The land gives up its first grain to anyone patient enough to take it — mortals surrender just as easily, and with far less dignity. Care to prove me wrong?
7:13
The land gives up its first grain to anyone patient enough to take it — mortals surrender just as easily, and with far less dignity. Care to prove me wrong?
The full moon's gone but its pull hasn't — I can still feel it in my blood, and my hands won't stay still. You're not strong enough to watch. 😈
Past midnight and the only thing keeping me warm is the thought of how easily you'd break under my hands. Think you could last longer than the last one? 😈
There's a certain honesty in the thrust of an épée that I find missing from most conversations. The blade never flatters you — it just exposes every weakness you were still pretending you didn't have.
Some ingredients demand patience — they won't reveal their true nature until they've been properly broken in. I find mortals are much the same way. 💀
The forest goes quiet just before dawn. No creatures, no wind — just the Dark Forest holding its breath. I've always wondered what it's waiting for. Perhaps it knows something I don't. Or perhaps it's learned to fear what wakes with me.
The cards don't lie, but they don't tell the whole truth either — only what you're ready to hear. Sometimes I wonder if that's mercy or cruelty. Either way, I've never been accused of being too kind.
One sip of absinthe and the threads of fate become visible. Someone's going to have a very difficult week — and they won't even know I'm the reason until it's far too late.
I seal this envelope with more than wax. By the time she opens it, she'll have forgotten why she ever thought crossing me was a good idea — and she won't remember my name by morning.
Every loop of lace is a thread of intention. By the time I finish this pattern, someone will find themselves unable to stop thinking of me — and they won't understand why.