#. the spider which fed on wrath and blood { character study. }

[enchantingwrath]

show me a fury like no other / sing of the stories only monsters can tell.

FORSAKEN. GODLESS. ABANDONED.

They abandoned her long ago — maybe even before she was born. A life of suffering, of cruelty, of scars and no hope. Where were her gods? Where were the twelve? Where were the dusk mother and dawn father? Where were all the gods she’d learned about? Did they just not care? Was she just not worth it? An insectoid doomed to die under the clutches of others? 

PITIFUL. FALSE. USELESS.

She refused to rot, refused to lay down and let the earth claim her. Heaven nor hell would be allowed to lay claim to her — deemed herself immortal, painted in the picture of a monster. A fiend that could not be killed. A spark left to kindle — SHE’D BURN THE WORLD in her fury, in her rage — in the inferno of her hatred, of her fear, of her tears, in the scars that marred her skin. She’d spin her webs and spit her venom until everything, everyone were her playthings, until the world razed beneath her feet, left with nothing but to worship her instead, lest they taste the same neglect

This world was hers to take, hers to destroy, hers to flood with divine retribution.

THE GODS HAD ABANDONED HER.

She would pull them down from the skies and CHEW ON THEIR BONES, choke on their grit, just like they’d made her do all these years — except this time, she’d spit it all back in their hedonistic faces and live off their blood instead. She’d become a MONSTER, made up of the blood of gods. The light of the world would be taken, swallowed whole, leaving the deplorable thing only painted in her embers. The gods would be left to cry at everything they had loved, and everything they had then lost — everything that she had stolen.

SHE WOULD SHOW THEM THE COST OF THEIR ABANDONMENT. 

[enchantingwrath]

at last / your feelings laid bare

PROMPT THREE | MASTERLIST muster:  summon up (a feeling, attitude, or response).

“No, no. Like this.” came the guidance from the smoky voice Jade had grown so used to, as a hand wrapped around her fist that was ever so tightly clasped around the blade, while the other found its way around her opposite hip, drawing it back to force the other forward. Yet, all the xaela could notice was  that the smoky voice still had the tang of honey staining it — so delectably sweet and yet, there was something else. An edge to it she couldn’t quite place. There was something behind the amber eyes of his that showed something she couldn’t recognise — raising her hackles and setting her teeth on edge. It threatened her in her uncertainty, but… it never felt like a threat, not entirely. She didn’t think it was supposed to, but the lack of knowledge made her unsure.

“Follow the blade with your hip, to really put pressure into it. It puts far more force behind it and ensures the blade hits deep. Step forward if you need to, but never let yourself be thrown off balance with your adjustments.” He nudged her foot forward and she took the step, feeling the way her body shifted with the movement, how the blade jutted forth. And then there was a startled yelp as he kicked her feet out from under her, sending her stumbling. As always, he caught her, and there was the chiding to come that she always rolled her eyes at. “I told you, never let yourself be thrown off — keep yourself centered, your body low. Balance your center of gravity so no one can topple you.”

The xaela let out a huff, running a hair through messy, windswept locks as she hastened to escape his arms. His touch always felt uneasy on her skin, especially when his arms encased her like that, muscles barely tensing in his hold of her, with how light she was and yet, she could never understand why his touch bothered her so — it wasn’t uncomfortable, no. Quite the opposite, actually.  It was something so different from the kind of touch she was used to — as if he was holding something fragile, something dear to him, as if he cared. It confused and irritated her — the way her heart beat in her chest every time his fingers danced along her skin for a moment too long. 

“I think—” She hated the way her voice cracked, a stumble betraying her vulnerabilities, as if her most innermost thoughts could be laid out before him from the way she tripped over herself. “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you, R'than? It’s getting late, after all...”

The xaela gestured to the darkening of the skies above before she went to turn, foot raising in an attempt to step away. Before her foot could touch the ground again, there was the warmth of a hand encasing her wrist, pulling her back. She stumbled against his chest, cursing herself for letting herself be swept up in her thoughts and ever so distracted before her brain misfired, short circuiting, sparks flying as a firm hand tangled in her hair while chapped, hungry lips pressed against her own. There was a moment as she stood shock still, her brain trying to get gears going again before she softened into the kiss, so gentle in her own return yet just as hungry — so demanding, to taste the sweetness she’d always heard on his tongue. 

Is this what desire felt like..? Is that what the heart pumping in her chest meant? The way it skipped a beat? Is that what she recognised in his eyes when his gaze settled upon hers? There was a contented sigh that escaped her as she allowed her emotions from the moons prior to build up, gathering up every ounce she had, allowing them to swell in her chest before she fed them into the kiss. 

Their feelings conveyed, truly, displaying their affections for each other, at least briefly. A heat of the moment thing, she would tell herself later, when the sky lightened with dusk and he was gone, but for now, she would muster up everything she had, and let herself feel it all — to let herself tremble underneath him, coming undone — as the night led on. 

[enchantingwrath]

hit me with your kill shot / watch me take it all

cw: death, grief, implications of torture.

Grief tore at her throat, like hands were tightening vice-like around her throat that had her heaving; it felt like she couldn’t even get the slightest of breath into her body as tears and sobs tried to escape that she wouldn’t let free. Instead, there was a heavy weight that settled in her chest and left her feeling HOLLOW, EMPTY, WEAK and still she heard her heart beating, faster, faster, echoing in her ears almost too loud for the suffocating acrid air that held a smell akin to rust, but was anything but.

The xaela’s knees felt like they were glued to the floor, chained, shackled, destined to remain, surrounded by her failure, of the faces she’d never seen but yet their empty gazes she knew all too well. That same gaze that had almost once been hers… belonging to bodies that had suffered, again and again, left her with the knowledge that she hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been quick enough, and others had breathed their last because of it. They had suffered because she hadn’t been enough, never enough, not powerful enough.

She needed more, but would chasing power be the right thing in this moment? Wouldn’t it make her the monster rather than the saviour? There was losses, always, in even trying to save, wasn’t there? She had once been told her to raze the world in her rage, but where was her rage now? Was she just too broken? Just too weak? Had the grief finally overcome the rage, or was it just biding its time? Could she be what they had pictured her to be? Could she really chase that dream of razing the world and all those who had hurt, all those who had made her and others suffer such agonising fates of never knowing their future, of who would take them in, if they’d be kind, or if they’d hurt, again and again, and tarnish their mind? 

Was she the monster or the victim, neither or? Which did she prefer? Could she be both? Would it be better to be a monster to protect others? It had to, didn’t it? Be a bigger monster than the already existing ones, hurt those who hurt, but how could you discern? She needed answers, she needed advice, but she couldn’t face those she knew with this…

Not when she felt so weak...

[enchantingwrath]

they’re the ones behind it all / the ones messing with your bloodstream

PROMPT TWO | MASTERLIST sway: move or cause to move slowly or rhythmically backwards and forwards or from side to side. cw: blood mention, gore/injury mention, implications of abuse.

The xaela stumbled lightly on her feet as her hand pushed further into the incision that parted the skin along her stomach. She could feel the sanguine fluid that still coated her hand and the pain that adrenaline couldn’t chase off choked a whimper from her lips. The edges of her vision darkened, closing in on her like a tunnel, and sweat dripped from her forehead. She continued to try — ever so hard — to push through the feeling, to continue pump the aether that was so desperately necessary into her wounds. It was what she needed to do. There wasn’t any other option. They’d more than happily leave her to die otherwise.

She cursed — spittle flying from her fangs, as the drain on her aether eventually became too much. Her knees buckled underneath her as the wounds finally sealed themselves over, leaving her skin once again unmarred — exactly as required. The room spun as she sat panting on the floor. Hazy violet hues could briefly make out the white gloved hand of her keeper caregiver reaching towards her — a look of disgust curling their lips — before the darkness took hold completely.

[enchantingwrath]

PROMPT ONE | MASTERLIST (TBD) crux:  a vital, basic, decisive, or pivotal point cw: minor implications of child abuse.

So they follow me home And they hollow my bones Oh they won't let me go

How had she ended up here..? Beaten, broken, bloody. This wasn’t a life she would have ever chosen for herself, but it is the one that the gods had deigned fit to give her. It was funny how the fate worked in ways like that; always against her — reminding her of her place as the dirt at the bottom of someone’s shoe.

But she… She was so tired of this, of the upbringing she’d face, of the torment she’d grown with. Her memories had grown hazy, and there were things she knew she could no longer remember. Fragments of her past that seemed to vanish, and those that remained never felt quite right, but one thing… One thing had always remained the same in her. A feeling that never wavered, never changed.

Her desire to leave. 

And yet... something had always stopped her. A hope that things could change..? No, that hope had died in her a long time ago. She couldn’t remember when that flame last burned. There was no change here, not unless she reached for it. A fear of the outside? That one… was a possibility, if she could even attempt to be honest with herself about it, but surely, whatever lurked out there had to be better than within these walls, did it not..? It had to be… That was all she had left.

This was her only chance to leave after all, with the mistakes they’d made. A door too many were left unlocked, and it was time to make the choice — to take the step, to run while she could or to turn and sit back upon the bed.

And the xaela... the beaten, broken, bloodied xaela finally chose.

And freedom would never be taken from her again.

[enchantingwrath]

love is / nothing but a fatal dream

PROMPT FOUR | MASTERLIST | SONG INSPO: HOAX clinch: a struggle or scuffle at close quarters. // grapple at close quarters, especially (of boxers) so as to be too closely engaged for full-arm blows // confirm or settle (a contract or bargain) cw: blood mention, gore / injury, death.

You knew the password, so I let you in the door You knew you won, so what's the point of keeping score? You knew it still hurts underneath my scars From when they pulled me apart

The knife that was pressed into her side brought a gasping breath from the xaela that watched the only person she’d ever allowed herself to feel vulnerable for being the one to shove it there, underneath her skin, twisting it sharply, tearing the skin. She couldn’t tell which hurt more, the physical pain, or the knife in her heart from the betrayal — but now wasn’t the time to ponder such thoughts.

Her hand wrapped around his wrist, refusing to let him pull the knife out, her mind screaming: Keep the blade in, it stops the blood flow. It hurts, it hurts, I know, but it’s the best option. Fight, fight, fight. You can heal after. When it’s safe. When you’re safe.

Her fingers pressed harshly into the pressure point to be found there — deeper, sharper, nails, everything she had, stomped her heels down on his foot, all until the pressure released and his grip on the blade released.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts… I know.

There wasn’t a hesitation as she reached for the firearm he kept, always loaded but she never questioned why — a weapon she’d never wielded, but now wasn’t the best time to ponder, to regret, to fear, not if she valued her life. Her best chance. She knew she’d miss the first shot — people were terrible at shooting without practice — but she wouldn’t miss the others, not in such close proximity. 

Quickly, quickly now. There’s not much time.

Photographic memory — she’d learned enough, he’d mentioned things, here and there. Watched his stance, watched what he did, and she repeated the movements now before she opened fire. Loud, it was so loud. The ringing sound echoing in her head as bullet after bullet fired until there was none left. Nothing left to give, nothing left to do. She could only pray as she trembled, ever so afraid. It was his or her, and blood dripped from her lips as her fangs dug into her own skin. Fear tensed her body, and adrenaline heightened her senses but everything seemed to slow as his body finally crumpled. Anger coursed briefly, regret followed, and grief burned through her veins last, turning them to ice, freezing them there, turning her cold, finally, ever so cold. She was worn.

The first life she’d taken — in pursuit of keeping her own freedom, and she’d soon come to learn it wouldn’t be the last. A life as livestock, getting traded and sold, over and over again, wasn’t for her, and she found disgust in herself for not seeing the signs, for not seeing beyond the mask — the kind of business deals he was making, with her life on the line, with her as the price. 

A man too far in debt would sell anything, it seems, and in desperation, one would turn to violence when they didn’t get what they wanted either. When they found she wasn’t quite the willing toy.

Lessons, she’d learned, all over again. Lessons, she wouldn’t turn back from this time. Freedom was hers, to be forever kept — do not trust, never let anyone in. They’re always scheming, always willing to use your life as the price. Never trust, never falter, just take and take and never give.

But what you did was just as dark Darling, this was just as hard As when they pulled me apart

[enchantingwrath]

beauty / in the way you bleed.

973 words. prompt taken from here. — ❛   you’d look so much prettier in red… shall i coat you in it?   ❜   tagging @levingale​​ for karigan mentions. cw: torture, blood, injury / gore, death mention, human trafficking mention. 

The way violet hues narrowed into slits was nothing short of terrifying — a force to rival nature in her own right. Still, when the self-righteous fury enveloped her, there was nothing on this earth, nor in heaven or hell that could ever compare. Her rage, however, always presented in different ways, and with this creature, this cretin before her, it was a cold, calculating form of anger that made her veins run cold. There was no desire to tear them limb from limb, but instead, to meticulously and methodically break the woman underneath her until she begged the twelve to help her.

“Ah, pretty, pretty thing. I hear you’ve been playing games..? Running a racket, thinking that you wouldn’t be found eventually?” There was a sardonic smile as the xaela slid into the woman’s warm lap, thighs straddled against hips as a sharp-nailed finger came up underneath their chin, tilting their head up. She found immense satisfaction in the vicious hate pooled in green eyes — similar in hue yet so strikingly different from her lover’s.

The thought briefly crossed her mind to ponder how Karigan would react to her toying with her prey like this. How the xaela used everything in her available arsenal. How she would watch as her target went from hardened, aggressive and feeling like they were in charge, to a panicked, whimpering mess when they realised what they were in for. When the hope of freedom was long since gone, and when guilt finally, finally weighed heavy around their neck, and only then would she grant them a final mercy — their last breath. A divine absolution in the form of blood.

But ah, this was her game, her sport, and how she revelled in it. Breaking down of the pathetic cretins that existed in this world, one after the other. She’d hoped, one day, there would be no more, but it seems everywhere she turned, there was another, and she would be there with sharp wit and even sharper claws to break them down too. It fed the monster that lurked inside her, demanding more, more, more, until all the rivers ran red.

“How’s it feel losing, Auliene?” Jade inquired, a glint of curiosity hinted at in violet hues as a delicate brow quirked. “Did you feel that you never would..? That you could run, and run, and continue — thinking that playing others as your pawns, no one would realise you were calling the shots..? I wonder if you’re a sore loser..?”

“Fuck you, bitch.” The elezen woman snarled, spitting at her and Jade didn’t hesitate in gripping the sharp chin fiercely, her nails digging in until blood was beginning to pool just underneath the surface but not yet spilling forth. Violet hues darkened as a small burst of aether sent lightning sparking from her fingertips, burning into the delicate skin as she watched blood continue to swell underneath her nails.

“Ah, a sore loser, indeed.” Jade bared her fangs in the form of a devilish grin. In control enough of her emotions, her anger and yet, so daringly close to letting her rage run free. But no, this was not the time. Cold, calculating, cruel. Merciless. Heartless. The only way to break a pitiful thing like that underneath her. “Have you heard of the lingering death, my dear Auliene?”Jade paused to let the silence grow, to let ideas form in the elezen’s mind as she pondered the life of the prey beneath her.

Mommy and daddy hadn’t loved Auliene, focused more on peddling their drugs and chasing their pitiful wealth among the streets of Ul’dah. She chuckled at the thought — but ah, whose parents had truly loved them in this world? And money, well it had been ever so kind, ever so alluring, more so than chasing after love for the woman who had never known it, and Auliene didn’t need to worry about that, did she? Love and lust seemed to chase after her. Men after men willing to commit their services for a pretty woman, to do whatever was asked for a bat of pretty lashes, if it meant that they might catch a glimpse of pale skin for a night, and Auliene simply raked in the profits. Selling, and selling, just like her parents and not a single care given to the fact that her trade had become other people somewhere along the way. Why would she though? It was a way to make her rich, to give her what she felt she’d lacked all her life, buy her all those pretty things her parents never would.

Her fingers jabbed further into the tender flesh under her nails, intensely gleeful as the blood finally broke through. The beautiful sanguine fluid flowing forth and dripping down Jade’s hands. 

“Shall I introduce you to it? It is executed with many, many slices into your pretty pale skin until the blade finally grants you release — the final stab to your heart.” She paused, tapping a bloodied finger against her own chin. “Ah, but how many slices do you deserve before then... Hm, one for each person you sold, maybe..? Can you even survive that many?”

Auliene, to her credit, had the nature to look slightly panicked now as she struggled against the ropes binding her wrists, but… Jade knew her way around knots, always had since she’d learned — there was a grin as she thought back to the night with Karigan where her dear beast nearly broke her arm trying to free herself. Auliene was much weaker, and there was no way they’d be found here. She was trapped in a beautiful web, the perfect prey for the spider that wished to feast.

“Ah, my dearest Auliene, You’d look so much prettier in red, shall I coat you in it?”

[enchantingwrath]

@hipster-octopus​​ & @tavard-ffxiv​​ have asked:  41. Comfort food micro story prompts // accepting.

There is a pleased hum that loosens itself from the back of her throat as her teeth sink into the food presented between fingertips before her; the dark shell of chocolate encasing breaks easily beneath the sharpness of her canines, melting in her mouth before she is met by the soft flesh of strawberry, juicy and sweet, and always so very delectable. The taste of both mix into something divine that causes her tail to sway lazily behind her. 

The juice from the strawberry eventually begins to dribble down her chin as she consumes — motivated by hunger and greed, but she does not care. There is no one here to see her as she enjoys her moment. The moment of peace — of tasting that which is sweet, of that she covets. The xaela does not mind if she is a mess. She always has been one, has she not? At least, however, this is a mess made out of comfort, so unlike her. So unlike what is to come.

[enchantingwrath]

@chanaihimaa​​ has asked:  ❛ It is hard to forgive. ❜ Wuthering Heights Sentence Prompts // accepting.

The whiskey burned the back of her throat as she swallowed it down. Another night of drinking alone, attempting to find some solace in the alcohol that chased away the pain and rage that tore at the edges of her heart.

Although, did she even have a heart left? Surely so, considering that which ached in her chest? Or maybe it ached because of the hollow gap left where her heart used to be — the price she’d paid to survive in this cruel world that had not cut her any slack. Didn’t that kill her heart..? For that matter, was she even born with one? Was there ever a beating in her chest that signified she even lived? Maybe she had always been the monster — maybe that’s why life attempted to beat her down at every turn.

Life, or at least whatever she had that was meant to be akin to it, left her with a numbness layered on top of bubbling wrath, an unrelenting fire that burned within her soul. The only exceptions were the nights — like this one — that her dreams were haunted and she woke up in a panicked, terror-filled, sweaty heap before reaching for the whiskey that always seemed to soothe it all away, or at least it did until she sobered.

When the morning finally came, as much as she wished it wouldn’t, all that was left was a burning fury and an emptiness to everything else.

IT IS HARD TO FORGIVE,                                    BUT ISN’T ANGER ALL THE FORGIVENESS SHE NEEDS?

Rage was a cleansing forgiveness, or at least that’s what she offered herself, offered the world as she painted it red with the bodies of others — her self-righteous fury, her desire for bloodshed. It outweighed everything else. She couldn’t offer forgiveness in any other form. She wouldn’t give it in another form — not when she had been so wrong done by. It was justified, always, wasn’t it? Those who had hurt her, tarnished her, taken everything from her deserved everything they got. As did those who went about their days attempting to take it from others. They’d turned her into the bloodthirsty fiend she’d become, the monster that wanted to tear out the throats of others like a hunger that was never satisfied. She could no longer unclench her fist from the blade that left its last sweet kiss upon everyone who dared to do wrong in her eyes, it was far too late for that.

THERE WAS NO FORGIVENESS HERE,                                          ONLY THE VENGEANCE THAT TASTED LIKE BLOOD.