#‘ VANITY ˛ ( her gaze sharp and unforgiving. ❜

[roleplay-central]

One for Me (Berkova Blog)

The cleansing Rite went well, painful as usual in purging any taint from her. Yet still...Vanya couldn’t escape from the heady essence of vampire in her skin, and in her mind. Fortunately, she was skilled enough in her Gifts that she could hide any lingering scents or undead elements from her family’s sharp senses. Even her mother.

“I need not remind you, Vanya, what is at stake here. What has always been at stake.” Darina Berkova stared out the lime washed arched window from the third floor of House Berkova. The stygian queen of her gothic castle. Lightning flashed across snow covered mountains and illuminated her sleek silhouette.

Vanya only had a view of her back, but she was sure of what she would see if her mother had been facing her. No emotion, with molten coals burning in her deep sea gaze. Passive displeasure. As if Vanya’s presence was nothing more than an inconvenience. An expression she knew all too well.

“Do not think I am unfamiliar with the unwanted advances of greedy men. Every woman has a tale they must bear. You are no different. You cannot avoid him forever, skŭpi moĭ. You made this promise in blood by the witness of his Church, and our spirits. To go back on that pact is unforgivable.”

She placed a slim hand against the window pane as sleet pelted it from the outside. The heat from her touch fogged up the glass as she continued in her icy tone, “I expect you to hold your tongue, and your Rage. To do what you have been trained for. Taking orders. You know better than most that war and battles take many different forms. I taught you that.”

She paused as if to gather her next thought, “As unpleasant as this one is, to physically fight back would mean your death. By my own hands. Do you understand? Worse,” She finally turned around to pierce Vanya’s numb existence with her burning gaze, “harming the Child of Lazarus would put the rest of your family at risk with the Society of Leopold. I certainly need not remind you of the history of the Inquisition. Their vengeance is fueled by dangerous zealotry. It often comes swift and recklessly, burning everything in its path.”

Vanya did not move from her spot, the tight pull of her Dutch braid the only relief to the ache forming behind her eyes, “I will meet with him.”

Darina bared her teeth, “More than that, you will do whatever you can to keep him happy.” She turned back around, loosely holding her hands behind her back, “He and his Provincials still want something of ours. I do not intend to ever give it to them, but you will make sure he believes we will.”

“I understand.”

“If you fail me again, Vanya. There will be no more exemptions. Even if you are my blood.”

Vanya bowed although Darina wouldn’t see it. Without another word, she turned and left her mother’s library.

The cold stone of Vanya’s private quarters stung the warmth of her naked soles. She stood in front of her vanity mirror in a simple white night shift. The antique wood carvings that framed the mirror matched the embroidery of her gown. Intricate thorny vines. No flowers.

She tilted her head, the heavy braid swinging to the side. She tilted her head again to swing it the other way. An old memory resurfaced. That’s right, she used to do this as a child, staring at her unfamiliar image.

“You used to do that when you were younger. And then you stopped looking at yourself in the mirror.” The familiar slithering of a man’s voice echoed through her chamber. All too intimate. “I wonder why that is.”

She didn’t bother turning around, knowing who it was just by the scent that wafted in from the hallway.

Her heavy iron door shut behind him with a soft click.

“We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we? Do you remember the games we used to play?” Tap. Tap. Tap. Each hard click of his metal capped cane on the stone floor knocked against the thick hide of her numbness.

“You were only human in those days. Just Kinfolk child to your family when you were promised to me. But I think even then I knew you were special.” He came up behind her, touching her braid, pulling it over her shoulder with the slightest caress to the crook of her scarred neck as they both stared at her reflection.

“Tonight, we will play different games.” The Russian in his voice thickened, “Go to the bed.”

The tempest of her cloudy gaze brightened with electric flashes of her Rage.

“No.”

Their eyes finally met in the mirror and his amber glare glowed in return with searing golden magic. Fiery and intent. In the flames of his scrutiny she could see the tormented ghosts of the souls he’s ever burned alive. Turned to ash. Each weary line of his face like a tally to mark every supernatural being he crushed beneath his righteous boot, evil or not. No mercy. No remorse.

He was a formidable beast all his own. To think her strength was superior would underestimate his experience with hunting creatures like her. It was enough to make an eager Garou pup squirm.

Yet all she could think of was the handsome vampire and his deep scarlet stare. Wild. Half manic. Unpredictable and sometimes cold in its branding intensity. Her small body shuddered at the memory of their last encounter...the taste on her lips, then her tongue. More. She wanted more of that. Of him. Not...this...

“I hate to ask a second time, little wife.” As if sensing the forbidden trajectory of her thoughts, the sorcerer’s face grew tight with prideful anger and impatience. “I said...get on the bed.” He struck his cane hard on stone.

The next thing she knew, she was laying across the mattress on her back. She pulled her arms in, only to find them restrained by thick iron shackles. Her ankles sported the same sort of accessories, bolted to the posts of her large bed frame. Danger, her wolf spirit howled. Trapped.

She narrowed her eyes when she couldn’t shift into Glabro. Or any form. The instinct to fight, defend, and Rage burned through her limbs as she calmly pulled on her new bonds. Magically reinforced.

So, he came prepared.

They would not last long. If she tried. But the whip of her mother’s voice became yet another shackle on her retaliation.

“The innocence between those legs. I may not be a wolf, but I can smell it.” He inhaled deep with his eyes closed, brushing gloved fingertips against his nose as if he was close enough to taste.

Her knees involuntarily pressed together, shoulders cramping with tension. Yet she would not allow her mask to slip.

He suddenly disappeared, reappearing up on the wide mantel above her fireplace. He stood there, looking down as he pointed the raven skull of his cane at her, “Already in your thirties, and still untouched. God has continued to spare you for me. Another gift that blesses our reunion. But do not worry, little wife. I will not deflower you tonight. Or the next. That will come when you are ready. When you come begging me for it.”

He spun his cane around to hold it like a bow. With his free hand he pretended to load and pull back the string. Magic converged between his fingertips, manifesting into the shape of a golden arrow made of whispering flames.

“How about a new game, little wife? If I hit you, I will set one shackle free. But every time I miss, I get a kiss. Anywhere I like.” He let the magic arrow fly. It screeched through the air in a flash.

She didn’t flinch when it struck the mattress between her thighs, narrowly missing pale flesh, but the hard pounding of her heart rushed through her ears.

He grinned and drew another magic arrow, “One for me.”

#garou #shadow lords #berkovas #vanya #werewolves

[griffinsanddragons]

Keep on Swimming

She quite liked whales, but she didn’t want to be dragged and lured into the depths of her Mother’s end of the sea. Poor Hawke isn’t ready to be married. 

Leandra brushes her daughter's hair. #Filanders but mostly a story about a Mother and her Daughter.

Happy Fic Friday!

Her Mother never seemed to be the sentimental type— she adored her dresses, jewelry, and smartly worn shoes, but it wasn’t long before those things were discarded, forgotten, or simply lost behind much finer things. Still, Leandra owned that same silver hairbrush longer than Filia had even been alive—And it used to be so pretty.

But now, it seemed to have been forgotten as well, tucked behind ribbons, pins, and boxes of jewelry.

‘There’s power in these things,’ her mother once told her, sitting at the mirror as she brushed her long, beautiful hair: Her crowning glory. ‘Power in the things I’m teaching you—Do you understand Filia?’ And though she nodded before turning her attention to ‘the little ladies book of floral arranging’ she’d been gifted for her 9th birthday, she didn’t quite understand—not really.

As she grew older, taller, and further away from her Mother’s hip, Filia became proficient in sword fighting and power became more than just a word: it overflowed with life and meaning.

She had the power to protect her family, the power to fight, the power to decide someone’s fate; to take a life (break their bones and watch them bleed,) or let them free to live another day—and it was both thrilling and terrifying.

The power her Mother spoke of, however, had little to do with such things. Her ‘Lady Lessons,’ as Bethany called them, hadn’t made her feel anything except maybe taller (she grew fond of those cunning leather boots with little straps and short heels.)

‘By your age, I’d be wearing high heels and gold jewelry,’ Her Mother once said, pulling those unforgiving bristles through the tangles of her hair, ‘…You’d be arranged to marry the son of a Nobleman or even a Prince! Wouldn’t that have been so lovely?’

Filia didn’t have a proper answer for her then, she didn’t know any Nobleman or Princes, but now she could be certain: No—It wouldn’t have been lovely.

[Keep Reading]

She didn’t much care for the Noblemen and women of the city; they were selfish, scheming and vain. She couldn’t fathom why her Mother would be so eager to return to such a life of pettiness and rivalry.

And as she thumbed her fingers through the bristles of her Silver Hairbrush, nails catching on fallen strands of her mother’s graying hair, Filia could almost hear her voice, stern and disapproving in her ear.

Because she hadn’t found a Prince or the son of a Noble to marry, but instead found a partner who suited her perfectly, a partner who kissed her for the first time that morning.

The thought of which pulled a secret smile across her cheeks.

He said it would be a disaster, but the words seemed to melt or simply flutter away when he kissed her again and smiled. He promised to see her again that night—so long as the door was open to him.

And it was because she knew it would be open that Filia stood both nervous and giddy, thinking back on all the things she’d been taught as she stood before her Mother’s vanity—her hair damp and body dressed in nothing but a robe as the orange light of the setting sun gleamed like a halo behind her body.

She snuck into her Mother’s bedroom, pausing every few moments to ensure she wasn’t around. She was supposed to be brushing her hair, but Instead, it sat damp and forgotten against her shoulders, curling out into a crown of coils and screws.

Perhaps she’d been wrong before—this was both thrilling and terrifying (yet she still felt no more powerful than she had this morning.)

Nevertheless, Filia felt as though she were floating on the calm, even waves of an open sea.

Beside a pink tinted bottle of flowery perfume sat a comb and a jar of honey-colored oil: liquid gold, she referred to it as. It was a simple, yet expensive pleasure and one of the only things both she and her Mother could agree to enjoy.

She unscrewed the lid, dipped her fingers inside, and combed it through her hair, following the path her Mother’s brush made with a delighted hum.

She couldn’t wait to see him again. The simple thought of waiting for tonight sent her writhing in melodramatic agony.

“Filia?” She jumped at the sound of her name, swirling around and setting down the brush so fast the other trinkets rattled. “What are you doing?” Her Mother sounded more amused than anything else as she stood in the passage of the doorway.

“I just needed a brush—mine is too soft so it doesn’t…” She couldn’t tell her Mother the truth, that she had a man coming to see her—even if that man was just Anders— as these were hardly the actions of the dignified lady her Mother wanted her to be.

And suddenly, she was no longer floating—but rather slipping down beneath the endless waves of a troubled sea.

‘There’s so much I wanted you to see,’ Filia recalled her saying as they moved the last of their things into the estate. ‘And now I can show you! Teach you everything, all that I couldn’t before.’ And she looked so happy, so excited, that Filia didn’t dare speak.

Because she didn’t mind dressing up, staring at art, or eating fancy cheese—but she didn’t need those things to be happy.

All Filia wanted was for her Mother to be happy.

“Are you going somewhere, at this hour?”

“No.” She said because it wasn’t a lie, “I just needed to brush my hair.” Still, Leandra made a noise that sounded like a mix of laughter and disbelief, and in her eyes was the same look of suspicion she’d conjure when Filia came home late at night.

And she wondered if her Mother somehow knew—if she somehow acquired the ability to read minds because Leandra wore that same stern look across her face whenever her daughter began a sentence with ‘My friend Anders,’ as though she somehow knew what had been blossoming between them.

Would it be so bad if she did know? Filia asked herself, still standing awkwardly beneath her Mother’s gaze. She’d fallen for her own dashing apostate, after all, and certainly couldn’t judge her choices or taste in romantic partners.

Despite this Filia knew that her Mother could, and would, judge her tastes. Because, from the moment of her birth, Leandra wanted something different for her daughter; a high society life—a life Anders could never provide.

“Let me,” She offered, walking up to her side. “I’ve wanted to fix your hair for so long now, ever since you began to wear it long again—it suits you.” Without even waiting for her confirmation or consent, Leandra took the brush and directed Filia to sit.

She tried to protest, knowing her Mother would take too long and pull too hard on her tender scalp, but Leandra remained stern. And when Filia finally did relent, her Mother snapped her head toward the mirror and dug the stiff bristles through her hair. “That hurts!” She whined, scrunching up her face indignantly. But her mother had selective hearing and often filtered out the words she didn’t want to hear her daughter speak.

“You can wear it like this next time there’s a party and charm every fellow there.” Her Mother’s soft hands pushed down against the warm flushed skin of Filia’s neck. Though she did not reply, Leandra must have sensed her daughter rolling her eyes because she continued on persistently:

“Isn’t it time you thought about marrying? You have such a lovely face—you can find yourself a fine match with a good man.”

She felt the need to bite back her tongue, to remain quiet as she sunk deeper into the sea.

“I don’t have anything in common with those people.”

“But you do:  Amell blood runs through you the same as it does me. Your friend Aveline was married.”

“Aveline’s old,” she joked, tilting her head upward to see what it was her Mother was doing, only for her neck to be craned downward once again.

“She isn’t much older than you are. Haven’t…Haven’t you ever wanted to see the world? To live the best life? The right husband can do that for you. He can take you to see the theater in Orlais, the pyramids of Nevarra, and all sorts of wonderful things. With the right husband and enough coin—you could sail anywhere you pleased.”

Despite her more poetic of thoughts, Filia never cared much for the ocean, and absolutely hated the sea—there was no telling what manner of beasts lurked beneath the water. Once, she read about a large, monstrous creature with 8 long tentacles that wrapped around its prey, holding them still as it ate them alive.

Even the mightiest of ocean dwellers could be scarred by its sharp hooks or hidden beak; and though it’s said to soar through the water like an intelligent bird with mighty wings, Filia thought that creature was terrifying.

She always preferred the quiet, mysterious power of the great whale, but even they weren’t safe from that creature’s reach—that is, if the sailors and their old wives tales could be believed.  (After all, she was certain that creature more often found itself in the whale’s giant belly.)

Nevertheless, she sometimes felt like the Whale: powerful, strong, and great, yet not immune to her Mother’s hooked reach.

“I have enough coin to do that on my own. I’m not interested in getting married—not yet anyway.” She added as her plan to meet with Anders came to mind. It was far too soon to know if a marriage between them could be a possibility.

Regardless, any smile her Mother may have held in her voice fell and slipped away.

“Yes, I suppose you aren’t. You’d rather go out to fight criminals until you drop dead in the street. Is that what you want? For me to lose you too?” The hooked arm of her Mother’s disappointment wrapped tightly around her throat, snatching the air from her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’ve only been helping the guard,” And though that wasn’t a lie—she did help the guard occasionally—Filia and her Mother both knew that it wasn’t the only thing. Still, she didn’t have the heart to tell her what she’d really been up to: fighting Templars, Demons, and the occasional Dragon and Bloodmage.

“I-I know you worry, Mother, but I’ve been training more with Aveline. I’m good at this, so-”

“But you don’t need to do it anymore!” She put down the brush with more force than necessary and the whole vanity began to shake. “You don’t need to fight.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper, like a calm amidst the rain. “Maker knows you shouldn’t have had to before. I shouldn’t have let you. I should have kept you safe—There’s a reason I wanted this life for you, Filia. You risked too much going down to those Deep Roads, don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re capable of so much, of so much more and you deserve the best—that’s what I want for you now. After everything…” She slid a pin, and then a ribbon into her hair.

But something inside her shuttered then so she jerked away from her Mother’s hand.  ‘No!’ she wanted to scream but kept her lips pressed together tightly.

She didn’t want to be dragged and lured into the depths of her Mother’s end of the sea, a place she didn’t know or like or even cared to understand. She’d go to the balls, the concerts, and the parties—but Filia could never change for her, she wanted to be free—if only in this.

And as she turned her head up to look her Mother in the eye through the mirror, Filia thought she saw a hint of guilt in Leandra’s tired gaze. It was only after a moment she noticed her hair.

It was perfect—pinned up into a thick, charming braid that rung her head like a halo, a red ribbon strung through the loops like a cascading wave.

And that’s when Filia realized: her Mother hadn’t turned her into a Lady, not exactly, she’d turned her into the girl she used to be; the one who loved balls and dresses and lace— the girl her daughter could have been had she not run away with her dashing apostate.

Did her Mother regret the life she’d given her? Regret running away? It hadn’t been the life she expected, but they were comfortable, warm, and happy.

Filia wasn’t sure if she’d ever find the answer to that as she lowered her head to look away.

She was strong, and feared, and powerful—she could do much more than her Mother was willing to believe but Filia didn’t have the heart to keep fighting.

“…I know.” She told her, and the resignation weighed her down like the crushing force of the sea—yet she knew she’d find a way to keep swimming.

Her mother may not understand her, but she only wanted the best—to protect her now with dresses and social grace so that she may spend the rest of her life in quiet luxury, safe behind these walls with no need to put on her armor and fight.

Would she have been happy had she grown up in a Hightown Estate? Could she have lived her life without having known Aveline? Isabela? Merrill? Varric? Fenris? Anders? The thought made her heart wrench and sink deep. (She very likely would have met Sebastian, however. He was, after all, a Prince around the same age as she.)

She could hardly imagine it now: A life with carefully chosen friends, with a carefully chosen husband, with carefully bred children, with carefully chosen traits.

And if she did meet a man like Anders? Would she have fallen for him? Even considered becoming his friend? Or would she have disregarded him completely?

Questions formed and formed and formed in her mind and for a long time, the only noise between them was the sound of the brush combing through the tips of her hair.

“…There you are.” Leandra smiled, sliding in the final pin. “You’re so lovely.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You’re welcome.” The scent of her perfume lingered like a ghost as her Mother walked away.

But with the sun now completely set with no traces in the sky, Filia had no time to dwell or waste time.

She took her Mother’s brush and returned to her bedroom swiftly, closing the door behind. And as she sat before her own mirror, she pulled the pins and ribbon from her hair—it would never fit into her helmet this way and if the night went as well as she fantasized, the style wouldn’t last anyway.

She’d find a way to work this out tomorrow. Tonight, however, she’d swim free.

click here for the filanders kissing outtake

#fhawke #hawke #leandra hawke #handers #fhanders #filanders #filia hawke #filia art #filanders art #things i write #this is the full version of the hairbrush wip i wrote a while back #fic fridays #yall thought i forgot #but im feeling better and i really wanted to post this

[whatroughbeast-blog1]

chatzy thread #2 -- loose lips

Date: April 26th, night of Shibah’s event Location: En route, inside of Satan’s car Featuring: @whatroughbeast & @motherofabominations

It was a short drive to Gloria West, Satan kicking out the driver of the car to take the wheel himself for once. The promise of time spent with Babylon never came with a clear time constraint and the last thing he was interested in was a hapless human tagging along on what was beginning to look like a vastly more interesting evening than anticipated. Parking in front of Babylon's building, Satan pulled out his phone and shot off one more text -- 'Afuera'.

The ding of her phone brought Babylon out of her reverie, makeup brush clanging loudly as it was dropped onto the vanity. She knew the sender was one of two people but still she couldn’t help the small smile that graced her face at the name flashing on her screen. Tossing her phone in her bag without bothering to reply, she exited the apartment and slid into the passenger seat of Satan’s car only minutes later before cheekily giving him an appraising look. “Not bad but you’re still no Antonio Banderas.”

Satan gave her the same brisk once-over, expressionless until he turned to pull out from the building, a small smirk then quirking at the edge of his lips. "I always knew you'd clean up well," he quipped back, glib, "Not bad yourself, Babylon." A severe underestimation. “You don’t look the part for ‘art therapy’, though. Is Crowley really convincing enough for you to lower yourself to this little shindig of Shibah’s?”

“I cannot believe I’m actually saying this to a man, but never underestimate the allure of a beautiful woman. And Crowley…” Babylon paused for effect, letting her words trail off before continuing once more. “I find her to be quite beautiful.” The admission was an easy one to make, even if she was playing up her relationship with the female demon quite a bit – the two were hardly the best of friends. “If I truly didn’t want to go, I wouldn’t. But as long as we skip the sharing our feelings with strangers portion of the night I don’t think it'll be that bad.”

Satan snorted derisively, all but rolled his eyes at the mention of Crowley – juvenile, unimpressive, just like the majority of the rest of Lucifer’s demons. Well... he glanced sideways at Babylon perched in the passenger’s seat, as beautiful as he knew her to be deadly. There were few exceptions. “Please, where’s the gain in it?” Satan replied disdainfully, the event already filed away along with everything else he dismissed for lack of personal benefit, “We’re on the verge of a monumental shakeup of the very fabric of our universe and Shibah is setting out artisanal cheese platters.” The fingers of his left hand had set to drumming at the steering wheel, hovering behind another car before swerving into the next lane with a sharp jerk and little care for the driver slamming on the brakes behind them.

Even when they seemed to be unable to agree on anything, Babylon wouldn’t have preferred any other companion in that moment. Instead of defending the younger demon, she rolled her eyes in kind at Satan’s antics; there was little point in trying to change the mind of the pig-headed man. “Those artisanal cheese platters are going to win her the love of the crowd. I’m not sure how helpful it will be to have a few extra humans on her side but if her tactic is to kiss ass all the way to Heaven then I say let her waste her time and watch from the sidelines as she crashes and burns.” – As the car jerked slightly, Babylon spared the cars around them only a brief second of concern before the feeling was washed away, exhilaration taking over. Had anyone else been in his seat, the loss of control she felt at the reckless move would have been enough to send her spiraling into a horrible mood, but knowing it was Satan instead made it feel almost like a game. “Speaking of crashing and burning, try not to kill us before I get my hands on whatever fancy ass-kissing alcohol Shibah managed to serve tonight.”

“I intend to.” Satan couldn’t help the grim sort of smile that settled at his mouth at the thought of Shibah’s inevitable fall. There was an irony to it all -- he had no doubt Raziel would be more competent on the throne (perhaps even a familiar brand of cruel, if he was intelligent enough to recognize what the position truly demanded), but Satan didn’t want competence from whichever angel managed to claw their way to Ascension. He wanted an easy kill. Getting rid of Shibah, even as a God, would be far from a challenge. “Either of them would’ve taken their spot already if they were capable of it.” The demons may have been sent to LA to delay the Ascension but Raziel and Shibah’s combined impotence seemed to have done the job for them. “Their throne is not what I’m concerned with.” Babylon’s last comment turned the smile to a toothy grin. “But don’t worry,” Satan soothed, the affect rather spoiled by his steady increase in pressure on the gas, “I’ll get you to your therapy session in one piece.”

“I hope there will be popcorn to set the scene.” Her smile, while not as pitiless as Satan’s, held no less amusement. “Raziel does know what is needed to perform the ascension; capable or not it can’t be much longer until he makes his move. Of course I’d be just as happy if the role remained open.” She had already chosen which Angel she'd give her support, but the last God had left a bitter taste in her mouth; one which five hundred years later still remained. Babylon didn’t bother to hide her emotions unless she wanted to be more discreet whereas her companion was much more akin to a steel wall. She never truly knew what was going through his head, could only rely on her skills at reading people to help her guess and even then there were times she didn’t even come close. She wanted to focus on the speed of the car, of the recklessness of the driver paying far less attention to the road than he should be, of the grin of said driver. But she couldn’t, not when she had a riddle to crack, to find out the meaning behind his words. “Perhaps we should be talking less about them and more about what you plan to do. Lucifer is no idiota, he knows no one can do your job as well as you. He just… needs to be reminded of that.”

Satan’s lip curled at the idea of the throne left empty; candidates incompetent or not, the idea was unnatural. Then again, he thought with a flash of familiar invigorating bitterness -- it never should have been vacated to begin with. “Sooner rather than later.” He shot back, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, “The angels have spent enough time twiddling their thumbs, waiting around for the end of the world.” Her next words were the ones that actually stalled Satan for one long, curious moment. She was there in LA for a reason, because of his choosing her and it had not been choice without a purpose. But he wasn’t a fool either. Babylon would always be tainted by Lucifer’s patronage no matter how their relationship had changed into something closer; he wouldn’t fool himself into believing she had had a sudden change of heart where the usurper was concerned, her sympathy not withstanding. Still, Babylon’s choice of words appealed to that deadly confidence of his, that certainty that the past few weeks had only solidified -- a reminder was exactly what Lucifer was going to get. “Does he know that?” There was no questioning lilt at the end of that sentence, she didn’t need to answer, “I think there’s many, many things Lucifer doesn’t know.”

She took note of his tightening grip on the steering wheel, arms being pulled taut in the process. A classic move of someone tensing up – had she struck a nerve? “It’s hard to believe we originally came to Los Angeles to prolong the very thing that’s almost here.” At his next words she found herself huffing in response – an eye roll accompanying the gesture. If you asked her, it didn’t feel like there was much of anything being done by either side in regards to stopping the ‘end of the world’. “They’re like lost little sheep without their leader, I almost want to take them home with me and adopt them all.” And given the opportunity, she would. For all her bad-mouthing, she didn’t despise the Saints, just what they stood for and who they used to serve. Besides, as useless as she found them at the moment – she was smart enough to know that it was temporary as they gathered their bearings. “Of course he knows.” Rhetoric the question may have been, she was compelled to answer anyway, the need to defend the one person in her life who had never let her down flaring up. “Why would you say that? Lucifer knows what he needs to know, anything else is inconsequential.” She turned in her seat, body now facing him, locking her pleading gaze onto his. It was her turn to ask a question that needed no answer. “He’s a good man, the best I’ve ever known. Why do you always question him?”

Almost here, Satan snorted, his expression mirroring Babylon’s own derision for entirely different reasons, the two of them a matching set for just a moment. “I’ll believe in ‘almost here’ when it actually happens. Until then - ” Another sharp turn, away from the congested main roads, “- we’re not relying on darling Raz to make things happen.” The next red light he actually stopped for, frustration in broad strokes across his face when he caught Babylon’s eye again -- rigid and front facing in contrast to her body language as she made her appeal. “Why would you defend him?” He demanded from her, low and seething with frustration, “Because he’s so good? Now, that’s the trait we all look for in our Devils, isn’t it?” The light flickered to green again and their car did not move, Satan matching her pleading gaze with his own heavy unforgiving one, heated by an anger that bypassed her entirely. “Lucifer stays squirreled away in LA playing at doing my job; the only thing he’s ever done for you is elevate you long enough to die with the rest of us as long as he’s allowed to keep up the charade. There’s your goodness.” There was a moment of furious silence before Satan faced forwards, punching the gas once more as he pressed his lips into a taunt smile, nearly a grimace. “Lucifer doesn’t know anything. Do you think I’m the only one who sees through him?”

How long had they been driving? With Satan’s penchant for speeding, it felt like they should have arrived long ago – or was the heaviness of the conversation making time seem to drag on? In any case, she was ready to get out of the damn car. She ignored the comment about Raziel for now, not interested in opening that particular can of worms just yet. She had mused that Satan was a steel wall but that wasn’t entirely true; while his intentions were mostly a mystery to her, he did little to hide his negative emotions – perhaps, she thought to herself, he just didn’t care to hide those. Car stopped, gazes locked, it felt like the two were in the midst of a standoff. “If it weren’t for him I’d be in hell, powerless and at your mercy. And we both know you don’t have much of that” A honk from the car behind them stopped her pre-rant and she took it as a sign to finish talking before she said anything she would regret. “…You’re an ass.” And it would have worked, had he not uttered his next words, her mind immediately going to the bane of her existence. “Are you talking about Belial? His loyalty is to himself. If he claims to see fault in Lucifer where there is none, it is only because he wants the throne for himself”

“I raised humans too, Babylon. Once upon a time, the few who earned it.” The serrated edge of his words seemed to lessen just a little bit -- it was far from an olive branch, but almost in the neighborhood of what could have been an insinuation of Babylon’s fate not being altogether different if Lucifer indeed had never fallen. But Satan would not come out and say it clearly now. He was too busy laughing at himself, looking back on how improbable it was that they had made it so far in their relationship without butting into this argument. Babylon had made her position clear. Exception or not, Satan would not give an inch of himself to appease her and the insult was a dull blow he barely felt. At her immediate invocation of Belial (though she had been correct), the obvious irritation in her voice, Satan tsked. “Oh, but we’re lecturing me on personal prejudices, are we?” In another place, another situation, it would have been a tease. The light of the streetlamps glinted off Satan’s glasses as they passed underneath, hiding his gaze but little else when it came to the stubborn set of his jaw. Though his eyes never left the road, he barely saw the pavement. In the moment he thought inexplicably of the disappointment of Samyaza and Satan’s next words came out cold, unplanned, “If Belial was a worry at all, it wouldn’t be Lucifer who should be looking out for him. And it wouldn’t be you either.”

"I'd like to think I would have passed the test but we both know I was nothing as a human. You'd wouldn't have looked at me long enough to see my potential-" She wanted to believe it was possible;  the naive part of herself that still believed in hope. His words seemed to hint that maybe she was wrong, perhaps he could have been her savior after all. But there was no guarantee, no way to actually know what would have happened had he been the one on the throne when she was brutally murdered for her crimes. But still, that small hopeful part of her did believe it and it was enough to ease her anger - if only just a bit. "-And I wouldn't have blamed you. But I am happy to be here with you now, no matter how it happened." The hypocrisy of her words being thrown in her face brought about a rather surprising reaction; her anger melted away to be replaced by a full-sized grin, lips pursed to keep the smile from getting any bigger. "It seems we both have issues with authority." The conversation, while having taken a rather hostile turn, was one she rather enjoyed. She wasn't prying for information exactly, but was getting far more from Satan than usual. "Tell me then, who should be?"

It took only a second for the tension in the car to dissolve all over again, at least on Babylon’s side; she actually sounded genuine in her change.The event hall appeared down the road, Satan swerving to turn into the parking lot with just as little care as he’d exhibited the entirety of the drive. His hackles had slowly gone down at the sudden twist in tone but that flush of anger still hadn’t dissipated quite yet. “It seems we both do,” was the only response Babylon got as they pulled up to the curb. There was a short pause, short enough to think, not long enough for a return of what common sense was left. “I think..” Satan began, finally turning his head enough to capture her gaze again, near conspiratorial, “.. you might find that position you’re after opening up sooner than you think. Belial has set his sights higher.” Theirs would not a combined effort; this was not another attempt side by side with [i]Samael[/i]. Belial had said it himself, that partnership was what had condemned Satan to failure the first time and set him underneath Leviathan’s blade. He didn’t plan on making the same mistake. “After all, there’s more than one fallen angel holding court where they don’t belong.” 

Though they had arrived at their destination, Babylon made no move to get out of the vehicle. She wasn’t sure if the conversation would continue once they left the bubble of enmity that had been created – mostly on Satan’s part, he was much more prone to feelings of anger and annoyance than her. And she found this was a conversation she wasn’t keen on leaving just yet. “Are you a apart of this little usurp of his?” She wasn’t sure what to think of his words, of just how high he meant Belial wanted to rise; after all going after a Prince’s job was a far cry from going after their King’s and she didn’t want to raise alarm where it wasn’t needed. The question however, came from more than a loyal servant trying to garner information, it came from a true and genuine concern. She had heard the stories of the last time the former King of Hell had attempted a coup and what had become of at least one of the parties involved. Satan had been lucky to not share the same fate as Samyaza, but she feared that luck would only protect him so many times, especially since he was hardly in Lucifer’s favor at the moment. Her mind preoccupied with assuring his well-being, she hardly wanted to take the time to decipher his final words. Fallen Angels didn’t come in spades but there was a fair amount – enough that she couldn’t definitively pinpoint whom he was talking about had he not mentioned the word ‘court’. It was enough to point her in the right direction – at least she hoped so. “Is that his grand plan? Go after Lucifer’s second in command? I should have known Belial didn’t have the testículos to go directly after him.”

“What if I am?” It was almost a genuine question. Babylon straddled a precarious line; if her concern was genuine rather than some artfully crafted front, it flew in the face of the loyalty to Lucifer she demonstrated at every turn. What game was Babylon playing at? Satan found he almost didn’t care -- just like the rest of them, she would have no say in what would inevitably come to pass but he was curious all the same as to what she would say to him when her ‘father’ was ripped from the throne that was rightfully his, when Satan finally took back what had been owed him all these centuries of gritting his teeth and taking out his frustrations on the mortals who passed under his cruel hand in Hell. If she rebelled underneath him when Hell was his once more, Satan would not hesitate a second to scrub her out of existence as well. The tenuous tie between them would not withhold such strain. “Would you tattle on me, Babylon?” This time his body angled towards hers as well, deceptively open, certain that her answer wouldn’t matter either way, “I wouldn’t make the mistake of asking for your alliance if I was. I learned a long time ago how useless those promises are.” And there was the final wall between them, the one that would never be eroded away. Satan’s eyes were fixed on her face, expression dead enough to give her nothing else but his words to draw a conclusion from, “Who among us knows why Belial does what he does? I certainly never claimed to.” Somewhat a lie, but he’d been critically wrong with his creation before. There could be no partnership this time. The only one Satan would have was himself. 

What if I am? And therein lied the question that Babylon was hesitant to answer even to herself. Oh, she knew exactly what the answer was but her loyalty to the one who had given her everything weighed heavily against her chest in a way it never had before. Her feelings towards Satan were but a drop of water compared to the roaring ocean that was her devotion to Lucifer but this was the weakness that had often been thrown in her face; those whom she cared about she cared about fiercely and with little restraint. Don’t give me anything to tell him, she wanted to beg, the words at the tip of her tongue but remaining unspilled. She needed to know what he knew and was prepared to get the information by any means necessary. “Alliances are only as powerful as those in them. Putting your trust in the wrong people will get you killed – I am not wrong people.” She paused before continuing, the reprieve much needed to gather her thoughts. “Belial talks a big game but he is lazy and lacks the commitment to follow through. If he does have some half-concocted plan that’s all it will be – a fantasy. Hardly information worth bothering our boss over.”

A dry smile tugged at his lips at the certainty of her words; how easy it was for Babylon to condemn Belial and then place Satan by his side. Alliance would be a strange word for what they were. No matter how far he fell, Belial could never be his equal in Satan’s eyes. “No commitment? And yet he comes asking for me to place the right weapon in his hands, not even twenty-four hours ago.” Satan cocked his head to the side, still studying her, cataloging every twitch in her expression that might betray her inner thoughts. For now, all he saw was confliction. “I told you when you first announced to me that you wanted to boot Belial off his throne that I wouldn’t interfere one way or the other. If Belial can’t defend his title, he doesn’t deserve it. But he is still my creation and you would be a clever little schemer not to forget that fact, lest you make the mistake of underestimating him.”  

“Looks like I’m due for that promotion after all.” The smugness of the words couldn’t have been hidden had she tried. If Satan were telling the truth – and she’d bet that he was, this was exactly the sort of thing she had been waiting for. It was irony at its finest that Satan would be the one to hand it to her on a silver platter. She didn’t know what he hoped to gain from giving her such information, if this was some sort of trap and she was falling directly into it; if it were about any Demon other than Belial she would take the time to investigate, but her animosity towards him ran deep enough to cloud her judgement. If that would be her eventual downfall, so be it… As long as he went down with her. “I find it interesting that you can be so callous towards him while defending him in the same breath.” The advice however, she would take to heart. If Dominic’s beating hadn’t been a reminder of whom she was dealing with, Satan’s warning was enough to bring up a memory from when Belial had first taken her under his wings, back when she found out exactly what he was capable of. She’d never forgiven him for it – and she never would.

“You’d have to earn it too.” Satan’s attention was already diverted, picking apart the figures crossing the parking lot, growing steadily more disdainful which each familiar face mounting the stairs. “I find it interesting how invested you are in Belial and I’s relationship.” There was no menace in the statement, for once. He was sliding back again, away from the concern that kept him cautious; Satan took Babylon’s claim for the title of ‘Prince’ as seriously as he had taken Renee’s warning to play nice at the Centennial. But he tried, for the moment, to imagine her in Belial’s place. The thought was entirely foreign, it was too new. There was only one change in Hell’s hierarchy that signaled a change in the right direction and Babylon was still Lucifer’s Hell; Belial, no matter how far he strayed, had seen the beginning of the Earth right at Satan’s side. Irritated by the conflicting images, he immediately dismissed them. “You’re going to be late your therapy session,” Satan said suddenly, yanking the key from the ignition and turning most of his attention back to the demon in his passenger seat, her dark eyes glowing in the semi-dark, “Flirt with Crowley, get that booze you promised me. We’ll make a better night of it once you’re done finger painting.” 

“I intend to.” The words were a mirror of his own from earlier in the conversation but held their own brand of ruthlessness; the kind that made up Babylon. “I just don’t understand what you see in him.” She felt as if she could visibly feel his disinterest begin to form – his indifference towards their conversation, perhaps even towards her. If she was such a bore, then what purpose was there to entertain her probing questions the entire ride over? Irritation marred his face for the span of a second but just as quickly his features had returned to cold neutrality. She felt like a bothersome child with whom he was done dealing with for the time being, cemented by the fact that in the next moment the car was finally turned off and he had all but excused her from his presence. Irritated by his dismissal, she stopped herself before she could once again insist that she had no real interest in the therapy part of the night - that there had been enough of it in the car anyway. “I do not need to flirt with Crowley to get the alcohol – that part will just be for fun.” Gathering her bag, she made her way out of the car, slamming the car door behind her without bothering to say goodbye; she knew he wasn’t likely to give her one anyway. In any case, their early parting was for the best since she had a text to send that was best done with a semblance of privacy.

#&&. chat thread #event: art therapy #d: april 26th #ft. babylon #whatmakesyouhahaha.mp3

[hearsaykrp]

                 Presenting — oh byul as the heron.

— info.

name / oh byul birthday / 900328 pronouns / she/her occupation / investigative journalist

— traits.

( enigmatic, stubborn, opinionated, logical )

Enigmatic When you have little to share about yourself, it sure leaves a lot of room for people’s imaginations to run amok, but consider this: it’s almost always never that deep.

Stubborn It’s the nicer word for “spoiled,” except she knows when to take a “no” when prompted. The problem? No one’s really given her a good explanation to follow up such a denial that she’s ever deemed acceptable. It doesn’t help when she’s assertive by default.

Opinionated The only times she’ll ever open her mouth and won’t shut up is when people cross the line with their assumptions about anything. Nothing gets her simmering like a flippant remark deliberately done in poor taste.

Logical Intensely grounded, be it in general outlook or methodology. She’s decisive that way, maybe too decisive. Regret doesn’t exist in her vocabulary, either—that’s done is done, and there’s no point in ruminating over what’s been set in stone.

— about.

Mama’s arrogance is omnipresent. In the soil that’s been toiled by the women before her, the proud nimbleness of their fingers tending to each young leave and tendril. A testament to how their crop flourishes without fail every year, fields of fruit that sprawl red and ripe resplendent each summer.

Mama’s arrogance is earned. What wealth that began with the first of their family has no intention of leaving them any time soon. Effort only means something if you’re faithful to its means, keep it running through the years, a steady, steady momentum that can’t afford to be disrupted.

Mama’s arrogance comes with whispers through the grapevine. That she says nothing because she has nothing to say to such lowly folk of their sort and when she does, it’s enough to strike one numb to the bone. That the meek thing of a husband she has is only one strung along of the nameless, faceless many. That the daughter of her very splitting image has a chance to make amends if they play their cards right.

Children this young are inherent skeptics. It goes hand in hand with their innate curiosity.

Byul is no stranger to the rumor mill, but she carries sense and a strong distaste for anything that has none in equal parts. She looks at Mama across the kitchen table, gold-rimmed cat-eye sunglasses sitting on the bridge of her nose even indoors, when the high noon sun hits the smooth curve of her cheekbones as so, and holds the small truth of it all close to her chest.

Like her mama and her mama’s mama, Mama’s left eye is starting to change—from the deep brown of Byul’s own to a milky, lifeless gray. It hurts sometimes, but bright lights only make it worse.

Mama doesn’t tell a single soul, so neither does she.

—

Byul’s apathy is obvious. Rooted in the nonchalant tilt of her chin angled to look straight ahead and above the rest of the crowd. Whatever bets the women of the town have placed on her character were in vain, it seems. Just like her mother: aloof, unforgiving, all ego and cruel vanity. The disbelief and awe it brings carry as much value as the way absolutely no one dares to say a thing to their faces.

Byul’s apathy is decisive. She’s a creature of instinct by design; the fact that it runs parallel to her train of logic only pure, dumb luck. It finds her other companions, pursuits, reasons to believe that these would be her formative years to remember. Her world doesn’t expand beyond these few, true commitments, tethered down by time.

Byul’s apathy is defiant. Periods of silence that last too long, and when it breaks, it shatters. A twofold catalyst for exasperation and impatience, from peers and adults alike. She writes that way, too, in sharp, observational astuteness. With sheer, provoked audacity.

Chaekyung is reluctant at first. Byul doesn’t care to change her mind. Simply lets the nature of second thoughts take their course until a second pair of footsteps eventually catch up from behind. After sundown, the school building is rendered to its basic elements, brick and glass and meaningless grievances. On a good night it’ll be spray paint. In moments where catharsis was much needed, it’s a baseball bat swiped from her Papa’s garage.

The spiel down at the police station is about as uninspired as the reasons why they’d been brought over at all. Kids being kids, only when they’re girls, it’ll only be a matter of time before they’ll be broken in proper, and that time will be over and done with. Time here doubles for money, and with enough of it tucked into the right pockets, the ordeal ends as predicted.

Chaekyung doesn’t take her chances again for a while after that. Byul carries on. She’s only sorry for being caught, anyway.

—

A woman’s resentment begins with the self. Ambition is as elusive of a concept can be, so the obsession with it is almost comical: Chaekyung’s strive for perfection, the intolerance for anything less; the other’s total devotion to some vapid pipe dream.

She defers her enrollment at Chungnam by a year to give the business one last chance. Appreciation isn’t expected here—Mama isn’t that kind of woman to dole out for the bare minimum—not when it’s a matter of paying her respects where they’re due. It ends in sullen realization. The thick of it lies in her hands, thin and dainty and anything but careful—nothing like her mother’s, or any of the mothers before her. There’s no forcing a gap to close that is destined to remain from the start, and no amount of assertiveness can fix what refuses to be done.

This brings surprise to no one, Mama least of all.

“Is writing something you love?” She asks. They’re at the kitchen table again. Mama doesn’t look right at her, finds no need to. Her right eye’s starting to go, too.

Byul drums her fingers on the edge idly. “No,” she answers. “It’s something I’m good at.”  

Mama nods. “Good.” The rest of it goes unsaid. Anything but passion.

—

A woman’s resentment grows in others.

Byul can only watch, the silence from within deafening, a call with no echo. She wishes it’d stopped there. But the whispering, it persists, festers, hand over hand and passed to the next onlooker. All that pity, conspiracy, hesitant condolences, and the insipid whines that are meant to pass for grieving. Bit by bit, they tear Chaekyung apart—girl, gone, ghost. When they’ve had their fill, all that remains of her is smoke and dissolution, her form nothing more but a haunting, left to spoil in the deep of the dark.

Contempt is something she’s always felt on the behalf of others, and only as needed. That very moment, it shifts, takes the shape of an entirely different kind of animal.

How pathetic.

From then on, there’s no looking back.

—

A woman’s resentment is neverending.

Daejeon is the right amount of removed, even well within the heart of the city. Sticking to the principle of things couldn’t be easier—remaining methodical and marking down all that’s required, meeting a level of expectations of job well done, and never rising for the greater occasion. University feeds into an entry position that promises a steady rise up the regional newspaper there until she decides a staff journalist is where she wants to sit pretty for the next decade and onward.

Mama visits every other month. She’s not alone in the habit of wearing sunglasses indoors, now. Thankfully not for the same reasons.

Next time, it’s Byul’s turn.

The Prius pulls up to the driveway without warning, but Mama’s face betrays none of the emotions that should come with the unexpected. “How long will you be staying?”

Papa reaches out from behind her for any suitcases, only to find none. Byul shrugs off her backpack, flashes him an apologetic grin before her gaze shifts to the woman in front of her. “Not long, I hope.”

For the sake of everyone, at least. Whether there’s a threat in the sentiment of that thought, Byul has yet to decide.  

Mama is silent for a moment, before she moves to the side. “I hope so, too. Come in.”

#hrs heron #hrs jung sooyeon #hrs accepted

[shutupxdance-blog]

TW: SUICIDE 

There’s something at the back of his neck. Jude’s eyes shoot open, head thrashing from side to side in a worried frenzy. The thing holds him still a minute, pressing, but not throttling. He stills, looking to side like a cat being held by the nape. It’s a hand, following a strong arm, with power, but gentleness. There is his father’s scraggly beard, his thick framed glasses, the sharpness of his jaw and weight of his tall frame- but not the tenderness of his eyes. There are clothes known to Jude on him. Their well coveted, pristine, and loved Sunday clothes, reserved only for entering God’s house. His own clothes are tattered, ripped, patched, like a street beggar. He flashes his eyes towards that sage face, but in return, only receives the wrinkles and crow’s feet that run down the side of his face. He pays him no mind, but lays the hand there. Stern faced. Stern handed. Hollow, an imitation. The gallows-walker’s breath is abated, and catches in his throat. To the father’s left is a visage as worn and old as his, pressed hair running over her shoulders, smiling lips instead drawn taught. Her tediously ironed dress looks faded. She looks onwards, chin high, as mother always did when approaching the chapel. Jude carries his head low, but the father’s guiding hand brings his sight back to level. He peeks, slowly, to his right. A boastful silhouette, solemn instead of boisterous, like the model edifice Theodore always was. Shaggy hair, covering his eyes slightly, a face ever unchanging, as Mason always had. They’re dressed the same, pressed suits or vests, clean and pristine, but aged, somehow. Like a sepia frame was cast over his eyes. There are figures beyond them, the whole communion, with vigil candles clasped in their hand, held up slightly. They are undefined faces, unknowable entities, but they come to mourn. Jude trembles, looking straight on, struggling to maintain composure. The father takes the initiative, a step forward, pressing Jude to step forward on the winding path towards the church. There’s the squelching of mud underneath their shoes, coupled with the clicking of cobblestone. The dark night air, the overcast sky, the soft drip of one or two drops on his face. He follows along, as does the remaining family members, and the entirety of the churchbodies. His teeth are grit hard enough to break, his skin, clammy, his chest, hollowing. A hum overtakes the communion, a melancholic melody coupled with a sorrowful harmony. The aria casts over them with the coming rain. The trek is slow paced, but over quickly, as if the space ahead contorted and shrank just for them, God’s children. An eternity in an instant. They stand in front of mighty oak panels. Jude is coaxed up the steps, and the doors swing open with a gust, awaiting his arrival. It’s empty, unlit, with the only light streaming through two great glass windows at the back of the foyer. The congregation files in, shambling forward like an army of corpses, presenting Jude to a tall figure: a robed priest, standing over a podium, shadow stretching across and out of the church itself. His father gently pushes Jude to his knees in front of the holy man, and all but the Huxley family sits like statues among the pews. It’s a still, oppressive, humid air, filled with nothing but silence. “Oh Father,” the gruff, worn voice of Christen Huxley begs, drenched in hoarseness and sorrow. “The Devil’s got my boy. Please, we humbly beg- cleanse this boy’s soul once again. Rid him of those sinful thoughts.”

A cough rings out. Jude tries to speak, to open his mouth, but all that comes out is a series of wheezy coughs and a few drops of black phlegm spattering the floor. The congregation swells with gasps, glancing from side to side, astonished murmurs. Annabelle sobs something fierce, rushing to the comfort of her eldest son, who embraces her gently. Theodore lacks any eyes, but Jude feels his gaze weigh down upon him. Mason does not offer any solace. The priest looks down at him, coldly. He does not dare to budge an inch under the watch of God’s eye. “I will do my best,” the man starts. Behind the podium, his old hands reach, brandishing something leather. A flog, beaded knots across each rope, a cold, unforgiving atmosphere. It rises up, a soul ascending to heaven, judgement from above. He tenses for this first hit.

“May the holy cross be my light!” It calls.

Strikes bludgeon across his face, bruising, searing like a brand.

“Crux sacra sit mihi lux!” They echo.

Cracking like lightning against earth, blood from the side of his head, out of his ears, from his nose.

“Begone Satan! Never tempt me with your vanities! What you offer me is evil.”

It seems like ages, from his head, his neck, his back, it’s bloodied, bruised, bleeding. A proper beating if any. There’s not a spot left unsullied.

“Vade retro Satana! Nunquam suade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas.”

Inert, sitting on his knees, head hung down. Not an inch of movement, save for gravity and blood. The words fade away, his hearing deafened by nothing but ringing, the words of prayer lost on him.

The priest crouches slightly after what seems like hours of lashing. It’s a deceptively gentle touch, a caress of both sides of his face, eyelids hung low, breath abating. He shakes Jude once, twice, and his family looks on, trembling themselves. The sobs of his mother are joined by his brothers, and eventually, his father, staring down guiltily at his battered form, knowing they may as well have held the flog themselves.

“Speak.”

The priest commands. He tries, Jude tries, his lungs exhausted, coughing out specs of black.

“Speak!” He can’t. The words well in his throat, sting at the corners of his eyes. Tears roll down, at last, inky and black, abyssal and unholy. It perforates his being, creaks upwards and gushes up from the floorboards, nothingness, thick, soupy, nothingness. He cries soundlessly, overpowered by the screams of the churchbodies in horror and abhorrence, the abandonment of his kin as they step back, the rejection of the priest. For once, he staggers to his aching feet, bloodied body, clothes stained with black. He runs, he runs because it’s all he can do, out the doors, with the crowd following.

“Demon, demon! Unhand our holy youth!”

It aches to move, but Jude runs like never before, the cocktail of pain and guilt overpowered by his sheer need to live. He’s never wanted to live any more that in this moment, running from the mob behind him, torches in hand. He detours, brushing past the trunks of Old Scratch’s territory: the forest. The rain hails down on him, the mud clings to his shoes. He tumbles over roots, falls to his scraped and worn hands, but never stops. Through rivers, through darkness, through water and storm.

The Huxleys lead the charge, a clamor of prayer and obscenities, of loving hands holding torches and pitchforks. Neighbours turn to hunters, family into executioners. He’s alone to rot, cutting and scraping what little untouched skin he has, wiping the tears out of his eyes. He runs until their voices become faint, until he lacks the breath to continue on. The chase ends in a clearing, where the trees criss and cross as prison bars do, gating the path in front of him, and closing off the path behind him. Nothing but grass and still wind surrounds him, the moon hanging high above his head as he collapses in the center, looking up, pleading. His once white clothes are stained black and red, lying in the center of what unfurls to be a pentagram. He’s on his knees once again, but no prayer comes from his lips. A crackling noise breaks through, like the cold nights on the stage when he tended that small flame in the company of others. He turns, alone, to a skyline of trees lit ablaze, burning like wicker and candles, smokestacks high into the sky. The stars of the night are covered, leaving only the moon as his bramble cage joins in the wake of the congregation. Their torches, this destruction, his death. He can’t hold it any longer- the tears from his eyes are unsightly and dark, but they hit the ground, flooding the grass until his trousers are soaked. It soaks into the ground, bubbling slowly, ferociously, in an area in front of him. Something curls, unfurls, billows and rises up from the ground, a figure dressed in black, forming and shaping like it’s being carved out of the liquid. It’s a flowing, wrapping robe, topped with the skull of a ram. Something distinctly inhuman and human simultaneously. He cries, and it comes closer. Jude falls back, sobbing, but it takes him in its arms, swaddles it in its body, coos something unholy. It’s fingers rake through his hair, stroking him gently, covering him from the heat of the fire. Bruised and battered, he gives in, leaning forth into its loving embrace, smelling like smoke and honey. It recedes, pulling away slowly, sticky and viscous, clinging to his right hand for a bit. The flames surround the both of them, moments away from consuming them entirely. Clingy hands soon part, leaving an object in Jude’s grasp.

A revolver.

He looks up to Old Scratch, with pleading eyes. It nods at him, kneeling down, staying with him and by his side at the same time. The flames nearly reach him. Jude realizes, in that moment that this should’ve happened a long time ago,

In the end, the moon loved the sun so much that it set every dawn so the morning could shine.

[Thanks to Airi for the art!]

#it's your funeral! #episode two #plotline