#tsenpha

[lampea-by-lamplight]

like a moth to light

“stop that.”

“stop what?”

irritation darkens his eyes, turns them the colour of malachite instead of spring leaves, and makes his shoulders tense in a way that can’t be comfortable - she’s half tempted to offer to draw him a bath or give him a massage or something - as he glances pointedly at her lips. “that.”

that, it turns out, is her habit of biting her bottom lip in thought - a habit he’s well aware of, considering just how much thinking they need to do in their line of work, so she doesn’t actually know what the issue is this time - and, honestly, who could blame her for being too deep in thought to clock on immediately?

lust’s perfume just has so many applications in potions that it’s kind of funny how it’s named for the spirit of lust and not one of its many uses, like how it can be used to create a potion capable of relaxing a person to the point they almost die.

reflexively, she bites her lip again. an aggravated groan leaves him, his jaw now also clenched in irritation, as he stands and circles the table to stand over her. his left hand, covered by a leather glove as it always is, is warm against her skin as he cups her face and presses his thumb against the centre of her bottom lip.

she looks up at him, eyes wide, and traces the stoic line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows her fingers almost itch to smooth out, the way his hair is out of place after several hours of staring at schematics and books in frustration.

it is a semi-unfortunate truth that, under the single mindedness and the sarcasm and the pride, fitz is an attractive man.

“it’s like you’re consciously tempting me.” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, fingers absently stroking her jaw line. “but i know you are not so, please, stop.”

her skin is soft, her eyes are bright and clear, and everything about her is so damnably light that a part of him - the parts of him soaked in blood and revenge and possession - aches. a lesser man would forget the dragon fire that seeps through her veins, would forget her wit and her mind, would forget the magic that curls around her like smoke and fog and mist, would forget her rage and her biting tongue and the blood that stains her hands, but he cannot because it is the presence of those traits that makes her brightness even more brilliant.

the smart thing to do, she knows, would be to agree - he would step back, go back to his work, and she would return to hers, and they wouldn’t acknowledge this one tension filled moment ever again, wouldn’t acknowledge his apparent fixation on her lips or how the feeling of his hand on her skin made her shiver.

“make me,” darya says, because sometimes she wants to be stupid (also she kind of wants to see how he’ll react), and nips at his thumb for good measure.

[cheshirequeenwithoutaheart]

hi! Share five fun facts about your favorite oc maybe?

hi! thanks for the ask, sorry it took me... a short while to get to it.

my favourite (i guess, if i was forced to pick one) oc at the moment is called galatea.

shows little to no emotion, ever, out of what she believes to be necessity after a lifetime of people falling in love with her at first sight and being incapable of taking no for an answer, leading to several wars, kidnappings, almost forced marriages and many fallen dynasties.

draws inspiration from several areas: helen of troy, galatea from myth, sirens and vampires, i guess. is sort of an exploration into the ways being born fully adult and then expected to act like it would fuck a person up.

is very sparkly. her blood is gold, her few scars glow gold, her tears are unnaturally glittery, and her hair has streaks of literal silver.

a foodie, eventually, once she starts finding joy in the world once again. also a pretty good cook, but she prefers decorating.

very creative. on the one hand that could be put down to her role as the spirit of sculptures (and all the messiness that entails) but on the other hand her talents extend far beyond sculpting. immortality has to be good for something, i guess.

[abalonetea]

for the fact swap: in tsenpha, i like to give the characters themes! usually this means their group will be themed around something like tarot cards or the seven deadly sins, but sometimes they just have individual themes, as is the case in a group where one character is themed after frankenstein whilst the other is themed after horror movie dolls. sometimes there'll be more than one theme (one set of ocs is themed around the land, sea and sky, as well as the heart, mind and soul)

Okay, but this sounds absolutely killer, and I desperately want to know more about the ones themed after horror movie dolls? Like, that has so beyond caught my interest and sounds like such a cool idea!

Let's see here, a similar fact to swap back!

I'm huge into using the concept fo werewolves to explore other themes. It varies from story to story (I love coming up with new ways to make werewolves different and stand out from each other!) but in Howl, it's most heavily meant to represent the themes of depression and lost childhood!

It's one that I'm super excited to keep playing with too, since it comes out more clearly in the second and third books!

[lampea-by-lamplight]

death always wins

there exists a place where people say death cannot touch you, where so long as you remain under the mountain, you will not cross the glade and enter the garden of death.

in a world where death is so revered, so accepted, there exists those who seek to prevent it, to put it off for another day.

it doesn’t quite work like that for, you see, when a death is predicted by a loulrívon, there is no place they will not go to see that their duty of predicting (and delivering) the end of life and the beginning of death is carried out.

they don’t take kindly to those who attempt to cheat them out of their prize, or those who attempt to play games with them and win; they don’t take kindly to those who run.

and so it goes that a man is fated to die by the appearance of a loulrívon. and so it goes that the man flees beneath the mountain where death is said to be unable to touch you. and so it goes that a loulrívon follows him beneath the mountain to drag him across the glade and into the garden of death herself.

it would have been much easier, much gentler, if he accepted his fate.

for, again you see, the loulrívon who follows him beneath the mountain, who dons a mask beneath a wedding veil to walk through a world where everyone wears a mask, has built a reputation amongst her fellows for being a little too sadistic, a little too cold, a little too ruthless.

the moral of this story, if there must be one, is that when the electric blue lilies bloom and a blonde dressed in white crosses your path, delaying the inevitable is an exercise in futility and how to make your last moments alive and breathing hurt.

[lampea-by-lamplight]

you and your beautiful soul

pretty.

lovely.

gorgeous.

objectively, they’re not wrong. objectively, they’re not bad compliments. objectively, she shouldn’t hate those words and their synonyms as much as she finds she does.

something unpleasant scratches at her ribs, bubbling and snarling and clawing at a prison made of something more than human-

(did she even have a ribcage? or was that just the impression of one she felt beneath her hand? an intrusive thought that wouldn’t leave her head until she peeled off skin and muscle and fat to find that she did, indeed, have bones curling around her lungs.)

-it’s always those kinds of compliments.

a pretty voice.

gorgeous eyes.

a lovely body.

the most beautiful sculpture in the world brought to life and given power beyond that of most mortals, reduced to a prize to be won, reduced to the catalyst of wars and murders and bloodshed-

(-the cause of bloodshed and murders and death-)

-reduced to an object she’d long since stopped being.

it’s always about her looks, always about her body, always about ownership and claiming and being able to say that the most beautiful sculpture in the world belongs to you.

it’s never about who she is. it’s never about her personality or her talents or her interests, never about her love for animals or her loyalty or her sculpting.

it’s always about being prettygorgeousbeautiful like she’s nothing else.

she’s so sick of being fucking pretty.

who fucking cares.

who gives a fuck.

why won’t they leave her alone?!

[lampea-by-lamplight]

and it's off with your head!

being beheaded is an out of body experience.

if she was actually capable of moving her mouth, she might have laughed.

as it stands, she just-

watches.

watches her fingers start to twitch, watches her hands move to push her body up off the ground, watches her eyes blink open and silently watch her headless self feel its way towards the missing piece.

there is so much blood.

i am so burning that dress when i’m able, she muses. one of the works of the “greatest seamster ever” be fucked.

a spirit cannot die.

well.

unless they wish it so.

a spirit cannot die.

but a spirit might be scarred.

(a ribbon tied around her neck. she quips that it’s the only thing tying her head to her body. she is only somewhat joking. what would you do if you knew? what would you do if you saw that scar?)

[lampea-by-lamplight]

for the sun and the moon

the sun is warm. the sun shines on everyone, eventually, no matter where they are.

the sun is gold. a shimmery disk reflects off the lake’s surface; glittering light reflects off coins the same colour.

the sun scorches. crops set ablaze, wells made to go bone dry, skin burnt and red and sore.

the moon is cool. the moon watches everyone, eventually, no matter where they are.

the moon is silver. a glowing disk surrounded by the twinkling constellations; glowing light reflected on waves.

the moon calms. pale light illuminates the darkness, dreams kept safe and sound, the shadows soften.

warm, cool.

gold, silver.

scorching, calming.

(she is neither spirit of moon nor sun, neither spirit of silver nor gold, neither spirit of fire nor water, and yet the spirit of sculptures shines like and reflects both the light of the golden sun and the glow of the silver moon.)

[lampea-by-lamplight]

even if we can't find heaven

looking out of his window and seeing nothing but stars and a shifting darkness will never not be breath-taking, nor will it ever not fill him with a specific kind of trepidation that comes with staring at something ancient and undisputable in its certainty.

there will always be darkness, both of literal and metaphorical sense, just as there will always be light. it’s a lesson he’s found himself learning, since his path intertwined with those of his companions, leading him beyond revenge and bloodshed into a life of adventure onboard a piece of long lost, ancient history that he finds he can’t bear to think about losing - although there is still a fair bit of bloodshed.

not that he’ll ever admit it.

he has already lost one life and almost lost himself as a result. losing another might very well kill him.

his room is enshrouded in shadows, the only points of light being from a single lit candle and the light seeping in through the crack under his door. darkness, or something close to it, has always been something of a comfort, even if it terrified him at the same time.

so, of course, the door cracks open slowly, and the room is illuminated save for the shadow that appears in the doorway. he looks up, a question with a hint of irritation as to what the fuck whoever it was wanted sitting on his tongue, and pauses, swallows down his question.

in big ways (even if he had not known her for long at that point, her hair steadily changing from dark auburn to teal and light green ranks up there on the list of features he feels are important to note) and small ways (her skirts, when she wears them, no longer reach her ankles, which is perhaps the observation he is most irritated with himself for making), darya grönvall has changed over the course of their acquaintance and partnership.

if he thinks about it in strictly business terms, he can ignore the way he can metaphorically feel himself soften on the inside around her, for her.

that does little to change the fact she is standing in the doorway of his room, illuminated only by the softly glowing lightstones out in the hallway and the singular lit candle on his workbench, looking so delicate that it belies the fact she’s one of the strongest people he’s ever known, mentally and physically and magically. his hand flexes, the worn leather of his glove creaking slightly.

a singular questioning arch of an eyebrow is enough to prompt her to shrug, an easy kind of wordless communication he has only observed when she interacts with her brother, and step further into his room.

“can i sleep in here?” is an odd question, perhaps, but not completely unexpected when the person asking is darya.

spend three thousand years asleep with another person beside you, then another several months with only each other to rely on, and see how you fare trying to sleep without some form of companionship.

“floros and osian are… indulging in each other,” her nose scrunches up as she begins to answer the unasked question of ‘why’ she wants to sleep in his room, “tabi sleeps as a big cat and has a penchant for kicking, and dorothea is a ghost.”

a very friendly ghost, a member of the weird little family they’ve formed, but the fact remains she physically can’t offer what darya seeks.

he glances at the bed she wishes to borrow, undisturbed since he made it that morning, and nods. “go ahead, i’m hardly using it,” a single gesture to the cluttered workbench in front of him makes her laugh, even as she shakes her head disapprovingly.

gently, she pushes the door closed behind her and the room is once more engulfed in shadows - he’ll have to light a new candle soon. he watches her carefully cross the room and climb into the bed, pointedly ignoring the satisfaction that blooms at the sight of her in his bed.

he turns back to his latest project, his concentration… not broken, but affected by the weight of her gaze on his frame as she watches. usually, and by that he means always, he has hated the feeling of someone staring at him as he worked, their eyes pressing and piercing and irritating, but with darya…

darya, he finds, is the singular exception.

the faint sounds of her shuffling into a comfortable position cease, the weight of her gaze fades, and her breathing evens out. he allows himself a single glance over his shoulder, and sighs when he sees that she’s fallen asleep without pulling the quilt over her.

he’s pushing himself up off his stool and crossing the room before he can think about it. his footsteps soften and slow, careful not to disturb her, as he draws near. he maintains that softness and slowness as he tucks the patchwork fabric around her.

her face scrunches up briefly before smoothing over, and he sighs. in sleep, her face is light in a way that isn’t absent, when she’s awake, but when she dreams it is far more pronounced.

his thumb brushes against her cheekbone and he presses a kiss to her brow before he can stop himself, keeping both touches as featherlight as possible. she came to him for a place to sleep, to take comfort in the physical presence of another being, and if someone as bright as her seeks comfort in the shadows he takes comfort in with him, then he cannot deny her that.

he cannot deny her anything.

(and, unbeknownst to him, she is the same.)

.~.~.~.~.~.

she blinks awake, sleep leaving her vision slightly hazy, and considers the warmth she feels against her shoulder and around her waist. floros would be the obvious suspect, but the fact the source is both slimmer and taller, if the vague shape towards the end of the bed that looks like feet is anything to go by, discounts him.

besides, he said he would be spending the night with osian doing… things that she never wishes to see or discuss with the closest thing she has to blood family if she wants to be able to look osian in the eye without wanting to deck him any more than usual. some things a sister just isn’t meant to know.

that, of course, begs the question of who she decided to spend the night with, seeing as her usual cuddle buddy was otherwise occupied, but the sleepy haze is starting to fade from her eyes, and she recognises the quilt tucked over her.

she made it, after all.

sure enough, when she turns her head to the right, she finds fitz crashed out on his side and fast asleep. his glasses are on the bedside table, which she considers a good thing considering his habit of falling asleep with them on.

in sleep, and nowhere else, fitz looks peaceful, content, innocent even. his jaw is relaxed, his brow unfurrowed and his breathing is even, soft against the skin of her neck.

she shivers.

in his sleep deprived state, darya figures, fitz must have forgotten that she was already in his bed and passed out before the realisation could dawn on him. his arm being thrown over her waist must have simply been him sprawling out in bed, or maybe seeking out the nearest source of warmth; she doesn’t dislike it.

a single glance out of the window tells her that whilst it is morning, it’s too early to be getting up. a glance at one of the many clocks fitz has tinkered with and scattered across the ship tells her the same thing.

she sighs and settles back down, her body angled just enough that she looks at fitz’s face without straining her neck or disturbing his arm.

if all mornings, she thinks, could be like this, just the two of us in each other’s arms without the weight of the world against us, then i would live quite happily.

she blinks. the haze of sleep beckons her back into its fold and, lulled by warmth and comfortability, she slowly follows.

and it is in this half-asleep state, that she doesn’t hesitate the brush the softest of kisses against fitz’s forehead.

let the implications of that be a problem for later; just let the two of them rest now.

[lampea-by-lamplight]

rip my hair, tear my soul

one hundred years is a long time to play scared, although an argument could be made that it’s just a fraction of her potential life, and she finds herself so very bored with it all. there’s only so long she can act scared and weak and pathetic at the sight of the fae that rule her current location (prison isn’t a word that fits because, just as she’s stuck here with them, they’re stuck here with her) before she snaps.

it’s cute they think they’ve had anything to do with her apparent break, as if she wasn’t always like this, as if she wasn’t kidnapped in the middle of a job that required a certain amount of ruthlessness, a certain amount of callousness, a certain amount of disregard for any life not hers so long as it got her the gold she wanted (and no, she isn’t mad about the stolen payment, why would you ever think that?). 

it’s cute they think she’ll happily go right back to playing the punching bag and the victim and whatever other term you could use to describe her apparent status as a prisoner of the fae, like she didn’t just steal a guard’s sword and indulge her inner surgeon with his body. 

such a shame his daddy was so far from her reach, but she happily took her revenge out on his son instead. maybe he should’ve been better at his job if he didn’t want to bury his kin in pieces and scraps that should’ve been him.

there’s something thrilling and cute and definitely twisted, although what does she care about twisted, about the rush of power that comes from dropping the mask, about the rush of power from watching them realise just what kind of beast they brought into their house.

there’s something equally twisted in the fact the lord of the court takes one look at the brutalized body of a guard, one look at her soaked in blood, one look at her expression as she sneers and stabs another fae for good measure, and their expression darkens not with rage or hatred, but with interest and desire, like they want to crack open her skull and examine her brain, like they want to fuck her despite the blood that coats her skin and the walls.

like courts like, after all, and they are far more alike than anyone realised.

[lampea-by-lamplight]

orion 2: “look! i’m alastair! i’d rather be anywhere but here! i’m all about long sullen silences, followed by mean comments, followed by more silences!” so what’s it gonna be, huh? long silence or mean comment? go on.

alastair: …you got me in a box here.

[lampea-by-lamplight]

griffin: we’re like a dynamic duo!

orion: we are not a duo of any kind

griffin: well, you at least can’t deny that there’s two of us.

orion: watch me.

[lampea-by-lamplight]

flannery: assassins are just serial killers who take requests 

hemlock: excuse you, we take commissions

[lampea-by-lamplight]

dracul: here’s the thing though. is it still a murder if i give them a head’s up?

kyria: i’m think that’s called a threat 

[lampea-by-lamplight]

briony: we need to distract these guys

dracul: leave it to me 

dracul: centaurs have six limbs and are therefore insects. discuss. 

orion 1, orion 2 and kyria: *immediately begin arguing*

[lampea-by-lamplight]

orion 1, to orion 2: you were so high you made a 14 page powerpoint on why santa would beat peter pan in a fight

orion 1: and i must say you were very persuasive 

[cheshirequeenwithoutaheart]

5. What are the overall aesthetics of your current WIP?

thanks for the ask

forests illuminated by sunlight, by firelight, by moonlight. glowing figures walking amongst mortals. rain hitting leaves. overgrown gardens of wildflowers and roses. the distant sound of a wolf's howl. the sound of twigs breaking. blood on snow. the creak of a ship. the splintering of ice. dice hitting the table. the sound of laughter and drinking. singers and dancers performing. a fleeting glimpse of a glowing blue deer. a three eyed raven there and gone again. a golden dove shining in the sunlight. the cackle of a fox wearing bangles and earrings. the steady gaze of a blood coloured shark. the feeling of being held by someone long gone.