#(only places it couldn't be for her are boston - ny - dublin - stockholm - london - venice)

[softersinned-arc]

@denieddeath​ / plotted starter.

Run. The voice echoes around her just like it did the first time she had the dream. The dream was the reason she came out here, anyway — too curious for her own good, not so clever as she liked to imagine. Astoria does as she’s bade, and she runs, and she runs, and she runs, the gravel kicking up under her boots, a sharp pain in her chest with each ragged breath she draws. And then the voice speaks again: Hide.

          The first time she had this dream, she kept running. She kept running, and running, and every time it caught her, claws sinking into the flesh of her back, tearing her apart. But this time she hides. This time, she takes a sharp turn, nearly collapsing as she does; there’s a mausoleum, the door ajar, just out of reach, and she bolts towards it and pulls the door closed with all her strength, latching it shut. It shudders and shakes as it throws itself against the metal, and Astoria raises her shaking hands, tries to summon some kind of power, something, anything...

          But it’s no use. The door dents and Astoria ducks behind a small stone bench but it’s not much cover, not really. The crumple of metal is sickening, and so is it’s screech — the thing is pure white, except for the blood dripping from its claws and mouth, and the black of its eyes, and it looks like once, it might have been human —

          — it lunges at her with a scream, pins her beneath the upturned bench, its breath smells of blood and meat and rot and she tries to fight back but her ribs are broken and she can’t find the power to summon to her hands and it raises one of its own to tear her open —

          — and then there’s a flash of light.

          And then there’s nothing.

          And just before she loses consciousness, she realizes that this time, it’s not a dream.

She wakes with a start, and she tries to sit up but the pain in her side sends her back down; she’s on a sofa she doesn’t recognize, in an apartment she doesn’t recognize, in a city she barely knows. A trip — for her birthday, for research purposes, it hardly matters now, because she’s lying on an unfamiliar sofa in an unfamiliar apartment and she’s trying desperately not to vomit from pain or fear or both.

          A cursory glance down tells her that she’s still dressed, and carefully, Astoria peels her shirt up to look down at her abdomen. There’s already a nasty bruise forming across her side, and when she presses down gingerly, her fingers glowing black as she does, she feels at least four — no, five broken ribs. Her head is pounding and she’s thirsty and she’s hungry but if she’s going to do anything she needs to be able to move, and so she summons what power she has to her hand and she gently urges the pulsing shadow from her fingertips to the skin of her abdomen, underneath the blood and to the bone, and she feels her bones knitting together again. When she’s finished all she has to show for the injury is the bruise — smaller than it was but still nasty enough that she’ll have to finish the job once she’s got some food in her.

          Wincing, Astoria stands and lowers her shirt. Someone took her shoes off, and the carpet is plush under her feet. The room looks anonymous — a hotel room? A safehouse? A lovingly decorated room by someone whose idea of interior design is soullessness? — beyond a handful of items left on a desk, and Astoria approaches cautiously, hand extended to feel for any web of magic she might need to avoid.

          At the center there’s a book, leather bound and old — a bestiary, according to the title, and Astoria gingerly opens the cover and flips through the pages. A Victorian reproduction of a medieval text, she’d guess, judging by the quality of the leather and the paper, and magically preserved. Beside that is a necklace, and Astoria pokes at the chain before leaving it be. And a half-burned candle — and when Astoria leans forward and sniffs, she’s pleasantly surprised by the intertwined scents of lavender and bergamot.

          The silence is broken by the creak of an opening door. At once, Astoria moves, and she positions herself near the fireplace as she picks up a wrought iron poker and holds it loosely in her hand, ready to drop or to swing as she waits for the new arrival — captor or savior, or perhaps both.

#denieddeath #thread: denieddeath002 #(it's been YEARS we finally gOT IT i'm so excited c: ) #(we can put em in new orleans if u want! i just didn't want to assume a location) #(only places it couldn't be for her are boston - ny - dublin - stockholm - london - venice) #(she'd know those cities too well) #(otherwise i'm down for anything)