The Devil wears my Crown.
||August 24, 2020 19:16|
|Damian Veron||In the past years, stripped far away from the hullabaloo of the realm, the vagabond king had lived a more quiet, bucolic life behind the bastioned walls of his clan's fortress; indulging himself head-first in the finer, more pleasant things in life, like blood, flesh and wife. It had been quite a segue from his normal dose of murder, mayhem and madness, which though sorely missed, provided him a much needed break to rest and recover. A sort of, temporary vacation from insanity. Whoever said, there is no rest for the wicked, clearly, was an idiot.
A little knock on the daunting, engraved door, and then like a lit match thrown to gasoline, they blazed into the Hall of Elders. Crossing the threshold, a rush of cool air aroused the senses with the smell of the ancient and archaic, of power and frankincense, and misery. Death, it was death in its most primordial form. Gleaming, marble floor like nigrescent mirrors lined their step as black tendrils of smoke slipped from the dark, sinister corners of the hall to seductively ensnare around their limbs and usher them in.
Pheenyx's gaze stretched along the enormous pillars and stone archways rising up to the ceilings, mesmerized by the sight of hanging tapestries and wall murals, telling stories of ancient, glorious battles and wars of yore. The bloodshed and misery on display was like a balm to her senses. He would have sworn he could hear her purring against him, though his gaze, never strayed. Like hell's sentinels the pair of toxic gems were littered with a swirling onyx, locked ahead at the far end of the hall, the serpentine stare raking the foreboding sight.
Basilio The Elder, sat proudly atop his high throne, while the high council was seated on either side of the throne in two rows of three. Familiar faces strewn across his scaping vision. From left to right, Parrichus, Annicius, Panfilo "The Cruel", Lady Magdalena, Borges, and of course, his sire, Leonidas. As ever, a scribe sat just below them, a quill in hand poised to record the events for posterity. This was a land stuck in a time warp which refused to move. They believed in the old ways, reliving the past glories and practices, they held on possessively to their olde world and grandeur. Like a ghost waiting for one last moment to live for.
They came to a halt before them. Flames crackling atop the chandeliers above, illuminating the hall with just enough light to propagate the right amount of impending doom. Pheenyx's gaze would study intently the figures of fallen elders suspended high above the pedestal, the massive statues casting a dark shadow across the room, looming ominously over the scene below like Ringwraiths. Through the nefarious abyss of the hollowed hooded shrouds, their ghosts called to her.
"Count Basilio, distinguished high council," The butcher took a bow, slow and courteous, lethargic grace emanating from every bend of muscle and tendon. He had observed them, walked among them in silence without much reprimand to his reputable nonchalance. In the concealing veil of macabre melancholy, prowled his venomous guile of rapturous mania, "to what do I owe this honor of being summoned amongst such royalty? Well, whatever, it is, I swear, I didn't do it." The crook, the devil, with his smile all askew, roguish and flaunting a smirking revenge.
Leonidas shook his head, a helpless roll of his eyes as a low, guttural sigh slowly released past dark sanguine lips. Neck craning sideways, those sapphire pearls radiated their attention towards Basilio in almost a helpless plea to takeover. The hellion beast always had issues toeing the clan line and maintaining court decorum and this time was proving to be no different, much to the chagrin of his sire. Black, calloused nails tapped upon the gilded armrest of the throne, as The Elder's accusatory bloodshot gaze held the vampire in appraisal. The leathered skin of the ancient's face, had weathered with the passage of time over the millennia, was now frozen in reflection. The words slipped slowly from the ancient one's cracked lips, sibilant like a serpent's hiss, dark and full of venom. Hypnotizing.
"Damian... What do you know about The Kiasyd, and the discipline of Mytherceria"
|August 25, 2020 19:55|
|Damian Veron||Brooding brows cocked, teetering the arsenal that lingered beneath the surface of those stygian eyes. Ribbons of shadows and light shrouded him, draped upon the canvas of his contemplating visage. It portrayed him in a grim and ever silent intensity, held in the clench of his masculine jaw.
"Fables? Is this why I've been summoned, to tell bed time stories?" Damian's gaze crossed his sire to see the anger brimming across his countenance at his tone. If Leonidas had a heart beat, his blood would have boiled by now. Not wanting to push, anymore, lest feel the full fury of his sire's wrath, the raven haired renegade relented, going along with what he perceived to be a charade, much to his irritation.
"Alright, if you must." He sighs, and begins, "So, as the lore goes, once upon a time, one of our own, named Marconius, was found to be not the messiah, but a very naughty boy. It seems, he liked to roll around in the dirt with the faeries. Yes, filthy and disgusting, I know, but before we all collectively gasp in horror at once, there is more. During one of their, erm, let's just call them 'rituals', they apparently summoned one of the Gods of the underworld, Zeernebooch. And as one must do when in the presence of a deity, quickly proceeded to invite him for a little tryst of, um, ménage à trois."
The vampire raised his hands upwards, conceding, "Hey, now let's not be judgy here, we all have our kinks. I sure know I do, but that's a campfire story for another time. Anyways, there appears to have been some biting involved, and blood was exchanged. Faerie blood, underworld god blood, it was all a very heady concoction, and even though it might have seemed fun at the time to mix heavy drugs at the same time on a crazy night out, it is not generally advisable, as there are always, side effects. Marconius' appearance changed quickly - growing several feet taller, thinner, and even paler. His eyes changed to large, elongated orbs of inky black, his skin became a glowing chalk white, and his features took on a pronounced fae-like appearance. Hmm, talk about a bad trip."
The vampire raconteur was on the move now, slowly pacing back and forth within the scope of the elder's gaze. His gait was without the slunk of lethargy, taken with a provocative nonchalance, as he weaved and spun his yarn; the long artisan stroke of his saunter reflected in the black marbled mirrors beneath him. "Needless to say, Marconius was instantly declared a pariah by the elders and was to be swiftly executed to remove any trace and history of such an abomination which tainted our bloodline. But, all didn't go according to plan. Marconius disappeared before the guards to could get hold of him, and was never to be seen again."
Footsteps came to a grinding halt as his gaze lifted off the nigrescent mirrors to address his audience, choosing his words carefully, "There were rumors, of course. Rumors about how with the physical side effects, came unknown powers. Strange powers that gave him the ability to modify reality itself, as we know it. Abilities to absorb a victim's mind, to steal their memories and knowledge with a tenebrous stare. He called this secret discipline Mytherceria.
It is said to have driven many a victim to babbling madness or in a permanent catatonic state. There were also rumors that Marconius can transfer his curse, his gift, through his Embrace. And thus, created his own bloodline of abominations in process, called the Kiasyd. There has never been any proof to any of this, of course. All there is to it is hearsay and village ghost stories. So, what is it? From what I am aware and care, this is all just a made up bullshit cautionary tale, to keep our clan members from ever venturing out and 'spoiling' our pure bloodline with another race or species."
There was silence then, and in silence The Elder appraised the vampire. Cold bloodshot eyes that prolonged their grace in brooding pursuit, lacking the humane twitch of a blink. They watched curiously, threateningly. There was no mercy he gave him now more than the moments of thinning patience, fingernails gently tapping away on the armrest stone to some macabre tune. The sardonic drive of the ancient one's sultry lull would then purr darkly into the reverberating shadows, visceral and chilling,
"You would be wrong."
|August 26, 2020 19:40|
|Damian Veron||Ravenesque brows furrowed in confusion and curiosity, a deluge of questions swimming within the midnight pools of acerbic cynicism. His features were quick to change, like the restless sea. That listless defiance cradled in the lines of his countenance, obsidian stones burning with a brooding ambiance; unable to hide the intrigue which now stained the walls of his anchored thoughts. There was movement in his peripherals, catching the sight of Leonidas slowly moving towards him as the elder continued to speak.
"Unfortunately, we cannot deny the rumors, they are very true. We have been hunting for Marconius for over two millennia now, and have failed every time. His sightings have been few and far between, appearing once every few centuries. He is supposed to keep a small family of Kiasyd, making it easy for them to move about without attracting attention and live in secrecy." A dark scowl took over the elder's face as he leaned forward, his voice turning grim, "Every assassin we have sent to hunt him down, has never returned. The last one, over two centuries ago. His body was never found, and Marconius and his family disappeared again. For over two hundred years, there was no word. Until tonight."
Leonidas handed the vampire a black manila envelope, his fingers quickly shuffling through its contents to reveal the pictures and letters written haphazardly by the clan's seekers spread around the world. "A witch's coven was attacked just outside Strasbourg last night. All their memories and knowledge stripped from their mind leaving them catatonic. This is their work, Damian. For all these years we have failed, but fate has given us a chance again. We cannot fail again, and now the burden shall fall upon you to ensure history doesn't repeat itself. This has been your home, your shelter for whenever you have fallen, and now is the time for you to pay your debt."
Pheenyx would move to object but a quick hand would raise to hold her in her tracks, his motion subtle but assertive. Now was not the place, nor the right time. Virulent gems bleeding acrimony would turn upon his sire, seething silent rage held neatly behind the composed pallor "And you agree to this?" Behind the callous tenor, there was pain in the voice, a somber tone of soldier rebel being sent to his grave. They will make a martyr of him.
"My hands are tied, Damian. You have to do this." The vampire could see the helplessness etched clear in the cerulean eyes of his sire, his strained stone-like visage hiding the concern it held for his childe, too well. Moving closer, Leonidas slipped his hands under the vampire's steely jawline and pulled him closer, staring hard and deep into his eyes so he understood the deep gravity of the situation as he whispered the last words, "There is no choice."
Those abysmal halos of madness didn't stray as he tore his sire's hands off his face, and pushed away. Heartless, loveless, starved for calamity and chaos alike, the brazen stretch of his unraveled body now in full view of his audience took an exaggerated bow, "Your wish, my command." A tip of an invisible hat, and the Machiavellian devil pulled his composure to that of a gentleman sly. Biting back a husky chuckle, the vampire only smiled all the wider, a vulgar fire lingering in the hostility of his flaring, impassioned stare. "My lords, lady... It's been a pleasure."
And with that, he was off, Pheenyx's hand in his, moving out with the same blaze they had entered these hallowed halls. Striving now for the scarlet horizon that lied in ribbons at the end of the world, he feared nothing, fecklessly free but for the bounds of his coveted nobility and royal siege, a killer and a thriller of the roman passion.
Seven devils all around you
Seven devils in your house
See I was dead when I woke up this morning
I'll be dead before the day is done...
|August 27, 2020 19:56|
|Pheenyx||Don't fret precious, I'm here
Step away from the window, go back to sleep.
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils.
See, they don't give a fuck about you ... like I do.
The course fabric of the armchair was offensive against her bare skin. She was cradled deep in the recess of the seat, pliant limbs tucked casually beneath her. My dreaming devil, how peaceful the mask that conceals the chaos beneath. The repetitive dissonance of teeth grinding in solicitude sounded as her jaw rested in the cup of her palm. Fire eyes, accustomed to the pitch-black nature of the suite, combed over the dormant leviathan in the king-sized bed a few feet away. He didn't move; never breathed. He was a marble statue, eyes shut tight in respite. The only gentle facet about him was the way his obsidian locks fell across his forehead while he slept.
After an impossibly long moment, Pheenyx's gaze shifted to the clock on the nightstand. 1:45. Middle of the day. She watched the blue glow of the numbers absently as another minute passed.
Languidly she stood, reaching for a black sundress hanging in the armoire. With a single fluid motion she slipped the garment over her head and dipped her toes into matching sandals. She then kneeled down in front of him in silence and brushed away the stray hair from over his eyes. A tilt of her head in contemplation, blonde curls cascading over her bare shoulder. It amazed her the force he was when awake, but how disarming he could be when asleep. How easy it might be to slit his throat with the acerous edge of her fingernail.
She smiled affectionately.
Damian didn’t so much as flinch. Her gesture had conveyed enough and so she stood to leave. On her way out, graceful hands reached for the black manila folder and accompanying black notebook from the dresser. She slid the suite door open and then closed, listening for it to click into place before carrying on to the top deck of the private yacht.
It was a useful thing to have no affliction from sunlight. It allowed her to manage business matters during the middle of a human day, free from the opinions of those who were evernear. Not that she minded the constant of a particular iniquitous gaze but sometimes she liked it a bit better this way; autonomy, at this moment, to graze through the paperwork they’d been given and come to her own assumptions.
Pheenyx settled into the plush cushions at the bow, sunlight reflecting the radiance of the Mediterranean waves onto her porcelain cheeks. She slid black aviators over merlot jewels, kicked off her sandals and resumed the same position as she had been below deck. There was already a fresh Negroni waiting on the side table for her. This staff was to be commended. If only she'd ever deign to do such a thing. The staff are supper, yet this they do not know. Another curious curl of her pout upward.
At last, she set the envelope on her lap and flipped it open to start going through the content. Crude letters and shoddy pictures littered the inside. For as much as there was, it was pitiful; infuriating. Fucking ridiculous. She meticulously picked through the papers and offerings in the folder, sipping at the gin mixture all the while, making sure she didn’t miss anything. She needed to weave together a timeline from what little the Elders did consolidate.
After a thorough once-over of the documents, the cocktail was finished in a single swallow, set aside and her attention adjusted to the little black book. Undoing the small elastic band, she put pen to paper and began the task at hand.
We're halfway to Marseilles now. Almost a full day left of travel until we're in Strasbourg.
And he hasn't said a word.
I don't know whether to be impressed, furious or apprehensive. It's been a long time since I've seen him in this state of mind. I don't think They realize what they've done in asking this of him. And if they do ... well ... there will be consequences I'm sure. Personally, I'm hoping for the latter.
The Château de l'Île has been rented out indefinitely, compliments of LeonidAss. A driver will be waiting for us at the station. Short staff; no other guests. We'll have free reign of the grounds to carry out our research.
Tomorrow evening we'll start in the Archives at the University.
The Devil and I shall deliver the undeliverable. I refuse to be erased as all others before us have.
We will find Marconius and his lepers.
Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums.
|August 29, 2020 03:15|
|Pheenyx||"Je suis désolé mademoiselle, I'm sorry, but the Archives are only available by appointment and unfortuantely we're closing in ... fifteen minutes! Comme c'est merveilleux! You know how Fridays can be, busy and all that. I would love to stay and help, but my favorite program starts in ... une heure and Marguerite took the afternoon off. Usually Monsieur Guillaume doesn't mind if I keep the library open if a student or two are really needing to use ... l'ordinateur ... those computer things, but I just really can't, you see?"
"I understand. Is there anyone else here Madame? Or have you made sure they're all gone so you can get home?"
"Oh! Well every other Friday since it started, I announce the closing one hour early. So everyone is gone now. But if you'd like, I can make a ... em ... rendez-vous? Tomorrow? In the morning?"
"Yes, I think so. What time do you open? And where is the archive room, just so I know where to come tomorrow?"
"Ah, oui, we open at 7 o'clock. And it's down the stairs and through the lower level. If you follow the signs, you'll find it easy! Oh, and we have this beautiful key to get in there - it's an older building you are aware? Marguerite loves going in there. Maybe she can give you the tour tomorrow! Yes! See here, the key. Beautiful, yes?"
Pheenyx reached over the desk in abnormal flurry, saccharine pout disarming the senescent woman until the very end. One set of razor-sharp nails ripped the key from mottled flesh, easy as it were, while her free claw sunk deep into the wearied fold of that gray feathered skull, bringing it forward with such force that when it bounced back and off the solid oak surface, ichorous globs and candied skull skittered everywhere, no features left to be seen. Once, twice. A third time.
The chair squeaked under the pressure of the fresh carcass, unprepared for the unbalanced load. Light as it was. It tipped, dumping the spewing sack of bones onto the white tile with a thoroughly satisfying thud, saturating the cat-covered shag rug below in a beautiful merlot wave. Pheenyx brought claws to lips, sucking off the sinew and sampling her meal. Only then did she realize she was behind schedule. A sigh and flick of the remnants from beneath her nails.
... a fucking appointment tomorrow. She spun on the heel of her red bottoms, twisting towards the majestic staircase centering the Library, bringing all eyes upwards towards the crowning ceiling. But down, down is where she needed to be. Quick stop to the utility room to shut off all the ground-visible power, lock the doors, and shut off the cameras. Bloody humans. You'd think they'd get smarter - but not for their sake of convenience. The unrestrained click of her heels on the tile floor echoed into the nothingness of the massive building. It was all hers. Until 7 o'clock that was. Plenty of time to find what she was looking for.
This place is fucking worthless.
The manuscripts are gone, the indexes are washed out and all the books are missing pages. Of course they're missing the goddamn pages. Why did I think this would work? If Marconius has been in Strasbourg all this time then obviously the Seekers before us would've started in the Archives too.
I don't know what to do. I have the envelope Basilio gave us, but nothing is matching up. All the scraps don't fit. And instead of helping, D fucking took off. For a couple days! I can't imagine what the hell could be so important that he'd bail on me, while I'm finding the skeletons of his family's fairy-tales. What the actual fuck? He's going to have a hell of a time making this one up to me.
In the meantime, I'll go speak with the witches next - even though their brains are muddled to shit. Maybe I can get something out of at least one of them at the Ward.
I have to find something.
|September 01, 2020 03:44|
|Pheenyx||His artistry, will be the death of, me.
Dread breeds in the belly low, the unrequited ember of its disease sidling upwards from the pit of your gut, clawing its way up your spine, between your lungs, through your heart, and out by crown; ripping, scratching, crying for mercy, as it bears down on your resolve. There is no escape. You can't get out.
The hallways were being serenaded by the chaos of frantic rustling, frenzied muttering and feverish whispers. Things unseen by eye but imprinted by mind haunted the witches housed here. A complete and total power failure at the Ward meant the only way to navigate the labyrinthine corridors was by the depth and distance of each delicious, delirious scream.
Pheenyx raised her arms up in a slow, deep stretch, dousing herself with the unleashed grace of her newly and carefully curated Ward. The dense air, impregnated by iron and copper, intoxicated her by way of the sweet aromas of death, fear and decay. It was their misery she craved.
She slowly walked down the Cimmerian landscape, observing briefly the vacuous expression of each conscious witch. It remained to be seen why this coven had been ravaged and left to public view. A grave mistake, perhaps? That's what she was there to discover.
She stopped at a door marked number 6. Whispers from within cradled at the base of the her neck, soothing the demon within. Manic glory of a severed soul.
"shift. bend. black. hide. Hide! see. it sees! white. black. fate." The measly shell containing the broken witch's psyche sat in the middle of the floor, acting as the center of the black hole, pupils dilated to the size of peppermints. The devil called fear saturated her otherwise plain features. Lips moved in a steady gait. Broken thoughts; severed words. She was a masterpiece of insanity, and Pheenyx craved more.
She peered back down the hallway, amused at the random helpless wails asphyxiating any sense of reprieve for the tenants of this hell she had crafted. Sliding a blood-smeared master key into the lock, she pulled free the cage door and reveled in the immediate rise of anxiety from the child. No more than eighteen years of age, the girl sat motionless in the middle, blind eyes transfixed in a momentary state of clarity on Pheenyx's entrance.
"not againnot aagain .. not .. no .. notagain ... black. black. black! eyes. teeth. mouth. see. it sees. fate. fate! fate ..." As quick as the sentience was there, it vanished and her mouth began uttering sequences of a fractured mind. The vampire's apathy-soaked smile widened significantly at the reemergence of psychosis.
"Hush little bird, come away and fly with me?" Mellifluous lilt washed calm over the young witch, causing another bout of paused clarity. "Come sweet darling, and tell me all your secrets." The young witch's eyes darted apprehensively into the darkness, unable to make shadow from structure, seeking out the siren that sought her.
"No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No! black. black. fate. eyes. white. black. flesh. fate!"
Pheenyx grabbed the girl by the back of the neck, lifting her by flesh and hair until she was on tiptoes, her malnourished arms tucked tight against her body rather than flailing wildly about as expected. The vampire leaned in and carved her words into the air, "Where is Marconius?" The pure animosity suffused every syllable. "Where. Is. Marconius!"
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. A loud thump as the girl was dropped back to the tiled floor. Instinctively, the witch curled up into a tight ball and rocked in the darkness. Pheenyx grimaced at the mess and left the room.
Another fucking failure.
How many witches does it take to make this vampire crazy? Fifteen apparently. Fifteen mindless, sputtering shells - and not a single one of them helped me get any closer to understanding the Kiasyd's mind-pillage. I even spent some time trying to intercept their dreamspheres but my abilities are just too weak still. I need to train more. All I could get were flashes and splintered images. Nothing that was coherent enough to understand or try and decipher. Their minds really are fucked.
I did check the documents in the Director's office before having my ... fill. It was a gluttonous feast this evening. I'm sure there will be quite the kerfuffle on the news tomorrow. I promise I didn't touch any of the witches (well maybe one, but I behaved). Just the asshole staff, which were tested and vetted before I began ... redecorating. Anyways, the admittance records show the location where all the witches were found. Someone really didn't cover their tracks well.
I'm headed home to discuss with Damian our next plan of action. I think we should go to the coven grounds, since they're all fucking nuts or vegetables currently - they won't mind ... and see what we can find there.
Maybe they were practicing something that Marconius wanted. That's how the Kiasyd work right? Supernatural Fae best practices? Hah. Sucking minds as intelligence fuel. I still don't understand why now, after all this time, they just left them to be found.
There has to be a reason.
|September 04, 2020 04:38|
|Damian Veron||In the dark, her madness shines like moonlight. It leaves me howling like the wolf.
Ides of March. 2020.
"This is where they found them."
In the catatonic stillness of asphyxiating midnight, a black Jaguar had stealthily purred to a stop in front of the vine covered wrought-iron gates. The earth quietly settling in its wake. Through the dark of the cabin, a pair of reptilian eyes scanned the desolate surroundings in scything scrutiny. Tonight, the dulcet splendor of her voice had held a sense of cold purpose. She was breathing brutality in hushed whispers and wicked incantations. Maddening, majestic, baleful sensations of a lithe coquette, harmoniously detached from the decay of morality.
Through it all, the devil had remained a portrait of composed silence. Almost, irritatingly so for the demoness. The brooding, malevolent Caesar, what tempests brew within the metallic depths of his eyes; as if he was to blink, would swallow hell itself into the abyss of his deviating ecstasy. It is within those angelic tombs of frigid onyx that hold so much damnation, and pledge the violence of sinful indulgence to the reptilian Rex Diabolus. Veni, Vidi, Vici.
Slowly, he stepped out of the car and into the cold night of the Black Forests. Midnight shadows sweeping across his form with his every motion; each one deliberate, playing a vital role in the art of nighttime illusion. Blackened nails peeling away the yellow and black barricade tapes, they climbed over the gates to land inside the walled premises. Dead leaves and dirty ground crunched beneath their feet, the mysteries of the night slowly unraveled with every step as they snaked their way through the short path that lead to the main entrance of the abandoned two-storied mansion.
The vampire's gaze swept coolly across the scene. A deathly, unsettling disquiet, thick like a blanket of fog had settled upon the coven grounds. Misery had found home here, it now lounged in silence, poisoning the earth and smiling decay. Darkness lingered all around as they stood under the clawing shadow of the large, decrepit structure that loomed over them; like a blind and hollowed monster ready to swallow them whole. Crossing the threshold, a creeping sense of dread lingered in the air. As if all happiness and solace had been sucked out from the fabric of space. It was a place of desolation, a haunted ruin where the wandering ghosts have long lost their voice. Perennially trapped in the panic of an aphonic scream.
And into the belly of the dragon, we go.
The daunting main door creaked shut behind and they were sucked into the dark void of the endless hallway. Pupils dilated, nocturnal eyes shimmered like black embers in the veil of darkness. Silently, they continued to traverse the dank, creaking hallway, spiraling their way down the staircase to the basement that seemed to be sunk into a deep sense of pestilential gloom. Ashen soot and smoke from the fire still clung to the musty air down below. The police would have searched the place clean of whatever that survived the flames, but there could be remnants, memories of the crime left behind, hidden from the mortal eyes. Great power and great violence, always leaves a trace.
And so does magic.
Dark magic. There was glamour here, a veil of enchantment hiding the things that should not be seen. Thick enough to even keep those vampiric eyes at bay, but strong enough for him to sense it. It buzzed like static in the air. "Something's not right." They were the first words to have slipped from those sinful lips all evening. Ever since the return from his sudden disappearance, the dark being had slunk into a state of quiet repose. He had turned inwards, channeling his psyche into a shrunken ball; A singularity of chaotic energy and composed rage. A black hole that devoured all that were brave or foolish enough to step into his event horizon.
He was drawn to the large charred table at the end of the room. There were shards of shattered vials and burnt bits of parchment littered amongst the ashen ruin. With a keen eye he perused the items, sniffing the scent off the broken glass. It drew a memory, a flicker of cognizance, a ravened brow rising in intrigue. "Hmm... bestial oil", his words were almost a question onto himself, brows furrowing with curiosity stark on his visage. Though, his voice had stirred something in the dark, awoken a slumbering demon, crawling silently now on it's fours through the veil of smoke still rising from the charred hardwood floor.
With each padded step it drew closer, like impending doom, creeping towards him in the shadows, sharp claws and predatory teeth on the prowl. It smelled of evil and ancient rot, for in the heart of dissonance, one wouldn't find innocence. Like a cold chill up the spine, it would brush against his feet and he jumped on top of the table with a start, "Wha' the fuck was that?!" Hackles raised, senses high on alert and adrenaline pounding his temples, reptilian eyes scanned the floor, and through the miasma and coiling shadows, two golden irises stared back at him; two golden eyes, and a Cheshire smile. "A cat, it's a fuckin' cat." He gruffed, straightening his suit jacket and stepped back on the creaking floor.
On bended knee, he picked up the black-furred feline, and she purred as he cradled her against his chest. A soft, gentle caress of a dead hand petting her crown and stroking her ears. "And who are you, mischievous prankster?" Eyes catching eyes in the knowing, a slow slink of his head and the feline mirrored his movements, and meow-ed. That ravened brow would rise again in curiosity, as if peeling away the mask of glamour, staring deep into her mind's eye. There was a silent exchange, in the currency of thoughts and subtle gestures. A dark smile would curve those lips in a moment of enlightenment, infectious and scintillating in its form. He knew why the Kiasyds had come here. What lured them out of the shadows after centuries past, what they wanted, so bad.
"The witches, they're.. Shapeshifters"
|September 05, 2020 00:38|
|Pheenyx||"Something's not right."
His words shattered her contemplative reverie, raking her skin with his somber timbre. Honestly, she wasn't sure if the beast was ever going to speak again. Hell, he still hadn't told her where he'd disappeared to over a week ago when she went hunting in the Archives. She left her notes and theories to him in written form, since conversation seemed absent on his to-do list. However, irritated or not, he had finally spoken. But she wasn't prepared for it as they skulked through the remains of the huge house. The suddenness of the syllables reverberating through the eerie basement as she followed him were left hanging in the air, as a response escaped her.
Instead, she looked more meticulously around the pit of a room, trying to sense what he was clearly sensing. Other than the disarray due to catastrophic flames, she could sense nothing out of the ordinary. What was he getting at? She watched him make his way to the other end of the large space, reaching for this and eyeing that. Still, she remained steadfast and silent at the base of the stairs, waiting for him to enlighten her with whatever it was he thought he was feeling.
There was a statement made beneath breath from his end of the room, and she chewed on a lip, crossed her arms and leaned up against a soot-soaked beam. There was so much more to the house. She decided to let him ponder in the charcoal and ash by himself while she explored elsewhere; cover more ground. It made sense. She was just about to turn and say she was going upstairs when out of the corner of her eye there was an explosion of movement, as her hulk of a husband s p r u n g on top of the table, kicking over remnants of potion making and science experiments, and let loose with a horrified shriek, "Wha' the fuck was that?!"
"A cat, it's a fuckin' cat."
Of all the things, in all the world, in all the time she'd existed, this was hands down the most hilarious thing she had, and would ever bear witness to. With a maddening ricochet of pure, genuine elation, she doubled over, eyes seized shut, mouth frozen in silent glee, hands wrapped at her waist to keep her insides from spilling out, and laughed until her sides ached and tears spilled from the corner of her eyes.
This lasted at least five minutes.
Maybe a few minutes longer.
Pheenyx grinned from ear to ear, wiping at the porcelain beneath her burgundy jewels, clearing the residue from the laughter-tears. With every passing second she tried to compose herself, and at the last moment of reconnecting eyes with this terrifying, monstrous, evil vampire she'd married, she would again find the laughter creeping up from her belly, uncontrollable and clawing for escape.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I can't help it! Oh, my little, sweet, terrible, menacing devil." The amusement lifted the mood of the air between them, seeming to wash away all the past frustrations. She finally took a deep breath in, settled onto the bottom step (because aching ribs), caring nothing about the dust that would accumulate on the back of her black denim, and smiled brightly.
The first time, in a very, very long time.
"Okay, I think I'm good now."
A small chuckle as she continued to settle down. She watched as he coddled the cat, still amused at his horror at such a usually harmless animal. But as she admired him from afar, something shifted in his visage and she canted her head slightly in question and concern. Then he spoke, knowledge dawning on them both as the words fell into the space.
"The witches, they're.. Shapeshifters"
"Shapeshifters ..." She tightened her jaw, eyes looking around the room once more and seeing it for what it truly was. Science experiments and potion mixing indeed.
"Is that what Marconius would be after?" She paused. "Of course it would be. But why? What could he be up to?" She could see his brow furrow deeper in consideration of the question, trying to silently theorize as he so often did. Before he could offer any suggestions on the matter, she spoke quietly, "It's to hide. If they aren't as they've always been appearance wise, no one would ever find them. And then the Lasombra would no longer be looking for them. They could walk freely amongst the humans with no repercussions. And we wouldn't have a clue. No one would."
"It's genius," she muttered, spark renewed. "I'm going to go look upstairs and see if I can find anything else, you stay down here and see if you can unearth any more demons." She smirked at him as he nodded, only catching the end of her sentence and glaring at her as she disappeared into darkness.
"Damian!" She called for him, unsure of where he was at exactly. She stood in an office at the end of the hall on the top floor, leaning over an expansive U-shaped executive desk. The elegant craftsmanship of the solid walnut was rare, and she did not hide her awe as she inspected the piece. Absolutely stunning.
The roof in here was half caved in, starlight and moonshade creeping in through the ceiling to illuminate the dregs of paperwork scattered nonsensically on top of the desk. The fire hadn't seemed to do too much damage to it; instead the flames seemed to shutter to other areas surrounding it. Magic?
"Too bad it won't fit in the Jag."
She pulled open each drawer, slide by slide, flipping through insignificant letters and notes. Minutes passed and her impatience began sidling its way back in. But finally, something caught her eye.
A calendar and an image.
A postcard of the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Strasbourg was paper-clipped to the left side of the month of April. Tuesday the 7th was circled multiple times in bright red ink.
The next full moon.
All magic has a cost.
|September 10, 2020 00:36|
|Damian Veron||In the kingdom of ashes and bones, night-satin slipped slowly through the hourglass of time. Slinking from room to room in the charred charnel house, his movements were akin to lacquered cogs, succeeding every inch in silent brutality. A prowling beast, feral as any monster untouched by humanity. Serpent cunning and devious fixation flickering like rabid sickness in the hollow dispassion of his dauntless gaze, he lurked through the blackened hallways and charred remains; a ghostly spectre. Though, it was the ghosts of these ruins that spoke to him. Feline purrs and catacomb whispers caressed the senses, nocturnal nightmares left behind in the aftermath of decimation, feasting on the the scar tissue of his damaged psyche.
Drawn deeper into the pit of ruination, he follows the sound of chattering teeth and hushed curses seeking from the shadows. Serpentine movements gracefully carrying the hellish creature towards the boundless wreckage of the great hall that used to be the witches' covenstead. The astral temple of their high priestess of magic, manifested to physical reality by sheer will, now razed to the ground. A strange energy thrummed and bristled against his skin as phantom footsteps silently stepped into the hall. The flickering vestiges of ancient magic, not of this world, crackling against his fingertips and creeping up the staircase of his spine.
And the smell. That smell.
The scent of honey and lavender, spice and ripe fruit. Exotic, yet strangely familiar, as if savored in some vivid dream, or blurred reality. The essence of fine delicate blooms serenely plucked from Babylonian gardens that effused such wretched ambrosial aroma that he was frozen in his spot in contemplation. The enticement of its vapor clouding the scorched landscape of the room in choking consummation, burning his lungs and amplifying chaos in his wired mania.
Visions of recent events sealed to his memory flashed before his eyes in a frenzied blur. Faces, so many faces; the named, nameless and the forgotten, each considered and swiftly disregarded, till they all crawled back into the prison of his subconscious and only one remained. The deal-making harlot. The wily fucking imp of a sorceress. The incessant invader of his dreams. No. No, no, no, no, no. Impossible. It couldn't be. 'fate. fate! fate! fate! fate..' The hysterical mutterings of the stupefied witches as recited by the demonic Goldilocks now resonated through the tempest of his mind. The word, it made no sense; unrestrained ramblings of an unhinged mind he had disregarded previously. But, was it possible that they actually meant-
The hourglass shattered. Demon eyes blinked, drawn back to reality. Peeled away from his thoughts in magnetic recoil, focus shifted to the call of his firebird in an instant. Pulling himself away from the room, he swiftly followed her voice. Each step taking him farther away from the scent and easing the tribulations of his chaotic mind. He soon discarded his crazy thoughts as nothing more than grappling with his own paranoia. A contemptuous smirk darkening his hellenistic visage at the absurdity of his own mind's conjurations. It sometimes, almost got the better of him. Sometimes. Almost.
Like a wintry breeze he was back around her, standing before her yet again, like some dark statue erected to honor and appease the Gods. Charcoal shadows crept over heavy-lidded eyes where only the stars gleamed, as if in those midnight eyes all the secrets of the universe were locked behind ebony vaults. "You found something?" Her Cheshire grin did not go unnoticed as she handed him the calendar with the clipped post card. Slowly sauntering around the table, sharp claws raked along the woodwork till he came to a halt, casually leaning back against the solid walnut while his gaze perused the information gained. This, is what they needed. A heading to the final playground where all the demons will come to play.
"So, the sinners hide in the house of saints, how quaint." He mused aloud, shoulders rolling forward as he pushed himself off the woodwork in a serpent slither, drawing himself closer to wrap her in his embrace. His eyes so deep, craving, adoring and burning with such violent ferocity, boring deep within her demon soul. Leaning closer still, lips were left lingering at a breath's width from hers. "Now, now. Wipe that grin off, darling, one mustn't be vulgar." He smirked; dark mischief dancing in black shimmer of the void. Hidden deep beneath, there was adoration there, a tender flame left flickering in the mausoleum of his cold, dead heart.
"You do know what this means, don't you?" Ravenesque brow raised in a quiet warning, foreboding of things to come, "We might not come back from this." Could this really be, the end. Only time and the fickle mistress of fate could tell, though, one thing was for certain. They will not go gently into the light; rage, rage against the dying of the night.
Stepping out of the ruins, they were released to the night's iniquity. His wired mania rimming with bloodshot intentions, glanced his surroundings with carnal intensity, taking it all in with brash carelessness and profound attention. Hypnotic stare raked the starry heavens, searching for the last of its purity for his own poison to infect. A predatory hunger etched in the simple precision to which his joints rolled with every step; like blood and wine spilling from one chalice to the other. A general grace which befits the quiver and quake of their movements; and his presence seemingly provokes the air it greets. The earth is swallowed beneath his impervious figure, lost to the phantom who purged it of it's serenity.
And, the black-furred feline followed.
"Oh, by the way, Salem, the cat, she's coming with us."
|September 10, 2020 23:10|
|Damian Veron||There's a place in the dark where animals go
You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow
Midnight. 8th April 2020.
Cathédrale Notre Dame de Strasbourg.
Night was a casualty here; wrapped in the shroud of winter's demise, it basked in the glow of spring's first haloed moon. Death and rebirth, the wake of one and the awakening of another announced in the somber toll of bells now resonating in the quiet chill of the night. A winter's lament. A symphony to warm a cold, dead heart. Perched upon a stone bench, demon eyes would stare at the solitary spire of cathedral in some dark admiration; a masterpiece of Gothic art, draped in a blanket of fog and mist, as if haunted by the ghost of winter past.
Behind the composed visage, his mind was a ticking timebomb of fatalistic chimera, a silent promise of a post-apocalyptic fantasy of nevermore. Here he lies, back from the grave, the zombified epitome of a fallen angel, all goodness tortured and maimed, forever lost to the cause and sense of morality. Nothing is to be expected but viperous savagery, as from the aspic vitriol of his venomous ardor breeds all the contempt of blistering spite. It flourishes in his shadow, wretched and deranged in all the diabolical workings of the devil's sick affection. There he crawls and thrives, the Leviathan and his forked tongue.
Next to him, the demoness twitched. Manicured fingers dug into his thigh in ravenous ache for misery and war. The scent of coaxing death and riled hunger splintered the air as it passed through her nostrils, eager to gorge herself in the flesh of men and monsters alike. Rapt in the fever, ferocity lingered in the pout of her bloodstained lips, so tinged in the prelude to violence. A pallid hand came to rest upon hers, like a cold balm to soothe the beast so ready to be unleashed. Calm.
"And so it begins..."
Vaporous breath pushed from his peeled lips, he had risen, and so would she; the demonic duo moving now with purpose towards the main entrance of the cathedral. He was a warfare machine bred by the ravage of lust and thirst for power, a solitary figure left standing among the masses that rot. His bones rolled and jut in maniacal fervor, in a violent grind, drumming his virulence forth with every conquering step from the depths of despair. There is not a story he hasn't lived, not a heart he hasn't broken (and eaten), not a God he hasn't sought to crush beneath his feet. And as far as this fable goes, sodden in the ways of bloodshed and betrayal, he would seek to finish such a chronicle as he always does - signing his name on the divine display of artistry in black ink, with a black, black heart.
|September 13, 2020 11:36|
|Damian Veron||Stealth steps carried them over the threshold into the house of the false god. His presence sucking the piety out of the very air he breathes only to replace it with his pestilence. Rows of flickering white candles ascended with each lick of an arcane zephyr - shadows rising and constantly toiling in the depths of the dark confinements of the Cathedral. Bathed in the muted amber glow, his contemptuous gaze raked along the enormous pillars and arches, bathing them in its toxicity. Make no mistake, the devil was a man of culture and taste; he adored the artistry, the masterpiece of grandiose Gothic architecture, and abhorred what it all stood for. So much beauty created in their testament to ignorance. Wasting their prayers to a god that will never answer. If only he could show them the true path, of what it would be like to get on their quivering knees and worship Death, again. Oh, what grand temples they would build in his name, what beauty they would create! He would be their savior. Their one true lord. Delivering them from the binds of madness; to suffer at the hands of his own.
Blackend claws scraped along the pews absently as he glanced over the stained glass windows depicting the nineteen emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. The wafts of incense smoke rose, twining and coiling like small smoke-induced serpents and sylphs in intricate tango or burlesque waltz. The strong and pungent scents of fumigation incense, benzoin, balsam, frankincense and myrrh, merging in preparation and dispelling of any past and present invading spirits. They were going to need a lot more.
Drawn deeper into the heart of the Cathedral, they would cross the Pillar of Angels, frozen in representation of the Last Judgement. What deliriously whimsical tales these mortal minds spin. He finally stood in front of the white sandstone pulpit, staring up at the scene of crucifixion in mirth and vehemence. From his iniquitous lungs he sprung godless whims, infidel croons and heretic murmurs, vehemently trampling the pale relics of holy paragons, ardently demolishing the soft, dulcet prayers of ordained minstrels. A dagger through the rugged scars of fastidious strands, methodically disemboweling the angelic ruse of a devout thespian while their trembling fingers clutched, and intoxicating screams resonated to the tune of wicked malevolence, severed scripture, and diabolical devotion. He consumed the Eucharist; bread dipped in sacramental wine upon the altar, now placed upon his tongue and swallowed. Have no fucking doubt, he will drink the blood and devour the body of their savior. A vampire's perfect feast, in the hellbound appetite of his lips.
A harrowing cry suddenly broke through the ether, drawing his attention and disrupting the communion. A child's wail hurriedly muffled and choked in the deep fissures of the Cathedral. Yet another element of sacrificial lamb to slaughter and savour - blooming with innocence and beauty for the world to gush over, yet on this night would become a song to tragedy. All dark magic had a price, and it was no different when manipulating the very essence of physical beings. The dark gods had to be appeased to grant favor of those dark benedictions which presided and ruled over the very fabric of reality; physical and metaphysical.
His features were quick to change, breathing calamity now in the merest, slightest hiss, he crawled deeper into the bowels of the Cathedral where the light from the main hall never reached. The shadows welcomed him like a hankering lover parched for his taste. Smoke and mirrors, in the macabre waltz of umbra and penumbra he prowled with the hunger of a famished beast, carnivoruous and lusting in the consuming fantasies of ravenous desecration. Devastation. His mind a savage vexation of an aching monster.
They approached the dark sanctum at the back where the only respite from blinding blackness was the column of silvery moonlight that filtered through the clerestory, forming a milky pool on the center of the marble and granite floor. There he would feel it again, the same strange energy he had felt in the ruins of the covenstead, only stronger now, crackling against his fingertips viciously and raising the hair on the back of his neck. Though, it was the smell that had the growling beast inside him pulling at the chains, rattling the cage. That fucking smell. Honey and lavender, spice and ripe fruit. She is in my head like a nightmare. The Parasite Eve.
It would seem there was more that tainted the air in the room than his own pestilential gloom; soffocating the last breath of sanctity, it lurked behind the veil in a game of hide and seek. Unmoved in his grim expression, saturnine irises gleamed in ghostly hues of the moonlight. That listless defiance cradled in the lines of his countenance, obsidian stones burned with a brooding ambiance; unable to deny the simmering rage which stained the walls of his anchored thoughts. Such magnificent chaos, teasing calamity, in the preservation of his fiery figure. He was the uneasy calm before the storm, ready to set off.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are.." Viperous whispers and taunting the devils; within the shadowy depths of this cursed sanctum stood the lord of python macabre himself, a ghostly black shadow that loomed among the gracious hall and painted nightmares; his crown an entanglement of broken halos and angel bones. In this biblical scene of hellish nightmares come to life, it was time to play, and the snake charmer had run out of toys.
|September 14, 2020 22:30|
|Pheenyx||And then she was Misery, the Revenge of Lilith. Anathema to all that was pious and holy - blessed by the Devil's benediction.
'We might not come back from this.'
Visions of painting the Romans red danced across her mind, performing for her a lost, and wholly nostalgic recital of when she had purified and cleansed the last consecrated holy place of its defiantly devoted. Years, it had been years since she had touched that level of decadence. And here she was now, in this place of renown, permission granted to ruin and rage. She could barely contain herself.
Burgundy hues were revealed as she opened her eyes and followed the natural sight path upwards, towards the heavens. She smiled, peaceful. It might all be burning before the night was over, and that made her dark, little heart happy. Eyes melted back towards the horizon line as she watched Damian begin his sojourn to the lectern. She followed suit and glided towards the dais with the grace of an angel, eyes capturing the story of the stained glass windows as she went. One in particular caught her attention and she stopped. On the south side of the nave, there was The Devil and the Damned. Lips swirled upwards in smile and she elegantly bowed as the moonlight cascaded through the grays and red of the opaque depiction.
"Your majesty." There was no jest in the melodious tone of her words. With a flourish, she spun and continued her way forward. With the research they had done the last few weeks prior to the full moon tonight, one particular piece of history piqued her interest entirely. The astronomical clock located to the left of the dais and the Statue of Angels.
She stopped at the Statue and tapped on her pout with a pointed claw. So much detail and effort put into these everlasting figurines. Everything inside her screamed ruination and desecration. Yes, there was a bigger focus here this evening, but she couldn't stop herself. If this was meant to be their last night, she was going to do it while exceeding expectations. Digging her nail along the inside of her left wrist, a swell of merlot appeared and she dragged her middle finger through the liquid. She climbed up the statue with a predator's ease and drew an upside down cross on each forehead of the lowest tier of angels. Simple enough to send the devout to frenzy, granted, Our Lady lasted through the morn.
She hopped back down, sucking on the bloodied finger, savoring her own sweet essence. She ran her tongue along her forearm, abolishing the wound and cleaning the skin of excess residue.
Next, the clock. Eyes ravaged every small piece of the structure. She admired and found the beauty in every minute detail. Here, too, she climbed over the gate that was meant to keep the unworthy from handling the treasures. Once inside the barrier, she again climbed up the centuries old piece of architecture and perched on the ledge, in the center, beneath the main face of the clock. Leaning back on palms down-turned, she began pondering next actions to pursue their mission, but fiery sight found rapture below, shattering every notion heretofore.
Instantly, the firebird was charmed and transfixed by her husband's actions below; she, a voyeur, feasting on the sight of his taking Communion. She watched with mirth, as the the Body of Christ was dipped in the Blood, and at last placed to His lips. She savored as he savored, a heathen's hedonism, practicing a paramount ceremony in this hallowed place. How the angels wept. She smiled, breathing in their sacrilege, allowing it to fill her lungs to capacity.
A cry. An enchanting scream of anguish from somewhere unseen. Haze of thought was cleared and she swiftly made her way back down to Damian, mind alert and refreshed to their course. She tucked into his wake as they made their way through the darkness, deeper and deeper into the confines of the cathedral. Marconius was here. They had been right. Malice and ravenous hunger suffocated her emotions, reclaiming their rightful place.
It was time.
The electricity in the smaller space burned and bit at her skin. She had never experienced anything like it. "What is that?" She looked to him but he was again lost in thought, in contemplation of things she was not yet privy to. Eyes scoped the room, noticing first the way the moonlight was almost carved into the center of the room, creating a dynamic focal point and illuminating everything within. She waited, posed for ambush, thoughts clear. If Marconius has survived this long, and none of the Seekers had ever returned, it was for more than simply not finding. Maybe it was the finding that had been the death of them.
'Come out, come out, wherever you are ...'
|September 16, 2020 20:27|
||September 19, 2020 23:23|
|Damian Veron||Swift, swift, you dragons of the night. That dawning may bare the raven's eye!
'Have you come to play?'
Alone within the tenebrous darkness of his own mind - a voice too familiar reached out through the veiled barriers of dimension and time. Impish, accentuated whispers traipsing the familiar precipice of audacity and insanity crawled inside his ear, teasing his senses with the venomous nectar of a parasitic angel's breath. He felt the prickle, the listless bite that stung an ache in the hollow of his patience, wearing thin. Was she real, or a demented conjuration of his imagination? Manufacture dooms in your head, and one day you will surely go mad.
"Please, tell me you heard that."
His virulent gaze slowly slanted to catch Pheenyx in the corner of his eyes, the sneering devil looking for a validation. This fantasy had condemned him to an endless waking sleep, the beautiful hopeless psyche of a tormented archangel, and bound him to the skin of his rancorous addictions. His insatiable thirst for power and control, over all beings in heaven, hell and in-between. Afflicted by a ghost, a siren, the spirit of that which moves us endlessly on in the sick delusion, he was deliciously hollowed by his shameless avarice.
It was then, he saw the light. A small tear in the very fabric of space; delicate fingers adorned with precious rings and trinkets, sliding through and slowly peeling the veil. Out, she stepped through the schism, birthing before their own eyes under the light of the pregnant moon, out of nothingness. A hellion child of oblivion, nurtured by nothing but her own indulgent appetites and rapacity. There she stood, ripped from his dreams and draped in glamour and haughty pride, as real as real can be.
He wanted to reach out and touch her, to pick her apart at the seams till the blood flowed in vindication of his own sanity.
'Samhael.' She called him by the ancient name; the moniker with which she binds him to the symbiotic treaty between the devil and the damsel deranged. She would feed his boundless lust for power in return for a favor owed, to be called upon at the time of her choosing. The other end of the bargain he had no intention of keeping.
'What are you doing here?'
Danger raked the seams with his unholy presence, the advent of chaos rattling and writhing beneath the calculating disposition of his leer as her gaze shamelessly raked over his firefly. Look away, lovey, or have you come to surrender those pretty eyes? Dull moonstruck glow captured the cannibal in a sense of regal carnality, night's imperial kiss chilling the air in vexatious discontent. The serpent head canted to the side, the vicious, menacing stare of his coal black eyes scoured along the lines of her delicate countenance, focusing on the primordial fortune of a fly in his web, devouring her with the easy, glowering sweep of his imperious gaze. If looks could kill, she would be ash beneath his feet.
"Oh, you know, the Lord came to me in my dreams, told me I needed to be, sanctified. So, here I am." A subtle ascension of a ravened brow, the seductive curve of his mouth twisted into an aching smile, deceitful. Dangerous. The usual monstrous charm of his swarthy gaze pulsing with life. "And, what about you? Here to confess your sins again, are we? Well, I am no savior, darling, but I'll gladly take you to your knees."
Sweet promises of a dare, a threat, filled air - No light would shine on a ground soon to be drenched in his wild savagery, no light would shine and reveal to those who watched with wide eyes from behind the veil, looking into his savage garden. Their lovely bones to be buried deep beneath this grotesque paradise. Horror, fueled by the sharp curves of Apollonian artistry; they would soon find him in the deepest stages of frenzy, eyes alight with that enchanting black fire. It was only a matter of when. She was running on Devil's time. Testing his patience, and inviting damnation.
"Enough games. Out with them. Now." His voice turned dark into a schizophrenic nightmare, simmering with a promise of destruction. A grim quality taking hold of those sharp and roguish angles, while something temporal and wicked clawed a carnivorous path beneath the surface. The etch of stoic and stark cradled his expression, as it settled in the depths of his hungry eyes. Deviance laid along the lines of his gaze. He observed the path of the moon, soon to sink below the opening of the clerestory, judging and calculating his time. It underlined his intention, as his lids slid with a lazed stupor over each onyx jewel. "You are running out of time."
Tick tock. Tick tock.
|September 21, 2020 00:07|
||September 21, 2020 19:56|
when fighting monsters,
do not become a monster ...
for when you gaze long into the abyss,
the abyss gazes also into you.”
Glacial was she, stilled by the frigid hand of wrath and the shrewd tongue of ire. Pheenyx looked never away from the verdant eyes appraising her, a glowering sneer of disgust ever-present. As wrist absently soothed wrist, not once did fiery jewels soften, or change, or flicker from this pale and nebulous linchpin, the moonglow her spotlight as she danced between them, spitting her poisonous verse.
'I have all the time in the world.'
There was recognition there, between her devil and this foreign vedette. Suspicion; intrigue. Warring roses stabbed at her core. Patience, she reminded herself.
Sheathed in silence, Pheenyx let the warmth of her ruinous resolve be of comfort, a viper coiling in on itself, warning and preparing to strike true. To strike violently. As she boiled in irascibility, the overwhelming stench of putrid florals and rotting fruit assaulted her nostrils. What is that smell?! But the repugnant scent was quickly replaced by the awareness of the electrical charge intensifying the air, raking over her nerves; melting ice scorching her skin unabated.
Pheenyx did not relinquish her tempestuous scrutiny. Instead, she measured the woman as she had so been measured. Skin and hair was deprived of color and tone like the barren wastelands of the polar north. Eyes, jaded and jade, screamed power, echoed a familiar and comforting malevolence. She watched the way she moved; vulturine. She listened to the way she spoke; pompous. And she admired the way she controlled the room; dominance. This was not a child's lunacy locked away in an asylum, uttering nonsense and whispering chaos. This was the coolness of capability and prescience.
You're in my fucking way.
And then, just like that, ripped from the pages of the black manila envelope, the glorified treasure at the end of the map stepped forth with casual apathy through the veil and into view. Marconius. A rush, a wave of seething venom. Where before it had taken years, centuries even to find traces of this man, here he was in the flesh, indignant and aloof. Did he really not see this was his end? So nigh, and still he pressed on, ignorant to the ravenous lions in the rat's labyrinth.
The vampire's eyes at last shifted from moonlit beauty to ghastly male pallor. Target acquired. End game in sight. Disgust transformed into mirth, into fixation, and finally, into an asphyxiating obsession. She vibrated with the anticipation of what this meant; all or nothing. It ends here. Now.
But before she could move a muscle, after just a quick exchange between master and thrall, the entire mood of the room shifted dramatically in their favor. 'Seeker? You?' Anxiety, surprise, panic, uncertainty ... a pedestal crumbling to dust beneath the faux queen. Pheenyx sneered at the sputtering of the woman's poise. All that noise, all that show ...
'These children are of no consequence, Vaewen. Kill them and be done with it so we can continue our work in peace.'
'Return, Marconius. I will handle this, I assure you. The moon will be gone too soon. You must return. Please.'
And the sky fell down,
casting kind and cruel to hell together.
The pure levity of the situation ignited Pheenyx from the inside; astonishment, amusement and displeasure coalesced. She took one look around the room before that contemptuous, murder-ridden gaze settled back on the prize. Marconius' back was to her now, his movements indolent as he clearly assumed no threat. Fool.
A swift flash of an old woman's battered corpse capsizing a library chair and spewing merlot. The horrified, catatonic plight of a girl pleading for mercy beneath obsidian shadows and manic screams. Ash, rot and blackened remains burying the ghost of what was once a home. Her feet in the sand at midnight in Capri, devil at her side, tranquil by damned right. How very satisfying it was going to be to feel the crushing of his bones beneath her clawing gravity, his blood cascading over her porcelain skin, his hopeless screams washing over her senses like a cool breeze from a long lost summer dream.
She would serve his diseased carcass to the feet of the Elders.
They would know her then;
they would see him then.
And they would know the grievous mistake they made in casting them out.
It was Marconius who had forced their eruption from dormancy, setting them like a plague upon these lands. He deserved all he received here. As someday they all would. She knew what she had signed up for when she signed the Devil's book. Did he, she wondered?
She found her moment, and she took it. Irrevocably silent, she sprinted forward reaching fever pitch, the only telltale marker of her murderous intent, a feather-light brush of air as she disappeared past the distracted figure of the shebeast. Pheenyx did not hesitate. She did not falter. Fangs elongated, razor-sharp nails were cast, and strength of midnight shadow and spectre alike encouraged her course. She attacked, gouging him across the length of his back, clearing the shroud he wore and the skin he grew. He twisted, roaring up in agony and she spun him around with fury and fire in her eyes. Her heart sang with the harmony of his misery as she knocked him off his feet and onto his back, a wet slap and a hard snap as bloody flesh and skull met tile. She topped him, nimble fingers finding their mark around his throat, vice-grip tightening with every ever-moving second. She seethed, fire eyes boring down.
Through gritted teeth in a hushed whisper of hysteria, with a predator's grace she claimed,
"I am your ruin, and I will have your fucking head."
|September 23, 2020 01:55|
|Damian Veron||Babble babble bitch bitch
Rebel rebel party party
Sex sex sex and don't forget the V I O L E N C E.
Are you motherfuckers ready?
'I have all the time in the world.'
There was a conceited bite to the albino coquette's tongue, its poisoned melody dispersed in this dark charnel chapel. As it reached him, it was swallowed. Guzzled in the ferocity of flame. He would smother her voice forever; the ravening lilt and the bitter sweetness of its cadence; the beauty of it, he would shatter. He was a creature abandoned to his bullish intent, possessed by the siren song of acrimony and deliverance of merciless wrath. A Cenobite tailored in the finest coats of carnage, seething with vigor and ache.
Though, before he could spew the venom of his discontent, a voice cracked through the veil, announcing the emergence of the lanky figure that followed in its wake. Ah, there he was - the legend made real in pallid flesh, crowned in long white hair, snark and ancient wisdom. Like the Great Gandalf without his staff. 'Marconius!' The silly woman cried, easily revealing the identity of the man in question. The attachment, and perhaps weakness, ringing clear in the hollow timbre of her voice. The revelation set the minacious grin alight under the leer of the Gargoyle King. His disquieting gaze scrutinizing every move and gesture between the coupling while the abomination of his bloodline spilled naught but impudence and insolence. "Oooh, mighty big words for a man who hides behind his sorceress." With every word and passing moment, his temper flared. It ravaged his composure into thin shambles and delicate threads until incensed malice screamed rapacious massacre upon the blood-soaked heavens.
He would crush this ancient relic beneath his feet before the night was done. But, before that, he would crush his pride.
As the coupling turned their backs to him locked in a desperate conversation; frothing and hungry, he moved towards them to the slow rhythm of a war drum. The pent tensions coursing now in the pulse of his constricting veins and ashen veneer. Movements foreboding, fingers twitching, elongated claws baying for blood, he was the symmetrical carriage of voracious war, the immaculate structure of cannibal violence; a testament to bellicose autocracy in the lack of mercy. His reptilian rage, his smoldering despotic cruelty, it was a fatal poison, and would not soothe the murdering intentions of his impassioned savagery. He would remember this moment - revel in it - the trembling and licentious shifting of his muscles as his body would prepare to scream in its furious spurned war-machine wave.
But then - Pandemonium struck.
He felt it first, a scorching zephyr that blazed past his ear to reanimate itself into the living fire and fury from Hell. His demoness, the infernal queen of misery, rising high in the air to descend upon the vampire-fae like the smiting bolt of Zeus. She was the plague of Lilith, seeking annihilation in the banshee scream of her carnivorous mouth. Halting him in his tracks, the sight brought a smirking warmth to the devil's cold heart. A cannibal grin peeling to reveal the carnassials slavering for a carnival of slaughter. Attention shifted to the beings that appeared in the distance as the glamour shattered and the veil dropped. Their coal black, lifeless eyes stared back in horror in the advent of bedlam, stitched inside their pallid, coma white skin. They looked, anemic. A gleaming blade cast in pure iron shimmered under the moonlight as it slipped down the length of his arm, and he grabbed it by the hilt. He had their remedy.
He moved in an invisible blur, though, it was as if, not him, but darkness itself that moved, encroaching in all directions, every space and corner, infecting it with his cancer. He was a ghost, untouched, an ethereal animation dancing languidly in the blackness of this tomb. The only testament to his presence was his stench - death, rancor and frozen decay.
In a flash, he was there, standing behind one of them before the realization could touch their cognizance, and his body whipped across like an arrow shot out of a bow. The gleaming blade slashing sideways in a sweeping guillotine arch - a trailing flash of silver - and blood erupted like a fountain as the blade sliced right across the Kiasyd's neck in a decapitation so swift and smooth, one might think he was made of wax. A scream that could never break past the fae-vampire's lips, permanently etched on his face, frozen in his last moment of shock as the severed head rolled off and hit the floor with a sickening crack.
The little fae fangbanger by the side, closest to them, was the first to move, racing towards the sight of her partner's ruin, screaming bloody murder, for that is exactly what it was. Turning around, the unhinged devil scowled at the foolish, hysterical woman as she leapt at him in a mindless frenzy. Grabbing hold of her in mid-air by the throat, he raised his blade high, and brought it down full force on top of the woman's skull. The bone cracked and the screaming stopped. He yanked on his knife, trying to set it free, but coming out was never as easy as going in. He shook the dead fae-vamp back and forth violently by the hilt of his blade until with a sickening slurp, the knife slipped out and she was unceremoniously dropped to the floor, right on top of her partner's headless corpse. Ah, the romance.
Head cocked to the side, the monster stared at the two poetically aligned corpses with livid curiosity. He was an artist now, wanting to capture this moment on canvas, painted in the colors of his most vividly morbid imagination. A gothic masterpiece awaited, alas, if he only had the time. If only. The world was always cruel to a true artist. Why would he be treated any different?
In the moment next, the chapel erupted with a choir of screams as the remaining brood charged towards him. Claws slashing, teeth snapping, pit black eyes set ablaze with ravenous retribution; they were lost to the frenzied song of blood curdling revenge. All it took was a little dash of chaos for all the wisdom and stoicism built over the millennia to fall apart like a house of cards. Damian, was an agent of chaos. This, now, his church of slaughter.
Dropping to his knees, he slid across the marbled floor to slice and gash along their thighs and knees as they piled upon him. Clawing and biting his back in a ravenous frenzy. He was numb to all feeling except the intentions of his genocidal mania. Adrenaline cranked to 1.21 gigawatts. God of Pain. God of War. He seized to grasp, twist, and break all fleeting life, with the cannibal kiss of his hungry knife.
Through the bloodied mosh-pit of mangled flesh and bones, he grabbed a head and stabbed that iron phallus right through the snapping mouth in a shower of red, severing the spinal cord. Another one bites the rust. There was a revelation in the silence of the dead. In the constant, soul-shattering appearance of each composed limb; as if his blade had cut the marionette strings, and they'd fallen to a motionless parody of a life without it’s bondage.
Sadist. Masochist. Enjoying the unrelenting assault on his own body, the passionate bliss of his flagrant slaughter was a staggering vignette of merciless, ruthless anarchy. The hellbound demolition of slashed cretins and suspended saints, splintering skeletons. There was no greater joy than his frantic, needy fingers wrapping tentatively around one's throat; the nails, the teeth surrounded by grinding hulks of snaring flesh set in the rhythm of primal pleasure. The intimacy, the cravings till they eat alive the hollow and the unwilling. A no man's land of cannibal desire; a term that hung so loosely to define the heinous acts of cruelty, as they pile one by one. Skull after bloody skull, a temple of bones to fill the skies and then the heavens in defiance.
Tousled, mottled raven hair pulled at each coarse strand; splotched in the damp splatter. The soul-shattering appearance of his irises, gleaming and lathered in the bloodied verse of sin that he now dined upon. Drugged and drunk with the gloss of carnage amidst the battle; he was sick in his confinement. An infatuation for blood and ruthless murder so sweet, it had driven him mad. But the fiend had never looked so damned good.
|September 23, 2020 23:00|
||September 24, 2020 23:55|
|Damian Veron||Heathens, devils; such as he, oh, wretched he.
His face told the story - all scarred, weathered and caked in mangled flesh, the grime of gore and its riddling vulgarity. Blood dripping, dripping, dripping; a rivulet he catches, his tongue grazing the rim of his upper-lip. He was the ravenous monster diaboli; enchanted in the rasp of violence. His ruthless hands smeared, tearing and mangling the throats of his lost captives; dyed in angel-fucked cyanide.
Mutilating, demonic, he incensed with the Tartarean absolution of eternal, gasping fury, uncoiling to fixate his lusting dominion upon the perturbed, ruffled figures. Covered in abrasive cuts and lacerated kisses, he was soaked in the onslaught of mayhem and murder. Blood curled in the milk of reptilian eyes, pupils retreating to the back of his head in the cannibal glow that sparked upon the deathly scene; an injection of pure barbaric, ghastly poetry. He was eating and eating and eating away what the dark may swallow. The sting, the bite, gushing behind the wired veil of his lids. A euphoric frenzy overwhelmed the senses, in the dying of the screams; their song of ice and fire snuffed out one by one, till there was nothing but silence within the walls of his throbbing ore. Wherein, entered the lucid drug of more. More. More. More. More. More, the snarl scratched the husk through gritted carnassials. The rumble curdled at the dreg of his baritone, scorched with the temperance of carnal delight.
He took and took and took, because he wanted to. Because he could. And because he shouldn't. What was wrong was ultimately, the most desired.
Zombified ethereal, rising from beneath the grave of mutilated and half-eaten cadavers, he stood among the ruins of his temple of skull and bones. Tailored raw into the etch of his corroded flesh, covered in blood splatter and grey matter; he relished and submersed in an essence of unpredictable havoc. It was there he finally saw it, the destruction that had been bestowed so mercilessly upon his demoness. Side of her face shattered into a bloody pulp beyond recognition, her limp ragdoll body laid to waste against the far wall, as he watched that cretinous abomination, Marconius, slowly inching, creeping, creeping towards her form with malignant intentions.
"PHEENYX!" He snarled aloud in an aching pool of bestial rage and rancorous revulsion, as he was vibrantly, viciously consumed in his repugnance and odium, transformed in the absence of any ambrosial rectitude. Goddess of Vengeance had indeed weaved a fickle course. Coral kissed his charnel heart, sharp and black and algid. She had stabbed him with this chrome knife of perpetual torment. Puncture to slice apart, and it was not the agony he seethed in. But the rush, the catharsis in which it takes him. Claims him. It makes a monster of a man.
A bellowing roar erupted from the torn rims of his curled and gnarling maw, and he was a blitz. A blur. A chrome flash in the dark. His form honed and directed at the vampire-fae to rain the devil's wrath upon him in hellfire and brimstone. But it was she who stepped in, the incessant obstacle in his cataclysmic course of devastation. His body ramming against hers like a spartan bull, the force shattering through the silence of space as they were flung across the room. In the violent tangle of limbs rolling on the floor, and soaring laments rapt in a barrage of effervescent snarls; razor-tipped claws clung and cleaved whatever inch of her tender flesh they can tear asunder. He was blind to the pain coursing through her body. The damage being inflicted rivaled only by the tenacity of this Devil scorned; and the irrationality of a wounded bond, wounded heart, wounded pride.
He would flay every inch of her body, to peel away the lies and uncover the truth that was only skin deep.
He would have the satisfaction in her slaughter, in the mauling sear of claws and teeth against her unraveling flesh. Vengeance. War. Its tantrum drumming, pounding in the swell of his temple. D e s t r o y (Devour). It was the vivacious cadence, a cannibalistic animal relinquished from the cluster of its mythic chains and iron manacles. Liberated in the heat of this moment, in the cry of retribution. For her body, carnage had truly arrived. Draped in blood-caked skin and a stygian suit.
In the selfish obsession of her violation that he had her pinned under him, their eyes crossed for the briefest moment. Vengeance, curiosity, sadism, pain - Violent, volatile complexity simmered in the shimmering depths of those black pools. 'I'm the ruin in your eyes, swallowed by a violent sea.' His head reared back and he struck her throat. Blood sought between gnarled fangs, he aimed to rip and destroy, as sharply honed fangs sunk deep into the tender flesh in a gush of sanguine ichor. He would inject the letch of agony; his pain, and his acrimony. And he growled hungrily, starvedly, as a rabid malnourished beast feasting on his dying prey.
To bite, to bleed, till you rust between my teeth; and I'll sink them so deep, so riveting, that I can feel your every death shiver - taste your every last sin, your every fucking flaw.
It was the searing assault of his teeth that would cut and slice apart the fabric of her throat, matching the virulence of his own heart as he dug deep, jaws buried in her macerated flesh. He pushed, and pushed, until the chrome blades of his incisors ripped through the platysma, severing the carotids in a sanguine deluge. Her own claws found his face to pull and rip. Tearing that Hellenistic visage asunder, layer after divine layer, down to the putrid flesh and skull of bones, to reveal the monster within. It's what on the inside that counts, after all.
"MARCONIUS! GO!" His jaws pulsated with the throbbing ache of her reverberating chords and the monster reveled in her scream. Her blood-torn eyes searching for her vampire in the bloodied haze of clashing teeth and claws. In this ode to barbarity and violence written in the colors of their blood upon the marbled canvas, her gaze melded with Marconius in a striking moment of tender plea, and a veiled promise of savage retribution for the genocidal massacre that had come to pass on this night. Her brimming pools implored through his hesitation and shattered pride while he watched in horror, this thing that was more than a beast but, was no man, mauling her delicate body as he ripped her apart in a feeding frenzy so vicious that was to scar his traumatized psyche forevermore.
"Myrneen, please.." She pleaded as blood bubbled over severed trachea, the sound cracked and discordant in its beauty. For a creature that has lived for thousands of years, secure in the delusion of its own immortality; having seen the empires rise and fall, having seen the changing of the seasons and world, beared witness to gods and religions built and demolished - What does it feel, what does it do, when it finally comes face to face with death itself, the grimy grim reaper. What do you do when you realize, your time is nigh, and you're finally going to die... "Run."
And so he does.
The monster pushes still, sliding the iron blade in her side so that she can feel him tear into her very soul, so that he can hear her spirit dying in her cries. Carnivorously driven inside her, wrought inside her, and he fed vehemently on her pain, her regrets, her life, now pouring into his mouth. And he would consume her whole, consume it all. He would take and take till there was no more. When a man knows no more than pain as his mistress, it is all he can feel, and all he can give. You gave him a reason for vengeance, and now owe him your life.
Ashes; you will turn to nothing but ashes. And I will revel in the taste of y o u r demise.
Buried beneath his tomb, a slow, deep breath of razor-edged, blood-laced air was sucked through bruised trachea into her wasted lungs, as she searched desperately for the slipping strings of life and last resolve in the chaotic darkness ready to take over and swallow her whole. The simple art of living and the primal need to survive had become the last hope of any sanity. Blurred somewhere between the lines of life and death, calm and chaos, reason and madness, she pressed her hands against his chest and pushed. With all her might and force, and all the cosmic power that can be contained in her frail mortal form, she pushed, tethering the vice-like embrace of the monster as he was sent flying back across the floor.
The shock and startlement clear in those demonic eyes suddenly awoken from the blissful slumber of his feeding frenzy. And he now watched the parasitic eve, gather her form and awkwardly stumble and crawl towards him to a macabre beat. A hand pressed against her ruptured throat gushing and bathing her dress in a sanguine deluge, hair disheveled and body flayed and tattered to ribbons, her eyes were ablaze in the fires of hell - she was the maddening song of scorned retribution.
|September 27, 2020 04:28|
||September 29, 2020 12:48|
|Damian Veron||Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd, nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.
'Samhael. You have breached a contract that is binding, taken more than you were promised, and given nothing in return. You believe your cleverness knows no bounds, but it is your selfishness and greed will be your undoing. Until you pay what is owed to me in full, any empire you try to create will fall beneath your own ruinous inclination to cull. All you attempt to breathe life into will be laid to waste, will suffocate, burning to ash and crumbled stones. Because it is you who will shape it into rot and swallow it down like seafoam to be lost to your own unquenchable thirst.'
Heartless, loveless, starved for calamity and chaos alike, the monster moved not an inch as the scorned fae spat venom and vitriol like bile from her accursed tongue. His searing gaze, wicked, observant and terribly ravenous with homicidal mania that radiated off him in silent waves. Spawned a libertine, he was never made to play the polite aristocrat, his flaring pride and need for violence far too overbearing for any sense of morality or compassion. Still and brazenly lofty, he waited with faltering, forced calm as the woman rambled on, threat flashing heatedly in his icy, vindictive stare.
Ravaging in the tense, ill-ridden barrage of curses, Damian begrudged her lack of physical aggression, loathed this passivity, this stagnation, craving action, war, lusting for equal, damnable hatred. But alas, how cruel could this sudden intervention be. The dark void of momentary calm revolted wildly against his impulse, impatience, and brash resistance. Yet, this hollow-hearted emperor, crowned in lies in his empire of dirt, remained so horrifically at ease when the devil inside craved such hellish fury and blazing Achilles fire.
'As for the life owed to me, the one you have tried to take... When I leave here you should pray, to any deity but the one you make of yourself, that I survive this. Because if your betrayal costs me my life, ultimately, it is you who will have to pay the price for it.'
She stood like a ruin before him. The outro (aftermath) to his blistering symphony of destruction. A divine effigy violated and desecrated in the temple of silent saints whose lips were stitched shut long before. They would watch in disgust and horror, and hidden shame of voyeuristic lust (after all, we all have a need to watch things die, from a good, safe distance); though, none would dare utter a word in protest, in this new kingdom of doom.
No mercy lay within that black agate crystalline gaze, pouring in her direction the reckless desires (to maim, kill, slaughter!) of a shameless Satan set free to his infinite madness. And as she slowly stumbled away, the monster inside prowled along the line of his skull with the hunger of a quarreling beast, to give chase with haste, to end her right now; carnivorous and lusting in the consuming fantasies of a ravenous memory. He had licked her wounds and ate her rare. Sucked and pried, throttled and raped the ties which bound their dualities in chaotic magnitude. Hunger viral, wrenched his insomnia to greater heights of discord and dementia, plagued the senses in a crushing twist. Stroking and stoking; biting and touching; teasing him into the physical manifestation of an embodied arson. For the very fever could sustain no more his meaty prison, inching closer and closer - her head, her heart, her nape, her back, tempting disaster.
Looming over the precipice of another bout of cataclysm and calamity, he withdraws, clenched teeth. She did not deserve his company in death. Let her wither away alone in her emptiness and regret. Locked in her gilded cage of loss and sorrows bred. There would be no saving her, she would see no light in the moment abysmal darkness consumes her. She was up to her neck, soon to drown. The mind reasons before it razes. His brooding form swelters back and sinks in his place, a sulking mass that stared in the dark, as she dissipated into nothingness. "Bye, Faelicia." He gruffed and spat her black blood upon the marbled floor, turning to tar, ridding himself of the bitter taste left in his mouth.
Precious redemption was the harlot of fairy tales; and so be damned the world. Purity was scarce, the drug that had always evaded his homicidal whims; the infinite reaches of a creature hollowed beyond reform. This ravaging grace that makes of him not a man but a monster, a ravishing gluttonous beast which dined upon the defiled souls lost in the purgatory between heaven and hell. In his sick, sick love you would find the gilded venom deftly poised, for hatred as well is delectably brewed there, beneath the long cold and empty cadaver of a molten heart's rusted core. He is, your gothic nightmare. Your broken dream.
His attention turned to the broken doll that lay by his feet. The marionette without strings, unceremoniously tossed in bitter tribute at his alter, without reverence or regard. Heart suddenly tender with a flaming, desperate restlessness of the most sensuous and fixated misery, he slunk forward and crept towards her. Flexing muscles rippling beneath the thick coat marred by deep gashes and wounds of the battle, but the war-torn seraph bled nothing but dust in the wake of his prelude. Gently lifting her head, he cradled her above his thighs, embracing the soft, delicate intimacy of her covetous form, his hungry blood alive with a teeming, uneasy distress.
"D..Damian" She murmured his name in a breathless whisper as blood bubbled and pooled around her torn lips; and for one fleeting, rushing moment, the sneering pride paled from his fiery expression, and he was left utterly, beautifully, blissfully content. She was alive, safe, hanging by a thread to her blurred consciousness, but she was there, safe, in his arms again. Her violation had not devoured the light from her eyes, had not ruined or befouled her bellicose spirit. "Pheenyx, my girl, I'm right here." Swelling moonlight glanced and trickled among the soft shadows that played about her blood-smeared ivory skin and blonde locks; at the sound of his voice, a surreal, hazy smile tugged at the edge of her mouth untarnished by the brutality that had vandalized half of her angelic countenance. Blood on her visage did not taint her; and for his eyes, if nothing else, it only made her twice as radiant, and deliciously elegant.
"Is ... is the bitch dead? Where's Marconius? Did we win?" She coughed through blood and mucus, pain and abhorrence evident in her tone. Soft laughter, delicate as a new born dove, fluttered from his lips, and amusement and adoration brimmed the devil's eyes. He nodded softly at the innocence in her voice and pulled her closer, always left in awe of her defiant spirit. She was a fighter; his huntress, and he was her mercurial moon. The unstitched Corpse Bride to the Pumpkin King. "Yes, yes, darlin', we won. It's done. You scared me there for a moment, but we don't have to worry no more, love... You rest now, go back to sleep. I will hold you," Forevermore. The nocturnal prowl of misting moonlight shed its remorseful lunar loll over the shimmering breath of succulent syllables, so hushed from the devil's sweetly upturned lips. It seized the silence that the man had set on to his cold kingdom, slipped through the entwining channel of their bond and pressed its echoing soothe to her ears in those gleaming shadows, and beckoned a sweet slight of their wares to rest upon her shattered countenance.
You matter when everything is meaningless...
"I love when we win." She softened, resting against his chest and closing her eyes, burrowing as deeply as she could against him, always. "I love you, Damian." A trickery of light, surely, for he'd never known her so beautiful, as in this moment. Lush, vermillion bleached, evanescent curls weaved with golden rays of the sun fell in loose ringlets about her battered cheeks of red pulp, her delicate chin, her supple curves and down her back; her slender neck as velveteen and decadently feminine as that of a roman swan. Full lips of pouting rosette parting in sleepy contentment, the comfort of his embrace erasing the stifling hostility from her cracked and frail, porcelain features. Her beauty, was heart-breaking.
A sudden excruciating need surged through his veins to crush her in his arms and claim her mouth with his.
And he did. His lips claiming hers, slowly and deeply. Desires exploded inside him as he claimed her mouth, wanting all of her, one beautiful heart-stopping thrill at a time. Just one more kiss.. one last taste of her lips.. an eternal moment of bliss.
Somewhere, in another world, in another plane, far removed from where humans dwell, a lamenting star had died. Its blistering radiance snuffed, extinguished forever, in the very moment it had swelled into a red giant and exploded across the heavens in a brilliant supernova. Its shock-waves piercing through the barriers of this world and spreading like a plague, where nothing will be left untouched by its reckoning, nothing will ever be the same. He kissed her deeper still. With hunger. With need. It was a kiss of possession. It was as if all the world of anguish and pain had disappeared, and everything was right again. Right as rain. For when he was holding her like this, kissing her like this, the world seemed to dissipate into nothingness and there was only them left behind. Tremors wreaked through his hard body from the sensations that were setting every little fiber of his being on fire. And his mind was set ablaze. It was heaven.
And it was hell.
An anguished, keening cry was swallowed by his lips, as the blade was pushed through her chest, slowly, deeply; till the iron punctured the lungs, and pierced the warmth of her heart. Burgundy eyes flashed wide in the moonlight - shock, horror, pain and confusion - brimming in complexity of emotions, searching for answers in the rot of his eyes. She would find none. The knife pushed into her chest again, as he kissed her deeper still. Her each cry swallowed by the sea of his passionate kiss, choked in the vice of his carnivore lips. Toxic pools of black brimmed with the sear of her pain, her anguish, her cries clamoring through his body as he held her close, and the chalice spilled. Black blood upon frosted pane, and he stabbed her again, and again.
I would have told her that, she was the only thing, that I could love in this dying world. But the simple word of love itself, already died and went away. Beyond the distance were the echoes, the screams of eternally lost. He was unaffected by anything but the throes of damnation and a debt to pay. Under him, she would writhe and grind and plead to the air in hushed whispers of savage intimacy, 'release me, devour me, tear me apart.' And he does. He would not pause as he takes her, breaks her, crushes her beneath him in endless submission to the amorous vex of his bestial affections and necrophiliac intentions.
Her body was dropped to the floor, released from his cage, and the hungry cadaver behind her ribs so spits and sputters tarnished remains of the what used to be. Blood coughed through tattered lips, blushed and unsewn in the moment of her unraveling, coming apart to death's tender caress. The twisted dagger at her charred and blackened heart, a bleeding torture. A bleeding romance, oozing from the gushing wounds that would never heal, from the raw nature of binding law. For what was taken, must be returned, in full and kind. The hungry dagger, grabbed in both hands, flashed blood and silver in the moonlight, as he stabbed away at her battered shell, mercilessly. Butchered, she was, at his alter of love and despair.
And he burned, with her.
He burns, and burns; enveloped to the seams with a raging pyre. An infernal mess, caked in the injustice of his sin - his art. A howling, Spartan cry erupted from his lips, a heaving rebel storm tossing back and forth to the furious guillotine rhythm of his knife, ripping and snaring; gnarled hands of hungry paramour greed taking love itself by the throbbing, aching heart, gnawing to the core for the one thing he could never have. Her apathy. He needed to touch, to taste, the things he destroyed, living endlessly in the torment of loving the agony with the callous touch of his vermilion fingers, and the taste of his serpent tongue. Carnivorous heart pounding with the brutal fury and blazing passion of a feral beast, he wailed. And, how he cried. As he stabbed her still, over and over and over again.
She would feel his sting, she would feel his despair; and his hopelessness. She would feel his pang, the woe it has brought and the pain it relieves. She would feel keenly, the wring of his blade as it churns in gut and ribbed crevice. She would feel the absence of its giving, and the let of anguish streaming. She would feel the pressure and the void it carries with each swift spearing of her shell. She would feel how it buries, slicing as it deepens this sick and tearing wound. She would feel it pry like teeth, cleaving her wide open. She would feel its fragrant finger-tips, sliding along the glisten of her meat and the quivered bow of her mouth. She would feel the tenderness, and brutality, its pacifying action purring against the lines of torn and ruptured arteries, thread to unravel before reaching for the pitiless bottom. She would feel it sink, plunging the tissue of her fibrous muscle to gouge it from cartilage. She would feel the cry of her bones, the tearing flesh of her soul. And then, she would feel him, his broken heart, writhing and bleeding, inside her. She would feel him; his tears, a cry of an abandoned ghost, weeping deep within her.
Her voice had been hushed long before, the light in her eyes had died; the only sound of the sickening squelch of blade through flesh left behind in the silence of the night. But where's the point in picking at wounds, when the body's already cold. The sobbing devil slumped to her side, and cradled her head in his arm once again. The drunken blade pressed to her neck and slicing through skin, flesh and bones to the haunting melancholia his of whimpering cries. It was the song of atrophy, as the blade finally severed the spine from the skull, and he rolled to his side; clutching and crushing her head in his chest to bury her in the tomb of his heart forever.
The deal was done. The payment made. But the pain remained. "PHEEEEENYX!!!" And now, he howled. Oh, how he wailed and cried, burying his face in the blood-soaked golden locks to inhale deeply the last remanants of all she used to be and all that was left behind. Losing himself in her memories, and he never wanted to be found. Together in darkness from now until the bell, the beauty and her beast would forever dine in hell.
This was never my world, you took the angel away
I killed myself to make everybody pay.
|October 01, 2020 02:45|
|Pheenyx||“I love you, Damian." She wasn’t sure if the words left her lips or if she was just dreaming she said them. Her ability to reason between fact and fiction was lessening by the moment. She could feel the pain in her legs, screaming up the nerves and into her lower back. No … that’s not right. Now the pain radiated from her upper back, through and down into her arms and fingers. Wait, no … that’s not right either. Confusion. Contemplation. What’s missing; I’m forgetting something. She remembered leveling Marconius, shredding that supple midnight pallor into an expensive delicate lace. Remembered the power she felt as his neck shrunk smaller and smaller in her grasp, as his throat bent under the pressure of her nimble fingers. But? The spider webs floating around her … no - it was her hair! … and those golden eyes … so … oh what’s the word? nevermind ... why? who was she again? did he say?
Fae. That’s what the witches had meant. They weren’t repeating the word fate. They had been crying Fae. Black eyes. White flesh. Fae. Marconius and his Fae guardian. She wondered if she said this out loud too but she was just so tired. Her temples throbbed. She reached a hand up to touch, and fingers came away wet but she did not open her eyes. She rubbed her index and thumb together as they came back to a rest on her thigh. When had it rained inside the chamber? She tried to ask Damian, but her lips felt numb, like an overzealous novocaine injection. It was a pleasant buzzing. She smiled. Or did she? Was she smiling? So tired. She tried to open her eyes to see the rain, but the heavy settled in and deciding to rest sounded like a good idea. Sleep, he said ... Okay. Sleep …She drifted, mind in the midst of delusion and ecstasy, fantasy and tangible. She felt safe, in the silence of this moment, somewhere between survival and surrender.
I am home.
She could smell the musk of his skin, even beneath the blood. Her monster of a man who had no doubt slaughtered them all, and succeeded where she had failed. She couldn’t wait to throw Marconius’ corpse at Leonidas’ feet and walk away free. Maybe they could return to New Orleans then, and visit home. Yes. No … wait, that wasn’t home anymore. Had been ruined too many times. No. London then. Yes. London. A fresh start. She could reach out to Shannon, so long as the witch had forgiven her disappearance two years ago. It would be so good to see Shannon’s face. The three of them would have so much fun together! Maybe they could convince Shannon into some trouble. That girl was too good for her own good.
... d r i f t i n g …
… d r i f t i n g ...
… d r i f t i n g …
And then he was kissing her, silencing the maddening crowd of her thoughts. Savoring her, needing her, loving her. In the way only he knew how. She could feel the passion surging within his embrace, the raw power rippling through his lips which seemed to sing, I’ll never leave you … She felt high, drunk on the crushing weight of his sudden affection. Voluntarily she pressed her whole body upwards into the kiss, into him, reacting as it had and would every.. single.. time.. he touched her, kissed her this way. Their mutual addiction. Mine, her mind, body and soul demanded all at once.
The throbbing in her temples escalated, and nausea settled somewhere deep in her belly. A warning? She paid no heed. Her mind raced, rapture engulfing and liquifying all the rage that had throttled her emotions for so long. Still, still he pressed on, bathing her in his fervent adoration. What’s gotten into you, my darling? she mused. She attempted to smile against his ravenous caress, but again, the ability seemed beyond her buoyant pout. She swore she couldn’t feel her lips, her cheeks as they feigned undead rosy red as they did when he ignited her so? Rain, why was everything wet again? Her grasp slipped and she drifted further, letting his love bring her higher. Higher. Higher.
”I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy. I warned you, my love. My embrace is nothing but a prelude to tragedy.”
Ouch. She paused, body jolting in reaction to something her mind had not caught up to. Ow? What … She winced as a banshee’s cry echoed in the small chamber, her ears not ready or prepared for such an affront. Who is screaming? She locked eyes with his obsidian filled hues, trying to comprehend the look on his face, emotion in his deviled eyes. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Elation? Madness? Grief?
Someone screamed again. She wanted to cover her ears from the awful sound, but her arms would not move. Can’t you hear me, love? Make it stop! Tell me what’s wrong? Can’t you help me? Help me ... Her mind grappled through the hazy hollow to find clutch in the here-and-now, as he shoved the dagger in again. Bonfire blazed, blossomed and bloomed, from root to crown. Burgundy jewels, tethered to reality by the finest of silk threads, shot open sky-wide, illuminated, unblinking, in confusion, in misunderstanding. In misery
Still his lips pressed down into her. She tried to release herself from his cradle of constriction. Once, twice, thrice. Love? Let go! Can’t you see you’re hurting me? I need to protect you! Screaming. Wailing. A shattered record, coagulated vocals, crying in despair, for him, for safety. Surely he would make it stop? The part of her mind that analyzed and processed and realized
Who was screaming?
Who was screaming!
I am screaming.
She choked, blood, bile and belief projecting from her lips, across her chin and chest, his lips, chest and hands, as he stabbed her again, and again, and again, and again, and again. He pressed harder, his lips to hers, and captured her again between locked lips, savoring her, needing her, killing her.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand - why?
… . . … .. d r i f t i n g … … …….
The demoness inhaled deeply of stardust and moonlight, and with its release in a soft cosmic sigh, untangled herself forevermore from the feeble shell she had loved so much. Sarah, if you could only see me now. Free of you, free of your vampiric vessel; free to be me. Up, up, up she rose, the demon that had so long possessed and controlled the slaughtered beauty below. Drifting, she rose, ever higher, pain absent, mind absent, body absent. She felt like an iridescent snowflake, falling up, free of time and free of gravity. Twice she wished to never escape this here, this now. Free falling into the abyss, weightless and divine.
But she didn’t deserve it.
She forced herself open to view the scene unfolding below, and beneath her witnessed pure and utter ruination. She could see the wrenching of his shadowed heart, hear the symphony of his infinite sorrow and taste the raw grief of his shattered soul. This melancholy monster and his devouring love. She watched in abhorred fascination as he gored and butchered her body, frenzied and feverish in his feral ferocity. Why, Damian? What have you done? Look at what you’ve done …
Look at the monster you’ve made of yourself …
You have only yourself to blame.
In this ethereal form, an anchor drew her to the seabed. Lower, lower and lower. Back to the earth. Back to the ground. She fell to her knees behind him as he buried iron blow by blow, reaching for him, pulling at his arms, screaming at him to stop and to see what he had become. Her words reached no ears. Her fingers could not touch the statue that was he. She cried as she pulled at him, a rolling fog trying to stop a tsunami. The more she reached in towards his heart, the closer she drew near to him, the more she felt the pull and tug of something else. Something ancient. Something she should’ve remembered. Something she should never have forgotten.
As she reached out to him now, her visage unseen to mortal and undead alike, he grew further away. Further, and further and further. A hallway elongating, his brutality the centerpiece, fading away. She reached out, called his name in the deafening silence, but the harder she fought, the louder she cried, the more forcibly she was pulled backwards, down, inside … and that noise. What was that noise? More screaming? She pressed her hand gently to her mouth, but her lips were closed. It was not her screaming.
Pheenyx watched with helpless defeat, timelessness the breeze with which she swayed, until the cord was at last severed and he was finally spent, left cradling so sweetly she, the memento of his eternal love, curling and curling and curling in on himself, shrinking away, burrowing deep, into the grotesque grave he had dug for himself.
… . .. .. d r i f t i n g … .. . . ..
It was growing louder and louder. She did not dare look back or behind. A beating of a war drum, heavy in her ears. Inexplicably, there was a warmth here in this astral plane. Eyes looked to where feet should’ve been, but all that she could see of herself was a fine red mist, growing and melting her figure into nothingness. Where, then, her hand? Her mouth? Her ears to hear?
Her mind began collapsing in on itself, grasping at anything to keep afloat, to claw at understanding. No, I can’t go back. I won’t! Please! Damian, save me! How had she forgotten what waited for a demon in the abyss?
It had been so long …
The heat grew and continued to grow until it was unbearable! Her sight stayed trained on Damian’s quickly diminishing form shrinking from view, his lips parted in an agonized crying of her name, growing further and further away as she was sucked into darkness, the suffocating void wrapping ghostly tendrils around the her disappearing form, drawing her in and obliterating her her.
I love you..
I have always loved you.
It was only, ever, you.
I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody
to go to hell in his own way.
Please, don’t forget to remember me, my love.
I forgive you.
|October 03, 2020 01:19|