Gredssé Families: The Curlsed Of Silence.
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ㅤ They sat at the head of murmured hung a satins, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯–𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. / The boreal catacombs of Helheim was bleeding in sanguineous pale: @Gredsse ‘s Deésse du mönde deş Nörses Hél. ༒︎ Entered their hall, @GredsseBot ‘&. @GredsseSfsBot. ㅤ
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𝘏𝘦𝘪𝘭, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭. They wound one another with words sharper than iron and hands stained by their own hatred. “Why should we care for those who spend their lives breaking each other?”
Within every mortal: even the cruelest, even the most wicked, there burns a spark. It is the same spark that lights Eljudnir. They have buried it beneath grief, fear, and anger until they no longer remember it was ever there. But I have seen it. I have seen it in the eyes of tyrants as their crowns slipped from their brows. I have seen it in the trembling hands of murderers reaching for mercy they believed they did not deserve. And in the final breath, when every lie falls silent and every mask turns to dust, they all reveal the same truth. Beneath all their cruelty lives the same forgotten longing
Not to conquer, not to be feared, but simply to be forgiven
And to be held.
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‘The boundary of the fence. Of the dead,
salutes to the departed: Eljuïdnr.’ ༒︎
Hell hooks the spirit, a straw-induced calamity leading to death in the afterlife. An oppressive and cursed patina, mists that roam the ground in crepuscule. Once drawn in, human cannot escape unscathed. Yet our bodies look terrifying, Mother. (Rottenness and blue-tinged underbellies. Either, a greed for fresh-souls.) They tremble at us; they plead in prayer not to be managed by you. Yet, I feel as though I want to flay them to the bone out of creeps of your presence.
“My child, so we wait for their souls to probe. Let them be daunted. Thus, shall they suffer all the collateral when they rally me,” said Mother.
Mother, the world calls us monsters. They fear us. They whisper our names in dread and turn their faces away, as though our very shadows carry death. Why do they hate us so?
As blood drips from their mouths, rotting like pandemonium that punishes the vile. Wretched in the heat, glum in long-lasting ordeal. They are humans who will vanish, devoured. And never return, allying.
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NÁGRINDR. MISERY-WALL,
& DECREPIT SOUL.
/
(CREATURE OF CURSE.)
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Turning of the solemn
born–genuine soul. / ༒︎
The cataclysm of your genesis, was dawning of different silent on this holy jubilee. Son Of Death Goddess, Hel: Seungmin’s Gredssé hold parlays of your magnificence. Your birth was not a gentle arrival but a sovereign born, macabre. I bring not gold nor frankincense, for such trinkets are ephemeral and gaudy. Instead, I lay at your altar the most profound gift: 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘺𝘮𝘯. I pray that your reign is long and your harvest bountiful. May your touch be ever gentle upon the weary. Mayhaps, your judgments be swift with the winter's frost.
To wear the mantle of the final threshold. Your birth was the world’s most melancholic, most exquisite, most glorious fall from Helheim.
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Turning of the solemn
born–genuine soul. / ༒︎
The cataclysm of your genesis, was dawning of different silent on this holy jubilee. Son Of Death Goddess, Hel: Seungmin’s Gredssé hold parlays of your magnificence. Your birth was not a gentle arrival but a sovereign born, macabre. I bring not gold nor frankincense, for such trinkets are ephemeral and gaudy. Instead, I lay at your altar the most profound gift: 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘺𝘮𝘯. I pray that your reign is long and your harvest bountiful. May your touch be ever gentle upon the weary. Mayhaps, your judgments be swift with the winter's frost.
To wear the mantle of the final threshold. Your birth was the world’s most melancholic, most exquisite, most glorious fall from Helheim.
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