leaves a trespasser at her doorstep, as a treat. 😌
Snow spirals down, unhurried and so delicate as to look lilac against the sharp, dark backdrop. Here, at the maw of Castle Dimitrescu, nothing moves fast. Why would it? There can be no escape.
A heavy door pushes, the wood creaking, old brass iron hinges aching. And there, yes, in the dark: two golden eyes, too hungry to be lights, too lofty to be anything human. Oh grandmother, what big eyes you have. The Lady steps toward the light, the palor of bleached bones in the fading, snowy day. All the better to watch you with, my dear.
"My, my." Her gloved hands fold over her stomach, eyes still feline discs as they reflect the candlelight. "Weary traveller. Come. How terrible to be alone as night closes in." And there she stands, white-clad and pearl-draped. The terrible fangs of this macabre show.
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something isn’t right. - for moder 💚 | memes | accepting | @ulfhrafnx
“Wr…ong…?” Rumblings echo across the little space between them. Concern darkens over a shadowed face, yellowed eyes blinking one after the other.
Crouching, Moder’s enormous form descends. Spindly fingers coming to the dirt, sinking beneath the leaves as they peer at Lira with growing confusion. Something isn’t right she had said, but Moder for all their knowledge ( that is lacking still ) cannot guess what. The trees around them are still, content in the warmth of a summer evening. The creatures habitually continue their nightly routines. Hunting, gathering, retreating to their dwellings. On the wind there is the faintest, sharp scent of blood. Fresh, still warm. Nothing new or even unpleasant in these woods. Blood spilt is blood offered, and Moder’s chest swells with pride.
A third, smaller arm stretches to jab at Lira’s shoulder with a boney finger. “What is… wro-ng…?”
❛ night terrors . hold my muse after they wake up from a nightmare .
loud & deafening silence. accepting.
even in her sleep, she doesn't scream. she sleeps in a tightly wound ball, curled around the invisible ache that echoes in her shallow breaths, hollow lungs. hands curled into fists pressed to the forehead of the mask, her knuckles are white under the leather of the gloves. even in her sleep, she only whimpers. she cries. it must sound haunting, how the weak fragments of her voice echo against the curve of bleached wood.
the captain somehow knows. hears it better than the others, probably, or senses it somewhere in the matching hole in her chest, or she's just doing the rounds and passes the old car the judge has curled itself into. it's broken and as much a part of the environment as the trees and flowers, a rusty old bucket that hardly fits even the judge in its backseat. somehow still, lira worms her way in.
there's too much to conjure up for it to only be one horrific thing, the only consistency being joseph's mouth by her ear, his low whisper infesting her like maggots. even as the memories replay ( eli's blood splattering over the wall behind him, whitehorse's hand gripping the bars and how cold it was under hers, john's weight on top of her body as he carved her up ) the father's voice stays in her ear.
she knows what the others imagine of their time in the bunker, and some of that torment is true, but mostly he would just speak. he would whisper. he would scream. he would cry and sob and pray so fervently she felt the words echo in the hollows of her bones, mouthing a prayer of her own. sometimes he wouldn't feed her and wouldn't eat either, would just sit there and talk until she passed out from exhaustion.
you are the wolf, he would say until the words carved themselves into her skull. rather than rip out your teeth, i will make you a protector.
the judge often remembers all the blood on her hands. remembers the fetid stench of rot from the lodge and the cliffside and eventually the inside of her bedroom. she remembers jacob's judges, those hacked up wolves strung out on bliss that got lira spitting mad when they came creeping out of the woods.
from her hunger, her torture, her loneliness, she would hallucinate often. she would become a hunting judge; smelling the powdery, acrid fumes of the bliss so perfectly that those flowers might as well've been planted under the bed - she would taste the blood, feel the open gashes and presses of needles into her hide.
most of all she would imagine the flesh between her teeth, the eyes of whitehorse's corpse as she ate. mary's. staci's. lira's. it's a horrific image that weaves through her brain until the hallucination blooms like a memory. and as she sleeps it curls through her rotten brain like a snake, playing over and over between the true remembrances of her sins. but now, the flesh and the eyes become the father's, ethan's, carmina's.
a deep, hoarse sob breaks past chapped lips as those blue eyes burn into her soul, hands of her physical body thumping dully against the wood of her mask while the body in her dream tears and eats. this is what she is, isn't it? this is all she'll ever be. a wolf in human skin stretched too tight over the fur, wrath bubbling in her chest like a mindless animal wanting nothing but meat.
not even the father's love can redeem her.
the captain wakes her when she doesn't on her own and still she doesn't scream, throat clogged with grief and horror and despair, the jagged wound in her chest aching and raw. her mask is askew, the barest edge of silvery skin peeking from behind before she rights it with shaking hands, blubbering before she even sees her.
strong arms wrap around her, familiarly steady and unwavering, warm in a way that burns straight through the leather and fur until it singes her skin. the persistence of this comfort is unavoidable. somehow that makes the hurt all the worse and the judge sobs, gripping the sides of its head as it presses into lira's chest. god save her, what is she going to do?
god please, i want to protect them. i want to protect her. please, god, i have laid myself at your feet, i beg for mercy.
nobody answers and lira doesn't speak, just holds the creature to her chest until the sobs subside and the body goes a little soft, a little less tense, then she pulls back only enough to see her face. mask to mask. this close, the judge's dark eyes are clear through the round holes - bloodshot and wide, lightless. as carmina's dead eyes had burned into the judge, she stares into the holes of the captain's mask too, only enough to catch the flash of the electric green before it can't bear to look at her anymore.
never does the judge hug her back. never does lira seem to mind. instead they sit there until the judge has enough of the undeserved comfort - pulls back and away easily. it doesn't try to sleep again, knows it's no use, and instead presses her back to the door of the car, scooting and scrunching until there's just enough room for two.
don't hold me. i'm dangerous, i'm sick - don't touch me. but please stay.
do you want a beer or something? do you think that would relax you?
❝ No, no, it wouldn't. ❞
He paces the same stretch of floor as he had for the last ten minutes. Hands caught in his hair, the back of his head, as he shakes it to the tune of his refusal. Digits curl in brunet locks; he pulls at the strands; desperately, willing, to tear at the roots. Nails scratch at skin. A swell of panic jostles his heart, and Trent keeps his eyes to the door, to the windows; the darkness outside perpetuates a new kind of claustrophobia.
Watch each one, just in case.
He turns on his heels again, and his stare meets Lira across the bar where she was standing idly. A passive observer to his meltdown, the storm of panic fluttering around him is nothing more than a drizzle to her view. him so floored by her apathy that he can no longer speak. He can hear the tap being used, a river of gold pouring into a glass and foaming by the top, but it all feels far away.
❝ That man---- He's ... He's fucking killed people! Ate them while they were still alive. ❞ As if them being dead first would have made the act more digestible.
❝ I saw, fuck, I saw it all! And you've been just letting him come and go? ❞
Why does he feel like the crazy one ? He's not, he's sane. He's sane, sane, dammit-----
Trent feels his legs give out beneath him, falling backwards onto the couch. No comfort is found in fabric and cushion; only the resignation of his defeat. The hands that were once in his hair slide down to his face, as he leans forward and finally breathes in contemplative silence.
“marry her. it seems simple enough. ” from diamond
"Ya well'I..." the words die on his tongue as he slowly processes what the knife wielding blonde has said.
The silence falls heavy, with only the rhythmic metal 'clack' of the blade being revealed, then hidden, and repeated.
"Simple? That's simple?"
Severen sinks into one of the unoccupied chairs in the scattered living room they are holed up in. Head lolling over the back to stare at the arterial spray that has dried there. The abstract pattern pulls his mind away from the present moment, drifting into the thoughtful ether of reflection.
There was very little that he felt was simple about Lira, no less so than asking her to be "his" in any sense of the word.
Memories of trying to get her to even stay in his presence for longer than a moment resurge into his mind. Of bartering for her attention, and when achieved, needing to keep it.
The slow burn to rapid conflagration of their courtship.
Of two monsters finding themselves in the dark, drawn to each other by the destruction of the human race. Gratuitously coated in the blood of the weak, feeding each other on those they surpassed by virtue of their very nature.
How she ignited a passionate flame he had never felt kindled before.
Of a desire that had no base in appetite, could be sated by nothing less than her very being. It was not her taste, it was her person.
It was her in entirety, and nothing else would do.
Would that same eternal, ethereal creature; untamable, untouchable by any other, chose him to be at her side as an equal?
He thought too highly of her to think himself a welcome prospect, at the same time he selfishly wanted to claim any vacancies in her heart for himself. An odd conundrum for one who took pride in having garnered her affections in the first place.
If he had been worthy till now, there should be no cause for concern, yet here he stalled, making things more difficult than they need be.
The woman across from him offers nothing else, turning her attention back to her knife, stalling its movement so she can examine its edge. Slowly, he sits up, the old springs creaking under his weight as he adjusts himself in the overstuffed chair.
"Marriage, huh?"
To him it was a ceremony he knew only of in the barest sense-- not that he expected a bonding ceremony with his lady love would be anything like the religious sort he had haphazardly witnessed once or twice. An oath made public, a commitment to another in full.
Beyond those that he had made in the past to protect, to be vigilant for another's well being. It was more than providing, it was a binding of souls, a physical representation of an emotional concept.
Love.
Which brought an even more dangerous question to mind:
Did she love him?
Severen swallows, his mind racing, full of consternation and doubt, while the only other occupant in the room seemed peaceful, resolute.
"Whatever yer thinkin', its too much" she says, finally snapping the knife completely closed and tucking it away.
"Its easy".
Diamond rose striding over to the confuddled man hunched in his seat, tousling his hair with a grin.
Severen jerked away giving her an irritated look, but nothing more.
"Don't be dumb about it", is all she leaves him with, walking back through the narrow hallway to the room she and Jesse had laid claim to. The Savage One watches her, wanting to rebuke her words with something clever, something biting. But even in his belligerence he felt she was right. She and Jesse made it seemed simple at least.
And he had known (loved) Lira longer.
If previous to now he had no reason to question her motivations, her want to be with him, why would one voiced obligation change that?
He was left to his sullen repose, pondering cyclically the same questions. Could she, would she, did she.
But thinking suited him poorly, easily tangled in his mind when what he was best at was action.
Rising, committed, he found the landline and dialed a number that he knew by heart, unsure if he would hear her voice, or the familiar recording. There was a click of connection, a smile crossing over his face, instantly calmed by just the sound of her greeting.
"Hey Spark, wanna meet me in Vegas?"
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He’d done his best to survive—for her, for Delvin, Shor’s Beard—for the whole lot of the scruffy bastards that made up their motley crew. He’d bled for them before. He’d gladly do it again too. Time and time, Brynjolf had spurned safety for the chase of good coin, good coin that’d keep their bellies full and their pockets lined enough for a taste of mead here and there. He’d taken the bile of Mercer’s betrayal with bitter grace plus its consequences. He’d turned his blade on one of his own, the most loyal Karliah, under perversive magic and deceit. In those tunnels, he’d bled, wept, and sweated out some of the very worst moments of his life for those were his consequences, his rewards, his LIFE he would chase.
Yet, those dreadful hours were not his worst nor the worst he’d suffered.
There’d been bouts of starvation so cutting he’d thought his own stomach had ripped itself apart. There’d been cuts down to the bone, lockpicks so haphazardly pushed they’d splintered and pierced now well-calloused fingers, and guardsmen whose blows had left behind battered flesh that’d taken weeks to fade. The worst, though, he’d recall was his very first shanking. It’d been by a nasty little slash. Not too deep. Not too shallow. Done by the hand of a razzled beggar he may or may not have had a falling out over some potentially misplaced Septims. Truth be told, he thought little of it then. Those following days, however, he soon realized his error.
A fever broke over him soon after. Thoughts turned hazy, cloying, suffocating from delirium. His throat, parched from wheezing coughs and gasping breaths, made eating all but impossible. He’d withered. Unable to move from the measly cot he’d collapsed upon, time trickled on. Eventually, hands would come to relieve the pain. Whose, he’d never know, but they swept over him, tipped a sour serum to cracked lips, and let the remedy purge that ailment. Those same hands had rinsed his hair, taken away soiled linen, and even spoon fed him tasteless mash. He’d once thought Gallus, but truly, it very well could have been that old bugger Delvin. Lad always had a knack for popping in when needed most.
But not now. This one moment that drudged into hours now dredged well into the second day of whatever this affliction was. There was no such care here. No kind, calloused touch to relieve this. It’d been no scrap of metal to cause this either. In its place, there had been nails—garish yet simple in their talon-like origin–that had raked across his chest upon his struggle. Blood, his and that vile creature’s, soaked through padded leathers. She’d been a pretty hen, the slag who’d done it. All sunny hair and snowy features. There’d been something in those sharp eyes that’d unnerved him ever since he’d caught her prying glance. He knew the look. It’d been no daring hunger for a romp in the hay…..it was primal, savage. Brynjolf rarely felt a twinge of apprehension, but that second she’d flashed him a coy smile, his own roguish grin had disappeared. She’d lifted a hand. She’d called him over, he thought, or at the very least beckoned him close—but he’d held fast against the churning urge to follow. He’d never lain with the lass before, let alone ever even recall such a fine face, and his intuition pricked him the wrong way about it. Besides, he’d long since halted other affairs since he’d met his lovely. Aye, she was the sapphire that outshined the rest. Why settle for shells when one possessed a diamond far fairer, no?
He’d left the Bannered Mare swiftly, donning his hood and slipping into the night without so much as a smirk towards the odd woman. The stars were hidden. A vast, dark sky had been shrouded by a thick layer of clouds, leaving not even a trail of moonlight to illuminate his path. Not that he’d need it, of course. A Nord trained in the shadows needed no light. He’d resigned himself to simply breaking into Lira’s rather than cause mischief elsewhere. Oh, how he adored her company when she was a wee bit riled. Besides, what did a better job of that than a huffy guardsman puffing about the dignity of Whiterun? Suppose he could drop a stick in her covers again—
When he’d been struck, the swiftness was disorientating. There’d been no telltale rush of breath like when a human lunged for an attack. No footsteps had padded along after him. No cry or insult or demand of his satchel had pre-empted the assault either. In only a blink of an eye, he found himself spinning on his heel, one hand reflexively clutching at the torn plate of his armor as the other grasped the hilt of his sword.
It was blank after that….or was it? There’d been motion, movement.
His legs had moved. There’d been three steps, no…more? There was a disorientating haze of memories after she’d crooned something, a saccharine smile dripping with poisonous intent. There’d been that feeling again. It was that perverse, nauseating pull of magic he loathed so much all over again. Like with Mercer. Like with that damn key. Yet, it was warm, welcoming, an embrace by the fire at the end of a wintry stroll, unlike that betrayal so long ago.
Brynjolf blinked, his vision swimming with some muddled clarity. He was here. He’d gotten here….a cavern? Something, no, the stonework was too well-cut. A chamber of sorts, somewhere under somewhere. Others had apparently fallen before him. Evidence of such was littered all about the dingy space. Crusted with red viscera, empty cages were propped open along the East wall. Close was a coffin where a few more bodies rested. Those fallen lay rotting, faceless and forgotten, drained and battered, only a handful of feet away. Perhaps he was next. No, she’d whispered, not you, not if you’re strong.….time…sometime back.
Back.
She was here.
Her words were beyond him, for he’d been somewhere between consciousness, but they’d imprinted a feeling of longing, of fear, of confusion. A craving was writhing within him, a thirst that water seemed unable to quench and a fever that only seemed to worsen in her capricious absence. Soft fingertips had grazed along his jaw, a palm cupped his cheek, and more words were seeping into his skull. There was a desire, a need. Repulsion, HIS repulsion met the creature’s—Kolfinna’s—heady promises, her demands.
There’d been noise above him suddenly. Those charming crimson eyes narrowed at the interruption, and quickly, she was gone again. Alone. There was thudding of boots and scraping of furniture that echoed deep, but he dare not scream. He couldn’t….or shouldn’t? The razor’s edge that had lodged itself in his throat spurned a series of hacking coughs whenever he attempted even a word. She’d also hate it, wouldn’t she? Naw, it matter not what a saber of a wench had to pipe on about his self. The fog was lifting, and fastly, the ferocity that had dimmed under the churning pull of sickness and pain was returning. More footsteps, a few pairs, in fact. His vision was swimming, fading fast, but he steeled himself.
Another scream sounded somewhere above. As the door to the upstairs slammed open with a wail, he heard that thing’s—Kolfinna’s— cry that no she needed him—
He shrugged off the nagging itch to come. Wasn’t even certain he could move had he even the desire to trudge up to the wicked slag. The footsteps following were fast, desperate, and heavy….too heavy.
His head slumped back, eyes closing as he gritted out another breath. He’d not been able to see much anyway. Truly. All he had was his ears, ears which would never betray his senses. Another shaky breath tore through him. Every agonizing second was searing to him, every moment so acutely overwhelming in its sensitivity. He thought himself feverish, for sure, as it was so akin to that time he’d been a novice footpad, bedridden by that wee shiv. But, still, he was cold, a bone-chilling shiver having settled upon him.
In the chaos unfolding above, more pitter-patter. Swords clanged, voices unknown were…howling? The room remained drenched in fluttering darkness. The single source of illumination, a feeble flickering of a dying candle, only allowed him to see several other limp forms, a smattering of sparse torture instruments and coffins, and a curving hall that led away.
A blink. Those heavy steps were nearer, another cry. A man, ragged and fierce, barked out, signaling to others—friends, not foe, he hoped—that bodies were here. Bodies, Brynjolf noted mutely, not survivors. It was a familiar voice that sounded, a gravelling one he’d taken so much bitter grievance before yet now?
❝Wait….there’s one! I’m here to help—By the Gods, Brynjolf…?❞
A wary smile graced the thief’s features at the recognition. Shaky hands raised just shy off the blood-soaked leathers, a gesture of mock-surrender he’d done before the pup time and time again. Tired eyes fluttered open to meet Farkas’ own worry stricken features. Now, there was a sight. Often the two exchanged little more than guised threats, mocking jests, and the occasional 'playful' jab that left his ribs aching for days after.
❝Aye….,❞ Brynjolf croaked, a cough interrupting him, ❝....dog?❞
Not even a flicker of annoyance. Only fear, fear for him, Brynjolf realized. It was worthy to note that the bulking sack of bricks’ hands never left his bastard sword. Not even for a moment. Farkas jerked back, perhaps to call for his love, but he need not worry. There she stood already by yon the other mortar-skulled twin. Malachite eyes were glittering so bright, lips parted in horror. There it was again…..fear. All wide eyes and whatnot. Fear of what, he dare not think—he couldn’t. No, not him. Not now. He’d muttered, near incomprehensible, for her to not fear. The muddling waters of his mind made little sense, and amidst that disorientating confusion, was an unfamiliar, edged hunger. With it, came rage. A terrifying, bubbling rage. Why? For what animosity coiled in his belly…..for what anger could drive him to consider, upon glancing at the fresh body not too far, to….?
❝ I’m not scared. I’m scared for you . ❞
Her voice rang out sharp, grounding him. It was falling into place now. The dawning horror of what was coming onto him, the nature of this accursed infection. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, Brynjolf felt a terror beyond him.
❝Ach, my love….❞ Once again, his eyes closed. A coward, he was. He could not dare meet her gaze as he admitted, a choking, bitter laugh wheezing through, ❝....me too.❞
finish up the bottle , then we’ll go. ( for vilkas ! )
" You don't have to tell me twice, " He's already standing up, the aforementioned bottle in hand. The bottle is emptied in a few swift gulps, as he had been nursing it for a while now. Vilkas knew they were going to be leaving the city soon & he could not deny his impending restlessness.
He hardly liked staying in Whiterun, let alone any of Skyrim's other cities. there was always too much going on, too much traffic, too many people. It was a given that their line of work would lead them to discomfort, he could take it... but he didn't have to like it. Vilkas would grit his teeth & push through, but he was eager for them to get back on the road, away from the stench of this place.
He was eager to get back to the wild, away from the expectations & complications of society. It would do wonders for his sour attitude. Vilkas had done a poor job in hiding his misgivings, but there was little reason to hide them from the other. He stretches his shoulders, leaning back to try & wring the stiffness from his spine.A few coins are placed on the table as he tucks his chair back under the table. He'd already paid for his food & drink, but the innkeeper had been accommodating & had managed to put up with Vilkas' impending mood. it wasn't like he was going to miss a few extra coins.
" The sooner we're out of here, the better. " the first smile he's been able to muster in days graces his features. It's a subtle expression of excitement, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. He's already looking to the door, " We'd best get on our way then. "
