#noatheria

amaya blinks for a moment, then leaning her head back she lets out a boisterous laugh that seems to fill the entire room. “well of course ! for poets never leave their stuffy little rooms, they sit inside of them, staring out of a window - preferably a high window, so they may look down on everyone else - and proclaim themselves to understand life.” with a grin does the raen roll herself on top of hilda, fingers brushing against her lips.

“but you and I, we know better. life as we live it, isn’t filled with pretty words and metaphors, death isn’t some pretty little butterfly, it’s just death. hunger isn’t a wolf clawing its way through a man, it’s just that - hunger.” amaya lowers her head, leaning their foreheads together with a little cackle still on her lips.

-ˏˋ ☆ — @noatheria ||  ; n ;

     It did not have to end like this , it couldn’t . The star seemed to rebel against events beyond anyone’s reach , as it braced itself and enjoyed , with a drop of indifference , the screams and despair of its denizens . Through his young , mismatched eyes , Elidibus collected disturbing , dark memories that wrote history , and brushed with slender , quivering fingers thin threads of people’s lives snapped by the sharp blades of fate , lifeless bodies torn and unrecognizable after lethal battles against the creatures that reigned the world above and that destroyed everything he had grown to adore .

     It was a storm , one that would last for hours and that he woudn’t see the rainbow once it was over . The sky seemed to want to collapse over their heads , much like his hopes which seemed to shatter rapidly with every step .   People fell around him , faces that he could claim familiar were now but cold corpses without a beating heart ; the waters flowed red with blood and yet another earthquake made him drop to his knees , together with the deafening thud of a building collapsing that made him skin crawl . Ah , he had lost the count ... Had he even emit a sound this time , or had the thud stole his breath ?

     “ Where did we go wrong ? ”   mulled the youth with his soul clutched within both hands ; a faint , dim light hid behind the Emissary's slender fingers , protected yet dying : it throbbed at an imprecise pace, while his heart seemed to want to explode from his chest . He gave off a faint , desperate aura , and whispered words he had never uttered in the entire course of his existence . For the first time , however , he found himself uttering said words as fear clenched his petite frame within its sharp , rending claws .

     Help ...

@noatheria​​   「  book starters  」    ↬         ❛ Give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.  ❜ // FROM AZEM

son of mourning,  draped in the colors of evening;  a spill of purple across his mouth,  the light of fire across his throat.  a beautiful slit throat,  carving blood in rivulets across the floor.  his exhaustion wears him.  a coat of burnished gold,  halo lit to be divine salvation.  how much is it a façade,  and how much of it is real?  he cannot parse the shattering from the becoming.

the halls echo like a graveyard,  every footstep one step closer to their end.  they have suffered for this.  they shall suffer more.

it sits at the back of his throat :  this is your doing.  if it fails,  you shall bear the price.  is it worth it?  is it enough?  will it ever be enough?  pale,  fading flame,  a shadow of himself as he extends a hand  --  fluttering,  a ghost of touch to jaw,  before he draws back.

“   no.   “   he sounds more confident than he feels.  great orator at work.  he shall lead them to their beginning,  or to their end.  there is no way forward without blood  (  let it be his,  let it be his  ).   “   you are too important.  not you.   “

@noatheria​   「  grave suggestion 」    ↬         ‘  i don’t care where we go when we die,  as long as i’m with you.  ’ // from azem :)

a specter in the voice of the dead,  he drifts void of awareness.  set,  scene,  the curtain lifts :  before his hands,  amaurot spread out,  a corpse seething with maggots,  its empty streets laid out like veins.  the ghost speaks to him,  but they will not look at him.  he closes his eyes against the scent of sulfur and ash,  head tilting towards the doomed sky.  when he opens them again,  it is blue  --  endless,  so bright it hurts.

we were not always doomed.  we were beautiful once.  do you remember?  no,  no,  this isn’t right.  a memory,  faded to time;  it hiccups and skips,  stuttering,  and restarting.  he focuses on the movement of the lips.  the shine of gold at their throat,  mesmerized by the sight.

it repeats on track.  when we die,  when we die,  when we die.  this time,  his hand loops around wrist.  he is desperate,  but when is he not?  it has always been this way,  he has always been this.  a slow,  steady climb to the top,  and the long drop to the bottom.  a ruin.  the fingers around the wrist tighten.

this is his line.  he needs to speak.  he knows the words,  for he has walked them many,  many times.

“  no matter what?  you shall find me?  “  he is teasing.  he cannot recall anything in recent memory when he sounded so light,  so bright,  so easy.  as if the weight of the world does not settle upon his shoulders,  as if he does not bear the murder of everyone he has ever loved on his hands.  but memory is fleeting.  he clutches at its scraps.  “  promise you will hunt me down  --  or i will hunt you first.  “  laughter  --  his.  it grates.