selenorites

Latest Posts by selenorites

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 ,  𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 , 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓.    endurance.  to not scratch, or rub, or break the stitches, to not tear the wound all open once more.  to let it be, and let it settle, and let it become part of a body.  the body which cradled the memory.  the memory that ought not be removed. and herein :  the nudge, her test, the voice, clear as crystal.  a refusal, on her part, to be silenced or to accept silence. “ now now, it is rather impolite to let a lady be left with crumbs and assume the rest of your train of thought.  go ahead.  speak your mind. ”

healing  and  enduring   .   .   .   to  him  ,  two  totally  different  concepts  . 

❛ still  .  i  just   -   ❜   [   .   .   .   ]   ❛  never  mind  .  ❜

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ;   she, the well-molded saint, giggled rather at its execution, like a dove seeing its cage opened.  it was a sign to spread the wings, and what better way to have done so than with a fellow lady in her twenties ?  (  that be, at the expense of expectation to be shattered like a vase and to ignore the mess. )  “ well … there could be something i’d like to ask of you, if i may.  have a cup of tea with me !  it is not often that i encounter the opportunity to converse with someone leisurely. ”

❛ the honor is all mine, lady lunafreya. ❜ a bow followed her statement, though it was a bit hasty in her excitement–––– royal protocol hadn't exactly been a necessity on the road. ❛ if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. ❜

Victoria Chang, Obit

The Awakening Of The Poet, Gabriel Ferrier (1899)

" 𝐀𝐇 , 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃. how was your day, sephiroth ? would you indulge me with your tales ? " // @wingedcruelty

" 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌. and so far, you have endured well. " // @meteorea

" 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐒𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 ; may our cooperation be a fruitful one. " // @starshcwer

✧ @selenorites asked: Dain kisses Luna so softly it almost doesn’t feel real. “…I’ve wanted to do that since forever.”

Long ago has it been since Dáinsleif has given up on love, or so he thought. Contrary to what many would think were he verbalize this openly, it is not out of a bad experience from which he has not healed yet or if he did, that it touched him forevermore in such way that he doesn't want to subject himself to it. Nor it is not because from some ill belief in love either as a result of bad experiences that did not exist to begin with or because of however his character is. In fact, to this day, he is struck with longing which then morphs into melancholia in few moments when he is witness of the love shared betwixt other couples.

Unlike his peers whom have long since forsaken attributes that makes them human like love, believing themselves to be above it, he is not immune to the yearning of the warmth of a gentle hand in his. Of an embrace to share a sad or happy moment. Of lips dancing with his own for minutes that feel like hours. Of tender touches that lead to gentle love-making. No— to the positive surprise of some or the disappointment of others, he is not above these.

Alas, these acts pale in comparison to a bigger desire yet that was never fulfilled: intimacy. Physical intimacy is soothing and gratifying in more ways than one, but it all ends in the superfluous surface of the waters at best. That which he found out with time that he lacked all along is the growing necessity to speak up his mind unbound by the shackles of the societal context they live in, muted and frozen with the passage of time out of reluctant resignation. To be the safe haven of another who can do the same. To connect sentimentally and spiritually with. To not be ashamed when moments of vulnerability rear their ugly head neither him or his partner.

When he believed he has given up on love, then she came to bring light to his dark night.

Like the moon that no longer hangs in the abyssal sky, she showed him the way to a path he did not consider once to be necessary. One of self-acceptance, of ceasing to look up to others above himself when he, too, shines with a light he's still in disbelief he has —he has been doing better on believing more in himself, he truly has—. Amidst that way, he took notice of the selfless care she poured on him. It was unsolicited, but much eye-opening and needed when thinking about it in hindsight. Lunafreya shared her pale light with him, but just as the moon reflects the light it absorbs from the sun in essence, so, too, she was in need of light. A light that emerged from the humble mote of light he began to believe himself to be in times of need of serious reflection, of finding herself in moments of doubt, of seeking answers to understand her place in this world. A light that, to his own surprise, was more than enough to her.

Upon realizing that he's found in her what he used to long in the yesteryear, he did not pursue her love. Instead, gathering a habit that should've been discarded long ago and in direct opposition with the foundational belief of this kingdom, he became more than her knight— he became her silent devout. Dáinsleif was happy of standing in this position, looking for her closely, being her guide when she needed one. Until one night, that contentedness has begotten something else, fuelled further still with a courage he didn't think he would dare act upon.

Moments of silence are sometimes regarded as moments to be avoided, as they may breed discomfort and awkwardness. It was never so between them, rather finding comfort in it and their mutual company when there is naught to say at that time. Cornflower eyes are locked to the eclipse that now reigns supreme the Khaenri'ahn skies, her semblance neither betraying any thought or sentiment she might feel. Sometimes, when she does that, he wonders if she seeks to find answers that only the moon would give her. Under the dim light that now illuminates the slumbering kingdom and whatever little light reaches from behind them, he marvels in her beauty, star-shaped pupils quivering within sapphire depths.

It is when she looks at him out of the corner of her eye and realizes that he's been staring all along that his heart skips a beat at the mesmerizing sight before him. Surprise melted into happiness, as if she herself is revelling at the notion that he was looking at him. The rosy glow on her pale cheeks and the smile sat upon her soft-looking lips make his own eyes soften in an indescribable look. At that moment, for reasons he didn't stop once to consider, she ceased to be the oracle, the saintess he devoted himself to from strict quiescence. At that moment, he knew: he belongs to her.

Driven by a kindled sentiment does he step forward, eyes unable to peel off from her to engrave that smile in his mind. He wants to protect it. Onyx-gloved hands reach out to cradle her face as delicate as he can get, —for he is just a warrior, after all— and, before confusion has an opportunity to cast its shadow, he allows himself to cave in that which his heart wished to fill in, to dispel the longing that has made home within him for many years. Thus he emboldens himself to lean his face closer still, dares to close his eyes until even more audaciously still, he kisses her. It is just a simple press of lips, lacking in ulterior intentions that aren't that of allowing himself to feel once more, to act upon his own desires as she had always encouraged him to do despite his fruitless denial that he has none.

His forehead presses against hers when the gentle kiss concludes, thumb tracing gently her cheekbone with newfound tenderness he had forgotten that existed in him. And ultimately does a confession slip past his lips, from a man who would sooner bite and swallow it before admitting it aloud not out of sense of pride, but of self-sabotaging thoughts of how worthy he is of her (were she know about this, he would get a scolding, he knows).

◜…I’ve wanted to do that since forever.◞

" 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒 ; or are the deeper interiors leading to the fayth something that unsettles you ? i noticed you have grown tense upon our visits. " // @reginrokkr

" 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄. so... i assume you either need my word of influence, or you are simply a mad man. " // @hellseng ( balthier. )

" 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 ; considering the implications. i shan't hold it against you if you ever decide to withdraw from our deal. i wanted you to know that. " // @hellseng ( dante. )

" 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐂𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 ; your dress is beautiful. i would not change a thing. " // @asterites

Like for a short starter if you dare

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐊 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 ;   neither sincere enough to show teeth or gums, nor sharp enough to paint a scoffing picture, although she did manifest scoff in the one-second frown pinching between her flaxen brows, for between humility and glorification would doubt cast its long shadow.  regrettably, oracles observed the shadows too intimately for comfort, the silhouette of vedrfolnir stretching distortedly wide it became its own line, the line that warned of what happened when you overstepped.  the foreboding signs of degradation, of grace melting off the halo, of aether dripping out of the pores.  it was a sight incomprehensible and eldritch, a premonition so terrible it may as well be sacrilege to spell it out, and each coming day announcing its own uncertainty brought along the crumbling of her own self-control to hold her tongue.

“ and if nothing lasts forever, soon then, i hope, what comes to an end, too, is your bad habit of praising your brother too much, and you, yourself, not enough.  a man can lose grasp of his own humanness if he indulges the spiritual pursuit for too long, and i much prefer an anchor to stay grounded. ”  because the call of the sky for me, my body’s festering desire growing like a tumor, it scares me and no one wants to be scared.  no one wants to be scared of touching something as romanticized as the stars.  “ well, then, if i am not to worry about the subjects i pick for our exchanges, let me ask this :  why are you here, dáinsleif ?  i do not mean here, in this moment, next to me, nevermind that i do enjoy your presence.  i mean why are you in the position you are in, where all you do is look up to someone or something, but not meet them eye to eye ? “  have you not been more than this, once ?

Indeed, what she says is cryptic— ominous even, as it speaks volumes of the knowledge she professes through what couldn't be considered less than an universal truth. For the long living such as them, this may look like the same sights as any other year's whenever the inteyvats bloom for two weeks before they find repose in the abode that is the stellar graveyard at their roots. Dáinsleif shakes his head slightly, meant to reassure and put the oracle's mind at ease. ◜Worry not. I may not be as profound as my brother is in the realm of spirituality, but I find truth in your words, nonetheless.◞ That's right, for he is far more detached than Vedrfolnir would be as the Visionary. Being a vessel for visions of the future to come to the present can do as much to a man, he can only hope that the sights he has of times to come aren't horrifying nor paralyzing enough to interfere in his daily life now. Only realizing now that he was back at admiring his older brother's prodigy and the traits he had gained from it thereafter, Twilight Sword proceeds to clear his throat awkwardly. ◜When you talked about the unchanging nature of a scenery for the long living, I mean. The ephemerality of these moments serve as a reminder that all must come to an end one day.◞

―― 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐈 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 . (  main connections ;  *  ship exclusive )

asterites   :    𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙰 𝙽𝙾𝚇 𝙵𝙻𝙴𝚄𝚁𝙴𝚃 + 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝚂 ♡. battleshot    :    𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝙼. hellseng    :    𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶 𝚆𝙸𝙳𝙴. meteorea : 𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚄𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙵𝙴. reginrokkr    :    𝙳𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙸𝙵.  * re-no    :   𝚁𝙴𝙽𝙾.  * royalarms : 𝙽𝙾𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚂 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙰𝙴𝙻𝚄𝙼.

general main-connections guidelines and info below the cut :

mains are people i feel the most comfortable to plot with, they are not affiliates but they can potentially influence my portrayal if what we discuss is applicable on a broader spectrum ( for example, ailli's stella is part of luna's backstory because she is family and therefore it will be her i refer to whenever she is mentioned in an in-character or out-of-character scenario ). i do not take up affiliates on the principle that it often comes across as a closed club and deters people too much from interacting.

that being said, if you would like to be removed as a main for whatever reason, please message me ! i will clean out this list now and then and mostly take down or switch out urls upon the occurrence of a blog-move or blog deactivation, otherwise there is no time limit for being on this list nor will there be any measurement of interest based on activity. all i ask for is communication.

i've been shipping exclusively on the romantic front for a long time for management reasons, and it's always been one-sided. i personally do not care if someone ships with more versions of the same character as mine.

* 𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃 .

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 // you need rest. more than anything, you must allow yourself rest. death is frightening– it is inevitable, it is unstoppable– but, it can also be a thing of great beauty. it is an agent of change. it is the forest fire that paves way for new life. allow yourself this rest, and be prepared for the change to come. brace yourself. it will be hard, it will not be kind, but you are more than ready. you just need to rest first.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 : 13 𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 : endings, change, transformation, transition 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐃 : resistance to change, personal transformation, inner purging

tagged by : @reginrokkr tagging : @infersang @asterites / @rosefaint @royalarms / @meteorea + anyone who wants to do it !

* 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 . // @re-no

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐓 , 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐒 , 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒.    it was always the trails of her fingerprints, evidence of applying the remedies upon open wounds crying another resin’s ooze.  always sitting close and being accompanied by herbal scents or alcohol bottles.  nursing was her own love language.  adore her, adorn her with the stains of your regret, the dried smear of radiant spider-lily bloom.  by her sneaky beneficence did honey-gold glisten all over the sullying hues, forced itself onto your pallor with a warmth that, she had forgotten, would prompt your outlines to instinctively jolt.  ‘ ey, luna ! ‘  you blurted out, your treated shoulder flinched, your spine tensed up in a straight line, your brain rang the alarm for what careless thing she attempted.  ‘ i told you not to do that. ‘  and she blinked thrice, pursed her lips in surprise, chuckled then, picturing your pout turned towards the wall, away from her, away from the selfless creature she was supposed to portray.  

and it’s been difficult to look at, has it not ?  difficult to refuse it, to disdain it.  that terrible, angelic, woe-devouring thing that would conveniently not memorize your wishes.  you, at her mercy, and she possessed too easy an unspeakable power, unnatural but right just how it should be and how it always was.  it was always the patching, the undressing and dressing of a burning spot, the mercy at which the beast growled beneath her hands caressing the beauty marks.  “ oh, pray forgive me.  a force of habit, you know.  it is not easy to keep in mind that you’d prefer to suffer and complain. ”  all the remark in good jest, but it failed at convincingly delivering the actual apology.  ( please, turn to me again when all is said and done, i did not mean it.  )  

would you keep your anger in your mouth for the next hour, for the rest of the day, had she succeeded to take your pain ?  why were you so greedy with it, what did you hoard it for ?  hurt was no treasure, it was just hurt.  or was the treasure golden and you did not want it ?  never one to be able to rationalize the agreement between you and her, the side-note embedded between the lines, she simply sighed and kept tending to the cuts serving as the cause of refuge sought in the most empty inn to be booked within the next radius of a mile.  the sun now hung low to the point it dimmed out the reminders.  she raised from the couch and played god, the candlewick on, the darkness off.  she sat back again behind the subject who did not ask for more miracles, and after brief inspection of her hard work would a larger band aid be seized, planted over the marrings.  the long pause nestled within the dialogue fell apart with a delayed answer, whispering  ‘ it’s not about that. ’  and she, smiling, said :  “ i know …  i know. ” of course. of course, it's not about that. it's you not wanting her to hurt. it's you wanting the hurt to be a one-way-street.

we have known it as second nature to this woe-devouring thing for her to adore and be adored.  in truth, it frightened her to not see the limits of it.  it frightened her to have seen it in the spilt blood she dreamed of, it frightened her to see so much red that was both hers, on paper, and not.  it frightened her so much she would let her lips sink to your pain and hurt and ached to still take it but — she kissed it worse, instead.  she hurt you more, and would keep hurting you and realized what she had done, realized that the stain of regret would've always been red, oozing from the patch, limbs stitched together, her cold cheek pressed against your shoulder-blade, her heart slipping from her open mouth.  “ it won’t happen again. ” 

please, turn to face me, will you ?  even when i lie.

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀 𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐘𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 , 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃.   astral and whimsy.  and wherever they’d go, they would belong.  for a seeress bereft of her home, unbelonging and still half-settled, tied to the arteries of time, the wonder arose frequently when those visions of dust would finally be realized to dust, when the dream of eternity consumed those who fled every passing day from its consumption.  beneath the faint moon-sheen she folded her hands and hummed out her pondering softly.  and even this, cradled within the security of khaenri’ahn walls, would be a state momentarily existing before it did no longer.  “ for the naked eye, it is an unchanging sight, but what seems eternal is, in fact, not.  i believe she wants to remind us about our own evanescence.  that, though we may last long, it shan’t be forever.  even the moon, will disappear one day. “  abruptly did she then acknowledge etiquette might not be appropriately applied to chatter nigh resembling ‘ small talk ‘, not at all the place for philosophies and spills of vague prognostics.   “ forgive me, kind dainsleif, cryptic remarks are a terrible habit i ought to unlearn for private conversations. ” // @reginrokkr

Inteyvat anthers glow in the dead of the night, an announcement of their detachment from the shackles of their filaments to fly towards the nocturne dome specked with their companions-to-be: the stars, and the lonely moon that sheds its frigid, albescent light in the kingdom of darkness. Ever since his arrival to Khaenri'ah, this is the first time Dáinsleif has the opportunity to be on a vantage point like this with an even better company than his own solitude.

Glacial sapphires turn to look at the angelic figure beside him, what little and natural light that reaches Khaenri'ah imprinted on her like she's the source of this luminescence. ❝Many moons has it been since you witnessed this view, yes? Has it ever changed since then?❞

@moonichor ✦

𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐒𝐓 ?    —    did it hurt to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, to touch ?  did it hurt, to be and not to be ?  yes.  it did, indeed, every day.  she witnessed afflictions of that which she should not have, but a fleuret woman was ordained to stand between the visible and invisible, the confessed and unconfessed, the yoke of human-flow riding through her, the moon, the stars, the sun, trampling o’er them with all their might, all they had in store.  the misery, the revulsion, the ashes of a village or the thunders between gears, putrefaction stuffed into where it should not be, the embers of death beneath her bare heels.  the progression, the regression, the stasis crystalline of encased einherjar.  the undreamed, and the lucid dreams.  all that taken and shaken deep into the bones, the moon so close to bleed it all out / the stars so close to blink out.  was this what mother wished for her daughters, the long-winded thread of barbed wire wrapped around their golden heads ?  the taking of sin, and giving back oblivion ?  was this her doting parenthood ?  “ i hope she did not.  may etro bless her heart to rest peacefully. ”  o etro, o fallen light,  did it hurt to exist ?  did it hurt to give light and receive back every sin committed, every fear felt, every laughter strangled off the throat ?  we all would carry dying inside of us, the way the oxygen shriveled us till all that was left was a little glint, leaving or hiding away from etro’s clay.  “ or have you…. have you seen her ?  out there ? ” // @asterites

𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒. or at least that is what the ancient scriptures had dubbed these augury of souls. the broken fractured of light, unseen by all, existing inside the aortic construct of pulsing organism. t'was the gift of a desperate goddess, an unholy sentiment donned upon the flesh of the first women and her children. how fascinating it was to understand : we are all born rotten before we are made pure. holiness, sacristy, neither would have existed without the beautiful chaos that trifles that of heavenly order. the words of the dead undoubtedly guides the stars more intimately then that of life, for soft-chosen reservation is bereft of conventual guidance. ❝ whether it be regret or fear, the concept of non-existence is still quite terrifying. they cling to the shadows and covet in what is familiar. they reject death as fervently as life had rejected them. it only makes my heart ache more. ❞ in the layers of deep affinity, she unsheds the truth of sacrificial burdens —— it suffocated her. deeply. violently. the horrors that she has seen, the things she dares not repeat, and perhaps even her own glorification of bedlam did nothing but weaken her inner psyche. say selene, was it the same for you too ? when the blood moon rises and sheds its light to the world, when humanity looks to you for answers, do they shed their sins onto you ? did they just expect their pain to just disappear ? to answer your calling : did it hurt to exist ? ❝ when mother departed in this world, do you think she had any regrets ? ❞

* 𝑳𝑼𝑵𝑨𝑭𝑹𝑬𝒀𝑨 // 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐈 : 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐀𝐓 .

this is an old, re-worded headcanon regarding luna's behavior in battle. it is noteworthy to keep in mind that she is physically ill, chronically so. do not expect me to nerf down the effects of her illness and the strain of the covenants.

lunafreya is very much able to be ‘ destructive ’ even without the trident. she is manipulative and ruthless in order to get something or someone out of the way and uses tools or her environment to her advantage. ( exploding airships and luring luche to wear the ring of the lucii, burning him in the process, were good demonstrations for that ) on other hand, with the trident and her magical prowess, she practices light-elemental attacks. defensive barriers, offensive range spells, and supportive medical treatment or stat boosts. they are powerful, yes, but they eat her MP extremely, slowing her down, which is why she uses those spells wisely and not in a wasteful fashion. her strength lies within strategy & calculation, she would have been able to craft effective strategies with ignis.

while she can engage in close-range combat with the trident as her weapon, and is trained specifically with pole-arms, this is a last resort. she is aware of her own physical and mental limitations, and requires support of allies on a long term basis, especially after the awakening of the first astral whenever she escaped insomnia with the ring. she is indeed a loner by heart, but is not dull enough to not consider her own weakness which does come from how healing seasons and the covenants drain her vitality as well if we pay attention to the flashbacks. it’s no condition that suits to actively and repeatedly be involved in fights. due to those restrictions, that not only spike her fatigue but evoke flares of pain especially within the torso area due to the scourge coursing through the system of vital organs, she thinks twice about engaging in battle - and more or less retreats in most cases to avoid wasting any precious time and energy.

this does depend on the verse, though. after her ascension to godhood via her death she is naturally stronger than ever in contrast to her frail mortal form, so no one should be moronic enough to fight her and think they come out alive. battling selene won’t be funny and is most likely leading to immediate death. the only way you can win is having plot armor, or being an eldritch abomination from space. whilst selene is a titan goddess who is as passive as luna, she is also overwhelming, using her enormous power due to gravitational force more than anything. she can shake the world via magnetism and control the tides, therefore makes her very dangerous by sheer will.

url change from moonichor to selenorites

Melancholia - Yoko Shimomura. Final Fantasy XV.

Luna mancante avanti l'alba - Filippo Palizzi

Insp.

Happy birthday to this sweetheart, ravuxnoxfleurett ~

Send ‘K’ for a kiss from my muse.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐃 , 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐋𝐘.    when the heavens laughed, the hysteria would thrust its cosmic authority underneath the skin like a stubborn malady.  you sought out the moon, coldly engaged in her distant waltz, and like typhon, you sought her out as prey to crack open that which shall entrap you inside its very cells.  this must be a mere star-riddled jest, a divine comedy akin to a dream from which you and her shall waken, but it came closer to a puppet-play rendered by and for one sadistic observer who wanted to see them flail, limp to the ground, and then tried the scenario the other way around.

she flickered like a temporary gleam upon glass, a specter woven of celestial taint, every peeking gaze was a glimpse of yours, a steady mimicry of motion locking symmetrically into you.  where the light shone, therein fell the shadow, and she was one of bleached darkness.  the inverse of death was the birth of something apocalyptic, the fear of it.  the fear of birth was a fear of someone’s arrival.  they repurposed you to an antichrist within messiah flesh, a repetition of history, replay of a replay. a cycle that shan’t ever break in two.  from your ankles she then squirmed loose, asymmetrical fleck struggling across dirtying rock, composing her ragged breaths.  the inverse shadow would still hold onto more shadows, the host urging to get rid of her.

a body could not be without the casting of its contour, so what would occur upon the law-breaking success of such amputation ?  the collapse of an atom ?  the erasure of information which could usually not be erased ?  she did not plan to allow these impossibilities to become phenomena, not without efforts made with blood and tears and sweat.  “ noctis, please, listen to me ! ”  she called upon you when you called upon her.  although she stumbled back up warily, within cyan there sparked some irrational hope, some desperate venture for a dying light. when the heavens laughed, the hysteria stringed two puppets into their play and surrounded them with night-bred daimons who blended their hell into the stage. // @royalarms

WRETCHED ARE THE KINGS THAT SERVE DARKNESS FROM THEIR HAUNTING TONGUES . he's traveled so far on his lonesome , his only company : the ghastly words that cut through his mind & the lead of the snow - white messenger that blinds him in the darkness , the north star that beckons him unto the moon . there is an ever - looming presence of pain that taunts him from his every joint , & every wear at his muscles . it feels heavy , like its seeping through his flesh & corrupting him from the inside , just waiting to reach his veins in crooked efforts toward inevitable possession .

. . . [ luna . ]

he battles these ' thoughts ' on a near - constant basis , beckoning them toward the light of his soul so that they may be washed away with it . the battles are ceaseless , however , & one man can only endure for so long . at times , they have their way with him , all - consumed , & he plays the role of their vessel . a puppet strung to their fucked up marionette .

. . . [ luna . ]

even now , he follows pryna's guide as she warps into something threatening , something evil , & he strives so hard to dismiss the awry transformation , but it the ability to do so seems so far away from him . everything feels so real . this false illusion of existence , a reality warped in the throes of nightfall . their rage lights a flame , crimson , beneath his eyes , irises glowing through the dimness of their surroundings & his only goal [ luna ] distorts into something monstrous .

' i have to get to . . . '

& he looks down to see a girl in white , defending herself . against . . . who ? . . . him ? shit . . . dusk has fallen & his scream tears through the atmosphere .

. . . ❛ LUNA ! ❜

@moonichor

* 𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑 , 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 .

@epokhas ( kazuhira ) sent bitter love to the sis.

𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐗 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 , 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 : the act of peeling oranges for someone, the act of consideration for her, but the orange was not quite ripe, and its flavor, sour. this abstract and calloused kind of adoration, peppered with your passionate protection, wrapping around its embittered nexus, it grew with time. paradoxically. it reminded her of oceanic love, old and containing all its abominations, making room for more unlovable monsters. sulfur, gun-powder, the phlebotomy of oils and fossil fuels spilled into each tide promising its back and forth, machismo in its ebbs, the flow of empty-carved flatteries. pollution propped up each huff and puff from your pouting mouth. a pouting mouth that did not articulate what it meant. it just sighed for your false messiah and the heavens fell mute to his self-fulfilling prophecy. self-imposing, self-mongering, like any other repetitive promise delivered by fallacious prophets. ‘ but it is alright. ’ her musings withered to a whisper. the flutter of her lashes and lax shape of her brows brimmed with an exhausted patience. it was deathless almost, dead and undead, a worn anchor settled within a bottomless puddle of liquid tar. tar that oozed from the throat, choking on its nightmares, on the rot of eaten snakes, on the smoke sucked from another's lung.  ‘ i am just as crude inside ’ you were not blind to her ugly, unsalvageable interiors, the thing she carried within. the thing that dried all her tears, all her humanness twisting to a deformed organ. removable when dysfunctional. it was a thing not dissimilar from that which you stubbornly refused to extract. but with its festering could come collapse. she must not forget the frail ripples of the sea, how the slightest shake could make or break it.  “ i wish i could take your pain sometimes. your bitterness. i know you wouldn't forgive me if i did. but you have not forgiven me for other things, so it would make little difference. " her hand, emitting unwanted comfort, rested upon your clenched fist. cruel tenderness irritated upon the fuss. she did not mind how rough it was against her mellow touch. it was still old love. oceanic, salty and bitter. weathered smooth by its clashing waves. it was still the peeling of oranges. " i'm sorry. i always say something inappropriate, don't i ? " some shred of your bitterness must have rubbed off on me.

“ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄.  do you hold any grudges ? “    //    @epokhas  ( kazuhira. )

— Mary Oliver