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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    devil don't go where i make my home. [chantale]
    #1
    cast me down where the devil don't go
        Gentle rays of sunlight peeked in through the dense foliage, illuminating the moist soil and shining off of what little snow and sleet remained, sheltered from warmth. The light paved the path for the lithe but curvaceous female that sauntered through. Slowly, she stepped and bounded around each leaning oak, dodging and weaving through the forest. Her breath was warm but the air too cold, and her lungs burnt from her long morning's travel. Her charcoal coat blended in well with the dark emerald and cocoa brush surrounding her, though her steps were hardly careful and quiet - old dried leaves crunched softly beneath her weight and twigs snapped with each movement. She could not say where she was going, nor why. She had no destination in mind. There was only the journey. All of life was a journey.

        A dark, terrible, senseless journey. She had known pain; emotionally and physically. She had known desperation, anger, betrayal and loss - who hadn't? She did not linger on such thoughts. At least, she tried not to. It was difficult to forget that suffering in the dead of night, as the blackened sky crept in with its array of glistening stars and when the quiet white noise of whistling insects ascended. As long as daylight moved across the land, she could forget. She could put it behind her and let it be.

        At last, she came across a break in the almost impenetrable woodland. A slow, bubbling brook traveled through, winding down the hill and lapping quietly at the smooth pebbles and rocks that lined it. She stepped forward, her matted, tangled mane of coal draping over her soulless eyes as she leaned down to drink of the ice cold mountain water that made its way through. Suddenly, she felt self-aware, and cautiously her dark eyes shifted. She listened carefully.

        She was not alone.

       "Mother." She murmured almost bitterly (she was not deserving of such a title) as she raised her slender neck, squarely eyeing the dusty grey pelt and empty, void eyes in which she herself had inherited from her. It had been a while.

        Not nearly long enough.


    Vaermina
    chantale x nykeln



    It's going to take some time to tap into her. :x I'm trying. @[chantale]
    Reply
    #2
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    Most of them, my corpse masterpiece lets be.
    Oh, there was the boy – the only son, the princeling who mewled and sniveled whom she taught lessons to, taught him lessons of love in a symphony of bruises and broken skin.
    But most of them – most of the things that crawl from her sacrilege of a womb, or from whatever magic overtakes her and lets her father children when no father is found – most of them she lets be.
    Oh, there had been moments with this girl, ones she hardly recalls. Perhaps she bit her once. Perhaps there was something else. Perhaps the girl once watched her eat a heart. Who remembers?
    Yet the girl she should let be lives in her mind now like an echo.
    So, she tracks her.

    My corpse queen has a certain animal cunning when it’s called for, and a certain devil’s luck, so it’s not hard to find the girl who should not exist, who was bred in magic in a strange sick coupling, their lips slick with blood and heat.

    A girl raised like prey knows how to act it, so it should be no surprise when her prey-daughter’s back stiffens and her eyes twitch back and fro.
    Mother she says. And though my corpse masterpiece is undeserving of the word in every sense – for even biologically, she did not birth the girl – her dishwater gray body lurches from its shadowed spot and she comes forth, her graceless steps falling heavy on the earth.
    “Vaermina,” she says, overly sweet, like fruit gone rotten, “mother’s missed you so.”

    chantale
    how original a sin.
    Reply
    #3
    cast me down where the devil don't go
        Her voice lingers in the air; as sour and as putrid as the flesh that hangs from her limbs. It chokes her, suffocating her as she nears her, bristling her skin with a sordid dread she had not experienced in some time. Her heart rattled and pounded at her rib cage and her blood began to rush in a way that made her feel lightheaded from the pure adrenaline. The flight instinct was beginning to rear its ugly head, urging her away from the rotting creature that loomed so close to her, she could feel her hot breath against the nape of her neck.

        She flinches away as the space between them is closed by her movements; her curvaceous limbs tangling and causing her to stumble as she attempts to step back and to the side. Her blackened gaze leers, wary and pensive, loathsome of her false pretenses. She knew the emotional range of her life-giver (mother was, truly, too forgiving of a word), and it never fared well for her in the past. She took in the scent of her sweet, almost metallic tainted breath and felt herself slip away to another time, to another place.

        She had seen the tint of crimson stain her mother's teeth many times, knew of its origin, of her ill capacity for bloodlust - her breath always had a lingering stench of copper.

        "I have nothing for you - go," She demands, her desperation exposed within the crackling of her lowered voice as she cast her empty gaze away from her. "Leave me."


    Vaermina
    chantale x nykeln

    Reply
    #4
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    She likes to make them react.
    It elicits an animal pleasure within her, whether the reaction is fear or disgust (and sometimes it’s something else, a heady lust, a morbid fascination). So when a curl of the girl’s fear rises up she inhales, deep, the coppery stench of it something bright and beloved in her mind.

    The girl stumbles away, stumbles back as if my corpse masterpiece was a disease, something virulent in the air. And mayhap she was – mayhap she is - because lord knows the thing that is Chantale has sat beneath their skins too often, has poisoned the wells of their hearts and salted their earth, a plague with a too-perfect body and a too-dead smile.
    She does not let the give move too far, for the game is not done yet. Her own limbs slip across the earth, following the fear-scent, following her ill-got daughter.

    I have nothing for you, the daughter claims, but my corpse masterpiece knows better.
    “Vaermina,” she says again, sighing her name, “that’s no way to speak to your mother.”
    Another step. She doesn’t want to chase (she’s never been graceful, she prefers her hunting insidious), but she will, should she be made to.
    “Besides,” her head cocks and she’d almost be pretty if it weren’t for the utter wrongness of her, “you’re warm, and you know how mother’s always cold.”
    Always dead, she means, but that seems like semantics.

    chantale
    how original a sin.
    Reply
    #5
    cast me down where the devil don't go

         The way her name rolled off of her tongue, slick and sickly, evoked a wave of nausea to ripple through her body. She attempted to look away, to keep her dark eyes from seeing (feeling) the death exude from her flesh, but it was of no use. She was so close she could feel her breath on her skin, and it causes her to tremble. There was a time, once, when she might have admired her - been in awe of her - but age gave so much more to wisdom and she had grown wise to the illness that filled her life-giver to the brim. She knew of her doings, of her cravings and had been punished too many times for impeding on her darkened, bloody lustfest before.

         It was difficult - no, impossible not to flinch, though she does stop, wary of a lashing or worse. She no longer feared for herself alone. No, that isn't what has instilled her sudden apprehension, nor is it what begins to make her skin feel as if it is burning, purtrifying from Chantale's gaze alone. She grows closer to her, and for that she grows wary, dark eyelids closing to shield her eyes from her, lashes brushing her own cheek as she attempts to ward off the darkness that is beginning to descend. Her mother always had a certain terror about her, along with many other things such as fear, bloodlust and vehemence - but now it was beginning to crawl beneath her skin, settle into her bones, penetrate her pounding, thrusting heart.

         For she was not alone; she carried another. A new life, threatening to burst forth from its autumn creation into a new spring with vigor. It was growing, twisting, turning - developing within the pit of her belly, causing her to bloat, to swell. A spawn of her own, undesired but not altogether unwanted, was beginning to form within. She could feel her mother's skin brush her own, and it causes her to flinch again - she knows she will know; Mother always knows.


    Vaermina
    chantale x nykeln

    Reply
    #6
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    The way she says their names is a game, or maybe it’s an instinct, something engraved in her from years of madness. She knows how to make them want her, at least for a moment, hooded eyes staring from shadows and body gleaming in plastic perfection.
    It’s all strange and wrong but she is all strange and wrong, my corpse masterpiece, every inch of her cooling corpse body and every rotting neuron of her mind.
    So in all her wrong she says their names, coos and sighs and screams them, and sometimes, they stay. Never for long, of course, because the wrongness of her seeps in their skin like a parasite and they run, they find others who are warm and sane and sweet and my corpse girl, she goes on, she finds another name to say.

    In this closeness, this silent moment when she can feel the warmth radiating from her daughter’s skin, she sighs as if she is content, as if this is something they’ve both missed, the easy love of mothers and daughters.
    Vaermina says nothing – she’d always been far too quiet and meek of a girl to be of much interest – but Chantale drinks in the fear that radiates off of her, that particular stink that emanates from her pores.
    “Why my love,” she says – it’s a word that doesn’t deserve to be in her foul mouth, “you’re practically glowing.”


    chantale
    how original a sin.


    if you didn't want her to know just ignore that bit Smile
    Reply
    #7
    cast me down where the devil don't go

      Her closeness is suffocating - she can feel the dense foliage of the shadow-painted forest enclosing around her, entrapping her too closely to the decomposing demon that lingers at her side. Her hot breath brushes along her skin, eliciting a shiver of disgust that wracks through her body carelessly, fraying her nerves beyond repair. Her gentle sigh emerges as a gentle whuff against her sweat-slicked flesh, and she draws away from her, recoiling and immersing herself into her own despair. Her once admiration and awe for the undead had long since vanished, fallen away with the ebb and low of time, washed away by the tide of age, wisdom and time.

      Instead it was filled with an intense loathing, but perhaps it was the gentle shifting of another life that stirred such deeply harbored hatred, bubbling at the surface with its sickly stench. She closes her eyes, lashes brushing along her own cheek as she shields herself from the view of the predator that lies in wait - too close, too close. You're practically glowing, and suddenly she knows, she can feel her understanding searing into her flesh with hot, wanton release, marking her with the unseen brand of exposure. She cannot shake it, and so she remains still, her heart pounding frantically while she stows herself away in the facade of her stoicism.

      "Leave me, Chantale - she does not belong to you; leave me be. My time is near and I have no patience for your games."

      But she is weak, and time is of the essence.



    Vaermina
    chantale x nykeln



    Sorry for the wait, lovely. :| I am the worst.
    Reply




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