for harlowe. <3 Queen of Piety Cemetery
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Oh, how lovely and sad a place this was. Her gold-green eyes took it all in with a wary cast. Her mare, a lovely old thing of a breed she was unsure of flitted in and around the tombstones like a black ghost, silent and steadfast. She loved the old thing, had named it in perhaps a fit of nostalgia or simple longing, Po, she missed her firstborn [firstborn surviving anyway], girl so very much. Misery had discovered many things about getting old and one of them was that you missed things. Things that were years ago that you held tucked deep into your heart. Chimera the voice in her head whispered, so low and seductive. Sometimes it was her own inner voice, more often it was Damian's. Oh, Damian. Even thinking that name left her with hollow pangs of longing that made her want to weep. He was gone. Ahren too. Little Poe as well. The empire she had helped built, the wolves that had clung to her heart, all gone. It made her desperately sad and sometimes she thought of simply laying her head down and drifting away. It would be so easy. But the heart that beat in her chest was not yet ready to rest. Children she had known, children she had borne were gone, but Misery went on.
Friendless am I, but faithless I am not. The words were a quote from some double sided relative she could not quite remember the name of. It sounded like Mackenzie in her head, they'd always talked like that. It seemed these days she thought more and more of family. Maybe it was simple loneliness, she had been alone for a very long time. Khalif belonged to her now - a once inky black female who now, was nearly entirely white. A blessing. God had touched her, Ankh had blessed her wicked heart. Misery had heard it all and could not quite believe. Could Ankh have really blessed her? The idea was laughable. Thirteen children - oh, such a cursed number, thirteen she would claim. Seven she was certain were dead. The others? Lost to the world she supposed. If Misery was anything, it was a terrible mother. She often tried with every part of her, but failure seemed the course for the road. The thoughts were wicked in their dragging depression and she shook her head, continuing to walk along the path.
The bench ahead looked welcome and she carefully lowered herself down to sit. She was thin, but nowhere near the skeleton she had often been. If anything, Misery was looking almost pretty these days. Her dreadlocked mess of black 'hair' spilling down white shoulders. Her body was littered with white fur tipped with black, but mostly silver hairs that shined in the light. Her features narrow and sharp, and those bright, brilliant eyes that seemed so strange. Gold-green that belonged only to her family, gold-green that shined so bright. Her one arm bore a triskele, the symbol of Chimera - oh, how she longed for Chimera! The mark was malachite, a pale imitation of the shade of her eyes, and lightly raised - she had branded and scarred the symbol before getting it skillfully tattooed over. Around her neck, still, even now, hung a slightly melted symbol in shades of silver, that matched the one on her arm. An elegantly carved walking stick - it had strange symbols, mostly moons in various stages, many suns, and clouds, the color of the stave being a rich ebony. A gift from Khalif to their once reviled and now worshiped child. She hated and loved them, and the gift had been welcome. The scar from Meth, her daughter who had once tried to burn her alive and steal her eyes, ran along the length of her leg. Misery was clad it what amounted to a long robe in shades of bright white, the sleeves bunched up to her shoulders against what was a strangely warm early morning. The hood of the robe was down, though it would have covered nearly to the tip of her black nose if it was on. She closed her bright eyes and let a soft, worn sigh pierce her lips. It was comforting here, but she would soon need to move on.
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Word Count :: 415
Though Harlowe was quite far from perfect, one might never have guessed at the madness blazing brightly within him. It was an unstoppable flame—his ancestors had kindled the fire and lit the fuse long before he was born. That tiny capacity for violence and inflicting pain that exists within each living creature had been ignited in Harlowe, but he saw this as only a victory—Rio had been given to him as a trial, a temptation. His mother, perhaps the only water that could have doused this flame, was long gone, and Larkspur had only served to foster and strengthen it within Harlowe. The young boy himself could not have determined his own issues; he saw nothing wrong with the test and challenge he had completed. He was perceptive enough to realize others would not have understood it as he had—they were blind to the calling and they were blind to the reality.
One of the things Harlowe liked quite a lot about Dahlia de Mai was its proximity to the city; Phoenix Valley had also been close to Halifax, of course, but Harlowe preferred the western side of the city to the eastern half; he had long ago discovered the university and the library and they were amongst his favorite places in the entire world; Dahlia de Mai's territory provided rather easy access to this area. Unsurprisingly, however, Harlowe was no navigator, and he had gotten hopelessly lost in trying to find the same place he had been perhaps ten or fifteen times before; he was on the complete opposite side of the city now, wandering aimlessly. A strange scent entered his nose—there was an almost impalpable pull toward it, one that Harlowe did not immediately recognize. He knew only that his feet had turned and he had begun walking in a new direction, strung along on his way as if guided by invisible strings.
Before long, he found he was wandering through headstones—he knew what such a place was, of course, but these were the human dead here; there was no reason they should be revered or treated with even a little respect. The cream-shaded man continued along until movement caught his jade-tinted eyes, drawing them to the large figure of a dark horse, meandering through the headstones. The youth looked at this creature curiously, peering about to try and determine an owner; the equine's coat was shiny and it was well-fed, indicating someone was taking care of it.
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