#Elegy with Sky & A Closed Casket | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ffxivimagines · 4 years

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dona nobis pacem | minific

Warnings for: character death, SHB spoilers, angst, references to unhealthy coping mechanisms, the result of a multi-century fixation ending in the worst way possible, character injury, blood, canon-typical violence, mild body horror

100% inspired by @surfacage ’s Bad End piece. Thank you for making me cry. (I hope this is to your taste ;;w;;)

Ao3 Link

Here’s your cue to scroll past and avoid spoilers or otherwise triggering content! Beware!

They do not have a paper, nor a crier or any other newsfolk, but everyone still knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not have a paper in the Crystarium, nor a crier or any other newsfolk with which to deliver assorted information to all. However, despite this and all other underdeveloped facets of the bastion city, everyone knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not need headlines in sharp-smelling ink to believe it, having been haunted by fanciful offers of adventure the moment they rest their heads for nigh on a fortnight. There is a whisper of promise carried on the wind that they can taste. It is heady and familiar as if wrought from worn scripture. Whenever someone says they know it, recognize it, there is a note of terror to their confession.

The Warrior of Darkness has fallen. They who speak in tongues and borrow his voice are but a ghost built from desperation and aether. The Exarch knows it is madness to reside hand in hand with a facsimile of godhood, but he does it gladly, hood ever up and obscuring his face. They need not ask him why—not when they can see the edges of shimmering, blue tear tracks beginning to blend into the steadily spreading crystal of his curse—and seek to avoid doing so for fear of finding themselves face to face with a broken man.

There are no sightings outside the Tower, the Exarch and his little toy god happily locked up together in the recesses of Allagan royal suites, but the people know. They grieve for the man they knew and the love that killed him.

There is no adoration for their half-savior, not when his demise has brought their only hope for survival down to his knees in prayer. With every word that rings hollow in the air, their hatred grows.

“The Exarch is recuperating,” they have been told by the guard. “His strength was sorely tested.”

“By who,” they ask, “and how? What could prove so taxing to a man who leapt through time?”

And though there has been no spoken answer, they know. From the moment the Tower flickered, aether sputtering and flickering in protest to an invisible strain, they knew. The sky simply agreed with a blinding rush of neverending Light.

The day the Warrior of Darkness fell, so too did their Exarch’s heart shatter. His Tower, the symbol of his life and blessing of protection, had nearly faded from their sight. They felt the echoes of battle in the groaning and creaking, worried for his health when fissures rained flakes of crystallized aether down upon them, but he had returned. He was not hale, but they had assumed he was whole. What an oversight, that.

They learned quickly that the Exarch is mad over love. What an end for such a visionary, to be tempered so (though, for some, they say it is not separate from his adoration. That devotion is one and the same). The creature he calls by name and laughs with is volatile in how it smiles and jokes back, an old friend come home, with far fewer scars and none of the trauma from the time after the Crystal Tower’s doors had shut back on the Source. He has built his own coffin and proceeded to tuck himself in as if comfortable living within a blue-gold bubble of fable and falsehood.

For those who have known him, it is nauseating.

For those who knew the one he lost, it is infuriating.

“Stop this,” Alisaie pleads, voice muffled through the doors of the Ocular. “You know better than most that this is not what he would want.”

She has been there every day for a month. Alphinaud has visited, but it is Alisaie’s persistence that has run her ragged where all others have stopped. Teleporting between the Inn’s aethertye and that of the Crystarium has eaten away at her Gil same as her energy, but still, she persists. Behind the locked doors, the fake that wears her friend’s face leans his head against the Exarch’s own with a dull thok.

They do not answer.

(A little part of her is jealous that the Exarch can turn off his cares for the rest of the world so thoroughly as he does for the sake of his fabricated hero. What she would not give to be so singlemindedly greedy.)

The Scions wish to grieve. They have his body, the casket, knowledge of the badly penned will left in his inn room to the left of his aetheryte earring, but they lack the person they know the Warrior would most love to send him off. Alisaie is not the only one waiting. However, no matter what they ply the Exarch with, he does not allow them the concession of allowing their friend to rest, or releasing the (for all intents and purposes) Primal who has been made to wear his face.

They were there when he fell and in the moments after. Ryne could not stop the Light, Alphinaud’s magic too feeble to seal the wounds torn into being across the Warrior’s body, and the Exarch... what could he do so far from the Tower? And so they had watched, helpless, as Emet-Selch brought his grand fury to bear against their faltering aegis. Watched him shatter and collapse to his knees time and time again until it becomes a mercy when he does not yet rise.

But it is not his last stand.

With axe in hand, he leverages to his feet once more. There are no defined steps, no head held high, no righteous fury. Where stories had said he was indomitable, terrifying, untouchable─this person is not him. This bleeding, dying warrior is mortal and just as flawed as all the rest and yet the world is stacked upon his shoulders as if his bones will not be ground to dust in the shadow of its magnitude.

He takes one step and then another, feet slipping and scuffing along the ground, and then stops. He hefts the axe, palms sticky-slick with blood, but can do no more.

Hades laughs at his struggle and the sound reverberates in the cage of his ribs. What bitter mockery it is to see his friend-turned-enemy struggling to stand. Hydaelyn’s Champion is nothing but a husk at his feet, soul sundered and aether long since spent. He reaches out and very carefully snuffs out the overflowing Light with a practiced hand. This will be his final victory against Her Champion.

This is his final elegy for a friend.

And then, in a show of pity, he allows the body to stay whole. He rescinds his darkness, the many, many masks and names and memories he carries, and steps down to pay his respects. The Exarch does not allow him that liberty, for the moment his feet all but brush the ground, the aether of his domain shivers.

He had not designed the Allagans to have such comparable power to that of his creation, but (then again) he had not accounted for the mistakes of late royalty nearly turning his plans to cinders. The Crystal Exarch fumbles his way toward his fallen friend and pulls his body into his arms, hands trembling but face blank. He calls to him, desperate. His voice cracks.

Emet-Selch smiles. At least, for once in all his ages and eons, something just as wretched as he is mourning their loss. He waits and he watches. Detached.

(A part of him resents the hand that suffocated that Light, but that is the same part of him that has been around since Amaurot rose around his ears. He is not so willingly naive, anymore.)

The aether trembles and shakes in fits and starts and the crystal creeping its way up the Exarch’s cheek slides a little further outward. He holds the Warrior close to his heart, a hand resting on his head as if to protect. What could he do for a body that is devoid of life, truly? No matter how tightly he holds him, no matter the silent prayers he devotes tot he Twelve, it will all be for naught.

Sitting there with the bloodied crest of the Warrior’s head tucked under his chin, the Crystal Exarch cries. The entire First follows suit.

The crystal lances up and onto his yet untouched cheek and spiders outward like cracks on fine china. It does not consume him in full, but there is a dullness to his grief mirrored in the wide-eyed wildness of his disbelief. The Warrior cannot be dead. There is no way.

But the body in his arms gives no sputtering breaths, no soft whispers of stubborn aether. It is empty.

And every effort he has made turned to waste.

There is no clear shift where his mourning turns to rage, but by Hydaelyn’s will it is felt. The quaking becomes pressure and a crushing embrace that screams in intrinsic tongues, “You will never have atoned enough for this sin.”

When the might of the Crystal Tower is brought to bear, there are few who could oppose it. The cost is great, though, and there is a hardening of more than feet and back and hips, but even that of heart.

If the Warrior of Darkness has died, so too has the man called G’raha Tia.

And so, the Crystarium mourns. The Scions mourn. The false god ever lives.

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dk-thrive · 5 years

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when days shorten and shadows lengthen

"The November sky will once again be validated with a black spell of starlings, and I will want to leave the cold as I always do when days shorten and shadows lengthen from that far edge of woods. In fallen light these trees seem closer, leaning toward an abandoned field as if to listen. And silence, perfect witness when there is nothing left to be said, will wait for another evening before it rises and makes its way across the once scorched weeds to a scene worked over & over"

- Greg Sellers, from “Elegy with Sky & A Closed Casket, ”work-in-progress (20–) (via Memory’s Landscape)

#Greg Sellers #November #fall #autumn #light #silence

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da-da-sk · 6 years

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“The November sky will once again be validated with a black spell of starlings, and I will want to leave the cold as I always do when days shorten and shadows lengthen from that far edge of woods. In fallen light these trees seem closer, leaning toward an abandoned field as if to listen. And silence, perfect witness when there is nothing left to be said, will wait for another evening before it rises and makes its way across the once scorched weeds to a scene worked over & over,”

— Greg Sellers, from “Elegy with Sky & A Closed Casket,” work-in-progress (20–)

@memoryslandscape

#greg sellers #poetry #thank you #da-da-sk

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glorykrp · 7 years

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taken from nebulaent.com: loading the profile of tae…

yoon taemin ( born october 31st, 1996 ), better known by his stage name tae, is an idol under nebula black as escape’s leader and main vocalist. prior to the group’s debut, he trained for six years. his hometown is recorded as incheon, south korea. loading latest news…

PERSONAL LIFE.

of all things unearthed, his hands bear the most callouses: pomegranate heart, wireframe veins—

introduction to dawn that spills too late, succulent with the reek of deaths: against the pale of the night comes the wither of the day, all sickly yellow with its spidery fingers fissuring the sky. this is what has become of the war, and despite the victory marching around the edges with its tapestries and encores, there’s no turning back to the ink that bleeds dark in his bed. it is as though the darkest hour has moved to the crack between him and him, and draws an abyss too wide for them to cross.

still, he searches blindly in his sleep, a wrist dangling off the cliff.

one an end lay his fiends, growing milk teeth sharper than any surgical instrument, and on another lay his priests, raising golden goblets filled to the brim with wine of emotions. the clatter of the metals is always distant, almost unheard of. the former tends to draw the canyons and flees with the rest, leaving the latter with nothing but nullified intents.

ii.

umma soaks bone-deep into the haunting silence of threnody.

last child was birthed with poems tangled in his hair, pulverizing the bones of wishes of birthing a daughter. three sons, a legacy. named after another king, he’s destined to become another puppet on elaborate strings. taemin for every sharp contour of her framed reflection, taemin for every stilled mayhem of umma’s sullen heart. he resembles umma in too many ways, and when umma combs her fingers through the locks of his brown strands, he can almost hear the whisper of doctrines infused through the scalp.

umma binges on private moments of catastrophe, humming too many elegies veiled as lullabies. he sees through umma’s sorrow as a child and learns to wear his own like a robe. this is the art of rebirthing after a young death.

iii.

skeleton beckons for a name that splinters. this bridge is rotten pomegranates, seeds dripping from each creak. the red stains her soles and draws her blood; the red consumes to construct and deconstruct. in the morning hours specked with singed stars, she drains her body of life – her life is fading in a room too many. in her hand, the clammy fingers of a husband’s. she’s a lungful of a quiet battle cry until the war comes to a close, its lips sutured by the weight of his scream.

he steps out of the holy room with a death in a hand and a message in another.

a wife’s last wish becomes the liberty of a last child’s.

iv.

umma’s closed casket ceremony shapes the family: appa wrings his iron fists around his brothers, and leaves him behind for the house beasts to feast on. he swallows loneliness for breakfast and fragile longings for dinner. he closes his eyes to his brothers’ weary faces, and opens them again to see their backs turned on him. all that he knows is how their paths are mapped before them, while his own is a barren road devoid of a parent’s hand. all that’s there would be the signs carved out of umma’s abraded fingerprints.

taejun and taehyun house appa’s insignia in their stomachs, with their names written on the family legacy. skyscrapers of a hospital mark their futures effortlessly.

he drowns in limbo for a moment, hands clasped in prayers with nails embedding themselves into umma’s favorite rosary. but sooner or later, he’s bound to forget the church halls, as god does not answer to a boy whose mouth is full of howls.

teenage wasteland comes, and he sinks into another ocean. youth anthems become the anchor tied to an ankle. mother’s shame a forgotten sailor song, and he submerges himself deeper into this manmade euphoria, baptizing himself as another lost boy. the water body swallows him and never spits him up for years. when he surfaces, he sees her as a beacon that guides him back to the shore.

two years, almost three. he’s a mouthful of cigarette smokes, corruption running thick in his veins. decadence is another brand of the night, until a wake up call comes in the form of the ghost that dreams of his future. he thinks of her in every step, and starts working to become the person that he wants to be.

he never truly leaves his youth behind, however: this is a dichotomy that divides him. this is a dilemma that encloses him. he takes a gulp of adulthood, but still dons his adolescence like a second skin. this is the age of transition.

PERFORMANCES.

a vocalist through and through, with a unique tone to his voice, taemin has a lot in his disposal in terms of musicalities. he owns an extreme prowess in altering the colors of his voice according to the genres of the music, rendering the songs versatile and rich. he’s blessed with both talents and fortitude when it comes to singing, but the same cannot be said for other parts. he’s a strong dancer only after the years and years of rigorous trainings, refusing to go home until he perfected certain moves, but this did not happen until the last of his training years. at the beginning of it, he tended to be complacent with his position as a vocalist, until the possibilities of not debuting loomed.

he also understands that having his background checked might cause a lot of troubles for escape. thus, instead of letting people find his old faults, he chose to cover them by his current reckless actions and wordings. this is against the company’s plan for him, for sure — he was only asked to become the clown, not the troublemaker. he makes calculated reckless comments, cunning on his own rights. this, however, has been something that the company warned him about, although he’d say that changing wouldn’t really be that easy.

2017 INTERVIEW.

it tasted like a paradox: fame is a cathedral of both virtues and vices. after years of struggling to win his family’s approval, especially coming from his father’s stern disprove, debuting almost felt like ashes disintegrating on his tongue. it felt like swallowing glass shards too, sometimes, after years spent under the artificial lights of the trainee studio, practicing the choreographies again and again until his ankles ached. but he’s finally here, on the stage, with their fans chanting his full name.

and it feels like a race on a fast-paced track, knowing no moment of pausing. knowing no sliver of breathing. there’s no room for it — simply a schedule after another, suffocating him. and that’s when he started to speak up, acting out. he shouldn’t, he knows. as a leader, should’ve set a good example. yet, he doesn’t. yet, he isn’t. he’s a weary mind with a sharpened tongue, going against the current set by nebula. it’s only about time that the company will reprimand him for his actions — but while he’s on top, while he’s protected by the silhouettes of the light sticks waved by ctrl, he’s safe. he’s safe, at least for now.

#krp #kpop rp #glr: profile #glr: black #glr: escape

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denouae · 4 years

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finifugal: verse iv.

cigarette ash like wildfire, burning holes in the nighttime. verse four, as endorsed by the historical portraits, hung askew.

this is a story where a boy eats himself and never spits the flesh out. shrapnel bones and papier-mâché skin against your palate: hemorrhage painting your insides with the color of unrest, carving a private death in the confines of your own ribcage.

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares— sanity never comes away in a bang.

you partake in the game played between mortals made serpents. your unholy intents, their forked tongues. it’s an all-night dance. the music is an overture of reprised elegies. hands on hips, hands on shoulder blades, hands on throats.

you come out alive. but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

she is the baby’s breath in his summer, counting filaments of the sky through the rim of her sun-kissed dress. when she threads her fingers between his, heat. pooled at the stomach, rusting on his cheeks. some of those afternoons smell like forgotten nightmares, sunk in the collarbones of his daydreams. some of those evenings haze his thoughts in the stained glass of emotions, cracking through his visions. he brings her home and locks his monsters in their caskets.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

she maps poetries into his skin and he traces the constellation of her teeth. she is made of soft carnage and he, the victim. he doesn’t mind the casualty, cutting his ribcage to let her fingers curl around his heart. she pulses red and he breathes in her dust.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

ii.

maybe more than you should have.

she holds the small of your fingers. a smile splinters the pale of her lips. he isn’t smiling. he reads between the lines, catching implications between his trembling teeth. she holds the small of your fingers. he caresses the brittle of her skin.

the silence echoes. her tongue wraps around three syllables, tasting more than a whisper. the silence blossoms and suffocates the room. except for the static noises, always the static noises. it’s a uniform sound that punctures his ears they bleed shards.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

her residue. his empty daydreams. somehow the color of the summer sky resembles blood more than sorrow. he keeps bleeding; there’s no scar tissue, just open wounds. he decorates the jutting bones of his knuckles with ire. catharsis comes in the beauty of bruised roses. sometimes when he laughs, you think he’s angry.

he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

you were architected to carry an empire in you.

vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

on good days, messages become concave like braille and you will trace the letters that perforate your skin, thinking that it is how it feels to have a mother. on good days, the kids that wear cheshire grins and early claw marks will leave you alone, at the corner of the room, so that you can speak with her.

she is beautiful.

( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

a. ) he takes you for a walk. your shadows are elongated, and sometimes they shiver. you swear they falter when they are not trying to smother. their crooked smiles become the shade of your existence. how do you tell your father that you are haunted?

b. ) she is background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

c. ) god feels like a dream at the back of your head. you cover your knees with dust and fold your hands in prayers. you close your eyes to see god, but instead, you see flickers of faces. how do you whisper to god and ask him to save you without them listening?

viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

first:

acid corrodes the corners of your mouth. you smile too much, too wide. he is proud of you when you do, not seeing the globules of red that form on your lips. sometimes, you trade them with an ashen mouth: say you’re older than you actually are, pretend you’re smarter than you actually are. he is proud when you do, not seeing that it’s a forked tongue that grows underneath your palate. they will laugh with you, at you. the kids with cheshire grins and early claw marks are no longer present. instead, it’s the grown-up kids with christened lust and empty decadence that won’t leave you alone, even on good days.

second:

you are a hollow blue shell when it’s three in the morning. fold your legs against the bare of your chest. water, streaming. warmth, engulfing. it’s so cold outside, inside. what brews within: the purpling heartbeat of a growing child, trapped in the illusion of adolescence. it is hard, harder when you are in the company of the darkness that stutters on your collapsing hands. unanswered questions, engraved on your bones — except that it’s too late to ask, too late to pass it as another excuse for a childhood disturbance. there is no such thing as an imaginary friend when you’re twelve.

third:

ask the god in your sleep if you’re dreaming. ask him if you’re sleeping with your eyes open. primal desires embed themselves on the lines of your arms. he is a stark contrast against the skin of your thighs. maybe it’s because you have her eyes. maybe it’s because she lives inside your bones. you don’t know, don’t care. he tastes like stale cigarettes and too much alcohol against your spine, stubborn and inebriating.

ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

bruises embody his detonations. he looks tired, but alive for once. you don’t speak when his knuckles rupture the fragility in the dying war. you don’t move when his weary limbs pretend that they aren’t weighted by the lingering ghosts.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. what’s left: splinters. these days fill themselves to the neck with digging your nails into your skin. you are a cathedral of burning, tendrils of black billowing from your crevasses. you are a pair of tangled feet on the brim of apocalypse, waiting for darkness to swallow you whole.

when it does, it never spits you out.

xi.

you are pronounced dead on your sweet sixteenth; a detonation within the ribcage in the company of an unpinned grenade. the pin: between your teeth, clasped so tightly you shudder. and in here, where you buried your corpse without an open-casket ceremony. nails burrowed in your flesh instead of the coffin. in here, where you decayed your insides in the process of atrophies. talents illuminated a number of necrosis instead.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

( or both. )

xii.

how does it feel, being a stranger to your own body? you imagine that your fingers aren’t yours, standing under the shower for hours hoping to shed your skin off your flesh. the sight of the red and blue can’t be more fascinating.

a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

question:

do you run from the beasts in your reality, or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

and this is it — the run, run, run. in your fisted palm is a lungful of blood, drained from others’ veins. they call it a sacrifice. they call it an escape. what they actually call it: an exodus. what you actually call it: your carnages. how do you tell bloodshed apart from your fractured facts?

( you don’t. )

#abt.#ver: iv.#tw parental death #tw parental neglect #tw animal cruelty #tw mental illnesses #tw body horror

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adventk-blog · 7 years

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— ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE,

introducing KIM JONGIN, a MUTANT, under the moniker of PLAGUE — and currently a believer of SEPARATION. age ( twenty-four ) and gifted with the ability of CONTAGION EMBODIMENT, they are currently working as an HEIR.

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

the corpses of your sanity taste like copper in your lonely mouth.

licks your lips clean from the residue of your nightmares— sanity never comes away in a bang.

you come out alive. but not intact. never intact.

turn the clockwork around, however, and clasp the zeroes between your teeth.

your body is a husk, containing the hollow echo of your scream.

how the nights end: arched spines, tiptoeing whispers. she washes his mouth with her wine. he is afraid of diluting her insides with acid.

knees to the floor, mouth colored with wishes. there is something different about the way her tongue wraps around the simple word.

darkness descends. you consume her.

ii.

maybe more than you should have.

you make her a martyr, and him, a fallen soldier.

iii.

he fills you with his ruins.

he lathers his mouth with her ashes.

you have her eyes. sometimes he looks into them, looking past you. he stares at them for the longest time.

iv.

he says you learned fast, breaking sentences into slivers, smearing fingertips with ink. what you failed to learn: your shadows sometimes flicker.

you fear darkness but it fears you more.

the black is serrated, teeth razor sharp against your jugular. your moments between sleep are painted with ragged breaths and unspoken pleas. there is something moving in the dark.

he believes it’s her, keeping you company.

monsters don’t live in the absence of lights, he says. they live in your bones, gnawing at your sinews. you were born with them inside you.

what you were born with besides the monstrosity: demise, spelled another way.

you were architected to carry an empire in you.

vi.

she is a ticking clock at the back of your head. she spells morse code that sinks into your flesh, splitting you open, red and raw.

she is beautiful.

( they call her imaginary. )

you are six when you draw your first carnage: your knuckles against their teeth. then, your knife into their pets’ guts.

vii.

the architecture of your nights is made of skyscrapers colored in questions:

b. ) she is a background noise, static. when you’re awake past midnight and staring at the blank space, she’s there. you can feel that she’s withering, her ashes becoming more and more prominent on your fingertips. how do you hold onto your mother when she fades?

viii.

the moon speaks in various languages. it is, they say, a polyglot.

first:

second:

third:

ix.

he slips bloodshed into your lullabies.

it’s a cyclical catastrophe, your feigned innocence. how the nights end: you, collecting his pieces and trying to reassemble his bones.

but they have been too dislocated.

yet you talk to him, talk talk talk until your mouth blooms poppies, trying to keep him alive.

there is a pool of moonburst in your head, carving craters and dents to soak them in liquid destructions.

there was a part of you littered with everything soft. you’d like to think of these: bird-bones, tender skin. think of gentleness. think of baby’s breath.

when it does, it never spits you out.

xi.

you don’t know which to sacrifice: your mind, or your body.

( or both. )

xii.

a dissected mind.

you breathe in decay until your lungs shiver. you wear the rust until your knuckles turn gaunt.

xiii.

they saw: how your shadows flicker. they saw: how your darkness enshrouds.

somebody tells you to run, run, run. from yourself.

last time you did, you broke a bone and handed the pieces to them. last time you did, you bruised your mind and the capillaries are still severed.

( but this isn’t a compromise, this isn’t a discussion. )

xiv.

you bite the pomegranate of chaos and swallow the seeds, the flowers blooming in your stomach.

question:

do you run from the beasts in your reality, or do you run from the monsters your invented in your head?

( you don’t. )

summary + developments:

000. born to a mother that passed during the labor, he was raised by a single father who was never quite there, often found mourning over the death of his wife. seemingly blamed his son for it, although jongin inherited some of his mother’s looks, which caused his father to pay occasional attention towards him, in the most distanced ways possible.

001. he started developing a sense of hallucination, seeing his mother as an imaginary friend, which was scratched off as something typical of a child. this worsened to the point where he fought his peers over being called out for hallucinating his mother. untreated, he eventually started resorting to venting his anger on pets and strays. this apathetic tendency never reached his father until it was too late, in a sense, and that was the beginning of the fracture in his sanity.

002. his ability began to manifest at the age of eight, and the first time was how fresh flowers wilted under his touch. he blamed it on the darkness that surrounded him, thinking that he was haunted. paranoia infected him, and his father disregarded the fact that his son grew even less and less coherent by day, making him pretend he was normal whenever guests came around. being an heir to a multibillion company, he was turned into a puppet on strings for his father’s convenience, left in the backstage whenever the limelight was over.

003. hallucination continued, and abilities blossomed as he grew up. it took him years to comprehend the mechanism of his own powers, experimenting through touch onto the beggars that he seemed to pity. when the beggars died of mysterious diseases, he started to understand, and he thought he was doing them a favor, for there was no use living such pitiful lives. and that was when he realized how his mind had disintegrated, alongside the hallucination and paranoia.

004. when he was thirteen, he began to deviate, forming atypical moralities. he differentiated himself from the rest of his friends, experiencing the pit of his illnesses to the point where he eventually broke. this tipping point was when he became unfeeling, and started pretending. when he was brought to a therapist, it was too late. he never attended the next sessions, hiding behind fake smiles and false truths.

005. sixteen, and he basically transformed into a full-fledged malice. he still battled with himself, trying to salvage what little was left from his humanity, but the violence streaks simply triumphed over the smidgens of his morality. this was when he started terrorizing people without them realizing, spreading diseases unprompted. the idea of becoming “plague” didn’t develop until he was around twenty, however.

006. and a year later, he started donning the plague doctor attire whenever he needed his “release”, walking around the city to spread unnecessary terrors. at this point, his powers have developed so much that he didn’t need direct touch to spread diseases anymore, although certain physiologies still required it. now, twenty-four, he’s still doing his round as “plague” while harnessing his powers, as well as scopes of self-defense that his powers do not cover. he knows, nevertheless, that his powers corrode his mind, and he doesn’t truly let the fact perturb him.

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

living up to his alias, kim jongin is a plagued mind through and through. the state of his mental and moral is currently questioned, even by himself, and the truths about his own abilities do not help but faltering his own beliefs in regards to his sanity. this, however, bothers him less and less by day, and it’s indubitable that he’s over halfway to succumbing towards this instability. amoral, apathetic, atrophic.

he relishes in schadenfreude, liking the facts that he can make other people suffer, although on the front he would be anything but. charming to the point where some would think he’s genuinely a kind soul, he is twisted with a lot of lies spilled easily from his mouth. a complex personality, he’s often seen as a friend by many, an enemy by some. as “plague”, he’s fully disguised in the plague doctor attire, that many do not seem to know his true identity.

also a cunning intellectual, he’s made of a lot of tricks to sate his violent mentalities. he is not above simple blackmailing, disguising it as various kindness, although the motives behind it are anything but. he enjoys moments with fellow intellectuals, talking about anything and everything. has an open view of the world, although he’s certainly opinionated, although he doesn’t push his opinions on others.

overall, a danger to most, but a danger undetected regardless.

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

mutation: contagion embodiment.

applications:

000. he has the ability to become the embodiment of contagion, meaning that he can spread influences accordingly. his state of abilities is dependent on his current mental as well as physical status, although at the peak he can infect up to one kilometre radius, or even more considering the complexities of the influence being spread. his influences include, but not limited to, diseases and insanity, as well as appeal to negative emotions. when it comes to emotions, he finds it easier to amplify than inflict from zero, although the latter is far from impossible. negative influences in the mind are usually formed through the similar systematics of killing serotonin, and sometimes, in more severe cases, inducing necrosis. he’s most educated in terms of disease manipulation, however, compared to the other aspects of his powers.

001. he can generate, induce, and manipulate diseases — also called disease manipulation in terms of power. while this application greatly varies, it’s highly based on his own knowledge in regards to these illnesses. he cannot inflict what he doesn’t know, and while he can create the diseases, he needs to comprehend the systematic of the diseases: how it affects the immune system, how it affects the body, etc. his understandings about diseases when it comes to this ability are vastly different from that of medical knowledge, and it cannot simply be explained in words. he can also accelerate and suppress diseases, although healing is a far-fetched idea that he has yet to apply a lot. thus, curing is an aspect least touched upon, rendering it almost obsolete in his deposit. other applications of this are: infection empowerment ( ability to become empowered by the presence of diseases ), pathogen manipulation ( transferral, mimicry, elimination, hypnotic ), cellular disintegration ( to destroy cells by inflicting diseases ), healing factor nullification, as well as mutation inducement, although this one is extremely limited to what might be received by the victim’s dna. poison manipulation — which includes all scopes of poison, including toxin and venom, is also within his reach considering the similar systematics to disease manipulation.

002. he also possesses a fragment of parasite physiology and virus mimicry, although this is the least harnessed out of the other powers. through his parasitic characteristics, he’s able to tap into genetic memories, and upon touch, replicate an extent of knowledge, despite not much. it’s typically only on the surface, enveloping the conscious. through this, he can read the minds, be they memories or understandings, although this doesn’t last long after the contact is cut off. in a sense, he’s also bestowed with regenerative healing factor by absorbing someone else’s health, also through direct contact. as for the virus mimicry, while he’s unable to perform anything that alters his solid form, he’s able to execute some of the applications in it, such as rupturing internal organs, although in order to do that he needs to have the victim remaining still — for it takes time. he can also perform cellular disintegration, which relates back to regenerative healing factor nullification, in which he can overpower cellular regeneration.

limitations:

001. he is, by no means, immune to his own powers, and therefore anyone who mimics this power can hit him at his point of vulnerability. he has no superhuman immunity, albeit slightly more enhanced in a way that he doesn’t fall sick as easily, but he’s definitely still able to contract diseases that he himself can spread onto others. the only way to cure himself is by applying his own healing power, which is far from polished. another way to lessen this effect would be through empowerment, although not all diseases can be empowered, and may weaken and eventually kill him instead.

002. emotional influences are limited to negative scopes only, with the spectrum lying at the corner of fear and madness, and he cannot spread other types of emotions apart from these. it also limits the amplification of emotional states for those around him, where he can only magnify the negative ones as opposed to the positives.

003. also, in terms of mental stability, he’s slowly decaying considering his powers consume a lot of him. they feed off his sanity, in a way that his emotional responses towards his own influences cause a decline. these powers also rely heavily on his imagination, and most of the time, he feels the imaginary pain of the emotions and diseases before being able to transfer them.

004. the spectrum of illnesses that he can spread highly depends on the amount of knowledge that he has on said specimens. it’s easier for him to inflict diseases on humans, knowing their specifics of immune system and whatnot, rather than vigils and mutants considering that they vary highly. with the variants, he needs to gauge a measurement as to how much influence is needed to affect them at all.

005. his power is mostly affective towards those around him as opposed to himself, meaning that while he’s able to apply some of them onto his own benefits, most of it is actually an output. his powers rely on offensive instead of defensive manner, in which if someone manages to replicate and outpower him, he’d be unable to form a defence mechanism. his mimicry might bring some powers inward, but as they’re not as trained as the rest of the powers, they do not work as effectively either.

006. being mentally unstable also takes a toll on his powers, seeing that they’re reliant on his stability to perform the tasks. it turns into a paradox where his abilities make him unstable; it formulates a never-ending ring of fire, which he knows will eventually consume him mentally. while he can regenerate his own brain cells by the various techniques that he can apply, be it through absorption or empowerment, he cannot fix what’s broken from the sanity for it’s intangible, leaving him with a rotting mind. and unfortunately, his ability to affect emotions are also increasing the volatility of his mental state, further worsening his conditions.

007. knowledge replication through parasitic tendencies can only be acquired through direct contact, skin on skin without any hindering fabrics and the likes. upon having the contact terminated, knowledge that isn’t obtained in his understandings ( e.g. adoptive muscle memories, as well as other types of knowledge which systematic is foreign to him ) would dissipate as soon as it comes. this doesn’t mean that he can replicate powers either, unless it has something to do with the mind. he can only read memories and thoughts superficially, and although some might be retained depending on how long the contact remains, the majority of it is

THREAT LEVEL TWO. 04+ BRWN, 04+ RSLNC, 06+ INTLCT, 02+ WLLPWR, 04+ FGHTNG, 04+ SPD

#avt: follow #kim jongin #krp #kpop rp #tw: parental neglect #tw: death #tw: animal cruelty #tw: mental illness #tw: body horror

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