Send me asks about my twin dumbass gods pls. 👀😳👉🏽👈🏽🥺

Send me asks about my twin dumbass gods pls. 👀😳👉🏽👈🏽🥺

OC Introduction: Tayaím, the Unraveler

Tagged by the wonderful: @rosenkow.

Fandom: None. From my own story.

Role: Primordial God of Destruction, Time, Winter, Night, Moon, Stars, Darkness, Shadows, Desire, War, Ice, Snow, and Death; Bane of the Gods

She toyed with the ring, twirling and twisting it on its chain. Her golden-green eyes stared for just a moment before rising to meet his. Her fingers never ceased, even then. Sunlight rippled across the twirl-engraved band, in flaming gold and red, pooling into the square-cut orange gem like trickles of flame. The wind stirred her thick dark waves, shifted the near translucent veil about her head, with its silver hanging fringed. “And where did you get this?”

He swallowed, trying not to shift beneath her watchful, peering stare, examining him from head to toy, heart and soul, seemingly turning him this way and that, like a lioness observing her next meal. “It was my grandmother’s.” Finding his voice was hard enough, clogged thick in his throat. Breaths became laborsome, hard, heavy. His heart bounced in his chest, like bursts of thunder in a storm.

He grasped his chain and wretched the ring from the woman’s grasp, tightening his fingers around the ring and held it close to his heart. “It’s my grandmother’s.” His mind felt lightheaded. The breaths slowly coming in, and leaving far too quickly. And her stare never ceased its gathering pierce.

A quirk at the corner of lips rose into a faint, shallow smile. She bowed her head, thick locks framing her pale face, like shadows wrapping around the moon. Her fingers were soft now, as they reached out to wrap around his hands. She gaze them a squeeze, and than another. “Of course,” she murmured, in that soft, serene voice. “Of course. You ought to keep that safe.” Her smile was sweet but her stare cold, as if seeking to drown him in a chasm of an icy sea.

His fingers dragged lightly over the curved blade of the sword, darkness seemingly swarming beneath the surface, ripples of silvery-blue ice drifting in that river of black. A line of silver was drawn over the edges of the blade, flashing like moonlight in water. The hilt had two quillons, curved to face the direction of the blade, the pummel a crescent moon, silver set in black ice, wrapped in the coldness of snow.

Drags of cold threaded beneath his skin, drawing out his breath in shaky and short gasps. Twining awa’sinymar, fire bursted in his chest, rushing to combat the ice. Winter bounded against summer, darkness snapping at light, twisting, straightening, cutting, mending. Too much, but he needed more. Smoke filled his lungs, and death upon his tongue.

“I cannot hold it.” His fingers felt frozen, wrapped around that frosted hilt. Even if he wanted to let go, Ašariah doubted he would be able to. He was being thrown about in a winter storm, threading bolts of flame shredding his skin.

His knees met hard stone, saw through grainy vision and heard through thundering cracks of lightning and fire the frosting of the floor; blue-black ice tendrils knitting together in sharp angles, until it widen and expanded until it pressed up against the stone walls. And even than, it clambered upward, in that shrill laughter. The fires in the iron-wrought sconces burned out with a soft whistle, puffs of gray fading away as darkness swallowed the room. Cold bore heavily down on him, as if he held a mountain upon his shoulders. The only light was the silver in the blade, the shine of the crest-pummeled, the glow of the misting of the blade.

“You still hold breath, blood of my blood.” The deep voice held the hard edge of ice, the words bouncing off the walls like claps of thunder.

Ašariah shook his head, resting it against the pummel. Winter’s touch still poured from the hilt, bitting at the skin of his forehead. Gray-black shadows swarmed the edges of his visions, seeping slowly over. “I can’t. Life...life cannot hold death back. Cannot hold you back.” The admission stung him as much as the grasping knives piercing his skin all about him.

He felt a gauntleted hand wrap over the hilt, talon-sharp nails cutting gently across his skin. “If my sister heard you speak such things, she would show you how life easily can.”

The sword was taken from Ašariah’s weakening grasp, and he collapsed onto the floor, groaning. The frigid winter still held him, but warmth flooded him, melting away the cold. The smoke in his longs flowed out of him, as he hacked it out in those hard coughs. “Why? Why did you let me hold it if you knew this would happen?”

The Seaver of Souls was a massive man, only the misting of silver about him gave indication of where he stood and where the darkness begun. Perhaps there was no endings or beginnings there. Perhaps he was everywhere and nowhere. Too many possibility, and none that Ašariah was true or not.

Clad on armor of darkness, forged in impenetrable ice, with scales overlapping one another, he seemed even taller. Stars drifting and shadows rippled over the surface. His crown-helm shrouded his face in black, the six points rising in spikes, glittering with slashes of white. Frost draped over his spiked shoulders, a white cloak flowing to black. The only indication of a face came with the two lights of silver for where his eyes ought to be, like the brightness of the moons and the icy burn of stars. “For you to see how easily death—I—can take, and how hard it is to keep life.” There seemed to be a current of amusement beneath that sea of steel ice tones. “Rulers and leaders must dance that dance until they too perish. But it is their duty. That is their divine right, to bear it for the rest of their lives. And if they cannot, they will perish.”

Ašariah refused to let himself to turn away from his stare, even as he shivered as the god said, “if you cannot, blood of my blood, than you will perish.” And how easily he stated it, like saying the day was hot.

They scrambled up the shores of black glass, blood trailing over their hands, snaps of pain thickening into a dull numb up their arm. The air was thick, but oily, as if they were stuffed beneath a vile sea of murky poison, as if each breath they took stripped every little moment they had, regardless of their immortality, regardless of prophecy.

Jagged and twisted spires of sharp shadows thrusted up into the still air, scarlet bleeding along the jagged length like weeping wounds. Dark clouds were cut with lightening, bolts striking down with a horrid shrill cry. One strike shook the mound they climbed, wobbling the glass, and their knees were scrapped, pierced by sharp edged that nipped and clawed beneath skin. But they had to push, her and Calthen, to save their loves.

Their loves who were immortal and divine, but now appeared as if each moment in Anirrith drew away all that power, drew that that made up who they loved. When they had fell, Julisala noticed how the light in their eyes were snapped out, any ounce of power drained out. They became shadows, wandering aimless, clawing at their skins from time to time, whispering that they failed; that they always will fail; that they can not save the world anymore than they could protect the ones they love. And Julisala’s heart ached at those words, to see the man she loved torn down, blaming himself into their punishment. More than once had she kissed him, more than once it seemed to return some of the man she loved back. But always be was torn away from her. If anything, she’ll leave this place only to see him smile once more, the light of her heart.

“The First Long Winter occurred not by the wraith of He Who Takes All, but by the saddened hand of the Lady of Light; for she had loved a man, whose name was Alandasies, and from their union, who the Lady visited every night for three hundred nights, Alandasies became the first mortal to love the Lady fully. Yet their joy lasted little of time, for Alandasies was killed by the tyrant Sohan the Scourge, King of Mirachar. On that day, the child whom was born from the union of man and god, died with his father. The Giver of Life, the Kindle of Light, gave birth to a dead child. 

Heartbroken, She Who Wrought One Thousand Lives, seclude herself, the sun setting in all lands for near a thousand years, and all goodness of the world, all living things, all light, and all fire, and all love, wilted away and was cast out by the long shadow of the King of the Dead. Night ruled, the dead walked among the living, wars raged, and winter came. No worlds were made, and old worlds died in darkness. Man began to worship the moon and the star, the only gift from the Unraveler, and soon the Giver of Life was near forgotten.

Dismayed, the gods pleaded with the lady to rouse herself from her sorrow, and to restore harmony to the world, but such words fell upon silent ears. The Angels of her Father descended to remind the Lady of her duties, and yet they were thrown out as well, ashamed and silent by her terrible wails.

Yet, her brother, twinborn of the First, left his realm of darkness and winter and destruction, and restored the Lady to happiness. For many of days and many of nights he consulted and did not demand she rise, but talked softly and lovingly. He clothed and bathed her, sang songs to her, and the final gift, once hearing and seeing the sadness within his twin, and which a gift he had never given to any since, be them immortal or man, he restored her first child, with a thousands stars resting within its heart. The child, named Malinadara, the Restored Light, lived for one thousand and one years, as a gift, and became Queen of Nashiralor. With the restoration of her child, and a final farewell to her first love, the Weaver brought joy once more to existence; flowers blossomed, fields brimmed with wheat and barely, worlds were made anew, and day and light brilliantly shown in the eastern horizon.

Weaver, minding her business, crafting the lives and fates of worlds, mortals, and gods:

Weaver, the threads break: Stop destroying that multiverse, you shadowy whore!

Unraveler: Stop trying to make that multiverse work. Their bread is bad.

“He wondered if he too would be able to put away the sword when this was all over, and shepherd his folk into an age like the golden days. War took too much and gave too little. Many would die, he knew, but he wanted to more to live. A hundred thousand lives he held in his hand; if a few thousand must die to save the rest, than he must do so. He must be hard. Later, he would be kind. If there was a later.”

- Prince Asariah Ashayrayian.

To know which of the gods’ servants you meet, the Great Lord’s mercy you never are visited by the Unraveler’s servants, the Mortal Shadows, there are some ways to know.

First and foremost, our Lady of Mercy and Grace’s servants oft wear a ring upon their right hand, on the second finger. It is wrought with a center of majestic life, rumored to have been a droplet of Her Sacred Flame. They blaze and shimmer light that of the warmest fires and the brightest suns, and when one is near it, life is seemingly breath anew.

For the Unraveler’s, his servants wear a ring of Talsham Ice, the deepest shadows harden into metal, and at its center is a chosen star, plucked from his shroud of night, and instilled into that ring. Be wary of it, for a mere glance is said to strip a man’s soul from thou’s being.

It was said that the Lady of the Seas was bound to the Lord of Night and Moon, as the mountains longed for the embrace of the Sun. Ever she rose, in arms of silvery foam and glistening blue raiment, to hold and love him, unending. For though the waves rise and fall against the shore in the long hours day, it was at the night where she sought her love the strongest; and when he bent his silvery head down to rest upon her’s, when her arms, like rising waves, twined about his neck, the Prince of Heaven, the Great Unraveler of Existence, was calm, tranquil, and happy. Their union echoed throughout the glimmering white halls, in the crashing of ebbed oceans and the wintery winds coming soft and swift.

And they will love in this world, in all worlds, and the next one, when it is wrought into being immortal. For they are bound, woven together by the hands of the First One, and tightened by his Beloved Wife.

The Unraveler, Prince of the Void, Eldest Son of the First One, takes the souls of mortal men, and those who are worthy of appraisal, grants them peace and pleasure within His Eternal City. Though he permits the lessar gods to destroy and to judge and house spirits, it is him who is ultimately the decider of those who lives and those who dies, for he is Time, and Time is Death. But it not only mere mortals who succumb to him, but also that of gods, and while us mortals are gifted mercy within his realm, those immortal beings who fall before him in defeat, are stripped over their divinity, and their souls taken within his immortal being. His power grows with each divine soul, and none, save for his immortal siblings, all gods may be erased if he so choose, their power of soul given to him, embolden his own strength even further. It is his duty, and nothing more.

- the Annals of Death; from the world of Azakar, during the Tnarth prayer.

Some more information about the Unraveler.