@manebloom // Starter Call!

@manebloom // starter call!

School was out. the evening light drifting in through the windows, golden and light and catching dusts shadows. They would've been home by now, on a normal day. Extracurricular activities weren't their style, but still they found themselves assigned to her class. a choice made during one of the cold spells where it wasn't them but it still left the expectations on their shoulders to carry out commands even when freedom had been relinquished. ━ regardless, they were here, and class was out, and still they lingered, just a little longer.

But where they went, trouble followed, and they really hadn't meant to break anything. ━ a moment alone, something occupied in the hallway leaving them as the only one in the room, a curiosity with the ukulele Dandelion so often carries ━━ Kris wasn't good with most instruments, only piano as something they could lend their hands to, but Dandelion could make the stringed acoustic sing, and maybe part of them wondered how it felt; how keys were so different than strings, how vibration can make wood come alive, seeing her passion in it, seeing her heart in it, maybe they could learn━━

snap. like a black cat crossing paths, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors; all they ever carried was bad luck.

they freeze when they're caught, hand still gentle but almost strangling in this light on the neck of the ukulele as a broken nylon string flails helplessly and curled, the murderer; dead silent, unreadable. ( startled, rabbit caught in snare; they really didn't mean to... )

@aethergate // starter call!

The walls felt thin, bleeding him out, bleeding it in.

━ this is how it always felt, since he was fast; too fast; and the bars came down, in the spinning dark. A carnival of something and the something else, lines dug in the world, platforms emerging from the oily depth, the static, the━

dare not speak a devils name. ( were they the devil? he can't remember. a concept foreign, lost to him, lost to the world; too. )

the sound, however, is familiar. the shimmer-shatter of noise breaking, colliding, of realities asunder. the Knight made the same. a thousand terrible calls, an orchestra, o apocalypse...

perhaps the same. perhaps not. but the guest, the guest was free. freer than them. unbound, unbound, unravelled. stitch by stitch, they did not belong, did they? perhaps he was nary the person to ask of belonging at all, a past weighted upon his haunches, half-gone. envy did not rise to meet the lonely jester at the other's freedom, only inquiry, only a swishing tail, only a smile. to be so free, they've learned, is to be alone. how terrible, terrible! a fate they've both met, he must imagine. how unconquerable for the other, he imagines as well.

a spine bends back, up, ears pinned backwards and bright needle-felt eyes zero in like pinpricks. Darkness made them wide and lantern-like, before excitement made them thin again; like the blinking of a light, like the eyes of a beast; how curious it was, it was, indeed!

" OH WHO, WHO, DOES THIS DARKNESS BRING? " a voice like bells, crunched metal, something worn and still ringing; viscerally unlike the world the Other came from. laughter, the head tilts, the neck soft. " A LIGHTNER? A DARKNER? NAY, YOU ARE NEITHER. OH, LONESOME THING, WHAT INDEED DOES THIS DARKNESS BRING? "

all this love with nowhere to go

<- evidence

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@mobiues // loki & mobius!

Loki tries to wrench his arm free, and the contact feels like a fire against the skin to him. But resisting it feels worse.

The way hot is cold and cold is hot, and something in them is burning up. The shiver-shake-speed up of being wounded, of being pinned down. — not a pin, just a snare — no, a cradle. not hare stuck in bramble, not salmon caught in web, not a preyish thing being caught in the maw of something bigger than him, he and his many arms, he and his many snares. It isn’t the same. He has to remember that.

Remembering is difficult in a place with no time. Remembering is difficult when he reaches up, compulsive, to drag his fingers over his neck to see if there's still a collar there. — like a misbehaving hound you pushed back in the kennel until they learned not to bite. like teaching the hard way, the way they were raised, the way of hard lessons and hard wars and hard laws to live by but they had to live by them; decisions already made. decisions they had to keep making.

Reality. Breathe, lungs burning, focus or it'll get you killed. Loki looks to Mobius, coming back to the right-here right-now and the angle of which the skin frames his eyes make him look a little more harsh than maybe he intends. The look of a man who’s been through this before. The look of a man who’d kill you not to go through it again. — but you already know what he’s gone through, a thousand different iterations, a thousand different wounds; you’ve watched him die, Mobius, and he knows it. The wicker frame of his scarecrow body only proves you right, only does so much.

He was never much of a fighter, and even if he was, it’s never enough in the TVA.

“ Let me go. “ the words bite out of him before anything he meant to say can overtake them, like that dog in that kennel. the God continues, composure humming back into him like remembering who you are after a bad dream. He wasn’t going to wake up, but he’s gotten good at thinking on his feet. “ I will handle this later. The longer we wait the more we waste— “ he hisses a breath through his teeth, maybe irritation, maybe pain. Mobius is the expert, isn’t he? Too bad he wasn’t the doctor, too.

“ —I know you and your merry men don’t exactly have time-keeping beyond keeping time, but surely, you understand the urgency I am impressing upon you, yes? “ Loki tries to stray, and the burning only thickens, a lesson they have to learn the hard way.

( Even through the unspoken determination of ‘I’ll drag you if I must’, the way it is sometimes a test of will against the divine to hold them and to keep them at all. He lived into his act of the snake very well, didn’t he? )