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by lysander » Sat Feb 17, 2018 6:44 pm
▌ ▷ DAY ONE : untitled
▌ ▷ Tell about a time your kalon had to use a creative solution to solve a problem.
▌ ▷ feat. cosette, kale (pov) : 173 / 150
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"no offense," cosette starts. "but this story reads like a middle schooler wrote it."
you grimace, brows furrowing a little in response. "yikes. you must sure be popular with the kids."
"i'm just saying, i know you're capable of doing better than this."
"i dunno 'bout that. writing's never been my strong suite."
"it's easy. all you have to do is tell a story the way you'd want to hear it."
"easy for you to say. you're a natural at it."
"fine, here. let me give you an example..."
cosette sits up in her chair, takes a deep breath. you can almost hear her collecting her thoughts in it, gathering the words to string together into sentences from which to weave her tale with. she's done this so many times before, but each time is just as magical as the last.
in her voice there's a song, and in the song is a story.
so, you grab your pen, ready to write just as she begins to speak.
"once upon a time..."
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lysander
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by lysander » Sat Feb 17, 2018 7:57 pm
▌ ▷ DAY TWO : tv dinner
▌ ▷ Tell about a time your kalon's loyalties were tested, and how they resolved the situation.
▌ ▷ feat. cadence : ~750 / 150
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sometimes you can't solve things cleanly in a half-hour like they do on network television. people, they want resolution. tie up all those loose ends before dinner or you'll have cold stares and silence inbetween bites of food. the utter unreality of it creates friction— noise— dissonance between you and the woman sitting in front of you.
your mother.
in the background, some laugh-track blares on the television. no one's watching it; its only purpose is to provide some kind of ambiance to break the silence collecting on the dinner table. she invited you to dinner after— how many years apart? ten? twenty? you haven't kept track ever since you flew the nest at eighteen.
you can't imagine why she'd ever call you back. every nerve in your body fires off red flags with each passing second. this was the same woman who made your life a miserable wreck for years, and now— so many years later —she chooses to call you over for dinner?
sometimes you wonder why you haven't moved out of state. maybe some part of you still loves her, still wants to love her. to trust her in the way mothers and sons were supposed to trust eachother. your therapist told you everyone's different— some people want to forgive. others want to forget. but you— you're still somewhere inbetween.
she's the first to break the silence, talking over the faint sound of a commercial in the background. the dining room is cold, yet somehow hearing her voice chills it all the more, its rasp either from age or years of drug use.
"still living in that apartment, i see."
you feel yourself swallow dryly. you hate the sound of her voice. the fear it inspires in you, a grown man.
"not much one for words as usual."
"—rent is cheap there—"
"—of course you wouldn't be able to afford much else, i assume."
there it is. that familiar dread forming at the pit of your stomach. you put down your fork, unable to eat.
"well, how is it?"
"—what?"
"that menial job of yours. with, what? gardening, was it?"
"i-i enjoy working th—"
"—i wish i could say you're wasted potential. but you never had any."
you close your mouth, unable to find the words ripped out by the brutality of her reply. you should have expected this, whispers the little voice in your head. you should have expected this. you should have expected th—
"i need to ask you something," comes your mother's voice. your thoughts are interrupted.
you do not inquire. you don't know if you want to know.
she sips her wine, her food gone from her plate as your sirloin goes cold.
"in a week, this estate goes up for sale. the mansion and all. it's your father's property and i can't say it'll be terribly missed—"
"—wait, but why? why are you selling th—"
"—why else does someone sell their home, cade?" there's venom in her reply. "—it's because i need money. use that brain i gave you."
"then, father's pensions—"
"—gone. just like the pathetic excuse of a man he was."
"then where will the money go?"
"debts."
you fall silent. your mother rises from the dinner table, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the counter and lighting one in her mouth.
"...debts?" your voice is incredulous.
"must i repeat myself?"
the pride in her voice. hurt pride, but pride nonetheless. your mother always rode the highs of your father's fortunes, even after she'd long since cut you off from it. from parties to clubs and back again, she never paid an ounce of anything to you, not in money or in attention. and now, she's asking you for a favor. she's asking you for...
"...money."
"hm?"
"you want... money. that's it, isn't it?"
"well, don't you think you owe your ailing mother something for her troubles? it's your responsibility."
you should have expected this.
pushing away your untouched food, you stand. your mother's eyes are on you, perplexed. you don't know what's going on in her head— never did, in truth. but a part of you imagines her surprise, her bewilderment, as you gently thank her for the food, then walk away without another word. she starts after you, calling your name— there's an unfamiliar desperation there. weakness. vulnerability. you imagine she hates it. but nothing keeps you from walking straight from the dining room, out to the grand foyer, and through the double doors.
"cade! wait—"
you pause for only a moment.
"you're the one who gave me this brain, no? i think you can figure it out."
then, you step outside. the sound of the television no longer reaches you.
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by lysander » Sun Feb 18, 2018 1:31 pm
▌ ▷ DAY THREE : sight
▌ ▷ Tell about a something your kalon is passionate about.
▌ ▷ feat. mephis : 427 / 150
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fate and fortune etched into the cracks in the earth reveal all to the trained eye. to look the goddess Gaia in her vast eyes and to pluck the truth from the images reflecting in her pupils— it goes beyond simple fortune telling. it's something few understand— this ancient art of geomancy. passed down from generation to generation even as his people are methodically hunted down for their supposed blasphemy— what sort of divine sight is worth dying for?
mephis knows. echoes of his ancestors course through his veins. so few of his kind are left yet he's never felt his blood brew stronger in the face of annihilation. perhaps a part of him is cocky. perhaps he thinks he can outwit the kings and their witch hunts. perhaps he loves the chase of it, the sheer gratification of knowing he will always be two steps ahead.
yet the simplest answer is in his genes; a thirst for knowledge bestowed upon him as if birthright. the wantneeddesire to know what possibilities lie in wait, just beyond the karmic horizon— and beyond. to realms outstretched far beyond the scope of mankind. others regard his this as properly mad— imagine that! they say. the heresy! no mortal shall be privy to the secrets of the immortal!
their words held some modicum of truth. indeed, to behold the foresight of the gods would drive most mortals insane by any standards. mephis knows the old mantras well— to see the future is to see the unfathomable. but the fear of the unknown— the darkness that shrouds the mind's eye, the veil so eagerly self-adorned by the masses that keeps the horrors beyond their eyes at bay— is poison. a poison to the mind, a poison to the soul. mephis wore that very same veil, once upon a time ago— partook, too, in that poison borne from ignorant bliss.
but not anymore. he's had a taste of true insight; the ambrosial ichor that robbed him of his sight but imparted upon him a different kind of seeing— in the form of a stone scintillating with colors unfathomable to living eyes.
one touch was all it took.
perhaps a part of him is cocky, to think that he was chosen not by chance but by fate itself. cockier still— that stone, if tempter sent or tempest tossed —be it stone of god or devil— it makes no difference. sight is sight all the same, and truth knows no right or wrong;
it simply is. and mephis will stop at nothing in its pursuit.
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by lysander » Mon Feb 19, 2018 5:10 pm
▌ ▷ DAY 4 : the fool
▌ ▷ Tell about a time your kalon made a bet with a friend that they lost.
▌ ▷ feat. cosette, mephis : 223 / 150
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cosette had her hands neatly clasped in her lap. across the table, mephis waits intently, listening to the silence permeating between them. he could tell that, for whatever reason, she was deep in her own thoughts, eyes no doubt locked on the tarot cards placed on the table in front of her.
a rustle of a sleeve betrays the girl's movement. mephis smiles, reclining into his chair.
"so? have you made your decision?"
cosette is two inches away from flipping the card over. she pauses, withdrawing her hand momentarily, then speaks:
"if i guess the card correctly, you say you'll help me, right?"
"of course. i always keep my promises."
"but if i don't?"
"ah, well. i suppose it'll be too bad."
"how magnanimous of you," she replies. mephis chuckles at the sound of sarcasm in her voice.
"let's not delay the inevitable, dear. your guess?"
"the empress."
"ah, i'm afraid you're wrong. 'tis the fool."
cosette flips the card over. mephis doesn't need sight to know he's right by the sound of her voice.
"how... how did you know?"
"trade secret," mephis replies. he presses his index finger to his lips. "if i told you i'd have to kill you."
yet undeterred, cosette reaches for the tarot deck again, shuffling the fool back into the deck.
"alright mister-know-it-all. best two out of three?"
"you're on."
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lysander
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by lysander » Tue Feb 20, 2018 10:55 pm
▌ ▷ DAY FIVE : breathless
▌ ▷ Tell me about one of the best days of your kalon's life.
▌ ▷ feat. krista, cosette : 360 / 150
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3am. lights flood the streets. you can almost taste the glow on the damp air.
she's behind you, taking in the night. skyscrapers in the distance blend into the sky. you look back at her, and in her eyes you see the moon— bright, beautiful, and brimming with thoughts left unspoken.
are you ready?
there's the rasp in your voice. your heart is drumming like crazy in your chest. you've never met a girl that made you feel the way she does— nervous, the pulsing excitement, the thrill —making you stumble, trip, fall over your words— and head over heels.
you think you're in love.
the sound of her laughter is like a sunrise. ready when you are, miss motorcyclist.
with that, she takes her seat behind you. you feel her arms wrap around your waist and you swear for a moment you can hear nothing but your heart racing. not even the sound of your engine revving can drown it out. you feel the thrust of your vehicle pull you both forward— and you're off.
she's laughing. peals of it like bells in the wind billowing against your bodies. you speed down an empty highway, doing 50, 60, 70 miles per hour.
at 80 you feel like you're flying.
the only thing keeping you from soaring through the night is the flash of lights on the road ahead. each one passing by in each fleeting moment and each fleeting moment stretching on like eternity.
nothing else exists. just you, the road, and her.
when the ride finally ends, you feel her embrace around you tighten for just a moment before she pulls away. she's warm. her hair's messed up, wind-blown and untamed. you still feel the adrenaline of the ride coursing through your veins when she leans over, pressing her lips against yours.
a kiss.
she pulls away. coy smile. whispering words into your ear you don't completely hear.
then, she leaves you there with your bike, breathless. nothing can compare— not the moon, not the night, not the feeling of wind in your hair, not racing down empty streets like you own them.
you think you're in love.
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lysander
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by lysander » Thu Feb 22, 2018 11:14 am
▌ ▷ DAY SIX : facade
▌ ▷ Tell about a time your kalon had to lie.
▌ ▷ feat. cade : 155 / 150
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no one needs to know.
not about those sleepless nights
or hours spent staring
up at the ceiling
or into the darkness
of your room.
no one needs to know,
not about the cocktail of pills
you take every morning
to dull the demons
nesting in your head.
no one needs to know
about the china sets
you've been collecting,
never to be used
with guests you'll never have.
no one needs to know
how it takes all of your will
to drag yourself from
bed to bathroom
to car,
to work,
and back,
only to repeat the cycle again,
and again,
and again.
no one needs to know
about your self-imposed solitude.
the smile carefully placed
on your face
for display
so that no one can tell
what wreck lies beneath.
and perhaps most of all,
no one needs to know
about those lies you've been telling
to everyone,
and yourself:
i'm fine.
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lysander
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