#eatmilksasks

Vigcup Starwars:

A thunderous expression tightened under an ornate black mask, green eyes reflecting dying galaxies through a thin visor. The ship hummed gently around him, fans and lights buzzing as they flickered. The linoleum under his feet shifted slightly.

“Come now, dear. That expression doesn’t suit you.”

The voice sounded far too close for comfort, billowing through the dead space as if a mere few inches away from his ear, yet distant. Not even a footstep sounded, only the slight billowing of fabric in the thin air flow as the man who spoke approached, as if he were a ghost.

Hiccup was not so naive as to see such a display as disarming, his body tensing at the far-too-familiar voice—one that haunted him and his people. Hiccup’s hand hovered closer to his side, tapping gently at the weapon tucked away on his belt.

“Last I checked, you can’t see my face.”

Hiccup could hear the laugh in his tone, the smirk as the man tutted behind him.

“One doesn’t need to see your face to see your thundering disposition. Here I thought it was quite the happy occasion, a wonderful opportunity.” The voice, deep like honey and as dangerous as poison whispered, bouncing off the walls with an eerie power, inhuman and chilling despite the humored lilt in his tone. “Instead, I get the pleasure of finding a great Mandalorian Armorer brooding alone as they once again make trouble for their great Empire.”

Hiccup grimaced. “We both know it is not our Empire. And we aren’t friends, Viggo.”

These Four Walls:

Time didn’t matter anymore.

The soft click-click-click of the water droplets from the ceiling were patched long ago by some unseen force, and with it, the lights too were snatched away.

Only Hiccup, four walls, the wooden ground, and silence.

Silence-it was an odd sound. Truly, not entirely silent, no, no. No such thing could happen without the god’s intervention. Last he checked, men brought him here, smelling of smoke and ale. The last sounds of laughter and metal before his tomb was sealed, and alongside it, the noise.

No, the sound of silence here-it was in the way his ears constantly rung. The sound of his pants slowly dragging on the floor, tattered and worn. The sound of his fingers tapping and the way his spine seemed to crack when he moved, rocking back and forth to a melody that rang only for the dead to enjoy.

No sound could be trusted. Not the breathing, not the slight creaks and whines around him. Not the whispering that hummed delicately in his ear, an unseen mouth whispering incoherent lullabies.

The floor rocked gently underneath him once more, the sound eerily similar to a rat scurrying along the floor. If he thought about it, his skin would crawl. Who’s to say there wasn’t one in here, after all? A thousand?

For all he knows, they could be crawling around his body, tearing holes through his skin that had long gone numb. He could hear their feet. He could hear their screams.

And he could hear nothing at all.

He didn’t know how long he had been in the darkness, nor much of how he got into this predicament in the first place. Escape-well, that wasn’t even a concept in his mind anymore, a far off dream at most.

This-the darkness, the warmth of the abyss-that was all he knew now, ever since he was locked in here. He knew there were four walls. No door. No way out. Enough air to breathe meant some hole, but without light and only his fingertips to guide him and no foot to stand, there was no chance of finding it. He knew he used to smell-urine and desperation and blood clinging to him like a second skin, but smell became a thing of the past. Meals were delivered through unknown means erratically, neutralizing any chance of truly forming an idea of the passage of time.

He stopped screaming for help when his voice gave out and his ears bled.

His fingers were numb, his throat torn. He didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed, nor if his heart truly beat or if it was another hallucination. His nails-what was left of them after he raked them into the floorboards, desperate to feel something, were throbbing gently as he tapped them rhythmically on the floor.

What was time? What was hope?