I was invited into a carnival, perchance—and what is a clown like me to do but gleefully accept? To be woven into its dance as just another reveller? Don’t mind if I do.
Silly Chaotic. What a most lovely name!
It’s a blogging carnival of oaths!
And the theme of my smutty-syrupy-heartbreaker—that I’ve only ever played in my own head, and has only just begun writing down—is exactly that: social bonds, entanglement, and transformation. What we let go of. What we keep. What we promise, and what we become in the doing. Its where all my final fantasies wen't to grow up. I will not be writing one post about oaths - i'll write me up a world from that promise.
It’s a world built in the FKR style, LOL HAHA BELIEVE IT!, Carrier-bag style, defined by things within it. It'll be a living, breathing, writhing document here on my lil’ blog. Full of errors and course correction, a clown stumbling proudly into my destiny. It will contradict itself. It will not be safe. It will be fucking raw.
I hope it’ll someday become a ready-to-play world+system, a la Lady Blackbird—but that’s a summer’s dream.
Right now? I promise you blog posts detailing every race on the blog over the coming month. Oaths and promises and the molasses of entanglement woven deep into each. Orthogonal goals, powers. Unity like planets spinning in relation. Three-body problems. It will be player with player, not player against player.
I will write unhindered. I will write messily. I will write hungrily.
Road to road
Bed to Bed
It will be what I want to, whenever I want to, mouth frothing cotton.
Lover-to-lover-to-lover-to-lover
There's no salvation for me
There's no space outside my smut
and ITS ALL-RIGHT!
Is a world where names bind, kisses curse, and obsession alters.
It is not a world of balance—it is a world of transformation.
Where oaths are the only thing keeping you from change.
Where desire becomes ritual.
Where love is never just love.
It is a world full of domination, submission, switching—and the exploration of how that's both delicious and dangerous.
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Humans are the clay: always trying, pushing, resisting, making, changing.
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Fae are feeling, amplified: relational, radiant, and ruinous.
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Demons are the other: called, crafted, full of names, bound into forms not theirs, and never quite real.
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Thralls are treasure: reshaped by attention, desire, or awe—living symbols caught in the gaze of the fae.
Magic here is relational.
It doesn’t live in numbers.
It lives in kisses, in scars, in the words you shouldn’t have said.
There are no clean categories of right or wrong.
Only what you become, and who you become it for.
You do not play to win or lose. For losing can be winning.
There is such tender beauty in surrender and swords put down.
You play to be changed, or to resist change, and discover what that does to you.
You play to change others, or try not to.
You play to make beauty, mess, and meaning in a world that wants you to matter—and to suffer—deliciously and queerly so.
You can make a classic fae tale. Or fucking smut.
I dare you to do both in
CARRUS NAVALLIS – the world a parade of masks
The Parade float! Antonio Reinhardt.
Join the dance.
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