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um hey so if its chill id like a chance at a brawl with someone. td outcast SoA btw
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Aug 1, 2019 00:24
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 16:27 |
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Anomalous Blowout posted:Accepted. forgot i had to do this  also
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Aug 3, 2019 02:26
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so apparently nz is in a different dimension? does august 15 midnight mean 11:59 pm or 12 am also
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Aug 13, 2019 21:45
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cool. thanks sorry if i sounded snippy. i havent posted in a while. peace take the moon fucked around with this message at 22:21 on Aug 13, 2019 |
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Aug 13, 2019 22:09
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me vs. anomalous blowout story fight 1999 words Black Lung The flowers burn as she picks them, though still damp with dew. The petals ash in her fingers, soon smeared across the cloth of her tunic. The stems falling limp and charred in graceless dance. The plague she brings leaves bodies unsung and unmourned. Those that know her passage walk from her, never waver. This lightens her heart. The tethers of soul and earth strung most taut always fray. She shows their seams to the bitter wind and Its judgement is not hers. She treads an ancient field, though it began with an ending. She knows what the vanished called themselves, knows the name of all collectives, knows them by their absence. When tribes turn to stone and structure, they lose light. The shade of wall and home keeps it. With light lost, decay seeps across the years through blood and seed. Bodies clutching each other soon choke. Without their rituals the fay swell from below, consume what they’ve built. The union of cultures beneath lends her blight. She takes knowledge offered with hunger she never questions. The fay birth children with lust and laughter. The offspring seek light. They ascend in androgyny, sex when they breach the surface. Longing takes them. They come together, form new tribes, sate their need for each other. Their clinging is their death, but they can’t rest apart from each other’s bones. Each culture a tribute to a greater myth, one veiled to her. She has long felt like its child, alone, forgotten, wishing abuse would prove her real. Her hair has paled but her veins remain hidden. She doesn’t tire and never sleeps. She watches stars come out instead. She sees shapes in them, visions without meaning, gone with daylight. She cries but sheds no tear. Sunbeams lance the earth through cloud patches. The ground empties of green, soon willow-bark brown loam. Her bare feet sink to their arches. She’d unroot all flora, if she had time, and her path now leaves her to obsess. Her fingers find her hair, her choice clear. Her palm guides a tendril between thumb and index. She pulls. Her heel sears with pain. She lets it fill her and fade away, retreats, more shocked than hurt. The nails that raked her grasp the soil and cave it in. A wrist, then two, rise from the hollow, lock to pull up weight. Slender arms bend and straighten. She sees gray eyes and the bone of ribcage under pallid skin. The fay’s brood sense her presence, caught between their battle for air and terror of her sickness. They alter their path to miss her. This one came as if called. Fear guts her, that her gift is lost. If their children dare so, the fay themselves mock her. The offspring’s eyes find hers. They shimmer. It weeps in silence and stillness. Her air should lace its throat with cuts, fill its lungs with blood. Still tears flow, glisten in the sunbeams like pearls. She has sorrow worth torrents that she can’t release. She glares. Walks on, though she’s lost faith in her path. Though her heels ache with every step. She won’t look weak before a fay child. She keeps watch over her shoulders as the sun traces its arc across the sky. The offspring follows. Her anger withers as darkness falls. She slows. The offspring has not sexed. She wonders why. Did the fay expel it early, set it to face the agons of ascension without love or soothing? She knows how it is to live barren. To exist just this side of being’s border. The offspring slips closer like one turns a page. Without thought, she hugs it to her. Shares its breath, feels the discord between their heartbeats. The offspring breaks from her with dry eyes, like all it needed was her skin. The sun is a faint glow, a shard cresting the end of the world. The offspring follows her gaze to the twilit sky. They wait. The stars blink into being a handful at a time. She breaks the silent spell. “Do you see them too? The visions?” The offspring breathes in the starlight, as if its lungs diffuse ether into its bloodstream. “You should be named,” she says. “I name you Tagata.” The offspring murmurs the name with eyes that beckon more speech. “There must be books,” she says, “that tell of the myth and the stars. Maybe in a holy place. But there are only ghosts here. Do you feel your birthright as a fay child? A wanting that shows you to others?” Tagata nods. “Then let’s walk together,” she says, her voice surer than ever, “and see who waits for us.” ⚸ Eloal has brought the obsidian spear to the temple. This should be ill-fated. But this morning he will use it. For a decade he has sharpened and polished the black glass. The weapon thrums in his grip, sending tremors vibrating through his bones. He knows this magic. The obsidian holds the spirits of those that gifted him his bloodline. The priestess Cirra doesn’t keep candles. She knows the temple to move to and fro in darkness, enjoys being the only who can. So Eloal bears a torch too, held before him like a shield. He’s feared the dark since birth. Despite this the two know each other better than kin. He hears her robes rustle before she steps into view. His torchlight plays with her harrowed face. She will have cause enough to smile after this dawn’s work. She has pored through the myth word by word. It set a price, made itself at home in her memory. She sees her past as the myth does. Its sight is not kind. Her mistakes not lessons learned but time wasted. Youth fled as water leaves dirt in a sieve. “I just want,” Cirra says, “this to be over.” Eloal says nothing. The two are tired. His dream-state doesn’t refresh like sleep. In it he performs his kill again and again, wakes with eyes that don’t blink. He sees much in the moments others lose. He sees the skein that binds people. How they strain against it to escape him. How he rends them through the mesh of his need, how they emerge in tatters begging to be woven. He weaves them as friend and lover. He wants most to be drawn through their mesh himself. Yet they do not want him, not since he first entered the dream-state and wielded the spear. Cirra rubs her own eyes. Her fingers are scarred. Gifts from the myth. She may tell herself it’s from careless handling. Fatigue from days and nights spent in ceaseless study. Eloal knows such thoughts wouldn’t convince her. All she’s sure of is the myth’s hatred. It hates her for leaving the womb. Being heir to the hallowed is no blessing. She would have chosen the life of a sower, or dancer, or widow. It was never up to her. As her cord was cut, she saw pure void. Cirra is the only one that can read the myth, and she does so in the dark. The myth marked the cursed one for death under the morning sun, the means a blank page. Cirra’s hand brushes his knuckles, calming him as she takes the spear. She leaves the torchlight to find the font. He doesn’t follow. His presence would disrupt the ritual. Only a priestess may tell the myth to accept a weapon into its story. The incantations haunt in layers, each one a droning heartbreak weighted by the time spent to master it. Her voice is firm yet flowing, reaching for the next chant before the last one is lost. The echoes blend with the ebb of rushing water. Tides are old magic, claiming the world through seasons of leaf and bloom. She’s soon before him, both arms offering him the spear, face hidden by a cascade of wet hair. The obsidian head swims with bright motes, sparking at the glass like fireflies over water. An impatient galaxy. “My forebears,” he says. “They’re eager to help you. The rites brought them closer to presence.” “I am sorry to bond them so.” He takes the spear, feels its silken-smooth grip as if for the first time. “Show them you’re worthy.” He will use both spear and torch. He will blind the scion with the torch. It will know Cirra’s pain. Next his spear will pierce the cursed one’s lung, below the heart. She will know the hurt of her own disease. Yet we will still come to ruin in the end. Like his kill won’t matter, though it will stain him. He will meet his forebears marred by doubt and guilt. Such is the myth. He asks himself what forming a tribe is like. To just know you want others and they want you. To invoke the skein between bodies, but unknowing, innocent. He is too aware of himself as trapper and thresher. After this kill I will leave. He will carry the obsidian, wander until he joins its spirits. Has Cirra read of his choice? If she has, she can make him stay, for she knows the skein. She must, for she unspools every attempt he makes to weave her. ⚸ I am the shade that climbed from hell and was named Tagata. I was given flesh by the myth. I grieved for skin gnawed raw, for a churn that strips tissue from muscle. I found the cursed one by the sickness that repelled true fay children. Her touch sept ichor through my skin, washing me clean. Then I knew I must marry present to future. I led her to her place in the myth. The warrior lay in wait. He emerges now as silhouette on our path. He bears a weapon hewn from the earth’s bile. Its spirits throw their battle cries to the wind. My ears pluck them, arrange them to song. I swallow the melody and distill its tune. He measures his pace. I measure mine. He feints as I lunge. I follow his arm as it twists away from me. Seeking his open side I raze only air. Then he spins, and the flame whirls toward me. My breath stops. The torch falls as the hunter gasps. Clutches his throat. His eyes hold only sadness. He has the courage to accept death but the wisdom to know its meaning. His knees fall as if in prayer. His descent is gentle, his landing soft. I borrowed her plague. Now I regift it. The black glass dulls to the simple shine of sunlight. She wears her bliss like a gown, as if naked before. The way to the temple clears as people gathered take shelter. We will visit each home. We pass into the temple. I wind the dead air to light. The light burns down the hall, past pews and altars. A robed woman stands at temple’s end. Her back is to us, her shadow cast against a dry fountain. We approach her. The shadow flickers as she turns to face us. She holds a black tome. Blood runs from her lips. “Eloal died in battle. Maybe for the best.” I hear death in her lilt. “We are the last tribe,” she says. “Did you know? The fay are sterile, and the myth starves. So it sends plague to hurry its last meal. A myth ends. A new myth will tell itself. The stars will thread themselves into a new tapestry.” She doesn’t look at me. “Hello, scion. You should’ve grieved longer. Time will seal your eyes forever.” “Give me your book,” the cursed one says. “I want to read about the stars.” A smile bares bloodstained teeth. “I wish there was time to read it to you.” “What do you mean?” she says, and I hear the myth in her voice, because all it needs to know itself are its own thoughts. All it needs are its fragments. All it needs are its words.
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Aug 15, 2019 05:00
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 16:27 |
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thank you for the crit.
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Aug 16, 2019 12:31
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