#sceletus

viii. [x] art

                                                            the night drags on in a horrible nightmare. 

       water licks at her fingers. it’s a foreign feeling: last she knew, she’d fallen asleep atop a hard cot, tucked away in the depths of boralus’ underbelly--a haphazardly put together abode underneath the storefront of an acquaintance, who may or may not have been aware of her presence.

      now, she was elsewhere. the stray cat wouldn’t be a worry for the fisherman she preyed off of, having instead been seemingly put right at the source of her fare.

      strangely enough, her diet consisted of things with no nutritional value:

cryptic riddles from a drowned man,

wails from the dead whose names she did not know,

and the tragedy that came with each.

v. 

       she awakens to a clap of thunder; a dimly lit room greets her the moment her eyes open, wooden furniture illuminated by candlelight; she realizes that she is dry, and far from dead - that is the first thought that strikes her odd. then: the clothes she dons are not her own, the cot she lays on, not her own. a feeling of panic washes over her: was it all a dream?

      the soreness in her lungs tells her it wasn’t. somehow, fawn finds the strength to sit up, the movement accompanied by a creak in the bed’s framework, and it’s then when she sees pallid skin in the corner of her vision, hears the familiar dripping noise that was much closer than the rain pelting outside.

      “you made it,” the whale-sound voice muses, in a tone that sounded proud.

      “i thought you would be there to help,” she replies, and raises her head to glimpse at her reflection cast in the glass window beside her. even in the dim candlelight, she can see red welts of swelling scratches – they paint poignant marks against tanned skin.

      “i knew you had the strength to make it, my doe.” his footfalls don’t make a sound as he comes close. “i believed in you.”

      the words cause a sob to surface in her throat, so much so that she covers the sound’s escape with a hacking cough.

      “i have a gift for you,” rhys croons as his hands come to fold before him, though his head moves in tandem with her own to the door upon the sound of encroaching footsteps. the knob slowly turns, revealing the sight of a kul tiran woman who possesses an appearance similar to that expected of the outriggers: sinewy and roughened.

      “oi, lass, you’re finally up,” she belts, tone imbued with an uplifting cheer. “been out for a few days - found ya’ washed up on the shore, half-dead.”

      “she is not your ally.” fawn’s eyes dart to the apparition of rhys, who sulks in the corner of the room - barely illuminated by the flickering candlelight.

      “got into a bit of a rough patch, did ya’? almost did ya’ in, it seems.” the woman crosses the room to place a tray on the bedside table. a bowl of hot soup, a piece of bread - it is a meager meal, though fawn’s stomach hungrily churns at the sight of it. she opts to stay silent, however, throat still tender from saltwater.

      “i won’t question what happened. y’don’t look the type to tell, if i’m honest.”

      “she did not help you,” rhys continues, his words going unnoticed by the foreign woman. “many know your face, fawn holmwood. she intends to poison you - do not eat.” a bony hand gestures outward to the tray the woman had set aside, water dripping from his fingertips and forming small puddles atop the table’s wooden surface. curious, the foreign woman swipes her finger over the fallen droplets before glancing skyward to the ceiling, a murmur expelling from under her breath.

     “what ever will you do, dear doe?”

      a frown finds permanence across fawn’s lips as she meets the woman’s expectant gaze, and she appears to take this as an invitation to speak further.

      “i recall seeing your face ‘round these parts – helping out with the townsfolk, you were.” the woman’s words make fawn’s jaw clench in suspicion. “i figured the least i could do to repay you was to bring ya’ back to health, yeah? my cookin’ may not be the finest, but i assure ya’ that it’s a better meal than saltwater.”

      “thanks,” is the only word she manages through a roughened throat - it’s delivered raspy and hoarse, and serves as a reminder that she’d voluntarily almost drowned.

      for good, though, she remembers as her eyes flit to rhys once more. she sees a glimmer of ivory in his grasp: bones, a collection of them. the sight is peculiar enough to capture her stare and hold it long enough for the foreign woman to depart unnoticed.

      “fishbones?” she recognizes the bones instantly- before rhys could even manage to part pallid lips to speak. he simply nods in confirmation, arm extending to offer the strung-together necklace of bones to her.

      “your father gave it to you when you were still a youth. a tradition, they call it.” something in his tone shifts as he continues; soothing notes recede to allow for something menacing to take its place. “but this is the age that traditions must be broken. after all, what did traditions grant you? near death experiences, a family that abandons you?” a click of his tongue accompanies the unanswered question. “the world burns as those who desperately dwell on tradition try to keep their power; you can steal it from them, my doe. vicious, you are - a poppy awaiting its chance to bloom.”

      she holds the fishbone necklace betwixt her fingers for several seconds that pass like hours before her hand curls around it, jagged bone edges and fingernails cutting into the skin of her palm. he was right - it was a new age. time to forget those that had wronged her.

vii.

PRESENT DAY

       nazmir is not a welcome place. treachery and the eldritch, crimson and marsh - it is far from the paradise she longs for it to be, although it is a desirable change from the sandy, auburn dunes of vol’dun.

      a breath winds near her, bespoken by a specter that looms ever-so-closely. she had heard others before; the turmoil of war, anguished cries of the yet-departed. his was more prominent.

      “do you understand now, dear doe?” his voice cuts into her cheek.

      “no.” her voice is curt and harsh.

(wails of zandali curses echo in the distance, drifting like an ephemeral breeze.)

      “you are meant to be dead, among us - not of this world.”

(a child cries.)

      “part of you lingers in our realm.”

      the cliff she stands upon overlooks heavy vegetation. dense and muddy greens color her vision, though she sees cyan in the corner of her right eye--rhys briathorne stands beside her.

(howls of pain --)

      “you take up the troubles of others, impervious to your own afflictions.”

      a cold, rotting hand clasps her own. he is not transparent; solid-in-state, rather, though still undead.

      “do you see them?”

v̸̡̢̙̼̯̦͎͓̻͚͔̮̘̱̭͙̙͠ì͏̦̙̘̣̙̼̯͎̱̭̻͎́ͅ.̕͝͏̩̙͔̣̭̰͉̪̥͚ͅ

(music)

              her emergence from slumber was unexpectedly pleasant. fluttering eyelids greeted the rays of sun that pooled in from glass panes, and bare skin felt the pinpricks of lordaeron’s chill gathering—yet it was gradually being thwarted away by the radiating warmth of the inn’s hearth that came from below.

like all things, however, moments like this did not last long.

seize /sēz/ verb

1. take hold of suddenly and forcibly. 2. take (an opportunity or initiative) eagerly and decisively.

              cold claws clasped around her arms, forcing her down through the standard mattress of the standard room. they seized her, she fought against them—but it was a fruitless effort. those claws dug into her skin like talons.

              she was falling—no, sinking—down into the depths of an endlessly sightless expanse. fright gripped at her heart, seizing it almost as if it had stopped. had it? there was no familiar thrum, no coursing of blood through her veins to thwart the cold that seeped into her muscles.

              abruptly, her fall ceased. a world coalesced around her: the sea. the familiar sway of a sailing ship. her eyes snapped open to greet the sight and took in a breath of the heady ocean air; she could breathe, she felt warmth on her skin, she was alive—yet, where?

              it was that thought that spurred the scene around her to life. shouts and chatter of endless prattle, yelling commands and shouts of compliance from others. the recognition hit her like a surging tide:

iii.

              “secrecy is a fickle thing, isn’t it?”

              fawn sits atop a balustrade in boralus, one leg dangling over the edge as her heel faces the tides below. it isn’t her home – some aristocrat slumbers inside, worn from age and high off war profit – yet this time of night warrants the shadows to take residence wherever they may reach.

              “you mustn’t run from them, dear doe.”

              plumes of dense smoke billow past chapped lips, smell potent of bloodthistle leaves. there was something tranquil about the city post-midnight; the day’s bustle had retired, leaving whatever devils left to run rampant through the night. unity square’s nights were always quieter than hook point’s, granted, but that was only due to the subtlety the rich preferred in their doings.

              “you were one, once. have you already forgotten?”

              her features had weathered. gone was the vitality that was usually carried in her countenance, replaced instead by exhaustion and dirt; she looked like a right rogue, a true miscreant. it feels peculiar, like a foreigner’s mask, but fawn dares not harbor any complaints of it.

              “it’s quite the transformation.” it comes as a whisper, ghosting past her ear; it rightly startles her, breath catching in her throat as the presence of cold emanates closely near her. it is like ice, though much more frigid than the winters of drustvar - the voice cuts into her cheek, and she swears she feels blood.

              alert, her head whips to the right to find the speaker. it isn’t human, she discerns that outright, for sunken cheeks and wisps of curling cyan were enough to announce a state beyond death. yet, it is no ghost; she discovers that when its slender fingers extend to curl around her forearm. the grasp is desperate - it’s a touch too rough as the tips of its fingers practically pierce through her skin.

              “rhys?” she chokes, words catching in her throat - it is a name she hadn’t spoken in years, and that much is apparent with how strangely it falls from her tongue. her gaze is wide, shell-shocked – she almost bites off her tongue with how quickly she corrects her slacked jaw.

              the entity simply nods in affirmation, his stare fixed to the horizon with a look she could only place as mournful.

              rhys briarthorne, former first mate of the phantom’s hearth. they were inseparable once, had shared feelings of affection – though that stint was cut short by the naivete of her trust and by the hands of a betrayer.

              she still recalls the bullet going through his head.

              “the seas churn with the rage of a thousand souls,” his voice drones, as soothing as a whale’s call and just as haunting. she feels it in her bones. “do you hear them?”

              she does, fawn wants to answer, but she struggles to find the strength.

              “they awaken an age-old slumber. you have heard its call.”

              the grip on her forearm loosens, skeletal hand retracting back to the entity’s side in a manner that was far too graceful for one meant to be dead. she looks down to her arm and swears that she sees bruising, though it is difficult to confirm in the dark of night.

              “you allowed me to die.”

              “i did not,” she quickly responds, but her voice lacks the bite such an answer requires; anguish imbeds itself within her tone, proceeding to make itself known even further across her features. “i didn’t mean for things to happen that way–”

              “–but it did. you refused to see percy mckallen’s intentions. you allowed him to pull the trigger.”

              rhys turns to her now, appearance the very definition of ghastly. tirasian features she once adored now carried sunken definition; a sailor’s complexion turned pallid, muscles decayed and skin sunken flush against bone. deteriorated vessels had rendered his eyes entirely black - or was it nothingness? - and set just above them was a hole in his forehead; it was the clean shot of a bullet through his skull, and at this angle, the tunnel the bullet had forged through his flesh allows her glimpses of the brick of the structure they occupy.

              he reeks of the sea. she hears it now - the sound of water dripping from his form, pooling at his feet and leaving brunette hair flat against his head.

              “i blindly followed you to my demise, fawn holmwood.”

              something snaps in her then. amidst turmoil, she hadn’t yet let herself fall prey to her own anguish. but, as her gaze flits about the entity before her, she feels tears sting at her eyes, only realizing then the state of her tensed jaw; her teeth grind against one another before she finds the willpower to grant her muscles relaxation. the joint betwixt her lips falls, tumbling past the height of the balcony and landing in the sea’s grasp below.

              “you followed a fool,” she finally manages to murmur, voice a susurrus amongst the sounds of the night. she sits unsteadily on the balustrade, body plagued by frightful tremors and eyes listlessly looking anywhere but at him. “many nights i dream of drowning in that sea alongside you all.”

              “then why do you hesitate?” the entity’s arm extends once more to splay bony fingers to the water. for a moment, she thinks she hears voices beckoning to her from below; they tempt her more than she’d like to admit. “your will has abandoned you. the waves will grant you the sanctuary you seek.”

              the ice in his presence shifts into something warm, appealing - it coaxes her to forgo the turmoil that ails her, albeit temporarily, and in that moment, she looks upon him like she had in his life: a source of peace, of comfort. memories of leading a crew of pirates freely at sea roil in her mind, their thunder drowning out whatever anxieties previously plagued her.

              rhys’ hand circles back around to her, pressing against her cheek and directing her to meet his gaze. this time, it isn’t barren of life.

              “join me in the depths, my doe.” his hand drops, offering a skyward palm to her.

              “one.” what hesitation she possesses dissipates with the silvery tone of his voice and she joins her hand with his.

              “two.” she steps over the balcony; he steps through.

ii.

what does one do when they have nowhere left to turn?

they go home.

the crimson perch was no foreigner to the agitation that rocked kul tiras; where brennadam and boralus were being sieged and razed, edmond reviers was constantly working. he hadn’t dealt with the horde conflict in years; to suddenly be thrust into working alongside the alliance and sending fleets to their deaths - it was toiling work, and kept him constantly on edge.

the crimson perch was a trading paradise; it exported luxury ore and marble minerals in exchange for knowledge, beasts and reputation. house reviers was a line of seafarers, all of which had served in the tirasian navy some point in their lives. their land, known for being trapped in eternal autumn, was untamed, much like those who spawned from there, and it wasn’t going to be tamed anytime soon. not by the alliance, and not by conflict.

                                                                      ---

her boots clatter against the wooden dock of bedlam’s rest as she retreats from the ferry she traveled by. her path is eminent: forward to the highest hill, then to the reviers manor at its acme. there’s little that stops her; passing looks of surprise for the red-headed reviers’ daughter to return home unannounced are greeted by stoicism, and wary greetings from those she once knew are only reciprocated in the form of curt nods.

for brevity, her visit does not go well:

“how dare you tarnish our family name?”

her father’s words bite; he’s shouting, and edmond reviers rarely became incensed. he was known to be a calm man, yet the furrow present in his brows gave her an expression that she’d only seen few times.

others are present. her mother, red-headed just as she, sits poised at her side, yet it isn’t a show of motherly solidarity - kind features were pulled into a similarly incensed look. a new man - in his fifties, undoubtedly, with hair greying to a luminescent ivory - stands to her father’s right, fur encapsulating his shoulders and hand resting idly on the gilded hilt of the sheathed sword at his left. he had been introduced as her father’s new advisor, and fawn spares him little more than a brief glance.

fawn is silent; their scolding goes unregistered in her mind, which is - instead - busy attempting to work the pieces together of how they knew. her past of piracy had been illicit; heavily concealed by those she’d trusted in the alliance intelligence division. she’d made up for those crimes, and although she’d kept them concealed from her pirate-hunting family, she hadn’t expected them to come back and bite her. not now, at least.

it had to be by communication, she surmises. some strategy by someone who wanted to knock her down – had she any enemies? plenty, as a life of devilry tends to carve out such relationships, yet there were few that knew she’d been involved in piracy. she’s certain of that.

but when her eyes land on the ebon envelope on her father’s desk, it brings her pause. there’s a golden ‘E.R.’ stitched into the parchment, undoubtedly addressed for her father, though something seemed so peculiar about it. the news came to him recently, else she would have heard his wrath much earlier, and her fingers twitch as her gaze continues to bore a pair of holes into the letter. that was it - it had to be by letter–this letter.

they banish her. revoke her nobility, her wealth, the family she knew. the vivacious fawn reviers is no more.