#radiant raiment

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Taarie, to Endarie, after seeing Elisif the Fair: She was literally one split end from cutting her own bangs.

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Snippet Sunday

Fuck it, starting this myself. This is from the Solitude fic. I still need to add a few descriptions here and there but overall, I quite like this scene.

For context:

Savos and Viarmo arrived at Radiant Raiment. Savos, struck with nostalgia, was lollygagging, which earned him a reprimand from Endarie.

"Endarie, please, my friend from Winterhold is not accustomed to splendor the likes of which you have on display. Give him time."

Savos shot Viarmo a dirty look.

Endarie rolled her eyes and walked over to the register. 

"Call once your friend stops being stupefied at the sight of civilization."

Once she was out of earshot, Viarmo leaned in close and whispered:

"Charming, isn't she?" 

"As charming as a rockjoint infection on Saturalia." 

Viarmo snickered.

"Don't let her hear that, lest you turn up to ambassador Elenwen's party wearing Formidable Threads"

"Formidable Threads?" 

"A rival tailor near Tanners' Lane. Believe you me, Elenwen would be less insulted if you went naked." 

Tagging: @elavoria @friend-of-giants @nostalgic-breton-girl @dumpsterhipster and anyone else who feels like it.

[fishysos]

I just know High Elves would love the (kentucky) derby.

[whitegoldtower]

My masterlist of Skyrim takes:

Both the Imperials and Stormcloaks can eat my ass.

Isran is a piece of shit

I don’t like Brynjolf.

Ancano, Vingalmo, Ondolemar, Garan Marethi, Teldryn Sero and Arch-Curate Vyrthur are the hottest male NPCs.

The companions are a flop.

Ysgramor and Wuuthrad suck.

Muiri’s unsolicited affections gave me the ick

Morthal is my favourite area.

The Ravencrone and Blackbriar women could get it any day.

I’d fuck a hagraven out of curiosity.

Frostbite spiders are adorable

I love Cicero’s voice.

Nazeem is just funny. So are the girls at Radiant Raiment. They all served cunt.

The Reach is for the Forsworn.

In every playthrough I make sure to beat the shit out of Rolff Stone-Fist and scare the fuck out of Mikael.

Mage and double dagger runs are the best.

Destruction and Conjuration are lazy.

My favourite discreet way to assassinate annoying NPCs is to reverse pickpocket poisons and poisoned apples into their inventories, sit back and watch. Alternatively, I like casting frenzy / reverse pickpocketing frenzy potions into their inventories and watching chaos unfold.

I have to purposely paralyse myself at least once in every playthrough, whether through licking Netch Jelly or chewing Corkbulb Root.

Idgrod Ravencrone is the best jarl.

Erikur deserves a slow death.

Delphine’s also a piece of shit.

Astrid instantly pissed me off.

I love just collecting and reading all the books.

The carriage driver Bjorlam (Whiterun) is SO HOT and for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Who made him so fine and why??

Ondolemar is a sweet baby. Even if you refuse to get the amulet for him, he doesn’t get pissy with you (unlike a certain touchy redheaded thief in Riften).

Some people get annoyed with Faendal showing up if you marry Camilla Valerius. I say two for the price of one, in this household we share. How can you be mad at getting a free bosmer femboy? A boyfriend of my wife’s is a boyfriend of mine.

(Will add more soon. If you want me to elaborate on any of these points, just drop an ask.)

[dawns-beauty]

the girls are Judging You.

Taarie and Endarie are the Altmeri twin proprietors of Radiant Raiment. I wanted to give them fancy new looks

Taarie comes with custom earrings and a silver hair comb

Endarie has some sparkling emerald earrings and an elegant updo

[v-e-l-v-e-t-g-o-l-d-m-i-n-e]

Lestat/Armand + Moments that makes me feel Insane

If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. - The Vampire Lestat

He looked to Gabrielle, who stood near the fire, and then to me. And silently, he said, Love me. You have destroyed everything! But if you love me, it can all be restored in a new form. Love me. This silent entreaty had an eloquence, however, that I can't put into words. "What can I do to make you love me?" he whispered. "What can I give? The knowledge of all I have witnessed, the secrets of our powers, the mystery of what I am?" It seemed blasphemous to answer. And as I had on the battlements, I found myself on the edge of tears. For all the purity of his silent communications, his voice gave a lovely resonance to his sentiments when he actually spoke. - The Vampire Lestat

"It wasn't that I wanted vengeance," he whispered. His face was stricken, his heart broken. He said. "But you came to be healed, and you did not want me! A century I had waited, and you did not want me!" And I knew, as I had all along really, that my restoration was illusion, that I was the same skeleton in rags, of course. And the house was still a ruin. And in the preternatural being who held me was the power that could give me back the sky and the wind. "Love me and the blood is yours," he said. "This blood that I have never given to another." I felt his lips against my face. "I can't deceive you," I answered. "I can't love you. What are you to me that I should love you? A dead thing that hungers for the power and the passion of others? The embodiment of thirst itself?" [...] Yet memory plays its tricks. Maybe I imagined it, his last invitation, and the anguish after. The weeping. I do know that as the months passed he was out there again. I heard him from time to time just walking those old Garden District streets. And I wanted to call to him, to tell him that it was a lie I'd spoken to him, that I did love him. I did. - The Vampire Lestat

In a way, he made me think of a child doll, with brilliant faintly red-brown glass eyes—a doll that had been found in an attic. I wanted to polish him with kisses, clean him up, make him even more radiant than he was. “That’s what you always want,” he said softly. His voice shocked me. If he had any French or Italian accent left, I couldn’t hear it. His tone was melancholy and had no meanness in it at all. “When you found me under Les Innocents,” he said, “you wanted to bathe me with perfume and dress me in velvet with great embroidered sleeves.” “Yes,” I said, “and comb your hair, your beautiful russet hair.” My tone was angry. “You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.” We eyed each other for a moment. And then he surprised me, rising and coming towards me just as I moved to take him in my arms. His gesture wasn’t tentative, but it was extremely gentle. I could have backed away. I didn’t. We held each other tight for a moment. The cold embracing the cold. The hard embracing the hard. - Memnoch

Lestat, not a bad friend to have, and one for whom I would lay down my immortal life, one for whose love and companionship I have ofttimes begged, one whom I find maddening and fascinating and intolerably annoying, one without whom I cannot exist. - The Vampire Armand

I wanted to take him in my arms. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him wherever he'd gone and whatever had taken place, he was now safe again with us, but nothing could quiet him. A deep exhaustion saved us all from the inevitable tale. We had to seek our dark corners away from the prying sun, we had to wait until the following night when he would come out to us and tell us what had happened. Still clutching the bundle, refusing all help, he closeted himself up with his wound. I had no choice but to leave him. As I sank down that morning into my own resting place, secure in clean modern darkness, I cried and cried like a child on account of the sight of him. Oh, why had I come to his aid? Why must I see him brought low like this when it had taken so many painful decades to cement my love for him forever? - The Vampire Armand

Two hundred years ago he stripped me of illusions, lies, excuses, and thrust me on the Paris pavements naked to find my way back to a glory in the starlight that I had once known and too painfully lost. But as we waited finally in the handsome high-rise apartment above St. Patrick's Cathedral, I had no idea how much more he could strip from me, and I hate him only because I cannot imagine my soul without him now, and, owing him all that I am and know, I can do nothing to make him wake from his frigid sleep. - The Vampire Armand

Of course I knew the very moment that he left this world. I felt it. I was in New York already, very near to him and aware that you were there as well. Neither of us meant to let him out of our sight if at all possible. Then came the moment when he vanished in the blizzard, when he was sucked out of the earthly atmosphere as if he'd never been there. Being his fledgling you couldn't hear the perfect silence that descended when he vanished. You couldn't know how completely he'd been withdrawn from all things minuscule yet material which had once echoed with the beating of his heart. - The Vampire Armand

“Armand,” I said. “Please.” I dropped down on my knees in front of him, looking up into his face. All the emotion he had held back was printed there now. He was in a rage. “Is your heart totally turned against me?” I asked. “Do you have no faith in what we seek to build here?” “Fool,” he said again. His voice was roughened now by emotion he couldn’t suppress. “I have always loved you,” he said. “I have loved you more than any being in all the world whom I’ve ever loved. I have loved you more than Louis. I have loved you more even than Marius. And you have never given me your love. I would be your most faithful counselor, if you allowed it. But you don’t. Your eyes pass over me as if I don’t exist. And so they always have.” - Blood Communion

“I love you still,” he said. “Yes, even now, I love you, as they all love you, your minions seeking just a smile or a nod or a quick touch of your hand. I love you like all those throughout this palace who are dreaming of drinking just a drop of your blood. Well, you can leave me now. I’m not going anywhere. Where is there to go? I’ll be here if you want me. And grant me my wish for the moment, you and your august friends. Go and leave me alone.” - Blood Communion

Armand suddenly began to weep. “Don’t do it, don’t trust him,” he said. “Lestat, he’ll just destroy you. And if you are gone—.” Ah, such sweet words from one who only hours ago had been cursing me with his every breath. - Blood Communion

The only thought in my mind, the only image, the only idea, was of Armand, and how Armand would feel when he too could hold Marius like this and know that Marius lived, that Marius had been restored, that all of them were safe and secure, and using my strongest power I sent the word to him. I sent the news. And I sent my love to Armand with it. - Blood Communion

[nalyra-dreaming]

I have a question because I don't remember what actually happened in the books, just what impression it left on me. But I keep seeing people talking about Armand and Lestat like it was this grand passionate MUTUAL love affair and I always saw it as pretty one-sided on Armand's side. Lestat came to love him eventually, but to me it was never passionate or romantic. More like the way you have love for someone who has been around most of your big life moments so that history creates connection and love. More of a platonic, familial type of thing. But then I just saw someone describe them as "feral for each other" and I'm confused. Am I remembering wrong? Or are people creating headcanons?

Wellllllllll.... It depends a bit on how you want to see it I guess.

I do think that Lestat is mightily attracted to Armand. And Armand to him. And in the "Cinderella scene" (I'll post it below), there is a lot of talk about love and desire.

But it also becomes clear through the scene that Armand is spell-binding Lestat, in order to (force-) feed on him. And thereby blows it - ultimately forever.

And against the far wall, a backdrop of satin and filigree, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, like something imagined, Armand. Armand. If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. I think I sensed even then, as I stood unable to look away, that never in my years of wandering this earth would I ever have such a rich revelation of the true horror that we are. Heartbreakingly innocent he seemed in the midst of the crowd.

Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of the kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall. Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this. And it seemed in a murmuring pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so. Who can love us, you and I, as we can love each other, he whispered and it seemed his lips actually moved. Others looked at him. I saw them drifting with a ludicrous slowness; I saw their eyes pass over him, I saw the light fall on him at a rich new angle as he lowered his head. I was moving towards him. It seemed he raised his right hand and beckoned and then he didn't, and he had turned and I saw the figure of a young boy ahead of me, with narrow waist and straight shoulders and high firm calves under silk stockings, a boy who turned as he opened a door and beckoned again. A mad thought came to me. I was moving after him, and it seemed that none of the other things had happened. There was no crypt under les Innocents, and he had not been that ancient fearful fiend. We were somehow safe. We were the sum of our desires and this was saving us, and the vast untasted horror of my own immortality did not lie before me, and we were navigating calm seas with familiar beacons, and it was time to be in each other's arms. A dark room surrounded us, private, cold. The noise of the ball was far away. He was heated with the blood he'd drunk and I could hear the strong force of his heart.

He drew me closer to him, and beyond the high windows there flashed the passing lights of the carriages, with dim incessant sounds that spoke of safety and comfort, and all the things that Paris was. I had never died. The world was beginning again. I put out my arms and felt his heart against me, and calling out to my Nicolas, I tried to warn him, to tell him we were all of us doomed. Our life was slipping inch by inch from us, and seeing the apple trees in the orchard, drenched in green sunlight, I felt I would go mad. "No, no, my dearest one, " he was whispering, "nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine. "

"You know it was the damnedest luck! " I whispered suddenly. "I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home. " Yes, yes, his lips tasted like blood, but it was not human blood. It was that elixir that Magnus had given me, and I felt myself recoil. I could get away this time. I had another chance. The wheel had turned full round. I was crying out that I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't, and then I felt the two hot shafts driven hard through my neck and down to my soul. I couldn't move. It was coming as it had come that night, the rapture, a thousandfold what it was when I held mortals in my arms. And I knew what he was doing! He was feeding upon me! He was draining me. And going down on my knees, I felt myself held by him, the blood pouring out of me with a monstrous volition I couldn't stop.

"Devil! " I tried to scream. I forced the word up and up until it broke from my lips and the paralysis broke from my limbs. "Devil! " I roared again and I caught him in his swoon and hurled him backwards to the floor.

Now, Lestat fights Armand off after this, but I think this is what a lot of the passion stems from - and also the reason why it will never come to pass.

Because Lestat does desire Armand. But Armand forced him, just after Magnus forced him. And that ended it, before it could really start, until time changed it into a more gentle love.

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

I have been in a bit of a writing slump lately, but fret not, I am back, baby. Today, we have the lovely, the beautiful, and stunning Ralof who meets...Taarie and she completely roasts him. (As she should.)

Tagging: @oblivions-dawn, @dirty-bosmer, @inkysqueed, @skyrim-forever, @umbracirrus, @sylvienerevarine @changelingsandothernonsense @ladytanithia @bougainvillea-and-saltwater , @bostoniangirl21 , @vivifriend , @theoneandonlysemla and anyone else who wants to join me on this crazy endeavor. I don't bite. Come share your words!

Solitude, the bustling metropolis and once capital of Skyrim, is too busy for Ralof’s liking. Why did he decide to follow Elisindir here again? A red blush creeps up from under his collar as he remembers the feel of—

Not now. He swallows and bites his lip, his eyes flicking back and forth across the bustling market square. It is almost as distracting as Sentinel. Produce to the left, expensive dyed fabrics to the right. Would Dahlia like some of the embroidered silks? Ralof shakes his head. That is not what he is here for, and he is becoming too distracted. Perhaps if there is time later he can peruse the wears outside the stall in front of Radiant Raiment, but he has more important things to do.

“You’ve never seen a bath before in your life, have you?” 

A voice calls out to him in the crowd, and when he turns to look, he can see a bored-looking Altmer woman filing her nails as she leans against the eaves of the clothing shop. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to?” She clicks her tongue at him as her eyes scan down his body. “I don’t see any other men around her dressed in rags which look right about to blow off of him at the slightest breeze.”

“I take offense to that. High King Ulfric—”

“Blah, blah, blah. All I hear is whining. You’ve wasting valuable time which I could be using to help you when instead you choose to argue with me.” The woman leans forward, nodding down at the many colored fabrics before her. “I saw you eyeing some of these. If you happen to have a wife and wish to keep her—”

“I—I, um,” he shakes his head, but finds himself walking over to her stall anyway. How is it that this woman is doing this? “Well, wife, no, but a friend and perhaps—”

“I don’t really care what your story is. All I care about is alleviating the eyesore from my current vista…and the the coin jingling in your pockets, of course.” She gives him a smile which doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Taarie, a pleasure or something like that.” 

[achromatophoric]

Wednesdays internal monologue (Enid brainrot). Season 2 Rave’N as she looks across the dance floor at a stunning werewolf in a pink sequin gown is…

The dyspnea is instantaneous. I am inflicted.

Heart rate, high. Pulse, audible. Pharynx, arid. Poison? Unlikely. Drugs? Possibly.

Radiant. She is the sun that spurns her throne to walk amongst us mortals. We all suffer the presence of divinity in lurid pink.

That vile raiment sears my eyes. Sclera blackens. Vitreous humour boils. Retinas reduced to char.

Yet I can’t look away.

Is this how I go blind? Staring into the sun while surrounded by hormone-addled teenagers and short straw chaperones? It would be a better method than Uncle Fester’s anti-freeze cocktails, and I am certain that she is even sweeter.

What am I even thinking?

Change in temperature noted in cheeks, indicative of increased capillary flow. Two steps left, one back, out of direct lighting.

What did she do to her hair? Was it always so lustrous? It is golden silk lit by a sunset horizon. Orb weavers would weep with envy from their multitudinous eyes. Rumpelstiltskin wishes he could spin something so glorious.

Eye contact. I am discovered.

They are so very blue. More lethal than the glow of radioactive caesium chloride. More enchanting than Prussian blue, even with its origins in Dippel’s contaminated potash. Her pupils are liken to Belize’s Great Blue Hole, and promise an intoxicating death as rapturous as nitrogen narcosis.

She is approaching. All predator-in-pink. Am I prey?

Grip compromised by accumulated perspiration. Tablecloth only successful as a temporarily solution. Prioritize anti-slip throwing knives in left thigh bandolier. Identify potential routes for escape. There are four.

Tanaka? How inconvenient. Three, then.

Two left, because of course Divina would be near her parasitic paramour.

Well-played, Barclay. That leaves one route—

…

Et tu, Eugene.

They are a firing squad of traitors. If this is to be my execution, then I will face it like an Addams. I am the night and my sun is dawning. Every step closer burns me away, devouring each and every shadow until I am left exposed. Vulnerable.

Here she stands before me, and I am reduced to… to what? Prey to this predator? Supplicant to this goddess? No, I am whatever she asks of me.

For I am enamored.

For I am doomed.

For I am cursed.

And I would have it no other way.

[thelavenderelf]

Something a little different than usual, but this is a page out of my sketchbook regarding the fur coat I designed for Sylvana that she wears during the events of Unstable. That piece can be found here.

I am a huge nerd when it comes to costume design and storytelling with costumes, so I wanted to make something that represents what she's going through in my fic. This outfit was also heavily inspired by the gorgeous fur coat Daenerys Targaryen wears in Game of Thrones.

My handwriting is kinda illegible, so my design notes will be under the cut. With some more in-depth info of course. It became a bit of an essay:

The majority of the coat is made out of an off white, creamy fur. Probably an ivory more than anything. The color represents the snow, death, and mourning. She starts wearing it after Kodlak's funeral, so it's a symbol that she's still mourning for him. The snow connection is obviously because of her snow elf heritage and it's winter time during the story. As for death, that is a bit more metaphorical. Or is IT!?!?!?

The coat is embroidered with strips of blue suede handstitched in a pattern closely related to the scale pattern of a dragon. Here is one of the reference images I used for the pattern:

Before Unstable, Sylvana was very much a reluctant hero and wanted nothing to do with being the Dragonborn. Unstable begins about a year and a half after said revelation, and she's starting to become much more comfortable with the title. This coat is the first piece of clothing she owns that was made just for her. She commissioned it from Radiant Raiment in Solitude and she specifically requested the dragon scale pattern because she thought it would be cheeky whenever a dragon tried to pick a fight and insult her with terms such as "soft belly."

The pattern also represents her growing confidence in herself and her abilities.

Blue represents her love of Skyrim and all the people she has come to care for. But most importantly, it mainly represents her growing bond with Vilkas. I also like to think that it was dyed blue with a mixture of nirnroot. Something tells me that nirnroot provides a nice blue dye.

The back of the coat features a panel of silvery, grey fur that continues to mimic the dragon scale pattern. The color silver represents change, vulnerability, and almost a sense of paranoia. And with the silver being on her back, her most vulnerable place, it also represents an incoming danger that she doesn't suspect.

And finally, the coat is lined with a light golden suede. It represents the past and a hidden connection. The golden hue is a call back to her being raised on Summerset and within the Thalmor. As for the hidden connection, it also draws back to the past, but way before she can even remember. This hidden connection represents a familial bond that she has wanted for so long, but may not be one she expects.

[dynamite124]

I dont know why but Tally gives the vibes that he would sass the women at Radiant Raiment for speaking poorly about the ldbs clothing because only he can (playfully) bully his friends poor fashion sense

Ironic that you bring this up, because Taliesin literally insulted my character after I gave him a straw hat, now he thinks he's the king of fashion!

Look at her!

She's going to cry now!

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Me, after putting Savos through hell: Let's write something nice for him :D

Also me, tinkering with the Elenwen fic: Let's have Endarie roast Savos and his terrible fashion sense >:-)

[quicksilverdrabbles]

Morana: *staring intently at a dress displayed in Radiant Raiment*

Taliesin: Hm? What are you looking at?

Morana: *jolts* Nothing.

Taliesin: Doubtful. Do you like that dress?

Morana: ... It wouldn't suit me.

Taliesin: Again, I highly doubt that. Pardon me, madam, but she would like to try this one on.

Taarie: Ah, but of course.

Morana: *shakes her head* Tally, my mask-

Taliesin: Would you happen to have a veil she could wear? Surely you occasionally get customers that require.. anonymity.

Taarie: I believe I have something that will work, yes.

Taliesin: There, problem solved. One more thing, if adjustments to this outfit for her measurements are to be made, you are to absolutely not speak of what you see, or else I will personally see to it that this building burns to the ground.

Taarie: ... Of course, sir. But really, it is my sister Endarie that handles-

Taliesin: I'll not have that impertinent woman anywhere near my companion in a state of undress. I have no doubt she would merely spread gossip.

Morana: Don't be mean, Tally.

Taliesin: Yes, yes. Go get changed, I'll be in to see how it looks when you're done.

~

Taliesin: Are you done yet, Morana?

Morana: ...

Taarie: She's ready. Feeling a bit self-conscious, though.

Taliesin: I expected as much. I'm coming in.

Morana: ...!! Wait-!

Taliesin: *opens the door* ... Oh.

Morana: *blushing* P-Please don't look..

Taliesin: *covering his eyes* And why not? You look ravishing.

Morana: I-I'm not.. I didn't really.. think about how this dress was made for..

Taliesin: Curvier women? With larger breasts, I assume.

Morana: ... Yes.

Taliesin: I hardly think that matters. Clothing can look great on anyone provided it's woven and adjusted properly. And on you, especially.. it looks rather divine.

Morana: ... People can see how skinny I am..

Taliesin: Your malnourishment is not your fault. I daresay within a few months, you won't be able to see your ribs anymore with how much food Xelzaz makes for all of us.

Morana: ...

Taliesin: May I look? It's getting rather boring seeing only the palms of my hands.

Morana: ... Y-You can look..

Taliesin: *removes his hands and opens his eyes, looking at Morana in the dress* There's the pretty raven. I wasn't lying when I said you look beautiful, you know.

Morana: *smiles*

Taliesin: *chuckles* I cannot wait to tell Kaidan I made you smile first.

[beckiboos]

Calliope- I'm not sure about this outfit radiant raiment asked me to wear I think I preferred the old one. Should I change? Is it too revealing?

Taliesin- Put on an inch more clothing and I'm going to take you over my knee right here, right now

Calliope- Oh! Umm...

Taliesin- You look perfect Calliope. Truly Dibella herself must be envious of you in that gown. Don't change it

Calliope- Ok. Thank you... You look very handsome too

Calliope- So... Shall we away?

[stormbeyondreality]

Last Line Tag Game

Rules: Post the last line of whatever you're writing (fic, original, whatever you want!)

Tagged by: @oblivions-dawn (ty friend! <3)

Tagging: @spinchboli, @nerevar-quote-and-star, @thequeenofthewinter, @avantegarda, @blossom-adventures, @fallen-chances, and whoever else would like to!

Have a paragraph!

With a deep breath, Erlind stood up again and set the ruined clothes aside. Either way, she was just sitting there without a kirtle, shift, or anything that went atop those garments, and she couldn’t just stay in her room the rest of the day. That would be boring and she had things to do anyway. Foremost? A trip to Radiant Raiment once she was presentable again.

[whispersinthedawn]

The Last of a Dying Breed (2)

She should have sung paeans, should have recited poems glorifying Apollo. She should have sacrificed a bull and not half a litre of her own blood. She should have spoken ritual words that she didn’t know.   

Instead, all she had was the strength of her own conviction, the power of her desperation.

“Phoebus Apollo, Apollo Alexicacus,Apollo Iatromantis, Apollo Didymeus” she started hoarsely, uncertain as to why these names dropped off her lips, but willing to accept it as divine providence. “Lord of Delphi, Protector of Youth, please accept my plea. All I wish for is to be your Oracle. I promise to devote my life to you, to swear off any attachment but you. To speak your words as the only truth in the world, to lay myself at your feet and see only that which you wish me to see.”

Percy’s heart raced inside her chest, simultaneously terrified and strangely comforted by the almost ritual cadence of her words. These … were the wrong words for the Pythia, she knew that as soon as they left her lips. But these were the words she’d spoken, and so this was the promise she’d keep.

As long as Apollo accepted.

Percy looked down at the face reflected in the blood pooled on the floor. For a second, the strangest sense of disorientation struck her. Was that pale, stressed thing really her face? It looked dead already, like she’d been chewed up and spat out by the Minotaur whose horn lay on her bed.

As she waited, the same quiet refrain ran through her head.

If he couldn’t even do this, then what good was Apollo?

If she couldn’t even do this, then what good was Percy?

Like the quietest of sunrises, the room gradually lightened. The presence that filled the chamber, however, was anything but gentle.

A searing heat blasted Percy’s skin, threatening to roast her alive. Had her eyes been anywhere but at the floor, the sheer brilliance of Apollo’s appearance would have burned out her soul.

As it was, she instinctively slammed her eyes shut, rainbow dots sprinkling the back of her lids like confetti on a cake. Unwilling to present herself as a cowering child, however, Percy transitioned the act into a bow of subservience.

“Lord Apollo,” she murmured.

Only now that he stood in front of her, did Percy register just how badly she’d wished Apollo to ignore all her prayers as her own father had done her pleas.

Only now that he’d deigned to show up did she realise just how much trouble she was in.        

“So, you are the intrepid soul who seeks to become my Pythia?” the god purred.

Percy dared blink open teary eyes, incongruously surprised to find a Greek god dressed in Celestial Bronze. Somewhere deep inside, she’d almost expected the gods who were so busy with the war to be garbed in the camouflage raiment utilised by the soldiers. But no, at least from the knee down, Apollo wore gleaming bronze armour and leather sandals.

His shoes clicked sharply against the wooden flooring as he circled her, but Percy kept her eyes on the ground. Her efforts to avoid giving offense for as long as possible didn’t last long, though.

Quick as the snakes that were his sacred animal, fingers of steel gripped her chin and wrenched her head up.

Percy gasped, shocked out of the terrified complaisance she’d fallen into.

Furious golden eyes caught ever-changing sea-green.

Percy’s heart stuttered.

She'd never before seen a god so radiant he’d moved straight past ethereal into inhuman. But even if she had, she rather thought there would never be another Phoebus Apollo.

“The audacity,” Apollo whispered.

Percy took in burnished gold curls, tanned skin, high cheekbones, sharp nose, and wide eyes, all shaded in an unreal light, and had the disconcerting realisation that rage suited gods.

Her father had never seemed so real in all their affectionate moments together as Apollo did now while on the verge of smiting her.

“Is it audacity to wish to devote my life to the spirit of Delphi?” she breathed out.

“It is when you don’t even know the correct words,” he snarled.

“Is ritual more important than true sentiment?” she demanded. “Would you rather I recite a few unfeeling, memorised verses … or that conviction forms the core of my words?”

He dropped her chin, rearing back like she was the cobra about to strike.

“Such bold words,” he said after a moment. “But is your conviction not directed solely towards your fellow demigods? What devotion will you afford me when all that runs through your head is how you may be of use to them?”

“All that is left in me,” Percy answered desperately.

Apollo laughed, a scathing denigration of her statement and existence in one. “And you believe one girl’s devotion is enough for me to accept just anyone who throws themselves at me?”

Percy shook her head, mind whirring through the possibilities, discarding one answer after the other at the speed of light. “It is not me you’re accepting,” she finally informed him far more calmly than she felt.

At Apollo’s quirked eyebrow, she continued delicately, “Your Oracle died today.”

At the growing thunderstorm on his brow, Percy hurried to ask, “Apollo Iatromantis, how many more of the people you have claimed as yours will die if you don’t accept me today?”

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