Naive little precious 
There is a very thin line between obsession and lunacy. An obsession often grows from a stem of infatuation. A budding bloom of want, or need. You want to be them, want to be near them, you learn that you then need this so, so very much. Cast a stone into a pool of water and you get ripples, each ripple is your heart slowly dying within you, when the object of your fixation ebbs away. Slowly that infatuation turns to obsession. Then without even knowing you are hounded by thoughts, consumed by it all. I will healthily admit I have a terrible way of obsessing. My mind locks on to things (remember, my mother named me a key, so I have this penchant for locking things…) and will refuse to let go. Death being the only way.
I had obsessed over escaping my past for too long, soon enough it came to fruition and I am now here. Still with a mind full of obsessive riddles and deathly rhyme. I listen, my inky tendrils like cobwebs before my dark eyes. I’m lost within her, Chantale. A wayward raft down a cascading waterfall, all I see is rocks and splints beneath me, and yet I willingly fall, I jump with eyes wide open and arms outstretched. I have a fierce loyalty in my blood (my mother had been so loyal to my bastard father, even when on her deathbed, she refused to leave.) it is like a taint, a stain, but a rather affirmative stain I don’t mind tarnishing me. There are many more defects to have, I’m certain.
Chantale’s breath is a siren’s song. appeasing to my ears and bridling my soul with invisible strings. I feel it, I feel every little fibre of my being knitted with her. Invisible threads binding us. I will do anything, everything in my power, my life, to please her, to find out everything I can find out. There is no greater weapon in life than knowledge, and if I can find out the knowledge of life, and the knowledge of death, then I can die with a smile on my lips.
The first thing I learnt, was that death is never a flaw. Life began and death ended. The in-between was the greyscale of life, you made it what you could. Well I am damn sure I can make it greater, selfish and proud in my vain attempts, I claw at everything in my path. Chantale is an option, the deathly goddess, a choice. And it’s her words, a lullaby, soothing me, haunting me.
There is a thin line between obsession and lunacy. And I am in the threshold of both, my ink frame bordering the shadows, my dark eyes ever observant. there are trees here, blackest black tendrils wrapping themselves around me, pulling me closer and closer to the edge, knife sharp shards pressing into my throat, my skin, pushing me ever closer to the frostbitten mare, deeper into the realm of torturing darkness. I am night, I am dark. I am everything she wants me to be, I am everything I can be. I will spill blood, i’ve done it before, it is simple, painless for me, not much for the other. I will taste the life-force upon cracked lips and whisper sweet nothings into the night.
’Yes.’ As her body presses against mine, a perfect fit, not a crevasse in sight. Black and ivory, yin and yang. A proverbial light to a despairing dark. My voice is hoarse, like there’s nothing left within me. Like the threads that are slowly binding us, tight, tight, are suffocating me. My lips black velvet, her words black magic. I touch her neck, her shoulder; skin as cold as ice, as pale as the moon, her eyes as dead and dark as the deepest wells in forbidden woods. ’Yes, I am yours’ I say it once more, hauntingly, a smooth song in the night.
’I’ll do anything, everything.’
So long as in the end I get exactly what comes to me. Knowledge. Power. Even if death takes my soul and binds me to the haunting mare beside me, I will grateful walk the valley of darkness to find her again. I would owe her that, I would owe her blood and soul, life and death.
I’d owe her, everything.
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my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
and that continually.
She was an obsession, wasn’t she?
They all are, those girls you think you love, but you love them like a wrecking ball, like a natural disaster, you engulf and take and torment. And maybe you think it’s love, whatever transpires (you remember the arch of the swan-white girl’s neck, and the way Yael’s accent made her name sound like a spell).
You obsess and pant and breathe over these women until they see you for what you are, until the guts of it are out, exposed, the madness coating the air like nerve gas. And then they leave, but you can’t let them leave, because obsession isn’t love, none of it’s love.
If you love something, let it go.
If you’re obsessed with something, stop it from going.
It’s a unique pleasure, bringing them in. She is not graceful, my corpse masterpiece, but she possesses a certain animal cunning, a knowledge of when to sink the claws in. And the moment is sweet every time, them pliant against her, warm as anything she’s ever know, her wax-cool but possessing their heat, their want.
She is no scholar and surely the mare will see it soon enough, that behind those glistening eyes there is no knowledge, only whimsy and slaughter, and what will she do then? Will she run, or press closer?
Yes, acquiesces the mare, yes, I am yours. Of course she is. Of course. For this moment, she is my corpse queen’s pet, her prize, her trophy to be polished and admired (and ah, she is so warm).
“Tell me, pet,” she says, “have you ever killed anyone?”
chantale
how original a sin.
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06-09-2015, 12:07 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-12-2015, 12:54 PM by Nykeln.)
Sometimes a cage is never made of iron or steel, sometimes the cage is ice words and demeaning smiles. There is some thread that had bound me to my sire’s herd, a blood tie if you will, but even if I were his daughter it meant nothing in the hell raiser’s eye. He had desired a lot in this world, power being numero uno. He gave up everything for power, including my mother, my sister and myself. I would defy that, I would top him, I wouldn’t need to step among the stones of family to gain higher access to the fruits of the world. I would pave my way with the blood of the unworthy, the skin of those that had not given me that second look. I would do to them, what I had done to those brutes before me, and I would do it all again.
For the chance to step into a new moonlight, a graceless but very powerful glow that seems to also make the earth shake, the trees weep. I would push myself further, further into the realms of the impossible, for one taste of winning, for that longing taste of might.
But first, but first I needed to press some buttons here in Beqanna, settle into the shadows, my blanket of darkness. Test the waters so to speak. Already I have the eye, the mind of the ghoul before me and she draws me in, more and more. As if her saccharine words were candy, and I a mere mindless child. I was far from mindless, perhaps a little obsessive, and overly loyal, but I knew when things would favour me in the end. And I do think that this would be one of them…
’Their blood was not as sweet as I had hoped.’ my words slip, dark velvet and thick drapery, hiding an undertone of recollection. I still tasted their scarlet, it coated my tongue, my mouth. At first it was a glorious feeling, taking the reins of death and riding it closer and closer to my destination, but then, the blood became stale, tasteless and I realised then, that I should have made them suffer a great deal more.
My inky frame bends and bows, slithers and snakes like some serpent, my willowy neck snaking forward, muzzle pressing against the ice cold skin of the ghoulish lady before me, she is an angelic statue of the fallen star, impervious to the dark, the light. I inhale her once more, the stench of decay, of rot and worms, it should have made me run a mile, but I stay, I am a rigid stone.
’Mistress of the night, tell me, I will take away a heart, a soul, for you. I would end all.’
And now starts my untimely obsession with death. With death’s glorious apprentice, her facade a ghoulish beauty, a pale apparition that blinds my dreams with nightmares. I shiver in delight, in appreciation and desire.
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my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
and that continually.
You know a bit about fathers, don’t you?
Your own is this land’s resident dark god, that stormcloud gray magician who transformed himself into something more. And along the way he has littered the earth with his children. You can trace your blood to most of the citizens here, the filthy descents of him.
And you added to the group, because your darling dear father (though you didn’t know till after, because the only parent you knew was mother-dearest, and even that was simply a glassy gleam in her eye and a lunatic laugh as she took a long walk off a short cliff.
So you never knew dear father, not until he’d finished with you, left you fat and pregnant with the child (your second, but the first live-born, that queer girl who transformed into a skeleton come nightfall, a side effect of the magic.
Poor wretched inbred thing, I wonder where she’s at now?
My corpse masterpiece, the dishwater gray thing who once drank enough blood she almost died (her body had been less dead then, still so dearly herbivorous and unable to process its richness), smiles encouragingly. She doesn’t care about the stories (she’ll forget them soon enough anyway), but she likes the wash of words, the cadence in their tones as they recount the good times and the bad.
“I found it sickening, once” she says, and once it was true, when she knelt down against the swan-girl, weeping and screaming do you love me, do you love me now.
(She finds it much sweeter, now, and easier to digest. Corpses take easier to this sort of thing.)
“Not anymore, though,” she purrs, dead to the living, cat to the mouse, “now it’s quite fun.”
(The last had been a child. Her grandchild, though she doesn’t remember this, only the way the filly’s bird-bones had fractured beneath her hooves and how that woman wouldn’t stop screaming.)
“You should ty again,” she says mildly, as if discussing the weather, “take someone’s heart out. It’s almost romantic.”
chantale
how original a sin.
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You never forget the smell of blood, acrid at first, as though dry, barren, then metallic and tastes like rust, a little salty, a little bitter but very, very metallic. The scarlet life-force that ran through us all, it was bittersweet, tainted by lies, tarnished by sin. Everyone could deny it but everyone who walked this world, walked hand in hand with one sin or another. I was no saint, I was not as innocent as my curious eye gave way, and I do believe that is what Chantale had seen; behind my facade, my masquerade mask, lurked a delicious sin, even more tastier than the first time, but never as nice as the last.
They say love conquers all, they say the fluid, yet selfish emotion will end the suffering of many, but in turn will also make many suffer. Some people give everything for the ones they love, including their life, but the moment they see that pool of blood gaining, creeping like a blossoming rose at their feet, they immediately lose interest. Life was like that, pawns come and go, knights tackle problems and come out victorious, before always being captured my the queen. Right now, in this chessboard game, I was quite settled just behind this ghostly phantom, she was a regal queen with a mind as dark as mine, with labyrinths unsearched and treasures undiscovered.
'Depending, who's heart shall I steal?' my voice is a distant lullaby in a far off peak of a haunted castle, soft, melodious, with an icy touch. I slither closer, my black frame ink against her grey. Like inky letters written a eulogy upon parchment paper, we fit quite well, I believe. I question, an inked ear swivelling, catching her words like cobwebs to a tentative fly.
'It is always more intriguing when you take from someone who leasts expects it.' as if I need to tell my dearest ghostly queen that, just looking at her deadened eyes, that fill me with electric shocks and a vivid heartbeat, I'm sure she's seen as many as I could possibly imagine. 'I'll be your pawn in this game of life, Chantale. Tell me, do you have anyone who's heart will look a glamorous trophy around your neck?' because I bet, surely, that scarlet is definitely her colour, it will bring out the deathly paleness in her skin, perhaps bring a bit of warmth to her icy bones, her frozen veins. I extend my muzzle out, touch her ice body, a sure sign of commitment. I'd do anything right now, anything and everything.
'There's nothing like the sound of broken hearts, is it really music to the ears?'
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my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
and that continually.
Love is certainly a conqueror.
Love – or what creatures like you call love – conquered your common sense (what scraps there were of it). And true enough, you conquered her. You decimated her, left her in scraps and splinters and both of you splattered in blood.
Perhaps love is more a dictator, a force screaming out what you should do, say, feel, while you’re left with no choice in the matter.
She has conquered and she has been conquered, and now neither matters.
Neither matters because she is not power-hungry (the things she wants she wants for the reasons of the Id, for bloodlust and whimsy, her foundations). Neither matters because none of them are above or below her.
My corpse masterpiece is not so much sociopath as she is madwoman. She does not think that they feel or have desires, her playthings, the girls she wraps herself around. But she doesn’t think she herself has them, either.
All of us are real and unreal, so sayeth Chantale.
“Who it is doesn’t matter,” she muses, “someone who loves you and would let you. Someone who you defeat. Him. Her.”
She gestures to the passersby, the nameless faces she will never remember.
“They’re all the same, on the inside. The only difference is how you hunt them.”
“Bring me a heart,” she says, as if she is an evil queen in a fairytale, “and tell me their story. Real or unreal.”
chantale
how original a sin.
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soo if you wanna play out the heart-hunting thing you could ask for a volunteer on plots or we could just pretend it was a vagabond or nykeln can come to her senses :p im good with whatever.
(OOC: As the thread I was hoping to start up with someone kind of fell a bit flat, I might opt for the random stranger. I can have some fun with that  )
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