𝓚𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝓑𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐬.

─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉ * 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐄𝐃’𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆. …𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. ─┉┈◈◉◈┈┉ #ffrp / #ffxvirp / #MVRP

“Hm.” A gaze invites no warmth; the sun does not weep, not in those eyes. Steel trills, when crawling free from a scabbard—before wind whistles beneath its embrace with empty space. A throat is its new companion, crimson beading. “Get up. Cowardice does not suit you.”

“Dig your own grave, and bleed me wine.”

ODIN: he recognises this conviction. It is wasted. “Do you want to make them weep?”

Iron crawls across a waiting throat, but does not feast on flesh. Barnabas is patient, as he towers over the other. “You can say you wanted to eat the pomegranate. There is no shame. The angels will sing in gladness when you claim your truth.” MYTHOS / >

Sunsets billow, 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 ashen rot—as flames lick steel and leather entwined in battle’s shield. Barnabas is without revelry: hollow throat hardly wet from stinging grasp of alcohol. His, is different—all slick from mirth, bloody apathy 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 in marrow. >

“There is 𝒏𝒐 fleeing. His Testament will come to pass, bleeding this world of its grace. There is no bravery in holding the spine tall—it is made to be cleaved, marrow to be feasted upon.”

{ @waloedsking }

“𝑯𝑨𝑼𝑵𝑻 𝑴𝑬, 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑵. There will be no graves.”

and my story of triumph will be carved into each notch. You will ache. You will see your fate achieved.” Then he snarls, a 𝒈𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒍 thing; roar of effortless labor as steel screeches and wails against itself—grinding in ruin and desolate bitterness. >

to Ifrit’s flames he is a moth soaring, odium inspired as dull blue eyes discover contempt. A maw long unhinged, roar torn from the depths of a throat—beckons the moth, and its company of the night’s blanket yearning to crawl and turn ribs inside out. “I cannot let you go. >

“—is false narrative of a play. You will 𝒏𝒐𝒕 be the sovereign of fate or the conqueror of these chapters written. They will 𝒏𝒐𝒕 sing of your bravery, they will 𝒏𝒐𝒕 sing of your spine spiralling to the heavens, in idle defence.” Clive 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 him: >

“What you see, Mythos, or think in 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒆 degradation…” A disapproving click of the tongue as he whirls closer. Steel 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔 flames; battle is dance, a ballet show of indelicate violence. It is one he is no infant to—a man grown, a walking corpse tasting ferity. >