"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
She had not been queen for very long and, yet, she felt as though she belonged to Sylva in a way she’d never belonged anywhere before. The shadows were her home now and, for the first time in her existence, she had a purpose and a goal. Mortem had officially announced her role there among the orange and yellow leaves, securing her place as their Demon Queen. Oh, how her father would be so proud when he heard. A sickeningly sweet smile spread upon her face, lighting a cruelty deep within the pits of her eyes. Surely by now her nephew would have carried the news of her betrayal back to his precious little island, vomiting tales of their mistreatment into the ears of Brennen. The thought disgusted her, and she could not imagine being so heavily reliant upon another.
Slithering through the depths of the shadows, she sought a particular face amongst the trees. Crevan. A wolf-shifter. Hopeful that he had done as he’d been tasked by her, she awaited the tale that he could divulge. He was easy enough to find. Like many of the others, he was alone. Content to be so when not otherwise occupied. Her aura immediately sought him out. It delighted her to watch its bright glow as it wrapped around his cream tinted legs and traveled up towards the strength of him. Inching closer she emerged from her spot, her ears trained upon him eagerly.
“Hello, Crevan,” she greeted, her voice icy cold despite the warmth of the summer’s heat.
He feels her immediately and when he does, he detests that feeling. Fear knows him well, and the wolf knows it almost better. The two are old friends, one visiting the other occasionally in the dream world, though many times they’d crossed paths in true life. This fear is strange, but not unlike the real thing - it forces his heart to race, his hair to stand rigid, and his lips to curl in a nasty snarl - but the edges of it are bitter, like metal in his mouth. Though he knows there’s nothing real to fear it presses on him anyways, foreign and difficult to fight through sheer will.
“Put that shit away,” The wolf snaps, his head twisting with alarming speed to catch her in his sights from where she approaches at his back. Queen of this land she might be, but master of him she certainly is not, and through his dealings with Mortem the shifter had suspected the black might have warned the horned demoness of his particular unpredictability and refusal to assimilate. “I’m not your plaything, Astarael.” The gargantuan creature snaps, fury lighting up his dark eyes as he rises to face her.
Sylva’s Hellraiser was true to his nature and his title, no matter where he was or who he was with.
“I know what you’re here for, though.” He growls, pacing restlessly from the uncomfortable pull of her power, “and she’s here. The one you asked for. Wound.” He spits, claws digging into the leaf-littered earth. “Not much of a challenge if you ask me but still, it was a fun trip. I’d be up for more.” He muses, trying hard to remain focused and concise.
“I gave her to the Finisher for keeping; does that appease you, Queen?”
Crevan's reaction to her presence does not surprise her. Animalistic by nature the sand colored dog snarled and snapped in response to her approach. Unaffected by the display, the dark hued mare held her ground. Immortality was a funny thing. Death did not frighten her as it might have once, nor did the potential damage the wolf's teeth could inflict. Sharp words met her ears and her brow rose in response to it. He acted as though she could control the slick tongues of fear that licked the length of the stallion's jaw. The stronger her aura became the more she was discovering that it had acquired a mind of it's own.
You are right, Crevan, she agreed with him as she angled her head ever so slightly. Though I do have a slave, you are not one.
The mere fact that he felt it necessary to remind her of such a fact was entertaining. She made it a point to treat all sworn Sylvans with a certain reserved respect. Unless they found themselves deserving, she withheld her wrath and deposited upon those held captive. She found a certain pleasuring in dolling out torture and hearing the pleas of mercy. Crevan was a specialty all on his own and he was owed high praise for the role he played in her little task.
I didn't expect the cripple to be a challenge for my Hellraiser, she admitted. However, I do suspect that keeping her may prove a bit more difficult. I trust that you will ensure her escape is impossible?
Though posed as a question, she suspected that he would understand that she was not making an idle request. Wound was a political tool a weapon they could use against more than just her older brother. Warrick had resigned for longer than any other and Wound was one of his favorites. She smiled toward the glowing eyes of the wolf.
You have exceeded my expectations, Crevan. She praised, her voice lined with ice.
