thesixsmiths

[thesixsmiths]

Achtung.

Moved to corpsesofwar.tumblr.com

[thesixsmiths]

"It can wait," he said, repeating her words as if they were the only things he needed in order to become a content little beast. Wasn't he always, though? He had never been one to cause much trouble when it came to dealings with the woman, and that was as far as he could tell. There was no need to argue with her, no need to tear about the quiet atmosphere once again.

All is well.

"We can reconvene on such subjects in the morning." If it wasn't already the early hours, but he had no idea and usually never did. The drapes on the windows were thick and rarely allowed an light to leak through, but tonight he had pulled one set apart just enough so a few rays of moonlight slipped through. It must still be night, for the rays were still from the moon... right?

Lord, you're going mad. None of this matters right now.

Not now... was her retort.

Judith's eyes closed as the young man's hand met her face, and she leaned into the touch in slight, this time barely bothering to "mask" the pain in his expression as Massu's words came clambering into her head... "Not now..." she repeated in a half-murmur, though turned gently towards the clawed hand present, pressing pale, somewhat frowning lips to scarred palms, "No, he's definitely not that..."

She didn't want to think about it... about being broken or about Massu or about hurting or doctors or her unsuccessful search for one... "Don't want to talk about that..." her words were dragged into continuation, trailing now about his wrist, "Too messy... too disappointing..." Drawing closer, she let his hand go, returning to her seemingly tedious reading of his scars...

Who was she trying to distract?

There was no denying that her head had become an utter disaster in about thirteen seconds flat... "It can wait..."

[thesixsmiths]

You're not quite trustworthy yourself, General, was shot into the woman's head, clearly from said man she had spoken of just moments earlier. He hadn't seen any need to keep tabs on the pair when they were taking part in such... activities, but at the sound of his name he sent the woman a quick reminder that he was still present.

Sitting in the attic had never exactly been his favorite way to spend his time, growing paler and less willing to leave with every passing day. It was no mystery that he was constantly peeved at someone or something, whether it was because their breathing was too loud or the fact that something was misplaced. When the General and the rest of the brigade of London rats came to St. Petersburg, he had made it quite non-verbally clear that he wasn't pleased in the slightest with their presence.

"We don't have room for them," the young, Welsh man had argued, brow furrowed in frustration as he tried to convince the master of the house that the group needed to move on. "They will only attract more attention," had been his reasoning, when in reality he simply couldn't stand having anymore voices screaming in his head day in and day out. Having to hear everything they thought, everything they wished... It took a toll on him, only causing his will to live to drop significantly. Some nights he prayed to whatever gods would listen to such a wretched mixture of daemons and souls as himself, asking that he not see the next day.

His prayers were never answered.

He knew why too, for if he were destroyed then the spirits inside of him would be released back into the world, something no one wanted to allow to happen. Now he was stuck, tinkering with gadgets and bones as if making some sick sort of children's craft.

Never would he admit to wanting the howling voices in his head to stop, nor would he dare say he had wished his life away a few... dozen times. Learning to cope had become his new project, something he had promised to work on for centuries and was only now getting around to. Things needed to be controlled, and he needed to stop being a secretly suicidal brat.

You're no different than I am.

"There is no need to be sorry," Arlecchino told her quietly, brushing a scarred palm against the side of her face. "I understand that you and Massu do not get along. He is not the most personable creature I have ever met."

He what? That seemed… odd.

Judith never supposed she had been much more than a flash of entity within any given person’s life— especially one whom had lived so long and seen so much. She hadn’t done anything to benefit him… save for fixing mistakes of which she herself and her previous ignorance in scientific studies had more than likely been the cause. In her mind, her “help” had always seemed more like a burden, or an annoyance to the doctor… but she owed him something…

"He has enough on his plate, I know that…" The young woman sighed, her hands gripping his now as she turned her head to look back at him, her form shifting in slight against his in order to keep her neck from needing as much medical attention as she already felt she required. Just how hurt she was, was something to which she rarely admitted, due to a desire to appear strong, unbreakable as she had once been… now was no exception, and every move she took now that the reminder had been established by his sharp, lovely claws was ginger and calculated to a point that could have been obvious, were she not more practised in masking a wince here and a frown there.

"I just… I don’t trust anyone else. Not medically. Doctors on Earth are so often involved with at least some branch of the military these days that it would be impossible for me to find one who wasn’t a snitching little shit… or didn’t have half a mind to dissect me like a rat." Again…

No one should have to fear such things…

Growling in slight, Judith opened her eyes, “And before it comes as a hint of a suggestion, I do not trust Massu.” A tense sort of tone edged her voice, and her nails began to elongate in slight, as if in defence… silly, but he head would do what it would…

Actually, no.

It wasn’t silly.

Azi curled tightly about her form, distorting scarred and numbered skin, hissing murmurs of suggestion, of temptation and anger and ferocity… none of which she acted upon, but her blood did begin to run heated. That absolute brat… with his nasty business where it didn’t belong and his smug demeanour and his contracts…

She let go of Arlecchino’s hands, moving for a moment to turn about to face him, propped up on one elbow. Her head was rushing… angry… and while she had complete and utter perfect motivation to run a killing spree, another sliver of motivation pushed her to direct her frustration elsewhere… namely the young master. She blinked, and let a slight, awkward chuckle fall from pale lips as she reached out with her mobile hand, tracing a few of the lines etched across his chest, “…sorry.”

Damn her existence.

Every Heavenly being already did.

It was odd for her still, the bursts of pent up energy and desire in it’s darkest, most sinful forms… whether they embody blood, revenge, closeness, or lack thereof… “…doctors.” She cleared her throat, licking her lips as she drew her gaze to his face.

[thesixsmiths]

[thesixsmiths]

Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

A laugh he had tried so excruciatingly hard to contain somehow found its way from his lips, followed by the words of, "I think I'm going to be sick," as he hunched over in order to keep what felt like his internal organs from being torn from him. What in world was going on, and why were Frey and Wayland giving him such a hard time? They hadn't put up a fight in ages, and now it felt like they were just trying to kill him, which would end equally as detrimental for them.

Yanking his hood back up, the young man took deep breaths, like a pregnant woman would during contractions. Lord, he would never be able to show his face here again, that much was certain. The tan, canvas material only made him feel stiffer, more ridged as he tried his best to keep from tumbling from the stool. There was no doubt in his mind that he looked like a drunk manic, unable to handle a few simple drinks that even a twelve year old girl could take without batting an eye.

"I'm... having a little... difficulty with..." What are you going to say, the gods I trapped beneath my skin? "... Are you sure you can't just... question me... or whatever here?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

3147. | Madog and Teague.

[thesixsmiths]

"It must be a lot of information for one to look over, to consider," the young man commented, mulling over her first comment about the doctor almost as if she didn't believe that had been her reasoning. He should have known better, however, for Dr. Songs was quite the influential being, even when he simply wished to be locked away with science and books.

"I'd start looking else where," the doctor had told the man gently, glancing up from behind thickly framed glasses, "She isn't interested in anything of the sort. It's nothing against you, it's just, she's... she's different."

That was the first thing Natzi had told the Russian when asked if he believed the strange woman may fancy the cannibal. It had been made quite clear that she thought him a pitiful creature, the lazy human that didn't leave the house unless shrouded by a generous cloak of the night. He didn't even wear shoes.

"A woman may think that odd."

That was the doctor's comment on the topic of bare feet when strolling the streets.

"You're welcome to borrow some of my shoes."

And he did just that.

That was also the night he had taken Judith to the bridge to gaze at the stars.

"... He cares very much for you," Arlecchino murmured quietly against the woman's skin."He will help."

"You know… it’s odd…" Judith mused, taking his hand in hers at the mention of them, measuring absently bronze claws against now short nails, carefully and kindly drawing fingertips across the scars in his palms… "He’s the reason that I did what I did when I went to Tecnas… why I became a doctor at all…"

Hell, who cared how she had received her education? The knowledge was there, and she had a certificate to prove it, which was all that anyone hiring actually cared about (not, of course, that she was looking for employment). Her studies on the self-proclaimed Utopian planet had consisted of reversal methods much in the same realm that Dr. Songs had been dabbling… and she had hoped to bring back some kind of knowledge for the man, after he had helped her. It was the least that she could do after a millennium of sinful nature… he had just been quite the lucky creature to be among the first to bring her to any manner of change. Shame that she had literally brought him nothing.

"I know more about vampires and constraints of viruses and bacteria now than I ever did cybernetics… even with all of Bruner’s journals that I could acquire, I’m still at a loss. It’s like I can’t bring myself to want to look at them… absorb the information…"

[thesixsmiths]

"And you shouldn't be in my face."

Head inclined towards the man, the hand that had been tracing shapes on the counter raised to his hood, pulling it down to expose long, blonde hair that surely looked white at a quick glance. A twisted expression of pain flickered across the young man's face, and mismatched eyes looked up at the stranger. One eye was a gentle green, like that of well-kept grass, however the pupil was split in half, as if severed with a razor. The other eye was simply black, leaving not even the whites visible.

He felt nauseous, and the hand on his gut only seemed to grip tighter by the second. Something was going terribly wrong, and the elves wanted out. There was nothing he could do about it now, his horrendous appearance, the gods did what they wished. Even though they were trapped inside of his body, that didn't mean they had no control over some aspects.

Perhaps he should have stayed in, drank himself to sleep back in their leaky apartment with his youngest brother crying every thirty minutes or so about how he missed their farm.

Shut the fuck up, it's gone, he would hissed, shaking the little brat like a rag doll. That's what he wanted to do, knock the kid senseless, but that had never been his way to handle things. That was more Ifan's speed.

3147. | Madog and Teague.

[thesixsmiths]

His insides hurt, as if Frey and Wayland were clawing at his organs and twisting knots in his intestines. A part of him hoped it was the beer, but that seemed awfully unlikely seeing as how just about twenty minutes prior he had been taking shots of vodka like it was tap water.

It had to be the elves.

You're fucking mental...

That much was quite obvious, by the way a hand clutched at his writhing abdomen, his brow furrowed, and pale lips found themselves in a towards slant as the pain only seemed to grow stronger... and stronger...

Calling for a glass of whiskey, the free hand rubbed the side of the man's face which was now speckled with droplets of cold sweat. The gnawing feeling refused to leave, even as the hand against his face dropped to the counter top, tracing the knots in the wood. Long nails now occupied each hand, and they left marks whether he intended to or not. Control was something he didn't exactly have... under control yet.

Why were the gods becoming so riled? He felt like this was a scene from an old movie he had found in a street vendor's cart a few days ago. What was it called again?

Bacteria? Mutant? Alien?

He couldn't remember, and yet it was a wonder he was still able to think for his head pounded like a drum, which he was almost sure was Waylan's doing.

I should have read the instructions on soul snatching... he grumbled to himself.

The gin here was shit.

The service wasn’t much better, but that was to be expected… to an extent; A dark and stinking atmosphere with a broken sense of morality hanging in the thick, dirty air. Creatures mused this way and that, most of them human and the ones that weren’t, well-disguised as such in a means to avoid the hammer of the silver-clad law enforcement in command of this rubble-laden country… Hell, in control of the whole damned planet, from the looks of it…

London was shit.

The horrible excuse for juniper-hinted liquor was raised to dark frowning lips by a slender hand gloved in deep grey leather, issued by the UInderworld Police in Berlin. The uniform cuffs of the same arm (and obviously, the other as well) were crafted from the same material, the dull sheen of silver specially designed, fitted upon each soldier to which they were given, and cut to protect against not only bullets and claws, but the streets themselves, and the wear and tear that one acquired as a tactical cavalryman. Patches and glints of metal donned slim shoulders, dotted across the high collar of what looked to mimic a motorcycle jacket, and in the dim light, one might note that the name plated to the male’s torso read simply, “ROE”.

Teague Roe, in full. And the elven creature, as reliable a soldier as he was, as honourable and elite as he had been in the cavalry of the 32nd Division, he was what the humans and commanding officers like Peter Walsh would refer to as a “lesser race”, a “supernat”, thus at the mercy of their direction. He had been separated from his team, uprooted from his (actually quite successful) project against the uprising vampire problem that called itself Mezzo Syndicate, and relocated to London, to run patrol and take orders from a bitchy, anorexic, redheaded cybernetic… but at least they hadn’t taken his bike.

The last of the shitty gin was gone from his glass, leaving only meagre ice to clink about the bottom as he rose from his actually very secluded table in the corner (much to his dismay, as it would undoubtedly be snatched up again in a heartbeat), and made his way up to the bar, boots fitted for his mode of transportation heavy against the floor as he walked. The man’s shift had ended hours ago, and he would have to be up again in only five or six to start the whole damned drill over again, but drinking away the frustration seemed to overshadow the oncoming “responsibilities” that faced him.

Leaning over the bar between two patrons, the Teague set his short, empty glass down on the bartop and motioned for the man behind the counter to bring him a third round… or was it his fourth..? It was no matter… the alcohol didn’t seem to effect him anymore, and oddly enough, the lanky creature had never been much of a lightweight to begin with.

He stepped back as he waited, fidgeting with the buckles hooked and tacked to his attire as an odd sensation began to eat at his nerves, almost as though he were being watched… it was, to be perfectly simple in explanation, a sickening, religious sort of feeling… one that he had tended to avoid since his departure from familial “ties”, by hovering about the company of Cadell and Evenston… neither of whom were very settled in faith of any kind (save for that of a militant consistency… but look where that got them…).

One eye of pale green , the other hidden behind a black patch, turned up to look through strands of brilliant white hair, and he made a sad attempt to focus through the thick aura of the establishment, searching for the source…

[thesixsmiths]

"I would offer my help, but I would not trust anyone with hands like mine to preform operations such as those," the young man said, voice equally as soft. "I know Natzi will aid you however he can, even if it is just… handing you tools or drawing up equations. He has a lot on his mind concerning his own make up, and I think pulling him away from it for a bit may ease his mind."

Never had he worried that the doctor had been working too hard or too often, never had he questioned his working habits, but ever since they arrived in St. Petersburg, things were... different. Not to mention he had sworn he had seen him with facial hair the other day.

Facial hair.

Something was up.

"I suppose I shouldn’t bother him…"

The young woman reached back, her hand skimming idly over his skin before falling back to rest upon his hand, and she readjusted her head with a gentle frown, mind spinning with possibilities— none of which were valid. On Cornerix, Xana Cheng was dead, as were the use of Victor Bruner’s cybernetics, and she was more than a shade of obsolete… she was extinct.

Judith Denman was a doctor…

"I… should begin to conduct my own studies based on the information that they pulled from his records…" she murmured, turning halfway back towards him, her eyes half-closed and her words soft, "…The only problem is that it’s not exactly a one-man job…"

[thesixsmiths]

Miles McMillan, by Hadar in The Last of the Innocents, for The Fashionisto.

[thesixsmiths]

"Perhaps we can seek help from someone else? I do not doubt Natzi's abilities, however I also know that he will not fix you to how you wish. He will do his best, but even he will admit he cannot repair you to how you were before," the young master said softly, giving a little sigh as if to nonverbally let her know that he understood her dilemma, or was at least trying to.

He had spoken of getting her help from someone else, but who else was there to ask? Massu was already out of the question, that much he had leaned from the interactions between two, and Vasily crossed his mind then. The young Japanese man had been his stand-in doctor a number of times when it came to removing bullets and sowing wounds, but nothing close to the extreme that Judith required.

No one else came to mind, and it worried him tremendously. If Natzi, the internationally acclaimed, century old doctor couldn't fix her, then who were they to go to?

[thesixsmiths]

There were a lot worse things that he could be doing right now. He could be trying to fix the leak in the roof like his younger brother was currently cursing on and off about, or playing with the wax of dripping candles like the youngest of the group was attending to with an almost intent look about battered features. Cigarette smoke ate up the air in the small flat the trio had rented for their little expedition to London, England, all thanks to the seemingly endlessly agitated eldest of them.

"You missed a spot," the man mumbled, glancing towards the middle brother who stood on a ladder in the center of the room, bucket in one hand and a rag to plug the hole in the other. “You’re just making a bloody mess of it, Ifan.”

An angry huff left the middle brother’s lungs, which were probably just as wrinkled as his yellowing skin, and he turned his head ever so slightly to confront the poorly presented insult.

“All ya’ do is smoke an’ drink, ya’ lazy /snub/,” Ifan snapped in reply, yellow-pink optics bulging from their sockets as if he were being squeezed at the throat. It would be nice if the miscolored eyes were the only odd feature, but that was like saying there was no light in the room to be shed on the obvious characteristics before any creature with functioning sight. His hair was long and stringy with a quite evident beginning of balding taking place atop his head, which worked to prevent any further yellow-gray hairs from springing up and in turn would continue to allow him to look like a cancer patient who refused to believe it had spread to every damn limb in his body.

“It’s pronounced /snob/,” the eldest corrected calmly, pressing the cigarette that had been hanging dumbly between pale fingers to equally white lips. The tension that was ever present never seemed to come to a head and was generally dispersed after a few moments of silence, only to be rebuilt once one of them spoke again.

Said silence was draped over the room like musty rug, and it wasn’t long before it became the normal hum in their ears. The smoke from the end of the older brother’s cigarette curled and slowly climbed its way to the ceiling between drags and puffs and sips of cheap vodka from a cheap, cracked glass.

Just like the glass, they were broke. Having come from Wales in search of an adventure after their centuries old family farm was overrun, the brothers decided to find a better way to spend their time and energy and… new found abilities so they could put them to proper use. Never having been ones that Luck favored, they took it into their own hands in order to try and persuade the Fates to create a new path for trio.

Allowing various gods and deities to tear their souls from respective, frail human shells, the brothers were presented with new ones. Having been taken from the depths of Heaven and Hell, the recycled souls were not to the standard of the eldest brother, Madog, who cast out his replacement in order to consume two of the elven gods that had been commissioned to aid their transformations.

Taking in Frey, god of the light-elves, and Wayland the Smith, god of the dark elves, Madgod used their powers to remove the pitiful souls from his brothers. The youngest, Cai, was intertwined with the Greek god of the sea, Proteus, giving him his now frequently used ability to shift his form at any given time. In order to keep the god inside, however, the left portion of the boy’s mouth was sewn shut in order to prevent a clear exit for Proteus. When it came to the middle brother, Ifan, however, things did not go as planned.

Madog fought with the Slavic god Veles for days on end before he was able to lock the god inside Ifan in a last ditch attempt that produced unfavorable results. Veles, with all his knowledge of magic and trickery, used just that to turn the once handsome lad into a hunchbacked, wrinkled old man that held a resemblance to the once well-known character, Riff Raff. Distraught, Ifan threatened take his own life due to his now hideous outward appearance, but was persuaded by his eldest brother to think better of it all and to try to find a way to reverse the spell.

To this day, he never found a cure.

Speaking of this day…

"I'm going out."

"Out?" growled the middle brother, teetering on the ladder as he turned to watch Madog head for the door, coat in hand. "What do you mean out? We have work to do!"

Slipping into the overcoat, the eldest barely took notice to Ifan's outrage, saying, "I'm going to get a drink. I'll be back later."

The door slammed so loudly behind him that Ifan's infuriated shout was muffled by the trembling hinges and shuttering wood.

Once on the street, he headed immediately for the rougher part of town, almost as of he were hoping someone was going to jump him so he could test out the new power the surged through refined veins.

It was raining, as it always did in this city (they had learned that quickly), and it wasn't long before he ducked inside the nearest tavern to try and avoid being drenched to the bone. The establishment was dark, musty, and smelled of a mixture between piss and spilled beer. Servers and customers alike were shady and rather unfriendly looking, only giving him further reason to keep his hood up and head down. Shrouded eyes glanced about the large, bustling room, trying to pick out a language he knew, almost hopeful to hear some Welsh, but that was an long shot, something that was easily given up on as he settled down at the bar.

The barstool's legs were uneven, which everyone else must have known because it was the only open spot he had seen. With the seat shifting legs every few movements made, the young man ordered a beer in a low, clearly unhappy voice, being sure to keep his head inclined and focused on the knots in the wood of the countertop.

He felt out of place for the first time in his life, with his skin so pale and insides so twisted. He was trying to handle three souls at the moment, and he was damn sure the internal struggle was quite outwardly visible.

[thesixsmiths]

"Natzi is good doctor… but he openly admits to not knowing much about your particular make up," Arlecchino murmured as Russian have way to English, and he squeezed her a bit tightly for a moment before relaxing once again. There were a lot of things they didn't know about her, whether it was inside or out. Such a thing never bothered him, however he knew Massu wasn't deeply displeased with her presence. It wasn't long after they first arrived from London that the man had expressed his concerns about the woman, spouting off about how she was a bad influence… Or something like that.

The simple presence of the mysterious man, dwelling in his attic like an all-knowing disease just waiting to strike. It was odd to just think about someone watching them, especially in the bedroom… It had never bothered him before--it had never crossed his mind before, but now it all seemed a bit… invasive? He would have to speak with the man.

[thesixsmiths]

A smile curled about the young cannibal's lips at the sound of her words, and it wasn't long before a mellow tune broke from unclenched jaws, sharp teeth shimmering in the dull light. The words were quiet and overly soft, as if it were being sung to a young child who had just awoken from a terrible nightmare. The tone was no reflection on what he thought of the woman, but the words were some of the most dreadful kind, which would make any nonnative wondering what the Russian young were taught.

The first time he had heard it he was sitting in the St. Petersburg theatre, waiting for a play rehearsal to begin. The first time he sung it he was stringing up the local priest by his long intestine after he had tried to preform an exorcism on the young man. The first time he had sung it to a woman… That was another story.

"What do you wish to ask Natzi about?"

[thesixsmiths]

A pleasant purr sounded in the young man's throat at her words, smiling as another kiss was pressed to the nape of her neck. He was quite preoccupied as well, and the last thing he wanted was for her to leave. Scarred palms skimmed gently over her skin in an absent-minded sort of manner as burgundy optics were cloaked by their trusty curtains.

/All was well in world./

For the time being.

[thesixsmiths]

"Then you will have it," the Russian answered in reference to her request to speak with the doctor. He wasn't quite sure why she was worrying so much, what could possibly be wrong? She had her reasons and they always had relatively respectable outcomes. With kisses being placed gently about her back and shoulders, Arlecchino sighed.

"Natzi should be in his room," the cannibal told her quietly, "And we both know sleep is not always his friend. I am sure he is willing to speak with you whenever to wish, darling."

[thesixsmiths]

"You are very considerate indeed," the young man answered through a low chuckle, applying a kiss with dry lips to her shoulder. Her blood still lingered on bronze claws, beginning to crust onto the metal like an unused material. Normally he would lick each finger clean, relishing in the sweet taste of the red fluid, but it was different this time. This time he lay very still, his chest barely moving with each breath while his head fought the salivation that began to take place between clamped jaws.

It was like missing a meal, as if he had allowed possible prey to slip right out from under him, but that wasn't true in the slightest of course, that much needed to be clear.

"… How many days of preparation do you require, my love?"