#VISAGE || sylas

[the-ashenstreaked-doctor]

I looked away for like 5 minutes and that one art reached 100 notes???

[wonderhevrts]

tag drop #3

[the-twisted-tales-tavern]

Rough Sex 2A: Not long after escaping Whitestone, Laudna was found by Sylas, who decided to bring his wife back to the forefront of her soul, by whatever means necessary…

Her heart had stopped the moment she saw him in the doorway of her humble little cottage. Of course she recognized him—his visage still haunted her, tortured her in the middle of the night as she thrashed her way to sleep. She had heard rumor of his death, and even more of his return, but had hoped above all else that it was nothing more than that. That he wouldn't find her again, like his wife somehow had.

And yet here he was, all the same. And he wanted her.

She'd tried to resist, but Sylas was a far stronger man than the half-alive woman—with barely any effort at all, he had pinned her down to the creaky thread-bare bed and ripped the clothes from her form. His voice was harsh, and rough, but also pleading and desperate. In an instant, she knew that he was willing to do anything to have her again...though her eyes widened as she realized just what exactly that anything included.

"Can you feel it, Delilah~?" the vampire lord's voice purred, the deep and bassy baritone rolling over Laudna as he held her pinned to her bed. His fingers tangled in the corpse girl's hair, holding tight to the top bun as he pressed down into her, his hips rocking and rolling steadily, roughly, rudely into hers. "Can you feel it, my love~? The devotion I have felt for you~ gods, come back to me, my beloved~"

Laudna could do little more than gasp and moan in reply—her pitiful strength was nothing compared to that of the dominating lord that towered over her. Even so, and even as she tried her best to resist his lustful assault...she did feel something twist and turn inside her. Something...awakening with his lustful assault. Her heart beating faster, her breath catching quick in her lungs—and her eyes fluttered as she gave in more and more.

Even if Delilah never did rise back to the surface again...Sylas would be walking away from this dreary little cabin with a loyal lady by his side all the same.

[allexandrianrejects]

While Sylas and Delilah lived, Maven's Form of Dread was a paler version of herself, red eyes, fangs so long they didn't properly fit in her mouth, white streaks, and blood pouring from her eyes and mouth. She more so took on a visage similar to Sylas, or herself as a Vampiric Dread Lord

Once they died, her Form of Dread more resembled Delilah, though deadened; she took on skeletal features, one eye a cloudy green, the other an empty socket, a rusty rapier pierced fully through her belly, blood staining her torso.

Generally, even if the form of dread is mechanically good, in universe, taking on either of these forms scared her, as she was not herself. The Dead Delilah form scares her especially. She'd been promised once she learned on her own, she would never have a form like that again. While it could be detrimental if it has the dnd mechanic effects, forcing her to take on a form of dread could seriously mess her up in a psychological warfare sense

[dregbourne]

believe me that the storm is coming.

prompts from ' i prevail ' / accepting.

THE GRACE OF THE GODS IS A VIOLENT ONE, he had never doubted that truth since he was a boy. a poor family in rural demacia had no time to dedicate to worship of gods who sit atop their mighty thrones in the sky, but even then —— they had heard whispers of the veiled lady. but he had been roped into the mageseekers, and after that... well. he certainly had plenty of time to pray in prison. and oh he did, when he was young and naive. he'd do it while standing, or kneeling on the cold stone, or even nightly before bed. pathetic. the passage of time itself became an extra burden, yet another shackle pulling him towards the ground they do not yuet bury him in. but sylas became certain that his prayers could not, and would never be answered.

if he wished for heavenly wrath to rain down upon the blue - blooded swine, he'd have to be the one to do it himself.

and all this remained true, even after he's battled morgana herself. strangely enough, confirmation that she does indeed exist... and can certainly put up a damn fight —— his body was aching all over for a few days afterwards. none of that has made the irreverent sylas a pious man. awed, certainly. the darker reflection to the bright, flaming angel of fire and justice is far more... human than he could've ever imagined. her beauty is also nothing to scoff at, as should be expected from a divine being, he supposes. but it must be easy to call the source of his power his weakness if one is a goddess. after so many years in the dark, there's nothing else that matters to him other than his serving vengeance as a dish served with fire and destruction. they gave him fifteen long years of torment... he'll gift them an eternity in darkness.

" will you become the storm, then? have you decided to join us mere mortals on the frontlines? " there's no outright derision in his tone, yet it's clear that he does not believe what he's saying, and some scorn still shows on his visage. if she doesn't believe in the validity of his vengeance, then he doubts he can do anything else to prove her wrong than to emerge victorious without her boon. but an ill omen from an aspect... sylas knows he ought to at least consider it. morgana hasn't led him astray, yet. " it's has been brewing for decades —— centuries, even. you know this, morgana. so i believe you. but if you shan't deign to act, i'll show you that i am the storm that will overturn demacia's ruling structure and bring every single one of those who looked down on us mages to their hands and knees. " his words are fervent and rushed, a version of a prayer as he declares his intent in front of the twin aspect of justice.

[littlebosslady7]

The Sylas visage was such a good idea.

Wrestle from Within letting her give advantage to attacks against Delilah, this encounter design is SO cool

[harbiinger]

tag dump 4/?

[ariensoul]

this is reigel and basil’s fault.

▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; visage ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; musings ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; headcanon ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; behavior ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; char. study ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; skills ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; aesthetic ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; in character ▌✤ ❝ delilah b. ;; drabbles ▌✤ ❝ have you heard the tale of how we became the caretakers of whitestone ⟨ delilah b. — mainverse ⟩ ▌✤ ❝ i support womens’ rights‚ but i also support womens’ wrongs. ⟨ delilah b. — crack ⟩ ▌✤ ❝ i broke the world for us‚ and i’d do it again in an undead heartbeat  ➽ delilah b. — & sylas

[flyingupward]

;; tag drop for the very surprising cr muse poll winner - ANNA RIPLEY

[rubiesintherough]

brief rundown on a new muse..... yes, yet another one.

name: Sylas Villin  age: 26

mention of suicide, but not explicit. 

It’s no secret that he isn’t entirely human. His mother had fae blood in her veins, and Sylas has shown the signs of it, himself.  A voice that seems to reach into the hearts of those he speaks to, drawing out their desires and coaxing them to actions, so dangerously pleasantly they may not realize they are being compelled. 

It’s said that he used magic to claim the throne... but no one can prove it.  There’s whispers of him compelling the previous king, his father, to leap from the palace’s highest window, though --- as Sylas’s supporters are quick to point out --- the guards and the noblemen who were with him at the time maintain it was an accident. But, the doubt still lingers among the court. Despite this, though, they have accepted Sylas as their new ruler, however reluctantly.  Though, he doesn’t act as a normal king would. He appears far more flippant on the surface about his position, not meeting it with the dignity, grace, and care of his father. This has caused rumblings --- always quickly put down, sometimes with violence --- to spread through his kingdom of his worthiness for the throne. Those around him complain that he spends more time away from the palace than in it, frolicking about and exploring, engaging in questionable activities throughout his land.  Though, because he does get all expected of him --- all paperwork, meetings, etc --- done well, they don’t have much of a leg to stand on when it comes to telling him off for it. 

Sylas is said to be extremely charming, and those around him can attest to his charisma and ability to quell arguments and soothe anger. Though, he has an ego. Having been raised as heir to the throne, he is used to a life of privilege, and believes his own opinions to be correct, always. And his magical gift of persuasion lets him have most anything he wants, including new land or increased armies from fellow rulers who’ve made the mistake decision to meet with him. 

important notes:

sylas would fall under the umbrella of pansexual. Though, when it comes to romance, it’s a little more complicated... he doesn’t tend to experience romantic feelings. Whether this is from his position as king and fear of losing that power and being usurped, or simply because he has yet to find someone he connects with in any way more than sexual, it’s hard to say.

he can be very persuasive.  It doesn’t necessarily mean he can order your muse to do something and they have to do it, but it definitely puts ideas into people’s heads and makes it sound more appealing than it should.  If your muse is human --- and doesn’t have any sort of magical power or other special ability --- they’ll be far more susceptible to it than a muse who isn’t human, or is magical. 

i don’t have a set place or time that he’s set in, meaning he’s very flexible. For the most part, I’m going to assume he’s set in a fantasy version of the middle ages, in the equivalent of England. Will be polishing this up as time goes on, but for now, that’ll be the automatic setting / time period unless discussed  /  or unless i figure out something else and make a whole new kingdom for him or smth?? 

[jinkies-im-black]

Night Mail

By Sylas L. Bento

It was a hot day, so blisteringly hot that the air was shimmering. The kind of day that makes casually touching anything metal a death sentence. A merciless sun ascended into a cloudless sky, its scorching gaze singing an old Chevy Astro Camper puttering down a long stretch of country road. And though the van's AC was screaming out lukewarm air at best, the driver paid the heat little mind. Not even a rolled-up sleeve for accommodation.

Their eyes remained focused on the narrow expanse of black asphalt ahead, following the thrumming in their veins more than the GPS the closer they got to their destination. The navigation dinged, just as they were about to glance at the device, a flash of movement caught their eye in the rearview mirror. The driver slammed on the breaks with a heavy foot. There was a heavy thud somewhere toward the back of the van. The driver stared into the rearview mirror and strained their ears but there was nothing.

Slowly, the van resumed its trek down the desolate road. After almost missing the sharp turn down a nondescript dirt road into the woods, the driver took their eyes off the road once more, swearing under their breath as an arm reached out to secure an old leather bag that was on the verge of toppling over.

The van and its driver continued down the dirt path for several long minutes before it eventually slowed to a stop as it came upon a rather tall gate made of sheet metal of varying ages. The driver didn't bat an eye at this, and instead reached for their phone and skimmed through the instructions left by the client before once again tossing it aside. The van's horn sounded three times in quick succession. After a few beats with no reply, there was a screeching sound as the gate was pulled across a track.

A younger man than the driver was expecting waved and signaled for the driver to pull through. Once the truck was over the line, the driver watched through the rearview mirror as the young man closed and locked the gate. The driver's eyes didn't leave the man's reflection as he checked and rechecked the many locks on the gate or as he tested and retested the strength of the locks with trembling fingers.

Even without the thrumming, the driver could tell that the fidgety man was the person who had contacted him. The driver's eyes stared impassively as the young man cautiously eyed the van, he seemed to rally enough courage to trudge past the vehicle and over to his own, which was parked a few yards ahead. The young man raised a hand in the air as he entered the car but did not look back at the driver. A wordless command to follow. And so, with one more glance to the gate out of the rearview mirror, the driver did just that.

The road was somehow narrower than the one the van had just been on. A portion of each of its wheels was dangling precariously off the edge of the road for most of the journey, but the driver never once dropped their steady pace. Slowly through the dense foliage, the roof of a house rose into view. As did the defenses that surrounded it. The roof was the only part of the house that could be seen, the rest hidden away behind a fence made of thick wood and lacking an obvious point of entry. The road they were traveling on widened into a little more than a single space driveway, the van pulling in close behind it.

The young man in the car had just pulled the key out of the ignition. After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he glanced into his rearview mirror, expecting to see the mysterious visage of the van driver. But he blinked in shock as all he saw was the headrest of an empty seat. Then, before he had any time to think more on that, a sharp knock sounded on dirty glass by his ear. The young man jumped at the sound and whipped his head to the left. The driver of the van was now standing just outside his car door.

The young man's eyes widened as he gaped at the other driver. The young man's mouth opened and closed uselessly as he fought between screaming and trying to find something to say. The van driver watched as fresh beads of sweat broke out along the man's brow. After taking in the younger man's struggle for a few moments, they turned and walked briskly to the fence. A wordless command to hurry up. The young truck driver swallowed hard in an attempt to force the knot in his throat down. A few more moments passed before he exited the truck and made a beeline for the fence not daring to look at the darkly dressed figure.

Pulling on the length of chain he had tucked into his pocket, he fished out a small brass hook which jingled together with a pair of similarly cast keys. The van driver watched with interest as the young man finessed the hook into an indistinguishable opening. A quick tug revealed that a small section of the wood had been cut and put on hinges making a clever alcove for a keyhole. He slipped one of the keys in and turned it with a good amount of effort.

Behind the fence, the air was filled with the sound of one lock unlatching itself after the other like falling dominoes. Then there was silence. Using the key as leverage, the young man pulled the hidden door open. Then, with an over-embellished sweeping of his arm, he ushered the dark figure past the threshold and quickly fell in behind them. As he turned to close the gate, the young man's eyes found themselves looking out past where his car had been parked and he fought off a chill as he saw the sheer drop waiting just below the van's doors.

He closed the hidden entrance with more force than was necessary and locked it behind him. Stuffing the keys as deeply into his pocket as he could, he spun on the balls of his feet to face the figure that stood like a statue before him. He could feel their eyes on him, his body dumping bucket loads of adrenaline into his system just from the mere ghost of their presence on his skin. The only barrier between his skin and those searing orbs was the wide brim of the other driver's hat.

'Not much of a barrier.'

Was the first clear thought to come to the young man. His knees quaked as he and his counterpart stared each other down, it was his first good look at them. They were almost the same height, the darkly dressed...man maybe had two or three inches on him but was definitely in a higher weight class than he was. He knew he was somewhere between a light and welterweight, but this guy was closer to a light heavyweight.

The young man had his second clear thought, and his fingertips twitched in response. Then, just as he began to formulate his third clear thought, a voice called out to him.

"What you're thinking isn't worth it."

His voice was as strong and smooth as polished mahogany. The young man hesitated, somewhat shocked by the man's voice. The shock was less about the sound of it, and more about the fact that the other man had a voice at all. It seemed...too human for the being standing across from him. He waited to see if he would be addressed again, but the mysterious driver said nothing else, choosing instead to turn to a sizable pit in the front yard.

The property owner flushed and hurried to catch up with the stranger, his arms waving in an attempt to divert his attention. It worked. And the young man was once again enveloped by that blistering gaze; however, this time he didn't falter. Instead, he coughed awkwardly into his fist in a feeble attempt to clear his throat.

"Don't worry about all that. T-That's not what you came here for after all, is it?"

He took a few large steps toward the house, putting some much-desired distance between him and the other man. Glancing over his shoulder he offered a jerk of his head towards the house as an invitation to follow.

"Where is your kitchen?"

The question rang in the young man's ears as soon as they entered the house. He frowned slightly.

"Down the hall. I was thinking we could sit and talk right here."

He replied while gesturing to the modest living room that they had walked into upon entering the house. The stranger shook his head and headed down the hallway.

"No. It must be the kitchen."

His answer trailing behind him as he walked with purpose. The other man stood there dumbstruck for a moment before following. He nearly collided with the stranger as he unexpectedly stopped just at its entrance. The darkly dressed man surveyed it in its entirety briefly before stepping in to inspect certain fixtures. His first target was the stove. He bent over the range and analyzed each burner.

"What's your name?"

The man's voice came as suddenly as always.

"DeMarcus. DeMarcus Collins."

The stranger nodded as he moved to inspect the contents of each cabinet.

"Kharim Roquer."

Came the almost absent-minded reply as Kharim paused his search to scrutinize the cups within one of the cabinets. He took his time, slowly rotating them in his presumed search for flaws and dirt.

"You gathered the supplies I requested."

Though it sounded more like a statement, DeMarcus replied anyway.

"Yeah. My sister came by and dropped them off for me. I put 'em in the pantry. The cornflour is drying on a rack there too."

Kharim nodded as he held a port glass made of crystal aloft. DeMarcus' eyes softened around the edges at the sight of it.

"That was my grandmother's."

His tone was softer than his eyes as words were half meant for himself. Kharim only nodded again before setting the glass down and placing the others he had inspected back in the cupboard. He then set about gathering the ingredients from the pantry. Once he collected all that DeMarcus was instructed to gather and make, he walked to the kitchen table and placed the leather bag that had been slung across his torso onto it. Then in one fluid motion, he pulled the nearest chair out.

"Please, have a seat while I set about making the preparations."

He entreated DeMarcus with a sweeping bow. DeMarcus hesitated but could sense no ill will coming off the stranger in his house. And so cautiously, he made his way over to the chair and sat down. Kharim picked up another chair and placed it directly across from DeMarcus. Kharim reached out for the leather bag he placed on the table. It opened a full 180 degrees, revealing a portable curio cabinet of sorts.

Several glass vials containing various powders of different colors and plant life were displayed and secured via leather straps and a few large compartments whose contents remained a mystery. Kharim rifled around collecting several vials between his fingers and adding them to his small pile of ingredients. He returned to the bag and opened one of the compartments. DeMarcus felt his eyes bulge as a cast-iron pan was slowly retrieved from somewhere within the compartment, followed by a worn wooden bowl. If Kharim noticed his bewilderment, he said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself with his preparations. A fire roared to life beneath the old cast iron pan, and Kharim added water, some brown powder, and what DeMarcus assumed to be salt into it in quick succession. Without looking, he grabbed one of his small glass vials and added small wooden stars to the mixture. Kharim stepped back thoughtfully and observed the pan for a few long seconds.

Kharim removed his hat with a small sigh and stepped away from the stove, turning to face the table as he did so, revealing his face for the first time. DeMarcus' brows jumped as he took in Kharim's full countenance. It reminded him of the night sky. The smatterings of pale skin dusting his cheeks could have been mistaken for stars against the night sky of his skin. A waxing crescent moon hung high on his brow, partially buried in the shock of ivory coils that made up a small portion of his hair.

Kharim hung his hat on the top rail of the chair directly across from DeMarcus and was about to sit down when a look of remembrance crossed his face. He straightened and extended an expectant hand to DeMarcus, who stared up at him in confusion. His confusion was replaced by the gnawing sense of unease he had felt before as he met the taller man's whorling rust gaze.

The intensity of Kharim's stare was enough to make DeMarcus believe his clothes might catch fire if he stalled for too long. And so reluctantly, DeMarcus reached to the small of his back and retrieved his last bastion of defense and placed it into Kharim's waiting hand. Kharim looked from the weapon in his hand to the scared man in the chair a few times before offering DeMarcus a bittersweet smile.

"These things always work better when we trust each other."

Kharim walked over to the fridge and made a show of placing the gun atop it.

"There," he said as he settled into his seat, "now we both know where it is."

DeMarcus nodded, his eyes sliding from the top of the fridge to the pan on the stove.

"What's that?"

"A decoction. You've seen something. A horror so that's left you so shaken, there was no other recourse, save blocking it from yourself-- even in your mind's eye, to keep you from unraveling. This will help to unseal the mysteries of your encounter."

DeMarcus said nothing. After all, it was true. That night only came to him in flashes no matter how many times he'd tried to recount it. They sat in silence for a moment before the roiling boil of the pan called Kharim away. He tossed a small mountain of cornflour into the bowl and added more water. He returned to the table and placed the bowl in front of DeMarcus.

"An equal share of labor."

With that, he returned to his ingredients on the stove. DeMarcus watched as he began to scrape seeds off of some vanilla beans before turning his attention to the bowl. Slowly, he began to mix the ingredients into a paste. As he did so, he noticed a ring of strange looking symbols along the perimeter of the bowl. He could feel his vision start to blur at the edges, but he couldn't look away from them, his hands never ceasing in their work.

"Once all the water has been absorbed, bring the bowl here. You'll need a whisk as well."

DeMarcus jumped as Kharim's voice shattered whatever had come over him. He nearly leaped out of his chair in his desperation to be rid of the small basin. Kharim accepted it and slowly added it to the bubbling water. Grabbing a whisk from the nearby utensil holder, he battered away the clumps until there was only a velvety smoothness within the pan. Kharim then added a small mound of fairy pink powder, which was hastily buried beneath a larger mound of fine white powder.

"Mix this in as well."

After DeMarcus had done so, Kharim lowered the heat and instructed him to continue stirring for the next few minutes. A silence hung between them. However, DeMarcus' curiosity got the better of him as he couldn't help but ask,

"What are we making?"

"Akasan." Was Kharim's clipped reply.

"...and what's that?"

"A treat from my father's island, Haiti. Though this particular recipe has a special ingredient." Kharim answered with a chuckle.

"Fish out those pods. It's time for the finishing touches."

After the star-shaped pods were retrieved, Kharim added the vanilla and poured in a can of evaporated milk. He gestured for DeMarcus to come closer.

"Your hand, may I see it?"

DeMarcus' heart thudded heavily as he wordlessly offered the man his upturned palm. In the next moment, Kharim had suddenly produced a large wickedly sharp looking blade. DeMarcus froze, taken aback by the knife's sudden appearance. As his mind was still processing the impossibility of the situation he was currently in Kharim deftly bisected the pad of his thumb. Kharim repeated the procedure on himself in the time it took DeMarcus to suck in a breath to scream.

Kharim threaded their fingers together, pressing the scored flesh of their fingers together as thick ribbons of crimson bubbled up to the surface. Kharim pulled their intertwined hands closer until they were hovering over the bubbling liquid within the pan. Their blood ran together and co-mingled, globules of the sanguine mixture dropped heavily into the heated vessel. DeMarcus hissed in pain from the lingering sting of Kharim's dagger, though it was winding down to a dulling throb. Said dagger was currently nowhere to be seen, DeMarcus couldn't help but note.

The pain had almost completely subsided by the time Kharim withdrew his hand. He wiped his hand clean with a cloth he'd laid out beforehand. The blood was wiped away revealing an unmarred finger. Before DeMarcus knew what he was doing, he too reached out for the cloth. He stared dumbly at his hand, face twisted with confusion.

"What…?"

DeMarcus trailed off, unsure of where his questions should even begin. The meat of his finger had been repaired, not even a trace of a scar remained. Kharim let him flounder as he instructed his client to continue stirring the contents of the pan. DeMarcus watched mutely while Kharim rinsed the wretched wooden bowl in the sink. When the drink had been mixed to Kharim's standards, he carefully ladled a portion into the crystal glass and another portion into the wooden bowl.

Gesturing for DeMarcus to follow him, he took the bowl and returned to the table. As DeMarcus sat down, Kharim reached into his leather bag and retrieved a sleek tape recorder. He inspected it carefully before looking at DeMarcus.

"It's time."

"W-wait. What about the knife? We've got to trust each other, don't we? Well, put it-put it on the table."

DeMarcus tried to keep his voice strong but it wavered and shook as he spoke. Kharim regarded the man silently before nodding. The blade rematerialized in the time it took DeMarcus to blink. With a smooth flick of Kharim's wrist, it speared the table with a heavy thud. Kharim offered a small smirk before he raised the bowl to his lips and drank deeply.

DeMarcus took a breath to steel his nerves before doing the same. Despite the warmth of the drink, a chill ran down his spine. Kharim cleared his throat and turned the tape recorder on.

"Statement of DeMarcus Collins regarding a mail service witnessed last summer.

Original occurrence, the night of June 15, 2019.

Audio recording by Kharim Roquer, Head Keeper and Scribe of the Ravenwood Institute's Repository. Recorded March 3, 2020.

The statement begins as follows."

DeMarcus looked at Kharim's outstretched hand. The swirling lines of his palms seemed to be carved deeply into his rough and worn skin. He licked the remnants of the sweetened drink from his lips and began to speak, his eyes glazing over as he did so.

"I don't know what woke me that night. It was the end of June, and July was edging ever closer. So it could have been the heat. It could have been the sound of a firecracker or gunshot somewhere in the distance, considering where I live it's truly a coin-toss between the two.. my block at the time was what they like to call "up and coming" if you catch my meaning.. but in the back of my mind the idea that it could have been an engine backfiring..it-it chills me. In the end, it doesn't matter. Whatever it was, I was awake.

I remember just laying there for a while, blinking at the ceiling, willing myself to fall back asleep to no avail. Maybe it was too hot. My A/C tends to work in vain some summer nights, the southern heat can just get too strong to fight I suppose. Otherwise how else could I explain the sweating? My sleep shirt was damp, so much so that you could have mistaken the once gray fabric for black.

I remember just laying there for a while, blinking at the ceiling, willing myself to fall back asleep to no avail. Maybe it was too hot. My A/C tends to work in vain some summer nights. The southern heat can just get too strong to fight I suppose. Otherwise, how else could I explain the sweating? My sleep shirt was damp, so much so that you could have mistaken the once gray fabric for black.

Realizing this, I sat up, and yanked the thing over my head, and launched it carelessly into the darkness of my room. I expected to feel...at least a little bit of relief now that I removed a layer of clothing, but no. There was nothing but thick, suffocating heat. That's why I got out of bed, to try to escape the heat with a cold glass of water. Nothing like a cold glass of water in the middle of the night..I..I don't think I realized how true that sentiment was until then. Until I went into the kitchen that night.

My kitchen faces the street, it's got a window that's not too large but not too small either, and there's a street lamp just out of view, and I don't have any curtains or blinds in there so you can still see pretty well without having to cut all the lights on. All of that to say that I have a clear, unobscured view of my street and the houses across from mine.

But this isn't about the kitchen window. It's what I SAW through that window. I know I saw it. I know it was real, I-I'm sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. It's just that even though I saw what happened, I can't seem to wrap my head around the reality of it...

When I walked into the kitchen, I didn't immediately sense that something was..so deeply wrong. I only felt more of that oppressive heat closing in on me from all sides. Even the tile floor, which is usually cool to the touch on the hottest summer days, offered no sanctuary that night. I quickly made my way to the sink and grabbed the first cup I could from the drying rack. I turned on the tap, and the pipes groaned ominously. I remember it so clearly because they'd never done that before.

I also distinctly remember it because of how the low rumbling shriek pierced through the silence. Usually, there's an abundance of noise at any given moment in my hood. Car horns, music blasting out of busted speakers, people shouting, even the annoying ring of sirens. But not right then... no, it was just dead air..well before I tried to turn on the tap anyway. Then the only sound that I could hear was the strenuous gurgle of the pipes as the water I so desperately needed was summoned from the bowels beneath my house.

The volume only seemed to increase as time went on. The low rumbling slowly but surely replaced with violent, forceful shaking. It was so strong that I remember taking half a step back in alarm because I thought the faucet might come flying off. But it didn't. Instead, it went completely still. No water. No shaking pipes. Just that all-encompassing heat that seemed to muffle everything around it, like some thick heavy duvet.

Another sound managed to pierce its way through the silence. Though this time, it came from outside my house. As the worn breaks of the vehicle squealed while it came to a halt, I found myself unconsciously turning to look at it. It took me a little longer than I'd like to admit to realize what I was looking at...it was a mail truck. But...not like any mail truck I'd ever seen before.

For starters, the thing was so damn dirty that I could barely make out the USPS insignia beneath all the caked-up dirt and grime that covered its once pristine white paint job. Looking at the mottled tapestry of grays, blacks, and browns made my skin crawl. But that wasn't the only disconcerting feature; with a nearly flat tire, busted out tail lights, and a cracked side mirror, the truck was in such visible disrepair that I found it hard to believe it could still be in service.

And yet, there it was. It didn't do anything for a while. In front of my neighbor's house, it just sat there, hazard lights flashing dully through the grime. I don't know how long I stood there just... watching but the longer I stared at those dull orange lights, the more aware I became of my own distress. Even though I had been pouring sweat not minutes before, goosebumps had risen to the surface of my skin and my teeth chattered.

An icy ball of dread began to form in the pit of my stomach. And the walls..they felt like they were closing in on me with a slow and measured purpose. I wanted to run away screaming. Dash back to my room and dive under the covers and not come back out until morning. But I didn't...no..no that's not quite right. I couldn't. Somewhere..deep down I knew that if I took my eyes off that truck, I would know a truer, deeper fear than what I was feeling then. And more than I had ever felt in my life.

So I stood there, paralyzed with fear, unable to tear my eyes away from the window. I could hardly even blink; I was so utterly terrified. And then...the truck began to rock back and forth. I wasn't able to see directly into the truck. It had stopped on the street in a way that made the light overhead reflect so brightly that I could barely look into the glass straight on-- only when I squinted was I able to get a look inside. Not even a good one. I could only faintly make out the outline of the driver rummaging through the cab.

It didn't take long to find what it needed. I say it because when the driver finally emerged...I was sure that they weren't human just by looking at them. Well, I don't know if looking is the right term. It was more in the way that the light bent off of it at odd angles, keeping its figure shrouded in the dark of the night. So I found myself squinting harder to make out the barest of details as it walked slowly and deliberately up to the door of my neighbor's house across the street.

The first thing I could discern was what I assumed to be the item it had been looking for. It was an empty cardboard shipping box..not just empty but flat.. deconstructed. The second thing I noticed didn't quite register until it got closer to the front door. Impossibly large doesn't seem to quite cover it. I'd something so big... walking upright on two legs anyway. Still haven't. It wasn't just tall..it was wide. Wider than the door that it was steadfastly approaching.

I wanted to rub my eyes to make sure I saw clearly. But that would have meant taking my eyes off that thing, and there was no way in hell I'd be doing that. I had this...I don't know. A gut feeling doesn't do the intensity justice. Watching that hulking mass move closer and closer to my neighbor's door..I just knew, somewhere deep inside, that if my eyes looked away for even a second, it would be the last thing I did.

So I kept watching, shackled in place by my terror. By the time the thing had reached the door, I was on the verge of hyperventilating. Nothing happened at first. At least I don't think so; it was so big I couldn't see past it. But then it reeled back, its arm falling to the side, and it's..hand balling itself into a tight fist. I couldn't see the front door, but from what I could tell the figure wasn't moving. It stood there for a little while, just taking in the obstacle that stood before it, I guessed, which seemed absolutely ridiculous to me given that the thing was built like a tank.

I mean, I couldn't see any reason why that flimsy bit of wood was making it hesitate in the first place. But then it did something I didn't expect. Slowly, it turned to face the truck, bowed deeply to it before it got to its knees, and placed the unconstructed box in its lap. And with more care than a grandmother crocheting a blanket for a new grandchild, it constructed that box.

And then it..it reached into the box and pulled something thin and rectangular out. I know it doesn't make sense, I just told you I watched it put the box together, but that's what happened. It made the box and then took something out. It stood then, with box and strange rectangle in hand, and slowly glanced back to the obstacle blocking its entry to the house. It stooped down; its massive bulk concentrated on the bottom half of the door.

I held my breath though nothing seemed to happen until I noticed that the mail...thing seemed to be getting smaller. Little by little, the thing was disappearing before my very eyes. I wasn't able to make sense of it until its bulk was nearly gone. Suddenly, there was a glint of light ricocheting off metal as the bottom third of the door was revealed. Most of its body was now hidden behind the other side of my neighbor's door, the rest of it..the rest of it seemed to be slowly siphoning itself through the opening it had created near the bottom of the door. For too many long seconds, I could only watch the rest of its mass disappear in utter terror.

With the mechanical grace of a VCR accepting a VHS tape and an underwhelming metallic ‘plink'; its feet disappeared from view. My mind was reeling as I stared dumbly at the benign visage of the metallic rectangle, so much so that it took me longer than I'd like to admit to realize the portal the mail thing had used was a mail slot. My mouth went dry, and my hands began to shake. It took everything in me to do so, but I was able to move. One step at a time. Moving felt like trying to walk upstream in chest-deep water with cinder blocks strapped to the soles of my feet.

It was slow going, and the closer I got to my front door, the more I wanted to sprint upstairs and dive under my bed and not come out till the sun was high in the sky. But I wouldn't let myself. I couldn't hear anything coming from inside the house, but I knew something bad was going on in there. Finally, I reached a shaking hand out for my doorknob, and as I touched the metallic surface, I broke out into a cold sweat. It had taken me so long to reach my door that I was half expecting the thing to be exiting my neighbor's house at the same time I would be leaving mine. I hesitated at that mental image but only for a moment.

I took a deep breath which was actually only a shallow shaky one and flicked the deadbolt. I gathered all the strength I had and swung the door open as fast as I could. As soon as the first slivers of amber light fell upon me, I knew something was completely and utterly wrong...not until I stepped out onto my front stoop. I hadn't realized that a part of me was hoping that I might have some relief from the suffocating discomfort of my kitchen once I left my house.

My level of discomfort rose as slowly as the dawning thought that nothing had changed. That I might as well have been standing at my kitchen window. It felt the same. No difference in the sticky suffocating heat. Not in the strangely muffled silence. Not in the hammering of my heart or the chattering of my teeth. Still, I pressed on, the sweat on my brow and rolling down my back racing to drop below zero with every step towards that house.

My heart was in my ears as I slowly passed the derelict mail truck, half expecting the thing to roar to life and flatten me of its own volition. But there was nothing but that weighty silence. As the house loomed over me, it took more and more effort to move. I had just managed to reach the bottom of the stairs. My foot was hovering over the first step when I heard a faint creak coming from behind the front door. Such a powerful bolt of fear flooded through me that I felt struck by lightning. My knees buckled out of shock or reflex, and my legs folded underneath me. I was on my ass before my brain could register it.

There was another creak. Closer to the door and louder than anything had I right to be in that suffocating stillness. I could only watch, slack-jawed as a tinkling sound began to emanate from the newly installed mail slot. Its lid flew open, and for a moment, the stillness returned. Then in the back of the mail slot's gaping maw, there was a flicker of movement and a dash of white. The flash of white soon filled up the entirety of it.

I'm not sure how but I could tell, just by looking at it, that it felt like that wasn't enough. It wanted more space. Needed more space. Needed it so strongly and with such urgency that when it crested over the lip of the slot, I couldn't help but picture someone breaching the surface of some very deep water. There was suddenly a bloom of red, wisp like at first, but it grew in intensity until a thick rivulet drooped just below its edge.

What I was seeing hit me all at once as gravity pulled the droplet down, and the fat crimson orb splashed onto the welcome mat below. My legs kicked and jerked uselessly as I tried to scramble backward. There was no way I could make it back to my house before whatever that thing was, was back outside the house. The once crisp white package plopped to the ground with a heavy wet ‘smack.' My insides knotted themselves in revulsion at the sound and the sour pulse of adrenaline that shot through me.

I was finally able to gain enough traction to push myself to the other side of the stairs, scrambling under the dead leaves beneath the bushes that lined the side of the house. There was this sound like pouring sand, and I covered my mouth with my hands to try to get my breathing under control. The sound of falling sand slowly petered out and was replaced by the groaning of floorboards as heavy footfalls made their way to the steps of the front deck.

They paused there, and I strained my ears to hear anything over the sound of my thundering heart. The footsteps continued, carrying the thing further away from me, but the sigh of relief turned into a choked gasp as I saw it begin to cross the street. I had left my front door slightly ajar to investigate, and I was now forced to watch the creature slip through the opening I'd left. Fighting off nausea, I dragged myself along the ground on my stomach to get a better vantage point through the dense foliage. There was nothing to see. Nothing to hear, just more of that oppressive stillness.

Sweat was pouring down my face, stinging my eyes, and still, I didn't tear them away from my house. Eventually, I couldn't bear it any longer and wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands until the burning subsided. I looked back to my house, and my heart stuttered as I noticed a looming figure standing in my kitchen window. A shadow that was somehow starker than the blackness around it. I swore it had seen me, that it needed this change of scenery to sniff me out, and now it knew where I was...but I was wrong.

It stood there for what felt like hours. Then I blinked, and suddenly it was standing on the front steps of my house, leaking postage in hand. I fought down the urge to reel back in shock. Any sound would have given me away, I'm sure of it. In three long strides it had disappeared from my view and was back at the mail truck's side. I know because I heard the screeching of rusted sheet metal as it opened the trunk of the truck. There was another wet slap and more creaking metal. Then the sputtering of an ancient engine as it came back to life.

An echoing 'boom' shredded the silence that hung overhead. I pressed myself further into the ground and covered the back of my head on instinct. I remember thinking that it must have been a gun until the old mail truck slowly rolled by my hiding place. It stopped for a second, right in front of me, before continuing further down the road, leaving a thin trail of viscous icker behind. Then, with another reverberating ‘crack,' the truck disappeared around the corner.

I didn't move from that spot in the dirt. Not when the unbearable heat slipped away. Not when sounds of the city slowly returned. No. I stayed hidden by those leaves until the sun came out and chased the shadows away. Once it was, I crawled out and dusted myself off. Part of me wanted to investigate my neighbor's house, but a larger part was scared of what I'd find. So instead, I went back to my place.

The only evidence I could find that I hadn't imagined the whole thing was a couple of drops of blood by the window in the kitchen. There may have been more but they could have been washed away by the water now ejecting itself from the hole in my sink where my faucet had once been. It was lodged in the ceiling, if you can believe it...if you can believe any of this. But anyway, that's all I needed to see. I wasn't going to stick around to see if that thing would be making its rounds again anytime soon.

I broke my lease that day and started packing. It took a little longer than I would have liked because I refused to be there when the sun was down, for obvious reasons. I found this town, it's small and dying, but most importantly, they don't mind the want for privacy and security. And they won't look at you twice when you rip out your mailbox. In fact, most they'll do is shrug and suggest you open up a P.O. box instead."

As DeMarcus said this, his eyes regained their clarity. He stared at his guest in shock. Kharim sighed and sat back, straightening the formerly hunched position he had adopted as he was drawn in by DeMarcus' tale. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him, and his shoulders sagged. He reached over and pressed a button on the tape recorder and placed it back into his waiting bag.

"Thank you for sharing. That must have been a terrible weight to endure all on your own."

Kharim's tone had softened as if every word was a battle to speak. He stood abruptly, catching DeMarcus off guard, and began to clean up his supplies. However, his movements were no longer quick and sure but sluggish and somewhat clumsy. DeMarcus was up and out of his seat after the taller man seemed to trip over his own feet and just barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the counter.

"Christ man, here, you sit down. I'll clean up."

"Thank you."

Kharim said, a small tired smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The rest of the clean up was uneventful, though Kharim did end up insisting that he handle the maintenance of the bowl and pan. DeMarcus was more than happy to accommodate those demands as he never wanted to touch that small bowl ever again, and he couldn't imagine he'd feel much differently about the pan.

DeMarcus ended up helping Kharim walk back out to his van. Kharim leaned heavily on him, but DeMarcus silently marveled at how light he felt. Upon first meeting him, DeMarcus had felt as if he took up more space than he actually did. His presence was so heavy that DeMarcus felt as if he had to crane his neck just to look at the other man's face. And now a gust of wind could carry him off if it wanted.

By the time they were outside, Kharim was being half carried and half dragged to the gate.

As they passed the ditch, Kharim spoke.

"Make sure you build that trench nice and deep. Put something sharp at the bottom. Covered in salt for good measure."

DeMarcus, in his shock, only nodded and focused on getting Kharim to the exit. As he opened the gate; however, his shock doubled as he realized he was looking at the back of the van.

"Wha-"

DeMarcus was cut off as Kharim pushed off of him, using the force as momentum to stumble toward the van's double doors. Just as he reached them, he lost his footing and began what Damascus knew would be a treacherous descent. Or he would have, if he hadn't lurched forward and grabbed the handle of one of the doors. After an awkward wave goodbye, Kharim disappeared into the back of the van and immediately pulled off no sooner than he closed the back door. DeMarcus got back in his truck and followed the van out.

~

DeMarcus found himself standing at the edge of his driveway inspecting the narrow road that lay just before it later that evening. He just couldn't figure it out. The dirt on either side remained untouched. No sign of tire tracks or even footprints. And yet the van had been facing the opposite direction when they came out of his house. There weren't even any signs of Kharim's close call. DeMarcus sighed and scratched the back of his head, recalling the last he'd seen of the truck, and its driver.

The sun was starting to set. The crisp blue of the sky was replaced by warming hues of pink and thick bands of golden orange. Under the dying sun, DeMarcus had been thankful for the bright lights of the van as he fiddled with the locks of his outer gate. However, when he turned to wave them through, his eyes stung at their intensity. Even with a hand raised to his face to protect them from the rays, he still found himself wincing.

The van rolled forward slowly; the crunching dirt beneath its tires seemed louder than normal. As it passed him, the driver's side window rolled down, a hand reached out, a small offering clutched in its fingers. DeMarcus took it carefully. He glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of Kharim to see how the man was fairing. But the van's lights must have been too bright because, in the darkness of the van's interior, he could only make out the outline of the tall hat wearing driver. Before he was able to say anything the van sped off, kicking up dust and debris.

DeMarcus shook his head, reluctantly accepting that he'd get no answers from the dirt. After all, the driver had to have been Kharim.

'Right...?'

As he walked back inside, his hand slipped into his pocket, and he retrieved the small slip of paper that was handed to him. Embossed on its off white surface were two black birds perched on stagnated branches of a tree, looking out into the vastness of the pictured landscape. Dark thick lines that ran across both the top and bottom enclosed the image. Above the striking image, the words 'Ravenwood Institute and Community Center' were proudly stamped.

~

When Kharim's eyes blinked open, it was because the rough terrain the van was driving on finally woke him. He groaned loudly at the soreness of his body.

"Finally up sleeping beauty?"

The taunt came from the front of the van. Kharim rolled his eyes.

"Easy for you to say. You could have helped out, you know. Why didn't you?”

He griped, readjusting himself in his bunk.

"You know as well as I do, little brother, that DeMarcus was way too spooked to deal with both of us. Poor guy. He needed someone with a more...delicate touch."

"A more delicate touch. Tsk. Don't give me that, Leona. You just wanted to clear the nest nearby."

"And you hate clearing out nests. So really, I did you a favor."

Kharim only grunted in response. Something landed on the roof of the van, its claws skittering against the metal. Leona slammed on the breaks sending the creature sailing several feet ahead of them.

"I don't see why you're complaining. I even left some for you so you wouldn't feel left out."

Kharim rolled his eyes once more before sitting up and putting his boots on. A patch of pale skin on the back of his hand caught his attention. It was small, no bigger than a drop of paint. But he knew, like the others, it would consume him. Growls, and chittering, snapping jaws surrounded the van. Reaching under the space between his bunk and the floor, Kharim retrieved his weapon and kicked open the back doors.

"More like you missed some."

Leona's mischievous laughter filled the night air, and then shots rang out.

~

Kharim leaned over the driver's seat to get a better look at the house through the windshield, frowning at the realty post painted an obnoxious shade of yellow with distaste. The house itself was virtually indistinguishable from most of the others that lined the block, aside from the brass mail slot that displayed itself proudly against that exact shade of kitschy yellow paint that had been slapped on the front door.

"You're going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep that up."

Kharim's expression morphed from displeasure to mild annoyance at Leona's prodding.

"What, worried you won't get as much from my dowry?"

A sly smile spread across her face.

"As a matter of fact, I am worried about just that. Girl's gotta eat, ya know."

Kharim shot her a look that he hoped read 'Starve.' And headed for the door. Leona pouted a little, hoping their verbal sparring match would continue for a little longer. She mumbled such sentiments under her breath as she exited the van after him. Before either of them could open the door, it swung open. A middle age white woman revealed herself to be on the other side of it, a fake smile already plastered across her face.

It faltered at the edges as she took in the pair with skin like the night sky.

"O-oh, you're my 3 o'clock?"

She cemented her disbelief further by craning her neck to look around and behind them. The siblings shared a glance but nothing more.

"And you're early. Imagine that."

Leona called up a fake smile of her own, though it looked more like a grimace to Kharim, and forced out a short bark of laughter. She stood taller and took a step forward.

"May we see the house?"

The realtor's eyes widened, and she took half a step back before she caught herself.

"U-Uh-of course."

As the awkward trio walked into the living room, the sales woman began her pitch.

"So it's a 3 bed 2 bath, there's an updated kitchen and back deck. New hardwood floors throughout. The master bathroom was updated as well. What did you say your budget was again? We offer several different properties for every price range, and we can get you settled into something that might be more in your price range."

Kharim stopped in his tracks. As he lagged behind the group, Leona's jaw tightened, her face caught between a smile and a sneer.

"Money isn't an issue."

Was her curt retort. She looked over her shoulder to Kharim and jerked her head in the realtor's direction. He nodded and took a few big steps, covering the small distance between them. He clapped a heavy hand onto her shoulder.

"What happened here? Where's the original owner?"

The realtor's eyes glazed over.

"The owner went missing. The floors were covered in so much blood that they had to be replaced."

The siblings shared another look. Soon enough, the two were back in the van. Leona watched as the house disappeared from view. The phone sat on the dashboard pinged, and she pressed the gas harder.

FIN

[wonderhevrts]

SO YESTERDAY I ADDED A NEW MUSE 

King of Hell, called Sylas. at first he was gonna be an AU for Steven, but.. thanks to @ofmythsandfables​ he became a whole new muse, LMFAO. i love my ruthless man already, so check out his bio HERE and then come give him something interesting to do! 

and tag drop!

[virtuosin]

Headcanon: Wounding Sona and the etwahl

When many look at Sona, they see a pretty face and a reputation that seems too impressive for such a petite girl. Some think she’s only on the Demacian Council because of her name alone, or because she’s accredited as a world renowned virtuoso. It’s the appearance she prefers people to see her as; unassuming, innocent, fragile. Yet, she hates this visage, because it couldn’t be further from the truth. She is an oppressive force to be reckoned with, and if you threaten her or someone she would protect, you would be faced with a sorceress unafraid of the consequences involved in maiming you--because you wouldn’t live to tell the tale. Of course, she isn’t the strongest person in Runeterra, not even close. Not by physical nor magical scales. She is clever, but she isn’t capable of physical combat really, and her abilities do have some restrictions/drawbacks. So, how would one hurt Sona? The easy answer is petricite. Any form of petricite would be effective on the maven, be it a new pair of shackles (I think Sylas owns the only pair though?) or liquid petricite that’s been refined into a swallow. The latter could be used as a toxin that could be discretely fed to Sona, or as a possible coating for ammunition which would shock her system and damper some of her magic upon contact. They describe petricite elixir as being incredibly painful to consume for mages, as the fluid comes into direct contact with the body and would be absorbed. These effects last about a day, but it would be enough to put Sona in a weakened state and leave her feeble enough for capture. While I imagine the elixir’s efficacy is stronger/longer lasting than a laced arrow or bullet, either would still serve their purpose in wounding and disabling Sona’s magic to a certain degree. However, there is also the etwahl. In a similar vein, the etwahl would be susceptible to injury and destruction via petricite. Though, it should be noted that the etwahl is an ancient magical artifact of unknown origins, possessed by a benevolent spirit. At least, benevolent to Sona. It could have weaknesses and resistances that not even if nor Sona are aware of, but as a rule of thumb I would say petricite would still do a number on it--I mean, if it can contain and sicken powerful demons like Eve and Tahm, I’m gonna assume it’ll mess up the etwahl equally as much. Petricite is a byproduct of the Rune Wars, so it would stand that such esoteric materials would be effective against it. For the etwahl specifically, it could be destroyed by lunar magic via a process similar to that which disarmed the Darkin threat--by phasing the spirit out of the etwahl and leaving it vulnerable and exposed to injury in that fashion. The etwahl and Sona share a deep bond, not just emotional but a spiritual and symbiotic link. They know where each other are at all times, can communicate through a singular mind/link that allows them to share thoughts and feelings, and the etwahl is able to return to Sona regardless of distance (even if it was taken away forcibly). That said, if the etwahl was destroyed or severely harmed in any way, it would physically/psychologically/emotionally traumatize Sona as well. This could be manipulated by great extremes if one were to recognize the bond, and the fact that the etwahl acts as Sona’s guardian and would give its life for hers.

[percified]

Percy 🤝 Keyleth

Taunting Delilah with Sylas' Visage

[f-lou-dias]

Sylas et l’auteur du monde imparfait

Encore quelques instants. Quelques tous petits instants. Bientôt le soleil sera totalement au-dessus des toits. Je dois patienter. Toujours patienter. Je déteste ça. Mais si je le réveil trop tôt, il va me jeter son oreiller au visage, bougonner et je ne j’aurai toujours pas mon petit déjeuner. J’ai faim pourtant. J’attends depuis si longtemps. Depuis que le soleil n’était qu’un rayon tentant de percer la nuit.

Ah enfin il se bouge. Comme d’habitude il grogne, m’adresse à peine la parole. Bon après tout ce n’est pas comme si je m’attendais à autre chose. Je tente d’attirer son attention jusqu’à ce qu’en fin il me serve mon bol de lait, légerment tiède comme je l’aime, je ne vais pas en laisser une goutte. Il se pose face à moi, son café brulant et fumant presque autant que son horrible cigarette.

Je déteste cette odeur, j’ai besoin d’air frais et la suite de mon petit déjeuner arrive enfin, l’assiette à peine poser, sous l’insistance de mon regard, je l’entends me dire « ouai oaui je sais Syl, tu n’aimes pas cette odeur. C’est bon j’aère un peu ». Joignant le geste à la parole, il se dirige vers la fenêtre, située au-dessus de notre petite table, pour l’ouvrir en grand.

Une brise fraiche s’empresse aussitôt d’entrer pour se mêler à la chaleur du soleil, le bruit de la douche en fond sonore me berce doucement. Ça fait tellement longtemps que je suis réveillée, mes yeux se ferment tout seuls et je me sens couler vers un profond sommeil...

***

Un bruit de monstre en colère me sort brutalement de mon inertie. Ce bruit je ne le connais que trop bien, c’est celui de la machine à café, son deuxième de la journée et certainement pas son dernier. Ce bruit signifie qu’il va aller s’asseoir face à sa machine à écrire : papier, ruban correcteur, crayons, stylo, tout est déjà en place sur la petite table en vieux formica. Il est temps d’aller le rejoindre et de le soutenir pendant sa grande réflexion.

« Syl non pas là-dessus! Syl non pas ça ! Syl reste tranquille ». C’est bon je sais... de tout façon j’ai jamais le droit de jouer avec ses trucs, alors je reste là, à côté de lui, au plus près et j’attends. J’attends d’avoir son attention, un regard, un geste, tout ce qu’il voudra bien me donner.

Ces longs moments à le regarder taper frénétiquement du bout des doigts sur sa machine, ce sont nos moments, où je n’ai pour seul distraction que les reflets du soleil sur la table. « Aïe ! putain de merde ! machine à la con ! fait chier bordel ! » je le dévisage stupéfait, le doigt dans la bouche à bougonner, il s’est encore fait mordre par la machine.

Il se lève précipitamment de sa chaise, la faisant grincer sur le lino usé, à la couleur incertaine de gris bleu, tout en tentant de se calmer. Je le regarde mécontent, il m’a fait perdre mon reflet préféré et je décide de me venger sur le ruban correcteur qui me nargue. Bien sûr cela me vaut une énième réprimande de sa part, vexé je pars à la recherche de quelque chose à grignoter.

Je n’ai rien trouvé d’intéressant, il s’est mettre hors de ma portée tout ce qui pourrait me tenter, et après un passage dans la salle de bain pour un pipi éclair, je repars de me poser sur le lit, bien décider à finir ma sieste sur fond de cliquetis des touches que j’entends par moment de façon irrégulière et de bruit de papier froissé.

***

Je me réveille doucement et l’observe de loin, un nuage de fumé l’englobe, le cendrier débordant de mégots, le regard perdu dans le vague, il réfléchit. Plusieurs feuilles sont froissées autour de lui sur la table mais aussi au sol, la matinée a été rude, comme souvent et je viens me blottir contre lui, pour me rappeler à son bon souvenir.

« Ouai Syl je sais, je sais, calme-toi. On va manger. Ce midi c’est sandwich jambon beurre » me dit-il avec un clin d’œil malicieux et son ignoble cigarette coincé dans sa bouche, il sait que je raffole du jambon et je le presse pour un morceau, ou deux, ou trois pendant qu’il prépare le déjeuner.

On mange sur un petit bout de la table, la machine à écrire toujours face à lui, son regard dans le vague, il réfléchit, encore et toujours, perdu dans les méandres de son esprit à la recherche d’une idée ou d’une tournure de phrase, qu’il test sur moi en les prononçant à haute voix, tout en gribouillant sur une feuille.

Le jambon fini, je commence à jouer avec une des feuilles froissées « tu veux jouer Syl ? ok ok ». Son sourire est revenu et tout en jouant à la balle avec moi il arrive enfin à se détendre un peu, l’espace de quelques instants, riant de mes maladresses. J’aimerai bien le voir lui essayer d’attraper une boule de papier sans pouce opposable.

L’après-midi se poursuit sur le même ton, ponctué, pour lui de jurons lorsqu’il se pince ou quand une idée lui échappe et de sieste au soleil pour moi. Puis il se lève en s’étirant et j’en fait de même, il allume une énième cigarette, se refait couler un café, range, bien à l’abris dans un placard, sa machine et tout son fatras. « C’est fini pour aujourd’hui, je n’arriverai plus à rien » m’annonce-t-il l’air maussade.

***

Son téléphone en main, la musique se met à retentir de partout, à la recherche d’une compagnie plus intéressante que moi pour la soirée, balayant de son doigt l’écran, gauche ou droite, ponctué de sourires et de messages lancés, attendant la réponse d’un amant potentiel qu’il ramènera, ou pas, chez nous.

Je le vois attraper un flacon de pilules bleu qu’il secoue pour en évaluer le contenu avant d’en prendre deux sous mon regard inquisiteur. « T’inquiète Syl, le truvada c’est au cas où, et regarde je prends aussi des capotes » mouai, moi je ne suis pas inquiet. Ce n’est pas moi qui vais angoisser pendant des jours, des semaines, parce que j’ai pas su me contrôler.

Le ballet des préparatifs commence, douche, aller-retours incessant entre l’armoire et la salle de bain, vêtements choisis, cheveux coiffés, parfum. Toujours la même routine avant de sortir, s’interrompant par moment pour écrire frénétiquement sur son téléphone. Mon dîner à peine préparer et j’entends déjà la porte qui claque sur un « à tout à l’heure Syl ».

Je n’aime pas manger sans lui. Je regarde l’assiette sur la table, la boude un peu, goûte, regarde l’appartement vide, sans bruit. Je m’approche de la fenêtre et admire les nuances d’orange, d’or et de rouge pendant que le soleil disparaît derrière les toits, me laissant face à un immense vide et m’endors, seul.

Je me réveille au bruit de la serrure et m’étire de tout mon long, prêt à l’accueillir « Ouiiii Syl je suis rentré, calme toi... Laisse-moi retirer mes chaussures au moins... Oh j’en connais un qui a besoin d’un gros câlin ». Il me manque tellement quand il n’est pas là, j’aimerai que son câlin ne s’arrête jamais, mais mon estomac crie famine et je me jette sur mon assiette, tout en le guettant de loin, mangeant au rythme de sa voix tandis qu’il fredonne de la cuisine.

Le temps que je termine mon assiette, il est déjà sous la couette et je le regarde, il est si beau et il revient toujours, je devrais le savoir depuis le temps. « Allez Syl vient te coucher mon chat » dit-il en tapotant à côté de lui. Il ne m’en faut pas plus pour me précipiter en courant et, d’un bon majestueux, sauter sur le lit pour me blottir contre lui en ronronnant...

[maimounamahamatj2-blog]

L’équipe des Lions indopmtable et du Syla au stade de Molenbeek à Bruxelles, le 28/03/2017 (Foot237) Texte Le Syli bat le champion d’Afrique avec 2-1 Le Cameroun s’est incliné devant la Guinée avec 2-1, ce mardi 28 Mars en match amical disputé à Molenbeek dans la banlieue du Bruxelles. La Guinée retrouve la victoire grâce à un but de Kamano qui donne l'avantage définitif au Syli en inscrivant le deuxième but juste avant la mi-temps. C'est Demba Camara qui ouvre le score pour la Guinée à la 21ème minute. La Guinée pense à fumer le Cameroun. Ressortant vite les ballons, les joueurs de la Guinée ont longtemps fatigué la défense des Lions du Cameroun avant de trouver le chemin du but grâce à Aboubakar Demba Camara. Cet attaquant frappe fort en direction du but pour l’ouverture du score 0-, juste à la 21ème minute. Quelques minutes après le but du Syli, le match change de visage. Les Lions indomptables remettent les pieds sur le ballon et procède avec des tirs pour alerter Abdoulaye Sylla. A la demi-heure du jeu, le gardien d Hafia FC repousse une balle et Toko Karl suit l’action et pousse le ballon au fond du but pour l’égalisation, à la 31ème minute. Ce but réveil le Syli. L’auteur de l’ouverture du score change de tactique et trouve François Kamano qui reprend le ballon dans sa course pour inscrire le second but de la Guinée 1-2, à la 45ème minute. Au retour de la pause, le match s’est équilibré. Chacune des équipes se créent des occasions mais de part et d’autres les attaquants manquent de précision dans le dernier geste. Le score du match reste inchangé et la Guinée s’est imposée contre le Cameroun avec 1-2. Maïmouna Mahamat Ousmane (JIII)