"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
It’s been a while since I’ve visited that memory; I still see the blood, I still smell the pus, I still hear them screaming and you have no idea how hard it is to not think about the sound of skin splitting and boils bursting. Most don’t even know that that’s possible, I didn’t until that night. But they all deserved what they got for what they did to those children. I regret nothing. A small smile curves my mouth when I lock eyes with my intended target, a doe that only just realizes she is in danger—I’d appeared to her as an ordinary buck, seemingly come to graze with her and make idle conversation. But she knows. She knows something is amiss.
Her ears swivel forwards, she lifts her head—flags her tail in alarm, but it’s too late. Mucus dribbles out of her nose, and then blood, and the next thing I know she is riddled with fever and convulsing on the ground. Her eyes are rolling into the back of her head, there’s foam coming out of her mouth and I do nothing but watch; watch and listen; she’s gurgling, fighting to breathe. I can barely stand the sight, but I force myself to look on anyways; I know better than to make it stop, she’s suffering now, but she’ll suffer worse if I take it back. Her mind’s been burnt up by the fever. I need to watch, because I need to remind myself to always be careful—to always be in control, because if I don’t this could happen to anyone. This could happen to someone I love.
Which is ironic, because I suddenly realize I can’t shut it off.
The germs spread of their own accord, infecting both plants and animals alike; it kills some, it only inconveniences the others. I can’t control the effects, but I can’t stop them, either; though I do my very best to try and reign them in—it’s making my head hurt. I feel sick myself, I realize with a sniffle and then a cough. I’m tired, I feel cold—nope, hot. I feel hot. Now I’m cold and sweating. It’s pretty fucking terrible, honestly.
With a growl, I leave the dead doe behind and wander deeper into the woods.
I’m thinking if I can stay away from the Meadow, I can contain—oh, fuck my life. I bump right into someone, sneeze in their face. Which, of course, they’re none too happy about and I can’t quite blame them. I might have just inadvertently killed them, after all. I might have killed everyone with just a sneeze. “You,” I mutter, shifting from deer to hellhound, because being a hellhound makes it easier to intimidate someone into doing your bidding than being a deer does. Go figure. “You’re coming with me.”
tarnished
vanquish x nocturnal
Even on the way down, even on the way down.
[HI. Tarnished is using his Virokinesis and it's currently out of his control, so if you want your character to get sick, feel free to reply! The symptoms can be as mild or severe as you want. They can go away or stick around as long as you want once your character leaves the thread, that’s entirely up to you! Unless your character is magical/has healing/is immune to magical things, it should get sick, but again, that’s entirely up to you. This is totally for funsies and no one is required to reply or play with me at all. I’m just bored. xD]
Vanquish x Nocturnal equus mutatio, immortality, disease manipulation, trait immunity
Perhaps it’s just luck that the one destined to run in to Tarnished today is a healer.
Maybe it’s fate.
It’s definitely not just luck that has given Cress many chances to hone her skills in healing. It seems there are always broken bones and desperate fevers spreading through Beqanna like wildfire. She doesn’t understand why—but then again, in her six years of life, who has there been to teach her of cruelty and darkness? She knows nothing of these things. Oh, she knows that all of these injuries that she has helped to heal have nothing to do with coincidence, but she doesn’t know who (or what) is inflicting them. There could be many “who’s” or just one. She doesn’t understand why.
She’s in the Meadow, which isn’t surprising, grazing peacefully. A moment ago a beautiful doe had darted through the clearing she is in, clearly not expecting it to be occupied. The deer had occupied Cress’s attention for only a moment and then she was gone, but the young mare’s curiosity has been piqued. She knows there are herds of deer in the Meadow—she has grazed with them often enough; they accept her because she is quiet and calm. But a lone doe? Where has her herd gone?
After another moment of quiet contemplation she follows the doe, creeping as quietly across the grass as she can as to not frighten her again. She can’t have gone far, but the edge of the Meadow is silent, almost eerily so. It only takes Cress a few more steps before she realizes why.
Everything around her is dying.
Plants, small animals—she watches a field mouse stumble for its nest only to drop dead—and even trees. The grass is browning before her eyes and she reels in shock as she feels the virus reaching for her, trying to poison her as well. Before it can she reaches for her power, spreading out her healing like a shield around her. The sickness moves on past her like she wasn’t even there, but things keep dying as it touches them. Oh, no. This is terrible. Is it a plague? She stumbles closer to the source of the virus, trying to heal birds as they lay limp in their nests, encouraging them to fly away as they heal by stomping noisily. She cannot save the plants—she doesn’t know how to heal those—but she can and will save as many animals as she possibly can.
She only goes a few more steps before stumbling right into a deer. She almost believes it to be her doe, but no, this one has an impressive set of antlers—a buck. As this thought registers in her mind, it changes from buck into… something. Something sinister. He looks like a wolf now, only darker and more dangerous. Terrified, she glances over his shoulder and sees the doe she’d been following, lying dead in another clearing. The path of death radiates from her center like she is the cause, and Cress swallows past the lump in her throat as she tears her gaze away from the deer. She can’t fix that. She can’t bring back the dead.
With a jolt she realizes that the hellhound is speaking to her, demanding that she come with it. “W-w-why?” she responds, stuttering on the simple word. “A-are you going to k-k-kill m-me too?”
