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nourflage · 2 years

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TW: death, violence, gore, murder

Nour makes no bargains with Death. In some lives, she is its wilful accomplice, concealing the tracks of meticulous premeditation. In others, she is its shadow executioner. A copycat, subsuming the act of death in the lining of her skin, ritual mourning etiquette stitched into the silhouette of each new resurrection.

She is a nothingness. An absence of existence and materiality—all the facets and tangibilities that make someone real. Alive.

And so the line she walks with death is an obscured one. Never the direct cause of a killing, but in every other vein of cause and correlation, unmistakably contaminated by it. The byproduct of becoming a creature of abandonment with no earthly attachments to anchor her to a moral balancing of the scales. The reasons that people die for are all so foreign to her. — Love, above all. Try explaining to a beast of the wild that dying for someone you love is worth more than breathing and brain function. Attempt to demonstrate what it means to let them press a blade to your throat and kiss it with skin to steel just for a taste of their devotion.

So no, Nour has no frame of reference nor language for the concept of death and love intertwined.

Her world is wavelengths of ever-shifting ethical compromises. Moments of survival intercut with brief hungers. Little ravenous cravings to be wanted. Want is not a feeling to kill for. It’s just enough to keep you fed. She would know; thief of scraps to keep from starving, scavenger of offcuts and detritus. Stay hungry enough to survive on so little and you don’t have to wonder where you’ll find your next meal.

The Faceless has endless uses for a proxy of desire like her.

No family, no loved ones. The ideal sleeper agent for long haul missions. The flip side of the coin is that she has nothing to gamble for as collateral. You cannot threaten someone with nothing and no one to lose.

Their greatest mistake, their fatal interweaving of thread and fate, was accepting her into Caedes Corvi.

Herein lies the thought experiment: what if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness, and say to you, “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterable small or great in your life will repeat in an endless recurrence.” What purpose, then, does life itself serve?

What if you had someone who claimed to live on the extremities on such recurrences, untouched and unfettered by such pain and joy. What if you gave them people to love, gave them loved ones who would evoke happiness and suffering beyond their comprehension, and asked them, then, what they would say upon learning of its inevitability?

Do you love someone, anyway, knowing that they will hurt you and ruin you, at the expense of eroding all the memories of happiness between you? Do you choose to hurt anyway?

This is Nour’s answer to the question: the barrel of the gun pointed at her target; the smoke and wildfire billowing in her throat as she tries to swallow back excuses, lies, apologies; the next few seconds of what will happen when she pulls the trigger and the bullet explodes from the chamber and finds its home in Rachel’s impenetrable, luck-stricken heart.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t choose it. It isn’t fair. (Choosing is never fair.)

“Rachel —” There’s nothing she can say that will make this right. The choice is between killing one person she loved—loves—and surrendering another. Sacrificing them to the Faceless’ eternal recurrences of grief and suffering. It is choosing the ones who will live and the ones who will die and Nour, for all that she pretends to have nothing and feel nothing, chooses to love as if it is a form of religious devotion. A devouring of the primordial ways of existence she harbours in her bones, where being alone and intangible is a way of living. She turns her own soul inside out, abandons self and survival, for the right to keep the people she loves alive when all this is lost and done.

The worst part of the question is that Rachel looks at her as if she understands. The answer sunken into her eyes as acceptance.

There is no Mateo now to curl his hand across the gun (he’s the very reason she’s holding it); there is no Roje to stand between them, body given up as shield and altar (his turn will come later).

Rachel is looking at Nour like she accepts the choice, and Nour wants to hate her for it. She hated her once for so long, burned so fiercely with serrated grief and rage, the concept of what came after was incomprehensible. (If she had—let go, a little sooner, relinquished the consuming need to make Rachel repent and beg—maybe they would have had more time. She will never get to know now, if Rachel would have made the other choice, knowing this is how it would end.) She has pictured this act of killing her darling, dearest friend a hundred times. How she would exact vengeance, what form of slaughter she would use to inflict her suffering tenfold upon the source of her heartache.

There was no aftermath to conjure because seeing her dead was not the ends to her ruthlessly creative means. She wanted Rachel alive, wounded but alive. Even monstrously cruel and unapologetic, ruthlessly unfeeling of what she had done, Nour could not abide a world empty of her.

“There was a time when I would have done anything for you.” A confession akin to shedding skin. “I’ve never let anyone see me the way you did.”

And you walked away from me — because you couldn’t bear it? Couldn’t understand what I am and still choose it, willingly? — No. I understand it, but only now when it’s all too late.

“You were afraid that I was going to see you and abandon you for it. So you left before I could leave you. I can say this now, because it won’t matter anymore, that I get it. I really do. I would have done the same, sooner or later.” How terrible it is, to be seen for what you really are. How sweet and how horrifying it is to let someone hold you that close, knowing they will some day let you go.

“Not because I didn’t want to be around you, or because I didn’t care about you. But because that’s what people like you and I do. We leave, we survive, we live without apology.”

This is me apologising. This is me begging your forgiveness.

Her hand clenches around the gun to force the tremors away. She feels her entire body shake with the effort, with the image of Rachel bleeding out soon to be made real right before her eyes. She doesn’t know if she will be able to bear it. She doesn’t know how or where to begin. Killing for love is a thing as alien to her as forgiving herself for it.

“I don’t want to forgive you because that means I can—I can make this the reason.” The line of reasoning fractures, her voice giving way to the tide of grief. Some justification for what she’s about to do. So Rachel can die hating her, too. So her rage will finally eat its fill, and consume her, bones and all.

And then Rachel goes and does the impossible—always the one-in-a-million chance of unpredictability, the quicksilver shot of happenstance illuminating the dark, coup de foudre—

“What if I forgave you, then?”

Nour falters. The gun wavers in her hand. “What?”

“I forgive you. It feels only right that one of us should.”

God, I want to hate you. I hate you. I really do, I swear —

“Don’t—” Strangulation would be a swifter death. Fingers closing in around airflow until lack of oxygen drowns the brain in ravenous need.

“It’s okay. If it was going to be anyone, at least it’s you.”

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—

Rachel takes a step towards her, and then another, eclipsing time and space, and they’re standing together like they did that day in the warehouse. Gun between them, five bullets loaded into the chamber. Except this time there’s only one, and no amount of manipulating fate will curve the bullet from its path. Nour has made certain of it.

“I’m sorry. I was afraid, but I never wanted you to think I didn’t care about you. I was just scared to admit it felt like loving you.”

“Rachel.” Her name leaves Nour’s lips, a gasp for absolution.

Rachel takes her face in both her hands with the tenderness of someone who truly means it. The apology, the admission. She kisses Nour and everything slows, sacred, unthinkable, impossible. The heat of her mouth, her palms cradling Nour’s face, blurs into an inferno of heat, into the warmth of the blood spilling from her chest onto Nour. She tastes Rachel’s last breath on her mouth, singeing like an exit wound. It is the first and the last time. The only.

Blood and tears staining her lips, Nour crumbles into her.

#𝒊𝒗. / filament.#𝒇𝒕 / mallard.#this is so utterly unhinged #KITH KITH XOXOXO payback fr

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aaft-school-of-nutrition · 2 months

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Exploring Trends in Nutrition and Dietetics

In any professional / industry nowadays, trends inevitably come and go, and the field of nutrition and dietetics is no exception. This article will investigate the latest trends in 2024 within the nutrition and dietetics sphere. For those with aspirations of entering the field as nutritionists or dietitians, staying informed about these developments is essential.

Top 10 Trends in Nutrition and Diet Trends

As health awareness explodes, so do innovative ways to eat well. Forget fad diets, 2024's nutrition scene is about personalized approaches and cutting-edge science. Let's explore the top 10 trends shaping your plate this year:

1. Plant-based Diets: This trend goes beyond vegetarianism, encompassing vegan, flexitarian, and plant-forward lifestyles. Driven by health, sustainability, and ethics, it emphasizes fruits, vegetables, legumes, whole grains, and nuts for their nutrient richness and reduced environmental impact.

2. Functional Foods: Forget plain food, these are enriched with specific health-promoting ingredients like probiotics, prebiotics, omega-3s, and antioxidants. They aim to offer additional benefits beyond basic nutrition, supporting gut health, immunity, cognitive function, and more.

3. Sustainable Nutrition: It focuses on minimizing the environmental impact of our food choices. It encourages local, seasonal produce, reduced food waste, and conscious sourcing practices, contributing to a healthier planet and diet.

4. Healthy To-Go-meals: In our fast-paced lives, convenient, nutritious options are crucial. This trend sees a rise in pre-packaged, balanced meals, snacks, and delivery services, catering to busy individuals seeking healthy on-the-go solutions.

5. Gut Health: Gut health is increasingly recognized as crucial for overall well-being. It includes the consumption of fermented foods rich in probiotics, prebiotic fibers, and whole foods to nourish gut bacteria, impacting digestion, immunity, and even

6. Mindful Eating: This practice encourages awareness of hunger and satiety cues, promoting slower eating, enjoying food flavors, and reducing emotional eating. By connecting with the act of eating, mindful eating can help manage weight and improve overall well-being.

7. Alcohol-free Drinks: People are seeking healthier alternatives to traditional alcoholic beverages and therefore there is a rise in non-alcoholic beers, wines, and spirits, along with innovative mocktails offering complex flavors and social enjoyment without the alcohol.

8. Focus on mental well-being: The link between food and mental health is gaining traction. Specific nutrients and dietary patterns help in supporting mood, cognitive function, and stress management, promoting a holistic approach to well-being.

9. Gluten-Free: While celiac disease affects a small percentage, many opt for gluten-free diets for perceived health benefits or digestive comfort. There has been a continued innovation in gluten-free products and dietitians can ensure individuals with and without celiac disease navigate this option safely and effectively.

10. No Sugar or Artificial Sweeteners: Sugar reduction remains a major focus, with individuals seeking alternatives to added sugars and artificial sweeteners and are instead encouraged to take natural sweeteners like fruits, dates, and stevia, promoting healthier choices and potentially reducing sugar-related health risks.

A Paradigm Shift in Consumer Perception

Gone are the days of advising consumers to "eat-less, exercise-more" mentality! Consumers are ditching restrictive diets and embracing food as a powerful tool for overall well-being. This is evident in the growing popularity of "food as medicine" trends, such as plant-based diets and functional foods, which highlight the impact of dietary choices on mood, immunity, and even disease prevention. This shift signifies a profound change in perspective, transitioning from a calorie-centric approach to one that emphasizes nourishing the body for holistic health.

This empowers consumers to make informed decisions without sacrificing well-being, contributing to a paradigm shift where food becomes a central player in their health journeys. Ultimately, these trends pave the way for a healthier future, both for individuals and communities as a whole.

Conclusion

So, future dietitians and nutritionists, has this exploration of 2024's trends ignited your passion for the field? What specific areas pique your interest? Share your thoughts and opinions on these trends in the comments below – let's spark a conversation about the future of healthy eating!

#Nutrition and Dietetics Course #Health and Wellness College #degree in nutrition and dietician

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deadn30n · 3 months

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NOUR THINKS OF HIM AS NOTHING MORE THAN AN ANNOYING NUISANCE. he isn't even sure exactly why he's allowed himself such companionship ( there's so much more he should be doing! like finding his little brother! ) but here he is. here he is entertaining the whims of this irritating and vaguely suicidal human who thinks sticking around him is somehow a great idea. while Nour has entertained the notion multiple times of informing him that he's massacred over a hundred thousand angels, for some reason he just can't bring himself to do it. why is that? what's wrong with him? the more these thoughts plague, the more irritated he's getting. what's worse?

what's worse is he's having coffee with Dazai like the two of them are old friends ( how ironic that Dazai should befriend the gravedigger of heaven like it's entirely natural ). it's almost comical, really, that he's attracted Nour of all people to his side, but somehow... some way... he's managed it. and Nour is unusually docile when he's normally be chomping at the bit to lure in some unsuspecting human and devour them to satiate his otherwise insatiable hunger. the flesh of humans has never fully satisfied him ( they don't come close in comparison to that of angelic composition ) but when you're stuck in the human world amongst humans, you realize you just have to make do. ❝ are you done babbling like an idiot? ❞ he suddenly cuts in rudely. his words spat with vitriol in Dazai's general direction. ❝ i didn't come here to go on a date with you, i want you to be honest with me already. have you seen my brother anywhere? quit dodging the question. ❞

✧ PLOTTED STARTER : @longerhuman ☽

#NOUR VERSES: UNKNOWN.#INTERACTIONS: NOUR CIELO.#longerhuman #STILL LAUGHING ABOUT THIS #you couldn't have picked a worse muse to want to write with but good #i want someone to piss Nour off so bad #LKDFJS

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imriel · 4 months

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SNOW LANDS ON TOP

#the hunger games: the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #thg #coriolanus snow #president snow #ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosasedit #thgedit #cinemapi #filmgifs #filmedit #dailyflicks #tom blyth #nours

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musingmycelium · 5 years

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oc three words meme

i was tagged by @mocha-writes for a super interesting meme Rules: Say the first three (3) things that you think of when you think of your OC(s)! (Without an explanation of course) and since i like doing things in threes...

ellanis tabris: magic, duty, family

noure surana: hunger, rage, freedom

idrilla lavellan: learning, sunshine, home

i’ll tag @ironbullsmissingeye @goblin-deity and @lyrium-lovesong no obligations of course

#thanks for the tag!#and as mocha said nobody told me i had to keep quiet in the tags hohohoho #although tbh they're mostly straightforward #ellanis keeps his magic hidden but its an integral part of himself. his sense of duty is strong and keeps him going through things which #otherwise would break him down completely.#family is what grounds him. something he can always fall back on #noure IS hunger #they're so Wanting. everything is never enough for them they burn so bright but there is never enough fuel #rage for every wrong committed against them. for the fear they've lived their life with #and freedom is the one and only thing they're truly after #idrilla is always learning. always growing #she's constantly on the look out for new things to devour in a search for more knowledge and more understanding #her smile is sunshine breaking through rain. its warm and soothing and you just know everything's gonna be okay #her home is where she is. idrilla makes a point of bringing home with her in the form of her beliefs and her traditions and her knowledge #but especially she brings -and makes- family #and family is all the home she needs #my ocs

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sirensignal · 4 years

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part i.

Backstories always start with children. Before there are heroes or villains or captains or chroniclers, there are children with eyes so shallow and silent they’ll reflect tiny pinpricks of light. Eyes still waiting for a dyeing in ink, in memory, in blemish and bruise colours. Children with red mouths and red cheeks and red hearts where red doesn’t yet mean blood — it’s only a portrait of strawberries in summertime, only a delineation of roses plucked ripe and thornless. Putrefaction far-flung, so distant, so patient to wait.

This is the backstory, so let’s say they are children. Two children who do not know what that word means.

Let’s say they are friends. Let them clasp hands, palm to palm, let them hide in engine rooms and lamp-lit cabins and sit cross-legged for hours to talk about every stupid thing, conjure a house out of the words they build. A house with a door only they can find. Let’s say there is love. Let’s say love is enough.

—

It isn’t, of course.

—

But set the scene, the scene for the first time they meet: it’s some lilac layered sunset, a swollen sun that’s melted gold over the deck. There’s a moon under the horizon, restless to take back her sea and she sighs everything soft and silent, lays mist in the air that demands you quieten your steps. So Nour pads up to the only other person on the deck, a boy skulking on a barrel. They peer at the knob of wood in his hand, examine the concentration with which he holds a pocket knife and makes countless pale shavings on the deck.

Close up, the boy seems younger than they are. At least, he seems shorter. Nour grins, breaks the heady fog of twilight. “What are you doing?”

Dark eyes flick up. A mouth twists in a precipitous scowl. “What.”

“Are you carving something? I want you to teach me.”

A pause. “I’m busy.” Politeness is physically dragged as a stone through his mouth. A serrated one.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Teach me.”

“Why should I.”

—

It carries on in this vein for a long time. Minutes drag to hours to days to weeks. You wouldn’t notice the shift in tone until it slammed you in the face with a kiss. But this is that kind of genre, so maybe you can guess.

But hold it in the back of your mind: this is just the backstory for a woman who grows up vicious, grows into serrated edges that score wounds with each honed word. That won’t hesitate to leave shards in you. In this place, a backstory is a tragedy waiting to happen.

They could have chosen something else, of course. But how could they know what they were choosing?

So call it predestined, call it invariable. By invariable: see two points, two white dots fixed together on a map. Things so close get pulled into orbit. Take how neutron stars collide again and again and again. How gravitational radiation spirals celestial bodies inward. Inward. There are two ways it will end: one of them is not worth mentioning.

But for now, call them friends.

—

“We are not friends, and I hate this.”

“Well I don’t. Hurry up before they find us.”

“I hate this.”

—

Does it hurt to say? Does it render the breath thin and sour in the lungs? They’ll always yearn. This journey. This memory. Even when they forget. Forgotten but the chisel they took to their heart carved that organ into a separate shape. Carved it to hold a love that will slumber for decades.

They’ll lose the hatch to this place, soon enough. Clench their eyes and let the key take a straight drop, pitch into a mammoth and monstrous ocean. Drowned for a blue marlin to swallow. That marlin swallowed by a sea lion. That sea lion swallowed by an orca. It’ll lose form, unshape itself in the belly of mammoth beasts. But not now. Not for now.

—

"You have that many siblings?"

“Mhm.”

“Am I distracting you?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to hear about your brothers.”

A sigh with all the exasperation taken out of it. An acquiescing. “Fine.”

—

“You’re eating more than usual.” Their father has noticed it. For the past few weeks now, Nour’s plate scoured clean of seconds every night.

Their stomach groans in protest, scratches up a voice that writhes in the back of the throat — I’m still hungry, I’m so hungry. The hunger rendered immeasurable, become a growling noise of need. But their father’s brow is ill at ease, his mouth creased to murmur some unknown sentence. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I suppose you’re still growing. I knew I should have asked them to pack you more clothes.”

Nour nods. Keeps silent. Keeps their hunger quiet.

“And how are your studies going.” Dry-voiced. Already acceptant of defeat. “Or are you spending all your time with that cabin boy.”

Nour’s mouth splits in a grin. Toothy, before they remember to hide it. “Please don’t discredit him so, Father — our time together is wholly, entirely, unquestionably productive to my education. I swear. I’m teaching him more words.”

Their father sighs. “Alright. If he’s so helpful, you can take your history books and study with him.”

—

“So in the sixteenth century, Charles the fifth became king of Spain and was elected Holy Roman Emperor —”

“He was elected emperor?”

“Yes, it was an elective monarchy. The electoral college was, uh — wait, are you actually interested in this?”

“Why not.”

“Darling, you’re so terribly dull.”

“You sound like an old woman.”

“That’s deplorable.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“So what.”

—

The hunger enlarges like a gnawing thing, clawing at their stomach lining in reckless torment. When Nour mentions it offhand, their friend frowns. Gives them his share of bread. Bread is ashen in Nour’s mouth, they’ll stomach it but it’s never filled their gut, never sated them but they don’t have the heart to refuse.

It sates them for the first time in months. In months. They stare at their empty hands and their belly quavers with the slaking of such a terrible, enduring emptiness. And oh, for the first time in weeks they feel full. They push the meat on their plate and shake their head when asked if they want more. They go to sleep with no ache in their bones.

But hunger comes back. It doesn’t come back for days, but when it does. When it does. They take bread from their father’s plate and it tastes like nothing. In the night they gnaw their knuckles and starvation empties them like a sieve. Worse that they experienced fullness before it.

But they can still live with it. Still walk with it. Still bear it.

So they bear it.

—

Maybe Nour becomes attached too strongly, too quickly.

Surely it can’t be helped. They’ve never been permitted a friend for as long a period as this. All their companions, all their life: clockwork replacements like freshly minted dolls with mechanical parts and chubby, round cheeks, pre-painted smiles in delicate colours. Here and gone, gone in a month, in two. Never more than three. Gone before Nour’s strange aging could become apparent. Could attract attention.

Their growth spurts are rarer now. Smaller. Easier to pass off.

The point is: this is the first time. Their first time.

—

“Tell me about anything.”

“Anything?”

“Tell me about your family again. Tell me about your home.”

He talks and Nour’s blood sings with the sound of it. Lights every vein electric. Enough but only for that moment. Only for those few hours.

That night they eat three steaks, served at the dinner table nearly raw but they’re so ravenous it’s not enough. Their appetite so ferocious it will not be glutted by —

By.

They do not think about it. Nour puts down their fork. They smile at their father and say they are full.

—

You should know: tragedy has always written history. Anything in between is just interlude. Just white noise in an ocean of black; congealing blood, ink splatter, a tower of coaled ash conquerors climb to reach the heavens. To find immortality in the glittering constellations.

This is not anything so grand. But it is an end to everything good. To the interlude that was their happiness. The two of them are fixed points on a map. A map of non-linear time. You might call it fate. Two things hurtling towards a predestined end.

All things end. They end faster when you’re content. There are truths to be learned from this, but none of them are parables.

—

Two days before they land, the boy takes a deep breath and it’s a hazy blur of words or it’s a clean-cut confession, it’s any number of things that burn up a flush on his ears before he dips forward and kisses Nour on the cheek. It barely connects, more like an awkward bump of skin that tingles. Still a child’s kiss and he pulls away with crimson on his cheeks, fists balled like he’s been mettling up all week to do it and still there’s something anxious, some uncertainty that quavers in his eyes when he opens them.

And they —

—

See, a series of realizations knock into Nour at this point.

One is the rising blush on their cheeks, the startlement. Another is the surge of a bottomless sea in them. The flood of it. Seizing their breath. Seizing their pulse, lashing it to stillness. To utter silence, no echo to be gleaned in their skull.

For a moment they think it is love. For a moment they think it is a fierce, terrible love, for a best friend, for the first friend in their life. For a friend they want to spend every day with for as long as forever.

For a moment, they think it is love.

Is it?

This sea of them. This drowning. A tidal crash, a wave, a thousand simmering things teeming at their skin. The yawning heart of them, unfurling their chest, their ribcage. This love, these countless rows of teeth sprouting in their belly.

Oh, Nour realizes, dazed. So that’s it. So that’s what this feeling was. So that’s what they wanted all along.

They’re holding him. His frail body. His warm throat. The richness of blood filling their mouth. The give of skin and muscle, warm flesh running rivulets of blood down their throat.

Oh, they should have done this from the start. It’s everything they’ve dreamt of without knowing they dreamt it. He tastes better than anything Nour has ever had, better than sugar candy, better than steak, better than fresh cuts with still-warm blood. They’ll be sated for a thousand years just from this taste. Their heart so full with him they’ll never crave again. Forever, he’ll be with them forever.

Mine, they think. I like you too I like you so stay with me always with me always always —

They can’t stop laughing. The laughter spilling bloody from their teeth. They laugh until they’re sick with it, until vomit fills their mouth and they hold their mouth shut, swallow it back because it’s him, because they won’t reject him even if their body wants to. Because their body won’t reject him even if they want it to. Look at them, this sorry creature pretending to be a child — palms on the floor, an animal with teeth and tongue and they’re on all fours, gorging blood from drenched planks. Sucking all the red from it until there’s no red left. Licking all the wet from their face but it never dries, their face is sea-strewn, their face is breaking. They’re laughing and laughing and laughing.

—

But that isn’t what happens.

It could. It could have. A what-if. A ghost story. The ghost of a boy who never died. No, no. The probability will haunt for a lifetime, an imagined sin they can never wash off but it is not what happens.

No. What happens is —

They’re holding him too tight, fingerprints that will stain like a rupture of blueberries, of grapes, of peach tones spilling across his skin. Their nose is at his throat and his throat is so warm. All those veins, why do they run so clear, why are they mapped so well if they are not meant to be opened. In Nour’s ears, the thump of a rabbit pulse. So loud their heart quickens to synchronize with that strong beat.

They want. They want, they need —

Two hands shove him away, two hands with brutish strength. Nails digging laceration into his arm. He’s on the ground and in the flickering of the world there’s a vision of richness so heady, so sweet and so near, so mouthwatering they can still taste it. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.

“Mal.” His name is a prayer to famine, is terrified worship on their tongue and stupid that’s so stupid worshippers have always eaten their gods always crushed them between white teeth and ground them to meat and viscous liquid in the gut and named it transubstantiation. And Nour never realized until now. In the air his name is a dry heave or a wail or a quiet, stricken thing. The length of it unspooling on the ground. The length and span of them. That thin red thread. “Malachy.”

#writing #wahahahaha #gore tw

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ingolds · 2 years

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@indeath. — i’m staying up late just in case you come up and ask to leave with me.

midnight draws near, the gallery emptying out gradually but continuously; art purveyors offer explanations of having to get home, responsibilities to tend to in the morning, how the city grows mean and careless with the departure of the sun. they prefer the emptiness, though. the hallways stretch labyrinthine and silent, lights cast low, like the museum itself must rest. their steps echo off polished marble walls, the soft flare of luminescence surrounding each painting; the glow beckons them deeper, a promise of safety in the night. they tip their champagne flute as they walk, bubbles crawling up the side. they’re searching for something - someone, rather, a magnum opus in a wing full of great achievements, divine and doomed just as he.

nour has paused in front of le martyre de saint érasme. the bishop’s robes glow ruby down the angular ridge of a cheekbone, sapphire pooled in the bow of nour’s mouth, as if he is the painting and the exhibit is the patron. the canvas pales in his presence, aiming for glory and falling just short. what candle is a likeness able to hold to an angel among men, lucifer damning the population he walks in? he half-turns, just enough to allow theo into the corner of his gaze, and the corridor disappears into the background when that focus centers on them. a predator pinning its prey, analytical and probing. it has become the two of them alone, a man and his devotion, and theo thinks to ask shall we go?, thinks come home with me, considers were you waiting for me?

they are beaten to it. nour frames an explanation with lithe fingers, paint strokes in heavenly white caressing his palms, the very ends of his hair.

“ take me with you, then. ” they card their fingers through a ringlet poured down nour’s clavicle, silvery and soft, spun silk draped over the back of their hand. gold eyes gleam, meeting the edge of the wolf’s gaze. their eyelids drop, hunger framed by dark lashes, and a great, dark beast sinks eager teeth in their sternum, rends their heart bloody and beating. theo lifts the strand to their mouth, breathes in copper, the sweet syrup of vanilla. “ we can skip the part where i ask. ”

#indeath #i just think that they. they #u know #NOUR ISKANDER. I TASTE MY BLOOD UPON YOUR LIPS. TO BE DEVOURED IS TO BE LOVED.#ANSWERED.

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heartate-aa · 3 years

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@indeath sent : she's been lacing her words with whimsy of bright waters. and in his dreams, those sea-foam blues of her eyes slip underneath the waves. so when he hears of a collection of seaglass from an alexandrian proprietor, it's an answer. the box is matte-black, with a shimmering-ink ribbon. the seaglass is made of mixed sapphires and roses, marbled and rounded. he places it on the counter between them. a hand rubs the back of his neck, "it reminded me of you."

𝐨𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐜��𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. expensive cakes and handmade sweets and gifts, precious and priceless treasures passed around, the very love that is shared between cherished friends and undying lovers alike, it is something she would die for. for centuries, she has born witness across countless unfathomable realms and still, the tradition of love is something that never dies. it prevails through hardship, war, hungering famine, frenzy. sharing special gifts amongst those who rest comfortably, safely, within warm, slumbering hearts is an unforgettable and irreplaceable intimacy like none other. more than a kiss, a simple brush of hands.

for ahri, it isn’t that she is materialistic. in fact, she is anything but someone who truly cared about gifts and the monetary value of them. of course, like anyone else, she loves them, but she finds value, weight, in the meaning behind them. it shows that people are paying to attention to what their loved ones care about, their interests, the things they have shared explicitly and shared without realizing. it is a different kind of thoughtfulness, a subtleness of a fleeting, passing thought, and yet still, there is a love in that brief existence dwelling in memory, in thought.

a warm smile blossoms over her rose - stained lips, pink like spring mist, a glowing, fading daze in a soft melting canvas trailing after the heels of the evening’s setting sun. she takes the box with care. fingers gingerly tug at the ribbon, slowly, until it comes loose and falls into her palms. “ you shouldn’t have, ” ahri says softly, raising her head to peer up at nour before returning her gaze to the box as she removes its lid. and in that moment, her eyes widen, the crystalline pools swirling and glistening even brighter and clearer than ever. a soft breath escapes her thinly parted lips and she cants her head to the side, staring so fondly down at the beautiful seaglass resting within. “ nour . . . these are gorgeous ! where did you get them from ? i’ve never seen seaglass this pretty before ! and so much of it ! ” replacing the lid, she sets it down gently before springing to her heels, leaping to throw her arms around nour. “ thank you, nour ! i love it. ”

#indeath #ic.#ask.#verse. → spirit blossom.#valentine's.

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sevient · 2 years

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' who said you weren't allowed to love and be loved ? '

nour's words settle somewhere deep in OR-10N's chest, disquieting and heavy where a heart would lurch underneath that uncomfortable press. had anybody said it to him directly? carved it into the glass that spans his optic sensors to prevent him from ever forgetting that knowledge? it was not done so deliberately, so obviously - but OR-10N could not escape that truth with even his greatest effort. he is not meant to love, was not created to fill the hole in someone's heart or comfort them with the gentle brush of his hand. he is not meant to be loved, to feel warmth spread in him when his eyes meet theirs and careful fingers probe at his hurts.

“ i did, ” he responds, quiet and careful and slow. it may have not been programmed in him to experience love, nor was he saddled with the ability to give his heart to another. but if he really wanted to know, if the yawning desire to sate his hunger swallowed him up, he could engineer it himself. change the map of his brain to allow it to hum brightly at positive emotion brushing the cortex. however - he hadn’t. had not even done the necessary research to figure out where to start.

the answer to nour's question becomes clear, crystalline and stained with the neon blue ooze of OR-10N's blood. he has been over this scenario many times, fingertips crossed with scars. “ the less i am involved with emotional input and output, the better. less complications. ” he thinks if he were human, he would bare his teeth in a smile, sharp-edged and pained. as it is, his expression does not change. “ i prefer it this way. ”

#answered: orion.#haha... ouch #indeath

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foodbytesback · 4 years

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Foodie Games That Cover a Wide, Confusing Array of Emotions

Hang tight, because this week I’m talking about video games. What? Foodies and gamers can overlap. Just look at that Australian guy from Eater who keeps popping up in Polygon content. Also I’ve written about Pokemon here at least twice, so this isn’t even that much of a stretch.

After a brief respite in the Console Wars, Microsoft and Sony have recently begun unveiling the next generation of entertainment boxes. And with the PS5 briefly having been available for preorder (before selling out a few hours later), now seems to be a good time to look at one of the few games that has actually been announced for the platform (lmao): Nour: Play With Your Food.

From one of the makers of my favorite game of last year, untitled goose game. Nour: Play With Your Food is a, well, play-with-your-food simulator. Boasting 20 different vignettes, such as “empty out a vending machine,” “throw stuff into a meat grinder,” and “too many toasters”, I can only assume Nour will have the same whimsically mischievous vibes as that bastard goose.

youtube

There isn’t much else I can say about it until it comes out (which I will write about when that day comes), but there is another food game that I’ve come across that I can talk about- Eat: The Revolution.

From the makers of The Stanley Parable, which is a game I haven’t actually played but know that it’s one of those games you can namedrop to sound smart, Eat is, at first glance, a simple mobile game, available for free on iOS and Android. Tap the food that appears on screen to eat it, get rewarded with praise… or a warning.

All you see are foods as they nervously shake on a stark black background, waiting to be eaten. All you hear are droning, ambient sounds, whistling wind, and munching sounds that are oddly satisfying, even though eating sounds are usually the grossest thing ever.

As you eat the food provided to you, you are told that you are part of a revolution, and that you will munch upon salvation. “Chomp faithful” becomes your call to arms, urging you to “keep eating, comrade.” Just when you start to wonder what Eat is trying to say, they hit you with this:

As you push onward, it becomes clear that “Uncle Hunger” is not to be appeased, but defeated. And as you tap ceaselessly through the food, warnings not to believe Uncle Hunger’s lies turn to rallying cries of Uncle Hunger’s true nature, weak and pathetic. Utterances of “Cold, Hard, And Empty” become “It Feels Warm,” and then “You Feel Hot.” Victory will soon be at hand.

But, this is often offset by other, more sinister messages. “Protect Yourself” turns into “Do Not Believe Your Pain.” “Eat For Prosperity” becomes “Better Dead Than Hungry.” The food provided to you begins to slip slowly into the uncanny, until by the end, you are told “All Food Is Fake” as you are presented a series of items so jarring I can’t bring myself to spoil them here.

The gameplay is tedious and repetitive, yet morbid curiosity- and the uncertainty of whether or not my progress would be saved if I closed out- drove me forward, with no end in sight. Or so I thought. Because suddenly, without warning, you are informed, “There is no more food.”

A treatise on how endless, hollow consumption for the sake of consumption drives our lives, only to be blindsided by finite, dwindling resources, Eat leaves you wondering if, perhaps, the revolution was just another lie you’ve been fed.

Or something. I don’t know, I’m still wondering what Eat is trying to say.

#food #video games #gamers #Nour: Play With Your Food #Eat: The Revolution #untitled goose game

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