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INTRIGUE
Ne manquez pas le second chapitre du deuxième tome de l'intrigue. Plusieurs sujets ont été postés, vous pouvez tous les retrouver dans la partie intrigue.

période sprint rp
Merci à tous pour votre participation à la période de sprint RP. La prochaine arrivera bientôt !

nouveaux dés
De nouveaux dés ont fait leur apparition, pour vous aider à participer dans le grand jeu du pouvoir et de la politique. Toutes les explications se trouvent dans ce sujet.
les petites news

les personnages de GWF

les personnages recherchés



 


le gouvernement
Palier 9
l'ordre écarlate
Palier 7

la confrérie
Palier 6
le cercle
Palier 8

les silences
Palier 4
ad maius bonum
Palier 3

les trinitaires
Palier 6
les veuves
Palier 6

les perles
noires
Palier 5
les épines
rouges
Palier 6

les oubliés
Palier 3
les rossignols
Palier 1

propagée par les Veuves: Alors que de nombreuses personnes ont été empoisonnées à Aureus ces derniers temps, il semblerait que la contamination des eaux ne soit pas une conséquence des manifestations de ce 5 septembre mais provient de la malveillance des Perles, par désir de vengeance suite à la perte d'une part du marché sur la Capitale suite à l'instauration de la république d'Aureus. Des hommes ont été aperçus la nuit, déversant des liquides dans l'eau d'Aureus, à la peau bien trop claire et au regard mauvais.
propagée par les Perles et la population d'Aureus: Il a été raconté par ceux présents sur la scène de crime qu'une rose avec des épines a été trouvée sur le corps d'Alexandre Shelby. Quelques minutes plus tard, à peine, un malheureux homme de main des épines rouges fut trouvé non loin de la maison de l'ancien dirigeant. Il se murmure que les épines rouges seraient à l'origine de cet assassinat, énervé par les contraintes qui leur étaient imposées par le nouveau gouvernement d'Aureus.
propagée par la population de Rezbia: Voilà plusieurs semaines que les apparitions publiques de la reine Nysa Sielle se font rares. Si la famille royale n'a pour l'instant pas offert d'explications à son peuple, cela n'empêche pas certains de spéculer sur la nature de cette absence. On murmure au sein du palais que la reine serait malade, et que c'est pour cette raison qu'on ne la voit quasiment plus sortir de sa chambre et qu'elle ne semble plus s'impliquer dans la vie du royaume. Cette rumeur commence à se répandre comme une traînée de poudre à travers le royaume de Valdierva.
Vous aussi vous voulez propager votre propre rumeur? Alors rendez-vous dans le recensement général pour remplir le champ "rumeurs et informations". Vous pouvez également consulter toutes les rumeurs et informations avérées au sein du registre des informations et rumeurs.


 DRABBLE. (maeren) // here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

 :: CHILLING TIME :: la baraque de cupidon  
— LES PERLES ; those who do business —
LES PERLES ; those who do business
Aaren Na'hash
surface
inside
behind
MESSAGES : 210
AVATAR + © : maverick (dandelion); old money (codesign); vocivus (sign); r-siken.tumblr(profil)
POINTS : 1123
DRABBLE. (maeren) // here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed. Tumblr_pm7rt4UZWb1wenic7o1_640
AGE : vingt quatre années condamnées à ne connaître que l'ombre de leur mépris et se briser les crocs sur leur faste érodé.
STATUT CIVIL : coeur devenu paralytique à force de porter ses chaines,

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RELATIONS:
https://gods-will-fall.forumactif.com/t899-you-were-burned-you-w https://gods-will-fall.forumactif.com/t996-what-s-the-point-of-a Voir le profil de l'utilisateur
DRABBLE. (maeren) // here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed. Empty
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DRABBLE. (maeren) // here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.  |  Lun 4 Nov 2019 - 21:27

[ D R A B B L E ]  // Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
@maeria elric




◈ ◈ ◈

When he meets her for the first time, she's a Queen. Her ebony crown of hair kissed by the favours of the sun. She is young, the kindness of the world still marked upon her frail shoulders. They call her the Queen of the Sky, Lightbringer, the one who keeps the dark away. Some used to describe the fire in her soul as incandescent, believed it to be some remnants of her godlike essence. She is but a child with the world lying at her feet, yet decade after her passing her people keep describing her as the kindest thing that happened to them. Despite himself, along the years, the lines got blurry, the twists and turns of their fate unwinding into one thread always out of reach. But he always remembers her. The sweet constellations nested in her eyes, the way the sky always seemed to be her long-lost home. She is as young as the dawn laying its golden sheerness upon the waters of the Ganges. He’s already old beyond his years, weariness having set in his bones under the sacred care of their Gods. Hands broken from labour, unable to meet the embrace of the sky with the solemnity of his eyes, his skin was too light, his birth was too low. When she comes, the boy isn’t ready. Upon all their years, he would never be. Bloodied by a precedent punishment, he carries something the world couldn’t tame and paid for it with every drop of blood he had. Nothing but a forsaken boy living in the shadows of the market, his hands were birds demanding to taste the freedom of flight. Their meeting was short, nothing but eyes crossing over the dark waters of secrets. When they ask for his head, she pleads with the sky to leave him untouched by the horror of their world for he did nothing but looked at her once. Only for a few seconds, discovering the fields of hope sown in her eyes. However, her sight forever neatly folded in his pocket, he kept her there till his last breath.

Their story was nothing if not written in blood.

The second time their souls meet, he is covered in gold. The depravity of his living marked upon his skin. Nothing ever was too extravagant for the man. Nothing ever gave him any fulfilment and if it weren’t for his name he would have got lost among the forsaken souls of the pantheon and never came back. They loved him for he was half a god. Holy spawn of Aries, they saw nothing in him but a machine made for war. When they make him set sails upon Persia, losing his footprint in the one of Alexander the Great, they expect him to burn bright. But even the sun was doomed to burn itself out eventually. Her face was covered in mud, dirt under her nails. Orphans in a city built upon the bones of her kind, she waited her fate with a cold rationality. When they came, their armours shining in the glow of the torches, she knew her world would never be hers again. When they set fire to her home, when they took her sisters and tore the rags on their backs, she cries and scratches and bites. In this life, she never sets eye on the boy with the winter in his irises and the sun clinging to his olive skin. All he sees is a body and he cannot prevent the sight from tearing apart something inside.
Snapped like a twig, a future made ruins.

They spend lives apart but most often keep on missing each other. In this one the Nile is her kingdom, all she can see belonging to her unfaltering youth. When she was a little girl she used to play in the dirt with the commoners, hide under the tables of the merchants to elude her guards. Something soft is blooming in her chest and her people love her for it. This time around, the memory of bloodshed tattooed upon his eyelids, he is nothing but the used up shell of a man who died many years before his birth. The people of his village are scared of him and he understands. He congratulates them for keeping their distances when his hands shakes so bad he can’t remember anything else but the weight of a blade in his palm. Their paths cross on the side of a dirt road. Him, coming back from endless fields burning under the sun. Her, waiting for her carriage to take her back to the palace. When he sees them, the boy is soon on his knees in front of the kid, thanking the Gods for the good fortune it will bring in his life. Sparing the last of his water and food to the girl meant to rule everything he knew, even the sky, he refuses to look at her even once. Eyes turn downward, the only memory burnt in his mind was the one of her hands handing back his bag. For she was too kind, too bright of a star not to be swallowed by the night sky. Forever worshipped in a withering youth, she went back to the heavens, forever looking upon the boy who'd never meet anything like her again.

He doesn’t talk to her before wishing for Rome to burn. In all its holiness, the city is but a graveyard of souls. His armour drenched in blood, the point of his gladius dull from all the killings, he spends his night drowning in an empty haze. The wine flows everywhere he goes and seems to never stop pouring like blood from a ghastly wound. Nothing but a spoil of war, she is defiantly mute while being prodded and poked at all sides. Around her, they’re laughing and swearing, eating the feast with tarnished hunger while she has to face the one who destroyed her home. For all his glory, the deftness with which his men wiped out her village from the history books, they gave her to him. Later in life, he'll wonder if they didn’t give him to her. For she was a wolf and in all his empty hunger, he never learned how to grow fangs. For her, he would have burnt it all. Had she only asks. If she were able to. Her eyes seem to hold the sky, telling immemorial stories made of truth he never heard of. He speaks to her with a painful candour, knowing she could not understand a thing. He tells her about the blood, the pretty lies and ugly truth. Tell her about those very same eyes he seemed to know better than his own heart. When she slits his throat in the middle of the night, freed from her chains by his own hands after years of shared loneliness, she bathes in his blood to wash away the one of her kind. If they throw her body in a mass grave by the morning, she does not regret a thing.

The first time she remembers him, he's a scholar sent to war in the name of some innocent ideals. They meet before she gets in Oxford University, the softness in his eyes reminding her of nights coloured in embers. Woman at the picket line of her freedom, she defiantly faces the little deaths of the soul. Ignoring his shy attempts at courting her for she belongs solely to herself. At a loss for words, he starts writing her pamphlet of poetry in an ink akin to blood. The crimson red of his loopy words awakening in her the memory of untimely fates. What a bittersweet knowledge was the one he gave her in his cursive. For anything written about them had always been soaked in the blood of one of them. When he tells her he is to be sent to the French trenches against his doctor's order, she hit him so hard she believe for a second he'll have to hold forever the mark of her palm against his cheek. She never meant to hurt him, only knock some sense into his thick skull. Giving in to the feeling, to that familiarity born of a lifetime shared in a common despair, she clutches to him for dear life when he talks about the nobility of war. She remembers it all. Remembers the blood, the fear sitting deep in her guts and the cold settling in the soul once confronted with the ugliness of mortality. She remembers the rain soaking the dirt in something other than scarlet horror, the smell of bodies left to rot cause no one truly ever won against death. Despite knowing, she refuses to tell him. Refuses to put upon his shoulders a weight that would make him falter and crumbles when he still had spring in his steps. He goes and for a minute she thinks he will never come back for they were lovers torn asunder. Meant to cross paths like stars in the sky but unable to ever hold on to each other. He comes back. Changed. Nothing but the shell of whom he used to be. No poetry leaks from his words anymore, only blood from the wound of his soul, his eyes unable to bear the beauty of the world. This time, when he leaves, she leaves with him. Sent to France, she nurses back to health German soldiers, as often as allies. In the belly of the beast, she finds the seeds of forgiveness. She learns to let go of the guilt held over her head from forever ago. When, back to England, she receives a phone call on the day of their wedding, something in her knew what had happened before she picks up the phone. Knew the world could not bear to see them win, to see them live despite all that was meant to kill them.
She names her first born after him. She names every star in the sky after him.
But he never came back from Louvencourt.

The cold is his long-lost home, the shame covering his shoulders a shroud he bears with selfless abandonment. His father betrayed their motherland and Russia was nothing if not unforgiving like her winters. They send him to the south as some ambassadors. Forever indebted to his homeland but forever exiled far away from home. He's just a mark to her, a way to earn some prestige and help her nation in the great schemes of things. Dancing in one of those smoky bars, she knows the moment his eyes land on her. But the boy is a harder catch than she thought. He comes every night but never leave with anyone. Blends in with the crowd but never let his irises caress forbidden territories. She knows he's waiting for some instruction, but the intel never comes. Restless, she creates her own luck, falling in his lap with a clumsiness close to her own. The only thing she can think of, lost in the depth of his eyes, is the way her hands could wrap around his throat. How they had done it so easily in the past. His hands kept to himself, he says nothing when she gets back on her feet. Says nothing when she drags him to the back alley. He barely moves when their lips crashes in a clash of teeth and fury, when he tastes the sweetness of the alcohol rolling off her tongue. When he feels her finger slash his sides, he welcomes the wound. Feeding on the tender flesh at the base of her neck, he’s left with the aftertaste of war won and love lost. The feeling of sand burning his skin, the warmth of blood flooding from his throat. When they’re left with nothing but the aftermath of mangled beauty, the morning after, only then he tells her "I know you used me."

They know each other since birth. And they know there is something holy in the way their name falls from the other's lips. She is the only one who calls him Ren, the only one who can calm him down when the nightmares become too much to bear. He's the only one who can give her absurd nicknames and soothe the panic attack away when they rise like waves or winds tearing the sky. At her wedding, he's the one taking her to the altar. Her own family nothing but ghost taken by the water forever ago. And she looks at him, only him, waiting for him to take her away from the cold claws of fate. Waiting for him to say something that would undo the knot in her chest. When he kisses her cheeks and whispers "You are beautiful" in her ear, she doesn't cry from joy.
But he knows how their story goes. He knows the world is hungry for blood and how they never won.

She barely remembers him, yet he is in everything she ever wrote. Her voice raw from singing every night, she's holding on by a thread when she meets him. The members of her crew joked about him being a stowaway brought in by the tide. A smile like a half-moon on the face, he was a beautiful wanderer fallen from grace. In her life, he’s nothing but a shadow. Each time he tie the loose ends of his history, he tells a crazier tale than the last for there was no crazier story than his own. Enthralled by the roadie, she founds herself spending more and more time with the man, unable to know what it is about him that make her unable to look away. He plays her songs, sing to her sometimes and something in his chest seems to be beating at the same rhythm as the little beast in hers. She talks to him about her dreams, the fall of an empire, a girl in India akin to a goddess, the sight of a Viking tearing her from the streets of her home. She talks about the sky and the sky she seems to find in his chest. This time around she misses all the signs. The tremor in his hands, the mist upon his eyes or how he would get scared whenever she tries to touch him. How despite unbearable weather she never sees him without a jumper, or the way he shuts down when she asks about the scars. She's twenty-seven and the world holds its breath, ready to write her off to the pantheon of legends gone too soon. Waiting for a new woman to crucify and from her ashes give birth to a goddess.
But the blood on her floor is not hers, the coke on the sink is only some twisted snow laid there as a shroud over his dead body.

Tragedy was intertwined with their fate. The writer looked back with some sadness over all the time lost. He writes her cause it’s the only thing he knows how to. It’s the only way she comes back to him somehow. He writes her smile, give life to those missed opportunities, give them new starts. And he writes about the absence, all those times she wasn't there. All those years spent knowing but never finding her. He writes about the loneliness born of knowing the thing you love most shall never be in your life for fear of some cosmic consequences. Writes about the dirty tricks, the fake outs, the blood shed to appease some Gods who did nothing but toyed with their heart.
He’s in love with a memory and she’s in love with life. His book sprawled upon her bedside table, words fading with time.

This time around, he refuses to remember. She’s there, under his skin. She's everywhere his eyes lands. So he decides to turn a blind eye, knowing he could not bear another life devoid of her. The future is nothing he could have predicted. Humanity spoiling every last bit of good left upon this earth. Despite himself, he despises the children of the Gods. Despises their narrow minds, empty words. He was the god of sacred wars. Or he used to be. The ones worth worshipping, the ones giving meaning to spilled blood and sanctity to holy sacrifices. But there were no more wars to be won in this time of disgrace. He couldn’t remember why she loved them so much. Couldn’t understand why they gave up immortality in favour of those ersatz of life spent apart. Ren is bitter. He longs for a home that would never totally be his without her. Contemplating the world torn asunder by flames, he remembers the fired burning low in his bone. Remembers the holiness set upon his head. It meant nothing without her for fire meant nothing without the wind giving it strength. This time, he fights every step of the way, hating the girl for the holes in her memories. Keeping her at arm’s length cause he could not hold her close. The world is falling apart and he watches with dark indifference. Observes her trying to give life back to the soil between her hands, fighting every lost battle she could find. He hates her for her innocence. The eagerness she had to find a place to call home with the humans. Hates her even more so for setting her eyes on him and finding no strength in her to remember.
The next time, he refuses to come back.

Alone. Lost in a world shifting below her feet. Her blood is silver and her skin can't contain the power raging beneath it. She has a good life. Her family owning the lands they live upon. But even a good life means nothing when the reason you are born refuse to set foot on this earth. Her life is full but meaningless, and she knows it.
She misses him in ways unknown to men. Misses him in front of the hearth keeping her warm. Misses him when she turns to the wind to tell it about what she holds dearly and is met by the void between her ribs. Misses him in what is yet to come and what has gone.

The next time he's around is not his choice. Petulant child governed by the tricks of a sadistic fate, he curses the skies for not leaving him to his loneliness. When she meets him, he can’t look at her. Cannot bear to answer her question. He had lived too many lives while she lived too many lies. Worn out by years spent living in the shadow of the life they had, he can’t carry the weight of the world anymore. He doesn’t know how to put it down without letting her go. The fire in his heart was gone for he gave it to the humanity forever ago. Gave his breath and the power in his bones, Mae holding that flame in her hands with a carefulness that made him fall from grace even harder. She loved the humans and he loved her. So, when they threw them out of the heavens, he believed he would forever find her. Believed he would forever want to.
Millennium later, met by nothing but the sheer breath of winter inhabiting his bones, he knew no more. For he loved her at the dawn of the world and couldn’t bear to seek their ending.

It all started because of a flame, singed hands the holy sight of a brave heart. However, she was the one who gave life to the world, her hands shaping life out of those holy embers. With only a spark, and so much care, she made something beautiful out of the worst that was hidden away between his godly ribs. Therefore, it is devastatingly fitting for it all to end the same way. Her, at the edge of the world, fate woven in her hands. Him, chest open, the war leaking out of its cages.

How long have we been standing here in this very same spot?” “Since the birth of the world.” “How long will we stay here, stuck in this very same spot?” “Until they end up taking everything we have, our bones nothing but tinder for their bonfire hearts.” “You don’t love them as I do.” “I never did.” “Why did you came, then? To watch them crumble and break under the weight of their own humanity?” “They took everything I had. First my home, then you. Where else should I go?” “Back home, the sky?” “It won’t ever truly be a home without you.” “After everything I did?” “And everything I have done.” “How?” “My nights are painted red with memories of unlived lives. I died, and you died. And the Gods above us laughed and pitied us for our misery. For they never believed their curse could ever be anything but that.” “What do you mean?” “You gave the holy fire to the humans without a sliver of doubt, loved them like no Gods should. But I was there. I’ve always been there. I gave up my fire willingly. Unbeknownst to me you were actually taking my heart.” “You took mine first.” “This is not how I remember it.” “Don't you? It started with an endless sky and the daughter of the winds.” “Then the fall from grace, a boy his head in his hands, blood on her dress.” “I loved you, then.” “You didn’t know me then.” “I love you, now.


--- god has always been
an arsonist. heaven has always been on fire.


DRABBLE. (maeren) // here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.  Revenir en haut 
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