#patchouliscent

dont be nervous anon, gene is the SWEETEST and pilli is dope af

           As the flames engulfed their bodies, he heard them. They were calling out to him, chanting his sacred name. Mortis – Mortis, their harsh whispers were loud despite the roar of the flames, it’s all your fault! we’re dead because of you! No matter how tightly he clasped his hands around his ears, they broke through; he could hear their accusations inside his mind. They were everywhere, unwanted echoes of his past, and there was no way to escape them. But he never imagined it coming down to this. Running from his own family was far from what he wanted, but he was desperate to erase their pained expressions from his memories. He had been here, time and time again – reminding him of the mistakes he made. It haunted his dreams, mercilessly dragging him back to his darkest hour; the only time Mylo ever felt truly terrified.

            A hundred pairs of eyes taunted him, belonging to the ones holding their torches aloft; he could feel the heat against his skin, flames too close, far too close. His eyes burned from the smoke, but the tears he shed stung more. A hand gripped the back of his neck, holding him in place as they forced him to watch his family burn. Try as he might, the necromancer made no noise as he screamed; the only screams he heard was that of his own kind. It was loud, over-whelming, but he was trapped. His body refused to budge, paralyzed to this very spot on the forest floor, knees digging painfully against the rocks and twigs beneath him. Mylo’s body already ached from the abuse he received, but they could do anything to him. He could take it. But they had already succeeded in breaking him by playing with his heart and tormenting him afterwards.

          Here, stuck in a continuous nightmare, he remained. Mylo never managed to flee, nor see some of his family escape, forever forced to watch everyone he loved slaughtered. Mortis, they all chanted this time, Mortis – you’re all alone! All alone! They mocked him, drawing the lit torches ever closer to his face. The hand on the back of his neck migrated forward, curling around it and pressing down until he could no longer breathe. He feared death this time. Anything was possible here, and he believed that he could die. Panic set in, and he clawed at the hand that held tightly, tightly, tightly!–

         He awoke to Nolan next to him, attempting to gain his attention. Murky-grey eyes stared up at the taller male, the skin of his hands taking on the same colour; he always attempted to fight back in his nightmares, but it was a bad one to have transitioned to the real world. Nolan’s cabin was a mess. A chest of drawers had migrated across the room, before toppling over – ornaments on top of it scattered every where. The door had been swung open violently, denting the wall where it had banged against it. Above, the light flickered sporadically. It was an unnerving sight.

         “Don’t let them see you,” he sounded scared, wide eyes locked onto his friend. He had yet to realise that he was awake. “They’ll kill you!” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he wondered why Nolan wasn’t moving. They were here, and they were dangerous. But he immediately noticed the silence; there was no crackling of flames, no chanting of his name, or the feel of hands over his body. He was…awake. “I…” he rasped, before choking out a sob. This was bad. “...Shit.”

                         You’re not alone. The words sounded unreal, untrue. 

         He was once happy; a care-free individual with the world on his side, unaware of what cruelty the future had in store. There was nothing that could diminish his optimism, or have him doubting the genuineness of any good fortune sent his way. He was raised by a caring community whose mantra was giving people a chance before making any sort of judgement -- and, looking back on that, it was a catalyst for his naivety. In Shademarsh, the wytch had made friends with a number of humans who were kind enough to accept him, and not once had they given him reason to believe they were simply being polite. They were some of the best humans he had ever had the pleasure of meeting, despite the tense history between their kind. And everything was okay. It was his decision later on that would provide the cage secured tightly around his heart. The barrier -- the switch -- that would have him viewing the world in a totally different, and more negative, light. 

          Too quick to trust, too blind to the evil hidden behind a charming smile. 

        After that night in the forest, and travelling as far away from his past as possible, it gave the necromancer time to re-assess his outlook on things. He became distant, less inclined to accommodate a place for anyone in his life, and most importantly -- he decided that others had to earn his trust. Oh, he could be tolerant, certainly, but there was nothing there for him to connect with at the end of the day. There was always the added paranoia of having to leave quickly, wytch-hunters following his every step, and he could hardly afford to have any attachments. He had fleeting interactions, but never any friends. At least, he convinced himself that he was better off that way. He would never have to go through pain or loss again. After spending the past few decades alone, he had managed to avoid worrying about that altogether.

         Except one day he found himself laughing. It hurt his ribs, and he could hardly breathe. But afterwards, he felt great. The change in his demeanour was gradual, but subtle enough for him to miss it completely -- until he realised, eventually, that something was different. He had somebody to talk to, confide in, and be his true self around without fear of judgement. Or being betrayed. Nolan had proved that not everybody was out to get him; he was allowed to have friends, after all. It just took a bit of patience, and a lot of tea and cake. The necromancer hardly stayed in his flat nowadays, gravitating towards the cabin hidden amongst the trees, instead. The peaceful atmosphere reminded him of home.

         “Thank you,” his words were sincere, a grateful smile gracing his features. They were sitting outside the cabin today, drinking an infusion that Mylo had created earlier that day. Quietness surrounding them -- serene. The necromancer had finished expressing his concern over seeing wytch-hunters in the area, knowing that, should the time come, he would be forced to fight again. It was a side of him that he despised, but if he did nothing, his own kind would be in danger. They would use him to locate them if he sat idly by. He knew Nolan would understand. They both had troubles that the other accepted, and he would always have his back, as well. No questions asked. “You never judge me,” he added, holding his cup between both hands, “and I really appreciate that. You’re a great friend, Nol.”

send me a # to learn an unusual hc about my muse!

what do they normally dream about? nightmares or nonsense?

Charlie lives in a world of nightmares both waking and asleep. Though she does on occasion have wonderful dreams of strolling through beautiful fields beneath a blue sky. More often than not, though, a monster she can’t see stalks her through the darkness, though she always wakes just before it gets her. 

do they stay up too late? do they like staying up?

Sleep is a rare creature for Charlie to begin with. Between long hours working to support several brothers and their vices, but those same brothers and their constant partying and drug-induced loudness, as well as the apartments lack of privacy, is enough to ensure she rarely gets any. 

what are their phobias? do they have any at all?

Deep/open water. Though she’s fine in the water up to about her hips, deeper than that she starts to get worried, but once she has to lift off her heels to keep her head above water, she turns into a terrified cat and completely panics. This also means that she cannot swim and thus sinks like a stone. 

if they could control one thing in the world, what would it be?

WHY IS THIS ME THO

i haaaate it so much

              As a wytchling, Mylo loved listening to his avia Adelaide as she regaled him with stories of creatures far and wide. It was his most vivid and favourite memory of her. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he would visit her cottage and settle in for a night of wondrous tales; she had a talent for keeping him engrossed, creating such intricate images with every word she spoke. From vampires and werewolves, to wendigos and skin-walkers, she educated her grandson enough to prepare him for any future encounters. And it worked. Over the years, he had met a variety of creatures, even making friends with some of them -- and he was wiser for it. There was not one bit of him that feared the unknown. He was heartbroken the day she passed away, but she had certainly left a mark on his life.

             Adelaide insisted on being buried under an elm besides Wisteria Cottage; it was her home as a wytchling, and remained standing three-hundred years later. She was sentimental and believed that her body should lie where her life began, resulting in the coven honouring her wishes. It was traditional for a wytch to be buried under a tree when they passed away, but it was often done besides one another. Much like human family plots, wytches could choose to rest with their coven. Trees were sacred to his kind, as they gave life, and being buried under one was to show their dedication; they were forever grateful for the shelter and safety the trees provided back in Shademarsh. It had always been that way. Adelaide never conformed to tradition, however -- solitary in her ways. Mylo missed her dearly, but he was forever grateful for the knowledge she bestowed upon him. 

             “Yes, but I want to.” A warm smile appeared on Mylo’s face as he looked at Nolan. There was one creature Adelaide had been misinformed about, however. Or, at the very least, had a bad encounter with. Soulless eyes, she began one night, and a devilish grin. Shucks are a wicked lot, dear -- omens of death! They mercilessly pray on the innocent. It was something that stuck in his mind upon meeting the other male, but yet to witness in the time he had gotten to know Nolan. His friend was hardly as cruel as she made his kind out to be. Mylo always thought it was best to experience first-hand what somebody was like before relying on the opinion of others.

             “If I have the ability to collect souls, then why not use it? I mean -- I have to admit, I have no idea how any of this works...” The soul-consuming aspect; a process that was completely new to the wytch. His avia Adelaide had never mentioned the fact that shucks needed sustenance in the way of souls, but Mylo knew that his friend was harvesting them from those already dying. An ethical approach, at least. But he could sense that the burden weighed heavily on his shoulders. A toll on his emotions. And that was why they were here, having this conversation; a simple discussion about what Mylo could do to help out. “...but I want to help. Tell me all I need to know, and I shall do my best to understand. This is what friends are for, okay? They listen to problems and offer advice, whether you want it or not.” A quiet chuckle followed.