#cursedfortune. mortem

@cursedfortune // Unprompted!

In the dark his own reflect like hers. It's strange how different they are, and yet how interwovenly similar. There's a connection there that's hard to fathom, but in the dark he knows who it has to be by the sensation alone. The touch of their rhythms glides seamlessly, an inhuman connection that functions and binds them with more than words.

It's a hunt. He follows her without question, trying to spot her amongst the trees. He feels her here, somewhere, and her eyes glint sometimes, giving him clues. It's also a game, a challenge. There is some part of him that enjoys the chase, the way she manages to slip away so easily with her skill, but then emerges again, goading him to keep up the search. He tries; he is no match for the Witch of the Wood, the beasts she has learned and taken the skills of, but the back and forth is still a thrill of its own.

Warmth. Appreciation. She glows with it like scattered starlight. Mortem's face has never been an easy one to read, a smirk and knowing eyes as dark as voids more often what she wears. But in this moment she offers such articulate feelings to his core, and even an expression that can to some degree match it. It is a gift in a way. A smile that means something.

Her hand strays, but his chases. His palm curls over the back of her own, squeezing without the force to imprison it. Should she still want freedom it would be easy to slide loose. If she doesn't take such an opportunity though, his hand laces with hers. She's the only one like him that he's met. Maybe she can feel it too, this overwhelming sensation in his chest there are no words for. It bubbles like champagne and overwhelms him with almost grief, how big and vast and full the feeling is. He feels it so often, but there is never words that can bring them to life.

Artair leans against Mortem's arm. She is strange, intense, and even a fair measure ominous and unreadable. But in those things he finds solace, because the longer he survives, the changes reflect those facets onto him as well. He doesn't say why his cheek graces the top of her shoulder. He's sure they both know.

"I like the quiet... in the right company, I suppose." He finally answers aloud. "And... I'd like to know how to speak better to you. The way you do. I'm still learning, but... I'd like to give you that kind of quiet. I think I'll understand myself more, too." He pauses, and a smile curves his lips. "Things like us ought to stick together. I vow the same to you. I will be here too."

Touch My Muse

Holidays were not a thing witches really celebrated. It was a human (or, insert another mortal species with holidays here) tradition. But he had given her something, so she'd return the favor.

Mortem approached Artair calmly, knowing by now they could communicate well without words - he'd no doubt sense her intentions weren't meant to cause unease. Even as she reached out, cool fingers touching upon the underside of his arm to guide it to lift. A wordless ask for him to keep it there.

From her little pouch upon her waist, Mortem fetch something from it. A band, woven dark shades wrapped tight around one another into a seamless circle. Her fingers stretched it, revealing it was surprisingly elastic despite looking like leather. She set it around his wrist before giving it a gentle tap. A soft hum of energy resonated, like the smallest hammer creating a 'ding' against metal. Attuned to him, this enchanted thing.

"If you lose it, it will return. If you leave and need it, it will find you." A simple explanation. It was an enchantment she hadn't crafted in many centuries, but dusted off an old grimoire from her youth to remember how to forge it for this occasion. It was the same enchantment upon her pouch, after-all.

Her fingers slipped off his arm as she drew herself back, out of arms reach as to not crowd Artair. "It widens more than it ought to, it constricts more than you'd think. Adaptable. For your hair," She paused, a flicker of a sly smile upon her lips as she confirmed it was an ornate hair-tie. "or for the necks of those that would hurt you."

You're creative, you'll figure out its uses. - She seemed to say without it leaving her lips.

@cursedfortune // Gifts!!

He recognizes she's coming his way, and his greeting is paired with a smile on her approach, an invitation. He allows her to conduct and direct his arm without any resistance. His arm hangs suspended where she leaves it, a small raise of his brow with a twinge of curiosity. It heightens when he feels that leather cord against his skin, the buzz of magic tingling like static the moment it draws near him. It's a distinct feeling from even Mortem's own which initially cloaked it under her own raw power. She's the sun, a bright, intense being compared to a moon which only reflects a fraction of herself.

Artair watches, fascinated, as it is encircled on his wrist, and the energy shifts. It feels like it entangles with him in a way he can't rightly explain or even describe.

He studies it as she explains, in her usual mysterious way. But something like this was made for playing with. An experiment for a curious mind. She opens a gap with her movement, but they feel the same about touch, and he has no qualms closing it again. His hand touches her arm, a warm expression spreading over his visage. "This is lovely." Leave it to her to provide a fashion accessory that could double as a garrote and so much more. "I love it."

"I dare you to say something nice about yourself." :)

Truth or Dare

"..."

@cursedfortune speaks:

Situations Meme ( magic ) : injured as result of a spell. either enemy’s or their own malfunctioning (Artair) The witch felt a strange but familiar flicker of magic that churned like the ocean's tide. With a small squint of curiosity she found herself guided into its direction, only to come around a young man that appeared injured. It seemed he was alone and yet... not. Something accompanied him that was tangible to her - a curse. An affliction. Misfortune. How terribly amusing. She pulled herself from the shade of the trees and into the open, venturing close without fear in order to lower to a crouch beside him. "You're taking this rather well for one so injured." Mortem commented appreciatively as she examined the damage done. Both the physical wound and beyond - the way his energy moved was something unique, and she always liked unique things. "Would you like a helping hand, lovely?" Black eyes lifted to meet his, boring into them curiously. A thin smile curving upon ashen lips; friendly by default but to the discerning eye something laid in wait beneath, patient for his answer.

Spellweaving was always a double-edged sword in his hands. The bigger the spell, the more like threading the whole of the cosmos through the eye of a needle channeling anything became. And when all he could cast it through was himself, no supplemental materials to enforce his intent--- it was all the more brutal. It was too much, the core of him too shattered to hold it without cutting into him as well; the way magic flowed through him made his skin want to tear away, his muscles to untether from ligament and bone. It razed him in a way he could never describe, like being sundered atom by atom. But with equal fervor, the whole of him thrashed in a desperate bid to unleash.... something. Something that lurked within his delicate frame. He was too small, too knowable, and the vastness he felt drowned him every time it neared his fragile surface.

Tonight had been a particularly desperate moment, when something with dark hands and wide white eyes and too many arms had grabbed his hair. It dragged him towards a place like the last time he'd been in a space like this and he'd--reacted. Reacted with such a vicious desperation poisoning the whole of him, that the spell spilled from his mouth almost unbidden, seeping that ichor out with it.

The thing screeched, screamed, in such a familiar, nauseating way, but the words didn't stop leaving his mouth, even when blood poured with them. He needed it to go away stop stop stop don't touch him, not again he can't do this again he can already feel the roots in his skin, the hands--

His words born of fear he didn't know the origin of tore through him, and ripped the creature of the Wells to pieces, limb by limb by limb. They splintered the whole of its bulbous, teeth-riddled body, until there was nothing left to cleave further. Until instead of dying curled like some great spider of oily, spindly arms, all that remained was hardly a teacup's worth of powdered ash.

And that drastic, immediate, and catastrophic, overzealous end, was not without consequence.

Artair's throat split on the release of pressure, of magic. It spilt gold and red in a fall. Eyes flutter in the air around him and on his skin, along with runes, where they sizzle, brandings down to the bone and then scorching against them as well. He cannot scream or even whimper as more blood spills, as does a thick, viscous ichor from his chest where the locking scar of a rune over his heart has caved into a hole. He can see bone, pearlescent and shimmering, where vine tendrils haven't wound into them like a trellis. The rest of his chest is cavernous, cold, where it seems to be bleeding at the edges of where once he'd lost the whole of him entirely.

He....isn't sure, if he died or not this time. It felt like maybe he did, but he doesn't know. Laying like that in constant agony slowed time to a crawl of aeons. Or at least it slowed himself, while the rest of the world moved around him, and his miserable splattering of viscera. He's numb to the torture of an existence like this, now, as it soaks into him for centuries. It does not ease soon, nor does it recede with anything but the slowest trickle. So all he can do is lay there in the grass of these woods, and try to wave off anything that seems eager for a taste of his energies if it gets too close.

At least his charm keeps him safe from anything he couldn't handle, while he's like this. He hopes it will, anyway.

He doesn't know when he closed his eyes. But it only registers that he had when something--- approaches. He isn't sure what it is, other than something-- someone? Curious. Or.... maybe it was? It was hard to focus like this. As his body nudged his remains back into place.

The voice is what forces his eyes to open. The sun is too bright-- when had day arrived? How long had he been here?--- and he almost feels ready to lurch. It seems his throat is coated in flaking blood, flecks of transparent rainbow shimmers, like oil and water on the road under the sun. But the gaping wound is sealed again to just a jagged scar across his throat. His vocal chords are no longer severed. He make a humming noise to check. It's tender, but functional.

"Mnn." He acknowledges her as best he can. He feels that feeling she gave off from before--- shift. He can't tell how, just that it's different, and still close enough to the same. He coughs blood and dried flakes. It makes his body quiver, and he winces, but makes no further sound, desperate to keep them away. He feels-- examined, but it's more like he's observed by a predator than an benevolent passerby. He licks his dried lips, trying to force himself up, just a little more. It doesn't work yet, and he sinks back to the ground in renewed excruciation.

He meets her gaze then, taking in the dark of her iris where it blends seamlessly with her pupils, and the curve of her nose. The hanging wine purple of her bangs, and the curling locks of the rest of her hair where it cascades down and away behind her shoulders. She was smiling, but it still felt----- he didn't know. He couldn't focus enough to understand whatever it was. Just that she... was clearly very different. And it almost reminded him of... magic itself? The way she thrummed with this--- ability. Vitality?

Power, whatever it was.

He grimaced, before trying again, to sit up. He felt-- stitched wrong, like his skin wasn't a part of him anymore, but he manages to at least find a seat. The edges of him are almost nearly mended, except where they aren't beneath his blood-soaked shirt. He wipes perspiration from his face with his arm, before using the prosthetic to move. It is almost blissfully numb to any pain, except for what is always there. It anchors him, and he adjusts to prop against one of the trees.

@cursedfortune // Unprompted!

They can't help but to smile at the offered treat. They're not much for the holiday, since their focus tends to be on dia de muertos, but the thoughtfulness of Mortem is always a warm thing. He'll try to eat it, and savor it for the kindness it was.

@cursedfortune // Misc. Actions Memes

He laughs at the offered hand, before graciously accepting. The music isn't a tune he necessarily was prepared to dance to, but there's an earthy beat to the song that they can follow, a thudding drum as the tempo picks up. He had danced this song with her before; he knew it was one of her favorites, which is why he'd gone out of his way to find a version for them to share once more.