The Sky Is Burning.

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ;   she, the well-molded saint, giggled rather at its execution, like a dove seeing its cage opened.  it was a sign to spread the wings, and what better way to have done so than with a fellow lady in her twenties ?  (  that be, at the expense of expectation to be shattered like a vase and to ignore the mess. )  “ well … there could be something i’d like to ask of you, if i may.  have a cup of tea with me !  it is not often that i encounter the opportunity to converse with someone leisurely. ”

❛ the honor is all mine, lady lunafreya. ❜ a bow followed her statement, though it was a bit hasty in her excitement–––– royal protocol hadn't exactly been a necessity on the road. ❛ if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. ❜

  *  //  𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐊𝐑​ .

Melancholia has cruel tendencies of engendering grief at its worst. While Dáinsleif insists that too much time has past for him to remember his youngest years, he is no stranger of that sentiment. Of times when he did not know any better and this world wasn’t as grotesque. Of times where fantasies of the acceptance of a romance long gone that do not pertain to him— alas, they still seeped through his senses as if they were his own. If only he reminisced any at all. ❝I would not.❞ The pain that emanates from the lunar sacredness before him failed to go unperceived by him. Though his soul would say otherwise, there is naught but sorrow all that comes from reliving the past— the memories. For better or for worse, Dáinsleif is an expert of reliving until shattering himself whole. ❝It is human to desire for something that was better in one’s life.❞ Ah, but the duality that is so palpable in her words pains him to the very core. Pray tell, child of the moon. Were you given a chance to choose, what would it be? Your past of that whom you are meant to be? ❝…Tell me. Would you find any solace if you could pursue any of that which you seek from your past?❞

𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.    it waited patiently to cleave apart those dimensions and detach her from impossibilities.  yet, the waking dreams were unrestrained, and the wish as endless as the slumber of the cold aria moon.  lofty, and mystical, and strange.  she presumed it came with age, old and weathered as she was, a forsaken temple of paled limestone.  while, yes, we can call it all ‘human desire’, which at first it was — regardless, she must have been transcending such, if personal longings and conceptualizations of a wistful god fashioned her to a woman-clutter of contradictions.    “ solace ?  that’s very uncertain.  perchance, it could temporarily numb the sorrow with ‘what if’s’, but are such things not prone to repetition ?  do they not worsen it all ?  you know this better than any other. “    how long did it haunt her to intermingle and blend with other losses ?  where did they end and she begin ?  for how long would she wander both asleep and awake like an avatar, intoxicated by too much lunacy to bear ?    “ whether that which was lost could return to us, or we return to it, eventually we would lose it again.  i might not be strong enough to endure it many more times after piecing myself together.  i am... not like you, dáinsleif. ”

* 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 ?

𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 , 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 // your heart has been torn before, chipped and maybe even shattered. some pieces will never be recovered, and you are shaped by the loss. but it can still be shaped into something tangible, something good, even with its flaws and imperfections. you don’t have to do all the work of rebuilding by yourself. allow other hands to leave their fingerprints on the new heart you create from the remnants.

* 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐎 ?

𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘 // not necessarily to a god, but to hope. to family. in mud you see art. in shadows you see color. if the world fell apart around you, you would start gluing the pieces back together. life tastes bitter but you like the bite. those around you are inspired by your kindness, by your faith, by your hope. you might not speak often, but your words are the loudest in the room. you are rain and its ability to seep into every crack, the promise of new life.

* 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 ?

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐒 // you need to be loved patiently. you need to feel the love slowly creeping in, a warning, a way to back away if you’re too scared. you need to be loved cautiously, as if you’re fragile. you need to be loved gently, because love is messy and muddy and makes your socks wet and hurts if the sun gets too close. but you need to let yourself be loved, because when you do, it’ll feel like spring.

tagged by : @reginrokkr / @oniriqe tagging ( pick whichever quiz you like ) : @asterites ( take this for all your blogs lol ), @asteriskheart ( kairi or aera maybe ? ), @aequitaes ( nero or hank ) , @valorxdrive, @ogaea, @hamadaxfighter, @hopewritten ( maybe colette ? )

" 𝐀𝐇 , 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃. how was your day, sephiroth ? would you indulge me with your tales ? " // @wingedcruelty

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐊 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 ;   neither sincere enough to show teeth or gums, nor sharp enough to paint a scoffing picture, although she did manifest scoff in the one-second frown pinching between her flaxen brows, for between humility and glorification would doubt cast its long shadow.  regrettably, oracles observed the shadows too intimately for comfort, the silhouette of vedrfolnir stretching distortedly wide it became its own line, the line that warned of what happened when you overstepped.  the foreboding signs of degradation, of grace melting off the halo, of aether dripping out of the pores.  it was a sight incomprehensible and eldritch, a premonition so terrible it may as well be sacrilege to spell it out, and each coming day announcing its own uncertainty brought along the crumbling of her own self-control to hold her tongue.

“ and if nothing lasts forever, soon then, i hope, what comes to an end, too, is your bad habit of praising your brother too much, and you, yourself, not enough.  a man can lose grasp of his own humanness if he indulges the spiritual pursuit for too long, and i much prefer an anchor to stay grounded. ”  because the call of the sky for me, my body’s festering desire growing like a tumor, it scares me and no one wants to be scared.  no one wants to be scared of touching something as romanticized as the stars.  “ well, then, if i am not to worry about the subjects i pick for our exchanges, let me ask this :  why are you here, dáinsleif ?  i do not mean here, in this moment, next to me, nevermind that i do enjoy your presence.  i mean why are you in the position you are in, where all you do is look up to someone or something, but not meet them eye to eye ? “  have you not been more than this, once ?

Indeed, what she says is cryptic— ominous even, as it speaks volumes of the knowledge she professes through what couldn't be considered less than an universal truth. For the long living such as them, this may look like the same sights as any other year's whenever the inteyvats bloom for two weeks before they find repose in the abode that is the stellar graveyard at their roots. Dáinsleif shakes his head slightly, meant to reassure and put the oracle's mind at ease. ◜Worry not. I may not be as profound as my brother is in the realm of spirituality, but I find truth in your words, nonetheless.◞ That's right, for he is far more detached than Vedrfolnir would be as the Visionary. Being a vessel for visions of the future to come to the present can do as much to a man, he can only hope that the sights he has of times to come aren't horrifying nor paralyzing enough to interfere in his daily life now. Only realizing now that he was back at admiring his older brother's prodigy and the traits he had gained from it thereafter, Twilight Sword proceeds to clear his throat awkwardly. ◜When you talked about the unchanging nature of a scenery for the long living, I mean. The ephemerality of these moments serve as a reminder that all must come to an end one day.◞

The Burmese Harp (1956) dir. Kon Ichikawa.

now that i could reflect on the game's contents here is a ff16 verse. these points are not entirely spoiler free. some built on information taken from the archive, still is going to be tagged as spoilers so read with caution.

members of the fleuret family have their origins in the 'motes of light', the ancestors of most of sanbreque's nobility into which bahamut's dominants tend to be born. few descendants of these peoples migrated out of sanbreque's ever expanding borders and settled in a far eastern part of the northern territories, first given the name 'maniheim' and later simply called 'the dark land', now only separated from sanbreque and its capitol oriflamme by a large lake. though their blood mixed with other lines during the ages, the fleurets still have a high affinity with light magic and bahamut, which is why a lot of their noble blood has ties with the imperial family as both nations fostered an alliance in the past. blessed with divination and a connection with celestial bodies, some of them would even be sent to the empire to become highly valued astrologers to the ruling head and enjoy privileges no bearer could ever imagine.

due to the blight spreading after the collapse of drake's eye, the people had to flee and intermingle with sanbreque's society once more in the last seven to eight decades. while a large portion of the populous was lost, some others established small communities. the fleuret family however, became a controversial noble complex and political tools, ever exploited in exchange for the empire's 'hospitality', exposing biases and double standards in comparison to the treatment of common born bearers. basically, they are useful 'guests'.

similar to eikons manifesting in dominants, some of which already occurred before the downfall of the ancient civilization ( one example being shiva ), so would the power of celestial objects manifest in generations of the fleuret line and their nocturnal oracles, this includes the sun, the moon, and specific stellar constellations, eventually to be associated with deities. it is through this awakening that the myth of metia as a messenger to the heavens takes its roots, and that the moon, embodied by a lunar oracle, answers the prayers metia would bring her.

while lunafreya practices divination, so was she also born a talented medic to sylva, who under mysterious circumstances passed away, yet, the excessive use of that blessing wears on her body. her brother ravus, having joined the military of sanbreque's knights, hoped to ensure the semi-protected position of lunafreya and their sister stella within the empire, nevertheless, with sylvestre's growing greed, even she could not be spared to become an instrument for his wars, likely separating the siblings.

personally i would like her to reach beyond her 20's for once, thusly be around clive's age, and won't meet her end at least until after the second time-skip, if arguably so.

since luna so deeply enjoys gardening, she may or may not nurture an aether-blue variation of the otherwise white or lilac wyvern-tail, right next to a small chapel dedicated to greagor, where she treats the ailments of the poor whenever she is able.

affiliation wise, she is mostly neutral, but would find herself supportive of dion's revolt. for the emperor and the empress she feels nothing but cold indifference. to clive and his party she will potentially be The Cryptic NPC.

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i can only

Aphelion • Jesper Kyd feat. Melissa Kaplan