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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 1 year

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Day 5: Drain

(Disclaimer: none of the characters here belong to me. Celine and Damien belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. The star of this story, Fenwyn, is an oc of the awesome @saria-the-phoenix. I learned about Fenwyn during an RP game that Saria and I used to play; unfortunately, life happened, new ideas took over my brain, and that RP was never really concluded. I wrote this fic as an apology for that.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood, gore, bones, animal death, knives/blades, descriptions of ritual, implied tampering. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

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Fenwyn felt air rushing through her fur, felt her heart and lungs threatening to bash their way through her ribcage, felt the speed of the world under her feet.

Up ahead, the elk was a blur as it galloped, its breath coming out in frantic, wheezing huffs.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she’d found the elk in the first palace, since she’d begun to stalk it, since it’d eventually noticed her and started running. It felt like she’d been in pursuit of her prey for an hour or two.

It wasn’t that she’d been dragging this out. Sure, she loved hunting as much as any other lycan, but that didn’t mean she was a sadist. The elk was simply terrified and stubborn; survival instinct was just as strong in animals as it was in humans, if not more so. The elk couldn’t exactly be blamed for not wanting to die.

And if it was being chased by normal wolves, then it might’ve had a chance to get away.

But that wouldn’t be happening.

Fenwyn was a lot of things, but a normal wolf wasn’t one of them. Aside from that, she had an arrangement to hold up her side of.

She let her jaw drop open as she forced herself to run even faster than before. The elk didn’t glance over its shoulder at her, but a voice in her head swore that it was aware of how the gap between them was shrinking.

Seconds passed, and Fenwyn was close enough to risk getting a swift kick to the nose. Even if the elk had been consciously trying to strike her, it wouldn’t have mattered. Fenwyn leapt forward, her forepaws—which, while looking very much like any other wolf’s, were adorned by opposable thumbs—outstretched to pull the elk’s hindlegs out from under it.

Despite how large normal wolves could be, it would’ve taken a huge amount of effort for them to kill something like an elk. It would’ve taken an entire pack biting and clawing and tearing as one in order to make a hunt successful.

For lycans, however, hunting was a bit easier. They still naturally worked together in groups, but they also tended to grow to the same size as horses, if not larger. So, that certainly had its advantages.

The elk let out a keening shriek as it came toppling to the ground, immediately trying to get back up as its pursuer came to loom over it. Its cries were cut short as Fenwyn, in one swift, fluid movement, drove her claws deep into the center of its chest. For good measure, she sank her teeth into one of its shoulders. Blood gushed out, trickling along her tongue and down her greedy throat. More oozed between her digits, slick and warm.

Though muscles in its back and legs twitched, the elk was dead before its head came to rest on the forest floor. Out of instinct, Fenwyn shook her head, forcing the fresh corpse to lightly shudder side to side

Her eyes almost fluttered shut in response to the salty, metallic flavor of fresh meat. It’d been too damn long since she’d gotten to catch a meal like this.

. . .Of course, this elk wasn’t supposed to be a meal for her. Not all of it, at least.

With that in mind, Fenwyn unlatched her jaws from the elk’s shoulder. She eased her grip around its chest before lowering herself onto the grass, shoulders squared, neck craned. She ducked her head, hefting the corpse onto her back, its limp legs dangling over her shoulders. She caught one of the antlers in her maw; she could’ve snapped it like a celery stalk, but she applied just enough pressure to hold the elk steady.

Fenwyn started trotting back the way she came, the dull weight now piled up on her back not slowing her down at all. Her pulse was still struggling to calm down.

Crickets, cicadas, nocturnal birds. . .they’d all gone silent when she’d made the killing blow. But now, as the elk’s dying call had officially stopped echoing, the animalistic chorus was slowly but surely starting up again.

Fenwyn knew which scent to follow, so she was able to gaze up as she ambled along. Small shapes flitted through the air above—bats soaring after mosquitos and other insects to fill their little bellies.

There were varying amounts of space between the trees here, so this forest lacked a canopy. This allowed soft light to stream down, to cast long shadows here and there. The stars resembled diamonds that had been painstakingly sewn into a black velvet tapestry.

But that had almost nothing on the moon. It was full tonight, so it glowed like a pearl against oil. As Fenwyn stared up, up, up at it, its silvery craters almost seemed to be moving in place, like it was a liquid being stirred.

It was so, so, so beautiful.

She wanted to wrap her claws around the moon and coax it out of the sky and. . .Well, if she was honest, then she wasn’t quite sure what she would do with the moon in her grasp. One part of her would probably want to swallow it up, and another part would beg her to just curl around it and bathe in its glow forever. . .

“There’s something you don’t see every day,” a familiar voice called. “Prey getting piggyback from predator.”

Fenwyn flinched, blinking as her meditation promptly fell apart. She tore her eyes away from the night sky, now focusing on the voice’s direction. She’d just barely returned to the center of Whitacre Woods. A Pierce-Arrow Model 66 was parked on the opposite edge of this clearing.

About ten feet away, sticks had been piled up in a makeshift firepit; the same one she’d helped to dig out earlier. Flames licked up at the cast-iron pot that hung from a sturdy tripod. Celine was pacing around it, carefully prodding the kindling with a long metal poker. The way the fire reflected against her eyes made them look even more piercing than usual.

Fittingly enough, the shawl draped around her shoulders was a deep shade of red.

“This is more efficient than just dragging,” Fenwyn replied as she wandered closer. She released the elk’s antler and rolled her shoulders, letting the elk hit the ground with a dull thud.

It’d been a few months since Celine had discovered Fenwyn’s secret, since she’d revealed her own inhuman nature to Fenwyn, since the two of them had made a fateful deal.

Celine had continued to study the supernatural entities that always seemed to be popping up on campus grounds for whatever reason—now with Fenwyn’s assistance.

It wasn’t always a perfect arrangement, of course.

On one hand, Fenwyn couldn’t deny how amazing it’d been to see some of the things Celine had shown her.

A couple wisps here, the odd wraith there. The ghosts of animals and humans alike (some had been intelligent; talkative, even, polite as they were ominous. Others had been silent, staring with pale, lifeless eyes almost as curious as those of a newborn infant). She and Celine had even discovered that one of their classmates was a revenant (who, through some trial and error, they’d helped to fully move on and rest).

On the other hand, however. . .

Well, Fenwyn could’ve gone her whole life without seeing a faerie turn himself inside-out just to prove that he could. And she certainly hadn’t appreciated having to tiptoe around everything in her dorm room after the furniture in the Student Lounge had been possessed by a few foulmouthed yokai.

And that was just the start of all the ungodly nonsense she’d gotten mixed up in.

But that didn’t change how Celine hadn’t gone back on her word at all.

She’d refrained from summoning anything to the university herself.

She’d kept Fenwyn’s secrets closely-guarded.

Hell, she’d been the one to tell Fenwyn about Whitacre Woods being a mere twenty minute drive from the university (furthermore, she’d helped Fenwyn find a more secluded route to the forest so she could shift in peace).

That wasn’t exactly something Fenwyn could afford to ignore. . .

Celine hummed in response, setting the poker aside as she examined the elk. She squinted at the fur of the elk’s chest, which was now very much saturated with blood.

“It’s already bled out a bit,” she murmured.

“Is that a problem?” Fenwyn inquired as she stretched. The burning ache in her arms and legs was a good kind of ache, but she’d be sore tomorrow if she just left the tension stay in her muscles.

“No, not really. Anyone who hires a lycan to hunt and doesn’t expect the haul to be bloody is some kind of idiot,” Celine reassured. “There’ll still be enough for me to work with.”

The bag she typically carried around campus lay just a few feet away from the firepit. As Celine knelt down to rummage through it, she pronounced, “The carcass needs to be drained. Can you hold it over the pot, please?”

Fenwyn nodded, then reared up to stand in a more bipedal position, the joints in her legs popping and clicking.

She took hold of the elk’s hind legs, dragging it closer to the firepit before raising it up. She had to maneuver it carefully; she might have been towering (now the same height as a grizzly bear), but the elk was still quite a large animal. Its head hung limply, the tips of its antlers touching the ground.

Celine came to stand opposite of Fenwyn, now handling a large knife. It caught the firelight, making the odd symbols that had been carved into its wicked blade gleam. She reached across, one hand coming to rest on the back of the elk’s neck while the other pushed her knife forward.

A chill ran down Fenwyn’s spine. She peered down at Celine, and although her eyes stung as the smoke met them, she couldn’t blink. For whatever reason, she felt the need to hold her breath.

Slowly, calculatingly, Celine drew the blade across the elk’s throat.

A soft, slick, fleshy sigh was almost drowned out by the crackling of the fire.

Even with the light, the blood almost looked black. Fenwyn almost expected it to come spraying out, but considering the elk’s heart was no longer pumping it, the blood simply oozed down the elk’s chin, sizzling as soon as it flowed into the pot.

“Remind me why you needed a dead elk, again?” Fenwyn asked, trying to ignore how her ears flattened, how her nostrils flared. The scent of blood was rich for a second or two. . .but then it mixed with the stench of smoke. Which did not make a pleasant bouquet.

“Well, every part of the specimen can have multiple uses. Blood can be the easiest part to remove, so, it comes first,” Celine explained, not taking her eyes off of the viscous, slow-moving fluid as she reached back into her bookbag to produce a handful of bleeding-heart flowers. She quickly tore the blooms to pieces, which she then sprinkled into the pot. “This will just be part of a larger brew.”

“For. . ?” Fenwyn clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, but still chose not to directly announce that her question hadn’t been answered.

“For one of the Humanities professors,” Celine continued, picking the poker back up and using its blunt end to stir the blood and shredded petals. “Because, aside from being generally incompetent, he hasn’t been treating Damien fairly at all.”

Fenwyn’s movement was sharp as she tilted her head to the side, her wide eyes filled with a combination of fear and frustration. She knew which teacher Celine was talking about, and she considered herself very lucky for not having to attend his course. She also knew that Damien hadn’t had that same luck.

An ember of sadness manifested in her heart at the memory of Damien venting to her about being mocked in the middle of class one day. She remembered the confusion and anger in his eyes, the disbelief in his voice as he theorized about the awful reasons as to why that particular professor had singled him out for thinly-veiled insults and outrageous marks on his assignments.

However, protectiveness over friends didn’t necessarily mean condoning potential torture.

Celine definitely felt Fenwyn’s glare, because she huffed a sigh and glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, relax. This isn’t going to kill him. It’ll just make him violently sick for a week or two, that’s all.” She glanced at the wide, wet smile in the elk’s throat—no longer draining, merely dripping now—and added, “That’s about as much blood as I’m going to get, by the way.”

“You realize how risky using a potion can be,” Fenwyn mentioned as she set the elk’s carcass down and dropped back onto all fours.

“Obviously, since I’m working on more than one right now.” Celine nodded, moving around the firepit to get down on her knees beside the elk, dragging her bookbag with her. “I haven’t been caught yet, have I?”

Although Fenwyn stayed silent, she couldn’t stop a slight snarl from etching its way across her muzzle. She paced around the elk, giving Celine a bit of a wide berth.

Celine shifted the knife in her hand, then began dragging it about the elk’s side. The incisions left in her wake soon created a rather complex pattern. She chewed her lip as she worked, peering over at Fenwyn.

“. . .Even if they could link my projects back to me,” Celine said softly, “it wouldn’t put you in any danger. I always take care of any evidence that might lead to you.”

Fenwyn slowed her movements, pawing at the ground in thought. Celine had respected her terms, so Fenwyn needed to keep respecting hers. It was only right.

In spite of all the things she’d gotten mixed up in that were solidly on the more horrific side of the spectrum, she couldn’t deny how good of a choice it was to work with Celine. If that one run-in had never happened, if Fenwyn were still trying to stay under the radar all on her own. . .

There was a chance that she’d still be safe, if not stressed and exhausted more than half the time. But there was also a chance that she could’ve been discovered by someone a lot less reasonable than Celine.

With that in mind, Fenwyn sighed in the way only beasts could, finally curling up on the ground a few feet away from the witch. “You really have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

A small smile graced Celine’s lips. “I might someday. We’ll just have to find out.”

Fenwyn hummed, resting her head on her forelegs. . .

Only to jolt in place at the sound of Celine hissing out a few words set in a language that was very much not English. In response, the elk’s carcass twitched once, twice. Then, the pattern she’d sliced in its hide took on an oily glow. Right before both the witch and the lycan’s eyes, with a very odd, rubbery, stretching noise, the elk’s skin effectively crawled off of its body. The elk’s clammy, red-stained muscles and fat were left exposed to open air, glistening against the firelight.

While her voice was deeper and raspier than the voice she spoke with in her more human form, it still felt embarrassingly high-pitched when Fenwyn whispered, “. . .why. . ?”

“Oh, bone marrow can work wonders for migraine or insomnia remedies.” Celine shrugged, looking supremely unbothered by what she’d just done. “Skinning a carcass can typically take an hour or two. This method is much faster, don’t you think?”

“Couldn’t you have just taken the marrow from the antlers?” Fenwyn asked, unable to stop staring at the ribbons of flesh now lying on the grass.

“I guess I could’ve,” Celine agreed, not pausing as she started cleaving layers of flesh from the elk’s chest, slowly but surely getting closer and closer to its ribcage.

Fenwyn subconsciously clawed at the ground, trying to suppress a shudder as Celine explained how and why bones that were usually encased in flesh tended to make more effective materials. . .

@saria-the-phoenix @sammys-magical-au

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