rootforevil

[rootforevil]

TW. LAPU LAPU FESTIVAL, DEATH

So my parents and I are home bodies and didn't end up going to the Lapu Lapu Festival (we're of Filipino descent), but we know people who have gone and were able to leave minutes before the attack and others who knew of the victims. My boyfriend's brother was the radiologist on call at the hospital the night of the incident and was the one reading all the CT scans and the owner of the business I work for was friends with one of the victims who's girlfriend did not make it. I'm just so angry at what has happened, and I'm sorry if I don't respond right away to messages or am just not around in general. My feelings aren't against anyone here, and I was just so excited to start writing again before things happened. It's been rough out here, but I'm ok. Please make sure to reach out to anyone you know from Vancouver who went to the festival or are Filipino and make sure if they're OK.

[rootforevil]

ok but do i make a mud though because gotdamn gaslight district y'all

[rootforevil]

So that announcement huh.

[rootforevil]

Every time I check up on y'all something has happened. Are you guys ok 😭💔??

[rootforevil]

I haven't been here for a while because you're all gremlins. I'm reporting your blogs to management.

[rootforevil]

DUA LIPA performing at the Radical Optimism Tour in Melbourne (March 17, 2025)

[rootforevil]

( 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. ) + . * and she knows this because she too had felt grief, and worn it well through the collapse of many empires under an abundance of guises. and unexpectedly, as familiar she is with grief she hadn't felt it when the news of Abel slain by Cain upon the slab reached her. nor did she stir at the disappearance of Seth when she awoke one sunrise and found him gone. she simply went on about her day, indifferent to the world as she rallied the cattle that morning as if never having sons at all. 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙳𝙰𝙼'𝚂 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷, 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙴𝙻𝚃 𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙽𝙾 𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁. on her knees she begged for entry to paradise once more, reminding the messengers of his holiness granting forgiveness.

➤ " 𝑰 𝑪𝑨𝑵 𝑩𝑬 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫. " ➤ " 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻'𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯. "

the anguish that had consumed her then was not of sadness towards a love lost, but an ire that would root itself into the soil and fester among the damned. no, perhaps she would never be good. wit is what she excelled at — she made sure to hide the very catalyst of her subsequent transformation between the fur and leathers of her garb as she and Adam were cast out of Eden. she made sure to bury her sin beneath the very slab that Abel would die upon. and she made sure that in her time of need the 𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑩𝑰𝑫𝑫𝑬𝑵 𝑭𝑹𝑼𝑰𝑻 , the apple of her eye would be as fresh as it had once was for the taking when she had plucked it from the tree.

through the storm that ravaged the land that night, she dug until her fingers bled, through dirt and rubble before a red glow greeted and beckoned her to take the final bite and swallow the seed onwards to destiny.

different is what she was. different from Lilith, from Adam, and her children that came after. perhaps her indifference is what saved her from the wealth she had gained after she took the final bite of the apple. instead of dark roots coiling and crushing her beating heart she felt strong and very aware of her purpose. she had an itch to grasp the secrets of the world around her so, the once Eve of the Garden of Eden took nothing else but her body and walked towards the midnight horizon as a woman reborn.

she walked along kings, queens and man. taking on many faces and vanishing just as quickly as she had arrived. from a thoughtful advisor to a resourceful spy, or just a plain scribe within the population. she was there before Moses, and long after his last breath. she was there as Judah fell to Babylon, and there, at the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. to say she knew the Bible well would be an understatement.

but eventually she settles, rooting herself to a quiet library outside the infernal plains. a quiet place to gather her thoughts, until a young man walks into her quiet abode and reeks of misery. something primal stirs within as she practically snaps her head in the other's direction as he passes the main desk. the stench is unmistakable, even more so when the man offers her his first book on death. she doesn't say anything, stamping the book for take out and letting the man walk.

at first, she decides not to think about the prospect of another encounter other than a return of the book, as she's met plenty of individuals interested in the afterlife and the occult. he could just be drowning himself with a bottle of whiskey and a nice little book to pair with depression. however, as the days pass and the frequent visits become more prominent in her schedule, her eyes begin to catch his. she's not a shy being and when she's approached one day and asked a dangerous question, Roo has to stop herself from allowing a smirk to form on her lips. but she'll play nice; this one seems like a nice boy and she isn't so callous...once in a while.

" 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙼𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃 𝙾𝙵 ( 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ) 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆𝙴𝙳 𝙸'𝙳 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈 𝙾𝙵 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽. 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 [ 𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙻𝙴 ] 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳, 𝙸'𝙳 𝙷𝙸𝙶𝙷𝙻𝚈 𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙸𝚂𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝙸𝚃. " she nods, reaching for the stack of paperback and hardcover books on her desk and walking away in the direction of the bookshelves.

i.

it is winter in the bayou ;   the never-ending gray of the clouds make the sky appear full of smog, the air chilled enough to slit razors over the exposed skin of alastor’s face. the grief had never been louder.

how many nights had he spent praying to a deafened sky ?  he had not found it in himself to believe in god in over a decade, but he would have torn through the church doors every sunday if it meant having the chance to hear her voice again. did angels exist? did heaven, did ghosts?     /      instead, he babtizes the lining of his esophagus in cheap whiskey  (  he can’t bring himself to drink the scottish whiskey sitting on his kitchen counter. he imagined her pouring a glass for the both of them, a cheers to his twenty-second birthday.  )  and he sits in a scorching hot bath every night, nails digging into his scalp, clumps of heat - damaged, ebony curls falling between his fingers. as if he could pull the wrongness out of the recesses of his mind with his fingernails.

november had not been kind to him. whatever warmth remained in alastor’s ribs had died alongside his mother. a fire abruptly put out. in memories, he lingers.

(  it snowed so visciously the year before you were born. christmas morning - goodness, i was only a couple weeks until you were due - i looked out the window into the snow. and . . . zanj mwen an  -  it felt like i was sitting beside you. even if i did not know who you would become quite yet.  )

ii.

adeline delinois had been sick for two months. summer caved into autumn ; late august into october, the color of the sky and the earth fading. as if she herself had been the reason behind every flower blooming, every effervescent sunrise, every sunray. the world drained away alongside her. 

come november, she was gone. the fever overtaking the frame of her body  ;  he spent restless nights imagining her eyes drifting closed, the trembling of her hands finally ceasing, until he’s dry-heaving over the kitchen sink, as if trying to spit up the very image of it.

he hadn’t been by her side.  and how cruel it was to know that !  he’d spent the last of his savings on a home nurse to keep her safe while he worked, and it was her who had made the call to tell him. barely one in the morning, when the last of the color had bled from the earth. she fell asleep. she didn’t wake up. her fingers are cold.

when he wailed, the noise coming from his lips did not sound human. it sounded primal, desperate, agonized. perhaps if he screamed at the top of his lungs into the empty night air, it would be enough for her to hear him on her way to heaven, enough to get her to turn back around. 

his body was full of smoke. black and thick and unforgving, sticking lanky fingers down his throat, into his lungs. every sensation ; numbed and cold. he sank to the floor and remained there long until the sun returned to its place in the sky. ( and how dare it try to do so, how dare it rise when she cannot. how dare the morning begin and bleed into the afternoon. how dare music play when she cannot hear it. he will remain on the kitchen floor for centuries, body aligned with the tile flooring, until future historians discover his bones laying still in the remants of his former home. )

the radio host does not broadcast a thing for months. the bayou home he grew up in becomes a relic. come december, when the bitterness of christmas in solitude passes, he forces himself to visit the place. photographs of his younger self remain mounted on the walls, untouched by time, laden with dust. cups still sat on the kitchen counter, unused for months. he stared into the cathedral radio in front of the fireplace, painted with dust, imagining it lit up with duke ellington.   ( he had stumbled into the front yard and vomited. the sun will never rise again. )

iii.

he finds some sort of solace in the library. 

the library on the outskirts of belle chasse isn’t half as populated as the ones in the heart of new orleans, but alastor didn’t care. if anything, it was the reason he kept returning. silent rooms and unfamiliar book layouts, nothing like the library he had frequented as a boy in covington. he spends february searching through religious texts, frantically searching through passages regarding death. communications with angels. he becomes obsessed with death. 

there’s one librarian he sees every morning he’s there. a younger woman ; hooded, dark eyes &. loose, umber waves pinned away from her face. (  was he paranoid, or could he taste the discomfort of her gaze drilling into him every time he walked in, looking exhausted and shadowed and haggard, only checking out books regarding seances and sacrifices?  )  alastor finds himself only able to stare from afar.  (  you’re a radio host. charisma is a language you’ve long been fluent in. put that serpent tongue to good use.  )

the smile he gives @rootforevil doesn’t quite reach his eyes  (  he hasn’t been able to force it to do so since the summer  ), but he smiles nonetheless, a tapestry of teeth &. lies &. desperation.

(  it is winter in the bayou. he may have another chance to speak to adeline delinois, given the chance.  )

❝       if i happened to be searching for a text with more  . . .    emphasis on the means of communicating with the … deceased   -   ❞    ( even saying the word made his throat close.   )       ❝     where would i find it  ?    ❞

[rootforevil]

Hey y'all, I'm sorry for disappearing again. Been experiencing things relating to a potential need to see a doctor so I haven't been around much other than writing drafts bit by bit. I haven't forgotten any of the mutuals I've plotted with and, outside of work I'm just trying to rest as best I can to see if I'd recover fast. Nothing majorly bad has happened I've just really been tired due to work outside of the health concerns and being on the computer isn't very ideal atm.

[rootforevil]

WHAT LOW ACTIVITY & SLOW REPLY MEANS:

it means i want to be here, i really do 

it means that i have, whether i like it or not, more important things to do than roleplay at the moment

it means that replies are going to sit for a moment

WHAT IT DOESN’T MEAN:

that i care any less

that i don’t want to talk / plot with you

that you aren’t allowed to IM me or ask for my disco

Sometimes Tumblr has to take a back burner, and that’s fine! Roleplay will still be here when we get back. So take that day to yourself. Don’t worry about drafts. Don’t worry about how “slow” you are being. Everything is okay!

[rootforevil]

Hey y'all. I have not forgotten about anyone + my drafts/threads. I've just been busy with making my dad's bday present since he doesn't like celebrating his bday but the man deserves a present so!

[rootforevil]

First Impression: HOLY SHIT THESE GRAPHICS ARE SO COOL???

[rootforevil]

What is your first impression of the mun of this blog?

Feel free to send on or off anon!

[rootforevil]

" @primordialruin, 𝚂𝙾 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝙹𝙾𝙸𝙽 𝚄𝚂. " a curtsey, unknown if regarding a monarch with respect or the mocking the arrival of one such as the long-lost queen. 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐎𝐑, 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫? swirling the crystal glass settled between her fingers. walking in circles around an old friend. " 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚃𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁... 𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝙳𝙴? "

[rootforevil]

GOOD MORNING ~

[rootforevil]

also, before sinday ends who out here is brave enough to actually tap roo?

[rootforevil]

roo / eve is more likely take on the form of a younger woman to lure people in due to looking more approachable and being the fun-loving type. the seven circles is a cesspool of the depraved so she plays to the whims of the population, especially as someone who is only known by word of mouth until much later in the more recent decades

[rootforevil]

Am I falling in love with the one that could break my heart?