#mason 01

Words aren’t her strong suit. Not when someone asks for something genuine when Clementine has only ever been... blunt and prickly. She squints at Mason in the distance, a grimace on her face, debating whether it’s best to leave this confirmation for another time. Perhaps when the sun shines a little brighter. But the wind gusts hard, and the tree above her head rattles it’s limbs in protest.

Eyeing it warily after the other night’s madness, Clementine huffs and then calls, “Mason!” She waits for an acknowledgement from them, but then barrels on in her particular brand of bluntness regardless. “I’ve got some stuff for you. I, uh, know we don’t feel too much cold, but I don’t like the wind. Or the snow.” Clementine holds out her hands. She’s got a bundle of fabric that looks like a sweater, and a thicker one that she imagines is a blanket. “Here. I’ve got some for Hazel, too, if she needs it. But I haven’t seen you to give it before now, so.”

THE WOOD

WEARING (3RD IMAGE)

OPEN TO @pestiilents

 A level of control akin to no other was one that came with a price.

 There were nights that twitched the tips of Rosalie’s fingers into the plush palace linen fitted into her bed. An urge to curdle blood of the living fueled the adrenaline in her restless fingers as the moon winked its waning greetings. Exploring and cracking every nook and crevice of her gift had made her and it familiar with each other. Sometimes a little too familiar.

 Tonight was one of those nights.

 Small feet pattered down the path they had grown so accustomed to, the familiarization started from her very first day as Mason’s replacement. He, a power so profound that the frequent mistake of allowing him into her thoughts often contributed to her sleeplessness. If there was someone who could understand power and its darkness, it was him. Rosalie wondered where he was now, where he went, how he and Henry had conversed behind closed doors when he had her advantage. Sinful thoughts bloomed in the buds of her questions about whether he used to sleep on the bed she did now, blessing the dip of her mattress with... 

 ...It was not healthy to think of someone this way. With such vigor, such tenderness. He was a simultaneous guilty and shameless pleasure. He, in himself, was an ironic thief of a type of her power. And Rosalie Crane’s power was not to be taken lightly. It was a force, forged into steel from the bones of weak men and by the same blacksmith that had carved her beloved horseman into the weapon he was today. It was with the hum of this power beating against the tips of her fingers that she became aware of the blood nearby.

 There was so much of it. Hot, thick, contained and not. An odd observation at this hour. Rosalie was drawn to it like a fly to honey. What she saw stopped her in her tracks, eyes glistening curiously beneath the moonlight as the image bounced against her skull. There was a body, there was a man. Meat hung off bone like pink dog food, the blood that left their skin slick and wet looked black under the night’s shadow.

 Only one of the two men was moving, his features alone prompted the flick of a delicate wrist, in turn elevating the lifeless body from its place on warm leaves. For what seemed like too long a moment, silence encased them as the two took their turn assessing the situation. The drip of the strangers blood against the forest floor was the only sound that dared to grace their presence. She doubted he knew much about her, what she had done. This did less than nothing to deter her desire to please him, the burning that attempted to free itself from the cage of her ribs.