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cherryjuicegf · 10 months

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He sees her last. After the blood and the gloom and the despair that plagued his sight, after the death and the wails and the pleas that teared at his chest, he sees her last.

Chaos, he thinks, has never looked more serene.

In another place, at another time, it would be beautiful.

Now Yennefer meets his eyes from across the hall and a sudden jolt shakes her whole and she runs, gods, she runs to him with such helplessness and relief that he knows he will welcome the most bruising hug, if it means it will keep her afloat. There is a weeping beauty in sadness, but not for her eyes. Never for her eyes.

As she buries her head in his shoulder, he feels her heart digging a hole in his chest. He holds her tight.

"Thank the gods," she whispers, as though to herself, "thank the gods you're alive."

In another place, at another time, he would make a joke, perhaps about the feeling not being mutual, just to steal a smile and a banter from her lips.

But he has no heart for that now. Not even for that.

He only has a chain clenched tight around his heart and gutting his voice in shame every time he opens his mouth to speak. "Yennefer, I–"

At once, she looks at him. "No words." As though she knows what he would say, as though she knows all he hasn't done, and mourns him anyway. She shakes her head, eyes huge and dark and pleading. "You can't stay here, it's dangerous. You have to go. You have to find Geralt."

"Yennefer, Yen– I know." His fingers dig into her arms and he can't bear to loosen his hold, he can't bear to let her go. Not yet. He smiles, soft. Leans to search for her eyes, for just a moment of peace in their turbulent current. "I just wanted to see my darling witch."

Yennefer stares at him for a moment, shoulders tense. Then, she huffs a laugh. Her expression softens, almost crumbles.

He feels her hands shaking where she holds him and the corners of her lips tremble as though with all the unspoken screams of the sea trapped into a single shell, wailing and weeping and waiting to be heard. He only wishes he had time to put her heart to his ear.

Her voice is quivering as she speaks. "I don't know where Ciri is," she says and it sounds like the complaint of a mother and a child crushed into one, like the world's cruelest crime, the earth's deepest regret, choked in swallowed tears. "I don't know where she is, I don't–"

She doesn't let her face break, as if she knows that when the bottle cracks, there will be no end or beginning, as if she knows he will only have to stay there, and hold her through it. And he cannot stay here between death's teeth.

She can't afford this too.

But he knows terror when he sees it in her eyes, for it is not frequent, and floods them with a different kind of darkness. It breaks his heart.

She looks at him for a moment deeply, in thought. Then she lets out a sharp breath. Quiet, exhausted. "Gods, Jaskier. I'm losing everything all over again. And then," she nods at him from tip to toe and laughs again, as though she finds it absurd, "here you are. Here you always are."

Maybe it sounds painful, because she winces.

Maybe she cannot bear looking at him, maybe in hope it will hurt less if she loses him. But Jaskier doesn't abandon her eyes, only stays there, because their violet melts just like then, just like that other time she was all bereft and scared and he got to see it, and knew. Yet again, a familiar kind of despair.

But, gods. What else could one make out of shared pain, except for love?

A tear flows down her cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before it shatters. He holds her face. "Hey. You are not in this fight alone." He swallows, voice thick, hand firm as though to caress the love on her skin and right into her. "Not anymore."

Oh, she has been alone for so long. So long that her first instinct is to disbelieve him, doubt him, squint. But it is only for a moment.

Because his thumb is still stroking her cheek clean of stray tears and her brows can only twitch in desperate acceptance as she slowly covers his hand with hers and leans into his touch, closes her eyes. Presses on, as though to memorize the shape of his palm when it's missing, as though asking of him to remember her shape.

Jaskier can't hear her, but feels her own voice in his head as he prays they don't become no more than a memory.

"We'll meet again." She looks at him again and now her voice is steadier.

It makes him smile. He will miss this. Offering a hand for her to lean into every now and then. Watching as she rises again, indelible.

A chuckle, as the curtain threatens to rise. "Eh, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Besides," he speaks softer now, like a lullaby, like a confession, "I could never be done with the likes of you, Yennefer of Vengerberg."

A promise.

And Yennefer smiles, through the tears, and shakes her head. How strange, how comforting. To fight so hard for a purpose, and to know the purpose is willing, at last, to fight back for you.

With a deep sigh, she raises her head. And there she is again. Solid, seething, like a burning hill. "Don't leave Geralt alone."

"You know I won't." Then, pleading. "Be strong."

He knows she will be. It's mostly to remind himself.

Slowly, their hands drop away, and he hopes the warmth of her touch lingers on his hand for a while.

"Be brave," she replies, but she knows too. "I won't be there to save you this time." Jaskier huffs, mostly to hold back tears. "Well, then," she continues, and her voice is suddenly strained in a half-laugh, half-sob, an attempt perhaps, to seal the promise back. "Goodbye. Good luck–"

Only, she can't.

Her voice dies in her throat, and she presses her lips together, in refusal, in grief. Her eyes are wet again.

Jaskier lets out a silent gasp and shakes his head, pulling her close one last time, tighter than before. This is too much. He can't ask for too much. So he only lets her steal some breaths from his chest before he lets her go, and places a kiss on her head.

He feels her holding her breath, or his, as she pulls back and silently looks at him one last time.

And then, like a cord snapping in two, she turns around and walks outside the room. She doesn't look back.

And Jaskier watches numb. Her form disappears behind the walls and he stands wrecked, a sob threatening to rip his throat apart.

Broken, trembling, he smiles at her remaining memory, and decides to seal her promise himself. "Good riddance."

His voice echoes back to him in the empty hall.

#hiii insane hour again!! who's asleep #anyway i want the equivalent of goodbye good luck good riddance in part 2 and if i can't have it i will do it myself #also not to get meta on my own fic but you know. the promise of meeting again returning back to jaskier. you know #the witcher #yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #s3 spoilers #the witcher s3 #fic recs #chrysa writes #or tries to idk i'm tired

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gutsandgoregalore · 2 months

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Verities

The verities are aspects and truths that can define the capabilities of Celestials, the characteristics of a person, and the properties of an item or event. There are twelve main verities, one forgotten one and one created by the wonderful @mimi-creates.

Basilia

"Salt and silver; nectar and poison; fuel and ash; scalpel and thread; illumination and madness. Balance, necessity, rebuke. The truths, conflicting as they are, are all governed by the night."

The verity known as Basilia may not have been the first truth, but its still all-encompassing still governs all universal truths. It is the law that brings the night, the law of balance and travel, of unity and connection, of all-consuming diseases.

Crowns and governing

Paths and travel

The night

Consumption and sickness

Arachnids

Limina

"The key shapes gates and shatters doors. With the right key, anything can become a door, for every lock seeks its key, and every wall seeks its door, but what they've kept within must remain hidden."

The secret truth that reveals itself to those who find their way beyond the lock. It often draws power from the verity of division to open its doors. This verity was once the other mother of felines.

Secrets

Doors, locks and keys

Openings

Cats

Voluptra

"The boundaries between flesh, breath, and pleasure are equally contingent. There is no hunger without beauty, and there is no pleasure without pain."

The verity of the body, of desire, blood, seduction, birth, and thirst. Its truth is so pleasant upon the ear. One could listen over and over. These are the words that make sacrifice sweet. There exist some pleasures intense enough to corrupt the laws of the physical world.

Sensations, pleasure

Hunger, thirst

Blood, sweetness like nectar

Irresistible charm and seduction

Birth and drowning

Mosquitoes, leeches

Obumbra

"Feathers and silver, glass, and talons alike - all bringers of conflict and all conflicts are fought at the edge. All truths are defined by their opposition to other truths, just as we are defined by the battles we choose."

The forbidden truth, words of torment and destruction, bird-cries, and talon-wounds. This verity conceals its nature with many names and masks, but its skin is never its own.

Conquest, battle

Assassination, violence

Edges and knives

Shadows

Masks, costumes, wearing others' skin

Duality born from division and not permitting union

Silver and smoke

Birds

Chrysa

"In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni. Hive, nest, and chrysalis are all elements of the lower world. Two of these three know the sweetness of fire. The third, restless in its pursuit for change, forsakes what it no longer needs."

Chrysa holds the truth of whimsy and chaos. It governs the fervent chase of our desires and the shedding of unnecessary things. The creatures that abide its word are drawn to the thickest woods and the darkest nights.

Lighthouses

Moths and other insects

Shedding, change, metamorphosis

Barbers and hair

Restlessness, fervor, obsession

Praenitea

"A paradox of illumination. Light reveals, but light can also blind. Even the most mundane knowledge can become a weapon in the hands of the mad. Even the most dangerous knowledge can be rendered useless in the hands of the ignorant."

The corrosive truth of the verity that corrupts, the light that blinds the mind.

Delirium, delusions, madness

Devotion

Centipedes

Triquetrobora

"Nature's first lesson: look up. What starts as weather ends in soil, what starts with breath ends in the world. Nature's second lesson: look down. Know your thorns. Know your poisons. There's no point thinking about tomorrow when one doesn't expect to live through today."

Triquetrobora holds the truth that weaves life and death in one inseparable thread. It is the verity of nature, of binding, of eternity.

Nature

Life and death

Nectars, poison

Eternity

Serpents

Alacrifila

"The depths of the sea, the waves upon the shore, their relentless symphony echoes in birdsong, in dance, and in the joints of sailors. Joyous, the heart beats to the rhythm to preserve the skin of the world we know."

Alacrifila dictates the rhythm of the song that gives the heart life. It is an unstoppable truth that vitalizes the rest. In turn, some verities have woven their influence to protect it. Triquetrobora would be its most fierce guard.

Music, dance, drums, string instruments

Heart

Happiness

Life and death as separate events

Sea and sailing, sea life, sirens

Azotherea

"Flame and sulfur, flesh, and mercury. What has been broken can be reformed. What has never been broken must be reformed."

Azotherea is the verity of the fire that both changes and consumes. Its work powers the inner mechanisms of the world, but every flame demands fuel.

Fire and power

Smithing, blacksmiths

Factories

Clockwork and mechanics

Steampunk basically

Chemistry

Salamanders

Lapida

"Sky, stars, bone, soul, and gemstone - all these things can, have, and must be, shattered. What is whole can be broken. What is mended must be broken."

The truth of separation and misconception, the words that divide.

Separation, amputation

Miscommunication

Bats

Gemstones

Caves

Shastra

"Death alters, snow endures. Memory dies, silence outlives. At times, light persists, but no fire lasts without fuel."

Certain knowledge can be expressed only through the particular quality of silence. Otherwise, the lips crisp with frost, and their meaning falters.

Winter, snow, cold

Silence, emptiness

Memory, forgetting

Endings

Hunting

Canines

Inlustra

"The stars are wisdom, and the night is their parchment, and the dawn is ignorance. There might come a day when the dawn is gone once more, for mercy is found only at dark."

Inlustra is the truth brought from the light of the Compass that leads both the willing and the unwilling. Its purpose is to enlighten and to document.

Lanterns

Celestial bodies (especially the sun, the moon, and the stars)

Knowledge, books, recording history

#writing #creative writing #my wriring #worldbuilding #world building #basilia #limina #voluptra #obumbra #chrysa #praenitea #triquetrobora #alacrifila #azotherea #lapida #shastra #inlustra

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dadralt · 2 years

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i made another uquiz: which jaskier song are you? 😘😘😘

#the witcher #uquiz #again: not to be taken seriously #and i never know what to write in the descriptions alfjdslfjd 😂🙃#thank you chrysa for the help <3

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moonssugar · 8 months

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🌳 👁️ for the asks please!

thank you for the ask rachel!!! :3 i love doing these

🌳 share a snippet featuring nature of any kind

this is from a chapter named "fireflies" i wrote i think last year! i really love this one. my three (sam, chelsie and aubry) are sitting in the middle of this marshland in the middle of the night and aubry finally shows them that she has an ability to summon insects (and repel mosquitoes which is really useful!). she summons fireflies to light their way out of the marsh

Sam didn't make a sound except to laugh breathily. He held his arms up, watching the fireflies dart over him in a river of bioluminescent light. They were everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. The entire world was aglow in yellow-green, an even growing river of light.

👁 share a snippet where the character is very visually engaged/a snippet with description

this chapter doesn't have a name right now except "sam's house" but this is when sam and chels are earlier in their friendship and she lets him do her makeup because he's more experienced at doing it and she isn't and wants to learn. the result is beautiful. its very sweet and i can bite through drywall whenever i think about this scene it literally drives me insane

Sam’s pillow is soft under her head. Her hands folded on top of her belly, Chrysa is looking at herself in the makeup kit mirror, reading all the names of the colors and Cosmos watches closely as Sam does his magic. It is magic to Chelsie, how he knows how to do this. His magic has the full focus of his attention. Any caps or gloss and packets of glitter that fall from the edge of the bed are picked up in Kaid's teeth and placed back into Sam's hands. It usually hurts when Chelsie tries to apply eyeliner. Lots of accidental poking and tears with no results. This, what Sam is doing, doesn’t hurt at all. A thin brush moves over her eyelids and it feels cool, nice. "I used to love doing this," he began. “My mom and Fae taught me how. Mostly Fae. She used to love to doll me up all the time and she'd let me practice on her." Chelsie smiled knowingly. "Used to? I can tell, you still love doing it. That's why you're so good at it." He blushed. "Thank you. And yeah, I do still love it," he happily admitted. "But you know, the harassment." She sighed and closed her eyes. "They're assholes. And you know what? Probably jealous as well." Opening her eyes again she shifted her head on his pillow to a more cozy place. He waited for her to get comfortable, then continued. "You have the arcane magical skill they don't." That made him smile. She felt the little happiness of success. Chelsie’s attention drifted to the prints on the bedroom wall. A lot of them were things created with oil pastels and gouache, watercolor, crayon, ink, pencil on scrap paper. Many landscapes, lots of sunsets and sunrises, trees and coyotes on hills. What he had made spread across the walls beside and across from them, torn outs from sketchbooks pinned up, wood blocks with glue on the backs, a few small canvas fitted together like puzzle pieces. Where the edge of one stopped another began, ocean touching desert. In others, where one began and ended was hard to see, they phased into each other with no boundary, no beginning or end. Different worlds touching. "I can see why you like doing makeup so much. It’s kind of an art isn’t it?" Sam looked back to her from where he followed her eyes across the wall. "It is art," he said, “and right now i think it’s coming out beautifully."

fun trivia under the cut!

btw the whole insp for the makeup chapter is this LMAOO. think this but t4t

#asks #lune writes #roadtrip! by me #btw chrysa and cosmos arent two other guys third wheeling theyre chelsie's daemons #and kaid is sam's hes a littol coyote :3 awoo #thanks again!

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the-excursion · 10 months

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Secret’s out 🗣 Chrysa and Zinni were very inspired by my vocaloid obsession 🧎

#picrew #vocaloid #writing #fiction #original fiction #original characters #Zinni #Chrysa

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wren-of-the-woods · 2 years

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Wreeeen I need to know about Sandpiper’s Song 👀 the title itself has me frothing at the mouth 💚

Sandpiper's Song has been on my mind for months! Progress is slow but I am determined that one day I will finish it. Several months ago, I fell in love with the idea of some elves writing a song about the Sandpiper and Jaskier hearing it. I wrote the lyrics to the song, but forgot about the fic -- until the absolutely incredible @wanderlust-t wrote music for it! That inspired me to start the fic and I've been (very, very slowly) working on it ever since. So far it's mostly outsider PoV, following the elves who play into the creation of the song. I haven't written OCs in a while, so it's been fun to experiment with!

I couldn't decide on a snippet, so here's the opening section under the cut:

The story begins at the Great Oak. Blood runs in rivulets between fallen leaves while screams replace the birdsong and music that had filled the air that morning. The soldiers have come, and with them comes destruction. Good people lie dead on the forest floor. Those who live, who scatter or hide or are taken as prisoners, will never be able to rid their memories of this day. Even those who are uninjured do not escape unscarred.

One man, insignificant in the chaos, falls to his knees behind a bush and throws up. There is blood on his hands that once belonged to a musician he had flirted with. There are tears running down his cheeks, making paths through the dust and ash that dirty his face.

He will not forget.

The story begins on a seedy dock in Oxenfurt. Three elves are hiding among the barrels, waiting for a ship they were told would bring them out of danger. They have been running for so long that they hardly believe it will work; trust, if broken often enough, is difficult to rebuild. They wait anyway. The dock is as good a place as any to spend the night.

Just when it was scheduled to, the ship arrives. The grinning stowaways are smuggled onboard among crates of onions, and soon the lights of Oxenfurt vanish behind them as they sail to safety.

They will not forget.

The story begins at the edge of the world. An elven king takes two captives who had been threatening the livelihood of his people. They insult him and cause him pain, and he returns the favor. His dignity has suffered many blows and he will not let it take another.

He could have killed them both. It would have been easier. It was his plan, originally, but it would seem that he is not the monster the humans say he is. He lets them go. He even apologizes, in a way. He has granted them a favor and they take it with gratitude.

None of them will forget.

The story begins in Cintra. The story begins in Nilfgaard. The story begins on a mountain, in an inn, on a trail. The story begins with hands outstretched and with those that reach to clasp them tight.

The story begins with kindness.

No one will forget.

#wren talks #sandpiper's song #seidenbros #thank you for the ask!! i forgot how much i love this fic #the temptation to write more right now instead of working on what i'm supposed to be doing is very strong #also chrysa if you're reading this i still listen to the song all the time and it makes me so happy <333 #asks #ask games #wren writes

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girltclk · 2 years

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do you want to feel how wet i am for you?

captain we’ve landed in hornyville.

“ oh, sweetheart. you don’t need to ask me that. “ twirling dyed locks in between her fingers does fallon let out a soft hum, looking up at her as she’s sat on the edge of the bed. her gaze is shamelessly eating luna alive, as if she’s going to miss something if she looks away for even a second. every curve, the smoothness of her bare skin, that cute expression on her face as she looks down at her, standing with nothing on, the sound of her voice and what it's like when fallon touches her, luna had given her the power to do as she pleased for the night, and as her official bodyguard, who was she to say no ? biting down on her lower lip, fallon grabs luna by the waist and turns her around so her back is to her before pulling her onto her lap. “ oh. but, since you’re so nice and asked, i’d be glad to find out. “ her hand makes its way between luna’s legs, spreading them open to give her more access before she swipes two fingertips against her clit. fallon’s ego tells her that she’s not surprised that she’d gotten her this wet already just from kissing, and with a playful grin does she slowly rub her clit with a rhythmic and slow motion. “ that’s my pretty girl, so fucking wet for me. “ fallon whispers into her ear before nibbling on the lobe, one hand continuing to pleasure luna where she seemed to want it as the other slides up her body to massage her soft chest. “ you’ve been wanting me to fuck you, huh ? is this what you wanted ? “ she knows it’s dangerous to get involved with her like this. despite her continuous streak in getting involved in meaningless intimacy with strangers, never has it been a client until now, which made it all the more tempting. once she’s started, she can’t stop. not unless luna tells her to. - as much as she wanted to make a mess out of the woman on her lap, fallon considers herself polite ( although, others may disagree. ) she pinches her nipple in between two fingers, pressing a kiss against her neck as she picks up her pace before suddenly stopping completely, hands freeing themselves from luna's body. " i'm not gonna let you cum yet. go lie down. "

#fallon & luna.#usfw #chrysaelis #kinda long but tbh fallon was having fun she was writing herself

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bellablue42 · 2 years

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Hobbit Birthday Gift

As I am a hobbit, and today is my birthday, I thought to give you lot a gift - the short story I wrote for my uni creative writing class.

A touch of context - you know what, ignore that, I'm sure you can figure it out.

Without further ado, Chrysa and the Painting.

Somewhere, far away, across a sea and a handful of countries, there was an old house. It creaked in the wind, and in the parlour was a painting. If the house had been aware enough, it would have shivered at the sharp click-clack of handmade leather boots on the verandah, trembled at the brisk rap of knuckles on painted wood. The door opened to a frazzled young person with short-cut red hair and a worried look, flour dusted up their arms to the elbows.

‘Oh, thank goodness. There’s something wrong with the Painting in the parlour.’

The owner of the house – and by extension, the Painting – was called Soph, and they inherited the house. They didn’t have magic, but Chrysa knew that all that was really needed was to be a bit perceptive, and Soph was a perceptive person, and had resorted to anxiously baking to get their mind off the Painting.

Chrysa heard the capital ‘P’, the emphasis and harried fear, and the way that Soph took her to the parlour – hassled and fluttering, like a jewel-winged butterfly in a too-strong breeze set her on edge. The parlour was filled with plants and an assortment of computers and various electronic items that Chrysa took care not to touch – plastic had an odd habit of melting around her. She must have painted a convincing enough picture with her shot-silk skirts and pinned-up hair and ribbon-laced boots, with her buckled leather satchel and trailing magic – there was kindness sung into the lace of her petticoats and sturdiness hammered into her boots, protection in the seams and linings of her dress, an old silhouette but a new dress, - that Soph took a deep, shaky breath, and gestured to the Painting.

It was a simple landscape, a field edged with thin lines of dark trees, the vague dark shape of something that could be a cow or a sheep or a horse dotted here and there, a farmhouse in the background and a thunderstorm in the distance. It looked all very ordinary, except for the way that the windows of the house were in the process of being boarded up by a woman who was little more than a round face and an arc of painted skirts.

The longer Chrysa looked at it, the more it seemed … wrong around the edges, hazy in a way that she recognised from the faint pattern on her own skirts: there was magic in it, embedded into the fabric of the canvas and the tint of the paint, but it was unlike her knotted lace in that the magic wasn’t kind, it was not promises of protection, nor a blessing of luck for its subject, but the cruel snarling kind of magic that Chrysa counted as a curse, its aim was entrapment, and the more she looked, the more it looked like the painted woman was moving, the painted shutters were swinging closed, and shuddering in the wind.

She hated that she’d been right, but she hated the tangled web of cruelty sunk into the frame and the canvas and the paint, and the way it centred on the painted woman, twisting around and tugging on her limbs like it was trying to tear her apart.

Chrysa couldn’t stay in that room anymore, so she bustled out and headed for the kitchen to talk to someone actually human, soaked in the quiet green of plant life and the soft passive magic of baking.

Chrysa knew that they had sense; the Painting was unsettling, it has an aura of unease and a sense of discomfort, and somehow the painted face of the figure in it looks agonised.

She sat in the kitchen, in the smell of flour and sugar and baking bread, and shivered, trying to soak in the passive warmth of the oven and the yellow lights and the sun streaming in through green curtains.

‘Tell me about the Painting,’ she said, weary, more an offer than an order. Chrysa needed context – all she’d had was the call, the siren song of things gone wrong, and so she’d pulled on her boots, tucked her grimoire into one of the wide pockets in her skirt, pen and ink bottle slipping into smaller pockets, and wrapped several sandwiches up in waxed cloth; setting off with all the confidence of someone who knows they can solve most problems that come their way, and none of the knowledge of what she was stepping into. What she’d stepped into, was in fact, a mess. It reminded her of the thorny tangle of bushes that her neighbours brambles had grown into when the house was left to stand empty: there was no way to tell where one branch ended and the next began, an indecipherable knot of wood and leaf and berry, limbs tangling like roots, like a clinging lovers embrace.

The story that Soph told her went as such: Soph had inherited the house from an elderly relative, a great-aunt or some such relation, who had died by all accounts by merely wasting away, aging until she was a wraith of a woman, barely alive, then just slipped across that veil dividing sleep and death. The house had been left to Soph, and they had moved in relatively swiftly, but it had only taken a few days before the Painting started to make them feel uneasy. Soph said that it felt like dust settling, ever so slow and gradual, like holding something that got heavier and heavier and you didn’t notice until you’d put it down.

The longer Soph had stayed there, they said, the worse they’d felt, chills creeping up their spine every time they walked into the parlour, every time they looked at the Painting, the woman depicted seemed to be in a slightly different position. In the beginning, the windows were clear, the oncoming storm a distant shadow, and the clothesline with its tiny painted clothes had been full. It had changed, slowly, the painted woman seeming more desperate and pained with every shift, and sometimes when Soph had looked at it in the wrong light at night, the nameless figure seemed almost to be covered in blood.

About halfway through the explanation, Soph started to cry softly, an outpouring of stress, a weight on their shoulders finally being lifted, and Chrysa rubbed their back with a gentle hand. Determination welled up in Chrysa’s chest, and she started to plan, plotting the permanent destruction of the Painting.

The tricky thing was the malice. It was the sort of nastiness often seen in men who know what they want and don’t care how they get it, the sort of cruelty that belongs to those who just don’t care about people, and that was a hard thing to get rid of. She supposed she could burn it – fire was a good solution for this sort of conundrum, yet there were going to be side-effects: no one put so much hatred and magic into something that could so easily be demolished, and there were likely to be repercussions for such an outright method of destruction.

She left Soph in their kitchen with a mug of hot tea clutched in their hands, and returned to the parlour. Chrysa opened the door, was hit with a wave of … something, and stepped into a room as still and dead as a monument. It was fear, she realised, though the source was harder to pin down – was it from the Painting, or its painted figure, was it whatever remained of the artist, or their subject – Chrysa couldn’t tell. The discomfort was stronger now, crueler. The Painting was unsettling, a sense of unease that settled into the room and over her skin, lingering like a bad smell, and she wanted so hard to tear off the thin layer of nastiness it wove over and around her, to burn it to ash and shred it to cobwebs – but she had to figure out how.

The thin threads of malice and hatred were thickening, she realised, spreading throughout the room and clutching tight to anything living, and even as Chrysa watched, the plant nearest the Painting wilted a little more, leaves yellowing. It was draining, she recognised the way it was sucking at everything around it, and surely the plants in this room hadn’t looked quite so unhealthy. It was getting worse, and she could feel the way it tugged at the enchantments in her clothing, worrying at the kindness knotted in the lace trimming her petticoats, tearing at the gentleness woven into the ribbons lining her collar, and she could see the lace yellowing, the ribbons fraying, and the silk of her skirts looking duller. She fled, slamming the door shut as she left, fingers clawing at the metaphysical cobweb clinging to her, the filmy stuff of menace and a cruel kind of indifference.

She returned to the kitchen, plopping herself down on a stool beside Soph at the counter, gaze distant as she tried to parse what had happened. The Painting was feeding, almost, draining the life from the plants, leeching the magic from her clothes – the magic that protected her, that offered a more attractive lure to the Painting, because it hadn’t started consuming her. She’d have to apologise for the damage done to her clothing when she got it repaired. In all her time as a Trouble Solver, Chrysa hadn’t come across something quite as malicious, or as strong, because that was what the Painting was doing with the life of the plants and the magic it leeched: making itself stronger, growing its power.

‘It got worse,’ Chrysa murmured through numb lips, ‘oh mother magic, it got worse.’

Soph’s head jerked up to stare at her, their eyes wide, and face pale under the freckles that smothered their skin.

‘Worse?’ they questioned, voice wavering.

‘I think I know how your aunt died,’ Chrysa said, horrified realisation tinting her voice. ‘You said she … wasted. I think it ate her, leeched her until there was nothing left – slowly, getting stronger as it went. It’s draining the plants in the parlour, it consumed the magic in my clothes, I’m just lucky it didn’t get to me. I think …’ she stopped. There was a tingle on the back of her neck, an odd breeze on the side of her face, but all the windows were closed. She turned her head slowly, dreading what she already knew she’d find. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’ Poor Soph looked overwhelmed, but Chrysa snatched their hand and hauled the both of them out the back door into the kitchen garden – or what probably used to be the kitchen garden, before it had been overrun with flowers.

‘It’s bigger – it’s growing, oh shit, it’s going to eat us,’ Chrysa rambled out, ‘can’t you feel it? It’s out of the parlour.’

She could feel it, questing tendrils that must have followed her through the hallway to the kitchen, latching on the bread and vegetables, turning the former to ash and rotting the latter, getting faster and stronger as it went. In a moment it would get to the garden, and she couldn’t allow that – she’d had a duty to Soph since she walked into their house, a duty to solve the problem, not to let Soph get hurt because of her actions.

‘Go, leave the garden, get to the road, I’ll fix this,’ she ordered, and when Soph looked like they were going to argue back, she glared and shooed. ‘I cannot let you get hurt because I misjudged the danger, and I cannot fix anything if you’re in the way. Go!’

And then Soph was gone, and Chrysa stood staring at the potted plant in the kitchen window that was wilting, the fraying curtains, the wormwood starting the riddle the wood of the window frame.

People liked to talk about light magic and dark magic, good magic and bad magic, as though there was any real dichotomy. They didn’t realise that magic was active or passive, not light or dark, kind or cruel instead of good or bad. Magic was intent and utility and action, nothing so simple as good or bad, its metaphorical strands straight or twisted and snarled, and the latter was what made cruelty.

The magic in her clothes was passive, put there as the cloth was made, through the action of being made. The magic in baking or gardening was active, the results were plants that grew better, or food that was comforting; neither of these were inherently cruel though. The Painting was active magic, magic that spread and fed and rotted and leeched.

The difference, in practical terms, was in how hard it was to get rid of. Passive magic could be worn through or used up, though usually not as easily as the Painting had drained her clothes. Active magic required a more active destruction – the difference between wearing socks until they were holey and straight up cutting the toes or heel off the socks.

So Chrysa wrapped herself in a shroud of protection woven from her own magic, rolled her shoulders, straightened her skirts, and opened the door, ignoring the way the handle rusted in her hand. The kitchen wasn’t that bad off, all things considered. The counter was stone, the stools mostly metal, so it was mostly the cupboards of food that were hard hit. She ignored she smell of mould and the withered plums in the fruit bowl, and stalked through the hallway to the parlour.

Already she could feel hatred picking holes in her protection, cruelty tugging at her skirts and gnawing on her boots as she stepped over the remnants of a massive potted monstera that had wilted to nothing all over the hall carpet.

The parlour was stifling, and though magic wasn’t visible, she could barely see through the loud-but-silent pulse of magic, and though magic had no smell all she could smell was the harsh intangible feel of sandpaper over her skin. It was somewhat like walking through a graveyard, the withered corpses of plants and the smoking, melted remnants of electronics filling the room.

She snatched the Painting off the wall, accidentally pulling out the nail it had been hung on with the force she used, and ignored the pain in her hands as it tried to peel away the skin on her palms as she flipped it over and pried the frame off, leaving the canvas and the stretcher it was nailed to. The painted woman took up most of the canvas now, silently screaming, intermittently bloody.

Chrysa pulled a fountain pen from her pocket, tore the lid off, and stabbed the point of the nib into the canvas, gritting her teeth and ripping the pen through until it hit wood. She dropped the Painting, hissing as blood welled up in her torn palms, then stabbed the painting again and again until she could tear it off the wood frame beneath and tear it in half. There was a inaudible sound that nearly deafened her, and she sat, panting, in a room full of dead plants and melted computers with a torn painting in her lap that she needed to burn.

She tilted her head back, and let out a shuddering breath.

#my writing #chrysanthemum mirror #chrysa and the painting #birthday gift for you

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literatureatthebowofnails · 6 months

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AN: I've really enjoyed writing this series. I'm deeply appreciative of all the feedback and reblogs. They've fueled my writing and truly made me thankful for each and every one of you.

Series masterlist

Summary: Our darling couple take the first step toward the rest of their lives

It's a cold November morning and once again FRIDAY is calling your name, dragging you from your precious sleep.

"Nooo," you grumble, nuzzling into Loki's chest and tugging the fur comforter over your head. It collides with his nose.

He snorts, pulling it back below his chin. "I'll take it from here, FRIDAY.

"Darling, you do need to get up." He shifts beneath you.

"No," you whine, your voice muffled by the blanket. "I want to stay like this forever." You reach your arm over his bare chest, squeezing it for emphasis.

"As much as I'd enjoy that," he chuckles, "your absence downstairs could cause significant upheaval. Not to mention the breakdown of our fearless leader.

"You weren't here when he went on his feeble-minded caffeine fast. There are beings in Niflhel far more pleasant than our dear Captain without his 'morning Joe.'"

"But you're warm, and...you smell good, and...and...I love you," you say between yawns, before peaking up at him with a pout.

"I love you too," he smiles and gives your forehead a peck. "That doesn't change the fact that it's Monday and you have to go to work."

You throw off the blankets with a dramatic huff. "Fiiine. I hate it when you're right."

Loki chuckles and grabs a robe as he stands, handing another to you.

☕

First things first when you get in the elevator. "FRIDAY, please preheat the ovens for kolaches and turnovers, then check the A-Team agenda and load orders for whoever's on call to the POS."

You can't fault Tony's design; two separate confection ovens, freezer and refrigerator on a vertical conveyor. The contraption stands in the back of your circular kiosk cafe along with a cooling/rising rack, sink, employee entrance, and ample counter space.

Nearest the lobby doors sit the POS station, espresso machines, grab&go fridge, and pastry display. In addition to base cabinets, there's bulk storage accessible via elevator to the garage level. With a voice command to FRIDAY, a central circle in the floor descends while a safety barrier ascends into the workspace.

Plenty of square footage for three people, and on a Monday you need all the help you can get.

Chrysa clocks in with a muttered "Morning" as you're reviewing the Avengers' order:

Medium red eye, black - 'Nat's home from her mission and there's a morning debrief.'

Large dark roast with a shot of DynaPep - 'Tony, apparently trying to kill himself after a night of post-mission "tinkering."'

Extra large cup of Joe, extra cream and an order of mixed pastries - 'Steve got his run in and feels guilty about the early debrief.'

Small cocoa with cinnamon and extra whip - 'Peter's going to be late for school. Really, Steve needs to put that kid's education first.'

Medium Dutch apple pie a la mode latte - 'Thor, making his way through the seasonal menu.'

Extra large dirty chai - 'Scott just got into town.'

You notice a distinct lack of Earl Grey with excessive honey - 'Loki went back to bed. Dick.'

The next few hours are busy, as to be expected. They have you, Chrysa and Dementy rushing around, baking, steaming, and ringing up customers as quickly as possible.

Things begin to slow by 9:30, and around 10 Wanda wanders down in sweats and clogs, a maroon hoodie covering her unbrushed hair.

You start on her turek as soon as you see her. "Hey, what would you like for breakfast? And weren't you supposed to be at the debrief this morning?"

"Hmm...a pumpkin muffin," she smirks. "I popped my head out, told the kid to keep his mouth shut, and bewitched Steve to think I was there before going back to bed.

"I'm not getting up after three hours sleep just to tell Steve everything went as planned."

"What about Nat and Tony?" you ask.

"Stark sent Mark 93 and Nat doesn't sleep half the time anyway."

☕

Wednesday afternoon finds you at a boutique with Nat, Wanda, and Hope, who's visiting for the annual gala. The latter, focused as always, has chosen six sleek, black, barely differentiated dresses and hovers with them hanging over her shoulder while the rest of you decide.

"I can't believe it's been a year since we met," you say as you hold a one-shoulder gown against yourself in the mirror.

"You should try that one on," Nat says, her sultry voice soft but insistent. "It has been a year, hasn't it? So this is a particularly special gala. Is that why you're only looking at dresses in Loki's colors?"

You grin down at the gold taffeta. "Partially. It's more a feeling he's going to do something especially dramatic? I don't know what, exactly, but I haven't seen him this cagy since my birthday. He sent half the people in Times Square to his pocket dimension because I turned down the street before the flash mob was in place."

Wanda snickers.

"You're kidding!" says Hope.

"No," Nat replies, "There was a huge fallout when Steve got back from his 'emergency mission.' Something about 'We don't know if pocket dimensions are safe for humans...that's abduction...what if someone had gotten hurt?!'"

"And don't forget," adds Wanna, "'If you're so concerned, Rogers, I'm happy to send you in there to create safety protocols. We could all use the break from your incessant nagging.'"

☕

You were going to spend Saturday lounging around the flat until you needed to get ready, but Wanda had different plans. She insisted you and the rest of the girls all have a spa day. Thus, in the late afternoon you're stepping off the elevator on your floor with goodbyes to Nat, Shuri, Wanda, Hope and Pepper.

You open the door to find Loki already dressed and pacing nervously in the front room. His curls are raked in lines from the many times he's run his fingers along his scalp. "Loki?" you say. He freezes like a child caught sneaking candy, a hand shooting to his breast pocket before he takes a breath to steady himself. "Is everything ok?"

"Yes," he attempts a carefree smile. "Of course, darling, everything is wonderful. I...uh, I was just concerned you might not make it back in time to get ready."

You raise an eyebrow, amused by his ironically poor lie. "You do realize we don't have to be downstairs for another two hours, right?" Cupping his cheeks, you pull him down to kiss him. "Whatever it is you're so nervous about, I promise it will be ok. God or not, no one is perfect, and I'm not going anywhere."

He calms a bit. "Right. Well, I'm just going to, ah, see if Stark needs any help getting things organized." He checks his pocket again before rushing out the door.

You do your hair and makeup, wandering around the bedroom in only shoes and panties as your gown simply isn't bra-friendly. You're unhooking the dress from its hanger when hear the front door open.

"Great timing," you call out. "I'm going to need help with this zipper."

Loki enters the room. "Ravishing as always, darling," he grins at your bare chest. "I could help with a lot more than your zipper, you know."

"Says the god who was worried we'd be late?" You smirk.

"Right," he chuckles. "Let's get you into that so I can get you out of it later."

☕

The event space is nearly unrecognizable; Tony's modern minimalism nowhere to be seen.

The chrome columns are covered in black silk, green velvet held against them in sandglass form by thick gold cords. Grand chandeliers twinkle from the high ceilings, alight with five thousand candle flames. A brass quintet sits atop a raised stage opposite the bar, the dance floor spread between them.

"You weren't kidding when you said you'd help Stark," you smile, nodding at the decor. "It's very you." Standing on your toes, you give his cheek a peck.

"Thank you," he takes a steadying breath. "Shall we, er, have a drink? Perhaps some appetizers? Oh look! There's T'Challa and Shuri catching up with my brother. Why don't you join them while I find us sustenance."

You wander over to the group, letting your anxious lover gather food. "Hey," you greet, lightly grazing Shuri's shoulder as you siddle between her and T'Challa.

The king greets you with a tight hug. "It has been far too long. You have to come visit us in Wakanda.

"Okoye keeps talking about getting a Starbucks, but I told her there's better coffee to be had from international sources."

Thor lights up as his brother joins the group, handing you a cocktail and a plate of hors d'oeuvres. "Are you ready?" he asks Loki, a shiteating grin on his face.

"Will you desist?!" Loki says through gritted teeth, attempting to surreptitiously stomp on his brother's toes.

You pop a stuffed mushroom in your mouth and pretend not to notice while you listen to Shuri describe her latest invention. As your discussion of the device begins to dwindle, you hear the opening notes of a familiar waltz.

Loki clears his throat, his hand extended. "May I?"

You take it and he leads you to the dance floor. You can't take your eyes off him. His floor craft is perfection as together you dance smoothly through the other couples.

You know not just the steps, but how he'll take them, making reflexive shifts in your footwork to blend precisely into his.

His hands are comforting as he holds you, his natural scent like burning pine and fresh snow. His vibrant green eyes are full of awe of you and the glowing adoration reflected on your face.

When the song ends, he spins you to the center of the dancefloor. Your skirt settles and you find him kneeling as he holds your hand and a stunning emerald ring.

"Darling," he looks at you with batted breath. "Will you do me the honor of being my princess?"

"Loki, oh my god! Yes, yes, of course I will. Nothing could make me happier!" As soon as he slips the ring on, you pull him into a fervent kiss and the band strikes up the wedding march. You know that wherever you are, so long as you're with him, you'll be home.

Taglist:

@peaches1958 @javagirl328, @loopsisloops, @goblingirlsarah, @buttercupcookies-blog @cakesandtom , @ladymischief11 , @km-ffluv , @coldnique , @glitterylokislut , @eleniblue , @lokiprompts , @lokisgoodgirl , @muddyorbsblr , @princess-ofthe-pages @jennyggggrrr

Let me know if you wish to be added or removed

Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Now that it's complete, I'll be focusing on party asks. I hope you all take some time to join us and participate in this event! All my love 💗

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki #loki smut #loki odinson #loki x you #loki x female reader #fic rec #loki/reader #14 doses of delirium drabble series #my writing

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m3loria · 3 months

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❛ show me your scars .. ❜

˚ · . profiles !

group profile group history

members profiles : chaiya yohan junmin hajoon kyrie hwan hanuel kiro z byeol chrysa jian taro

˚ · . relationships !

in-group-ships relationships with other idols relationships in the company dating history

˚ · . extra !

discography/the eras solo projects social media news articles writing

#𓂃٠ LIKE A DÉJÀ VU 𓋰 NAVI !#fake kpop group #fake kpop idol #fictional idol group #fictional kpop boy group #fictional kpop community #fictional kpop company #fictional kpop group #fictional kpop idol #fictional kpop oc #idol oc #kpop boy group #oc kpop group

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samstree · 1 year

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💌 hi jin mwah!

*mysterious person shows up at my masquerade ball with black-feathered mask* *takes off mask* omg it's chrysa!! 😘🥰😍 I'm kissing you on the head and twirling you and ruining your gothic vibe right now!

I love how you write poetry in your stories. Somehow they are love stories but also little poems dedicated to love stories at the same time. And I love your love for tragedy. Every time I read your fics or take on tragedy and I faint like a victorian maiden. I love that you were one of the first people to comment on my fics and how long we've been in fandom together. You show up on my dash and it's like! Friend! My friend! Yesss!

(mutuals send me 💌 and I'll compliment you)

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cherryjuicegf · 8 months

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"Leaving without a goodbye?"

His voice echoes like a lost melody in the quiet forest and makes Yennefer stop. Her lips form a short smile.

Truth is, she thought it would be better. Seeing the last of him in a far away part of her memory, because this was no time for weakness, no time to let him steal all of the strings left that hold her facade together, and make her face what's underneath. But oh, how her knees give in, relieved.

How about this then, a weakness welcomed, waiting for her with open arms.

She turns around. "No use, I'm afraid. You always pop up in my way like a stubborn sprout."

This, except it's him, here, once again, somehow still standing, perhaps the only one.

Jaskier laughs. He laughs at their old quip, but it's nothing like the way he used to, no bite or sharpness or preparation for a comeback. It's only breathy and fond, and tired. He is tired. His eyes, bloodshot under the moonlight, awake and waiting for something that will always slip through his fingers. His shoulders slumped and untouched, a wailing space hollowed in their place, his hands hung and soft and gaping, empty.

She takes pity in them as he opens his arms.

It's the same old thing. Unchangeable among everything, it makes for wretched comfort. For she can feel his arms wrapped around her back before they actually reach her, and his face buried in her hair before she has the time to settle in his warmth, and hold him close, closer still as he clings, as though by clinging he will rip away a part of her and keep it still on him after she's gone.

She feels the lump choking his throat as she presses herself against him. His hand, on her hair. On her head. Shaking.

"My darling, darling witch."

This time his voice is no melody. No, it crawls, writhes, dies on her shoulder where his head is buried, sobbing and voiceless and wrecked, and yet still tender, like a broken heart.

She bites her lips in a smile and hopes to carve it upon his chest. She can't afford no more tears. "Pretentious, foolish bastard." Jaskier muffles a chuckle in her hair, and she takes just a few more moments, just to memorize the bruises his desperate fingers leave on her back. Then, she pulls back slowly, looks at him. "Take care of–"

"You know I will take care of him," he interrupts, solemn like a vow, undoubtable. As though he was offended just by her thought of requesting.

Yennefer stares at him for a few seconds, a fond, vexed look in her eyes. "Yourself," she says firmly and watches as Jaskier's expression falls at once, and his eyes suddenly gleam just a bit foggier than before. With a sigh, she holds his head between her hands and places a kiss on his forehead. "Take care of yourself."

Somehow, she knows he will.

Jaskier holds her wrists like he would hold an injured flower, and presses his lips just there, above her pulse. "You too. Be safe." Then, as though knowing she was never one to make promises, he ties her to himself. "For me."

A clever move. She doesn't say her ties are already laid elsewhere. He knows, he always did.

Only, with a smile, she nods.

A last caress on his cheek, a place to leave her weakness behind, and know it will be safe. One last admission of longing before they bury it in the ground. Then, they let their hands drop and she turns away without looking back.

And there, once again, the last one standing, he looks at her fading form from behind.

#thanking tumblr user bluedillylee for slapping me on the face with their art and making me finish this after two weeks. it's an honor #anyway they met in brokilon anya and joey told me themselves #the witcher #yennskier #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #chrysa writes #stress relief angst to ignore the city flooding as we speak. btw #fic recs #pats witcher fandom on the head yall are dead already?

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abookishdreamer · 2 years

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Character Intro: Eurydice (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- The Voice of Olympius by Apollo

Princess of Arcadia by the citizens of Arcadia

Eury by her family & close friends

Age- 19

Location- Arcadia, Olympius

Personality- Her on-stage persona is eccentric, bold, and visionary. Off the stage, she's the same friendly, bubbly creative young woman with an infectious laugh and thirst for life. She's single- stating that music is "my boyfriend, my lover, my husband, my best friend, and baby daddy!"

Eurydice is a popular musical act, a singer/rapper combo. Her music is a mashup of genres like pop, r&b, hip-hop, and pop rap. There's also hints of soul, synth pop, dancehall, reggae, & disco. She's currently being managed by Midas.

She's a dryad nymph, born and raised in Arcadia (with a middle class upbringing) to her parents Admetos & Desdemona (Mona for short). It's safe to say her love for music began in her mother's womb, who would constantly hum & sing great tales and legends.

As a small child Eurydice hated being in the dark & thunderstorms (and in essence the god & King Zeus). Being woken up by a storm or a strange noise from outside, she would tip toe into her parents' bedroom & climb into their bed. Her mom would stroke her hair- softly singing all the lullabies she knew until they both fell asleep.

To this day, she still has a great relationship with her parents. Her father (Eurydice nicknamed him "The Grillmeister") would throw barbecues every weekend like clockwork. She loves his pasta salad, fried chicken, & gyro hot dogs!

Her first real taste of music happened when she went along with her parents to an outdoor festival where they saw Pan (god of the wild, satyrs, shepherds, & rustic music) perform. Eurydice was 7. She remembers how intently he looked during his pan flute solo, like he was in his own private world. She first sang while hanging out with her parents at home during a lazy summer afternoon. Her father was idly playing his acoustic guitar, singing. She joined in & her father was taken aback by how seemingly perfect her pitch and timing was.

She has three childhood friends- two flower nymphs named Adamantia & Chrysanthi (Chrysa) and a fellow dryad nymph named Kairi. They all went to the same primary school & even took ballet classes together.

As a young girl, Eurydice began to develop her musical identity. First with ballet classes, then with playing the lyre and flute in her school's music class. After homework she would spend the rest of her night before bed writing rhymes & lyrics in her journal. Her musical tastes changed too- now being exposed to music by Apollo, M9, GA-zelle (her favorite rapper that just happens to be a dryad nymph), & Pale Blu (a pop singer who's a cloud nymph). She also traded in ballet for hip hop dance classes.

Her first "unofficial" official rap battle happened when she was 11. It was at a park near her school with the resident bully Alekos (who publicly humiliated her good friend Kairi at lunch). The rest of the kids declared Eurydice the winner with her verse!

When she turned fifteen, Eurydice performed at her school's talent show- a nearly stripped down version of M9's song "Diamond Memories", with just her voice & a lyre. Kairi (in the audience) recorded it on her phone and uploaded it onto PanopTube as well as her Fatestagram account. In just short of two days, it garnered millions of views. It eventually made its way to Apollo and The Muses. When Eurydice got home from dance class, she was nearly knocked unconscious seeing the god of music & the goddesses of the arts and sciences in her living room with her parents. To make a long story short, they offered her a record deal and she happily accepted!

Eurydice first started out as an opener for M9, Apollo, & Eclipse.

Her debut album Cinnamon was released to widespread acclaim. Critics took note of her light lyric soprano voice with a four-octave range.

She even got a five star review from the god Momus in Modern Olympus where he states her as "a skilled technical rapper with a strong melodic sense and a bold visual presence."

The greatest moment Eurydice remembers from her earlier career was when she won the Golden Laurel award for Best New Artist with GA-zelle presented the award to her.

Her other equally successful albums include Out of Space, Out of Mind (which has heavy afrobeat and r&b influences), EURY, Like Honey, and her latest release, kairi (named after her good friend) and heavily inspired by Eurydice's Dryad culture!

A lot of Eurydice's stage outfits & costumes for shows and music videos are often designed by The Graces.

Her signature look includes her long painted nails, winged eyeliner, & long blondish-brownish micro braids. She's also a fan of wearing brightly colored wigs in different styles (which are made by Kairi).

Eurydice's personal favorite songs of hers include the ballad "Angel Tears", "Sweetener", "4 Arcadia", "Bee!Buzz!", "In My Feels", "3 AM", "Ultraviolence", and "Get High".

Many themes & sublects explored in her music include feminism, feminity, identity, anxiety, sexuality, troubled romantic relationships, youth, mortality, friendships, body positivity, and womanhood.

She has a huge fear of snakes. There have been times when she has experienced bad dreams of a large snake swallowing an oak tree whole.

She has one tattoo- of a watercolor style oak tree covering her entire back.

Her go-to drinks are the grasshopper & the japanese slipper (alcoholic drinks). She also likes almond amaretto black tea and chocolate banana milkshakes.

Eurydice is good friends with some of the gods & goddesses who are also musical acts as well as others in the music industry. This includes Apollo, M9 (The Muses), The Lucid Petals (Chloris & Antheia), The Gypsy Belles (The Seasonal Goddesses), Aoide, and Dioscuri (Castor & Pollux) (Eurydice has even been a featured artist on some of their songs!). She's also good friends with the god Hymenaeus and she's still friends with Kairi (hiring her to be her hairstylist), Adamantia, & Chrysanthi (she's the godmother to her newborn daughter). She's also cool with one of her background dancers, Nerites. He even choreographed the routine for the music video for her song "Mmmm". She's been around another popular musical artist O, but they just have a professional relationship.

Even though she states in interviews that she's single & not looking to be in a relationship, that doesn't stop the press from speculating about Eurydice's personal life. Like how the paparazzi photographed her leaving The Melody Lounge with Narcissus or how during the music video for The Lucid Petals' song "Utopia" (where she's a featured artist), there's a kiss shared between her and Antheia.

She never refuses to sign an autograph!

Despite her bold fashionable persona, in her personal life, Eurydice feels just as beautiful & confident wearing leggings, jeans, and oversized shirts.

A thing of hers that she was more than happy to splurge on is her ruby red Porsche sports car. She bought it after the release of her second album.

She credits her body not through traditional exercise (hates the gym), but through her performing & dancing.

Eurydice does eventually want to buy up some private land (about 10 or so acres), build a house & to have a farm with lots of animals- especially horses. Some locations she's been thinking about are Meteora, Agrinio, Samos, & Mykonos. She does eventually want to get married and have children. Eurydice always says she wants 5 kids.

Despite her great success & fame, she still resides in Arcadia (in a modest house), in the same neighborhood she grew up in. Eurydice loves helping out in her community. She hosts charity football (soccer) games every summer.

Some of her favorite foods include sweet & spicy jalapeño chips, her dad's gyro hot dogs, tiropita, and medium pepperoni pizzas (with extra pepperonis).

She has thirteen Golden Laurel awards!

In her free time, Eurydice likes to do things that everyone else likes to do- go out, shop, dine out, spend time with her family & friends, play video games. She once went bungee jumping with Kairi, Adamantia, & Chrysanthi as a dare!

"Most of us don't last forever, but music will continue to live on."

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