"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
05-22-2021, 02:45 PM (This post was last modified: 05-22-2021, 02:45 PM by cressida.)
when I was a bird I could see where the moon had turned
The moon has begun to bleed from the sky and, with it, she has felt herself emptying out. It is a strange thing to feel so shelled out and she stands in the dark evening, her delicate head tipped back, she can only sigh under her breath. Her chest aches with want, with loneliness, and she turns from the dark sky to the forest that greets her instead. She can feel the darkness overtaking her body now, the silver having long since disappeared underneath the creeping black. It’s an unnatural kind of darkness that dyes her coat.
More of an absence than anything.
An abyss.
She hates the way that she looks during these new moons. The way her light leaves her. The way that she feels hurt and almost angry. Abandoned. She swallows those bitter feelings down and continues to make her way through the forest, deer legs picking over the branches and the brambles. She sniffs lightly at the scent of spring florals as they bloom around her and while it eases some of the hurt, it is not enough to abate it. Instead, it merely sinks into her veins, a sweet melody she lets soothe as much as it can.
There is the sound of movement around her, but she doesn’t have the energy to run away this night. Doesn’t have the energy to race in the opposite direction. So instead she slips into the shadows, letting the shadows cover her black coat and hopes that whatever is near her will simply continue on walking.
05-30-2021, 01:06 PM (This post was last modified: 05-30-2021, 01:07 PM by draco.)
draco
i've got a face of gold, i've got a heart of coal, but baby that's my cross to bear
When the darkness disappeared, when the light came back with a sudden snap, when the world was too bright and too anew - the shadows had to find somewhere to live. Draco remembers flinching inward, ducking into Dove and closing his eyes so tightly they felt as if they might burst. One startled breath in and he snapped frightened, crimson eyes open to the realization that he will have to adjust to a new life once again.
But when the darkness disappeared, it had to disappear somewhere.
The shadows take over slowly, as is their nature. Litotes taught Draco that magic nor night rushes, it creeps. The demon can feel that creep: up his throat, down his spine, around his legs. The sensation either manifests in extreme irritation or vicious mania, with symptoms of restless muscles and a biting tongue. Tonight, he can't quite catch his breath and his skin twitches involuntarily.
The physical signs started with the eyes. No longer does Draco have pupils, just two glistening and eerie red irises. Then his pristine coat began to fall, a process still itching and patchy, with glittering black scales where his fur once was. And now - now, fangs are bursting forth, ripping his blunt teeth from their places in his mouth. Blood pours from his lips and he growls as the teeth shine porcelain with their newness. A hiss, cat-like and unearthly, spills forth from gritted fangs and pursed lips.
The changing makes him hypersensitive, and maybe Draco would not have noticed Cressida had his new body been fully formed. But he is wickedly agitated and the sound of her small movements in the shadows makes him furious. The demon stalks forward, head low, blood still trickling from his freshly grown canines.
"Come out, darkling," he murmurs, glowing eyes slowly making out more and more of Cressida's black frame.
Cressida has never been in danger—never known what it was to have her movements tracked or her life placed into the open palms of another. She was a creature of the night, like him, but her night was a gentler sort. It was awash with moonlight. A silvery paradise of muted sounds and the soft chimes of starlight. It was a kind place—a sanctuary and a haven for those like herself who found the day to be too bright, too loud, too much of any single thing. The night though? The night was perfect.
Except this night was not the night of Cressida’s influence.
This night was bled dry of moonlight and instead of sounds being softer, they were gone entirely. It was an abyss. An echoing wasteland where there was nothing but the sound of her hitching breath and pulse fluttering beneath her skin. The sound of the shadows creeping toward her and no light for which her to draw and drive them away. There was just the feeling of being trapped, being smothered by the dark.
She hears him coming closer and her heart pounds, thrumming with a wild song that drives her to leave, to run, to flee into the woods. She is paralyzed for a moment, golden eyes peering out toward where she can make out the outline of him, and then everything crashes down and she is sent flying. Her slender legs skitter and then she is leaping forward and into the shadows that await for her—away, away, away.
i've got a face of gold, i've got a heart of coal, but baby that's my cross to bear
He's so fast, so terribly fast. Impossibly fast. Faster than Cressida could ever hope to outrun. He knows it, too. Knows that those slender legs of hers won't get her very far. That eventually the devil catches them all and isn't he just the perfect embodiment of a devil, here beneath the moon - here burbling with more magic and power than he ever thought possible. The heart in his chest pounds with the possibilities, with how her pitch-black body gets closer and closer as he chases.
"Darkling!" Draco screams, throwing his head back and following the yell with hearty laughter. Around him shadows twist and warp, much like the ones his father wields. He turns his head only slightly, surprised to see the darkness mimic his speed and mood. Is it power like the scales, the fangs, the ripping flesh? The demon can feel it thrumming inside of him much like the adrenaline howling in his ears. He doesn't know how to control it, not yet, but it begs to be used. Draco heaves, feeling the weight, feeling the hounds of hell nip at his heels and urge him faster, faster, faster -
The demon draws abreast with the pitch-black doe but doesn't turn to look at her. Instead, he focuses on weaving and yielding to the branches, not quite as agile as his prey - but certainly strong enough and stupid enough to not feel the pain when he slips up.
"You didn't have to run!" Draco calls with a cackle, curving around in the hopes to stop the doe in her tracks. "You silly creature, you didn't have to run!" He feels his new power curl up his legs, shadows swirling and spiraling, rushing forward at the deer in an attempt to trap her. The strength makes him feel like a predator, stirs up some instinct in him that wasn't natural before he transformed (and certainly isn't natural now, some implant of Hell, some bloody fear).
Draco stands still, thinning white tail flicking with agitation. He can hear her thoughts just enough to know she is no simple deer - no, she is full of complex, sorrowful thought.
