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    version 22: awakening


    GHAUL -- Year 209


    "(souls are not meant to live more than once — death was not meant to be temporary, and she is so sure that every time her heart starts to beat again that irreversible damage is further inflicted)" -- Anonya, written by Colby

    [open]  ain't no grave can hold my body down
    i said i'd not come back. well, i'm coming back - and you'd better be alone.
    He remembers everything – the dying, the anger, the cold grip pulling him under. There was still so much left to do and yet he was never freed from his prison in the afterlife. It burned him to his core to watch his children squander their every opportunity – especially Larva. How many chances would that wretched child receive? Why did death love him so sweetly while Cobain was forced to watch?

    But the gates have been torn down and he has finally found his way back to the living. He howls with laughter when he steps onto the beach and feels the sun soak him in its warmth. His skull has been dust for so many years but now he is home at last. Cobain gleefully treads across the sand and drinks it all in with his vibrant green eyes. Everything is so new, so changed since these lungs last drew breath! And yet the meadow welcomes him home with a gentle breeze across his handsome face. Its prodigal son, returned to it at last.

    His dark locks hang down his gray neck and tangle in the wind as he tilts his head this way and that. All these strangers are so peculiar and so strange compared to him. His appetite for life had been renewed, but now his cup runneth over. Where should a lecher like him even begin? Cobain’s tongue briefly traces his upper lip as he ponders this question. A new first kiss, new bodies to be defiled – the curse of his lessons all forgotten in a fleeting second.

    Finally, he decides that there is no need to be so ceremonious with this second chance. He approaches the nearest woman and delicately places a teasing nip at her withers. The old ways may have been forgotten, but he holds them dear to his heart.

    She is drawn to the dark things.

    The dead things.

    The things that should be the death of her.

    It is her birth right. The gift of her parents. This precious gift from the bloodlines of old to be drawn to the same things of their era, as though no time has passed at all. Such is the way with him. There is something of Dacian in the sharp angles of his face. Something from another time, something cruel. It intrigues her, drawing her forth like moth to flame, and when he bites into her flesh, she merely angles her head back.

    She looks up through her lashes, the night sky playing across the curves of her.

    “What an odd way to say hello,” she purrs, voice like velvet, something different about the way that her lips tilt upward in the corners. The sun hangs at its pinnacle so she has no gift to call down upon her now, nothing to protect herself with, but she doesn’t feel fear—or even the shades of it.

    He can do no harm to her. Not when she would gladly press her throat to the knife’s edge.

    She doesn’t shift away from his biting lips, doesn’t distance herself from the danger. She just sits in the glow of it, letting the darkness shift across her like the rolling of the tide.

    “My name is Aurorae,” a hum more than actual words, oddly husky for such a delicate thing. She considers asking him for his name, but instead decides that he would give it to her if he truly wanted to.

    He struck her as someone who did exactly what he wanted and nothing else.

    I said I never knew the moral but I guess that's how the story goes
    my lovers never been a mirror in the hour that I needed it most

    i said i'd not come back. well, i'm coming back - and you'd better be alone.
    She neither startles nor bristles at his sudden touch and it’s enough to keep him here for a little longer – two animals caught in each other’s trap. He offers a shrug of broad gray shoulders and a light-hearted laugh. No words, only gestures. He presses his side to hers and studies the way her warmth feels across his skin for a while. Any sort of heat feels so foreign and yet so welcomed after centuries of being dead and nothing. But then she speaks her name and his gaze drifts up to her eyes.

    I don’t recall asking,” he says as though pondering if he had after all. But his brows unfurrow quickly and he touches his lips to her neck like he’s been starving to be close to someone like this. And maybe he has, this ravenous hunger brewing within him all this time. Aurorae isn’t special but the way his eyes devour her must make it seem like she is. Cobain becomes temporarily infatuated with every figure he meets.

    Where are you from, Aurorae? You smell like grave roses,” he notes as he carefully grooms her mane like some doting lover. “I rather like grave roses.

    And then, just to keep her on her toes, he bites at her neck. Cobain examines her every micro expression like dissecting a wasp – delicate so as not to break her but careful not to get stung at the same time. Still, even if she did lash out, he supposes the veil would permit him another grand entrance just as before.

    He is possessive and dismissive in the same breath, and she finds it fascinating. Finds it fascinating how he so quickly devolves into violence, shrugging off her name in the same way that he studies her so ravenously. It’s a different and yet utterly familiar, and she makes no move to show that she finds it unsavory in the slightest. Instead, her lips spread into that ethereal smile, as though he was showing her the heavens instead of pressing into her, teeth against her neck like a threat and a promise at once.

    “I rarely need to be asked,” she says with a delicate roll of her shoulder, not moving away as he moves even closer. “I’m from here, I suppose,” she says, not quite understanding the question. She was from the night sky more than anything else. Born in Pangea, raised in the common lands, and now resting her head in the Cove more than anywhere else. But there was no such thing as a home—not for someone like her.

    She smiles again at the idea of grave roses, mulling over the idea, feeling herself thrill at the teeth against her flesh. He was like her Dacian, she thinks, and finds that she warms to the cold cruelty of him even more for the comparison. “I rather like graves,” she counters, the words jarring for the delicate way that she says them, the way that her pretty face tilts upward to consider him, studying his handsome face.

    There is a flash of white against her black mouth, her teal eyes brightening.

    “Do you?” A pause, a silver bell laugh. “Like graves, that is.”

    I said I never knew the moral but I guess that's how the story goes
    my lovers never been a mirror in the hour that I needed it most


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