feminurge

[feminurge]

currently channeling shrek 1's eponymous character, despairing in his swamp and pretending life is good when it is, actually, Not

[feminurge]

if u have social media atm (and more especially if you are in europe), it would be very cool of you to say a little something about the freedom flotilla. the activists on the boat have been kidnapped by israel, among them rima hassan, french-palestinian member of the european parliament, who has been targeted by israel an insane amount of times. they have threatened her with death and rape, so. im really scared for her rn. the best we can do is force our governements to react and put pressure on israel

[feminurge]

ursula is a fine fighter. that, istas can say without hesitation: she is swift and lethal. she learned the right way, if anything. the hard way.

she goes with the punches and sees where they lead her, even if it's in a tricky position. she has no decorum. once a foot has been put on the mat she relinquishes all distate for hair out of place. it seems like an easy thing to accomplish but most of these posh riders don't: they care about looking pretty.

the leg that comes at her is dodged, which was expected of her: urusla takes advantage of it; fingers coiling around her wrist to bring her down. she joins the movement without hesitation-- a small sigh comes out of her lips with the shock of meeting the mat so violently, but it doesn't seem to slow her.

hours of training have taught her that ursula's profeciency disappears in close proximity. she protects herself before she attacks, and that makes her vulnerable. istas has no such qualms: she'd take a punch to the face without a care in the world if it meant having the opportunity to punch back. she'd grin with blood soaking her teeth.

with both of them on the ground, istas attempts to press one hand on the girl's throat; mimics an attack that would fire up ursula's need for protection. with her other hand, which has already abandoned the scythe and has turned into a fist, she goes for the soft flesh of ursula's stomach.

it hurts, of course, even through the bond: she can feel the edges of it as if it were her pain.

forced into retreat, or rather uninterested with ending the game so early, she rolls away. "stop thinking of that crooked husband of yours, and get the fuck up."

"oh, self-annihilate? how sweet." bianca, when will you learn? there is a method to the madness; a direction to the chaos. every step is well-rehearsed. but the girl can't see it, can she? too overwhelmed by the bending reality that surrounds her. the smile of a snake, a ring to rule them both.

istas does not self-annihilate. she knows better; has seen what fire can do when it is wielded. after all, it burnt her home to the ground. she breathed in their ashes long after the echo of their screams had died down. how crude to think istas would ever do this to herself and not bring the whole city down with her.

it is fine, though. bianca can learn.

bianca steps foot on the mat and istas follows, amused. the girl fights like they all do above, in the city: polite. it was maddening at first, because istas didn't learn to fight at birth. didn't go through the exercises, jaw clenching and unclenching. she had to later, with anger and grief and nothing to do but time to learn. and it wasn't really learning, if only applying death to movements she already knew well. fighting is just dancing if you do it right, and istas always does it right: the double-bladed scythe cuts through the air once, as if to remind bianca that she is already overpowered and they haven't started yet.

the other riders didn't realize it at first either.

she arrived wide-eyed and hungry. every fight was a fight to the death, though no one had been informed but her. they thought they could bow and pretend it had been a win without blood. istas had refused. she broke bones, bit into forearms, and on one occasion she even impaled a rider with one of the pointed wodden end of her scythe.

they loathed to see her step on the mat. welcomed her absence at training. the higher ups eyed her with barely repressed mistrust. but there was recognition, there, too: that a good soldier is one that knows what their weapon is for. and istas never lets herself forget: if she is to fight then it has to be real. she doesn't use violence unless it is real.

violence took everything she had-- in no world will she ever treat is as a fucking game.

the higher levels, though? they love it. love the rules and the bruises and the quiet, amused, "well done" at the end of a fake brawl. love to watch it and love to participate. love, love, love their violence on a silver plate, digestible and pretty.

istas sneers, looking at bianca. here's the thing they don't understand: when you've learned to be polite, it's so goddamn hard to forget it. you hesitate. even if it's barely half of a second, it's there, and it weighs your steps. it's a flaw.

the first blow goes for bianca's right knee. istas is small but she is fast. it doesn't matter if bianca parries it, because the scythe is oriented to the other side the moment bianca hits it, so the second blade can go straight for her ribs.

[feminurge]

i "the friend that's too woke"d so hard multiple family members told me not to "do my thing" at the meeting w my sister's boyfriend family

[feminurge]

"oh, self-annihilate? how sweet." bianca, when will you learn? there is a method to the madness; a direction to the chaos. every step is well-rehearsed. but the girl can't see it, can she? too overwhelmed by the bending reality that surrounds her. the smile of a snake, a ring to rule them both.

istas does not self-annihilate. she knows better; has seen what fire can do when it is wielded. after all, it burnt her home to the ground. she breathed in their ashes long after the echo of their screams had died down. how crude to think istas would ever do this to herself and not bring the whole city down with her.

it is fine, though. bianca can learn.

bianca steps foot on the mat and istas follows, amused. the girl fights like they all do above, in the city: polite. it was maddening at first, because istas didn't learn to fight at birth. didn't go through the exercises, jaw clenching and unclenching. she had to later, with anger and grief and nothing to do but time to learn. and it wasn't really learning, if only applying death to movements she already knew well. fighting is just dancing if you do it right, and istas always does it right: the double-bladed scythe cuts through the air once, as if to remind bianca that she is already overpowered and they haven't started yet.

the other riders didn't realize it at first either.

she arrived wide-eyed and hungry. every fight was a fight to the death, though no one had been informed but her. they thought they could bow and pretend it had been a win without blood. istas had refused. she broke bones, bit into forearms, and on one occasion she even impaled a rider with one of the pointed wodden end of her scythe.

they loathed to see her step on the mat. welcomed her absence at training. the higher ups eyed her with barely repressed mistrust. but there was recognition, there, too: that a good soldier is one that knows what their weapon is for. and istas never lets herself forget: if she is to fight then it has to be real. she doesn't use violence unless it is real.

violence took everything she had-- in no world will she ever treat is as a fucking game.

the higher levels, though? they love it. love the rules and the bruises and the quiet, amused, "well done" at the end of a fake brawl. love to watch it and love to participate. love, love, love their violence on a silver plate, digestible and pretty.

istas sneers, looking at bianca. here's the thing they don't understand: when you've learned to be polite, it's so goddamn hard to forget it. you hesitate. even if it's barely half of a second, it's there, and it weighs your steps. it's a flaw.

the first blow goes for bianca's right knee. istas is small but she is fast. it doesn't matter if bianca parries it, because the scythe is oriented to the other side the moment bianca hits it, so the second blade can go straight for her ribs.

bianca fell from her pedestal and then mourned the heights… unaware that someone who has never had the opportunity to climb wouldn't know to fear the fall.

it's not even the lack of mud on her knees: ishtar wasn't born dirt poor either. dad had been a doctor, mom a seamstress. you could be worse things in the low quarters. but then rust had set in, and the whole quarter had started coughing; falling; dying. ishtar had moved to the lower quarter, an orphan in a sea of orphans: there, dirt and bugs and grass under her footprints. she had met malborne in the lowest village, and had lived with him. it had been hard and peaceful and it had felt like home. but the city wanted the quarter. they wanted the richness of the soil. and when the tribe refused to move, soldiers came. closed the doors and lit the trees. let fire wash away their history. they had all fallen like flies, suffocated. apparently, the soil mattered less than teaching people a lesson: you don't say no to the city council.

so no, it's not about the lack of dirt on her knees. it's that when ishtar dreams of the bonding, she dreams of the first night she spent in the mountain, shivering. she dreams of teeth clinking and footprints left in the snow. she dreams of hands around her throat and her fingers reaching for anything to protect herself. she thinks of the rock, its weight, the fear of letting it slip, the coldness of it, the noise it made when it shattered bone. she thinks of the warmth of blood as it poured on her from the open wound. how the body fell on her & how she let it; because it was warm. so fucking warm.

she fought to get here. she thought that it is what power takes: efforts, dedicating, spite and sheer will. but then bianca waltzed in. and it all stopped mattering. the stone in her hand, the sticky mess of blood on her face, the rusty taste on her lips. it had been for nothing because you could get it all and more by walking in. it's jealousy, ishtar knows. she's aware. she feels it every day, louder than poor bianca's thoughts.

now, a cog in their machine, ishtar fights against the current: she comes back late. fills out only half of her report. misses training when the desire to do literally anything else strikes her. she looks at her colleague and shrugs: "does it matter?" she smiles but it's not warm, and it's not kind, "did it mess with your schedule, your highness?"

there is more softness in the way she interacts with telya, an almost foreign gentleness that ishtar only seems to use when she interacts with dragons. especially hers. maybe that's the only thing bianca and her can agree on: the simmering love she has for them.

but then the dragons are gone, and all is left are bianca and ishtar. she gets dual-bladed scythe in wood, a pale imitation of what she would use in hand to hand combat. but she learned that you can't train with blades. she stands on the mat, waiting for bianca. "it's not like i'm going to need much time to kick your ass anyway."

[feminurge]

im aware this is an insane thing to say but i fucking. love characters that are just cockroaches. and i dont mean like. gross i mean they just do not fucking die. they can survive anything. they will outlive EVERYONE because they just will not die no matter what be it because they have a reason or because they literally cannot stop surviving the odds i love it i love it

[feminurge]

our share of night, pt. 1.

dialogue prompts from our share of night by mariana enríquez.

do they burn witches now, too?

the important news is never in the papers.

the dead travel fast.

i'm not mad at you. i'm just in a bad mood.

they never play good music on the radio.

if i didn't know you were alive, i'd say you were a ghost.

don't talk about me like i'm not here.

it's harder to keep a secret now, but i can still do it.

what you're feeling is normal.

i tried to forget you.

you really piss me off, asshole.

stay close, where i can see you.

we can pretend to forget, but not for very long.

you can be a real dumbass.

we've needed to talk since you got here. i can tell.

i don't trust anyone. i don't trust myself.

i do blame you. and i forgive you.

to believe is not always to obey.

what do you need? tell me what to do.

open your eyes, if you can.

i survived, but i'll never recover.

i don't care what normal people do. none of us are normal.

can i hear more about your _____?

you don't look sick.

i can't believe you want to be with me.

you're more than beautiful.

with that body and that face, you can't hate photographs.

a kid in my class called me a ____.

i'm so tired, i can hear colors.

i don't wish this life on you.

money is a nation in itself.

don't you trust yourself?

i'll be with you forever, as long as you don't push me away.

how can you not be able to stop?

i don't understand how you've lasted so long without going crazy.

who are you to judge me?

our children are our immortality.

what do i do if they come back?

i don't care if you lie. but with some things, you have to lie better.

sincerity doesn't make me uncomfortable.

we must not keep what is dead alive.

you don't ask about some things, unless the person brings them up first.

sometimes i'm not myself. i apologize.

what does that mean, 'you're not you'?

why do you never tell me what it is you do?

you don't need to understand it. you just need to know.

blonde people age badly.

sleep for a while. i'll wake you up if anyone calls.

would you like to listen to music?

i don't know if i like music that much. is that weird? i like movies better. or books.

falling in love is just awful.

i'm used to accepting strange things.

of course i would lie to you, if it were necessary.

how did you hurt yourself?

i'm the universal donor, they told me. i can donate blood if you need it.

i don't know what i would have done if you hadn't been there.

people who love each other don't hurt each other.

i don't hate you, but i'm afraid of you.

there's no need to be afraid of me anymore.

everyone deals with death as best they can.

i don't forgive you, but i love you.

it's normal for kids to try to escape their lives.

it's not your fault. don't do that to yourself.

all fortunes are built on the suffering of others.

[feminurge]

elle as effie... ishtar content ishtar content

[feminurge]

i love seeing france hate on dash but sometimes i almost want to remind everyone that, gasps, you don't hate french people you hate parisians

[feminurge]

since i know i have a couple german followers / people living in germany, it would be amazing if you could support this motion by a variety of refugees' rights organisations to urge the schönefeld municipality not to approve the construction of a deportation centre in berlin airport. german and english instructions for how to take action provided in the google doc. today, may 20, is the last day that it is open to public submission. as germany has been massively deporting again, including trying to deport pro-palestinian activists against court orders, this centre getting approved would cause unimaginable harm to many.

[feminurge]

not to be dramatic but i would die for the female ocs on my dash

[feminurge]

hey hey hey memes, anyone?

[feminurge]

THE PATRON SAINT OF ...

OBSESSION. patron saint of devotion. of dedication. of passion. of everything you won't call it, in the spaces between. patron saint of holding tight to it until it bleeds. patron saint of pushing it too far. patron saint of staring into the sun until you're blind. patron saint of gazing onto beauty until you can't see anything anymore.

TAGGED BY. @abjecter & @toherdemise, <33333 mwah to you both TAGGING. if you haven't done it, you're it!

[feminurge]

sometimes i want to come out with a single muse blog for a cis white dude under a new alias and see what happens

[feminurge]

i'll just say it once: ishtar would love you to the point of betrayal 🤚🏻

[feminurge]

i often describe ishtar as fateless but honestly depending on the universe you could think of her as past her prophecy. in some ways, her story is the repetition of (self-)slaughter: killing the child who lost it all even though she was gifted with foresight, but who didn't manage to die with the rest of them. killing the ones who are guilty and the ones who watched. she does not have a lot of empathy for people and it starts with her younger self. that child knew and did nothing and got tricked, got hurt, almost got killed. perhaps saying she is fateless is wrong because, in a lot of ways, her fate was to be that child, to lose it all, and she did it perfectly, so perfectly she was never allowed to move on. she could have died but she didn't. she wanted a perfect revenge and got it, yes, but the price was living past that revenge. something something about getting everything you want, and it's the worse thing that could happen to you.

she grew, yes, and she has done horrors beyond comprehension to punish those who hurt that child. that is protection, sure. but in the end, when the prophecy has passed and all has been done and the world has moved on from her tragedy, she is still holding that girl's throat and wondering how she can cut her out, to start clean. it's like even though she has gotten every person guilty of the crime that cost her her peace (and when i mean everyone, i do mean everyone. she erased a kingdom from the map)....... yes even though she has killed everyone guilty, there is still herself. that child. and she's the one thing she can't seem to get rid of, no matter how destructive she is with her choices. she might be done with life but life is not done with her.

in some ways the tw3 arc is just ishtar realizing there is no clean slate, no moving on. she loses caranthir the same way she lost everyone else, and no amount of revenge will make it better. she wasn't allowed to die then and she is not allowed to die now. so she goes away. dies in all the ways that matter except the one that truly does. she withers away in a small house next to the sea that took her lover and waits. not because there is any future worth seeing but because fate is done with her, and that means she has already been given the end of her story.

[feminurge]

favorite part of any game is making her ngl