Post by Joliette Thorne on Aug 27, 2008 8:15:10 GMT -5
I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!
-- Alice
-- Alice
On a cot in the corner of the room, a mound of black cloth stirred now and then, gurgled a breath now and then. The trail of blood that slicked a path from door to stairs, along the hall and leading here to her resting-place, was left to dry; Steadman had other things to see to. So, she wasn't hard to find. Only hard to see, with her cowl drawn tight as her shattered body let draw it, in the end becoming merely a loose tent below which she might evade the eyes of others. She’d wanted no pity, no observations or polite dis-acknowledgement of her ruined beauty. Tenebrae was dying, or so it felt, and slowly grew cool, her flesh chilling for lack of stolen heat.
Caeryph had given up really. Yes, he hated this place, and as much as he made an oath to himself each time he left- that he'd never be back- he always found himself confused within the walls. So really, no point in trying to fight it anymore. She told him this was to be his den as well, away from the wolf pack that he so dearly would have rather been with right now. But well, so far all he'd seen was Sophie and Deila, one of which was -always- at one point or another found here. If they wouldn't stay out there with him, he'd just go to them. The man kept low to the ground; hand kept his face supported inches from the small trail of blood that led down the hall. It was the first thing he had noticed as he steped out of the Vixen's den, and of course led him to think that it perhaps led to another platter of raw meat for him to devour. He was wrong, it only led to the torn and battered vampiress resting on the cot. He remained crouched there, half of the blanket pulled back, gleaming topaz eyes were the only thing seen as the damage was survayed. He pulled his hand back, the sudden realization of who..what it was stuck him; that other member from the pack- his 'second' pack.
Tenebrae would not -- because she could not -- recognise the lycan's presence. She was far from her body, in a field, picking daisies, by the time Caeryph arrived. A low voice spoke to her, a soothing voice, reassuring. But what it told her was that Fate had finally run ahead, and won their long, long race. The child was blinking wide, green eyes, understanding little of what was said, only sensing that it was at once something tremendously sad and triumphant. "But I only ran a little way, across the field..." On the cot, the sack of flesh and agony that remained of the vampire stopped shivering in pain, and then because she no longer felt the chill of her own body cooling, or anything much at all.
Again, those golden topaz eyes continued to gleam in the low light of the room, lids narrowing back to give off a rather serious demeanour. Muscles didn't tense up, nerves did not go high strung, nor did he grow the least bit wary. It was obvious she wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. Now he was faced with a simple barrage of questions; does he leave now, does he go find help..does -he- try to help? On every other occasion, sure, he'd have just left to be on his way, but the tides were different now. She was a part of that other pack Creature told him about… the one she -told- him he was in. Did he now have to treat these 'people' like pack… to serve and protect? It made sense, just felt weird. He paced back and forth, in the calmest of manners, and thought to himself, Go get help- from who? He wasn't going to bugger up to these strangers. Help himself- by doing what? Lick her wounds? No, her blood was pain to him. Worthless really, he couldn't do much anything at all. So he sat. Something else would come up, surely.
From the cot would come a sluggish drip, which grew slower with each passing minute. And nothing more.
Giddy, the man bounced along the cobbled streets of Vailkrin, to head to the one place he figured he would know people: the Hanging Corpse Tavern. Upon a hop, skip and a jump entry, however, the scene was not one that he had been prepared for. Even that deluded mind of his, where flowers sang and the sun shone eternally, could not keep out the horrifying splay of brilliant blood across a pure canvas. Struck to the core of his nerves, mind, and emotions, he was left as is: Simply Wren. A moment of clarity, and a little voice at the back of his head told the poor guy to follow that line of evidence. A room never opened to him before was suddenly sprung into view, heavy door jolting on its hinges as he raced-- full-tilt, brave, without consequence of actions-- into the place the masters did their thinking. What the human saw was enough to make even the most brash of men stop dead in their tracks...
There was a werewolf, sitting by a cot, a confused perk of ears and sag of tail. There was the cot, low and occupied by a lump of black cloth, below it a darkening pool of blood with the occasional drip to refresh its sanguine centre. There was a dying vampiress, wounded beyond any wounds she cared to remember, who now, somewhere in the reaches of mind or spirit, was a small child standing in tall grass, holding the invisible hand of someone not wholly imaginary nor wholly a friend. The smell of blood and bruised flesh was cloying, the scene a remnant of a worse one in the days immediately prior. And, with the Trick reduced to nothing but a wolf's dinner, it would hopefully prove the last of its kind.
Wren stood slack-jawed, and for a long moment's time, there was naught else he could do. For once in such a long time, those dull, lifeless eyes seemed to hold something-- the brown, murky depths might have, for a split second, portrayed the vast amount of emotion held within his heart at the saddest sight he had, and likely ever would, see. The door began to close. With the quiet breathing of the watching lycan, the sound of that large metal door creaking shut played the hand that woke Wren, who's own breathing had slowed to nearly a stop. Before the door could usher him forward or lock him out forever, he took the cue-- a voice that said "In or out"-- and chose to move toward that puddle of blood. Tilting, he made it just in time before he was touched by that forcing hand. It seemed a sin to make any noise, here. Here, in this graveyard. Tip-toeing, daring not utter forth even one shaky breath, willing tears of fear and compassion to stay behind those carefully-blinking eyelids, he approached the lump of a figure beneath the cloth. Was this death already? A quick flick of his eyes stood as reassurance to do no harm, given to that companion. Gathering what reserve he commanded, the illusionist reached out and gingerly lifted the black cloth from this being's face. What horror! He couldn't help but to make a noise as a sharp intake of breath sounded his shock-- he knew this woman. This seemingly invincible woman. Wren didn't know her name, but he spoke under his breath as he leaned forward to place a hand upon her cold, icy cheek. He uttered forth consolences, pleas of life, wishes of life; he begged this woman to be alive, and tell him what to do. Like a child holding his dying mother in his arms, a responsibility far too early for such a naive being, he stroked her cheek and hair, and fought back tears-- water that would otherwise have hindered his vision, in case she were to bat even the slightest lash.
"Where are we going?" Joli gripped that intangible hand with a child's trust, not yet sullied by terrors to come. She felt herself walking through the grass, though neither it nor the wildflowers were at all moved by her passing.
"To right a terrible wrong, pet." The voice was so, so soft and warm, it made her feel sleepy. "There is one who took your place, when you were stolen away. She will need our help, in times to come. And another, stronger, who does not yet know her part, for it is new upon her. And yet one more, whose place you, yourself took, but they are far from us, yet, and loath to see things change."
The girl glanced up as though to observe the face of the one who spoke, where was only sky. "Will we be gone for very long?" She was worried her parents would be angry.
"Not long." It was a truth, by omission. After all, in a place where time did not exist, "late" or "soon" or "long" did not exist.
She was smiling, though she did not quite understand, when Joli felt something soft and warm pressing to her other palm. She'd glance down, though this, too, was some invisible being. "Stop. Stop, there's someone..."
Wren crushed both top and bottom eyelids together, hard, insides swallowing the film of tears that had hindered his sight. Oh no! Immediate panic showed on the man's face as he looked, frantically-- his face now within millimeters of the dying woman's-- to see if he had made even the slightest recognition of his presence. He said a naughty word in a voice light enough that, in case this vampiress said anything, he would be able to hear it. Nothing, still. A frantic glance for a split second only, was sent to the lycan. Wren was beside himself with worry, sorrow, and the complete inability to think-- all he could do, was constantly worry that her sign would be given the moment he chose to blink. How does one tell when a vampire is dead? First the human lowered his head so that his ear rested over the woman's mouth and nose area. He couldn't hear anything. Then, with extreme caution and a momentary feeling of sheepishness-- like he shouldn't be chancing a view there-- he slowly lifted the cloth over her chest. And stared. Did he see the cavity rise and fall, or were shadows playing tricks on his eyes? Unsure, he went for her pulse. Carefully, he turned her hand so that the back of it rested on the cot. Two fingers were pressed there, while his other hand also placed index and middle digit to her neck, just below her jawline and near her ear... Surely two points would give -some- indication, yes? Unfortunately not. Nearly squirming as he tried to retain any semblance of composure possible, utter insanity creeped at the corners of his mind when all he seemed to sense was the occasional 'drip' of blood to the floor.
There would be no true death for one already lost to life, but this particular animate corpse had a living heart; a cruelty imposed on her by her Maker for reasons she never knew, and this was what pushed the blood from her veins and through gaping wounds too large to benefit more from a starving vampire's resilience than to clot over, slowing the loss. But that heart, should it entirely stop... she had been warned of dire consequences.
However, Tenebrae was for now non-existent, and a curly-haired child stood in her place as her flesh grew colder, too weak for motion. It'd be a terrible, slow passing; but Joliette knew nothing of it, as she stared at her empty hand, at the redness forming as pressure grew, at the tug she felt.
The Other paused, as she did. "What is it?" The voice was still low and gentle, though Joli felt a ripple passing through it, into herself, and it felt like worry.
"I don't know. Somebody.. a bit like you. But not." Silence, then, and the sky above grew grey. A cold wind blew up, making the child shiver in her best lace dress. Dark clouds blustered to cover the sun, and did not smell of rain.
"There's no-one here." The voice was sharper, now. "It's not possible. Now, we must be on our way."
Joliette didn't move because she could not, and her little brow knit in a frown. She didn't mean to be disobedient. It was just that the new hand -- whoever it belnged to -- was warm and felt kind, and gripped hers so very tightly.
For the longest time, Wren felt defeated. His hand had evolved to just gently clasp the woman's-- this near-stranger's-- and his head hung low. Dirty blond hair hung in a sheet before his face, covering two eyes closed tight to the world and the horror, and shame, it housed. All he had was thoughts. The illusionist imagined pouring his warmth into the woman; she was so cold, he wanted to give his heat to her. He imagined a hearth roaring in the corner of the room, flames biting away the frost with a ferocity, lending him heat so that he might pass it on to this vampiress, through the special bond they had: clasped hands. Like a prayer, he held this visual technique solidly; perhaps the best he's held onto a real thought/scenario, since he was young. Utter determination lent him the resolve he needed to delve deeper into her body. Specifically: he was after her mind. The conscious was an odd thing; Wren felt he could find it, hidden somewhere in her brain. The human pushed hard, wearing himself out. He called out, inside; "Please, answer me! Where are you?" To him, it wasn't seeking a thought; nay, it was just as if he were searching for someone in the woods. Trudging onward, he plugged through the wood of her mind, incessantly searching and swearing not to give up. Despite being the laziest man alive, this was one thing he vowed to do: save her.
"I'm right here!" Silly man, she thought, and smiled as she squeezed his hand- for it was clearly a man's voice that sounded from the air around her. "Look, can't you see me?" The sky was darkening still, now sunk to a delirious gloom in which glowered flashes of yellowish lightning.
"To whom do you speak?" The Other voice sounded angry, now, a rumble almost as low as the thunder rolling above, though it held no firm gender. There was a pause, heavy and filled with intent, and then, "We must hurry." Something had changed, brought Time like a plague, like a curse, to this Timeless place, and the child's companion knew it, and held an understanding of it that Joli did not.
The girl herself didn't quail at the coming storm, for she was enrapt by the grass which now grew taller, thicker, more sparse around them. By the lightning's quickening flares, she could see the flowers all gone, and thick roots spreading from the base of what were no longer grasses, but saplings. "Oh.. look!" One young tree seemed to burst open, only to widen to a gnarled and mighty trunk, its branches gravitating down under thier own weight, and she'd let go one one clasping hand, to point. And it was the hand of the Other she released.
"Joliette... no!" The command rang strident through what was now an ancient forest, at something of a distance. "You must come here. It is your Fate!"
But the man's hand tugged her through the trees, and she slipped through woods aftr him like a little ghost, her dress bright as a white moth against a starless night. "What if there’s wolves?" It was a whisper, sounding over the anguished cries of the Other, more distant still. She felt sorry to leave that Being behind, like that. It had seemed so lonely...
The thought was interrupted, when a ragtag figure bumped her hard, bowling her over as it met her from behind a tree. She gave a wail of fright, not only for the shock of the stranger, losing her grip on the invisible man, and of falling-- but she’d dirtied her best dress, too. Mother would be cross! She shrank back, suddenly missing the warmth of her newest companion. "Don't hurt me." Joliette's voice was very small. Her father had warned her, time and time again-- not all wolves wear thier fur on the outside.
Harder, faster. Quick! There's little time! His heart pounded against the feeble cage of ribs as legs pumped in all their fury toward the edge of that forest. Through the canvas that gradually lessened in density, he saw that tumultuous sky. The rumbling world around them seemed to be crashing, falling, breaking apart; and there was so little time. It seemed ages. His legs quivered and his mouth lost moisture. Sweat broke across his brow-- but he had to reach her, he simply -must-. And all too late, he bumped into her. Was this the woman? Utterly confused, he stared down at the little girl he had just smacked into, her pretty little dress now smeared with the earth. Her words struck him hard. Hurt? He was here to save! "No," his voice assured her his plans were otherwise, in a tone that he tried to make soft and calming-- but try as he might, his ragged breathing sounded, itself, like a wolf's panting. "Come! There's a lot ahead. I'll guide you back..." This haphazard explanation of the intense, difficult journey ahead was coughed out, and the man struck a hand forward. He didn't wait. If he had to, he would pick up the little girl and carry her. There was too much danger in these parts; the forest seemed to darken with anger, just as the skies had outside the woods of momentary safety. It spread, this malicious intent; this pain, this maniacal damning of plans gone awry. Little did he know just how large a part he played in this weaving. Running again, now. Things vanished, to be placed with the danger around them, that he had foreseen-- imagined. Eyes glowed within the depths of the shrubbery aligning their ever-narrowing pathway to the distant -safety-. Screeches sounded, echoing in the dense forest that, at the same time, seemed to disappear at the edge of their sight. Bound and confused, Wren ran ever onward, knowing that -somewhere- in this damned place, there would be a way out. Or perhaps somewhere the world just came to an abrupt end.
Joli whimpered when the forest shook and swayed and cracks of brilliant fire flashed through the gaps in the branches overhead. But that voice! It was her new friend, the kindly man from the field… somehow, he was there, as well? She was confused, and wouldn't even try to make sense of it all, but merely took the offered hand a moment before she was lifted and slung across his shoulder. All about them, beasts gloated yellowly from the woods and she could hear them growling, closer, and closer.
Words became impossible; all the breath was shaken out of her by their headlong, rugged flight and it was only given the sudden pause the man made, an abrupt halt of motion in which they seemed, like flies in amber, suspended, that she managed to take one at all. And that breath only gave life to a terrified scream when she realised that the world had fallen away beneath them and they were plunging into a great Darkness, tumbling, tumbling through it like leaves, or scattered cards.
Joliette clung to her erstwhile saviour for grim death and tried not to think of what might happen when that seemingly endless fall... ended.