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indent Her steps were fluid, solid, quiet. This was her place and always would be. God’s light, Azathoth’s light, it shown through those broken windows and ancient stained glass. He whispered in her ear, as he always did. His voice would never leave her, even though she had lost so much. That devil had taken her son and nearly taken her life, but she knew that Ahren was her boy. Even after so long, he wore her sign. She had watched him with the quiet perseverance of a great cat. There was one terrible flaw in what she had seen though—a scarred, ragged man who was a constant.
indent The city was safety though, and here, she was queen. Like a pale ghost the white-coated woman moved, unafraid of the ruins around her. Not one strand of her hair was anything less then pure white, as it had turned after that faceless man had taken her. How cold and unforgiving he had been, under the full moon, a moon as yellow as her eyes. They burned in the half-light of dusk, the eyes of a jack o’ lantern, the eyes of a hawk, the eyes of all terrible things that walked in the devil’s hour. Thavardo was none of these; truly, she was far worse.
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If I oversleep tomorrow, I'm blaming you!
The city, no matter how many times he visited, and no matter how many nights he spent there, never felt very welcoming. There were eyes around the corners and the ashes of burnt down buildings drifting at his feet. Reminders and ghosts, things that he pushed away but which always came back. He didn't know why he still came at all. Was it still an escape if everything could still follow him there? There were multiple sets of walls: those at the edge of the mist, again at the edge of the collective territories that made up 'Souls, and again at the edge of the world. No matter how far he ran, he would always be a prisoner of his own mind.
The scarred hybrid saw the glowing, white wolfess, but did spare her a glance or a moment's pause. He wasn't there to socialize, never was. It was something he knew he needed more of but never felt inclined to do when the opportunity came. Besides, she didn't seem like she wanted to be bothered. No one ever did, right? Move along, move along. You've got nothing to say anyway.
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indent Things always fell into place. Deus ex machina, as it was. She smiled; a smile of an angel, a smile of a woman who had led cities to ruin and men to the grave. They always passed into dust. It would be no different for this man, though she would not call him that. He was barely alive, even though he was walking not far from her. He had no soul—she could see that as clearly as the scars on his body. The darkness that coiled and hounded him at night was a darkness she alone could destroy. Had she known of his other, she would have welcomed him with open arms. Everything would be all right.
indent It always was. “Are you all right?” Her voice was a croon, soft but not weak, commanding in its own right. Her eyes remained on his face, as if trying to see into his very soul. Perhaps she could.
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A soul was not a definite thing. Maybe he had one, maybe not. Maybe he had two. Who could tell if he couldn't? And what was the difference between a heart and a soul? There was always that heavy weight in his chest and at the bottom of his throat, the words that would not come and the feelings that would not go. Tonight, his head weighed too much and the thoughts were settling all in the same place. He turned briefly to the woman addressing him, but his red eyes never lingered long. I'm fine, he told her, a bold-faced lie as any other. She didn't know him and never would. A stranger in passing, that was all, just like everyone else.
It's a beautiful night, he added, as he continued his slow walk. Everything's fine. His voice was empty though and she would be able to tell, but why would anyone care enough to pry the words from him?
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indent Thavardo knew of heaven and hell, souls and demons. She knew that cutting deep enough into the stomach would release the soul. If she knew her grandson knew the same, she would have loved him as a brother. They were truly more alike then any others, though she had never met him. Still, the Word spread far and wide in the lands beyond. In the Midwest, it had been like a wildfire. Here, that fire had burnt out under the weight of the sinners. Embers spark back, though. She was prepared to start her burning all over again. “You’re lying,” she said calmly, neither accusing nor suggesting. She smiled to show she knew it.
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It's no concern of yours whether I am or not, he said evenly, still not looking back at the smile he could feel anyway. A persistent person was nothing new, but he couldn't decide why this woman was trying to prove. She had no connection with him as far as he knew; it wasn't concern he was hearing either. Mocking, perhaps, but he was too tired and too old now to be pulled into that sort of nonsense. If he kept ignoring her or evading her replies, would she leave him alone? Or would it be faster just to see what she wanted? The coyotewolf stopped and looked at the sky, then turned back at the wolfess, It is a beautiful night, anyway.
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indent Each moment that passed, Azathoth was in her ear. He told her what to do and how to do it, like a guardian angel. So she moved quietly, approaching him with that soft smile and halo. Like her son, her hair gave off that false glow. Neither were holy, though she believed she was. If he had not been taken, he might have been great. She would change that. Both eyes turned up to the sky, and when she saw he had done the same, she began speaking. “It’s amazing, really, to think what’s up there.” Her right hand moving, finding the brick on the wall behind them. “Heaven’s up there,” she continued, her grip tightening. “Though the road to salvation is long.” THWACK!
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He was tired of not remembering things, waking up without knowing why he had been asleep in the first place. The throbbing pain in the back of his head told him that it wasn't entirely his fault this time though, as did the hazy outline of someone standing over him, blocking the moon and the light. His first impulse was to sit up, but he found that his arms and feet had both been bound and that he had been reduced to a worm on the ground. The thoughts and memories took their time coming back to him, but even when they did, he was sure he didn't know this woman. The only people he knew that really had a reason to hate him was Inferni and she was neither a coyote nor smelt like the beach. So, Wh're you 'n what do y'want? he mumbled tiredly, stuggling half-heartedly with his bonds. (In the back of his mind, maybe he was still secretly looking for an easy way out.)
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indent A long time ago, she had come to these lands with nothing but the child in her womb. She had been raped, tortured, left for dead. It had not been the first time. That had been her father. Even now, she saw his face in every man. She heard his voice each time they spoke. And she hated—oh, how she hated. Above her, the moon was clear and cold, as cold as it always was. No matter what the damned moon would be cold. The pretty face was starting to crack. “I am judgment, and I am salvation.” Her lips pulled back, face all brimstone and fire. Her clawed foot struck out, and caught him in the belly. “Through me is the way into the woeful city,” she began, striking him again. “Through me is the way into eternal woe;” Another blow, another splash of red against her white fur. “Through me is the way among the lost people.”
indent Each time she spoke, she struck him. Each time she struck him, her fur grew darker with blood. “Justice moved my lofty maker: the divine Power, the supreme Wisdom and the primal Love made me. Before me were no things created, unless eternal, and I eternal last.”
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Her words were lost to him by the second sentence. Judgment and salvation was all he needed to hear and all he was able to, really. He felt the first blow and closed his eyes after that. The rest of her speech or prayer or whatever it was didn't matter and almost sounded like a foreign language. The way it flowed might have been considered familiar if he had really thought about it; even the small differences between mother and son could be noticable, but he didn't care. She was some woman with some grudge against him, clearly, did the details really matter? Maybe he had already become a rapist without knowing it; Laruku didn't pretend to know everything that Ryoujoku had ever done -- indeed, most of it escaped him still, so why not a night with another woman? There was no reason to rule out any possibility.
Whatever it was, surely he deserved this. He groaned quietly beneath her harsh and bloody blows. There was no fight in him, no words, no struggling other than the way his body reacted automatically, twisting a little and recoiling. Would she kill him? Was this the quiet and simple exit he had been looking for? What would the pack think when they found his body? Did that matter? Should he be fighting for his life right now?
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