[☼ morgana]

mark

[Aeryn]

x
“ᴀɴɢᴇʟ ᴛʀᴜᴍᴘᴇᴛ”
(388/400) ⊹ ࣪ ˖
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The producers of the deadliest venoms in the market is the legacy that i now carry
alone. My family has long mastered the crafting of producing the weapons of cowards,
the profit was nothing to scoff at and all of our riches and luxuries were thanks to the
liquified daggers.

And much like them, i’ve learned such arts as well, living secluded from the more populated
villages, the flowers of death bloomed inside our own home while the poison of greed
runs inside our veins. I often believed that when it comes to taking someone’s life, it should
be upon an act of honor and skill, a soul taken by a blade rests peacefully, whilst one taken
by poison remains in agony from a wrong doing, at least, i’d think as such.

However, the roots of the poison runs deeper than anyone could’ve thought initially, causing
irreversible damage on the ones producing the. Perhaps, we ourselves have never used the
venoms we sell, but is the one who forged such weapons any blameless? As the toxic ingredients
in the flowers became too much to bear, i’ve witness a tragedy first hand, maybe what was deserved.

The karma came kicking down our doors and i didn’t have the means to save them from my own
creations, our creations. My family was not immune to the toxins we’ve meddled with, yet i
remained, clueless on how to save them. A punishment for the lives we’ve lead and my
arrogant allowance. I should’ve stopped this sooner, should’ve spoke sooner, but now all that remains
is a burning regret inside me.

But as you see, as some flowers produce harm, others blooms healing and purity. I’ve had enough of
poison and ignorant harm, this is not the legacy i wish to carry, perhaps it never was.

My desire to heal spoke loud as thunder, i’d use the knowledge i already had into medicine, my
garden would grow towards a brighter path, a path of salvation. My remedies would come to save
lives, mend wounds and bring aid to those in need of it. The riches now seem meaningless compared
to such sense of purpose i had found.

I shall continue my studies, improve my skills and end the agony of others, so that maybe one day,
i may heal my poisoned soul.

[Mercuré]

mark!

[dorayaki]

ohh mark
hopefully i get the time 👀

[néktar]

mark <33

[endless shelter;;]

mark!!

[vanilla bean.]

mark … oooooo

[MirrorMask]

[ MirrorMask · 29018 · Matisse ]

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break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle break the cycle

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▛┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅-┅---┅┅┅┅┅┅┅-┅--┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅┅---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------▜

--Appalling. The sole word scratching at the confines of her conscious, ratting at the bars no differ than the falsely accused ( relentless noise, how can an arrangement of nine letters ring so loud in one's mind ). By no means is she devolving into dramatics, such theatrics is something that her brother drowns in or at least from what she remembers? It's remarked that time is a cruel thief but Matisse would argue, there is nothing more criminal than that of fickle memories. For she could close her eyes and vividly see that infant boy always bound to fits of tears, how if life was a painting her hands would surely be stained blue with every wipe of his woeful eyes ( the colors of sunrise yet simmer like sunset; aged so prematurely ). It's such hardships that taught her long time ago how to swim amidst the steep waves of emotions. Perhaps it was her own fault ( still young after all ), hoping, daydreaming, pleading that one day when she found him again they'd both be freed of the phantom haunting their childhood; their own personal boogeyman, that in the odd shape of religious devotion.

--It crept in the corners of every room ( every memory she wishes to blanch, bleach away such taint ) yet if you searched for it, suddenly scattered, no different to the crazed, frantic pattering of cockroaches caught ( how vile ). She can't help the hefty breath her lungs demand next, it should serve as a warning, for Matisse to cease this reminiscing any further before muscle memory consumes, constrains, coerces her back into the silhouette of a little girl. Said child couldn't escape the stifling sensation of the very air subtly transforming itself into unbreathable haze. As if woven into invisible hands, fingers hovering over her jugular ( press, press, pressing down on a gasping windpipe in a mannerism so similarly illustrated by her own blood relatives; uncanny even ). Yet as she finds her own, older hands grasping at a throat; Matisse must remind herself that there is no longer various shades of black, blue and yellow decorating it. No, for hard fought efforts instead it is adorned with jewels ( hues of reds and greens, the distinct sparkle of emeralds and rubies that it nothing else but undeniably their colors ). It's only when the flames flicker over, altering the dear glow of the gemstones into the feverish flavor of fire that she realizes how deep her baby brother has dug himself into the machinations of godhood. For the very light bathing her with sudden recognition is coming from nowhere else but him. Nobody could fault her for the fear that seizes her form, robs her of any logic, and thus has her shouting.

--"Ramanujan!"
--Maybe it's the sudden echo of his name aloud prattling off buildings' exteriors and rummaging along food stalls, perhaps it's the pure desperation clinging to the pronunciation of every syllable in his long long name, but without a doubt what has the young man twisting in haste is no other then her voice ( for how could he ever forget his sister's call, that always reliably coaxed him to sleep at night and in the morning sung sweetly away all his juvenile worries ). His eyes confirm it, for the moment those pupils land onto Matisse they expand ( remarkably even after all this time, he still loves her ). Oh how she missed those eyes, perpetually wondering how the many years apart would unquestionably change them. Had this eldest daughter praying on aching knees for tears to no longer entrench themselves in the corners. Seeing him now though, she doesn't mind the wetness spilling forth for it merely makes Matisse yearn to embrace, no, to kiss those creases again. Such a desire nearly dominates her uncontestable control ( no longer, that is ) but how could she not? For it is her palms that molded those grooves into his face, worked into his flesh no different to how a baker tends dough. Rushing forward, he's eager to fulfill her wish. Each step of his shoes, rich leather boots stomping the ground just a drum alongside the very one in-caged within, her heart beat matching his motions growing in tempo; a fitting theme for what comes next.

--"Matisse!"
--One word, and suddenly she's an adolescent again. Never separated, merely buried deep in loving arms, with thick curls tickling as she tucks his head under chin in a desperate bid to cover all of him. As much as she can, to hide this sliver of joy in hopes the spiteful world can't steal it ( if only ). Those sacrificed on pyres for the so called "greater good", those bone thin figures teeming their village deep in fanatical fast, all the those occasions of their tortured youth seemingly erased. Or so she believed but for one so godless, why would faith ever aid her? Everything must come to an end and only a god's work is so capable of summoning it this quick ( like the reaper in the night ). How'd she lose sight of it? With flame wrapping around, blanketing them in warm sizzling colors, the weight of it's power as glorious as the sun. The antique lantern, the mark of a divine incinerates the tranquility that had taken root reducing it nothing but scared ash. A beautiful thing to most mortals, but Matisse knows better. After all this time Ramanujan, her precious baby brother, is still victim to the woes of the immortals. She hears them, the clank of zealous chains shackling her once again but before she could protest—

--"Ramanujan?"
--They roam around the common folk without issue, without care, without concern in simple robes or plain visage. He does not. For before her is no other than the great god of fire in all his majesty. She can see his mouth moving but alas his next words fall upon deaf ears, for Matisse is shut tight her heart wringing itself into a similar steel. Though a saying does comes to mind, that of insanity. Of repeating the same phenomenon again and again with expectations of different results. How dare she be so bold to believe she could escape it? That it was as straightforward as walking away. She could now, do what she did a decade ago; just let him go and run—

--"Matisse?"
--One word, and suddenly the cycle renews.

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[ 1,058 ]

If anyone if curious this is Ramanujan and the fire god, Augustus ^^

[zero.two]

Username: zero.two #743737
Kalon Name: Vivienne
Prompt:
xxxxxxxxxxx─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *───* :☆ﾟ. ───

As dawn broke over the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of fiery reds and oranges, starkly contrasting the encroaching gloom of war. Princess Vivienne stood at the edge of the battlefield, helmet in place, heart racing. Clad in shining armor that seemed almost too heavy for her frame, she clutched her sword, the weight of it familiar yet daunting.

This was not just any battle—it was a crucial one, a clash between her father’s loyal forces and an opposing kingdom that sought to lay claim to their lands. This rivalry had been one she was raised in, and she determined that she and her troops would be the ones that finally put an end to it.

The princess took a deep breath as she clutched the hilt of her sword in a white-knuckled grip, her head turning to scan the sea of soldiers behind her. With a short nod to her second in command, Vivienne raised her weapon into the air and released a battle cry, "For the kingdom of Valas! We end this cycle of terror here tonight!"

With the sound of blood rushing in her ears and the pounding of her heartbeat in her chest, Vivienne surged forward with her troops. The enemies flew past in flashes of silver and black, her sword making quick work of the men who dared to challenge her. She could feel her lungs scream for air as she thundered through the enemy forces, her mind clouded in a mixture of fear and desperation. Her exhaustion was catching up to her and her body was running on pure adrenaline, pleading with her to put an end to the fight.

For too long her people had been trapped under the oppressive thumb of this neighboring kingdom. It was an endless cycle of despair and misery that threatened the lives of her loved ones and the freedom of her subjects. The opposing king had refused to back down with a peace treaty, and the princess knew that the only way they would earn their freedom was here on the battlefield.

She had been working tirelessly for months to prepare her soldiers for this battle. Long nights filled with aching muscles and heaving chests, and a bloom of purple bruises covering her skin served as proof of her training efforts. This war was their last chance to escape the iron-clad grip of their foes, and Vivienne had no intention of losing it.

The battle surged on, the sounds of clashing metal and shouting warriors echoing through the clearing. The princess had found herself surrounded by a group of four men, their eyes glowing with triumph at the sight of her cornered there. Before she could even realize what was happening, a pommel was jammed into the side of her chest with enough force to knock her over. She heaved a breath before swinging her sword in retaliation, a cry of anger leaving her lips as more adrenaline rushed through her body. The princess regained her composure and rose to her feet, taking a guarded stance and scanning the group of men for some sort of opening.

Suddenly, Vivienne felt a familiar form pressed against her back. She glanced behind her to see her trusted second-in-command, sword raised and ready to strike. With a small smile, the princess gave the woman a nod and surged forward, making quick work of the men who were no match for the powerful duo.

With her attention now freed from her assailants, Vivienne was able to survey the crowd of soldiers in front of her. To her surprise, her troops were holding their sword up in victory, shouting loudly at the men who were now running opposite them. They had actually done it, they had won the battle.

The princess lifted her own sword into the air and released a triumphant yell "We have done it! Valas is free at last!" The princess fell to her knees with one last heaving breath, warm tears of relief cascading down her cheeks. She gasped as she was lifted into the arms of her companions, her sore eyes locking onto the woman who had saved her life once again.

The kingdom of Valas was more alive than it ever had been that night. The square was filled with the sounds of laughter and joy as people danced wildly to victorious music. The princess sat on the outskirts of the festivities, her fingers fiddling with the bandages that hugged her arms as her other hand brought water to her lips. She smiled at the rambunctious bunch of soldiers surrounding her as they told stories of the battle and commended each other for their bravery.

With a clearing of her throat, Princess Vivienne rose from her seat and held her drink in the air, "Soldiers, you proved yourselves to be the greatest warriors Valas has ever seen. With your help, we were able to put an end to the cycle of terror in which the kingdom of Wystros kept us trapped. I could not have asked for a better group of warriors to protect my people." The princess regained her seat as the group at the table became more rowdy, shoulders bumping and drinks spilling as they cheered in triumph. She beamed as a warm hand met her shoulder, her cheeks turning up in a smile as she laid eyes on the woman who always had her back. With a small nudge and a large smile, her second-in-command squeezed in beside her on the bench. The woman wrapped her arm around Vivienne and pulled her into a side hug before laughing, "Well done princess, you finally broke the cycle."

Words: 945

[Archaeopteryx.]

mark!