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sasster · 6 months ago

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Here There Be Witches

Once again, we are moving things forward! With another brief trip to the past? Hm. [doc] tw: needles, the sewing kind but piercing skin/blood is involved —

As much as the Reverend enjoyed galavanting through the halls and grounds under his thumb, reveling in the fear that wafted off of his following in droves, he also enjoyed retiring to his quarters with the blinds pulled so tight that the sun itself couldn’t penetrate their security on a cloudless morning. He perhaps played too into the role he occupied on those nights, when he soaked in the magnitude of his power in total silence, in the deep brooding dark. It never bothered him much, how on the nose his behavior ended up being.

Despite that being common knowledge among his following, it must have been that someone never received that memo, for very quickly the door to his bedroom was opened and the light made even faster work of flooding out that darkness and infringe on his peace. Accompanying the disruption was a soft voice, one he could never muster anger toward, that replaced the silence just as effectively.

“Matere,” the intruder spoke gently, and her voice quelled the irritation that bubbled up within him instantly. There was a specific sort of exasperation that carried along to the tune of her voice. His beloved crossed the room and sat on the bed before she continued. ��I have been searching for you all evening. We need to speak.”

“Weaver, my love, you always have my ear.”

This much was always true, there was never a time where he would leave her to feel as though she’d been ignored. He’d also, unfortunately, never been known to respond to criticism. Weaver pursed her lips while she considered her approach.

“What troubles you?”

“I need to know what you are doing to that poor boy. What is happening to him?”

Now it was his turn to chew on his thoughts, and as he did, he shifted to place gloved hands on her shoulders. Being made to answer for himself and his actions, as rare of an instance as it was, would surely have ended differently if the inquiry had fallen from another’s lips. She knew this as well as he.

“Ailzea is fine.” He finally responded, keenly aware of how much she cared for his disappointingly passive descendant. He gave her shoulders a firm squeeze. “There is nothing to worry about regarding him.”

Weaver pulled away slightly and turned to face him, disappointment of her own painted on what little of her features that could be seen by the light of the hall. “Favion. What have you done to Faivon?”

Almost as soon as the question left her mouth, the Reverend barked out a surprised laugh. One that was born both of shock and genuine humor. There wasn’t a soul in the whole wretched city that would use the word poor as a descriptor for that beast of a yellow blood. Not the young man that spent his evenings prowling after smaller and weaker willed trolls. It would be a delusion, a mistake, to consider that boy a poor thing by any stretch of the imagination.

Matere had a list of other, much more suitable descriptions: Repulsive, disgusting, vile— To name a few.

Weaver was clearly not as humored as he, signified by the way the witch fully pulled away from her partner to instead stand by his bedside, hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Matere, this is not a laughing matter.”

“I would hardly cast pity upon Favion Lefera, animal that he is.”

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest, with a nasty scowl a clear indication to her mate that she well and truly meant business.

“What did you do to him? Why is he getting more aggressive? Especially if you find such animalistic behavior to be beneath you.”

Matere felt himself grin, gloved hands clapping together to get the attention of the attendant from the hall. He, of course, did not consider the aggression of his little pet project to be beneath him. He was, in fact, extremely happy with the results of tampering with the boy. He wouldn’t give it up for anything, not even the peace of his mate.

Her ambivalence would be missed, however.

“I will show you.” He said when the attendant appeared in the doorway. “Bring Favion to us, quickly,” he commanded and watched as they practically flew down the hall in compliance. “You will not like it, and I sincerely do not believe that it can be undone.”

Weaver frowned at the taunt, but the pair were both well aware that even if it could be, it would only happen over the Reverend’s dead body.

—

The Restorer was not one for rushing. He never so much as broke out into a brisk walk, regardless of what it was he was attending to. That being the case, it was a head turning spectacle when he made quick work of covering the distance between his chambers and the front doors of the church upon hearing of Weaver’s arrival. Not quite a run, but enough to get the attention of any of the followers that happened to be along his path.

It was the juxtaposition of his typical placid expression coupled with the urgency that piqued most of the curiosity.

She met him at the door, before his arrival, she was nearly a statue, his only rival in a competition for stoniest expression, but her doe-eyed apprentice more than made up for her lack of excitement. The smaller of the two purple bloods was flitting about the entrance, gaping at the high ceilings and marveling wordlessly at the stained glass.

When Weaver saw the incesed priest approach, she broke into a grin of her own. “Ailzea, please forgive me that I could not come sooner,” she offered her apology quickly and enveloped him in a hug in the same instant, stooping a bit so that the hug was not distorted by their difference in height.

“That you found the time to come at all means all the world.” He replied in his usual cadence, unchanged by his mad dash to meet her at the door. “I see you bring a friend.”

“Ah, yes. This is Spider, my apprentice. The experience will be invaluable for her.” While they spoke of her, the pair turned their gazes to the young troll to find her staring up at the priest with stars in her eyes, mouth wide open. “I hope that this is alright with you, Ailzea.”

Never one to mistreat the youth, Ailzea untangled himself from his elder and greeted the young witch with a wave. “Of course it is no trouble.”

Spider pumped a fist up in triumph, much to the amusement of her mentor.

“Please, follow me.” He instructed as he began to lead the way back to his study, “My children are already waiting on us.”

The walk back to the study was uneventful. Beyond Spider’s occasional asking after what corridors would lead to which rooms and the priest obliging her curiosity, it featured only the elder trolls catching up on their lost time. Occasionally, Spider ran ahead of them to get a better look at a stained glass piece or old painting, ghosting fingers around their edges in reverence, then waiting for the entourage to catch up.

“She has quite an eye for the arts.” The priest observed.

“It is all she talks about outside of her studies.”

When they arrived at the study, Ailzea led his guests to where they were met by his children as promised. The two young Roatus’ were seated at his work table, scrutinizing the project he’d left abandoned when Weaver was announced.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s another mantis.” Archie said after straightening up from inspecting it closely.

”It’s not always going to be a mantis,” Marrie argued, letting her fingers trail at the base of the figure.

“A man can’t dream? Need another one to display my collection.”

Marrie rolled her eyes.

“It is going to be a giraffe,” the priest announced their presence with the clarification. “I will happily make you another display piece afterwards.” He promised and Archie grinned in response.

“You spoil him, you know.” Marrie said and gave her brother a playful shove. “That’s why he’s like that.”

“It cannot be helped.”

Archie only returned her shove with a mischievous grin. “Who’sat with you, pops?” He indicated the witch and appearance with a small gesture.

“This is Weaver, an old friend that may be able to help us with Marrie’s arm.” As he spoke, he looked down to then introduce Spider, but found that she’d already made it her business to inspect his daughter with gusto.

Though she did not touch her, she openly marveled at the craftsmanship with which she was put together.

“Please forgive my curious Spider,” Weaver said softly, stern gaze on her apprentice. “She finds the magic in everything.”

Marrie only giggled. “That’s not something to apologize for! It’s a good thing. I’m Marrie, this is Archie.”

Her brother leaned back against the table, his attention now on the witch that stood near his father. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Whadya gonna do for Marrie?” His inquiry was a simple one, but he was only successful in hiding the anxiety behind it from the pair he’d just met.

“Straight to the point. He is certainly a Roatus.” Weaver could not contain her smile as she moved in closer to get a better look at Marrie and the arm that she had in a sling. “I’ve not had the pleasure of doing this on one of your father’s creations, but there is no reason it shouldn’t work — Spider, the supplies — May I?”

Spider began to dig into her messenger bag and pulled out all sorts of odds and ends that Archie eyed as she set them on the table. It was nothing that Ailzea’d never seen before, so he busied himself clearing the table to leave space for her to work.

Marrie leaned in toward Weaver and offered up her arm, Weaver delicately undid the sling.

On the table in place of the wooden figure and wood working tools, Spider placed two jars of pitch black liquids, two needles, and a spool of purple thread. Archie raised his brows at the collection, but said nothing. Weaver continued.

“It is a simple enough procedure. I will stitch life into the arm,” with a soft click, she popped it out of the socket. “Then I will sew that force into Marrie.”

“And that’ll work?”

“I should have no reason to think otherwise.”

Archie casted a worried glance to his big sister, who beamed back at him.

“Never heard of magic like that.”

“You have my word, there is nothing to worry about.”

—

The Reverend was not a patient man. Even his matesprit could not wiggle her way around the shortness of that fuse. He sighed behind her as she examined the yellow blood.

“Matere, you need not breathe over my shoulder while I work.”

When he made no indication that he’d be leaving, it was her turn to sigh, but she continued moving. First she dipped the needle into the jar of liquid before her. Then she raised it to her eyes for inspection.

The entire thing and long trail of thread tied to it glistened in the light of the Reverend’s study.

“Favion,” he addressed the boy that sat obediently in front of her with the back of his neck fully exposed. The boy responded with a grunt. “How do you feel?”

It was not genuine worry with which the Reverend asked the question, rather it was purely scientific interest.

“Dying.” Came the gruff response. “Then undying. All the time.”

Matere hummed, one that sounded closer to a purr. He had not expected the results to be what they were, but they were a delight either way.

Inside of Favion the Reverend’s decaying voodoos fought for dominance with his descendant’s life giving voodoos, both of which dampened by the boy's own nullifying psionic ability.

Neither power, much to the Reverend’s entertainment, would stop coursing through the lowblood until they finished the job. And his natural defense mechanism would see to it that this never came to be.

He eyed the blackened vein-like fissures that crackled out in all directions on the yellow blood’s neck with a smug sense of satisfaction.

“Does it hurt?”

“It throbs.”

“Matere, your hand.” Weaver interrupted, and he complied.

She wasted no time, plunging the liquid soaked needle into his exposed flesh. It began to sting and he swallowed a wince when she pulled it out the other side, coating it and the full length of the accompanying thread in a slick of his blood.

The witch waited until it started to glow before she turned her attention back to Favion.

“This will burn the entire time, and it is not a cure.”

Favion grunted.

“But it will help with the deterioration and aggression.” It took a lot of convincing for the Reverend to even allow this level of intervention. Love being as powerful as it is. “Temporarily.”

He grunted again, which she took as confirmation that he understood. With deft hands, she began to stitch along the rotting mark left behind by her lover.

—

“S’it have to be our old man?” Archie asked, watching the witch saturate the needles and their attached threads in their own jars of the unknown liquid. She mumbled something over the set, leading them to start bubbling in their containment, before responding.

“Not necessarily. It just needs to be very fresh blood, but I imagine there is something special about Roatus blood that will be better for your sister in the long run.”

He held his wrist up to her face, when her gaze traveled up to meet his, there was something of determination in his eyes.

“Let me, then.”

Weaver smiled, then she tossed a glance to Ailzea, who nodded his approval.

“You love your family a great deal, is that right Archie?”

“‘Course I do.”

“And who am I to deny a love so fierce?”

Marrie was all smiles, hand clasped in her brother’s free hand.

“Spider,” the apprentice popped up by her side. “See to Archie.” She instructed as she lifted up Marrie’s severed arm and one of the soaked needles.

Spider fist pumped once more and very carefully took the remaining needle from its solution with one hand and Archie’s exposed wrist with the other.

“You’ll feel a little pinch!” She announced.

“Lay it on me.” He replied as his sister squeezed his hand tightly.

#coko writes sometimes #long post #the reverend #weaver #favion #the restorer #marrie #spider ic

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sasster · 1 year ago

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Knife Skills

Another backstory Ailzea drabble! Again he’s like.. Early twenties during this time in his life.

[Google doc for the dark background enjoyer]

The cut of the knife has a way of bringing great comfort to Ailzea, one that he could never quantify with words if asked, provided that anything but flesh was on the other side of it. Thankfully, no one is asking and the wood shavings fall harmlessly to the ground as he carves a block out into the shape of a chest.

It is always quiet on this side of the church, so he sits in peace propped up against a wall that faces the forest that threads along the south side of his ancestors territory.

What he wouldn’t give to disappear into that forest. Not that such an escape would do him much justice.

At least for now he gets to be alone. No one ever bothers with this side of the church, not even Favion makes it his business to harass him when he comes out here. He never wonders why that is, Ailzea only finds himself grateful for it.

Little by little the block in his hand starts to take the shape that he is looking for.

Life should just be this.

Maybe an hour or so passes, the chest is fitted with two lovingly carved arms by now, before anyone makes an appearance. A groundskeeper that Ailzea has seen once or twice, but never interacted with, rounds the corner and jumps with a start when he sees the young Roatus.

The delightful smile on his face stays where it is.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you,” Ailzea says into the wood as he carves out the shape of a leg from a new block, having looked up only briefly to see who it was. “I can leave if you need me to, Tunsen.”

The older, much much older, troll does not seem surprised to be addressed by name.

“I don’t mind the company,” his voice is kind. “You can stay right where you are.”

As he speaks, he moves to trim at the weeds beginning to sprout at the base of the wall.

“Provided you clean up after yourself.”

It is in jest, that much Ailzea can tell, but that he would talk to him so flippantly where no other troll would dare interact with the descendant of the Reverend, it draws his attention back to the olive blood.

“Of course I will.”

“Then we can be friends.”

The groundskeeper is an older troll, there is no telling how long he has been under the Reverend’s employ, but his kind smile and the gentle cadence with which he speaks seems to have the ability to lure any troll into a sense of comfort. Safety even.

He seems out of place.

Ailzea watches as he grips a particularly stubborn weed and gives a great tug. He thinks that he likes his job, because his smile never leaves his face. That is a lovely thought.

“Yes, we can be friends,” the younger troll finally says, setting the doll and tools to the side. “Would you like some help?”

“Oh. We really can be friends if you’re going to be helpful about it!” The groundskeeper punctuates the statement with a laugh. “Glad I passed the sniff test.”

“Between us, it is not so difficult to do.”

Tunsen laughs again.

“You’re a good boy.”

No one has ever said that before.

“Thank you.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The cut of the knife has always been Ailzea’s best friend. But he has made another. This friend is much older than him and provides the same level of comfort that carving away at the articulated mantis he’d been working on provides. His carver's knife slides over the head of the mantis to smooth it out and sends a small amount of shavings into the pile accumulating on the surface of his desk.

His new friend knocks on the door when he visits his room, he knows that it is him because no one else knocks on the door here.

Tunsen enters when the permission is given with two objects in tow. A piece of wood and a book that the boy had never read before. He always brings a gift if he can.

“You do not have to bring me anything, Tunsen.” Ailzea says as the book and wood block are set in front of him.

“I know,” the elder responds with a smile that reaches his eyes, forcing him to squint. “I know that I don’t.”

“Hm.”

The young Roatus looks to his barren bookshelves and then back to Tunsen.

“It looked a bit lonely.”

“It is.”

“The wood is lime. It is soft, I am eager to see what you make of it.”

“I’ll have to return your kindness.”

Tunsen shrugs. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Very suddenly Ailzea is reminded that no one knocks on his door, when the voice of his ancestor fills the room.

It is entirely too loud.

It takes up too much space.

“What business does my groundskeeper have inside?” It demands.

His questioning is simple, but his anger is tangible.

Tunsen says nothing, his back to the Reverend. His smile is tight.

Ailzea always struggled to understand how people were able to wear their emotions on their sleeves like that. He tries, in vain, to conceal the two offerings.

They make eye contact, then his ancestor’s gaze falls on the wooden block on the desk.

The Reverend smiles.

“Face me.”

Tunsen turns.

Ailzea only watches as the elder enters the room fully and snatches his friend off his feet, a gloved hand secured firmly over his face.

There is hardly time for him to register what is unfolding.

A few seconds more pass and the fabric of the glove begins to wilt away.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Ailzea.”

Ailzea does not react.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The cut of the knife has never failed Ailzea before and with the death of his predecessor, he prays that it will do him just one more justice. He hold onto a dagger in his hand as though it is a lifeline.

Though he has only tested it once before, there is a shred of hope within him that his ancestor’s grisly power can be undone. There is an interesting quality to that ability, the undead he created always found their way back to places they frequented when they were still living. The Reverend laughed when telling Ailzea that this was perfect as it emulated the hustle and bustle of a real city, excepting that they all continued to defer to his will intrinsically.

He is thankful for this abrupt memory as it removes the guilt of having dispatched the brute almost as soon as it appears in his head.

Ailzea rounds the corner to the south lawn of the church, mulling his relationship with his late ancestor over as he does. He thinks, maybe, the world is better off that he stays late.

“Tunsen? Are you here?” He asks softly.

There is no real answer, aside from the snarling of the undead. He expected nothing more.

“I came to help.”

More snarling.

The corpse he addresses sits slumped over a weed it lacks the strength to yank out of the ground.

“I do not know how much of the real you is still in there, but I want to apologize for what I am about to do.”

Though his voice is quiet and the steps he takes toward his friend are soft, the daywalkers attention is on him in an instant.

Face marred by a dark spot with sprawling veins that reach for more, a gift from the Reverend, it hisses and snaps its teeth at him. Still he presses on.

When he gets close enough to it, his ancestors' scent rolling off of him, it becomes docile and returns to the stubborn weed.

“You should not have suffered for so long, not for your kindness. I apologize for my cowardice.”

Ailzea grips the dagger in his hand, clean of the Reverend’s blood, and plunges it into his friend’s temple from behind.

There is no startled cry, gurgling, or snarling. The body simply slumps over and onto the ground.

It is silent.

Ailzea lets out a sigh and sits on the ground near the body, pulling his head into his lap.

“I would have done this long ago,” he confides, stroking his fingers through dirty hair. “But he would have just done it again.”

A pleasant hum fills the air as he activates his powers. At this point he is proficient, he has no doubt that it will work.

Only a few minutes pass, he would guess maybe fifteen, before Tunsen starts to stir in his lap.

They sit in silence for a peaceful moment.

“You did not have to do that.” The groundskeeper finally whispers, voice hoarse. “You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“You’re a good boy,” he asserts, reaching a hand to pat his arm. “A very kind boy.”

#the restorer #the reverend #coko writes sometimes #long post #am i missing any tags?

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