"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
10-20-2015, 07:40 PM (This post was last modified: 10-20-2015, 07:42 PM by The Mistress.)
Let's see. Let's see. You were the humans formerly known as ponies, yes? Of course. It gets terribly difficult to keep all of my toys in order. Pity me. I have a long timeline to go through.
No, don't look around. Only you can hear me and you look like an idiot bobbing your head about.
You're in a garden maze I grew myself. It's full of surprises I just know you'll adore and I need some bodies to test it out. Every miner needs a canary.
In addition, and this is such a good bit of fun, you are going to be transformed. Elevated beyond your unfortunate forms.
But not much, let's be real.
Upon entering the maze you are going to feel some changes come over you. Remember that flash of light? I placed a ticking time bomb in your DNA and now the explosion will come.
It's dodgy, I know, but that's life.
You're welcome.
Missy
Xiah, Lokii, Eldrian, Malis, Pyxis, Shahrizai.Your DNA has been altered to vampire.
Poor flower. Looks like you need to feed and the only one around is your dear, dear friend whats-its-name. Kill it or cripple it. End the scene by finding the center of the maze and drinking the clear liquid to transform back into your human form. You're very thirsty after all that blood, you know.
Eona, Kult, Smother, Shaytan, Sidra, Brynmor. Your DNA has been altered to werewolf.
Poor pup. The lust for the hunt is about to overtake you, transforming you into a rather efficient killing machine. Watch out, companion number two. Slaughter it or slice it. End the scene by finding the center of the maze and drinking the clear liquid to transform back into your human form. You're very thirsty after all that blood, you know.
Things You Might Want To Know
1. To begin, the following horses have been eliminated from the quest. All of you will be returned to the meadow a bit knackered. And you might have nightmares. No promises. (this is the part I am going to hate. The Mistress is a bitch. I, however, mourn the loss of each writer because you guys freaking rock. And holy crap ladies I did not expect this much interest) Nadyah. For starting a post and then failing to complete your response within the allotted time, you are now shitting pumpkins. Oh don't cry. It'll wear off in a RL week. Thorunn. Adored the style you went with, especially the build up of weeks before Jack appears. However, there was no mention of companions and they are necessary to the quest. Thank you for participating! Flamevein. Loved the gore! Really loved it. The writing felt choppy at times and you switched tenses a bit towards the end which threw me off. Thank you for participating!
2. The scenario for the remaining questers is this. You are making your way through the maze to find the center. You may and should encounter any number of traps, creatures, what have you. Creativity counts. At whatever point you like your monster form will overtake you and you will maim or murder your remaining companion. Oops. Hope you can live with yourself. If you choose to main instead of murder, your companion must abandon you. You couldn't honestly expect them to stay, could you?
3. If you really feel that your character is incapable of killing or severely disfiguring someone you may beg the Mistress on bended knee for their life (read: PM her and a suitable compromise may be arranged.) The companion WILL suffer grievously but perhaps you can watch The Mistress do it for you, you sniveling coward…
4. You have until 11:59 p.m. on Friday to respond in character to this post. Temporary and amusing defects will be handed out to those who fail to show up.
5. As always, any questions, requests, complaints or other mouth things you deem necessary should be PM'd at your convenience. The Mistress will answer at hers.
10-20-2015, 11:16 PM (This post was last modified: 10-20-2015, 11:28 PM by Sid.
Edit Reason: removed html
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As the wraith’s wailing finally subsides, it is Xiah who composes herself first. Dragging her hands from her ears (I can move mountains, she thinks) and pressing them to a suddenly grassy floor, the small black girl raises herself. She creeps towards Jude, who stands trembling before the door, one hand outstretched towards the knob. Extending her own slim appendage, Xiah gently embraces Jude’s hand, pushing it away from their death (or one of them, at least).
“Justice would want you to keep going, Kida,” She murmurs. Jude looks at her slowly, strangely. “J-Jude,” She corrects. “Sorry… You remind me of my sister, Kida.” Frowning slightly, Jude looks at their clasped hands, scrutinizing them. As though through water, Jude steps closer, using her free hand to cup Xiah’s face. Her hard breath hurts Xiah’s lungs, but she does not flinch. Instead, she feels the fire of Jude’s dark lips against her forehead; and she finds the scald enticing.
Exhaling sharply when the elder retreats, Xiah cannot manage words. Their stormy eyes clash, like angry lovers; and in the next moment, Jude tugs them forward by their continuously entwined hands.
“C’mon Xi, we have to keep moving.” Forcing her legs to work even harder, Xiah glues herself to her companion’s side. The darkness lifts slightly, and for a moment the duo glimpse an endless hedge (dripping with black dew, ominously barbed) stretching to their left and right. Trembling, they unanimously turn left; as they continue on, a fog falls over them. They nearly miss the first turn off, but Jude’s keen eyes spot the gap, and they slip into the maze.
Xiah’s hand twitches, which causes Jude to strengthen her grasp. Nearly panting, the teen’s hand twitches again, against her authorization. As they follow a curve left, it happens again. “Sorry,” She whispers, as though the fog could hear them. “I can’t help it.” Steeling her muscles, she manages to control the spasms for a few minutes, in which their path seems endless.
“Fuck!” She’s louder this time, succumbing to the panic. They’ve just chosen right at a fork, and land up at a dead end. Forgetting her efforts, Xiah’s entire arm spasms. Hyperventilating, she squeezes harder when Jude attempts to let go. Their eyes meet. Xiah’s are flecked with ruby. Brows furrowing, Jude tries harder to release herself.
“Quit it!” Xiah half whines, half snarls. “We can’t get split up in this fog.” She attempts a softer tone, though her grasp remains iron. Encouraging her companion, the petite girl leads them out of the dead end before choosing a new fork.
Despite her instinctual affection for Xiah, Jude finds herself ill at ease. “Are you sure we didn’t come this way?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Let’s go back and check.”
“I said I’m sure.”
Stifling her insecurities, Jude allows Xiah to lead them for a dozen minutes. They continue zigging and zagging through the dense fog and the narrowing hedges. They flinch when a small noise sounds to their left, driving Jude into the hedge. Shit, she breathes, twisting her arm to inspect the small cut. A bead of blood dribbles down her forearm.
“What’s that?” Smooth forehead wrinkling with confusion and hunger, Xiah halts at an intersection, nose leading the direction of her head as she attempts to pinpoint the smell of iron. Just as her half-steel, half-wine eyes land on Jude’s slight wound, the sound returns in a very real, very physical form.
Springing forward like the plague, a massive hippogriff tears the pair’s hands apart. Gruesome claws close around Jude’s shoulders, knocking her flat to the earth. Screaming, the victim manages to snatch a hidden dagger from her belt. As her screams pierce the air, so does her blade pierce the beast’s forelegs. This only works against her, for the hippogriff lunges forward, intending to tear off her skin but only managing to remove her shirt.
During this latest encounter, Xiah snaps out of her trance; the waft of blood may have distracted her, but seeing her companion being ripped to shreds tops her thirst. Wailing, she launches herself towards then eighteen-hand beast. Fists flying, she beats the mighty creature’s side futilely. Irritated, the dapple grey bird-horse swings its head around, snatches the small girl in its beak, and flings her against the unforgiving hedge.
Winded and bruised, Xiah gasps, clutching her ribs. Pain blinds her, yet she hears Jude’s agony still. Rolling on to her stomach, fortune lands in the palm of her hand; Jude has dropped her short blade. Lithe fingers closing around the hilt, Xiah climbs to her elbows and army crawls towards the massacre.
Blood lays splattered around the hippogriff, small chunks of flesh littering the musky maze floor. Jude’s screams echo through the fog, and the monster’s bird-like squeals do too. Wings splayed, it flaps twice to raise itself and Jude off the earth. The victim thrashes, fingers taught, tears of blood streaming from the claw-pockets in her shoulder blades. Folding its wings, the monster slams its prey to the earth, crushing her with its mighty weight. Something cracks, and Jude sobs; Xiah suspects her collar bone has broken, and smiles at the thought.
Struggling to her knees, Xiah draws back the dagger. The beast does not notice. Far too busy is it tearing tiny chunks of skin off of Jude’s arms and exposed stomach; flaying her, piece by piece. Shuddering at the intense scent of blood, Xiah slams the knife into the ribs of the dapple-grey monster. Withdrawing quickly, the girl shivers at the arousing sound of the knife’s retreat. With vigor, she digs deeper and deeper into the hippogriff’s flesh, craving the spilling of its blood.
Screeching, the beast’s wings unfurl. Although it has dominated many humans, this one wears teeth, teeth it does not appreciate. Releasing Jude with one final slash across her midriff and a kick of its powerful hind legs towards Xiah, the monster retreats, screeching into the distance for the remainder of Xiah’s journey.
Collapsing to her elbows once more, Xiah squirms closer to Jude. Her companion’s chest heaves with sobs, her eyes are wildly staring, and many parts of her have been removed. When Xiah slithers on top of her, she smiles weakly; Xiah smiles back, revealing fanged teeth. Jude’s eyes widen, and as Xiah’s face nears her own, she spots the woman’s blood red eyes.
“OH PLEASE NO, GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” Her screams of terror go unheeded, indeed as she begins a new verse of her horrible song, she gets cut off. Xiah’s dark lips clash against Jude’s, for indeed her hunger is a lust. Hips lowering and pressing against her companion’s bleeding stomach, Xiah forces Jude’s lips apart, allowing muffled cries of distress to tremble through their unfortunate embrace. Jude’s mangled arms flutter limply at her sides, never able to push off her new attacker.
Releasing Jude for her last gasps of air, Xiah kisses her way down Jude’s jaw, slowly pumping her hips as she does so. All too quickly her lips meet the jugular; and as Jude screams her last, Xiah enjoys the succulent taste of blood flowing through her lips, down her throat, and into her ever-hungry stomach.
As Jude’s cries become less and less, Xiah becomes terribly joyful. The rush of the kill overwhelms any thoughts of what she has done, of how she has murdered someone she thought to be her sister. There are no regrets as she releases the corpse and kisses its still-warm lips one final time; there is only ecstasy.
Standing with renewed strength, the vampire girl cracks her neck with blood-covered hands, leaving stains upon her cheeks. Whirling about, she begins running through the maze, giving no final glance to her darling Jude.
Dashing thoughtlessly through the maze, a strangely scented mist settles over her path, and for well over half an hour she runs in a wide, distorted circle. It is only when she passes the same two exits for the sixth time that she realizes something is amiss; for the thrill of the kill has begun to wear off, and her true senses have returned.
Shaking her head vigorously, the vampire abandons the circle of confusion and its strange aroma. As she backtracks, she passes Jude’s body. This time, the sight of the beautiful, slaughtered girl brings sickness to Xiah’s lips; but she refuses to release the bile, and swallows it down instead. Besides, it is mostly blood; and she has paid dearly for it, for now she must navigate the maze alone.
Sprinting away from her kill as one on fire runs from the burning building, Xiah impulsively travels through the hedges, occasionally nicking her arms. Without comprehending her actions, she nears the center of the maze. Surprise may be read all across her delicate face, for since the circle she has expected more traps.
Just as she rounds a corner and spots a goblet atop an innocent column, a fat rabbit hops before her. Her human-senses, however dull, call her towards the goblet; and yet still the vampire she has become usurps her wisdom. Swooping down, she snatches the rabbit all too easily, bringing it to her lips. Briefly she inhales, and, at its sweet scent, she latches on.
Her prey’s juice is sweet and thick, as though nectar flowed alongside blood. Knees weakening, she draws more deeply on the rodent, only to choke on one drought to big and begin coughing. Dropping the rabbit without meaning to, the girl sways side to side, and the world spins inside out.
It’s poisoned.
Barely lucid, Xiah forces herself to imagine Jude’s mutilated corpse. Just as before, blood rushes up from her stomach, and this time she releases it. Again and again she heaves as the full weight of what she has done comes crashing down upon her fake reality; she’s a murderer.
Kill yourself.
I didn’t mean –
Kill yourself.
I just couldn’t stop –
Kill yourself.
Sobbing erratically, Xiah manages to stumble towards the low-column. Though her system is rid of the poison, her stomach is now empty, and weakness befalls her. A trembling hand clutches the goblet, and with pitiful whines, she raises it to her lips.
When the last drop slides down her bloodied throat, her eyes open, silver once more, but no less tear-stained.
10-21-2015, 04:34 PM (This post was last modified: 10-25-2015, 09:24 AM by Brynmor.)
Brynmor
"I will see."
This time it isn’t Missy’s voice that awakens him, instead it is something that shoves his side, a foot perhaps. This time he does see the world as he blinks and slowly opens his eyes, instead of the darkness he had gotten to know so well. The world is bright, too bright for his still unfocussed mind. It confuses Brynmor to learn that he can actually see, all though he finds himself in a total unfamiliar place. ”Ah, I see you’re finally awake, Brynnie.” And that is what make him snap his eyes wide open. He remembers. He remembers all. ”You still don’t look too great” his friend humours him as a snarky grin lies on his lips.
While he groans softly Brynmor pushes himself up on both his hands and knees. His body felt stiff like he had laid on the ground for hours, the sand in his mouth only confirmed it. Next to the taste of sand there is also acid that burns in his throat. And there is something sticky underneath his hands and there sticks something to his cheek and neck and even his clothes feel a little soaked. Vomit? ”Oh gross..” he mutters out loud as he pulls his hand back to wipe it off on his pants. Once the dress pants had been neat and well, but now they were stained with dust, blood and vomit and even things from which he didn’t even want to know what it was. At his right knee the pants were torn, showing his bloody and broken skin. His dress shirt wasn’t much better, the once white fabric was dirty and wet, since he had apparently passed out in his own vomit after they had escaped. Escaped without Dera that was.
”I killed her..” His voice is barely a whisper and tears are once again clouding his vision. ”You made me kill her..” He accuses his friend as he moves to stand up, glancing in his friends direction. He can hear some of his joints creaking as he rushes to stand up. For a few second his vision grows darker again and a merciless pounding almost sends him back to the ground. Brynmor cannot stop the pained moan, holding his head with his still dirty hands. ”It was the price we had to pay for our safety.” He doesn’t verbally respond, yet he glances in his friends direction, a clear look of disgust upon his handsome face.
As he hears her voice his head jerks to the side, clear blue eyes instantly searching for her. ”Where are you?” he almost animalistic growls. Her snarky comments only makes it worse and he can feel his chest rumble. ”Get out of my head!” he snaps. He doesn’t understand he sudden fit of laughing to comes out of the direction where his friend leans against the wall. Brynmor didn’t understand what made his words so funny, if he only knew that his friend was only imaginary and normally lived in his head. As Missy continues speaking he keeps muttering and complaining softly to himself, yet this time the young fellow makes sure to actually listen to what she says. A maze, which is full of surprises, full of possible dangers – which wouldn’t surprise him after Missy’s last game, another transformation. He instantly pales, freaking out with the idea there will be more games, more changes. What terror would be waiting for him this time?
She’s gone again. Or at least she keeps silent now, probably watching from the side-line and enjoying their pain. His pain. Slowly Brynmor turns his head towards the maze. He stands only a few meters away from the big opening that is its entrance. From where he stands he can see high bushes and path’s between them. The middle, he would have to search for the middle, but it probably wouldn’t be as easy as just walk straight and right towards it. The way that goes straight from where he stands is blocked by another green wall, but he cannot see if he has the possibility to go left and/or right there. He could also go left and right from the entrance. Brynmor doesn’t like this game, already confused with the challenge in his mind. ”What are you waiting for?” And once again the laughing.
”Let’s get this over with..” he says, straightening his shoulders as he turns to look at his friend, who simply nods. It is his friend who enters first, just calmly walking into the maze as nothing happens to him. Brynmor is only a step behind, but like Missy had said the change starts as soon as he sets a foot into the maze. ”Aaaargh.” The scream is only half human and half beast. He clenches his fists and all his muscles tenses as he fights the strange urge. He feels like throwing his head in his neck and howl to the moon. By the time he falls on both his hands and knees (again) he has his eyes firmly closed and his hands dig into the ground. Brynmor is panting hard and his back arches. As his eyes open again his pupils have changed and he glares at his friend through the eyes of a wolf. ”Run you fool.” After that he relaxes and lets the transformation take of his body.
He howls. He howls to the moon that shines above the maze. His fur is as grey as his normal coat is and his eyes are still blue. Yet his hooves that changed into hands have now changed into paws with claws. No longer his body stands on two feet, he is back to walking at four feet. But he can still see. Compared to his human form his senses are much better and he is almost high on the feeling. Brynmor’s sight is both sharper and worse at the same time, his hearing more efficient and clear and his nose easily tells him in which way his prey has fled.
Rational thoughts are no longer a part of his mind. His body lunges forward, claws digging into the dirt. The feeling is euphoric and in his joy he cannot help but to happily bark as a little pup. And that is what he looks like, with his tongue hanging from his maw. Wolves and other canine creatures didn’t sweat, the only way to lose the heat from the running was through his open maw. He spurts further into the maze, turning left and then right, not able to make clear decisions of where to go. His goal is long gone from his mind, only the euphoric feeling remains. That is until the scent hits him. Brynmor instantly comes to a halt, holding still as his ear stand up and his nose tilts into the air to sniff it. Prey. He howls again and the lone howl echo’s through the maze.
His new body squats as he creeps forward, his body close to the ground and he tries to make as little noise as possible. Brynmor places his paws carefully at the ground as he follows his nose. He had smelled something and the scent had hit him hard. A sudden urge to kill rushed through him, pumping up his blood, as well as anger that drives him even more forward. While his mind isn’t able to understand the flashes correctly, he can make out how big the grudge is he held to the owner of the scent. Flashes of urging, the word kill, the knife, the blood and her lifeless body on the ground. It was this being that made him kill. And now he had the animalistic urge to kill again.
It is close. His dark grey body lies on the ground, hidden underneath some low bushes at a corner of the maze. He could easily hear the loud pants that come from the human’s direction, but even though his friend is tired, he doesn’t sit still. Brynmor had followed the scent through the maze, not even paying attention which turns he took and in what way he went, no, all he could focus on was the scent of his prey. Just a few more steps, and then he could strike. Like a true wolf he waited for his prey to come within reach and it was only then that he lunges forward. ”Fuck, Brynmor, stop this!” Of course the human turns and runs and how he manages to speak up like that is a mystery. ’Killer. Killer. Killer. Kill’ are the only thought’s in Brynmor’s mind. He lands from his first jump, catches the fall with his flexible muscles, and stretches his legs to run. One. Two. Three. And jump. When the loud growl echo’s through the maze his teeth sink into flesh. His prey cries out in pain and agony, fear readable on his face, as he begs and pleas Brynmor to remember him, rolling onto his back to look up in those blue eyes. ”Don’t do this Brynnie. You know I’ve always been there for you, wanted the best for you. You wouldn’t be here witho-“ As his teeth sink into the male’s throat his pleas are stopped abruptly. Blood touches his taste buds and smears covers his maw, face and chest with blood. Anger still rules him and the pounding of his own blood is the only thing he hears. Over and over his strong teeth sink in to the dead yet still warm body, tearing him apart without any clear thoughts.
He howls, still lone and empty. Anybody who’s near can hear would pick up the pain that is voiced with the howl, the anger and self-hatred. Slowly the howl changes towards a more human scream, a scream that expresses the self-loath, pain and anxiousness. He doesn’t understand his body and isn’t able to wrap his mind around the thing he had just done. His face, lips, chin and chest are covered with blood, sticky blood that doesn’t belong to him, but to the body that he sits next to. Brynmor can still see it’s his friend. His lifelong friend and companion, the only one that had been around him after he got dumped into that secluded corner of the kingdom. And he had killed him. He had killed his best and only friend. Just as he had killed Dera and offered her to get away. Was this his punishment? Was this the price had had to pay to safe his live? To live with the reminder that he had killed the two beings that had actually cared about him. Two beings that meant more to him than he would be able to admit.
By the time Brynmor’s cries and sobs die out he is exhausted. As he glances up at the sky he notices that the moon would soon be replaced by the sun, as the sky is coloring lighter already. He would’ve thought the sight was beautiful if he hadn’t been so heart broken. His mind is an empty void and he doesn’t know what to do. He just sits in the maze, staring in front of him as time passes slowly. It is only when he dares to look at the broken body again that he remembers Missy and her challenge. With effort he pushes his sore – the running hadn’t done his untrained muscles any good – and hurt body into a standing position. He doesn’t know where he is, or which way he has to go, so instead he turns to his left and start walking with a slight limp in his step.
He went left and left, and to the right, and to the left again. And after he forgot his route. The only thing that tells him that he has already passed that certain crossing in the maze is the cross he had drawn in the sand. ”Damn it” he curses out loud, but keeps the following rants to himself. His voice is raw and his throat hurts. Brynmor longs for water to soothe the pain, if he only could find some. He had to get to the middle of the maze, there would he find it, but he doesn’t know how to reach that point.
His first clue comes when he stands face to face with Dera. No, there are actually two of her. The human one he knows, she even wears the same as during the time he last saw her. And it pains to see the red coloring of the white fabric around her stomach and through the hole in it he can even see the cut from when he stabbed her. Brynmor pales as he stands there frozen. ”I am sorry.. I’m so so sorry..” he can barely mumble. All she does is looking at him, her hands hanging loosely at his side. It is the horse form of Dera that speaks up. Her voice is different from the human Dera, yet he instantly recognizes it. It is the voice that had given him his name, the voice of the mare who bore him. ”You’ve disappointed me son” she simply says, yet the pain and disappointment shows in her eyes. ”And don’t you dare blaming the kingdom, it has been my home too and your sisters turned out well.” It sung. Her words stung. Tears run down his cheeks as he steps forward, causing both the females to back away from him. He can only see their backs as they retreat, walking side by side as they leave him behind. Her words echo through his mind. He killed her. He killed his mother.
The next person he meets, and tells him he must be going into the right direction, is the one he had been grieving about only moments before. ”You killed me, Brynnie” he accuses. And all the young male can do is cast his gaze down, feeling ashamed of his own deeds. No longer he holds a grudge against the man. Only a fool would hold a grudge against the death. And it had been his hands that had hold the knife, his hands that sliced through the flesh of her stomach before they ran. It had also been his teeth – all though in a different form – that had torn his throath. ”I… I am..” but he can’t finish. His sorrowful gaze meets the one of his friend and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Yet his friend shakes his head as to tell him to stay silent and points into the direction of his left. Brynmor drops his head before slowly taking off in that direction. ”Thank you.”
Missy’s surprises hurt him. Hit him right in the core. He had always wondered what happened to his mother, why she didn’t raise him. He had gotten his answer now. She was dead. And the only thing he could think of was that he was the reason for it. How could it not, with these last discoveries? And after came his friend. Missy’s games had make him kill both of his companions, both beings that cared for him. He had survived his lone and dark years in the kingdom because of this friend. Even though Brynmor hadn’t been able to see him, he had been there to look out for him and spend time with him. Ever since he had started to pass these dark reminders he hadn’t seen the crosses on the ground anymore, signalling that he was going in the right direction – or at least that he had stopped walking in circles. Reaching another crossing he stops and moves to the side of the green wall, peeking around the corner to see who he would meet this time. And only when he sees that nobody is there he quickly crosses the place.
” Time to come out boy.” Upon hearing those words and that voice he freezes. Brynmor’s eyes widen as he spins his body around. From behind him a pale stallion appears. He had wings that were spread in a threating way and his eyes burn with an intense red. Even though he can now see the one he owes his life too he shivers and unwillingly steps back. ”You!” he can only breath out in a whisper. Without knowing why he falls to his knees, feeling a big pressure burn on his shoulders that weights him down. His gaze is cast to the ground as the stallion nears him. ”Do you think you are ready to serve me and the kingdom?” the voice asks, pausing only a second before continuing. ”I’ll leave you no choice in this. And if you fail dear Brynmor…” Hearing those word repeated again he cannot stop the shiver to run down his spine. And when he looks up to look at the male he can see the snarl upon his lips. ”Your death will be a most painful one.” Those words are like a promise. A promise that has him trembling on his knees. He can only bow his head as a silent promise he would do whatever was asked of him. ”You will be worth nothing if you won’t make it out of the maze. From here, go to the left, then straight ahead and to the right when you reach the dead end. There you’ll find your reward. And with that the winged male takes off.
Turned out that the winged males words had been true. Not that had Brynmor had questioned them, his reasons for pointing towards the right direction seemed logical. How could he fulfil his purpose if he wouldn’t be able to find his way out of this maze? After he turned to the right at the dead end he finds a clearing. Instantly he knows it is the center of the maze and in the middle of the little clearing there is a small fountain. His eyes widen at the sight of the water, clear and alluring. He stumbles forward, rushing his still limping pace as his thirst drives him forward. ”Water, finally” he speaks his findings out loud as he crashes near the side. Greedy he reaches out , about to dip his hand into the water, as a well-known voice speaks up. It is older a little older than normal and there is a slight timbre in it that tell his that this male has much more life experience than himself.
Brynmor finds himself eye to eye with himself. ”You’ve changed the future” is the only thing he says. He isn’t able to reply, or even to pay attention to the words, as his human eyes run over the older horse in front of him. His coat had grayed out almost completely and his body had gotten broader and more muscular. The eyes show the white of death, even in the future he wouldn’t be able to see. That stings, especially now he has gotten used to the sight in this little time. ”Are you… are you me..?” Even though the eyes are blanc and unseeing Brynmor can feel the stern gaze directed in his direction. His older self knows exactly where he stands, like he is perfectly able to determine his position. He himself had never been able to do so. And it gives him home. ”I am what could’ve been you, if you only had made different decisions. What the future now holds for you is unclear, but know you’ve thrown away a good life.” It is almost like this older Brynmor is angry with him, angry for what he did and what he would become. And it frightened him. What could be this wrong if his future self was so disappointed in him. ”I’ll make up for it! I promise” he blurts out, not thinking clearly as he says so. Yet the gray horse in front of him shakes his head. ”It’s too late. Now. Drink from the water and release the wolf curse. But be prepared to face the one you cannot break.” This time his visitor doesn’t disappear and neither sends him away, instead he watches as Brynmor moves towards the water. His hands stops above the water. He trembles, confused and anxious, broken and marked. But he cannot pollute the water with his bloody hands. So instead he leans forward, using his mouth to drink from the water directly. His throat is soothed, but his heart aches.
OOC: I apologise for the sight power play. I hope you guys don’t mind <3
"Through your secret."
According to word it has 3414 words and I spend 2 hours and 50 minutes writing.
For a moment, there is silence. The heavy sounds of bodies hitting the door fade in an unnatural way, leaving an eerie peace. A choked sob breaks the glass (a sound that replicates the feeling of a heart tearing from a body) and the trickster finds his bruised eyes swinging toward the blonde. Her hands are to her mouth and her liquid gold eyes are stretched wide (in terror or dismay or grief or worry or shock, he isn’t sure). One’s immediate response might be to comfort her, but the trickster hardly refers to his immediate responses.
nbsp; Instead, he finds himself turning around toward the scene in front of them. They are someplace new (a new world, a new beginning, a new location, a new day). The sky above his head is a brilliant shade of crystal blue (seamless aside from the star of light high in the heavens) and the ground below his feet is a soft hue of green (dotted with happy daises and small boulders). The place is not all clear and open, however; the trickster’s vision is limited by the placement of tangles of thorny branches. For some reason, a story comes to his mind. A sleeping princess, a dashing knight, and a fire-breathing dragon once witch – all which comes to the forefront of his brain when seeing the thorns surrounding them.
A narrow trail leads straight ahead of them – the only way out, he supposes. The blonde’s symphony of sobbing and gasping has become momentarily reduced (although he can still hear her sniffing and grieving; how pitiful). The trickster turns toward her, harsh eyes scanning over her face. With her hands removed (hands which look rough and bruised and bloodied and dirty) from her face (a face which looks bruised and bloodied and smeared with dirt but still hiding a fierce sort of beauty), he can see where the streaks of tears had fallen down her cheeks.
“We need to go that way,” he says. One long, slender finger points down the trail (a finger he stares at for a moment too long, mostly because he forgot he had it). But then his eyes take notice of the door (or lack of it). Just like before, the doorway between locations vanished, leaving behind only a wall of thorns. The blonde’s eyes narrow, staring toward the (now the only) way out of their situation. Suddenly, the voice of the one who brought him here shatters the thoughts in his head. He grits his teeth, resisting the urge to shout for her to leave.
But she holds valuable information (whoever she is) and so he lets her stay. At the mention of another change to his body, he begins to feel the effects. He can hear the sound of her heart beating within her chest. He can feel the blood rushing through her vessels (and also the overwhelming urge to have that blood spill into his mouth). His tongue involuntarily licks across his lips (causing him to notice the way his incisors prick and feel sharper) at the thought of ripping open her chest and drowning himself in her life.
The trickster forces himself to blink away the thoughts of murdering her (he’s done it before; ignore the feeling to guiltlessly kill) and focus on their challenge instead. There could be any number of dangerous and deadly things in this so-called ‘maze,’ he could easily sacrifice her life for his. She also provides valuable inside information; she’s survived thus far in a zombie apocalypse, so she must be smart.
Coming to the conclusion that he must ignore the ache in his belly and the acute awareness of her heart pumping, the trickster grabs her forearm. “Come with me.” The blonde follows in a (dare he say it?) trustworthy manner, but he supposes her shock from seeing someone she cared about die would do that to her. The narrow opening between thorn branches is a tight fit, but thankfully his hoodie protects him from getting serious cuts on his arms. One thorn does, however, nick the back of his hand. Blood begins to seep out of the wound and at the sight of the red liquid; the trickster can feel his hunger intensifying.
Pu-pump, pu-pump, pu-pump.
“Which way now?” The blonde’s voice breaks him away from his thoughts. They are at crossroads. To the right, the trickster looks down the trail and sees the ground covered in an expanse of smooth water. Aside from a thin plank of wood to cross between lands, he supposes they might have to swim. To the left, however, there is nothing barring their way aside from the thorns crossing over the top of the road, blocking out the darkness. The blonde speaks again, turning her body toward the shadowy path. “There could be any number of wrongs with the water; let’s go this way.”
Nodding, the trickster follows the fierce-eyed woman as she leads them between the thorny tunnel. The light of day begins to dim more and more until the shadows overtake it completely. With only a breath of light to see, the pair follows the path in a drunkenly clumsy manner until they find a break in the darkness. The trickster pauses for a moment, bruised eyes turning toward the hole among the otherwise thickly-woven roof of their thorn tunnel. A sound echoes in his ear, causing him to turn toward the way they had come.
An enormous, giant man barrels after them, letting out an animalistic growl. It speaks of a primal enjoyment to kill, specifically those who’s bones are able to crack and grind together. The trickster shrinks away, then turns and begins sprinting toward the blonde. “Run, run, run!” he gasps, racing past her as she stands shocked at the man coming toward them. Glancing behind his shoulder, the trickster notices the woman’s lack of running as well as the man’s singular eye. The word comes to him before he can think much: cyclops.
“Hit his eye!” is the trickster’s sudden call. Take out the creature’s (he’s decided it isn’t a man at all, but a creature – a monster – instead) only source of sight and it will make everything much harder. The blonde pulls out, suddenly, an object she holds in her hand and aims toward the running creature’s sole eye. Again, a word shoots from the trickster’s mind without him searching for it. A gun. The sound of it firing causes him to jump (it is loud, like a crack of thunder, and vibrates in his bones even seconds after the noise ends), but the blonde stands still against the harshness.
He hears her whisper only because his senses are still finely attuned to her heart pumping and her blood rushing and every fiber of her body relying on the steady pu-pump in her chest. “Got ‘em.” The cyclops falls like the giant killed by David, just before it could reach the blonde. He falls toward her, however, and the trickster sprints forward to try and move her out of the way (like a predator might protect his prey from other predators). It is all in vain. The one-eyed monster’s head lands atop the blonde’s legs with a sickening crunch, followed by a shrill cry of agony.
Oh, that sweet sound of agony.
The noise curls against his mind, sending an erratic pulse of excitement through his nerves. He jumps to help her, anyway. The monster’s head is heavy deadweight, but when he lifts up (straining, panting, heaving) it is enough for the blonde to drag herself away. The damage is done (her legs are not twisted at odd angles, but the dark red of blood – blood caused by her bones breaking through her skin – is already soaking her pants and the stark, creamy white of bone pokes through the material of her pants) and her mouth is still open in gasps of pain.
The monster from the meadows lessons suddenly sprout to his mind. In what way could he seal the blonde’s life? She’s of no use to him anymore and her crying will only further draw the attention of any more creatures looming in the shadows. She is a woman. He is a man (a horny, always-looking-for-some-tail man, at that). He wonders if she’s ever been with anyone.
He seals her sobbing with a kiss.
Incisors ache to sink deep into her lips, to draw blood and stain her teeth red and make her drown in her own life so that he might bathe in it. Instead, he trails his mouth down her jawline and toward her neck. The sound of her heart beat in his ears increases, growing stronger with mingled agony and desire. “Ohhhh.” Her voice groans out softly. The trickster can feel her blood rushing just underneath the dirty and tan of her skin. It calls to him in a way nothing has before. “Pip, you said?” he whispers, almost to himself.
His hands trace circles across her collarbones and down, feeling out the womanly curves of her body. So different, from an equine, yet so alike in the response. The blonde’s back arches (whether from pain or pleasure, he isn’t sure; nor does he care). Then, his lips find the best river of blood in her throat. “Aha,” he mutters, just before his teeth lay claim in her precious skin. The response is immediate. He drinks from her lifeblood, feeling her heart sputter and then slow, enjoying the thickness that trickles down his throat into his belly to warm his insides.
Even after his craving is satisfied, he lingers. He rolls in the pools of her blood until it is splashed against his ivory skin and angular cheekbones. He bathes in it until his hands are soaked red and his hair is sticky with drying blood. He breathes in the salty scent of it, like it is a drug he cannot abstain from.
He enjoys every second of her death and past that.
Until the sound of another creature echoes in the distance and he must climb to his feet. Although her companionship was comforting, the life of a loner suits him much better. The trickster heads off to continue the thorn tunnel and it isn’t long before he reaches the end of it. Sunshine blinds him for a moment before he regains his sight in the daytime. A tall wooden wall stands before him, impenetrable unless he wished to push aside the thorns and risk getting severely injured. Suddenly, the trickster remembers the gun once held by his dinner.
The trip back to the bloodbath is short, considering the trickster runs back, and he finds the gun lying not far from her ash and blood-colored face. Thanks to his meal, the feeling of hunger has dimmed and forced his mind back into a sense of normalcy. But, despite this, the trickster still remains guiltless and comfortable with his killing. So he abandons the scene with little regrets and only calm in his chest.
He uses the butt of the gun as a club striking at the thorn branches until they give him enough room to wiggle between the wall and the opening. Although he receives many minor cuts and scratches oozing blood (as well as one severe one cut near his eye along his cheekbone), he walks away from the wall otherwise unscathed.
A wide clearing sits before him, circled by the thorny branches. Standing in the middle of the clearing, is a pedestal. Atop the pedestal is a simple drinking glass. Clear liquid swirls within the glass, sparkling in the sunlight. The trickster, thinking over the fact that it could be poisoned, raises the glass to his lips and allows it to slide down his throat. The clear drink is thin compared to the blood, but as it swirls in his stomach he feels his incisors dull and the blood become heavier in his belly.
Shrugging off the last remains of the change, the trickster looks around to see what might be next.
“Get up,” I hear the urgent voice of Quick at my left ear. I moan, my body aching from the stretch of running, my arms shaking from pushing the weight of a medium sized girl.
I know I should feel bad—it is a common reaction, to feel guilt—but I don’t.
I am numb.
No, I am worse than that.
I am excited.
I crawl from the ground, ignoring the whine of every muscle in my body. We are under a blanket of darkness, faint glimmering stars flash above us in a dull rhythm, the moon… full… hanging above us like a Christmas ornament.
“Do you want to lead the way? Or should I?” I ask, crossing my arms (not a show of insecurity, but instead a reaction to the cold nipping at my forearms) in front of my body, catching Quick’s glance.
“After you, boss” she snarls, dusting moist grass blades from her pants. I eye her shoes, suddenly realizing I am still without a pair. My feet are cold.
The grass itches my skin in an unbearable way as we walk towards the blackened entrance of what looks to be a very well groomed forest. The trees bloom of blood burgundy blossoms, and the twigs are a charcoal, brown mixture. Each trunk has carvings of what I would explain as finger nails dragging down to about knee height, like someone hung on for dear life, petrified of whatever tugged so desperately at their heels.
Quick is closer to me than I feel comfortable with, she is hiding in my shadow, practically jumping onto my back. She feels the eerie air attack her neck like I do… something isn’t right here, but yet, I refuse to ignore the devil on my shoulder.
Curiosity, it kills the cat. Unless the cat becomes the hunter and kills it first. Then, curiosity fueled the cat.
The forest on either side of us is so thick, you cannot see farther than two yards in the brush. The deeper we go, the darker it gets until I cannot even see Quick—I hear her in how loud she walks to the left of me like a bowling ball being rolled down dead leaves.
I hear a deafening cry for help. Quick grasps my arm in a panic, my body cringing from the pressure of her unclipped nails. Three seconds into our pause is when I realize I am holding my breath. I can practically hear the heartbeat of Quick and I, merging together into one loud drum, beckoning the shrill demon from beyond our sight to us like a calling mechanism.
“What wa-“
“Shut up,” I hiss more for my benefit than hers. If she were to die (which, I assume she will be the first of us to go), I would rather her go now. I would rather her be killed by some unknown daemonic creature, than myself do it.
I would have too much pleasure in it.
I wouldn’t know how, or where to stop.
A breeze lifts my cropped hair up from the top of my shoulders; I feel Quick huddle against me with her limbs shaking like a child on a rollercoaster for the first time. I am clenched as the sound of footsteps near our location.
Crisp, crisp
The sound of dead leaves crunching beneath the weight of some unknown source. It is so crystal clear.
A smell of something rotten wafts into my nose, I hear Quick choke on a cough. We are both paralyzed in what she would consider fear, but I consider inquisition. Something is nearing us, something is coming to say hello.
Or goodbye, if it plans to rip us limb from limb.
It is then, the slightest tug at my hand causes me to gasp. I wasn’t imagining anything. I felt that. Like someone grabbed my hand to guide me somewhere. Like a mother, being tugged by her child to the playground.
Quick shrieks and I dive to the ground in instant response as she slides two feet ahead before dropping to the floor. I glance at her, balancing on my palms and knees, I can only make out the shape of her frame.
She is whimpering like a dog scared of the vet.
“Shh,” I coon at her, again for my benefit, not for hers.
I can only picture her lip quivering like a vibrating phone.
I crawl ever so slightly toward her, the sound of dead leaves crumbling at my weight, a dead giveaway to whatever is playing invisible man. I feel her body heat emit onto mine, she is sweating in absolute fear.
My hands suddenly slip from underneath me, and on my stomach I glide painfully about fifty yards from Quick. I struggle and growl the entire time, attempting to force myself from the intense grasp around my wrists. My mouth lets out cries of frustration and pain as jagged leftover rocks and twigs pinch at my torso.
I stop moving, my stomach shuddering from its experience. I hear Quick crying for mercy, help, anything. I cannot see her, it is too dark. I narrow my eyes, resting my cold hands against what must be cuts and bruises, before I am slammed with the body weight of a female girl.
Quick.
Her elbow nails my jaw, I bite my lip and blood drips onto my taste buds like foul salt water after a swim in the sea. I shove her off, aggravated and annoyed, the pulsing of my tongue another distraction I am not entirely sure I need.
“Run,” is all I manage to spit out before rolling onto my stomach and lunging forward to my feet.
We are both flying down the trail now, making odd turns and anxious decisions. Every so often I swear I hear the laughter of a small, childish boy in the back of my head. I swear I hear him taunt us.
I don’t ask Quick if she hears it too.
We round a bend to the left when our trail comes to an end. It is brush so thick even a squirrel couldn’t get through. Quick attempts to push some bushes to clear a space, but her body jolts in a reaction.
“Thorns,” she pants, I can hear the desperation roll of her tongue.
The presence is still with us—whatever it is—I can feel it. I feel its pressure dig into my shoulder like punishment for finding a dead end. I know Quick feels it too; she is holding her breath again.
“Don’t get scared,” I tell, my fists clenched and my jaw firm. It is so dark here I can’t even make out her silhouette, but I know it is there. I can hear her breathing return, but it is fast and panicked. She isn’t good at acting.
Whatever it is, it is feeding off our energy.
I hear Quick shriek as she grabs me from my shoulder, pulling me upward. I even panic, my feet lifting from the ground as if floating was easy. I always wanted to fly, but I never wanted to be taunted.
We are the mice, and it is the cat.
They don’t kill their prey, they play with it.
“Please, please oh God please don’t hurt me, I will do anything. Oh my God-“ her voice is pathetic, wafting into the air with desperation and pity. She is begging for her life, now. She is reached an all time low. Rock bottom.
“Shut. The. Hell. Up,” I threaten with anger and belligerence. Quick will be the reason for my death, I know it.
We are suspended in the air for what seems like a lifetime, pressure around my stomach growing like an anaconda tightening its grasp around my waist. I am struggling to get airflow, I feel my face getting hot and tingly. I can feel Quick fighting along side me, desperate to get every breath, but knowing the more we panic the less time we have.
It won’t kill us, but we will wish we were dead.
We begin to move, around the maze in what I hope is the right direction. I hear Quick whimpering beside me like a lost puppy, consistently struggling despite our knowledge that the longer we fight, the tighter the pressure gets.
I don’t pay attention to where we are going yet, not until we begin to get lowered over a small pool of water that can only be considered a medium sized pond. I clench my entire body, feeling gravity pull at my hair and feeling the blood flow to my face as I am tilted to look down.
I see a shiny glow from beneath the water that for a second, makes me panic. And then I remember whatever is lurking beneath the glossy surface will attack me no matter what; I am being suspended like a chicken above a tiger’s cage.
Come and get it.
Dinner’s ready.
Quick is the first to shriek as she suddenly falls into the water with a large splash. Shards of water smack me in the face from the blow, the temperature so cold my skin practically freezes upon impact.
She surfaces, her red hair in giant knots and her arms quivering at her side as she attempts to swim the shore. I can hear her teeth chattering.
And then I am dropped.
The water eats me like a fat kid eating chocolate, my body instantly engulfed in the chilled pond. I feel numb, paralyzed, as I attempt to float myself to the top.
Something bumps at my legs.
It is too dark to make out anything.
Another bump. My body rotates slowly, as if I am on an electronic pedestal, in a full three sixty.
My stomach flips as I feel a heavy gush of water brush me sideways, my lungs beginning to swell from the length of held my breath. Each second I spend trying to prod the creature of the deep, is another second I risk drowning.
I begin to panic.
I am not prioritizing properly.
I frantically swim up, through for some reason it feels something is desperately dragging me down. The water breaks at my arrival, ripples forming around me as I gasp desperately for some sort of oxygen.
Pressure wraps around my ankles.
I am submerged once more.
This time, I feel I am watched. I feel as though something is watching me frantically spin beneath the water in what feels like slow motion.
I am attempting to spin in a substance made of molasses.
I feel a rush of hot water wrap around my skin and then—a second too late—I realize I am within the mouth of some creature.
A hazy green glow shimmers around me.
That thing.
I begin to panic, the mouth large enough for me to practically host a picnic. My hands firmly pounding on every surface regardless of how dark it is. I cannot see what I am hitting, I cannot see where up is and where down is.
I begin to feel dizzy and confused.
My lungs are pounding; they feel carbon dioxide running the show, with oxygen slowly leaving the room. I am desperate now. I can watch everyone else die, but I can’t die.
I am banging harder.
And then something—I don’t know, fairy fucking dust or the wizard of oz—something happens.
I can’t explain it.
A sudden pressure blows within my body and I open my mouth in a shrill cry, water instantly absorbing into the hole. I cough and sputter and drown all at once. A bright light shimmers from every pore of my skin, I grasp my neck—it all came so fast.
I will be seeing my father in hell, I suppose.
And then, like the devil has bigger plans for me, I begin to float upwards. The mouth of whatever indulged me beneath my body. The guidance of my pores lead the way. I feel tingly—broken, even. Each and every inch of me beginning to throb and moan.
I surface.
I sound like a sputtering mess, snot and saliva running down my face and out from my mouth like a newborn child. I paddle to the shore, still an ignorant pore-lamp illuminating my pathway.
I hit the shore and instantly another cry comes from my mouth—I am embarrassed by all my weaknesses—before all my limbs begin cramping. From the tips of my toes upwards to my pelvis. From my fingernails to my collarbone—it all enters an agonizing stage of pain that feels equivalent to giving birth to eight children all at once.
And then my face—oh my god my face—it throbs like someone has just brutally beaten it. And my teeth ache like cavities and root canals have sprouted left right and center. All at once.
I would rather be tortured.
I feel my body adjusting and remolding into something I am not entirely sure of. My hands have thick amounts of hair blossoming at the top, with sharp claw-like fingernails (comparable to daggers). My tongue glides along what aren’t pearly white teeth, but instead carnivorous canines; a predator’s pallet.
Quick is looking at me—petrified.
I am staring at her, suddenly hungry.
“Do-D-Don’t do this” she is choking on her own words, holding her hands up in defense, in desperation.
I lick my lips, and take a step forward, my strong sturdy legs so much more useful than the tiny sprouts I wore before.
“It’s already done.”
I lunge at her before she has a chance to crawl away. My teeth sinking into her pale flesh like a fork into cheesecake. She lets out a scream so loud that my ears flail backwards in annoyance. It is a piercing nose of the most off tune flute playing the most dreadful high note.
She is easy to devour. Her blood soaks into the fur surrounding my face like sephora foundation, words cannot describe how effortless her fat tears. Each time I hit a bone, she moans in pain. Shock has succumbed her, she has accepted her fate.
It doesn’t take long for her to go limb within my grasp, but when she begins to fade I make a point of staring her in the face. I make a point of watching each light in her mind blacken. Her eyes begin to dull like turning off street lamps in the early morning. One by one.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her head tilts sideways, the last bit of air escaping her chest.
It wasn’t as much fun eating her as it was watching her die.
I don’t know how long I feed of her delicate pale carcass, but I feel as though while the sun rises I must continue forward. Am I like a vampire and turn to dust at the crack of dawn?
I would rather not find out.
I trot out (do canines trot?) with a feeling of satisfaction. It was easier done than said, contrary to what most people believe. I would much rather kill someone than talk about killing someone. Why? Because no one gives you insane looks when you just get the job done.
No one judges you.
I feel torn on if I should go on all fours, or carry myself on two. As I continue to advance in speeds, my body naturally changes posture to carry me farther at a more accommodating speed.
And I thought this maze was difficult.
I keep passing things that appear almost like gates, but not entirely so. They are blatant entrances with no doors, but when I move through them a heavy presence folds at my back and the temperature changes just a miniscule amount. I cannot help but put two and two together that whatever was playing cat and mouse with Quick and I, it was meant to stay within its district.
It makes me wonder what I have entered.
What I have avoided by travelling fast.
I feel I am nearing the end and slow to a walk, when the distant sound of a twig breaking. My eyes (as a canine I have much better sight in the cover of blackness) adjust to the thick tree line and focus heavily on the source of the noise.
Shifts of trees cause the hairs of my back to spike up. I lower to all four, a crouched position with my back arched; a growl rumbles between my teeth and my cheeks vibrate from the ferocity.
Through the brush emerges something I have no words to describe. The head is like a rhino, with a large horn emerging from its snout and black beady eyes narrowing at my presence. Its entire upper body is coated with extra skin like armor, shielding itself with protection. It’s nose glows green, its teeth are exterior, fanged and hanging like daggers. As it moves towards me, I realize its entire frame is similar to the world’s largest python. No legs, just layers upon layers of skin.
I have no chance to fight this animal.
Is it even an animal?
I feel paralyzed with fear at its presence. At first, I feel like I myself have chosen to stand. And then I realize that when I try to move, I physically cannot. I am cemented into the ground like a statue.
A thick amount of steam coils over me from its mouth—the smell vile and potent, making me wheezy and dizzy. I don’t move, I can’t move.
I just drift off like sleeping beauty after touching the tip of a spinning wheel.
….
I awake to the sound of a shrill cry—Quick.
No, I killed her.
I go to move, but I cannot. I am stuck. I am sprawled on my back with my limbs outstretched in every angle. My body paralyzed still.
I see the faint glow of the forest monster watching me with an appeased look on its face.
At first, his voice comes to me like a bugle horn. I am alarmed to hear him so clearly—his voice a deep masculine tone, he is threatening me. He is kicking me out.
And I hear her, I hear her talking about how much of a failure I am.
And I here my half brother, bragging about himself and how much of a waste of skin I am.
They are all standing above me, grays and blue eyes and dark chocolate, all of them laughing at me. I cannot move.
“Why did we ever conceive.”
“She deserves to die.”
“She is a waste of air.”
“Thank God she will finally leave.”
They are cackling at me like witches on brooms, taunting me just beyond my reach. I am crying, screaming, howling—no, stop, go away.
Leave me alone.
I am not meant to be here.
They go on for a long time, they don’t stop. Familiar faces of let downs and double crossers—they are all here. Family, old friends, the ones I promised I would never see again. Here they are, toying with me.
Guess the cat finally found its mouse again.
It takes hours, hours of me begging and screaming let me go that finally the poltergeist releases me from my state.
I rise with a wobble.
Broken, a little bit mad.
Mad as in crazy, not anger.
The python-thing is watching me, entertained. I see it snickering, something to that extent…. I don’t know what to make of anything.
I feel like I just hallucinated the biggest nightmare of my life.
But I didn’t. It was real. The maze of demons finally found my weakness. I am not scared of water, of choking, of drowning, of monsters—no, my biggest fear is seeing my family again.
They broke me, their goal was to break me and they did it.
I was right when I had reached the end of the maze. Resting against the wall of the maze sits a vial, a pretty crystal vial with an illuminating serum beckoning my call.
The salty blood still lingers on my teeth.
I need it.
I am wobbling—like a drunkard after a pathetic night at the pub—and my bottom lip is quivering. I just keep hearing them over and over again, failure, die,.
My entire body feels stuck, squished—the poltergeist’s aren’t doing this. No, it is the feeling of incredibly fear that causes this.
My hands, hairy, wrap around the vial as I kneel down. Tears escape down my face and I am whimpering like a child. Cold, thirsty, scared. Alone.
The serum moistens my mouth—like iced tea by the pool, it soothes me.
The transformation doesn’t go any easier, but I am too exhausted to struggle. The incredible pain once more forms up my back and into my limbs. My teeth chatter from the change and my body cramps and seizes in ways I pray I never feel again.
By the time the transformation is over I am lying on dew covered grass, the sun just beginning to rise, a shivering mess.
I feel violated, I feel tricked.
But I sit up, brushing the sticky grass of my pants like déjà vu , and exhale a very large breath.
Malis can feel her hands balling into fists at her sides, can feel the edge of her fingernails as they leave deep, red welts across her palms. Turning quickly, she throws those balled fists against the door, a groan of frustration bubbling up from her chest. “I just want to go home.” Closing her green eyes for a moment, she leaned forward to press her forehead against the cool wood of the door turned dead-end wall. Her breathing steadied just a little, though her heart continued to thump erratically in her chest. She could feel Lena’s eyes boring a hole into her back, but she still didn’t turn to face her.
And then-
Suddenly there was fire in her veins, such raw, infernal heat that she would not have been surprised to draw the blade across her wrist and watch molten lava spill from her skin. Her hands uncurled so that her palms were pressed against the wood as she braced for the next wave of pain that rolled over and pulled her under. Her body shook and it wasn’t much of a surprise when her knees gave out beneath her. She landed in the dirt and stone in a heap of crumpled limbs, her knees pulled tight against her chest and stomach. Another wave of pain tore through her and she cried out, her back arched and her head thrust painfully behind her as if this could somehow alleviate the ripples of pain tangling her limbs. It didn’t, of course it didn’t, nor did it help when Lena appeared uncertain and dutiful, kneeling in the dirt beside Malis. Malis groaned again, just a whimper at first, and then the sound evolved into something deeper, something darker. In an instant she gave in to the pain, gave herself up to it, and only then did she find she could uncrumple her body, unclench those seizing muscles. Snarling, she lurched into a crouch, startled to find she had all the grace and ability of a practiced predator. Even more surprising was the thrill she felt racing through her veins beside that impossible heat.
“Get the fuck away from me.” Malis snarled, her face inches from Lena’s, her voice dangerously low, intoxicatingly slow. Lena looked startled, then shocked when her gaze met Malis’, and then she was scrambling away like a beaten animal, pressing herself against the far wall of the maze. For a long moment Malis was still, so long it felt as though time had come undone, unraveled, and hung suspended over them like snowflakes. Every detail was impossibly clear. Still crouched, she turned to look deeper into the maze, noting the immense stone walls built with even red brick, and the think tangles of vine and brush that hung over them. Curiously, her gaze lifted, but what she saw pressed a snarl on her tongue that warped her pale face. There was no top to this maze, no end to greet the sky, there was only black, only shadow, and it seemed to churn, to pool and drip down the walls. She grimaced.
A yelp came from the wall where Lena was apparently trying to will herself to pass through, and Malis turned, her eyes sharp and predatorial. The vines had come loose and, like possessed snakes, had wrapped themselves around her legs and arms. She yelled and thrashed and screamed both for and at Malis, apparently at war with instincts that told her Malis was dangerous (Lena had seen something in her eyes) and with reason that told her Malis was the only way out of this.
But Malis made no move.
In fact, Malis too was at war with herself. At some point, the vines had grown spines, spindly needles, and they had opened up the flesh on Lena’s bare arms. Blood welled in those wounds, pink at first, and then glistening red in narrow rivers through puckered flesh. Something in Malis roared, it fought and it burrowed and burned at her throat. Gasping, her hands flew to her neck, her fingers clawing at the skin there like she was trying to remove something. But it did no good. The thirst, this strange hunger, it welled and welled until there was nothing left but instinct and urge, and suddenly Malis understood the hordes, the way they ambled on broken limbs with glass in their bare feet, tore at flesh and bone with faces half-eaten, wholly ruined. It was because nothing else mattered. Your soul came secondary to instinct, to urge.
Malis screamed, and it was a sound of fury and loss and rage. At once she was upon Lena, paying no attention to the vines because they paid no attention to her. Even as they pulled tighter, opening new wounds on Lena’s arms, gifting those screams new and incredible pitches, Malis didn’t care. But that wasn’t entirely true, she did care, or she wanted to, but it wasn’t for her companion. It was for the way her humanity seemed to drain from her with every passing second, it was the way Nerissa had first opened up the wound to let it do so, the way Lena had opened it more. The instinct to feed, to kill, it was suddenly too much and Malis felt her teeth sink into the skin at Lena’s neck. Her newness, or maybe the way Lena thrashed, or the way Malis felt nearly stupefied by her thirst, made her slow at first, sloppy. She spilled more blood than she drank and it dripped tellingly down the plain gray of her shirt. But as Lena faded and Malis grew stronger, the feeding was easier. There was less mess, less guilt- even when Lena went limp and her heart slowed and then stopped. Only then did Malis pull away, full, and pretending like her life depended on it that Lena had got what she deserved. A life for a life, even if that life had only been a plastic toy in the hands of a heart broken child so many years ago. Even more so, she refused to acknowledge the thrill of the kill, the urge to do so again.
But with Lena dead and the door still gone, Malis turned into the maze. She was careful to avoid the tendrils of reaching vines against the hedges that made each corridor, careful to avoid the shadows where they dripped and pooled at the edges. Suddenly the maze opened up and she found herself facing her first choice. But from the shadow of the corridor on the right came a man with black, pupiless eyes and blood dripping from his chin. Her hand lifted quickly to her own face as she realized she must look just the same. But as he peeled away from the shadow and she could see him more clearly, she felt despair and hope rise simultaneously in her chest. “Erebor.” She breathed, frozen, moving only when he collided against her and wrapped strong arms around her back to pull her close. “Oh my god, Erebor.” She said again, burying herself against him. For a moment she felt like she would explode, like she would shatter into a thousand pieces as her heightened senses tried to make sense of the way she felt for him. But then he was disentangling himself from her and pulling her towards the direction from which he had come. “Malis it’s this way, I made it to the end but, oh god Malis, I had to make sure you weren’t here too.” She felt his eyes on her as they ran deeper into the maze, his hand tightening around hers when he felt her hesitate. “Malis, please, we have to hurry.” Her brow furrowed when her eyes met his, and a feeling she didn’t recognized prickled at her belly. “Is this what we can expect the rest of our lives? Jesus fucking christ, Malis, I swear I’ll never let this happen again.”
Malis said nothing as they ran, though those feelings of hesitation, of something being wrong, they grew and grew. “Ere,” she said suddenly, grinding to a halt, “something isn’t right. This feels too easy, there’s nothing here but us.” The look of concern on his face, the furrow of his brow, it lifted for a moment when she said ‘us’ and suddenly he had pulled her close again, his hands tangled in her indigo hair and his mouth pressed urgently against hers. For a moment she forgot everything else, forgot Nerissa and the Zs, forgot the way Lena’s blood had spilled down her chin, even forgot the way she had liked it. For a moment there was only them, only that kiss, the heat of his mouth against hers. “Us,” he agreed as he pulled away, touching the line of her jaw with surprisingly gentle fingertips, “and don’t you fucking forget it.” She felt the hunger in her flare again, though it was a different kind of hunger, still heightened, still consuming, but not a bloodlust.
Before her face even had a chance to show a flicker of emotion, she had dropped into a run, smiling when Erebor reappeared at her side. Within a minute, the time shortened considerably by their heightened speed, the corridor opened into a half circle and a plain stone basin perched on an ornate stand waited for them at the center. The curve of the half circle was made from stone and hedge just like everything else, but the straight line at the center was glass, thick and unbreakable and glittering with impossible light. Reaching for his hand, they approached the shallow bowl. The liquid inside was thick and red and immediately Malis could feel herself losing control, like a wild animal she crouched closer, a tortured snarl tearing from her mouth. “Drink it, baby. Drink it.”But Erebor’s voice was all wrong, disembodied and echoing. Malis’ eyes, all black and pupiless, lurched to his face in tortured confusion. “Erebor-”
There was a knife at her throat suddenly, the blade digging into the skin of her neck. She froze. Even as she watched, Erebor’s shadow crawled up his legs, his torso, his arms, his face, until there was no Erebor left at all, only dark, only shadow, and it beckoned to her. All at once she thrust her weight back, the cold blade of the knife disappearing from its place at her throat, somersaulting on her back so she could spring away and put the fountain between them. It worked, and shadow Erebor roared its dismay. “DRINK IT.” The creature roared, reaching across the basin to grab her. But she jumped back, slamming against the glass wall she had all but forgotten about. It was then, as she turned to balance herself, that she noticed an identical basin glittering with clear liquid on the other side.
She understood immediately.
Enraged and hurt, violence flared like fire in her stomach. “You better fucking not be Erebor, because I swear on everything I love that if you hurt him, I will come back for you. I will kill you. I will hunt worlds until I find you again. If you hurt him-”. She lunged then, dodging past back into the maze. But as she passed him, that shadow beast with Erebors face, a hand swept at her leg. Wrestling free, she bolted through the maze, grateful with every fiber of her being that she had paid attention to each twist and turn they had taken. Ahead she could see the spot where she had first met Erebor, the fork in the hedge corridor, and she lunged for it. There was a roar from the shadows behind her and she turned to see the shadow creature pacing back and forth across the opening of the hedge corridor. He couldn’t cross it. For a long moment she watched him, her heart breaking even as she realized the most dangerous truth of all. She loved Erebor. She trusted him wholly. And that made him a weakness, it made him dangerous.
A pain in her leg drew her attention from the shadow Erebor, who was now grinning delightedly, and she looked down to find shadow clinging to where he had touched her as she fled. Even as she watched it, it started to spread. Horror filled her veins like ice. For a moment she stood frozen, captivated, completely unsure what to do. But then she remembered the half circle chamber, the identical basin she had seen on the other side of the wall. Understanding dawned. Drawing up the mental image of each turn they had taken to reach the blood basin, she reversed it and entered the opposite side. It only took a few minutes as she raced past, lithe and graceful and entirely too pleased with the ease she had adjusted to becoming the ultimate predator. Nothing tried to stop her, but she hadn’t expected this way to be difficult. That was what purpose Erebor had both served and failed.
At last the clearing came into view, that small semi-circle with a stone basin at its heart, and she approached it slowly. There was a small cup sitting in the bowl and she picked it up uncertainly, her finger wrapping around the handle. But as she drew the filled cup up to her lips, she paused. To drink it would be to become human again, to rip the predator from her veins. She didn’t want that. But she thought of her family, of Erebor, or what that bloodlust would mean for their safety if she ever made it back again, and the cup flew to her lips, spilling over her tongue and down her throat. Like a veil had been lifted, her humanity came crashing back down on her. Suddenly no longer able to stomach the taste of Lena’s blood in her mouth, she keeled over and retched into the dirt. The only relief she found came as she watched the shadow wither and bleed away from her skin as the water served its purpose.
as your love starts to surround you all of their words are trying to drown you
It took a second for Pyxis’ weak human eyes to adjust to the light. Her hand did not leave Daemron’s arm where it was clutched until she began to make out the shapes and shadows of their surroundings. Her breathing was ragged, her thin chest heaving, and had she not already emptied her stomach, she was sure she would have again. Even so, she turned from him and gagged, one pale hand splayed against the wall as her body wretched violently several times—the image of Ilka’s slender body being torn asunder too much for the girl to bear. No matter how hard she closed her eyes, all she could see was the blood-matted hair, the shredded throat, the innards of her stomach steaming as they hit the cool, foggy London air.
She heaved again, but nothing but spittle came out.
Suddenly, she felt a warm hand on her lower back and heard a throaty voice. “I hate to do this,” Daemron paused, “but I don’t think we have the luxury of sitting around for too long.” Pyxis stood up frighteningly fast, flinging herself toward him, hands pounding his shoulders. “How dare you!” Her bright blue eyes were glazed, tears falling down her red cheeks. “It should have been you! That should be you out there. It should be Ilka here with me.” Her hand went limp, and she slumped against him, the sudden ferocious energy draining from her as quickly as it had come. She pushed away and leaned against the wall.
Daemron said nothing. Pyxis returned the favor. The air between them was ripe, and she could tell that she had struck a nerve, but she was too tired to apologize. She wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. Instead she stood up, hands trembling, eyes downcast. “You’re right,” a murmur. “We should go.” Pyxis pushed past him, flinching when their shoulders touched, and walking down into the darkness.
The wall was smooth and the air smelled…damp. Like something had been in there too long without ever drying completely. It made Pyxis’ stomach turn and her skin crawl—and her throat itch? She scratched at it absentmindedly, wondering if she was coming down with a cold. Being a human was such a bitch.
It was then that the wall on her right suddenly stopped, and she almost tripped from surprise. Her hand reached out for a second, feeling through the air, hoping to find the continuation of it before she frowned. “It’s…gone.” She squinted. “Do you see anything?” She felt him stepping up to her side, the air between them tense. “I think it’s a maze,” he breathed. Pyxis cursed. Of course it was a maze. She rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes, taking three deep breaths. “A maze. Naturally. Why the fuck not?”
Irritated, she shrugged, yanking at her sleeves. “Okay, well, just make a choice. It’s not like—”
Something whizzed by her ear, and she felt a distinct burning. Before she knew it, Daemron was grabbing her sleeve and they were rolling on the ground to the right. Her hand went up instinctively to the side of her face and it came away wet. “What the—,” she was cut off again when he threw his calloused hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his weight holding her down to the concrete, her hips aching as they pressed into the floor. “Someone is here.”
Her pulse quickened and the burning in her throat intensified, the metallic scent of the blood running down her temple giving her a migraine. Soft footsteps filled the alley and Daemron shifted off of her; she was impressed with how lightly he moved. She saw him slip quickly into a crouching position, his hand moving to the waist of his jeans where she saw him pull out something sharp and flinty, the edge of the knife reflecting the minimal light in the area. The other’s steps paused, and she felt Daemron move before she saw it. He was animalistic, feral, shoving off the wall and into the…thing with a grunt.
The two bodies fell to the floor. Pyxis couldn’t make out what was happening—didn’t even know who had the upper hand. Suddenly the knife thudded to the floor, skidding near to her. It all happened in slow motion. She saw Ilsa’s body again, practically tasted her sister’s gore, and fury erupted in her belly. She pushed off the ground hard, sneakers finding purchase on the concrete as she scrabbled for the knife.
Pyxis heard the screaming but didn’t realize it was her. Her vision went dark, and her mind numb. When she came to, there was a body underneath her that was riddled with stab wounds. The knife clattered against the ground and she wiped her mouth with the bad of her hand. It was wet. Shaking she looked down. Suddenly, everything was in perfect clarity. She could see her hands perfectly despite the darkness of the room. She saw the hairs lifting from the cold, the blood caked under her fingernails, the gouges across her wrist. Her eyes narrowed and saw that the body beneath her was human, and yet not at all.
The skin was olive green and stretched tight across a face with too many ridges. It was male, she assumed, and wore nothing but tan pants. She could see the ribs jutting from beneath its alien flesh—but more than that, she saw the punctures where she had slid the knife again and again into his torso: through its ribs, into its heart, nearly gutting it. Her supernaturally clear gaze flicked upward to the throat.
Puncture wounds. Gouges. It had been nearly torn out completely. Just like Ilka’s.
She wretched and stood up weakly, looking around for Daemron. She found him, several yards down, leaning against the wall and staring at her with wide eyes, his hands white-knuckling a spare knife. He was bleeding. She wasn’t sure how she knew he was, but she did. “You’re hurt,” she said, and it did not sound kind. Her voice was rich, seductive, and she practically drawled a sentence that had meant to sound concerned. Involuntarily, she took another step toward him. “You should let me take a look at that.”
He fell back against the wall, and she laughed. “Stay away from me,” he said, and despite the fact that his voice did not falter, she had to wonder what she had ever found attractive about him. He was weak. He had killed her sister—or at least not saved her. Pyxis’ lips pulled back over her fangs, and she stepped toward him again. “Stay away from me, you bitch,” he snarled, but that only made her laugh.
“It should have been you,” was all she said.
Pyxis was on him before he could stumble away—her hands gripping his shoulders, her teeth finding purchase in the sweet, delicate flesh of his neck. Fuck, he tasted good. She was almost drunk with the power and the burning hunger snaking through her veins. She groaned into him, hands dragging him closer to her, clambering for more. She could feed for days. She could drag it out—or, she could make it fast. She could feast on him as savagely as that shape-shifting beast had feasted on her sister in the alley. Either way would be sating. Either way would be sweet justice for the way Daemron had killed her sister.
She was so enraptured with her options that she did not notice the knife slipping into her neck before it was too late. “What—,” her grip loosened, and she stumbled backward, falling against the wall, blood smearing on the concrete. Daemron’s gray eyes were blank, glazed over, and his hand dropped to his side. His neck was mangled. For a second—just a second—some human part of Pyxis reared its head, and she saw him for who he was, what he was. “RUN!” she croaked, her vampire hand already rising to grab the hilt of the knife and yank it from her neck. “Get out of here,” the words ended on a hiss. Pyxis was gone.
It had been enough to scare Daemron into moving though. Enough for him to start run-limping down the hall, choosing directions at random. But it hadn’t been enough to save him. Pyxis pulled the knife from her neck, already healing as she took after him. She enjoyed the hunt. She took her time, trailing him slowly, yelling out soft encouragement and then harsh insults. She sniffed at the blood he left behind, tasting it and moaning. Whatever humanity that had been stored away in her was snuffed out.
“It really should have been you.” She was behind the corner and her voice drifted through shadows. “You deserved to have that monster tear you open.” She was closer now, and she could taste him on the air. “I meant it when I said I wish Ilka was here with me instead.” She sliced through the shadows and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I never should have met you at all.” Her fangs slipped into his neck, but this time, she didn't let go. Not when he screamed. Not when his hands pushed against her. Not when he went limp, and she lowered him to the ground. Not even when his flesh began to go stiff—death upon him.
It was only when he was a husk that she finally reared back for air. She wiped her mouth daintily before kissing his gray flesh. Humming, she stood up, her eyes seeing the light spill around the corner. Pleased that she had got the kill and found the end of the maze, she made her way toward it, seeing the pedestal with the silver liquid in the middle. Suddenly parched, Pyxis glided over to it, plucking the small vial and uncorking it. Cheering to no one in particular, she tipped it back, letting the foreign substance slide down her throat. She didn't realize anything was different until the bottle was empty. She didn't feel a thing until she was falling to her knees, tears pouring silently, fingernails clawing at her bloody, scarred cheeks.
This time, she was not sure she has survived.
But this time, she knew the exact cost.
and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart and the blame that you claim is all your own fault
The door is a guard against everything but his thoughts.
He presses his forehead against it, each bit of grain biting into his face a separate memory-piece of Roy’s decimated body. He shakes and thinks his own skin will slough off. He trembles unconsciously, so loosened that he feels like he is boneless.
Eldrian forgets about Nellie for a moment. Violence blanks his mind of anything else but the horror of the last few hours. Even the Chamber hadn’t been so blindly vicious in their attack. They had been precise, yes, but no one had actually died. Blood had flowed, bark had been shredded – their home had changed forever – but loss of life and limb hadn’t been their intent. And now that he thinks about it, the young man isn’t sure it had been Jack’s intent either. He doesn’t think that monster had any intentions at all, really; he imagines it had been done purely in the moment. Purposeless violence. Irrational, illogical, in the heat-of-the-moment murder. Jack had been a creature baptized by blood and exhilarated and exalted by the fading pulses of his victims.
How much more animalistic he was than a calculated killer.
Only a brief moan from behind him pulls him from his reverie. Eldrian turns to the sound, at once startled by the lack of color in Nellie’s cheeks when he sees her. She hasn’t moved from the spot he unceremoniously dumped her just beyond the door, and it is all too obvious why. Jack’s parting gift on her calf still bleeds profusely. He moves in for a closer look, noticing the ragged parting of her flesh and the way the blood gathers around it as if it is a pool fed by an underground spring. Indeed, he wonders what lies below the surface of her skin. Instinctually, (though he still doesn’t understand how he knows these things) Eldrian knows that her fibula and tibia bones run through her leg, supporting her two-legged weight. He knows, too, that arteries and veins pump the blood away from and towards the heart, respectively. Some part of him wonders if one such vessel has been nicked – the amount of crimson fluid seems to suggest it – and what he can do for her if so.
“I’m a righ’ mess, ain’t I?” She smiles weakly, the edges of her eyes barely crinkling. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, but to her credit, she blinks them away. Roy must have been her brother, he thinks. What a shitty way to part ways. Eldrian puts a steadying hand on her shoulder like she’d done for him in the alleyway. His eyes look past her, however, to the place they’ve now landed. Nellie’s back is to the great, arcing hedges that rise above them in a sort of corridor. Other plants line the path, too. Some of them look wholly deadly, their colors neon and thorns sharpened to a point. But still others are delicate and pretty; fruits of varying shapes and sizes dangle from outstretched branches. There’s absolutely no way around the obstacle – they are completely surrounded by foliage - and he wonders if this is what she and Roy had envisioned when they meant to escape from Jack the Ripper. What kind of utopia is this, anyway?
A dark thought comes to him when he takes in the maze, but more importantly, an answer does as well. Just down the path, the ground sinks in a dip along the edge of the maze wall. Even from this distance, Eldrian can tell that it is filled with water. And along the little banks, rising in small clusters…cattails, thank god. He rises from his crouch and moves towards them immediately. “No, no, don’ leave me Eld!” There’s abject horror in her eyes as Nellie twists to plead, the idea of being left behind drawing more emotion out of her than losing her brother. Survival makes strangers of us all, Eldrian thinks, but he stops long enough to reassure her. “It’s ok. I know these plants. We have them back home. They –“
A sudden brightness burns behind his eyes, blinding him and slurring his tongue. In the same instant, his head is assaulted with the sharpest headache he’s ever experienced. The light soon fades from his mind and eyes, but the knife blade cutting into his skull doesn’t lessen its precise drive. Shaken but undeterred, the young man hurries towards the little waterscape. With deft, slender hands, he pulls a cattail from the soft bank of the pond, retreating back towards Nellie once he has his prize. Eldrian kneels beside her. He dabs his finger into the gel at the base of the long leaf, spreading it along the oozing wound on the woman’s leg. His motions slow as he watches the way the blood and cattail gel mix together. He realizes he doesn’t like the dilution, how tainted the blood becomes in the healing, anesthetic presence of the gel. Nellie seems to like it, though. She closes her eyes, the stressed lines on her face relaxing as she becomes the pretty, buoyant girl he’d known before. But Eldrian’s eyes trace down to the motion at her neck, her pulse still not as relaxed as the rest of her. It fascinates him, and without realizing his own movement, he draws in even closer so that their faces are nearly touching.
Her cerulean eyes fly open, surprise flushing her face. The heat of it makes him suddenly hungry. “You may ‘ave healed me, but don’ expect no snogging yet, you cheeky boy.” Nellie pushes him. Playfully, he supposes, but it elicits an inhuman growl from deep within him. He doesn’t know where it comes from. He tries to concentrate, brushing past the new kind of shock written on her face, and ties the leaf around the now-medicated wound. “C’mon. We need to get moving.” Eldrian helps her rise, shakily, to her feet.
The going is slow (terribly slow; panic and desperation at the speed they travel only grows within him with each footstep) but they manage. They are in some sort of maze, Nellie soon pieces together, the walls sectioned into corridors with choices at every turn. There’s no rhyme or reason to the paths they take, not at first. They simply go where the path seems more attractive and less foreboding. At one junction, Nellie looks up from her concentrated walk to cry happily, “oh, it’s beautiful, innit?” The largest flower Eldrian’s ever seen perches at the end of a twisted vine, so high he can barely reach it. He does, though, standing on the tips of his toes and picking it. He puts it Nellie’s honey-colored hair, hungered by the way her cheeks blush red again. He’s disgusted by himself.
But seconds later (after they’ve walked further down the path) the vine seems to come to life behind them. A snaking, slithering sound on the dirt ground alerts them to its approach. The pair turns just in time to see it rising into the air in front of them, the tip of it a gaping maw lined with several rows of sharp teeth where the flower used to occupy. It floats in front of their faces, waving and writhing, snapping its faceless mouth. Eldrian realizes he doesn’t have a pulse, (or a heartbeat anymore for that matter –when did that happen?) but if he did, it would surely be up. They are frozen by this new development – that the maze isn’t all exotic flowers and beautiful sightseeing, that there are things here with teeth and claws and evil-intent – and Nellie reacts in a way he doesn’t expect. She doesn’t scream but reaches up to her head and pulls the flower from her hair. With a single, hard motion, (that has her swaying on her unsteady feet) she throws the flower at the vine. It catches it, swallows it in one gulp, and transforms back into its flowering, former self before pulling itself back against the hedges, apparently satisfied with the offering.
“I- I didn’t expec’ tha’ to work. Honest.” Nellie’s voice holds some amount of amusement, but he can still feel the heat of her panic. It draws him in close, his eyes seeming to flash red as he takes her weight up against his shoulder once more. They continue on, but this time, they do not touch anything. Eldrian likes the feel of her against him, the closeness of her beating heart. It’s so loud, so incessant – like a buzzing bee that won’t leave the confines of his brain. He mostly likes that she’s close because it makes her more accessible. She can’t run far, after all, and this fact soothes him in a primal way. It also churns his stomach with bile.
They are cautious now and on high alert for any out-of-place sights and sounds. It’s difficult, though, because this world is so alien that it’s impossible to distinguish what belongs and what doesn’t. Eldrian finds that his body has changed in more ways than one, at least. His hearing is far better than before; his eyes are sharper and see every slight discrepancy in what lies ahead. It is due to this change that he sees what is ahead long before Nellie knows what is happening. He pulls her down just as the creature flies over their heads, its claws outstretched in anticipation. “What the bloody ‘ell was that for?” He watches its retreat, understanding why she hadn’t seen it but not why he had. The reptilian animal had been made completely out of heat, or at least it had appeared to, shimmering in the light, its signature barely visible to him.
They come to a crossroads at one point. Eldrian feels in his bones that they should go one way (despite the foreboding, sinister trees they can just make out at the end of the path) but Nellie insists on going another. Something feels far worse about the whisper of the waterfall down her path. She finds it soothing, but he can hear past it to the tinny shrieks – almost as if souls were being split with each splash against the rocks below. “We turn left here,” he insists, all warmth gone from his voice. She can do little to protest, and limps along beside him, shaking her head the entire time.
He knows he is right when they are able to walk past the towering trees that border the hedge, pressing against the leafy border with some arrogance in their stances. He watches them for any movement as they pass, but he sees none. Just along the next bend, the once-horse can see a platform gilded by some unknown light above. The center, it must be the end. With new determination, he pulls the girl ahead, his nails digging into her wrists unknowingly. Not until after they’ve passed does anything happen. Nellie stumbles over a root, and many things happen at once. Eldrian feels himself falling as the earth opens below his feet. He lands with a hard thud at the bottom of a crudely-dug pit (surely Missy can have done better, he thinks, perhaps her pets are learning). The shock doesn’t hurt one bit, which makes as much sense as anything else has so far, and he thinks he’ll be able to haul himself up.
An anger grows within him, despite knowing he’ll be all right. If only the stupid girl hadn’t tripped – we’d be done with this by now. The thought scares him, and he presses his hands to his head, trying to clear the headache that surely must be causing it. “Oh my god! Nooo!” Nellie’s shrill voice pierces him further, until he thinks his head will explode then and then, sending grey matter into the air as harmless shrapnel. “Nellie? What is it, what’s wrong?” He stretches his arms up as far as they will go and jumps, feeling his weaker body (compared to when he was a horse, but stronger than it had been in London) respond to the coil and release of his legs. He makes the edge, just barely, and rises to meet whatever has frightened the other human (he doesn’t know that he can no longer count himself among their kind). He feels strong, invincible and ready to face this newest adversary.
It still surprises him when he sees it.
It’s vaguely human in shape, but that’s where the similarities end. Great ram horns jut from the side of its massive head; its teeth are pointed and glistening, even in the gloom just beyond the trees. It looks like some sort of well-muscled hybrid – a beast in every manner of the word. Apparently, it had taken advantage of Nellie’s fall, because by the time he is back on the surface, Eldrian can see it pinning her to the ground, its horns on either side of her face. Already, her clothes are torn by the wicked claws at the end of its fingers. Fueled more by that same, red-hot anger than any concern for Nellie, Eldrian charges it. The ram-man doesn’t expect it, his sunken eyes lit with shock when the boy-vampire collides with him. Eldrian hisses at the contact, his body finally catching up with its changes. Purely on instinct, he clamps down on the meaty shoulder of the beast, his teeth lengthening and sharpening as they drive further into the flesh. The creature howls in pain, swiping at the vampire and connecting with his back.
Eldrian feels the sting but doesn’t care. The bloodlust has overcome him, and had the creature been less strong (a broken bird like Nellie, sweet Nellie) he might have drained it dry. But this beast is too much for the fledgling bloodsucker, and he pushes him off in a final, painful shove. Eldrian doesn’t need to breath – not anymore – but his chest heaves with unspent effort. The fight had only made him lust for more: more violence, more savagery, more blood. And he turns to Nellie with haunting red eyes. “My Nellie.” He steps closer to her, predatory in his movements. “My little English sparrow.” The voice isn’t his, and later, once he’s human (and much later when he’s a horse again) he’ll regret the words ever leaving his lips. “No, please Eldrian. Please, it’s me.” But the beast’s blood is only a sampling. He licks his lips and tastes the copper, yearns for more.
The vampire-boy moves in for the kill. She tries to get up, tries to grasp at the root that had felled her but to no avail. By the time she’s halfway up, he pushes her down. He grasps with one hand at that honey-hair that had once held his flower. With the other, he pushes down her shoulder (where once he’d grasped in comfort). Her head lies over the opening of the hole he fell down, exposing the pulse at her neck. With one last look into her blue, blue eyes, Eldrian bites down. He drinks until her moans are silenced. He slurps and licks every last bit. The ground shares none of his meal today. And when he’s finished, he leaves her body there without a second look back. All he wants is more, all he needs is to drink and drink and drink. When he slams the clear elixir down, it is with the urgency of a man left too long in the desert. It’s not blood, but after a few seconds, he becomes glad that it isn’t. As he becomes human again, the realizations crash on him like waves on a shore: unrelenting and powerful. He drops the bottle and he weeps. His tears are salty, like blood, and he deserves the taste of each one.
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
The door slams shut with a horrible squelch and the distinctive crack of bone as the zombie’s hand is crushed. Shahrizai flinches from the sound as he stumbles forward. When he regains his balance, a familiar voice rings in his ears. Her voice. What the hell has she done to him?
He can’t help but glance around, looking wildly for the odd woman from the gilt room. That is, until her voice rings inside his mind, reprimanding him for such foolishness. He blushes, a faintly ruddy color staining his tan cheeks. As she continues, he gazes surreptitiously at his surroundings, taking in the high, leafy walls of the maze surrounding him. They are at the entrance, an ominous opening into a dimly lit interior. But it is the only way out besides the door. And there is nothing that could convince him to go back that way.
An anguished roar suddenly sounds out just as Shahrizai is forcefully lifted and slammed into the wall of the garden. It is an impressive feat, considering that the black haired man is not, by any means, small. Shah’s wild gaze finds the furiously angry and aggrieved eyes of Killian, who is holding him pinned against the densely entwined foliage of the maze.
“YOU KILLED HIM.” The words seem to be wrenched from the man’s throat, a statement so full of grief and rage that Shahrizai winces reflexively. He has no words for Killian. As far as he is concerned, it is his fault that Mick is dead. He had been so stupid. So disbelieving. If only he hadn’t doubted them, hadn’t delayed. But if wishes were horses…
He nearly snorts in laughter at that thought. Of all the times his inappropriate humor had to turn up, it would be now. But the thought of the dead British man is sobering, one that keeps the tasteless grin off of his features.
I’m sorry, Killian.
Shahrizai’s guilt is self-evident, worn (as every other emotion is worn) directly on his sleeve for the world to see. Killian, however, looks as though he is about to pop a blood vessel. “You’re sorry? You’re fucking SORRY!? …”
Killian does not get a chance to finish that statement, for Shah is abruptly jerked from his grasp into the massive wall behind him. Shahrizai had been so focused on Killian that he had not realized several vines had snaked slowly and surreptitiously around his legs, arms, and torso until the plants had tightened their grip on him. They draw him inexorably into the dark depths of the bushy walls, even as he begins to struggle violently, a shout of fear escaping his throat.
Killian stares at him passively for a long moment (an eternity, more like), before finally reaching forward and grabbing Shahrizai’s shirt. Pulling him forward, he draws a knife from where it had been stashed at his waist. For one terrible moment, Shah thinks he means to stab him. His last encounter with a knife wielding creature had been less than pleasant; he has no desire for a repeat. But rather than stabbing him, he hacks roughly at the vines holding him prisoner. Within moments, he is able to pull him free, only to toss him (none too gently, he might add) to the moss covered earth with a disgusted snort.
Shahrizai lands with a thump, breath leaving his body on a swift exhale. When he finally regains his ability to breathe and staggers to his feet, Killian is standing at the maze entrance, gazing into the dark interior. He doesn’t even wait for Shah to reach him before he starts forward into the maze, leaving Shah to follow on his heels like a whipped dog.
Slowly, inexplicably, Shahrizai feels himself growing angry at the man. He might feel guilty about Mick’s death, but it’s not really his fault that the Brit had died. Mick had been perfectly capable of making his own damn choices after all. Besides, wasn’t it Shah that had come up with the key that got them out of the mess anyway? With each step that he takes, he can feel himself growing angrier and angrier at the lumberjack (he can’t think of any better term for the fellow. Stupid lummox, maybe).
As they are walking, Shahrizai feels a faint rumble underfoot. The sensation distracts him from his anger long enough to make him pause. Apparently, Killian had felt it too, for he stops as well. With no further warning, a spray of dirt and moss flies into the air, spattering the two men with grime. A massive, worm-like creature erupts from the earth, squirming in their direction as it snaps at them with a gaping maw full of vicious looking teeth.
Shahrizai stumbles backwards in surprise, nearly falling on his ass as he does so. Killian crouches low, knives appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, into both fists. Shahrizai glances around, searching wildly for something with which to defend himself. There is nothing, only those deceptive maze walls and the moss and dirt beneath their feet.
Killian, however, does not hesitate. He launches himself at the disgusting creature, knives flying as they puncture the thick, pasty hide of the worm. Droplets of viscous yellow blood arc through the air, landing far closer to Shah’s leather clad feet than he might have preferred. The creature shrieks, a high, piercing sound that causes him to slap his palms over his ears. The worm, meanwhile, thrashes wildly, a chance blow knocking Killian back into the leafy wall of the maze. The vines waste no time, snaking out to grab at the dazed man. This time, Shahrizai doesn’t hesitate. Darting forward, he grabs Killian’s ankles and attempts to drag him away from the wall. Unfortunately one vine has already twined itself around Killian’s left arm, holding him tightly. He struggles weakly, still woozy from the blow to the head (though what he had hit his head on, Shahrizai cannot see).
Glancing around, Shah spies one of the knives that had fallen from Killian’s hands when he had been struck. The creature seems to have recovered however, and has turned back towards them, vicious and unrelenting. Launching himself forward, Shahrizai snatches the knife before hastily rolling away from the creature, distracting it from the prone man. It turns towards him, gnashing those razor teeth in frustration. Dancing backwards, Shahrizai encourages the beast to follow him. It does, far faster than he might have given it credit for. He panics for a moment, wondering how the hell he is going to dispatch the thing. As far as he can tell, there are no eyes, no ears, no nose. Nothing except a gaping, tooth-filled maw.
And, a short distance behind the creature, more vines are curling their way around a groggy Killian. He is struggling harder, trying to reach his remaining knife, but the plants have him well and truly bound now.
In a moment of madness, Shahrizai darts for the squirming monster, knife slashing wildly as he does so. Razor teeth graze his arm as he stabs repeatedly at the thing, rage and bloodlust consuming him until he is nearly unaware of his actions. The creature is shrieking that ear-splitting shriek, but Shahrizai doesn’t hear him. He sees only yellow blood, feels only the satisfaction of the kill.
When the creature’s faceless head is nothing but a ruined puddle, Shahrizai slowly comes to, drawing out of his reverie into a state of horror. What the hell had just happened?
He gapes at the decimated worm in shock as canary bright liquid drips from his hair, his fingers, his clothing. A low shout draws him back, pulling his attention to Killian, who had been pulled almost entirely into the hungry hedge wall while Shahrizai had battled the worm. Dragging himself over to Killian, he chokes back the bile that threatens as what he had just done sinks in. He couldn’t think about that. Not now.
In a state of almost numbness, he hacks at the vines holding Killian prisoner, splattering citrine blood over the other man as he does so. Finally Killian is free, and he jerks away from Shahrizai before lumbering to his feet. He gives the blood covered man a speculative glance as he steadies himself on his feet. Shahrizai remains on his knees, staring at the ground for several long moments after the other man has risen. He can’t regret killing the vile creature, but the unknown and vicious quality of his attack had astounded him. Sickened him.
Finally, at Killian’s urging, Shah clambers to his feet. He is unable to meet the other man’s gaze, instead stumbling awkwardly after him as he continues down the maze corridor.
They make several wrong turns, run into dead ends, back track, and all the while, Shahrizai shuffles along behind the more competent man in a haze. That is, until he realizes that he is growing hungry. A hunger that gnaws at his belly and turns his stomach into an empty pit. It is hard to describe, this feeling. One that is far more intense than any hunger he has ever before experienced. He slowly comes to realize that his senses are sharpening, scents are stronger, sounds louder. Like the sound of Killian’s heart thrumming a steady beat in his chest, pushing the smooth, crimson blood through his veins.
He is not aware of the physical changes being made to his body, and Killian does not turn around to see them. He is oblivious. So delightfully oblivious. Even as his skin grows pale, the tan leaching from him, his canine teeth lengthen and his normally chocolate brown eyes turn yellow, the pupils expanding rapidly. A small, cruel smile curves his lips. A smile he does not even realize is there.
He is hungry. So damned hungry. And Killian smells so delicious. Without realizing it, he speeds up, easily catching up to Killian as he walks briskly across the carpet of moss. Shahrizai grabs Killian by the arm, halting him in his tracks. Killian jerks to a stop, swinging around to face Shah with anger in his hazel eyes. Eyes that suddenly widen with alarm. His arm swings up, reclaimed knife already clutched in his fist. But Shahrizai is faster. He attacks with a swiftness he hadn’t know he possessed. Latching on the other man’s neck, he ravages his veins with brutal efficiency. The blood is sweet in his mouth, a copper tang that is more divine than clover. He drinks, uncaring, unaware of the other man’s life force as it slips away all too quickly. That is, until his stomach is full and Killian falls limp in his arms.
Blood lust fading, animalistic instincts retreating, Shahrizai abruptly drops the man as horror takes hold. He stares in shock at Killian’s pale face, fists clenching and unclenching by his side.
No. Oh god no. This can’t be happening.
Dropping to his knees, he clutches desperately at the man’s flannel shirt. Shakes him.
Killian!
His shout rings out, desperate and pleading.
Killian. Oh god, Killian. Please wake up. Please.
The last word escapes on a horrified sob. There is nothing. No breath in his lungs, no life in his wide-open hazel eyes. He releases his shirt suddenly, scrambling sideways as he wretches into the moss. Nothing comes out, not even the smallest drop of blood. His body is too greedy to let go of its prize so easily. He sobs in shame, in revulsion, clutching at the damp earth as he heaves.
He is so distraught, so caught up in his own torment that he does not hear the footsteps, the heavy breathing, does not smell the fetid breath of the hairy beast bearing down upon him. He doesn’t even realize it is there until it leaps into him, sending him sprawling. And even that does not draw him from his grief. His body, the monster inside of him, takes over. With agility and strength beyond anything he has ever known, he leaps to his feet and grabs the creature, unseeing and uncaring, and heaves it into the looming hedge. The vines grasp at it greedily, sucking it into the murky depths.
Stumbling forward, he leaves the scene of his crime, blind to what is before him. Tears stream from his eyes, carving tracks into the drying mixture of red and yellow on his cheeks. He doesn’t feel the blood staining his chin and neck, doesn’t see the bright crimson splashes down his once white shirt. He doesn’t want to.
In a daze, he stumbles into the heart of the maze. He doesn’t realize at first what he has found. Not until he sees the pedestal and basin filled with clear liquid.
Water. That is the only thing he can think of as jerks forward, intent upon that liquid. He needs that water. To clear the blood from his mouth. To quench this terrible thirst.
He is almost there when something drops from the sky. Sharp talons dig into his back, scoring his flesh and lifting him several feet off the ground. He twists in the winged creatures grip, bloody hands grasping for the misshapen bird. A woman bird, he thinks, with savage claws, a beaked nose, a massive wingspan, and large, sagging breasts. He snarls as he writhes in its grasp. The action causes the harpy to drop him, and he falls to the earth with a thud. It comes for him again, but this time he is ready. He leaps for the ugly bird as it comes at him, talons extended. A ferocious snarl displays his lengthened canines as they tangle, his hands gripping, twisting, her claws gouging flesh. In the end, he prevails, breaking her neck and sending her skidding across the carpet of moss.
He doesn’t hesitate, unwilling to lose his precious prize. He doesn’t even bother with his hands, instead plunging his face into the liquid and gulping for all he is worth.
Sidra blinks in surprise as she tumbles through the door into … a garden? She turns around, looking for the door and finds nothing. There’s definitely something very odd going on in here. Doors don’t disappear like that. And they don’t magically transport you to gardens.
That same voice rings out again, and she freezes. It speaks of a maze, of unknown changes, and of testing the maze. What the hell is going on?!
Her dark brown eyes can’t help but search for the speaker, but she was warned, there’s nothing to be seen. Nothing except Ella, who’s lying crumpled in the grass in front of her. Right. Her brother had just sacrificed himself to save them.
“Ella?” She takes a few tentative steps towards the girl, and lays a trembling hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I … I’m so sorry.” The girl pulls away, shaking. “He … he …” Sidra’s heart breaks for the girl. As much as she’s lost in the past year, she hasn’t had to watch a family member get slaughtered in front of her. Jason and Sahm are gone, but they’re still alive out there, somewhere. And her mother, though a captive of the Chamber, is still alive and in one piece. What Ella’s just been through is far worse than anything Sidra’s experienced. But …
They still need to get moving. Though she can’t see any more of the ‘walkers,’ it doesn’t mean that they're safe. In fact, considering that someone (a magician? a faerie?) is clearly playing with them, it probably isn’t safe. They need to play the game and then maybe, just maybe, they can go home. If that’s the maze-maker’s intention anyhow.
She reaches out to the girl again, her touch on Ella’s shoulder stronger this time. “We can’t stay here Ella. We need to get through that maze.” She inhales, stealing herself. She does not like having to do this to the poor girl, but it’s necessary. “I know you’re hurting right now, and I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling, but we need to go. Now.” Her hand slips down to the girl’s arm and pulls. Ella doesn’t resist and gets to her feet. “O-ok.” Then she turns to look at Sidra, and the expression goes right to Sidra’s core. Inexplicably, there’s trust in those eyes - Ella is looking to Sidra for leadership.
Those eyes cut right through Sidra, and make her pull herself up straighter. She can’t let the girl down now. Ella doesn’t have anyone else anymore. “Let’s go.” She grabs the teen’s hand and pulls her through the leafy mouth of the maze.
They walk in silence for some time, slipping through the shadows. Sidra glances back at the girl from time to time, but says nothing. She’s sure that Ella is thinking of her brother, and she doesn't want to intrude or interrupt. The girl deserves some time to grieve.
Very little stands out to her as they walk. The sides of the maze are tall and leafy, thick walls of plant and vine, and possibly stone (though it’s hard to tell through the growth) that block out direct light. Sidra thinks they must be blocking out sound too, as she can’t hear anything but the sound of their muffled footsteps on the grass. It’s quite eerie, something that’s emphasized by the seemly strong scents that she keeps detecting - the scent of growing and decomposing vines fills her nose, and she can’t help but notice the smell of sweat and fear wafting off both herself and Ella (since when has she been able to smell fear?).
When they hit their first dead end, Sidra turns around to usher Ella back and abruptly notices that she can hear the girl’s rapid heart beat.
When they hit their second dead end, Sidra turns around and considers ripping out Ella’s throat and devouring the warm, vulnerable flesh. When she realizes what she’s thinking, she freezes, horrified. What? What the hell was that?!
Ella notices her pause and cocks her head to the side. “Is something wrong?” Sidra shakes her head vaguely, eyes wide. What the fuck is going on? What the hell did the voice do to her?
On their third dead end they run into a trap. The ground disappears from under Sidra’s feet and she flails at thin air, trying to find anything to grasp on to. She flails for what seems like an age, but finally a small, soft hand grabs her own, and she slams into a stone wall. When she looks down, she can see a deep pit, filled with spikes. She shudders. She looks back up - Ella is above her, holding on to Sidra’s hand for dear life. “Swing yourself to the left and grab the wall!” Sidra doesn’t argue. She swings herself up and grabs on to the edge. Then, with Ella’s help, she hoists herself up and over the edge. Once she’s over, she lies there, panting from the exertion. “Thanks.” Ella doesn’t say anything for a moment, then she looks at Sidra. “What’s your name?” Sidra sits up, looking at her. “Huh?” Ella looks away, staring at the ground. “What’s your name? I don’t know your name.” Sidra smiles sheepishly, trying to avoid looking at the girl’s throat (which is trembling deliciously). “Oh. It’s Sidra.” Then they both get up and continue on.
On their fourth dead end, they run into a tiger. It comes after them the instant it sees them, and both girls scream. In unison, they head for one of the walls and climb out of its reach. The tiger must be well fed, because it swats at them a couple of times before lying down in the grass. The girls hang there for what seems like hours, waiting for the tiger to fall asleep. As they hang off the wall, Sidra can feel something … fighting, inside her. Something wild, animalistic, fighting to get out. It wants her to jump down and rip into the tiger, shredding the beast to tiny little pieces. But she fights the urge, and hangs on until the tiger is asleep, and they both sneak quietly away.
Then, finally, after what seems like an age, they reach the centre. Sidra cries out in relief and takes a step towards the wooden pedestal in the centre.
Then it happens.
Sidra shrieks as her body starts breaking down and reforming itself - growing, shifting and changing. Pain fills her as her bones break and regrow, massive fangs burst out of her gums, thick claws erupt out of her hands, and thick hair covers her entire body. Ella watches transfixed as Sidra transforms into a monster.
It’s over in moments and, where before had stood a pretty young woman, is a vicious, slavering beast. It hungers for the hunt, the kill … the blood. And poor Ella doesn’t stand a chance.
The wolf relishes the feeling of its teeth and claws sinking into delicate, pale flesh, the feeling of the blood gushing out over the earth, the grass, and even itself. Within seconds it reduces the teenaged girl into a gory, damp pile of bone and bloody skin and hair, and gorges itself on the flesh.
When it’s finished, it looks about, hunger sated, but not thirst. It spots a bowl sitting on the pedestal, full of what appears to be water. Desperately thirsty it throws caution to the wind and drinks deep, emptying the bowl. And suddenly the change begins to reverse.
When it’s over Sidra sinks to the earth, horrified, sobbing. Her memories are awash in flying blood and bone. “No, no, no, no, NOOO!” She shrieks into her knees, sobbing even harder. What has she done?
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