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VALEN T.

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    nodus tollens
    the realization that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore: that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don't understand, that don't even seem to belong in the same genre
code by valen t.



  • nodus tollens
    The realization that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore: that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don't understand, that don't even seem to belong in the same genre
 
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๐’‘๐’“๐’๐’๐’๐’ˆ๐’–๐’† โ€” ( 90 B.C. )
.plot . post
"jupiter capitolinus
I hope that one day, my brothers and sisters...

There's a darkness that shrouds the room in its mystery and enigma, only temporarily alleviated as a sliver of light enters when the entrance door is teased open. It protests in a squeaky creaking sound in protest when she closes it with a careful hand flat against the patchy wood. A cold breath escapes her as soon as she's alone, her head dropping with a muffled thud! against the slab.

No, is her resolve, I do not have time for this! The knits crinkling her forehead have become a common feature of her countenance now, but can you blame her: she worries, she aches, she fears without stinting so utterly that it hurts her heart. Even now, her hand clutches the front of her dark cloak in an attempt to gather herself, the scratchy wool digging into the crevice behind her finger nails. I don't have time for this! She repeats to herself, dark eyes swirling with passionate sparks of red as the solitary candle sitting on her secluded desk lights with a gushing flare, the flame of Hestia delightfully extending its light over the entire room.

Are you still with me? The desolate thought once again plagues her soul with heartburn, the back of her eyes warm with melancholy. Are you still there, my goddess? it's a question she finds herself pondering over every time she feels her divinity's fire pulsing on her fingertips, igniting the beat drumming in her chest with a newfound vigour. Right now however, it's not the fire she's fixated on, but her own reflection its brightness forms overhead.

She tears her cloak off, flinging it somewhere on her bed, and rushes to the sole window above her desk that opens her room to the courtyard view below. It's a trick; a folly; an aperture for the guards to keep a constant watch on the Athanati's every move from their discreet posts (Yvonne knows where each and every one is located, and she casts a side eye to the one nearest to her window as a threat, a message.)

The curtains are drawn with haste and frustration, her crafty hands retrieving the writing utensils packed away neatly in the only drawer designed into the old desk. The red and gold flecks appear in her mahogany orbs once more, illuminating them with the shadows of cleverly-concealed rage. The thin veil of smoke masking the bottom of the drawer clears away to reveal parchment, ink, and several reed pens. She knows the Roman pigs scour her room while she's away for duties in the light of day, so she keeps her most prized items either on her, or hidden in plain sight where their loutish brains would never bother checking. The Romans, she's observed, underestimate the Athanatoi to an alarming extent and yet...

(A coquettish smile tugs at her lips when the knock at her door twinkles in her ears.)

...And yet, she's acquired an entire legion of the enemy's army by her side.

"Governor," she greets the man with a curt nod, schooling her expressions to a cold and callous her fellow Athanatoi have never once seen on her.

The Governor is taller than her, broader than her, and his structure supports more mass than hers, but he still plummets to his knees, head hanging between his shoulders in a show of complete reverence. There's a part of her that preens at the respect and submission he displays, a part of her that's arrogant too, but she's able to snuff it out with a pinch between her two fingers, her goddess' patience aiding her with its warm glow.

The coarse man with the frigid visage rises to his feet. "How may I be of assistance to you, oh heir of Hestia?" Even his voice carries the tremble of the esteem she's spent centuries receiving from her people. It all reminds her of home: a home that no longer exists except in the hearts of those very few she holds dear, her brothers and sisters scattered across the ever-extending empire of Rome.

She turns her back to him, once again met with the sight of multiple flattened papyri stacked on top of each other. Only one of them contains her hand writing and the words she'd spent the entirety of yesterday night conjuring and penning down. Yvonne runs her fingertips over the rough surface of the letters, her hand heating with the same red that paints her graceful eyelashes, that bleeds from her eyes. The text burns, and the paper bubbles with the first embers of fire as the scripture descends onto the other sheets as well.

She swipes the pile off the table, her nails uncomfortably scratching the top of it. "Burn these," she orders.

Her tone is clipped, intending to leave no more room for argument, but the man still looks concerned. "My lady-"

Her fist tightens in exasperation by her side but none of it appears to soil her effortless countenance. "Do you not trust me?" Her latin is impeccable when she interrupts him. "Do I have to speak your tongue for you understand how dire the situation is?" There's no real hostility in her demeanour. In fact, she allows the frayed threads of her fear to dangle by the edge of her voice, the fire inside her completely extinguished to cool ash to show her ally how much faith she's riding in him. "Please..." There's a vulnerability in her whisper.

Yvonne approaches the man with dark, dampened eyes, and a gentle push at his core. "I can't, so you have to," she pleads.

She can't, because the temple already thunders with conspiring footsteps and wary whispers. You must leave.

His larger, calloused hands eclipse both of hers, and there's a patent pain scalding his expression. She feels his heart move when he swallows thickly. "Of course..." He accepts the letters she entrusts him with. "Whatever you ask of me."

And later that night, in places across the land wherever the fire is alight, the flame crackles and bursts fervidly as the desolate remains of papyrus in the Governor's room condense to where the hearth's red stamp actually belongs: in the hands of each Athanati, Yvonne's eternal lovers in time.

Yours in heart and soul...
code by valen t.


"jupiter capitolinus


I hope that one day, my brothers and sisters...

There's a darkness that shrouds the room in its mystery and enigma, only temporarily alleviated as a sliver of light enters when the entrance door is teased open. It protests in a squeaky creaking sound in protest when she closes it with a careful hand flat against the patchy wood. A cold breath escapes her as soon as she's alone, her head dropping with a muffled thud! against the slab.

No, is her resolve, I do not have time for this! The knits crinkling her forehead have become a common feature of her countenance now, but can you blame her: she worries, she aches, she fears without stinting so utterly that it hurts her heart. Even now, her hand clutches the front of her dark cloak in an attempt to gather herself, the scratchy wool digging into the crevice behind her finger nails. I don't have time for this! She repeats to herself, dark eyes swirling with passionate sparks of red as the solitary candle sitting on her secluded desk lights with a gushing flare, the flame of Hestia delightfully extending its light over the entire room.

Are you still with me? The desolate thought once again plagues her soul with heartburn, the back of her eyes warm with melancholy. Are you still there, my goddess? it's a question she finds herself pondering over every time she feels her divinity's fire pulsing on her fingertips, igniting the beat drumming in her chest with a newfound vigour. Right now however, it's not the fire she's fixated on, but her own reflection its brightness forms overhead.

She tears her cloak off, flinging it somewhere on her bed, and rushes to the sole window above her desk that opens her room to the courtyard view below. It's a trick; a folly; an aperture for the guards to keep a constant watch on the Athanati's every move from their discreet posts (Yvonne knows where each and every one is located, and she casts a side eye to the one nearest to her window as a threat, a message.)

The curtains are drawn with haste and frustration, her crafty hands retrieving the writing utensils packed away neatly in the only drawer designed into the old desk. The red and gold flecks appear in her mahogany orbs once more, illuminating them with the shadows of cleverly-concealed rage. The thin veil of smoke masking the bottom of the drawer clears away to reveal parchment, ink, and several reed pens. She knows the Roman pigs scour her room while she's away for duties in the light of day, so she keeps her most prized items either on her, or hidden in plain sight where their loutish brains would never bother checking. The Romans, she's observed, underestimate the Athanatoi to an alarming extent and yet...

(A coquettish smile tugs at her lips when the knock at her door twinkles in her ears.)

...And yet, she's acquired an entire legion of the enemy's army by her side.

"Governor," she greets the man with a curt nod, schooling her expressions to a cold and callous her fellow Athanatoi have never once seen on her.

The Governor is taller than her, broader than her, and his structure supports more mass than hers, but he still plummets to his knees, head hanging between his shoulders in a show of complete reverence. There's a part of her that preens at the respect and submission he displays, a part of her that's arrogant too, but she's able to snuff it out with a pinch between her two fingers, her goddess' patience aiding her with its warm glow.

The coarse man with the frigid visage rises to his feet. "How may I be of assistance to you, oh heir of Hestia?" Even his voice carries the tremble of the esteem she's spent centuries receiving from her people. It all reminds her of home: a home that no longer exists except in the hearts of those very few she holds dear, her brothers and sisters scattered across the ever-extending empire of Rome.

She turns her back to him, once again met with the sight of multiple flattened papyri stacked on top of each other. Only one of them contains her hand writing and the words she'd spent the entirety of yesterday night conjuring and penning down. Yvonne runs her fingertips over the rough surface of the letters, her hand heating with the same red that paints her graceful eyelashes, that bleeds from her eyes. The text burns, and the paper bubbles with the first embers of fire as the scripture descends onto the other sheets as well.

She swipes the pile off the table, her nails uncomfortably scratching the top of it. "Burn these," she orders.

Her tone is clipped, intending to leave no more room for argument, but the man still looks concerned. "My lady-"

Her fist tightens in exasperation by her side but none of it appears to soil her effortless countenance. "Do you not trust me?" Her latin is impeccable when she interrupts him. "Do I have to speak your tongue for you understand how dire the situation is?" There's no real hostility in her demeanour. In fact, she allows the frayed threads of her fear to dangle by the edge of her voice, the fire inside her completely extinguished to cool ash to show her ally how much faith she's riding in him. "Please..." There's a vulnerability in her whisper.

Yvonne approaches the man with dark, dampened eyes, and a gentle push at his core. "I can't, so you have to," she pleads.

She can't, because the temple already thunders with conspiring footsteps and wary whispers. You must leave.

His larger, calloused hands eclipse both of hers, and there's a patent pain scalding his expression. She feels his heart move when he swallows thickly. "Of course..." He accepts the letters she entrusts him with. "Whatever you ask of me."

And later that night, in places across the land wherever the fire is alight, the flame crackles and bursts fervidly as the desolate remains of papyrus in the Governor's room condense to where the hearth's red stamp actually belongs: in the hands of each Athanati, Yvonne's eternal lovers in time.

Yours in heart and soul...
 
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