<aside>
An offering of sacred smut & somatic myths. Created by Ro Rose | @queerlyfluid
Sacred Smut & Somatic Myths: Threshold
Sovereign Rot | Creative Documentation
</aside>
Sovereign Rot | Mythic Descent Scroll
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 2
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 3
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 4
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 5
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 6
Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 7
<aside>
<aside>
<aside> <img src="/icons/chess-queen_brown.svg" alt="/icons/chess-queen_brown.svg" width="40px" />
</aside>
A visceral descent text. Not polished scripture, but gut written. Here, Inanna is stripped of the very tools that measured her world. The rod and the line of lapis fall away. She must move without scale.
She reaches the sixth gate. The guardian waits, watchful and still.
In her hand rests the rod of lapis, weight of discernment disguised as truth. At her belt lies the line that traced borders, the cord that decided what counted and what fell beyond. With these she measured fields and vows alike, drew the edges of her world, and decided herself legible within them.
There are no words. Only requirement. The guard’s eyes hold no malice, only duty.
She hesitates. Not from vanity, but from the knowledge that without these there is no ready way to tell where she ends. No way to portion breath into countable parts. No way to weigh grief against courage.
The rod is taken first. Its smooth length slips from her palm, leaving her hand strangely empty, her grip purposeless. The line follows, tugged from her waist with a quiet hiss. The cord falls slack, borders undone, distances unmarked.
Without them, she has no anchor, no span, no scale. The ground tilts. How tall is the wall before her? How wide is the space she enters? How heavy is her own body? She cannot tell. The measures are gone.
The corridor stretches, then snaps short. Steps slip from her count. The floor hovers, then drops, then steadies again. She looks for a horizon inside her body and finds only weather. Her heart beats with nothing to measure against. Breath slips its leash, walls swell and refuse to follow. Time pulls like taffy. Salt rises on her tongue, sweat or sea, she cannot tell. Air thickens without edge. She spills beyond skin, vast and uncontained. Too much, too little, both at once. Pulse unmoored from all scale.
A recognition cuts clear through the hush. The rod and the line did not only draw maps upon the world. They drew a map upon her. They made a ruler out of a woman. They turned a living body into lengths and limits. Without them she is not formless. She is uncalibrated. Not small. Not vast.
The gate yawns open, neither narrow nor wide. She moves, not by measure, but by insistence. No edge, yet no loss. Magnitude, trembling and whole.
She steps forward without measure, unable to gauge how much of her remains.
<aside> <img src="/icons/chess-queen_brown.svg" alt="/icons/chess-queen_brown.svg" width="40px" />
</aside>