Marina Tsvetaeva, from “One A Red Horse”, Bride of Ice

my power is no illusion. i can fucking demolish you.

(visibly shaking and covered in blood) yeah its just been kind of a long week haha

You gotta walk in rooms like God sent you

If you ever disrespect me and I was calm about it dont trust me

"you look tired" well the torment is relentless and the horrors never cease

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞  …  the  throne  room  under  the  mountain  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  …  seren  (  @xstarforged​​  )  and  the  attor

a wet wine red warmth matts curls to the head,      his cranium cracked against the marble.      grey skin is pulled taut to hide its insides,      ribs protruding in sickeningly unnatural ways.      the attor is crouched in the shadows above him,     carving deep into his flesh and threshing from him sculpted muscle.      the blood blossoms hot and thick from his chest.      he bares his teeth.      everything was blood and pain.      the pain weaves into a garland the shape of a noose      —      chiseling into him,      cutting,      serrating,      begging him to disappear.      it is at his ear with a sandstone cry,      its gaunt mouth sharp with rows of whet teeth:      ‘ you will die,      lord of night. ’.      the pain begins to bend,      separating body from need as his anger is polished like a knife.      the sable claws of its atrophied fingertips scrape the long flat bone of his sternum.      he grasps for power that is now an arid well,       a phantom of darkness that was once vast and tangible,      thunderous like the roar of wild armies.      the cathedral null,      his head is used to bludgeon,      temple bashed against calcified tissue until his skin is split above the brow.      the creature rears back with a carnal snarl,      wresting back a haggard limb in an action which unsteadies its cadaverous hull.      it is enough.      pale light glints off a honed claw that is poised to pierce,      to ferry him through an arresting death.      half his physique free of its pin,      he drives his weight upward,      propelled by a push on the sole of his fine leather boot.      as he is carried by the motion,      a dagger is drawn from the sheath at his calf.     he sinks the blade betwixt the ribs,      silver pooling at the abdomen,      flesh rent and spilling feverish viscera.      slit through the middle.      dagger embedded to the hilt,      it requires a graceless jerk to loose the weapon from its adversary,      argent mist spattering marred attributes.      he rolls to his feet,      jaw clamped tight at the afflictive stretch of his wounds.      adrenaline coils high in his gut.      his eyes are like sinkholes,      like death tessellated into moonlight as the attor circles him,      staggering,      holding in its glistening entrails with a pair of keen talons.      a predator now hesitant of its beast of prey.

he could be mercurial.      sometimes he wanted greatness,      and sometimes just its shadow.      this is what it was to be darkness tied and alive.      risen from a grave in which there was no resurrection.      when the lord of night strode through the ingress,      darkness was a presence,      his raven hair crowned by coal black smoke as he claimed the room.      the air beneath the mountain was impure,      making the darkness almost darker still.      across his face were filaments of shadows,      the planes of his physique a web of leaden gloom.      against the far - off,      holier light of velaris he was a celestial shade of twilight.      but here,      smothered like the wraith athwart him,      he is a murky blend of ill - lit dusk,      masquerading in a place devoid of a pale moon.       zora had been his knowing between blood and gravity,      formidable and without compassion when he required her to be.      as she begins to impart to him,      azrael lends her the entirety of his regard.      like she is something of a high lord herself.

he reaches for a crystalline jug of wine,      the contents of its dark - long depths the color of pomegranate and oxblood.      the collar of his black tunic shifts with the action,      permitting a glimpse at the lines of a tattoo underneath.      where he could don his vestment of magic to offer them both this communion,      the process is wholly mundane as dual cups are nearly filled to the brim,      set before himself and the emissary as if they had come to rest upon an altar of wrathful gods.      ‘ many are still planning for another. ’      he reveals,      eluding to his mother - blessed ability to shroud the minds of the unwitting.      dark liquid swivels as he sways the glass in a circular motion,      the silver stars in his violet eyes flickering whilst scrutinizing the movement.      there is a calculated edge to the words he speaks next,      and something of a secret,      of bearing a weight alone.      ‘ i need you to do something. ’

closed  for   :   azrael  mazhar   (   @azraehl   )   !

location   :   night  court  meeting  room,   under  the  mountain  !

          their  usual  activities  didn't  halt  just  because  their  routine  had  shifted,  or  their  scenery  had  changed,  and  duties  remained  duties  regardless.  perhaps  even  more  so  now,  with  all  of  the  courts  now  under  the  mountain,  mortals  and  fae  and  every  creature  in  between,  and  none  of  them  with  any  shortage  of  murmurings  offered  behind  closed  doors.  like  the  court  of  nightmares,  the  shadows  beneath  the  mountain  are  familiar,  beckoning  to  keep  her  from  prying  eyes  and  promising  whatever  secrets  they  may  hold.  velaris  was  home,  but  the  dark  corners  made  up  parts  of  her  very  being  that  even  sunlight  never  touched,  that  most  shied  away  from.  most,  and  yet,  azrael  had  only  ever  seen  the  potential,  seen  her  darkness  and  understood  what  lay  within.

          fingers  trail  against  the  grain  of  the  wooden  table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  seats  meant  for  inner  circle  discussions  now  otherwise  empty.  she'd  seen  enough  of  the  other  court  rooms  to  know  they  were  all  about  the  same,  though  she  was  only  truly  invited  to  this  one.     ❝  all  things  considered,  things  haven't  gone  too  bad  so  far,  hm  ?  ❞     lips  quirk  slightly  as  gaze  shifts  to  the  opposing  figure  in  the  room,  even  if  there  was  only  ease  in  her  stance.     ❝  save  for  the  feisty  mortals,  of  which  there  seems  plenty.  ❞     she  fails  to  mention  her  goading  of their  dearest  librarian,  a  baseless  spook,  but  she'd  heard  of  the  one  that  had  launched  herself  at  one  of  their  own, too,  and  her  next  words  are  offered  freely,  as  they  always  were.     ❝  i  think  many  are  still  struggling  to  remove  themselves  from  the  mindset  of  war.  ❞

She is a girl with a wolf’s heart.      And he admires it.      But a predator often admired its prey before its jaws rent wide to seize the catch.      She is before him like a yielding throat,      staring towards her fate,��     swallowing whatever unwilling sentiments he can only assume plague each of what she deems her final steps.       And she could run,      but the shadows would snag her by a limb,      sink in their velvet claws and hold fast the flesh.      In the enveloping darkness,      he is a wolf with an edge to his appetite come to whisper in her ear.      A lone lamb cannot be salvaged,      and he planned to exhume the root of her hunger      —      all of the fears which had exposed the belly of the doe.      That had made her sprint through the dark,      a deer once paused in the poppy fields of spring.

The glass of his eye darkens as he nears,      like something old and tired that has soiled the sight of its possessor.      To his people he is the white fire of stars,      a softness from their light that fills to the bone.      To her he is armored only in nightmare,      something with fangs pointed for tearing gashes,      a red tongue for raw meat,      the hot lapping of blood.      Shadows twine between the strands of his hair,      shifting with the incline of his head.      ‘ Tell me,      does a mortal know the laws under the mountain ? ’      Beyond one step alone,      no distance had been decreased,      though it felt as if there lacked a breadth at all.      ‘ Breaking the law of neutrality is punishable by death.      You and my brother scuffling like children is one thing,      but placing my entire Court at risk ... ’      He had gutted for less,      carved his way out with only his teeth and a sharp red mouth.      ‘ When you tell me who you are,      I’d suggest not to skimp on the details      —      or I will find them myself. ’      The forewarning is weighed by a growling accent,      the candor of his threat accompanied by the scrape of a black talon against her mind,      a barrier he need only fissure upon the expiry of his next breath.

location: under the mountain, random sitting room for the spring court status: closed ( @azraehl ) time: late evening

Nesri was pissed and she didn't know how long she had until someone spotted her. She wrapped her wrist up and glanced around the room. Everyone here from spring was minding their own business, which Nesri was thankful for. She wasn't gone that long either. No one had approached her about the fight yet and she had snuck away when the general and his boyfriend were fighting. The shadowsinger. He was equally as annoying as Koray, they all were.

The brunette frowned and crossed her legs. By now, she had changed out of her mercenary clothes and hidden them far from here. It was a shame too, the outfit was nice. Thankfully, she had extras back in the spring court. What she didn't have though, was another bow. Nesri frowned at the image of it split in two... It was her favourite one and it had been expensive. She sighed and shook her head.

She stood up and glanced around, unsure of what she was supposed to do next. The sudden coolness in the room caused Nesri to freeze. The door had just opened. She knew who it was before she even had a change to exhale. Nesri muttered a few curses under her breath before she finally turned around.

Nesri had heard whispers of the high lord of night... She shivered at the memory that replayed in her head, the one time she saw him in battle. She didn't wish to be on the receiving end. Although, seeing him in person... She wouldn't break. She couldn't. She stood taller and straighter and waited for the final blow that would come with dying. She had attacked his general, Nesri knew she wouldn't be let off easy for that and at this point, she didn't care. The archer lived a fine life, dying would just be the next adventure.

For I am Nightmare: where I fly, Terror and rain stand in the sky

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Some Things Are Dark  (via violentwavesofemotion)

tendrils of darkness ripple through the air around him,      star - lined,      kinetic shadows of night as his hands gracefully slip into pockets.      power thrums,      emanating and expanding,      coursing heavy through him with every step.      a living thing prowling within him where there is constant conflict to contain,      to tame.      he tucks his large wings closer as the labrynth narrows,      glamour deserted to preserve the tire of his power.      he had been attentive,      shielding not only the minds of his court but those of the winter as well,      and spent his day wiping his general’s mortal dalliance from others.      the efforts had enacted a steady drain,      a bout of fatigue both mental and physical as azrael traversed taunting recollection of the nightmare court’s correlation to under the mountain.      the second is not in his plan when searching for isolation,      the woman imbued within the cool shade of the dwelling,     her peripheral a snare as he presses forth with a dark violet gleam.      throughout the war,      they had shared similarities in which naturally repelled one another      —      like magnets of the same polarity.      aspects that had originally led them to despise the very atmosphere immuring their presence.      but now they were inclined to satirize.      wolves in thickets.      ‘ always a pleasure,      veila. ’      the subtle bow of his head is wholly mocking,      the etch of the smile that curves his lips almost feline,      delighting in amusement too blatant not to perceive.      ‘ how fortunate i must be,      for you to prefer my company than that of your mate. ’

closed for  :  azrael mazhar ( @azraehl​​ ) setting  :  in the library !

she’s always preferred her own company over others, only a select few chosen to see the beating heart usually so encased in ice. if she had it her way, she would have stayed in her estate, put down the roots she worked so hard to establish. but she would never leave her high lord here without her watching his back, supporting him in whatever way he required of her. even still, he could not pay her enough to willingly spend time in clumps of fae who knew only as an assassin. she’s amongst the back aisles, half blending in to the darker corners with the black leather she’s permanently encased in, daggers visibly strapped to most of her body despite she hears the approach long before she catches sight of the high lord from the corner of her eye. “lord azrael.” she acknowledges, pressing the book she’d been eyeing back into it’s shelf before turning to face him. “good to see you under better circumstances.”

the moon had thinned to a thread at the border,      the court helming decay,      the woods beastly and skeletal.      he had stood through the eve until the winter dawn was the color of metal,      the trees stiffened into place like burnt nerves as he awaited the arrival of adrius and his dead mate.      his father had been a savage force of nature,      a grim god of death wielding a keen blade made to sever tender throats.      when word had reached him,      azrael attended to the atrocity with a detached expression.      raena was not his to mourn,      and his brother had little use for condolers which could not return to her the mother’s breath.      when the high lord’s son materialized,      his muscles heavy with the weight of despair,      he was a stoic white sheet struck with rigor mortis.      even an untrained daemati need not delve to unearth the anguish,      the spray of pink mist and the wounded screams of his comrade that nearly dismantled the mask of azrael’s impassive resolve.      wordlessly he reached,      clasping the elder’s shoulder,      as silent as the shrouded body sheltered within adrius’ grasp.

when he winnows them to velaris on a black wind,      violets pulse like shrapnel through the crust of daybreak.      a city of starlight sweeps the horizon,      a canvas of white - fire stars and unrestrained beauty.      this is the look of the truth:      layered and elusive,      a veil of mystery to safeguard his people.      dark plum irises gauge his companion for reaction beyond the evident pain before him.      azrael knew that the snow would thaw,      that the rivers would run and the world would wake into itself again.      but adrius would not.      his father had stolen from him a glossy innocence      —      a woman once shone with great light now spent.      killed cruelly,      a love gutted.      and all he could do was offer him a garden in the dead of winter,      the soil untouched,      the stars longing to meet her.      one day,      he hoped to proffer to adrius that his mortal lover might be cradled by the mouth of the sidra,      or a tree drinking rain in the mist - mad forests of illyria,      sprinting with a heard of luminous deer and soaring wild with the birds.      but for now these were falsehoods,      and he would not distort the realities of war.

‘ velaris has been a closely guarded secret for thousands of years. ’      he extends,      reflective stare shifting from the glittering city before them.      ‘ i intend to keep it that way. ’      a flatness is worked into his tone,      the warning granitic.      there is risk in permitting adrius here.      a deep - seated trust that azrael does not often harbor.      but the threat catches on a jasmine - scented breeze,      stealing with it a raw firmness and imparting something more familiar between them.      ‘ did you really think i’d condemn her      —      or any of your loved ones      —      to the court of nightmares,      brother ? ’

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬:   closed ,   @azraehl .

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧:   velaris ,   the   city   of   starlight .   (  flashback.  )

his   body   feels   like   stone .   each   step   heavier   than   the   last ,   the   blood   in   him   doing   nothing   but   freezing   over   with   each   second   that   passes   without   her .   her   body   is   limp   in   his   arms ,   a   bag   thrown   over   where   her   head   would've   been .   an   idea   from   someone   in   his   inner   circle ,   he   doesn't   remember   who .   can   only   remember   watching   the   way   his   father's   sword   swung   as   guards   held   him   back .   can   only   think   of   the   way   it   took   six   guards ,   all   well   trained   and   equipped   with   weapons   of   their   own ,   to   subdue   him .   the   image   of   raena's   head   rolling   to   his   feet ,   the   only   sound   in   his   ears   being   the   rushing   of   blood.   he   remembers   screaming   too ,   a   continuous   loop   that   pierced   the   ears   of   those   around   him ,   and   it   takes   him   only   now   to   realize   they   had   originated   from   him .   

he   hadn't   wanted   to   give   her   a   funeral .   hadn't   wanted   to   invite   people   to   it .   but   soothing   words   of   encouragement   had   prompted   him   to   do   so .   to   even   invite   azrael .   doesn't   even   have   the   strength   to   put   up   mental   shields   to   block   out   the   daemati .   doesn't   even   bother   trying .   but   when   his   friend   offers   to   shelter   her   body   in   the   night   court ,   adrius   is   livid .   insulted .   there'd   been   shouting   from   his   end ,   anger   manifesting   in   the   form   of   a   vein   popping   from   his   neck .   but   azrael   doesn't   reciprocate   the   displaced   anger ,   only   invites   him   to   a   city   in   the   night   court ,   velaris .

❛   this   is   not   what   i   expected ,   ❜         his   words   are   hoarse ,   the   first   sentence   he   managed   to   utter   in   days .

Yves Olade, kaiein (to burn)

I love you = I will commit unspeakable acts of violence for you.

incredibly empathetic of me to not skin you alive btw