#( MIRROR. )

[rcguish]

a study of some sort

[signetrings]

draco's sinday participation

bonus:

[kinlochs]

VEILGUARD ERA CASSIAN YOU ARE VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME!!!!!!!!

[hazukixlynch]

[rewireds]

PRINCESS <3 and johnny

[napoleonxfalon]

The Mercantilism & The Reverent ~ Valetine's Day

By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top I climbed the tree to see the world When the gusts came around to blow me down I held on as tightly as you held onto me

@blademasterdior

[signetrings]

re: this headcanon

[kinlochs]

no. no. look at him. he's perfect. gorgeous. gorgeous. fuck off you donkey (at myself)

[hazukixlynch]

[alucardrakul]

The Torn & The Runner ~ Valentine's Day

And the first time, ever I kissed your mouth I felt the earth move in my hands Like the trembling heart Of a captive bird That was there, at my command My love

@etienneulven

[rewireds]

screenshots of the day. can we give it up for nibbles. johnny's there too again

[xnikandrosx]

The Mission Pride & The Shade

The priests and the friars Approach me in dread Because I still love you My love, and you're dead

@casimirnoctis

[diarmad]

Diarmad; a playlist

Death, Decay, Transformation, and Rebirth.

Songs of mourning with themes of spirits beyond Diarmad's grasp, a master of death and connection, the melodies coexist with something ancient and eldritch all wrapped up in his kingdom of rot. No one knows better than a druid of spores that life is cyclical, life and death running in renewal in tandem with indisputable suffering and agony. Diarmad's magic exists within the physical and the esoteric, his connection to the Dark One and the consistent themes of shedding his understandings in order to push progressively forward.

Composed of mycelial webs and esoteric, Diarmad's magic is not a thing of either rigid structure or celestial grace - but something that writhes uncomfortably. It breaks and devours in a quiet force, slowly unmakes, returns to the earth, and orchestrates the paradox of destruction birthing creation. Not a fire or a howling wind, but the damp breath of the grave, the pulse of roots and splitting of stones.

A hunger that consumes time itself.

In his workings over arcana, his flesh is a map of transformation. A living scripture of his communion with the mycelium. Diarmad's body often forgets what it once was - particularly in moments of spellcraft when his veins darken like soil-rich loam and fungi bloom along his shoulders. Spine shifting with every breath, caps swelling and shrinking alongside the expanse of his pale, taut skin.

"I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses."

[rcguish]

smoke break

[signetrings]

some draco spice for your dash