Changeling the Clara

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Grace couldn't help but to feel a surge of joy at Clara's words. Having company in her last moments would be a bliss. Slowly, she nodded along to each and every word she heard. There was something about her that was just comforting in it's own way. There was no panic, or tears or despair at her state, just acceptance.

As her words came to a halt, Grace's pale eyes finally followed Clara's hands. The sight of the thread caused her lips to curl further upwards. It reminded her of the one she had given the town's healer. Her thoughts were brief, but she sincerely hoped the man would fare well in the upcoming days.

The sight of the thread itself was fascinating. She enjoyed having a friend at last, one that would enjoy spending time with her and one that could finally understand her. In the dark the mixture of her pale hands and Clara's bloodied ones almost looked like the milk they used to pour on the graves. The thread could be a little sprout, a small root connecting both the world of the living and the earth.

But Grace turned her head away at the thought. She shouldn't think of Clara as such. She was here to help after all.

"If we are to walk together... I won't lose you."

Grace whispered in turn. She wasn't sure if she believed that Clara could truly help, or if it was just the fear of the unknown making her cling to her new company, but for the time being, she had no intentions of going away.

Just being in the steppe with Clara was more than she could have ever hoped for, though her thoughts were eventually brought back to her previous request. It seemed almost meaningless now, but duties had to be upheld, even in situations such as these.

"Oh... Could you find someone... For the cemetery? To look after the dead?"

It wouldn't be the same. The townsfolk didn't understand them like she did. They wouldn't have the same care or thought that went into caring for the departed, but she couldn't just let them be forgotten.

Buried with space to grow. What a lovely sentiment for someone so young. The Changeling smiled and nodded at Grace, feeling understood for the first time since leaving the ground. They had no proper legs because they had been denied the proper room, after all. Dirt that was tainted by the town and its designs. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting this artist…” Their words were calm, though there was a brittle quality to their smile, wondering how respectful a man like that would be to nurture the soil he built his effigies upon. “I’ll visit him in the morning. Tonight, my attention is all yours. The rest can wait.” 

It was not as if the settlement needed their assistance in its death throes. The sense that despair had infected the people as deeply as the Sand Dirt came as a benign realization, where even the most thriving part of town found itself overwhelmed. The cemetery’s seams came undone with its keeper’s nerves, yet she was so brave about it, perhaps the most wise of any affected by the Pest. Even then, there was work to be done, as was the toil of those who would outlive divine retribution. Someone had to take up the honor of undertaker.

Come sunrise they would bless the tortured artist with a chance at redemption, yes. Like an ascended angel. If his place among the living was in question, there was no doubt that working with the dead suited him fine. Maybe the first corpse he’d be tasked with caring for would be Grace, and wouldn’t that be a cathartic reunion. “Meetings require partings…” They murmured mindlessly before addressing the gravekeeper once more. “You won’t lose me, as you said. So where do you wish to go? What voices call you?” What would be her final resting place, the spot her last laborious breath would be drawn into rotted lungs? Exhaled into eternity.

Grace nodded again. Her cheeks flushed with a faint hue of crimson as her spirits were uplifted further with each word that came from Clara's lips. With her help everything would be fine.

"Thank you." Her words were but a whisper, though she did hope it was enough for them to be heard. Her worries would soon vanish with the knowledge that her duties would be upheld by someone else, hopefully someone that'd partially understand. The present company sticking by her was an added blessing.

As they stood in silence, the thought of choosing where to go after caught her by surprise. She hadn't thought it through, especially after arriving to the tracks they stood in.

During her walk she had pondered to go to the theater, as she felt needed there, though she had to admit that she was in no condition to do much of anything by that point, not to mention how she didn't want to bring illness upon anyone else. The thought of going to the cemetery also crossed her mind, obviously, but if she had no space to bury the town's dead, why would it have space for her? It wouldn't. Lastly, there was the thought of Clara choosing where to go, as she was the one offering help, surely she'd know better of what they needed to do.

"I... don't know." Grace eventually admitted. Should she use the last of her strength to carve a grave of her own out in the steppe? The thought still scared her despite how close Clara stood by her. Her presence was comforting, but not enough to fully push away the thoughts of her demise.

As her pale eyes quietly watched Clara's movements, those seemed to be the two only options as well, either going to the town or into the wilderness. Surely away from others would be best, unless she knew how to help.

"Am I... Will I return to the earth soon?"

It was the kindest way she could put it. She couldn't just blurt out the words for dying. She didn't want to die. Her heart raced at the thought of what she didn't know, even if she did know far more than most.

Unbeknownst to her, her hand instinctively reached for Clara's, looking for some kind of touch, some kind of warmth and support to hold onto. She had to be strong, but deep inside, she so wished to be saved from such a fate.

"Or... is there still hope? Is there... anything? Could... anything be done?"

“You’re still seeing things wrong, Grace. Open your eyes and see things for what they are.” The grand scheme, the full picture, wherein they were all ants on a hill, drops of blood in the veins of the world. “You are soon to become one with the earth, sure, but you are not the only one. At the heart of the town are people like you, scared and confused, you’re the only one who knows what comes after, who’s spoken to others among the dead.” It was vital to convince the gravekeeper girl that one’s usefulness could outlive them, all of them had a place in a plague-ridden land.

Whatever came to happen when they arrived at the theater, given Grace’s acquiescence, may well be a miracle of a higher order, a demonstration of the comforts death may bring, releasing those tortured people that stubbornly cling onto a rotted life. Perhaps then the people might see how the end is a kindness, to return to a mother’s embrace and not have to fight any longer. Grace. Sweet, caring, attentive Grace, could be the one to convince others of what the Changeling knew to be true: death was the true next step for the town’s rebirth.

They tried to look melancholic, though their smile remained steadfast. “Your work is far from over. You worry about the dead? Consider the dying, dear. If you’re soon to perish, perhaps you could guide others along with you, cross the threshold with held hands.” Akin to boatmen worms and their coin-filled voyagers, though the next destination would be the other side of the river. The Changeling raised their joined hands between them, squeezing Grace’s grip comfortingly, though perhaps a bit too tight. “Would that make you less scared? To not have to go alone where I can’t follow?” 

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Grace couldn't help but to feel a surge of joy at Clara's words. Having company in her last moments would be a bliss. Slowly, she nodded along to each and every word she heard. There was something about her that was just comforting in it's own way. There was no panic, or tears or despair at her state, just acceptance.

As her words came to a halt, Grace's pale eyes finally followed Clara's hands. The sight of the thread caused her lips to curl further upwards. It reminded her of the one she had given the town's healer. Her thoughts were brief, but she sincerely hoped the man would fare well in the upcoming days.

The sight of the thread itself was fascinating. She enjoyed having a friend at last, one that would enjoy spending time with her and one that could finally understand her. In the dark the mixture of her pale hands and Clara's bloodied ones almost looked like the milk they used to pour on the graves. The thread could be a little sprout, a small root connecting both the world of the living and the earth.

But Grace turned her head away at the thought. She shouldn't think of Clara as such. She was here to help after all.

"If we are to walk together... I won't lose you."

Grace whispered in turn. She wasn't sure if she believed that Clara could truly help, or if it was just the fear of the unknown making her cling to her new company, but for the time being, she had no intentions of going away.

Just being in the steppe with Clara was more than she could have ever hoped for, though her thoughts were eventually brought back to her previous request. It seemed almost meaningless now, but duties had to be upheld, even in situations such as these.

"Oh... Could you find someone... For the cemetery? To look after the dead?"

It wouldn't be the same. The townsfolk didn't understand them like she did. They wouldn't have the same care or thought that went into caring for the departed, but she couldn't just let them be forgotten.

Buried with space to grow. What a lovely sentiment for someone so young. The Changeling smiled and nodded at Grace, feeling understood for the first time since leaving the ground. They had no proper legs because they had been denied the proper room, after all. Dirt that was tainted by the town and its designs. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting this artist…” Their words were calm, though there was a brittle quality to their smile, wondering how respectful a man like that would be to nurture the soil he built his effigies upon. “I’ll visit him in the morning. Tonight, my attention is all yours. The rest can wait.” 

It was not as if the settlement needed their assistance in its death throes. The sense that despair had infected the people as deeply as the Sand Dirt came as a benign realization, where even the most thriving part of town found itself overwhelmed. The cemetery’s seams came undone with its keeper’s nerves, yet she was so brave about it, perhaps the most wise of any affected by the Pest. Even then, there was work to be done, as was the toil of those who would outlive divine retribution. Someone had to take up the honor of undertaker.

Come sunrise they would bless the tortured artist with a chance at redemption, yes. Like an ascended angel. If his place among the living was in question, there was no doubt that working with the dead suited him fine. Maybe the first corpse he’d be tasked with caring for would be Grace, and wouldn’t that be a cathartic reunion. “Meetings require partings…” They murmured mindlessly before addressing the gravekeeper once more. “You won’t lose me, as you said. So where do you wish to go? What voices call you?” What would be her final resting place, the spot her last laborious breath would be drawn into rotted lungs? Exhaled into eternity.

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Day: 10

Time: Morning

Status: @thechangelingclara

It was a solemn endeavor to leave the warm embrace of the Earth. The dirt was soft and yielding, caressing the Changeling’s new skin with the comfort of a mother’s touch, giving way beneath their fingers as they tore at her loving bonds, surfacing into the putrid openness of the world, besieged by a kind malady. Taking unrestrained breaths of air devoid of Earth’s dowry to the living burned their insides, stirred the soot in their lungs. When their legs creaked, uncovered bones exposed to the unyielding elements, the Changeling mourned the lack of time, the incompleteness of their form. Their sister was fortunate to be blessed with a mortal form so fitting of a person. Then again, Clara lacked the bond of the soil. 

The town loomed beyond the cemetery, glowing with the comforting blackness of the Earth’s Plague. It was only natural to take the first unsteady steps towards the birthplace of the Reckoning, to take their place as one of the harbingers of the new Rapture upon the river Gorkhon. They walked with leisure, feet sweeping over rummaged grave mud and discarded bodies, fingertips ghosting over rags, tearing soiled cloth from the dead to adorn their exposed legs. How ironic to bandage the only part of their body that could not bleed, but it had to be done. Angels with their true forms exposed were likely to flay the minds of mortals, it’d be a shame to cause horror with nary a glance so soon into their presence. 

Their footsteps sunk shallowly into the ground, lighter than that of a person of flesh. As the Changeling walked towards the warehouses, critters followed in their wake; jerboas, rats, a crow or two flying ahead, foretelling of a herald’s arrival, the dirt shifted under their weight with the movement of actual worms and beetles. An entourage of earthen creatures stalking into the organized chaos of the settlement. It was neither a shift in the winds nor a whiff of familiarity that drew their attention to a particular warehouse, but a spark of life.

Metal would not rot beneath their hands, nor could they prompt rust, it was an entirely mundane gesture to push open the door with the creaking of old hinges, blinking at the dim lighting inside, too bright for a creature born underground, but comfortably darker than clear skies. Amidst the blood and dust, between wood crates and metal walls, lied their beloved sister, infected already, so diligent. There was another person snoring gently in the corner, sprawled inelegantly, free of soot in his lungs, a pity. The Changeling approached their sibling and gently kneeled next to Clara, resting a hand on her head, uncaring of the dirt under their fingernails falling over the girl’s cheek. Clara’s whole person was warm and earthen, colored like the many sprouts of herbs breaking through the ground to reach to the skies, broken up by a single glint of metal. the sheen was foreign in the grounded tones of cloth, oh so curious. The Changeling plucked the badge from its place above their sister’s heart, feeling its invasive cold mingle with their fingertips. They pocketed the token with half a mind to bear it later in honor of their sister, feeling their hand drift back to cradle Clara’s face. The warmth of her skin was comparable to that of the Earth, and the Changeling smiled as they drew a knife from their pocket, humming sweetly and holding their sibling’s face, tapping a finger on her cheek to bring her back to lucidity. Plague dreams could wait, reality was upon their twin.

“My dearest sister, did you miss me? I know we had our differences last time we met, but I’m closer now. I’m here for you.” They smiled, cradling Clara’s cheek with the softness absent from their grip on the blade held behind their back. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? The flakes, the critters, the symphony of sickness. Rapture. Ah, but they want you to help them, not the Earth. How sad.” They frowned down at their beloved sibling, feeling truly melancholic at how their paths diverged. “Don’t you see this is the way? How dare you shield these sinners from salvation? Do you want them to suffer even more?” The Changeling sighed and positioned the knife above Clara’s leg, moving their hand to cover her mouth. “Now I had to come here, to make sure things go right. It hurts to walk, isn’t that unfair? We’re twins, shouldn’t my pain be yours? We share the same fate, don’t we? You went so far away without me, now I have to fix you. I have to fix us. You understand, don’t you?” 

After the Changeling arrived at the warehouse, the girl was still asleep on the coold floor. She didn't realise that someone came into the warehouse, she was too tired. For a moment everything seemed peaceful to her, until she suddenly felt a cold hand touching her face. It felt oddly familiar but after she felt someone tapping her cheek, in a matter of moments, Clara opened her eyes. At first she seemed somewhat confused, but that quickly changed after she recognize the person that was standing before her. Of all the people... of course her sister was there... smiling at her. She might had some trouble with her memory lately, but she could never forget about them... and what they did to her. The healer wanted to get up and move away from them, but that was the moment she realise that she was feeling worse than before she went to sleep. She was feeling a lot weaker and it was painful for her to move. A slight look to her hand made everyhting clear for her... the skin on her hand, had a slight tone of yellow. Of course she got infected. She should've been more careful, but at the time, the girl was too worried about her friend... she forgot to keep her distance from Grief. This was her own fault...

Clara looked back to her sibling, but still seemed shocked to see them again. It was only a matter of time, until they showed up again. That constant smile was unnerving to her. It didn't take to long for her to notice, that the Changeling was hiding something behind their back... what were they planning to do this time? At the moment, she wasn't able to defend herself... besides the injuries, she had nothing with her to defend herself with... she had to wait for an opportunity.

At the moment, the Changeling was the biggest threat for her and this town, but even now, she felt no regret that they both had different goals. They just wanted to kill everyone... something that she never wanted to do.

"You are the one that makes them all suffer. I am here to help them and I will not turn against them like you do. There is another way to help the earth."

Clara went silent, after noticing that their hand slowly covered her mouth, but suddenly seeing the knife over her leg, scared her. She tried pushing them away, anything to get away from them. Unfortunately, she was to weak... she was already in pain and the plague made it worse for her. The healer eventually grabbed their arm, that they used to cover her mouth with, trying to make them let go, so that she could at least speak again, but once they mentioned Grief and pointed their knife at him, Clara stopped and looked over to the man, peacefully sleeping at the bed. Her sister was not wrong... he needed rest and she didn't want him to get more involved into this. It was bad enough that he was there in the first place. While she was looking over there, Clara noticed that the bed was empty. Notkin was gone. He was supposed to be resting... where did he go? He probably left the warehouse during the night. She didn't understand, why he left... but maybe this was for the best?

“I turned against them? Sister, they were the ones who betrayed the earth first, this is just repentance.” The Changeling frowned momentarily, overtaken by the feeling of loneliness they had once imagined their sibling would cure. “If this is how you want it to be, we can call it even right after I finish my work here, and we won’t have to cross paths again. An eye for an eye, right? You betray me, I betray you, and in the end we’ll see who was right.” Clara’s compliance to their whims was a sweet victory, if a small one, even if it was brought on by coercion.

The Changeling hummed, looking at their sibling’s legs and their own, feeling less spiteful than one would imagine, planning their approach with less finesse but a genuine investment, musing aloud how best to cut Clara in a meaningful way. “You know I don’t like violence for its own sake, but this is different. You want to cut ties, right? Consider it a ritual incision, then, like those of the Kin do. Your blood will feed the dirt, your split skin will free us both from each other, and then I can finally be my own force while you play at being a person.” They let the knife rest on the side of Clara’s thigh, light enough not to break skin, while their other hand shifted to hold Clara’s, be it out of malice or comfort. “When I was in the earth’s embrace, I heard the loveliest singing accompanied by such gentle steps, and I could observe the Herb Brides from my tomb in Boddho’s womb. They were such beautiful dancers, painted with symbols to honor their Mother and home. Don’t you think that’s nice? I’ll draw those pretty lines on you so you can see what I saw, back when I was still asleep. It won’t take long, I know the lines by heart, and then you can go back to sleep in my place. I’m sure you’ll have wonderful fever dreams.” The hand they held tightened on their grip, and they could almost feel their bones creak.

They hummed soothingly as they let the knife bite into Clara’s skin, crimson blooming from the split flesh, a shallow line being traced in curves down her leg, and it was only by virtue of their other hand being preoccupied that the Changeling didn’t trace the lines carved as they were made. The blood pooled on the beaten floor, fresh and vibrant, staining the bandages on their legs with their sister’s essence, a parting memento of their sorority. No longer would they walk as separate entities, yet they would never be the same person. “From now on, I carry your face and you carry mine. We are no longer sisters. You wish for me to stop existing, to cease intruding in your life, and I can give you that. Under this knife I shall die, for I am now you. Wherever I walk, it’s in your honor and with your footsteps. There is no I, we are now one, Clara Saburova.” The Changeling let go of Clara’s hand to drag their fingertips on the stained blade of the knife, joining their blood before tracing parallel lines across their neck, never once letting them touch.