#thcrmr

[adureus]

Stares... and dumps Mythos in the rubbish bin. Where he belongs.

Ya well at least he's HOT GARBAGE!!!

[exturk]

send a symbol for the kind of relationship you’d like with my muse.    | accepting

@thcrmr asked: ⚔️ he is a whole problem

⚔️ *  enemies become strictly platonic friends.  Adventure awaits them.  

-- ....I honestly need something like this HAHA. AND IT'S OKAY, cissnei is used to problems. if you ever wanna plot a thingy, thinggg.... pllsss lemme know. cause. *finger guns*

[telmn]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

@thcrmr asked: ❛i always got the feeling you never liked me.❜ /but he's v smug about it 😂

"𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓?" 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 && he's undeterred. Hardly compelled by the presence of a mad king && the tidings it brings. Separated by iron && hinges && locks, chains barring the way of aetheric influence; like a bound hound. Or the lax manner in which the once-outlaw perches against a crate with untouched rations sat atop it. Meals that have been forsaken, foregone in light of stubbornness && bitterness compartmentalized in the form of man. The same man that stares him down like a ravenous dog ready to bite. But it's in that same man that the former dominant of Ramuh once saw future && prosperity. "Maybe so. Once upon a time, I remember muddying my boots for you." The words are caught against the drag to greens held taut between his lips. One hand settled on crate's edge, the other gingerly supporting the bundle to his lips. A haphazard glance to Barnabas ensues not in any other suggestion than some sense of pity. An already broken man that was exploited by a being so foul, so wrought of self-preservation, that they saw this once prosperous king race toward his end. && it leaves so bitter a taste on the tip of tongue that allows for gravel in vocality to be set free yet again. "Things change, though. Don't they?"

[nievea]

olive 🫒 u a latte ☕ (i'm fuckin' funny)

[liightbringr]

𝒘𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒘 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆? / @thcrmr

[devotionbled]

‘  some  people  are  born  with  a  piece  of  night  inside,  and  that  hollow  place  can  never  be  filled.  ’

THE LANGUAGE OF THORNS. || Accepting.

Beneath clavicles, bone meeting bone—there rages a tempest, all drenched in murder and salvation alike. Her hand curls tight around a hilt of a blade, steps light as she dances across uneven stone. Training grounds their stage, she listens carefully even when she scoffs. There is no twitch of the lips to be found, harsh crescent damned to a straight line. Dull eyes all narrow, she does not refuse his vocal song. 

Barnabas is old. 

Barnabas has seen much she has not the fortune to witness in her newborn existence: 24 years of winter, and she thinks it could not compare to the everlasting stretch of his existence. Barnabas’ existence, though nebulous, seems to be violently drowned in the finality of eternity. He has long existed before her—before Joshua.

All people are born the same. Naked and wailing, yearning for a mother’s breast. She thinks of the children she let bleed from her and denied before they could take hold in a belly—all in service for flames. She quietly wonders if they would have hollow hearts, night embracing a heart, for she could not love them if things were different.

If.

A slow tilt of Jote’s head--words seeping, and she clicks her tongue as she thinks carefully. 

“Are you speaking for yourself?” The irony of it is not lost on her; her steps heavy as she refuses to fall (the stance of war must make one steady, infallible to wind and weight yearning to push). 

“Are you confessing to a lowly servant of the heartless?”

The shrill screech of a blade meeting a blade—she is weak compared to his might, muscles rippling below flesh as she pushes, feet sliding. She tries and tries to exert, against what feels fluid as air, all nothingness.

“I must disagree. You must have had a heart once upon a time, Your Majesty,” a tongue slips past lips to taste the sweat beading—all birthed from her determination to push. It is salty and foul. “Allow me to dissect you to see how hollow you are, Odin. I want to see it."

[benydikta]

 [     ･     @thcrmr    :         bribed me with knick-knacks 💎

𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙺𝚃𝙰 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙱𝙰𝚂' 𝙳𝙾𝙾𝚁𝚆𝙰𝚈.       she's not supposed to linger:       she can present no hesitation to her exacting king,        his mind as unfathomable as ever     ━    a dark pit; the center of a black hole.        he's been quiet this past half a decade. barely speaks at all.        benedikta is loud and cackling and screaming and unapologetically high-strung,        but standing in front of her king she feels small again. smothered.        the butt of a cigarette.        it is garuda he favors;        what he looks for through her gaze,        a flutter of wings caught in his armored palm.        and oh, how she dangles.

        ‘‘  forgive me, my liege,        i can come at another time,  ’’      she says.        her heart lurches in her throat.        she wants to be far away. she wants to be sitting at his feet.        she is a tool and nothing less or more and she knows she will find no warmth in him     ━    they are a hearth never lit     ━    but she doesn't know how to be anything else but a willing supplicant to his impassive blade.         ‘‘  i did not intend to disturb you.  ’’      disturb you and all that grief.        she sucks in a breath:       ‘‘  but i can stay by your side if you require it of me.  ’’      

[opyre]

❝ you carry a smouldering darkness inside you. ❞ ⸻ @thcrmr .

so , does the domineering presence of odin's night yet seat its throne against his unwelcome senses . he speaks , and every syllable sends goosebumps down his spine . darkness , he speaks of , and knows well of it , too . fingers grip into the folds of his gloves , and defensiveness shields him so well one might think it would strip him of his aether , were it given the chance . there is rage that boils beneath his chest , in the heart , crystal - kept ; he feels it pulsating often . he hardly recognizes the divergence from his own heart beat now . 'twas his oath of protection , and such an oath , he would ever keep .

so now , as flames' preemptive barriers become parasitic in their quest for his lifeforce , he shields himself that he might offer his strength in a battle to come . a blade that has naught it cannot sever . . . he must be quick on his feet .

❛ it would be dishonest were i to deny you . yet , i have my doubts that you're looking for much in the ways of idle conversation . what is it that brings you here , barnabas tharmr ? ❜

[weavewilled]

yes, henlo just wanted to pop in and say that i hear this sad purple man in my head when you write and it gives me life bc i am quite in love with him he is soft and kind and brilliant and may i one day be so fortunate as to find myself a RL gale (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

also pls nag my son bc i like it when he angy

sad purple wizard man is indeed soft and kind and brilliant and i hope u find an rl gale too, though hopefully one that isn't a walking cataclysm 🥲

and thank you so much !! 💜 i appreciate it sm and we mAY JUST TAKE YOU UP ON THAT

[tsckcyomi-archived]

IS IT NIR NIR'S BIRTHDAY???? 🎈✨ HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! TODAY YOU ARE ROYALTY!!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND APPRECIATE YOU IMMENSELY~ HERE'S HOPING YOU HAVE THE BEST DAY!!! 😚 (👑🐎)

THANK YOUUU I APPRECIATE YOU VERY MUCH TOO. PLS GIVE TREATS

[sylksheeeee-a]

"NO."

" NOBODY ASKED YOU , BARNABITCH. "

NOIR BEING A MENACE / ALWAYS ACCEPTING

[mjm5655]

@thcrmr : barnabas just: yes

❝ finally, a man that speaks my language. ❞

[fourthclone]

“   my name is of no importance .   ”

        ❝ 𝑶𝑲𝑨𝒀 , well ⸻ ❞

roche seems to shuffle a little from one foot to the other awkwardly before willing his body to remain still , gesturing with one hand toward the brooding dark - haired man before him with an almost pleading look on his face to get him to cooperate . ❝ i can't just call you 'guy' , so what if i call you 'my friend' instead ? ❞

[devotionbled]

"You are nothing without the Phoenix."

Send "You're nothing without them." || Accepting.

Abhorrence bites at her breast, twisting at the pulmonary vein; lungs swelling with held breath. Teeth grit, porcelain thrashing to chagrin—jaw tensing, tightening to its tale. Fingers claw into palms, fist tight as eyes drift from dead eyes; Odin terrifies in his feckless indifference, tone without accusation.

It is an open wound, bloated && weeping, that. Pus-filled && decaying. It is nameless, the venom seeping. It mimics hatred of the self, perhaps as voracious as Barnabas himself in thirst for conquest. She has long murdered her own girlhood; the little girl dreaming beyond boundaries of Undying hymns—noose woven for the damned thing.

Life is dull save for the delirium / fever of Joshua. She does not think there is her without him.

She is pure.

There is virtue to be found from the femur to the mandible; she has done all what was demanded in frenzied exaltation.

She is pure. She is good. There is goodness in slaughter, in mercy writ in a knife knitting red from laceration—for the Undying’s sake, primordial knowledge shielded. For the Phoenix.

A little girl with ribbons of red curled in dark locks, flitting in && out of the chambers adorned with an altar—a boy, slumbering. She sings to him, sometimes, in tongues taught from the High Priestess. He does not wake. She dances with violence even then. She slaughters the skin of herself, the lash of whip of divinity begetting raw flesh of a new girl, devoted && far more divine. They tell her, she is holy as long as she burns.

Subdued is her fury, and she cannot look at him. She steadies her hand. This is a battle she cannot claim victory in, to escape without bleeding nor agonies. She has bled enough in these realms, body wrecked in scars bulging from skin; discoloured and so pretty. Burns remain across an expanse of a belly, branded joy.

“You speak this as if it means to offend, Tharmr. We all serve someone. You are not immune to servitude, to be naught. Who do you serve?”

Spat disdain, no denial to be found in the self-loathing simmering below flesh.

“I am holy in the slaughter of the girl I once was. If I am nothing without the Phoenix; then make me into something—a creature of defiance.”

A hand keeps a firm hold upon the leather handle of a knife, as nostrils flare. A gaze flares to life, returning to the damnation of his.

“We will see who is most devout to ruin.”

[royalight]

................................ Sarah likes everyone... BUT NOT YOU, BARNEYBUNS.

"....You   are   very   rude.        We   are   enemies.               Get   out   of   Cornelia.       You   made   me   cry.        I   hope   you   don't   ever   have   a   good   day.        YOU   ARE   RUDE-    ...."

@thcrmr

[liightbringr]

𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞.

@thcrmr asked: (stolen kiss): sender kisses receiver before a battle, away from prying eyes.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐑 with each passing moment. Preparations made, the plan to move on Origin falling into place slowly but surely. She plays her part && does so with pride. Orders given, orders received; the remaining dominants are to take flight && infiltrate the crystal that hangs so menacingly in the sky. Bred of a being that presses on solely in lieu of their own self-preservation. They do not give salvation. There is no paradise awaiting their followers. The praises that fall from lips fall flat, flutter to naught, under the weight of Ultima's oppression. && she has known this since the beginning. For the eikon that clings taut to her soul is kin to the being they would seek out. The rebel among the collective. A force to be reckoned with. Zodiark, who defected from they who sought only the destruction of this world to better suit their own means. && if she should die on this day to defend the realm, then until her last breath will she fight. For if Ultima overthrows Mythos, then the world will burn by Zodiark's will. To purge it of the existence of all living things including Ultima. A slate wiped clean for the sake of balance. Yet her mind circles back time && time again to her friends, her children, her husband---hands find refuge against the end of the table where her gear lies in waiting. The wood could possibly splinter beneath the influence of her grasp, but not before the whine of the door to her chambers. It brings the cast of gaze over the crest of her shoulder && she drinks deep the features of Waloed's king. && for a moment there is an ounce of frustration that lingers in the backs of her eyes. The way her eyes close && her head hangs thereafter. "..Please do not be angry with me." She's no fool to believe he has made well with the idea of her going off to battle. Moreover a battle that could just as easily steal her away from him permanently. The years have been so unkind. The will of his God && the influence of her eikon barred the way of their togetherness for decades. She remembers so fondly the years they were happy. As if just yesterday, he returned to her from his crusade that liberated Kanver. Where his heart swelled at the sight of her && naught could prevent the king from being with his queen. Or the way he revered her so. Or the way her hands still remember the feeling of his own locked with hers, tangled in love. "Curse me if you must.. but I will do everything in my power to rid the world of Ultima's existence." But he says nothing. No words of ire, no sharp tongue to buffer her claims. He is silent as he watches her. For all her reasons, all her ambition, all of the determination that wills her forward, he merely questions the strength of her will as a whole. He may never truly understand that the very fuel which bids her flame burn brighter starts with him. To see him free && loosed from Ultima's boot. She turns in the coming moment, shaken by his silence. && where her voice might be freed, it is swallowed down by the crash of his lips against hers in this sudden closeness. Strong fingers circled around the wrist of a knotted fist, the other caging against the nape of her neck to hold her in this moment. It is a mixture of uncertainty && anger && frustration && longing. && perhaps something more human. The inklings of humanity that remain, that begin to bloom once more, give unto her the hint of fear. && she yields to his touch. She has longed for it, fought to feel his hands upon her once more not unlike their past. It's as though they're frozen in this moment. All of their inhibitions laid bare && broken && battered.

They are still innately tied to one another. Of mind, body, && soul. Though the years have kept them apart && the divine proclaim forbiddance, they have always been one. && when the kiss finally breaks && wondrous blues peer up to him beneath lashes, they exist in a moment of silence... but only a moment. "...I will come back to you. And there will be nothing to stand between us ever again." Her forehead rests against his chin. "Evermore."