the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[Nykeln]

@[chantale]

the poison on your lips; The meadow was becoming my haunt, the shadows of the copse of trees that spotted the vast clearing made perfect darkness for me to blend into. My inky frame slithers through the trees, snapping bark beneath my feet as I travel, a quick jog, limbs pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling. I'd been concealed by the night, bidding farewell to my ghostly queen, ready to be her pawn in this game of chess. But my haunting lady, Chantale, her cold skin, her dead eyes, they were after something more than checkmate. I listen to the sounds of the day, the chirping of birds, the torrents of the river. All is a background noise to what I really hear. Thud. Thud. Thud. I crane my head, hearing it, faintly. It's close, the pulse of flesh and blood, the ripe heart ready to pluck from a warm, beating chest. I lick my dry lips, in visioning what it's like. Chantale had said things, in her cold melody. I was in rapture then, my own ideals pressed against her like a gun to my own head. I twist beneath it and all is lost, but do what we both want, the world, it would be ours. I can be such an idealist at times. I smirk then, a crooked feature tainting my ebony lips. I step out of the shadows and climb rocks, expertly a shadow merely staining the cliff face. The closer I get, the louder it feels against me, within me. Thud. Thud. Thud. Tender and red, ripe and fleshy. I lick my lips again and finally emerge from the rocks to the top of the Cliff, where I spot the life source. I confuse our heartbeats then as mine quickens in delight, in wonder. I have knowledge to obtain and that comes from eating hearts. Where else could one possibly begin to learn of the world? The heart seemed to rule many, it would just seem apt to take that part away. I step closer, my lofty frame quite a tower compared to the petite mare, my long, curled tresses damp against my neck as the sun beats down upon me with hot, sticky fingers. I come close, closer, reach out my velvet muzzle and speak, a serenade, a haunting lullaby, sickly sweet and as innocent as daisies popping up from graves. 'Precious little thing like you, all alone. Care for some company?' my voice hums in the air, an electric current blanketing the mare with a smooth, warm fuzz. I step closer, a dance of sorts; a dance with death. Long gowns and masquerades, dagger behind backs. It is a beautifully macabre thing, dancing with death, breathing down your neck. It's sensual, erotic almost. I feel the buzz in my own head, a burr, a worm wriggling it's way, deep into my memory bank. finding things and eating them alive. The mare trembles. Am I that frightening? a black shadow looming across the ridge, dark, dark, dark. Black magic in my voice, enticing, as I stalk closer, pressing my nose against the warm nook of the trembling mare's neck. She is all doe eyed and frozen in place. It's a shame, I wanted a little more of a challenge, but this, this thud, thud, thud, it was growing louder, louder. A crescendo in my skull that beat harder, faster. It was driving me into the throes of insanity, the realm of pure pleasure.  The petite mare, muddy brown, no real design, no real elaborate features, but her eyes, crystal blue, they are wide, wide like the expanse below us. My teeth grin in a cheshire smile, as she squeals, such sounds, they increase the blood flow, the red pulse within her, I can almost taste the bittersweet tang on my tongue. I suppress it for now, my salmon tongue coating my lips, as I drink her in. Woody scent, mud, earth. I step closer, my black body engulfing her. As I step closer, she moves back, her hooves skittering on the rocks, edging closer and closer to the decline. My eyes, dark pits of oblivion, they widen with an amusement. Lime a child watching a theatre show, the first time. Everything is pure magic, everything is real.  Thud, Thud, Thud. The blood is draining, the scarlet leaving her cheeks, her eyes, her throat is parched, her lips dry and cracking. I watch this, I observe every little change. the way a vein in her throat pops out, running with fear. The sheen of sweat that coats her mud bay pelt. I arch my neck then, crane my head to tower her even more, eyes drinking her in. Small little thing, like a little lamb.  'Ripe little thing. Thud, Thud, Thud.' a haunting lullaby, a death rattle. my voice is crisp, like shards of ice. I take a few more imposing steps forward and the mare stumbles, her backend falling, slipping and sliding, then her body goes. She's a blur, all hooves and flailing limbs. Half of her is hanging on with the dearest strings of life. Her eyes, straining with tears, her throat choked with wretched sobs. It's a sonata. A beautiful song. If only my haunting lady were here to see it. I step forward, grabbing the mare with ivory teeth, sharply they clutch at her neck, pulling strands of her gossamer threads. I pull her closer to me, and the fear, it slowly drains, there is hope there, beautiful hope, like blossoming roses, budding in spring. She calls, her cry is young, matches her petite frame. 'I'll save you.' my words bite into her neck, knotting in with her mane. She believes it, her pure little soul unmarred by any taints. The purest souls, they tasted the most delicious. Like ripe peaches, soft, fleshy and full of sweet nectar.  My lies wrap themselves around the mare, like a cotton blanket, warm, gentle. I can act, I can wear masks like any, but behind them, I am dark, I am cold and I am living on the memory of red on red. My scars pulse with vivid memories and I feel every little slither of pain the mare feels as I tear into her neck, ripping her soft brown skin, teeth meeting wet, tangy blood, then tasting wiry sinew. Every little action brings a memory. A harsh, painful one that just drives me forward. The snow does not stop falling. My legs are starting to ice up, frost marring my ebony coat with a pepper of ice. He's holding me in place, his dark eyes, his furious grin. He's a clown, a devilish clown with knives in his fingers and hell's fury in his eyes. He takes me there. Takes me like I am fully a mare, but I was just a yearling. Too young to understand, too naive to break away. It's pain. The icy rain was cooling against my feverish skin, even the shards of hale that beat into me, did not cause as much pain as He. The hellion, the brute. He did not last long after that. It was then the dark recesses of my mind, the labynrtih started, and I was finding corners unexplored, corners were secrets lurked. I had to find them all, had to unlock every door. I was the key. I just had to find those certain doors. Chantale was a key. My ghostly lady, she is a door to open, knowledge to attain. A beautiful, enchanting goddess. This is for her. This is for me. Obsession. It drives me, throws me in place and my sloping shoulders throw themselves forward, wrenching at the mare I pull her feet from the ridge and throw her. Her eyes, they are white, white like the falling snow of my memory. Her scream... her scream is a mimic of my own that day I saw the lifeless child born of hate, born of sin. I crept forward now, slow, steady, my heartbeat a steady pulse, unchanging. The veins in my neck are rigid, warm against my skin in the autumnal breeze. There is a crash, a scuffle below and my eyes drink in the presence.  Red painted everything. Red was the colour of flawless beauty; only masterpieces started with the colour scarlet. I slide down, the way I came. Tumbling rocks slip and slide beneath my feet, I bombard, I bulldoze. Jumping obstacles of rock and pieces of log until finally I am down. Metallic, sour, it tinges the air. The scene is beautiful. Like a macabre painting of a beautiful girl, strewn across rocks, her last dying breath a secret on blood stained lips. I canter closer, bury myself into her broken body. My muzzle stains crimson, I taste the bittersweet nectar. She is not as sweet as I had imagined. there's a tang, a tang of sin. I have cleansed her soul. Her beautiful, angelic soul. It is now free. I bury myself deeper, int her warm flesh, the blood runs hot, sticky against me, my black pelt darker, stained. I am as much as a masterpiece now as my pale, dead lady. I paint myself like warpaint. Scarlet across my chest, my forelimbs. My black velveteen, dripping crimson. That's when I find it, buried deep within her chest cavity, it beats shallow, the last few flutters of life and like a butterfly caught within a jar, it dies, a slow, painful death. I tear at the muscle, gnaw and chew with ivory teeth. It's tough, it's sticky and meaty and I rip her apart. The heart is still warm as I hold it within my mouth, the blood tepid, coating the roof of my mouth, my tongue in her bittersweet juice. I leave her then. broken, beaten. Dead. And I find the dark confines of the meadow's borders.  My ghostly lady was somewhere. Her ice-cold skin, her deadened eyes. I call out, my whinny masked by the slipping of blood down my throat. 'I have a gift for my goddess.' I run, as blind as though sightless, through the autumnal boughs, their naked limbs like gnarled fingers poking and prodding my skin with accusations. By the time I reach the small clearing, a devil's hollow, I am marred with burrs and thorns, twigs knotted into my black tresses. The blood drying against my sweaty pelt. I call out again, the bay mare's heart still warm, still retaining the last occasional beats. 'Fresh. Fresh flesh. Still warm.' I then throw it, the body organ, tot he ground. it flops with a gentle thud. As if it had never had life at all, the blue and green veins knotting, the red still stark, burgundy in clots. I grin then, maniacal. Crimson stained teeth all toothy and barred, velveteen lips still dripping with scarlet nectar. Not as peachy as I had imagined.  the haematoma in your heart;

(OOC: Not sure of this exactly. but it was fun to write. As always. Morbid little princess she is. > )

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. You were never allowed games, indeed, never even knew they existed. You were taken from your orphan state by them and instantly sculpted, shaped, taught to be demure, to be simple – you were shoved and beaten into a mold. And you stayed awhile, taking the bruises, carrying the baby – but when that baby came, that wretched, stupid baby that carried your doomsday in its perversion of a body, its two heads and broken lungs, when that baby came you broke from that mold you were so perilously crammed into. Leaving your baby to die does something to you. It breaks something – or maybe just exposes something. Because you were born with the seed of madness in you, a strong one rich on your mother’s lunatic blood and your father’s bloodthirst, and maybe the baby’s death only reaped it. Whatever the case, the baby that they all expected to be another step to becoming their perfect Stepford wife turned out to be your melting point. Your madness point. Ironic, how they pushed pregnancy upon you in the hurry to mold you and in the end it made you insane. Funny how things work. The air smells of new season, whispers of budding flowers that lay in wait beneath snowmelt, of bluebirds and honeysuckle. Such purity, such beauty of the world – and amongst the natural glory walks Chantale, beautiful only in form, in the flawless sculpture of her bones, the silk-sheen of her gray pelt, in theory she should be stunning but for all her composition she has no life in her, she is corpse art, a dead masterpiece. Her eyes are like glass. She barely breathes. Nothing about her shows vivacity, or sparkle, or a personality to shine forth – she is hollowed, a void filled with madness to substitute emotion. She rapes nature with her existence, her filthy, dead beauty. She does not belong – not here, not anywhere. The only place she belongs now is six feet under. But even if she knows this (and she does, she knows she is contaminated and carcass sculpture in her secret heart) she does not care, she stays and defiles the earth with every bumbling step. Someone calls out, and she sees the mare. She remembers her, the warmth in the snow, how they had spoken of heart-eating and other such pleasantries. She inhales and catches a scent, fecund and ripe: flesh, organs, blood. It seems her pet has found a prize. My corpse masterpiece grins then, the grin widening across her plastic-perfect face as the heart – veined and odd, such a curious, potent thing – is left at her hooves. She lowers her head, inhales the scent, imagines she can smell the fear that surely flavored whatever beast’s blood this came from in the last few moments before it was ripped asunder. The coppery scent of blood is sweeter than any springtime scent. My corpse-girl feasts, takes her meal in a way no equid should, but the dead do not abide by such herbivorous rules. She swallows flesh, chambers of the fearful heart, the blood on her lips like obscene makeup. “Good,” she purrs, and if it’s to Nykeln or to the heart, I could not tell you, “yes, you’re so good.” chantale how original a sin.

[Nykeln]

the poison on your lips; Threads of life are meagre things, thin and fine, like silver and gold. Such spindly little things that hold you together, fibrous sinews, china white bone, thick marrow that binds it all. It is easy to dissect the core, one part at a time. Moon white bones, splintering beneath cracked rock, scarlet nectar a painting worth a million sunsets. All these little things collect in my mind, stored in the bank, the vault. I slide out the endless drawers, sort out memories like old faded tomes. A life there, how succulent, how sweet. That man that, his hellion face, his dark eyes. There were few locked away, under deadbolts and cryptic codes. Those memories I refused to acknowledge, those memories were the ones that caused the peachy flesh organ in my chest to cease in it's beating. Oh, it beat, it beat a great lively crescendo. But it did not truly beat. It takes few things to cause distress, but those things did, and they moulded me in some sick and twisted way. My idling does not go unnoticed, my memory hunting, unchecked. Ghostly, phantom-like she crosses the threshold of the viridian earth and in it, warps the green, the reds and creams. Her scent is clear, decaying rot that fills me with a flutter, fills me with an all consuming must, a mission. I whicker, low, deep, almost masculine in it's tone. The blood dry upon my lips, caking my throat with it's bittersweet tang. 'Chantale.' I whisper, haunted, needing. Inked ears twist, bending low, hearing all the echoes of the fading heartbeats, my own and the dying one before my eyes, it's last vain attempt forgotten as Chantale's carnivorous teeth vanquish the organ in moments. I watch, oblivion eyes, rapt, hypnotised by the gore, the fascination tugs at the dim strings of my heart, tugging gently, here and there. I feel something, right there. I wouldn't know where to place it, a mixture of pride, a mixture of desire. It is all sinfully delicious, all sins, nonetheless. I suppose finding those sought after keys in life, never went to the saintly and just. 'More... what more do you want... do you need?' I ask, I plead, there is a thin line, just so, like invisible chalk washed away by torrents of rain. I've overstepped it now, far too long gone. I'm across the tarmac of the playground, young eyes wet with rain and glossy with desire. I look up at the sky, expecting angels, but what has befallen me? the glorious bowels have hell have opened up and spat me up the ghoulish Chantale. And I cannot help but feel the delight, pinprick every inch of my skin. 'There must be more.'I store forward, closer, nearing her ice cold form. Extending my dark muzzle and inhaling her. Warmth against the cold grain. Life against death. they always did say opposites attracted one another, I suppose that is the same. Yin and yang, black and white. Life and Death. the haematoma in your heart;

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. They never told you any fairy tales. Only lies, that your only life choice was to go with him, be filled with his babies, be the demure, quiet child. A good little slave-girl herd mare. They pretend you are not different – at first, of course. Later, when you are bloodstained, a widow (a black widow, ha-ha, you ate him up), they huff and tell each other how you were always so different and strange and difficult. As if they never touched you. As if you were hell for them. You weren’t, though. Strange, yes, warped, yes, but you tried those first few years, you went with him, didn’t you? You let him upon you, you bore that baby for him (never mind that it died and they accused you of murder, you bore that cancer-child, didn’t you?). It wasn’t until her that you because difficult. It wasn’t until murder that you became hopeless. She says your name like a prayer, like something cherished. It’s nice, to have them so devout, to carve your name on their bloody lips. My corpse masterpiece meets her eyes, feeds upon the rapture and obsession there as readily as she feasts upon the chambers and valves of the wayfarer’s heart. “Nykeln,” she coos, finished with the meal, stomach leaden at the flesh. She skulks forward with her usual graceless gait, strokes the dark mare’s neck with her bloodied muzzles. She leaves streaks there, dark promises of crimson against the stygian canvas of her pet, her servant. But my corpse masterpiece does not know what to do with puppets. She uses them, lets them entertain her for moments until they glimpse behind the curtain, behold the shrieking, gibbering monster of madness that’s nested in her eyes. Then they leave, and she moves on, finds another warm curve of flesh to press against, trying to stay warm. Of course there was also a desert girl, a queen of saffron and spices, and she had loved her – perhaps – but that mare was gone from my corpse queen. She does not love this girl as she did the desert one, though she takes pleasure in the flesh (both the warm living flesh of Nykeln and the dead organ thrown at her feet). She is a dead goddess unsure what to do with her worshippers. “Tell me how it felt,” she says in her lacquered tone, pressed to her, “tell me what they said before they died. How they looked.” chantale how original a sin.

[Nykeln]

the haematoma in your chest, ♆ The ache never truly leaves, all it takes is a wisp of memory, so thin and fine, like razor wire, it strangles you until all the painful memories come flooding in torrents, a tsunami of sorts and it drives you further and further to that brink, teetering on the edge, a knife slice away from sanity, from dropping down into the never-ending spiral, the bottom was the only exit. This ache, cold, like frostbite, it throbbed and pulsed within me, claiming my heart and freezing it to the very depths. The cold heart, it beats, it throbs ever so slight with a song of life, a crescendo of purpose. It is good to be of purpose, to not mar the landscape like an inky blot, useless, meaningless. No, no. Far from that. I am righteous, depositing of the stains on earth, stealing hearts and drinking souls, until the very cusp of the glass is overflowing. The taint of blood is bittersweet, acidic down my throat, where it burns, burns like the torch I hold for this frostbitten mare. 'Fear. It is the fear that is the prize.' my inflection is tainted, broken by bloodied memories, scarred with flashbacks. Rock, slip sliding hooves and screams of furious terror, it pulses within me, through every vein running directly to my heart, where the organ pumps with a fury all of it's own. Fear, the eyes white, the lips trembling, it fed the heart adrenaline, pulsed life through fine veins. 'Eyes white and wide, pleas tainting her lips.' I weave the story, plucking tidbits of memory. Like an expert tapestry artist picks and pokes at fine threads and sews them into place. I press my sleek ebony nose into the ghoulish body of Chantale, breathing in her musk, her decaying, bitter smell. dirt and graves, she is everything you have nightmares about, but for me, for me she is home. 'The rocks, they were splattered with a brilliant shade of red.' my eyes pulse a deeper, dark shade of obsidian -- if that were ever true -- darker, brighter even, like the flicker of life, a burning flame, ignites somewhere inside of me and burns from my very eyes. I sway slightly, bulky frame against the cool skin of the ghoul, her body calming my feverish skin, soothing my pulsing veins. My deep burgundy stains ripple as my muscles twitch, memories wanting it to start all over again. The taste for blood, for death, it entices me, pulls me with strong threads. 'They plead for life, but what life? Quaint little herd, pleasing a man with children... that... that is no life.' a slither of hate, it's dark and cold, slicing into my brain, my heart, like a cold, brazen dagger. For that moment all that life drains from my eyes and I feel as dead as the girl beside me. 'Sons. Daughters.' I snort, my lips twisting into an ugly grimace. My son. my bundle of ebony flesh, cold, dead. Slick with life but icy with death's touch. I will never forgive and will never forget. My ears tightly lace against my crown, losing in the froth of ebony mane. for fleeting moments I am lost in the icy prison of memories and it takes Chantale's frostbitten kiss to draw me back. 'I will destroy. I will break such fragile hearts and drain the pure blood.' delusional, thoroughly and utterly delusional -- i've snapped, I can feel the throes of my mind loosening, pulling and pulling further away. I whisper then, death's musical hum, 'And it will be magnificent.' ♆ the dying scream upon lips; vagabond of the meadow

html by magpie77 - photo mani by magpie77 - character by magpie77

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. What they don’t tell you is you won’t know anything until it’s too late. They didn’t tell you anything. You were left to discover the world on your own, through your own misguided, stupid eyes. It’s all their fault. If they’d taught you when they were still smarter then you, if they had pounded the facts of life, the pain of life, into your skull you might not have wanted you. If they had broken you then you might not have broken them. It was law of the jungle, kill or be killed. When they’re surrounding you, when they’re chanting, killer, killer, sinner, whore, lesbian, when they’re advancing, well then, you can imagine... Break or be broken. They didn’t do it. Maybe they were trying to save you as a baby, preserve the innocence you didn’t have. Maybe they didn’t think to – after all, who imagines their baby to be like you? Who imagines their baby with a sick mind, a lesbian, a killer? The sick-minded, the lesbians, the killers, they do – but they are none of those things. So it’s only you. Sheltered until it was too late. Too late to be broken, much too late. She doesn’t give one whit about fear. Fear is not the end game. My corpse masterpiece takes them whether they are laughing or crying. She doesn’t sup on the fear the same way she does blood. Fear is a side effect, something marginal. She doesn’t need them to be frightened of her (many are, but that is unimportant). She is a thing made of the macabre, of whimsy, and what resulted – what she is – is strange and impossible and curious, a thing that should be in museums, preserved in formaldehyde. But she lets the girl blather on about their fear and the sanguine sweetness of it. She lets the words wash over her, watches the black lips moves. My corpse queen is in another world (her own, a world of synesthesia, of madness, where only she is real), and Nykeln exists at the periphery. Something, though - quaint little herd, pleasing a man with children - tickles the nerves and my zombie lurches, rakes her teeth along the mare, because she is no longer her zealot, she is Prince Charming, she is Herd, she is their faceless drove descending. A blink, and then she is Nykeln a lot. “You will,” she says. She will let her roam, let her kill, bring her hearts and bones to build a throne upon. “You will give me something else, too,” she says. She’s lying, surely – although her body magicked itself, once, to act as sire rather than dam – but surely it won’t again, it’s foolhardy talk, her usual rambling. “A child,” she says, “you’ll bear us a quaint little child.” chantale how original a sin.

[Nykeln]

the poison on your lips; Bones splinter, hearts weep tears of blood and often in most cases, flesh decays and rots. The mind however is a strange thing, even when the last few moments of death clings to your body, the mind is the last to go. Scarlet life blood weeps from every orifice, limbs flailed, missing, and yet the mind goes on, ticking and turning, the cogs and wheels enduring far more than any flesh or bone could manage. I wanted so much to see what the mind was like, in those fleeting moments in death's embrace. It was those moments, that flashed before fading eyes, that were the moments of cherished histories. Somewhere in those black and white faded film reels, was the door. And i'm still waiting for that, for the door that I can find, open up and step inside. I long for it, like I long to see the brightness appear in Chantale's cold, dead eyes. The heart did something, the blood a fuel, the flesh a tonic. I will do anything, everything to see the ghostly queen brighten. If it only for fleeting seconds. It is those seconds that give me the frail thing called hope. Hope dies though, and in it's place stands a stronger resolution. 'I will. I say. My words an eerie, haunting spell. 'I will.' I say again, just as her teeth rake against my skin -- the touch sends a shiver down every nodule of my spine and back up again, setting my nerves on fire. I reach out my burgundy tinged muzzle and brush her grey tendrils, touch her ice smooth skin. Like the cold, angelic statues in the cemeteries, she stands vigil, her haunting eyes meeting only mine for that moment, and I can feel my own heart quicken. 'I'll give Chantale the moon, the blood of a thousand innocents if it were to make her content.' But what was contentment? Was it sitting idle, in the shadows? or was it slithering and waiting, eyes as bright as the moon, skin as white as snow. With the intentions that made the wildflowers quiver and die. I touch her again, still unbelieving that the pallid mare is there, her haunting lullaby soothing my wrought, spent mind. 'A child.' I repeat, and that one word sends torrents of memories flooding me. Black and white reels of film, heartache, pain. It all comes back to me and I feel the pain double, a stabbing inside of me, my deadened heart quakes, and then stops, just like that. 'Our child.' I swallow and the momentum brings me back to the now, the memory as faded as the blood stains on my coat. My thirst is incomplete, and Chantale must warrant more feeding, more flesh, more peachy organs to feast upon. My quest is not done yet. 'Our child.' I say, and it feels strange, foreign on my tongue, but the smirk that meets my lips is as crooked as the boughs above. 'Why a child?' because they are as innocent as the summer's day and are mouldable as sand grains. The become whatever their parents are, and in some cases, far worse. But the question falls from my lips, and my dark, dark eyes search hers. Dead, cold as ice and dead. but somewhere inside of her, the undead queen of my world, there is something. the haematoma in your heart;

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. You’re a terrible mother. Terrible father, too, thanks to some weird magic that’s enchanted you. You left a baby for dead, that first one, Prince Charming’s cunning little tyke. You had that mutant daughter, that inbred bitch, whose flesh dripped like candlewax come nightfall. You had that throwaway girl, a proper no one. That weak, sniveling little son who continues to wail and gnash his teeth while he drifts around the deserts like a waif. And that other son, the one you sired, you were just fantastic to him – killed your own grandbaby because it looked at you wrong, how’s that for maternal (or paternal) instinct? You aren’t meant to reproduce. Dead things should breed flies, not children. A child, our child stutters the girl, and my corpse masterpiece remains, smiling. She doesn’t know why she asks for such things, of course – she has no love for children, had the blood of her own granddaughter splattered across her not so long ago. (She hadn’t known, but it would not have mattered overmuch. She’s born her own half-sister, family lines mean nothing.) She doesn’t know if this one will live or die. She doesn’t know a lot of things. She only knows she wants to see the mare grown fat and swollen like a tick, with whatever strange thing they can create. Her own body is ill suited for children. Caius was sickly, and such a pathetic thing. She’d stayed with him for far too long. She is all sour milk and slow heart. She’s much better as the father, where she does not have to bear such horrific creatures in her own loins. “To prove yourself,” she lies. (There is no reason with her, there never is). “Death is easy. It gives you no pause. But how will you react when you’re giving life instead of death? When the seed of a child erupts within you and tears its way from you, when nature calls upon you to love it?” She is blathering nonsense through a wicked, senseless smile. And she is changing, body growing stronger, ready to cover Nykeln. Ready to create what she has no right to create. chantale how original a sin.

so I say like 'fade to black' and they can reconnect when the kid is born?

[Magpie77]

Okie dokie <3