#amuseadozen : Braxton 01

[whosxafraid]

The Princess Is In Another Castle

closed starter for : @amuseadozen​

It’s not the first time he’s been caught, though hopefully it won’t be the last. He’s immortal not infallible. However unfortunately for him that doesn’t make any of it hurt any less. The iron rings clamped around wrists and throat that keep him bolted to the wall behind him. Keep him from standing, from trying too. As if the still healing break in his left leg isn’t enough to deter any attempts.

Breathing comes shallow but even. Mix matched eyes stuck on the expanse of the metal flooring. Trying his very best to ignore the perpetual burn of the cursed metal against clammy skin. Trying not to focus on the room spinning in a slow warble around him, because it’s gotten into his system. Slowly burning its way through his veins. Eating up his strength, and leaving one hell of a case of vertigo in its wake.

What day is it? What day was it last he could recall...Tuesday? No. No--a ficker flash of memory. He’d checked his phone. His phone...where...eyes squeeze shut. A thick swallow. Trying to graps hold of the original thought. Wednesday. The last day he remembers it being is Wednesday. Not that helps him at all. With any of the mess he’s current woken up in. And he spits a little tainted red out onto the floor.

Whoever his captors are, they’d come after him prepared. Caught him off guard and from so far left field he’d never seen or smelled them coming. And that alone is enough to aggravate him. Fuel him to keep trying to piece together the in and out effects of whatever they’d shot him up with caused. The events that had led up to the sharp pain in his neck before the world went sideways, and something that felt akin to a free fall before everything went black as pitch.

But no matter how many times he runs through it. He can’t find what he missed. And how infuriating that is. He’s too old and too experienced for a fuck up like this. Where had he made his mistake? What do they want? Who are they? Because he really fucking hopes it’s not witches. The last coven he’d crossed had been after several of his organs; and he’d only escaped them because they’d thought him weaker with iron sickness than he’d been.

Another shallow breath, as ears prick at the sudden sound of distant foot steps. Of rubber soles, connecting and lifting away. Carrying someone closer. It’s the only advantage he still has–sense of smell and eye sight shot to shit by the poison swimming in his blood–and he clings to it like a life line. A blurred and haloed gaze shifting upwards to the sound, ready as he’ll ever be for whatever or whoever is coming.

           “D’Morrigan’s tits dunna be witches....”