MEANER THAN A JUNKYARD DOG

His body freezes. Tenses. Doesn't run. Doesn't move at all. Relief washes over him at first, as he knows the sensation all too well by now. Something that should inconvenience and scare him more than it ever actually does.

It won't let him run. Won't let him leave.

Keeps him facing the other man instead, eyes piercing and unblinking.

Finally comes the thought or the actual spoken word, he does not know and does not care because when it answers, it's not exactly...good.

'I give to all as they deserve.' That's what you think I do, don't you.

Yes. He doesn't deserve to live. None of them do.

What makes you think you do?

What?

For a terrifying and confusing as hell moment, Lance fears that this fucking gun might just go off on him. Blow a hole twice as big as the muzzle straight through his brain. Can't help but wonder what that would even mean. If that would blow it right out of him with him, or if it wouldn't even give a fuck, would keep him going just like it did after that fucking monster was done with him in that basement.

A loud noise startles Lance right out of his spiraling thoughts and panic. Makes him frown and look around, trying his best to conceal just how hard it had made him flinch, fearing it to have been that gun.

A radio.

He doesn't know why out of everything that currently happening, this is the thing that surprises him the most. The sheer concept of a guy like this knowing how to handle anything electronic out in the middle of fucking nowhere. And just how eager their guard dog seems to get over it, only thing missing being a wagging tail.

At last, a look is aimed back in his direction. He did, huh.

"Hell yes I did" Lance growls through gritted teeth, barring them and all. He doesn't have a clue what any of it is about, but doesn't care either way. Just wants to make it clear. It takes a bit for the onesided conversation to be over. By the time it is, Lance is laughing filthily.

"Yes, sir. No, sir. Figured you're just the type to ask how high when they tell you to jump."

Don't say I didn't warn you.... comes the equally amused laughter from within his head, though Lance certainly doesn't need a commentary track to brace himself for the consequences. Fuck it, maybe he wants them. Wants this thing on his side and just as angry as him. Needs it to be, if he wants to get any real shot at nuking this fucking cult right off the map.

Lance shoots the truck in question a look, and that first instinct's there even now. Do the opposite. Fuck you. I'm nothing like you. No one tells me shit. And yet.....

She's there. The town. Miriam. The end. Maybe this time, he needs to swallow his pride. If just for the fact that the outcome might turn out so much better. After a really short moment, Lance meets the other with a fierce, manic grin.

It's definitely not concern for her that moves him to such hateful thoughts. She had one fucking job. How difficult is it to keep her legs closed? Whore, he thinks.

Now they have to contend with a madman in their midst. Ber doesn't profess to understand the wisdom of his betters. Whatever is festering inside her, they ought to drown it like a kitten when it's out. Not that he'd ever say that. While this cruelty simmers in him, he gestures with his rifle for Lance to start moving. The two men climb back into the truck.

"You should've run," Beraiah remarks as the engine growls to a start. He says this now without the pretense of threat. There is no more need for such filigree. The sun beats down its fist on the roof of the car, like a judge's gavel to Ber's ears. It is done, it is decided. Lance could not leave this desert alive. "You got no clue what you've done. They'll eat her alive."

He has set the rifle down by his side, securely out of Lance's reach. One-handed, he operates the vehicle. He looks placid, almost relaxed, as he leans back in the driver's seat and steers the rumbling truck through the uneven terrain. Every rock conspires to rip a hole in their tires. His other hand is wrapped around a hand gun, shorter range. He keeps the safety off and has it pointed at his captive with such inattention that it either betrays incompetence or complete control. Ber thinks it'd be Lance's choice to find out which one it is.

Silence breeds between them, interspersed by the swell of static from the busted car radio. The sun is so bright that the gray countryside seems white, dotted with sagebrush that is slowly done to death by the heat. Not a drop to drink in months. The town comes into view, then. It's outposts, first. The slaughterhouse that always reeks of blood and death. It is kept far enough away, but when the wind turns, the streets are choked with that smell, the stench of frightful cattle. Then there comes the cattle. Spread out in small herds, the red animals graze on the hills or rest in the shade of rocks. Hardy beasts, all. And among them, invisible against the soil: the dogs.

The agricultural landscape thins out into a plain dotted with signs, now declaring private property. Fields in the distance, with small figures trudging along their length. The sun must burn them to husks. They, too, give way for the so-called urban center. Houses at last, not barn and sheds.

Zion proper is a sprawling compound, made up of communal spaces: sleeping dens, kitchens, recreational centers, the meager school for the handful of children old enough to learn anything worthwhile. Low buildings, low roofs. Sparse electricity. And at its center, where the crowding is thickest, there grows a diseased structure ever skyward. Blackened wood gleams lurid, its unnatural form bending under the weight of the lead-heavy sky. The temple completed is a massive building. It bulges and crawls upward, casting the town in shadow. The walls are lined with window frames, but the windows are boarded shut.

It stacks on top of itself, seeming at once precariously tilted and so compact that not even a hurricane could dismantle it. Its architecture spirals into itself, impossibly angled. Higher and higher, the steeple stretches as if to pierce the belly of the sun. And yet, no light is absorbed, reflected. The dark of it does not compromise. It shines. This is no place of worship. This is a bunker.

The truck comes to an idling stop, well in its sightline. Ber contemplates the structure, the pressure that one mistakes for grace. Awesome and awful have the same root. Sleet-gray eyes slide over to his passenger. "They'll be expecting you." He says, sobered by the presence of the strange affront his home has given birth to. "Let's go."

He taps the gun to Lance's shoulder to make him get out of the car, and then does the same. The townspeople gather already, whispering and staring with sunken, sun-blind eyes. They mutter, they point. Not much occasion for gatherings, for celebrations, since the Prophet's demise. Now, this.

It had been short-lived and violent.  The echoes of their clash still chattered in the cold air, racing with the winds that cut across the Boreal Valley.  Anri’s breath came in shallow, bruised huffs as she pushed herself upright.  Behind the slit of her helm, her gaze darted feverishly, searching for her silent companion.

The crocodilian beast was gone, its terrible form swallowed by the chasm below, while the bridge bore the scars of their struggle: pools of the six-eyed creature’s blood, already freezing at their edges; deep gouges from the flash of its claws; crusts of frost where its sour breath had glazed the stone.  Against this backdrop stood the knight, motionless, the colossal Zweihänder still gripped in his hands.  His silhouette loomed at full height, a stark and silent sentinel framed against the distant, frozen glow of Irithyll’s spires.

With a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, Anri heaved herself to her feet, skidding slightly on the ice-caked cobblestones as she hurried to his side.  Hesitantly, she reached out, unsure if he would acknowledge her, unsure if he would even tolerate her touch.  With that thought, she halted her hand.

“Are you hurt?”

The knight did not deign to answer.  In truth, she had not expected him to.  Blood flecked his armour, dark against the pale sheen of this ghostly, frigid night.  His breathing was steady but deep, each exhale visible in terrific plumes of glittering mist.  He seemed whole, intact, as well and as solemn as he had been before the unexpected skirmish.

“You were spectacular,” she murmured, breathless with exertion and relief.  “When it lunged at you, I was afraid that – ”

Anri stopped there, her hand lingering just short of his arm.  In his presence, she found a fragile reassurance.  In the absence of dearest Horace, this man stood as a steadfast companion.  Even without words, even in the short time they had travelled together, rising from the catacombs like two shades, choked by bone dust and ancient dirt.

“Did you see it?”  Anri trailed off, her throat burning with the cold as she sifted for the words.  “Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, or one played by my own weary eyes… but, for the briefest moment, I could have sworn that damnable creature was praying.”

Anri shivered, and not only from the cold. Her hovering hand retreated back to her side.

Beraiah watches as the water in the blood freezes to his bracers. It has splattered stark and foreboding across the breastplate and makes of him a savage in sullied armor. The carcass slipped off the ledge again, tumbling into the glacial depths below their feet. He mourns it with the pragmatism of nature. If it had stayed with them, perhaps they could have broken it open and warmed their hands in the viscera. Though judging by its demeanor, its infernal odem, they might have gleaned no warmth from its innards.

It startled him, in truth. Not the beast and its world-encompassing hunger, but the heat that flashed through him when his companion called out. Lighting struck down the length of his spine and forced every muscle to contract. He was holding his sword in his hands before he recognized the visage of the enemy. Blood did not sing to him as it has never sung. He did not fight to kill, barely invigorated by the passion of a fight. No victory is gleaned from the slaughter of a mindless creature, no matter how gleefully they once called him butcher. No, not bloodlust, not anger or belligerence spurred his limbs when he swung the blade. The fiend attacked her first, spotting the smaller frailer target.

Years of duty screamed him awake, then. The sworn to, ingrained desire not to attack but to defend, to shake free from stasis and protect from harm. No new tricks for an old dog. Before he knew it, the catacombs were behind him and the odor of decay was washed clean by blood. He stands on the bridge with her who now comes to him with a hesitant hand, her gauntlet shining silver in the light.

She asks if he is hurt. She speaks of pious tendency in the rotten. Yes, he thinks, most awful things with a hunger will pray before their meal. Religion is as vile a breeding ground as sewage. He’s come to accept that.

Her hand never reaches him, cowed perhaps by the gore, or his silence that does it no justice. Beraiah does not sheath his sword again but with an unseen tension in his arm now carries it one-handed. With the other he beckons her as he begins to walk.

“Come,” He rasps out. “Don’t go far from me.”

𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

" that's a lot of blood. "

" it isn't mine. "

" what did you do ? "

[ sigh ] " what did you do ? "

" come on. have a taste. "

" holy shit, are you okay ? "

" it looks worse than it feels. "

" you should see the other guy. "

" it's a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. "

" lean on me. "

" oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? "

" . . . gross. "

[ standing over a body ] " oops. "

" is that a fucking body ? "

" look, i'm sorry, okay ? "

" what the hell happened ? "

" before you say anything, it wasn't me. "

" at least it wasn't me this time. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn't. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn't. "

" i'm not scared of you. "

" you don't scare me. "

" shut up and let me help you. "

" i got your shirt all bloody. "

" let's get you cleaned up. "

" that looks like it hurts. "

" i'm fine, just. . . give me a minute. "

" we are so fucked. "

" what the fuck is wrong with you ? "

" are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? "

" the fucker deserved it. "

" red looks good on you. "

" what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? "

" what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? "

" i. . . i didn't mean to. . . "

" sorry. fuck, i'm sorry. "

" this isn't what it looks like. "

" it was an accident. "

" motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. "

" people need to look both ways before crossing. . . bullets. "

" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "

" hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? "

" they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. "

" you're bleeding. "

" what the fuck happened to you ? "

" you're getting blood on the carpet. "

" sit down before you fall down. "

" that looks like a you problem. "

𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet

sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver

receiver finds sender covered in blood

sender tries desperately to stop receiver's bleeding

sender helps receiver clean up after a kill

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with their thumb

sender licks receiver's blood off a knife

sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb

sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver

receiver finds sender stood over a body

sender stitches up receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender digs their finger into receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood

sender guides receiver's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean

sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood

sender tilts receiver's head back to staunch a nosebleed

sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)

receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze

sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone

sender ruffles receiver's hair, getting blood all over their hand

sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face

sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them

sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver

sender slips in their victim's blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall

sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled

receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off

sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver

sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse

sender takes an injury meant for receiver

sender shows up on receiver's doorstep covered in blood

sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone

sender punches receiver in the mouth

receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust

sender helps receiver bury a body

sender hugs receiver just to get their victim's blood all over them <3

sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3

sender leans on receiver for support

sender kills someone to protect receiver

receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it

sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver

receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself

sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip

↣ SCAR PROMPTS. always open

“ It’s fine- I’m fine, ” she huffs, breath ragged under her mask. Beraiah tugs it down without even looking up at her.

“ You’re not fine, ” he groans, working at unclasping the pauldron off her left arm, blood-slick leather straps slipping through his fingers. “ Gods fucking damn it will you stop moving! ” She sighs, the sound hitching in her throat as the pain wracks her body. Her arm is limp in his grasp, all her concentration on keeping the muscles from contracting under the shock. It would only serve to heighten the pain. 

“ Breathe in, ” he tells her, and though her eyes roll at his order still she does so. There’s a loud crack as he effortlessly breaks off the crossbow bolt stuck in her shoulder, throwing it aside. When she tries to help him work at taking off her breastplate he shoos her hand away. “ Let me do it. You’ll hurt yourself more with all your thrashing, ” Beraiah admonishes gently.

He works dutifully, and Alizebeth watches him with pain-thinned amber eyes. It’s not her first injury. She’s not sure why he’s fussing over it so much. Then again, Beraiah was nothing if not dedicated. Her armor clanks on the ground, discarded with a swift movement. Then comes the leather chain-coat, and below the gambeson. He unties it with one strong tug of the tied cords. With deliberate attention that takes Alizebeth by surprise  he slides the thick woolen garment off her shoulder.

The bolt has lodged firmly under her collarbone, where a scar on her chest ran up. Her arm, too, was covered in nicks, and not just a few bites. The marks are pale on her umber skin. It’ll be a new one among many.

“ It’s just a bolt. No need to make a fuss, ” she replies weakly. Her eyes are closed as she awaits what she knows to be the most painful part of the process. He'll have to dig the bolthead out. She hears the grinding of a knife unsheathed. “ Shut up, ” Beraiah answers quietly. “ before I maim ya any further. ” 

Every day, every hour, marked by labour.  As dusk crawled towards them, staining the jagged horizon with its inky fingers, Anri drowned her hands in the kitchen sink.  Through dust-streaked glass, the Mojave sprawled endlessly, a wasteland of brittle brush and sun-cracked earth.  Crude smears of lilac and lavender smeared the sky, and her thoughts drifted in the growing dark – until a sharp sting brought her back.

A chipped rim.  A welling of blood.  

Vivid and startling, it spread over the wet skin of her fingertip, spoiling the suds.  Anri stared at it, strangely detached.  The water here had always tasted heavy, iron-rich.  Perhaps that was what explained her leaden response, the general apathy and spikes of delirium that poisoned the congregation.  Or perhaps it was simply the familiar weight of exhaustion.  The days were almost unbearably long, and the dream had come again last night.  

Replay and replay. Walking into the dry mouth of the desert, clothed only the shift dress she had worn on her wedding day.  Borrowed fabric clung to her in tatters, sun-bleached and rotting, until it slipped from her body entirely.  Then it was her skin that cracked and peeled and spoiled under the relentless sun, the soles of her feet slowly shredded on sand and shards of pebble-glass.  Help me, save me, she whispered to no one in particular, her voice baked in her throat, swallowed by the searing wind.  She never made it far.  She always awoke in the same bed, the same room, with the same terrible knowledge.  That if she strayed, it would be Beraiah to put a bullet in the base of her skull.  That he would not hesitate.

Behind her, her imagined killer sat at the table he had built with his own hands.  A figure of authority, even as a visitor in his own house. He spoke as a man certain of his dominion.

Setting a tea towel aside, Anri flexed her sore wrist, mottled with bruises that had faded to sickly yellow.  As if the ache could so easily be wrung from her body. 

It would be easier if she had it in her to hate him.  There was much that was good in Beraiah – she saw it in the way he stood with the flock, in his fierce devotion to their safety, in his willingness to bear the burden of their sins.  She heard it, too, in the rare softness of his voice.  That shared tenderness was a relic now, but still it haunted her, still it inspired miserable yearning.  It would be easier if he had it in him to love her.

Wiping the blood from her finger on her apron, she placed a pudding before him.  Bread and butter, a thin custard, conjured from scraps and effort.