#fevur writing

[memurfevur-archive]

Give Gifts

Character(s): The Regifter (Charli), Somnys, npc character

About: Charli finds himself in a strange position: a familiar place with unfamiliar events. Vague memories of laughter, but heavier memories of loss. When a god of dreams contacts him, he learns he's meant to serve a greater purpose with a newfound power.

CW: implied deaths

Word Count: 1,573

==========================================

I couldn’t give you what you lost.

The ceiling was dark with hints of dust at the edges, threatening future cobweb tenants. A small vent was screwed into the wall just under it and filled the room with a dull, rattling hum. A dim glow from a blue-screen computer filled the small room, flickering slightly enough to be distracting. It revealed the smiles of animal characters in matte hanging on the walls. Each face was either crowned or throned by words of encouragement, or commands to have fun, to party, to laugh, to eat. Charli groaned and looked abruptly away from the haunting characters, so familiar to him that they burned the back of his mind.

But I hope that this is enough.

Charli grunted as he pushed himself to a sitting position. He clutched his head as the room begun to spin, keeping his head down to stave off the dizziness. Even in a dim place such as this, everything felt too bright and overwhelming. What had happened?

Children. He remembered children. A small group of them, and someone else. They were scared. They didn’t know. He had to preserve them, them and their dreams.

Out of the corner of his vision he caught sight of a crumpled black lump on the ground. A frightened scream tore out of him. Blood of an unidentifiable colour stained its clothes and splat on the floor around it. The head was propped up by a flat halo of horns, eyes open and staring right past him. But there was no mistaking it: that paling corpse had his face. Charli scooted himself back as far as he could go to get distance between him and the uncanny mirror.

“Who are you?!” The question tore from his throat in a near agonized scream. “What’s going on?”

A pink mist began to fill the room, full of starlight and swirls. Charli could scarcely make out a shape in the mist of something inhuman. Draconic, perhaps. The eyes of the figure glowed in a harsh white light. Charli reached around him blindly for something to defend himself, finally managing to stand and settling with a swivelling office chair as his mode of attack. The figure in the mist tilted its head as if studying Charli, seeming unfazed by the laughable threat.

Don’t you remember? You gave your life to protect them. You had so much love for their dreams, and wishes that they would put into their toys, and the characters that dance on the stage.

Charli blinked. “I’m dead?” His eyes landed on the corpse once again.

Yes, but not anymore. You return with a body made of dreams and hope. And now you can give it, and protect it, like you sought to have done. There are those who are in love with dreams, but I’ve never met a love like yours.

“You’re making no sense,” Charli whimpered.

The bear. Grab it.

Charli looked to his left where a small teddy-bear with bulging plush eyes and rosy cheeks sat on a neglected shelf. He shakily took the toy in his hands.

Do you recognize it?

He was surprised to find that he did. This bear was custom made from this building’s workshop. He could feel the small stone heart inside weighing down the bear in his hands. It was customary of anyone who made a plush here to recite their hopes and dreams onto this stone before putting it in the stuffing and sealing the plush up. The child who held this bear had wished to live beyond what the doctors predicted for him. He brought the toy to his chest as his eyes began to well with tears.

They did not make it. I regret to inform you that your sacrifice was in vain. But when doors close, there are others that can be opened. You feel them, don’t you?

Small floating lights could barely be made through the mist. Charli nodded his head, his face now blotchy and puffy. These were the children he could not save. He reached out to one of the floating lights as if coaxing a scared animal. One of the lights shuddered, then floated gracefully to his fingertips. He bit back a sob in his throat.

In dreams, all souls can be touched and connected, but the only thing they are ever tethered to is their bodies. That is why we wake in the same body every day, with fuzzy memories of our adventures from a sleeping world.  But when we die, there is nothing to be tethered to. Many become lost, unable to leave the realm of dreams. But, there is a way to bring them back. They only need a tether in the waking, living world.

“It’s so small,” Charli cried. “This isn’t fair. Can I not bring it back to its body?”

Yes, if you want the child to be Undead, and hunted down by those who seek money or a break from their own curses. They would not think twice about an embodiment of a child’s love, however.

Though there were no pupils to mark the direction of the entity’s stare, Charli could feel them urging him to look at the teddy bear. Its soft fur had become dampened in some parts from the tears that dripped off his chin. The small light waved and flickered, as if it recognized the toy.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the light. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

But you can fix it now.

Horrified, he was reluctant to listen, but as the urging became stronger he willed the soul to enter the plush. His breath was shaky, but he was overcome with strange relief. The intensity of love and hope, the wishful thinking of a tomorrow that would never come. The regifting of life, through some bizarre unnatural cycle, manifesting from two worlds that Charli was both a part of and so far removed from.

The light in his hand faded and the limbs of the beloved bear began to twitch. Before long the bear sat up in his arms, looked up at him with a tilt of its head. Quiet. Mute. But there was a strange uncanny air to this plush. The child had a new home. Charli could feel the very same love the child had first put into this bear back when it had been made, as if it served as the blood – stuffing, rather– of the body. He wanted to weep. How could life be born anew on wishes alone?

“How is this even possible?”

You are made from me, an extension of my light. I revived your soul, and though you have not a body you have a gift. To rehouse dreams. To resurrect life. To give them new perspectives. You would treat them well, these fragile hopes; I have seen a powerful love inside of you that promises it.

“I’m dead, and I can make others… not dead?” Charli shook his head. He could not look at the bear now. He could not look at his corpse. He could not look at the figure in the mist. He closed his eyes, refusing to look at anything or anyone. “I didn’t ask for this.”

A gift is often never asked for.

“What, do you want me to just travel the world and put every ghost I see into a stupid plush toy?” He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. The bear was not stupid. The bear was a sign of hope, and now housed the soul of the child that had loved it so dearly. He lowered his voice, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

In time you will begin to understand it. But for now, let no living thing look at you, lest they be burned by a light they cannot fathom. I will take your physical body, and I will put it into the sky to honor your deeds. Mortals will soon find a new constellation to admire. Good night.

The pink mist began to fade, and so too did the figure standing in it. When it was cleared, his own corpse was nowhere in sight, and instead what was left in its place was a strange white object. The teddy bear in his hands wiggled free and marched towards the mask, picking it up in its soft paws, and waddled back to Charli. It presented the mask to him, and he could see it more clearly. It was a strange, uncanny face; a wide smile that stretched to both rosy red cheeks, and upturned eyes that cried purple tears. Was he really not allowed to show his face?

With a distressed sigh he accepted the mask from the bear and secured it to his head. The weight felt awkward, though the mask fit perfectly. Was this to be his new identity? A masked conduit of wakefulness and sleep? Of life and death? He held the bear to him, who did not seem to mind the embrace.

Gifts are supposed to make people happy. Maybe life was a gift that could be given again and again and again. Maybe he could turn suffering into joy. Maybe pain would be trivial, someday. Silver eyes met plush ones, and there was a strange unspoken understanding between the two new friends.

They together must preserve the dreams of those who are lost.

[mothkingeloth-archive]

Rewind

Pokemon Legends Arceus fan drabble featuring my OC Xienna and some NPCs.

The sound of crying haunted me all night. It echoed no matter what room I was in, and it never grew louder or quieter. I couldn't figure out if it was someone in distress or if it was all in my head; the staff in this building never gave any indication that they heard what I did. The cry didn't sound human, either, not quite. There was something off about it, but whether or not it came from a Pokemon was beyond my ability to find.

And then, came the dreams.

Creatures I've never seen, never could have imagined, stood before me with their bodies glowing a pure white. I felt small, as if their glares were warning me of something, but they never spoke a word. In the background was the crying that never stopped. Steel doors flashed and flickered in front of me then, opening up to reveal a shadow with glowing red eyes that lunged forward mouth wide open.

Needless to say, I got jack shit for sleep.

The mess hall was quiet save for the occasional clinking of silverware and a barely audible hum of technical conversation. I sat alone at one of the long shiny metal tables, picking at my food tiredly but making sure to scarf down what I could. If everything went well, if my clients aren't pulling my fucking leg, then I wouldn't know when my next meal would be. Well, thousands of years into the past, for one, but I doubt they would conveniently have vending machines back then.

“You're Miss Rawler, aren't you?” A scrawny man with wire framed glasses slipping down his face smiled at me, his eyed wide with excitement. I rose my brows and moved my head slightly, conveying the most sarcastic gesture I could. I was the only one here not wearing a lab coat, for crying out loud. This seemed to fluster him, he was quick to speak. “Er, I was only curious, really, if you shared a connection to a Mr. Lucas Rawler by any chance?”

Oh. This again. “He's my grandfather.” It was annoying when people only sought me out for my grandpa, the legendary man who had tamed Dialga and kept it from the hands of an organization that had been known as Team Galactic. The trainer who had held the lord of time in his hands. A hero. A somebody. There were some who doubted the credibility of his story, writing it off as a long tale. I wish I could do the same.

“I knew it!” He smiled and jumped a bit, and invited himself to the seat in front of me. “What's he like? Oh, what's Dialga like?”

I fixed him a cold glare and his smile dropped quickly. I pushed myself up from the table to throw away my trash and place my dishes on the conveyor built at the back of the room. I watched as it slowly dragged the remains behind a wall, never to be seen again. Not by my eyes.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. I never knew him, obviously, but to tame Dialga is a major feat that no one else would have the pleasure of knowing! And you're related to him! So... do you know anything?”

“Why the hell would I?” I snapped and briskly set by gate to lose him. Of course, he kept up with me.

“Maybe he showed you...?”

“You really think he kept a god in his pockets for that long, huh?”

Surprise and despair laced his tone, “He released it?”

I turned my heal and jabbed a finger into his chest. As soon as he saw the snarl in my face he shied away like a Torkoal. “Listen here. I'm not here to get pestered by some pushy asshole about what my grandpa did or didn't do. If you want to know so bad, ask him.”

“Oh. H-how do I get in contact with him?”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep myself from throwing the guy to the ground. “He's dead, you idiot.”

There was a heavy silence that followed soon after. It seemed that he didn't have any more questions to ask, and the guilt that shone in his eyes made me feel a little better about the bitter feeling in my chest. With a huff, I walked away to start doing something useful with my day.

++++

Dr. Avern's lab was hidden behind a slick, shiny silver door plastered with nerdy inspirational posters that would be more fitting in a kindergarten classroom that it would be in a high tech place like this. Luckily it made his lab much easier to find in this long endless hallway of reflective stainless steel and its small rectangular doors. My knocks were dull and hollow on the metal, making me doubt that anyone on the other side could hear it even if I tried harder. Seconds ticked by, then a minute. I knocked again, and when I was met with no answer I cursed under my breath and leaned by back against the door. There wasn't anything for me to do here, not without permission from higher ups that I didn't know the names nor faces of, and all I wanted was to get this mission started.

For being a corporation dedicated in Pokemon conservation efforts, this place was dull and too clean. Stepping into this building was like stepping into the future; everything had its silver metallic glow and small flashing lights of delicately sturdy machines. Everyone was dressed in lab coats, their name tags colored with their respective class ranks. I saw little life here outside of scientists, which caught me strange. I had ran into someone with a Glameow curled around their shoulders, but other than that the lacking presence of Pokemon seemed nearly suffocating. Everything here looked the same, and the first few days I spent here I kept getting lost. Though I'm navigating these halls better now, it was still easy to miss the small landmarks I had to keep an eye out for. This place was a geometric hell.

Then, the crying started again. It filled me with a strange feeling; not annoyance and anger, like it had been since I arrived here, but with an odd desperation. The crying began to feel like a calling, and without telling my feet to I started walking further down the hall. I didn't know where I was going, I was only following what felt right. Perhaps I was only aimlessly wandering, but fear had crept into my heart. I can't allow myself to be caught. Any scientist to cross my path I must hide from... or hurt, if push comes to shove. But why? Did it matter? I must come. I must walk.

A few turns, long hallways, and sneaking through locked doors later, the crying finally seemed to have gained in volume. It hurt my ears, and I had to take a moment to collect myself again. What the hell is making that noise? I continued walking soon after until my feet stopped me in front of a large hexagonal container. It was unlike any machine I've seen before. Large tubing connected the tops of the machine to gates at either side which held glowing blue gears that turned at irregular intervals. A pulsing glow came from the small rectangular window on the front of the machine's door, and below it were circular depictions of either clocks or valve faces, I couldn't tell. Gingerly, I stepped forward and pressed myself against the door so I could peer into the window.

The light was blinding and instantly stung my eyes. It went in a circular rotation like a light house, and in between flashes I saw an odd structure in the middle of the chamber. Stone gray and almost organic in appearance, it bubbled upwards and clung fiercely to a small creature I could only guess was a Pokemon. A large bulbous head with two small leaf-like antennae was bowed, and its body was held in place with its long arms held back, and from its waist down overcome by the strange gray cage it was in. Its eyes, a bright aqua lined with a thick black mask, stared up at me. Accusing. Pleading. With a sharp gasp I took a step back--

“Xienna, what are you doing in here?”

I whirled around, my hand startlingly clutching my Pokeballs on my hips. I breathed a sigh of relief at a familiar face. “I uh,” I glanced back behind me, then looked straight at him. “I was trying to look for you, Dr. Avern.” After breaking several clearances, sure.

He hummed, and I could see that he didn't believe me. I was in a confidential area, after all, but he seemed to quickly move on. “So, what do you think?” He gestured to the oddity of a machine before us.

“I... I don't know what it is.”

“It's going to be what powers your mission, Xienna.”

“An actual time machine?”

“Well, no, not quite, but just about close to.” The blue lights reflected off of Dr. Avern's bald head, and he licked his lips in thought as he gazed at the strange gears. “But it is how you will be getting where you're going.”

I nodded slowly, “Yeah. Uh. Is that a Pokemon inside?”

“A mutual partnership, I assure you,” Dr. Avern tossed a glance at me from the corners of his eyes, a deep frown setting on his lips. “It's an endangered specimen, having seen its fair share of hunters in the past, but it is vital to the operation. We give it shelter here, and it helps us do what we need.”

There was another loud cry, and somewhere deep inside me came the dreadful feeling of doubt. I winced.

“Is everything alright, Xienna?”

“Uh. Yeah, everything's fine.”

“Good. Now, what is it that you need? You're really not supposed to be in here.”

“The mission,” I began, “I want to start it.”

“Now? Are you sure you're fully prepared?”

“The sooner, the better.”

“Hm, eager. But I must ask: are you eager for the grand purpose of this mission, or are you actually eager for the money?”

“Does it matter? You all hired me anyway.”

“Knowing perfectly well what you do for a living, yes, I know.” There was a look of disappointment on his face, and I had to bite back a snide remark about choosing a better hunter next time. “Come, then, I'll take you to the launch site.”

+++++++

The launch site wasn't too far from the room we had just been in. Tubes poured from the walls and tangled on the floor leading up to an elevated platform. They had given me a backpack full of supplies plus my usual tools, and my Pokemon were snug against my belt.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dr. Avern tilted his head as he guided me up the platform. “There's a good chance something could go wrong, and that chance could lead to your death.” I shrugged. It wasn't like I had much of a life to get back to otherwise. With a sigh, Dr. Avern turned and nodded at-- oh, the pushy scientist from breakfast. He started clicking some things on a computer after giving me a nervous smile. Jerk.

Dr. Avern turned back to me and held me by the shoulders, “One final briefing before we send you off. Once you're there, we won't be able to verbally contact you, but we will be able to create check points at reliable intervals and locations. In your pack is a map describing such. We can send things back and forth to each other to communicate. Simply send us a message when you have obtained your targets. Remember, you can die out there, so make sure you make those rendezvous times to communicate.

Secondly, in addition to obtaining the specimens, you must observe its location and behavior. Be as thorough in your surveys as you can. It's crucial to understand its habits so that we can conserve it proper. Third--”

“I remember what I'm supposed to do,” I interrupted. “We can get on with it.”

“Third, if you run into any trouble, make peace first. But if that fails,” a shadow pulled over Dr. Avern's eyes. “Kill them. It's vital that we have these specimens at any cost.”

With that, he let go of my shoulders and paced away from the platform. There was a high pitched humming noise, the sound of a machine powering on.

“We shall eagerly await your response through time and space. Good luck, Miss Rawler.”

In a flash of cyan blue light, I think I got hit by a brick wall. A heavy pressure was crushing me, and yet it felt as if I was flying through the sky and pulled in all directions. Tumbling. Flipping. I soon felt motion sick, instantly regretting eating anything at all that morning. A burning sensation coursed through me. A million summers and the hottest of fires couldn't quite match this. I clenched my jaw and ground my teeth to try to keep from screaming out.

And then I was met with a face full of dirt. Or... sand, rather. I hastily spit what I could out, grumbling at all the aches in my body. Did I... did I just fall from the fucking sky? I looked up in time to see a portion of the sky appearing like fractured glass.  Blue lightning flicked from it, but it was quick to seal itself up.

Grunting and making sure none of my bones were broken, I sat up and quickly glanced around. In front of me was a large stretch of sea, and a volcano could be seen on the horizon in the distance. If I could remember my geography correctly, I think I might be around where Sunyshore City would be today, or... in the future will be established? Just thinking about the displacement made my head hurt. Damn, talk about serious jet lag. But the fact that I'm alive and still with my pack and all my Pokemon means that my mission has officially begun.

I'm in Hisui.

[memurfevur-archive]

...It is cold. I hunger.

I am in water, on my back, and it is dark except for the soft glows of boxes. People in white are looking at me.

It unnerves me. I do not know where I am, nor of my name, but I am thinking of a face with large teeth and green eyes. My mouth opens, and I scream an ugly sound. It pleases the strange men around me.

But that face is not me. That is not who I am.

I place my webbed hands on the surface in front of me. It does not give when I push. The men make their awkward choppy sounds and scratch their sticks on a flat plank in their hands. I see them frowning, and I begin to think that I had awoken as a failure. Because I am not the face in my mind, I am not him. His mouth is not on his stomach. He does not glow. He's much more impressive in size than I am. I am a mistake.

But mistake or not, I am still hungry...

I push again on the invisible wall and a crack forms. I can smell the air. The water leaks. I push again and I am free, and the strange men scattered shouting things I do not recognize. I look to the closest one to me.

He tasted of fear.

[memurfevur-archive]

Hope In Dark Places

Character(s): Rutaci Faurux, mentions of Marran Faurux (@contrastparadoxx), mentions of Lepori Bugsie (contrastparadoxx), mentions of Omnius Dioxal

About: Rutaci finds an ouppy on his way home from work.

Word Count: 1,099

The night was calmer than it could have been. When Rutaci wasn’t choking up over his son showing him mercy and compassion, it was off to work tending to the animals and stocking shelves. As wary as Rutaci was to glance over his shoulder to find a familiar haunting on the store’s doorstep, that moment never came. Marran had kept his word, and Lepori would wink at Rutaci from time to time with a smile as if she was in on some secret he wouldn’t understand. There was safety in it, at least; he wouldn’t come into work fearing for his life.

It was leaving work that was the most dangerous. His nemesis could be out there, anywhere, ready to strike. Rutaci was ready to strike back, of course, though it’s much easier when there isn’t a metaphorical blindfold over his eyes. Tonight, Rutaci was closing shop again, and as Marran and Lepori had long since clocked out and left the store, Rutaci was quickly refamiliarized with his fears and paranoia. The sound of the lock clicking was too loud for his liking. What if he could hear it, too?

The sidewalks were barren at this time of day, which offered only a little comfort to the giant. Since Marran learned who Yarrow really was, Rutaci’s shifts started to take to discrete hours– hours where he could safely travel between work and home. It provided less of a chance for anyone to recognize him through his ill-kept disguise, hoping for the Superman effect to work its magic. It was also one of the rare times anymore where he was grateful for the dull glow of the rising sun. The sky was not yet harsh enough to burn, but the sun’s lingering threat provided enough privacy. It was nowhere near safe to be out, but the day was, in its own way, a shelter Rutaci was used to exploiting.

Rutaci’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud noise from an alleyway. Rutaci froze; it was likely a hiveless Troll rooting through last night’s garbage. His heart twisted in his chest. He had been there, once upon a time; now, he resided in his kismesis’ hive with slightly more to his name than what he had last. He remembered though how both days and nights were brutal out here, the will to live was cutthroat. Any kindness that was spared could change a life; or, inversely, end it. Rutaci thumbed his wallet that lied cradled in his pocket, hesitating as he pondered his unique role of privilege. Maybe it would make Marran proud of him if he went down being a selfless man over the monster Marran had thought of him to be. So, with this thought tumbling in his head, Rutaci slowly stepped into the alley, greeting its musty brick walls covered in gum and graffiti. He passed by an image of a rainbow otter floating in an ambiguous sky.

“Hello?” His voice rang with an echo that reached to the furthest shadows. There was no answer, and nothing that could vaguely look like a disheveled body looking for food. The only face he found was his own staring back at him, print smudged and yellowed from age; a version of himself from back in his prime as a seat of government. Slim with thinner, sharper features, and eyes full of faux confidence that masked the desperate plea for help. Rutaci rose a hand to the scars on his face, tracing the shape of the plates that had once been there before, as so revealed by the picture. Every ridge and raise and bump felt ugly to him now, and the handsome guy in the picture was worth a hefty sum, too; a literal price to pay to betray his once blissful ignorance. With a disdained huff, Rutaci tore his past from the wall and balled it up, throwing it towards the sorriest-looking dumpster on this side of Alternia. It bounced and rolled behind it.

Then, as Rutaci turned to leave, the wad of paper tumbled back into view, and a low shifting noise followed. Rats, Rutaci thought, which would have made him bee-line back to the streets– Alternian rats are no joke– if it weren’t for how different the muzzle looked that poked out from behind the wall. He watched as slowly a sleek red dog emerged and sniffed curiously at the ball. Its ribs were clear as day, its protruding hips sharp enough to cut diamonds. Its hollow face turned to Rutaci, and despite the miserable state of its flea-bitten fur and the paw it obviously favored, the dog’s tail began to wag.

Something about this made Rutaci tear up. Even through the pain,, the dog treated strangers with a smile. With hope.

“What’cha playin’ at?” Rutaci’s voice dropped in a similar manner to the way he would speak to his kid at home: playful and warm. The dog’s tail picked up speed with a tilt of its head. The troll lowered to his knees, prompting the dog to excitedly approach him with a limp that tugged at Rutaci’s heart. “Any owners? Chipped?” But a quick search and feel-over did not give him any answers.

Now, Rutaci was faced with a choice. He could leave the dog where he found it; this would avoid the risk of an angry Troll chasing after him for messing with their dog, and thus possibly alerting Omnius’ eyes. On the other hand, Rutaci knew the pain, and he couldn’t leave something innocent out here to rot. He did that once already.

“Cyclus will be so pissed if I bring you in and ya muddy up his carpets,” Rutaci sighed, but not without the faintest trace of laughter in his voice, “so dirty it all up, will ya? As much as you want. At least until I can find your owner. If a little rat like you even has one.”

Scooping up the crumpled wanted sign, he used it to play with the dog and lure it out of the alley. With what spare money he had he went into a local shop and bought a can of dog food, of which the dog ate too eagerly but paced itself better after a few pats to the head. Between the yips and dances it did at the prospect of food, the canine was already starting to grow on him. It was a strange but heartwarming sight, to see a large troubled man playing and skipping and laughing with a smaller companion the entire walk home, momentarily forgetting of the looming threat of past ghosts.

[memurfevur-archive]

Out of Heart

Children of Solstice ch. 3

PREV: Ch 2

Character(s): Hyanna Kekkel, Casitt Resshi (@mageofspacemultiverse), Keonin Caniss

About: After a battle has left Casitt worse for wear, Hyanna finds help from a stranger in the woods.

Word Count: 1,176

Two giant hyena puppies padded their way through a thick forest, but only one of them seated two Trolls of different statures. One was the Purpleblood Hyanna with sweat beading on her brows and exhaustion weighing heavy around her eyes. In either hand she held the reigns of both dogs, steering one while leading the other. Tied to her and the puppy was the Limeblood Casitt, who was worse for wear and barely conscious. Despite Hyanna’s warnings, run-ins with hostile Trolls and drones were finally getting the better of him; now, an infection ran deep through his leg and there were too many cuts and gashes on his body to count.

The four of them had been traveling to the coastal region this side of Alternia, but had found nothing of the sort yet-- lost and no thanks to maps with faded translations. Now, they were wandering the forest, recovering from their last fight with a couple of miners they had tried to rob. It surprisingly wasn’t an easy fight; Casitt had gotten the brunt of it and the battle was only won when Hyanna fell asleep mid-fight, activating her voodoos and brutally killing them. They had gotten their prize and more, but at a heavy cost.

On the bright side, the pups-- Barnum and Bailey-- picked up on the scent of other Trolls. It was a risk, but whatever bunch of Trolls were around might be able to help Casitt. Hyanna hoped so, anyway; they didn’t have the best track record for running into friendly locals. Not that they were entirely friendly, either.

Eventually the forest began to thin out a bit and reveal in the distance a rather large hive. Hyanna’s eyes widened at the sight; rarely having seen something so large and full of splendor. The closest she’s come to experience has been the arena-church she grew up in, where it became sparse for her to explore its intricate structures in great detail. She wondered about what kind of Troll may be living there, if there were many or only one. It had to be a Highblood, no other caste could afford such a thing.

This made chances of finding help slim. Highbloods were more often than not pretentious, and if they saw Casitt’s true color then they could both of their lives right then and there. But did they have a choice? Casitt could die either way; it was up to Hyanna to pick the lesser of two evils, and the lesser evil was to hope that someone was kind enough to spare him over letting him suffer in misery.

“There’s a hive up ahead,” Hyanna murmured to the unconscious Limeblood. “You’ll be okay, buddy.”

Suddenly Bailey’s ears perked and he paused, and quickly after his brother mirrored. Hyanna frowned, running her hand through Barnum’s mane, “What is it, boy? What do you hear?”

Bailey barked, and with a wagging tail dashed off into the wilderness, and Barnum, ever so excited to mirror Bailey’s lead, followed. Hyanna lurched forward when Barnum began to run, kicking her heals in and pulling on the harness, her heart falling to her stomach in shock and panic. “Hey boy! Hey easy! Listen, stupid!” She tried reaching back and holding onto Casitt, fearing that he would fall from the two hyenas’ racing. She saw something slip from his pocket, but from the stress of the dogs and the sick boy she paid it little mind.

The pups dashed into a heavily wooded part of the forest, where the trees were denser and grasses turned into jungles of ferns, wild flowers, and varied herbs beyond Hyanna’s understanding. Thankfully, the two pups began to slow and sniff around the ground. Hyanna still wrestled with Barnum’s harness, but Bailey was a further ways a head and seemed to soon be occupied with something. Something that could giggle and talk back to it.

Hyanna finally managed to get Barnum under control and calmed. She squinted in Bailey’s direction, then whistled for him to come back. Whistling was a bit of a difficult task for her, what with her teeth being as large and packed as they are, but with a few attempts Bailey understood and bounded towards his charges.

When Bailey had moved out of the way, Hyanna finally could see what it was the two puppies had been chasing after. A very skinny Troll was sitting on the ground with her wrists supporting her; no doubt Bailey had knocked her over. She had wild, feathery hair with a strange shine to it that nested two curved horns, and her eyes matched the coat she was wearing: a brilliant shining red. She looked up Hyanna and Casitt and the two young but giant hyenas with a kind and amused smile on her face. Hyanna wondered why Barnum and Bailey had been drawn to her, but still she dipped her head and offered a quick apology.

“I’m sorry, they’re still learning. Are you okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. It was a friendly surprise, is all.” The red Troll’s eyes lingered on Hyanna for a moment, then to the other troll bound to her. Her brows furrowed, and Hyanna took this as an opportunity.

“Yeah, um, can you help us? My friend is sick and hurt, he’s not doing too well.”

The other Troll pushed herself to her feet and paced towards them. Barnum’s tail began to wag quickly, but Hyanna pulled on Barnum’s harness trying to keep him from becoming too excited to sit still. The woman in red approached Casitt, placing her hand on his forehead to check his temperature and immediately pulling back with a cringe. She looked over him, noticed the bandaged injuries stained in bright green, and her eyes widened in recognition. She nodded firmly, “Yes, we can help. My moirail and matesprit lives in the hive up there. My moirail will give you shelter and my matesprit is a doctor, and I and my pack will do our best, too.”

Hyanna brightened at the news, “Oh! Oh thank you.” She settled herself and Casitt so that there was more room on the saddle. “Get on, we can ride there.”

The other Troll seemed hesitant to climb aboard the canine, but a quick glance at Casitt as a reminder spurred her on. She wrapped herself around Casitt, helping to keep him onto the beast more securely. Hyanna did a motion with the leash, and was able to successfully pull Barnum into the lead once again with Bailey trying to get another sniff at the stranger close behind them.

“Cute lusii. What are their names?”

“Barnum and Bailey,” Hyanna answered, tugging at Barnum to prompt him to slip into a run.

“Yours?” Asked the stranger, raising her voice over the heavy pattering of paw steps and excited puppy panting.

Hyanna hesitated, then called over her shoulder, “Hyanna. That right there is Casitt.” The stranger nodded and said nothing in return, which made Hyanna yell back, “So who are you?”

“Keonin. You’ll want to take a left up here.”

[memurfevur-archive]

Telltale: Epilogue

Character(s): Avonis Llabel, Overseer Ribrel Masino, Shuska Tomson ( @askthehiddencaste ), Teagan Kajibi ( @stuckstucktrolls ), mentions of Phesos Amrida the Enhancer ( @contrastparadoxx )

About: Ribrel offers Avonis a way to a new life...

Word Count: 1,961

Author’s Note: The last chapter of Telltale is still in the works and is not officially out yet. However, I want Avonis out, so I’m posting this early. The final chapter will come out at a later time, or be mentioned as flash backs in asks and future drabbles.

=====================================

Avonis sat on the edge of his bed, heavy eyes staring directly at the wall in front of him. It's been weeks since the incident, weeks since he lost both of his sons, weeks since he had lost Mehrri. And though he should be relieved that it's over, that the cavern has once again opened its doors and no one else would die, he couldn't help but feel bitter about it. The gods truly were cruel, he surmised, and had cultivated within him a sense of dread and stillness. It was hard for him to move most days now, and harder than before to allow himself to eat. Kairos and the inspector had already left; there was no one to spur him to action and feel the joys and spite he had when Kairos was present.

Living seemed just as pointless as it ever was.

There came a knock at his door, and it opened to reveal the Overseer of the caverns. Ribrel Masino was another victim of the incident, though luckily her condition had been only temporary. Ribrel looked upon her childhood friend for a moment or two too long before inviting herself inside and sitting beside him. They shared an awkwardly comfortable silence, listening to the bustle of cavern life outside the bedroom. When he still didn't acknowledge her presence, she cleared her throat and slid onto his lap a yellow envelope.

This broke his intimate concentration on the wall, and he looked down at the envelope with intrigue quivering his brow, ”What is this?“

”A promise,“ Ribrel answered, her usual distant and firm tone now soft and patient. ”Open it.“

Avonis obeyed and picked the envelope up with weak hands. Undoing the fastening he reached inside tentatively, and pulled out sheets of paper detailing some records. With an encouraged gesture from Ribrel he read the documents over.

He poured over them, gleaning every spec of information he could with increasingly disbelieving eyes. His brows furrowed in confusion as he realized these documents were about him, giving an overly detailed overview of things that never happened. Then, he pulled the final document on top, and his breath caught in his throat. It was stamped with the Imperial insignia, and his name written in Ribrel's hand. ”This is to acknowledge the death of Avonis Jakkob Llabel,“ he read. ”Ribrel, you made me a death certificate?“

”It took longer for it to be processed than expected,“ she admitted, ”I'm sorry you could not leave with Kairos, but I hope this makes up for the wait.“

”I'm legally dead?”

“That is correct. You are no longer tied to these caverns. You may leave anytime without repercussion from cavern laws.“

Those words knocked the air out of his chest. After all this time, freedom was there at last at his fingertips, though he hadn't expected for it to be in the form of ink and paper. ”I didn't think it would actually happen,“ he breathed in painfully.

“Haven't I always kept my word?” Her tone held a hint of accusation, and Avonis had to remind himself that she was right. She never once, in all the sweeps he'd known her, gone back on her promises. The fact he wasn't hanging on a stake was proof of that, though his heart twisted when he thought about the family he had lost to the secrets and promises she kept. He looked down at the floor, collecting his thoughts, his shoulders sagging.

“What if I am caught?”

“You'd be caught nameless and signless, of course.”

“I'm on record. They could identify me. I'll be dead for certain, then.”

“Avonis, not to be rude, but you've never made it easy for anybody here. I doubt you'll suddenly fall to your knees if an officer sees you.” Amusement danced in Ribrel's bright green eyes as she placed a friendly hand on Avonis' shoulder, “Give them the entire thirteen Hells like you gave Aphida.” There was laughter in her voice.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, “But what—“

”Avonis,“ Ribrel's tone began to turn to her usual tone: firm, and authoritative. ”Too many lives have been lost as of late. At the very least, allow yourself to live after all of that! It would be saving a life.”

Avonis clutched the envelope to his chest. Anxiety plucked at his heartstrings; employed Jades weren't supposed to leave the caverns. The very concept of nothing being out there for them, that their purpose lies within else death was the punishment, had been drilled into many heads. Including his. If freedom was what he wanted all this time, why must fear root him in place? He hadn't realized he had been crying until a drop landed on his hand.

“Easy now, don't ruin the paperwork.”

“Y-yes, Ribrel.“ He sniffed, wiped at his eyes, then allowed himself to smile even if he didn't feel like doing it. ”How would I know you're not just getting rid of me so you can finally make heart-eyes at Phesos?“

”Oh please, I have better things to do with my time. Like running an entire brooding cavern, to be exact.”

Avonis quirked a brow, then leaned against Ribrel's arm. ”Can you let him take care of you, while I'm gone?”

Ribrel sniffed, “I don't need to be cared for, Llabel. I can handle myself, and I don't need a whore to satisfy me.”

“That's not what I meant. Can you share the workload with him fairly? Can you take breaks? Can you please look after yourself, and let him look after you? You made him second in command, at least let him do his job.”

She considered this for a moment, then gave a reluctant sigh of defeat, “I will try to be more open to the idea, for you.”

“Thank you.” Avonis closed his eyes, “I'm going to miss you. I don't know where I'd be without you.”

“Actually dead, for one thing,” Ribrel answered matter-of-factly, which made Avonis give a dry chuckle.

“Yes, yes I suppose you're right! I would have gotten that certificate much, much sooner.”

“And with none of the freedoms that come with it,” Ribrel smiled softly. “Come, I must show you something.” She gently hooked her fingers around Avonis' wrist and tugged him off the bed and out of the room. Avonis followed her quietly.

Luckily the corridors were not too crowded at this hour. What few faces he saw pass by never gave him a second glance, and a thought had occurred that, as improbable as it is, they were also a part of the secret. The notion made him inwardly giggle. The one thing the cavern had done for him was to see him dead.

A few twists and turns and Avonis could see where Ribrel was taking him. This was the direction of his work station, his now-old post where he would sit and record the names of children who would survive the cavern Trials. He remembered  refusing the Auxiliator position, favoring a career as a Memorand simply because it allowed him to be alone— and to be as close to the outside as legally possible. Ribrel took him past his work desk, and closer still to one of the exits.

“That eager to flirt with Phesos without me around?“

Her ear flicked and she cast him a quick disapproving glance over his tease. ”Hush. Look outside.“

He shrugged and did what he was told, curiosity and excitement tickling his heart. He placed a shaky hand on the mouthway of the cave, and looked out into the dusky night. He could see two figures in the close and near distance, and once again he found it hard to keep his breath.

”Recognize them?” Ribrel prompted.

Of course he did. How many times must he hiss warnings and caution to Teagan as he invited him in to drink his blood? And how could he forget the beautiful librarian Shuska who would send secret letters to him in love and good faith? Once again, his eyes began to sting and the world began to blur with green.

“I've spoken with them already,” Ribrel murmured from behind him. “They were here for a surprise visit. If you were still working for the cavern, I would say you'd have a lot of explaining to do. Go with them. They seem to love you.“

”N-now?“

”Of course now! Send me a letter via worm when you find a place to live, and I will have Phesos bring you some of your belongings. I'm sure you can't live proper without all your journals.“

He turned to look at her then, an incredulous look on his face, soft and vulnerable. He couldn't hold back now, and he began to cling to Ribrel with sobs wracking his thin frame. Quietly, Ribrel stiffly reached up and patted him on the back, seeming quite uncomfortable with this interaction. ”Avonis, the longer you are here, the harder it is to fake your death.“

”Oh. Yes. Sorry.“ He let go of her and wiped tears off his face. Shame colored his cheeks. ”Would this be goodbye, then?“

”I'm afraid so.“

Such a bittersweet thought. To think that these two had grown up together and had once been matesprits. That Ribrel had always been unconditional and undying with her loyalty. That these two always had each others' backs, through thick and thin, despite the hurt and pain that their respective ancestors had given them. Despite the convoluted life being a cavern Jade was. The thought of leaving Ribrel felt as if he was going to be leaving a part of himself behind— but, perhaps, that was the point. He needed to leave everything, and everyone, behind. He needed to move on.

He needed to live.

He leaned in and gave Ribrel a soft kiss, reminiscent of old times sake. There may be no romantic love between these two any longer, but there certainly was a type of love still present between them. This was a thank you, this was grief and mourning, and this was both bravery and cowardice in the face of new adventures. He was surprised to see Ribrel feeling much the same way when he had pulled away, her own face dampened with small glittering emeralds. 

”Be safe out there,“ she told him, ”Be ruthless. Be kind. Love the unknown as you have for all these sweeps. Don't let anyone take this away from you. Never again.“

”I'll do my best.“

Her smile was filled with wistful pain, ”I love you.”

“I love you too, Ribs.”

“Go,” she urged, “Go to them, before I change my mind about losing one of my hardest workers.”

With a chuckle and a nod, Avonis gave Ribrel back his death certificate and turned to fully face the outside world. Trepidation trapped his breath in his chest as he slowly took a step out onto the other side. Then another. And another. The moonlight bathed everything in a haze of pink and green, illuminating the path before him and his two friends up ahead. Another step. One more. And then his slow walk began to turn into a jog, and then a sprint, and before long he was gliding along the ground, moving so fast he barely touched it.

Teagan and Shuska turned when they noticed him, faces bright with smiles and relief. Avonis couldn't slow himself in time and collided into the two, almost sending them to the ground. He wrapped his arms around them both, pulling them into a desperate hug and nearly cried once more when he felt them squeeze him in return. His ears rang with Shuska's laugh, and he basked in Teagan's smirk.

If this is what death is like, then Avonis is glad to be alive.

[memurfevur-archive]

Falling In Love Again

Character(s): Rutaci Faurux, Ammare, mentions of Ashoal McGee @askthehiddencaste and Viktor Serren @stuckstucktrolls

About: Rutaci spends some quality time with the new grub.

Word Count: 909

Rutaci looked down at the small bundle of life in his hands. Anxiety coursed through him, freezing him in place. A light Jade grub with horns that were a mix of everyone's, looking on with round curious eyes, fighting with itself whether it should sleep or cry. If it wasn't for the fear that gripped his throat closed, Rutaci would have chuckled; me too, kid, me too.

He stood there for quite some time as Ashoal rested and Viktor prepared little meals in the kitchen for their grub. It was a bit of an awkward sight; a large man staring down a small infant like a deer in the headlights, and still as a statue. Then, Ammare sneezed, which startled them enough to make them fuss and squirm. Rutaci tossed a wary glance to Ashoal's room, then back down to Ammare. He tried bouncing them subtly just as he'd seen Viktor and Ashoal do, though this only earned him a harsh screech.

"Hey hey, hey, heyyy now it's okay," nervousness leaked into his voice. He picked up a blanket and tried wrapping the grub in it, though they squirmed too much to keep it around them. He tried distracting them with a toy, which had been smacked away and sent to the ground. "Come on, kid, don't wake Ashoal up! He had one hell of a time bringing you out ya know!"

"Rutaci," Viktor's voice rang from the other room, "Do you want me to handle this?" It would have been a good idea; Viktor has experience with jade caverns, it would make sense for him to know what to do here. The very thought of failing his mates, however, bubbled deep inside of Rutaci.

"No, it's okay! Everything's fine. Everything is okiedok--ah!"

The grub had scratched at his arms and tried biting him. With a frown, Rutaci lifted the grub up higher where it then hissed at him.

"Hey kid I don't know what you're saying, but you gotta stop that." There was nothing but blabber in response, though the tone seemed angry. Almost sassy. Rutaci rose a brow, "What was that? Run that by me again?"

More incoherent babbling. Ammare wriggled their little legs as spit bubbled at their mouth.

"Oh no you didn't girlfriend, nuh uh."

"Sccreee!!!"

"I don't think I believe that one-- hey, hey what are you doing?"

Ammare was reaching towards the dangling triangles that hung from Rutaci's horns. He lowered the child from that height, but Ammare had successfully grabbed at least one of the strings and tugged, causing Rutaci's head to lower to Ammare's level. Ammare screeched again, clearly unhappy that the string wouldn't detach and go into their mouth. Rutaci sighed, clearly unhappy that he couldn't quell a child.

He hadn't planned to. He couldn't even keep an adult from getting kidnapped; what did he have that would help the safety of this kid? Someone more helpless? He never had to experience this kind of thing before; all of his descendants had grown up without him. This was an accident. This was an act of magic put on the trio that none of them had asked for. He was just a dead-beat dad; how could he help take care of a kid like this? With a tired look to his eye, Rutaci lowered his head and blew air out of his lips, causing a soft raspberry sound.

And to his surprise, the crying stopped. In fact, it had not only stopped, but Ammare had begun to laugh.

"Oh, you uh, you liked that?" A soft smile gradually made its way across Rutaci's lips. Ammare reached for his lips, babbling curiously, but Rutaci had pulled his head back and blew another light raspberry. Delighted, Ammare let out a softer screech of joy which gave Rutaci an idea. He nuzzled these raspberries against Ammare's cheek; the grub's eyes widened and began to squirm while laughter echoed throughout the room. To Rutaci's delight, Ammare soon began mimicking him.

Soon, the events had wholly evolved into a gentle giant and a baby blowing raspberries at each other and giggling. This lasted for several minutes, both Rutaci and Ammare unaware of a pair of Cerulean eyes watching them from the doorway with an amused smile.

Gradually Ammare had grown tired from the squirming and the laughing, and clawed at Rutaci's face until they were able to wriggle free and adjust themself so that they could settle between Rutaci's arms and belly-- possibly one of the warmest places on the pyrokinetic's body. Rutaci smiled and rocked the child until they fell asleep-- which didn't take long, surprisingly. "You're not bad, kid," Rutaci chuckled once Ammare began to snore.

There was a light pressure on Rutaci's shoulder; Ashoal was resting the side of his head on his mate, his sapphire eyes lovingly watching Ammare. Before long, Viktor finished his task in the kitchen and walked into the room; it seemed that they all held loving eyes and soft smiles. The Jadeblood drinker silently glided to Rutaci's other side, settling in so that an arm draped across both of his mates' backs.

"Is it silly to say," Rutaci began, "That I wish they'd wake up soon, so I could make them laugh again?" This had earned light chuckles and cheek kisses, but Rutaci had meant it. He looked down at the child with fear no longer creeping inside of him.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

[memurfevur-archive]

Starry Eyes

Character(s): Arceel Obelis

About: I really wanted to write a drabble about Arceel's love for the stars and what they mean to him. 100% inspired by @sunnetrolls new deity character The Stars

Word Count: 793

He remembered looking at the stars as he rode in the carriage to war. It was the only peace he felt that night, the night that led to his true death. Arceel had wanted to count this one last time, to watch the twinkles shine and recount the stories of each constellation. If he wanted to, he could take that twinkle for himself and form a cloud of stardust in his hands. It had always been an archaic form of amusement; to watch a smaller big bang happening in your very palms, to watch universes form at the size of marbles. He would always crush it afterwards, and send the dust back to the inky sky.

But tonight he shall play god by other means, and against gods who would do the same by their own means.

Perhaps it was fitting that the stars would also be the last thing that he saw before his soul woke up in the realm of the Dark Carnival, where the ancient Messiahs sat and dished him out his punishment. To be bound to stone, carved and chiseled, into a fool. He flinched and scowled at every scrape as he was sculpted and cursed to a meaningless task for eternity. But within the stone he was bound to, otherworldly by nature, he could sense the stardust within it. Its origins were not unlike his, and as the stardust conjured images in his soul of the night sky, he felt comforted as if by a friend.

It was under the stars he charted a new life as a slave to the Messiahs’ humor: he would only be free if he could find the absolute meaning of life. Perhaps the stars would know, if they could speak. If they could see. If they could feel what he felt. It was pointless to think about it. What a lonely existence this was: the world would change around him, plants and animals and people would be born and die again and again while he remained the same. An imp would dance on his shoulders and mock him, but there was some comfort in knowing that he would age with the night endlessly. That he would always be alive to recount the stories of different constellations, and find his way home and across seas by their very light. If the stars could talk, what would they say? It felt a little less lonely with so many shining faces staring lovingly down at him. Maybe, too, his old friends would look down at him from the sky with the stars. He fell asleep comforted by this thought many times.

And now he had a child of his own to give the stars to. Well, an apprentice at least. A young energetic woman whose curiosity rivaled the size of the multiverse. He taught her how to read the stars, and what star to call upon for what spell, and the stories of the constellations both ancient and modern. She was a strong one, fated for something bigger than herself, perhaps bigger than the sky’s vastness. Wherever it is that she will end up, Arceel knew that in her absence they would still have each other if only they would look up under the same inky skies. Count the same twinkling stars. Rehearse each of their names in ancient tongues. Perhaps they would both find a belonging there, someday.

“I have never found a greater love,” Arceel told Retepa one night, after she had inquired about his past and if he ever held a quadrant, “than for those orbs of light above us.”

“That doesn’t answer my question though,” Retepa remarked.

“Then I reveal to you this: I have lived for millennias. Before the rise of civilization as you know it. Before the eras that history books color. So many people have come and gone with me, and I remain still; but the stars? I would kiss and hold like a lover. I would laugh and cry like a friend. I would scream and argue like a rival, for they would know me best. They are the pacifier, and I the grub that suckles upon it when plagued by bad dreams.”

“Nah, I think he just needs to get laid,” giggled Arceel’s jailer Watch’r, who had formed from the shadows behind him. “Sounds like a bunch of sappy hogwash.”

Arceel ignored him, and instead looked up to the stars above. It occurred to him then that perhaps he could not ever accurately summarize how much he suffered, or how much he yearned for a friend or lover, or how comforting the stars were to him. But perhaps he didn’t need to tell– they never changed, so how could he? Together and apart, for all eternity.

[memurfevur-archive]

Skinny Love

Character(s): Omnius Dioxal, Kulsot Amrida (@contrastparadoxx), Liahne Zaleae, brief mention of Stygia Astera (@whispertrolls)

About: Liahne finally seizes her chance to end it all with Omnius, but things don't go exactly as planned.

CW: blood, graphic depictions of violence, character death

Word Count: 3,764

==================================

It almost felt like a stroke of divine luck when Liahne had happened upon the billboard. For so long her enemy had been under her nose, hidden in plain sight. Frustration bit at her. His bright teal eyes mocked her, mocked everyone who walked by it on this busy street: an advertisement demanding attention, a charming smile that felt genuine and warm. He could fool anyone. He had fooled her once, long ago.

She closed her eyes and committed the bold letters of his firm to memory. It was not the only memory that echoed in her head; she remembered Omnius' warm embrace and the feel of his stubble tickling her cheek. She remembered laying her head on his chest and him kissing her horns or the top of her head. That aged cinnamon aftershave and the laugh marks at the corner of his eyes, his hair only beginning to pepper in white. Her heart twisted; those details had once brought her a feeling of safety, but the truth had long soiled it. It shouldn't have been Omnius' arms that held her. She had been blind; she believed a lie, and Rutaci had paid for it.

Liahne ducked herself into a quiet alley and away from the sounds of a bustling cityscape. She didn’t see the numbers dialed into her phone, and she could barely hear the line connecting when she brought the device to her ear. Every second was a slow heartbeat. Her palms began to sweat, causing her to idly wipe them on her jeans. It couldn’t be this easy, not after so long…

“Good evening. You’ve reached Triumph Law, Dioxal’s office– Mr. Amrida speaking. What can we do for you today?” The voice was soft yet strong, clear and cheerful. Liahne couldn’t imagine anyone sounding happy to work for Omnius.

That voice. It felt familiar, but… no, she was anticipating someone else. The only Amrida she knew would not be here in her enemy’s office, but off baking his heart out with a smile in a small town miles from here. “Is Mr. Dioxal in the office?” Liahne’s voice was low and barely above a whisper. It felt like superstition; say his name too loudly, and he will come with seven sweeps of bad luck. “I need to speak to him.”

“He is about to leave for lunch, but I can take a message. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Please,” her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again, but didn’t feel as confident as she tried to be. “Please, it’s urgent.”

There was a moment of silence– hesitance. Liahne closed her eyes, trying to gather her nerves. She could hear the secretary shuffle on the other end, and then, “One moment, please.” It was the longest “one moment” of her life. Her hand began to shake, and her throat threatened to close as tears lurked behind her eyes. She found herself murmuring softly, too soft for the phone to pick up, little pleas that she was too late. That she would not be able to contact Omnius. That she never will– not without a knife in his gut.

A voice sounded on the other end, “Dioxal speaking.”

The world stood still, frozen in monochrome memories and acidic anxieties. Her breath shook like trees in the wind, and a concentrated headache was starting to take hold from her struggling effort to resist an audible cry. This had been the first she had heard his voice for several sweeps. Too many sweeps. She wanted to scream at him, ask him why, but fearful familiarity stunned her to silence. She listened to her killer’s probing hello’s trying to gauge if his client was still on the line. She would never give him that satisfaction, though not by her own choice. She had found him at last, with a plastic smile on a plastic sign in a blind city. Before long, the call was cut; he had hung up on her for wasting his time. She wiped the tears off her face and pocketed the phone.

It was at that moment that Liahne resolved this for herself; she couldn’t let Rutaci know about this. She owed it to him; she had ruined his life, and all he ever did was love her. Liahne swallowed a lump in her throat and bit back the tears that threatened to sting her eyes. She had let him go, and even now he continues to support her– from a distance, of course. He would never trust her again, not to that extent. They’re acquaintances, not friends, not lovers. She knew he was still hurting over her. No matter how many sweeps have passed, there will always be cracks in the canyon between them; a canyon void of water and natural beauty that once made it theirs to explore. Now, their exchanges were made through nothing more than vast empty space. The sun over the canyon was scorching them and burning them alive. At the very least, Liahne thought, she could allow herself to burn alone and keep him in the safety of the shadows.

___________________________________________________

Everyone else had gone home for the day, save for two. While the building was empty Omnius had thought to reward Kulsot for his work, and having no patience to get home the two stayed later than one might anticipate. The rush of heat and intimacy was a nice bonus, he thought, to the paycheck they had received that night. Everybody likes bonuses on their paydays.

A satisfied smirk stretched Omnius’ lips as he fastened his belt, and his bright teal eyes looked to his giggling matesprit with a level of love and compassion he had not felt for anyone else in a long, long time. He leaned in and kissed his secretary on the lips briefly. 

“I’ll meet you in the car, my prince. Oh, and don’t worry about dinner today; I’ll take care of it while you shower.” His treat. Afterwards, the two would sit on the couch with their daughter to watch the morning programs until Soliel was tired enough for bed. Then Omnius would carry her to her room, check for monsters in her closet, and read her a story from her favorite book. His favorite part comes when he would kiss her forehead, and subtly whisper to the ghost of his childhood moirail, telling them both to sleep well and that he would drive his daughter to school in the dusk. It would be a perfect night, one he’s learned to embrace as softly as he had learned to embrace Kulsot. 

The aforementioned Mutantblood slipped on his jacket with a smile on his face. After becoming fully dressed and checking himself over for any traces of the sins he and his matesprit had committed, he gathered his belongings and slipped out the door.

The building itself was rather large, hosting a number of legislacerators who either needed a company to work for or needed to rent an office to work in. Omnius was a special case; technically, he owned part of the firm, and in the cut-throat world of Alternia, his alter ego allowed him to keep the business safely and easily. He’d become a well established man, and the building reflected that with carpeted floors and milky walls reflecting marble pillars. Omnius did not design the building, but he did well in making sure it was presentable and comfortable for himself and his colleagues– and if it wasn’t for their pleasure, then it was for his diabetic rival. 

Kulsot hummed as he took in the sights; for all that it was worth, he knew his matesprit to be passionate– it was a prideful feeling that resonated deep within him to see his matesprit’s hard work everywhere. It made him feel safe and secure, like nothing could touch them.

The elevator ride to the parking garage was thankfully short. The lot was nearly empty, save for a car or two including Omnius’. Though Kulsot walked this path many times before, he couldn’t help but be wary alone in places like this. The clicking of his heels against the cold pavement brought some comfort, enough to pacify him on his walk to the car. A glossy silver Coupe of the previous (but not too far) century, it was a brand that Kulsot recognized only because the rich and powerful liked to flaunt it. The specifics of its appeal were lost to him, but he could appreciate its aesthetic at least. He hooked a hand around the handle, but paused when he saw a reflection of a shadow flitting behind him. He twisted around, eyes wide, only to catch the sight and sound of the exit door clicking shut.

The shadow glided up a few flights of stairs, deliberate and quick. She quickly glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand noting the wing and office number that belonged to Omnius, then tucked it away in her back pocket. A wistful, anxious sigh, and blood roaring in her ears. So close. She was so close. Just a little further now, and it will all end. Liahne thumbed her knife hilt’s texture. A quick and easy kill, just as he had done to her.

Her ear flicked at the sound of the exit door opening and closing. Holding her breath, she ducked into a nook between the stairs and the wall which concealed her from view. “Hello,” she heard the voice echo through the stairwell. “Hello, is anyone here?” She heard the click-clicking of dress shoes on the stairs and cursed under her breath. She leaped forward and pushed herself into the landing’s door that led to the third floor, then side stepped and pressed herself against the wall right beside it. This had gained the secretary’s attention, and just as he rushed past the threshold he choked out in surprise when he was suddenly grabbed with a hand over his mouth and a knife to his throat. This was not without struggle, however; the Mutant was much stronger than he looked in ways very familiar to her.

“Stop it,” she hissed. “Stop! I don’t want to hurt you. Do you work for Dioxal?” Kulsot paused, glared at her, but then fell limp in surprise when recognition flooded his gaze. Liahne’s heart lurched into her throat. It couldn’t be… “Kulsot, you work for Omnius?” There was no masking the hurt in her voice, though it prompted a nod from the other.

“Kulsot are … you his matesprit?” She had read about it from somewhere, a tabloid, trying to juice this as a scandalous affair when there was none. She was met with another, though more hesitant, nod. Sympathy pierced through Liahne’s chest; the chances that Omnius was only using him were likely. She wondered briefly if Omnius had Kulsot working for him just to keep an eye on him, just like how he used to court her to keep her away from his secrets. “Then, I’m sorry. You’re not the one I have beef with.”

She relaxed her stance, only for Kulsot to push against her with an aggravated hiss and elongated fangs. Instinctively she returned the gesture; she hadn’t expected him to be a rainbow drinker– when did he die? Who killed him? Memories flashed before her, of the sweet little Kulsot in that sweet little bakery, laughing with his brother and her beloved Rutaci far before this; far before the Tealblooded snake made his name known. 

This would make things harder. It broke her heart, but she knew what she had to do; she dropped into a combat stance, knife at the ready. But before she could act, Kulsot spoke, “Wait!”

Liahne wanted to move, to grab him, to silence him, but she found herself glued to where she stood. Frustration boiled within her; of course. This must be why Omnius kept him close: to have his own little bodyguard with a silver tongue. Did Rutaci know?

“What are you doing here?” She could see the confusion pooling in his unnervingly bright red eyes. She remembered making him special foods and drinks for his dietary needs. She remembered staying up late smiling and watching Kulsot and Rutaci talking, laughing, as if there could never be any trouble in the world that could tear them apart. She had made Kulsot and Wander gifts, little plush toys and flower arrangements for the bakery. He had been her friend just as much as he had been Rutaci’s. And now, here she was, where moments ago she had pressed a knife to his throat.

“He’s not who you think he is,” Liahne said, her voice almost pleading. Kulsot’s shoulders slumped as the puzzle pieces began to click into place. Of course; Rutaci knew Omnius, it would only make sense Liahne had known him, too.

“Oh, I know; that has never been an issue. But, you? This isn’t you.”

“I can’t afford to be me, not anymore,” she closed her eyes, remorse flooding through her. “You’ll understand, I’ll explain later. I need to see Omnius.”

Kulsot’s brows furrowed, “What for?” Liahne could not bring herself to answer that. Kulsot took several steps closer, his volume dropping, and worry hinting at the edges of his voice. “Liahne, when did you… Is Rutaci okay–” 

He was abruptly silenced when her blade went into his abdomen, and her hand covered his mouth. His eyes went round and wide, shock and betrayal painting his features.

Liahne choked back her tears and kissed Kulsot’s forehead, “I’m so sorry; please forgive me, Kully.” With one quick, fluid movement, she brought the knife to his throat and pressed in, slicing deep. 

To a mortal, this would surely kill them; but to a rainbow drinker, it would only incapacitate him for a few hours– or more. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying as she watched her friend crumple to the ground, holding his throat, gasping for air and throwing accusatory questions her way. …Why? Why? Why? Liquid emerald escaped down her cheeks; she hurriedly wiped them away and turned her back.

Omnius’ office was just down the hall on the left. Nerves left her hand trembling on the doorknob, her breaths nothing more than shaky hiccups. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was just supposed to be Omnius. “Get yourself together,” she hissed, “It’s now, or never at all.”

Liahne pushed herself into the office. It was small and cozy; Kulsot’s desk sat at the far side of the room, papers neatly stacked, and even the sticky notes and pencils were well organized. Liahne trailed a finger along the neat wooden desk, her heart dropping when she saw a framed picture of Kulsot with Omnius and some kid. She picked it up, studying their faces; Kulsot had made a life for himself. Omnius had made a life for himself. But that can’t be true… Omnius would never….

“Oh, hello, I’m sorry to inform you but the office is–” Liahne whirled around, heart racing. In front of her in the doorway was the man she had been hunting down all these sweeps. He looked much older than she remembered him; laugh marks made his eyes crinkle, and his head held a lot more silver hairs. She could see him calculating while his eyes were locked on her. He hadn’t expected to ever see her again, not after he had left her for dead. “--closed,” he finished slowly. It was satisfying, almost, to see him like a deer in the headlights of a car.

“Hello, Omnius.”

“Liahne.” His gaze flickered over her form, her clothes, and the bright red blood that was splattered on her.  “Where’s Kulsot?”

“I’m not here for him.”

“I know you’re not bloody here for him; where is he?”

“He’ll be okay.”

“What did you do?” Panic. She hadn’t expected to hear panic in his voice so quickly. Had he actually cared for him? For Kulsot? For the pretty boy with powerful controlling psionics Omnius could exploit and manipulate? No. Not Omnius. Omnius didn’t have a heart for that. He’s a monster who would never know love. Instead of answering him, she held her dagger firmly in her hands, and lunged.

The two collided against the wall, grappling with each other; Omnius held Liahne’s wrists, trying to keep her from digging that blade deep into his heart. Though even as the point of the knife demanding the most attention in the room, he couldn’t stop thinking about Kulsot. What did Liahne do? How badly hurt was he? Omnius felt weak at all the possibilities; he had to survive this. He had to find Kulsot. He had to help him. He pushed against Liahne, headbutting her head and knocking her back onto Kulsot’s desk. 

Stepping forward to grab Liahne, she quickly recovered and lashed out, cutting his arm. She kept up her flurry, lurching forward to slice at his arms and sides, but Omnius picked up a heavy porcelain figure from a display table and hit her across the head. Liahne stumbled backward, but was not deterred. When he went to smash her again, she kicked him in the stomach, knocking the breath from his body and giving her an opening to act further. 

She grappled the lawyer and shoved her knife deep into his stomach, unconsciously mirroring the wound he had dealt her long ago. In, out, in, out; she stabbed him as many times as she could, and Omnius cried out at every single strike. Teal blood soaked through his clothes and splattered to the floor leaving dark stains on the carpet.

“This is for Stygia,” she twisted the knife in his gut. “This is for her kid,” she kneed him in his bloodied abdomen. “This is for me, and most of all, this is for Rutaci!” One final push, and she shoved him to the floor. 

Omnius gasped, choking, coughing out blood and bile before falling limp. Still. Silent. Liahne glared down at him, then proceeded to kick him in the ribs. When he didn’t react, she felt satisfied with her work and the knife dropped to the floor. She wiped the little bit of blood from her cut lip and spat at the ground next to Omnius. “Rot in hell, honey.”

Easy. Pathetic. Hard, mind-blistering work for all these sweeps, and this was the end? So many nights stewing in the pain of past traumas, and all it took was this? Liahne was surprised to find disappointment pooling where relief should be, but it didn’t matter. She did her job. She avenged Rutaci. Everyone would be safe. Liahne turned to leave without a backward glance– that is, but a familiar ghost appeared with wide eyes and a frazzled expression.

“Stygia? Stygia, we did it–”

“Liahne, look out!!”

Hot pain shot through the back of her ankle, and she found herself collapsing to the floor. Rolling over onto her back, her eyes widened as Omnius loomed over her, eyes tinted red. With the hilt of her knife, he clobbered the side of her head. A loud ringing echoed in her ears as she tried to fight back against him, though this soon proved fruitless; he delivered another blow, this time to her jaw. There was a loud crack upon impact, and Liahne groaned. Another hit, and she realized suddenly she couldn’t see.

“S-Stygia!”

“Shut up!” Omnius’ voice was nothing but a monstrous growl, sounding nothing remotely Trollian. He coughed, blood landing on Liahne’s face. “Shut up! Oh, I should have made sure you stayed dead you wretched bitch!” His hands wrapped around Liahne’s throat and began to squeeze as much as he could. “What did you do to Kulsot?!” Of course, she could not answer. He smacked her face, and began to bash her head against the carpet, which was thin and did not entirely soften the hard floor beneath it. “If he’s fucking dead, IF HE’S FUCKING DEAD.”

“N-No–”

“SHUT UP!”

She clawed at his arms, cried for breath, cried for Stygia, but her voice held no power. Grabbing her knife once again, Omnius let go of her throat and lifted it high above his head. It went in too easy, like a hot knife to butter; a rageful blade to the heart. He twisted it far and deep, her hot blood washing over his hands. He was shaking, snarling, no more than a beast as Liahne choked out her final breaths. He felt her heartbeats slow quickly, letting out a triumphant groan when he finally felt it pull to a stop. This, he knew, would stop her entirely. Nothing can live without a heart.

Exhausted, he pulled himself up and leaned heavily against the wall, smearing Jade and Teal blood all over the expensive wallpaper. He clutched his side as he tried to regain his breath and bearings. He limped around Liahne’s body and nearly fell onto the door that led out into the hallway. He leaned on it, letting the swing of the hinges guide him out into the hallway. “Kulsot!” His voice was weak and cracked, pained, “Kulsot, where are you?!” His gaze landed on a black, white, and red body at the far side of the hall. Whimpers escaped his throat as he lost his strength and fell on his knees, dragging himself to Kulsot’s body. “No no no, not again, not again, please…” He picked Kulsot’s body up in his arms, noticing the slit throat. Ice cold panic flooded his veins; Omnius put his ear to Kulsot’s chest, listening for …

“Thank you,” Omnius sobbed, clinging Kulsot tight to him, “Oh goddesses, thank you.”

He pulled out his cell phone and made some quick dials, “...Quirky? Yes… yes I need your… assistance,” his breathing became more labeled as he spoke. “A Teal and a Red. Triumph Law Firm. Third floor. East wing corner. H-Hurry, o-or I’ll have your head and more.” Another day in the life of the Initiate. How sad. How boring. The same life-threatening adventures Omnius grew weary of. Omnius was confident, at least, that his connections will come– they always do– and he and Kulsot will get the help they need.

After shoving the phone back in his pocket, he ripped part of his dress shirt to wrap Kulsot’s wound. Then, he pulled the unconscious Mutant tighter to him and rested his head on the other’s shoulder as the world began to fade around him. His last thought before the darkness took him over, was that he hoped Soliel would not be cross with him for not picking her up from school on time….

[memurfevur-archive]

Faithless Creations

Character(s): Zillyhoo, Wesker Werecrow

About: A deity reserved through the annals of time investigates a creature that quickly teaches him what it is like to feel fear and becomes something bigger than himself.

CW: violence and gore, body horror

Google Doc Link

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The throne grows cold as the prayers to feed it grow silent. There were not as many worshippers as there were the night before, or the night before that. Remaining tongues cry of fear, a flavor I most dislike. Their prayers reek of desperation, and they plead for protection and knowledge against an enemy most unknown and unfamiliar. It is not disbelief that is beginning to starve me, but the swift and sharp knife of death that had come too soon.

At first, I thought it must be my brothers and sisters; other Messiahs selfishly trying to claim more domain. It’s within our nature, of course– endlessly do we squabble over the food we play with. Why, it is how I achieved my power so long ago before the quakes of war rumbled our kingdom. Me and my hammer carving a name for ourselves through the blood of gods and mortals alike, until at last the name would be drawn from their lips, drowned in the emotions I crave: Zillyhoo. Only fools have tried to usurp me to take my power and my land, my food and my name. This city of Hoohahn stands strong, and as long as I remain these golden marble pillars will never bend. And thus I looked for evidence for who might have tampered with my flock, evidence for which petty and zealous sibling must I crush beneath my hammer, and yet I found none. 

I saw before me fields of blood and bone. A black substance coated the leaves of our harvests. Cadavers hung from wooden posts, mangled yet stitched together like cloth dolls. Expressions of fear and anguish were preserved in the stitching, though their rotting flesh emitted a smell so foul that it threatened to tear me from my mortal host. Skin sunk into hollows and tightly hugged the bone, the faces were hardly recognizable from when they were living. These were the demons my prey feared, but they were hardly more than lifeless apparitions and phantoms from nightmares.

There was one abomination that was most unlike the others.

Like most of these soiled victims, this had clearly been a Purpleblood, but this was more intricately stitched than all the others. Its limbs were strange and non-Trollian, more digitigrade and canine; it even sported a tail, long-furred and just as greasy and matted as the hair on its head. Such a head hung limp, like every other, and its eyes were lifeless yet strained. Black webbing laced its intricate patterns beneath its skin, and where there were tears from the threading, it spilled out like ichor between each piece of straw. Blood of many colors coated its arms and farmer’s clothes. An interesting design for a scarecrow, if any, and yet I had the nagging feeling that this was no victim nor a wasteful piece of cloth and wood. 

Inhaling its putrid scents through senses no mortal Troll could hope to have, I could pick up faint traces of the breed of living that I despised. Sterile labs and linen coats, and the air of something overly sanitized. This scarecrow had the mark of man all over it. But how could this be? What scarecrow could kill so many of my followers without my noticing? What scarecrow could kill at all? How could Trolls make a scarecrow move? It is this that angers me about those who mess within laboratories, trying their hand at creation like half-baked gods. I miss the days where superstition ran rampant; the sheep were easier to herd then.

While I had no proof that this scarecrow was the root of my problems, I chose to act on my instinct and remove the wretched thing from its post to destroy it. It felt childish of me to be ripping apart a scarecrow. Straw and ichor flew everywhere, and I grimaced as my hands sunk wrist-deep into the mysterious black substance inside. Viscera clung to me as I retreated my arms. It felt pointless and disgusting, yet soon I had reduced this devil-spawn scarecrow to its raw materials, and in which it no longer held a form. With a scowl I turned to head home, eager to be rid of this host so that I would no longer have this disgusting material on my body.

Not long after, the night grew brighter. Clouds dissipated from the bicolored moons above and donned the fields with a mixed light-brown glow, revealing more of the ichor on the leaves of the crops and upon my body. My scowl grew, but I stopped in my tracks when I felt a sharp burning on my arms. I watched in shock as the ichor peeled away on its own towards the direction of the mangled scarecrow behind me. I turned, my eyes wide with curiosity.

The black ichor from within the scarecrow was now standing like a man, becoming a mountainous mass of slick gurgles and growls. Quickly, arm-like formations sprouted and bones grew out of its surface. Its form was not like that of the shell that still lay at its feet. Instead fuzzy black tendrils whipped from its body, limbs of all sorts spiraling from the mass, teeth and fangs where nails and claws should be. Its own flesh dripped and folded over upon itself, both solid yet liquid like tar. As multiple eyes sprouted and landed their gazes upon me, I knew then that it was not a scarecrow those faithless men had made, but a shadow of their very own wickedness.

One of its arms shot towards me, inky flesh uncoiling and stretching thin like a slinky. Bony protrusions sliced across my chest, but I was quick to pull my warhammer from the blood of my host. My fingers found the familiar grooves in the gold and azure handle, the pink orb on the back of my beauty’s head sporting an ever cheerful smile ready to joyfully taunt this monster, as it had countless lives before it. I ran a finger over the engraved Z on the block of gold on its head, and felt the power of my homeworld tremble through it. Metals unknown to this realm, forged in the fire by the smiths of Pipplemop, commissioned by my brother the Sage Lord of the Wozzingjay Fiefdom from within the Realm of the Snargly Fruzmigbubbins. I was confident that this would not take long.

I raised my hammer over my head and slammed it to the ground in front of me. The ground tore asunder, rocks and earth rising as bladed mounds snaked towards the ungodly creation. It knocked the creature back and penetrated its body, but it seemed unfazed. It screeched and slithered over and around the stones and cracks on the ground, and once again unfurled itself with bones flying. I raised my hammer, using it as a temporary shield. The claws slid right off, leaving not a scratch.

Stepping backwards, I pushed my energy into my weapon, concentrating my very soul into the hammer’s atoms. As expected, as practiced, for years longer than this planet’s birth, the wind whipped around my opponent and I. I swung once more, conducting the winds forth at a speed so fast that the currents became visible white razors. The winds severed the limbs of the monster, who seemed to feel no pain even as its cut bones fell to the ground. It staggered towards me still, growing new arms. With a snarl I pointed my weapon at it, forcing the winds to spiral and put some distance between us. This thankfully worked, as the monster stumbled backward and was unable to move against the current.

Or at least, that is how it had appeared, until the creature built upon itself to rise above the wind. Two arm-like extensions soared towards me then, and I lifted my hammer to shield myself as I had before. To my surprise, the monster learned quickly; claws wrapped around the face of the warhammer, dislodging it from my grasp and throwing it far behind. The other set of claws raked across me once more, sending me backwards until I stumbled enough to fall.

How could this be? How could a wretched, Troll-made beast overcome the powers of which the creators themselves could never understand? Was it pure luck, or had this been planned? In all of my years since time primordial, I felt something new stir within me. Something foreign. Something unfamiliar. Something mortal. It burned my throat, and made it feel as if iron hands gripped my… stomach? No. My host’s. This must be fear, a fear so deep and resonating that it escaped the containment of my host. A fear so palpable it leaked into my own soul….

For the first time in my history, I knew I couldn’t win.

The creature wrapped its ichor around my body and pulled me up, lifting me high above the ground. I tried to focus on myself, still my breathing so that I may detach myself from this body and go back to my realm, but the bone-like spikes dug hard into me, making me cry out. Pain? Had fear created a doorway for pain? The longer this went on, the more I found it to be true; the more fear I felt, the more I felt pain, and the more that pain robbed me of my body, the more fear consumed me. I could feel the threads that would have brought me home snap; I could not un-possess this body. I could not go home to my brothers and sisters. I was trapped, feeling mortal emotions– for once I understood what it was that I had been feeding on all this time, and the thought of prey became pitiful and guilty.

I felt my host’s body tremble, though from my fear or from the creature tearing open the flesh, I did not truly know. I watched in horror, powerless, as the whites of my soul mingled with the gurgling ink of the creature. I heard a noise so common on this planet, a screaming ripping from desperate throats. It was unreal; it was hard to fathom that it came from me. I was both experiencing death and watching it from the outside as my essence continued to mingle in the blackness.

I was everywhere, and yet I was nowhere all at once. Memories flooded to me; this creature’s name had once been Wesker. This once-been Wesker had no thought, not even vestigial; it had no consciousness or emotion. Empty. It was empty, spurred only by the godless programming of new-age science. Wesker no longer existed, but it was a name, and I clung to it. And as my essence left the mortal body of my host, I began to cling to the ink and bone. I clung to the traces of organs and viscera left over from those previous and new victims. I clung to everything but the vile godless programming. 

Or, perhaps, it mustn’t be so vile afterall; in their wicked shadows they had created a vessel, one void of thought and will, and emotion and sense of self– one which created the perfect nest for a parasite such as my kind. An operating room, protected by this… this…

Mold. Such a perfect name, for now I mold myself to it.

The body of my former host fell to the ground; limp, crushed, and torn apart. I watched as instinct told me to do what I must do: to sew this man back together, to infect him with my spores and my sludge. To create a lesser instance of… of a Werecrow? Is this my identity? Our identity? I could hear the voices in the crops and the voices in the corpses that hung on wooden poles. These were a part of me now, whispers I could control, extensions of myself. To spread. To feed. To make more. Never ending. I watched as my fang needle wove in and out of flesh, connected by the same ichor that oozed from me. I put this man back together. He is perfect now. I hang him on the pole that I once occupied. A mindless angel, ready to be commanded by its god.

I am its god.

I am a god. I am like no other. A fusion of old world and modern. I will make. I will spread. This territory, this army, are mine. I am complete, within a vessel.

I am a god, and I am hungry.

[memurfevur-archive]

Hide and Seek Part 3: A Promise

Character(s): Athena Uyilst, The Hidelord (@mageofspacemultiverse), NPC

About: The Hidelord worms himself into Athena's mind, playing on her weaknesses and strengths while they skin a traitor alive.

CW: blood, light graphic depictions of torture, human zoo

Words: 3,736

Plot Page

Song and Dance (part 1)

The Bronze Girl (part 2)

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 Hidelord sniffed the air, glancing to the left in the direction of a long tapering stack of smog climbing the night sky. I stood beside him in a half-cower, knowing what lies ahead and undecided whether or not I could brave it. The Zoo was not like any other place in Hidelord’s domain, and what he had planned beyond here I would not know would break or save me.

"When we're alone with the bastard, then we'll talk about accountability. We can spin our turning knife, see who it lands on. Now, hunch forward a bit, and move."

He led the way through the field of reedy grass that flicked at our forearms and jostled noisily across our legs. It took us less than ten minutes to walk the full length and for the wide metal shed to come into sight: the Zoo had everything, not just holding cells for all of Hidelord's prizes, but a surgeon's bay, a kitchen, some bathrooms, and even a trading post inside for the exchange of skins and the occasional auction.

A guard was poised outside one of the rear doors. He leaned in to whisper something in the Hidelord's ear, and after a moment the Hidelord whispered back. The code words were not audible to the ear in case a slave tried to remember one as a means to escape, but it didn’t stop me from angling my ears listening for a shred of hope. For a brief moment I questioned whether this was what I truly wanted-- an escape; with rainbow drinker senses as sharp as a knife, I could easily hear soft murmurs and whispers as loud as a crowd’s roar. And yet, I heard nothing, and reminded myself that I am too weak to leave on my own volition. With a quick key jingle, the door was unlocked and the Hidelord grabbed me with a convincing tug and pulled me inside.

I had learned to be a good actor, playing my part to give people what they want. Looking sad and pathetic was too easy, though really the depression was the true star. I followed Hidelord with my head down and ears closed, but I didn’t need to act. The dread I felt was real.

Leading the way into the makeshift warehouse, the formerly tranquil air was instantly aplomb with screams, pleads, moans, weeping, and the noise of metal being shaken and scratched. Stacked in aisles at least twenty feet high and a hundred feet long were industrial cages, partially covered with numbered tarps. Empty or broken boxes were stacked against the wall for future use. Plastic tubes for dispensing water fed from each cage up toward the ceiling where one great cooler sat, like rodent sipper bottles, collecting from pipes buried in the ground outside. Flayed skins of past pets hung on the wall, a fatal reminder that despair was all anyone here had in store.

The place smelled of bile and sweat and dirt, but most of all, misery.

We passed the barrage of noise and doomed souls to the rear end, making it to an entryway made of thin plastic curtains. "Wanna wait here?" Hidelord put forth with a rhetoric chime to his voice, then stalked through the entryway to speak with his other minions. There were the faint sounds of beeping machinery through the cooler entrance, but it was mostly drowned out by the wails of the creatures behind me.

I was sure to keep my head down, though this time more for my health than out of obedience. I couldn't quite remember the path there, everything had been a blur, and I had been outside of my body for most of the journey through the Zoo, past the twists and turns filled with hollowed faces caked in blood and dirt and worse. I tried to keep myself together, gritting my teeth just to have that pressure as an anchor. The vile scene was almost too familiar to me. Underground slaver rings were only the scratches of the surface compared to this, though.

I wondered briefly if I was meant to be here, if this was my punishment for last night’s foolery. Or had he grown bored of me after all and decided to lock me away in the Zoo? I'd die, I decided; I'd rather die than go through this again. Hidelord had plenty of knives on his person. I could easily take one when he isn’t prepared, and slit my own throat right in front of him....

I began to hum to myself softly to try to drown out the screaming and crying, a short lullaby my brother would sing to me as kids. The memory of my brother brought forth its own guilt and regrets, but it was better to feel those than face the smothering atmosphere around me.

It was, to the relief of the surrounding universe, that Hidelord’s abandonment wouldn't come just yet. He soon returned as the squeaks of rubber against metal began to fade from the other room. He did not speak, only urgently waved to join him within the suite.

Beyond was much of the same, though some fabric curtains were fastened to the ceiling, and the room only held one or two cages, currently empty. All was covered in caked blood, none having bothered to clean the proof of their gruesome activity. Violet, blue, and brown alike were splattered across the room, as well as two of the otherwise shining metal tables that lay dormant before them. The room was cooler here, and the sound of the beeping grew closer.

Hidelord slunk past one of the curtains, gesturing to one table that was, in stark contrast, very much occupied. The traitorous warlord from before, Jembra, was a mass of tubes and cables hooked up to odd, archaic contraptions. A jar of leeches was set on the ground next to him, bright gold and swollen in their putrid swill. An accordion-like object sank up and down to the rhythm of his breathing, and bags of olive-hue blood surrounded his tired, unconscious face.

"The blood'll poison him before too long." Hidelord remarked, snorting. "He's no drinker, so if you want to bask in this for a second, don't fuck around. Let me know when we should get started, and how we'll decide this."

I looked at him, eyes wide. What more could this man go through? What were… we...going to put him through? I glanced back at the barely-conscious corpse on the table. Try as I might, I could not hold much sympathy for him. He knew the rules of the land better than I, and he had been willing to throw away what kept him safe for greed and power. He had been willing to betray what kept me safe. I can’t afford this man any sympathy, so my response was short and dry, “Anytime.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” my master grinned wickedly, reaching under the table and grabbing a small satchel, then sticking it under the lord’s nose.

It took a few moments to kick in, but the corpse lurched forward slightly with a sharp inhale, eyes pulsing from the aftermath of shock.

“Wakey wakey…” Hidelord’s smile faded into a mask of concentration, as he went to the far side of the room and took hold of one knife and a worn whetstone. A long, tapering sound of metal meeting plastic began to repeat through the small bay, and Jembra’s head swung back and forth weakly between the two of us, the reality quickly sinking in. With every haunting shing, his pupils looked smaller and smaller, and his breathing hitched and hiccuped with dread.

I could smell it, his fear, a sweet acidic taste on my tongue and fragrance to my nose. It made my fangs ache and the shudder that ran through my body could clue anyone in that the promise of what was to come seemed... enjoyable. Exciting. Much to my shame and guilt, I felt excited.

No… no it must be because I’m hungry, my blood thirst waking the undead monster within me. But even with this reasoning, I knew I wasn’t strong enough to help myself.

I approached Jembra, wanting him to see me, wanting more of that fear scent. Did he recognize me? Did he recognize me as the reaper who brought him to his knees? If there was recognition, it seemed Jembra’s mind was too far gone to rationalize or vocalize it. He didn’t scream or writhe about, but the puffs of his breath came out desperate, as though his lungs had holes he was desperate to fill.

It did not take long for the knife to be sharpened, and for Hidelord’s heavy boots to lumbar back. He held the blade between his thumb and two fingers. “I don’t think we need to decide. I can see the urge practically erupting from your skin. Shall the knife turn once more, Athena?” It felt like an oddly intimate moment.

Jembra’s legs started to shake pathetically against the gurney, tearing a bit at the medieval stitching that kept his dissected carcass together. He must’ve been on painkillers to even stay conscious with the damage…not that it would matter soon.

Despite the shame and guilt that I could feel building up, it was much easier to fall into these temptations. There was a part of me that missed being the hunter instead of the prey, a part of me that yearned for the days of blood lust and money. I could go back, step into the past, relive the days when I felt most powerful....

Jembra's struggle really sold it. As he moved and tore at his stitching, I could smell the blood welling in his wounds. Hidelord's offer danced in my mind; what would Jembra look like without his skin? With the smell of blood covering his whole body? I shuddered at the thought, and the words of an old story about a fur trader came to my head; one who had been so greedy that he had killed all the animals, and had begun to feel sorrow only then for the victims as he found himself alone. I hummed a bit giddily as words broke past a ghosting smile, "So long it has felt since I have brushed with the soft fur of a pelt."

My mind somehow made up, I looked to the Hidelord then, "If you could guide me…"

The hunter hummed, leaving the knife on the table by the troll's foot, then coming to the side of the table to press the recoiling cadaver's arm tight to the steel, gesturing over with his eyebrows. "I'd normally soak the skin in some salt water to help loosen it from the muscle, but...you get the point. Bastard's weak but he's still gonna shake so I'll hold him for you."

Jembra's moans, barely audible, became weak pleads that warbled through the streaks of tears that bubbled along his eyelids and nose.

"We'll start here." He dug the tip of his elbow against the wrist to keep it secured, then gestured to the secured area of skin just below said wrist. "I'd normally flip him onto his stomach and start from the back, but with his injuries that'd just kill him. Don't expect to be perfect on your first time skinning, it took me a few tries to get the right method." Ugh, dreadful to think about. Almost as dreadful as the excitement that was bouncing in his voice. It irritated me how much we mirrored each other. "You've peeled fruit with a paring knife, right? Same idea. Stick just the tip under, then angle upwards so you're only getting under his skin, then press on a slight angle. The knife isn't a tool, it's a friend; let it do the work."

I readied myself just as Hidelord instructed. My breath became shaky not from nervousness but from the sight of the knife entering Jembra's body and how smooth the movement was. I angled the knife once it was in, and began to peel down. "Is there a pattern you do this in?" I tossed him a glance and ignored Jembra's cries. "Patches? Strips? Is any of this salvageable to you? Or should I have fun with this blood orange?"

The biting remark caused a shift in Jembra's face; the smallest hint of prideful fury at the demeaning tease. Apparently the only thing stronger than fear to the Lords was their pride. But it wouldn't last, and the machines began to beep louder as a deep, dark goo ebbed along the edge of the knife. Groans rose in pitch and the man fought to free his arm with what little fight remained in his form.

"To flay and filet a troll is an art form. Part of the appeal is the different styles. This product is just for a trophy, not for a special sale, but do try to make it recognizable." He pointed along the lines of veins bulging with each dig and pull of the blade. "Try to keep the veins intact if you can, don't slice and dice them for the sake of our turf war. Pyritebloods have thin, mutant veins, but they're almost as much of a trademark as how much of swindlers they are. Never met one that wasn't itching to try and fuck you over for advancement, isn't that right Jembra?" Hidelord chuckled. "Keep doing what you're doing. Maybe cut that first side of the forearm off, and then we'll give him a break so the shock doesn't take him. He's gonna have to keep from croaking too quick for his fucking stupidity, hmm?"

Listening to Hidelord's advice I worked the seconds away. I was careful and attentive as I could be, admiring the way the blood pooled around the knife and the texture of peeled skin. A part of me hated it. It felt as if a lost memory was threatening to play in my mind, something I pushed so far back so long ago. I feared I would uncover it again if I continued. But I wanted to keep going out of spite of my master. And yet there’s a part of me that was hungry and eager to please. I’m a complete mess with torn wills.

I stopped peeling when this half of the forearm was exposed. I held the patch of skin in my hands, my eyes wide. I had once been renowned as the Huntress, playing with my prey before eating it, before shedding their heads from their bodies. These weren’t forbidden thoughts or memories, no more as they were reflections.

I held the patch up for the Hidelord to see, seeking his approval and showing off the catch. I both hated myself and yet was impressed at the same time. I wanted to scream and cry at the Hidelord, fearful of the memory that threatened to come. There was a reason why I’m not up close and personal with my kills, usually. This is up close. This is personal. This is...

I glared at him, burning hatred onto his face. Look what you made of me! This isn’t punishment, but entertainment, and I feel I have become a jester. Yet, this might as well become of me: the very same monster I revere. Despite it all I couldn’t help but wish this to end, and for him to hold me and praise me; did I put on a good show? The proof is in my hands.

Wading in the stench and promise of blood, the night swam into morning in the vigorous agony of the broken man and Hidelord's uncontainable satisfaction. It was early during the start of his chest being worked that the shock and pain finally took hold and Jembra lost consciousness. As long as he was dead, I could numb myself.

"Weak man," the Hidelord huffed, wiping his palms with a dirty cloth. "There was a lot more fun in store if he wasn't such a pansy-fuck. At best, it makes carving him easier, especially for hands and feet, and when we remove the eyes." His index finger went under my chin and pointed my gaze towards him. "Tell me, what do you feel, Athena? A rush? A pride? Honor?"

There was an uncomfortable silence between us as he waited for my answer. I glanced back and forth between the cadaver and Hidelord, studying my handiwork while battling with emotions I couldn’t fathom.

My lip curled slightly as I relented, “Satisfaction.” My voice had cracked, and I could not maintain it. My words grew breathless and soundless, almost like a sob. "Eagerness. Regret. But pride, yes, there's certainly pride." There was a growl rising in my throat, barely audible. He pressed me to him and we rested our foreheads against the other’s. "I hate the person I am when I’m with you.”

His fingers coaxed between strands of my matted hair. "You're lucky to have the luxury to hate what you're doing,” he hummed, "in the Safari, everyone surrenders to me; it's best to surrender with the part of you that's truest. Uncaged, untamed...an exotic nemesis to all that would disrespect you, and disrespect me. “A knife is made to cut, Athena. You may want to keep it sheathed, use it to pin your letters to the wall, make it something it isn't, but it'll never be as good or as happy as when it's cuttin'. You're a knife-" He pointed down at his pants. "You're on my belt, heh. You're sharp, dangerous, beautiful. I'll keep you clean, polished - as a prized possession deserves." His lips brushed across my blood-stained knuckles, his other hand encircling the middle of my neck with two fingers. His breath was warm, rank with the smell of alcohol and spittle. "Now...I've paid you two more favors than I'd pay any other troll in this fucking madhouse of mine. Is that enough to trade for a prophecy, my little bird?"

He was making a promise to me. My chest and throat tightened as tears stung the back of my eyes. This. This was the best my life was going to get. Someone who would protect me, cherish me, want me. I meant something to him, even though I was just a slave-- no. If I had been just a slave, I would have been treated like everyone else. I wouldn’t have the privilege of his protection or praise, of his bed or his knife. He knew me. He knows what’s best for me, can see me for what I am, for what I can’t fight.

And in that moment, I found myself content for the first time in three sweeps. Why should I fight something that seemed too good? I could be here, by his side, on his lap or on the floor, and he would protect me. Clean. Polished. He wouldn't let anyone else have me. I wouldn't move from place to place, hand to hand, whip to whip. I’m his. I have a place. A purpose. His. This was the best I was going to get, and so I’ll have it as long as he'll have me.

Well, there was a problem with that, though. I hesitated. I’ve seen this coming for a long time now, and had always accepted that it would just be Fate. To move around and shift from hand to hand forever. But something was coming. While before I had refused to tell Hidelord this, now that I was convinced of how close Hidelord would hold his knife to his belt I reconsidered. "There will be a hound of metal," I said softly. "Fiercer than your knives. You will lose one of them." The Hidelord’s a smart and clever man, and though sometimes he struggled with figuring out my cryptic words –as per our song and dance-- he knew instantly that this was about me. "How long?" He queried, blinking slowly. "How near is this hound to its scent?"

I reached up and cupped his cheek, running the side of my thumb along his cheek bone and part of the scar that ran over his eye. "You're the most cunning trapper I've had the displeasure to meet," I brought my lips to his skin and traced his uneven stubble on his jaw, then did the same to his throat. I felt him stiffen and radiate with confusion, but soon his shoulders relaxed. I let my fangs graze lightly, then looked up at him. The hesitance was still there, but now I allowed my voice to be distant. Reserved. As always, I knew more than he did, and I knew Fate cannot be fought with. I accepted that a long time ago, after the death of my matesprit. So what am I to do now? And him? "You figure it out."

Predictably, flattering the great lord earned enough favor to distract. The smirk that sprouted was torn between grabbing me by one shoulder blade and pressing me deep into the space between his pectorals and letting me lead, just as he had a moment ago. In the end though, the moment was fleeting, and as we stood at the window, he put the cool metal of his rings against the trail that my teeth had left. “If I ever killed a troll for every time you talked smart to me, the mountain would be higher than the one we took to get here,” he jested dangerously, the words ringing in their usual dynamic.

I nodded, falling silent, but not for him. A small glimpse of time rolled behind my eyes, showing a glimmer of metal and splashes of blood. How topical; I knew the hound was coming, but I hadn’t thought it would be today. Which meant we didn’t have time to stand around. If I don’t distract him, he’ll be dead like the rest of them. What a cruel irony, when I had just chosen to believe in his promise.

"If you do not mind, Aktaio, I would like to confess."

With the use of his real name, the coy game stopped. A vein bulged in the side of his neck as he tried to figure out what that meant. Heat rushed to his face. His jaw set, a suspicion ghosting his expression, though I knew he didn’t want to believe it. “…What have you done? Talk. Now.”

[memurfevur-archive]

Hide and Seek Part 2: The Bronze Girl

Character(s): Athena Uyilst, The Hidelord (@mageofspacemultiverse)

About: As Hidelord hosts an auction, a few visions of the future weigh on Athena's mind: a traitor, and a slave girl. Things don't exactly go to plan, though, and Athena finds herself with blood on her hands.

CW: graphic NPC death, blood, ask to tag

Hide and Seek Part 1: Song and Dance

=============================================

I stepped through the threshold as someone I was not, dragged by a leash fastened in the Hidelord’s hand. I kept my eyes on his back and my mouth closed. Anxiety threatened to grip my heart the closer we got to the merry-making that would welcome us below. I am not a stranger to parties, but I abhorred the ones Hidelord hosted.

A crowd had slowly filtered in: his close friends and fellow hunters with their best slaves, drinking from brown bottles and legs propped up on 'foot-rests'. They hollered and howled when we had walked in, a party effectively declared. Clove and holly dried in the window. Ribbons attached to the ankles and wrists of dancers waved to the music, loud to mark the festivities. Faces twisted in unappealing smiles, and the guests’ laughter almost sounded like an execution. I tried not to show my disgust as their spittle flew; a few rare droplets landed on my shoulder. It was worse than a circus here.

Beyond the thin, cramped opening that we walked through was a set of stairs leading to an old beech tree chair lavishly coated in layers and layers of high quality lusii fur. A gavel made from some poor troll’s horn perched precariously beside it. Hidelord guided me over, then gave a kiss to my knuckles before taking a seat. After waiting a moment so that his kiss could feel like the burning of bleach on my skin, he motioned for me to make a new perch on his lap.

"What...a...night. Welcome, you freaky fuckheads." The Hidelord welcomed, to another round of cheers and smirks from monsters just like him. "Yesterday we hunted; today, we feast on our spoils. Until then, see to it that you keep things entertaining."

Around us was a drunken revelry, one of the not-so-few occasions that this chalet would host a gathering. An auction, rather; a celebration of spoils and some chance to make wealth. I cast my eyes away from the guests manhandling available slaves, favoring to pretend it wasn’t happening at all. There’s no room for compassion here in this land, not unless there were strings attached, and I no longer had the power to intervene like I used to on the Mainland. In this existence as a bystander, I could only be thankful it wasn’t me, though I was not blind to the other warlords’ hungry looks. It was because of them, actually, that I had requested to sit upon my lord’s lap before our arrival.

My legs draped over the side of his throne as his hands rested beneath the thin cloth that hung very loosely over me, a protective but perverted claim to my body. I suppose it should’ve been obvious that I was his favorite asset, not that anyone else needed to know. The illusion of social politics is what makes the difference between life and death here in the Safari. The more someone is feared, the safer they are; if there’s ever a glimpse of weakness-- say, having a lover-- then the respect someone has for their fearsome leader would be gone. Leaders here must show a lonesome and gruesome independence to the likes of nothing that I could compare. Lovers, friends, children, anyone below a warlords rank: they’re all dangerous liabilities that could burn entire chalets down. There were not often exceptions.

Now you have someone like me: a dying breed, and with a gift for seeing the threads of time. A dangerous woman helping the stronghold stay strong, while playing the role of a fragile pet. A slave that could whisper suggestions into their crude warlord’s ear. It would be enough to set his throne ablaze. So we hide our song and dance from public eyes, and I kept my vow vigilance that he so greedily craves.

While looking away from the chaos of the party, my eyes landed on a particular warlord. The world around me had begun to drop away, and I was no longer myself. It was like I had been pulled underwater; the world shimmered and quivered around me, dusted in red. I knew what this meant, but whether I stood in the shoes of myself or someone else was always hard to tell-- but this man now before me became covered in blood. There was eagerness in his eyes, sparks of betrayal and a cruel smirk. Green stained the ground around him. I could feel my heart fall to my stomach. A slave stood by, trembling and crying. Bronze.

Then, I blinked, and a new scene played out before me. The same man, covered in blood but yellow instead of green. His body torn open, patches of skin missing from his body, and his face twisted in pain as agonized tears streamed down his face. A horn was broken. I could feel my pulse racing, and my hands began to twitch as if it could feel the texture of the horn that was once there. Anger. I felt so much anger….

I gasped and quickly sat forward, waking myself from these living dreams. We’d been in concert long enough for Hidelord to know my little signals, the lurch of my visions, the loyalty of my scent-tracking. He beckoned a servant to bring him drinks, playing the at-ease ruler without brains, but he surveyed the room with a cool intensity, looking to spot the piece of the puzzle that didn't fit quite right. There were a few that caught his attention, I could tell, but which one of them plotted was not too certain to him. As the drinks were brought over, he murmured to the troll: a sea-dweller dressed in wool rags with a bone piercing in his eyelid. This servant oversaw both gossip and the keys to the Hidelord’s personal zoo. The Hidelord knew how to play strengths, and before long he shooed them away. "Well?" His brows were expectant even as his words said little.

"You're the trapper, my dear turning knife. I will tell you when it is time. Preemptiveness does more harm than good, I have learned." I lowered my voice more, reaching back to trace a finger lightly across his throat. His eyes narrowed. "There are two possibilities. You're negotiating an asset, sharing her, and in your ecstasy you wouldn't even notice your throat cut. Or, you open theirs, covering her in their blood. Though I suppose this would give them away, once you begin to discuss your wares during this time of celebration, hm? Once someone touches it, is willing to give their life for it, you will know."

I felt a haze then, as if another vision was threatening to take me under again. A third possibility, but one I cannot see. Or, perhaps I had read my visions wrong? My lips pressed into a fine line as I turned back to glance at the crowd. The man was no longer where he should have been. I settled back into the lap and chest of my master. A few fingers parted through the locks of my hair, and Hidelord paid for my counsel with an unseen kiss to my temple. "A golden opportunity. Leeches must be cut out before they sink their teeth in too deep,” he murmured, "We'll show them our own form of ecstasy, won't we? Steal the smiles from their faces, the vigor from their bones?"

He held the glass of blood-red wine out to me, taunting me with a smirk. I did not refuse the wine, instead letting it wash over my parched lips as I drank from the glass in his hand. It was welcoming; a cool refreshment in a stale and warm atmosphere. Instead of licking the traces of wine off my lips when I was done, I brought my lips to his so he could sample, and when I pulled away he scraped his teeth against my bottom lip. I could feel his eyes linger on me as I turned away to look back at the crowd. He settled back more, letting the rhapsody spill out around us as we waited for the opportunity that I’d spoken of, his hand on my thigh just above the knee. Our song and dance, unknown to drunken eyes.

An hour and half seemed to pass at a lurid gait, until the heavy front doors jittered open and in sauntered a train of more slaves from the Hidelord's zoo. The zoo was its own form of hell: a great maze of cages just out back upon the sun-burnt cliffs. His eyes passed over each of his prizes, his potential products in turn, the fourth one drawing his-- no, both, of our gazes magnetically for a moment. Her outfit was beyond modest, and though her shoulder sank with accepted sadness, there was a glow about her. His chin tilted up in acknowledgment, and he took the horn next to the chair and gave it a quick bang across the top of the wooden chest, witnessing the whole of the party-goers go hush in preparation for his announcement.

"Well, well, well." He taunted the line of product, clutching me gently to him as he absorbed the fear they emitted and waved the guards that carried her over. "That umber would make a great deep color, don't you think, Athena? The tanning beneath the skin stiffen with heat, turning it a deep caramel. I could make you a handbag." I quietly scoffed with a scowl and said nothing, disgusted and with now prying eyes I am without the right to truthfully speak out against his taunts.

Instead, I studied the Bronzeblood within the cage. Her skin took on a soft hue of orange in the dull cascade of the sunset behind her. Her hair was long, matted, but the way it fell down on either side of her head framed her slender face well. She was beautiful, and everything about her matched my vision. I steeled myself for the trauma that was to come. I was to not care about her, just as I was to not care about any other servant in this building. No one survived being selfless in the Safari.

"You're privy to my domicile, you bastards and lepers, and you will be again!" Hidelord greeted to a harmony of snickers, "Now, as is typical, we have some lovely treats for you to occupy, if your wallet can take it. Eight prizes to do with as you please. To have a look, however, I offer free of charge." He scanned the row of patrons, splitting a grin and sipping at his cocktail. "Are there any takers? .......Nnnnooo? Well, perhaps-"

"I 'ant da one on yur lap 'ere, Hidelord!" A man with half his teeth missing cawed with a laugh, gesturing at me with his cane and licking his chops. My blood immediately ran cold and my stomach twisted in knots; I pressed myself tighter against my master-- my protection. The Hidelord rolled his eyes, cheek slouching against his wrist.

"Has there been a day that's gone by where you haven't asked for your piece, Haumme?"

"Ol take care 'er like you 'uldn't belief!"

"Shut your fuckin' trap. You're a groundskeeper. For the amount she's worth you'd have to take the teeth of everyone in this room, and then times that by four thousand, and lick the Grand Highblood's taint, and only then would you be halfway there." The dissenter's face soured and he grumbled into silence, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

Others with genuine offers soon stood and pressed their claim. The to-be-culprit caught my gaze when he stepped forward, venom evident in his eyes as he leered as though to say 'the hell are you looking at', before standing to make a claim of his own. "So much excitement!” Hidelord laughed and shook me, as if to get me to laugh along with him. Few transactions were made as time passed by slowly. I kept my gaze down to avoid the hungry eyes of strangers. I tried spacing out, thinking of anything but being here, so I wouldn’t have to listen to the survivor’s guilt that clawed at my stomach. I would be rattled to the present everytime Hidelord howled his laughter. I could not remember what time it was by the time the auction went on hold.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we'll discuss these purchases upstairs after the feast, no need to disrupt the celebration. I'll settle bidding wars, and let you tour your treats more properly." He chuckled, and the others bowed slightly in acknowledgment before the music fired up again.

In through the door after the cages came spits of roasted bone-in meat, dripping gobs of fat glistening from the flames, and great wood platters of hacked onions and vegetables. Patrons drew forward with their knives and carved their bits, some fighting to get the pieces they wanted. They ate with their hands, chewing into gristle and flesh and organ meat, wiping the blood and grease on their clothes. A servant brought the Hidelord a plate of his own, but he ignored it for now.

"There’s game to catch first,” Hidelord growled, “what do I seek, Athena?" His hand toyed with one of the knives on his belt, eager to let it feed on traitor blood. 

I didn’t answer him. Fate was not mine to decide, not anymore. I learned long ago that no one could fight what was to come, to deny the inevitable. I tried not to think about that night and all the ones that followed. I tried not to think about the night I lost her. It can’t be helped; someone will be dying tonight. I scanned the crowd and once more my gaze landed on the warlord from my vision, brows furrowing and body tensing as he came closer to Hidelord’s throne. This was enough to quench Hidelord’s curiosity.

He picked up on the signal, looking sidelong for a moment before quickly turning his attention back. Hidelord spoke with his tone light; friendly, but shadowed by threats. "Jembra, you bitch, the party would've been better with you not around, pestering me for more than what you can fucking chew.” The troll who had approached the middle of the room, standing before the remnants of the roast, wore a symbol: though it was imprinted in a brand on his shoulder and embroidered on the ascot around his neck - like two swords crossing paths. The sunglasses over his eyes hid a pale amber-gold caste, and his stomach was fully obscured by pale-white dressings that may have even extended further down his legging-adorned lower half. A large C-shaped scar, long healed, drew from his upper chest to the side of his neck, and a pinky finger was missing at the joint. "And I’ll ask again. Somebody needed to see to our defenses," Jembra lightly deflected, a reedy and political color to his voice. "You mean, see to my assets?" "It's not against the code to chase yours, old friend." "Don't lecture me on the code, okay? I made the fucking code." Jembra glanced at me for a second, hands in his pockets, likely taking hold of some weapon. I could feel bile rising in the back of my throat, my fangs lengthening as my lips threatened to curl in a feral hiss. I bit my tongue to hold myself back.

"Point taken." His head cut upwards, breaking contact with me, "speaking of chasing, care to tell me about her? You know which kind I like."

The Hidelord swallowed his tongue, but his muscles tensed as he took a glance at the brown-blooded troll. Hidelord shooed me away off his lap, then gestured for the girl to be uncuffed and brought over to kneel at the foot of the steps. Jembra took a step forward and the Hidelord cracked the fingers on one hand, ready to vanquish the would-be-usurper...but not without patience.

My eyes lingered over the slave in question, cowering with tears streaming down her face. I learned long ago that this was the art of war. Once upon a time, that had been me cowering in a barricade as people laughed and touched, as if I was nothing but cattle. I felt pity for her, but I would sooner dissociate than feel the willpower to cause a change. That power wasn’t mine anymore. I turned to take a seat on the cushions at the foot of Hidelord's throne which were often reserved for his most prized slave, usually. It was rare that I wouldn’t be the one to warm them. As Jembra and Hidelord neared her, the Bronze whimpered and barked out a word that by now was almost foreign to me. My insides felt colder than the fear the other warlords put in me. "Akabri!" Akabri. A Vaelari word for something akin to mercy. A plea. A prayer. It felt as if all my breath had been taken from me. Vaelari. My birth people, long since wiped out by the Empire’s need for control. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I could not control the words that came from my mouth, and in my desperation I foolishly ignored the curious stares from the other warlords. These sounds, sounds that I have not spoken in sweeps, tore my throat raw: "Ebuto shiua! To ebu shiua!” You are heard.The Bronze girl began to tremble and sob out more Vaelari, matching my intensity. I had not even noticed the hot globs of tears that fell off my cheeks until I received a look of agitation from Hidelord. I immediately closed my mouth, fear making bile rise in my throat. I’d messed up.

All the background chatter and ambient noise faded to the chorus of a well-dead syntax filling the lodge. I could feel Jembra’s eyes on me, taking a glance as if it suddenly dawned on him that my presence was worthwhile.

"Well isn't that something? Them two know one another, do they?"

"I wouldn't know. Don't remember giving her permission to speak, though. Damn nuisance. She'll be lucky if I don't-"

"That isn't just speaking, that's understanding. I could use an interpreter." Jembra's rotten teeth almost glowed. "Name your price."

"Not for sale."

"Really now? I wouldn't say I agree." He scuffed his boot at the foot of the stairs, sending the Bronze shuddering. "You're a reasonable business-troll, great Hidelord, and everyone has a price. And to me, there's something...sweetly exotic about it. Your little bird could help me learn." He lightly, yet overtly commented. The Hidelord was not amused. "Didn't you hear the last bat-shit vagabond who asked me? Whatever price you want to match-"

"I'll give you my Lime. You remember Saphic? You're not going to turn that down, are you? For an endangered line you'd be insane, she's 500 teeth."

As the Umbre continued babbling, Hidelord's eyelid twitched, and he motioned to his guards. "For the love of the seven hells, someone shut this bitch up. Heat the brand, gag her, fuck if I care, but she's harshing the vibes in here."

"We're in the middle of an acquisition here! Leave her to speak, chum." Jembra quipped as two larger trolls approached but immediately wavered at Jembra’s gesture. "Besides, that was a poorly veiled distraction. You know, I don't think we've ever gotten to see this slave's blood first-hand.” Jembra gestured at me, and my eyes widened. “What is she? Based on your defense I'm guessing… Rareblood? No, maybe someone pretty damn important. Why don't we all find out...?" I fell silent at Jembra’s foolish threats. I tried to hush the Bronze girl to try to dissuade the others from harming her, but my attempts were fruitless. With a sigh, the Hidelord grabbed the Bronze by the hair and threw her into Jembra with a roar. If it was one thing I knew, it was that no one should feel comfortable with threatening anything of his.

The swaggering traitor caught her, stumbling backward, and Hidelord threw a dagger into the troll's foot, catching the slave's side as it flew through the air. Both shouted, but the Hidelord didn't relent, and he quickly hoisted Jembra up the stairs on his back.

I lurched forward and caught the Bronze and held her, comforting her, quieting her cries as we spoke our tongue. This was not how it was supposed to go. This was not what I saw in my vision. I cast a look over my shoulder as Hidelord grappled with Jembra. As I watched them I whispered to the Bronze, telling her to hide if she could. This had turned personal.

I turned and saw Jembra reach for the knife, and Hidelord not having a clue, thinking himself won.

I hesitated, between letting it be and intervening. I shouldn't intervene! I should have learned by now that I couldn't change fate. I couldn’t do it to protect my brother, I couldn’t fight it to protect my matesprit, what chance would that change now for someone who claimed me as nothing but property? Hidelord's future was his... but did I have a future without him? What would happen to me here without Hidelord's protection? I thought to all the hungry warlords that undressed me with their eyes. Fates be damned, what use was a lie if it was dead?

With a deep breath, I readied myself and sprung. I landed on a table, then immediately propelled off of it and onto the wall where I ran just above the crowds’ heads. Jumping from that point, I pounced, not unlike a cat. A predator. A monster. My hands wrapped around Jembra's throat, snatching him from Hidelord's grasp. I could feel eyes fall on me in disbelief, but I could not care. I lifted Jembra high enough above the ground so his feet weren't touching, my nails digging into his flesh. I took the knife from his foot and threw it aside, leaving him with no spare weapon to scramble for. For me? I didn’t need one. I grabbed one of his horns and, effortlessly, ripped one of them off. I felt the chitin and sinew of nerves snap in my hands, and when I dislodged his horn I immediately rammed it into his gut.

While he shrieked in pain I grappled the man so that he was over my shoulder, my hands still clasped around the horn. As I threw him over my head the horn sliced through his skin, ripping him open and causing blood to spray everywhere. The body crashed against the wall with a sick, wet thud. I heaved in every breath, drinking it like water, growls and snarls escaping me like a feral beast. I will keep my protection. Hidelord will not die today. I spat at Jembra’s body, cursing at him in Vaelari.

The sound in the cabin was mute, as all the onlookers’ stares landed on me. All the guards and the lords and the slaves. Hidelord included, too. I looked up at him, looking for something: acknowledgment, approval. 

But instead what I was met with was the back of his hand meeting my cheek, holding nothing back. His chest heaved as he stashed the knife and retreated back to his chair, taking the glass of wine from earlier and taking a few long swigs. I stared after him as the sting caused unwanted tears to well up in my eyes. His back was turned to me when he spoke again. "Guards, two of you. Take her upstairs. I don't want to hear that awful gibberish again, and if she keeps talking help her forget it. I'll deal with her later. Two more, take all these back to the zoo. Sales are closed for tonight. One had to ruin the fucking party for everybody. The rest of you can finish your meals and ales and fuck yourselves home." He turned to one scuttling assistant with glasses too big for his face and a long gray apron. Hidelord gestured to the strewn corpse. "I doubt he's salvageable, but see what you can do. If you get some life back in him, I'll make him wish he were dead later. If not, slop for the boars, they'll be happy for a fresh meal. And if you all have any questions, shove it." He cast one look back at me before taking his seat again. I shouldn’t have felt hurt. This was the song and dance, but a well of bitterness churned in my stomach, as two guards came and picked me up by the arms. A cast a glare at Hidelord, but that quickly lost its flame and I lowered my eyes to the ground. They dragged me up the stairs and dumped me in Hidelord’s study, buried me in fists and kicks, blood and bruises. Then, they were just as quick to abandon me to their posts right outside the door.

I settled myself against his desk, pressing my back against it and pulling my knees to my chest. I could feel the bruise forming on my cheek, no doubt a ring on his had made a haunting impression. Frustration built up in me, and I lashed out at the ground with my fist-- leaving that aching now, too.

I had been face-to-face with my past, and I could do nothing to save her. I had acted out of line and saved Hidelord’s pathetic ass, but I was to be punished for it. And above all, my visions failed me.

The music picked up again with far less vigor, and it was not ten minutes before he came storming up the stairs, near-snarling for the guards to watch downstairs for any dissenters. The door slammed open as the sound of footsteps landed outside.

The great Oliveblood shook his head with a grimace, pulling out a bag of ice and tossing it on the ground in front of me. "That's for your face, bitch. If I didn't punish you in some way right away, it would've turned into a fiasco down there: owners calling for my head or dragging you out into the Safari with the others. What happened, Athena? What in the Gog fuck happened? You said to wait for a signal and then start spewing nonsense out of your good-for-nothing government beak!"

There was frustration in his eyes. Power-hungry fury, yes. His voice was deep and bellowed with guttural anger. But there was a hint of something else that was unfamiliar and out of place. Fear? Since when was the mighty Hidelord afraid?

I didn't pick up the bag of ice, basking in the pain for a moment longer, but then surmised that I might be punished more if I didn't accept his help. I reached for the bag and pressed it to the bruise.

 "...She was my kin," I said, wincing at my voice cracking. "We came from the same lands. The same people. The same family that the Empire you all so gleefully ignore wiped out. We were the Vaelari, or Fae as they call it. I thought my brother and I were the only survivors." I slumped back with a grunt, tilting my head back to lessen the pain. "I shouldn't tell you any of this. You'll just see it as another fucking dollar on a price tag. Or tooth. Or whatever the hells you fuckers use. Art of war or whatever. I wish I could be so ignorant."

He crumpled into his chair by the window again, hunched over and brain working. There was a stretch of silence before he spoke again. "......I'm not gonna pretend I understand what you're feeling. Doesn't serve either of our interests for me to, either. But okay. That, that at least, doesn't make what you did entirely ass-backwards.” My brow quivered at this sudden show of sympathy. Right. Songs and dances can feign emotion, too.

“Don't underestimate the power of a price tag, though. If what you're saying is true and she's endangered, that makes her an asset. Not a troll to just throw away to anyone with a few funds." He met my gaze for a moment. "Someone I can keep in the chalet. You understand?" The Hidelord shook his head and in a surprising move, shed himself of the long jacket that was his calling card. "...I've never told you how I made this coat, or at least not the specifics. It really isn't yours or anyone's fucking business, but after tonight's little display, I don't exactly have a choice in the matter. "I've been with bitches before, and I know you know it. I grew up in the Chalet, it was built on Atalis soil by Atalis hands. Labored in and out for a commune, a place of trade without chucklefucks breathing down our necks. My ancestor had it stolen by another lord when I wasn't even pupated, and I took it from another cuck some time later, but the place has never changed, and neither has the code." He didn't meet my eyes anymore as he ran his hands along the sleeves. "My first mate was named Imniks. She was everything to me. The body, the spirit. She was a soft thing though, plucked from a pillowcase. Squishy, overt. Tried to stand up to a rival lord once. Well, he left and gathered the others and waged war on us, vowed to take my Imniks, have their way with her, and make her watch as they killed me. Burn this place to the ground. She was weak… so I gave her up to save everything that meant something to me or the others.

"But you," his pupils seared into the wall, "you aren't weak. You're made of stronger stuff. I'm not looking to give up another and I don't think you're the kind to make me, but I've been here my whole life. You haven't... They'll want you thrown in the Safari for this, and I'll do my damndest to keep you out of a real cage, but if you think your bitch ass is going to get both of us killed because of the life that kicked you to the curb, you better right reconsider your perspective."

His voice was even and scarily calm despite his clear anger, as though romanticizing his past struggles with these trolls took the energy out of him.

I glanced at him briefly, taking in his story and his words and studying him without the coat. I wanted to argue, to say that they couldn't have any influence in what he did with me because I was his, but he was right. He knew this place better, and I should know better than anyone that politics is one hell of a field to traverse in.

But, his praise surprised me. Strong? How, when I had given up on life so long ago? His words made me reconsider; if I was weaker than what he claimed, I wouldn't be able to survive here. I wouldn't have been able to match him blow for blow my first day here, prompting him to spare me. Maybe there really was a fire still in me? How long would it be until those embers would go out, too?

Despite the sting of blood that dribbled into my eyes, I ignored my body's screams as I shuffled to the Hidelord and kneeled. Humility was a powerful thing to offer, sometimes greater than a life. "You are right. I was foolish, reckless. Do what you will to punish me, and make it believable, so what respect I robbed of you will be returned."

His hair hung wild across his shoulders, which shook along with his head. A thin sickle split his cheeks, armed with teeth. "You're a crazy bird. They heard enough to be calmed for tonight. I can't promise tomorrow won't sting, though. Jembra's people will want blood on their hands. I'll see what kind of middle ground we can find." When the Hidelord spoke of middle ground, it usually meant killing a few more trolls to supplement the losses. "Lilac's hard to bullshit, though. Then again, I'm sure you can foresee what I'm gonna do, so don't get all defiant on me. It's just business."

I pressed my lips together, not liking the sound of that, but I nodded along. There was a knock on the door, and the Hidelord quickly strode over and peaked around to see a servant carrying his food from downstairs. Keeping the door mostly-shut, he took the plate with a snarl, taking a fistful of meat before putting it down on the ground for me. His teeth worked and ground flesh into pulp as he nursed the idea of what he was going to do with his prize. From outside came drunken moans and howls and screeches that I wasn’t sure were lusii or troll in nature. "But I'll keep your Fae-shmae bitch around here for now, since you ended up saving my life. Frankly killed two wingbeasts with one bloody fuckin' stone; Jembra’s always been a damn rat, but he knew better to consider a play like that. And, if they can put blood in ‘im and make him squawk again,” there was a glint in his eyes, strange and eerie and wanting. "Maybe I'll show you how to skin the bastard.”

Silence filled the block for a while. There wasn't much worth talking about anymore. No bravado, no tug-of-war for dominance; not tonight. Guards didn't care to enter, nor were there demands for explanation. He never pressed for details about my life in these moments, when things were calm and there was no face to put on. Sometimes if the silence got unbearable, he'd ask what I wanted. Tonight though, there was none of that. He only polished his knives, eventually lighting a cigar for himself to smoke. The sounds of the howls and hoots would emerge from the Safari, somewhere far away from the small shred of troll-manity they were encased inside, though even those faded as the darkness began to lighten.

When he'd gotten through his whole belt, he stood and flicked his ashy blunt into an ashtray, then stretched and cracked his back. Hidelord’s eyes lingered on me for a few heartbeats, face even and giving away nothing. "If you want to sleep, sleep in the chair. Not sure if you're risking a hunt today, but either way...good morning." Briskly, the warlord left to his bed and pulled a curtain closed behind him, leaving me alone with my bruises and thoughts.

"Good morning, dear turning-knife.”

I glanced briefly at the chair, then greedily took to it knowing that it was better than nothing. As I curled up in the chair, I brought my knees to my chest and hugged myself tightly. I missed the warm arms of a loved one around me and the feeling of safety without the need of keeping one eye open. I missed friendly company with no strings attached; I missed the sounds of everyday life outside my door. But then I wondered if this was really any different than what my life had been on the Mainland. The Hidelord was just another Grand Highblood, but with green in his veins instead of purple, and having the cruelty of pretending that he cared.

And once again, not for the first and certainly not the last time, loneliness lulled me to sleep.

[memurfevur-archive]

Hide and Seek

For those lost in time and memory, the hunt never ends.

The oracle Athena has known tragedy since she was born; with her home destroyed, loved ones gone, and a former moirail that harmed and abused her, she's learned to lose her fight before the fight loses her. That is, until she's exiled to the Safari: a ruthless land full of criminals and exiles who pride themselves on pillages and murder. She falls under the ownership of the fearsome warlord Hidelord, though their relationship comes to grow more complicated and codependent by the day.

When Athena's brother sends a bounty to rescue her, she'll have to relearn to let her guard down and not without the help of the ever charming and quirky prophet of a god of life. But she'll soon find herself with a choice to make: to love life because she is a part of it, or to love life because she can control it. It's a decision she'll have to make soon, for the Hidelord won't sit still for long.

CHARACTERS

Athena Uyilst (memurfevur)

The Hidelord (@mageofspacemultiverse)

Zomson (@mageofspacemultiverse)

M4NGL3 (memurfevur)

Athens Uyilst (memurfevur)

DRABBLES

Help Wanted

Song and Dance (part 1)

The Bronze Girl (part 2)

A Promise (part 3)

[SLOT 4] (part 4)

[memurfevur-archive]

Hide and Seek Part 1 : Song and Dance

Character(s): Athena Uyilst, The Hidelord (@mageofspacemultiverse)

About: A small introduction to the setting and of the dynamic between Athens' twin sister Athena and the fearsome renowned Hidelord.

CW: slavery, light graphic depictions, alcohol mention, power imbalances in relationships

Words: 2,839

===========================================

My love is my hatred. He is the fire that keeps me warm and the embers that char my skin. He is the spite that keeps me alive. He is the hopelessness that makes me subservient. I could kill him with my eyes closed, and when I close them, I can almost feel his olive blood on my hands. I could see the wild look in his eye at my betrayal, and of the pride that would shine that of anybody who would best him it would be me. He could do the same to me, my loathed master, and bring my afterlife to ruin. 

But, we don’t; as of all his life I have been the only one to match his strength and cunning. So, we dance this familiar tango that we have done the past three sweeps: this estranged deal where I remain his property, and he my savior, for without each other this roof would fall. My sight is too beloved, and his power too ironclad. Together we’ve had a codependency that favored power imbalance, though by now I should figure that is the norm in this wretched land.

The Safari is where the Alternian Government dumps their unwanted when their prisons get too full, where the innocents are made to exiles. A free-for-all piece of land that had developed its own culture and ruthlessness, and where drones were unable to navigate to. These people live and die by a code most distasteful, but alas it has kept people like me alive, so who am I to complain? The code tames the vicious warlords, who all rule over strips of territory known as chalets. They make this world inhospitable for the free and hopeful; slaves are common assets of glory and wealth, and the currency exchanged is nothing more than the teeth plucked out of them.

Free the Safari from the blood-stained grasslands, forewarning heads mounted on pikes, and the constant smell of urine and fear, then perhaps this land could be beautiful. It has its own privacy and unique sense of beauty, when the sun makes the golden grass dance with a shimmer; when the crows and crickets sing in harmony, and the wild cattle graze by the rivers.

Despite the threat of death around every corner - more so than on the Mainland where a clown’s scrutiny could ruin your whole life - the people here had a sense of respect for the earth. Nothing goes to waste. Bones are repurposed into knives, hair becomes the stuffing in one’s pillows, and the meat becomes the next dinner’s stew. To be wasteful is to disrespect the code; someone lost their life so yours could live. Even if the warlords were uncaring to their living slaves, it was death and loss that truly brought them to Trollmanity-- though not without a side of vengeance, but that was another animal entirely.

Time hardly seemed to fly here, save the change of night to day and back, and the amber grass turning emerald again. Life was too simple and brutal for even the government's clutches, barbed and poisoned and fickle, and in no place was it truer than within the Helve Chalet.

The freaks and lepers had formed their own council and code, unsanctioned by the wall that bureaucrats had attempted to make. Wriggler-killers, mutineers, torturers and revolutionaries stayed within the grand encampment's territory, taking claim to a world where the law favored strength over caste and singularity over group-think. Of the warlords at the head of this council however, few held the notoriety and fear than the Hidelord.

With a cigar between two ringed fingers, he overlooked the violent, violet night from a window and from where I sat I could see a smirk forming on his face. How would he stay entertained today? Maybe raid on some cocky upstart? A hunt for some who wandered far beyond where they ever should've dared? Or...

Me?

Though four naked creatures crouched at his feet, backs scarred and eyes whimpering, they barely drew his attention. He put his cigar out on the horn of one, lounging back in his bony throne, ignoring the stifled scream as he puffed the smoke out the broken panes of glass.

"Time Bitch," The Hidelord beckoned, his voice thick and ragged. "Get over here."

I glared at him, debating on whether to give him what he wanted or to ignore him. In the privacy of closed doors, away from prying eyes, there was some safety in defiance, and these slaves were too terrified to tattle-tale.

"Call me by my name," I said, my tone held high and confident, "And I might humor you."

The Hidelord laughed, the many knives shaking on his belt as he crossed one leg over the other and met me eye-to-eye. "And make it easy for you? Pah, please. It's a new night and I know you like it hard to get. Try harder." He stroked his chin where the hair was thick and bushy. "Or, you can stay there for all I care. The darkness makes for shit company, little canary. But I want a drink. Any ideas you got from those Capital nancies?"

"Wine, martini, whiskey,” I listed slowly, “or you could risk it and drink something they call a dirty girl, though there's already one right in front of you. But, you’d have to catch me first." I was flirting with the devil himself who could send me directly to hell whenever he wanted. I wish I could care; what else did I have to live for? At least, if I were to die, it would be entertaining.

Besides, he wouldn’t dare to kill me. That was our game of tug-of-war.

He hummed and purred, my wooing always a familiar comfort to him. "Whiskey's fine, we can save the dirty for later. We’re about to have company." His finger twirled a lock of one of the petrified slaves, a cerulean whose lips trembled as much as her thighs, but his eyes were all mine.

Though in title I was the same as the others, carted in from the outskirts of the chalet, my unabashed savagery had quickly gotten his attention. In the three sweeps since I'd stumbled in, shattered and hopeless, he'd given me opportunities that few outside of his former matesprits had ever garnered. Unlike them though, he had little desire to sew my skin into his great coat; to him, it would be a waste of such brutal talent.

"Besides, I could catch you with an arm behind my back and three hoes penetrating me," he boasted, an arm slouching over the side as he gave the hair a yank, earning another grunt. "Hunting's only fun when the game's scared. But you aren't scared of me, are you?" He let go of the hair and unsheathed a knife, playing the tip against the pad of a calloused finger.

"I think we fear each other. It makes the sex good, at least. Gogs know you suck at foreplay.”

"Time's money, dear. We both already play with our food too much out there," he chortled. The warlord's long gnarled dreads swayed like drapes across a deep gray windowsill. "Speakin' of, actually, today's your lucky day. We got a message."

From his other pocket, Hidelord wrenched free a scroll with bits of black wax stuck to its edges and a bloody hand-print on its exterior. He unrolled it and showed it to me, the long ink lines hardly legible, but he narrated along to boot.

"Redrum's coming. Little weasel ridden commode of a holding leader thinks she has say over my Safari. Twenty teeth and a pelt as ‘tax’.” His fingers air-quoted sardonically. "They're all shitbags but they outnumber us by half. You dealt with relations, didn'tcha? How do you figure the best way to put them at ease so I can nail that bitch to a cross?" He asked calmly, though the indignant fury broiling underneath was unmistakable.

"It's easy to talk to people like you," I said as I scanned over the parchment. "Greedy rats who only care about their own power. But those with power fall easily when there's just a little bit of thinkpan to use. It's quite a good thing you lot are allergic to it." My eyes flickered to meet his gaze, and my brows briefly quirked in a show of smug confidence, though never did I smile or smirk.

“So charged with animosity, so poetically hateful, dear. Mmm..I bet you'd still look pretty without your tongue,” he quipped, casting a gaze to the slaves at his feet as warning, though I knew it was a bluff: we’d played this song and dance before, but I pulled back.

"All you need to do is promise her things she will never have. She's not as smart as you. She'll bite. And once a deal has been arranged, you will find it favorable to ambush her. She will never get what you promised, but you will."

 After a moment of thought, he nodded his approval, “The gullible act should do the trick just nicely. As for feeding, do what you like with the sheep once I have the shepherd."

The paper was thrown with little care into the corner of the room, and he sheathed his blade with decisive confidence. Hidelord's head lurched to the side. "Guard!" He snarled coolly, watching the four bodies at his feet squirm as a brute of a woman entered the room. "Take the beasts back and give them a wash. They're beginning to reek." All the trolls shook their heads and cowered, but were lurched away by the chains around their throats, quickly out into the hall, raspy voices pleading for mercy. It was quickly just the two of us alone in his study.

Hidelord stood, great boots making impressive thunks on the floor. He took a step closer to me, closing the breathing space between us and giving a telling look. "I believe you mentioned getting me a whiskey," his eyes widened expectantly, "right, Athena?"

"I never said anything of the sort.” Now that the other slaves were gone I dared to grab his chin between my thumb and forefinger, making him look at me. "You can get it your damn self."

If anyone else had even thought for a shred, a fraction, a sliver of a second, to put their hands on him the way I did, he would've cut them off and made them their dinner, and made any bystanders swear to secrecy. This was his dominion. But with me...a dangerous dancing glint was all that betrayed his emotions here. 

The Hidelord unglued my hand and squeezed for a moment, baring his teeth in a wicked grin before releasing. "Keep acting fucking bratty and I won't get you any more of that wine you like so much." 

He strode to the mini-bar - a cardboard box draped in silver lusii furs - and pulled an old bottle that smelled like moss off of it, not bothering with a glass. His throat worked as he took a long drag, wiping spittle from his mouth after the pull. "You know how hard it is to get that for you, anyway? Between it and your blood fests you'll run my kingdom drier than a Juggalo's sorry nook. Not to mention it got Hurmir droned." 

"Sounds like a ‘you’ problem. If I don't feed, I'll be going after more than just your cabinet.”

I rose off my perch and stretched, shivering as the warm air met the thin fabrics against my skin. It was a thin drape, no doubt made from some of Hidelord's finest skins. His emblem was etched into the breast of the clothing, something I was not afraid to display when I was anywhere but here. It provided extra protection. No one cared about the caste system here in the Safari, which meant everyone was open game-- but no one would mess with an asset of the Hidelord without repercussion.

And that's how I survived, playing a game of chess with my captor and everyone around him. I couldn't say I disliked it, however. Compared to my old life back on the Mainland, this place seemed like heaven.

I studied Hidelord for a brief moment. I approached him slowly, like a handler to a horse, and took his free hand to gently place it just below my cheek. I don’t often expect gentleness from him, but in these moments where I guided his hand there was bliss to be felt. Some form of reassurance. Some form of desire that wasn't animistic. It was all in my head, and I knew this too well, but every now and then it was fine to pretend. He was gross, greasy, and lacked manners. And yet, he was the one thing that felt normal to me; a constant familiarity that I both craved and despised. I refused to be his slave, but to be his pet was another story.

His thumb pad rubbed circles along my jaw. "Mmmm, I can't be mad at you, songbird. And I'm still eager to try out the blade you purchased for me." The knuckles of his other hand went under his coat and skimmed across the knife of which I had stolen from a former rival of his, admiring the ribbons of lilac that permeated its near-white surface.

Our intimate moment was cast into doubt as familiar sounds came alive from the floor beneath us. The pulse of the Helve erupted from Hidelord's friends who made the smoky place come alive with music; flute and skin-drum, shakers and droning oddities for the servants and the guests of honor to dance and get high to, pail to, and lose their minds deep into the sunny hours. It was a cerebral experience that dully infringed upon our partial embrace.

"Sounds as though our cavalry's arrived." He quipped quietly, leaning close enough to my ear that his beard dragged against my cheek. "We could stay here a pusher-beat more, still. Make some trouble before we get to business."

My arms wrapped around him, my hands sliding along the back of his coat. My lips grazed against his neck and throat, not quite a kiss, and not quite a bite. I could, at this angle, easily take a knife from his vest and shove it deep, deep, into his heart. Twist it, plunge it so deep so it's never seen again. Kill my way to freedom. But I won't, as much as the thought was tempting.

His offer was not unwelcomed either, and the threat of being caught making some trouble sounded exciting. Really, I’d take any opportunity to not look at the gruesome inhabitants of this strange and alien world. I don’t like them, the way they stare at me and lick their lips, smiling at me with crooked teeth and wild eyes. Like I was a toy to everyone here, like I could have no respect. At least Hidelord showed me something akin to it, something akin to acknowledging that I’m still a living Troll. He didn’t have to. By all rights he could look at me just the same way as they do.

Maybe that's what made him so terrifying; he didn't entirely treat me like a replaceable toy. He was a monster that knew his subjects were still people, and to me that spoke of the highest cruelty I could think of. Yet, of all the people here, I trusted Hidelord the most.

I turned my head and whispered into his ear, “I want to be on your lap when we see them. I do not want them near me." He was, undeniably, my protection after all.

  "If those little flies know better, they'll stay out of reach. If not, we'll add to the collection today." Hidelord liked to keep a chest full with his leathers and skins near the foot of his chair downstairs as a cautionary measure. Fear garnered much more power than respect here. "You'll wear your collar, though. It's uncomfortable, but the more docile you look the less trouble you'll cause." He grunted, flexing his shoulder blades. "And if Redrum comes, I speak, not you. Easy enough for you to behave?"

I nodded eagerly as he slipped a loop of leather from his pocket. I could hear him purr as he fastened it around my neck, watching me carefully as he tugged. We knew how potent the other was, and we each still played our role.

He took the initiative towards the door, the smells of blood and old pine and tar getting more potent as we approached. The guard at the other side of the door stepped aside and Hidelord lumbered down the stairs with his owlet in tow. I forced my nerves to steel, preparing myself for what I knew I’d find downstairs. 

Preparing to enter the mindset of something I’m not to survive.

[memurfevur-archive]

Catch Up

Character(s): Hadesa Lankro, Expyno Dioxal, Ashter Faurux, Persep Rhiali (@contrastparadoxx ), mention of Carnix (@experimental-failures )

About: Expyno invites Hadesa over to help her confront Ashter about their relationship.

Word Count: 1,899

Google Doc Link

Hadesa's heart rolled like thunder in her ears as she stepped up to the porch on this quiet street. Anxieties ate at her harsher than when she had arranged plans to see Carnix; that had been a new adventure, but this? This was revisiting the past to look for answers. This wasn't new. This was dreadful. Every rapture of her knuckles upon the door echoed in her bones. A deep chill ran down her spine, making her wish she was back home in the warm comforts of her hive.

She didn't plan to say anything more than necessary. She just wanted answers. Why did Ashter leave her without a word, without a trace? Did her curse really scare him off or... was it something else? Had she done something wrong? There was also the fear of losing her cool; she had every right to be angry, she's realized this, but anger is frightening. Anger sabotages. Anger makes her blind, and then the demons strike.

There was a click at the door-- the sound of the lock turning free-- and before her was a familiar face, though prettier than she remembered. The first thing she noticed were his eyes: striking aqua teals beneath long and thick lashes. Freckles dotted his long but curved face, and she was surprised to see some scratchy patches of hair on his chin. Nostalgia ran through her like an electric current, and she wondered briefly if she had changed too since then. “Expyno.”

“Hey Dez,” his voice was light, but carried an edge that she couldn't quite decipher. Like with many other people, she didn't get along too well with him back then. She was one of many who would bully him about his fear of illnesses and germs, about the scars on his chest and the strange conspiracies that he would ramble about. These things felt normal to her, the cruel injustice of her words, and it would cause problems. But if cruelty was her best defense from the whispers of demons in her blood, perhaps he should have thanked her. Or, maybe she should apologize; but such is the nature of a dysfunctional friendship, neither statements would be made. Instead, “Nice tat.” It was close enough to what they both wanted to hear.

He herded her in and she took off her shoes at the door. As per ritual for anyone who entered his home, a squirt of hand sanitizer was waiting for her to lather onto her skin. Then through the entry breeze way, and they were in the living room. A lump formed in her throat as she saw two pairs of horns poking up over the couch; one set belonged to a strange blue Seadweller, and the other … him. The Seadweller had twisted around, a question forming on her lips over who had been at the door, but pleasant curiosity changed the inquiry's course, “Hi! Who's this?”

Hadesa wished she hadn't said anything at all. Maybe if she had not caught the Seadweller's attention she could have still snuck out while she had the chance. But the Seadweller had alerted her friend on the couch, who had also twisted around to see who the new guest was. Though, instead of pleasant curiosity, panic shaped his mouth, “Dez?!”

She hadn't expected to fall silent when she saw him. Like Expyno, he also looked different. He’d long ago ditched the sleeveless turtlenecks and the faux gold chains that he thought made him look cool. His hair was a faux Mohawk, with cleanly shaven sides. His shoulders held more freckles than what she had last counted, and his eyes bore more of a creamy honey color. He almost looked completely different, save for the grooves and nicks in his horns from fights that only she knew about. 

Knowing herself, she would have not been able to stop herself in giving him an ear full, but now that they're here face to face all her spite had caught her tongue. She was grateful for Expyno's intervention, “Long time no see, eh Ash?”

Panic quickly turned to anger as Ashter's gaze bounced between Hadesa and Expyno, “You're behind this, aren't you?”

“Oh, naturally!”

Then, the blue Seadweller on the couch, with a deep pressed frown on her lips, spoke up, “Am I missing something here?”

“No,” Ashter's voice came out more like a growl, and his forceful tone was not missed.

“Well, I would think so,” Expyno shrugged. “Since this would eventually have something to do with Persep, too.”

“...What would have something to do with me?”

“Nothing, Perse.”

“Ashter, who is she?”

“His moirail,” Hadesa finally spoke up, though her voice cracked. It was the look that the Seadweller gave Ashter that made Hadesa realize she was his new moirail; the look of surprise, hurt, and curiosity. A bitterness rose in her throat, but Hadesa knew it wasn't Persep's fault. She hung her head, “Was, his moirail.”

“Then, why does this matter?” Persep looked between the three of them. “What's happening?”

“What's happening is my right to have answers,” Hadesa was slowly finding her footing, “Ash you just up and left one day! You didn't give me a word, you didn't give any warning. You've been gone for so long I thought you were dead! But instead you're here with someone new. I don't give a fuck about how many other moirails you might have, but I just... I... I came here to know why.”

“I don't owe anyone anything,” Ashter said, “The past is the past and I'd rather leave it behind.”

Hadesa looked on, horrified, “But what did I do?!”

“It doesn't matter!” Ashter's skin began to warm and he clutched his hair in his hands. He sunk back down on the couch.

“It matters,” Expyno sighed, “It matters to the people who love or loved you. You've left me behind several times. You've left Devar'n behind. Hadesa. And you know, I get having a private life but you're hurting yourself and everyone around you when you don't talk. And I'm not going to go through it again, not with Persep.”

“I'll leave you alone,” Hadesa added, “If you can just tell me why...”

Ashter glowered, and for a small stretch of time, he was silent. Then, with a sigh of defeat, “...Because when you fuck up the lemonade you make out of the lemons life gives ya, you make a new batch.”

“But--”

“You were just... a bruised lemon.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Thick. Heavy. Hadesa and Ashter mirrored each other; arms crossed, tears glistening in their eyes. Expyno ran a hand through his hair and looked away, blowing out a breath with wide eyes. Persep looked between Ashter and Hadesa, eyes wide with bewilderment and concern, but otherwise she, too, fell silent.

“Dez,” Ashter sighed, “I'm sorry—”

“No,” Hadesa shook her head, “No no. I'm. Yeah. I'm the bruised lemon, huh? I was a bad lemon. I…I wasn't good for your lemonade. Wasn't good for you. Wasn't healthy.”

“Dez--”

“Everyone's a bruised lemon,” her tone grew more sour, angrier. “You... You have a history of fucking up your lemonades, don't you? What about her?” She pointed to Persep, “What will you do when she spoils? Betray her, too? Look I... fine maybe I wasn't the best moirail but…but you can't do that to everyone!”

“I'm done here.” Ashter pushed himself off the couch fully and made his way to the door.

“Ashter!” Persep was quick to hop to her feet to follow, but as she passed she gave a brief glance to Hadesa. To the Yellowblood's surprise, it wasn't full of anger and hatred, but of pity and concern. Such a sad look to such beautiful eyes, and Hadesa had to bite her tongue out of jealousy. This wasn't Persep's fault, but the urge to blame her was there.

“You're lucky to have him,” Dez muttered, “Or at least I hope you are.”

—---------------

Ashter stood in the doorway of his bedroom back in his shared apartment. He had to think of what to do. This wasn't a life threatening situation, but if there were problems that were too suffocating because of him, well... his suitcase was in the closet. For now he stumbled to his bed and sat on the edge of it. He was tempted to have a good cry, the first he'd had since a very long time ago, but he bit his cheek to hold it back as he heard someone approaching down the hallway.

“Ash?” 

It was Persep. When he didn't say anything she ventured into the room and joined him on the bed. It was dark, with only the light from the hallway illuminating them both. They sat in awkward silence for a heartbeat or two, then Persep shifted to lean her body against him. Ashter visibly relaxed.

“I'm sorry, P.”

“It's okay.” She lifted her head to look at him. Her fins began to cast a subtle glow, enough to where he could see the more finer details of her face. “Is it true? That you leave your quadrants like that?”

Ashter sighed and took Persep's hands in his. “Yeah. Yeah it is.” When she fell silent he added, “But I don't do it without second thought. There's... there's reasons. Like if it's too dangerous, or if I'm... if I'm the source of trouble in their life, and I have no other way to fix it. I'd rather start fresh than to be trapped in something I can't solve.”

“Was Dez someone you couldn't solve?”

“Kind of? I mean... I did love her. Genuinely. But there…was always the trunk-beast in the room that was her curse-- long story-- and how she would react to it, and treat it and people around her. It was... like she wanted to steal everyone's attention while also pushing them away, giving so many mixed messages. It felt like she didn't care what I had to say as long as she got to say her stuff first. I didn't feel comfortable living around her, so I left.” 

He looked away for a moment. Breathe in, breathe out. It's fine. Everything's fine. “There's other things, too. Things I've done that have consequences. Hell, even existing is dangerous because of my name. I feel like my entire life is me dancing on eggshells until I'm booed off the bloody stage. Part of leaving was also to protect her. In fact, most...most people I've left, I've done it to protect them. I'm a source of trouble. And... and for some reason when I try to make a new life, it never lasts. It just follows me. I am a hole I can't dig out of, heh.”

“What you said back there to her... that was terrible.”

“I regret it, but I didn't know how else to say it.”

“It's okay to want to start over, you know. I don't blame you if things get so bad you want to leave.”

“Yeah well, I don't want to leave you.”

“Well, good! Because I never said I wasn't coming with.” Ashter looked at her with wide eyes, then a small smile danced on his thin lips. Persep squeezed his hand, “But promise me…you'll tell me if things are bad, okay?”

“I will...I'll try.”

And yet his thoughts drifted to the suitcase in the closet, his ole reliable friend.

[memurfevur-archive]

Mirror, Mirror

What have yΩu dΩne tΩ me?

He didn't have the energy to talk anymore. He didn't have the energy to keep fighting.

I s/\w the news, /\re you ok/\y?

What have yΩu dΩne?

I don't underst/\nd.

Omnius bit his cheek, becoming angry at himself when a tear blurred a corner of his vision. You! It was you Masuni! You were the one to make me weak, you were the one who made me doubt myself!

And then, as if the Hemoanon could read his mind:

/\re you bl/\ming me for your guilt? Would you like to t/\lk /\bout it?

Still keeping up that professional act... Fine. He'll play along. Of course he's playing along. He's playing along because he still has control over Masuni, of course. He needs it. That control. It's the one thing he can count on in life. His universal constant. His blood. His breath. Who was he without it? He'd be like everyone else, beaten and bruised, bloodied and torn, used. Omnius' throat felt tight and it grew harder for him to suppress his whimpers.

She was suppΩsed tΩ be dead.

It's norm/\l to grieve over losing someone you knew. I did, when it c/\me to you.

I shΩuldn't be grieving. I'm the Ωne whΩ started this.

You're /\ c/\t/\lyst, just like my /\ncestor. Somehow like her you bring out the best in people... by m/\king them go through their worst. Not unlike your own experiences.

Tell me Omnius, does the guilt stem from hurting your p/\st lover, or is it bec/\use when you st/\re into /\ mirror you see Liorre looking b/\ck?

With a scoff, Omnius set his phone on the side table, leaving Masuni on 'read.'

Ridiculous. Wasn't this patient influence? Perhaps Omnius could get him for that, get him for false therapy, get him for--

He deflated deeper into the hospital bed. He had no energy for this, no interest. No fight. He knew there was nothing to fight; all of this was true.

Omnius could feel Liorre laughing at him. In some roundabout way, he knew Liorre had won. Not only did Liorre ruin Kulsot, but he Omnius wrapped around his fingers, too. He wanted to scream at him to shut up, to stop his mockery; he thought Liorre wouldn't find them again when Kulsot had killed him, but the Violet lived comfortably nestled in the thorny remains of Omnius' heart.

And despite how tired her felt, despite the harsh stings of his wounds reopening themselves with every hiccup, the Tealblood cried.

The Initiate could not protect him this time.