The Weaknesses Of Humans Would Never Seek To Surprise Her. Connection This, Connection That. Tying Themselves

conquestofuriel​:

Time:Post plot drop stuff  Location:Aftermath of the former Asphodel House  Characters: @fxllenpythia & @conquestofuriel

Selene was what they called themselves now. Like Uriel, their sibling took on the essence of the sex of their vessel and it was that femininity which made Uriel see them now as his sister, though his sister had long since stopped being family. She was corrupted and vile, a monster that had to be annihilated. As it was, Uriel was not unwise enough that he would seek to challenge her right then and there on the streets of Rome. He was powerful, but she had created far more power with the help of the Necromonicron and her little coven. This was a battle that he would not be able to initiate on his own, that was why he came to the mortal realm with the other three. But neither did Uriel believe that could she wisely lay a hand on him. So the two Seraphim stood at in impasse when he finally found her looking up at her former home. The place where she’d laid a trap for them.

“You finally show your face… sister.”

The ruins of the once great house lay before her, a kingdom conquered. One menial, hapless kingdom that would simply pave the way for the next. The familiarity that fluttered through her veins told Pythia quickly that she wasn’t alone - that such solitude was once again interrupted by one of her own. Brother. Such was to be expected now that hiding within the centuries no longer suited. Coming into such power with every soul offered to the Necronomicon only one more reason added to the hundreds of thousands that lacquered her intentions in ichor and poison. Onyx hues flicker over her shoulder, clocking the ancient horse-lord seraphim with a look that invoked invite, rather than indifference. Come; look. At the foolishness of their hope - their blind faith. “Were you lot looking in the right places, you’d have found me long ago.” Whether it be this face, or any of those previous. Pythia always existed, just out of reach and never too far away. “You’re all making this far too easy for me, it’s disappointing.”

Alas, Leviathan was only ever where they needed to be at the precise moment necessary, though many could assume it inconvenient, the aspect was forever listening, lying in wait for every opportune moment. As such,, Arakhor's hands warm against her face remained the only thing to somewhat soften features otherwise hardened. However sharp and venomous they remained, slivers of the seraphim - not jaded by betrayal, would always belong to him. "I'd threaten to remove his tongue, but undoubtedly, he'd enjoy it more than I would." She muses, almost entirely to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching to liken a smile, the mild softness she shared with the fey extended so far as to encompass his brother. Her own hand rises, curling around one of Arak's wrists in near comfort, "I thought we'd learned not to allow him so many opportunities to speak." Albeit, amusing, she knew just as well that Enfenim could talk the hooves off of a changeling. "At least you're here now, just in time to see your brethren ally with the Eye of all things," It's almost comical; the threat of the Asphodel would always seemingly force enemies together, but the Eye? The worst of humanity, lording themselves over the creatures they captured - tortured and maimed. It would see more bloodshed, without her ever lifting a finger.

fxllenpythia​:

@arakhor

Another triumph, underlying the return of the fellowship that had set out some time ago. Whispers had sought their way back to her on the wind, through the shadows and in the thick of each soul spilled to the book. Heroes that would stumble upon a broken crown and all the instability that would come with it. It spun its way through her entire being as an ultimate high, she almost missed it. A tremor that worked it’s way into her fingertips and the promise of an oath not sworn in blood or souls, etched within the very celestial bones of what she’d once been, alerted her to something beyond the dissipating stretch of space between her and what she would bring upon this world. Her form filtered into a darkened mist, each speckle of darkness a black hole that emanated how rotten she was to the core, and when her hand slipped over his shoulder, the corporeal form following, she drew him into the heart of the otherworld. The chambers of the Asphodel and the Necronomicon echoing with centuries of silence and distance that never once left a mark upon what existed between them “I knew this lifetime would bring you back to me.”

-

The Soratami had fallen at the hands of Ayi’ig, the drow edged closer and closer to their goal, which did not concern Arakhor, though the fall of his race wasn’t exactly his and his brother’s dream. The eladrin within Rome had suffered another loss, each moment they remained in the mortal realm, they were further and further away from their chance at survival. Many fey wandered the Otherworld still, but they, too, fell victim. Once the blood of the firsts, the beings that could do anything if their song and ability willed it, were now reduced to a handful of Chancellors who had done nothing but hope someone else would step up so they wouldn’t have to. Either way, darkness ran in his blood, it was there since he’d attacked Titania’s warder, since he’d watched the queen banish them instead of kill them – she was weak, unable to strike those down who struck against her. Now, he was free. Free to power his magic with blood, free to find himself in the arms of Leviathan, of the one who had found him. 

“You always seem to disappear when everyone is looking for you,” he joked, recognizing the soul in front of him. Leviathan’s form had changed over the years, they’d picked a feminine one this time, and Arakhor grinned as he took her face in his hands, “We were a bit delayed. You know my brother likes to hear himself talk, so we took the long way to Rome.”

©

Interruption had always irked her - as a general, she’d never tolerated it. As a demonic entity? Even less so. One would think that they’d learnt their lesson, the death she’d dealt to the woman one that barely sparked familiarity among the myriad of bodies and soul’s she’d taken since the previous Halloween. Life within the confines of Rome had not been short of them. Lips left behind the slight imprint of the brazen red lipstick she wore, an exceptionally good iced coffee intruded upon as she strode haphazardly towards the markets.  “Excuse me?” Disdain dripped from her words thick as tar. Paid to kill. The idea of it alone made her seek a blossom of laughter within her chest, and yet, still incredulity stalled her as she looked upon the clearly seething woman. The snap of her finger coiled serpentine attention to the man passing them by and the split second sound drew him to a near statuesque stop. She held out her drink and without a word, his hand rose to take hold of it before she turned back to the woman. 

The look in her eyes had shifted, a murderous abyss calling out from the depth of her pupils. “Who is he? And what makes you believe you’re special enough to need an order to carry out your death?” The corner of her mouth twitched, just. “I remember you, Zoey.” Serpentine features hovered ever nearer, “Weak, little Zoey.” The singsong tone of her voice was harrowing, an eerie whisper upon the wind carried through Rome, “Your death meant nothing, and was for nothing. You were simply there.” It curls venomous around a smile as pointed as fangs themself. “Hardly a waste though, at least now, you have a soul that’s worth something.” At least this, she could feed to the book. “

who? @fxllenpythia​

where? the streets of rome

when? whenever the thread

 with Konstantin ends and Zoey storms off, probably night to make it more dramatic

notes: I love putting Zoey in situations, I truly do

Anger is hard for Zoey to hold, it slips through her fingers as anxiety and self-doubt chip at the hard block that had settled on her chest at Vasiliev’s confession. It is still there, waiting for a moment to strike, but sadness is all encompassing, the devastation a blow to her psyche that she doesn’t know she will recover from. Her death is something she has yet to come to terms with, and the confession that no matter what she had done on the day of the Red Wedding the result would have always been the same? It’s devastating. Zoey hadn’t known the name of the person who had killed her, but now she knew one of them.

Konstantin Vasiliev.

That is the name of one of her killers. Now if she could find out if he had asked one of his friends to finish the job.

She is wandering around Rome, not ready to return to the Mars Palace or to her apartment to face Jamie or Adatiel, when her desires are answered in the most unexpected of ways. Zoey turns a corner, and in the distance sees them. The one that had killed her. In a flash, her anger returns as she stalks closer, her fangs bared in a snarl despite the instinct telling her she is before a predator.

“Did he pay you to kill me?” She hisses, Adrian’s words of how her death was likely a murder echoing on her head. If the Senator is correct, there is only one person who would benefit of her death. The demon that had seen her as disposable. “Did he order you to? Or did you just did him a solid and killed the annoying bitch bothering him for free?”

A sentiment they'd shared for centuries, undoubtedly. Disappointment was not something he ever offered to her and regardless of where the coming days would lead them - Leviathan would never doubt his desire for survival and all that came with it. "Good, when we're successful, we'll bathe in rivers of blood and all those who banished you will suffer their regret, my love." Already, battle regalia sick with crimson, thousands more would bleed and though the taste of it lingered upon her tongue, it was far sweeter when mottled with the taste of him in the kiss she steals, "It'll all be ours, soon enough."

Arakhor's fingers slide along Leviathan's jaw, this form that they'd chosen a worthy one for the time being. He grinned slightly, autumn magic swirling around them, fueled by blood magic and the noble elven blood that used to run through him. Eladrin needed the boost that this dark magic gave them, and as long as he and his brother survived, then all was well. "Of course. There's nothing that I would rather be doing," he grinned, thinking of all the seraphim that would meet death at their hands. If only there were more within Rome, it would've been a worthy cause. Titania had children here that needed to be killed, one a sorry human and one a spawn from a fiend.

"And what exactly would I need your gratitude for?" She spat, teeth bared as Pythia took in the form of the pathetic excuse for a man. The wounded animal, snarling as she came too close as if he'd ever come close to being the prey in this scenario, or any beforehand. Octavian, regardless of his obsessive desire and need for the book, was a fickle being. One that she neither needed, not sought to forget. Tsking lightly as he attempts to move, the sight shift of her fingertips brings about vines, sprawling from the depths of the Necronomanteion to the very tower they exist upon in that moment. "When will you people get it? I don't wish to leash anyone at all," not entirely true - there were certainly more than a handful of creatures she'd see chained by the end of this, "I have given your daughter everything that you never could. I've given them all that nobody else ever could. I don't wish to condemn them to an existence controlled by a bunch of egg-head Neanderthals who believe they know what's best for this.. thing you all consider to be a society." A hand waves in a haphazard gesture to the world beyond and the vines snap around Octavian's wrists, thorns sinking into his flesh, "You held so much promise."

who?: @fxllenpythia where?: he's still on the ground

❂🐦❂

He noticed almost immediately how difficult things were now that he was a man once again. Without his power, the whispers could rise to screams in his mind, still urging him to go find that book. It was so close, yet Octavian was too weak to do much of anything but lie there. He was disconnected from everything but his past, so at the very least the buteo's instincts ingrained into his being kept him alert despite his condition. Still, Octavian realized something as he bled out onto the floor of the Necromanteion: if he could still feel the Necronomicon beckoning him then it really had imprinted on his soul. "If you're wanting to try and make me feel gratitude towards you again, don't. I've forgotten how banal anger can feel without the fire to back it up." Octavian winces as he attempts to sit up but remains on the ground, clutching his abdomen. "Actually, I'm surprised you've found time for me at all. Aren't you supposed to be too busy walking my daughter on a leash?"

camila queiroz via instagram

open to all @senatusstarters

Trinkets. Mere trinkets. The display case of items on offer for the dark arts and blood magic did nothing more than belittle the craft that the most prominent component of her existence revolved around. A dull blade. A crows skull. Undoubtedly, the human behind the counter held onto the idea of a lucky rabbit’s foot or the eye of newt. Lifeless shards of crystal craven beneath her fingertips as she browses mindlessly. “it’s any wonder they make any money here.” Tourism and the naivety of humans however, had proven relentless over and over again. “This is just sea glass,” delicate fingertips scoop up the blue green, jagged rock - smooth edges gone; clearly damaged. “The only thing it’ll bring you is a mouthful of seawater.”

The sickening metallic scent perforated the air and for a brief moment, Pythia considered mottling the sweetness in the air with an ever burning candle as she watched crimson drip from his fingertips. “Tell me everything.” Fingertips extended as she beckoned him over, knowing all too easily that one touch would show her everything he had seen; the blood of the Dahlia witch clinging to all that he had seen within each and every molecule as it fell between cobbled stone and cracked floors of the temple. “We have to ensure it comes to fruition. The longer we wait, the more we have to lose. It’s only a matter of time before they try to drive us out.”

where. necromanteion who. @fxllenpythia​

The blood of the Dahlia had always been so much sweeter, and it still spilled from the initiate’s throat into the stone of the coven home, further fed to the Necronomicon as Bastien stepped from it to Pythia. While the blood still coated the curve of his fingers, despite how it had been drawn across his tongue, the blade had been discarded beside the body of the witch. He would retrieve it later, clean it of its offering and return it to the holster that would ensure its presence for the next one. “You should have seen it,” he mused, delight etched into every curve and crevice of his features. “The way their precious sanctuary rotted away, the way that they cowered so pathetically,” the words resounded with the pure ecstasy that the vision had brought on, while his fingers twitched with the want to pull another one from the three sisters.