orpheusahulani-blog

[orpheusahulani-blog]

reblog and fill in the answers you most associate your character to with each question.

i. animal: tiger, wolf, snake. ii. colour: black and crimson. iii. month: november. iv. song: he’s evil - the kinks. v. number: 666. vi. day or night: night. vii. plant: poison ivy. viii. smell: woodsmoke and leather. ix. periodic element: iron and mercury. x. season: summer. xi. place: the forest. xii. food: beefsteaks. xiii. astrological sign: scorpio. xiv. element(s): fire. xv. drink: whiskey.

fifteen associations.

[orpheusahulani-blog]

catherine:

date: august 27

time: 7:26 am

location: catherine’s apartment 

status: closed to @orpheusahulani

She wishes Theodora would have listened to her. Catherine feebly begged and pleaded with her beloved mentor on the phone; lied swore up and down that she was alright, that she was more emotionally damaged than physically and just utterly exhausted; told them to stay away on business, to not come back on her behalf; and that she’d be in perfect condition and ready for lessons upon Theodora’s return. She almost got away with it, until the emissary curtly told her they were sending Orpheus in their stead because he would be unapologetically honest about Catherine’s health. After, they offered a warm but short goodbye, effectively ending the conversation before the Daly woman could come up with words to object. 

Orpheus Ahulani, coming to check on her just mere hours after the catastrophe that was the trial? She can’t help but let out an incredulous huff of air.

Her cozy apartment is in shambles: there are pillows strewn haphazardly between the floor, loveseat, and chair; her coffee table bedecked with melted ice packs, half-empty glasses of water, bundles of bandages; and her beloved gown from the trial is tucked against the corner in a ball, taunting her. She, herself, is in shambles: her golden hair is messy crown atop her head, her face is covered in streaks–of ruined makeup, of running tears–and bruises, her knuckles bloodied and black and purple and blue and–

The pounding of fists against her door make her tense, jaw clenching even as it aches in sharp protest. 

Dio mio, I haven’t even gotten a chance to sleep. 

Catherine, wrapped only in her blush silk robe, begrudgingly drags her weary frame to the door. She opens the door unceremoniously and musters all the strength she has to stand up straight and offer a thin-lipped smile. “I didn’t expect you to come so soon,” she says, voice laden with fatigue and pain as she takes a half-step back, leaving room for him to enter. Politeness, even after such tragedy and disarray, compels her to inquire, “Would you like to come in?”

This isn’t how he imagined the aftermath of the trial would pan out. In his mind, he would have relished the chaos and destruction from afar, and then retreated into some dark corner somewhere, melted back into the shadows from whence he emerged and waited until the time was right to slither out to frighten people again. He’d been well on his way to that, too, stood atop the Castelvecchio looking out onto the burning rubble, letting the sight of ash and flame fill his chest cavity to the brim with a twisted pleasure, letting it be his drug once the golden prickling of the faerie’s blood had worn off.

But then his phone had vibrated against his thigh, and Theodora’s silken tones had poured into his ear from the receiver, and that was just as intoxicating as any fire could be. His attempts to invite himself over had been met with stony resistance, countered with a command (they could be awfully bossy, when they wanted to, and he’d made a point of telling them as much). Catherine Daly, they’d said, I need to know she’s alright, and I know you will give me an honest judgement. And then, You owe me.

That was true, in a manner of speaking, or at least true enough, and he knew there was never any sense arguing with them when they were this decided on something, so he’d assented, but not without letting the steely, cutting edge of resentment creep into his tones, a promise that he’d make them pay for this in some unsubtle way later.

This isn’t how he imagined the aftermath of the trial would pan out, but here he is nonetheless, beating unceremoniously on Catherine Daly’s door, as if hoping that the force of his knocking summons her more quickly.

The Devil isn’t in the habit of making house-calls, and he makes sure the sharp slant of his eyebrows, the unimpressed arch of his mouth, convey that message as loudly as if he were to scream it aloud.

When she opens the door he’s leaning against the doorframe examining his nails, a studied sketch of impatience, and flicks his gaze over her slight frame once, twice, and twitches a brow. I didn’t expect you to come so soon, she says, and he just smiles at the slight discomfort he can see in the whites of her eyes. “Well, don’t you look wonderful,” he offers blithely, striding past her into the room, and turns to face her with a look of innocent curiosity.

“Have you been fighting?”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

He tore the beauty from his face, and called it terror.

v.c | and he would weep until slumber arrived. (via erebius)

[orpheusahulani-blog]

[orpheusahulani-blog]

[orpheusahulani-blog]

some men just want to watch the world burn;;

date: 27th august time: 05:07 a.m. location: castelvecchio bridge OPEN

He cut a striking figure in the half-light, framed on either side by wispy thin slats of a soft blue haze that seemed to fall about him like a cloak; a reminder that he was as much a king of shadows as he was royalty beneath the eerie light of the moon, a light that seemed to bewitch and entrance and beneath which all manner of impossibilities seemed just a little closer to slipping into reality.

A palpable sense of dread hung heavy in the air, the taste of it acrid on the tongue, but as usual Orpheus stood outside the trepidation, the outrage, content to watch the city quiver beneath the weight of its horror through darkened eyes, eyes whose pupils danced with the same fire that had devoured the dome just hours before, ravaged the opulent structure and ripped at its very fabric like a hellish beast whose slavering jaws had torn at brick and human flesh once before and could never be satisfied with just one taste.

He had left the forest not long after the initial frenzy had died down, once the mayhem ceased to be of interest to him, once there was no fresh blood being spilled, no new bodies to watch bleed, come to watch the chaos from above like a pitiless deity curling its lip at the base weakness of humanity.

The mask and gilded ribcage had been long since shed, cast into the turbid river water with nothing but contempt for the Witches’ finery, freeing his features to burn as he’d desired, setting loose the terrible reality of eyes that looked into the heart of an inferno and saw only beauty.

Orpheus heard the clack of footsteps behind him but didn’t move, blinked his eyes closed and smiled almost reverentially when he saw the burning dome imprinted on the insides of his lids. Tonight he was made of flame, of spitting, hissing sparks designed to scald, a bonfire to burn anyone foolish enough to step too close, and when he spoke his voice was mercury, silvered, glimmering, but corrosive all the same.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

rpmememaker :

Send “✆” for a MORNING text. Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text. Send “✿” for a SUGGESTIVE text. Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text. Send “#” for a RANDOM text. Send “@” for a SCARED text. Send “&” for a LOVING text. Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text. Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text. Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text. 

[orpheusahulani-blog]

moodboard [ 4 // ? ] – orpheus ahulani + white (and red)

“  —  D  E  S  T  R  O  Y  E  R   of worlds  ”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

odessa:

She hesitates visibly at his words, confusion painting itself clearly across her features. It takes far longer for her to correct herself than it usually would, regaining some semblance of composure as her wine-stained mind tries to wrap itself around his status. “The darkest Seelie in the court,” Odessa whispers, half-talking to him and half-talking to herself. As she stares at them, metallic bones and the skull-shaped mask dance through her vision. She takes a step backwards to steady herself. “They must think kindly of you, the witches, to place you on the side of the light when so many would think you more at home with the–” Malevolent. The word tangles up upon her tongue, refusing to loosen itself. “–other faeries.” A sliver of insult is taken to being sided with Orpheus Ahulani, their list of differences long and their similarities near non-existent, but the influence of that in her bloodstream prompts her to laugh softly (she certainly won’t find the humour in it later). “I suppose it’s apt that we are, given how much time I’ve spent around death lately.” 

Their conversation reminds her of another time; of Oxford’s stone walls and the chatter of academics. When differences in opinion led to friendly debate instead of cocked guns and snarled insults. “You give life too much credit,” she responds, misplaced fondness in her voice. “Others influence people, just as others influence beasts. A stray cat may be vicious until someone offers it food and shelter. A girl may be harmless until someone shoots her father.” An angelic smile lifts the corners of her mouth, well-practised and instinctual. In her opinion, life was typically kind apart from the occasional cruel hand of fate or fury of nature. It was the people who populated it who were more often the cruel ones. Thoughtful, she sways to a song he cannot hear before settling Orpheus with a quizzical expression. “Are you man, or are you beast?”

Her lips part to answer him, but it takes a moment for anything to follow. Cicadas chirp and music dances through the nighttime air. “They say you fight and steal as if you fear nothing. That you’re untamed and unapologetic.” She can only hope that this is what he wants to hear. Did all men not want to be reminded of how lethal they could be? How wild they were in their freedom? His laughter shudders through her like thunder, the same sensation of fear-turned-wonder prickling at the back of her neck. “Maybe.” Odessa sounds far away and unconvinced, admiring her gem-shaped handiwork, a single pinprick of sparkling light on the face of death. “But I don’t think it failed, I think that you stopped letting it try. That’s the saddest part. When people give up.” She turns her face towards the moon, admiring the silver light. “Do you want to be kind?”

The hesitation was like music to his ears, kindling that fed the fires of discord that flamed deep in his chest, setting his skin, the tips of his fingers, alight with the twisting desire to push and to keep pushing, to keep his hands wrapped around the base of the tree and keep shaking it, to see what else might tumble from its branches, to see if his grip might be strong enough to uproot it entirely. The darkest Seelie in the court, she christened him, and he found he liked the title, thought it sat upon his shoulders and across his chest like armour plating, glimmering and winking in the black light that shrouded him. “Perhaps,” he mused, casting a devious look back towards the party. “Or perhaps they think unkindly of you,” he countered at length, the broad, dismissive sweep of his hand seeming to encompass all those branded Seelie in one offhand gesture, “unkindly enough to want to set a cat amongst the pigeons.”

Orpheus smiled at that, the expression as pitiless as the cold face of an iceberg before it sinks a ship and drowns its passengers. “A stray cat will sheathe its claws long enough for people to forget its savagery, but as soon as backs are turned lunge for the throat.” He looked her up and down, then, a quick sweep of dark eyes, and found her wanting. He knew what vengeance looked like in the whites of someone’s eyes, knew what it was to lose a father and spill blood for him, and saw too much compassion in Odessa Vernon’s face to believe her capable. With a careful push, perhaps, she could be, but the quiet slip of a girl before him wasn’t quite ready yet. “A girl doesn’t know who someone is.” Man, or beast. Man, or beast. A smile, black as night and twice as deadly. “Why not both?”

The wind snatched up her words and made them air, blew them into the moonlit sky like ash and dust. He could almost taste them in the breeze. “They’re not wrong.” It was half-agreement, half-promise of something more, silent acknowledgment that her assessment of him had merely scratched the surface, perhaps an invitation to pull the curtain even further back. “I’ve never been one for giving up,” he replied, face still made monstrous by the mirth that had gripped him moments before.

Do you want to be kind?

He thought of another world, another time, of a boy born in sunlight and cast in gold, of an angel of kindness and goodness and the wraith that swore to protect him.

Do you want to be kind?

“No.”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

valentina:

            Questions. For every one of them that she threw out, two slung back and pressed against her skin as if the drink that she’d taken begged for her to loosen her tongue and let loose everything that she might have been holding close. Her lips though, they divulged that which her words would not as they curled upwards. Deviously so. Valentina knew what she wanted to see happen tonight, whether she played a part in it or not but there was more at stake tonight than to get her amusement satiated. She had plans, reasons to be where she now stood and in the company that could benefit her in the future or would be a part of her downfall. It was all part of the game, one that moved silently beneath all their feet as she watched them all.

Watching was never as much fun as could be had by taking part, but it had it’s benefits and tonight was no different than the others spent hiding in the shadows or wearing the clothes of strangers that would never know her name. That was when she was in her element, not dressed up like a puppet to be played with by those behind the scenes that thought themselves too high up to be touched by the bloodshed that was sure to be spilled when the truth came out. 

That was what Val was waiting for as her gaze directed back towards her companion rather than on the mischief that could be had tonight. A special night. “You have plenty of options. No reason for there to be a dry throat anywhere in the house and that includes your own,” she drawled out over the rim of her own glass as she lifted it in a small salute before she took a sip with a silent prayer to a misplaced youth that would have known better than to play here. But she was stronger than that kid. Smarter too. Smart enough to keep her wits about her but nothing could be gained if she didn’t take a risk here and there. “Do you always intend to answer my questions with one of your own? One would think you afraid to share your thoughts.”

He was pleased that she was smiling, pleased that she seemed to take at least as much delight from the impending chaos as he did, that he hadn’t been graced with the misfortune of talking to one of the sanctimonious fools that circled the room, flitting about like moths seeking a flame, begging to have the dust knocked off their wings, to be trampled underfoot. And whilst Orpheus was all too happy to do his duty where the dispelling of halos was concerned, to tip saints from their pedestals and crush their dreams between the palms of his hands, but he was enjoying himself a little too much to bother with that, blood still singing from the drug that pulsed within it.

Thoughtfully, he swirled his drink, watching the way the amber clung to the sides of the glass like a skin, and grinned, the expression slicing across his face like the sweep of a sword. “My throat is far from dry,” he retorted languidly, taking a sip to prove his point. “But your concern is is appreciated, thank you.”

A chuckle twisted forth from his lips, curling like a poison vine. “Afraid? Not at all.” An understatement, if such a thing were possible, but he wasn’t feeling poetic enough to try and contemplate an even more absolute refusal. It was laughable, almost, certainly, the idea of him fearing anything was risible at best, at worst close to blasphemy. Or maybe not blasphemy, but quite the opposite, whatever word it was that sinners used to describe profaning against the devil. He turned to face her, then, fully, not just his face but his shoulders as well, becoming somehow more present, filling the space he occupied to brimming. “What thoughts are you missing out on, hm? What is it that you want to know?”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

halcyon:

Sometimes, Halcyon swore she could taste his hatred. Like cinnamon on her tongue, it was unmistakable. If she was kinder, she’d think to reassure him, comfort him, take a vow of silence. If she was dumber, she’d think that would change anything between them. If he only looked ahead and not behind, he would see that her intentions lacked malice; Halcyon made no threats, refused to play the role of a puppet-master.

But he saw only the past when he looked at her. He was chained, both by Cosimo and by his own skeletons.

A pity — they both knew Orpheus could do much more.  

“You’ve never tasted it on the tip of her tongue, her lips?” Halcyon resisted the urge to roll her eyes; to evade a question so very basic was wasted effort. As if she had anything to gain by knowing Orpheus had a sneak peek at Theodora’s masterpiece.

She did allow herself a smile, almost sweet. “It wasn’t a compliment for you — unless you’re in the business of speaking on behalf of Theodora.”

Briefly, he allowed her words to carry him far away from the party, to a bright place filled with smoking test-tubes and gentle flames, a place of creation and innovation, of sneaking past watchful eyes and stealing samples and careless laughter and lustrous powder spilling everywhere to catch the sunlight.

“What a vivid imagination you have,” was his response, and Orpheus let out a slow laugh, mollified by the recollection that had suddenly been conjured up. “It tastes much better when you share,” he offered at last, forest-coloured eyes flicking towards the endless sea of couples locked in endless embraces around them, almost as if their shared ecstasy would prove his point.

“Speak on their behalf?” Another laugh, this one less kind, and he shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” They’d have his head before he could finish getting the words out, he knew, but it didn’t stop him from trying it every so often all the same, just for a little fun. “But I’ll be sure to tell them you had such kind words to say,” he added, smiling back at Halcyon, mirroring and warping her expression into something altogether darker.

[orpheusahulani-blog]

mikael:

The world remained white when he closed his eyes. As Orpheus spoke, Mikael plucked a cigarette from a box in his pocket and sent the end alight. He had hoped to tether himself back to reality, but when he placed the Malboro between his teeth and inhaled, the fae blood’s airy bliss swallowed whatever calm the nicotine intended to bring. Before his eyes, the orange tail end of the cigarette danced too, the once-dim ember swelling into a brilliant star. Mikael exhaled. When the smoke left him, his body left with it, mouth cracking into a smile, soul becoming laughter.

Voice flat, he said, “I actually can’t imagine you with a child”. A lie — the silhouette of this hypothetical future seemed shaped a little like the hazy past. A memory threatened to resurface: Measure for Measure half his lifetime ago when triumph meant little and pitying looks came often and he stepped into the ring looking forward, not to the prospect of victory, but to having an explanation for bruises that already existed. He inhaled the nicotine once more, closing his eyes to stop the memory from coming back fully fleshed. A breath. A blank gaze fell on the scattered, silvery luminescence of dissipating smoke, then Orpheus. “You love cruelty too much.”

The small glimpse of a discarded memory should have nullified the dissonant joy. But the bliss made a home out of him, an unwanted eruption of daybreak on an empty sky. The rational part of him that still had the capacity for fear had been terrified, because instead of emotion aligning with thought, thought instead aligned with emotion. He thought of a universe where he hit his father back. He was happy. He thought of driving a knife down his mother’s throat. He was happy. He thought of Lucrezia in all her incendiary radiance, setting ablaze every man that dared to want her. Mikael closed his fist around the cigarette with the end still aflame, embracing the familiar sensation of its dim light searing into his skin. He wanted it to hurt, but it didn’t. He was happy. 

Mikael unfolded his fist, dusting the cigarette ash off his palm. A vulgar shade of red marked the space on his skin that the embers had kissed. Angels fall. “Oh, I know,” he said, and he looked at Lucrezia. The vision trick fractured, her body’s light shattering into radiant fragments. Shining little stars. “They’re not real, anyway.”

There was something calming about the smell of cigarettes. Not that he was anything other than calm, mind cold and still as the surface of a frozen lake, utterly indifferent to the conversation at hand. But the acrid cloud of white smoke that curled his way was welcome, a welcome antidote to the grim reality that for the moment there was no more interesting company to be found than a well of misery and poorly-veiled self-loathing. Or maybe it wasn’t the smell, exactly. Maybe there was something about the packages they came in, something in the letters shouting out their dangers that appealed to the fatalist in him, something in reading il fumo uccide and smoking anyway that set the demons dancing in his heart, screaming defiance into the wind and daring fate to do her worst.

Never one to let others indulge alone, Orpheus removed the cigarette he’d tucked behind his ear before the party and lit it with a match out of the box in his pocket. A deep drag, and a surge of iridescent light, as he let nicotine wash together with alcohol and Theodora’s hallowed poison, shading the party a single dappled stain of colour, hues running like watercolour in perfect time to the music that vibrated through the soles of his feet. Somewhere, he heard Mikael speak again, and blinked twice to clear the pigmentation from his vision.

You love cruelty too much.

The corners of his mouth twitched up almost in reverence, mask glowing red-hot with the reflection of the cigarette embers. “What’s not to love?”

He could have been soft, had he wished to, could have bought into his own mythos and taken to the role of Robin Hood, of hero, could have become the gilded knight the paupers of Verona saw in him, worn the halo they sought to crown him with. But he’d sought the darkness ever since he was a boy, had always preferred to dance in the flames of hell rather than in beams of sunlight, had always known the shadows to be his true home, known that the feeling of bone breaking beneath his fists and the scent of blood in the air were simply what felt right. In so many cases monsters were born, or made. He was both, born a demon but become Satan, Lucifer, Abaddon, become all the evils that had ever roamed the earth.

He saw the welt on Mikael’s palm, angry and warped and searing, and said nothing, content and perhaps morbidly curious to watch the other man pick himself apart piece-by-piece. They’re not real. “Aren’t they?” Another puff of smoke. “I thought you had one living in your house. How quickly fantasises fall apart.”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

spoutziki-art:

Sir Joseph Noel Paton - The Quarrel of Oberon and Titania, 1849

[orpheusahulani-blog]

I am aflame. Around me, everything dies.

Camille Rankine, from “Self-Portrait as Allegory,” published in jubilat (via antagxnized)

[orpheusahulani-blog]

♥ ؟ ≠

Send me a ♥ for one thing my muse likes about yours.

He has to laugh at that, he can’t help it, chest reverberating with the echoes of some secret joke, a hollow, darkened humour that no one else is privy to, and doesn’t deign to explain his mirth, taking in a breath to let the amusement settle, and shaking his head almost ruefully. “Her, ah, her tenacity.”

Send me a ؟ for a random thought my muse has about yours.

I could do it… It wouldn’t be hard to make it look like an accident.

Send me a ≠ for something my muse would never say to your muse.

“I wish there was a way to make you forget what you know.”

[orpheusahulani-blog]

♪ ♥ ؟

Send me a ♪ for a song that reminds me of our muses and my favourite lyrics from it.

Follow me into the darknessAnd sink your fears into the nightI woke on the floor next to an empty bedIn my dreams, there were monsters and what they said wasFollow me down into a dark placeThey’ll come back and see me when I fall asleep.

“ Follow Me Into the Darkness ”     – Fightstar

[ alternatively; ]

I could corrupt youIt would be easyWatching you sufferGirl, it would please meBut I wouldn’t touch youWith my little fingerI know it would crush youMy memory would linger

“ Corrupt ”   – Depeche Mode

Send me a ♥ for one thing my muse likes about yours.

The thought of the girl brings a smile to his lips, not altogether predatory but not at all kind, either. “She can look me in the eye.” It wasn’t that she wasn’t afraid, because he knows that isn’t really possible, but she hid it better than most, and he likes that, likes that she’s afraid but still pulls up the curtain of shadow that hangs across his features and looks at him, stares into the Devil’s face and almost manages not to blink.

“She’s braver than most. Stupider, perhaps, too. But I like that.”

Send me a ؟ for a random thought my muse has about yours.

If I break her, really break her, she might just turn around and thank me for it.

[orpheusahulani-blog]

≠

Send me a ≠ for something my muse would never say to your muse.

“You don’t deserve each other.” It’s not that he wouldn’t say, that’s fair game, and he’s certainly not one for pulling punches, enjoys twisting knives and scratching at wounds that hadn’t had time to heal over yet. He’s all too fond of drawing Mikael’s attention to the fact that they are not meant to be, him and his wife, that she is a raging bonfire compared to his weak little matchstick-flame, that she will devour him and spit out his bones without a shred of remorse.

It’s not that he wouldn’t say.

But–

( “You should get out, while you still can. Before it’s too late for both of you.”

       But–

            “Some things aren’t worth losing your heart over.“ )