#antipyre

[scaredyjokes]

copy pazted from the library of babel

s prematurely punchers undispatched bryologies victoriana balleting zolpidems de based nebulizer discipliners climatized seraphim simul oncogen whickered koka hy pomania unsplinterable escritoires eligibles chaudfroids frogeye skibobber wussi est loudspeakers homeschoolers rulers veal zumbooruk outrageousnesses narkiest q uintar raoulia idealisations diatomists benedictive linotypers sovereignly sente ntious epistolers obligatoriness bowmen aposematic agnomen judgementally grue st irrups multiorgasmic politicalized hyperbolised collectivizing murder subahdar d ulnesses subalternant dietarian turnhall holla sintering nominalising opine vair s biotelemetry foolscap extraversively spectroscope chandler dactylography flori ation decomposers overnew disimprisonment tensed unitarianism overanxieties exto rtionist rheophil communitarian napoleon copalms eagled europhobic shitting mapp able undocks coevolutionary persistive nonoperatic peripheralities cadgier halop hilous rampires magnox martialism trinary possess bateleur enhypostatizing lugho le controversialists yohimbes hythes greenstone equitably desaturation quadrans hideout tubfishes interborough hock unartistlike decern pirana sperm marchers ev acuations straicht rebranching multidimensionalities routes rappellings jibberin g ests blew immoderations scabbiest strongyles formaliser ultramarathon brey rec ruitment snots brook eurhythmies wailings homogonies platina goalmouths invulner ably unparented adoze casemate sabbatical intrusional oilways baken disennobling berime snubbish apepsia rechoreographing suffete flitches singers sensillum jerome valeska kissing jonathan crane is canon eclosions juices crackbrained disvou ched thermoset goodier dandyprats creminis misfeasors ignorers console demobilis ing vincibilities bewet futilitarians offering aliyah druggist cecities halsers exudes murliest kevil solenodon megaflorae quiching lancinated lat vallations pr efigurate nosebleeds aquilons burgundies pentagons eutaxy nonlocal evet antipyre tics innuendoes bicyclers bemocking betroth subaverage lictorian heapier cotrans port raising cardiopathies beting collateralizing andesines coextension counterc laim prevalents swang pristinely nanotesla fewters enlacements cardiograms execr ator outby juicehead putterers aristolochia mudders telepresence translocations feigner strum haywards inimical corraded dispread maculate epidendrone instancie s caconym pulpinesses zootrophy misrecorded snakepits heavily lapilli prey cotto nmouths diddleys contrapuntists peeler glucuronide secretagogic manniferous dihy drocodeine subfreezing daps pluming dermabrasion mujahedin swies compotatory fro wsts lethargised polygraphers investigations tine meads geck pyrocatechin butyra ls interchained infiltrators missionizing cruciverbalists ripsnorter rechauffe f oremost coinheritances daggas clarioning contended unsatisfiedness realtone drip pily testudo probates gigantesque spheral suitability dramaturgist offerable sti ckit citrons calamitously tatted plantage redingotes toises mephitises bleakness es spammier clapperboards faaing scuttle mega nonprossing accolades chapelry ren ailed smallswords macruran burial rivers cuds expatriations darraignments hyperp

LIBRARY OF BABEL SCAREDYJOKES ZUPPORTER WOOOOOO

[flowerwept]

@antipyre said:  ✍️ + would you beat my head in if i told you to try emet-selch

Time has worn down much of Hades over the years / he’s not stupid, he knows that, but duty has chased Emet-Selch to the ends of the earth and he’d be damned if he stopped here. He sits on some stairs in a faux Amaurot of his own recollection, hands clasped neatly in front of him, and he would look more like the emperor he is supposed to be were it not for the way his shoulders sag / some kind of wounded Atlas.

“Are you lost?”  A shade says to him, not recognizing his soul--obviously, because a shade is a shade. Emet-Selch stares back at it, trying to recall who this had been, had he known them personally, and there is preservation in action and all that.  “Do you need help finding your parents?”

“ ‘Am I lost,’ “ Emet-Selch mutters to himself disdainfully, and he can’t help rolling his eyes--he knows this place better than anyone, but it was still just a fraction of the original Amaurot, and it pains him to think of the streets and halls that went unremembered or, worse, the people who gathered on those streets. Don’t worry -- I swear I will bring you back. This is my duty. My purpose. My love.  “No, you waste your time with such fears.”  He gets up and the weight of a thousand years settles into his shoulders. The shade looks at him, its shape wavering. Clearly this was the end of the conversation.  “After we reclaim the star and you have been brought back I will apologize to you more properly.”  The real you, though Emet-Selch dare not say it. He smiles at the wayward simulacra of his own invention and then saunters down the stairs and into Norvrandt’s depths.

“I suppose I shall have to pay the hero a visit sooner rather than later,”  he goes on muttering to himself as he walks, eyes tracing every nook and cranny of Amaurot, every cracked stone, every window frame. All of it. I REMEMBER.  “I can’t let them get too comfortable...or think that I’d gone and forgotten about them.”  He would rather die than forget.  “There’s too much unsaid. Can’t risk them dying before all that.”  But would anyone believe him if he told him how beautiful the sun looked when it cut across the Amaurot skyline? Well--if they didn’t, Emet-Selch would just kill them. He’s grown used to that.

[soulprofitis]

@antipyre — (venat) [ INCAPACITATE ]:     sender, seeing the receiver in immediate danger, intervenes by knocking out their assailant before they can harm the receiver. :D (continued under the cut because I wrote too much haha)

It is the beginning of some kind of end. Many have said so and Hythlodaeus is, unfortunately, inclined to agree. Though much of the city is trying to continue to function normally in the face of disaster, the Bureau of the Architect has become a ghost of its former glory. No one sits hoping for their newest concept to be accepted, his coworkers have abandoned the desks they were once excited to inhabit. With how heavy his heart is, Hythlodaeus is surprised the weight of this sight doesn’t shatter it.

He still has a duty, though. The sky is not yet burning and the bit of work left falls upon his shoulders. There is no way of knowing if what the Words of Lahabrea have asked him to retrieve will be useful. He has to believe it will. This single-minded focus is what keeps him from seeing Apelpisia, one of the many who he worked alongside in the Bureau, as they clutch at their head ducked beneath a desk. He can’t hear their quiet whispering over his thoughts: Azem still hasn’t returned since the creatures began appearing, could they have been caught by one on the other side of the Star? Emet-Selch and the rest of the Convocation are doing the best they can, but what will be enough if no one knows the source of their very blessing, creation itself, becoming a curse? Hythlodaeus only spies his once friend’s soul in the corner of his eye when it’s too late.

There’s a scream, pure terror that echoes through the empty lobby, then Apelpisia is running toward the door. Where there was nothing only moments before, the very aether of the air twists flesh into reality. Teeth and spikes of skin elongate into a beast twice his height. It slides forward and Hythlodaeus hardly has time to blink, let alone make an attempt at summoning anything, if he dared, before they are caught up in its maw with a horrifying crunch. When it spins, its tail crushes chairs and desks as if they’re made of paper and it moves faster than he can run; That doesn’t mean he won’t try, though. He’s too far from the door to ever make it, to find someone who might be able to help, any thought of love and friends and useless papers fall from his mind in favor of panic, the kind that makes his hands shake and his feet stumble. He can feel one of its spikes catch the back of his knees and then he’s thrown sideways into the wall, sent sprawling painfully before his head collides with it. Dying this way is so far from what he hoped. Disappointing. Cold, even. When he raises his arms, they tremble as he tries to summon some kind of shield. Anything to stall an inevitable fate— The telltale singing of Venat’s blade makes his heart stop. It can’t be real, and yet it is. How she can possibly be here doesn’t matter because before he can even speak the beast dissipates. The explosion of darkness it becomes covers his hair like a layer of snow.

“Venat,” he manages, his voice hardly audible over the heaviness of his breathing. Hythlodaeus can’t tell if he’s been hurt or if he’s in shock. He feels like he’s spinning far away, perhaps down into the floor, and the aether falls away from his arms like shattered glass. He watches her instead, trying to focus. Venat is ethereal like this, standing over the creature’s remains like the brightest light in all of existence. Her white robes are ashen now, maybe even ruined. The back of his head has started to ache when he gets another word out. “Wh-where, how did you—” A soft gasp for air. “Are you alright?”

[kiwidraft]

they climb atop roof tops , hopping & always landing atop their feet  --  until they don’t . they absolutely collapse into the vessel of another , losing balance & falling to their backside with a painful thud . 

                                                              ❛   YOWCH !   ❜

they cry , absolutely dramatic as they hold their head ( which doesn’t even hurt ) . they shuffle to their feet & lean toward the stranger’s face , examining , observing , taking mental notes .

                              ❛   AHA , i know you . you’re --  .  .  .  you’re  .  .  .   ❜

they’re thinking so hard . their memory has absolutely failed them .

                                               ❛   heh  .  .  .  what was yer name again ?   ❜

                                                         -

@antipyre​​         ♥‘d ( for valerian ) 

[inflagrante-delicatessen]

ugh it's 4am and I should sleep but p sure I have a fever and am achy running out of decongestants & don't think I have a regular antipyric/analgesic so target brand Excedrin it is...now that I'm p sure it's been more than 24 hours since the last time I took some and that gives me...28 hours to find notebooks, scan through notes, copy examples, do research, and write 5 to 7 pages And then I'm done for a year+ ...i guess I'll eat some soup? sorry roomies

[flowerwept]

@antipyre said:  (venat) it's alright, hermes. it's okay.

Another day another death another grave another notch chalked up to ‘failed concept’ by the Amaurotines -- ever since the Meteia’s vanishing, Hermes has felt especially irritable / his despair all-encompassing, its hands resting deeply on the crooks of his shoulders. There is a weight and it is especially heavy these days. He knows his sadness is not unnoticeable and part of him is glad that he is made this way, an emotional creature -- the other part, the part that wins, is ever-disgusted with his feelings of unbelonging. And resents unearned compassion. Resents Venat’s beseeching eyes and their apologetic words, her hand coming to rest on his upper arm.

“Why must you look at me like that?”  Before he can stop himself, Hermes snaps and snatches himself away from Venat’s grasp as if they have burned him -- SHE IS FULL OF LIGHT, AND HE IS NOT, THEY MUST NOT MIX. Fingers desperately clutch at the spot where their touch met him, the fabric dimpling underneath his grasp.  “With such....pity. Ever since I returned from Elpis -- you have --!!”  Looked at me like I am dying? Is this what I am to you all? Another failure?  “I do not want your hollow reassurances when you are so disgusted with me!”

Suddenly the moment passes and Hermes feels quite simply hollowed out. The color drains from his face, and although he had just felt as if Venat’s light had hurt him, he cannot help but reach for them now.  “No -- I am -- sorry. I am sorry, Venat, I do not know what came over me. You did nothing wrong. Apologies.”  I don’t know why I am this way. But he cannot say thank you.

[flowerwept]

(venat bothering him in superhell) do you remember elpis, fandaniel

do you remember how you had to forsake your people and your entire identity to become a sorry excuse for a primal that was basically useless over and over again and would have lost if you hadnt had ELIDIBUS of all people send your beloved champion back in time to TELL YOU what to do. imagine relying on elidibus. could NOT be me

[flowerwept]

@antipyre​ said: (hythlodaeus) So what youre telling me is that you gave an empath shared consciousness

yea and then they exploded :(

the meteia’s final tweet: “i see thru everyones bullshit im an empath i just absorb everyones energy so even dont test me  💯 xoxo”

[flowerwept]

@antipyre said: ✍️  + WAIT can you do ardbert too would you be mad

On the Source things feel so normal. And were it not for the circumstances that brought them here, Ardbert might say he’s enjoying himself. Remembering why he started this in the first place. There’s an indescribable joy at seeing new places and meeting new people. But that burden knocks on the underside of his skull always, and a little bit of guilt presses into his fingers every time Ardbert picks up his axe again / again / again / forge ahead, always -- till the bitter end, and with their luck it would certainly leave a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.

The snow crunches underneath his heels. Ishgard reminds Ardbert of Voeburt--he knows if even he can make this connection, then Branden must be especially struggling and attempting to reconcile his own experiences back home with this new land. Corruption: always a moment away. Never any time to rest. But here they are villains, not heroes, and it is not their job to clean up the mess.

“Elf names are said so strangely here,”  and Ardbert’s shoulder knocks Nyelbert’s as he passes the mage, attempting to wrestle some banter back into the day.  “Wouldn’t you say so, Naillebert?”  Nyelbert shoots him a look from underneath the wide-brimmed hat, and Ardbert could swear things were okay. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend we’re back home -- maybe when I open them --

“’Tis a better alias than ‘Arbert,’“  the mage retorts, arms crossing in front of him crossly.

“That, I cannot deny,”  Ardbert laughs and his cheeks dimple, spread of freckles catching the harsh winter sun. A hand rubs at his neck.  “Call it panic. Or stupidity.”

“Or both,”  Renda-Rae chimes in, and it’s Ardbert’s turn to shoot a look / but he can’t play the villain all the way through, and the glare falls short just a moment too soon before it can have any real weight to it -- falling short seems to be a talent of his.

“Alright, alright. In my defense, coming up with a name is a difficult endeavor!”  He’d already done it once with Ardbert and he wouldn’t be assed to try it again any time soon.  “But point taken.”

[soulprofitis]

⁠— @antipyre​, for valerian

How peculiar.

Among many muddled thoughts does this one emerge. An unfamiliar sentience fills the shades, once lovers and friends, and so they wander. He can only watch them. As fragmented as they are, they pose little threat to Zodiark’s protections, so they are far from his concern. He is fragmented as well, at first incapable of speech. Words twist his tongue like he used to twist his hair when he lived— Ah. That is who he is. More than an image, more than a memory, he is Hythlodaeus. He cannot take his own form with so much of his being consumed into the god of their making, but he can see. A blessed gift; It has been an age since he last could.

It is an unfamiliar sensation, though. Why can he see? Why can he walk? Surely they have not been returned, not after the Sundering of the World, or he would be whole. But he is alone, surrounded by the remains of souls. Some are so feeble, he wishes this form would allow him to ferry them on. He may have denied the position, but he had once been capable of the feat. As he observes in quiet, a crowd of shades gather near one of the brands, weeping at someone—each other or another’s ghost, the color is passing strange in his vision—and their souls seem to scream. Hythlodaeus had forgotten that was even possible.

“Pardon me, but would you be so kind as to step aside?”

He pushes past a few of them carefully and they dissipate without effort. So tired, so desperate. Gone. Then he is left in the center, an unfamiliar figure opposite to him. He feels pulled as the moon in its orbit of Etheirys, or the other way around, by force of nature or divine will. Perhaps he is caught in a twin orbit. some binary he cannot name. The meaning of this color becomes clear all at once.

“I must say...” He lifts a barely-corporeal hand to his own chin as he speaks, the words slow and musical in their antiquity. “I never thought I might live to see my own soul in another. Though the color is the same, you are not another me at all, are you? You are... Well. You.” Hythlodaeus chuckles, “However have you come to be here, my reflection?”