WITCHING HOUR.

@ashenail sent : " and why are you covered in blood this time ? "

for a moment eden almost allows her mask to slip, but in a single blink a smile slides over her lips, though perhaps one too uncanny when it doesn't stretch far enough to reach her eyes. she reaches up to brush a trail of blood running down her cheek with the pad of her thumb, staring pointedly at him as she pops it into her mouth to clean it off. it looks like a battlefield massacre, save for the single dim bulb hanging by a wire from the basement cellar's ceiling above an old wooden chair where someone had been sitting. eden's gaze shifts to the far back corner of the cellar where she'd started stockpiling everyone once she went through them; they were already dead, playing vessel and host to something beyond their control.

" i got hungry, obviously, " eden says in a deadpan, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. turning to fully face locke, she clasps her hands together, her lips pulling into a sickeningly saccharine smile. " you're late. i got started without you. "

inbox prompts / always accepting.

dialogue.

out of curiosity, what exactly is within your area of expertise?

you wanted to kill me. i’ll remember that.

stop. don’t move an inch.

believe it or not, i always figured you’d make something of yourself.

where do you get this disdain for man?

i’d say the gesture is pretty transparent.

you’ve gotten proud.

everything i say will be carried out immediately and unconditionally.

take off if you want, i won’t keep you.

i don’t like it when other people sort things out for me.

take it slow. don’t rush. don’t raise dust.

frankly, i’ve always assumed this was all, to put it mildly, a bit exaggerated.

this is no boulevard, and we aren’t here on a stroll.

haven’t seen you in ages. where have you been hiding?

starting up your old tricks again, are you?

hold the fort, as they say, and i’ll bring you back some chocolates.

don’t you try to pal around with me.

the old-timers are gone, the young ones are clueless, and on top of that, the prestige of the craft isn’t what it once was.

what a chance you blew. what a chance!

i don’t like empty fantasies.

let’s order another round. i’ve really gotten a taste for it.

someone squealed on us. they’re waiting.

eat, drink, and be merry, because i came back alive.

you requested my presence?

on top of that, i think you’re also a saboteur.

what is it about this place? it’s just a hole, a provincial town…

want a sip? for courage.

if you chicken out, i’ll find you in the afterlife.

would you like me to walk with you?

aren’t you ashamed of yourself? after all, you’re an educated man.

our conversation has just started. sit down.

what the hell are you grabbing my sleeve for?

you always were a piece of scum. a vulture.

argue with you? never even considered it.

don’t you try to force your customs on us.

the strikes, the demonstrations, the never-ending politics… to hell with your europe!

i’m warning you as an old friend: give up this nonsense, give it up for good.

suck in your gut, soldier!

i’m proud to know you.

i dream of living my entire life in my hometown.

you’re dealing in death, you jerk.

sometimes even i get goosebumps when i think about this data.

who would believe this lunacy?

if i come back and find that you’ve double-crossed me … i don’t suggest you double-cross me.

i’m at your service.

why in the world do we need money, if all we ever do is keep working?

i’ve never sold my soul to anyone!

may these bastards suffer, let them eat shit like i did.

i don’t want to work for you, your work makes me want to puke, you understand?

action. switch sender and receiver's places as you please.

homeward. the sender finds the receiver in an empty street at night, bloodied and beaten.

jeep. the sender drives in a hurry as the receiver sits injured in the backseat.

borscht. the sender and receiver sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the booth of a crowded bar.

stalk. the sender quietly leads the receiver down the road of an abandoned neighborhood.

communal. after a day’s work, the sender and receiver hit the showers.

tombstone. the sender and receiver hide in a cemetery to evade the police.

once over. the sender slowly turns around, allowing the receiver to check over their body.

gutting. the sender brings fresh meat into the receiver’s kitchen, intending to butcher and cook it.

mixer. the sender prepares a drink for the receiver, being heavy handed with the alcohol.

ring. the sender opens a briefcase towards the receiver, presenting the contents.

edge. the sender foregoes a seat and sits on the receiver’s desk.

light. the sender takes the lighter out of the receiver’s shaking hands and lights their cigarette for them.

jab. the sender suddenly kicks the receiver’s shin.

share. the sender passes their flask to the receiver.

courtesy. the sender enters a place they and the receiver agreed to meet, barely making it on time.

sona's molars grind together and she kicks up a cloud of dust and sends small pebbles and stones flying as she backs further up against the tree to no avail. it frustrates her, knowing she might already know how to play what she needs, but she knew the songs only as songs, nothing more, except for the melodic auras that healed. sona thinks only of one, the crescendo to her famous finale, remembering the pain it wrought to the audience's muscles, how it forced them to dance like marionettes; she remembers the exhaustion it lay upon her, and she cannot afford that now.

just when she thinks the worst of her fate, she hears a roaring shout ripple through the woods. it startles her for a fraction of a second, but it's enough to rejuvenate her, reigniting her instinct to survive. sona's fingers dance rapidly along the etwahl's strings and throws a barrier around herself to leave just enough time to duck and vault toward the ground. she scrambles to her feet and breaks off running, catching a glimpse of a man just a few meters away, tearing the attention of the beast off from her. breath heavy in her chest, she ducks behind a tree. her heart is racing, fluttering, pounding, a million beats per second, but she can't just leave this man on his own. sona steadies her instrument and breathes in softly, closing her eyes to play careful notes, this time offering her protector a stronger barrier than she'd given to herself.

there is another swipe that has locke swiftly stepping backwards, making space between the two. when he ponders the sensation he feels that which this barrier covered him felt like a cloak, a little more secured, grounded. okay, he thinks to himself, lets see what we're working with. the creature could hardly move quickly, it held the type of body to drag itself along the ground, no hind limbs to assist - the only distance it can utilize was the reach of its arms and judging by its mass, it would have no problem pulling itself along to close any distance. when another desperate swipe of claws come locke is quick to duck and throw an additional two nails in response. embedding them into the plane of its bicep.