#rapusodosu

various starters // @rapusodosu

It is merely but a sliver of time until she would come across a path of those whose values might echo ( no, inspire ) her own: a land unfettered by absolute truths, to be correct or considered false. There are so many within her company who willingly sink to depths to pursue what is “right,” pass judgment on what may night align with their views. But what is any of it, but subjectivity?

She is, and has always been, little impressed. To such point where she does not consider herself in league: she is no member of Shin-Ra nor of AVALANCHE, no matter how many rebirths they experience. She is for herself, has always been. It is what she knows best.

And to have been asked several times, does she tire of life of deception, she always answers no– for she considers her intentions always translucent ( yet withheld ), and it is merely to observer to accept them as they are, rather than to perceive them in slighted view.

The morning made strange play with the uneven landscape, belying the old proverb that the sun shone alike on the wicked and the just as it graced shriveled cliff-sides with a bath of orange and pink light and let shadows prey on the valleys below. Darkness liked best to open its maw where there was more to devour, after all. 

But there Genesis stood at the edge of the cliff, staring as though he’d like to devour it. A long while passed, Xerxes burying his chilled hands and feet in the earth as the light warmed it and he thought about how the shade of pink reminded him of innocence, blushing skin. It made him smile. Remembered gratitude. For once his sick head wasn’t tormenting him too bad for him to endure the pain of it.

Genesis, though… “the black abyss… the keenest form of fascination…”

Xerxes paused. Something like a chuckle wuffled up his throat, though it sounded suspiciously like a moan. “…you shouldn’t ruin a lovely morning like this with such disappointing musings.”

He had to explain, of course. Still, he let the admonishment sink in for effect, gathering his thoughts. Softening his heart.

Twisting, he faced Genesis with a weary smile. “Do you know, I don’t think there’s anything so banal, so commonplace, so easily understood as a corrupted heart? The cheaper and trashier the story the more it’s used to drive the plot. Every poet sells out and draws on its symbols the instant that their inspiration dies because they know if they make the barest mention of not being understood, of the meaninglessness of it all, of the worthlessness of other human beings, of life qua the most exquisite pain and the darkest desires… why if they do that then they’re certain to be cited ad nauseum if only by so-called artistic souls trying to make excuse for themselves. And in life– ha! It is always a good man who astonishes, who is persecuted. An abusive friend or lover need only add a splash of mystery to their cruelty and gesture at the yawning black that so fascinates you and suddenly their cruelty is profound, not petty and weak. As though what is hidden hides because it’s ever so much more precious and complex… but you and I, who dwell in the vale of the abyss, we should know better.”

Xerxes’ red eye was narrowed so tenderly it were as though the veined iris pulsed. He looked like someone else. Another self, so frail his lip seemed to spasm an inch from his usual self-lacerating grin. Yet he overcame by rising and focusing his whole attention on the man he’d been trailing these past weeks. He tried to dredge up the reasons he didn’t want to admit to himself, the reasons his coward’s feet hadn’t already given him cause to flee. Reasons other than his own commonplace yearning, to end it, to die… ah, but this was not a morning that would countenance submitting to the plunge. It was not.

       she  remembers,   twenty summers ago,   faint murmurings of a sparrow whose wings had all but frayed for time cannot spare even the most song - filled creature.  there is sorrow.  there is regret lingering behind pretty words,   but she cannot hear them,  not just yet.  their numbers swell like algal bloom until eventually they sputter outward,   forever cultivated beside the passing breeze,  softened by the ears of others who may sit and care to listen to their tales.  it is not death,  it is not the philosophy of disappearing.  instead it is something far less bittersweet. 

        gone but not gone.  he remains,  streaked and luminous even as daylight dies.  

  soft prompts / not accepting. @rapusodosu.

light does pierce through the darkness, you see - it corrodes evil in the form of many pleasantries akin to kindness. he should know better than anyone else, he too bears a flame fraught in caustic swipes & ash. a broken lightbearer, a wounded knight still knocking at the knees with steel in one palm & blood in the other. he is full with the dust of desolate places, those spaces in which he once called home. 

no one should wear that much red unless you are carrying even the most vile of secrets. to wear red is to accept the blood you have spilt, to see the world in crimson. his is a violent colour that has now grown flushed, it’s hue now fading against the scattered mosaic of the trees above them.  

despite the slight calloused nature of his hands he glides through her hair unlike any other, forming braids with full-fleshed affection. it’s as though he is weaving light itself. she traces over his handy work & lets a lazy smile blossom upon her lips. 

she almost laughs. 

a topic to write a meta on  //  meme cache

varric considers magic a limb he’s missing that he does not want. he grew up in a world where magic was seen as evil and needed to be contained --- while he doesn’t think poorly on magic, since his closest friend was an unregistered apostate mage and later in his life ended up becoming friends with more mages, he knows the dangers of magic and what exactly it can do. 

when asked if varric believes in circles or freedoms for mages, varric will excuse himself from the conversation, mainly because he does not have magic, he does not have the ability to feel it or even walk the fade in his dreams, he’s cut off from it completely, and believes that he doesn’t have the right to speak on such affairs when they are so hotly debated, especially when this debate affects the lives of the many, rather than the few. 

however, varric is a modernist and believes that a middle ground much be reached, believing the war and the rebel mages are wrong, while the chantry and the circles are also inhumane and cause more problems than fixing the issue at hand. his friendship with hawke has taught him at least that much

as a rogue, varric knows a few magic tricks --- the slights of hand can save a life or take a life, win a hand or cost you a coin or two. nimble fingers and quick wit are needed for magic tricks, especially to deceive.