O, how destruction became a kind of prayer. how you prayed it every night. the blood of your fathers rising wet from fields of wheat. and how this violence feeds you. how it holds a hand to your throat: yes, you are a shrine to your own longing.

• Spotify

and when you fashion your body as a temple — there is nothing left to die in at the end.

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I could put a lot of disclaimers here, but for the sake of us both, I’ll just put it succinctly: have common sense and decency. I will not interact with rpers who call use who blend ic & ooc together, who rp "dark rp" for the sake of it, or use trans-fetishizing terms such as f*ta. i will not be doing erp unless we are especially close, but light foreplay with fading to black is fine. shipping is nearly impossible and won't even be on the table without extensive plotting, but one-time flings / sex friends work just as well.

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again, ic does not equal ooc, and whatever relationship our characters have does not and will not translate. what matters most to me is open communication: what we are both comfortable with and what we are both willing to do. this can ensure a seamless writing experience. i’ve been rping mainly on forums for 13~ years now and have pretty much seen it all. that being said, don't be intimidated i just want to write & have fun at this point. and can't keep up with, nor have the energy for, the drama.

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as a console player, i'm not particularly inclined to rping in game, especially in venues, where there is a staggering amount of chat scroll. often, my max is around 2 to 3 hours before i get a headache, and i often prefer one on one's as opposed to groups. if you would be so inclined, we can schedule in game rp in private, or, the way i prefer, move it over to a private server on discord, where we can have one plot line or have multiple. i am super memey and love to interact ooc as i think fostering friendship between two writing partners helps things go more smoothly. i'm a slow writer most of all and will not expect you to respond to me very quickly, as long as neither of us ghost each other it can take months i dont mind. i'll use tupper to reply but i can also not. let's just play with our barbie dolls, baby.

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i am associated with v&v and its organization. as such, i will be a part of its openings as its employee and within its discord server. if you find me in game, it is highly preferred by me that any rp either be moved into a private room for private interaction for a max of 2 hours, or onto discord. i take my greatest enjoyment in writing through more serious, well-thought interactions, and one-liners and one-offs are not normally my cup of tea. thank you for your understanding!

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if you see me in game, feel free to send me a tell! i'd love to talk things over with you. i can also share my discord with you when we're talking if that's easier.

before there was buduga, a hot, still-stinging brand on his neck, before violence took a scalpel to his skin and carved its taste in him, he was kha, first, living on the fringes with wide-open eyes and soft hands. they pulled from strangers with stranger silks more than the war of their neighbors, tongues tangled in new words and arms outstretched to anything foreign.they were not built to be warriors— they had long since traded tradition with the eccentricities of outsiders, dreaming of long ships and shingled rooftops, not the scent of carnage on the plains, sun sharp in their eyes.this is why when the buduga came they folded like paper cranes made with unpracticed hands, stained red like the sun setting on the steppe horizon.he had meant to die, there, his people scattering like a herd of dzo smelling the threat of slaughter, his hands trembling from a weapon too heavy to carry, and yet— and yet, a boy with something feral trapped in his widely spread grin had offered mercy like it was the only choice left to make, like nergui hadn’t wanted to lay there bleeding on the plains, prideful in his meager, desperate resistance. ( he had wanted to live, too, to live beyond nine summers and the whisper of a life, but grasping onto the fingers of ruin was not living— it was surviving, it was bowing his head and putting on the collar and leash with his own hands. )nergui hated the boy that clawed through kindness with no shred of anything tender, who made a possession of him, lower than even the horses with legs still strong enough to run; he hated the boy who placed a dagger in his palms and remolded him into a beast who counted victories rather than the many xaela crying into the blood-seeped land. he hated the tribe that was his home more still, their mockery freshly wetted in the pull of their upturned lips. remade, buduga rather than kha, a warrior rather than a baby-skinned traveler, and yet still he was a child with knees pressed into the earth, waiting for his self-appointed savior to lead him.so, things should have been simple— as simple as finding the slightest glimmer of weakness, naked enough to tear into with his teeth, but instead that boy no kinder than the cut of a blade turned to him, feverish, asking for loyalty as well as flesh. so, things should have been simple— but it was all a mess, limbs melted to limbs and passion making soft of the harder edges of resentment. enkh, enkh, enkh, like a bastardization, like a joke, as if peace could ever be synonymous with the turmoil it bred in him. caught between bloodlust and love, no, nergui would never know peace.the line between rancor and love is so thin. it’s thin like the harsh red line across that boy’s neck, pulsing flush with the skin stained of nergui’s betrayal. how could he make enkh understand? on those hungry for blood plains, nergui knew the only way he could be irreplaceable was to be hated; to leave a mark that could not fade. see what you have created, love, see the beast you have fostered in me, he had meant to say, but he had left his heart there, bleeding out on those grasses, too, and in that carnage the only fitting thing for two dead men was silence.

• read more

.. wish granter .. it is his job to be of service: to be obedient, to follow orders, to never balk at even darkest of blood slipped onto the crevices of his hands. if you'd like to buy a animal, then attach your own leash to his collar and offer up your best price. to the thing who knows best of violence with no nuance, you are buying a weapon; you are buying a beast who is only held together by his dwindling principles; a contract killer.

.. reborn, remade .. to the girl, almost ascended, mostly divine, who offered up her neck to tear into— what he tore into was not blood, but ichor, but light, spooling white down his chin and burning alive the boy that still wept, knees bent on the plains. he is not a sineater but light-touched; a hound made to scent out the sun and make it his feast. it is a slow descent to madness.

.. no succor, no aid .. plucked from his aimless exile on the steppe, even the organization that houses abaddon now is not a home. everything that has been given to abaddon can easily be stripped away— to nergui, given to him to a boy with a quicksilver smile, meaning 'nothing'; to buduga, which had been forced on him as his brethren lay dying; to his life, which had been saved in a selfish act of mercy. abaddon owns nothing, can take ownership over nothing, and can return to nothing. to those of the steppe, they will find no ally in him, as the steppe is not an ally to him. he has no love, only hate for fellow xaela.

.. light of a dying star .. there is less of a man than a ghoul who craves its own demise— who walks a path of unraveling, who seeks out all the ways the world might tear at him, piece by piece. will you be one of the many who accelerate his pace, who grab tight of his hand? there is no bringing back life to the dead, there is only putting them to rest: and it would be best to remember that, for he is all animal with dwindling humanity, a man suffocating his own heart.

• bonds