, a lack of sensation. Her skirts were all torn then,  the fraying edges had been gnawed at by the frost and the sinking rot of the earth.  Her eyes were nothing but shallow pools.  She clung onto me as if I had been a mother,  or a sister or simply someone. The desperation startled me back then,  rounding my wrists and binding me to her as she swept by my heart and pleaded,  begged for me, for them,  to stay.

—   DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE !   I WILL SURELY DIE !  

The words ripped through me like a wild knife,  splitting my throat and my lips.  I was her and she was me. There was no distinction,  yet still I felt as if I had been torn in half,  torn from the inside out.  I wanted to scream,  to run,  to beg and cry.  WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME.  How could they have left her ?  Why ? WHY ?  I do not know the answer but I will claw at these walls,  I will allow the dirt into my heart,  if it means I can see the sky again.  She died alone,  surrounded by those sinking walls that were pushed down upon her just as emotions splinter the mind and my sanity.  

Her … I …   she could feel the blood trickling down from her fingers,  I could feel the numbness begin to sink back and still,  STILL,  I was so overcome.  Drowning.  Swallowed.  Spat out again.  I DIED ALONE,  in the cold, wet earth,  where the weight of ages tumble down upon your chest until you are but a half - strung together body who no longer bleeds red,  but bleed memories so warm and so bright.  It starves inside me,  grasping at sinew,  bone,  teeth.  This longing to live when you are already gone,  when there are no more memories to craft.  

To become as dust.  DO NOT LEAVE.  To be forgotten.  PLEASE.  To have your soul crushed beneath the weight of your own betrayal and the cloying smell of dark,  damp soil.  I will never forget it.  I will never forget you.

Despite everything,  there had been a wisp of clarity clatter through my still waiting consciousness,  I had to resolve this and make it my own. I had to,  lest I be entirely consumed by the wildflowers below.  Pulling away from her,  FROM MYSELF,  I - I COULD NOT BEAR TO BE PARTED NOT AGAIN  —  PLEASE   —

Emotions melted past my eyes until I could only seal them shut,  holding my head in my hands,  trembling wildly,  never knowing what might hold me again,  what wound will inflict itself upon me AGAIN.  I …  I cried.  I cried until no sounds fell from my dry mouth,  until my face knew warmth and I realised the blood beneath my nails was mine again.  I could not stop crying.  It was all too much,  it was as if all my senses had been picked at and scarred,  as if I had been flooded from the inside out by root and stem.  Her grief then my grief.  Her fear was my fear.  Me. Her. Us.

has a very strict scale/skincare routine.  i’ve mentioned before about her taking needlessly long baths,  especially as a raen of the sea whose scales are in need of frequent moisture.  she also tends to cover her body in various oils, body butters, creams, etc etc.  it’d be wise of you not to disturb her when she’s in the middle of pampering herself. 

her wardrobe is mostly made up of a lot of silks,  velvets,  satins and leathers.  it should come to the surprise of no one that umiko also has quite an impressive glove collection too. 

when she was younger she travelled with a few dance troupes,  and while she didn’t stay with them she did keep mementos from certain routines, in particular hair clips and costumes that were gifted to her when she eventually parted ways. 

suitors have come and gone.  she’s had relationships in the past, but giving her obligations she broke them off,  or in some cases they didn’t begin in the first place.  it was nothing earth shatteringly romantic but it was … comfortable.  she sometimes forgets the solace of companionship.