#Spool of Divination Thread

[cloaksandcapes]

A magic item for use in Dungeons and Dragons 5th edition tabletop role-playing game. This is a homebrew magic item created by Cloaks and Capes.

Spool of Divination Thread

Wondrous Item, rare

“This pearlescent spool of celestial thread shines with a faint multicolored luster. It seems to pull and tug at your attention, as if it is keeping a secret within its spool.”

An endless spool of magical thread that has been imbued with Divination magic. You can take a Magic action to sew a length of this thread into an article of clothing, tapestry or other object with thread-like material. The process of sewing the thread takes 1 minute, and you can only have one object threaded at a time. If you sew the thread into another object, the last sewn thread vanishes.

You can take a Magic action to look through the center of the spool and see through the eyes of whoever is wearing the threaded object, or from the perspective of where the object is, so long as it is on the same plane of existence. During this time, you can only see through the spool, you cannot hear, and your own senses are dulled.

While a mundane object is threaded it is considered magical. If a spell such as Detect Magic is used on a threaded object, it gives off an aura of Divination.

[spinnerofhope]

It is odd. In Tellius, Ena always felt as though she could feel the thrumming of something in the land and the air - something thatshe could find herself to put words to. Something that was absent here. Was that why she was so uneasy then?

Because of a land that may have never known war? Because no blood may have ever been spilt upon these rolling fields? She's not sure, but she decides that she does not like the feeling that ends up settling in her chest.

"... It is far more peaceful than the places I have known throughout my life, yes," She mutters with a sigh, glancing up at the pure blue sky, with nary a cloud in sight, above. Even that feels wrong somehow.

"... I cannot help but to agree. Fodlan makes me uneasy in a different way... but it is far preferable to whatever this is..."

doorway of the divine

[luminecent-sky]

The Aeon of fate — Explained [as much as they can explain at least.]

A/n: I've been cookin up some lore during the Christmas season and boom. Lore drop time! Don't ask why it took so long/j

[Opening research logs....]

[Aeon records:]

[The Aeon of Fate — All recalled information and records available.]

The Aeon of Fate, colloquially known as 'Moirai'.

-- Other titles include:

The Weaver

Destinyseeker

Parcae

Holder of a thousand strings

-- Has no known date of existence, currently theorized to have formed thousands of Amber eras ago, back when the first forms of sentient life began to wander the universe. Many believe that there are/were three different beings sharing the mantle of 'Fate'. None have found proof of this.

-- Though any known past emanators no longer exist, their records show the extensive reach and power of the Aeon. Said to be able to erase any traces of existence, to turn the tide of battle on a whim, to remove and add entire dynasties with a simple thread.

-- The emanators were usually prophets, seers, and divine priests, describing the Aeon as a veiled figure spinning thousands of strings or a being made of strings, constantly weaving together and fraying apart.

-- Those who tread the path of Fate are those who seek to guide others and interpret the world, diligent people who feel a deeper connection to the universe.

-- Previous emanators of the path were highly sought after, commonly abducted and forced to serve kings and act as advisors due to their knowledge.

-- However they began to die out, most simply dropping dead while others managed to write down the last few prophecies and sights they had. The last known emanators of Moirai, were the three sisters, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, Whose only surviving prophecy spoke of how the Aeon has found the final thread of the cosmic tapestry, before all three promptly killed themselves.

Factions:

The Thread Weavers - People who believe that the Aeon left one last unfinished tapestry depicting the fate of the last amber era, they search for any thread that can lead them to the tapestry.

Spools of Fate - The inner circle of the thread weavers and members of this circle were known emanators, the ones who led the pursuit on finding the threads of fate. Was led by the three sisters before their deaths. [All new vassals of the Aeon are considered spools due to their direct contact with them.]

[tohakumaru]

climb the stairs, the nomad is with you.

it is futile. you know this is the end. and it's quite alright, you've always been alright.

the steps are sturdy and forgiving though the hill is steep. it is not so much a struggle, but it drags. this is fine, a funny thing about time is that it passes regardless. whether you want to or not, you arrive at a lonely tree, so tall it almost eclipses the sky.

the tree has no leaves, only dry branches covered in flowers with bright red petals, from which buds of cotton-white silks burst out like stars spilling their guts over the emptiness of space.

...

this shame you live with.

that night she sleeps with her hair caked in mud

a top-shelf doll sits crossed-hand, stuffed with fluff and bone-dry eyes

passing divine judgement, you could swear its lips curl into a knife

...

with soft crackling sounds, the trees rises from sleep. it crouches towards you: branches reach out to envelope you in a wiry embrace, and lift you up. it cradles you like a mother does a child. when your head comes to rest on a barren patch on the trunk, the tree shudders: from a thin crack in the balk a flower grows and blooms. five petals like the rest, but an empty core. you look on with no resistance as a thin stalk climbs your neck, hangs over your face, and creeps into your right eye. it pulls from the socket a silver thread and attaches one end to the centre of the flower, which swirls and spins, pulling the thread from you as it does.

it dawns on you that you are being unravelled, quite literally.

for a very, very long time, you lay there and wait for sleep to come. it seems fitting, the motion of the flower-spool and the unbelievable lightness of coming undone work like a lullaby. ebbs and flows and tells you to go. it is fine, it is quite alright, even if there's nothing waiting, not even judgement. you can leave.

… and yet… you are still awake. how long must this take?

as though in answer, the flower suddenly stops spining, the tree tenses up - there is a snag in the thread. the line tangled in clumps forming a face, vaguely resembles that which was once buried in a shallow grave in your mind. this one won't go.

is this supposed to happen?

you frantically look for the nomad, but it is too far down. the panic sets in, but you don't have limbs to squirm nor mouth to scream. you are terrified. please, i will think of something, there must be a way. i am so sorry. i… i don't know what to do. i am still here. forgive me, i am scared, too. what do we do, darling? talk to me, please. what can i do?

like a bad joke, a crescent tore the night sky apart. you take a moment to make out the wicked smile of the moon - ear to ear as it begins with a theatrical cough:

"here you are!

all out of sorts, i see.

well, i did say it was your loss.

too bad, i don't want it anymore. a shame really,

could have been a nice dream.

do what you wish, bird.

i'm just a moon."

me.

and with that, the moon is gone. for good now, you can tell. then, all is still and quiet as the branches set you down, your eyes fixed on the red petals that slowly wither and fall to the ground. the tree has gone back to sleep.

the nomad stares at you. an unreadable expression spreads across its face as it slowly leans over and pushes its palm straight into your chest. you feel no pain as it opens your ribcage, and sets your lungs aside. soft fingers roaming in search. eventually, they find a tiny pair of wings clinging to your auricle and gently pluck it from your heart. in the light, the nomad…holds…

…

how ironic. we'd spoken about us at the end of the world, and i'm so sorry, darling, but i guess this is the world at the end of us.

cold, and getting harder to breathe.

as my wings flutter in the nomad's palm, i see the sky so wide. it's so cold here. i miss you, miss the aching warmth of your hunger, free falling in your heart.

once upon a time. there was a hole in your chest where i laid dying. lack of faith, the prophet diagnosed with a gesture of grandeur - no cures for it, keep praying. the fool.

there was a tunnel in your mind where your dreams bled and your scouring love leaked into the cold, cold world. help, it hurts like hell, i heard you say. could have done something about it, i didn't. i let you bleed to death, i hung you out to dry.

on top of the root-hill at the bottom of the dreaming tree, a nomad sits with a sand-eaten corpse. in its small, child-like hand, a moth takes one last breath. nothing changes in the world, but something has ended. yet, as all good nomads know, a walk doesn't end until it is home-time. nomads are neither moons nor trees, and despite their wanderings, they care very much about warm beds, good night kisses, and happy endings. the greatest nomad of all time once implied by gestures something along the line of, fuck tragedies, i've had enough, and all the other nomads thought that was a quite good point.

darling?

i love you.

this nomad then carefully tucks the moth into its breastpocket, stands up, gathers all it can of the corpse into a blanket, which is then neatly tied and slung over its back. steadily, it descends the root-hill, passes the groves of living-statues, and continues a brisk pace on its journey. just a bit more now, you'll be home before tomorrow arrives, it hums silently./

[hephaestiions]

author reclist: toomuchplor

a few months ago, when i was coming back to fandom in earnest, i came across this post from @sitp-recs. explorations of faith, divinity and worship are some of the tropes i find most furiously compelling, so i had to jump into o come, all ye faithful as soon as possible. i did, only to fall headfirst in obsessive, wide-eyed, awe-inspired love. @toomuchplor writes a desire that's both slow and heady, relentless and gentle, all-consuming and a rest stop to breathe easy. i couldn't help but read through (most of) their catalogue in a matter of days. this author's thematic range is astonishing, their characterisations lead to delicious stories where two headstrong, wilful and perennially longing men crash, fumble and rush into achingly sweet love and burning lust.

what always spools me in with plor, though, is their use of circumstance, especially in longer fics. every fic has a premise iron-clad in its fascinating, inventive, raw and exciting potential. more often than not, i've found them doing something i haven't encountered before in fandom at all, or reworking a popular trope in ways that make you go, 'oh. oh, i never thought about that happening, how did i never think of that happening?'

i've loved everything i've read from them, but here's a selection of some of my absolute favourites that i'll be going back to, over and over:

i've got a beautiful feeling (everything's going my way) (E, 3.5k)

“I’ve got such a boner,” Harry says, voice scratchy, just slitting his eyes open now, turning his head on his pillow to face Draco. “Oh, lovely, good morning to you, too,” Draco says.

a slice of life like the plush inside of a ripe mango— a love that's mature, constant, beating like a strong heart. the filthy, hilarious, gorgeous portrait of harry and draco's married life— the familiarity of sex, the rush of wanting each other as much as ever.

o come, all ye faithful & all the angels cry amen (E, ~22k total)

In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.

an achingly tender rumination on faith as love, and love as worship. one of the most heartbreaking and realistic depictions of the reckoning it would take for harry potter to accept he has found refuge and rest in draco malfoy's arms. i loved the non-chronological, dual timeline storytelling— that particular form works so well when there's a taut, twinging thread holding both narratives together, and harry and draco's gravitational attraction to each other, fraught in parts and at peace in others was the perfect anchor.

time and too much don't belong together (E, 23k)

A Malfoy family heirloom gets triggered in a raid, binding Draco Malfoy to Ron Weasley; neither of them is too chuffed about this.

a masterclass in revelations. the reader can tell, from the outset, there's more here than meets the eye. the reader can also guess, from the beginning, what the dynamic in the shadows is. tense and breathtaking writing, you know what's coming, but every time you're fed a morsel you cling to it with both hands. one of the most inventive takes i've seen on the lust potion/spell trope in this fandom, and done in a way that makes you want to see it over and over and over again.

polar night/midnight sun (E, 54k)

Harry travels to arctic Norway on the trail of dragon egg poachers, only to find he's been assigned to work alongside the only NorMagPol Auror north of sixty: one Draco Malfoy. It's been ten years since they crossed paths, and Malfoy isn't exactly what Harry expected or remembered. For one thing, he wears a lot more hand-knits? When a sudden winter storm strands the pair, unable to use magic to rescue themselves, they take shelter in a one-room Norwegian hytte.

exquisitely atmospheric. uses extenuating circumstances in some of the most delicious ways. builds character and interpersonal dynamics through those small little elements of storytelling (draco in knitwear! brynjar the dog! the mundane pillowtalk! the quirks of their miscommunication!) that go the longest way in having characters leap off the screen into your personal space. also the sex in this is absolutely mind-blowing, i was hooked on every glorious word.

truth to materials (co-written by lately) (E, 58k)

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

decadent. in premise, in language, in characterisation, just absolutely decadent. this version of harry, bewildered and captivated by draco's out-there artistry is one of the funniest and most endearing i've encountered in fic, ever. his head, so full of determination and good intentions and terribly flawed and completely believable thinking, was such a brilliant place to set this fic. and draco— lord. you know that moment of transition, that click, when a piece of art goes from something untouchable and distant to a soulful thing you keep close because you recognise it as a cultural, emotional response? this fic felt like a literary project trying to capture that click, except it's a shift in perspective about a person. draco— the cool, untouchable, subversive artist who becomes irrevocably, warmly, achingly human.

probationary action (E, 63k)

As part of the terms of the probationary contract, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY shall submit for inspection his WAND on the last day of every month, such inspection to be carried out by a duly registered and fully qualified AUROR in the employ of the MINISTRY OF MAGIC, and such inspection to include a PRIORI INCANTATEM spell to ensure that no PROHIBITED MAGICS as heretofore described have been practised by the aforementioned probationer.

*incoherent screaming*. a fic that starts with a premise so lighthearted and filthy that you think it's going to be a long, kinky fic about two rather hilariously perverted men getting it on, except it also gets into some of the most resonant discussions of post-war revenge tactics and human rights neglect i've ever read. the dynamic between harry and draco is simultaneously so light and so weighted, this is a fic that holds you down and keeps you there till you're done.

in conclusion: an entrancing author, a gift of a writer. i can't wait to see what else they have in store for this fandom.

[twintailedsiren]

Late 16th century portrait of a young lady, North Italian School. She’s in a red costume with her hands resting on a two tailed siren and a basilisk. Portrait in the manner of Agnolo Allori, il Bronzino. 'INFINITA BELLEZZA E POCA FEDE’ is inscribed on the top edge of the painting. Painting location: private sale.

“Infinita bellezza e poca fede” is a line from Italian lyric poet Petrarch, in Il Canzoniere, or the Rime sparse, written in the 1300s. Here’s Sonnet 203, with the line in English:

“Infinite beauty and little faith, do you not see my heart in my eyes?”

Petrarch devoted much of the Rime sparse to describing and praising Laura, his love— but this love is an idealised, abstract love, as she was already married. Here, he compares her voice to a siren’s, in Sonnet 167:

“When Love bends her lovely eyes to the ground and with his own hands gathers together her wandering breath into a sigh and then looses it in a clear, soft, angelic, divine voice, 

I feel my heart sweetly stolen away and my thoughts and desires so change within me that I say: ‘Now comes the final plundering of me, if Heaven reserves me for so virtuous a death.’ 

But the sound that binds my senses with its sweetness, reins in my soul, though ready to depart, with the great desire for the blessedness of listening; 

so I live on, and thus she both threads and unwinds the spool of my appointed life, this only heavenly Siren among us.” 

Petrarch’s sonnet is reminiscent of Plato’s description of the heavenly sirens. “Agnolo Allori, il Bronzino” is Agnolo di Cosimo, also known as Bronzino. He was an Italian Renaissance painter whose work includes a number of portraits.

To me, I think the two tailed siren and basilisk could also represent heraldry, as those mythical animals were used in family coats of arms, particularly from Italy. I’m excited about this painting, for it’s only the second time I’ve seen a two tailed siren in an oil painting.

Thank you to @neritesanteros for bringing this painting to my attention!

If we look at the two tailed siren in detail, we see she has a skirt of some type, long flowing hair, and her two tails could end in fins or perhaps in vegetation. She reminds me a bit of this Roman period mosaic in Turkey.

Sources

The siren sonnet:

Petrarch, poem 167, page 312: Petrarch. Petrarch's Lyric Poems: The Rime Sparse and Other Lyrics. Translated by Robert M. Durling. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976.

Sonnet 203 is on page 348-349.

Photo and some information via Bonham's.

Additional information from Christie's.

[transmechanicus]

Someday i am going to die and my divine essence will be spooled up like thread and used to stitch a tapestry in the home of my god.

[nerdygaymormon]

Artwork was displayed at the Gather Conference. It was in the main hallway so I got to walk by it multiple times. I’m sharing a few of the paintings that most spoke to me

This is titled Grey Space by Naomi Worth. I like that it shows we meet the Divine in the grey where maybe things aren't as clear cut as the black & white, and not as vibrant as the colorful spaces, instead it’s in a muddled space that is quiet and easily overlooked

The Life We’d Miss by Grace Caron is a casket, but we see what would be missed if this person unalived themselves. The colors are those of the rainbow flag, indicating this is a queer person, which is apropos as queer people are at increased risk. Also, looking at what they would miss, it’s a young person. Maybe it resonates with me because I once stopped to write down all I would’ve missed had I not gotten help when I was suicidal.

Belonging by Erin Nimmer. I love that this is clearly an LDS church building and there is a rainbow for the entrance. I guess seeing this makes me feel like there is hope the rainbow could be added to church and become a part of it, rather than be a demographic which are held apart and not fully belong

I don’t know the name of this next painting but the artist is Anna Wright. I spent time admiring the beauty and skill of this painting, but knew there must be a deeper meaning I wasn’t comprehending. The way he’s holding his hand and fingers, the hand holding the big spool of thread, and so on. Fortunately the artist provided an explanation and it added to my appreciation of this piece of art

[astoryfullofwoe]

Calling My Names

heavily inspired by “Saying Your Names” by Richard Siken!! <3

What’s the word for love at first sight when it’s less love and more I’m going to let you do whatever you want to me and I’ll revel in the stumble even if I end up cracking my head open on the concrete? What’s it called when your name told me all I needed to know, letters pulled from a spool tracing back years and ending up here, obnoxious bright red thread embroidered onto my lips? Do you hear me, sweetheart? Do you hear this crisis of my faith? The way it flows off my tongue, the way it gets stuck in my throat. You’re a mouthful and a handful but god I’ve always loved the ones that overflow, the ones whose skin is stitched up in patches because there’s only so much divinity mortal flesh can contain, the ones who spill out of my cupped hands and flood the sink no matter how tightly I squeeze my fingers. God, how I love a girl who can keep my fingers wet. And my mouth full, and yes, you’re a mouthful, sitting heavy on my tongue like a spoonful of baked apple pie, heady and warm. I turn my back on you for a moment and suddenly the world is rose-coloured and peach-flavoured and your name hides in my mouth like a secret. But what’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but a different name in my mouth wouldn’t taste quite as right. A name like a prayer, a name like a curse, a name like a wish, a name like a phobia. A name like alexinomia, the fear of saying names. Isn’t that funny, sweetheart? I think I have it. I’ve been looking for medication but every pill tastes of oh and ah and crunches like consonants in between my teeth. But it’s alright, I like the taste of your name more than any drug I’ve ever tried, or maybe I say that because you’re more addictive than any drug I’ve ever tried. You’ve sunk your fingers into the folds of my brain and I don’t know what to do about it, other than to let you engulf me the way our cathedral of bedsheets and sweat clings to me long after the scent of you has faded, the sunlight streaming through my windows the only reminder of the way your skin feels on mine. You feel like spring and you look like it too and god, it’s ruining my life. My queen of nutmeg and honey, do you want to see how I’ll bloom for you? Tulips, roses, carnations, daisies, lilies, daffodils, sunflowers, peonies, lilacs; I wonder which one is your favourite. I want to know everything about you. I’m bursting with questions for you, like where you came from and who sent you here and how have you managed to consume me so entirely. Why is every song on the radio written about us? Your name surrounds me like the air I gulp down; I breathe it into existence like a daydream I’m afraid to jinx and suddenly everyone’s from that state, that country’s in every news article, and every stranger I speak to grew up in your home province. You’re the words in all my poems; I write down lots of different ones but somehow they all morph into your name. Your name which shuts me up even quicker than your mouth does. And your names that open me up even quicker than your mouth does. Names like the names you call me: darling, honey, baby, darling, dear—did I mention darling? Names that are not mine but ones I borrow for the time being and wrap my cold hands around and hold to my chest, ball of newspaper on fire, flaming words that keep me alive. Don’t call me baby, I’m not your porcelain doll. I’m nobody’s baby but I am your lady, and I guess your baby, too. I don’t let anyone call me baby unless they have your name and your eyes and your teeth. Baby sounds wrong when it's not your voice saying it, when it's not your hands saying it, when it's not your tongue saying it. Do you even know my name, cowgirl? All you ever call me is beautiful. No matter, I’ll answer to any name as long as it’s your voice saying it, reverberating off of each of my rib bones like a xylophone of sighs, disorienting and harmonious, calling me to you.

[seaofwine]

i've been offline - at least off tumblr - for about a month at this point. this has been for many reasons, but there are a couple that i want to talk about. first: i find it incredibly difficult to articulate what my practice is now. while it is still deeply rooted in arkadian reconstructionism, there is so little about tegea that exists in the written record. at this point, i am okay saying that i have shared what i can.

to be honest, the further along in my practice I get, the harder it becomes to put down in words. in short: i feel less confident sharing religious content online. the ways people experience the divine will be as varied as there are worshippers, which is a good thing. religion is meant to be personal to you.

for me, i'm at a stage in life & my religious practice where i see now just how much i don't know. sometimes that is the wisest thing you can say.

Athena is as vast as the cosmos, with so much knowledge i cannot even begin to comprehend. i can tell you about her epithets, i can tell you what they mean to me. she is my goddess (said with the reverence of 'my captain, my captain'), i am devoted to her, i revere her; but she is beyond my understanding. i don't understand divinity, and i would not speak on their behalf.

i have received asks in the past that i struggled to answer; things like, "how do i know Athena is reaching out to me?" or, "what offerings does she like?" I can tell you that, at least during Panathenaea, that a peplos was placed on her altar; a gift from the weavers of the city for her festival. I can tell you the story i was told by a mythographer in Athens, of how glaukopis came to denote the color blue. i can tell you that olives and olive oils are lovely offerings, or that it could be nice to crochet, knit, or weave an altar cloth. all of these things can be sought out and sourced.

i can't source the personal things. i can't tell you to do what i do, because i don't always know why i do it. i know that Athena is there because she meets me where i am. i sew and weave as a devotional act, so when i was having a bad day, i knew she was there when i stepped over a spool of thread on my way home. i love owls and collect them for her, so i knew she was there with me during the most nerve-wracking exam of my life when i looked out the window and was face-to-face with an advertisement for a company whose logo was a giant cartoon owl.

that being said, it makes sense then that i'm also personally uncomfortable with and wary of the influx of people claiming to be priests and priestesses. i won't rehash it because @loemius made a great post (literally the one underneath this one) addressing the fact that titles hold weight.

e-temples are a great way to connect with people & to express your worship in a subtle way, especially if you cannot openly worship at home. i think they are wonderful. however, any community with implied or enforced hierarchies centered around religious expression are things to be cautious about. this is doubly the case if these are run by minors.

i've been trying to work on a collaborative post about modern priesthood, but i keep coming back to the same problem. the structures that allowed for & educated Hellenic polytheist priests just don't exist in an accessible way today. in short: i don't know.

people are fallible, people make mistakes. always do your due diligence to double-triple-check the things people are telling you online, myself included.

[psychics4unet]

Hey I wanna ask why am I not able to enter the void???

cloud divination

Hey there! ☁️ I looked up at the clouds, and they revealed an interesting message for you. First, I saw a misty cloud that seemed to be slowly unraveling, like a thread being pulled from a spool, suggesting that something might be holding you back, slowly but surely. 🧵 Then, there was a cloud that looked like a maze, with twists and turns, indicating confusion or obstacles in your path. 🌫️ Lastly, I noticed a thin, wispy cloud that was almost transparent, hinting at something elusive, just out of reach. 🌬️

It seems like there may be some internal or external blockages that are keeping you from fully entering the void. It could be distractions, doubts, or even just the timing not being quite right yet. The clouds are encouraging patience and self-reflection, suggesting that once you unravel what's holding you back, you'll find your way there. 🌌

Got questions or need some insight into your life? I'm here to help with personal psychic readings! For just $7, you can get answers to up to 7 questions! More info at:

In case anyone else here on tumblr would like a free psychic reading (cloud divination), Click the link and follow the instructions (I answer only to those who follow the instructions, thank you):

[really-shitty-poetry]

My favourate bracelet broke.

The blue and yellow one

The one that matches yours

I spend hours knotting them, curled up in front of the TV, hands held under the table at dinnertime

I even used to work on them during late night calls with you

Threads positioned just outside the view of the camera

When I gifted the matching set to you at Christmas, you asked if there was symbolism to them

Of course, I said

But didn’t know how to explain it

A year ago I would have cried

Would have taken it as some divine omen

Did I not tie them tight enough?

Should I have used a different pattern?

Maybe the spools were too old

Did I wear it too often?

Mine was on my wrist almost every day

A talisman, a reminder of you by my side

Yours sat on your bedside table

Did I make it too big?

Was it not the right size?

Should I have asked you before making it?

Or did it greet you every night before you slept?

You told me you loved it

Gave me a great big hug

And carried around the keychain I had also made for you in your pocket

A year ago I would have cried

A year ago I would have thought it meant we were doomed

Instead, I pulled out my sewing kit

The stitches didn’t quite match, but it still reminded me of you

Sometimes a bracelet is just a bracelet.

[ringo-ichigo]

She hides a sharp mind Behind a feminine smile. Maybe that was What drew Him in: Dark eyes Full of knowledge And a grin Quick and wicked. Perhaps He is just Drawn to women With a touch of His Sister Within them. Koronis, Clever and barely tamed, Brings the Golden God To her bed Where she gives Him Wild pleasure and soon, a son.

If He’d looked a bit longer, Would He have seen The darker side of her? Would He have seen The wicked pride within her And the sharp hunger in her smile?

But His loyal raven sees it. It sees Koronis’s darkness, The things she does While her divine lover Apollon is away. It sees her womb grow Even as she brings a mortal Into the bed she once shared With the divine. “No one will know,” She whispers, all sharpness and hunger, As she takes her new lover, Sure they are safe. “Apollon will never know,” She reassures him With the same quick wicked grin She once gave Master Apollon.

If she’d looked outside, Would she have seen the white flap Of the raven’s wings? Would she have seen His messenger rushing back To warn a God Of her unfaithfulness And her deceit?

Her hubris blinds her, Obscures her vision As surely as the growing baby Hides her own feet from view. She is oblivious As her doomed fate is set in motion. The Moirai spool out the last inches, Sharpening the shears For a foolish mortal woman Who betrayed the Golden Archer. His Sister strings Her silver bow, Slings it over Her shoulder, And sets out for Her latest hunt.

A winged messenger told Of a mortal princess, Beloved of Her Dearest Brother, Who dared to sleep With a mortal man While Her Brother’s child grows Inside her. Artemis can forgive much, But not those who would hurt Her Twin. He may not have the stomach For divine retribution, But She does and the skills to take it. She has the patience to wait Until Her prey wanders into Her sight. Her silver bow strains, Her silver arrow nocked. Her shot is true And Koronis falls. Perhaps it is cruelty to reveal Herself In Her full divinity to the dying woman. Perhaps She is merely curious If this far too clever woman Can guess her error now.

Those too clever dark eyes Reveal the truth: Koronis knows why Artemis is here. She knows Apollon discovered That she’d invited Ischys Where only a God had trod before. Finally, her hubris falls And she sees her errors clearly.

Below, Atropos makes Her final cut, The life thread snapped. Above, a black raven circles, Its plumage forever changed For such ill tidings.

***

If you like my poetry, I have a collection called "Of Love and Pain" available on Bottlecap Press. https://bottlecap.press/products/oflove?keyword=of%20love

[grislyintentions]

||We ballin'~ We ballin'~ We ballin'~ (Ignoring the fact I have yet to responded/answer some of our threads yet WHEEZE) We ballin'~ We ballin'~ We ballin'~ We ballin'~ Something evil we talked about from my Yinyue Jun with your Yaoshi~~~ Akin to a stone creating ripples on the water surface, Yinyue Jun recognizes the sensation of entering a dream. His body sinking into his subconsciousness where there was no end in sight. Regardless, the High Elder has no fear.

Yinyue Jun opens his eyes to the familiar world of his dreamscape. The humble yet extravagant house sits far behind him. He stands in front of his favorite maple tree. It's crimson leaves drop from their branches and floats atop of the lake surface. The tranquility of his dream helps settle the restlessness in his heart.

But then, where are the cranes that stand idly before they take flight? Where are the sounds of the waterfall? Where are the lotus flowers that sprouts from the mud underneath his feet?

His world changes, unable to move as he helplessly watches the darkness swallow everything up. An ominous sign of what's to come in his future, Yinyue Jun prays to the Great Long that he can wake up soon.

Because this dream is no longer his.

Then an eerie green light descends into this realm. It's gentle glow does little to soothe the growing unease in his belly. He tries to avert his gaze away, to cover his eyes, but he was forced to witness the entrance of the divine.

The maple tree he adored so much transformed into an unrecognizable figure. The branches withered, the trunk twisted and coiled together to form a seat for the Aeon cloaked in white. Their six arms curled, elegant claw-like fingers spread out, and let fall the fruits of their tree.

As the red berries drop into the water, Yinyue Jun snaps his head down and his eyes widened. The pure waters of the lake turned crimson revealing his worst nightmares' underneath.

No. No, he refuses to believe they are dead! This is but a dream! I will not be fooled by the Plagues Author tricks!

Shaking his head, the High Elder raises his head to glare defiantly at the Aeon before him.

“It has been such a while since I’ve last spoken to Long’s Scions.” Their voice echoes in the confines of the dreams; ripples on the surface of a lake. “Thank you,” A spindly finger brushes against one of the fallen leaves; vivid colours bleeding out, replaced with the voracious growing of gingko leaves, dazzlingly grotesque. It does not last, crumbling into nothingness in the wind. “For calling to me.”

The High Elder’s glare is met with a tender smile before Yaoshi’s gaze drifts below the waters to survey the carnage reflected.

“I see you have already foreseen what will soon befall your peers.”

Sympathy is a sickle, piercing with sorrow’s edge, driven home by the single tear that falls from the Aeon’s eye.

“You know it in your heart.” Soft and sibilant; spools of unseen silk woven from a spider constructing a cocoon. “Yet why do you deny yourself the reprieve you subconsciously seek from all the tragedies that will ensue? You are not ready.”

Poor thing.

The Aeon dips their fingers into the sea of blood and raises it to their lips, brushing briefly before they rest it upon the High Elder’s own. A blessing ; A forgiving sting.

“But you will be. And when you are, our paths will meet again.”

@shining-gem34

[arcan3ly]

wasn’t  that  JASPER KOST  walking  the  cobbled  roads  of  coňstanja ?  it’s  nice  to  see  the  STABLE WORKER  out  and  about  on  such  a  fine  day  as  this.  i’ve  heard  from  the  court  spies  that  they  are  notoriously  TIMID ,  whilst  also  managing  to  be  quite  RESILIENT.  the  TWENTY5  year  old  is  eager  to  explore  bran  keep.  i  heard  that  they  themselves  aren't  divine.  it’s  funny,  whenever  i  think  of  them,  i  think  of  the  broken  strings  of  an  inherited  lyre ,  wide  and  shimmering  eyes  the  colour  of  lichen  &  the  cracked  leather  of  an  old ,  worn  satchel .     ⸻     (  demi man  +  they / he   +  homosexual.  )

CHAPTER ONE     :         STATS  .

name :         jasper josef kost .         nicknames :         jas .         age :         twenty5 .         gender  +  pronouns :         demi  man  +  he / they .         sexuality :         homosexual .         faceclaim :         jack wolfe .         profession :         stable worker.        

CHAPTER TWO     :         SOUNDTRACK  .

01.         meet me in the woods — lord huron .         02.         agape — bear's den .         03.         jungle — somebody's child .         04.         run boy run — woodkid .         05.         runaway — aurora .         06.         strangers — ethel cain .        

CHAPTER THREE     :         STORY  .

𝓲. not  long  ago,  jasper  had  been  nothing  more  than  a  barrel  rat  —  a  street  urchin  without  a  warm  tavern  to  lay  his  head.  it  hadn’t  always  been  begging  for  coin  and  bending  at  the  will  of  those  with  full  coffers,  but  darkness  had  become  a  quick  friend  since  their  mother  disappeared  and  their  father  slung  them  out  of  the  family  home  in  disgust.  why  would  he  have  wanted  a  son  with  no  hope  of  bearing  an  heir,  that  could  hardly  lift  a  sword  without  their  arms  wobbling,  and  that  had  an  affinity  for  music  in  a  world  of  blood  and  steel ?  a waste of breath and a waste of life, jasper filled their bags with food and instruments at eighteen years old and decided to face the cruel world alone. 𝓲𝓲. stowing  himself  away  in  the  back  of  a  travelling  wagon,  jasper  came  to coňstanja  with  the  hope  of  starting  afresh.  if  there  was  anywhere  that  would  appreciate  his  music,  it  was  those  dressed  to  the  nines  in  robes  of  silk  and  lace.  or  that  was  what  he  had  hoped.  instead,  jasper's  hopes  to  be  bestowed  with  enough  coin  to  grant  him  a  room  in  the  bunkhouse  each  night  fell  fell  on  deaf  ears.  most  days  had  been  spent  curled  up  on  the  ground  with  his  flute  or  his  lyre,  twinkling  melodies  that  caught  and  floated away  on  the  air  as  clouds.  he  had  been  nothing  much,  a  child  cast out  into  the  unforgiving  world,  but  jasper  fought  to  cling  onto  the  hope  that  was  quickly  unwinding  like  a  spool  of  thread. 𝓲𝓲𝓲. the  kindness  of  others  kept  him  from  falling  ill  to  plague  or  other  misfortune.  without  pity,  he  would  have  found  himself  six-feet  deep  in  an  unmarked  grave  with  the  rest  of  the  destitute  strangelings  travelling  to  the  motherland  with  the  hope  of  making  something  of  themselves.  a  miracle  had  brought  him  to  the  door  of  the  stable  one  rainy  night,  searching  for  a  shelter  to  save  him  from  the  frozen  downpour.  instead  they  asked  whether  jasper  knew  how  to  clean  out  muck  from  horse  shoes,  whether  brushing  fur  was  something  beyond  their  skillset.  it  wasn't  music,  but  it  was  an  opportunity  —  in  favor  of  shelter  and  coin,  jasper  hung  up  their  lyre  to  dedicate  their  life  to  fresh  foals. 𝓲𝒗. music  still  nips  at  the  ends  of  their  fingers  like  a  needy  puppy.  at  night,  hidden  away  on  the  hay bale  they  call  a  bed,  jasper  composes  quietly  to  himself  in  the  darkness.  they  strum  invisible  strings  or  dance  their  fingertips  over  imaginary  piano  keys,  creating  melodies  that  unfurl  in  their  mind  like  scripture.  they  remain  soft  despite  it  all,  a  gentle  young  thing  protected  only  by  those  that  are  kind  enough  to  watch  their  back  —  danya  became  their  sister,  their  mother,  their  best  friend,  and  jasper  still  wonders  whether  they  would  have  survived  so  long  without  them.  in  some  way,  his  mother  had  been  reborn  within  her. it was as though their paths had always meant to cross. 𝒗. jasper  has  long  since  made  peace  with  the  idea  that  home  was  something  they  would  never  know.  without  their  mother  to  protect  them,  their  father  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  the  pathetic  boy  they  had  brought  earth side  —  and  so  the  castle  walls  became  the  musician’s  everything.  their  free  evenings  are  often  spent  with  the  few  friends  they  trust,  or  down  at  the  drunk  impaler  strumming  their  lyre  for  those  too  intoxicated  to  count  how  many  coins  they  had  shoved  into  jasper’s  pockets.  with  doom  slowly  encroaching  their  sanctuary,  jasper  wonders  just  how  long  somebody  of  such  mediocre  stock  can  last  in  a  place  amongst  nobility. 

CHAPTER FOUR     :         CONNECTIONS  .

𝓲. danya hasri — best friend . 𝓲𝓲. wanted — love interest . 𝓲𝓲𝓲. wanted — colleagues .

[thebowynntradition]

Bowynn Gods: Nareen

Nareen (Nah-rin) Nareen is one of the three Ano Taya goddesses. She is the eldest of the three Ano Taya and the daughter of Bia. As one of the three Ano Taya, Nareen is the goddess of the Future and is the goddess that checks on the woven threads in the Tapestry of Life, that’s Narna (The Present) has woven, tightening them into place. Nareen is the final judge as to the threads of life that are woven into the Tapestry of Life. And only Nareen can alter a threads course. Even Anhur himself must ask Nareen to remove or cut a thread, which is very rare. Nareen is also a goddess of prophecy; people often praying to her to change the course of their lives for the better.

Nareen is the Goddess of The future. She is called "The Bending One because the future is always altered by our choises. Nareen is the Goddess of What Is To Be, The goddess of the elderly, and the goddess of possible destinies. She is also a patroness to oracles and people that divine. Sadly, many people and gods have accused her of being the goddess of a solid set course of events, but Nareen is nothing of the sort. She represents the 'Ever Altering Future." She has nothing to do with how the future plays out. She only guards the events in the Tapestry of Life. Nareen has always warned people and the gods that she does not control nor altar the future. "You do that yourself. I work in thread and wool, not in stone."

     Nareen is a goddess seen as an old wise woman, a grandmother figure.  She is dressed in purples or sometimes black, with a veil on her head topped with a crown of flowers. In her hand is seen a spool of wool and loom cob. As with her sisters, Nareen has no totem animals.

Woven fillet with the Ano Taya and other goddesses