#malefikant

"How does a man like you survive with folk around him this chatty?" The voice announced his return to the Lieutenant, quickly followed by the clicking of two beer bottles that had been carried over from the bar using only one hand, separated by taking one into each when he came to a halt besides their table. With a low thud the bottles were placed down before Dilnis and Alexander sank right back onto his chair, sighing while shifting into a comfortable position. His legs were too long and he was fed up of having to fold them.

We have little real information about the nature and amount of dissolved organic matter in the sea, especially in deep water. Among the few recorded determinations of dissolved organic carbon the limited numbers made by Krough have seemed to us to be perhaps the most reliable... 

Dilnis pressed a palm over his eyes, his upper body slightly slumped over the table and steadied by the same hand used to prop up his head. Darkness enveloped his senses first, then an encroaching silence which muffled out the crowd of gamblers at the bar. As if he were purposely submerging himself in water, letting the turbulent waves fold over him like a shroud. 

The general level of concentration of dissolved organic carbon which Krough reported was confirmed at these stations. However, instead of being homogeneously distributed it is definitely less at intermediate depths–

The Lieutenant focused on the voice, a half remembered holotape on the topics of marine biology and oceanography, abandoned by the time he’d found it in his mentor’s archives. Things were simpler then, quieter, his teenage years spent ruminating over some mindnumbing task. The narrator droned in the background as he organized their case files, filling the office with a semblance of life. It’d felt isolating back then, but the work of a scribe was usually a lonesome one. He’d been a fool not to appreciate the simplicity. Such a fool. Years later, surrounded by the tatters of his people’s own undoing, he would have given everything to recreate that seclusion. 

Pressure had built at his core, and painfully, his jaw tensing with every memory that resurfaced. Yet he imagined himself still wading in the murk, reaching inside himself to dislodge whatever had obstructed his breathing. Then, envisioned pulling it from his chest and casting it away, as he let himself sink further and further into the ocean depths. 

None of it mattered anymore. The past was lost and gone, even if it’d left its wounds. He was alive, and surviving for the present. Just as long as he could keep himself from…

“I drown them out.” He finally broke focus. Though little had changed in his demeanor as he looked up, dark and taciturn as always, betraying nothing but a burgeoning disapproval over his surroundings. All the sights and sounds of the Strip phased back into view, and he was instantly reminded of what had made him lurch inward in the first place. “It doesn’t always work.”

Peculiar in how the scent, or rather a feeling presented itself. Moving through human veins with full force of glaciers behind it, as if the frost wasn’t invading the viscera. Spiking in geometric shapes the very tubes that bore it. Ice as if impregnated with blood that stained throughout its marbling. It gave him a chill that stopped him immediately. Were those veins black with its bite? Those around him shuffling in, about, and around him, gave him no mind. Off to this stall and the next, chattering about that mug and this tchotchke. All as he stood motionless. Unblinkingly, over his fur collared shoulder, to find the source. In its gratuitous warmth the place had in its plethora of warm bodies to radiate heat. He scoured by instinct to find the cold pocket’s source. Even the lighting seemed to take a colder tone around him from the honey shade they normally had. The inviting nature of these nighttime shops was cooled in his wake.

Body heat is around ninety-eight degrees, give or take for the individual. Blood, by extension, about the same. By extension, those fed on warmed the drinker. It’s what helped it stay so fragrant for beings like Dieter. A biological invitation of sanguine health. But this one smothered the heat. No, rather, pushed it out. Expelled it from itself. Heat had no home with him. No home indeed within the black haired man he spied stopped at a stall. The rest of the crowd melted away into their shared heat. The mass’s undulating mirage slowed in time with the folk music. The blurred together as dieter’s senses fixed. An anomaly. Anomalies he loved. Anomalies were to him as exotic animals to trophy hunters.

@malefikant

I'd say her capacity to forgive is surprising to most. Given her nature, she compartmentalizes with relative ease. What is personal and what isn't? That's the question it often comes down to. Why? Because as a witch, it's intertwined. She cannot change her own nature, she must abide by the rules of her existence.

Humans, on the other hand, aren't bound by such rules. Mortem can logically separate personal and business, but if they overlap she must act even if it's to the detriment of others (those she likes or in general). Whereas, humans/mortals can choose not to.

Her capacity to forgive is more than a human's because she understands the actions she takes, the choices she makes, are for a bigger picture. It isn't usually about helping the world state as it is, but helping its potential of what it can become. She cannot foresee the future, but she acts in favor of it. Even if it means doing harm to gain favorable results.

What sways her is potential. In a war, she evaluates either side's potential. Not just in forces and power, but longevity. Who will prosper from war best? She will sacrifice a kingdom with people she likes within it, because her purpose guides her in what/who has the most potential.

Despite the fact I say often that Mortem's world despises her, she doesn't despise them back. She understands her actions and deception, her manipulation, has all led to mistrust that has lasted generations. In her perspective, you're an idiot if you aren't wary of her. Anyone who blindly is friendly and lacks caution when she's putting out all the 'warning hints' (mannerisms, wordplay, energy) deserves to have their life forfeited.

Which leads into the personal bit. She doesn't take a lot personally because of the above. But blissful ignorance or intentional ignorance, what have you, is one of the way to earn her ire. Ignorance clashes with her own nature. Very similarly to how people lacking ambition clash against her. If someone isn't ignorant and they are intentionally trying to interfere, that will build up over time if they are any good at it. But usually she sees that was a, "Oh, you wish to try and be a challenge? By all means. Try."

Matters of the heart are different and very particular. To continue on the personal side of things, you kind of have to know what to target. Sometimes you can blindly hit the target, but it takes effort. The problem with Mortem is, she's friendly but often vague as hell because she never has any intentions to befriend anyone sincerely. Mortals especially are so fleeting compared to her. And how many mortals would be willing to even try?

Granted, there are some people she shows no forgiveness to. One in particular she actively burns with hatred for and awaits the day her purpose no longer deems them useful.

In terms of being swayed or not... she can't be. She will sacrifice anyone if her purpose demands it. That sounds harsh, but it's true. If she is able, she will look for loopholes or warn others that the path she must take is going to be a problem for them. But ultimately, they cannot sway her. She only gives them the warning so they can prepare, change something that could change her course in return, or challenge her head-on.

Their hands were at his nape, and their gaze had fallen over him like a heavy curtain, stealing all other sights from him. Because in that instance, Alexander was all he could see, and all he’d ever need to see again. There were no candles or shadows wavering in the corner of the room. No hills in the purview of the window, nor stars or moon– only the light of their skin in the darkness. The flush of their lips and the silver gleam of their eyes the only trace of color left in the entire world. Closer, closer, the gold coin spun in its socket and glimmered, mirroring the strange gallop in his chest. There were horses tumbling from his ribs, crying out in painful ecstasies as they rushed and pushed, spurring him to grab and pull the other to his chest. He’d restrained himself up to that point, he realized, not wanting to succumb to wickedness in the face of such virtuous and clean beauty. Duke knew himself to be a monster, but his heart was just big enough to be careful of someone so immaculate, and of not being like– 

The breath of urgency behind Alexander’s voice, the heave of their chest and shoulders, thrilled him beyond imagining. He’d thought of them gasping beneath his fingers before, had fantasized what it would be like to taste and claim them as his own. But this was greater than any vision, stronger than any pleasure half-felt in his dreams. They had closed in for his mouth, but Duke had been quicker, pressing their lips together with a burgeoning hunger. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other man, practically lifting them to deepen the kiss even further. 

Already he felt that his body was begging with the same frantic urgency, his flesh seething, the fire borne of his loins surging outwards and making him sweat. He broke away slightly, just enough to whisper against their teeth. 

“Say my name.” He placed further pressure at the small of their back, pressing their hips flush to each other, hinting, questioning, no longer sure of how to leash himself. “Say it, think it, tear it apart, do whatever you want– it’s yours as much as I ask you to be mine.” 

Alexander had torn away the pall that’d briefly settled over his head with a mere kiss, erasing any and all of Duke’s thoughts for the bliss of a moment’s respite. He wrapped his arms tightly around their waist and pressed them fast to his chest, lifting them slightly as he deepened the lock. This angel hailed from out of the darkness, how easily their presence had swept him from his troubles, and even soothed the needle pricking of his memories which were quick to remind him of the face he carried by birthright. 

“My love.” He growled against their lips, casting a warm look over their long lashes and down the prettiness of their face. “My heart’s been cold without you.” 

Second Lieutenant Jonah of the New California Republic had led his unit’s return up the highway, all with the sun beating down their backs, and sand whispering between their boots. It’d been a long trek since the Viper encampment nestled in the rock formations directly South of the winding road, currently no more than a mess of torched tents and pillars of smoke parting the sky. Hardly an easy march, from burning corpses to seething asphalt, vapor trails lacing their eyelids with sweat. But just through the mirage jutted out the beastly silhouette of the Novac mascot, reaching greater heights the closer they got, until its shadow swept over them like a merciful shroud. Short on funds, they made camp further ahead of the gas station and set out to break their fast with some of the geckos scrattered around the area. 

Conversations among comrades were light that evening, too stricken with visions of smoldering flesh and faces twisted in abject horror to start up their banter. Though none of their own had been lost, and regret remained an absentee among their ranks, they hadn’t exactly braced themselves for this kind of victory either. Ruthless beyond any prior experience, more akin to the battlefields along the borders of Arizona than their usual attacks against raiders. Still, orders had come in clear as day, and as tight lipped as they currently felt, they were mostly convinced of the “good deed” done...

Jonah excused himself from the campfire just then, calling it quits as the sun dipped below the horizon. Two of the troopers scooted over to fill in the gap he’d left behind, and some of their voices broke through the stillness in thoughtful musings, greeted mostly by hums and distracted nods. Not one of the soldiers turned their heads away from the flames or had checked for their superior’s stride, content to think him quickly back in his tent, readying his bedroll for an early night’s rest. Yet the lieutenant’s things remained as they were, closed and undisturbed, as the man himself crept silently in the opposite direction. 

Lieutenant Jonah then– Jonah– Jo– D– 

–Dilnis– Dilnis. 

Journeyman scribe of the Brotherhood of Steel, Dilnis, sought refuge in one of the more forsaken bathrooms of the motel, alone, and with a cigarette sloping precariously with ash. He sat in a corner, somewhat obscured by the broken down sink, as if slotted into a cramped space. For peace of mind? For comfort? Neither of which had come, warded off by the shadows and the smell of decay wafting off the tiles. He was gambling on the fact the rest were too affected by the day’s pursuits to wander any further from camp (pussyfooted idiots couldn’t handle a measly fire).

 But what if he were caught there? Would they have found it strange of Jonah to scuttle away in secret? Would they have caught him in a moment of bare faced humanity? Or more likely a moment of inhumanity. His expression vacant of its usual humor for something of a ghost light, dully glinting through his vision like the buttons of a machine about to putter out. 

Dilnis closed his eyes and envisioned the door that often stood at the edge of his dreams, an impenetrable wall of darkness beyond its archway. It beckoned, and he knew the moment his muscles relaxed and he surrendered to sleep, he would be plunged right through the shadows again. Enveloped by a warm and suffocating night. Like a mouth, like a mouth, like a mouth. That was all sleep was anymore. A mouth about to consume him. 

Deucalión urged his princeling forward, eager to meet the black steed trotting in his direction, a hand at the ready to pat a firm hello over the snout. The tension long worn over his back lessened as Apyr flicked an ear in response, smelling both the stallion and the rider coming to a full stop with its usual, quiet demeanor. Not wanting to interrupt the strange and complicated ritual of horses greeting each other, however, he dismounted on the opposite side and unlatched the pasofino’s bridle. Who, once freed, hurriedly sniffed the other’s face and nipped at its withers. 

“¡Mira! No te ‘esmandes…” 

A lover of animals, he would have naturally taken to petting and conversing with the horses while they settled themselves, aware that Oresteo wasn’t the friendliest of youths,–  if it weren’t for the incessant tugging on his heart, a taut chain that travelled from his ribs to the dark rider on their bedroll. He recklessly slung his pack to the ground and walked faster, when really he wanted to run and rush to his lover.

The closer he came, the less he sensed and heard of the campsite, and of the world chittering with night birds in the thrush. There was nothing but the strong and deafening beat of a drum he’d hardly known existed. It had never before been this intense and this defiant. Duke knelt and reached for their hand, gently caressing the palm with a still-gloved thumb before pulling it to his lips for a kiss. There, he finally noticed the bronze shimmering around Alexander’s pale skin, right where he’d placed it on their night together. The ever-present weight on his brow, his chest, the shadows built upon a foundation of endless nights gambling with misfortune, were instantly lifted from his body. Not by the flames crackling at their side, which only singed the rims of their silhouettes with a greater host of darkness, but a light sparking from deep within. 

Again, he kissed over the peaks and valleys of their knuckles, hard enough to prickle them with his stubble. Then for a third time along the delicate tips of their fingers. Reduced to a base and sinning creature before the image of a saint, he sowed his worship through the fervor of an unworthy mouth. Desperate, he’d quickly shut his eyes, stopping himself from acting upon a whole slew of other wicked wants. How he wished to climb over this beautiful man and pin him in place, rubbing in his scent like an animal marking its territory. Then suck the side of their throat where their heartbeat was clearest until it left behind a dark bruise. There’d be no mistaking it then. No room for doubt. 

This featherless angel was his. 

There was a long pause before he turned around, casting a curious glance upon the dark rider as they faced away from him. Not only for their reaction, but for the clothes on their back. The same, black garments which covered them in a pitch shade of night, a shadow even in the heat of the afternoon sun. Weren’t they burning under all of that? They had to be…

Stray thoughts filtered in with the question, as he also wondered over what lay beneath, if the wound on his side had miraculously healed or if it still spotted the same stretch of cloth. If the rest of their body matched what he had felt that night, and if it would remind him as much of the angels as did their face? His hands twitched with suggestions of loose buttons and belts, and his golden eye glimmered briefly. Perhaps he was a foul sinner, tinting that image of soft and saintly beauty with notes of desire. But– did he care to correct himself? Was his skin not only growing warmer at the sight and at his illicit thoughts? Not a hint of regret on that rugged face, he only indulged his curiosity, half envisioning what he might see. 

Duke stepped closer, looking down at that fine profile as he quickly pinched the brim of their hat with his own rough hand. Gently, he tipped it back and away, clearing the view of their eyes. Silver coins to his gold.

“Hold your head up.” He moved until he stood facing them, his scarred and sculpted body before a blessed, yet dark apparition. “Someone beautiful like you should have more pride.” 

He took in a deep breath, then exhaled with a low rumble of a laugh. “Tell me what you need.” 

Briefly, as he waited for the other man's answer, Duke looked around until he caught sight of their companion, waving a curt hello in its direction. Not one to ever ignore a horse.