Hola! Since I'm out and about more, I've decided to make myself a little blog to make some more friends!
I'm from Ecuador, joined the big leagues because I was getting headaches from interdimensional invasions. I'm sensitive to that stuff, y'know! I'm also the spiritual leader of my village; our goddess, Samaykita, speaks through me.
I can shapeshift into animals endemic to my ancestral homeland, dabble in glamour magic and hybrid apothecary, though my magic specialties are more in healing, wards, protections, and mediumship. So you can def ask me about your dead grandma or just to read some tarot cards for ya! /srs
Current Story Arc: The Not-So-Dead #deadman arc
(with @/the-last-laughing-magician)
Post/Lore Masterlist →
Her Pinterest board →
Mun notes:
My primary blog is @morphomacaw; I'll repost my occasional writing or musings about Violeta's lore or character here. My roleplay style is primarily literate, though I'm down for shorter/silly interactions. I'm flexible!
Asks will be tagged with:
#wari answers
Meme interactions and silly RPs will be tagged with:
#samaykita made me do it
Unprompted/random reblog interactions will be tagged with:
#wandering wari
Yes, I am serious about the magic 'tricks'! I practice magic myself and do specialize in the listed abilities, so feel free to "Ask a Shaman" about any magical curiosities :)
I'm teaching myself Quechua for now to try to reconnect with my ancestral tongue, so know that I'm doing my best, but some of my Quechua might be a tad incorrect!
Anything written in this format is spoken by Samaykita. Unless explicitly stated otherwise, only Violeta can see and hear Samaykita. The connection is not telepathic; if Violeta wants to tell something to her goddess, she must say it out loud.
Mun is over 21, but I'm uncomfortable with NSFW roleplay, so I won't be doing those!
Profile pic credit: Minareii on ArtStation
Character File:
VIOLETA MALLKI || Ama kikinpaqlla munaichu, lliu runapaq maskay. > “Seek not only for yourself, but for others as well.” NAMES: - Violeta M
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The shackles of my upcoming exam may have me for now, but I have plans for this account and some of my other muses! I'm gonna refresh the intro post once all this exam stuff is over and done with, and...
I'll write an Open RP Starter! 🎉
Here are your options, y'all!
Wari's Origin! (Violeta is fresh off the boat and Very Afraid.)
Camping Trip (You stumble across Wari in the wild!)
one gave me my super awesome wings!!!! I- actually don’t know if she is native to Gotham. Regardless I think we are friends now? It’s awesome!! Don’t worry though- I still don’t have magic!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"Run..." Was forced out in a hoarse whisper, last act of warning before his body entirely slumped, sliding out of the chair he'd been magically tied to and falling to the ground.
ba—
John's erratic, panicked, heartbeat suddenly stopped. He laid on the floor of empty warehouse of the fish harbour in Tampa Florida, lifeless. No more buzzing in his ears, no more erratic heartbeat, no more fight in John Constantine.
The occultist wasn't exactly dead though, he never quite managed that. Instead his body was stuck, on pause, as his soul token appeared on his tongue, as if Charon had refused the obol, trapping the occultist in a state of stasis.
— @the-last-laughing-magician
Clark was standing in the cereal aisle with a shopping basket hooked over one forearm, frowning down at two nearly identical boxes of granola as if the wrong choice might somehow have consequences beyond breakfast. The store was bright in the hard, fluorescent way grocery stores always were, too clean and too noisy at once: cart wheels ticking over tile, a child asking for marshmallow cereal three aisles over, the faint squeal of a freezer door, the wet hiss of produce misters somewhere behind him. His basket already held milk, bananas, a loaf of wheat bread, a bag of apples, and one jar of pasta sauce. It was ordinary enough that he had let himself settle into it, if only a little.
He heard heartbeats all the time. He had learned, over the years, not to chase every rhythm, not to let the whole world become a wall of noise and pulse and need pressing against the inside of his skull. But there were some sounds he kept near the edge of his awareness the way other people kept porch lights on. Familiar patterns. Familiar breaths. Familiar lives he did not listen to so much as leave room for, just in case the shape of them changed.
John’s changed.
It came through the layered noise of the city and the store and the miles between them like a hand clamping hard around Clark’s spine. Not the steady, stubborn rhythm Clark knew. Not that rough little human insistence John carried around like spite made physical. This was sharp and wrong, a frantic knocking trapped behind bone, too fast and then too uneven, a heartbeat stumbling over itself in terror. Then came the whisper. Run...
It was barely sound by the time it reached him, scraped raw and forced through a throat that had very little left to give. Clark did not breathe. The cereal aisle, the carts, the humming lights, the distant laughter from the bakery section- all of it narrowed around that one word until the whole store seemed impossibly far away. He knew John’s voice even when it was ruined. The shape of it under blood, smoke, magic, sarcasm, and exhaustion. For one terrible second, his body tried to move before his mind could remind it where he was.
ba-bump ba-bump ba—
Clark stood absolutely still with a box of granola in one hand and a basket of groceries on his arm while something cold opened under his ribs. A woman at the end of the aisle compared cracker prices. The child three aisles over won the marshmallow cereal argument. Somewhere above him, a security camera clicked as it shifted its view across the polished floor. He could not rip open his shirt between breakfast foods and canned vegetables and become a streak of red and blue. Not beneath fluorescent lights and a dozen people with phones, eyes, and ordinary Tuesday errands stood close enough to see.
So Clark Kent put the granola back on the shelf. His hand was steady and his face stayed mild through sheer force of will, because panic would make a scene. He lowered the basket into the cart corral at the end of the aisle, leaving the milk and bread and apples sitting there with a domestic neatness that felt almost obscene. A clerk glanced over when he passed, and Clark gave him the smallest apologetic smile he could manage. “Sorry,” he said, voice even, breath held behind his teeth. “Emergency. I’ll be back.”
Every step from the aisle to the front doors felt like dragging himself through wet cement. The automatic doors sighed open for him with bland politeness. Warm air rolled in from the parking lot, smelling faintly of asphalt, exhaust, and sunbaked grocery carts. Clark did not look back as he crossed the lot at a pace that was just shy of too fast, one hand already pulling his phone from his pocket as if he were only a man answering bad news.
He turned the corner beside the building where the loading area dipped into shadow. There was a narrow gap between the recycling bins and the back wall, just out of the nearest camera’s clean line of sight. The second he reached it, the careful human shape of him came apart. His glasses came off. His shirt yanked opened revealing the blue beneath it. The red cape, crushed flat under civilian layers only moments before, snapped loose into the heavy air behind him. There would be time later to worry about the abandoned groceries, the hidden jacket, the glasses tucked behind a loose metal panel like a secret left in a hurry. There was no time now.
He left Metropolis hard enough to make the air fold behind him. By the time his boots hit the harbor district, the world around him had sharpened into threat. He heard men laughing two streets away, a dog barking behind a fence, the clatter of dishes in a seafood restaurant, boats rocking against their moorings. He heard all of it and did not hear John. That absence pulled harder than any sound could have. Clark crossed the harbor low and fast, cape snapping once behind him before he caught it close, his eyes cutting through corrugated walls and stacked crates until the empty warehouse found him as surely as he found it.
As Clark set foot inside the warehouse, the tattoo that the Fates had given John on his sternum further filled with the same gold ink to turn what had been a first quarter moon into a now waxing gibbous moon, leaving only a crescent worth empty. Marking yet another death of the exorcist.
Eyes shut, laying on his side with the salesman handkerchief still loosely in his grip, John Constantine laid on the cold, wet floor of the fish warehouse in his underwear, looking oddly peaceful now that he no longer had to fight with everything he had. No, death had apparently come as rest for the exorcist.
Lips slightly parted and wrist exposed, revealing a faded scar, the male's suffering still was ever present. In the exposed tattoos and scars, in the undignity of the situation, in the fear of his that permated the iodine air. It had all gone down so fast, so easy. It was almost humiliating considering how much of a fighter John was.
Except, except, though none of his organs was currently functioning, John's body was still warm, with no sign of progressing rigor mortis. The whole thing was... bizarre. As if he'd been put on pause right after his heart stopped and just before death could truly claim him. Stuck in the limbos, a neither fully dead nor alive in between.
Sighing, John's astral projection watched, a part of his heart breaking, not at the spectacle of himself no, rather at the incoming one of Clark's wasted heartbreak. John Constantine had never considered himself worth all the trouble, that's why he'd made it his sole duty to ensure his survival. He never wanted to be the sort of ghost haunting others. Rather was happy to disappear in the night and be assumed to be doing fine some place or another, unkillable cockroach. That's why he hated the thought of anyone tracking him, knowing at all time where he was. It could lead some to feel inclined to help or rescue him, when he had more than enough red on his ledger.
Foolishly, the blond tried to put himself in the way of Clark and his body. "Just go... It's fine..." He said, though he knew he wouldn't be heard. Aliens and magic somehow didn't mesh all that well. "I'll be fine..."
Lemme know if it’s no bueno. I’ll change it dw dw. 😅
For half a second, Clark did nothing. The warehouse opened around him in one cold, impossible picture. Corrugated walls sweated damp into air thick with iodine and dead fish. Water gleamed in shallow seams across the concrete beneath the hard industrial lights. A folding chair sat crooked and abandoned several feet away, cheap metal legs casting thin shadows across the floor. And there, between all of it, was John. Sprawled on his side where he had fallen, bare except for his underwear, one hand still loosely curled around a spotless white handkerchief. His face looked wrong in its stillness. There was no tension gathered around his eyes, no mouth already halfway toward some cutting remark, no restless little movement betraying a mind forever three steps ahead of whatever trouble had found him. Only blond hair fallen carelessly across his forehead and lips parted around no breath at all. For one impossible instant, another image slipped over the one in front of Clark: white paper beneath his fingers, his own name burned black into an envelope, a line he had stopped on and read again because it had lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
Alas, my heart remained although I went.
“John.”
The name tore him loose. Clark crossed the remaining distance so quickly the displaced air shuddered through the warehouse, his cape still settling around him when both knees struck the wet concrete. One hand was beneath John’s jaw almost before he knew he had moved, two fingers pressing into the groove beside his windpipe while Clark bent low enough that his ear hovered over John’s open mouth. He listened past the refrigeration units humming somewhere deeper in the building, past harbor chains knocking against metal outside, past every living heart within blocks of them.
Nothing beneath his fingertips. Nothing against his cheek. “John?” His free hand closed around John’s shoulder and gave one careful, firm shake. The body moved because Clark moved it and for no other reason. “John, can you hear me?”
His sight changed. Skin became translucent beneath his gaze. Muscle, rib, lung, vessels, the compact shape of a human heart- all of it opened to him layer by layer with terrible familiarity. Clark swept through John’s body so quickly there should have been relief in finding something. A flutter. A twitch. An electrical impulse weak enough that human equipment might miss it. Anything.
John’s lungs hung motionless in his chest. Blood sat where blood should never sit, without pressure behind it, without circulation carrying oxygen forward. The chambers of his heart were still. No contraction squeezed one into the next. No pulse moved through the great vessels. Clark searched farther, deeper, tracing organ after organ and finding the same awful absence everywhere. No functioning system compensating for another. No hidden breath. No heartbeat too weak even for his hearing. Nothing.
“No.” It left him so softly the warehouse swallowed it. Then his hands were moving.
Clark rolled John onto his back with one palm supporting the base of his skull, lowering him carefully rather than allowing even an inch of uncontrolled movement. The shift exposed more of his chest, tattoos dark against pale skin, the strange gold-filled moon over his sternum catching briefly beneath the overhead lights. Clark saw it without seeing it. There would be time to understand later. There had to be a later.
He placed the heel of one hand over the center of John’s chest and locked the other over it. For anyone else, the calculation would have been instinct and training. For Clark, it was something narrower. More exact. Beneath his palms was a human sternum measured in fractions against strength that could buckle steel. He knew the necessary depth, the resistance of bone and cartilage. He knew how much force it took to compress a human chest enough to move blood without simply driving through it.
“One. Two. Three. Four—” John’s chest yielded beneath him. Compression. Release. Compression. Release. Clark’s voice filled the cavernous space in a rhythm that sounded almost calm.
“Five. Six. Seven. Eight—” The heart did not answer. He kept going. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
Clark shifted immediately, one hand tilting John’s head back as the other lifted his jaw. He checked the mouth quickly for obstruction and sealed his own over John’s, forcing himself to remember again that enough was enough. A controlled breath. John’s lungs expanded beneath Clark’s gaze. He pulled back, gave a second, watched the chest rise, then returned his hands to position before the borrowed air had fully settled.
He listened. Nothing. “One. Two. Three. Four- ” The numbers gave the moment edges. That was useful. Numbers did not ask why there had been a white envelope on Clark’s coffee table not nearly enough time ago. Numbers did not know about poetry copied carefully in two languages or a man retreating behind the words platonic friend as though repeating them could make something safer. Or that Clark had sat alone with his phone glowing in his hand and typed three words he could not permit himself to send.
Compression. Release. “One. Two. Three- ” I miss you. He had erased it. “Four. Five. Six-”
John’s heart remained still beneath his hands. Clark pressed harder- not by much. Not really. Less than another person might have noticed. But it was certainly a fraction deeper, more urgent. The microscopic difference between the precision he had maintained and the thought, sudden and primitive and impossible to silence, that maybe if he could only make the blood move enough, force the heart hard enough, refuse this hard enough-
Something gave. The crack was small, yet Clark felt it before he heard it. A dry little fracture traveled through John’s sternum and directly into the heel of his palm. His hands stopped for less than a heartbeat. His gaze snapped through skin and muscle; he could see it: a fine break along the sternum where there had been none seconds before, narrow but unmistakable.
Horror crossed Clark’s face. “Sorry- fuck.. " he breathed, hands came down again. “Twenty-three. Twenty-four- ” He recalibrated instantly, force drawing back into exactness, every following compression placed around the damage as carefully as the mechanics would allow. But he could still feel that tiny give echoing through his palms. Bone he had broken. John’s bone. I’m so sorry...
A fracture could heal. A living man could wake tomorrow cursing every breath because his chest hurt. A living man could complain that Superman had nearly caved him in. A living man could be angry. Clark would take angry.
He opened John’s airway again. One breath. Two. Nothing. His hands returned to John’s chest. “Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen—” The count caught slightly in Clark’s throat. He swallowed it back down. “Fourteen. Fifteen..."
John heaved an unheard sigh, shaking his head as Clark called for him. The ghost walked slowly, almost unwilling to bare witness to Clark's attempt at saving him, knowing it would yield no result. John never quite considered himself the type worth all that, all the effort. Not with what he had done, with the type of life he'd led, with the type of pain he'd brought to so many.
Unable to leave though, not the type to walk away from anyone going through something difficult, for all the disappearing he known to do; John stayed. And John watched. Watched Clark fall onto his knees, check for a pulse that wouldn't be there, and call for him. "Yes." The blond let out hoarsely. "Yes, I can hear you..." He let out, chuckling with bitterness as his eyes grew wet. As if a ghost could cry. What use would there be to that?
John inhaled deeply as the realisation dawned on Clark. Still, he tried to fight. Because that was what Superman did. Fight the inevitable and usually achieve the impossible. "Clark..." The astral projection of John called. "Clark just..." He cleared his throat. "Just let go. It's fine." He moved closer, finally, trying to bring a hand to the other's shoulder, trying to stop him, trying to give him the relief of release, trying to pat that shoulder and tell him he'd done all he could. "Just let go." He repeated, before watching his hand go through the other's body with all the pointlessness of a comfort he yearned to offer but couldn't.
John stared at his own hands in the form, at his incorporeal body, then back to the one laying on the floor, too lifeless still for his... well, not even his really, Clark, Superman, neither could belong to a single person anyway. So John watch Clark, watched Superman, apologize for breaking a rib, his rib, before he desperately kept going. Of course, didn't know when to quit did he?
That's why John hated the thought of being tracked in any manner. With the life he led, he'd rather disappear quietly than ever truly die. It wouldn't be fair to harm the few who'd care like that. Loss was such an ugly thing, made him such an ugly man, he wouldn't wish that on anyone else...
Mouth going through different pouts as his eyes shot to the ceiling in an attempt to stall his tears, the blond cleared his throat. Inhaled deeply and decided to turn away, walk away from a spectacle he probably wasn't meant to be privy too, disappear before he could see the true hurt on Clark's face. For now he was fighting still, trying still, but John knew, the moment one realise the fight is over and just hasn't been won, at times it felt like his life was an endless loop of such moment. And he just couldn't bear to see that sort of pain on Clark's face. Not because of him. Not as a last memory for however long he'd be stuck in this state.
No. He let go. He disappeared. Quiet. Unnoticed. Just like he preferred. With the certitude that it was easier, when Clark was just Superman. Likely for the both of them.
A fast, black little bird flies erratically over Tampa, trying to match the buildings and landmarks with their abstracted counterparts of the astral realm. It keeps its focus on finding its friend and lets instinct guide them; it dives once it's certain they've found the exact warehouse.
Wari lands, returning to her human form and covering her nose with her sleeve to help endure the pungent odor of dead fish. She walks right into the empty warehouse; the concept of private property and trespassing never quite made sense to her.
She freezes for a moment when she sees another entity standing over John. They weren't there originally... were they? Though she's wary, the bright red cape and blue suit give her pause. That costume was familiar for some--
"Superman?" she gasps, slipping back to her native accent for a brief moment of shock.
Her eyes land on the half-naked Mr. John lying before the Kryptonian. She's quick to piece together what was going on here, especially with the distraught and devastated look on Superman's face.
"Uhm, I don't think you'll be able to save him... like that," she offers softly, approaching very carefully and keeping a close eye on the superhero. She's heard stories, of course (who hasn't heard of Superman?), and knew he was known for being a hero to many, but she didn't actually know the man or what he was capable of. It was always best to be wary of strangers. Even the famous ones.
Once she's standing next to Supes, she sighs as she looks down at John's sorry state, surprised he hadn't pissed himself yet after his soul left his body.
"Que bestia, ni te pudiste vestir antes de que te mandaran a la verga?" she complains to no one in particular as she quickly casts a glamour spell to restore her friend's decency.
She gives the superhero beside her a brief and pitiful sidelong glance before deciding to check John's body over for him to watch.
"He's not actually dead," she explains quietly, checking his pupils, breathing, and pressing on his fingernails. She huffs in amusement as she assesses. He sure looked dead. "He's just being overdramatic."
Her hand hovers over his chest and pauses. A fracture. A small crack. It didn't take much of her magic to fix. Her eyes shift to a vibrant, sylvian green as similarly colored mist materializes around her hands, the magic sinking into John's chest to mend him.
"I'm Wari, by the way. A friend of Mr. John." She decides it's most suitable to introduce herself by her title to Superman.
"Are you... also a friend of Mr. John?" Wari tilts her head, trying to figure out what kind of connection her grumpy old hermitical British friend had to the world-famous Superman.
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Home is weird in a way that it's not exactly American levels of urban but not exactly on the rural part either- what's even the word in English for that ;-;
Anyhow, my favourite one was this one that had many many rocks near it. Unfortunately I can't go there until winter ends (because no I will not be messing up with the weather, this place has enough weird ass weather to begin with)
I also remember a river that we used some rocks to make paint by soaking them in water and scratching them
- 💙
Rivers are wonderful... I love how so many people across centuries and civilizations can have such personal relationships to these certain kinds of places.
Thank you for sharing your own experiences and memories. They're wonderful to hear about 💖
I live pretty far off from the beach but it's very pretty and fun, though I'm a tan bit biased towards rivers more
- 💙
Haha, I agree with you, blue heart!
I was born and raised by the river. We lived our lives there. It was the lifeline for my people and countless other species...
I liked collecting pretty rocks from the river bed, letting the small waterfalls wash away my worries, and watch the fish school nearby while I bathed.
The beach is nice, but I don't think anything will top the rivers back home for me.
anyway world cup over what a fantastic final match between england and france with england winning! no other important matches happening and no other teams are still in the game
Fantastic World Cup final this year, with a whopping 10 goals scored in a 90-minute game. Phenomenal. Amazing. Iconic. I wish I could watch it all over again for the first time. I'm so proud of the lads.
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