Take Me With You

🌲Multi-paragraph

🌲 OC and Crossover friendly!

🌲21+ mun with 10+ RP and writing experience! Very friendly, but very shy.

😊+☺ from @ignis-de-light​

A small hand reached to grab the firestarter’s sleeve, pinching the fabric between her fingers and giving it a short tug. Abigail hummed and hushed behind her like an eerie wind. Her vacant eyes scanned her pigtails and ashen face in anticipation for acknowledgement before falling down between her untidy shoes. Even after she was sure she had her attention, she held lightly onto her arm and rolled the shirt between her thumb. 

“Ms. Willow...” She started with a murmur, “Can you help us?” Her head partially turned to look at the hovering presence a few feet away. She needed her space. She’d been more distant in death. Quieter, too. She was still impish and strong in her own way, she thought. She was...different but the same. She couldn’t do anything the way they used to and that’s what stung most of all. How could she be haunted by her own twin and yet feel so isolated? 

“Not real?”

It would have cackled if the situation was at all funny. (Okay, so maybe it was a little funny, it knew exactly where the proper tools were to repair the lights.) But perhaps now wasn’t the time for laughter and games, it knew that from experience.

Maybe.

Maybe they could convince the copy of themselves.

Perhaps after the lights were on.

It started marching forward. Past the portraits on the wall and the etchings of insects, trees, and a horrible monster. Even as it brushed it’s hand across the old wallpaper, it left no traces behind. Faint ghostly candlelight flickering in the wind, and yet it left no shadow of itself.

Closer, and closer still. Yet it didn’t stop, acting almost as if it was going to collide with him.

Closer, and closer, and closer.

It suddenly stopped, an inch from his face. Scowling at him, with pale voids staring back into his. He can’t feel the breath on his face, but he’s sure he would if it could breathe.

And then, almost too softly—

“I left my tools in the second drawer down to the right. Spare lightbulbs and such, or cords to things I’m unsure of.”

To emphasize their point, they… Well, point at the correct drawer.

“It’s important to have a home well-lit for guests.”

Guests that wanted to play, play, play. And it could hardly contain itself, but perhaps for the sake of this poor shriveled thing… It would wait.

Frozen. No where to hide, no where to run, he was glued in place and his heart was roaring so loudly in his ears he couldn’t think. No, too many thoughts swirling in furious waves as always but he couldn’t grasp onto them and make use of the information they held. Focus, he urged, focus and look for an escape for a hiding place for anything at all to get out of this damned room!

Each step was too quick and too slow and his throat got tighter and tighter and he suppressed the urge to gasp for air. He wanted to shut his eyes as tight as possible and let the force blind him. If he couldn’t see it, it couldn’t possibly be real. 

Fake. It was all a dream. A hallucination. A macabre illusion crafted by an overworked brain running on little other than routine alone. 

That incessant creaking.

He grinded his teeth together until the pressure caused his gums to sting. His hands were trembling. Stop shaking, stop shaking--

It’s whispered words were deafening. He inhaled a quivering breath. It’s eyes were like foggy mirrors but he saw little of himself in it’s gaze. Physically the same but when he stared back, something awful and vile stirred in his gut. Dredging up something horrific he’d long suppressed down and down until it was nothing but an inkblot of emotion. The whole house seemed to groan under their weight and in that moment, those locked rooms and halls never felt more crowded. 

Your tools?

If this apparition was a reflection he supposed it only made sense for it to speak with his voice and of his possessions. With that thoroughly reasoned, his frightened features hardened considerably. Not tearing his eyes from the double, his free hand felt for the desk behind him, fumbling for the handle of the second most drawer. Brittle hands hesitated, and hesitated as though afraid a monster would be lying within, and then with a swift tug--clatter.

His eyes flicked over his shoulder. There they were. Dimmed domes of glass and haphazard coils of dark wires, looped together like sleeping snakes. He stared. When a floor above growled and creaked, his body kickstarted and he rolled his tongue against the roof of his dry mouth.

It wasn’t hard to tell that Wiverna was excited about something. Eyes wide, scaly tail lashing… the fact that they were wiggling in place. Thankfully, they’ve stopped pouncing on people! (Mostly.) Not that the sprints leading up to sudden halts weren’t still unnerving, but those didn’t end in unnecessary injury.

Yet, this time, they had managed to walk right up to the Lodger at a very deliberate pace - ensuring they didn’t startle him, waiting as patiently as they could for his acknowledgment. Their claws were kept behind their back, mimicking polite behavior they’d seen around camp.

“Enjoy your company,” they parroted his words. Realization then brightened their fanged grin. “Oh! Being around you is nice! Your colors are calm and twisty. Like your scarf!” After giving a very Wiverna-like compliment, that disciplined patience evaporated. And they finally whipped out what they’d been hiding behind them: Fabric, scales and fur, sewn together into a (wonky) dome shape. A tad mismatched… but clearly someone ensured it was functional, at least. The scales lining the outside, identical to the ones on their tail, glinted like sapphires in the sun.

“I made this for you! Weaver showed me how. He said it’s a Hat! Scarves go with hats! Both keep humans warm!” And without more warning, they reached and plopped the ‘hat’ onto Lodger. They hadn’t opened it, so it simply… lied flat, on top of his head. Patting it with exaggerated (albeit genuine) gentleness, they repeated, “Yours!”

Arms returned behind their back, but the tip of their tail wouldn’t stop twitching. The dark talons sticking out of their boots were digging hard into the defenseless soil. They absolutely beamed at him. They were really excited about giving him this handmade - clawmade? - gift.

The Lodger closed his diary to give the dragon his full attention, letting it rest idly on his lap with his hands folded loosely on top. His head canted slightly as he listened to and processed the comment they had extended. He’d become accustomed to such oddities and though his scientific brain could hardly wrap around and understand them, he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless and thought their eccentric speech patterns to be endearing. 

Though he’d hardly the time to dwell on the compliment of sorts, the conversation swiftly whisked away when two eager claws hurriedly shoved something out into the air in front of him. He leaned back slightly and furrowed his brows, trying to focus on the object without straining his eyes. 

He’d recognize that technique anywhere. It wasn’t his but it was derived from him. He caught himself staring for a few seconds, incapable of foraging words in response, before he exhaled all the air from his lungs when the hat was placed down on his head and promptly patted.

“W...Weaver helped you make...?” He trailed. Hunched into himself, he lifted a hand to take the gift off of his unkempt hair. He palmed at the hat and ran his thumbs over the scales. Were these...theirs? “A gift? For me?” He mumbled and a bubbling sensation replaced the air he had lost. It was light but dense and he thought he might suffocate. A mixture of emotions he didn’t have the comprehension of to convey. They swirled into a thick concoction until his ears burned red and he smiled ever so slightly up to the now watching Wiverna. 

😊+☺ for Wiverna and the muse of your choice! (@thatdragonsrpblog )

“Not that I do not appreciate your company, Wiverna,” The Lodger started as he lifted his pencil from a yellowed page of his journal. It had a few crinkly brown and orange leaves poking out from the corners of previous entries and from the very top protruded a flattened yellow flower. His glassy eyes were quick to avert to the dirt underneath him, too awkward to persistently look at their draconic features. “But is there a reason for your presence today?” 

It was the truth; he hadn’t despised them. Such a thing was hardly fathomable in his mind. While people were not his strong suit, he was hardly looking for reasons to hate the group of survivors. Wiverna made quite the helper and listener and had proven to be very kind in the past. They had a buoyancy to their personality unlike anything he had seen before and couldn’t lie that he had peaked intrigue in their origins and biology, but even so he found himself crumpling under their eyes. 

None had approached him for any other reason than mockery or for acquisition of information or help they desired. Willow had especially made it a point to let him know how frail and “boring” he was. She was...a bit much for him. Like an explosion waiting to happen and he found it in his best interest to avoid getting caught in her crossfire. Being on his own was familiar and comfortable. He preferred it that way.

However, as hard as he found it to believe they didn’t want something from him, he found Wiverna to be a warm ebb from a thermal stone on a winter’s night.