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Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Printable Version

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Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - The Mistress - 10-17-2015

"Hello dears, I'm The Mistress. Missy for short, let's not hang our hat on formalities. We are about to become very good friends.

Oh, you fell asleep in the meadow, did you? Suppose you shouldn't have done that. I thought that meant you wanted to play. Ah well, since you're already here, and I've gone to such trouble preparing the mansion...

Pick a door.

Oh wait, no. First things first. Hooves are about as useful as eyes on a bat. How about we, ah ha, fix that. There you go, hold still. What is it? Oh don't worry. It's perfectly all right to look into the flash of light-ah, there we go. Human now! Enjoy that while it lasts. Terribly idiotic creatures, two leggeds, but a change of pace is always nice.

Where was I? Yes, I remember. Pick a door.

To our right we have a red door. Is it... dripping something? Really ought to have that fixed.

On the left is a black door. It is glowing faintly. Probably haunted. I should know but I don't.

And don't think you can run away darlings. There is only forward motion! To assist you, because I am such a kind hearted person, I have given you two companions. You'll meet them inside. I didn't bother to ask their names. Didn't seem important.

Off you go now, enjoy!"

If you choose the red door, you will be meeting Jack the Ripper.
Turns out Gentleman Jack is actually a ravenous shape shifting monster with a penchant for tearing out his victim's guts and eating them hot. Yum. In this scenario you must make your way through the cobblestoned streets of London looking for a way home. You will escape (by the skin of your teeth, if you wish) and one of your party must die. Poor poor whats-its-name. End the scene by escaping through a wooden door with a skeleton key.

If you choose the black door, you will be meeting a zombie horde.
These are not comical zombies. These are runners. If you've seen 28 days later, these are rage zombies. Hope you have on track shoes. In this scenario a zombie horde is chasing you through abandoned city streets as you and your companions look for a way home. You will escape (by the skin of your teeth, if you wish) and one of your party must die. Poor poor whats-its-name. End the scene by escaping through a wooden door with a skeleton key.


Things You Might Want To Know

1. You have until Tuesday at 5:00 EST to respond in character to this post.

2. No entry limit. One character per player.

3. Failure to respond within time limits after entering will result in a defect of an undecided non-predetermined nature. the punishments handed out will be extremely temporary and mostly for my own personal amusement. Time limits for responding will be a three day minimum to allow for busy lives.

4. This will be a creative writing based quest with a small element of chance. The Mistress will decide and she does not accept bribes. She is best swayed with plenty of terror and good helping of the macabre.

5. You have been transformed into a human for this quest. For the sake of simplicity, to whatever extent you like, assume that once you become human you understand human things.

6. Any traits or abilities you had as a horse do not transfer over. So sorry. Poor dears. Defects your pony already possesses will be optional to transfer over to their human state. So if you have a blind pony and you'd like them to remain blind, you are welcome to. Conversely, they may regain their sight for the duration of the event. The Mistress leaves that decision in your completely inept hands.

7. You name, dress and do whatever you like with your two human companions. I don't suggest impregnation. It will be terribly impractical as you run for your life.

8. You are not in the same mansion. Each character is in a version of this reality.

9. If it helps, think of the doors as simply portals to other places. You are not in an actual room. The Mistress is quite clever like that.

10. Any questions, requests, complaints or other mouth things you deem necessary should be PM'd at your convenience. The Mistress will answer at hers.



RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Nadyah - 10-18-2015

"Thank you. I choose the red door." I say, pointing. I slowly walk to the door, wondering what is inside. I open the door, still slowly (just for effect). Then walk onto a street. There are lots of people. "You must be Nadyah, the one the mistress told us about. My names Johnathan, thus is my sister, Elizabeth. Welcome to London!" a small boy tells me, bowing low. Then a man walks up. He eyes me warily. Then simply walks off. "Oh, yeah, you may want these. You'll blend better if your, uh, decent." Elizabeth tells me. I look down. "Thanks, I guess." I say. My hair is black with blue tips, I wear blue skinny jeans and a pale blue sweater.
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Elizabeth, Johnathan, and I all three head to the bakers to get something to eat. I eat a slice of the king cake we bought. I bite in. Crunch My teeth hit something. Its a key. A skeleton key. "You'll want that for later." Elizabeth tells me. The man who stared at me whilst I was naked came by again. "Hello, my name is Jack." He says. I roll my eyes. "Look, I don't mean to be rude. But I'm terribly busy. So-" he cuts me off.
"But miss, that key belongs to me." He says trying to snatch it from me. Oh, yeah? Well, he'll have to catch it first. I jam it in my pocket and run. Jack, Elizabeth and Johnathan follow. Elizabeth trips. "Keep going! I'll be fine! she says.jack stops and shifts into a bear. I keep running, fearing the worst. "This way!" Johnathan tells me, as he snatches my wrist and pulls me around the corner. He takes the key from my pocket, and jams it in the lock. The Door swings open. We jump in and slam the door shut, right as an eagle soars around the corner. All is silent.
"Where is Elizabeth? I ask him.


RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - pyxis - 10-18-2015

as your love starts to surround you
all of their words are trying to drown you

The world is dark—too dark. She had fallen asleep, but she isn’t sure when and she isn’t sure why. As far as she remembers, she hadn’t even been tired. The last thing that Pyxis remembers is coming back from her adventures with Daemron—the thrill of the wolf magic just beginning to wear off—and then…that’s it. There is nothing else. Panic sets in when she hears the stranger’s voice, but it is nothing compared to the sheer horror when she feels her body begin to shift, when she loses her fur and her hair and is suddenly very cold. She feels small and vulnerable, and when she lifts her hands (hands) before her, she is gasping, flexing her fingers in awe. What has happened to her. What has she done.

Luckily, she is clothed—simple jeans, gray hoodie, and sneakers—but her knowledge of these things is what frightens her the most. “What have you done to me?” she cries, although she doesn’t expect an answer. “Where am I?” but this time, her voice is weaker—more of a whimper than anything. Suddenly dizzy, Pyxis turns to a corner and vomits, her stomach emptying itself, her newly formed body weak. She wipes her mouth and stands up, feeling her hands shake as she shoves them into her pockets.

It is then that she sees the doors.

The choice is clear, although an impending sense of doom settles over her shoulders; neither choice would be good for her. That much she knows. Pyxis aches for her family as she walks forward—her broken family—and her home, wherever that might be. Anywhere but here. Her hands are trembling as she grabs the handle of the red door, and she feels her stomach revolting as she twists it open, stepping forward.

***

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the dark, to the rain, to the clattering sound of distant wheels on the cobblestoned streets. She gulps in the cold, polluted air, and her nose wrinkles. “Pyxis?” the voice sounds as if it is coming through fog, and she shakes her head trying to clear it. “Pyxis, you have to wake up,” it is clearer now, and the voice is suddenly rich with urgency and—fear? That doesn’t make sense.

“Pyxis, wake up! NOW. We have to go.”

She suddenly realizes that she is horizontal and there are rocks eating into her shoulder blades. She groans and her eyes open, the world fuzzy, two strange faces coming into focus, although both seem familiar. The first is a young girl, black ringlets framing her angelic face, her eyes a pale gold. The second is a male, his hair a deep red, his eyes the palest of silver. She has never seen them before, but she knows them.

Of course she does.

“Pyxis, please, wake up,” the girl is shaking her now, and Pyxis notices that there are tears on her cheeks. The man reaches down and wraps his arms beneath her waist, lifting her as he grunts. “Come on, sunshine.” Her stomach flips as she becomes vertical, and her knees buckle, but only for a second. Thankfully, only for a second. She leans against him, closing her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathes.

He brushes her chestnut hair from her damp forehead where it had been sticking. “Not a problem.” There is something in the way that he holds her, something both magnetic and terrifying, and she pushes away, feeling hot. The girl grabs her arm, “He’s coming.” It still doesn’t make sense, but Pyxis believes her, if only for the genuine terror in her voice. “He’s—“ the girl’s voice breaks, and she screams. “He’s here.”

That’s when the smell hits her. Pyxis gags as her companions grab her by the arm and drag her along. She notices the tear in the man’s jacket, the blood smeared on the girl’s ivory cheek. The street, which had been dark is suddenly alive with flickering streetlights, and it reeks of…something. Death. decay.

Shadows jump along the walls, and Pyxis cannot help the scream that comes uncorked—the sound raw and hoarse. She sees fangs and feels hot breath on her neck. They are running, but it does not feel like they are going fast enough. Her sneakers hit the ground and the group is now silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing, arms pumping as they run. The man grabs her by the arm and drags her to the right, and they are suddenly in an alley. It all happens so fast—too fast. Later, in her memory, it would be painfully slow. She would remember every second, every mistake for the rest of her life.

They reach a fence, and the strange man pushes her toward it. “Climb, Pyxis!” he yells, but she knows that it is already too late. The shadow is coming faster and faster now, and even as she is turning to yell for the girl, she can see the…thing (wolf, fiend, monster) is already on top of her. His fangs are already dug into her neck, and Pyxis can see the splatter of blood on the alley wall. The girl’s hair is matted with gore, and the life is already beginning to bleed from her eyes. “Run,” she croaks. “Run.”

“Ilka,” she screams, the name coming to her in a flash (her sister, not her sister). “No!” she is backing down from the fence, her sneaker already on the ground when she feels the man’s hand on her waist. “It’s too late,” his voice is strained, and before she knows it, he is shoving her over the fence. She lands on her knees, and she is crawling toward the fence, gripping it, screaming at the sight of the monster ripping into her sister’s stomach, at the steam crawling into the air. She almost does not notice that the man has picked her up, that he is running with her slung over his shoulder. 

She almost does not notice anything at all.

The next thing she knows is her companion (Daemron, his name comes to her too) is cursing, fumbling in his pockets, shoving an ornate key into a dark wooden door. He lets her down, and she slips, numb with the pain, overwhelmed with the loss. He grabs her wrist and pulls her through the door and into the dark. She hears the click of the door closing shut, and then the sound of something thudding against it.

They had survived—but at what cost?

and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart
and the blame that you claim is all your own fault

© patrick sobczak



RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Kult - 10-18-2015




Has he been asleep for long? He doesn’t quite recall falling asleep in the meadow either, come to think of it.  A yawn passes his lips before he stretches across the rug. Rug. Where had that word come from? While he knows the word, knows that it means a material, soft, sprawling across the floor, he doesn’t know how he knows that word.

While Kult is not an idiot, he is not often perceived as an intelligent creature either. He is few in words, even less in displays of acknowledgement, his eyes bid nothing in reaction. Perhaps that is why many thought him slow, simple minded. Many would judge his book by its cover, many would falsely interpret him, it made no difference to Kult. He is not one to pine for acceptance, he simply was who he was, take it or leave it. A palm touches his shoulder, eliciting a feral reaction in return. He grabs the arm of whomever it is that is touching him, twisting the appendage, his fingers clasped tightly against the flesh. Fingers. He had been slow to rouse, now his dark eyes flicked open taking in the surroundings so unfamiliar.

The first thing that requires attention is the body to which he clings, turning the arm in an unsightly way. The protests are now filling his ears from the man which the part belonged to. Everything was slowly phasing into perspective now that he was conscious, waking. Somewhere out of focus a fire crackles in a hearth, giving light and warmth to whatever place this was. The edges of his sight unblur, followed by the clarity of his hearing humming into intelligible words. ”Kult..Kult, Kult. Can you hear me, gir’off me.”  An impatient snapping of fingers, accentuated by uncomfortable groans, a man whom he did not know was trying for his attention. Perhaps man is an overstatement, a male, not a day over twenty stared at him through milky blue eyes. Uniform blue like a cloudless sky, they are perhaps the loveliest thing about him. His hair stuck out in uneven tufts from beneath his worn tan cap, as if he elected to cut his own hair with dull shears, rather than pay a barber.

His clothes are unkempt. A sleeved, dingy- white colored shirt with a button collar, and plain brown trousers an inch too short. He kept his slacks held up unnecessarily with suspenders, beneath a heavy oversized coat. Most of what he wore appeared to be hand me down, completing his homely look. Though he is perhaps considered a man of his time, he was still very boyish, with a round face, and nervous posture. His hands are rough from work, callused on the fingers and palms, and he was dirty.  Peter, Peter Miller. The name came to his mind as if he knew this boy, had known him for a while now. It is while he is thinking on this fact, that his dark eyes trail up the arm, his arm, to his still clasped palm. He releases the boy’s wrist, staring down at his five fingers, flexing them as he turns the new extremity over and over.

Another body approaches in the firelight, this one is smaller, female. She is slight in stature, no more than 5 feet tall, shapely, with dark brown hair. The curls are pulled up and pinned to the back of her elegant head, with stray spirals falling about her face, pulling attention to her gentle hazel eyes. She smells of sweat, too much perfume and stale lager. When she smiles, her painted lips bring an uncommon whiteness to her even teeth. A  delicate hand reaches for his cheek but he pulls away looking at her coldly. Her smile fades, the corners of her mouth pulling tightly to match the furrowed concern in the lines of her forehead. “Are you alright Kult? We need to pick a door, grab your coat.”  She herself wears a plain, thistle-colored dress, belted at the waist, topped with a long coat that runs the length of her gown.

“Coat?”  He questions looking at her flatly as she responds by pointing to a rack on the far wall. Catherine, Kate, that is what she is called. Kate. The woman takes a sidelong glance at Peter, who returns her concerned gaze with a shrug. Somehow they all knew each other, they sure seemed to know him, but not well enough. If they had really known him, they would have known not to touch him, would not have made any attempt to. He makes to cross the room, to retrieve this shock of fabric she called a ‘coat’, stumbling with his first step. What was wrong with his legs? Of course he finds that like the two others, he travels on his two hind legs, really the only legs he has now. Carefully he takes another step, feeling the adjustment, the placement of the weight he carries so awkwardly. His shoes are leather, worn but sound with life still in them. They are not pretty by any means, but they were a lot better than the slipper-like ones that Kate wore, or the too-tight loafers Peter shoved his own feet into.

Reaching the coat rack he lifts the only covering left. This one is deep brown and frayed at the seams but warm. He looks at it a moment, considering the wrapping before holding it aloft to place his arm inside the hole. Turning in a circle of a dance as he tries to put his coat on, he catches his reflection in a mirror on the wall. A pale face looks back at him through sunken dark eyes, rimmed with hard circles as if he had not slept in ages. His mane, no his hair fell to his shoulders in long greasy tendrils, something about him that could use a good washing. Grey hair was brushed across both his temples, adding age to his young, unlined face, which was sporting a five o’clock shadow. From the corner Kate clears her throat before speaking, “Kult, you need to choose a door.”

Choose a door Kult, choose a door, a door  Did she ever shut up? He thought frowning in the mirror before knocking it to the floor, pieces shattering against the wood slats. Deftly fixing the buttons of his jacket, he turned stormily and grasped the red door, swinging it wide with force. He discovered that if he did not think to hard on how alien this body was, it was much easier to operate. “Choose”  He smirked crookedly, gesturing with his free hand to the girl, ladies first. She gathers her purple dress in a now gloved hand, walking pointedly out the door, Peter follows tipping his head to Kult as he passes the frame. Rolling his vapid eyes, Kult follows, pulling the door shut behind them as they emerge onto a lamp-lit street.

Peter and Kate seem unphased by the fact that they have walked out into the night from a door inside a mansion. He knew that possibility was slim and none, some sort of something was going on here, and why he was the one that was not oblivious was pinching his temper. “Best walk Ms. Eddowes back to the lodging-house.”  Peter suggested, taking Kate’s arm as they strolled down the cobbled streets. Kult followed, somehow he was associated with this party, and he was determined to find out why, and how.

Ms. Eddowes he called her, was far too cheery of a woman, laughing sweetly as they walked down the path. She sang time to time, still holding Peter’s arm, patting his shoulder with her free hand. They whispered to one another as well, smiling back at him , as if he too was in on their secrets. He didn’t like their smiles, either of them, they filled him with an uncertainty. Did he have amnesia? How long had he been here? Was this some sort of dream? All questions, all needing answers, and all while the two idiots sang songs and smiled. He isn’t sure why he would ever fall into the company of such imbeciles, honestly he isn’t sure he has. This is someone’s trick or better, someone’s game he convinces himself, as they all stop at the sound of footsteps. He finds nothing as he turns on the spot, squinting into the distance against the yellow lamp light. Peter and Kate begin whispering, Did you hear that? What was that?  Mostly it is Kate’s broken voice excitedly asking hushed questions as she pulls at Peter’s sleeve. Grasping the rough cloth as if it will save her from the potential danger.

Kult only only smiles, he finds he likes the way she trembles much more than her singing voice. Shrugging off what they have just heard, he gestures forward once more, they might as well carry on.  Peter’s milky eyes find his, he can tell the boy is afraid. He knows for sure he is afraid as he takes Kate’s arm, shushing her and leading her forward again. The set pace is much quicker now. So much so, that Kate has to use her free hand to hold her skirts, balling her first with fabric. The two pause, they need to turn right onto Church Passage, only thing is the street is sparsely lit and his companions cower at the dark. Kult grabs Peter’s elbow pulling him forward on to the unlit path, they were both being ridiculous and stalling. He was ready to be rid of the woman, one way or another, and if they could take her back to where they had found her- all the better.

It is not long before they hear the footsteps striking the stones behind them once more. This time Kate screams, filling Kult with unreasonable rage. Did the bitch not know how to be quiet? He wanted to know who was following them, wanted to know why. Did he want to play a game? His two companions were ruining his good fun he thought, snatching Kate by the back of her neck. Yanking downward so that the woman is looking up at him, back bent as she whimpered. She only struggled for a moment before he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Quiet.”  He commanded before tossing her aside, his head tilting as he listened to their surroundings. A scraping noise interrupted the foot falls, like claws against the brick, or a knife. Knife  That was more likely, especially if they were playing a game. He liked games, he liked to win games, and he would be damned if the two he was cursed with would keep him from winning.

He pushed Kate forward again, she threatened to cry out, but it seemed the girl had enough sense to not test his patience. He hurried them along, somehow guiding them across the cobbles, wishing his footwear was lighter. The knock against the stone was undesired, even as he made careful steps to best muffle the sound. The empty streets echoed each movement, magnifying their advancement, making Kate’s fall even louder. Stupid woman. Just as the lamp posts had begun to sprout up again, did their fragile female companion catch her ankle in a pot hole. Her shout was sweet agony against Kult’s eardrum, he stood taking in the beauty of her pain, forgetting for a moment that they were in the middle of a game. Her face contorted into a grimace as hot tears rolled down her rouged cheeks. She sniffled, sucking in snot, as she clasped her dainty gloved hand against her leg. Peter bent to the woman, placing his bare palm against her forehead, “You’re okay. We’re going to help you back, right Kult.” He looked up wide eyed, seeking pity which he nor the girl would receive. Not from him. Kult looked down at them both, his dark eyes lightless, regarding them both as if they were insects. “Goodbye Kate,”  he said darkly, grabbing Peter’s arm.

He struggled, they all struggled, but they all fell victim to Kult’s grip in the end. He wound his fingers tightly around the young man’s arm, pulling him away from the sobbing woman. The scratch of their pursuer was growing louder and he would not be caught so easily. Let him have the girl, why not? He didn’t just want him to have the girl though, he wanted to know what happened to her when he caught her. He wanted to see. He marched his companion, his captive maybe, depending how you looked at it, through the darkness. Marched him mercilessly as pleas fell unheard against the starless night. Sweet, sweet sobs accentuated with choked out words, hurried, afraid. Promises, always promises, from the weak. They won’t  tell anyone, never mention it again, as if those words held some unknown power over their assaulter. Their friend Kate had developed a stutter in their absence, gaining a croaking laugh from her deserter.

He circled them around until they came out a side street, one that led them back to where they had just come from. It wasn’t hard, he had merely followed the screams, until he emerged out an an alleyway and the scene lit up with soft lamp light. Kult pulled them against the corner of a building, melding them to the shadows as he observed the stalker. Kate gurgled now, her gentle hazel eyes wide as she shakily grabbed at her neck. Her lined gloves soak up the blood like sponges, the red wetness dripping from the corners of her mouth now too. He could see the meaty tissue inside, pink underneath as her skin peeled away from the edges of the cut. Peter jerks against Kult’s iron grip, only to be clasped tighter. Kult holds the lad’s mouth shut, muffling his sobs, catching the tears that slide down his face. Disgusting creature. he thinks, his other hand firmly against the man’s chest. His head cocks to the side, like a confused dog, their pursuer bends to his knees.

He doesn’t recognize the man, of course he couldn’t be expected to, only having view of his backside. He wore a black top hat, a long cloak that was clasped around his neck. He looked dressed every bit an english gentleman, not at all the type of attire one would expect. It was the perfect disguise, it reminded him fondly of Kirin, that was something he would do. That was how he would play the game. A flash of silver caught the lamp light, before he could distinctly hear the parting of her flesh. The body now collapsed against the stones, but the attacker did not yet flee. He seemed to be working carefully, jostling about her limp form while pulling long wet strands of innards from her stomach. Long lumpy strands of flesh still connected somewhere inside, flopping with splatter noises where they fell.The evening was soon filled with the metallic scent of blood, followed by what could only be fecal matter. The victim had likely defecated on herself during the ordeal, many animals did the same, and the breeze was just now wafting it their way. Shit- there was no way to mistake that smell. Peter retched, a weak stomached fool, ending the show much sooner than Kult would have liked.

The man turned, still crouched, looking back at them as he gnawed a fleshly blob. That helped coax what remained in Peter’s stomach to the surface, spilling chunks of food and bile on both of their shoes. Kult grasped his partner’s jacket pulling at him to leave, just as the killer rose and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “It’s Jack. Jack the Ripper.” Peter cried as they sprinted away, Kult still pulling at his coat. “Yes.” He replied knowingly, which had made the game much more interesting. Jack was a worthy opponent. Kult would take pride in winning, even if he had to drag along his loser ‘friend’. Turning the corner they collide with a stone wall, Peter helplessly striking his fists against the unyielding blockade. Kult growled, grabbing the boy by his ratty brown hair, causing the other to wince. “Climb” he spat, shoving Peter into the wall face. After several clumsy jumps with no success, he bent weaving his hands together to boost Peter to the top, snarling at the boys shortcomings. He manages to pull himself to the top just as Jack collides into Kult, knife still in hand.

Kult laughs, an out of place reaction, to this horrifying scenario. Scrapping with the murderer was probably the highlight of his evening, as they both tossed over the cobbles. Jack pinned him for a moment, giving Kult a good view of his attacker, an unremarkable middle aged man. He was so plainly ordinary, he could not help but to rattle with laughter. His assailant does not take kindly to his humor, swiping at his face with his blade. The metal dips into his flesh, slicing his earlobe like soft butter, the skin once connected now flopping freely. Blood flows from the cut, running down Kult’s neck, matting into his long greasy hair as he pushes against Jack’s knife hand. Digging into the man’s wrist, he relieves Jack of the knife, the weapon clattering blissfully against the ground. He manages to roll the man on his back, switching their positions, giving him the upper hand. Another sweet song of metal tinkles against the cobbles, a small, brass, skeleton key falling from Jack’s coat. Kult shoves his elbow into the man’s temple when he turns his head to look at his lost possession, knocking him out. He grabs the key before jumping up to climb the wall himself, surprisingly Peter has not deserted him. The boys stands frozen and pale, bottom lip quivering as Kult pulls himself over the top. They both lean over the ledge, staring down at a rousing Jack below, the man’s eyes fluttering open already.

“Run” Kult instructs, pulling back from the rocky ledge, stowing his trophy in his pocket. From below Jack snarls curses, his boots scraping against the wall as he too attempts to ascend the stone obstacle. Kult relishes in the exertion, his lungs huffing as they sprint across the London residential districts. He directs them in a weaving path, skidding around corners, balancing himself from a fall by catching the houses by their brick corners. It’s one particular alley they find themselves sprinting down that proves different from all the rest. The deserted path lit only by flickering lamp light, the all too familiar crashing steps somewhere behind them. At the end is a door, old wooden slats fitted together in fine carpentry. The handle is brass, ancient, with delicate filigree to adorn the backplate. Kult smirks, pulling from his pocket the matching skeleton key, rushing to shove it into the keyhole. It’s deteriorating, rusted inside, and he has to wiggle it vigorously while jiggling the knob. Jack is nearing closing in on them with his weapon of choice glinting at his side. Finally the lock clicks, the door swings open, and he shoves Peter through first- leaping through behind him. They escape through the convenient portal  just in time to dodge a knife in the back.


Khaos x Killgore



RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Flamevein - 10-18-2015


some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice

from what I’ve tasted of desire, I’ll hold with those who favor fire - R. Frost


He remembers how gently the night had crept in. Slow at first, only caressing, and then more demanding. The darkness tugged at his skin and his mind, finally pulling his legs out from under him. What a great relief to lay down, he thought. His eyelids gradually became more and more heavy until finally there was nothing to do but succumb. He had given in to that sweet release, and then and only then did darkness consume him fully.

What he does not remember is waking up. It had been abrupt (isn’t it always?) and confusing. His eyes fluttered open (still the same blue) but something was different. Gone was the powerful, sleek body of the horse. Gone were the orange dragon wings and the feeling of fire in his veins. It had been replaced instead with something much more mundane and certainly boring. His frame was still lithe, but human now. Black hair flopped carelessly atop his head and he had an attractive face, but it was still so foreign and weak feeling. Blinking slowly he arose, ungainly for the moment on his two legs. For the moment he was naked, and his eyes swept over the planes of his chest and stomach. Looking up he noticed only two things- doors, painted red and yellow. The man furrowed his brows as he thought. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that a choice had to be made. With a deep breath he reached forward until his hand closed on the knob jutting from the red door…

The far-off sound of steel shod hoof on cobblestone was the first thing he noticed, followed by the inky darkness. To either side of him crude buildings stretched upwards, the shutters of these dwellings closed tight against the London fog. Gas streetlights flickered meekly through the mire, casting shadows around them in all directions. The man looked down to notice he was clothed now, in a simple black suit. Worn leather shoes peaked from beneath his trousers, while a top hat sat covering his black hair. His hand was clenched around the handle of a cane. The night was quiet for the most part. The stink of the Thames flooded his nostrils, while a pair of cats screeched in the alleyway. Deciding there was nothing to be gained by standing idly, he walked forward. His heels clicked on the crude roadway, echoing off of the building walls around him. Suddenly though, a scream split’s the night, and a woman lurches out of the shadows, her hair in disarray and her lipstick smeared. He supposes she is beautiful but the stink of desperation hangs about her in clouds. Her clothing is provocative, and he cannot help but notice how her sweat-soaked breasts protrude from her corseted dress. “Help me!” she chokes. She grabs him by the lapels of his coat, and her hollow eyes are alive with fear. “Please…he, it…he’s after me. Please, I’ve only just escaped! We must run!” Flamevein looks around and sees nothing, though he thinks perhaps he hears something. Raspy breath, and a putrid smell that overwhelms even that being emitted by the filthy nearby river. Suddenly he emerges from the shadows- a small well-dressed man. Flamevein eyes him suspiciously, whilst the girl at his side clenches his arm painfully. “That’s him!” she hisses in his ear. Her hot breath breaks him from his reverie. “What have you done to this woman?” he growls at the stranger. The stranger says nothing and continues to stare at the pair. A grin twists his lips, and Flamevein feels fear grip his stomach. Whereas he had woken up with blunt human teeth, the gentlemen staring at him had something similar to that of a wolves. Flamevein stepped backwards, grabbing the girls hand as he did so. “On my count, we run. Fast. One…two…three!” On three he whirled around, dragging the girl with him as he went. A fierce snarl ripped through the inky air and he knew they were being pursued. Still they ran, dodging this way and that in an effort to throw the beast off their scents. Finally when it seemed there was some distance, the darted into a side door, panting in the darkness as they looked at one another.

Flamevein reached into his pocket, unsurprised to find a matchbook there. He struck one and held it before his face. The sight that met his eyes was enough to make him and his companion retch. Two more women…or what once were women. The first ones head was completely torn from her body, her blonde hair matted thick with blood. Her entrails were had been pulled from her by a gash in her abdomen and were looped around the neck of the other woman- a beautiful brunette. “Oh my God…Sally! Margret!” said Flameveins companion. “My name is Ella. These were my friends.” she sobs, wiping her filthy face on Flameveins lapels. A rattled drawing of breath causes them both to start, and they turn to see the brunette gasping at the air. Her throat had been crudely slashed and her once white dress was stiff with dried and drying blood. Around her butchered neck was a heavy gold chain from which an old key stood. They began moving towards her when suddenly a resounding crash broke the almost silence. Their eyes (Ella and Flameveins) met one anothers, while the brunette on the floor thrashed wildly. The creature at the door snarled, clearly angry at being denied so many potential victims. For the first time Flamevein noticed the door behind them- a heavy old thing with iron fittings. Suddenly, he knew what had to be done. “We must distract him. Here, help me!” Flamevein said, revolted at what he was getting ready to do. Ella looked at him and hesitated only a moment. Working together they lifted Margret, who choked and gurgled on the blood flowing into her lungs. Tears ran down Ella’s face, but still she pushed and tugged. As they neared the door Flamevein reached forward and tugged the necklace free from the dying womans neck. Her eyes widened, but she could make no effort to stop him. Finally they neared the door where the creature stood slobbering. “Ok Ella…trust me one more time. We open the door and shove her out - no, don’t cry, please. She’s dying anyways. She may not even know whats happening anymore. We shove her out and run back across to this door. I think the key she had around her neck opens it. Do you trust me?” Ella looked at him through her tear-soaked eyes, but finally she nodded. “NOW!” Flamevein shouted, wrenching the door open. The creature roared victoriously, and as quick as they could they shoved poor Margret into its waiting jaws. Her once beautiful face was the last thing he saw before the creature clamped its hungry jaws over her bleeding neck.

Lurching forward he threw his shoulder into the door. Ella had done the same, and she cried out as her shoulder met the wood. “Hurry Ella!” Flamevein pleaded, grabbing her by the waist and dragging her backwards. Already the creature had grown bored of their bait and was raking its claws down the door. Shaking slightly Flamevein reached back into his pocket until his fingers closed around the old key. He pulled it from his pocket and fumbled for just a moment before shoving it into the keyhole. Ella trembled at his side, her eyes glancing from door to door so quick she seemed to be seizing. A telltale click filled the air and he knew he had been right. “Come on!” he hissed, and they burst through the locked door just as the creature began tearing into the other. They slam the heavy old door shut behind them. The creature paces behind them like a caged cat- clearly it can hear them and smell them, but it cannot reach them. For whatever reason it does not attack the door, but it does not abandon them entirely. Biding its time. In the darkness they slump together, and he is surprised to find him wrapping Ella in his arms. After all, they were alive together. Alive. “We’re alive.” The darkness consumes his whisper.





flamevein

fire bending son of carnage and alcippe







RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Lokii - 10-18-2015

this isn't mischief

    The meadow has been his ‘home’ (although he doesn’t call anywhere home; although the only place he might consider home to be the Valley; although it’s really just the place he spends his days for the time being) since coming back to Beqanna. With the bustle of conversation and constant melody of sound (birds chirping, wind moving, trees shaking, friends talking), there is a constant undertone of vivid, immortal life. It gives him much to do and many things to think about, but it also lulls him to sleep. He finds himself in the gentle embrace of the place between asleep and awake (where the world exists and doesn’t, where time is a fickle thing, where sound and movement and touch and taste and smell are both a reality and an illusion).

    At first, the sway of the meadow is his bedtime lullaby. But quickly, the sounds of life are drowned by the impossibly obvious sound of nothing. The red of his eyelids outlined by the sun fades into the deep black of darkness. The sound of a voice startles him away from the faint line between sleep and wake (he spins away dramatically, sharply gasping as he does so). But he finds, instead of the meadow (with its ocean of voices, rainbow of colors and light, and abundance of different vague smells) he finds the inside of an enclosed space (with the sound of a voice echoing off the walls, the inky black of shadows mingling with the light from some sort of miniature sun above his head, and the faint but sure scents of dust and mold and age).

    The voice speaks of playing and his crooked lips curl into a sneer (playing means games and games are his favorite past-time). It says the word ‘mansion’ and he glances around. Bruised eyes (blue and black, blue and white) gaze around. He is in a box, with tall walls rising around his body and something dark covering the sky. Aside from the two doors facing him, there are no exits or entrances. His brow furrows together, wondering briefly how he got here, before the voice continues.

    A creeping feeling skitters across his skin. It starts at his legs and tingles all the way up to the very tips of his ears and end of his tail. The feeling writhes against his body (and his innards give a dramatic twist, already conforming to the programming of his new body), causing him to groan. His bones snap (but the feeling is surprisingly euphoric, rather than painful) and his eyesight vanishes (only to be replaced with a different sort of sight, one that causes him to blink the stars away until it is resumed comfortably).

    When the crawling feeling vanishes, he finds himself standing in an awkwardly different position. The trickster tries to call upon his tricks, but no dark, lingering fingers rush to move beneath his power (nor do the sandstorms begin to curl around his two feet). His mind swims, suddenly, swamped with the sudden sabotage of words that flood into it. Mansion, walls, ceiling, light, door, floor, spider-web, hands, fingers, feet, jeans – foreign, dangerous-sounding words. The trickster glances down, once, to check over his body. A frame surprisingly close to the one he designed for the pink queen (although decorated with a pair of black jeans, a black t-shirt, a dark green zip-up hoodie, and sneakers).

    The voice speaks about the doors and his eyes (eyes which remain the same eerie combination of blue and black in the right, blue and white in the left) dance toward them. The first is a red door (and he takes notice of the liquid dripping from its seams, as if there might be something wet and cold – or warm – on the other side). The second door is black (faint light glows from behind it, hinting to something that might be possibly angelic). He considers his choices carefully but quickly. He’s had his fair share of faeries messing with his mind and he knows the urgency of these scenes. Pick quickly and deal with the consequences later.

    The black door’s handle creaks as he turns it and the light behind it blinds him for a moment. The trickster steps through the door blindly, but soon after the momentary blindness disappears. When he turns (he hadn’t heard the door click shut, nor the feeling of it swishing closed behind him) he sees nothing but the emptiness of a cracked, eroding road. A throat is cleared, causing the trickster to shift his gaze behind him again. The sight of a woman startles him (her blonde hair is pulled back into a braid streaked with dirt, her outfit consists of a baggy disarray of clothing, and her eyes are a startling color of fierce liquid gold) and he takes a step back.

    “Here, Lokii. You’re going to need something after going through a change like that.” She grabs his hand (her hand is rough but warm, while his are ice cold and silky soft) and places something smooth and halved in his hand. When he looks down, he doesn’t know what he’s looking at but the word comes immediately to him. Deviled egg. His stomach suddenly gives a loud cry for substance and the woman’s head jerks around, scanning the decrypted world around them (almost as if she were watching for something; almost as if she were looking to see if someone – or something – had heard). Although the deviled egg is small, it provides just enough energy to calm his seething belly.

    The trickster raises his head, looking toward the woman. “Where are we?” he asks (and his voice comes out surprisingly the same, although perhaps less throaty than before). The woman grabs his hand again, gold eyes glancing around sharply and pointedly. “Never mind that. You can call me Pip. We need to hurry. We have a safe – for the time” – at this she rolls her eyes dramatically and a weary smile ghosts her lips – “location to get you, but it won’t last long. Follow me.”

    Faster than he thought possible, the blonde drags him toward a decaying building just off the potholed road. A car (low to the ground, one wheel popped and sinking, and all the doors wide open as if people had fled) sits depressingly not far off from the entrance to the building. Rather than using the front door, like the trickster would have expected, the woman crawls through a side window and drags him in after her. Unbalanced, the trickster lands in a heap on the ground. A loud, belly laugh sounds nearby and he looks up quickly.

    “This is the little squirt Missy sent us to fetch and put our lives in danger for?” The belly laugh belongs to another girl, only this one is younger. However, the determination and years-beyond her wisdom is seen in her light yellow eyes (eyes that reflect the other woman’s golden ones). “He’s kinda cute, though, Pip. Wouldn’t you say? Those high, sharp cheekbones…” A dreamy sound takes over the girl’s voice as the trickster rises to his feet. The golden-eyed beauty punches the other abruptly in the arm with a, “Shut up.”

    The trickster smirks at the sound of being called cute and glances between the two. “Who are you and where am I?” he repeats. Aside from a chair in the corner and one backpack, the room is dustily unoccupied. The girl giggles, and then glances outside. The trickster watches as her face dramatically sobers. “Pip, they’re here.” A groan escapes the blonde’s mouth before she hands the younger girl the backpack and then shoves the door down with a kick of her leg. Bruised eyes glance out the window to find a horde of ash-faced humans racing (sprinting, shoving, knocking others down, running almost at the speed he’s run with four legs) toward their building.

    It’s a given that those things are bad and he doesn’t want to be caught by them.

    Turning, the trickster runs after the two girls. The pace of running is awkward and clumsy with his new legs, but his body works instinctually to recover. “Hurry! Run faster, Lokii!” The little girl is keeping pace with him, the backpack thumping against her thin shoulders. Her mahogany hair pushes against her rosy ears and cheeks (it’s a startling little detail he notices, but a detail nonetheless) as she runs, moving at a quicker rate than even he. “I’m trying!” he growls, and the sound of glass smashing behind him only encourages his feet to move faster.

    “The door is just up these stairs,” the blonde hisses, holding open a door to let the trickster through. The girl struggles after him, but the long run down the hallway seems to have slowed her down and caused the backpack to grow heavier. Even the clumsy, gangly trickster had passed her and she’d ended up only three fourths of the way to the door. The swarms of creatures appear out of the door they escaped from and his heart jumps in his chest. They speed forward and the blonde woman gives an unearthly scream as they reach her at a startling pace.

    They can’t rescue her, however. Only about twenty of the creatures are slowed down by the body of living flesh, while the rest come pounding after the open door. Making a quick decision (while the blonde stands frozen and stares at her sister being engulfed by the teeth and tongue and mouth of many hungry creatures), the trickster grabs the woman and pulls her out of the way while slamming the door shut. Using sinewy muscles (and oh, gosh, he’s saving a damsel in distress, even though she’s supposed to be saving him), he heaves her onto his shoulder and races up the stairs faster than he believed possible.

    The screech of metal against metal emits from the stairwell as he climbs (his shoulders ache with pain, his chest is tight from lack of air, his legs scream from running). The blonde regains her composure and struggles away, moving to climb the stairs alongside him. “Almost… there,” she pants and the trickster only nods heavily. At the top of the three flights of stairs, a heavy wooden door stairs them down. The pounding of hundreds of feet against the concrete stairs cause the trickster’s fingers to shake. The blonde pulls out a skeleton key from her pocket and inserts it into the door.

    Before she can push it open, the trickster shoves it open quickly with his shoulder and drags her in before to closing it behind him, just before the door shakes with the weight of bodies pressing against it.

lokii

this is mayhem




RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Xiah - 10-18-2015

xiah

You see, it’s very out of character for the little black to sleep at any time besides designated sleeping times. With Kida to raise and herself to take care of, why, naps are at the top of her wish list, but the bottom of her to do list. So when she leaves Kida to her own devices to for a stealthy venture to the meadow, you better bet your bottom that she indulges herself. After zooming around via telekinesis just to bother the peasants, of course. But after that! Yes, after that, a well-earned nap.

Well-earned, but perhaps not well-had.

The sudden introduction thoroughly convinces her that she’s awoken to some imbecilic meadow-dweller intent on disrupting her beauty sleep. Grey eyes flashing as they open, she opens her mouth to speak (and bite) but instead lands up gaping comically at the thing. Yes, the thing. Xiah chokes on her spit and coughs horrendously when she attempts speech – and of course, while she’s basically suffocating, the thing turns her into a human.

Gross.

Keeled over, grey eyes wide, black hands clutching at her dark throat, the slight teenager only manages to compose herself when she’s forced to make a choice. Running a lithe hand through her curly razed hair, Xiah glances from red door to black. One dripping (with blood?) and one glowing. One might guess that she would stumble towards the black door, the door that reflects both her equine fur and her human skin. Chest heaving, she does the exact opposite.

”Well… Bye,” She says dazedly. Skittering to the red door, she grasps the knob and slowly twists, until with one last glance to Missy, she slips through.

London would be cold to most foreigners, but having known only the Tundra in her two short years (roughly fourteen human years) the city only warms her. Running her hands over a plain white t-shirt and some insulated track pants, Xiah looks around for these supposed companions.

“The name’s Jude,” the voice of a powerful woman says. She’s leaning against a dusky, red-bricked house, knife cleaning a nail absent mindedly. Xiah gives her a one over; they’re nearly the same in these bodies. Ebony skinned, razed hair, stormy grey eyes; Xiah becomes strangely reminded of Kida, though she’s grown accustomed to being the largest of the pair. In this instance, she remains lithe and agile, while Jude is muscled and raw.

“And I’m Justice,” comes the casual low-note of a male. Whipping around, Xiah spots the sinewy man, a rugged balance of scars and buff and well-hidden damage with an explosion of blonde hair to top it all off. Swallowing in an attempt to keep her breakfast from coming up, the girl leans against the door from which she has come.

This new world feels inexplicably wrong to her, or perhaps the city’s cool air really is getting to her. Clutching her arms, the young, wide-eyed girl stares from Jude to Justice, Justice to Jude, and back again.

“Well kid? We haven’t got forever. Jack’s been looming lately, running rampant ever since he got Mayor Boris last month.” Justice manages to retain his casual tone, arms crossed over a wide chest. Cocking a brow at her, he coaxes an answer from the slight girl with a motion of his two forefingers.

“Xi—“ the rest of her name meets their ears as a scream of the doomed. Just beyond the shadows, a strange creature looms; when she spots it, it emerges. All teeth and slime and yellowed eyes; matted fur and sharpened claws and rank breath.

Quick as an arrow, Jude looses her dagger towards the werewolf. In the same moment, Justice lunges forward, shoving Xiah towards Jude. A howl breaks through the hushed clamour, for Jude’s aim is true; through the monster’s collarbone the dagger sticks. The wound festers immediately, smoking softly with an audible sizzle.

Sobbing erratically (tsk, tsk, what a burden) Xiah can only stare. Stare as the beast leaps, transforms mid-air in a grotesque show of bones and blood, and attaches itself to Justice. Stare at the blood leaking from its smoking wound, though he be werewolf no longer, but instead an anaconda. Stare as he impales his fangs through Justice’s neck, body contracting immediately to suffocate its victim. Stare as Justice struggles, mouths run, and collapses.

(It’s hard to be casual when you’re dying).

Tear-filled eyes preventing her from watching the finale, Xiah doesn’t feel the powerful hands leading her through the darkening streets. With each step her senses return slightly, and with each turn of the corner her feet remember what it is to run. Why the fuck can’t I fly, she screams internally, but externally she begins outrunning Jude, though she screams directions like an army general. Tears drying against her dark cheeks, Xiah cringes at the distant sounds of Justice’s final battle.

“Kid! In here!” Fumbling through her underclothing, Jude slams into a wooden door. Xiah keels over, hands on knees, body vibrating. Next thing she knows, her sickness lays upon the cobblestone, her breakfast making its first appearance. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the young girl stands up, sniffling as she does so.

Stumbling closer to her companion, Xiah barely sees the key with which Jude unlocks the wooden door. All white and bone-like; her curiosity peaks, but when her mouth opens to speak she only becomes sick again.

Looking upon the girl with vast pity, Jude cracks open the door. “Xi, in here.” Xiah notices the misuse of her name and focuses slightly. Their winter eyes meet, luminous holes against the terror of night. “Fucking now please,” she growls suddenly. Grabbing the smaller girl violently, Jude stuffs her into the cellar with a horrific strength.

Darting in just after her, Jude slams the door and latches it. Not a beat later, metallic wailing noises berate their ears. Xiah collapses to the cool floor and clutches her head, wailing alongside the demon and dreaming of Kida.

Jude, on the other hand, begins screaming at the door. “GO AWAY YOU FUCKING WRAITH!” Her knuckles split when they meet the splintered door. “YOU GOT JUSTICE, ISN’T THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU?” Dissolving into tears, Jude paces from corner to corner, occasionally abusing the door which protects them, both physically and verbally.

Whimpering, cowers, never releasing her ears.
Kida, Errant, Lea, Kida, Errant, Lea… And so, she prays.

You won't have any friends, and I'll live in a room
With flowers on the walls, and golden doorknobs




RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Thorunn - 10-19-2015

Thorunn is not an adventurer - yet. She chooses the red door.

--------------------
Where she was copper, she was now pale.
Where she was lanky, she is now defined.
She's poured into a bust tightened corset, pushing her breasts high and mounted. In the mirror she sees a girl she doesn't recognize but understands (intimately) as herself. Right down to the orange eyes.
The motions are not hers, not entirely. They're a Thorunn if she'd lived in the 1800's in England, and were a whore. It made sense - her father was a manwhore. Now she's a street walker.

--

The darkness of tight is thrilling, the cool London air floating over her exposed skin. She walks with the confidence that only a night walker could have - head high, hair in the latest fashion, the color of her clothing a dark purple of riches. She walks with pronounced steps, her low heels making clicking and clacking noises that fill the air. Her presence is known.

Ahead, two men leer at her from outside a bar. They smell like brandy and detachment, and she knows (The way all women know) that they'll be a problem. She considers changing course, but it's too late. It'd be too obvious, and nothing the only thing worse than meeting these men head on is avoiding them.

"Hey there little girl," coos one, with his dirty ragged teeth. The other has lips reddened with wine and rolls a bit as he lurches forward. "How much?" Winelips presses. "More shillings than ya make in a decade," she says, breezing by.
Winelips lurches.
Ragged teeth grabs her.

Before they can comprehend, the girl deftly pulls a switchblade from her bodice and opens it menacingly, holding it in front of her. Ragged teeth doesn't let go, and for that she slices his ear off. The blade is smart, it takes it clean off. He drops to the ground and Thorunn smiles, observing the blood on the blade in the light.

In the shadows she's aware someone is watching.

--

The gifts start shortly afterwards.
First, it is a bonnet. It's simple, not the type of clothing she would wear, but admirable none the less. The craftwork is decent. There's a faint stain on it, Thorunn can't make it out. But this present is left for her at her station, with her name in unmistakeable gentleman's handwriting. She later recognizes it as Mary Nichol's bonnet, the same bonnet she threw into the street the week before, laughing.

Then, it is a scarf. The scarf is soft, delicate material, intricately woven. It is more a gift for a girl like her. She puts it on with a flourish, ignoring the voices of the other girls - it's the scarf Mary Kelly wore the night she died. Thorunn knew it because she often lusted for the girl's scarf.

--

It's a brisk September night when Thorunn meets the man.
He is tall, which she knew from his lurking shadows. She's not so simple or stupid as to be so unaware of her surroundings. A girl with sense is a girl left alive, she'd always said. And Thorunn had sense to spare. She was aware of him as he slunk through the shadows, watching her walk the streets. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of him through a tavern's shadow.
But he's always gone when she looks again.
Clever girl that she is, she slides through the shadows, leading him where she wants. Down an alley, to the thick cobblestone streets of London. He follows, pursuing her, matching their paces. He picks up the pace when her shadow becomes more and more fleeting. At last he's found her! In that alley, there!
It's a dead end and the orange eyed girl is nowhere to be seen.

That is, until the sound of her clip, clip, clip low heels radiates through the alley.
He turns, incredulous, eye to eye with the object of his affection.

"Thank you for the gifts," she says, her smile coy and dangerous. He can't help but think the lipstick on her face looks like blood and his mouth waters.
"You looked the type of girl to appreciate that sort of thing," he nearly whispers. His voice is stuck in his throat and can't be compelled to break through.
"You're a good judge of character," she says, and takes a step forward. It's the tiniest of shimmies, a dance she's inviting him to join in.
"I always have been," he says, the ache in his voice. His eyes are on her exposed neck, thinking - oh god if I could only...

"But you haven't found exactly what you wanted," she presses, halting. He's stunned by her abrupt stop. "Not until now," he replies, wanting. Needing. Hoping.

The orange eyed girl leans against a wall next to a door, which glows with an almost ethereal hue. He's distracted only a moment, recognizing this. This...this is his move! He can almost taste her on his lips, he can almost...

...he reaches out to touch her, to bring her to himself, to fully feel the object of his desire, when she slips through the door and the door disappears behind her.


RE: Trick or Treat, lovelies; round one - Brynmor - 10-19-2015

Brynmor

"I will see."

It is a voice that awakes him from his slumber and he cannot help but to feel slightly disorientated. He had gotten used to the smell of the pine trees and needs a minute to realise that he indeed is no longer within the kingdom’s borders. They didn’t have a place for a blind male among their ranks and therefor he was send away. During the years he had lived in solitude – he had been dumped in a secluded corner of the kingdom after all – Brynmor had gotten used to both the darkness and loneliness that characterize his life. The only one that kept him company during all that time had been his friend, his buddy, that has been around him for as long as he remembers. If he only knew that the voice was only a default in his head to compromise the lonely feeling.

The graying male sits up before pushing himself into a standing position, his ears twisting around as he breathes in deeply. Brynmor desperately tries to find out where this ‘Missy’ is, before her words settle in. ”Play?” he repeats confused. He had never played before, or you had to count the strings the other’s played him with, but other than that he was unknown with the actual meaning of the word. ”What are you talking about?” he asks again as the tension rises. He’s confused and disorientated, and doesn’t know what is going on. Instead of getting answers Missy just continues her one sided conversation and all he can do is stand still and listen. She tells him his hooves are no good, like eyes on a bat. His eyes aren’t any good at all, all he sees is darkness,  but apparently that doesn’t matter. He directs his head and dead gaze into the direction of where he thinks she stands, like she had asked him to look into the light. And then he can feel the changes starting.

At first his sight is unclear, but compared to the darkness he had only known thus far it’s an extreme difference. Slowly it even starts to get better. ”What’s happening?” He can hear the panic in his own voice and the fact that his hearing abilities got worse only highlights that panic even more. The first thing he sees are his hands, which he raises into his eyesight. Instead of hooves he had now hands and feet and he no longer stood upon four legs, two seemed enough to hold this strange body up. His dark but graying coat is gone and instead he finds himself draped in clothes. Lull-length trousers and a white dress shirt – but the matching black waistcoat was missing. His leather shoes are comfortable and shiny and the high heels make him look taller. If he would look in a mirror he would see a teenager or young adult, not too tall but neither short, with broad shoulders and pitch black hair. His human form’s skin is pale and his eyes are blue, just like his eyes would’ve been if he hadn’t been blind. He looks quite handsome, obviously descending from one of the better families and with a cocky air around him. It was like the eyesight had given is ego a boost.

His head is silent and there is only room for Brynmor’s own thoughts, but because of the impressions from the whole change he doesn’t notice the absence of his buddy. Missy’s words finally start to settle in and he turns to look at her with a cocky smile adorning his lips. ”Will you come to play with me?” he suggests, initiating something far more intimate. Yet he isn’t interested in her answer and instead his gaze shifts to the mansion and without waiting for her Brynmor starts to move himself towards it. ”You said to pick a door, right?” he mumbles out loud, more to himself than to Missy, as he looks at the two options. He had already forgotten what she had said about them – he had been too busy with taking in his own appearance. It is the red door that speaks to him, as the black one only reminds him of the everlasting black that has been his world until now. The red door is different, new, and therefor sparks his interest as he is intrigued by the color. Without hesitation he pushes the handle down and with one last glance – and a smirk – towards the Mistress he steps through it.

The first thing he notices when the door falls closed – and disappears – behind his back is the cool autumn breeze. He finds himself in a narrow street, that feels strangely known. Yet it is not possible for him to know the place, he simply has never been there before. ”We’re playing a strange game, Missy” he mumbles out loud before wondering what kind of game this would be. If he had only paid attention to her words, maybe then he would’ve known what Missy would’ve prepared for him. But Brynmor can’t find himself to care about it, games were meant to be fun so he guessed there wouldn’t be anything he should know, the rules of the game would be shown to him while he played along. Oh, if he only knew how wrong he was…

While he tucks his hands away in his pockets he starts to walk, turning right without knowing if it was the right way to go. The ally he found himself in was dark and in the luring shadows send an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He could hear voices in the distance, people chatting away, but also the advertising of shop owner to attract customers and the sound of rattling wheels and shoed hooves on the cobblestoned streets. It was a sound Brynmor knew and it sparked his interest, after all, it would be the first time for him to see how his natural form actually looked like. His steps are eager, because of the alley’s eerie feeling as well as his desire to lay his eyes upon someone from his own species. Yet the carefree, laidback and bright mood he finds himself in doesn’t push himself to hurry and instead he start whistling. The sound reminds him of the chirping of birds, a sound that he doesn’t hear in this strange city. He had barely stepped into the human world and their life already seemed so different, but at the same time it was as dynamic as his former home had been.

It takes Brynmor a while to notice the footsteps. First it had seem an echo of his own and far away. However, with ever step he takes it seems like they get closer and little by little they fall more out of rhythm with his own. The well build young man stops whistling, no longer finding comfort in the happy tune as he tries to focus on the sounds. It isn’t the first time that Brynmor curses the loss of his sensitive hearing. Because of his blindness he had been depended on his other senses and they  had gotten better over the  years. His human ears don’t even get close to the capacity of his equine ears, making it hard for him to make out the different sounds. When he feels a pair of eyes watching him his pace speeds up and he forces his legs to move faster. Just like his pace his heartbeat rises and Brynmor is utterly aware of its strong beating in his chest. He can hear the rush of his blood in his ears and it’s the thing that causes him to burst out in a sprint. With ever step he takes the sound of his footsteps echo through the alley and with every step the mismatched footsteps of the stranger get closer. He’s breathing through his mouth now, instantly causing his throat to dry, but making it able for him to breath in more oxygen at once. His lungs burn, both from the ice air and the lack of condition. There! A corner, and he can see light coming from whatever might be around it. And the voices and sounds he heard before are clearer now too. Almost! He’s almost there, just a bit further.

A loud animalistic screech startles him. Brynmor had been fighting the urge to look across his shoulder, but now he can no longer stop himself. All he can see is darkness, darkness he is so familiar with, but also the darkness that now somehow scares him. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a glimpse of movement in the shadow, but before he can focus his eyes he slips. ”Fuck” he curses out loud as the pain from the impact travels through his body. As he pushes himself of the ground again Brynmor tries to ignore the stinging pain in both his knee and face. He had to run, run if he wanted to make it out safely on the streets. Whatever was behind him screeched again, it sounded almost like it wanted to humour him. His hurried steps are uneven now, as he tries to unburden his hurt right knee. Blood starts to spill in his eye, the impact on the ground had made his forehead meet the cobblestoned streets in quite an unpleasant way and cut the skin above his left eye. He turns his head a little to the right, only relying on the sight that his right eye offered him as the left one was forced closed. He can see he’s almost there and that is what it takes to push him forward to cross the last distance.

”TRICK OR TREAT!” their voices shout out at the same time. The sudden surprise pulls a raw cry from his lips as he stumbles backwards. Only moments before he would disappear in the shadows of the ally again a pair of arms grab his shoulder and Brynmor’s eyes meet the laughing face of another male. ”Aawh, did we scare Brynnie so bad that he almost pied his pants?” It is the use of the nickname that makes Brynmor recognize the man in front of him and instantly he can feel anger risen. He still struggles to breath in enough air for his burning lungs and he can still feel his heartbeat up to his throat. ”God damnit, you ass!” he cursed out loud as he flung himself towards his friend, aiming his fist at the laughing man’s head. ”You should’ve seen your face, for the love of God, that was too brilliant” was the reply his friend gave him as he easily catches the flying fist. He isn’t a match for Brynmor, who was still panting hard and struggling to calm down his heart. Because of his blindness in his equine form the well build male had never walked harder than his slow step, running around was simply something he couldn’t do and therefor he had never build up a condition to run. ”Stop laughing you both!” he eventually muttered underneath his breath as he leans back against a wall, now for the first time looking at them. In front of him stood his childhood friend – the one that had accompanied him in the dark secluded corner of the kingdom he grew up in – and next to him a girl. Vaguely she reminded him of a lost lover, or someone who he held very close to his heart. ”Dera” he whispers breathlessly before pulling her close to his side. ”How have you been, beautiful? he asks her with a smile. Both of them are dressed up in fancy costumes. His buddy clearly going for an interpretation of Jack the Ripper, who has been the main subject in the newspapers for the last few weeks and Dera was dressed up all in white with fake blood making it look like she had gotten stabbed and was wounded. ”I’m better now you decided to show up” she answered him with a slight giggle as she stands up to press her delicate lips on his clean cheek. ”Now my costume is complete as you’re matches mine.” ”You should’ve heard here whine, like her attire wasn’t scary enough without you at her side. Her happy chiming and his teasing reply doesn’t reach him, as he suddenly feels the stinging in both his knee and head again. She had seen his outfit like a costume, yet instead his look was because of the haunting walk – run – through the alley. But he won’t tell them the truth, refusing to look like a scared kid in their eyes. Due to the surprise, commotion and teasing of their little trick he hadn’t heard the angry screech coming from the alley.

Halloween. It was Halloween. Groaning softly Brynmor wondered how he could’ve forgotten about that, but he doesn’t get the chance to trouble himself about the situation any longer as a hand playfully slaps his shoulder. ”Hey!” he voices out his complain as he throws a dirty look in the direction of his friend, who only shrugs his shoulders and blows him a raspberry. ”Just ignore him, Brynnie, he’s just jealous~” the soft voice of the girl at his side speaks up. With a grin he nods and brushes it away, but if they only knew how right those words were. As he turns to look at her he sees her smile and cannot stop himself from smiling back at her in return. ”You’re right.” They walk side to side – all though Dera was pressed close against him and he comfortably wrapped his arm around her waist – through the streets, looking at all the different decoration in awe. Out loud they discuss their plans for tonight. The sun would soon set and twilight would soon set in. Everywhere around them lights were put on, warming the streets with their warm lights and making the shadowed corners look even more thrilling. Kids ran around them, screaming and yelling loudly, excited for tonight when they were allowed to go from door to door to collect candy. ”So, where should we set ourselves up tonight? It is his buddy’s voice that pulls him from his thoughts this time and Brynmor cannot stop himself from grinning. ”We could hide in an alley and scare people by sneaking upon them from behind?” he suggests, looking at his friend for a second before switching his gaze towards Dera. Both are grinning and nodding eagerly, already enjoying the thrill.

By the time it’s really dark they move themselves towards the alley they had chosen, Brynmor still limping somewhat because of his wounded knee. Their voices are only hushed whispers and soft giggles now, trying to hide their plans from the very few they might cross before they reached their destination. ”This will be so much fun” he could hear Dera whisper and he smiles at her while nodding his head. Bringing his finger towards his lips he tells her to be silent and she does so with a soft set of giggles. He moves his free hand up to his left hip, feeling the cold material of the small dagger that he had tucked away there.

”Someone’s coming!” Instantly they are all silent. The only thing Brynmor hears is the beating of his own heart as Dera moves closer to his side and reaches out to grab his hand. In return he squeezes her hand lightly, unable to hide his grin. Oh this would be great. It would be exact the same way as his friend and Dera had scared him, making him feel like someone was haunting him. He had really thought that someone or something had been sneaking upon him from behind. Now he was the one who did the sneaking and the feeling was just euphoric. With loud screams a third victim escaped from the dark alley, having witnessed how a fake ‘Jack the Ripper’ killed a newlywed pair and feasted on their bodies, before fleeing with the same scary person now running after him.

Laughing loudly they moved back towards their hiding spot again and Brynmor had to place a hand on his stomach to ease the slight cramps from the laughing. ”Let’s make the next one the last, then we can go to party with the others.” The other two agreed with his suggestion and they silenced themselves as they heard footsteps coming again. The dark from passed them by and all three looked at the figure. He had really done a good job with dressing himself up, clearly another one that thought that Jack the Ripper would be a good and scary idea for a costume. ”Let’s go.”

Things turned out that were the hunted, and no longer those that scared other human beings. They had sneaked upon the dark figure, just like they had done by their other victims, and had managed to approach the stranger without much trouble. But when they made some noise to get their victim’s attention to start the hunt they met the face that made their blood run cold. Brynmor froze as he heard the screech that had haunted him before and instantly his pale skin got paler. He had thought of it as a trick his friends played on him, but now he was forced to realise that it all had been true. The few seconds that they stood frozen felt like hours, making it possible to take in every expect of monster. The creature in front of him looked human, but at the same time not. His skin was almost white and there wasn’t any hair upon his head. His eyes were big and black, nose flat and the creature’s lips moved to grin at them they could see it’s carnivorous teeth. His arms were long and his fingers ended in bloody claws. Instead of feet that were hidden in shoes Brynmor could see powerful paws and more claws that easily clawed into the cobblestone streets. The beast roared again. ”Fuck.” That was his friend and the curse was soon followed by Dera’s high pitched scream.

Brynmor’s shoes slipped on the cobblestone street, not being able to maintain balance as he stepped in something wet. There he laid on the ground for the second time that night, panic and pain both rushing through his body as the blood he lied in. He heard Dera’s scream and that caused his friend to turn around  and rush back. Above him the creature threw his body into the air, but instead of a slightly human form it was all black fur now. Brynmor rolled to the right, feeling the power from the impact through the ground. Too slow for his liking he managed to get on his feet, but the beast was faster. It growled as a paw hit him in the side and send him into the alley’s wall with a loud thud. He groaned loudly and barely registered how Dera knelt next to him, shaking his arm as she begged him to get up. ”Please Brynnie, get up, get up” She was sobbing loudly and by the time Brynmor managed to get up she went almost limp in his arms. ”This way!” he yelled to his friend who tried to keep the beast distracted as he grabbed Dera’s arm and started dragging her away.

Four pair of footsteps echoed through the alley, the panting breath of three sounded and some loud cries from the fourth one that was one with the shadows again. Brynmor’s side burned and blood started to spill through his white dress shirt. All though Dera wasn’t badly hurt she wasn’t in a better state, tears staining her face and her hand and knees were slightly scratched from her tripping. Turning right before going left and then right again. They came to a halt, panting harshly, yet trying to keep themselves silent. The fourth pair of footsteps had disappeared and they had no longer heard the screeches. ”It’s gone” Dera cried, happy to notice that they had lost the predator. ”Still you stupid owl! It’s near.” A new series of sobs were pulled from the girl’s throat.

Running, running and running. And they couldn’t any longer. Muscles burned and wounds bled. They were broken, hurt and beyond panic. And the creature of the shadows was still hunting them down. ”We have to leave behind a bait.” Of course it was his friend who would say that, neither Brynmor or Dera would ever come up with the idea to abandon a friend. ”How could you?!” he angrily snapped back as he pulled the other male with him, moving away a little from Dera to not include her in the possible harmful conversation. When they got out of view he was directly pushed back against the wall, his head knocking against the hard surface which pulled another curse from his lips. ”Just think of it! It won’t let us get away without it feasting om something. It’s hungry and wants to eat” his friend snarled back before an angry gaze was shot into the direction of the girl. ”She’s slowing us down. There is now way we will get away when she clings to you, just think of it!” ”I’m not leaving her behind!” Brynmor almost screamed out, fury rushing through his wounded body as he tried to knock some sense into his friend. It was the stronger male who shook him. ”Just think! Don’t you trust me? Haven’t I’ve always been around you, in good and bad times. And who was it who helped you through it?!”

”What took you so long?” her soft, broken and anxious voice asked, as she moved closer to him and grabbed his arm. He felt strangely calm, emotionless, as he pulled her close, his lips ghosting across her cheek. ”I’m sorry dear, I’m here now” he mumbled back to her. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see his friend coming closer to them, gaze dark and urging him to hurry up. They could hear the sounds of the beast nearing them and Dera cried out harder. The girl pulled away to start running again, but it was Brynmor’s iron grip that stopped her. The knife burned in his hand as wide eyes looked up to him shocked. It was only when she stumbled backwards, her white dress getting more and more bloody with every second that passed, her hands pressed against her stomach. ”Wh- what have you done..?”

Before he could process what happened his friend pulled him away and not knowing what else to do Brynmor let himself be pulled away. ”Come on, hurry now. We cannot do a thing for her now.” They ran and ran, the knife lost somewhere on the ground. A door came into view, a wooden door to be exact, and it screamed to them. Somehow they were pulled towards it without knowing why. A skeleton key stuck out from the keyhole and his friend started to turn it around. With a soft click the door opened, and while Brynmor got pulled through it he turned around one last time. His eyes caught the sight of her broken body on the ground. The human like creature crouched over her. Even from this distance he could see a scene that made his stomach turn and twist. Her stomach was cut open and he could see how a claw dug into the still warm flesh to pull something out. Without hesitation the creature moved it towards his bloody mouth, glancing up to meet Brynmor’s eyes. It offered him a devilish smirk before he dug into his meal.

As the door closed behind him Brynmor fell down on both hand and knees. The sight of the creature feasting of Dera’s body had made him sick. He could smell the blood, and could imaginary feel the thick warmness sliding down his throat. ”It had to be done.” That was all that was needed to make him empty his stomach as tears came down his cheeks. ”I killed her." And he passes out cold on the floor.

"Through your secret."




All things are possible: - Shahrizai - 10-19-2015

All things are possible, even the worst of things.

If there is one thing he is good at, it is sleeping. He had gone to the meadow, a nostalgic trip to reminisce, and had ended up falling asleep. That is not unusual for him; he really is quite good at sleeping. To be honest, he can fall asleep just about anywhere. That is not the odd part. No, that would be the waking up.

As his chocolate brown eyes open, he takes in his surroundings with sudden shock. He is most definitely not in the meadow any longer. Glancing around, he sees many strange things surrounding him. Walls coated in thick, lustrous wallpaper, furniture with delicately carved legs and plush velvet upholstery, spindly tables topped by fragile vases, and a woman. How he knows what all of this is, he has no clue. None of them are things he has ever seen before. And he has seen some very weird things.

The woman speaks words out of a strangely shaped mouth, a flash of bright light blinds him, and suddenly he is like her. He jerks upright in open-mouthed awe, gaze dropping to stare at large, hairy-knuckled and tanned hands clutching at bare, equally tanned knees. What the…?

He flicks his bewildered gaze up to the woman as she smiles coyly at him. He clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he is naked. Glancing around, he searches for something to cover himself with. Why he wants to cover himself, he isn’t sure. He only knows it is the thing to be done. Besides, this woman (Missy, she calls herself) is wearing clothes (how does he know that?), so it stands to reason that he should be too. Fortunately, in a nearby chair, he spots a neatly folded stack of clothing.

Scrambling quickly to his feet, he takes a hesitant step forward, testing his balance. It seems that even though he has never before walked on two legs, his body knows exactly what it needs to do. Hurrying to the chair, he grabs the first item from the stack: a white lawn shirt. Perfect. The next item: a… what the heck? A kilt? He glances at Missy skeptically (for though he has never before seen a kilt, he knows it is exceedingly odd that he has been given one to wear). She only smiles that secretive smile of hers. Shrugging, he puts the thing on. A much too complicated piece of clothing, as far as he is concerned. Finally it’s a pair of knee-high socks, followed by a simple pair of leather shoes.

Shahrizai had been so busy figuring out his new kilt that he hadn’t realized at first the Missy had started speaking again. As he finishes tugging on his shoes, he glances up at her through a wild profusion of curly black locks, her words finally sinking in. Straightening, his baffled gaze turns to find the two doors she is speaking of, one oozing a gooey substance, the other glowing faintly. He smiles wryly, his strange (well-made) lips quirking in amusement.

That’s quite the choice you’re offering me.

But she is gone, his sarcasm completely lost on her. As he glances in the direction she had been, his brown eyes find only air. With a sigh, he steps forward, studying the two doors closely. Well, he huffs softly, here goes nothing. Stretching one arm forward, his hand grasps the handle of the black door.

As he steps through, he is met with a fetid odor. On the other side of the door lies an alley. Garbage litters pitted and stained asphalt. An overturned dumpster huddles against one dank brick wall while a lovely and quite explicit graffiti drawing stretches across the opposite building. Well, hell. What has he gotten himself into now?

He takes another few steps forward, gazing around in astonishment (and, let’s be honest, mild disgust), when a hand suddenly clamps down upon his shoulder. He yelps, fists swinging wide as he pivots to face the threat.

Hush you bloody idiot, says a low, male voice in a rough British accent. Do you want them to find you?

Them? Them who? Wide brown eyes find a small, lean man with dirty blonde hair and a scraggly beard covering a thin face. The man is carrying a crossbow slung casually over one leather-clad shoulder. The other hand still grips Shah’s shoulder tightly. Lowering his voice, Shahrizai responds in a concerned tone.

What do you mean by 'them'? He pauses a moment, before belatedly asking, Where am I, anyway?

The man gives him a faintly disgusted look before turning and beckoning for him to follow. Shah hesitates for only moment before doing as he asks. If there is any chance he can find out what the hell’s going on, he’ll take it. His patience pays off when the man finally responds in a low voice. The zombies. Have you been living under rock? Those bloody buggers are fast and have the ears of a bat.

Zombies?

He doesn’t get the chance to respond. They are joined by another man, this one big and burly with a shaved head and tattoos covering nearly every inch of his skin beneath a red flannel shirt and jeans. He glances at Shahrizai, scowling. “God damn it Mick, not another one.”

What the hell am I supposed to do, leave him here to be turned into another zombie? We’ve got enough problems with the bastards as it is, the first man, Mick, responds hotly.

“Fucking hell. You could have at least found one that’s not wearing a skirt,” the burly man grumbles as he stares coldly at said skirt wearing man. Shahrizai glances between the two men, completely bewildered and starting to feel a little hot beneath the collar. Plucking absently at the cuffs of his shirt, he speaks almost distantly.

Kilt. It’s a kilt.

Clearing his throat, he continues, trying his best to diffuse the situation. He has a sneaking suspicion that he might need these men to survive.

Uh, I’m Shahrizai, by the way. Shah, actually.

I’m Mick, the shorter man says. The bald man continues to glare at him. He doesn’t say a word until Mick elbows him in the side, only then offering a grunted, “Killian.”

Shahrizai nearly laughs at that. The absurdity of the situation he has found himself in, combined with the gruff man’s decidedly unfitting name, becomes too much to bear. He resists only because he is fairly certain that Killian wouldn’t hesitate to abandon him. But his lips begin to twitch with his mirth. He covers his mouth with one large hand, hiding his silent laughter behind the appendage.

Glancing down to hide his humor filled eyes, Shahrizai catches sight of something that grabs his interest. His mirth forgotten, he leans down and snags the thing off the ground by his feet.

Suddenly footsteps echo in the distance, accompanied by a faint moaning sound. Both men stiffen. Mick quietly whispers Run to Shahrizai before both men turn and flee. Shah stands there in baffled confusion for a long moment before he takes off after them.

Damn it, he is not a runner. Although, he does have to say the kilt was a pretty good choice. Lots of freedom of movement in the thing. The other two men are fast, and Shahrizai has to struggle to catch up with them. When he finally does, he is panting hard and beginning to sweat. The two men do not slow.

Why… are… we… run… ning?

Shahrizai gasps the words between ragged breaths. Mick barely spares him a glance before muttering, Zombies.

Zombies, again. What… the… hell…

Glancing over his shoulder, Shahrizai tries to see these so-called zombies. He sees nothing. A few moments later, when he glances over his shoulder again, there they are. Ho-lee shit. Those buggers are fast. The creatures are pale, rotting skin peeling away from flesh and blood smearing their faces. He decides then and there that he definitely does not want to meet those things. He runs faster.

But they’re gaining. And the three of them are tiring. As their feet fly over the pavement, they make several sudden turns through alleys and across broader thoroughfares. Quite out of nowhere, the trio encounters a dead end, their only means of escape a single door. Locked.

Killian starts swearing, curse words that Shahrizai has never even heard before spewing from the man’s mouth. Mick says nothing. Instead, he turns and swings the crossbow from his back. Lifting the weapon, he settles it against his shoulder as he takes aim at the oncoming zombies.

Shahrizai glances around wildly as he turns in frantic circles. This cannot be how he dies. He could not possibly be destined to become a zombie. Damn it, but no. Abruptly he realizes that he is still clutching the thing in his hand that he had picked up in the alley several miles back. Unclenching his fingers, he opens his palm to find a key.

A key…

In an almost dream-like state, he steps forward, reaching for the locked door. Inserting the key, he turns it. Click. In sudden excitement, he shouts, jerking around towards his two companions.

Come on, guys!

But it’s too late. The zombies are upon them. Mick is shooting calmly at the oncoming horde, but he is rapidly running out of bolts. Waving wildly, he hollers at the two of them, gesturing at the unlocked door before grabbing at the handle and jerking it open. Both men glance around. It is the last mistake Mick will ever make. The zombies are upon him, burying him under a pile of undead bodies. With a yelp, Shahrizai dives through the open door. Killian is close behind him, an enraged yowl erupting from his throat as he pulls the door closed on a pale, grasping hand.

shahrizai

hestoni x scorch