#❄️ (borealis of eden. hollow)

[memory-of-deross]

[memory-of-deross]

Can Hollow or any of the orphys cook?

✦ Under the cut due to length!

The land of Paradise was nothing short of a blessing, and the folk who would walk amongst the unburdened soils with grace in their steps felt it thrum deep under their mortal flesh and within the flowing bloods; for the Divine had hand in every way of their lives, the shed sanctified pieces of themselves laying in the heart of everyone. Before the world was unleashed upon with the ill and of curses from the scorned testing hands, only gifts laid before humanity within Paradise— a gift of life. And to the blessed, their gratitude was worn in their breaths alone, not a hint of that ugly pestilence known as greed lingering in the air.

In a place so holy, it was only natural that customs developed from the more collectively innovative and faithful minds, planted seeds of concept that sprouted so as long as their care would linger. It was always a breathtaking sight when they did so— even from a young age and nothing more than a naive boy who would lay by the shores or reach for the thriving vines, Orpheus found himself musing about such more than he would concern himself with the faults of such life. Anything more than Paradise remained myth to his ears when his thoughts blurred with the crashing tides of fantasy but that was only because, he’d justify, there was nothing more and nothing greater. The thought brought bouts of laughter from anyone within Paradise you would ask such; it was easily perceivable as malice by many in nature, mocking a question that’s answer was so obvious, but to someone like him— it only carried such joy that it made him smile, because It was all he knew. As he’d grown, little changed.

(Maybe cruelty always was quite in his nature, ignoring plight in favor of a lightened soul. Maybe she thought so?)

Joy. There was a particular tradition that island held that bore much of it, it was one of Orpheus’s favorites. The daylight was spent running through the forests, ducking under the bark and rummaging through the woven leaves of the bushes to carefully pick and collect ingredients, dedicatedly scattered all around the island before it was spent walking back with idle chatter, baskets full and ready to be prepared into meals. A young child stumbled after her father often back to their home, clinging onto his arm and a look of wonder that made the man hum and brush his hand along her hair in reminiscence of the past, he was no different when he was her age, after all, and not much more so when she would help him with the dishes of the night, the warmth of the food paling in comparison to their own happiness in those moments. Brief, but who was Orpheus if not desperate to hold onto mere sentiments, the experience of her smile?

(It was not quite memory then.)

Their warmth would come to join the masses eventually. As the moon rested high in the sky, the trace of the Gods’ eyes peering down with a curiosity that made them feel so strangely human in that time, Orpheus would often be the one to hold the bulk of their meals in his arms as they strode off to the center, their eyes and many else’s were greeted with glory in its truest form of friends and family gathered around long tables clothed with woven coverings, the only illumination aside from the bright moon being the candles spanning across the gathering as with foods of their own that the rest of the islanders had brought, dishes ranging from small to big. With his free hand, he lead his daughter to their own chairs and sat patiently for the event to begin, exchanging anecdotes and tales with the vibrant company of the rest, the buzzing cicadas drowned out by the shared laughter or conversations.

The banquet of Creation, celebrating the gifts of the gods through the meals that they would make with their own hands, morphed and sculpted from holiness, as their hunger remains sated; ensuring eons more of their thriving. It was something Orpheus couldn’t help but delight in from the concept of it all, but there was nothing more than he’d revel in than the simple excitement of his daughter— if he was truthful, the stars that gathered as the nights faithful companions, it was dim when he would shift his gaze over after talking to whomever was close to him and be fortunate enough to bare witness to the look of his daughter. Innocent and gleeful and bright, it was surely enough to make even the coldest of gods crumple before her.

He would make it known. Once upon a time, a father leaned in close, and whispered something to his daughter.

“My daughter, do you want to know a secret?”

“Huh? A secret, Father?”

“Yes, yes, but you mustn’t say it out loud… the gods, they are generous to us, no?”

“Mhm.. I do!”

“We gather here under the moon and they bring about us blessing and salvation once more, with the food we make, they are appeased, but.. I think, honestly? It is all because of you, my Butterfly. Your wings flutter with nothing but hope, and against the night sky, when I behold you, I only see your glow leading me once more amongst the darkness. Do not ever forget this, okay? Promise me.”

Orpheus had many last words in the end. It was a shame that this was not one of them.

Many things from the remains and ashes of Paradise was hardly salvageable, being able to reborn anew even when flames consumed it all so, but what was the right of a God, if not to instead take? Ice had come to claim the charred lands as its own domain, seeping into the barren grounds littered with rubble and into the skeletons that lay, their fate nothing but their own fault for holding a torch they never knew how to bear. They didn’t know more, none of them did, than a fragile life built upon a church of wood, and that was precisely why they were so… foolish, especially that man.

From the frozen over corpse of Orpheus, Hollow reaped the parts of humanity that only mortal could bear, their hubris and ignorant joy in all of its glory; the memory of it, better days. Whilst one could not nurse plants long withered and dead back to life, they could only make start anew with what is left— the last remainders of Paradise would live on so as long as his revered words would be spoken. The seeds of tradition would be furthered until the grounds had roots and growth would be present once more. And as tradition of the dinners was, a God was to not partake in such activities themselves; their body the light casted amongst the mortals, never to be touched or grasped in their hands fully. Often, his own seat remained high, further from the rest of his followers as a window reflecting the moons own light made him don an almost surreal halo of light around his figure. They did not speak to him from where they remained, he hardly saw the need to. Voices only bounced back against frost. With such principles, he was satisfied.

Not always, though.

Before the first one after everything had been held, before he was fed with worship that it was the sole thing that left him whole, he had tried. He had managed to stumble into the kitchens to assist with the dishes, but his hands— his left one was yet to be fully frozen over at the time, but it was nothing less than severe that it only deterred him, and the discontent that grew the boreal in the room did nothing to help. He simply couldn’t, those days and moments of simple cooking gone. His daughter found him at the helpful word of a few passersby, the area left a frozen mess as he laid hopelessly, muttering— why.

Though, it was befitting, he took only what a mortal could have, after all, their desperation to cling onto anything of the past and that false hope. That was why, a God had the answers that mortals would never. Hollow simply had sworn anyone who dare to see such a moment to silence, he would not allow his name to be used in anything but prayers for the bettering of the future of all and especially more so not tedious slander.

Orpheus was a dead man and he was damned, if what lead to the destruction of Paradise was not enough to deem it so, Hollow would make sure of it, that he be cast far into an abyss as he stole away his light.

Hollow paused as his gaze bore into the dark hue of the wine he’d taken with him with the rest of his food. The hall remained quiet with nothing more than his thoughts echoing for himself only, it’d yet to start at all, remaining a pause until his word was given. But it couldn’t, not without…

“Where is my daughter? Bring her to me. Do you believe I would dare start without her?” The God narrowed his eyes at the poor soul who had lingered by, a slight huff was enough to send them running off to find his daughter, who should’ve present here half an hour ago. For anyone else, he would not hesitate to be less forgiving, for everything he’s done, this was the minimum, but it was his daughter at the end of it all— if he was the moon now, she would be the stars by that accompanied him. It was only right. It was only fair.

Fortunately, it hardly took long, a young girl donning an outfit reminiscent of a lamb’s entered the halls, and for a few minutes, her head remained ducked as the clicking of her shoes was the only thing that staged off utter silence otherwise, the eyes of his follower trailing after. From the more higher ranked few, a woman dressed in dark had a look of pity— but there was none else she could do, as Source of Evil stumbled onto the steps that lead to where Hollow sat, the man in question looking more than pleased with himself. “Greetings,” he hummed as she sat by him, slumped forward with the misfortune of it all; it made his face drop and the God furrowed his brows, before he shook his head.

There could be no further delay. He could ease whatever her troubles later.

That man from then was not so wrong in one thing, the Butterfly appeasing the Gods and bringing the blessings themselves. For as long as she remained, even in a cage of ice, the promise of Paradise looked so bright as creation was present once more.

Raising the wine glass high, Hollow spoke at last with nothing of wavering tone:

“Let the banquet begin!”

[memory-of-deross]

What if Hollow and Screenwriter have to share a room?

The room in question was freezing.

Screenwriter was left writhing where he sat, holding his arms close in some attempt to keep the warmth that was already fleeting with the others prominent presence. Both his mind and his body was far too accustomed to how the Metropolis would portray the cold, and even more so, the principle of Winter itself; snow littered the ground artificially as to not disturb the mechanical and bright nature of the city and the weather was unnatural, always decisive on the Aurora’s every word. Seasons simply did not come on their own within the capital, it sheltered the citizens further into a bubble that one couldn’t quite break. He knew what it was like to be cold, to some extent, but it was overwhelming now— feeling his right metallic hand clench up as the frost seeped into the nooks and crannies of it that helped it able to function, making the man hiss as he tried to shift it a bit more forcefully to no avail.

“Can’t you just end this already..” He muttered bitterly, looking over at his unfortunate companion of the day, who returned the resentment in his own gaze with something much more sharp, akin to an icicle that was pushing further and further into one’s skin; it only made Screenwriter run his left hand through his messy hair with irritation. There was far more important things to do, than entertain whatever childish grudge that Hollow held for him. He was not the person to do so nor would he ever be. Alas, the sentiment was lost on the other, as with any hope of his hand leaving the room without breaking apart as the harsh boreal only heightened with the others discontent. Great— Screenwriter’s eye twitched as the “God” sneered.

“You dare to disgrace the divine with such ill words? As long as you are mortal, if my wish is to damn you with frost, so be it.” The corner of Hollow’s mouth twitched into a smirk, nothing short of beaming with pride and if this was merely a hint of what others would put up with, Screenwriter would rather himself be tossed away into a junkyard and crushed than deal with this— or anything, for much else longer, it was like nails dragged along chalkboard, there was too many things to do and when time was so precious, spending it on someone like him would only be unwillingly.

He needed a nap. Desperately. Or his daughter, Dorothy— one of the two.

Screenwriter sucked in a breath as he shut his eyes, in some scarce hopes of tuning out the grating sounds of Hollow and to maybe get some semblance of rest, but it was disrupted as soon as the thought arrived, stomping footsteps from the others and something so cold that it made him wince seizing the collar of his shirt and jerked forward much to his dismay, coming face to face with the frosted over face of the damned annoyance.

“I’ll grace you with the truth, you—“

By no means had Screenwriter been a violent man. If anything, he found himself keeping his head low and biting his tongue if he could help it from doing something he would regret— living in the Metropolis taught him that you walked on glass that was bound to shatter as with your body if you were deemed troublesome, and aside from that, keeping something of a job was necessary for him and his daughter.

Of course, at the end of the day, he was nothing short of someone who let desperation and frustration get in the way of ration. And dealing with someone strutting around, calling themselves a God and even worse bothering him about it when he very much only wished to just rest…

Without thinking about it much, he raised his right hand, partly frozen at this point and swung right at the other’s face. A loud crack could be heard before his body suddenly leapt to lunge too and hands grabbing onto the others neck and squeezing.

“Why.. don’t. you. SHUT it?!”

… The crashing of furniture, punches thrown, and yells could be heard for a while afterwards. Oh dear.

Much later on, a young girl donning a light blue outfit skipped into the room, holding two coffee mugs in her hands, only to find the sight of a defeated, crumpled Hollow who was wilting with the pain, as her father was slumped against the wall, unlike the other who didn’t seem to have the energy to even move his hand after the fight, merely sleeping. The ice on his metallic hand was thawing quickly so.

“F.. Father—?” Dorothy called out and blinked, only to jump back as one of the mugs came falling onto the wounded Hollow, the heat of the coffee falling onto the ice creating steam as his pure white outfit was cast with the dark shade of the coffee.

A howl of pain echoed the room.

[memory-of-deross]

how would your muse draw themselves??? :33

Truth be told, when it comes to that of the DeRosses and their evermore Novelist; never has Orpheus been much of a visual artist within his lifetime, more confident in the pen than he is a brush and curving lines into letters than sketches. Though, that’s not to say they’ve not tried or lack interest at all.

Homesick’s art style is often simplistic in nature, the lines carefree and breezing about; its more cartoonish than making much attempt at realism, with the head and hands more emphasized and the face always lacking much detail than little marks of expression, as well as gentle coloring with crayons— something that his daughter had gifted him before he’d went out on sea, exchanging little drawings throughout the countless letters that were bound, and occasionally, he uses it to color in his experiences for Aging to behold, having once found himself idly scribbling by the upper part of the boat as the sun rose (even long after, his own sunshine still asks him to carry her up onto his shoulders, as they tried to look through the early mornings for that sight together). Generally, his art is often something to be paired with or reminiscent to that of a children’s own style, something stemming from how often that when he’d draw, it’d be with none other than one.

Hollow doesn’t draw much, if at all, nowadays. When he attempts to, his lines come out more jagged, sharpened around random edges, or scrambling off from the initial sketch entirely— disordered and chaotic, only vaguely depicting anything, all a result of how unsteady his hands have become, likely from the ice that’s overtaken his form, the hand within the ice shifting little so, as well as an overwhelming intensity in how he carries himself and how he is, the lines darkened with the force that he draws with, near tearing the page. The activity doesn’t particularly please him to begin with, and although there’d been many instances where he’d cause bias for actions of his that were hardly more special than any other persons within the ruined islands, this lacks to be one, making others do it for him.

Immortalpheus depicts himself in an almost… unsettling realism compared to the rest, who’d not often focus on such matters. The shading and proportions are often just right; it’s as if he understands himself more than the others do, in a sense.

[memory-of-deross]

Who would win a battle royal?

I’m sobbing anon. guys guys PLEASE. /j /lh I’m just trying to enjoy a day out and get hit with this 😭 I’m getting flashbacks to a certain something

but uh. unfortunately I don’t play Fortnite nor know enough about it to actually answer this, so I grabbed my lovely sister to answer for me instead 🫶 thank you tae!

[memory-of-deross]

who would win the father of the year award?

GOOD. good question anon. well uh, in terms of treating their children the best (and being a bit too willing to suffer for them that their respective event arguably happens because of it), maybe orfeo honestly? 😭 he is probably the best father out of the current orphies technically - and while hollows daughter, SoE, does live in his lore, that man is far from applicable in this case for. many reasons. he treats said daughter horribly and everyone around him in general as such 😦

[memory-of-deross]

He struts in with his notebook in hand, rewriting our histories with his pen!

dividers by @/cafekitsune.

General.

✦ This is an askblog focusing on musing the Novelist’s various costumes, often all taking place in their own separate verses, however certain ones may (heavily) reference my own AU found at @immortalpheus due to being connected to it. Canon (ToR and or AoM) is yet to be included in such cast at the moment, however it may be added as a portrayal later on. Because of this though, the blog will be heavily headcanon based and may not include aspects or change things around depending how I may want to write them.

✦ It will be more text reply oriented, though doodles may be added for fun here and there.

✦ Activity will very much be on and off due to the Mun’s life. (Sam/Victor, they/them pronouns)

✦ Characters (crossover, OC, etc) are free to interact! General questions will just be answered in the “main verse” unless specified otherwise.

✦ Sensitive topics or themes such as cults, death, murder, manipulation, sacrificing, suicide, and more may be present with certain portrayals or answers in the blog. Should these topic arise graphically, there will be a warning ahead of time. However, under no circumstances will sexual NSFW be present in the blog - flirting or suggestiveness (if not taken too far) is fine, but otherwise, ehh… this isn’t the place.

✦ Racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, etc is not welcome in this blog and especially its asks. Generally, while I will try to entertain asks the best I can, that will only be within reason and anything containing these or otherwise things that I just might not feel comfortable answering will be deleted and or ignored.

✦ Alice DeRoss will be portrayed as Orpheus’s sister in this blog as well as the Little Girl in most costumes as his daughter! Please refrain from sending any asks referring to any ships regarding these two.

✦ Muses that may require further context that doesn’t have any in-game or other information (such as fan-made costumes) will have their respective posts as basics.

Muses.

When sending an ask, please send their accompanying emoji or specify who is being referred to due to how many muses are present on the blog. Asks that remain untapped or unspecified will have a random Orpheus answer. Besides them on this list, their main tags can be found for ease.

❄️ Hollow. ~ ❄️ (borealis of eden. hollow)

♠️ Highroller. ~ ♠️ (the rigged cards of life. highroller)

♾️ The Immortal (may be referred to Immortalpheus or Immorphy; can be found at the corresponding blog as well). ~ ♾️ (venomous cycles of ouroboros. immortalpheus)

📽️ Screenwriter. ~ 📽️ (starlit script gleaming. screenwriter)

🔎 Scholastic. ~ 🔎 (tended pyres of knowledge. scholastic)

🗝️ Homesick. ~ 🗝️ (sea bound folds of the heart. homesick)

🎭 Orfeo (can be portrayed either during the events of Orfeo’s Game or the “aftermath”, in which he has woken up). ~ 🎭 (tragedys gaze. orfeo)

🪶 Omen (fan-made Season 17 Essence 3 / Man in Red based costume). ~ 🪶 (forewarned feathers and quill. omen)

🩸 Evil Thoughts. ~ 🩸 (blood of the naive. evil thoughts)

Tba — may be added in the future, currently unavailable.

🪽Prophet (Fantasy Series & Halloween lore based).

🧧Folk Writer.

🪞 Duke Raven.

🖋️ ToR/AoM or base Orpheus.

✦ Thank you for reading! Enjoy the lives that unfold, another chapter written!