lost carcosa ▷ writing storage

[lysander]

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lysander   asaell  male  seventeen  the snake


lucky child, dressed in red. beloved by the gods.

asaell sits, poised, upon gold-embroidered cushions in scarlet robes. offerings lay at his feet untouched; he has no use for them. wealth comes in spades when fortune is inexplicably drawn to you— like a magnet. he recalls a memory— the day he struck gold in his father's field. he was nine then— growing older with his growing luck —until one day it earned him audience with the magistrate.

asaell, he would say. come. your presence brings blessings.

  if only that were true.

it was sheer chance that let him save the magistrate's son. a mere mistake— a spilled goblet of poison on a silver spoon, tarnishing it with the tell-tale signs of arsenic. instantly, he became a favorite of the court— living lavishly alongside the elite and their inner circles.

but fortune has a way of balancing things. luck is a two-way street.

one day, far away from his home in the comfort of the palace, he heard news: a raid was staged on his village. his parents— robbed, killed, for the wealth he'd brought them. a month later, the magistrate's son— dead. a stray friendly arrow laced with poison left him cold by morning.

these serpentine blessings are curses in disguise.

he still receives visitors in his self-imposed exile. tales of his blessing travel far and wide— but no words nor gifts move him from his meditations, his asceticism— nor his mountainside hermitage.

please, they would say. lucky child, dressed in red, beloved by the gods— you bring good fortune!

and asaell, still poised, sitting upon gold cushions in scarlet robes, would reply— his voice steeped in bitterness:

  if only that were true.


 

[lysander]

username: lysander
name: rom
gender/pronouns: masc nb, he/they



scintillating flecks of light. two mesmeric kaleidoscopes of hidden intentions, secrets rituals locked behind pupils lit bright with cunning inquiry. curious, ever darting between objects of interest, but inquisition is interrupted with cautious glances behind; looks can be deceiving, after all. yet, if eyes could smirk, rom's are the perfect example; in them flicker mischievousness, only detectable with eyes more observant than his own.

yet for all the child-like naivete his ever-roaming pupils suggest, rom's gaze is deliberate, steeled, steady— always watching, always observing. they focus, hone in with precision, taking in his environment with a gaze cold and piercing. it is precisely that calculated vision that fuels the wide-eyed wonder mirrored in his gaze. he seeks knowledge— truth —or, in other words, light.

light, with which to illuminate the darkness of plato's allegorical cave.

such is the duty of the final seer, rom, who hides all manner of rituals, certain to reveal nothing— for true enlightenment need not be shared. indeed, it would take more than a third eye to read the mystery that is rom— his own, cat-like in the darkness.

oh, kosm— as you once did for the vacuous rom, grant us eyes !




[198]
shamelessly
bloodborne
inspired, yes

[lysander]

 

username: lysander  name: bonnie  gender: female (she/her)

a patissiere's apprentice's magnum opus! for now, at least.
dubbed affectionately the "blue angel," its french vanilla center is topped with a vanilla and blueberry infused cream complete with a drizzle of mint chocolate and white round sprinkles. the leaves shown are actually hand-crafted pieces of mint chocolate as well. in fact, almost everything shown is edible— from the blueberries to the cookie straws to the white chocolate wings! for an angel cupcake, it certainly has quite a lot of chocolate— because, frankly, chocolate is bonnie's guilty pleasure. she tries to include it in nearly anything she makes... whether it's a good idea or not.

...well, at least she's consistent!

personality; bonnie loves to indulge in the sweeter things in life, whether it's enjoying the slow moments of a summer breeze or... literal sweet things. easy going and laid back, she's not one to get angry easily, but when faced with opposition she loves nothing more than to let her actions speak for themselves. quietly competitive, she works diligently to study the art of baking and pastry-making, determined to show her dismissive (but otherwise loving) parents that she has what it takes to make her passion her living. she's a bit coddled, often underestimated in terms of skill, but all this does is fuel her drive to show everyone what she's made of. if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen!



 

[lysander]

　

username: lysander
name: orpheus
gender: male
gemstone and meaning:

orpheus is alexandrite. like the gem, he smiles brightly in broad daylight. a regular clown with a grin so practiced it looks natural, like the sun it sparkles in. but come darkness, that cheer gives way to something else— something darker, sinister, flushed blood red with ulterior motives only revealed in candle light. just like the gem, he changes.

do not meet him after dark— despite daytime appearances, he is not what he seems.
[75]

[lysander]

 

ＡＳＴＲＯＰＨＥＬ
_______________________________________
USER // LYSANDER   NAME // ASTROPHEL   GENDER // MALE


ranunculus flowers.
their distinct circular petal arrangement reminds him of a reoccurring dream he's had ever since he was young. in that dream, he's running through a labyrinthine garden, lost for what feels like days, weeks, months, years— until he catches the sweet scent of flowers in the air. he follows it, through twists and turns and bends until, at last, he reaches a gate. beyond the gate he sees an open field of flowers, and sitting amidst them, turned away, is another boy— a stranger, someone he's never met before— but somehow, just looking at him, he seems so familiar.

every time astrophel approaches him, the boy turns around to reveal his eyes have been replaced by flowers. then, he wakes up. he can never shake off the feeling of curiosity, of familiarity— that this boy is someone he knew once. perhaps in another memory, or another life. what astrophel doesn't know is that the boy is tied to a past he no longer remembers; he is a child of the faefolk, living as a human. a changeling. and that boy with the flower eyes? it's a symbol for the sacrifice he made to ensure astrophel's life: his sight.

vaguely based on this myth:  the ranunculus flower is also known by the name coyote eyes. according to native american legend, it earned this name when coyote was throwing his eyes into the air and catching them again to entertain himself. it seems that eagle suddenly swooped down and snatched coyote’s eyes from mid air. unable to see without his eyes, coyote plucked two buttercups from the field and fashioned them as new eyes.
a/n: trying to keep this short but i have ,,, a story already thought up skdjdkgd

[lysander]

 



username:  lysander   name:  lillian



┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
for the two of them, one another’s presence was enough.
to quietly coexist in silence. to breathe the same air, occupy the same space—
—to bear witness to one another’s existence.
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘

ugh, waxing poetic again.
she starts over. another paper, another poem.

┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
i believe that silence is golden,
and that its worth is measured
in moments between friends, a quiet
that needs not be broken.
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘

scratch that. how does she define something that simply just is?
she gives it one last try, seven words to say all that need not be said:

┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
who said soulmates had to be lovers?
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘




 

[lysander]

  the stars turn.

dancing orbits around constellations— this planetarium sky is your world entire.
you come alive when the melody begins to play, each note resonating with the beat of your heart.

yet— what heart do you have that is not brought forth by him?

he created you, after all. wrought you from clay and stone, a tiny figure set inside a music box.
that's all you are. a little porcelain dancer with your wooden vessel painted in the likeness of night. for all intents and purpose, you should not have a heart— cannot have a heart. you cannot speak, for you have no chords. your lips are ashen stone. even your eyes— no, especially your eyes —just two opalescent gems set carefully into your head. your arms are frozen above you, locked in pose mid-dance, perpetually turning on an axis. like copernicus' sun, you spin around a centrifugal force, and the painted planets in turn spin around you. this is your purpose— this, and nothing more.

but time works in mysterious ways, does it not?
they said that to love another person is to see the face of god.

he was so proud of you. called you his magnum opus, his treasure, nei tuoi occhi c’è il cielo. he set you high upon the mantle above his fireplace, next to the urn of his beloved mother. his visitors would gather around you, lift the lid and turn the crank to watch you dance. and dance you did—  but not for them. never for them.
  you performed for his eyes only. to fulfill the purpose you were brought to life for.

but the years grew long. the hearth, cold. it seemed as if no one wanted handmade artisanal goods anymore. his once-busy shop grew quieter and quieter, dust collecting on his shelves. visitors came less and less, and by the turn of the century he was penniless. forced to sell his crafts for a fraction of their value just to put food on the table.

 at last, it was your turn.

the way he looked into your eyes, you'll never forget. the sweetness, the tenderness with which he first made you— it was all there. but there was something different— something sad. his hallowed cheeks, the circles etched underneath his eyes. how many years passed, you wondered.  when did he grow so old?

gently, he lifts you from the mantle, turning the crank slowly, deliberately.
 he says nothing. the melody fills in the silence as you begin to dance for him,
                                    one
                                      l a s t
                                       t i m e

 you don't know how many years it's been. you've passed through the hands of so many generations you can't even begin to count. yet it all ends up the same way— in the window of some pawn shop, where you watch the crowds pass by in the streets. but sometimes a visitor comes by, enticed by the ornate design of your box. they open the lid, gently winding you up. the song etched into your memory begins to play as time seems to melt away—

    ─── and the stars turn  o n c e  a g a i n.





 

[lysander]

 




you were born a desert child.
brought forth underneath the stars and the vast expanse of sky unbroken by the jagged edges of those mountains you always hated so much. of course, you weren't yourself then— in the myriad eyes afforded to you by your lineage, you recall a past name, faint like a distant siren song.

what was it, then? your first name?

in faint flickers of memory you recall the sun burning the soles of your feet, barely covered by worn linens making up your makeshift footwear. you weren't alone, then. in that life, you had a companion— though you no longer remember his name or his face, you sense the silence between the two of you, unbroken because it didn't need to be. a kind of bond that needed no words to affirm it.

no matter how many lives you live, somehow this doesn't change: a yearning for the earth, shifting but solid underneath your feet. the dunes of your ancestors painted gold underneath the high sun. the constellations above, still like burning sentinels into the night.

how long has it been since your kind's exile?
too long

as of the present, your name is rom. you have seen many things, not all within your own lifetime. the soul residing in you cycles through life and death and being and unbeing, in-transit between futures you've long since learned to read. sif was the first to open his eyes, following close those threads of fate that so intertwined the past and the present. next was vatu, the first to establish the order of prophets from which you are descended. then, there was kima. ianto. cheza. the list went on. each name an individual whose life once thrummed with the force of your own. after all, to share a soul was an intimate thing; in every breath you take echoes the breath of all your pasts, all your ancestors, all the lives you once lived.

even so, you regard the lot of them as fools. the same soul you may share, but you are rom. you are not sif. not vatu. not kima, ianto, cheza, or any of the hundreds of names you once wore.

your name is rom, and your soul is very tired.

it brings back memories of your very first life, under the name of a boy who wandered the sands in search of something you believe you're still trying to find. a boy whose eyes were once turned towards the stars in their multitudes, looking for the answer to a question he could never find the words for. a boy who, for all intents and purposes, was in love with the very thing you loathe:

living.

when you die, you hope the desert will take you back.



 

[lysander]

 



──────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Ｖ Ａ Ｔ Ｕ
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────
username:  lysander   name:  vatu   gender:  male

look up at the stars.

he's got his eyes lost in them even as he sits beside you, his apprentice. the first prophet, vatu— in all his regalia, his majesty, his mystique —looks up at the sky with the eyes of a child. with two bright orbs so full of wonder.

you've heard all kinds of things about him. vatu, oracle of the gods. eye of truth. he who seeks light. yet, despite the titles bestowed upon him, the legends talked up by the masses in hush market-side whispers, something else seems undeniably true:
he is simple. a simple man, with simple desires.

don't you think it's amazing? he says, still gazing up above.
he lays down on the grass, patting the ground next to you— your cue to join him.

we are but dust in the great universe we reside in.
so small. yet, those lights far above us? dust, too.
big, swirling balls of dust. and on fire!

he laughs. the sound of it is carried away by the night wind. the clouds part, and moonlight bathes the hill in its glow.
a peculiar thought comes about— the overbearing awareness that you are here, in the grass-covered knolls outside your village, watching stars with the highly esteemed prophet. and yet, it feels so... natural.

when you first walked into the temple halls, asking to study under him the art of scrying, you were so, so nervous. you shook in your boots as the prophet walked down those high steps wearing the attire of the enlightened monks. yet as soon as he saw you, his face lit up with excitement. he ran down the steps, pulled you into a hug. from now on, you are my kin, he said. we are family.

that was six months ago. for weeks and weeks after your initial encounter, you found yourself reeling with the reality of it all. your new life, your new master. such a far cry from the home— no, house —you came from. from a place devoid of love and warmth, to the prophet's side, where every night beside the hearth he would tell stories upon stories of things you could never even imagine. you would see the fire reflect in his eyes like scintillating sparks.

he was in love with life. and for a while, you were jealous of that.

in the present, you lay down beside him, following his initial instructions. you look up at the stars and their radiant multitudes and you suddenly feel very, very small— but interconnected. just as he taught you. the realization of being a part of something far greater than yourself, and because of that you have value in this world.

your parents never taught you this. but vatu did. he didn't need foresight to do so.
he took your bruised hands in his own and told you the thing you never thought, in a million years, you would ever hear:

you are important.
and you remember that every time you look up at the stars.



personality ; ───────────────────────

big-hearted. kind. a constant vigor in his step and a smile to match on his face. vatu lives, perpetually, in the present despite all signs pointing to an old head on young shoulders─ or... is that really true? sometimes it's hard to tell, what with his child-like wonder at the world around him and the openness of his laughter. laughter that is contagious, at that. he wears his heart on his sleeve, emotions showing plainly on his face without reserve. still, some would say that for all his friendliness, there's yet still a mystery behind that warm smile. suppose that's what you'd expect from someone rumored to be a prophet.

upon being asked about his precognitive dreams, he only hums, seemingly distracted with a different task at hand. he says he never thinks much of it. his dreams are just that─ dreams. it just so happens that reality reflects them. but of course, such questions more often than not become opportunities for philosophy─ after all, who's to say that his dreams are not reality itself, and that the waking life we all partake in is nothing but a collective dream?

but vatu never lingers long on these questions. for being a monk, he's not very much a philosopher at all. he's grounded, earthy, real, like the soil beneath us. as far as he's concerned, actions always speak louder than words. it is not just the thought that counts, but whether that thought will lead to real, tangible change. he cares very little of conceptual nonsense, much preferring the objectivity of science. it's why the stars fascinate him so much, after all─ they are pure celestial beings that are proof of the wonders of our natural world.

and it is this natural world, the one we share, that fascinates him so much. one could even say, without much exaggeration, that he is in love with it─ this world around us. and everyone in it as far as, vatu is concerned, deserves to feel valued. his overreaching kindness may be mistaken as naivete by some of the more cynical, and vatu wouldn't necessarily disagree at times. he's had his fair share of mistakes, betrayals, heartbreak. but it is his firm belief that the world is beautiful not despite its ugliness, but because of it.

after all, how does that quote go?
if there were no night, we would not appreciate the day,
nor could we see the stars and the vastness of the heavens.

 

[lysander]

i just need to paste this here so i dont lose it



no. no, no, no no no. it's all wrong. all wrong– from the top now –pay attention to the intonation!

muscles ache in agony with no reprieve. with bow in hand, your limbs pull horsehair across metal strings, producing a tone from the instrument on your shoulder. your stand partner does the same— just as all the players in your section resume from measure five-thousand two-hundred forty-five, right at the top of that seemingly endless caesura. you sustain the note— a C natural melding in with the cellos' A, the violins' E— and the low hum of an F resounding from the bass section.

the maestro's hands stay raised and the note holds. seconds pass. minutes. you feel the pain in in your arm as minutes seem to turn into hours. in the background you hear someone fall over, caving into exhaustion. the maestro's men carry away the unconscious body out of the corner of your eye, no doubt to be later punished for his failure to perform. and yet still, the maestro's hand does not come down.

does he intend to play this song for eternity?

you here a crash, a mess of papers scattering to the floor. the caesura abruptly ends, punctured by the sound of crying. when you look up from your stand, you realize it's the maestro, sobbing into his hands. sheets of his magnum opus fly from the stage to the seats of an empty auditorium. no matter how much he writes— and rewrites it —somehow he is never satisfied. his attempts to capture that melody from a dream long gone prove fruitless time and time again, slowly turning the heat of passion into sick obsession.

this is the fate of the cursed maestro— a love for music doomed to be unrequited.