obsxduri-blog

[obsxduri-blog]

[obsxduri-blog]

someone who understands? ( nara. )

( ... )

“Well, the things that are hardest to understand interest me most.” They sidestep again—though they won’t admit it, their nerves are simply keeping them from speaking plainly. What if, despite everything, they’re wrong? If they say things too strangely, make more of a fool of themself? Nara can feel their daemon side-eyeing them from her position in their bag and they pause for it; she knows not to speak for fear of being heard, but they can hear her teasing them regardless.

Nara narrows their eyes at Morgana, then glances back up at Duri with a lingering hint of irritation in their eyes. “She’s picking on me, even though she knows I can hear her. I wonder if all daemons are this bratty.”

The daemon has too easily caught Duri’s attention, it seems: the volume of Nara’s voice is another sign that the suspicions curled in Duri’s heart may be correct, and however damning her hope may be, she cannot banish it from her heart just yet. There has always been a yearning there, unmet and unfulfilled by the wide variety of those she’s met. At the end of each night, Duri has found herself to be an outsider in some aspect. Foolish as it may be, it feels like a different sort of damning for her not to be able to hold hope that life may yet contradict her fate thus far.

A gentle roll of nodding is given as Nara bumbles their way through their speech, and while the way they describe their way of casting magic seems oddly impersonal compared to the way she conducts herself, Duri tries to focus on the meanings that lurk beneath their speech. Is it too hopeful to think that she understands them, even when she cannot be entirely sure of her own assumptions?—A lifetime of caution and misunderstandings keep her from reaching out, delegating her acts, as usual, to the shadows.

“I think you’re interesting,” she admits, truer to honesty than she’s spun elsewise all night. All the same, it’s meant to be an encouragement and the embodiment of a hope at once.

A soft little laugh is roused from her as Nara looks back to her, her fellow witch seeming to find some familiarity in their disappointment with their familiar. “I think she’s a very nice familiar, all the same,” Duri murmurs, eyes gentle enough to appear liquid as she reaches forth to let Morgana sniff at her fingers a second time. “I’ve never had one, but if she can tease you, that just means she knows you.”

It’s far too easy to relax into their presence, Duri finds: optimism will likely make a fool of her again, but she can’t quite help herself away from the pleasure of breaking her own heart. Nara may still prove themself a friend, even if they do not share the kindred spirit that she so desperately seeks out in them. The thought that it could be simple projection that rouses her suspicions gives her cause to hesitate, and she grips her cup in one hand despite the heat that leaks through to sting her dry palms.

And yet—there must be a reason that they cannot speak forthright of their interests, and because of that, Duri cannot quite abandon her hopes yet. Her stomach knots itself as, ever-cowardly, she only manages to ask, “What ritual were you planning when we met?”

dance with death.

[obsxduri-blog]

obsdongwoo:

(...)

“And yeah, I’m your guy!” 

Dongwoo unzips the portfolio case and pulls out a small notepad slipped into the pockets so he can take notes for later, and also pulls out a blue pen. He clicks it. He’s ready to get started. “How are you doing today?” he asks. The question is followed by a wide, alarmingly toothy grin as he feels a tingling sensation in his gums. Dongwoo props his elbow on the table and covers his mouth with the palm of his hands to compensate. 

“We’re here to work out the details before I start your commission, yeah?” he says. “I’ve brought prints of some of my latest commissions to see if you like the style – and what other stuff you might like! Uh, but I gotta say: there are a lot of cats and babies. And while you look through those, why don’t you tell me what you’d wanna see in the finished pieces?” 

His words come in a whirlwind with hardly a second to waste, but it’s his passion speaking rather than a rush to finish their meeting early. The plan is to enjoy the fun part of commissioning, the shared vision and relationship between artist and client, first. He’d ask the technical questions later. It’s typical for him to put off the more important, crucial matters until the last minute. 

From the moment the young man enters, space strains around him, the atmosphere fit to cleanly burst rather than try to contain him; he moves more like a natural disaster than a human, a storm gusting through the typical cafe that somehow brings its eye to her table. It’s a good cover, if anything: she would attribute the underlying current of something being off to his boisterous way of carrying himself were it not for the glint of a smile that he covers up.

Duri stares for several moments as she tries to piece together the line of discussion, as he has already made a habit of barreling through a conversation. He at least seems content to let her catch up after he’s said all he intends, and she grasps the moment, wrestles it down into her hands and molds it into something she can keep up with.

There is enough of a cultivated tenderness in her heart for her to offer a smile, though all that shines in her mouth is flat teeth the same brittle color as bleached bone. She gently pushes away the half-drained mocha from her immediate space, though the pair of fingers now laden with condensation angle to push the untouched drink towards her artist. “I wasn’t sure what you liked here, but I thought you might be thirsty.” —Particularly because he seemed to have run all the way, something she assumed based more on his character than any hitch in his breath.

Even with the time allotted to allow her to wade through the multitude of statements and questions flung her way, Duri chooses carefully which to react to: the reporters are a cause for concern, but his mention seems more rhetorical than anything. Similarly, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to linger on the mention of whatever his “medical” situation is, considering how he moves past it in the line of conversation fairly quickly. Her day, then. The portfolio, too, though it would be incredibly hard to ignore it, given that he seems to be trading it to fill the empty space where once had sat her gift of frozen drink.

The order of how she intended to speak fell away from her mind as she spread the prints about the top of the table, her eyes instantly taken with the strokes that she had grown so terribly infatuated with all those months ago. She sifts through the babies and felines that he had warned her of, something in her chest tight as she traces the tips of her too-blunt fingers over the pieces that appear to be more original work than commission.

The creak of her chair brought her back into the moment, and Duri flushes briefly, embarrassed to have gone so long without saying anything. “Sorry, your work is—it’s just as lovely as I remembered.” It helped, a little, to think of the fact that this easy-mannered artist might have as many nerves as her: it was probably a little terrible that it was easier to have confidence when someone else didn’t. Unsettled by the notion, Duri curled one arm back towards her torso and began rolling the vial about in her fingers that she had been examining earlier. 

“I was thinking for the pieces to have...’chiaroscuro?’” Though she had practiced saying the word, Duri still makes a brief face at the way it fit into her mouth. While she can fluently speak both English and Korean, Italian was a language that eluded her. “The contrast, I mean. When the shadows are so dark you can barely make anything out.” Art was not her realm of influence: the most she had done in terms of “creative expression” was choose how to arrange her crystals.

It strikes her all too suddenly that she doesn’t even know his name. She jitters, glass in her hand, drink close enough to threaten toppling at an errant move, and she mentally flicks through how to inform him of this without appearing much more of a fool. She settles for a nod, maintaining a polite smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Hae Duri.” 

The Sanctity of Paint

[obsxduri-blog]

Intermission V.

Blog Guest: Jou

What’s your favorite animal? Fictional or otherwise!: Dragons, cats, & owls. I have simple tastes. Have you ever dyed your hair before? If you have, what colors did you use? If you haven’t and would like to, what colors would you use?: First time I died my hair, I went with pink/purple/blue streaks. After that, I went with black lowlights and blonde highlights (it was uh. bad). After that, I went onto a red-auburn. I’m back at normal color right now, but I want to go back to my red. ;_; What television shows did you watch as a child?: As like...a kid-kid? Sagwa the Chinese-Siamese Cat was basically my absolute jam.

How do you like to relieve stress?: I’m really bad at this, but I really like to spend time with my friends & play video games to unwind! What’s your favorite part of roleplaying?: I love developing characters & seeing other people’s characters?? It’s just SO COOL to me. What’s an achievement you are proud of?: Every day, I train a little more to become a Mean Person.

Many of us have returned to or will soon be returning to school! Do you have any advice that you’d like to share?: Don’t put off assignments to the last minute. I’ve done this all my life and I’m getting gray hairs despite only being twenty; stress like that takes a very noticeable toll on your health & body. That being said, make sure to take care of yourself, too! If you have or are pursuing a degree, what is it?: Illustration with a minor in Creative Writing! Do you have any go-to studying tips that you would share?: I’m a horrid studier (I tend to just reread/skim my notes the day before a quiz) so refer to other people’s advice here. ;w;/

[obsxduri-blog]

a friend to be?:

(...)

“Anyway,” they mutter, shifting again and subconsciously scratching at a raised bit of skin on their hand, “Tell me more about what you do? I mean—people don’t usually go for the same things as me… at the shop, I mean.” They are no more subtle than they are smooth, rather awkward and unsociable in the end��but it doesn’t stop them from trying to skirt around matters cautiously, not letting the extent of their curiosity show through yet.

The term haunting is a confusing one in application, given that its mention is usually accompanied by the tale of its end, or bustled on from in conversation: it is a fleeting topic at best, which is to be expected, given the discomfort with death and its associations that the general public holds. Still, the term is one that fits Duri best, though it is more of a lifelong state of being that she faces. The ghosts are but the beginning: death itself curls around her, makes its bed in her heart and home, and she welcomes it with open arms. Her awareness of it, her comfort, well—it makes it easier to see it elsewhere, when it touches others and makes its bed in their bodies.

The comparison is maybe a little too literal, considering who she’s dealing with. Duri has known from the beginning that they’re cocooned with the afterlife’s peculiar brand of energy as much as she, which led to her staring a beat too long whenever they entered the corner of her vision. There have been false positives similar to them—people whose bodies are falling down around them, who spend more time in the hospital than out. (In truth, she is too familiar with this particular aspect of things to be comfortable.)

Nara would seem just another individual suffering from some kind of terminal illness or another were it not for the fact that Duri can tell they are not dying.

Death is carried with them, surely, but it is not an active thing: were they sick, Duri trusts in her abilities enough to know. They are not being killed in front of her eyes, and that’s enough to make her hopeful, the prospect of gaining some kind of ally (someone who actually understands) enough to overcome her usual anxieties about meeting with another witch in a public, non-magical space. Never mind the fact that it’s especially suspicious for two necromancers of all things to be gathering, even if one is unconfirmed: the potential of this—the potential of an actual, true confidant—draws her out to the cafe the pair agreed upon, and into a conversation where neither party can quite vocalize their optimistic suspicions.

Though, Duri can’t quite say that she holds something as tenuous as suspicion, so much as it being the level of they might as well have said it out loud. Granted, she still needs their confirmation: the absolute of it is the only thing that can satisfy the fearful optimism that’s taken root in her chest, the damning confirmation or denial that will shape her perception of what similarities she can share with others.

That’s getting ahead of herself, though. For now, she clasps her hands and strokes one thumb against the other, waiting patiently for Nara to settle in. Tension pulls her posture taut, but as soon as their familiar’s nose appears, a low, helpless breath of laughter leaves her. Offering her fingers for the creature to inspect, Duri smiles towards the owner, though the expression can’t quite erase the expectancy that thrums through her limbs. “I remember her. She kept staring at me, didn’t she?” Another oddity that she had mentally marked down, particularly given the energy that surrounded the feline. 

Her eyes roll back towards Nara. Luckily, the question they had posed was one she had a practiced response for, one that she could rattle off with no hesitation as to whether or not she was revealing too much of herself. “I’m a freelance ward- and charmcrafter who sells a set stock and works on commission.” She blows a piece of hair away from her face, the tress inevitably settling back into its original position despite her intervention. A silent sigh pushes through her nose, but she manages to keep up a smile for Nara. “I could say the same about you—using the same materials as me, I mean. What kind of magic-user are you?” Smooth.

dance with death.

[obsxduri-blog]

confidence in bloom.

(...)

Forsythia’s are a beginner’s best friend; there are not many sub classes, and one of those sub classes is native to Korea…they’re abundant and cost less because they’re easily cultivated.” It was only after finishing her very long soliloquy that Ji Hye’s feet planted themselves on the ground again. She was given to chance to offer ear fulls of information on plant life, and did so to quite an extent…a bashful chuckle left her lips. “Sorry…I know that may have been a lot of information all at once…why don’t you follow me, and I’ll repeat all of that with visuals…it’s a bit of sensory overload with the smells and colors, but you wont be disappointment.”

The feeling of being studied did not escape Duri’s attention, but of all things, she was confident enough in her physical presentation that no worries over her noticing could keep sink a steady claw into her: indeed, there was nothing to hint that there was anything out of the ordinary about her. Stylish; polished; put-together: if she turned heads, it would not be because people thought of her as suspicious, but because she was untouchable among them.

—So those eyes upon her were no reason for her voice to falter or her constitution to suffer. Even if her incurable nerves were to command the beat of her heart, the speech of the worker would have been more than enough for Duri to focus upon. For the first time in several days, however, she had no reason to fear be suspicious of the partner with which she was engaged. 

It was more than a little relieving to hear the woman go through each of the flowers she had listed, and Duri listened attentively, comparing what was spoken with her personal knowledge of the gift-receivers. The extent to which the flora related to her craft certainly aided in her being able to pay attention, though her innate curiosity (the one that nurtured and damned every witch) kept her following along with the impromptu lecture that the worker provided. As Duri considered the options, she spoke aloud, using that carefully-crafted list to guide her thoughts.

“Well, my friend said that she wanted hibiscuses like you’d see in Hawaii—because she felt like she was on vacation, instead of being nagged by her family all the time. She’s pretty new, but I think she’ll be getting lonely soon...” That was probably a bit too much info to simply allude to, so Duri moved on to the next item on her list. 

“I definitely need white chrysanthemums. She’s very old, and very proper, so if there’s more than one type of that color, whichever one is the most formal is what I need to give.” Given the elder’s propensity for silence, Duri had been surprised to receive a request, but she was more than willing to grant it. Though the woman had muttered about how how improper it was for someone as young as the witch to be worrying over her, she had still asked, and Duri would honor that.

And the next: “He married a local, but he was a foreigner from...Russia?” She squinted at the name, trying to determine whether or not she was correct, but it sounded right. “His family were flower-farmers that exported everything for commercial purposes...but he said the sunflowers were his favorite...I guess the popular kind is the right option, but...” 

As she mulled it over and devolved into muttering, Duri shook her head to bring herself back to the moment. “The zinnias are—just a reminder for me.” As her attention made her eyes bright again (and the comment on her hair made her face tinge pink), she chanced a smile, the expression bringing her cheekbones into prominence. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” she murmured, tilting her head to displace an errant wisp of hair that had fallen across her eyes. “I know these are all very different, but—”

—And there went a prickle across her shoulders, raising her flesh in little half-spheres. A reminder. Duri released another gust of a sigh, the corner of her mouth twitching in an unimpressed slant. “Right. The forsythias. Those are for a friend.” A very annoying companion, but she didn’t need to elaborate on that. “He wants whichever are native. They’ve been his favorite since he was—young.” That sentence had an odd beat, but she couldn’t very well release the fact that one of her closest friends was a skull who wanted to be placed in a flowerpot to everyone she happened to meet.

Another low, embarrassed chuckle filtered from her, her eyebrows slanting up towards one another to create a worried furrow betwixt them. “I’m very grateful, really—I know these are strange choices.” In truth, she could have left a money offering for all of them and had been done with it, but the thought of that lacked personality and relationship. “I don’t think you could disappoint me. You sound like an expert!”

Mourning Dove

[obsxduri-blog]

a smile of sunshine.

(...)

Her swift steps carried her across the ‘greenhouse’ floor in a matter of minutes, and she was soon beside the pumpkin-haired customer, who would no doubt fall victim to the ramblings of a very eager plant enthusiast like Ji Hye. “Welcome to the Sunseong Flora Center…again, I think by now, you’ve seen most of our selection, but you may have some more questions, so, how may I help you today?”

As with any person on a budget, Duri liked to save money where she could—and the Sunseong Flora Center was, decidedly, not the place to do so. There were several smaller flower shops around the city that she could have purchased cut flowers from, but she found there to be a necessity in purchasing the full plants. Symbolism was a powerful tool, and she would be remiss not to utilize it.

Still—as often as she found herself browsing blooms, Duri was far from an expert when it came to identifying flowers. Prior to college, she had never associated them with offerings (aside from white chrysanthemums, which felt oddly impersonal) but upon asking if they were appropriate, a few of her usual partners expressed an interest. 

So it was out that Duri had ventured, out to meet the day; and, indeed, she was a bit blurry-eyed, for the hour was one that she tended to sleep through. It could hardly be called early, however, given that the time was barely noon, but it laid outside of her normal schedule and thus lent her to blinking owlishly at the bejeweled green tones that dominated the area. The times previous that she had arrived had all been conducted closer to her evening wakefulness, which lent itself less to shopping and more to panicked browsing. 

She had hoped that a brighter time period in the midst of the week would have solved the issue of her helplessness, but as always, it was up to the worker with the smile of sunshine to come to her rescue (or at least limit the time Duri looked a fool).

At the woman’s mention of her previous visits, Duri giggled quietly, her hand bent limply at the wrist trying—and failing—to conceal the upturned corners of her lips. Those competent in their craft had a way of putting her worries to rest, even if the “craft” in question was merely an advanced knowledge of how not to kill plants. 

(Even the cut flowers that she had previously purchased seemed all too quick to decompose when handled by her fingers; her own craft was one that accompanied her silently, and had she not accepted the whispers of ghosts when she was a child, Duri knew that she would be frightened by its prevalence in her life.)

There was very little reason to fixate on such idle musings, however, particularly when she was being gazed at with such attentiveness. Instead, Duri reached into her witching bag and drew out a crisp, folded piece of paper, which she opened to examine. Her penmanship was neat, though that was due to the effort of recopying the items over from her first messy iteration. Now organized by species, it was much easier to read off the flowers. 

“I’m looking for potted plants, again. I was hoping you had, ah...hibiscuses, chrysanthemums, sunflowers, zinnias, and—“ A heavy sigh tumbled from Duri’s chest as she regarded the last item on the list, the title beside it merely labelled as “:V” without any other explanation. In truth, she didn’t need it: she knew exactly which of her companions had badgered her over it. She had lost an entire night to the foolishness of trying to identify a wildflower through the secondhand accounts based off of an animal’s memories. Her patience had never before experienced such an intensive labor. “Forsythias,” Duri finally muttered, sliding her hand through her hair in the memory of agitation.

Mourning Dove

[obsxduri-blog]

The Sanctity of Paint

@obsdongwoo

There are still witches who worship gods: Duri learned of a whole coven while she was in America, all through a member that happened to be a friend. Though curiosity was innate in her as the blood in her veins, it had been largely by accident that she had learned of their affiliations. Their altar had been a proud thing, decorated with paints and bits of gold and little clippings of quotes; when Duri had asked about it, they had giggled and explained it, fingers curled over their mouth like they were embarrassed.

They had asked her after if she felt anything similar—if her work with ghosts had inspired some thought as to what happened after, or if she had any insight, and all Duri could offer was that there was nothing in the world that she could deem sacred.

It’s a strange memory to bring up now of all times, with ice scraping her tongue as she sips at a frozen mocha, but she’s used to such sudden visitations. Her eyes wander to the time again, and she takes a moment to update her blog (I hope if I die from waiting I become a ghost to haunt every late person) while she fiddles with one of her vials. The stopper had become loose recently, and she worries for the soil within—it may be a sign for her to pay a visit back to the grave from which she bottled the contents.

Here is the truth of it, as much as she has seen: ghosts have endings. Whatever happens or fails to after that is not her concern.

And yet this—this—this feels like its own kind of devotion, to command the hand of an artist to deliver her own intent. And in light of all else, it feels strange, too, to want such a physical manifestation of her place in the world. As fearful as she has been as of late, today, with this symbol-to-be of vulnerability, she merely feels fatigued: confused, too, for so many of her interactions lately have been anything but…normal. It’s not routine, but it’s closer than what people have been offering her for awhile.

After so many months, Duri actually hadn’t expected to be contacted by her artist of choice again: she had assumed with his silence had come an implicit refusal to work on her proposed commission, and Duri had quietly accepted that as destiny. Being contacted about it had been shocking, to say the least, but she had agreed to an in-person meeting before she really read the words. As the account she had reached him from was a throwaway, she hadn’t seen reason to terminate the meeting after it was set; she sorely needed to interact with living people that weren’t showing up in places they weren’t supposed to be.

Now, it seems, the artist will be late again: she would wonder if he was merely unprofessional were it not for the state of the city. Had Duri not left a half hour early herself, her own arrival would have been impacted. Even as she looks outside, she can see another gaggle of reporters setting up, to which she wrinkles her nose and focuses on the matching drink before her, purchased for her companion-to-be.

Duri had provided the color of her hair as descriptor, and that was enough to serve as useful identification in such a sleepy café. The door has opened a few times to welcome new patrons and release old ones, but she doesn’t pay attention ‘til someone is sliding into the seat in front of her. After a brief glance, she turns her phone over to address him politely, offering up a hesitant smile as she realizes she’s forgotten his screen name. “Are you…?”

[obsxduri-blog]

Intermissions I-IV: Catching Up

Blog Guest: Jou

I.

Preferred name: Jou Preferred pronouns: They/Them Timezone: USA EST UTC -5

Preferred writing style (script, para, either): Either Preferred writing genre: A roadtrip to hell with brief respites. Anything that causes characters to change, either drastically or over time. Characters developing bonds & relationships & affecting one another. (I’d say the typical “fantasy/scifi” but uh, Obscura’s already got that covered?) Genres you’re less interested/would rather not partake in: It’s just not believable to me if characters are 100% happy all the time, I guess? Any other writing preferences?: I’m so flexible it hurts.

Favorite color: Purple! Specifically, blue-violet. Favorite/lucky number: 3 (which I accidentally gave to Duri as well, for. Reasons.) A song/show/drama you’d recommend: Ore Monogatari!! & Pretty Rhythm: Rainbow Live. Fill in the blank: “You’re always free to message me about ___!” Plotting; cats; characters; anything you want, really. If you could choose a species in Obscura that you’d like to be, what would it be? Why?: Beast-blooded because I’m not a furry, but given the opportunity to be a real-life dragon, I’d take it.  What is your ultimate weakness; what makes you feel all soft and squishy inside?: FRIENDS.... Write the first thing to come to mind in caps: WEEEEH???? Three random facts about you: I am 5′10″ (178 cm) which means I am disgustingly tall (actually, the rest of you are very short). Currently attending art college! My two moods are soft & meme.

II.

How long have you been rping?: Eight years, though is my first KRP. Do you write outside of rp?: Yes! Talk to me sometime about my 80+ OC’s. OwO Which days/times do you get the most writing done?: Whenever I have time to sit down.

If your muse(s) could describe you in a few words, what would they say?: “Haunted by a lack of sleep.” or something. I have difficulties describing others’ personalities, let alone myself, even in the frame of a fictional character doing it. What is the most wicked thing you could imagine your character doing?: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Witches, man. We’ll definitely see, though. If your muse(s) were real, would you fight them?: I’m pretty sure Duri needs a lot of therapy & some good friends, so no, I am absolutely not fighting this one. If other people or other muses want to fight Duri, though? By all means.

What object would you erase from existence if given the opportunity?: Headphone jacks in computers that don’t quite work. They’re hellish. If you had a billion dollars and could only spend it, what would you buy first?: Pay off my crippling college debt, buy a house big enough to move in all of my friends, get my transition rolling w/o dealing with insurance stuff...this is probably too realistic to be meme-y, sorry. If you could play any sport, what would it be?: Weight-lifting or hand-to-hand combat/self defense. Or parkour. Do you have any fun hobbies or talents you’d like to share?: I think I already mentioned going to art college, but yes, I do art! And that’s...pretty much my entire identity now...!!!! Do you have/want any pets?: I have six! Two dogs (Benny & Chooch) & four cats (Izzy, Dagda, Mozz, & Zoot).

III.

What’s the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to you?: One time I managed to win $200 in a scratch-off game on vacation? That’s objectively pretty lucky. I’m also just...really lucky to know the people that I do, have the friends that I have, and be loved like I am. If you could attend any concert or event right now without any obstacles, what would you choose?: Time travel me back to see Queen & David Bowie. ;_; I am a simple gay. What’s your dream vacation?: Big city with  Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate? Any style preferences?: I drink. SO much hot chocolate over the school year. I also really love tea, and I have been...sort of getting into coffee. Ish. I go to Starbucks sometimes because that fuckin’ Midnight Mint Mocha was literally made for me. A game you love ( traditional, video, etc )?: I LOVE AND HATE BIOWARE GAMES. They single-handedly destroyed my aversion to retaining canon & shipping canon/OC characters. Crappy ending? No problem! Didn’t happen! One of your favorite characters got thrown into the void because of an arbitrary choice meant only to punish people who didn’t take one specific choice early on???? They’re fine, they crawled OUT of the void. AU WHERE THANE DIES? NOT AN AU I LIKE. THANE LIVES ON HAPPILY WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND, RECONCILED WITH HIS SON AND HE’S. FINE. THAT’S THE NEW CANON.

Favorite/Number one go-to internet meme?: I type like you would expect the Internet to in private (lots of periods/commas, Capital Letters, trademark symbol, raNDOM CAPS). I like bone-hurting juice? Calling people furries? Least favorite internet meme?: Crave that mineral. Something that makes you want to flip a table?: Memes.

In your opinion, do you fit the stereotyped traits of your western zodiac sign? Do you believe that another sign fits you better? What about your muse?: I’ve been told by people with more expertise than me that I pretty much fit the textbook definition of an Aquarius: weirdo, mysterious, deep-thinker. I had to go look up Scorpio stuff for Duri, and like...she’s more like it as MagCoChe? Since that’s the kind of person she wants to be (intense, caring, brave, etc). She’s also pretty ambitious (#JustLittleWitchThings) & stubborn with that ambitiousness. So, I guess she does fit Scorpio! Just...not in the way you necessarily expect those things to manifest, since people tend to talk about Scorpios as though they’re very confident. Post a gif of what you’re currently feeling right now.

IV.

Do you prefer to brainstorm your plots or wing them? Do you have no preference in either?

I like to have some sort of skeleton of where to go, but I’m fine with winging it from there—I feel like the meat of a story can’t truly be found until you’re within it & writing it. That being said, I’m also very partial to plotting out where things will go in terms of those skeletons? I basically like having a guideline, and then playing with that.

What kind of writing memes do you like, if any (sentence starters, drabble memes, head-canon memes, etc)?

I just love memes in general! I feel like some surprising things come out of the drabble memes (I know I really enjoy reading what others come up with for those), but each kind serves their own function, especially in terms of what the mundane feels like writing.

What’s the easiest way to plot with you? Alternatively, what is the easiest way to contact you for plotting?

I am absolutely okay with plotting over Tumblr, but as long as I am awake, I am on Discord. (Other members can friend me through the OBS chat!)

What kind of movies/television series/dramas/anime/etc do you like to watch?

I watch a disgusting amount of superhero movies due to my stepfather’s interests. I’ve also been watching Star Trek: The Next Generation for the same reason, as a family activity. That being said, I gravitate heavily towards fantasy & scifi genres when it comes to consuming media of my own volition!

Would you be interested in the occasional group viewing of a movie/series/drama/cartoon/etc, if one were to be organized?

Absolutely!! I feel like movies are more feasible just because we all live with vastly differing sleep schedules & time zones, but I would happily do any. ovob

If yes to the above, do you have any specifics in time or day as to when you are available to attend? If no, is there any group activity that you would be interested in participating in (ie, games of some sort)?

I’m pretty much available whenever I’m awake/online? I probably wouldn’t be able to do anything from midnight to 10 AM or somewhere around there, but it also depends on my class schedule.

If you were caught up in a food fight, what food would you throw first?

Something that leaves a stain or sticks, so something with tomato sauce or a food like rice. Or maybe I’d just lob a full slice of pizza through the air in hopes it would hit someone topping-side first. Who knows?

If you could be any mythological beast, which one would you be and why?

Who says I’m not already an alien. Or a dragon. Or both. Have any of you ever seen me in the same room as an alien dragon?? I think not. 

Top five things that make you happy?

My friends because I’m terribly sappy, cats & animals of all kinds, talking about OC’s & muses, video games, memes?

Share a picture! It could be of your bias, a cute animal, a drawing, a meme, an anime wife—anything you’d like!

[obsxduri-blog]

~ Quote -Neil Gaiman (Preludes and Nocturnes, c. 1991)

[obsxduri-blog]

— information broker.

@obsxduri

(...)

He opens up his notebook and goes ahead with what he’s going to write. He already has a good idea of what needs to be said. He’s scribbling it all down in his red pen- which is nice and emphatic. He’s sad the green gel one died the other day. He really should get another one… The door opens and he looks up- smile in place as he finished up the writing. He holds the notebook up for her to read and leans forward- one hand behind his back as he shows his teeth just a bit in a grin.

“Greetings  MagCoChe~! I seem to have found the information you were looking for right here in your own home! I do hope it’s not an issue, but perhaps it would be best if I came in to discuss my findings with you, hm ~wo !”

This is not the first time that a fae has broken into her house, but Duri sorely hopes that it will be the last: distressingly, she has already begun to understand how their peculiar, encompassing energy differs from that of the ghosts that she works with. There is something implicitly ancient about the species, but she expected that. It is how natural they feel that she did not account for, the way they occupy space that makes them feel as though they’ve belonged all along—even down to the magical level, they’re charmers, and that feels far too dangerous to ignore. 

She senses him long before he makes his presence known; she could banish him, or even report him to someone. Technically, he’s failed at keeping his suspect unaware of his presence and his meddling. It would be saving money to call the police on him and tell him to call the investigation off—but it would be rude to keep him from completing the job he set out to do, the job Duri dictated to him with a halting voice and trembling hands.

So she waits: she waits with time trickling grains of sand down her throat, til she feels like she’s choking on each hour that turns over. The possibility of calling him, telling him to call it off, still seems valid on some level where her heart is free to indulge in its cowardice, but for the fact that it would be an inconvenience. 

It takes longer than expected for the fae to reappear in human form, but Duri has suspected from the beginning (with the kind of unrelenting dread that accompanies all inevitable things) that he would figure it out. She tells herself that there is a choice this time, in coming clean. It should matter that it’s by her own decision who learns next, her choice returned to her hands from where the Conspiracy City bloggers snatched it away; it should matter that it’s an acquaintance rather than a stranger, because at least she can control that much. 

(No matter what rationalizations Duri crafts in the name of comfort, her situation is unchanging: she is backed into a corner. Whatever frame she places it into, she cannot escape that.) 

It’s not relieving, exactly, when Gohn finally knocks on the door, but the tight bubble of anticipation pops in the face of what she’s feared actually coming to pass. Nausea settles in the place of it, but after she reads the fae’s message, she stands aside to allow him to enter—with permission, this time. The attempt that she makes at a smile manages to stick, perhaps encouraged by the expression so freely offered by Gohn; she has no idea of telling how close to tears she looks, but at least she’s capable of being polite.

Belatedly, she remembers— “Would you like to sit down?” Duri’s voice comes out scratchier than she intends, huskier, disuse making its timbre dip into tone that she’s not entirely comfortable with. She clears her throat to banish the worst of the sound, but indicates the living room that the front door opens to reveal. There’s nothing suspicious to be found at the front of the house: she cleaned up the place before Gohn came by, which meant placing all of her materials and talkative skulls in her workroom. (The quiet ones went to her bedroom, because she likes to sleep without interruptions.)

A side effect of her tidying means that there’s little personal about the room that she seats them in, save her laptop; usually she has her workings spread around the house, leaving little scraps and charges of magic everywhere as a form of reassurance, she would call it. There’s a handful of rodent skulls in her pockets, which at least gives herself to ground herself to as she sits down and powers on her laptop. Her blog is already pulled up—another preparation. While Gohn is watching, she writes an update, mentions having “a friend over,” and posts it: proof of her identity and his finding it. She lingers for a moment, staring at the notifications that begin to chime and pile, unsure of how to proceed; but somehow, there’s a certain strength to be drawn from them, too.

People believe in MagCoChe, at least, so Duri can believe in herself long enough to see this through.

A thick envelope passes from her hands to the table, and Duri takes the moment to breathe and remember her points: Gohn’s being here is not another pantomime of futility, and she needs to make that clear to both of them. Metal laces her spine in delicate lines, giving her enough of a posture to speak, even if she might soon crumble beneath her own weight.

“You were right,” she reiterates; the repetition of her exposure should make it less frightening, even if for now, she only speaks of it. “I am MagCoChe.” The words feel like dust to say, dry on her tongue and coarse in her throat: she continues, though, because it is a truth she has only denied the rest of the world. “I know this is—weird, but I needed to know if you could find me.” 

Maybe she looks less like she’s crying when she smiles, this time: Duri can’t say for sure, even though she manages to meet Gohn’s eyes. “You’re not the first one to figure it out. It was a few days before I contacted you.” Her hands squeeze together, each finger digging into the empty space between knuckles upon the opposite hand. “I needed to see how long you took, because if they started looking for me when I think they did—then they were sure about my identity in less than two days.”

Two days versus a week: and that was assuming they hadn’t been interested in her earlier. Her eyes slide away from the fae’s, distress weakening her resolve some, but Duri pushes herself back from shying away. “I know you’ve been watching me, but you didn’t suspect that it was me, at first. Could someone else—figure it out?” 

(The real question that brews beneath the rest: How safe am I? But the answer is already close at hand, in memory of the first fae and now the second who has tracked her down. Probable cause is proven: the true inquiry she should be making is, Who will know next?)

Fae Findings

[obsxduri-blog]

Graveyard Shift: Summoning Spirits from their Resting Places

Hey everyone, MagCoChe here! 💖✨ A lot of you have been asking if you can summon spirits from their graves - and the answer is yes! I know I’ve talked before about how to work with spirits already tethered to the physical realm (or, in laymen’s terms, ghosts!), but summoning is a large part of spirit work that you should become familiar with, whether or not you plan to incorporate it into your general practices. 

You can consider this lesson to have a difficulty of EASY TO INTERMEDIATE. A basis in spirit working is absolutely required, but you can consider this something of an introduction to its subset of summoning! While summoning can be more labor-intensive than merely inviting general spirits to work with you, there are a variety of reasons you may want to communicate with a specific individual. If you are interested in getting touch with a family member or close friend who has passed on, this spell is particularly well-suited for you! 💀✨

Warnings: 🖤 As with all spirit work, make sure that you take precautions to guard yourself against possession! Though unlikely, you may at times find those you try to work with are malevolent & want to take advantage of you. 🖤 Do not be malevolent yourself! Spirit work is wrought on a basis of partnership; do not expect or try to force the dead to interact with you! 🖤 Be cognizant of who & what you are interacting with! Fae energy & spirits can be difficult for beginners & even some experts to distinguish, as well as vampires. If you sense energy that feels different than what you’re used to working with, don’t panic - just disengage from the ritual if you feel threatened! 🖤 For notes on cleansing leftover energy or banishing unwanted guests, check out my tags on the matters! 💀 💀

Prerequisites: 🖤 Your target will need to be buried at the site of your ritual! This is a spell specifically for working with burial grounds, so other forms of funeral rites (sky burial, cremation, etc.) will not work with this specific ritual. 🖤 Having a personal connection with your target will increase the likelihood of a success, but it is not necessary! What is necessary is knowing the name of the spirit that you want to work with - which should be rather easy to do with their tombstone at your side! 🖤 Know how to communicate with spirits & interpret their messages before you attempt this! Summoning can be construed more formal than usual spirit work, and some spirits might take offense if you appear to be ill-prepared or unskilled.

Materials: 🖤 Candles; three (3): black or white is a good choice, but if there is another color you feel a stronger personal association of power with, use those! 🖤 Bowls; two (2): one should be bigger than the other, so the smaller one might comfortably fit inside. The exact ratio is up to you, but I like to make them as disparate as possible! 🖤 Water; moon-charged: while you can charge it with other energy sources, do not use water that has any additives! (So, no rose-infused water or saltwater.) 🖤 Clothing scraps: the color is up to you, but again, black or good is a white choice depending on your associations! 🖤 Fabric marker; gray: this is the only color I’m going to insist on, as the gray calls the spirit to the space between! 🖤 A lighter: or another fire-starter of some kind. 🖤 Tongs: to keep your hands away from burning objects.

Instructions:  1. Set out your materials and sit with the grave site either to the side of your dominant hand or in front of you. Light your candles and arrange them into a triangle in front of you, leaving a side open to you. 2. Place the loose dirt of the grave into your larger bowl. Do not upend any growing grass or plants to do so! Merely run your hands across the ground to pick up the soil; you don’t need a lot. (Optionally, place any other items that might call the attention of the spirit into this bowl, whether they be trinkets or physical objects that pertain to their living life, offerings, or something they might like.) Place this into the inner area of the candles. 3. In your smaller bowl, mix water and rubbing alcohol at a ratio of 1:3 or 1:1. Without spilling it, place it into the larger bowl. (Reserve some normal water for safety’s sake.) 4. Now, take your marker and write the spirit’s name onto one of your fabric scraps. Using your tongs, place this into the water-alcohol mixture and allow it to soak; once it is damp, lift it out and set it on fire before placing it back into the smaller bowl, allowing it to burn. 5. Invite the spirit that you are trying to summon to come and speak with you: this can be as simple as speaking out loud, though you could chant or sing or pray for the same effect. If you need more instruction on how to do this, read my tags and familiarize yourself with how to communicate with spirits ahead of time. 6. By the time the fire in the smaller bowl has gone out, the spirit will have decided whether or not it wants to speak with you. If it has decided to make contact: congratulations! Be respectful with speaking with it as you would an elder. If you make no contact, however, don’t be discouraged: try another night, or with another target. After you are finished, proceed to the next step. 7. To clean up, thank the spirit for their time and blow out the candles: the spirit will only be present so long as there is an energy source available (and you do not want to become that!). Clean up your materials and return the soil to the grave. Do NOT pour out the rubbing alcohol here - that is highly rude. Return home to dispose of it properly

🖤 If you have any questions, check out my tag list, my FAQ, or contact me directly! Happy spirit working, my fellow fleshlings. 💀✨

[obsxduri-blog]

Twin Skeletons

@obsjeongguk

Paranoia isn’t a good look on her: her hair’s going limp with the amount of times she runs her hands through it, mussing the style throughout the day as she tries—and fails—to ignore the fact that someone else is out there who knows who MagCoChe is. The knowledge settles heavy in her gut and shreds her insides with steady claws, making a nest out of her intestines for incubating fear; worst of all, there’s no telling what those with the power may want from her. Wanted terrorists know one of her most sacred secrets, and while Duri is far from trusting the city officials as of late, she’s not partial to the concept of becoming a criminal, either.

The problem is that there’s nothing she can do: Keysmash made that abundantly clear by breaking into her home and offering up his “friendship,” which Duri remains too paralyzed to either accept or decline. A few months ago, she had thought her body would be swallowed up by the gaping void hidden within her, collapsing around and in on itself like a black hole; now, she thinks that the world is more likely to break her apart before she can break down.

The only true solace she might seek is obtaining the advice of her father, though even this area of her life has been impacted for the worst. Moonlight offers a certain mystique by which she can cast her spells, and the atmosphere of the night connects her more easily to the targets of her practices; with the increased surveillance throughout the city, however, Duri finds it difficult to actually make her way to the cemetery without detection. Breaking in is easier, for she knows where the motion detectors are and she is more than capable of hopping fences.

Hallowed ground has a way of relaxing her, least of all because it’s actually tended to; the spirits stir and, in their own way, murmur greeting and acknowledgment as she passes among them. This is one of the places she’s at her strongest, and confidence lifts her hunched shoulders as she navigates the markers to arrive at her father’s grave. 

It’s more the routine than the brewing ritual that brings her peace, but Duri welcomes it all the same, losing her worries in the motions of her hands. Blanket; candles; bowls; water; rubbing alcohol; clothing scraps; gray fabric pen: these things make sense to her, the spell laid out in her mind’s eye as a matter of memory and habit. With so much going wrong, it seems idealistic to try to do something that feels right—and maybe it’s foolish of her to make an attempt after all, for before Duri can even pop the cap off of the water bottle, she hears the gate creak under the weight of another living body.

The water bottle warps in her hands as Duri clutches it, her motions sharp as she looks to the intruder. Though she has yet to light the candles, it would be unreasonable to assume that her form is lost in the dark. Still—she pulls her hood up over her head, smothering the bright shock of her newly-dyed hair like it will make a difference in being identifiable. She doesn’t know what to expect, and even if she had managed to get through with her summoning, divination would be no help in a situation with a stranger. 

At the very least, she recognizes that he’s not wearing the uniform of a cemetery worker, whether guard or undertaker; it’s a small comfort, though one that doesn’t quite keep tension from singing through her. Duri fixes her eyes upon him, gaze unwavering even as her hands once more break stillness to begin moving her materials back into her bag; she’d peg him as human, if only because his energy is hard to sense under the sheer population of ghosts, but that means nothing if he’s a hunter come to make her paranoid dreams warranted.

[obsxduri-blog]

[obsxduri-blog]

Act I: Playthings

Self-para in reaction to Exposure.

Her roots are growing in.

This particular point is more a cause for annoyance than any true distress, but its inconvenience is great enough that she stops walking to regard her reflection in the shine of the shop’s window. Whichever shop it is isn’t particularly important but for the clean pane: her shopping for the day has been seen through, as evidenced by the bags that hang in the crook of each elbow as she raises her arms. Though Duri plans at first only to spend a brief moment determining the extent of the fading color, a single growing, coarse strand draws her attention longer.

It’s only one gray hair, but she’s only twenty-three years old: she’s out of school, has a decent income, and is spending her days doing what she loves and is interested in. Stress should not be making such a prominent mark on the prime of her youth. 

The full spectrum of why this exact ailment has struck her in the here and now can be summarized by a single fact: when Duri’s eyes fall from her own reflection, they meet the vacant gaze of a toy lion.

She doesn’t maintain the eye contact beyond the point where she recognizes the form of the thing: this is the fifth time in two days that she has stumbled across it, and she has followed Conspiracy City for long enough to recognize what creature it is that haunts her. She has no interest in engaging those shiny eyes while she is in a public space washed with sunlight: his appearance here is merely a reminder. Whether the intent behind it is one of solidarity or warning, Duri can not yet determine. 

The weight of the chalk she purchases after does not strain her arms, but there is a weight on her chest that she cannot abandon, as though the fae himself has dropped one real-life lion paw right against her ribcage. Discomfort hangs about her as a malaise as she travels home, the anxieties that plague her interrupted with flashes of an innocent’s broken neck and glassy eyes. 

Her next door neighbors have been talking for some time about their beloved granddaughter coming to visit them; when Duri begins to unlock her door, the child is in the next yard over, crying while clutching a stuffed animal to her chest. Her bones feel, for a moment, as though they’re dissolving—like she’ll just drop right there, not dead, but weak and wishing she was. The tally ticks up to six as her muscles seize long enough for her to twist her keys in the lock, and then she’s inside, the golden licks of sunset shut outside.

The fae gives her three hours, and while she’s not sure what the significance of the number is, Duri does not waste them: dinner is made with shaking hands, and after she eats, she breaks out her bleach and a new box of dye to touch up the roots that started the evening off so poorly.

Pressure mounts as she showers, the ginger coloring noisily washing out and leaving her tub looking like a knock-off murder scene. When she shuts the water off and bows her spine, the vertebrae are solid again: now, it feels like her skeleton might crawl right out of her mouth, as her damp hair and the rapidly cooling air has her limbs prickling up and down. Impulse demands that Duri chop the strands shorter, show to the world that her blind luck has delivered her outside of the noose—instead, she pulls her hair back, bares her clean face in a show of honesty and determination alike.

Duri can feel the presence of spirits on a level deeper than the physical, in a place that she might call her soul if she could freely believe in the existence of such things; the ghosts have fled her home, but she knows in that same place that she is not alone. Clean pajamas are not the most dignified outfit she’s made a first meeting in, but if her visitor is going to invite himself in, then he has to deal with the less than ideal presentation she’s bound to make. 

Generally, her room smells of the sharp pinch of magic scattered about herbs and a faint hint of chemicals; when Duri enters, however, he is sitting on her windowsill and the scent of the city blows and masks all else. The pressure on her chest is back, except worse, and the hour ticks as she looks upon Keysmash for the seventh time.

There ought to be something innocent in a creature that takes the form of child’s toy, but Duri can find no such charm when it feels as though her body is about to snap, crumple like a wet napkin. She remembers, foolishly, that she forgot to set up a haven circle, that she bought chalk for that reason alone, and the pastel shades of the sticks taunt her from where they lay on top of her closed laptop. The sting of the atmosphere threatens for her eyes to water, but Duri is not a child.

She cannot deny that she is weak in too many ways to be healthy: so much of her life, so much of who Duri is is a mess. But she is not weak in the same ways that so many around her are: the cost of magic is always, always humanity, and that is why where her death work walks, she is not called little one or stupid girl, but witch. 

It’s her own room, so she steps forward, stands her ground; the light is all from artificial sources, now, and it bounces around the room, reflecting off of her mini-cauldron and her crystals and even off her bones. That spine that had slanted under the touch of water is straightened in the posture of an equal, and with clenched fists and sharp teeth, Duri beseeches: “What do you want?”

In answer, he flees, the window that had framed him now empty but for the backdrop of the neighborhood outside; the relief is painful to her, makes her feel as though she’ll fall back and fall apart and crack at the torso, but Duri welcomes for as long as it takes to shut her window. It is turning back to the whole of her room that breathes ice against her, as she notes the absence of the chalk and her open laptop—distinct physical changes that she has not wrought herself. If there is one thing his persistence has taught her, it’s that denial is hardly ever a helpful thing, which is why she sits down at her desk, reads the message he left her, and for the first time, screams.

[obsxduri-blog]

    「   THEME #007: VITRALIS by angelicxi   」     ↳ [ static preview ]     ❥ the link to the code is contained within the preview.

Vitralis is a sleek, clean container theme with sidebars on both sides. Inspired equal parts by stained glass windows and Alphonse Mucha’s artwork, I wanted it to have a simple feeling, despite being elaborately crafted and equipped. It comes with features I have been asked about in the past — such as slots for descriptions (which morning glory lacked, being far more simplistic) and a music player (which some people have been nagging me about for a while now). I hope everyone enjoys it. ^^

F E A T U R E S :

— plain color background; you can change it to a texture (just upload a picture) or a full wallpaper (remember to go and change the properties under body! add: “background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover”, without the quote marks. ideal wallpaper size would be 1900 x 1200); — 500px posts; — two sidebars with display set on-hover, as seen in the preview; — slot for an avatar (105 x 105); — slot for a blog title; — home & ask + 3 extra link slots; — slot for a description; — a billy music player; — even more description space on the left, structured like a column. It can be used as an update tab, or simply to make things more fanciful. Use the h4 tags for the titles, and don’t worry about taking up too much space - a scrollbar will appear here as well. ^^

    「  PLEASE LIKE / REBLOG IF USING.  」      Do NOT:        — remove the credit        — steal the code / parts of it        — claim as yours in any way, shape, or form.      Respect the maker's work, please.     This theme is optimized for Mozilla Firefox & Google Chrome.     It is best viewed on a 1366x768 screen resolution.