necr0-mantix

[necr0-mantix]

Sleep begat him as his mother coddled him; How he longed for it to be the embrace of peaceful death instead. The nightmare would waft to dreamless sleep, however.

And how he did not wish to wake. Even his first conscious thought as his senses stirred once again were that of wishing for deprivation of all feeling. The ache took his ability to rest from him, however, and he would groan and attempt to squirm, his muscles still refusing to work with his mind. He would barely move, shuffling, only managing to raise an arm and adjust his spine for mundane comfort.

But he could tell just from the softness of linen against his bare flesh that he had been moved to a proper resting area. He would be thankful for that at the least; the dull pains that throbbed across his body were foreign to him, and selfishly, he would welcome the comfort quietly as he opened his eyes - his vision still too far-gone to make out his surroundings in the dimly lit abode.

But as the body struggled, the spirit would endure with some semblance of strength; he could sense others and his mother still looming much to his dismay.

He had made noise. He would simply make another; a whine of frustration. Pathetic, but he could do nothing more to state his spite towards everything.

His dread pained her so. How was it he could not see ??? How was it he was so BLINDED by things such as balance and his own hatred for her ??? Where was the balance in allowing the Burning Hells to triumph ??? Where was the balance in having ALL HUMANITY become slaves for the demons ??? And where was the balance in allowing the Heavens to slaughter each and every one of them ??? No, Lilith could not allow it, she woud not sit idly by and just wait for either side to decide that Sanctuary and its people COULD NOT be left to go on as they were. Inarius puppeting them with his foolish gospel only served to accelerate Sanctuary's doom. He had surely known that. He wanted to do away with all they had created, every soul in Sanctuary was forfeit in his FOLLY. Things had progressed too far, THERE WAS TOO MUCH AT STAKE. Lilith had to step in, for Sanctuary, for her children.

Her heart ACHED to see the son she had crafted with her very own blood resist what they both knew was inevitable. Catacylsm, slaughter, the permanent loss of all which she had sculpted. An escape from the Eternal Conflict which had PLAGUED ALL OF EXISTENCE, corrupted and stolen by the very thing Lilith ran from. She had done all of this for him, for all of humanity and all of the nephalem that had fallen because of Inarius' FOLLY.

Things were to be better now, why had he fought against this with every bit of his strength ??? Nothing could hurt them anymore, nothing. It was all as it was MEANT TO BE, as it was designed from the instant she had met that tortured angel. Rathma was so much like his father set in HIS WAY, so certain that the path he walked was the sole means to nirvana. Any flaw in the design, ANY VOICE OF PROTEST was quick to be cast away. And now that the reality was too undeniable to him, he simply shut down.

In spite of it all, relief overpowered Lilith's frustration with his stubbornness. He was here, he was alive. Alive was generous for his current state, but she could repair this. He was not beyond her reach, past the veil which even her most DIRE OF MEASURES could not penetrate. But he had discovered that power, so many lifetimes ago and the people worshipped him for it. Though he despised it, there were those who REVERED HIM AS HE OUGHT TO BE. The very first of his kind, the one who survived so much needless suffering. The one who communed with that which felt SO VERY FAR from her and Inarius' reach. He was worthy of worship though he denied it, LOATHED IT EVEN. But the look upon the faces of those which revived him told the tale that his distaste for it was completely immaterial. They adored him all the same, they did not want to lose him just as his mother didn't.

" Do not despair so, " she murmured as her fingers gently pet his matted hair. " All is as it SHOULD BE. There is no war, no strife... "

#//. paradse; lilith's victory verse #{we plotted the scene earlier so I'm just movin' this along} #{he's up again}

[necr0-mantix]

World's Oldest Daddy

#.)) ooc #{i'll stop shit posting and do replies this week}

[necr0-mantix]

{{ Sorry I haven't been on much, I am checking every few days, but I've only got so much energy to invest in trying to get things rolling for what is, admittedly, an extremely niche character.

I am extremely active on Discord, and the majority of my RP and plotting has been happening there.

People are more than welcome to ask for it.}}

#.)) ooc #{been playing hardcore all season too while trying ti finish up other games too}

[necr0-mantix]

mendeln is a nerd

[necr0-mantix]

What was harder for you, to be a son or to be a father?

An exhale; Despite the warmth of the fire-lit study, the necromancer’s breath was as visible as winter’s. Arms wrapped behind his backside, his eyes would narrow and unfocus distantly into the flicker of his macabre decorated mantle.

“...one father’s absence of love can spur a desire for that child to give their offspring everything they were ever owed. A man can only try.”

He would say no more. Only sigh.

#. >> ask response

[necr0-mantix]

My Dearest Rathma,

How the stink of death is always about you, I could lose myself in that scent. I long to bury myself within you, become one with your flesh so I may be with it always. Be with you always. Thoughts of being with you have infected me so, it runs through my veins, has embedded itself within the pit of my belly. At times I wish I could tear the fetid organ out and scrape, scrape, scrape every bit of you out but I wonder if that absence would be a more dreaded fate. And how can I rid myself of you when death surrounds me? Every skull, every corpse, every loss of life screams of you. I’m surrounded, crushed by your presence. Do you feel the same? Have I become apart of your marrow, so deep that there is no hope of ridding your innards of me?

I long to see you again, Orin the Red

#. >> ask response #{Sineral coming in with the best reaction images again} #tw: orin

[necr0-mantix]

Karl Stauffer-Bern, Skull study, Museum of Fine Arts Bern, 1880-81

#.| aesthetics

[necr0-mantix]

It was not his body that reached to her shoulder; the red one's instincts were, somehow, more primal than his, and the nephalem knew that the twitch of prey would provoke a strike from the crimson serpent. Rather, it was his essence - his very soul - that barely manifested in a pale teal light, flicking in and out of the plane of the living. Cold, barely feeling — Rathma's touch was an icy shiver that would prickle the very foundations of what made flesh be.

Truth. Lies. I speak only of what I feel from you, child of Baal. You are a predator. But I am not prey. I am the cycle of which you tip the scales of balance askew. I am both your equal, and your folly. And I can be so much more if you would simply be mine instead. You could be so much more.

The gentle hiss to her mind was practically demonic; he could sense his own falter in morality, but, there was something about this one. She was more alike him than he wished to admit, and suspicion had arisen through the whispers of his own who had strayed from the balance. To gamble his time, and the lives of his followers, was a risk that he was willing to take for, at the very least, answers. If not entertainment.

Rathma, what imagery there was of his soul, would displace his hand, opening what little shape of arm there was in his apparition with ritualistic and intended beckoning, his light dimly illuminating their surroundings with the gentlest chime.

Allow me to learn from you, so that I may teach you of death, Orin. We are not meant to be enemies. We may be more alike than you realize.

Orin’s knife remained hovering above the tendons and veins of his neck as his words sounded within its skull. Head canted to the side, grin as curved as the dagger which REMAINED STILL above the still flesh. Any sign that Rathma was ready to resume control of the meat sack which Orin was poised to cut and slice once more. Every ligament, every bone was waiting for him to return. Orin was READY TO SLICE, every sinew and muscle taut with the anticipation of the first sign of movement to flick the wrist just so. How the blood would flow, spill-spilling from the dermis and run to where bones made concave pockets to allow the STICKY CRIMSON to pool there. Orin would adore to bend to his neck as it gushed forth his life juices and SLURP up what she could. Would it be warm ??? Or would his BRIEF FLIRTATION with death keep it cold and stale ??? Either way, Orin would happily lap up what they could. Allow it to coat the interior of her larynx and settle in their belly. Would it congeal within the gray maze of MUCUS LINED intestines ??? Or would her own gore provide that WARMTH THE SANGUINE FLUID REQUIRED ???

Jaw tightened and brow furrowed in displeasure. Even their most BLISSFUL FANTASIES of vivisecting his fetid corpse could not drown out the line of thought he had weaved into her own thoughts. Why was it he lingered on so ??? Not in his OWN BODY, but within the spools of its brain ??? Even hours, days, weeks apart their conversations ( and the lovely butchering of him ) managed to stay, to ferment within her. It was as though he had PRIED HER MAW OPEN wide enough to reach the most sacred of places within it. Once there, he plucked his own ideologies and placed it JUST SO that it would not fade. Would not erode away with all other UNWELCOME THINGS within a body, would not be swallowed up by the current of blood in veins. Nor could it be torn apart bit by bit by the stomach acid meant to DISCARD WASTE and all other unwanted things. No, all Rathma was and all he spoke was apart of her now. His blade curved beneath their ribs with SUCH PRECISION that she had not noticed, the tip of the weapon had met her heart and planted the seed of his dogma. And, completely unbeknownst to it, the heart PUMPED ALL OF IT THROUGHOUT HER BODY. She could flay herself but, no matter HOW METICULOUS her work was, there was no untangling what had taken root within. He was within her now, there to stay.

Knowledge and companionship held little regard within Orin. They were for ones softer than she, ones whose hands could never wield a dagger properly, ones who did not know the FIRST THING of butchering a corpse to ensure the best cut of meat was harvested. No, it was neither Orin craved. It was simply him. She swallowed thickly at the revelation, the bile within her threatened to SPILL OVER if it did not consciously suppress it. " You are not so IGNORANT that you cannot deduce the truth, " was all they offered in response.

#//. verse tbd #{orinorinorinorinorin}

[necr0-mantix]

#.)) ooc

[necr0-mantix]

-:“I really don’t wanna get up, love” Lazy morning prompts-:

By @me-writes-prompts

“Can we please go back to sleep? I’m tired.”

“My muscles are aching.” “They weren’t aching last night when we were…” “Shut up. That's exactly the reason why they are aching right now.” (🤨)

“If you promise to carry me to the bathroom, I’ll get up.”

They don’t want to get up, but they do anyway, because their partner has made them their favourite breakfast(<3333)

“Coffee time! Let’s get you out of bed.” “But-,” “No buts.”

Smooching them all over the face, because that’s the only thing that gets them to wake up

Whispering gently in their ear to wake them up(this! THISSS)

“We can shower together if you get up.” (**blushes**)

“I don’t wanna go to work today, can we just cuddle? Please?” “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“I’m not kissing you until you get yourself off that bed and brush your teeth and shower.” “Unfair.” “No kisses for you then.” “Hey!”

“Wake up!!!” *sprays water on your face and laughs maniacally at your reaction*

#/./ rp memes #{Sin told me to reblog this}

[necr0-mantix]

so season 3 of D4...big thought

did anyone else find Malphas' words to Ayuzhan about Kulle to be supremely gay or is it just me?

#.)) ooc #{and you know me} #{I don't point this thing at a lot of characters} #{but holy hell that was gay}

[necr0-mantix]

Rathma and Malthael were poker buddies.

#.)) ooc #{not shit posting} #{been plotting and RPing this privately for months} #{it is also canon the angel of death gambles and sucks at it}

[necr0-mantix]

// R-Rathma Scythe?

#.)) ooc #Diablo 4 #{not gonna lie this slaps}

[necr0-mantix]

The necromancer watched as the pallid one attempted a meager cleaning of her own mess; adjusting his offal back into place in, what he could sense, was an attempt to allow him to mend his mortal wounds faster. Wholly unexpected.

His essence had stripped from his body, and with perfect vision of everything around him with a sense of everything - no longer confided by the restraint of flesh - he debated; did he make his presence known? Manifest his energy to ghostly form, or simply observe this hell-blessed creature for as long as possible, to see how long it took before she became frustrated at his lack of action? An amusing prospect.

But, there was only so much time he could give for his own entertainment. He needed to know Baal's intentions. Why this thing had the abilities it did. Why her very essence felt so painfully nostalgic.

The incantation would not be spoken for his healing; it would simply be thought. And just as his thoughts cradled his broken flesh to urge it's healing, it would slip into what little seemed to be left of her mind, whispering at the back of her mind like the eldritch horror his progenitors claimed him to be.

The child of murder wants for the company of simple death still? What is your true urge, Orin? Are you to kill me once more upon my first breath, or is it knowledge you crave? Or companionship on the fringe of life with one who understands the beauty of the macabre?

Orin watched as the life faded from him, pale hand which wasn't so close to his innards held onto his hand which gripped its shoulder. She pushed against him to easier YANK the blade from his belly. They stepped back as the GREAT RATHMA fell to his knees, his intestines peeking through the wound just enough give Orin a THRILL. She could dig nails into his open belly, peel open the wound further and unspool his entrails. But she was WELL ACQUAINTED with the process of Rathma's body reforming itself ; anything taken from the carrion would result in maggots and flies to feast on the wet insides left behind. He would begin to ROT AWAY, it would take much too long for him to return. And Orin was NOT finished with him yet.

The changeling straddled his hips and her hands, slick with his juices shoved the intestines back inside. The dagger bequeathed to her from the Murder Lord himself was poised right at his throat. Their pale eyes carefully watched his face, waiting patiently for the VERY FIRST MOVEMENT he made. The matter of how long this would take crossed its mind, but with a wound so clean it couldn't be long. She wasn't done talking with him, the murder was to send a very clear message. It was NOT here to be reformed, for its blade to be dulled. Orin was the CHOSEN OF BHAAL, his mighty weapon to cleave and butcher ALL. Balance was of no concern, Orin was given a mission MOST UNHOLY from the tongue of her Father and she would fulfill it.

There was an UNDENIABLE INTEREST Orin had in him. Little bits of bone and innards from each of his deaths had accumulated in the back of its mind until there was an entire mass grave worth of intrigue of meat and skeletons there. ALL FROM HIM. She thought of him often, and he most DEFINITELY COULD SEE IT. Why else would he humor her so after all of the times her blade had stabbed and sliced every part of him ???

#tw: gore #tw: lmao orin again #//. verse tbd

[necr0-mantix]

An Archangel. He should have known; should have been able to tell, but the reverberations of his father's presence were now long distant. The growing apathy that stirred withim him had left him mundane; unable to scry his own heritage, and it seemed it had left him in some semblance of actual danger for the first time in uncountable years.

Yet, despite his churning anxiety, the necromancer's marble face would remain stoic. Not expressionless, but still flat. A smile of respect, his head and shoulders returning to a bow.

At first, he contemplated explaining his reasoning; his curiosity towards the cycles of life and death had been the start of necromancy itself, and it's continuation out of nothing but love for his descendants, but still, despite the angels taking no part in his art, spurned it. Everything they did was abhorrent to them. There was no point unless his opinion was asked for. This one seemed as particularly on edge as his father, and that, the explosion of anger from the most minute spark, was enough for him to bite his tongue.

"Demons were made to promise not to interfere with the lives of men," Rathma would begin, his speech hurried, "And for that, I am here to send them back to hell. To maintain the balance of this world. They are a danger to humanity."

He would not speak of angels also breaking said promise; granted, if this one were not meddling with the affairs of men, then he flew in a grey area.

✞ Once he straightened upright to acknowledge them, he was stiff as a monument until they spoke. But eyes-- or his equivalent-- were watching them intently. Perhaps it was good to seem weak in the light of this angel, one that reveled in the thought of a foe worthy of being proof to his devotion. And how it slowly eased immaculate muscle beneath black marble skin to hear them speak with respect. In his mind it was usually a good sign.

" A nephalem? I see... I have not known one in a very long time. " He's slain some, before, but it was long ago. Even without anger his voice was rigid and uniform, but you could hear the slightest earnest inner life beneath his discipline-- it was fascinated, curious. Even if not enough to reduce his efficient and impersonal formalities, enough to allow the other to speak. His first motion is to finally loosen into a lean forward, hand onto his knee, hand still raised as it grips the hilt of the sword he leans on. " Of course, Rathma... surely you must know a dark art, with such disrespect for the dead as necromancy, is an abomination... " A tone rising just slightly with condemnation, but it lowers, though it's unclear by his cold cadence if he was irritated or almost being lighthearted. " ... But at least you are honest. "

At the request for his name, he does grip his earth stabbed sword with both armored hands and stand tall, a hand at rest on his hilt. " I am Gabriel, Archangel of Strength . You are not what I come for, I seek demons... As Heaven wills it. "

#//. verse tbd #{sorry for the wait} #{I got hit with big depresso}

[necr0-mantix]

It has been ages since he had last seen an angel and this one had a temper.

The chimes of nostalgia rang like a violent symphony in the back of his mind; this one's demeanor reminded him far too much of valor. And where valor stood, wrath would hide within it's shade. The necromancer stepped forth with no sound; no weapon in hand, nor armor to protect. Nothing more than an ebon cloak and a knife of bone - ornamental - upon his belt. He would keep his hands visible, open, to express how little he truly did not wish to upset this cousin, and he hated to admit that it made him seem weak; as if he were submitting - something he would not bear to truly do. Not again. Angels were, somehow, more unpredictable than demons, even if more focused on their causes. Silver eyes would watch the winged one intently, scanning for even a twitch of unfamiliar movement as he began to speak, an introduction of most formal tone,

"I am Rathma. A necromancer. A nepahlem."

There was a brief pause - hesitation - as he contemplated explaining more, but he held his tongue on explaining further. If there were questions, they would be asked, just as he too would inquire towards the heavenly one,

"...I know what you are, but I know not who. If I may be so blessed as to know your name..."

The honorifics made him uneasy, but, he knew of his father's ways. And he would rekindle those memories if only to navigate this conservation and keep his flesh.

@necr0-mantix // ❤'d

✞ He looked motionless in his armor, head laying at rest half bowed, a sword drawn and used to prop up his arm where he sat, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in contemplation, rest before he ventured further. He was a beacon of light all his own in the night with his halo's impossible glow, the light of his broad wings. But slowly his faceless helm raises and his voice, a commanding sound, rings out.

" ... What hides in darkness is an enemy to Heaven. Make yourself known now... Or I will drag you into God's light by your heels. " It was not unusual for any passing creature to pause as they encounter the angel, anyone else he might ignore, it was only that this presence felt... strange to his inner light.

#//. inner balance; main verse #{works absolutely fine} #{ o / }

[necr0-mantix]

Lack of Sleep Starters!

pronouns and context can be changed as you see fit.

When was the last time you actually got some rest?

Alright, that's it. You're going to bed, and I'm not taking no for an answer.

Look at you! You're spilling coffee.

You have bags, and I'm not talking about the Gucci kind.

Jesus, have you been awake the entire night?

It's 4am. You need sleep.

You're safe here. You can rest now.

I promise, I'm fine. I just look tired a lot, thanks to... the tiredness.

Look, I'm okay! I've pulled all nighters before.

This isn't the first time I've gone without sleep.

I'll carry you to bed if I have to.

Do I need to baby you?

Huh? What? I'm awake, I swear!

You just ran into the wall. It's time to lie down.

Go. To. Bed. That's an order.

I made a nest for you. You can sleep in that, if you want.

Can I get an extra pillow / blanket?

Want me to tuck you in, too?

I'll check in on you in an hour. You'd better not have moved.

#/./ rp memes