ooc: Seeing as I can only really get to one large thread per day on the weekday due to my work schedule, if you are concerned about our thread, I do have a thread tracker that I update daily! If you have replied and I haven’t listed it as “drafted”, it’s probably because I have not seen it pop up on my activity feed— so let me know. Also, please tell me if you’ve dropped a thread with me :I Don’t worry I won’t bite tbh.

; apocalyptic aria



Prima ballerina assoluta, she manœuvres the firmament with sans pareil comeliness, inveigling dexterity, mid-air acrobatics retaining an extraterrestrial elegance, oozing fluidity pertinent to the transitioning of lissome limbs, lustrous cyclamen tresses spilling against the backdrop of a carmine sky with a demoniac glamour all too tempting to merely observe, indeed, there is something wholly erotic about this bewitching succubus when she partakes in instinctual retaliation, ruthlessly cruel and gung-ho impulsive, forsaking all sanctity of forethought and embarking upon warpaths fiery and overrun with fracases to ensure the safety of her comrades, annihilation automatic, morality slain, the detritus of such rectitude skewered within the deepest recesses of her mind, especially when she recalls that she must protect Genesis, whom of which she left behind for what she thought to bein the interima logical approach to this planetary foray, an onset she simply could not elaborate on succinctly, nonetheless in a manner he could hope to grasp, howbeit by placing Spectra’s attention en bloc upon herself, she hypothesized that no harm would come to him, nor the individuals of Gaæ absolutely terrified, and that as long as she teleported the technological ruins and smithereens of the astrological ships back into the solar system ere them marring the lands with their extreme, cumbersome weight, all would be well and he would have nothing to fret about.

Dismally, she overestimated her currently ailing stamina ( Did she ever have it in mind to begin with? She cannot discern betwixt rationality and savagery when fixated upon a goal, and although not frothing wrathful, she is certainly piqued enough to discard sensibility for her whilom military’s expeditious and horrific end ).

Spatiokinesis ( her prodigious domination over the phenomenæ of space ) utilized in conjunction with ionikinesis ( the fourth state of matter, astrophysical plasma, gas so blisteringly hot its constituent atoms are split up into electrons and ions )—calling forth the liquidating intensities of collapsing stars and corybantic hypernovæ and condensing the gamma radiation within the palms of her hands to spontaneously release the verve upon battle crafts the size of nigh continentsis a colossal amount of thaumaturgy seething from her body and palpitating against the backdrop of these Celestial Beings’ prematurely-clipped lives, convoluted with the fact that she has to use her chronokinesis to perspicaciously evade that of nefarious artillery, detonations crashing against the enfilading of her own lethiferous salvos of unadulterated plasmatic energy emulating brusque bursts of the sun’s very surface, and it is only by virtue of not being able to multitask ( paying utmost attention to several things at once ) that she has resorted to slowing down her perception of time to become competent against this unscrupulous scrimmage to the death ❛tween her and over twenty ships full of thousands of Spectrians prepared to take her back to their planet or dispose of her in the process, which is why they’re so fixated on stopping her, on ceasing her advancement, of stunting her encroachment, her feral onslaught on their cosmogonical vessels; they cannot come back empty handed or their Leader would be infuriated, that she understands but she absolutely will not go back to serving dross pell-mell, not after what they did to her, not after the manner in which they treated her late comrades. Had Leyiko, Nina and the others still have been present, fighting imperturbable alongside her obediently, bereft of consternation, guiding the swiftness of her heels and providing succor wherein its needed, this would be easier—If her squadron were still alive, Spectra would have retreated by now or would have been neutralized as soon as they decided to do something as insolent as this. To sightseers and bystanders, this is all but an extraordinary light show, a pyrotechnic display of fire flowers and Kraft Salutes and Roman Candles, illuminations a sinistré juxtaposition to mangled and gruesomely half-there carcasses falling from the sky and erupting in an effluvium of broken bones and partly-incinerated organs plopping upon undeserving soil, carrion shrieking against the terrene while the corpses wear their disgusting last expressions, arms contorted, ripped off, flung considerable distances away from the centre of the confrontation; grievously she’ll have to clean up the bodies of these Celestial Beings when this is all over, she can’t leave a trace of anything behind. 

What apologies can be imparted with to expiate for this dolorous occurrence, for leaving Genesis within the crosshairs, for miscalculating Spectra’s firepower, why would she presume she could handle this by herself when this was an impromptu assault she had no time to prepare for, and in the midst of it all she’s growing increasingly irate at her misreckoning, mayhaps ready to ask him for assistance if he’s not too busy being bludgeoned by tumbling corpus delicti, and in shifting smaragdine irises back towards the terra firma ( for she can incontestably see him and the wreckage of ship remains and the bodies strewn across the lands with preternatural clarity despite being so high up in the stratosphere ), her concentration breaks and five normal-sized bullets tipped with a sedative concoction RIP through her left arm in a uniform pattern, right atop one another and sending her limbin a jerky reaction—shifting behind her, albeit still attached, unfortunately spewing sanguine fluid from fresh wounds and flesh flapping against the zephyr. Normally she is resistant to every outré substance injected into her body regardless of the source or strain, but Spectrian scientists have made contrivances specially made for her; she is forthwith drowsy but immediately snaps out of her induced stupor, assisted by another worldly impediment, in behalf of something bleeding holy, of the planet shifting sideways for her in perception and she firmly plants the heels of her stilettos back ( securely ) upon the air she stands upon, continuing to defy gravity as she will.    

—What the fuck is that—?!

And she is blasé, hurriedly pressing the tips of nuclear conflagrant fingers against her wounds and cauterising them, scrutinizing the blinding beam of de trop, virid luminescence that triggers abhorrent sensations and remembrance within her, even Spectra’s buoyant battalion deterring from their aerial assault to observe such immaculate brilliance, luster that subsequently nauseates her, makes it increasingly harder for her to breathe, the altitude having nought to do with this aberrant form of asphyxiation; at the cost of additional endurance, she invokes Atropa’s sortilège ( a technique she is certain she can control ) to inwardly enshroud herself in darkness, establishing indefatigability pertinent to this angelic fourberie, faultless magic that she is cognizant she has encountered ere under familiar pretenses, although more recalcitrant in nature. Brutal predisposition labels the presaging column a threat soon thereafter its emergence, lower lid twitching as she endeavorsfor a few millisecondsto decide whether or not it is something crafted from Spectra’s hands ( an additional nuisance to cause sempiternal amounts of further damage to Gæa ), however those thoughts are swiftly disposed of when she assumes the beam is coming from the ground, where that oaf resides along with everyone else; even her aversion to sacred substances is disregarded at the expense of saving everyone from everything she can, although she knows Spectra isn’t aware of any of her weaknesses ( thanks to Hiroyuki ) and wouldn’t deliberately seek out something of holy origin to subdue her, to whichwithout turning her headshe swings her left arm behind her back and fires a concentrated beam of dark matter through another ship, the impending eruption popping her eardrums and causing her hair to tumultuously whip forward with violent aplomb. She doesn’t have enough energy to teleport the resulting rubbish away, and hopes that nothing particularly important resides where it will choose to situate itself, being thousands of tons heavy.

Aggrandized reflexes kicking in, she teleports herself from where she was standing to narrowly avoid the ship the aforementioned squadron of Celestial Beings abandoned, which is now hurdling down towards the newfangled thing that popped up suddenly, nose-diving in its direction, seeking to kamikaze the rouge entity and to remove it completely from this operation, and if Spectra is placing its focus on it, it must not belong to them and, therefore, she suspires wistfully, raising her hands up to her mouth and utilizing her acoustikinesis to manipulate the volume of her voice, amplifying mezzo-soprano tessitura to where it can definitely hear her ( perchance it can understand normal speech; she is almost daunted by its size ).

Kick all of their asses! Their ships are highly flammable! If you can eat them, that’s even BETTER!  Oh, and she’s almost forgotten the most important thing.

I am not your enemy—I think.

❛I hope, don’t make this harder for me.


     The heedless wanderer breathless takes— 
     his way in haste beyond the mountains!

     There were none upon this entire earth that could turn a blind eye to what governs the skies against these incalculable numbers of dahlia-steeped vessels. A fire-lord that now epitomizes the Planet he stood upon; representing and speaking for it wherein all carried their attention to the fiery tops of a helm that clove the sky in two. At his feet, to which his talons arced themselves like colossal wonders of silvery architecture over whatever open plains lay beneath, did wild beasts and their incensed hawkers flee before the burnished vaults that shadowed their game; jeopardizing their hunts ‘neath the judgement of their greatest prey. Aye— He comes as the conveyance of sin, dragging all asunder, potent and powerful above the huddled houses of a fallen nation as dual-embers of brightest ultramarine cast themselves into a fractured firmament; the dielectric stacks of their lambency banishing the shade that niggled the plating about his eyes as the pressure exerted to summon him begins to die down amidst the holy flames of dawn. If one were to take themselves to a distance, to the point that the horizon became a significant mark well-accentuated by the spoor-blood and blotchy bruises of a bleeding sky, they would meet with the breathtaking image of a still war where all its participators were currently interrupted by their own unmistakable rush of awe. Their pauses awaited some trenchant policy to wrack through the fire-breathing deluge that rained down upon an earth that did not deserve a second calamity, but he were not civil in this state. It is enough to have him take the role as the leading combator— his situation at the skirts of thunder-cloud and tempestuous winds granting him the blessing to have all of these blasted, transoceanic vessels within the sanctimonious line of his impeding punishment. 

     He had made a silent oath.
     Genesis, the oath-maker, the original sinner—
     promising no more days of sadness,
     no more days of evil. 
     He were to protect these skies.
     The sands, the seas—

    — and it all begins to screamThe Planet, in all its worldly grief and hurling anger, utilizing his grandiose form as an instrument to relay its remonstrance. Its protests crack untouched spots of the heavens. Bloodletting and howling in wolfish hunger as the day breaks and forking chasms of briery-billows are snapping against the jittery hulls of these invasive charlatans. It all resounds from within his chest. From his lungs currently filled with the breaths and voices not his own; floundering in earnest turmoil as voltaic sparks of molten green beetle and burrow through the circuit boards of celestial intruders. Their integrated ethernets begin to override with messages that expeditiously stack themselves to the point they become indiscernible. Computer networks shutting down, headsets overcome with deafening shrieks of wayward souls, microphones booming monstrous demurrals that briskly join in unison with the chaotic symphonies that blast outward from diminutive microcircuits that embalm their foremasts with information. Megabitts and gigabitts of fleeting screams are barrelling down the halls of airships and filling the minds of the unsuspecting with false thoughts and memories that have their knees crashing against the vibrating planks of their stations while at the mercy of Gaia’s spectral rage. Aye— She holds a deep grip, channelled through Genesis, as he advances towards a charred vale of this battlefield with the encumbering strides of his behemothic form, readying a castigation that would have all their presumptuous hides weeping ‘neath revengeful star-braids and Holy Creed.

    In the instant that he released all of Gaia’s warnings, the holy pillar of light that had been constant in its flow shatters its mast and stands black and riven; now some inanimate bulk of nothing that nigh-brightens the stage in which his immortality stands. To the red tempests that had once ruled the colours of the wretched above— their chains had been pulled, leaving behind a shade of bottomless black akin to the pupils of all seeing things; upgathered and stored in sanguine moons that embellish the armour-plating of his form. Kohana’s boisterous beckons is but a tiny voice against the millions that presently reside in the vast kingdoms of his mind, but to the world’s surprise, he can still regard her — albeit with just a look still foregone — as lavender ringlets of forsaken desire are still a striking memory that keeps his humanity bound. Aye— his comrade is still one loved, unforgotten even in strife, and perchance the Planet, in its own insatiable curiousity of Kohana herself, had acknowledged a place for her in which his protection could be rightfully extended without consequence. 

    This moment, just a millisecond after the last roll of her afflicted yet oddly infatuated verse, would now become one brimming with the consecutive castings of arcane magicks that a whole Planet will whisper. She is a woman more fair against the array of carnage and rot that Gaia wishes to be rid of, and so when he — its prevailing apparatus of defence like a kitted puppet under the influence of a gilded knight — extends his right arm now brilliant with the scarlet raiments that any hero would dream to don, would she be encapsulated by a hyper-enhanced strain of Barrier that coruscates all around her as if she were within the fantastical spheres of a lunar crystal, subsequentially followed by the immediate burst of some watery boon of Shell in hopes to safeguard her from the ultimate admonition that would come. Undoubtedly, she must have put two and two together by now. The sense of pertinence and the red glamour of his cyclopeon guard enough to feature some memorable parts of his more human form as he takes this matter into his own hands.

     The wayfaring, philandering balladist of duty-flame and idyllic voice—
     his eloquence was caged in a monstrous form, but his words were still loud in eye.
     He is flaming bright; the oncoming wreckage is of no concern. 

    It is trash that unanticipatedly stops.Its nose-dive is pointed against a rounding creation of flashing gold that paints a clock afore tusked maw, a spell - Stop - uttered as if at the spur of the moment as the wandering reveller is engulfed by the weather’s inclemency. He becomes the usurer now. The keeper, the conductor, the divine executioner— whom gathers the energy of the lifestream until his limbs are trembling in the hoarded rings of his haul, the painful notes of the water’s lament dying down to a silence that defied its lowest levels, scowling and unflinching in its call. From Kohana’s position, the calmness was all too unnatural. No further questions were given by the howling wind, nor did the seas far below wave and whirl with cryptic reports written in their conversing tides. It were deathly; deathly until her vision would be smothered by blinding beams that released themselves with no noise, but from beyond her safe haven, the ships in the wake of his purgatorial wave would be breaking up and suffering ‘neath the limitless onslaught of death-inducing wails wherein the weakest were surely destined to fall.

     She were spared.
     So luckily spared.


ooc: My mom is finally out of hospital! After 7 days of being stuck in there and me worrying profusely, I’m now able to start relaxing knowing that she is alright and all snugly at home sweet home. I apologize for the wee absence and the delay with responses concerning plotting, but I will slowly get back into my usual routine. But ah, good afternoon!

Track: A Beating Black Wing
Artist: Takeharu Ishimoto
Plays: 77


A Beating Black Wing-Takeharu Ishimoto

ooc: I need to get back to work, so I shall be off. I’ve got a lot of multi-para/novella stuff to get to (WHAT’S NEW), but, again, since my mom is still in hospital and work is a butt, slowness is expected. In other news, if any of you guys happen to play Final Fantasy XIV, you can find me on the Ultros server and I’m the spooniest bard ever. Just message for my name and we can be spoony. To new followers: please read my rules! Weekdays are hectic for me yeh.



≼ℋ≽ — “What a modest statement.” A whisper amplified by a casual derision.


     Do you have a problem with honesty, boy?"
He does not whisper. His own disapproval spawning an expression
     of contempt and disdain as thunder wracks up his throat.

     They say it is the best policy.”



▒█ { ღ } — ;;

       “I’d like some proof of that.


     Do you? We could be here all day.

    “It is difficult—
        — being good at everything.”


Jeanne Marie Laskas, Fifty Acres and a Poodle


Jeanne Marie Laskas, Fifty Acres and a Poodle


Rydia found her teeth shown through the smile on her face, eager to finally find one that would share her love for the monsters below the surface. She had to wonder how he might react to seeing that there was an entire city just filled with Eidolons of all shapes, colours, powers and sizes. “It has been so long since I have spoken of my Eidolons or of the Whytkins. Nearly twenty years, surely, though summoners are few and far between.” Her hands clasped together, dazzling, coloured reflections sparkling across the dim shades of black that were here irises.


In Rydia’s mind, none could compare to the beauty of the many-armed Queen Asura, or to the might of the Sea King, Leviathan— those whom had acted as her parents… yet Shiva was strong and willing to speak with her, and Bahamut was King of the Moon in the sky. Titan came from below the mantle to rock the earth with a great, quaking roar; Ramuh shot upward with his stave in hand and summoned all the lightning in the world to be at his beck and call; there was not an Eidolon she could ever choose to start with, yet somehow, the words just came.

"One that I am bound to is called Asura; Queen Asura of the Feymarch below the surface. It is a city of Eidolons, for there they take human form. We’re not so different, you see. They teach summoners and offer them their blessing, a few are granted a Mist Dragon when they reach maturity, but…” Rydia’s eyes closed for only a moment, why dampen the mood? She changed the subject quickly, gliding onto another name that may have interested him. “Another is Leviathan, a great sea serpent that can swallow ships whole. Titan, man of sturdy mountains that come from the earth. Phoenix, who’s wings cover the skies and revive the dead… There are many that I call my friends. Many whom I have come to love as my family— it is a hard thing to explain.”


    There are monikers that he knows; 
names that glimmer in the depths of her everlasting love.

   Aye, Leviathan— there were none upon Gaia whom would not know his name. There were shanties once sung along the golden coasts of Mideel, referring to a God whose bones were coral made, whose eyes were colossal pearls of milky swirls in which all was part of some limitless journey into a constant jet of limpid violets, teals and aquas. They had journeyed across the western seas, intoned loftily from the buzzing throats of Wutaian sailors as they exported goods to southern traders that cared little for war’s influence. To a boy at this time, whom was used to the hourly-ring of austral sea-beasts that were incomparable to the written might of Leviathan’s berth, their songs had awakened a new fascination with the inhuman. He had begun to experience a more deeper, vaster, more integral part of himself the more he was swept away by the grandeur that mariners and salts would impart on cloudless morns; constantly beating Angeal’s poor brain with his unsufferable romance with the vasted blue as a result. It were sacramental slaughter that would continue on towards the days they enlisted, further still when he acquired his very first summon. To his dismay, it would never be Leviathan. 

     There was melancholy, malignancy
     The hatred ‘tween their nations had rocked all their tides.

    For once, a malevolent face is awash with the feeble light of intrusiveness, and the fire-earl whom had sat and joyfully made all his catastrophic worldly endeavours known was now a fervent child that felt he had gone too long without speaking of loves that went beyond his more distinguishable obsessions. There is mirth fuelling the forming curves of his lips, roseate and jubilant luxuries vitalizing his scripts and stanzas with sheets of sea-music that could capsize the world if sung loud enough, but he does not trill just yet— he stares and stares, never harshly, at the bowed boons that contained provinces and poetry of celestial realms he did not yet deserve to traverse. 

    “I know of Leviathan and Phoenix, moreso the former. He is revered a God in Wutai, who regaled the nation with his cleansing length and filled their waters with fish. There is no other drake, save for Bahamut, whom could challenge him.” He has evidence for such. The lesser ones cowered before their own lords, and ShinRa’s forces had difficulty navigating the bounding main of his empire whose haul were all servants and piestic forces that rusted their keels and skegs. Thereafter, the rhapsodist laughs, recollecting his own martial experience to which his humour owns no inwardness, the golds and maple-reds of his semblance quaking ‘neath the receding lines of the days progression as his attention returns to that of his own. 

   This opportunity is too good too pass up.

    “This Feymarch— I wonder if one is capable of setting foot into their land? Each and every time I call upon Ifrit or Bahamut, their truer voices are so quiet in comparison to their roars, and there is this greater part of me that wishes to know what they say. Is such a thing possible?”

tagged as #magistrixium
Track: Vstavai piano cover
Artist: Okean Elzy
Plays: 115
Sorry to hear your mother is still in hospital, gen-mun! You should not worry if you are slow during these times and if you need to take a short hiatus, take a short hiatus! Everyone still loves you! xoxo

ooc: Aah— thank you, nonnie. I know I shouldn’t be worrying about this sort of stuff when I’m making myself sick worrying for my mom, but there is news after news and when my plans change it’s difficult to adapt and focus on one thing at a time. Part of me wants to write to unwind, but then another part of me just wants to prepare something for when I go visit her soon. I delete most of my ooc posts anyway, but, I feel bad mentioning it on the dash akjahkas— my problems don’t need to be on there but, thank you. I might consider it, who knows.

tagged as #Anonymous

Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance


Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance