#almirelore
in his life before the forgetting, dirum entrusted almire with most things. it was an unspoken pleasure that dirum, a worrisome healer so used to holding life in his hands, would submit the more material choices to almire when they were together. dirum gave all his allowances to him
#almirelore
almire is the most vocal of the three. he grunts throughout, hisses his pleasure. when he finishes, it's not loud to the outside world but usually delivered right into a man's ear. head and hair pulled back, almire pumps every breath into him. filling them from both ends. quick, easy.
#oc:words : #almirelore
He dreamed again of the coastline where black sea met the jagged teeth of shore. He was alone except for the village at his back filled with sounds yet no one to make them. Another item washed up between his feet and lodged on a thin crust of ice. A child's shoe, no laces.
#almirelore
I posted it in writing, once, but the summary of caedis, dirum and omina's relationship was that the two men (cenorunes by oath, the hand of charnel — the assassins) had killed a woman as a mark, and in death she gave birth to the babe that would become omina. they kept her.
The girl pressed her head against the boarded window and puffed five quick, shallow breaths until the glass was fogged. She reeled her head back only when it resembled the early fields at morning and the shoreline at dusk, gauzy and grey. Her thoughts were as heavy and febrile as her skull as she stared into the condensation. With no more access to the village that once lied beyond her bedroom, the pane and the dark wood that backed it became her view. In it, she could imagine anything. Omina could no longer shift onto her knees to better reach her canvas, a realization that vexed her temporarily. Like all feelings felt these moons, it passed as quickly as it had came. Drifting, drifting, drifting. Her arm drifted with the sadness until the pock-marked point of her index finger found the glass. "I'm not upset anymore," She said aloud and each word rattled. In her mind, she drew a perfect circle. It was the roundest, most beautiful sphere. It was as perfect as the obsidian plates of ceremony, when all the important people gathered to talk loudly over food that smelled just as raucous. It was limned in silver, just like the eclipse of her large father's eyes when he stared down into her own. With a wobble, she looked up and searched for them. "Ah," She smiled wide, sick, and near toothless when she found them through the cataracts. "A circle." It was a proud explanation to the man holding her. She was a broken-winged bird of spring in the nest of his arms.
Caedis looked at the glass and the image scrawled in it. He narrowed his eyes at was no more than a jittery dash. "You drew me a line." He murmured into the top of her head. Having been bathed that morning, she smelled faintly of heather and honey. Yet no sweetness nor scrubbing could fight off the acrid of hands of death that reached for her. Caedis held tighter to her fragile frame as she puffed up her chest, either to cough or to castigate him. "A circle is a line," She explained, weakly indignant, "for us and forever. Like the moon." Caedis looked at the window again and saw it. The perfect, holy round of a child's fingerprint pressed into the glass. A star, a needlepoint, the spherical mouth of an urn. A circle, repeated, again and again in everything she touched and behind it, their faces reflected. Omina yawned, raspy and worn. "I'll draw a good one tomorrow. You'll see." Caedis sighed as his daughter went heavy in his arms and slipped one dream closer to the circle.
15 minute sprint. 450 words, unpolished.
"the window." omina and caedis*
(*the man later known as almire) [ #almirelore ]
[ #almirelore, #verrotlore, #ruinalore ]
mattokian beauty customs are as vast as the people themselves, but some core elements translate across the clans and across the vast tracks of land. these are typically predicated on appearing "obscurum" ; dark, night, void-touched. black pigment is key.
#almirelore
his subconscious longs for stability. the comfort of someone reliable, trustworthy. a companion he can look to for pleasure, confidence. it rarely connects with his emotions, but it makes him prone to "marking" those he favors; biting, bruising. tokens carved and gifted. not jealousy.
#almirelore
almire is typically nocturnal, so bedtime starts around sunrise. he will sit and watch the horizon's color change, listen to the birds. he has a hot drink before bed; usually his own distilled alcohol from maple, high proof and aged in herbal casks. he'll whittle by fire, polish tools.
#almirelore [and greater mattokian lore, lets get into it]
mattokian culture is fairly libertine; even in the few clans that practice modesty as an artform and ritual, sex is destigmatized. pleasure is innate to the cultural identity. most of the 13 clans have within them spaces called "missions."
#almirelore
almire was the eldest of three triplets ; three brothers. born caedis, his siblings were similarly named mutilare and scelus. their mother was a skilled member of the cenorunes ; there were songs detailing her kills and marks collected with three babes strapped to her back by board.
#almirelore
"amnesia" ; took an hour to write six small vignettes regarding almire's past ; some of the things he does not remember. six sentences each, save for the last. quick, unpolished.
1-4.
#almirelore
a large, orca-type whale; "orcus" (underworld) among the clans. they are venerated and seen as the closest, physical manifestation of their lord death besides the prophesized return (verrot). he bears two tailfin tattoos carved into his scalp as a dutiful death-bringer.
#almirelore
he's nearly incapable of fear. but fewer things prove more troublesome than man. it's the unpredictable nature ; not of their might, or their wiles, but because how complicated their social demands are. otherwise, he respectfully fears whales. they are kin, they are authority.
#almirelore
unlike verrot, he tends to wear some sort of underlayer. it's practical when hunting in the cold, allows for better movement. typically a pair of full length hose, laced up nice and tight at the groin. when at home, however, no. he'll chop wood and lounge in just his woolens.
#almirelore
when using feathers, he will typically use the feathers of carrion ; vultures, crows, ravens. he will also utilize the molted wings of his pegasus, who is also a carrion eater. they guide the arrow to death. otherwise, he uses bone, stone, and shell as well. depends on the mark.
#almirelore
yes ; carsisitus is a mak'nimus grown tobacco type leaf that is dried and fermented in urns. it is a potent smoke with a heady, unmistakable fragrance. it is a cold-hardy plant that he grows and prepares on his own. he also imports it, when supplies and connections allow.
#almirelore
in his life before, he favored the drums. still does ; war drums, that resonant hide sound. I associate him with percussive instruments. as for contemporary music genres — metal. particularly older doom and death, but also those angrier subgenres like metalcore, deathcore, etc.
#almirelore
yes, but he cannot remember who. their name, their face. he only trusts that should they cross paths again, it will be the last — that is, if it wasn't already dealt with. it is rare that someone can cross him to such a degree and live to tell the tale, much less plead to amend it.
#almirelore
he would see himself as a hunter. the efficiency, observant nature, the solitude, the stamina, and focus required of such all bound up in that word. others would say the same, but scornfully. the violence, blood-stained hands and mouth, the brusque, cruel charm of an unsocialized man.
#almirelore
though he cannot remember most of his past, he remembers the sea. the whales. the taste of salt, brine, the harsh waters. marks that take him north along the cold, stony coast speak to him. he hasn't been on a whaling vessel in centuries, but hunting by harpoon still calls to him.
#almirelore
loosely based on the concept of counts, his tattoos signify the same. important events. some he remembers. most he does not. they are not tattoos as we understand them, but rather scars. layers of flesh are taken off or opened up and a bone char dyes the healing wound , they're raised.
#almirelore
being mattokian and belonging to a specialized order, he sees death as the beginning and the end. to take life is no more than to return one to their original state. it is a neutral act. he wets his weapons with a nick of his own blood before the strike ; that maintains the balance.
#almirelore
he has no memory of it. anything before the voyage from his homeland to the northern reach of eorzea was lost in those arctic waters. memories come to him in vague ideas, like having just woken from a dream ; knowing he had dreamt, but not the details. senses evoke some(thing) in him.
#almirelore
the line between career and hobby is blurred when it comes to flesh. though he is a parts dealer and hunter, he is also a game processor, leather maker, bonecarver. "calm" comes to him through things like sex and substance, but also those meticulous crafts. he is a maker.
#almirelore
man.
#almirelore
he is in a state of perpetual hunger that he seeks to sate. while a monstrous desire roils beneath the surface, this theme also presents itself very obviously. he eats, and he eats well. he enjoys cooking in a rustic style. meat and fish on stone, fresh butter, stock, wild herbs.
#almirelore
while physically in his fifties, he only knows how long it has been since he disembarked at a port to the north of sharlayan and south of the farreach. he marks his new age by the first mark he hunted ; a sharlayan scholar settling would-be idyllshire in 1311.
#almirelore
having sat on his character for well over a year, no one knows a thing about him — let's change that. you ask, I tell within reason.
