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griimreaping · 4 years

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@utternocries - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house.

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

"Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

#‘ﾟanswered » JEAN MASTERS — ❝ here the light only dies to remember ! ❝#‘ﾟships » UTTERNOCRIES — ❝ two sides of a scarred coin ! ❝#verse﹕WITCHER ► the dead they speak so ﾟ* LOUD #utternocries #alright so look this is part one #part two will get posted tomorrow because I’m trying to edit it to give it an actual endinstead of rambling for like 10000 words

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pippinpiper224422-blog · 7 years

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Life

Far away from the brilliantly gleaming lights of our tragically beautiful world is a crumpled mass of rags and dirt. Shallow breaths rattle in and out of her lungs, whistling through brittle ribs that almost protrude from bruised skin. Her hollowed eyes are shut, peaceful but for the pain that resides in the deep shadows of her skeletal face. Death runs a spidery finger down her cheek in a loving caress filled with longing and wonderful darkness. She flinches unconsciously in response, deep in her own world of whirling dreams filled with pursuing memories and fleeing futures.

Light floods between the drooping branches of a white cherry blossom tree. Thin twigs laden with beautiful blooms interlock like wizened fingers. Beneath the tree, walking upon a glimmering pool of water, is the girl. She travels lightly, her feet brushing the shining surface like a breath of cool air. Her hair floats around her, an impossible halo of shimmering silk. Her eyes are bright, wide, drinking. She laughs a child’s laugh, smiling in her innocence as off in the distance a woman appears.

The woman is slender, but not thin. Elegant but not haughty. Perfectly and amazingly equidistant. Her face shines bright in the reflection from the water, golden as though bathed in sunset. She strides across and kneels before the girl, tracing a delicate finger down her cheek in a loving caress, a mirror of her counterpart. Smiling, she holds out a hand for the girl to take.

“This is my first face,” she whispers, leaning so close a curtain of hair falls across the girl “the face that the ignorant chose to see. Watch, as I show you your last truth.”

The world rotates. The girl is no longer a girl but a spectre, watching her own world from afar. Before her lies a house, crooked windows lined with jagged glass grin at her as she is tugged irrevocably forwards. At the doorway she stops and watches. Lying in a pool of blood is a boy, his chest rising and falling in massive, heaving sobs. His face is painted in the purpling colours of anger, drink, and regret. Tears streak the dirt matting his skin, leaving gleaming white trails in their wake.

“This is pain, my second face. It is is everywhere, it is everything.”

The boy slowly heaves himself up, fighting against the hard stone floor until he is standing. He casts a startled glance about him, hoping with all his miniscule might not to see a pale sliver of face leering out at him from the dimness. With one last look he stumbles off, white fog drawing around him as he exits, like great curtains being drawn at the end of a final act.

The world shifts again, sliding to another in a whirl of dreary colours. It stops.

“Watch, for now, I show you sadness.”

There is a girl, sitting alone beneath a beautiful tree with thick and spreading branches. Green light filters down upon her, settling with a merry glint on a thick leather bound book. Stepping forward, a glimpse of the contents can be obtained. It is covered, simply and effortlessly, in an angry scribble of thick, powdery lead. Her pencil works furiously, as she pens all her feelings into one page of overwhelming blackness. People stalk about her and her tree, looking as faint tears trickle down her cheek and plunge off the edge of her chin. They keep walking, leaving her to her misery as they circle her in bright colours and cheerful babble. Never, among so many, has she been so alone. One solitary tear falls onto her book, leaving a blackened trail in its wake.

The world spins out, shaking as it does. When the scene settles the girl sees a small, rundown house, almost exploding with life and colour. She stumbles forward, weary now, shrinking away from what she knows she must do. She arrives at the door, and takes one miniscule step onto the earthen floor. Chaos meets her. Children scream and fight at the edges of her vision, filling the hut with an unbearable racket of noise and motion. At the epicentre of this bursting scene is one thin woman who seems almost paralysed from fatigue. She stares about her with dead, gaping eyes. Her hair, carried by the many drafts, flies about her lined and weathered face. On her lap is a small child, barely a toddler, weeping for food and compassion that has never existed. All her children are dirty and unkempt. Thin, yet wiry, from hard days labouring in destitute fields filled with grain that perishes as soon as it is seeded.

“I present hardship to you, remember this.”

With a rattle the universe shifts once again, and despair shows its face. A bang, and misery takes a bow. Again and again and again, till each change is simultaneously welcome relief and tortuous experience. She closes her eyes, baring her teeth in an unending scream of pain. Wind whips around her, shaking her clothes and snatching at her breath. She trembles in the terrible cold, and fails in the baking heat. With a rebelling tongue she cries out for relief, but none comes. She falls into a whirlwind filled with the biting grit of broken lives and torn dreams. It claws around her, building and breaking, until, with an unprecedented suddenness, it stops. Slowly, she opens her eyes, blinking at the gentle sunlight. She climbs unsteadily to her feet, hardly daring to hope or breathe, and sees a kite, pure white and shining in the sun, float shyly over a copse of trees. She stumbles forward upon trembling legs, feet sinking into a soft carpet of emerald moss, until she emerges from the dappled shade and falls out onto a soft field of swaying grass.

Above her is a small slope, its edges kindly and soft. Topping it is a young child, dressed in the deepest of blues, and crowned by the most vibrant of blonds. The grass curls about the his ankles, somehow seeming to lift him away and draw him closer in the same instant. A rich golden sun sinks behind him, framing his outline in gentle oranges and yellows. His face is upturned, gazing skywards as his kite circles the faint traces of growing constellations. His gleaming eyes wink and shimmer merrily, reflecting the hovering phantom-like kite above him. He twitches the rope and watches with a smile as it dances in response. There is a growing whisper next to the girl, building like a wrathful kiss upon her cheek. She doesn’t turn. In her eyes she beholds the boy, his image burning in her mind.

“And here is hope, at last. Never forget this, it is pure, happy, kind. It is the one thing you can hold onto without it dissolving, snapping, shifting. Never forget.”

The clouds float gently from the sky, melting the strong edges of the boy. Stars flow in gentle streams to the ground, tinkling merrily through the atmosphere. The sun winks, takes a bow, and sinks behind the friendly hill. Soon nothing is left but the white of dreams and the black of nights.

Hollowed eyes drift open, cracked lips part in a peaceful grimace. Her upturned face surveys a cloaked figure surrounded by long wraith-like tendrils of cloth. Whites and greys intermingle beneath a midnight hood, shining brightly within their damning confines. An omnipresent cold filters through the room, stripping all within it bare. She stares, a smile in her eyes, and outstretches one, small, steady hand. Death laces his fingers through hers, white bone against grey flesh, and gently pulls. She follows willingly, leaving her aching body behind, allowing her last breath to glimmer and die in the winter air. She closes her eyes gently, knowing that this is her last moment among men. When she opens them, soft light filters through the drooping branches of a cherry blossom tree. She runs beneath it, and among the roots, glimmering in a pool of water, she sees a small, beautiful kite.

#short story #death #life

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