#inchar. › thread.

[fashion-designer-diary]

#facemask #facemasks #Facemasks #howtomakeafacemask #howtosewafacemask #kidsfacemask #kidsmasks

[ruinaith]

once,  a king fell in love;   so deeply,   madly in love that when he married the love of his life,   a peasant girl from a far away town,   he focused all of his attention on his wife and forgot to rule.   forgot how to be human,   too.   blinded by his love he saw not that he was smothering both kingdom and wife,   viewing it all behind pretty lace and lies.   lock and key,   he kept his queen within castle keep;   she will leave lest she is within my sight,   he reasoned,   and kept her e’er close by his side.   in time the queen realized she had not married a loving husband but a loving monster.   when the council saw to rid themself of their useless king she felt only relief when poisoned blade aimed at the king,   cleverly averted at last second,   struck her skin.

(   but the tale lacks its end.   how does it go,   again ?   )

the water around his wrists is surprisingly warm.   life,   he is reminded of,   in the depths of a hidden land they kept water that would bring the dead back from where they go once they die.   

the waters are warm but isolde is not.   she sinks beneath the rippling waves,   black hair obscuring her maggot infested face.   even they could not keep rot away from her and by the time they arrived at the blessed isles,   her corpse had long since been infested with everything ugly.   i’ll bring you back,   he had whispered to her death - touched features,   you’ll see,   you’ll ...

she sinks and sinks and sinks and viego leans over the pool,   watching,   blinded by the radiance of the water when it begins to thread and mend.   he is mesmerized   (   skin,   muscle,   sinew and bones,   blending together until rot turns flawless,   doll like in its perfect state   ),   he is sickened,   he is left wanting until she rises from her deep slumber,   doubtlessly eager to embrace him once again.

“     isolde ... ?     ”     he calls to her when she rises with the imaginary tide,   hand reaching down to help her up should she need it,     “     my queen   —    oh,   how i have missed you———!     ”

@rotrose           ›          starter.

#rotrose #inchar. › thread. #oh u know #just a little thing before disaster hits :) #it's smthn ive wanted to explore for a long time #the minutes leading up to the ''end''

[dampir]

killing a vampire is not as easy as people might think.   only the weak,   the fledglings,   are meager enough to die from a stake to the heart,   and that is only if you get close enough.   the belmonts knew their mortal weakness well and employed ranged weaponry to combat where they would fall short   —   knowing that stronger vampires,   ancient vampires,   are harder to slay.  

when he met trevor belmont it was with fire in his veins,   to avoid the sting of a whip.   to dance just out of reach and then get in close before the man could strike first again.   belmonts know how to kill vampires;   vampires are stronger than their offspring with human kind.

now,   however,   he greets the belmont with raised brow and   —   though now not with a sharpened sword   —   with a sharpened tongue,   scathing comments and watered down vitriol.   theirs is a dynamic built on sarcasm   (   and in moments when the sun has went down,   theirs is a dynamic built on curious touches,   on macabre understanding hunter and predator - prey   ).

alucard brushes a piece of trevor’s shirt to the side,   careful not to touch skin,   and asks with clarity,   purpose,     “     and ...   this scar ?   please tell me you didn’t get this one from a drunken stumble.    ”

@belmourned          ›          starter.

#belmourned #inchar. › thread. #nothing like casually asking ur boyFIEND about his scars <3

[mannimarko]

          he cares not for gold or glory,   of winning battles in a fiery storm of spells,   nor does he care for the moments after,   warming his bed with pretty women or toasting to at a celebration after winning.   superficial desires has never been mannimarco’s type of greed,   his type of want in power.   no,   he has ever wanted more,   wanted what others did not need,   scorned and called terrible deeds   —   worm king,   to see what lies beneath,   that not everything is as it is meant to be.

they,   the people of nirn above the earth,   speak of a witch of the wilds,   of a woman whose accuracy makes men fall to their knees.   intriqued follows suit but not enough to make him seek out her out.   mannimarco does his,   crafts beings out of rotting flesh,   and watches only with less than half his attention when her name   (   bayonetta,   ricochetting   )   is traded between thrall tensions.

“     you’ve caused quite the ruckus.     ”     but he has many,   too many,   servants left to spare and a few let bleeding out from mortal wounds will serve better in death and despair.   nothing about mannimarco at the chosen moment is meant for a fight,   not because he lacks certain traits or images but because he simply does not deem it a necessity.   she is no threat to him.   she can slay her way to him and he’d still stand,   stone cold,   with a faint promise of what a fool she’s making herself out to be.

“     i should thank you:   you have spared me the ugly job of arranging more fodder for the slaughter,     ”     he mentions half - heartedly,   merely raising a hand and a brow as the nearest dead rises with cracking bones and a wail in its throat.   it is an ugly sight,   seeing the dead rise from what should be eternal rest.   yet mannimarco does it without remorse,   calls it beautiful in the way the agony is stretched all over.   it’s a symphony,   a cacophony of fear,   and he chances himself as the maestro of the choir of the damned.

“     and now ...   what will it be,   witch ?   will you raise a hand against me ?   come,   then.   for all your bravado you’ll only face failure.     ”

@byonetta​          /          starter call.

#byonetta #inchar. › thread. #thinking how mannimarco would not even be blown away by bayo's pizzass #he'd think he shallow JNJKDNJNDV which is #rlly funny #considering how he is himself

[trifarix]

          WE KNOW THE DEVIL;   we know it very well.   it’s in every cruel thought,   in every wicked barb.   it’s in the way flies buzz around exposed bone and intestines laid bare,   watching everything with more than a thousand eyes.   the haze that splits the canyon air in twain,   the embers of a low burning fire that becomes more of a prayer than the long - forgotten choirs of gods and angels,   struck down by virulent means.

and just as we know the devil,   we also know that devils live among us;   the butcher with his cleaver,   the hunter and her quiver   —   in the name of power,   of justice,   of taking names from graves that has long since been buried in desert sand.   we know them,   we deal with them,   and we are them.   we kill them,   we steal from them,   and we choose to turn away from them.

and behold,   a black horse ...   and the rider is called famine,   and great is his hunger for he is hunger.   robbed of sight,   relying on smell,   and he follows the charred foot - prints of war,   the red horseman of hell.   hunger,   he says,   is not just an emptiness of the maw,   of the hollow space between rib and soul.   no,   no,   he says and dips his head,   hiding fang and teeth that dares to rip into any pure being bereft of free will,   for hunger is of desire,   too,   for more   —   for power,   for justice,   for taking names that aren’t yours,   but ours.

“     they say,     ”     the manhunter rasps,   voice like still - smoldering coal,   while ember eyes guard the space between he,   the devil - to - be,   and she,   a blackened angel of eld,     “     that to kill divinity,   one must aim true.   grasp the god by its throat and make sure its gasps will never be heard.     ”

the town is silent,   daylight swallowed by the horizon,   and the blackest horse neighs where it has been leashed.   darius still hears the buzzing of something fast   (   four flies for fiends   ),   something terrible   (   true tests to teach   ),   something generous   (   genesis,   gentle goading given   ),   something dangerous   (   dance,   demons,   dares devil   ),   something that reminds him of stampeding hooves and the bloody end of those on the wrong side of war’s wicked scythe.

he roughly pushes at his left ear,   nearly knocking wide - brimmed hat askew,   masking the notion by tilting it forward to hide fire - bred gaze.   curious,   yes,   and hungry.   darius lifts a hand and taps the side of his nose.   famine doesn’t see,   eyes clouded by hunger and hate,   nor does he hear,   lord of the flies as he is.   famine smells,   a bloodhound seeking tracks,   and purity,   in a world where heaven is gone and hell razes on earth,   is a scent that lingers,   stronger than anything else.

darius’ grin is a slow thing,   spreading on rugged features till it threatens to split,   like the haze in a canyon,   face in half.

“    maybe ...   perhaps ...   would what i heard be ...   wrong ?     ”

@oriphic​        /        high noon gothic,   starter call.

#oriphic #inchar. › thread. #not me writing multiple paragraphs for a starter #anyways ! miss andi i would die 4 u but also darius works for hec n that means no angels allowed :) #verse. › act. v: behold ! a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand.

[sinmagic]

          in hellfire you are born and hellfire is what you’ll become.   there’s beauty and there’s pain,   and there’s those who are proficient in juggling them both   —   they call themself whisperers of flame,   of passion that scorches and burns,   preaching a gospel that makes people forget the agony of burning to the bone.

even the most proficient casters of teleporting magicks knows that when weaving a spell that is meant to transport one beyond the veil,   it often means that temporal magicks will come into play.   it’s only reasonable,   some would say,   since crossing the expanse of the stars is no small feat.   millions of light years traversed in a matter of seconds will have to tear at the fine lines that makes up the vine of time   —   and traverse them he did,   all in the name of a master who relishes in destruction,   not of keeping up with promises,   of making the best of them in their prime.

by the time kael’thas realizes the deep trouble he has ported himself into it’s already too late.   the small force he brought with him,   a handful of mages and sturdy warriors to keep the portal leading back to the outlands safe open,   were already close to gone,   with only a single warrior with a cracked shield and a pair of casters,   twins by the looks of them   (   last he saw,   at least,   before they were swept away by a tide of demon - spawn   ),   staying miraculously alive.

with the unwelcome greeting he earned at arrival   (   rabid,   ravishing in the way the demons snapped at his throat,   at fingers with flames licking by the tips   )   it’s somehow surprising to see someone,   anyone even mildly capable of fighting back the horde on the other side.

kael’thas is not proud to admit it but he’s positively clinging to the side of the taller man.   with only a few feet separating them it makes the usually proud prince look meek,   even if the fire in his veins has never burned brighter.   he has seen the works of gnomes,   of goblin technology ready to explode,   and yet the gear of the man is somehow ...   greater.   futuristic,   almost.   welcome to the future,   indeed.

“     —my companions fled to the east,     ”     he finishes his tale,   gesturing with a flick of his wrist at the given direction,   glad for the small reprieve they’ve earned from the wrath of a thousand hungry souls,     “     and yet i must know,   my savior,     ”     it’s a little sarcastic in the delivery and yet it’s the closests that the pride in his heart will allow to a   ‘ thank you for your aid ’,     “    what now ?     ”

@doomsaws​          /          sc.

#doomsaws #inchar. › thread. #feel free to not like. write as much JKVNDJKVD i just wanted 2 like #Explain i guess !!!! #set the setting

[godbow]

          WHAT KIND OF CAGE IS A GOLDEN ONE ?   the bars will lock you in all the same.   o’ beauty,   o’ grace,   o’ dear one,   please don’t put me in gaol.   fragility is sacred,   the gem struck true   —   where,   oh where,   can i go when i’m so far from you ?

(   i,   i,   i ... !   )

star guardians,   these people call themselves,   these students from high school,   college,   university   —   a different kind of magic but with the same outcome.   they’re precious.   they’re lost.   like gemstones,   twinkling until they’re not.   swallowed by naught:   what becomes of them ?

there are no witches nor wraiths,   no nightmares nor cutesy aliens to trap you in their web.   a shade of the self ?   what are you willing to give to take care of the ones you love ?

“     a - ah !   sorry,   excuse me !    uhm ...     ”     tentative motion,   backing away from the older student she collided with.   nervousity permeates her entire being.   she lifts a hand to cover her mouth,   curling fingers against lips,   chewing on nails,     “     you,   ah ...   you’re in high school,   right ?     ”

it’s odd.   feels almost ...   surreal.   madoka tastes magic on her tongue;   she doesn’t know why she knows it’s magic,   just that it is.   it feels right.   she thinks she sees feathers where feathers shouldn’t be.   she blinks and the feathers are gone,   mint and raven returning to something close to normal.   what’s normal ?

madoka doesn’t know.   she doesn’t think too hard on it.

“     is it cool ?   i still have a couple of grades to go,   but ...   i heard it is !     ”

@feyquil​          /          starter call.

#feyquil #inchar. › thread. #do not perceive that i wrote more than one paragraph #we dont See It #ANYWAYS RIC..... I HOPE SG RAKAN IS COOL ?????? bc it's fdjnfg magical boy/girl themed n all...

[resvelg]

          ON THE FAR EDGE OF DAWN PRECIDES DUSK;   o’ primogenitor mine,   i covet thine shade.   bring forth mine release,   those damned shackles of night to be;   doth thou knoweth,   primogenitor mine,   how thine light is far and faux ?   doth thou knoweth,   o’ mother mine,   thy cage is built on lies,   thrice told ?

canaan shattered.   it’s for the best.   the isle was never meant to last,   was never meant to be anything more than rubble and ash.   no mortal realm shall last forever   —   no plane needs a king who faces old age and chagrin.

the skyfarer is recognizable,   a thorn in his side,   a buzzing fly   (   but you are the lord of the flies,   the ruler of rot and maggots   );   beelzebub draws the hood over his head even further,   claws curling,   carving,   into the fabric.   purple - painted lips furl,   like a corpse flower blooming,   into a smile;   it feels odd,   off,   entirely wrong   (   too wide,   too sharp,   why are there so many teeth—   ).

“     like a bug,   you are drawn to death,     ”     he murmurs,   rolling a shoulder     “     mine,   or yours ?   look at all that bite ...     ”     a look;   ah,   a lack of a crew   —   waiting,   hiding ?   no legion of theirs will,   in the end,   keep them alive.   beelzebub hums.    

“     ...   but where’s the venom ?   try as you might,   you cannot kill me in a way that matters.     ”

@toestalucia​          /         starter call.

#toestalucia #inchar. › thread ⟨ beelzebub. ⟩ #granblue timeline is wack but hm hmmm somewhere between wmtsb ii and wmtsb iii ??? def not around the raid :thonk: #like where bubs is viewed as a Threat but the grand scheme of things is still unclear ?

[anguishsin-moved]

“   so…   ”   he   held   the   words   long   enough,   taking   in   a   glance   careful   not   to   be   greedy,   “   how’s   a   fine   woman   like   yourself   end   up   with   a   bunch   of   degenerates,   miss—if   you   don’t   mind   my   asking?   ”

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋   //   𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆   //  @pratektar

#pratektar #you can return it if you hate it #;-; #‘ ⸭ : closed // writing ⸥ #‘ ⸭ : pratektar / abigail roberts . 001 ⸥ #‘ ⸭ : verse // the devil’s path ⸥

[ruinaith]

they say there is a garden where even evil is taken in.   beneath a blighted sky the mist will seep in but the flowers will swallow it despite the sting.   from the crops new flowers will grow,   smelling of death and attracting the beasts that feast on necrotic flesh;   even in this garden evil is taken care of,   nourished and unburdened like the very plants,   and the evil ones will say—

(   i live   /   i live   /   i live,   offer me respite,   cast down your shadows,   o’ she - moon,   glory of the night.   guard me,   cradle me,   keep me safe;   hurt me,   deny me,   push me away.   )

—why should i leave,   evil cries,   when i have it so much better here among the unlife that guards me well.

“     so bold   —   so stupid.   this is my realm,   my kingdom.   what do you gain from dying here,   witch ?     ”     he monologues when the doors leading to palace room swings open;   dust falls and turns to fog,   fog spreads and turns to mist,   mist flows and turns to him and at the end viego and the ruined kingdom is all that will remain.   fingers curl,   claws digging into stone throne;   parts of it crumble but most of it stands strong.

“     be assured ...   die here you will.   do you wish for me to make it quick ?     ”

@byonetta​           ›          starter.

#byonetta #inchar. › thread. #another corpse for the army #imo i like to think that viego doesnt as much Feel the power in her as much as it's the mist warning him #he's just the conduit after all #so it picks up the inherent magical feel of bayo and go 'hey uhhh this here lady is a wee bit dangerous :)'

[dampir]

when they’re gone alucard reads.   to stake off the loneliness,  he thinks,   entering worlds of paladins and princesses,   dragons that need be felled,   and sometimes of history that teaches that things often shouldn’t be repeated.  

once or twice every month trevor and sypha returns to the beached castle above belmont hold,   making sure that their friend   —   he,   dhampir son,   lost in home that used to be so warm   —   has not yet fallen to the eager bite of sorrow.

“     here—   have you read this one yet ?     ”     alucard asks and pushes a medium - light tome towards his knowledge seeking friend.   a laughably easy read,   perhaps,   but alucard still returns to it once every blue moon.   a favorite,   easy to see,   the pages well turned and notes scribbled into margins that sypha will soon be able to read,     “     i’d like to hear your thoughts on it,   if anything.     ”

@belndes​          ›          starter.

#belndes #inchar. › thread. #book club book club book club #fuck canon in this house trevor n sypha visit as often as they can <3

[mannimarko]

          the moment when dream bleeds into nightmare is the moment when thorns latch into mind - meld,   with man suddenly knowing that the red of the rose has been dripping ichor all along.

(   the difference,   many would say,   between the two is the memories associated with the given tale playing out in the mind show.   the beast with claws,   the being with teeth,   sharp and ornery,   and the face of madness personified are all prevalent figures in the mind of children and those easily scared by folklore.   )

but mannimarco does not see the nightmare for what it is and the thorns will have to bleed him dry before he feels even an inkling of terror.   he sees an opportunity,   e’er one for ambition he has been,   and takes it with both bound hands.   in palm he allows magic to spill like mist and with it it shatters the illusion of binding,   releasing him from the thorn’s grasp.   child’s play,   mannimarco thinks,   too easy.   in hand a flower blooms,   not of his own volition,   and it dims only when mannimarco wraps sharp clawed digits around its stem.

“     how many thorns in my side must i find before the whole bush appears ?     ”     he muses outloud,   plucking a petal from the flower in hand.   it wilts upon leaving,   its life energy dancing between his fingers.   mannimarco knows that he is now dreaming,   the sanguine atmosphere of nothingness greeting him   —   robbed of light and nearly all sight,   it’s a dream of more than blackness and—   mannimarco smiles.   there she is.

he knows not her name nor her position in the world between realms.   half - beast woman she is,   smelling of sage and inscense,   and were mannimarco a lesser mer her would’ve perhaps allowed the walls to fall.   but mannimarco is above men,   and mannimarco schemes where others go to rest.

“     there you are,     ”     his voice is a croon,   all mock,   malicious in its hue,     “     are you done with your hiding,   thorn ?     ”

@fawnedfae​          /          starter call.

#fawnedfae #inchar. › thread. #funky dream talk let's goooo #lillia im so sorry but u caught a bigger fish than u might be able 2 handle

[trifarix]

          NOXUS WILL PROSPER WHERE OTHER EMPIRES SHALL FALTER,   word on the roads go,   and they are only right in their generous assumptions.   with tooth and claw,   blood and voice,   they’ve scrawled their victories into history.   who else,   the many years gone by ask,   have had as much of an impact as us and ours ?   who else,   the beaten powers ask,   are we to follow when our might slips and we go to crawl on all four ?

darius repeats himself,   a raised brow giving voice to his well - hidden concern.   it is not often that he catches swain unaware,   the general’s valuation and attention somewhere where darius can’t tread,   and while it’s not disconcerting in itself it’s certainly a hindrance when they’re discussing battle plans and tactics of war,   as if that is their version of small talk,   a weary conversation on a balcony over - looking their empire by choice.

“     let us stop for now,     ”     darius says and clicks his tongue,   thumping a fist on the balcony’s edge to gain swain’s attention,     “     ‘tis no use discussing the matters of ionia if one of our minds are elsewhere.     ”

it’s not a deliberately spoken question   (   where does your mind float away to ?    )   for darius has never been one to openly put word to his disquiet,   but the hand he places on the grand general’s shoulder shows the gesture fine enough.

@vixtionary​          /          starter call.

#vixtionary #inchar. › thread. #e ats my hands #bro i just think darius n swain's realtionship is Neat #just two old(ish) men being pals nothing 2 see here :)