@bluntcannibalisms
* HEY.... sorry i like. died. life has been stressful and my muse for eli has been on n off... i want yo revamp his theme n stuff soon, and hopefully i'll b more active then
@bluntcannibalisms / I'm sorry to hear that. hopefully you can have better days, and its fine. your health is much more important. good luck.
* yall should go follow @cultobsessions i will probably be more active on there for the next few days
* cb nudge nudge wink wink
* wp be blowin tf outta me... sorry my activity is so scattered my muse for him is kinda blegh rn
ooooh , I like your outfit ! where'd you get it ? who styled you ?
... my closet. [ he raised a brow, looking mildly judgemental as he did so. ] and nobody 'styled' me. i just put this on.
ID: @GETCAG3D
* errr i might change the fact that he’s a vampire.. idk what i’ll change it too but it generally won’t change much abt his character
* cb for smth halloween themed hueue (he hates halloween but it's okay)
* okok cb! & tag me in stuff i haven't responded to! i'll get to everything i missed
* sorry i haven't been active the past couple days! i will get to replies soon hopefully xoxo
In a secluded, mist-shrouded corner of the world, Mortemor, the Malevolent Artificer, embarked on a hunt. His sadistic cravings had drawn him to the dimly lit forest where legends whispered of creatures that thrived in the night's embrace. It was a place where the supernatural met the mundane, and it was the perfect stage for the malevolent artistry he sought to unveil.
Mortemor's striking dark brown hair, tousled for this particular night's endeavor, framed his ever-watchful and cunning eyes, a vivid blue that could pierce through the deepest of shadows. Clad in dark, flowing attire, he moved silently through the underbrush, like a wraith in pursuit of its quarry.
His mission was clear: to find a vampire, a creature of the night that had long evaded his malevolent touch. Mortemor's pursuit was not driven by mere curiosity but a sadistic desire to torment a creature that, like him, thrived on the essence of darkness.
As the moon's eerie glow filtered through the dense canopy, Mortemor sensed he was drawing nearer to his elusive prey. The forest was cloaked in an eerie silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl.
With each step, Mortemor's presence seemed to cast a palpable sense of dread over the surroundings. He moved with a deliberate grace, every step a testament to the endless patience that his sadistic desires permitted.
And then, through the mist and shadow, he spotted a figure in the distance, its eyes reflecting a chilling crimson glint in the moonlight. Mortemor's heart quickened with anticipation. This, he thought, was the night when the vampire would become his canvas, and he would paint upon it a masterpiece of torment, a symphony of suffering that would echo through the darkest corridors of the supernatural world.