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Chances are that a very young Helena would have engaged with the ailing in an act of death guidance and... of course, preparation. I can imagine her first time having been beside her mother helping to guide her through the process of seeing to the dying, and staying with them until they at last expire. Up until that point however, she'd only ever dealt with the act and process of bodily preparation, ceremonies and burnings/cremations via use of ghostflame for those already deceased. Though it may have been as rite of passage and to assume a sworn duty-- it was expected with time as an eater like her matures as well. It came gradually as many things do; in stages and rites. The first time she'd actively 'guided' someone through thier few final days was a visceral experience that remained with her long into her adulthood. The passing of a then-peer is not something that one easily forgets. Especially not when she was the one to shadow closest to them on those final days... and the one to act as the hand that carries them through. This time she was no longer a mere attending hand of her mother's. Now she was the one to initiate their funeral rites. She was also the one to harvest the funeral tinder, cleanse thier spirit, to wash and bind the body, and to prepare the ceremony to subsequently carry out their cremation. Finally, she was the one to gather their ashes when all was at last said and done...

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be sincere and true to yourself or suffer soul death you don’t have any other choices

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Normalize saying “just as the oracle foretold” when things go your way

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bringing this back cus this is like hands down the best thing ive ever composed, that & im retroactively giving it wholly to cazador now as a Character Track

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choreographed fight scenes are good fun but if you really want to get me off they should be as brutal and unscripted as possible. like with people staggering under the momentum of their own blows and spitting up bloody clots of flesh and fluid that should never have seen the light of day and panting heavily and thickly like there isn't enough air to sustain them. you have to do this. you have to do this.

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Think I may doodle something for that cute little flower anon...

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Alfred Zimmermann (1854–1910), “Shadow”

from ‘Jugend’ Vol. 7 #21, 1902

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Death and the woodcutter - Reproduction of a wood engraving by Richard Bong after Léon-Augustin Lhermitte

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This was made before I did the little 3 part aesthetic some months ago, so it ends up recycling alot of the same assets. I still really like it tho.

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Geoffrey Johnson - Coast

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Death of the Veiled King, (c.1893) Mixed media on wood panel — Charlotte Major Wyllie (British, 1828-1909)

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Unprompted asks || Always accepting;

@oathloathed reaches out; What if he wraps his arms around her? Reels her in? Burying his face in the spot where he shoulder and delicate neck meet? Breathing deeply, sniffing, inhaling her scent. Craving. Needy. There is absolutely no presence of violence. Just want. Want. To feel, to smell, to know that she exists. That she is not just dreamed up by him every painful minute.

She felt him coming, and steeled her ground. A bird caught between a dog’s teeth— by choice. Her breath caught, hitched sharply and lodged somewhere between her ribs and her tightened throat when he nestles close— the warmth of his breath upon her skin, a stark reminder that his heart still beat that left her tense. It was quick. When he drew her further in and held her there, every muscle in her body coiled tight in response, binding like knots beneath flesh within his covetous grip. For a moment, her throat was offered. Close. So close. Her fingers clench and grasp against his chest but she does not tear from him. Perhaps involuntarily so, she sank against his formidable frame. He betrays himself willingly, eager to wander into an open grave, and he tugs her close. He nears the edge, and she waits for the misstep... the bite. A stolen moment that she permitted. And she waits... for a bite that may not come. Adal rarely reflected when she was snared within his sights; poised muscle and action and taking. But this was different; he was clinging to her. Anchoring himself to her presence and every spirit within her, turns in recognition. Everything about this felt different— it was different. One ink marked hand grasped firm against the breadth of his armored chest and lengthy fingers snapped swiftly around his throat, her thumb pressed into his gullet, nail tracing the shape of his Adam’s apple as if to admire the shape of it in a deliberate, tender reaction. What did he truly want?

The Dog Soldier had of course been swift, he always was. A man that moved as if he'd traveled upon all fours, a two-headed hound always fixed upon his quarry and dead-set on his kill. Always a hair's breadth between hungry intimacy and a propensity for raw violence, interwoven with these moments of startling tenderness that she couldn't quite predict, he never seemed to know what it was that he'd wanted to take from her. Be it to kiss her. Stay close to her? To kill her... Or? It made her head throb. All things left unspoken, all things left undone returned in flickers in her minds eye as he remained so close. Where anger once resided, it did not rise in answer. Where desire roosted, it lay in fragments. She waits.

Perhaps it was nothing more than the wicked reverberations of old feelings clinging like rot, gnawing along the edges of memory, a summons to what would never be again. Perhaps he only desired to strip her down to the bone and devour her, stealing this moment selfishly for himself--because he never could before and he wouldn't be able to now... After all, he knew full well he’d risk a similar set of jaws clamping around his own unguarded throat to tear it asunder. At least he should… shouldn't he? Her grip remains in place, her gaze affixed upon his face within the his arms. She plays, almost daring him in her willful submission to his desperate circle of his embrace. Temptation drawn taut, humming with every breath and trembling in the air between them-- that was this sordid act, a constant reaching. A moment where one asks without words, a seeking of something other than what was... and some part of her chases his heat.

Another sharp exhale forced through her teeth, chest rising and falling with the effort of the heft. She pries her form his grasp if only to look upon his face. Her gaze only fleetingly falling to his mouth. When she at last speaks, it is with little softness and with all the grace of bared teeth; “… Why dost thou seek to grasp that which shall not endure?” Within her, an ache blooms and sheds. She was as a burning effigy to a past that only they had known together-- an anchor. A reminder that he had once lived at all. Soldiers they had once been, a pair of stray wolves on the vast battle fields as endless as the eye could see-- lost within a relentless war. Brothers in arms, war children who knew little kindness and everything about survival within the arms of the other. Where they lived and died, and died again they rose side-by-side... and she'd stolen everything from him.

Here they stood upon opposing sides of a war-born field—foundations crumbled, and at their feet, the stirring dust of a distant time. They clung, entwined within thier own ruination. Her hand at his throat, his arms wound tight around her: a parody of the comradery that once was. The moment strikes hard and heavy; rattling her with every delicate touch and gentle breath the longer he held her. She wanted to rip away, slip between his grasping fingers.

Her frigid silvern gaze flicks upward, peering into his own, her hand still cradling the length of his throat. She could steal his breath, and bear him within her forever for as long as she could hold... All possibilities to unravel, and still she refrains.

“Surely, thou art no fool, hound. To come so far, seeking naught but mine embrace? No… there is intent in thy step, and blood upon thy breath. Speak..."

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In Accelerated Silence, Brooke Matson

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I am insatiable. I will ask you to do the impossible.

Henry Miller, from A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, 1932-1953

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the slaying of kings, when the fallen crown is passed around the longhouse and everyone, for a moment, is a conduit to the gods, is praised for what thrives, then blamed for the black mouths of agony and hunger, and cut down;

William Brewer, from I Know Your Kind: Poems