"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
01-04-2017, 10:57 PM (This post was last modified: 01-04-2017, 10:58 PM by Heartfire.)
show them the joy and the pain and the ending
She has grown thoroughly bored of the common lands. For a woman who once routinely explored every corner of Beqanna, this small piece of it is quickly discovered and rediscovered once again. Perhaps that is why she ends up in the forest. Here at least she might pretend there is some small piece of it she hasn't yet seen.
It does seem to change quite a bit with the seasons, far more so than the meadow at least. With winter still upon them, it is a forest of white and cracked brown. The birds are largely absent, but occasionally she spots a brave hare or wily fox. Her slow footsteps leave impressions in the thick blanket of snow, a trail of prints showing her path through the quiet of the winter forest. The sky above, easily visible through bare limbs of the trees, is steel grey and heavily laden with snow, though as yet only a few stray flakes have begun to fall.
Her breath comes out in a puff of white as she heaves an exasperated sigh, her eyes, piercing and of the most vibrant, crystalline blue, shifting towards the sky as her mind wanders.
Damn, she is bored. Once, that never would have been a problem. Now however, it seems she can never find enough to keep her entertained (perhaps if she were slightly less nosy, a bit less curious. But, alas, that is not the case), and it shows in the turn of her face, the fidgeting of her limbs.
Company is perhaps the cure, but she is too restless to be a good companion in that moment. It requires too much composure, too much consideration. More than she possesses at this time.
So, she remains alone, wandering, restless, and bored out of her mind.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
She is beautiful and such things would have pulled upon him if beauty affected him.
Instead he watches her coldly, his impossibly dark eyes tracing the curves of her body without thought, his mind reaching out for her, trying to learn the landscape of her from afar. It was impossible, of course, not without fully releasing the Fear, but he fancied he was a good judge of character. He liked to imagine what would make them tick; what would make their heart stutter in their chest. He liked to imagine what would bring them to their knees and what they would like with their eyes wide and pulse racing.
He, too, is bored today. Pangea was quiet and while he usually did not mind the silence, he did find that he was without immediate entertainment. Rhae was always a fun past time, but she was also the only one of his collection for now. He was a collector and having just one pretty pet wasn’t going to keep him happy for long.
Which is to say he doesn’t take long to move from his position amongst the snow and bare branches to move toward her—and it takes even less time to reach her. Chalk it up to supernatural speed and agility, but his cloven hooves moved almost silently as he came up her side, the stallion not worrying about keeping distance between them. His sooty golden side brushed against her own as he came to a stop, his heavy horned head twisting so he could appraise her closer. “It is not wise to be out here on your own,” he said softly, his voice both warning and promise. “You have no idea what monsters come lurking.”
Then, without asking, he reached over to run his muzzle possessively along her neck, testing her boundaries. Pretty, pretty girl, you have no idea what you have called out to you tonight.
She has never considered herself particularly beautiful. She is self-aware enough to recognize her own flaws (and she has seen herself through the eyes of others often of enough to know how the world sees her). Still, there is a certainly loveliness, a fragility, in her slender, angular frame, in the delicate shape of her head. Something that had always been surprisingly intriguing to the opposite gender. But before, she had always been powerful enough to deter any unwanted attention. Her sharp tongue had done the rest.
Without that aura of power however, she is fair game it seems. Despite the closed nature of her body language, she still somehow manages to attract the eye of another. Someone who is, apparently, far too full of himself.
She has so rarely known fear that it does not even occur to her to be leery of this newcomer. She had been a queen once, after all. And queens fear no one.
So, despite the silence of his approach, the way his sides brush much too intimately against hers, she regards him with a chilly stare. Her refined head comes up, ears flicking back to display her displeasure. Eyes of icy blue fix upon him, no words necessary to speak the quiet censure in her gaze.
She might currently be powerless, but that does not mean she must behave as such. Besides, she might not have her active gifts, but immortality still protects her. Who does this whelp think he is anyway? She does not need (nor does she welcome) his warnings. ”Oh, I’m perfectly aware,” she says, a sharp bite to her tone.
She, more than almost anyone, is quite aware. She has seen so much of it after all. Once, no secret had been safe from her. And one day soon, it would be so again. ”Did you ever pause to think that perhaps it is those monsters who should be wary?”
Her gaze fixes upon him with clear-eyed precision. She knows the art of intimidation quite well, and has no qualms about using it, even if she is currently unable to back it up. So, it is with no hesitation that she pins her ears in swift response to his unwanted touch, teeth snapping at him in reprimand. ”I’d advise you keep your limbs to yourself,” she quips, her tone brimming with disdain, ”Especially if you have any desire to keep your extremities.”
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She is feisty and he appreciates it, undeterred by the chill to her stare and edge to her voice.
Good, fight back.
His mouth draws outward and upward into a perfect pantomime of his father’s cold crocodile smile, Bruise not bothering to move away from the snap of her teeth. If he needed to get away quickly, he was more than capable of removing himself from the situation. For now, he did not fear her.
But she would fear him.
At first, his fingers dance upon the threads of the Fear that dance around and above them, the colors of them tangible to him—bright as wildflowers bursting into life. He practically hums with pleasure, taking his time to find the right ones, moving deftly over them, plucking at them softly as he watches her.
“Who said I have a desire to keep anything,” he says quietly, never letting the volume of his voice rise. He preferred the husk of his whisper, the depth of it; let them strain to hear him, not the other way around. “Who said I will keep anything from you,” another promise, velvety on his sinner’s tongue.
With alien speed and grace, he peels away from her side and moves to her other, cloven hooves skimming the ground, the motion thrilling him to his core. He reaches up and out, picking the strings he chose to play and pulling upon them deftly, waiting to feel the rush of adrenaline, the pooling of blood in her veins, the widening of her eyes. He could practically feel the Fear creeping up upon them.
Still, part of him hopes she fights it; part of him hopes that she denies him the rush. Makes him work for it. He reaches over, lips brushing over the edges of her forbidden jaw. “My name is Bruise,” he says with the softness of a lover, as if he was caressing her gently and not beckoning forth terror from her very core.
If / how she responds to fear induction is completely up to you! <3
A scowl tugs at her dark lips, pulling her features into a glower. The very opposite of the wicked grin that curls his into terrible delight. She refuses to allow him the upper hand, refuses to allow him power over her. Had she her own gifts, she would have used his sight against him, would have blinded him, forced him to see horrifying things, turned him to dust. Unfortunately, she has none of that now.
He would have feared her, just as he wishes her to fear him.
Her scowl deepens at his words, her vibrant blue eyes turning impossibly colder. ”Are you part lizard?” she mocks, though her tone lacks humor. ”To regrow lost parts?”
He handles her biting words too well, a fact that does not sit well with her. After all, she has little but her words with which to defend herself at this particular moment.
Then he is gone from her side, only to reappear moments later at her other. She has never truly known fear, never truly had anything to fear. So when that emotion begins to creep upon her, coiling about her lithe body in swift, immutable fashion, her first reaction is confusion. A confusion that rapidly gives way to anger.
She cannot deny the fear, it lurks there in the corners of her mind, causing her to flinch reflexively from the source of that awful power. But anger mixes with it, roiling inside of her until she is frozen in place, half of her wishing to flee, the other half wishing to strike back.
”Stop it,” she hisses, knowing it is him (Bruise, he calls himself. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of hearing her own name) causing the fear. Her endorphin soaked brain is unable to formulate any better response, a fact that heightens her rage, serving only to exacerbate the fear.
Still, she refuses to give him what he wants. She refuses to tremble, refuses to tear her narrowed gaze from his. Let him look her in the eye. Let him see her defiance.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
“I am many things,” he counters smoothly, enjoying the fight she put up, the way she did not immediately submit to the pressure of his hands. If he was to be a true maestro, he would need to learn to work with many materials. Some would be like Rhae, soft and malleable. Those were easy. It did not meant that the end result was not a masterpiece, but it was not difficult to get there. Others were like Karaugh. Brittle, thin. He rather enjoyed breaking those and watching the pieces splinter off. Not easy, but not difficult.
But, oh, Heartfire was something else entirely.
Metal, perhaps.
He would need to weld her, rise heats to extreme temperatures, scald his palms, to achieve anything with her, but it would be worth it. It would take blood and sweat, but it would be beautiful. So, no, he does not mind the venom in her voice, the defiance in the tip of her chin. It is but another symbol of the great ways that she will ultimately bend to his whim, and how rich that would be. How grand of a day.
“But enough about me. Let’s talk about you,” his voice remains low, a throaty whisper, He can feel the tendrils of fear making their way across the forest floor, the way that she resists their pull even as the climb up her sides and expand within her, claiming her as their own. He continues to deftly pull at the strings of the fear, manipulating the landscape around them—making it more ominous, darker. Leaving it open to her interpretation so that it could react to her fear as it grew, as it took on a life of its own.
He ignores her weak retort, brushing it aside as he leans over, beautiful mouth.
She has never bowed to anyone, and she most certainly would not start now. Her submission would be long in coming, and if he were waiting for it, he would wait an eternity.
The worst things she had ever feared have already come to pass, and she had not only survived, but thrived. She had lost her love, the only man who had ever meant as much to her as her brother. And she had lost her powers, her entire identity. There is nothing else that could be taken from her.
Nothing but her pride, her dignity. Without those, she truly would have nothing.
And perhaps that is the only thing she has left to fear. Somehow, someway, he finds those strings. Finds them and tugs. Plucks and pulls until they tremble through her, lingering in the darkest corners of her mind, renewing dread she hadn't even known existed.
It squeezes her lungs like a vice, locking her muscles in place and forcing her breathes to come in shorter and shorter bursts.
But she perseveres. She grits her teeth and refuses to bow to him. She would not give him this, the last that is left to her.
He looks as though he is enjoying her misery, causing anger to spider through her like fragile cracks. ”Jump… off a cliff… and die,” she gasps through clenched teeth.
Perhaps not the most clever of comebacks, but the best she can manage under such terrible duress.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He can feel her shudders, feel the Fear that finds the cracks, as small as they are, in her armor. It is persistent, single-minded, and despite her strength, despite the fight she puts up, it does not cave. He just sends more of the Fear’s vines rushing forward, more rope thrown over her back. It is an onslaught, and he breathes heavily from the effort, his excitement and the exertion melding together. She will submit. She will bow her head to the Fear. He will overcome this; he will not stop until she was his.
“You are something else,” he croons like a lover, as if he is brushing lips gently across her forehead, as if he is worshiping her curves. As if he is not manipulating the very threads she buried so deep, as if he is not coaxing out the terror from her belly, painting large brushstrokes of the Fear within her and then around her, manipulating the landscape so that it warps, darkens, everyone else fading away.
At her gritted insult, he simply laughs, the sound hearty in his throat, if somewhat strained, his focus almost entirely on the Fear he wields, the razor sharp edge of it flashing in his grasp. “Now, now, we can’t have that, love,” he steps forward, the sooty gold of his neck slick with sweat. “Someday, you will miss me,” his lips find her own neck, the same one she had warned him so viciously of touching, and they linger there, tasting her, imagining that she tastes all the sweeter for the terror that simmers there now.
“Submit,” he then growls into her ear, never pausing the onslaught of Fear, finding the parts within her that she keeps locked away, dextrous hands working on the locks he uncovers there. “We can have fun,” he murmurs, pushing forelock from her eyes, faux concern on his face. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
Although of course it did. This was the only way he knew how to have fun.
It slithers around her, that fear. Oily coils that squeeze her lungs like a vice, its sticky touch drawing shudders from her straining muscles. He is there next to her, touching her like a lover might. No one, no one, has that right. Not without her permission. Had she the power, she would rend him limb from limb without hesitation.
Her head drops a bit beneath the exertion, though her knees lock, prevent her shaking muscles from giving way beneath the onslaught. The fear creeps ever deeper, coiling through her mind and teasing out strings of memory, of emotion, she had never even known existed. Darkening the sky, bringing the trees ominously close, their branches stretching, grasping.
Suddenly her brother, sweet, dear Illum, is there before her, stretched out on the ground, broken, bleeding. Dead. She flinches violently back, squeezing her eyes shut on the sight (the only such way she now has of removing such visions). When she opens them again, he is gone, replaced by her father, her mother.
She realizes then they are hallucinations. Vile products of this terrible storm of fear the gutless bastard has decided to rain upon her for no apparent reason. The anger is back then, bolstering her, but she cannot stop the trickle of tears that escapes her blue eyes. She imagines then what she would do him. The awful, gut-wrenching visions she would visit upon him before she picked him apart piece by piece, turning him to dust limb by limb. Doing her utmost to hold the terrible fear he seeks to visit upon her at bay.
As she once more shutters her gaze, keeping that small satisfaction from him, she shakes her head. The implied never in response to his demand remains unsaid. She is panting now, sweat dampening her skin. Her eyes remain closed, head lowered, knees locked, even as fear continues to bombard her from every direction.
”Yes… it.... does.” She gasps at last, in response to his final, crooning statement, an unwitting echo of his own inclinations. It really could be no other way. He would have to claw submission from her the hard way.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She is stubborn, he would give her that much.
Despite the tears that leak from her eyes, despite the trembles that now rack her body, despite the way that her knees locked, she does not kneel. She does not submit to it. He grins in response, the soot and gold of his coat darkening with sweat, the exertion dripping into his veins slowly, although he does not tire easily. His father had gifted him with more than just the Fear, more than the heavy horns that adorn his regal skull. Speed, agility, endurance—they all race through him, they all breathe life into him.
He was built to be predator. He was built to hunt.
And she was made to be his next meal.
“Have it your way,” he shrugs.
Reaching over, he kisses away the tears on her cheek, savoring the salt of them on his tongue. “Look at me, darling,” he drawls into her ear, sweetly at first. “Look at me,” he growls again, his voice sharpening, bleeding away the handsome edge, revealing something ugly beneath—something dark and stormy. When he says it a third time, it is reverberating through his chest, the sound made more vicious—louder for his control of the environment around them. “Look. At. Me.” he snarls, the sound cutting through the air.
He no longer looks the handsome young stallion. Blood rushes forth between his teeth, and his flesh peels back to reveal the rotting skull beneath it. He grows in size, expanding at rapid speed until he towers over her, his head hanging down so that he can meet her gaze. When his lips peel back, it reveals the gore and the black tar that paints them, the edges sharp. For a second, the edges of him grow hazy and then he turns into her brother, mouth agape and flies rooting from the eyes, and then he turns back into himself, the monstrous version, the forest of his creation peeling away from them like old paint from canvas.
This is his world now, and she is but a puppet in it.
“You smell delicious when you are trembling,” he croons, blood dripping down his chin.
He leans over to press his rotted lips to her jaw.
