ophlysias-blog

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @kikoph : in response to x ] 

Monster – a word she never thought described herself, but here is a man, or rather, an unearthly being, referring to her as such. The look in his eyes stings as much as the word, and she leans back, bumping back against wall as he moves in close. He caught her off guard on her way to her sanctuary from hell, the library, and she feels small in his presence. So close, yet so far – she wants nothing more than to escape.

She may be an honest person, but she doesn’t consider herself brave, and she flinches at his touch, breath catching in her throat. Her mind is scrambled with words, a mess of comebacks and playing it safe, then his last sentence throws her off. Respectable? To ruin others for personal gain? It’s not like she wants to – if she had another option, she’d gladly take it.

Her teeth are clenched and she swallows what feels like a tennis ball before retaliating. Her voice comes out quiet but her words are clear, “It’s really a question of what those with power do with their power… and perspective.”

You, you slash your allies alongside your foes like it’s nothing.

Those words she swallows, but she isn’t even sure of herself. In this type of world, she doesn’t have a choice, right? Ryoko tries to move away, at least to put some distance between them so she can breathe again. Though, if he wanted to kill her, he could’ve done so ten times ( a hundred? ) already.

in the garden of eden, he exists as the serpent. black abysses as eyes and glinting fangs that come to a sharp point— even the holiest of places cannot escape his beady gaze. the strong will overcome by trampling over the weak; it’s always been the survival of the fittest. after all, all warfare is based on deception and this is no different. he keeps scripture on his tongue and recites it like his own, hands clasped together in artful worship. they believe the front he puts up, falls deep into his web of lies and takes the blood apple for their own. what a joke, he muses, to fall for pretty words and strung up facades. to damn yourself for another, to take a bite out of the forbidden fruit and expect to escape unscathed. how foolish.

if he can’t be whole, no one can.

it’s always the purest ones who are the most fun to tear down. she isn’t an exception. he sees the way she operates, out of duty, out of fear. he scoffs. it’s a pathetic excuse for the destruction she’s caused, but he’s too broken to be close to heaven so he supposes he should thank her for damning everyone else to hell with him. it’s not hard to pick out her weaknesses. as with most people, she carries loose baggage around like a ball and chain and lets the noose around her neck guide her. he takes the parts of her that she’s clearly unhappy about and lets them tear her apart; every word chosen carefully to bring across the most pain.

she cowers when he bares his fangs, the retort weak in a way that only makes lysias want to rile her up more. “ah. so you’ve chosen to use your power to control people against their will.. to cause destruction! i can relate.” he laughs then, all teeth and no lips. when he’s done his gaze is blank as a slate, as if he never smiled to begin with. “it’s always selfish desire, isn’t it? i don’t think there’s much perspective you can put into this, miss engineer. it’s clean cut, human greed. i guess if lying to yourself helps you sleep at night, you should continue.. whatever this is.” his fingers come up to gesture at her entirety as he keeps her caged against the wall between his arms.

“welcome to the club. we’re all monsters here.”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @ophasra : in response to x ] 

his words wake her up and it’s the first time in weeks he speaks to her. how dare she fall asleep when the self-crowned king could choke in his sleep? a terrible mistake, of course. as usual, she lets him talk and she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to, he guesses her every single thought when he looks into her empty eyes. earlier today, his blood was on her hands. she remembers her body shaking, skin and bones disappearing to let her be nothing more than a shadow. the only piece of darkness he allows. they called for her help, for her to help him. but it felt like it was too late. 

when he bleeds, she disappears. 

now, she takes a look on the dry red stains on her hands, too tired to wash them away. it’s impossible for her to leave his side now she can finally hear his breathing, the sound of his heartbeat calmed her and, now, his voice weirdly sounds relaxing. 

a boy and a girl, a king and a queen. she often wonders if he is fit to be a ruler when he is such a glorious warrior. her lips reach for his cheek, a soft gesture to ask him for silence, something unfamiliar to him. “it would be easier if we were just a boy and a girl,” she repeats his words, her eyelids falling when his smile cracks. restless. “but we are fighters, we ache for an imaginary throne.”

her hand hasn’t moved from his chest, listening to his regular heartbeat. she wonders if he notices her dark circles, if he realizes her body in his arms isn’t a veil of darkness anymore. “you come back from war like a king who conquered lands and I await for your return like a worried queen.” his survival is a way to comfort herself, the promise of tomorrow. nothing more. and yet, hearing his voice brings her more than simple comfort. It’s a relief. If he lives, she is safe. no one else is in the room and, for once, the cameras are forgotten.

Selfishness defines their bond.

“What if my shoulders break under the weight of the crown? Would you let it shatter me?”

it’d be a lie to say he hasn’t been in this much pain before. he can feel everything, down to his nerve-endings; how the searing heat licks from deep gashes and gaping wounds, the failure of his regenerative properties, no matter how hard his body’s fighting to keep him alive. dying on the battlefield would be a good way to go, he muses. at least he’d die a legend. the thought makes a sardonic smile lift at his lips even as he’s rushed back to moirae, vision blurring at the corners as darkness recedes over him. he had won.

when he comes to, she’s sitting beside him, her usually carefully poised features drawn into what he’d interpret as worry. maybe he’s reading too much into things again, but she never gives him anything to work with, so this is an odd change of pace. he doesn’t know what moves him to speak, especially with ash and copper on his tongue, and weeks of silence that he’s been less than subtle about. he attributes this to the pain and how his head swims. ( he knows, deep down, that he has to say something. )

she doesn’t notice he’s awake, but when she does his chest hurts more than the blade-inflicted wounds. it’s in the way she touches him like he’s fragile; fingers lined to his chest and lips soft against his cheek as she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. he feels more like a prince than a king, clothed in glory, yet hidden in robes of soft silk. he hates it, detests that she reminds him of what he used to be, what he could’ve been, and most of all, what he is now. he’s painted the violet under the eyes and hung the empty stars in her eyes, and when he places his hand over hers on his chest, he can see himself reflected in the pitch black canvases: they are similar, yet astoundingly different. alive, but hardly breathing.

“maybe in another life.” when he speaks again, his chest heaves like it pains him to have uttered these four words. he’d say he missed her, but that wasn’t quite it. you can’t miss someone who feels like they should’ve always been somewhere in the back of your mind. she isn’t a fixture in his life more than a feeling. “you worried about me?”, he teases then, trying to ease the weight off his chest. “you should’ve known that i will never die. kings and queens might fade away, but gods? gods never die.”

it’s when the pain ebbs away into a selfish, bitter melancholy that he turns his head away from her once more, mulling over the words in quiet contemplation. the weight of the crown should only be sought by those who are ready to bear its weight, he wants to say, but the words catch in his throat, snagged by thorns which he’s forced to swallow. he knows what the truth is, but saying it out loud isn’t any easy. “no”, he starts simply, trying to slip his fingers through the gaps in hers to find some sort of comfort. “i would come for you. even if it tore me from limb to limb and threatened to eat my heart whole. i’d come for you.” it’s selfish, how he wants her to live so he’d be at peace— they both work in ways no one else would understand. “because that’s what we do. we fight, and we never stop fighting.” we’ve been at war for so long we don’t know anything else.

“were you scared? when you saw me like this. were you scared i was going to leave you to bear the crown by yourself?”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ophlysias-blog]

he’d trade his guns for love but he’s caught in the crossfire and he keeps wakin’ up, but it’s not to the sound of birds the tyranny; the violent streets; deprived

[ophlysias-blog]

ophgiles:

giles is no stranger to the way lysias gives out threats like they’re leaflets, except most of the time lysias’ threats have been directed at people giles knew if by name then by face. before he can formulate a response, lysias is already taking a step towards him. if giles is to take a step back out of caution, it would mean that he’s lost, even if nobody is keeping score.

when his injured arm is grabbed, giles has no choice but to withstand the merciless pain that ripped through his shoulder. he is dragged forward, almost like a rag doll, and he almost stumbles. the closeness, which didn’t bother him during hand-to-hand combat, is bothering him now. that and his own blood which, upon looking down, giles finds is making an utter mess. nausea surges in his throat and he barely has time to fight it back before lysias goes on to press down _hard _on the wound that should have stopped bleeding a moment ago.

this time, giles has no choice but to let a grimace slip, but he doesn’t let it affect his tone when he finally has the chance to reply. “it’s not that difficult to figure it out,” he says, feeling a little light-headed from the blood-loss, “i can give it to you, if you want, or you can simply forget i ever existed in a couple of days’ time.”

oh, but he’s keeping score. he is, as with all things, petty and hotheaded. it’s just a pity for whoever manages to get under his radar. today it’s giles, tomorrow it’s deirdre, astra, kalon, erasmus— it really doesn’t matter as long as they’ve gotten on his nerves. and while some might go out of their way to rile him up, just to get a reaction and gain his attention, it’s clear this boy is trying to do the exact opposite. lysias hates giving people what they want. he smiles when he grimaces.

“it’s more effort than i’m willing to spend on you.” the class has erupted into whispers now, no doubt speaking of the senseless provocation. in a twisted way, lysias thinks that the boy should thank him for the attention he’s bestowing him. there’s no other way the class would pay him any mind. “— and letting you off would be too easy. not fun at all.” his canines edge along his lower lip, each sharp and ready to tear the boy apart. for a man who thinks war is fun, everything else he says is enjoyable should be taken with caution.

“but you’d like that though, wouldn’t you. for me to pretend that you don’t exist.”

blood trickles down into his palm, drawing a path down his wrist and forearm. he presses his thumb into the gaping wound and twists, grip still tight on the boy’s arm as he stares on in complete boredom.

“if you can’t handle this amount of pain you’ll be useless in war, nothing but a liability. give me one good reason why i shouldn’t kill you right now, in front of everyone.”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @ophastra : in response to x ] 

the silver orbs within her eyes met the fury within his. with heavy breathes and drenched in sweat, a cold sensation traveled throughout her body. fear and weakness had been met with a challenge. she admitted that the entire amount of time had been wasted. with not a single hit landed onto her trainer, her arms and limbs were bruised up and pulsing with pain.

she had always wandered what kind of situation fell before her when without the blessings of the night. while on her knees and his blade against her throat, the scene in her mind and the position she had set herself in had made her look helpless and weak. however, the situation did not feel like the first.

the familiarity had told her to let instincts take over. she was silent. her eyelids were closed for a moment. the sound of her breath escaping her lips. the thrill inside her chest was unshakable. without notice, a slight smirk arose from her face. she picked her fallen blade from below and slowly brought herself back on her feet. as if a spark of will had glinted in her eyes, she had daringly gripped onto his blade with the other hand. the blood continued to drip from her hands as she held on tightly. the pain, the sensation of the deep cut piercing through the pale skin of her palms kept herself awake.

“hold it, we’re not at the climax though,” she replied with a serious tone while keeping the sly smirk onto her face. although her intentions were unclear, what was clear was that the trainer’s harsh words had woken her up to reality for the brief moment until training ended.

she has improved, that he can’t deny, but she’s still so painfully weak in his eyes and he’s beginning to grow bored. it’s always the cute ones that suck at combat, he notes belatedly, trying not to let this amuse him. they always looked at him with eyes as bright as hers, but swung their sword like they were trying to hack a part of a tree off with a golf club. it didn’t help that there were a lot of them. he never goes easy or holds back.

“i think we’re at my end”, he remarks sarcastically. he has to commend her for the stamina that she’s built up to be able to push herself back onto her feet for the nth time, but this doesn’t make him any less irritated. “i think i preferred you on your knees. you know, if you wanted me to reach my climax, because you’re not cutting it with your sword handling.”

the class doesn’t erupt into a fit full of snickers like he hoped for, but he’ll take the crudeness of his jokes somewhere else if they’re this ungrateful.

“en garde.”

his voice booms, exasperation showing all over his features. the other students, each with glowing eyes, stand to attention. they watch like eagles ready to pick apart their prey. it’s always the weakest ones that lysias chooses to chew up and spit out; the rest of them just feed on whatever carcass he’s left behind.

“if you don’t manage to spar with me in this round, we’re moving on. i have a class full of other idiots to entertain, so pick up the slack, princess.”

[ophlysias-blog]

opheliade:

(how do you know me?) 

the dandelions near the school building whisper with the wind. they’re trembling, telling eliade to run. he’s tongue tied, his words can’t seem to escape the tip of his tongue. the boy is terrified of what’s to come if he were to refuse and walk away. most demigods liked getting what they want. it was either their way or nothing at all. they were always powerful, power hungry, or both. eliade learned that the hard way the first time he met a boy with fists full of fire.

the boy doesn’t show much of his fear in his eyes, but rather the way he gives into the stranger’s touch. their face is familiar, but he can’t really wrap his finger around it. this is the first time they’ve spoken. his eyes trail over the latter’s pearly whites; he had a smile sharp enough to tear through eliade’s flesh and leave him out to bleed for the wolves to feed on. and the wolves appear at the peripheral of his vision. they’re staring. eyes dark, eyes bright, all suited up for class. he hates it. he hates attention: all the eyes of his classmates pinned on him like he was some prized toy.

“if it’s on the way to where you’re headed. i know my way around.” 

soft lips curl up into a small smile as he speaks. the discomfort is evident in his eyes but he knows the latter wont give up like that. he turns by his heel, facing away from the small crowd of students passing by. 

“i wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” 

eliade dares not ask for his name either.

his reputation more than precedes him; this he’s sure of. students and soldiers speak of him in echoless whispers, hands clasped cover their mouths and gazes averted like they think he wouldn’t realise. /good, let them speak of him./ legends are born from the fear of man. and it’s not like anything they’re saying is untrue; he has a knack for baring his teeth over the softness of his lips, sweet words, and even sweeter kisses to draw them right into the palm of his hand. he derives pleasure in watching them fall into his web of deception, more so in the way they can’t seem to tear themselves away, either way.

the boy doesn’t seem to have caught wind of these rumours; lysias can tell in the way he looks at him, bright-eyed and pliant. they always are when they first start out. lysias drapes his fingers across his waist where he can stroke over the small of the boy’s back in small circles. people are already staring. their gazes always seems to follow him, whispers erupting whenever he picks a new target. he finds that he likes the attention, especially when he recognises a few jilted expressions of heartbreak amongst the small crowd that’s gathered. they should’ve learnt that they are no different than all the others and picked their heart up on the way out. he is no romanticist, but there are more than a dozen things he’d do to make sure they fell just the way he wanted.

“weapons, right? i’m headed in that direction, i can walk you.” his voice dips, low and husky, yet brimming with false concern. “i wouldn’t want you to make your way there yourself with all these people. aren’t you new here? they always go for the newbies, it’s nothing personal.”

“but come on, lets go. i don’t think you don’t want to be late for class.”

another charming smile lifts at his lips, and he guides eliade forward through the crowd.

“i heard the instructor is a dick.”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @ophkalon : in response to x ] 

“You know very well that this isn’t an act, Lysias,” Kalon’s temper barely manages its balance on the thin tightrope it begins to tread across. Sway, sway, sway; a single drop into the sea without a care in a world for the victims it will soon plow mid rage.

“I didn’t care about graduating. At least, not with the likes of you. You’re bloodthirsty, no amount of history will ever compensate for that,” His voice unravels in the space between them, filling the holes that Lysias’ overwhelming demeanor attempts to fill. Kalon can feel the unwavering desire that his once fellow turned mentor has for confrontation. It hadn’t always been like this between them, but ever since graduation set them apart, it’d only gotten worse. Having Lysias as his weapons mentor was enough of a dilemma to deal with. Rare were the days during which Kalon exited unscathed; he hated being the victim of their sadistic motives. Authority only fueled it.

“The performance of a student is a reflection of their mentor’s capability. If you deem me as weak, then you better get your father in here to fine tune your skills, because they’re clearly lacking.”

“you used to know me”, he begins with a sneer, spiteful and full of rage. “i’m not the same boy who smiled for no fucking reason and needed his hand held through training sessions.” my smile died with every other part of me, he wants to say, but it’s the things he’s kept unspoken that will be his salvation. the past is distant and foggy around the edges, and he’d like the keep it that way. ( liar, he’s kept up past dawn trying to grasp at these loose threads that keep him together; only to pull through another sleepless night, chasing his nightmares. ) there is no space for nostalgia in this warped passage of time, and the softness that he once possessed will not be his downfall. no one, not even kalon, can convince him otherwise. he thinks maybe if he could destroy kalon, too, he’d finally be able to completely eradicate whatever’s left of what he used to be.

with his tongue drawn over the sharp edges of his canine, he leans into kalon, his anger dissolving into a sly smirk as he pushes at his shoulder, an act of aggravation. “so be it. i’ll see to it; that you will never graduate. after all, you need to pass my class to become a soldier.” 

he lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, cornering the boy and tapping lightly at his cheek like you would to a child. “clearly you don’t know me as well as you claim to. i overthrew my own father, kal”, the nickname long drawn in sarcasm. “if anyone needs a lesson in the art of war, it’s him. ah— but he’ll have to lick the sole of my boots before i give him the time of day.” a cheeky grin surfaces on his lips, and his fingers skitter down kalon’s jaw to his nape. “so, are you still sure you know me?”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @ophgiles : in response to x ] 

getting injured is the easiest and fastest way to earn a brief respite at the nurse’s office but at the same time, it is also a risky gamble. giles’ skin prickles as the familiar pain shoots down his arm but he doesn’t do anything about it until lysias is waving him off. he always has an extra shirt with him when he visits the training room and once again, it comes in handy, both as a makeshift bandage and a tourniquet. the pain dulls quickly and so he decides to loosen the knots. this is nowhere near the worst injuries he has sustained during combat training.

as he tries to loosen the knots as discretely as he can, giles’ gaze lingers on the dagger lysias is holding. it didn’t look so sharp before they started sparring but giles now knows better. he is about to turn and leave when he catches sight of lysias’ smirk, and then he is asked to relay a message (or rather, some sort of crude joke).

“why don’t you tell her that yourself,” giles answers, voice soft. it’s not exactly a question but he asks it anyway. it’s only after saying it that he realises it isn’t something that should be said to someone who can easily end his life or worse, make him wish that his life can be ended.

his expression morphs from amusement to pure impassiveness in a heartbeat. it’s always interesting how he’s always one or the other, yet never anything in between. icy cold or fiery hot; lysias exists in extremes, and he fluctuates between emotions frighteningly quickly. all of his students should’ve learnt that by now, but there always are the difficult ones, he supposes.

“because i asked you to. or do i have to slice your entire arm off before you understand?” lysias takes one step towards the boy, who’s moved to bandage his bleeding arm. he looks vaguely familiar, but lysias has seen classes of boys exactly like him to put a name to the face. they always leave as fast as they come; dead by his own sword, or another. “what is your name?” when the boy doesn’t answer as fast as he’d like, lysias grabs his injured arm and tugs the boy forward towards him, the toes of their boots almost touching with their sheer proximity. he makes sure to dig his fingers into the wound he’s created, ignoring the way blood seeps through the fabric and stains his fingers a dark red. “hm?”, the amusement is back, eyes glinting with unconcealed mirth, “i’ll figure it out, one way or another, boy.”

[ophlysias-blog]

ophdeirdre:

❝ no, i just don’t take commands from you. ❞ it’s never a good idea to goad him, but she can’t help herself. there’s something exhilarating about the way he fixates on her, the way he singles her out without fail every time, the way he deems her worthy of antagonising when he dismisses everyone else without a second glance. she’s too smart to not see lysias for who he truly is – an angry, bitter psychopath who hides behind his handsome face and his charms – but in some sick, twisted way, he’s the closest she has to a mentor here.

she snickers lightly. flesh wounds are nothing to her; the skin brand new almost as soon as she pulls the trident out. ❝ you’re a fool if you don’t think moirae owns you as well. ❞ her voice is low, aware of the audience they have. ❝ you have power now, but when you die, no one will mourn. there are plenty here to take your place. ❞ maybe it’s a threat, maybe it isn’t.

she doesn’t flinch even with both weapons at her throat. she laughs, tilting her head back and baring her neck to him even further, her eyes never once straying from his. the sword manages to break skin at the moment, but she hardly even feels the sting. ❝ my, my, lysias, if you wanted me to suck your dick then you could’ve just asked. ❞ she holds up the pretence of amusement for a few seconds, and then her face is impassive once more. 

when lysias takes a breath, it’s all too easy to turn the water vapour in his lungs to liquid. it’s not nearly enough to kill him, of course, but he does choke – no amount of training can overcome the body’s natural reactions to stimulus – and it provides her the opening she needs to retrieve her trident and kick his sword out of his hand. perhaps this is cheating, but lysias has never been the type to play fair either. to know your enemy, you must become your enemy. 

❝ you can disarm me as many times as you’d like, but i can kill you before you even pick up your weapon. ❞ they’re both aware that she won’t do it, that no matter how much she hates him she will not kill him, but the fact of the matter is that she can. she is not the helpless teenager lysias first met all those years ago anymore; lysias can still kill her – made even more dangerous by the fact that she knows he actually will follow through with it – but now she can kill him too. privately, she thinks it will serve him well to remember that.

maybe, in some sick, twisted way, he is all too willing to die. she doesn’t know that, of course, she doesn’t know anything. if she was trying to rile him up, it’s hardly working. everything she’s said is true, but he’s already come to terms with being a chess piece in a mindless struggle. at least he’s king. “if i wanted you to suck my dick i would already have you on your knees, my dear.” as soon as he’s done speaking, he feels the water being drawn from his throat, making him choke on the liquid that’s formed in splutters— fucking cheater. he’s strangely proud of her for playing dirty ( it’s precisely the kind of thing he’d do ), but simultaneously annoyed at all this potential that she has. now this, he’s perpetually irritated at.

“you won’t kill me”, he starts when she’s done antagonising him, hand poised over his throat to rub at the columns. she might be able to kill him now, but she’s still missing the most essential part of being a soldier— mercilessness— something he has over her in leaps and bounds. her stubbornness when it comes to taking a life would be her downfall, and he’d be more than glad to see her fail when the time comes. those who wish to fight must first count the cost. if she was unwilling to kill, then she would be killed. sometimes he thinks these lessons ( the constant threat of him at her throat, slicing it open ) will guide her to raise her own blade to kill. she doesn’t take well to them, but he tries, even if he has to remind himself that it’s because he absolutely detests her and wants her dead.

instead, he draws closer to her and closes his hand over her throat. her trident’s pressed into his own, a calculated move on his part, as he smirks and squeezes so her air passage’s blocked. he could kill her like this, snap her neck and watch her fall motionless. but he waits, staring her in the eye and strangling her until she’s gasping for breath and writhing. “but if you’re so certain you can kill me before i pick my weapon up, go ahead.”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @ophdeirdre : in response to x ] 

she doesn’t miss a beat, diving for her weapon as soon as it’s knocked out of her hand, tucking her head into a roll and using the momentum to push her back onto her feet, trident in hand once more. ❝ i don’t need your permission for anything, ly. ❞ the nickname is a calculated move on her part, a refusal to bow down to him, to acknowledge him as anything more than the asshole who’s done his best to make her life hell the past four years. the joke’s on you, she thinks, drinking in the man who’s barely broken a sweat since they started sparring; he has a face crafted by the gods – literally – made to be framed by fire and ashes, my life has been hell since before i met you.

she raises her trident as if to strike, but twirls it easily in her grip, until it’s pointed at herself, the longest prong pressing lightly against her breastbone. ❝ if i wanted to die so much i would’ve just done it myself, ❞ she bites back, all teeth, ❝ i don’t need you. ❞ a blink, and she has her trident raised at him again, poised to strike.

“i wasn’t giving you permission, it was a command. or are you too dense to know the difference, sharky?” the nickname shouldn’t be irritating, but he’s made it hard for her not to hate it. he sings it, teases her relentlessly and goes out of his way to make everyone in the class refer to her as nothing but sharky. deirdre? we don’t have a deirdre in moirae, you must be mistaken. sharky, though. we have a sharky. it’s just one of the things he likes to do to fuck with her.

smirk hardly faltering as she presses the trident to her chest, he pushes at the hilt so it digs painfully into her flesh. “do it, then. die. it’s the only thing you have left that’s your own. everything else? it’s moirae’s. it’s mine.” a part of him wishes she’d just do it herself and spare him the trouble, but he’s reminded that he’d much rather her die at his hand. 

it takes longer than he’s used to to disarm her again. ( she’s grown much too powerful to be anything but a thorn at his side. ) she’s chosen a trident, something so large and pretentious that lysias can’t help but roll his eyes. how cliche, the daughter of the sea wielding a trident. she barely has time to flinch; he already has both her weapon and a sword of his own at the hollow of her throat, pressing into the skin painfully and threatening to draw blood. 

“if you don’t need me i suppose you’re of no use to me.” the class is deathly quiet. everyone knows he’s more than capable, and very willing to take her life. “maybe next time you should think before you talk. that pretty mouth of yours is good for things other than speaking.”

[ophlysias-blog]

[ @opheliade : in response to x ] 

the only thing eliade could remember was her long blonde hair. it’s been ages since he’s truly looked at her. he’s long forgotten every detail of her face. they were strangers now, strangers with the same blood of persephone rushing through their veins. her eyes were always distant like the winter; his had a glint of joy from the spring. they were nothing alike.

(is asra doing alright?) he doesn’t have the nerve to speak her name.

“thank you.”

eliade was never the best at accepting compliments. the deepest, most insecure parts of him always doubted any kind words. the girls in class thought he was too frail and the boys always scoffed at his powers. no one ever took notice of him and he was happy that way. while the stranger speaks, he tries to break free from his grasp by inching back. his gaze follows the way the latter glances down to his lips, mustering up something to say quickly before silence falls upon them.

“do you know her well? i…i’m sure she’d be displeased to hear you say that.”

if he’s taken aback by the response, he doesn’t let it show on his features. did he know asra well? even saying they were more than acquaintances seemed far-fetched. they’d always be hanging in the precipice of nothing and something more--- he doesn’t want to think about blond hair and pitch dark eyes. instead, he focuses on the boy in front of him. they look nothing alike; where she is careful distance with the absence of warmth, he brims with it, carrying himself with a sort of joy that makes lysias sick to his stomach. is this what she could’ve become? ( is this what he could’ve become? ) he dares not hope. 

“i don’t know her, but i certainly know you, eliade.”

he draws out the syllables, speaking from the corner of his curved lips. there’s always something not quite right with the way he smiles, all feral smirks with his canines showing. he doesn’t loosen his grip when eliade tries pulling away, only resting his fingers along his nape and drawing him closer. eliade seems like the kind of boy he’d chew up and spit out within a day or two, but his heritage makes him more interesting in more ways than one.

“do you want me to show you to class?”

[ophlysias-blog]

Come on, dear, what are we, romanticists?                    Pick up your heart on the way out.

b.s.h; realist’s love affair (via adaestra)

[ophlysias-blog]

// hey, here are links to lysias’ biography, profile, and a page of disclaimers. the plot / relationship page is not quite done, and a link navigation page has not been finalised, but they will be coming soon. a sideblog with all of lysias’ aesthetic + inner thoughts has already been created, it should give further insight into him. here are some quick pointers for easier plotting:

was born to ares, the god of war, just to be an experiment for moirae’s initial set-up.

he was expected to be powerful, as the son of ares, but fell short of everyone’s expectations, and continues to be fairly weak in supernatural abilities when compared to other demigods. he’s extremely salty about this and will go out of his way to fuck people who are more powerful than him up.

was attached to his mother, who was the only one who showed him love. his father, the other gods and goddesses in moirae, and the fates thought this made him weak and held him back. they were determined to get rid of his softness in order to make the perfect soldier. this resulted in them forcing lysias to kill his own mother.

he was admitted into moirae at a time where the masts had not yet existed. they used torture to shape him. his most traumatic experience was being enclosed in a tight, dark space with the walls constantly closing in. it’s why he’s claustrophobic and deathly afraid of the dark.

completely remade himself after the incidents that occured in arcadia. he’s very different now than he was then.

currently works as a weapons trainer at arcadia teaching students how to properly handle various arms. he takes joy in sparring with them and getting them injured

a lone wolf: he goes out on many missions himself because of his violent tendencies. he’s known to have killed / injured allies or other demigods on the battlefield for no reason other than his own sick satisfaction

simply put, lysias is a dick. he tramples over other people for pleasure and takes joy in destruction. this is the only way he knows how to retain control over his life. hopefully it isn’t too off-putting. he’s a difficult muse, and not many other people in moirae know of his hidden depth. i think most of the people that could possibly know him better are the first gens because they would’ve seen him undergo a tremendous amount of change.

i think that’s all for now; like this if you’d like to plot! i’ll be sending out ic asks.

[ophlysias-blog]

we’ve all got blood on our hands. something somewhere had to die so we could stay alive.

( cr. )

[ophlysias-blog]

Q: why do we ache for godhood? A, abridged: because we are afraid.

( cr. )

[ophlysias-blog]

Fingers always curled into fists, ready for a fight, ready to kill. YOU ARE HOME, ARE SAFE, MY LOVE, you whisper to me:  YOU ARE NO LONGER AT WAR. My clothing is armour. My smile is my war-paint. (Will I ever be at peace? Will I ever stop being at war?) Hold me close. Calm my soul with a lullaby. (YOU ARE HOME, YOU ARE SAFE. YOU DO NOT NEED TO BE AFRAID.) I will always be at war, I think: Every step is to the beat of a drum. Our house is a battle-ground; I was raised a fighter. I was raised a warrior. YOU CAN STOP FIGHTING, you say. I have been fighting since I was a child: I do not know who I am without a war. I do not know who I am when peace is here. YOU ARE NO LONGER A SOLDIER:  LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS. But I cannot; my mother left me no choice but to fight. My father did not come to my aid. I have become my own battle ground. I cannot lay down my arms, for they have become part of me.

The war is over, but I have been fighting for too long to know what peace is. (CNS)