dvaurga

[dvaurga]

my turtles are a walking, talking, successful experiment in biochemical engineering. april o'neil of eastman and laird's teenage mutant ninja turtles, featuring an amalgamated canon and adapted for the current superhero genre. written by ren since 2014. or maybe just an accidental miracle.

[dvaurga]

on my way home today! i probably won't be super active until the weekend but i'm feeling so re-charged and ready to jump back into threads and things after being away for a few weeks. also... i've been seeing you superheroing and i raise you this @luckstole. empty blog for NOW expect me this weekend both here and also on fel's blog

[dvaurga]

on my way home today! i probably won't be super active until the weekend but i'm feeling so re-charged and ready to jump back into threads and things after being away for a few weeks. also... i've been seeing you superheroing and i raise you this @luckstole. empty blog for NOW expect me this weekend both here and also on fel's blog

[dvaurga]

going to be away starting the 28th so i think i'll probably just start my hiatus early! i know i haven't been around much as is. finding writing motivation has been hard lately given how tired i've been but hopefully a week away from work and being mostly offline will help bring some of my writing muse back.

[dvaurga]

would it be helpful to people if i put together dramatis personae together for some of the key characters in zoya's life for those less familiar with the source material? sometimes i feel like i'm dropping names in threads with zero context and i just want to make sure i'm not confusing people with random people they've never heard of before bndjbrtynr i know a lot of people have either read the soc duology and original trilogy but never reached kos where most of zoya's history is revealed so... we'll see it may be something i'm working on in the background and will link once i'm done as a guide.

[dvaurga]

           ⊹ ,    for a small portion of the dragon's life she had been raised in a home not unlike that of the witch.   her aunt was a woman of suspicion,   who sold her brewing leaves alongside the relics of saints.   a frivolity,   baseless superstition.   as a child who had been failed by any semblance of a higher power it was difficult to swallow such faith in the unseen.   until her own people endeavored to paint a halo behind her head.   a crown was nothing compared to the godhead thrusted upon her shoulders.   

         a living anomaly,   proof of the inexplicable.   she might be that but no alchemy done to her soul could instill within her belief.   even so,   she is not immune to the baubles,   the swarthy inner belly of the home that was at once a cave and glen misted over.   in the muted storm of her colors she was stark against the rich warmth of her surroundings   ━   a nail left untouched in the floorboards.   

          ❛   i think they might know my demon.   kind of them to want to welcome an old friend… or foe.   ❜   a saint to some,   but not to all,   the distinction was only a matter of perspective.   in her bones they simply called him a witch with the powers he had granted her.   

          ❛   i actually have some experience with that myself.   ❜   resounding in her mind is juris' deep,   thundering laughter.   he was less a phantom to her than a nuisance most days.   although his machinations were often inexplicable to her until the very last moment.   the old loon had even orchestrated his whole second death by her hand.   

          ❛   my tea leaves ? by all means the floor is yours.   ❜   sitting at the table,   she is less concerned by what the configurations of her cup will yield and more allured by the prospect of something warm to hold between her palms.  

as it crowns her doorway, more oil lamps gleam like the north star beckoning them inside the corpse witch’s permanence. when they enter and shut out the damp environment of her volition, the smoggy gale gets trapped inside the dim quarters. bonnie coerces the marsh’s drizzle from the plaintive moods of her subjects. any occupant of her domain is metamorphosed into one under her wing.

oozing like sap from the lanterns, an amber murk encroaches on the main room. forging a path of muddy footprints, bonnie steers them toward the kitchen, past the mismatched furniture, through the rounded archway fringed with gauzy tapestries. it is a kitchen humble in size. over the apron-front sink, various crystals are perched upon the windowsill for their nightly moonlight bath.

zoya seems reluctant to relax her regal stance, so bonnie references the catty-cornered table, ❝ please make yourself at home. ❞ the cast-iron kettle is already prepped for boiling as though her pantomime of domesticity had been interrupted.

❝ you’re partly right. ❞ from the logs stacked beneath the table, bonnie heaps kindling onto the grate. ❝ the spirits sensed your need. they allowed you in as i’ve allowed them in. ❞

without striking a match, she ignites the timber. ❝ but they are not so forthcoming. the dead are bored. they like to play games

— however, if you’d like, i can read your tea leaves. ❞

[dvaurga]

          ⊹ ,   permanence is a luxury not even her father's empire could afford.   the enemy to profit was a stagnation;   one of many lessons she was taught while avoiding punches on the training mat.   the dragon had a penchant for multi-tasking,   drilling her in economics while throwing fists was a way to stimulate both the mind and the body… or perhaps teaching her that time was as valuable as money.   all the while they observed,   the one assailant they were forbidden from protecting her from;   this fate.   there were far worse inheritances to be had but it was not a soft life despite all its sleek excess and metropolitan views.   a solitary calling even if the work was to be done between spring galas and exhibition grand openings.   to the press,   simply a socialite with spotless gloves but there was dirt underneath her nails   –   among other things.   they don't shy away from the grime,   the untidy fifth of playing a game with a high body count.   I'M NOTHING,   AREN'T I ? I'M SURE YOU'VE SEEN WORSE.   yet they had been her shadow for so long she did question the validity of that.   maybe not the most horrid,   but she did make them look.   

       evenings here are plum-soaked,   the sun vacant from the horizon.   city lights catching the smog in the air casting diffusing softness over the harsh landscape.   hazy,   like a dream but she knows she is still awake.   because in her dreams they walk beside her,   in her dreams there is no stainless steal,   no teal numbers counting down the hours on the oven's digital clock.   they would not speak either as there was a certain understanding that sleep brought.   a simplicity that was elusive when awake.   a one-sided conversation is as close as they dare.   soft-padding of bare feet over the dark wood floors serving as a retort.   the heiress' humble beginnings were a subject of taboo under this roof and while allowed to know her origins there was an agreement   (   an unsigned contract   )   that it would be mentioned so plainly in passing.   if she had rested more than a few hours she may tear into them right there on the staircase, wake her father and any of the live-in staff but she refrains.   only because they have the good sense the soften the blow with a compliment,   however backhanded it was.   hayato was not one for empty flattery so it should be appreciated in the halves it was given.   

       black tea,   hint of bergamot.   the citrus stung her nose as the hot water settled over the leaves.   ❛   why don't you walk me through it then ? since you are so knowledgeable on my habits,   a scholar even.   ❜   another excuse,   being able to converse without witnesses was an ephemeral occasion.   there were eyes everywhere here but for the time being they were beyond any watchful gaze.   they take to quietude when an audience is present it is to be expected,   customary to be a wallflower until force was needed.   drawing out the moment,   she is stalling somewhat.   staving off a conversation that was not meant for the light of day.   ❛   don't be like that.   ❜   how optimistic of someone who she had seen as a cynic by nature of their position.   there is an honesty to being meticulous with one’s exchanges.   NOTHING IS GIVEN AND NOTHING IS TAKEN WITHOUT A PRICE.   stirring honey into her cup,   the dark liquid consuming amber,   dissolving away with the heat.   ❛   you know there is a cost for everything in this family.   someone is always keeping score.   ❜   no,   she wasn’t above this either.   if one wanted to rally within her father’s court it was necessary to know the rules even if she wasn’t an official player… not yet.   

       ❛   i'm sure even i have accrued some debt with you.   ❜   counting them out would be foolish,   it was the ones on the fringes that needed to be paid attention to the most.   setting a steaming mug before them,   she leans over the marble island feeling the cool stone beneath her arms.   ❛   and i’m about to gain more.  ❜   an inkling of a proposition but she isn’t going to have this conversation in the kitchen.   there may be no keen ears around to catch wind of her betrayal but there was surveillance footage that could be damning enough on its own.   ❛   will you accompany me to the garden ?   ❜   the conservatory was a dome of glass fogged with humidity at the tower's apex.   it was also the one place where there were no cameras installed.  

a shadow made of fluid movement, nothing but the one-track purpose of a river flowing down into the bed of the sea. they have their duty pressed upon them like ink to a page, nothing move them beyond it, and could apply this mindset to anyone they found worth their time and the terms of their employment. the legitimacy of their client's work is almost meaningless to them like that, the fabric of their mindset not stitched through with bothering over immaterial things like disputes over business or turfs of other inquiries that one might make up to find a way in or just rouse chaos; their only task is in front of them like a clear road at all times, enshrouded in brilliant crystal and sapphire, and eyes that could melt stone if she felt like doing so with a single glance. it is remarkable how lethal men thought they were when they have never met anyone more lethal than her - zoya is the equivalent of a blade constantly unsheathed, the metal blinding in the light before sinking into tender flesh or sawing through bone, it never matters how strong of a resolve there is in front of her, she would make her way through anyway.

with the certainty of someone who has used themselves as a blade before themselves, they realise they are the target she is seizing up right now, soft flesh or concrete for her piercing presence to cut through. the darkness never matters to her, it is as inconsequential as the changing state of the sky or the velveteen space between a truth and a lie, as she looks at them as one may look through a wall as if it were nothing more than glass to something that lies hidden away for everyone else. she has this omnipresence to her, that makes her seem far older than she is, which likens her to them every single time they catch this stare ( not often, they usually walk behind or ahead of her, rarely if ever at her side, medieval in this quality but it serves them well so her ribbing flies over their head most of the time. ) it follows them now as they watch her with their own slow gaze, unblinking, and ask, " were you born for yours or were you raised into it, miss nayzalenskaya? " the question does not need an answer, so they go on. " one can accustom themselves to anything through enough competence. a talent is not hereditary, despite what some may say. "

their words are far away to their own ears all the time, especially in her presence. following her down the stairs, behind her as the dutiful shadow they have promised to be, they still are close enough that the scent of her is much nearer to their face than their own words - wildflowers and the aftermath of rain, something out of place indoors and therefore all the more striking whenever they are near enough to be aware of it. their face remains a blank slate, opaque in the dark where it merges into the background, but it stirs something in their chest, the fact that she elicits memories in them, that they have somehow known each other long enough for this to happen. rarely has someone left such a mark on their mind for it to happen. it occupies their thoughts until they stop in the dim circle of light in the kitchen, not in front of the stove but close enough to her that it would be seen as impolite by anyone who'd find them. they suppose in case of emergency it'd be better they'd be able to grasp her quickly, and throw them both either onto the floor or pull her behind them. these are thoughts about her they always have and are much more welcome than a stray phantom ache of memories. " i know how you take your tea, " they state simply, the words left with nothing to weigh into them if one were eavesdropping. their eyes have found hers again, unflinching as they look at her. " make them two, then. no need to start a ledger for it, unless you want to. "

[dvaurga]

saturday after my big chop i will be here wait for me!!! the weekend is not far

[dvaurga]

me when i can barely keep this blog afloat… what if i revamp @hitsuzan 🤔

[dvaurga]

          ⊹ ,  where triumph should be there is a detachment that could not be further from stoicism. every edge of her raw,   even as she plucks at the threads of his life between her fingertips.   a lyre in discordance,   the melody between them dissonant and out of measure.   her graceless staggering through the snow and the muddle she had made of it with a slick palm.   eyes wide,   her ears pick up a faint whine.   like a tiger's growl in the distance but it only is the wind rising in a torrent around her.   each violent gust whips her hair into a frenzy as he struggles back to his feet.   his breath may have been stolen but it is her chest that heaves and her voice that is hoarse constriction when she speaks.   a teetering humor,   on the edge of hysteria as a laugh shakes her whole body.   

       ❛   you killing the storm witch ?   their belief in you is truly inspired.   ❜   less a measure of her own prowess and more a disparagement of the drüskelle.   their confidence,   their cold and measured executions   (   and they think me less than human ?   )   what are you,   she doesn't ask him but it dawns on her.   not a grisha,   not a hunter.   then what… where did that leave them ?   to see beyond the crown and country,   in the midst of war she could not let her loyalty falter to the whims of her heart.   a meager organ that had grown since she was a girl.   

        ❛   a wolf may change it's coat but never its nature  ❜   the dark cloak of his uniform now a damp heap in the snowdrifts.   it may have never suited him but it was a skin he had worn for years and it could not be shed without consequence no matter how often he disdained the band of holy warriors   ❛   saying a lie and living one are not the same.   ❜   in this world of gods and saints,   what was there to pray to for two non-believers ?   the altar of this kiss,   the altar of this hate   ━   used up faith.   

the tumbling had been short enough to let her steal his breath, to which he responded to with the fissure of fresh-cut hatred. as it slipped from him, and sonja’s maw was not there to intervene, he grappled with senseless wildness, to claw his nails into her until he’d caught her wrist. the oxygen eludes him nearly entirely then as his words are snipped off like a cut thread. it is the needle of boiling blood that saves his lungs from collapse, her palm blooming red as the roses she tended to. — but the injury he was given was more obscure in his gasping breaths when they were ripped apart at last. mind numb with spinning, he pushes himself onto his knees, hands pale and cold and burning in the snow from where he looks at her again.

❛❛  tough luck, i don’t die easy.   ❜❜  his mouth splits open then, hatred that bore the clothes of love. his eyes bewildered with the incensed taste of betrayal and interest. he pushed up a leg, hand at his chest where his heart ebbed, and stood with his fingers curling in warning when he suspected she would resume her suffocation of him — a harsh spasm in her palm, infected blood and all.

❛❛  no. that’s what you want to believe. i don’t have anything i care to pay anyone.   ❜❜  his touch loosened, but his weariness hadn’t. a single cough and he feels the blood on his lips from his nose, a near death evaded but with scars unseen. ❛❛  they wanted to give me immunity if i killed you. said they’d welcome me back like a hero.   ❜❜  immunity! not a thing like that existed in fjerda. he would be skinned and ripped apart for study, then fed to the wolves. the ravkans would do the same to him, if she told them to.

❛❛  look me in the eye and tell me, do i enjoy lies?   ❜❜

[dvaurga]

the fruits of my labor…. mh: wilds zoya looking like a wonder woman variant we’ll take it

[dvaurga]

oh yes cora who literally invented zoya nazyalensky and has been the it girl from tumblr for literally years... yes i've heard of her...

mjxfbfjnbfrnf if anyone has seen me in my flop era it was you now you've witnessed the FULL character arc! i wouldn't say i'm an it girl but i'm definitely a problem YOUR problem 🫵 we're stuck together like glue miss ma'am

[dvaurga]

⬩ 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝 ⁱᶠ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ⁱˢ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ᵉˡˢᵉ ᵗᵒ ʷⁱᵗⁿᵉˢˢ ʰⁱᵐ. & 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 — even yourself. ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ʷᵒⁿᵈᵉʳᵉᵈ ʷʰᵒ ⁱˢ ᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ⁱᵗ ? ⬩ 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 @lamorts .ᐟ ⋆˚࿔ / as created by amanda. ⬩

[dvaurga]

hey cora ily and in case no one's told you today you're superb

SCREAMING THIS GOT BURIED IN MY INBOX AND I'M JUST SEEING IT NOW! you are legit too kind to me. i'm so excited you're back with bonnie she is probably one of my fave characters of all time and i adore your take on her. i'm sending you a million kisses!! 🩷 🩷 🩷

[dvaurga]

zoya is the opposite of a lover girl in every way. she is a hater girl but she does it with gusto, passion, and commitment so it is a little bit ( a lot a bit ) like love if you squint and turn your head a bit!

[dvaurga]

just got off work gonna game for a bit then expect ME! also consider this a reverse meme call as well since i've been pretty absent i'll be making up for lost time

[dvaurga]

          ⊹ ,  the acrid tinge of iron,   a scent so strong it arrives even on the tongue.   before them,   the aftermath of bodies seeped of color and the ground reflects the stolen hue.   a sea of crimson,   the ground wet with carnage she does wrinkle her nose at it nor does she turn away.   a general must live in the truth of her position,   knowing the gravity of the army she possessed.   this was not a war of conquest but one for the right of existence.   too long grisha had been pawns in a game of kings but now they rallied under their own banner.   no matter their cause she has no proper words of comfort   ━   far from an emotive beacon.   one could count on the zoya nazyalenskaya to keep standing but she would not coddle,   nor soothe with maternal affirmations.   

        ❛   expected triumph,   didn't you ?   it's never as graceful or as clean as you would anticipate it to be.   in the end no one wins   ━   it's those that survive and those who fall.   ❜   offering a measured response.   while it was far from a soothing affair it is all she can offer the other grisha.   since she was a girl she dreamt of the draft instead of marriage,   or children.   peace had not even been a consideration,   a possibility she could even hope to conceive.   yet when she looks into the despondent faces of her recruits it becomes a cause worth striving towards.   ❛   that mentality will  eat at you.   soldiers have no time for regret,   hilda.   even if there was another way,   trust it wouldn't be bloodless either.   ❜   still this revelation is absent from her speech.   if she falters here she fears she may never regain her resolve.   mounting her horse she offers her hand to help hoist the girl onto the saddle behind her.   they lost the majority of their mounts to bullet wounds.   the white mare,   now gray, was one of the few still fit enough to ride.   

we all did what we had to do to survive .

“ you are right. ” the air still smells of war— fear, tears, blood and death. she was told a wave of pride and accomplishment would follow after the final blow, after the last of their enemies fell. had she been lied to? if this is what that pride and accomplishment felt like, she didn’t want it. the emptiness and the hollow pit in her stomach made her skin prickle. a headache was beginning to form behind her eyes, maybe because of the strain from using her powers, or it was from all the crying she had done while fighting for her— all of their lives, she wasn’t sure. “ is this how i'm supposed to feel after a battle? ”

the greed for power, the constant voice in her head screaming at her to get stronger, more powerful, more fearless, more dangerous— it was all gone. the silence of her mind scared her, an anxious feeling settled over her as she overlooked the battlefield. her companions were close, but not close enough to hear the words they exchanged. hilda blinks, pulling her kefta closer, unable to wipe away the images of their faces before she struck them. “ i know they were the enemy, but... ” she turns to zoya instead, managing a small smile. “ maybe it could have been handled differently. ”

prompt > always accepting.