fifty words for murder and I'm every one of them; quark

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

It’s not like he hasn’t been defied before.
The dark god will admit to it, that they do not always bow and acquiesce as they should. The reasons vary – plain old stupidity to misguided notions of honor – but the end result is the same: he does not like to be defied.
(Doesn’t like to be beaten, either. And hadn’t this cunning little trick, this transmutation of his queen from one realm to another, been a victory? For the shaman had done what even he could not.)
More disgusting, is that she is weak – he’d thought her a magician, at least, but when he grabs her – wraps invisible manacles to her ankles, drags her to the ground, yanks her to him – his magic coils inside her mind, feeling her out, and he finds she’s something else, something weaker. A shaman. Oh, with some other nifty abilities, to be sure, but nothing he can’t do, nothing he hasn’t perfected a thousand times over. So why had she been able to do it? Why had the realm bent for her, and not him?

(The fact it’s because she sacrificed a part of herself never crosses his mind. He does not know the meaning of sacrifice; knows only how to take.)

He drags her forth, there in the meadow. He’d thought of taking her to his lair, but the lair is where he keeps pets, keeps those who pledge loyalty to him. This one is neither – he doesn’t want the slow pleasures of taking her apart, he wants swift and terrible punishment, he wants to hurt her for defying him. Wants to make an example of her.
The invisible manacles keep her from shifting forms, mute her powers down. Her eyes are large, wild, but there is a quiet strength to them that he doesn’t like, that he vows to see gone by the time he is done with her.

He could have killed her, of course. Quick or slow. But death is often a relief, he knows (having died himself a few times), and he doesn’t want that for her. He wants the hurt to live in the marrow of her bones, wants his name scrawled on her heart, wants her to be forced to live out a savage, ruined life.

So.

He flays her skin, burns her like kindling, leaves her charred and smoking. She doesn’t die – he doesn’t permit it – and that strength is still in her eye. He doesn’t like it. So he moves away from the physical – there is a threshold, he knows, where the body simply acknowledges no more, where pain plateaus (a phenomenon he has researched, time and again, in his lair, charting their screams, their pleas). Instead, he ravages her mind, picks out memories, finds a name: Drow.
Almost like the first part of drowning, and he files that away. He much prefers fire, but water has its place, too.

“Drow,” he says out loud, and she shrieks when he utters the prodigal son’s name. He says something else, then, a low and guttural incantation, and the boy appears before them. Confusion lives fleetingly on his face before being replaced by horror as he beholds his mother, and then, the god before them both. The dark god forces the boy to his knees, as if in supplication.
“Tell me,” he says to her, “convince me to let him go. Tell me what you would give up. What you would do.”

It’s always so much sweeter when they do it to themselves.

c a r n a g e

hmu if you want anything changed <33

[Quark]

Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.

Dark has been lingering at the edge of my vision for months now, maybe longer. Creeping into my dreams, a quiet foreboding that has set me on edge far too often, prodded me toward overprotectiveness perhaps, and pushed me to spend even more time with my family than I would have done under normal circumstances. Cuddles with the grandbabies, adventures and stories and dreaming together under the twinkling night sky. Closeness with those of my children who allow it, tragically few though they may be.

Ah, but that number grew with the recent addition of two new sons, though I’d long already considered them sons. Especially Arzhur, who has been a part of this family for decades. Pazuzu is a more recent addition, but one already completely beloved by everyone who lives with us. Myself included. The two of them are good for my children, and vice versa, and the four of them...they honored me greatly, asking me to perform the ceremony that joined them together.

And somehow...somehow in the midst of all this star-crossed happiness, Tiernan snuck in and lit up my heart with his solid, steadfast presence, his charm and his smile and his utterly unexpected love. He has brought me more joy in these last months than I had thought myself capable of anymore. He’s reminded me what it feels like to be happy. Just thinking about him has a smile teasing at the edge of my lips.

Still.

Still, that darkness hangs overhead, shifting and swirling just out of reach, a storm that has been building slowly; more and more it feels like it is about to rage, to rain down shadows and strife and wreak havoc on the happy little life we have made for ourselves. When I woke this morning I was restless, an itch beneath my skin that has been growing in recent times, and it set my feet to wandering.

The babes are growing fast, and are well-protected by their parents. So with a brief kiss to four little girl foreheads, a quick snuggle for my Dara girl, a light touch of my muzzle to Tycho’s shoulder, I leave my little grandbabies (and not so little ones too) in the care of their very capable parents. A kiss to my Tiernan’s cheek, an affectionate little shoulder bump and a smile for each of my four resident children. And...just before I go, a pause, a tilt of my head. I meet Pazuzu’s dark eyes, my own gaze thoughtful, just the faintest glimmer of awareness--but the moment passes. I blink, nod to him, and walk on.

It’s a lovely wander, even if that thin veil of darkness teases the edge of my vision the whole way. Once content to confine itself to my dreams, it has come to accompany me in waking hours as well, and today it is worse than ever. Closing in, constricting, pressure building, wrapping around my ankles and--ankles?

Before I can even manage proper confusion, I am being dragged along the ground, fighting invisible restraints. I try to shift, and for the first time in my life I am unable to, an integral part of me smothered beneath a stranger’s touch. And at the same time, I can feel the sick probe of filthy fingers stroking my mind, rifling through the surface layers even as I lock down the deepest, darkest, most ferociously guarded parts. I am not unreadable like my grandson, but neither am I entirely without defense, at least for the inner core of myself now that the unfamiliar touch has already reached in and felt around the outer edges.

I don’t know his face, don’t recognize the body of the man who holds me captive, but I know the darkness in his eyes. It’s the same dark that’s been haunting my dreams and leaking into waking hours, and it’s almost a relief somehow to finally know the source of the endless weight of foreboding. I would throw fire, but I can feel it bound inside me, confined just like my shape. WIth no outlet for the flames, calling them would be useless at best, and excruciating at worst.

Oh, but there are things buried deep enough that he has not managed to reach them just yet, pieces of my gifts that can be directed inward. Constrained, confined, constricted, but not yet controlled. So I stand in quiet defiance and wait to see what he has in store.

Without a word of explanation, he peels the skin from my flesh, stripping away the chaotic splashes of yellow and white and leaving slick wet muscle exposed to the air. A new kind of agony, raw and unfamiliar, tears a scream from my throat. And then the burning begins. Oh, and I know burning. Heat licks at naked muscle, devouring, searing, cooking flesh, charring it, burning it to ash and embers. Sick sizzling and popping, an echo of other worlds and the sound of roasting meat over a fire, the smell of dinner nearly ready, salivating at the thought of sinking teeth into hard-won prey.

All the while drowning in such familiar, delicious agony. Six months of nothing but burning after Nocturnal’s death, the fire unleashed by the snapping of our bonds as her life ended, and I was so determined to join her that I set it on myself. Six months of burning, what is a few more moments? Oh, but it triggers a flood of memory, sensations my body knows so well unleashing echoes of old grief in waves to remind me of the soul-deep agony of love lost.

And there is a difference, somehow. That long-ago fire was mine, and the healing was mine, automatic and instinctive, destruction and creation chasing themselves across my flesh. This...my muffled powers are enough to keep me alive, but little more. Still. I have that much, at least.

God, and then. That sick mental probing comes again, digging deeper, sinking in and snagging a fingertip on one of my strongest soul-bonds. And I feel his touch jerk on that bond, making it vibrate, showing him - “Drow.”

Rage floods through me as he speaks my son’s name, and the fire I cannot wield burns in my eyes as I stare into his. My body itches to shift, a dragon writhing inside despite the knowledge that I would still be no threat to the darkness. Oh, but it would feel good, futile or no, breathing fire and sinking teeth into pale flesh, tearing chunks off and swallowing them down. Repaying a bit of the burning he’s inflicted on me with some of my own. Strong though I may be, I am no threat to this man, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop him from reaching down that bond and sinking his claws into my Drow.

And then, in a blink, he is with us, confusion and wariness in his mismatched eyes quickly replaced by horror and fury as they meet mine. My boy. My Drow. Slick obsidian, a brown so dark it is almost black, littered with scars, some thick and puckered, some thin veins and webbing, all faded from what they once were, all signs of my son’s strength and his will to survive. Broad and heavily muscled, his draft build and his riotous tangle of moonlight-pale hair inherited from me, and his color pulled mostly from Nocturnal. Physically, he is far more imposing than the more finely-built, hot-blooded grey, and my Drow can withstand a hell of a lot. But his only defense is a stubborn ability to cling to life despite doing unreasonable amounts of damage to his body. No healing, no fire, nothing to protect him from the dark.

The stranger forces my son to his knees, and I hold my Drow’s gaze, my own full of sorrow and regret. Because he is not the only bond that could be latched onto, not the only pawn the dark one could drag here and torture, or force to witness my own. I beg forgiveness with a look, and he jerks his head in a rough little nod against the stranger’s hold, his jaw clenching, determination written across his broad face. My brave, beautiful son. I close my eyes, willing him to still be alive when I open them again, and I sink into the core of myself. And with what power I have left to me, I sever the rest of my soul’s bonds, cutting ties with everyone I have ever loved. With each one, I send a rush of love, an apology, and all trace of their memory before cutting myself off from them, channeling my fire to burn away all trace of those bonds and leave nothing but scars on my soul.

And when the only one left is my Drow, I open my eyes. It’s over in moments, but I know too well what the dark one can do with a few moments. And now...Drow is the only one who matters, the only person who exists that means anything to me at all. My soul is nothing but scars and ash and my endless love for him. So I turn my face to meet the eyes of Beqanna’s darkness, and in this moment I understand why people whisper of her dark god. Why the name Carnage is spoken in hushed whispers, in horror, in hatred and pain and misery. He can be no other.

“You know. You know exactly how far I would go for him. Guarantee his safety, return him to the place and time you took him from, never harm him or his again, and I would give up anything. Everything.” I would let down the last of my defenses, let those filthy fingers sink into the inner core of my mind, give up anything that I had left for my Drow.

He fights the dark god’s hold, thrashes and bellows and tries so goddamn hard to get to me. To protect me. Those mismatched eyes scream that he would sooner die than let me make such a sacrifice. They beg me to stop, to take it back, to give up him instead. My sweet boy. Don’t you know? I would do anything for you. So I look away from his pleading gaze, and meet the eyes of the dark god again. “Care to tell me why?” At this point, it almost doesn’t matter. But it wouldn’t hurt to know what had triggered his wrath. If only so I can piss him off more later, when Drow is safe.

Or dead.

I am the fire.

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He likes this sort of living, a dark presence lurking in the corners of their mind. Though often a showman (a love of fire; of burning; of endless, terrible space), he enjoys the insidious work as well, the long game of taking them apart, piece by piece. It’s what he’s done with the silver mare, breathing slow and steady torment into her life, and it’s a thing he holds dear.
But emotions run hot, today, and he has little desire to remain as merely a dark presence sat in the corner of her foolish mind, which is why they are like this, now, her skin flayed and burnt with no explanation.

He watches, almost idle, as something passes between the shaman and her son. He gives them this moment, in an odd show of graciousness, watches with wine-dark eyes as she dives inside herself. She becomes somehow less, in this moment, and though he doesn’t know what, exactly, transpires, he knows it hurts her, and this causes a smile to curl on his savage lips.
She promises to give up everything to save her son, a stupid, protective love that he cannot comprehend – he knows only how to take advantage of this kind of martyrdom, to sue it for his own entertainment.

“Do it, then,” he says, voice soft and dangerous, “forsake them.”
Forget every name and every thing that ever mattered. For some, this would be a blessing. But for her, he knows, it would be a slow nightmare, the feeling of missing things without knowing what, a state of incompleteness to rot in.

She asks why, and he is genial enough to give her the answer.
“You took something of mine,” he says, “Gail belongs in the afterlife.”
If he cannot bring her back, no one can.
“It was a stupid thing to do.”
(And that Gail never tried to find him, when she was made flesh again? Well. He doesn’t speak of that.)

c a r n a g e

(you can write him returning drow if you want bc i meant to but forgot and now i'm running late)