lost carcosa ▷ writing storage

[lysander]

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C A E P H E U S
username; lysander　 | 　name; caepheus 　| 　gender; male
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F O R M   H E R E

(moved because it got too long pff)

[lysander]

x



「　 seihun babu tryout　」
notes: its a good thing adopt tryouts make me write
this is probably the most productive ive been in a summer



_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



Listen carefully.

I want you to remember these words. Each and every syllable, breath, and stutter. Engrave them in your mind as deep as your most cherished memory. Memorize the sound of my voice. Hear it echo in the recesses of your mind. And most importantly: do exactly what I tell you. No more, no less. This is the last chance I have to make things right. So please, for the love of god,
listen carefully.

By the time you hear this recording, I won't be here anymore. Your first instinct will be to stop everything, to throw your life away to search for me. I don't want you to do this. I've led too many others to their deaths in the name of this stupid game and I can't let you be one of them. Instead, I need you to take a deep breath. Count to ten. Take a moment to collect yourself— I don't know. Anything. Just don't panic, whatever you do.

I panicked. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was failing to run when I had the chance. You know the way I am, always taking more than I can handle. Hasley tried to stop me— usually I'm the brains and she's the brawn, but not this time. I miss her. God, I miss her so much. I keep hearing her voice in my head doing that thing she always does— a click of the tongue followed by some smart-alec comment about how I've got a "repressed rage" as she always said. Smuggest piece of crap I've ever known. I used to think I'd wipe that grin off her face. I miss her stupid, idiotic smirk. I miss her stupid voice and her stupid hair. I'd give anything to take back everything I did.

People always think being able to tell the future is a good thing.
Let me tell you: it's not. I know first hand.

You see people die before they even know it and you try to stop it all from happening but you just can't. That's not how time works. It's not how fate works. How it works like this: everything you do will ultimately lead to the end no matter how you try to change things. That's what I did— I tried to change fate.

We should've never agreed to playing the game.

I'm sorry. I'm rambling now. I just— I needed to vent. I don't know what's going to happen to me. And I broke the rules. I wasn't supposed to contact you. But just— listen to me. If a man in a suit comes to you asking if you'd like power in exchange for a little trial in an experiment, run. Take your things and run far away. It's not worth it — Hasley's strength, my clairvoyance — it's not worth it.

Please, just stay safe. This is the only way I can repent.




x

[lysander]

username; lysander   ///   name; riley   ///   gender; female


do you believe in destiny? what's yours? [124]


i mean, to be frank? i think fate and destiny and all is a load of bull crap. maybe free will is an illusion and everything i've done and everything i'm going to do is all written in stone already — but like, how do you know that? who's out there pulling the strings? ain't it scary thinking that you have no control over your own life? so, i guess i like thinking that, maybe, i've got a little more say in how my life turns out than that. even if i make mistakes, i want to own them. i want them to be my mistakes — and no one else's. i'd rather screw up than live like a spectator in my own life, you know?

what is more important - to be loved or to fall in love? [148]


anyone can fall in love — that's what i think. but not everyone is loved, and i think that's real sad. and i'm not talking about all that cheesy romantic stuff either — i mean, real, unconditional love. from family. from parents. from friends. some people out there, you know — they feel so alone. they don't think they've got a single person who accepts them for who they are. and that's so sad. i can't imagine a life without knowing someone out there loves me no matter how much i screw up. i don't think i'd wish that on even my worst enemies, you know? everyone deserves to be loved; no one was born evil. no one pops outta the womb thinking they're gonna be an awful person. life twists people in funny ways, y'know? and i think that unconditional love — or missing it — can change a person for life.

[lysander]

lysander   //   iskandar   //   male



he could remember that day like the scars on the back of his hand. he recalls well what the swamps were like — the familiar, pungent scent of rotting wood and duckweed. the moist air and the hot sun beating down on him, sweat dripping from his chin into the murky water. he remembers the feeling of his feet sinking into the mud below its surface, pushing tangled roots aside as he waded through the swamp.

he didn't come by choice. iskandar was young then — no more than fourteen — and as far as he knew, he never belonged anywhere. it could've been the result of his unnaturally grey hair, regarded widely as an anomaly of nature, but this — this never bothered him. it was hard to yearn for something one never had to begin with, because the reality of his situation provided no room for self-pity. he roamed the streets back when he was younger, buying what little food he could afford and stealing the rest; a life of crime in its early stages, marked by the quiet, scornful, prejudiced eyes of people as he walked past. that all changed when tall men, armed with bayonets, took him away — far away, in cages that smelled of decay and and disease. indentured servitude. iskandar was to work the rest of his life, without pay — walking up and down precarious dirt roads through the steppes underneath the midday sun, wooden logs far bigger than himself strapped to his splintered back. all the boys there were the same as him — orphaned, with no other place to go. it was the only reason many of them decided to stay, no matter how their handlers treated them.

where would we go?

iskandar recalls the words of his bunkmate, his bruised face illuminated by the dim light of a candle.

you can leave — straight into the wilderness, sure. but here, we have food. a bed. shelter. for some of us, that's as good as it can get.

he could never understand their complacency. so, he ran.
by day, he was in the fields like any of the other workers. by nightfall, he'd taken off — with nothing on him except the tattered clothes on his back. he remembers the guards scrambling, shouting at him threats of punishment — things to paralyze him with fear. they might've worked if they managed to catch him.

and with that, iskandar was gone. he didn't know where the winds were taking him — what paths his feet, callous against the grass, would take. he didn't know, didn't care. not even when he, exhausted from running, collapsed to his knees by the side of a tree, falling into a dreamless slumber as the hours of night passed and warmed into day.

when he woke, he found himself in an unfamiliar land. a snake brushed past his feet, unfazed by his reaction. the soil at his feet, wet and moist with morning dew, housed fungi he'd never seen before. in the mangrove, he could hear a symphony of frogs croak in intervals. he remembered hearing about the swamps from the boys back at the camp, their words telling of an impenetrable marsh outside their territory, wrought with poison ivies and creatures that could kill a hundred men with a mere drop of poison. still, without heeding their warnings, he trekked forward, unafraid of the unknown, knowing only that this was the beginning of something new.

a month passed.

iskandar built a shelter of vine and wood, underneath the patches of dry land close to the marshes, just outside a grotto. from the upper terraces of the rock formation, he could see over the mangrove trees, past the forest surrounding the swamp — and something caught his eye, glimmering in the distance. something thrashing about wildly in the shallow water, hissing like a monster. when iskandar made it over, he discovered something remarkable: a huge reptile, leg ensnared within the vines of an underwater plant.

it was trapped. cornered, scared. the creature lashed out at him, hissing. pupils, mere slivers of obsidian embedded in yellow irises. iskandar stepped back, took a breath. in his belt was a blade he'd stolen long ago, tucked beside his canteen. slowly, carefully, he removed it from its sheath, wielding it with both hands.

one step. two steps. the animal's hissing increased with every inch he covered.
tentatively, he shifted his direction — and dove into the water. within moments, he'd cut through the vine — but he wasn't fast enough to avoid the teeth grazing his hand, sharp like knives. he clambered towards land, gasping for breath between the pain jolting through his palm.

he'd been bitten. the reptile was nowhere to be found.
all he could do was dress the wound, thinking no ill will towards the one responsible.

three months passed.

the wound healed, leaving scar tissue and malformed skin on the back of his hand. he'd been working for weeks, collecting materials from the swamp. bones, firewood, things to make rope from — all the things the swamp taught him over time. within a mere few months, he discovered that he knew the animals too — what cries they made, when they roamed, which were poisonous.

all these — the waters, the winds, the woods around him — these were the first home he'd ever known.

to know there were some who wanted to take it all away from him filled him with an indescribable feeling.

he'd seen men march in and out of his terrain for the last few weeks. these men, he knew. he'd seen them in the indentured camps he ran from those many months ago. he knew their line of work, too — surveyors. working to build settlements and clear the untamed land. business ventures. deforestation. marsh drainage. iskandar knew what they'd do; he'd seen it first hand.

i can't let them do that.

those were his thoughts as he readied his blowgun from the trees, shrouded in the dark of night. nimble feet were near silent as he adjusted his footing up in the branches, eyes locked onto the men sitting, laughing, drinking around a fire. he had three shots and three men. it'd taken him hours to prepare the poison for each one, coating them with the deliberation of a craftsman. he couldn't screw this up.

without a sound, one dart zipped through the air, hitting the man with the mustache square in the neck. the other two barely had a moment to react before another dart punctured another man in the shoulder. neurotoxins spread through their bodies, paralyzing them within moments.

still, one man remained. before iskandar could ready his third dart, he disappeared.
cautiously, the boy descended, eyes darting back and forth. the campfire cracked ambiently, two soon-to-be corpses at either side of it.

out of nowhere, the man reappeared, a knife drawn and ready to strike.
his blade came down, slicing through the air beside iskandar. he dodged, fumbled with his blowgun — losing his footing as the man took another swing at him. there was danger in his eyes, not like that of the surveyors — no, this man...

iskandar's eyes widened. this was one of the handlers — a hired mercenary. he'd seen him kick boys who'd collapsed to the ground from exhaustion until they no longer could move.

in his moment of distraction, the mercenary kicked iskandar's blowgun out of his hand. now, adrenaline raced through every inch of his body, panic mounting in his brain.

so you're the one that got away, huh?

the man's voice seemed fuzzy, far away. iskandar scrambled to his feet.

who knew you could make it living out here. but the gig's up, kiddo.

he stumbles over a root as the mercenary walks towards him. he can't move. limbs, frozen with something he can't even call fear at this point, refuse to obey his command.

from behind him comes a familiar hiss. twigs crack underneath the weight of something huge.
then, there's a growl. low, dangerous. distinctly dangerous, with menace dripping from its amplitude.

the man steps back, eyes focused on something far away. when iskandar looks behind him, he sees the reptile. the one he rescued all those weeks ago in the marsh. now, it rushed towards the mercenary, toothed mouth agape and ready to strike.

iskandar's never seen a man run so fast in his life.


four years passed. now, iskandar's eighteen. his hair's still shaggy, unkempt as the day he first arrived, but now there's a different look in his eyes. the glint of confidence. the way he walks through the trees without so much as glancing at the root-layered ground. he never knew a mother, nor father — but he didn't need to anymore, because here, amidst the marshes, he found something he'd never had before: a home. a home, among the mangrove trees and the moss growing on their trunks. a home, among the cat tails and weeds in the thickening brush.

and he'd never let anyone take it away.



///



iskandar, after a number of years, has earned something of a reputation as a protector of the swamps. he pretty much terrorizes, maims, or even kills anyone threatening its well-being, as he doesn't take kindly towards trespassers in what he considers his home. ever since the initial incident with the surveyors, the animals of the swamp have taken a bit of a liking to him. he's also forged quite the bond with a particular reptilian friend of his, who treats iskandar similar to the way a cat would treat its human.

because he's spent so long living in the swamp, he understands the delicate balance of its ecosystem and strives to do everything in his power to minimize the negative impact he has on it. he takes only what he needs from the environment and wastes nothing, being sure to optimize the natural cycle with his own actions. he's also built up an impressive understanding of the flora and fauna in his home, and thus he's become an expert at identifying different plants and animals — particularly the venomous ones. he's also adept at climbing trees, and often uses this skill to check on birds' nests when the mother is away.

iskandar himself is a prickly pear of a person, so to say. he only trusts himself and his own judgment, and rarely speaks more than necessary. he's not much one for words and is distrustful of strangers — you could say that he, too, is kind of like a cat. still, it's possible to befriend him as long as you don't make any sudden movements. just keep your distance, don't press him, and he will come around — eventually. and at that point, his actions speak louder than his words. he's terrible at expressing emotion, but little actions like gifts of food or showing you around his swamp are clear signs that he's become fond of you.

the weapons he works with are typically poisoned darts or poisoned spears, modeled after the usage of amazonian poison dart frogs by people indigenous to the south and central american rain forests. he also is pretty handy with a knife, although he's capable of making his own from stone. as for his home, it's... a bit of a shack, really. but the grotto he live near is beautiful — moss covered, with ivy growing over the rock. iskandar's taken to painting on its walls too, using crushed sediments to draw and record the animals he's seen over the years.


[413]



ooc;
i actually... did not mean to write this much but
i have a bad headache and i can't focus on condensing
my information/prose so SORRY about this aaaa ;;;;
ALSO SORRY BC I THOUGHT I RES'D EARLIER BUT I can't
find my post ;;;;;;; so i guess i didn't;;;;;

[lysander]

lysander   //   maulik   //   male


maulik's bare feet against the forest floor sent the sound of twigs breaking throughout the forest. the quiet hum of life was like static on his ears, the occasional bird cry breaking through the air. he's here again — slipping through the plant life, eyes peeled for what he's come for: a mushroom.

of course, not any mushroom— it was said this one was the same variety used by the god of plenty in folklore —the one which, upon offering to the temples, was rumored to bestow good luck onto the bearer of the gift. whether or not any of that was true — he didn't know. what he did know was that the rich paid a lot of money to get their hands on even one specimen, and... money was in short supply these days.

he thought about his father; once a strong man who worked the fields, now atrophying away on a cot at home. he thought about his five siblings. three younger brothers and two younger sisters. he thought about going home to a cold kitchen — the spot once occupied by his mother now only haunted by memories of the past.

maulik doesn't pity himself. he doesn't have the luxury to sit down and moan about it. he had a family to feed, a father to care for, a mother watching over them all from above. as long as he lived, maulik swore he'd never bat a lash at what life threw at him.

besides, sometimes good things happen.

maulik's hands shook as he approached a hollowed log. inside its cavity was a single, glowing mushroom. his movements, tentative, as he gently plucked the fungus from its perch and placed it inside his satchel. when he leaves the forest, the gravity of his find hit him in full force. there's no way this isn't the work of fate.

maulik didn't head to his client's place afterwards. something drove him towards the smell of incense of the glow of candlelight, to the mantras of elders during their night ceremonies. as he ascended the temple steps, a great statue stood towering over him with a tempered smile, eyes closed in peace.

in that moment, maulik needed money. this was true. but perhaps what he needed the most? a little faith.


[379]



///


fantasy au.

maulik lives in a region similar to india in culture, and tropical forests make up the majority of the environment there. its biodiversity make a huge impact on the native religion and belief system, and various animals and plants are believed to bring effects based on the lore surrounding them. the forest is plentiful, but dangerous — many poisonous organisms thrive there, and without care one can make a fatal mistake. poisoning is often seen as a direct punishment from the gods.

maulik himself is a independent boy, about seventeen in age, and family is extremely important to him. his mother passed away due to health complications, which his father is now suffering in turn. as the eldest of his family, he is tasked with the responsibility of providing for his sick father and five siblings. he's resourceful and tough, but he suppresses his emotions to the detriment of his own well being. he rarely allows himself to feel, to vent about his struggles, which cause him to be very tense. in the end, maulik must learn to let go; that it's okay to rely on others sometimes.


[189]

[lysander]

lysander  /  mallius  /  male



personality; 188


a fury tempered like steel; cool on the surface yet hot as fire underneath. eyes that burn holes into others, alight with a purpose and driven to accomplish all he sets out to do. he despises others, hates interaction, prefers the unhampered solitude of silence, and has an ego the size of a mountain. he's all quiet confidence — cocky at times, sure, but he's not no need to brag when his prowess speaks for itself. he's gained quite a few enemies this way, with his dismissive, unfriendly attitude. he's scathing at first, stubborn as a rock as time goes on — but like stone, his facade can be eroded away to something smoother, more gentle. mallius is deeply private, speaking few words and maintaining even fewer bonds. it's no doubt that he's a hard one to crack — heck, he hardly ever cracks a smile to begin with — yet his loyalty knows no bounds once you earn it. for those select few, he is a rock, rooted firmly to his beliefs, and he stops at nothing to protect and aid those precious gems he lets into his life.



where are they from / reaction / etc
890 (400 + 300x2 = 1000)


he was borne ash, fire, brimstone — gathered from atop a volcanic peak where magma boils underneath the ground and lava cools on along the ridges of an altar. the temple of agnayi — an ancient fire goddess of a time long gone. this was where he was made, where he was conceived. his first breath of life took place in a place that smelt black with smoke. this was his birthplace.

or, well, not quite. it's where his corporal body was made. his soul — well. that came from somewhere else. somewhere far, far below the earth, past the realm of mortals and through the gates of the underworld. see, mallius was a king. a very powerful one at that — a king of demons is nothing to trifle with. sitting atop his throne, he'd spend the timeless eternities overseeing legions of demons, ghouls, ghosts — all things that caused chaos and havoc on the mortal realm. it was his job, after all; you can't have order without a little chaos to spice things up. between fiddling with the mortal coil and his responsibility, mallius enjoyed honing his skills in the coliseum, practicing his own brand of ancient magic against other immortal foes. he wasn't a rule without reason, after all; he fought, lied, and killed his way to the top of the food chain, stepping on the corpses of countless mortals to become the king of demons. it was an existence hard earned with his own two hands.

everything changed when a little mage in training summoned him to the surface.

her goal: a golem made from the earth blessed by the goddess agnayi. her first real test in magecraft after years of intensive training by the shaman-nuns of her village. her hands were sweating buckets that day as she recanted the spell she'd written from scratch. a tomb of lava, ash, coal: these were her ingredients, her reagents. from this, she'd bring a being to life using her own skills.

somehow, she accidentally summoned the soul of a demon king instead.



mallius remembered waking up with a start in a body he didn't recognize. he was no longer an immortal entity — he was real. he had flesh, dark like the rust-colored earth around him, and he could feel all the parts of his body working in ways he never felt before. his limbs had a weight to them. something beat in his chest that he didn't recognize.

before him stood a short, little girl holding a handmade spell book. she was deathly pale, yet smiling at him as if she wasn't about to pass out.

his first reaction was anger. he tried to stand up immediately, but — no luck. his legs were as unsteady as a newborn fawn's. embarrassing, no. humiliating. what king could not stand up on his own two feet?

the girl seemed to snap out of it, reaching over to take his hand. he jerked his hand away, glaring back at her.

"you... shouldn't try to walk so soon. sorry, i probably... um, i'm not really good at this whole golem thing... i've tried to make one so many times, and... you're the first one that's actually come to life."

mallius could only stare back at her in disbelief.

"...you... made a golem?"

"yes, i'm a witch in training. making you is part of my final exam!"

"...making me?"

"oh! of course, i almost forgot — i need to name you and everything, but i just don't know... i'm awful with names, but i thought of a list you could choose fr—"

"— my name is mallius and i am no golem."

the witch blinked at him, slow and clueless. golems were not supposed to know their own names. neither of them knew what future was in store.


it's funny how fate works. to think of it now makes mallius chuckle with a kind of nostalgia; both he and faustine were far in over their heads. she — a novice witch with incredible potential. clumsy but kind, with a determination hidden beneath her sweet smile. then, he — towering a good two feet over her, a dark skinned brute of a man with eyes like burning embers, bound by contract to serve her for the rest of his life. in the beginning, mallius spent countless hours trying to find a way to undo the spell, but faustine's magic was far stronger than he ever realized. even she, try as she might, couldn't undo her own work.

i'm so sorry, she said. she's apologized so many times. more than mallius could count.

yet, over time, things changed. the evenings he spent with her in her cottage, watching her read old books of yore with a sparkle in her eye. the way she'd wake up every morning at the crack of dawn to chant mantras to hone her focus. she was still as clumsy as ever, sure — but watching her made something change in mallius that he didn't understand at first, but did now.

is it possible for a demon king to gain humanity?

he didn't know. he didn't know how a life as fleeting as a mortal's could be filled with so much pain — and so much joy.
all he knows now is that he never wants to leave her side, for as long as she lived. no matter how brief a time it was.

[lysander]

 

username: lysander    name: eis    gender: female   [x]


she could hear the sound of music from deep inside the woods. with each step, a memory began to fade away. her mother. her father. her brother, too — vanishing from her mind like the sun underneath the horizon. she drops the basket she'd been carrying, the berries held inside scattering on the forest floor. her eyes are locked on the path ahead, no longer focused nor aware of their surroundings.

the music grows louder. it's like the faint melody of a music box, gears turning against its metal frame. something about it is so familiar it makes her heart ache — but in time, that memory, too, fades.

around her, eyes emerge from the darkness. one pair. two pairs. three. she walks deeper into the forest. four pairs. five. each step summoning more until she's surrounded by myriad eyes, following her automatonic march.

her legs bring her to a meadow bathed in moonlight. flowers glow white around her, breaking into full bloom. from the shadows, one eyed figure breaks forth from the darkness, its ghostly form approaching her in her amnesiac daze. she's under a spell. with her mind blank, her body follows only the command of the melody reverberating through the air.

the ghost takes her hand, its own translucent against her skin.

"i know you don't remember me anymore," comes its voice.

"i know that you can't, even if you wanted to. i know that this is the only way i can give this back to you. so... thank you for the memories. i'll keep them safe for you."

the ghost's hands fall away and the melody stops. the girl collapses among the bed of flowers, fast asleep. when she wakes up in the morning, she's back at her cottage home, in her bed.

clasped in her hands is the key to a music box.



quick vignette ;;; its rly bad tho
i'll probably lengthen it/edit later bc
no inspo rn fffff

[lysander]

lysander   //   casey   //   female


ODDEEO - From the Cartographer (ft. Avanna)



too tired so i'll just bullet things;;

kinda lazy, sarcastic
fashion minded
glam, pastel aesthetic
despite attitude, she's passionate about music
wants to use music as a vehicle for narrative
interested in composing sci-fi operas in electronic music

ABOUT THAT SPACE OPERA
it's about the story of a space nomad, a girl of unknown age
as she travels to different galaxies and worlds, some of which
are thriving, others which are dying. each album casey's got
planned tells the story of a different realm, each with its own
plotline specific to the album. so, yes, concept albums

(SORRY I ALSO LOVE MUSIC SO...)

other music/music refs:
"The Autonomous Artist" Monomyth - Skytree ft. Avanna [ODDEEO Remix]
Porter Robinson - Goodbye To A World

[lysander]

 

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 ▫  ▫  ▫  ▫  ▫    t a b r i s    ▫  ▫  ▫  ▫  ▫ 


night tempo x tomggg . 好き？suki！  tomggg . butter sugar cream  quok . atariwave  mushiba . slow snow  boen . miss you
c u r i o u s . i m p u l s i v e . c h e e r f u l . s i m p l e . q u i x o t i c . r e c k l e s s

┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

tryout here

└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

 

[lysander]

┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

想 い 想 わ れ · 福 原 希 己 江

lysander  //  shinjuko  //  female

└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘



two minutes.
two minutes were all she had — all she needed.

when she dives into the ocean, her skin is first greeted by the whiplash cold sending shocks through her spine as her body becomes submerged in water. she can feel the waves fight against her, tugging her backwards — but with every motion of her limbs she carves a little space in the water, pushing herself inside it, digging deeper down into the depths of the sea. it's fierce — strong. mother nature is no force to be reckoned with — this, she knew. to embrace her without knowing her moods, fickle as they were, was akin to inviting death to one's doorstep — foolish, naive.

and yet, she was beautiful. terrible, and beautiful. underneath the blanket of currents flowing overhead, she witnesses the private world mother nature tucks away, hidden beneath the undulating waves. cities of coral stretch for miles, their limbs and tendrils flowing softly in the water as if branches in the wind. there, amongst them, she sees her prize: oysters.

with the dagger at her side, she chips away the stone holding the mollusk in place. she does this a second time. third. until the hand-woven basket tied to her back is heavy enough to pull her down with the weight of her treasure. every second is oxygen running through her veins, rapidly depleting with every movement she makes.

but she's not worried; she still has thirty seconds left.

feet propel her body forward, her lungs beginning to burn for another breath — yet it's a familiar feeling, not unlike the ache of a muscle. she's done this far too many times to panic, practiced her craft for far too long to ensure anything but success. and when she breaks the surface, she's smiling as always. after all, the sea provides her with everything she needs. within the chambers of her catch, something precious lays cementing in darkness, wrapped in folds of flesh like satin — mother nature's generosity:

a pearl.


///


she's a pearl diver. she comes from a long line of women who, using special techniques, master the art of holding their breaths and dive down into often frigid depths to retrieve crustaceans, mollusks, seaweed — and the most rewarding, pearls. these are sold for high prices and bring extra cash in for the family. shinju is young, but talented and dedicated to her craft — and as her mother before her has taught, she maintains a respect for the ocean and its majesty. she understands from first and experience that the ocean can take away just as much as it gives — for although it provides her with food and a steady income, tsunamis have also ravaged the populations of her kind for centuries.