ringing-stone

an urban nightmare

When dainty feet slide softly down the stairs,

and dust is blown by tiny wings bestirred,

when moonlight shines on bright gossamer hair,

they with the fated witched hour emerge.

The faeries dance in circles of cement,

weaving the silver threads in tapestry

that tells grim tales beneath the cold crescent

and lures innocents into travesty.

Their savage games are played beneath the bridges,

their court held in the tow’ring piles of stone.

They hide their cruelty behind the shadowed ridges,

all playing in the endless maze of bones.

The realm of fae lies deep in shadow wrapped.

Beware, oh traveler, lest ye there be trapped.


G.B // the faeries never left; they evolved

( tani’s song from the @the-gin-mill ‘s open poetry night tonight, set to salvatore by lana del rey. thank you for having me! )

The Miqo’te who steps on stage is diminutive; slender, lit utterly with glittering gold, and gentle lilac. His robe is a relative bundle of fabric strung about his lithe frame, gilded with pendants, brooches, feathered pins, bracelets, earrings, cinched necklaces, and far too many rings with ill-matching stones set fancifully into their silver bases upon his clawed, blue-painted fingertips.

Spun-gold hair threaded with peridot beads sits in a thick braid drawn over an exposed, freckle-dotted shoulder until the curled ends rest level with his navel; tethered by a white ribbon.

Cradled in those thin arms is a lyre— a pretty, delicate little lyre befitting of a male so thin. It looks as if it has been crafted from gold, with strings that reflect off the dim lights cast upon the willowy figure beneath, and a frame so opulent, and so elegantly carved that looks fit for a Thavnarian king; completed by a perched songbird spun from cedar perched upon the very tip.

A wary smile drifts across the courtesan’s parted lips as he moves to the heart of the stage, as his right hand lifts to settle; poised, over the golden strings. “This-..” His voice wavers, he tilts his head to clear his throat; forcing a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

“..this is gonna be the first time I-I’ve sung on stage.” He admits, words chased by an audible exhale. His gaze moves to the audience, drifting between unfamiliar, and familiar faces alike; silhouetted by golden light. “Please be gentle.” His smile falters. His entire frame is… unsteady. The antithesis to the performer draped in silver who graces the Elysium’s stage at regular intervals.

“..ah- this song’s-.. ‘bout spendin’ time in the Mist, when it starts to get a bit late, an’ everythin’s-.. sort’a-.. a hazy orange. It’s slow, an’ lazy. You can see the moon, and the sun’s still setting.” He offers. “It feels like time stops for a few moments. As if everythin’s… on pause. As if nothin’, and no one is in a rush. It’s still too warm to move awful fast.” He nods, slowly— narrowing his eyes, unsure if he’s making sense.

He drops his gaze to the lyre cast across the inside of his arm, and he swallows thickly— throat visibly bobbing under the heavy lights as he closes his eyes— and; up on stage, so unfortunately lit by the garish golden lights, the tremble to his fingertips is difficult to ignore.  He’s -nervous-. His gilded, pierced ears slant low- pressing close to his sandy hair as the glitter doffed across his eyelids catches against the lights above.

The courtesan folds down to sit; until he is cross-legged, and oh-so-primly settled in the heart of the stage. He carefully lowers the lyre into his lap, clearing his throat one last time as he closes his eyes— as he steadies himself; heart beating loud enough in his chest as if to serve as some intangible baseline (and he wonders if his audience might -hear- it). Shifting his knees, his eyes draw open..

He lowers those clawed fingers to the harp, and he plucks three, melodic notes that ring out loud, and deep. He follows them with three more; repeating the velveteen verse a second time. His lips part, lush, red-painted and followed by a sweet, youthful, and ambiguous voice. It permeates over his lullaby-like notes, tentative, and soft..

“..-all the lights in La Noscea begin to gleam. Ruby, blue, and green ♪..” A pause, he looks up; a coy smile drawn over his lips in a faux show of confidence, as his head gives a single shake along with his words, adding - as if in afterthought, “Neon too ♪..”

His fingers sweep along, harp nestled neatly against an exposed, tattooed thigh as his opposing hand lifts to cover the last three strings on his sweet little lyre. His uneven gaze drifts over the crowd, as if searching for one figure in particular. As if seeking some validation on the tenor of his light voice. “..everythin’ looks better from above, my king. Like aquamarine, oceans blue ♪..”

Clearwater-blue eyes draw back to the lyre, eyes brimming with the looming presence of thinly-veiled aether as his hands dance back, as they sweep along his corded strings to accompany his iambic pentameter in sweet succession- a sound like a pleading, desperate siren, calling from her place on the jutting rocks for a sailor lost at sea, high, soprano, and so utterly -lovely-.

Petals drift into manifestation above him, fluttering, pink and apricot, over-ripe, and lush as they sweep down about him; falling like rain. They vanish before they might ever fall to the stage floor, an illusion borne of pure aether- and nothing more, but a highly convincing one. They dapple him in dark ribbons of colour like spilled ink over a tangerine canvas. His high note wavers, it trails off, his hands drift across the lyre; he visibly draws in a breath.

“..all the lights are sparklin’ for you it seems. Off the downward stream, shady blue ♪.” Another breath, his fingers drift. “Tempting an’ dancin’ in the summer rain ♪.” His voice rises, hinging on the note, drawing out the end of his word. “..loud and sweet he sang - jazz an’ blues ♪.” and he moves to stand, slender legs unfolding to draw his slight form back up to his feet as his left hand sweeps to cradle the lyre oh-so-lovingly back towards his chest.

The courtesan drifts toward the edge of the stage, and he steps down; movements punctured by the quiet pals of the bells tethered to the fur of his tail, and the hems of his robes; fingers still fleetly moving across his lyre until the succinct, and velvet-soft notes continue to ring out. His petals pause; hanging as if suspended in the air about him, frozen in place upon the stage, tabula rasa without their guide.

They spin, mindless, disembodied— as if not even they can help but sway to his methodical beat.

The high rise of his voice returns, wavering so eloquently into a smooth tenor; the siren’s call resumes, sweet, and melodic. His hand shifts upon the strings, notes ringing louder, clearer as if he seems to gain some ounce of confidence as it tapers off. “..the summer’s hot, an’ I’ve been waitin’ for you, all this time. I adore you ♪..” His knees gently bend in a low -sweep-, moving to his idle notes. “Can’t you see, you’re meant for me ♪..?”

He turns, head tilting, drifting into a loose sway carried by fluttering sandy hair; as if in some broken waltz with his golden lyre as his only partner, framed with a songbird. His steps sweep him through the dwindling crowd as he draws amongst them, pausing as his fingers delicately pluck at his harp.

He draws in a breath, “Summer’s hot but I’ve been cold without you. I was so wrong not to tell, I’m in a haze ♪.” His petals begin to move anew, “Tangerine dreams ♪.” They flutter towards him, they begin to spread- billowing, fluttering about the lingering crowd until they settle atop shoulders, atop heads, within folded laps - they snag in short and long hair alike; greedy and lush— and gone before their time.

“Catch me if you can, workin’ on my tan, Salva-tore ♪.” He turns again, a smile finding its way onto his peach-pink lips, lush and full, kissing each word as it leaves him, left foot beginning to tap a rhythmic beat with the stiletto heel of his boot. “..dying by the hand of a foreign man, happily~..” Another turn; that thick tail of his sweeps after him as his index and middle fingers catch on the same two notes in rapid succession; an undercurrent to his pleading, sugar-glazed voice.

“Callin’ out my name in the summer rain, goodbye, my love.. you can wait. Now it’s time to eat soft ice cream ♪.” His heel lowers, his foot briefly -drags- against the pristine floorboards as his hand glides back into a delicate sway across his strings as his petals reverse, as they begin to retreat— floating -up- towards the ceiling one by one. His notes swell, amplified by a fresh undercurrent of aether; drawing louder, louder.

The petals rain outwards, like running water filtering through the crevices and rafters and -lights- above. They drift and flutter like something out of a dream, something as ethereal and otherworldly as Tani’s sweet lullaby. It’s a serenade, a pleading, a love song to the sun all in one- something twisted, something ill-spun by the voice of a full-blooded Keeper splashed with golden freckles.

He urges a clap, snapping his fingers just once before returning them to his strings as he tips his pretty head back, as his sweet, high, -wiry- notes come flooding past his lush lips anew. He turns, swaying, casting his song from skilled, glittering fingertips as his beat hastens for nought but a few bars as his iambic pentameter carries, humble voice filled with warmth.

Those petals slowly rise like an eerie waterfall tumbling in slow reverse, dashes of pink and orange striping the ceiling like the ice cream he sings so fondly of, transforming the room in what is a skilful illusion into some lush, fading oasis in no great rush to move under the familiar summertime’s cloying heat; the perfect dashed backdrop to his gloomy hymn.

The courtesan’s voice lowers, it sweeps down as his fingers begin to slow upon the strings, tugging them forth to urge each note to completion as his vibrant gaze settles upon the songbird carved from gold upon his lyre. His held note ends, and his voice tapers into a soft murmur as he breathes out his last, lingering three words. “..soft ice cream ♪..”

Delicate fingers pluck three short notes, once, twice, three times; knees slowly bending as clawed nails glide downwards until they meet the curved base of his prim little harp. His hand comes away, open palm sweeping out towards his audience as the aether dies behind his eyes; dulling them back to peridot as his blossoms slowly fade— dwindling from their slow rise, from their precarious covering blanketing the ceiling until they’re nought but diminishing pinpricks of glittering light.

They vanish, and that lyre is tucked gently beneath a slender arm as Tani sweeps into a slow partial curtsey-bow; tail coiling close to his opposing thigh as he straightens, a hesitant smile pressed across his lips as his ears slant down, parallel with the floor— and his previous uncertainty comes creeping, sluggishly back.

“Thank you.” It’s a permissive whisper, something filled with wariness, with surprise— as if he hadn’t expected to get through his song, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to -clap-. He offers another odd bow-curtsey, and he steps back, lifting his harp to hug close to his chest as he turns away with a coquettish, and hidden-away little smile.

ft @kasumi-ffxiv & .. Relex. Idon’tknowhistumblr.

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.

“Light in the Dark”
A little spoiler picture from today’s shooting. It was really magical, we managed to catch a little firefly(it’s above my head), they were flying all around us, the sound of water and the soft breeze that comes within,soft candlelights, all sounds of nature… Just wonderful.