"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
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He walks like a King. It does not matter that this land does not belong to him. It does not matter that this is a crown he has cast off, a responsibility he has waved away with the fluttering of lethargic fingers. It matters little that he has no home—let along a kingdom—to call his own. Despite the fact that he is a vagabond, a nomad, he walks with the dripping arrogance of royalty, what he considers his birth right draped across his sooty gold shoulders as he moves through the forest with ease.
His current predicament aside, royalty ran in Bruise’s blood.
From the Krampus King of his father, the sickly call of Pangea ringing faintly in his ears, to Yael and Vanquish, the kingdoms of old dripping through him, he was born of royalty. It doesn’t matter to him that he has done little to earn it in his own lifetime. He is acutely aware of the strength of his grip and the sharp edges of his mind. Were he to apply himself—were he to reach out and grab it—there is nothing that could not be his own. There is nothing that he could not claim and simply take.
So the formalities matters little.
In the end, it is simply paperwork.
Thus, Bruise does not attempt to hide his arrogance, for now. Instead, he slips through the trees, cloven hooves silent as they hit the underbrush. His regally horned head dips and sways, his nostrils flaring pink as he drinks in the scent that permeates the air—the promise of the coming season, the faint cool breeze of autumn beginning to whistle. Here, the King slips away to reveal the hound beneath. Here, the arrogance gives way to fatal focus, his eyes narrowing, his ashy nose skimming the earth as he catches onto a scent.
It’s only when he realizes the source of it, the winged mare, that he pauses, mouth rising into a cold smirk before washing away to be replaced by a faux pleasant smile. Shaking himself, he picks up the mantle of gentle stranger, his face deceivingly handsome and kind. Walking toward her, he presses his lips together, hesitant and shy. “H-H-Hello?” his voice lifts just a little at the end, the stumbled greeting turned questioning. “I’m afraid I’ve g-g-gotten lost.” A frown furrows his brow as he pauses a respectful distance away, dipping his chin in an awkward greeting. “D-D-Do you know where I—I-I-I mean w-w-we—are?”
08-19-2018, 12:06 AM (This post was last modified: 08-20-2018, 07:41 PM by Lucrezia.)
Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
Silence.
It lingers within the confined dark forest that is pushed off to the side of the meadow. The trees that stand so closer together, rise up together, stretching out their hands for something, whether it may be the gods (to give them redemption) or out of curiosity (to just see how far they can carry themselves up further than any other). A faint autumn fog intertwines itself through the trees. There is an eeriness among the forest as it is nothing but still—nothing here seems to live it feels like. It is almost a frightening place, the silence that fills these woods, but it does not compare to the home she once knew.
She remembers the cold and darkness. it once was a distant memory, tucked far away, never wanting the memory to resurface to her thoughts again. However, here in the middle of the forest, where she stands, the memories come flooding back and shake her whole core like an earthquake. She trembles within, but she holds herself physically still. These trees remind her of the ancient giants that she had once been surrounded by. The stillness of the shadows and the quietness of the land only brings her heartache. Home, she thinks. Yet, this place was not her home. This was not the kingdom she knew, not the Chamber she remembered. This was a quiet little forest, nothing compared to the giant giants of the Chamber.
Then again her homes have long since changed overtime. Before the Reckoning she had called her home within the sandy dunes. A place where she once had thought she could never have lived, but within time she had found a family and bonds that would last beyond a lifetime. Now Tephra is her home—recently returned to the ash and sulphur volcanic land. Lucrezia had never thought it possible to return to a place she had found refuge in after the Reckoning, especially after she had fled like she always has from her positions that give her responsibilities.
Yet, the weight of the crown had weighted heavy upon her head. Lucrezia can still feel the weight of it upon her crown now. The memory of that day replays over in her head constantly when she drifts back into the past she tries to shield herself away from. Magnus had given her a responsibility, but she had failed him, and everyone else that had relied upon her. How foolish could she have been to let them all down? She had been molded and transformed to be a ruler—the necessary skills and tools were at her disposals. But still she could not accept wearing the crown.
Lucrezia doesn’t quiet recall the feeling of the crispy autumn cold against her multicolored skin or the way it sends a chill down her spin. The peafowl winged-mare sighs, a small fog rising quickly from her mouth into the grey sky. She has lost track of where she has gone within the forest. Nowadays she loses track of her time and place when she dives deep into the darkness of her mind, clouding her mind of distant memories and thoughts.
The smell of another fills her nostrils—a musty scent. It is fresh and sharp. Her nutmeg eyes trace across the autumn forest, and inhales the scent again. It does not bother her despite what the season might be, instead it fills her with curiosity. Lucrezia has always had a heart for adventure, but it is often the essence of darkness that draws her in even more.
He appears within moments—the musty scent she had just noticed seconds ago. A face of a gentle stranger is masked across his buckskin face. A pleasant smile that no one could deny to be more friendly than anything in the world cannot be missed also covers his face. It almost seems too perfect, the way the stranger comes out, already seeking her out like a predator.
Is she the prey?
Lucrezia shakes her head, realizing she has allowed herself to be caught up in his devilishly handsome face and kind smile. Her nutmeg eyes studying him carefully as he comes closer—hesitant and shy, as if she is the predator now. But there is something more beneath the mask he wears now. Something behind his other features—the cloven hooves and goat horns—that reminds her of a faint memory of what seemed so long ago.
“Hello,” she greets back with a soft, kind smile, “We are in Beqanna.” She allows herself to overlook the stallion as she speaks, looking for any signs to trigger her memory even further. Lucrezia could find nothing, only the faintest of the memory still remained the same when she looked at his goat horns and cloven hooves. Perhaps she had been wrong. “Are you new here?” She asks with a curious tilt of her head, nutmeg eyes holding onto his own gaze. Lucrezia cannot help but wonder but she keeps her thoughts on the matter silent for now until she finds it necessary to play her cards right. She has not forgotten how to play the game.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She does not appear easy prey, and although that should perhaps deter him, it instead sends a thrill racing up his spine. It was so much more thrilling to watch the strong bend than the weak. Not that he does not appreciate the supple way he can manipulate the weak (he loves the way they move like putty in his hands, the way that they bend and curl to his every whim), but it was a specific thrill to take something made of sturdier material and impose your will upon it. To take a mighty oak and cut it down to size.
It takes everything within him to keep the excitement from his eyes.
Instead, he remains confused and shy, worrying his lip as he glances around them. “O-O-Oh,” he stutters, the sound laced with defeat. “I-I-I never meant to come back here,” he swallow visibly and shakes a little, a brow furrowing as he looks around, his gaze lighting along the different trees and forms in the distance until it comes back to her, anxiety clear in the parting of his lips and the shakiness of his breath.
“I-I wasn’t paying attention.” He tosses his head. “S-S-Stupid. I-I-I’m so stupid.”
He bites his lip again, internally scoffing at the weakness he is portraying, the vulnerability that he masterfully etches into every line of his slender body. It is with distaste that he pulls on such a mask. It is with distaste that he plays such a weak and stupid boy. It is unfit of his bloodline. Unfit of the krampus to force himself to wear such ill-fitting clothes, but he has done it before and he would do it again.
Sometimes, the kill did not come from the sheer weight of will or the blow of sledgehammer. Sometimes, it was a more delicate death—more insidious. Sometimes, it is like a poison the creeps slowly through the veins. A lie that blossoms in the chest, beautiful and delicate at first and then hungry and demanding. What starts as such a sweet fib on the tongue morphing into a fatal kiss—fang to throat and knife to belly.
Sometimes, you killed from the inside.
“P-P-Please tell me my f-f-f-father isn’t here anymore.” His eyes are pleading as they find hers and latch on, searching her face, hungry for a haven she could never offer. As if he was terrified at the return of his father. As if he simply needed protection. As if she could provide that to him. “His name was P-P-Pollack.” The name almost turns to worship on his tongue be he forces it out in fear, letting the memory of his victim’s response rise up and through him—using it as fuel for his performance.
“H-H-He can’t know I’m here.”
um, those were beautiful words and she's wonderful.
Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
There was something thrilling and dangerous when she danced with the devil. The way that light and darkness clashed together, twisting and wrapping into one, creating a masterpiece and disaster simultaneously. Living on the very edge of the world by playing a dangerous game never seemed quite so boring.
She lived for the thrill that it gave her. The beating of her heart. The rush of adrenaline that filled every neuron with excitement. Adventure is what she called it. But it was her adventures that would be her ending—the very death of her.
It takes no time for her to fall into her role. The familiar steps are easily laid out for her and she follows them one by one. The childhood charades did not compare to this—not the monster she faced now. But she was the daughter of a monster and she knew how they liked to play their games.
Lucrezia watches his every move carefully though concealed by a mask of her own. A mask she wears of concern, someone who will listens, and a stranger willing to help no matter what. She calculates the way his expression changes and the words easily fall from his lips. It’s all too perfect.
“It’s going to be okay,” she finally bursts out, a voice sweet like honey filled with the earnest empathy she can muster to perfect. She takes a step forward, nutmeg eyes gleaming, focusing only on him. Watching the way, he anxiously looks around from where they are in the forest. It almost makes her feel anxious just looking at him. “Why can’t you come back here?” She asks softly.
The multi-colored mare takes another step again, closing the space between them. His musty scent is even more sharp now. She snorts softly, inhaling it and tasting it. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” she says next, her words are still soft and her brow furrows in worry, “You aren’t stupid.” Although that was definitely a lie—there was something obviously off by him she could tell. What was it though?
His gaze finally meets her own. There is pleading in his voice, but this time there is more. He looks at her in a way that would break someone (even someone like her). Someone looking for a place to find refuge and safety. She remembers a time when she had been in that place—alone and nowhere to go, nothing but with troubles weighing her down. Then she had found everything she had ever needed (or so she thought).
She wanted something more.
Something that gave her life again.
But what price would she pay for that?
“His name was P-P-Pollock,” he says.
“What?” she whispers faintly. Lucrezia’s brow creases as she questions the words he just has said. She knew that name—the very greedy beast she had met on the mountain, the one who had come to Tephra. “Your father can’t be,” she whispers, still questioning herself. Lucrezia looks him over, nutmeg eyes moving from his goat horns all the way down to his cloven hooves.
No, it cannot be true, she tells herself. But every inch of the stranger in front of her stank of the monster himself. The one she had come to despise. The very greed he reaped and sowed had marked him one of the individuals that had a hand in destroying the world she knew—her home that had flooded.
“Why can’t he?” she asks, almost believing his words and charade now.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
If he suspects something from the perfect way she falls into the pattern, if he is suspicious of the honey in her voice and the gentleness in her touch, he says—he shows—nothing. Instead, he simply continues the dance, picking up her tempo and gliding alongside her, letting the rhythm take over. This was nothing if not an ancient pattern—an ancient ritual. It was nothing if not the hardened dirt beneath heels, beating out a rhythm established long ago. Hunter and hunted. Predator and prey. The tactics were different, the language perhaps evolved, but the core of it remains the same, and he happily follows along.
He ignores her questions, shaking his head in faux distress, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to darken the sooty gold of his coat. It is easy to fake the increased pulse, the looping patterns of it—he simply takes the excitement and harnesses it, forcing it into another direction. He pulls on the threads of his own Fear, letting the wild thrill of it race through him until his pupils dilate and he feels the trickling of terror in the back of his mind. He gives in, body supple to the roaring rapids of it, feeling ecstasy as horror races through him, clear in the nostrils that flare, in the jitteriness of his legs, in the unevenness of his breath.
“I-I-I can’t. I can’t be h-h-here.”
Bruise swings his horned-head around, looking at the borders with wild eyes before taking a shaking step back, stumbling as a cloven hoof collides with a rock. He bites his lip before gaining his footing and then stopping, sides heaving with the effort. He glances back up again, still manipulating his own Fear, letting it run through him—reveling in his own mastery even as he plays his own victim. “H-H-He said that he would k-k-kill me next time he saw me,” he finally chokes out, the words shaking even as they form.
“I-I-I have to go. I-I-I,” he takes another step back, trembling, “I-I-I need to leave.”
Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
She knows the familiar dance—the hunter and the hunted.
It was intuitive for her to fall into the role of the hunter. The familiar steps of learning tactics and strategies to always be one step ahead of the enemy. To seek out their weaknesses before they even knew who you were. Manipulation was the key to it all—the very essential that would give her along.
But she has played the hunted instead. Too many times has she fallen prey into the hands of the predator. She has let her emotions get the better of her. Allowing the hunter to prey upon her easily, without even a fight. She has allowed them to beat her, drag her all the way down until she was nothing.
What had it all been for? Was it worth the kicking and screaming? Did she fight for the right reasons?
She doesn’t know. Her own thoughts are clouded and she feels lightheaded with every choice. Every decision is makes is always wrong. This decision. That decision. It was all wrong!
The game is all she has come to know. The feeling of dancing on the edge—the dance of life and death.
He ignores her. The deception seeps through him, crawling out of the crannies and cracks. She knows the game; the dance he is playing with her. Lucrezia forgets her part, the steps she must take to also lead the dance as well. She accepts him as the lead, willingly she puts her hands into him. So easily she puts her life into his.
But for what?
The price of her life is what she would pay. To step in between the grey, between the darkness and light, in order to feel something. Anything, really.
“No,” she says softly.
Lucrezia swallows hard. “You can’t just leave me like that.” Her voice filled with anxiety. Nutmeg eyes growing wide with trouble and apprehension.
“He can’t hurt you,” her voice comes a little stronger this time, “if you don’t let him.” She takes a step forward, filling the space in between them from where he had stepped away from her.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She is good, and he would admire her if he knew the depth of her deception, the ways that she allows herself to play the game. He would admire the way that she accepts the darkness in, giving it a home. Was this not a victory? Was it not a victory to be given refuge in her breast—to be given her time?
Philosophical questions for another time, another animal entirely.
He is too engrossed in their dance, each tracking the other, one step taken mirrored by a step back and then a surge forward. He waltzes with her effortlessly, the sheen on his neck and the Fear in his eyes natural and alive, the monstrous stallion instead letting the Krampus make him weak, make him prey.
“No,” he breaks, anger seeping into the word at her misunderstanding.
“Y-y-you don’t understand.”
He is pleading with her, vulnerable and pained and terrified before her. For the first time, his fingers graze over the edges of her own Fear, seeing how she responds. Does she begin to feel the same sense of dread? Does it begin to creep into her bones? He is delicate with how he manipulates it, with how he draws it forward. In his youth he had been heavy-handed. He had been unable to find the balance between it, instead beating his victims over the head with horror. Now, he is a surgeon with his delicacy.
There is a sweetness to finding the knife’s edge of the Fear and holding it there.
There is a beauty in the building of it.
His concentration on it doesn’t break his performance, doesn’t break the ragged edges of his breath as he takes a step toward her, desperation carved deeply into his face. “I-I-I can’t stand up to him.” His voice takes on a new edge, and he throws himself at a nearby tree, the bark roughing up the sooty gold of his hide. “I-I-I have to g-g-go.” He staggers away before throwing himself at another tree. “I-I-I have to c-c-c-change how I look.” He glances at her wide-eyed and terrified. “I-I-I have to hide.”
09-13-2018, 10:18 PM (This post was last modified: 09-14-2018, 08:48 AM by Lucrezia.)
Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
She has never thought of herself as being naïve. That was for small creatures that she has considered to be weak, making themselves a victim to the life they have found themselves in. She scolds them for not taking a stand, to change the life they are living.
But she is naïve herself.
She blinds herself in making the choice to dance with the devil. Allowing him to lead every step of the way, between the darkness and light, in between it all. She dances in the lines that holds them together, mirroring opposites. But she cannot help it, she cannot let it go.
It is almost an addiction; the times she has allowed herself to meld with those she swore she should never be with. There had beeen Tarnished. Then there had been Etojo. And now there was him, this stranger, this monster.
Her mind is telling her no, screaming for her to run, but she does not. Her heart, her empty soul begs to be filled with life again (or even dancing on the very edge of it all too, if it must). Her heart tells her yes.
Lucrezia only has eyes for the silver buckskin. She is confused by his small amount of anger, but he quickly consumes her again, pleading for her to understand. And she follows him, into the darkness, into the fear.
She feels what he feels.
The fear seeps into her. Overwhelming her more than she has never felt before. Terrified than she has ever been in her life. She feels the dread he feels, the weight of it holding her down, pinning her to the ground. It crawls underneath her skin, twisting and engraving it into her bones. It flows into her bloodstream, taking over her entire body.
Her gaze widens suddenly, horror filling them. She is horrified by his words, but even more by the way he throws himself at the nearby trees. Her body begins to shake uncontrollably.
She remembers.
“P-P-Pollock will kill us both,” she whispers through chattering teeth. Her gaze moves to the surrounding forest, searching as if he was just around the corner of a bush or tree.
Lucrezia then meets his gaze again, his terrified wide-eyes mirrors her own expression. “P-Please,” she begs, staggering towards him in skittish steps. “I-I need to go with you. I have t-to go with yo-u-u.”
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
Finally—finally—he feels the Fear begin to sink its hooks into her and he almost shudders with his pleasure. She has been difficult to get to this point. She has been difficult to to mold, his hands sore from the exertion of it, but she is beautiful now—his masterpiece beginning to take shape.
For his entire life, Bruise has fancied himself an artist. Like his father before him, he has enjoyed—no, loved—the way the Fear allows him to sculpt strangers and peers alike into creatures of his own making. He has appreciated the effort it takes, the way they are all like different material. Some, malleable but easy to disintegrate into nothingness. Others taking considerable more effort but the effects more long-lasting.
She though, she might be his finest creation to date.
He passes the shudder off as a tremor, blood beginning to well from the shallow cuts on his dusky coat. He pauses and turns toward her, trembling, his voice wavering with the barest hint of hope beginning to tint the edges of it. “Y-y-you will come with me?” He takes a step toward her, cautious, as if he has never done such a thing before, as if he is shocked by the idea that someone would want to spend time with him.
Another step, and then another, each one laced with nerves and slow. His eyes are still wide, the delicate skin near his nose drenched with sweat, but he continues moving until he makes up the distance between them. He reaches out to touch her jaw, the curve of her feminine neck. “I-I-I,” his voice breaks and falls into silence as he presses his forehead against her, his breathing ragged. He doesn’t tell her that he stands there imagining what she will look like when spilled across the ground. That he can practically feel her pulse and he wonders what it will feel like when it begins to stammer and pause and then stop.
No, instead, he takes deep breaths, his handsome face trying to steady itself.
When he pulls back, he is more composed, as if her presence calms him, and he finds her gaze.
“P-p-please don’t leave me,” a pause. “I-I-I need you.”
Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water
She is hung on his every move and word.
Waiting, just waiting to hear what he has to say.
Her body trembles beneath her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Her nutmeg eyes are clung onto his body, watching the way the silver buckskin turns to her. She takes a step forward, the anticipating overwhelming her.
It is his voice that she finds hope—the falsehood of hope she believes so naively. She doesn’t question the unfathomable hope of lie that falls from his lips and into her ears. Every word, every tone, every move she will fall into. Every trap he sets she will not escape.
“Y-yes.”
She must go with him. She has to. There was no other way.
Lucrezia doesn’t move from where she stepped earlier to. Her eyes are only for the horned devil, as if he is everything in the world that she has ever wanted. She only shivers when he comes towards her, feeling frightened even by remaining in one place for too long. The fear he controls, the fear she allowed to consume her, is all she knows right now.
She trembles at his touch. The drenched nose of sweat lingers on her as his touch traces along her jaw to her delicate neckline. She has already sealed her fate without her knowledge. Her deathbed only awaits her now.
He stumbles with his words, but she is gripped by them. Holding onto them, pleading for him to say anything as he pushes himself into her. She falls into him as well, as she often does with a stranger. There is comfort in his touch, his forehead against her and his ragged breathing. It calms her, sending her trembling body into a standstill.
Suddenly, he pulls away.
Lucrezia searches for his gaze. Nutmeg eyes pleading for him to not let go of her. She finds him more still this time, no shaking—as if she already knows she is the reason why he does not stumble, why he does not fear anymore.
She is wrong.
Always she is wrong.
“I need you,” she hears.
The words send a tremble down her spine, shaking her entire core in the inside. Her lips move, fumbling, trying to work together to form words. She is shocked, but she so suddenly feels the same way. Nothing in her can deny him, nothing in her can say no.
