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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years

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In the beginning was DMITRI, a HORSEMAN loyal to the cause of the HORSEMEN. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/THEY pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as the HORSEMAN OF CONQUEST. Blessed be their name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

It is said that there can be no measure of suffering on earth without an equal measure of joy to swallow it, and it is from this longing for luminance and light that the Horseman of Conquest came to be. Where their kindred were plucked from hideous, crooked stars, they were forged to offset the destruction they would harrow. They would overcome it. Carved from a golden tear which had rolled down God’s cheek, they are the only of their kind to be pulled from a moment of euphoria; their birth was wrought from something beyond reproach. Brought forth by the fondness their creator bore His mortal descendants, they are comprised of all of His love—and all of His fear. Yet, they have never felt compelled to harness onslaught, as War might, nor to gouge out the world, as Famine would; they are sumptuous victory, golden mastery, the luxurious triumph over woe. Capable of curing sickness and rehabilitating wounds, Conquest brings solace where else there is only sorrow; he ravens on the pestilence his own kin unleash. A glow of magnificent gold clings to his body and, as if sheep to the shepherd’s crook, all creatures flock to hear him speak. Since emerging on the earth, Conquest has amassed a throng of admirers, yet one seems to forget that he, too, was cut for calamity. It is to them that the people typically turn when settling a contract: princely and amenable, one gladly smites themselves on their sword. He straddles above a horse pulled from the empty bowels of Purgatory: a creature so white it seems to have been cut from marble, its ribcage is encased in veins of solid gold. The steed’s mane appears to be made of pure sunlight, which looks at a distance like a crown—not unlike its rider.

THE HISTORY.

When God was at last finished with Creation, He held a knife in His hand. A sculpting knife, yes, a carving knife—but a knife all the same. Veiled in darkness, He stepped into sunlight, spinning the tool between His fingers, and then He slipped it into a disembodied pocket, disappearing as if it had never been. At last, He was finished slicing at the clay. At last, He was satisfied with what He had wrought. A glorious scene shifted on the earth below Him: a forest of radiant green sprouted from every mouth of the earth, golden fruit ripening on branches, and waterfalls spilled down cliff-sides, the night’s dark blanket pulling itself lazily over the horizon. And, at its centre, God’s first children. Adam, and his wife Eve. Though there was much beauty in all that God had coaxed into existence, it was them that He loved the most dearly. It was His children, as finite as sand on the shoreline, that He held most gently in His palm, rolling them over as if they might splinter at his touch. For them, He was willing to cut away slices of Himself, to forge magnificent structures from His own hammered rib, and that is precisely what He did, sculpting a kingdom from the ground up. He plucked them from the earth and took them in His palm, placing them in the palace He’d brought forth—not by His knife, this time, but by the delicate kneading of His hands—and He kept them there, locked away like a secret. Though He only watched over them like an expatriate ruler, God wouldn’t be parted from them. He began to weep; a tear rolled down his cheek and, when it reached the curve of his jaw, it annealed into gold.

God ran His finger along the trail, and when He looked deeply into the alloy, He saw the gaping capacity of His love. More importantly, He glimpsed the creatures that had earned it. His beloved mortals, shaped in His image: as they gormandised themselves on slices of knowledge and carvings of curiosity, God doted upon them at a distance. They will always have my love, He thought, as he watched them wander in the sacred garden, and I will always have theirs; I can bear nothing less. Though the threat of betrayal was a notion that eluded Him, God agonised over the possibility of them being stolen from him. He picked up the knife again, and He began to cut. From the pool of divinity sprouted something infinitely more sacred and impossibly more beautiful: the final Horseman, Conquest, swathed in the universe’s luxurious sunlight. What grew from the morsel of His devotion was much more magnificent, far more worthy of indulgence, than the Creator had ever really intended—indeed, they almost made Him foolish. And yet, He should have expected nothing less, no? Conquest was carved from pure, indomitable love. God took the child in His palm and, for a moment, He considered keeping them there—but He would not. Conquest had been created for something else. Hand-in-hand, He guided His design around the opalescent clouds of Heaven, sating them on gobbets of divinity and slivers of destruction. When God was finished, they could have no doubt in their mind that they had been forged for great, visionary brilliance. Finally pleased with His handiwork, God retrieved the knife once more and, feeling the weight of it in His palm, cut the final slice. He guided Conquest through the gap.

When he landed in Purgatory, however, Conquest saw nothing; he recognised no-one. He was entirely alone. Empty caverns yawned themselves open and the dales within felt hollow as bone; their only burgess was a strange orchid smoke which swept in its mouth. That ethereal shimmer he had once made a home of was nowhere to be found in the middling realm, and though Conquest clung to his brethren in a split second of recognition, he arrived in Purgatory without fellowship, without God, and was completely and utterly alone. Once, they might have eaten the sun raw, taking the stars in their jaw and chewing until they faded into gristle—but here there was nothing to satisfy them, there was nothing to fill them; their chest gouged itself, and Conquest felt like little more than brittle bone. After all, when you have gorged yourself on immortality, honey pooling at the back of your throat, what are bones; what is cartilage and pulp? Yet, for all his ravening, that fond halo of gold still clung to him; even as he wandered down lonely ravines and lost himself in forgotten caverns, a host of unanswered promises his only companions, Conquest shone. Indeed, it wasn’t until they emerged from the hollows, half-starved, that they finally stumbled upon a vestige of life: a duchy of spectres, who might have been mortals once, bowed at his glow. Their gravelly, coarse voices composed reverent songs for him, falling at his feet—and yet, the Horseman of Conquest was not worshipped, as God had predicted, but loved. For a moment, the pledge of ruination ebbed from his view. For centuries, aeons, eternities, he was their shiny prophet and beloved prince, and when that phosphorescent slice appeared once more, the purgatorial kingdoms of his kin pulled together as one, he paused. Yet where the Horsemen went, they too were condemned to follow.

As Conquest emerged from the split, he almost felt himself recoiling backward, as if he might slip again into Purgatory’s dusky depths. The New World was so bright and garish; the earth was so full of colour—certainly, the sight of it struck him, but still he stood fast. Everything he saw was what he’d unknowingly sacrificed in stepping through God’s tear, and he embraced it. As if feeding on the great light around them, their glow of gold only grew brighter; more sheer. They felt, in an insoluble way, strangely reborn. As if a crucial fragment had returned itself to them. When War bowled violently forwards, binding bloodshed like unshakeable chains around their wrists, the rest of their kind could only follow, for what else was there? Their purpose had been stolen from them; they were required to carve out another. Conquest was more than happy to tug behind them, yet the further they travelled the further their appetite widened; the more they hankered to dig their fingers into the earth and know it, the more they yearned to learn the name of every face concealing a soul. He felt himself curiously returned to that first plant of his creation. Certainly, he made himself into something far more than a mere killer for hire: as he passed through waves of admirers, seas of lovers, he became a healer, a gladiator, a mouthpiece to which all turned to listen; as if sheep to the shepherd’s crook, humankind embraced him eagerly. Crafted from God’s love, the mortals seemed resolved to return it to them tenfold. For as many people that loved him, however, there were just as many who forgot he, too, was a vessel of ancient power to be feared: though he shone brighter than the stars, moon, and sun, something hollow lingers in his chest, never far from infection. Like broken bone. But rebirth is a form of triumph, no? It is victory, conquest. The kingdom splayed before them seems to be contrived in their image, hungering hands reaching out to grasp them, yet something rotten threatens to scatter in their chest. Is one truly a Horseman once they renege on their promise of devastation?

THE CONNECTIONS.

NERISSA, RYUK & VIKTORIA: Fellowship. Though they are each as different as Heaven and Hell, it is impossible to part them. The same ghost of grief lingers between their ribs, a sorrow-stricken cord of God’s creation ensnaring them into belonging; such, they had learned long ago, was their fate. They bleed into each other. Dmitri, though, is not like the others—each Horseman is as ravenous as the next, but Dmitri hasn’t hungered in a long time; instead, he yearns. Nevertheless, even as he addresses a drove of listeners, a glorious halo of gold settling itself like a crown above his brow, his companions always remain within his periphery. Even as they press their triumphant palms to bruises and wounds, the flesh stitching itself back together, they are their familiars, their shadows, and they never wander far from their view. Where one Horseman walks, all Horsemen walk. And yet, Dmitri feels the bonds loosening at his wrists; he feels himself wandering freely, tunnelling his hands into the earth, going where no Horseman can follow. What, then, would occur if their fellowship dissolved? Embraced so fully by humankind, he begins to ruminate whether he was truly carved from calamity, or whether he is something else entirely. War is composed of murderous rage, while Ryuk communes with the shadows, yet there is something in Viktoria which Dmitri would lament most severely to leave behind. One the architect, the other the mediator, they are two woe-written souls that naturally lean into each other. Yet, he admires them all with equal regard. For now, he is satisfied with his place among them. Tearing themself from their kin is not something they should ever like to do, but one surely wonders: how does an angel find themselves in the company of monsters?

ABADDON: Flicker. Whispers had reached him long before she had. There is something awfully melancholy in this creature, something terribly tragic, and it whets his fascination—it had done so since the first whisper, and when their eyes had fallen upon each other in those dusky dungeons, something bright had sparked. Whether such an event should be accredited to the flames that flickered along the walls of her Black Cells, carving out shadows were else there was only the yawn of darkness, or whether it should else be recognised as a symbol of their connection—well, Dmitri couldn’t possibly say. He hasn’t unearthed enough of her yet. Since their first encounter, Abaddon’s dungeons have proved purposeful, their exploits typically guided by the ravening appetite of Nerissa and their architect’s steady hand; yet, as far as their deeds go, as far as the necessity lies, Dmitri often finds that his visits have none at all. He seeks out the calming mien which falls strangely above her, draping over her shoulders like a soft shawl. It is a summon that they cannot ignore. They must answer it. God had taught them to lean into their emotions, once, and thus he behaves accordingly—though Dmitri finds himself enamoured by her influence, Abaddon seems to shy away, merely dancing beneath his gaze rather than embracing it. He supposes that is her right. Nevertheless, they often find themself thinking: have they not earned a slice of peace?

JUDAS: Debtor. It is a sour taste, to be indebted to one so false; to feel the burden of a debt to one so purposefully dishonest. And yet, here he is, like prey caught in a trap, his neck placed hopelessly beneath Judas’s sword. Dmitri knows nothing of schemes, nothing of fraudulence or contrived designs, yet he knows well that he has been ensnared within a dark web—he knows just how it feels to be held captive, and that is precisely what he is. Judas’s captive. Their happening upon each other was what might have been a chance occurrence, though Dmitri knows it was anything but: one moment, they had been cutting down Heretics as effortlessly as breathing, and then they were swept under a sea of them—it was then that Judas had cut the assailant down. They owe him. And yet, Judas does not strike the venomed fang; he asks for nothing. Each time that they negotiate a new contract, Dmitri expects the demon to haggle, to strike a more lenient price, and yet—he does not. What, they think, is he waiting for? What does he want? But he says nothing. In fact, neither of them speak a word on the topic. Something in his chest, however, flips over in warning. Judas must be searching for something, must be hoping to reach into their ribs and coax out a prize of some sort, but what? Only time, they suppose, can tell.

EPHEMERA: Revelry. They are exactly alike, and yet they are also poles apart. Such is their dance. The creature presented before him is strange, he admits, and has become a mystery he hopes to unpick at the seams; something more must linger behind her fractured gaze, he’s convinced of it. The moments that they come together are full of permeable tension, the vibrations of revelry bouncing between one body and another: there is such violence in their interactions, and yet there is an indomitable recognition concealed between their half-glances; they share the intimacy of sincerity. One ought to feel honoured that such a dissatisfied creature as Ephemera might deign to offer a morsel of her attention to them, yet Dmitri refuses to bow his neck in falsified reverence. Indeed, they have committed to the opposite, circling above like a hawk—like an animal which has caught the rotting scent of offal, swooping down. As they circle around each other, they are beasts that sniff, bark, and bite. Theirs is a curiosity born from monsters. After all, how does such a stoic creature come to express interest in a prophet? And how, too, does the prince-like figure of the Holy Land, as admired as he is flocked toward, come to find himself ensnared by the curiously cold moments, the invincible icy gaze of a being such as Ephemera? In the wariness, however, an affinity has stemmed between them. Does not a predator first size up its prey before choosing to pounce?

Dmitri is portrayed by Kim Woo-bin and was written by CAS. He is currently TAKEN by EMS.

#literate rp #lsrpg #original rp #new rp #nb #h #dmitri #c #cnb

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hourlywritingprompts · 7 years

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Writing prompt of the hour: gormandising

#writing prompts #writing prompt #writing

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monstrousgourmandizingcats · 7 years

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mamiinaandthediamonds->monstrous-gormandising-cats, y/n?

#personal #housekeeping #(the latter is a reference to the new tolkien book btw)

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lofihipbot · 5 years

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lofi hip hop beats to gormandise to

#lofi #gormandise

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monuniversfille-blog · 7 years

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☕️ Dernier article en ligne sur le blog ☕️ pour les intéressé le lien est dans ma bio 🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝🔝 danielachaffarblog.wordpress.com/blog Bisou bisou les beauté 😘😘 #hello #coucou #post #postenligne #postgourmand #article #articleblog #articleblogpost #gormandise #chocolatchaud #chocolatchaudmaison #douceur #bonnesoiree #bisoubisou

#postenligne #post #bonnesoiree #hello #douceur #articleblogpost #postgourmand #gormandise #chocolatchaud #chocolatchaudmaison #bisoubisou #coucou #articleblog #article

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bertrandrussell11 · 5 years

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I think there is always some deep seated psychological difference between the gormandiser and the man of healthy appetite. The man in whom one desire runs to excess at the expense of all others is usually a man with some deep seated trouble, who is seeking to escape from a spectre

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usessaywriting-blog · 7 years

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Yes, you can create your own media kit!

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herarbiterturtle-blog · 7 years

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