i hope i find some peace today [m] [p]

Misery · 03-22-2011, 08:36 PM

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WARNING This thread contains: strong language, drug usage, strong violence, or strong sexual content starting with the 1st post. Reader discretion is advised.

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[html]This is mostly just character development and rambly. I don't even know. If you are unfamiliar with Misery this probably won't make sense. Don't feel required to match length, I went a lil'overboard. And the things happening, only Misery can see.[/html]

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"You should be honored." The words echoed through the dark female's mind and she was afraid. Honored to be sacrfificed. Honored to be punished for her crimes. She was a blight upon the D'Angelo's, a blight upon the world. Born in darkness, forever bound by evil. Every deed was wicked, indisputably so. A sinner could never be a saint and the little female was perfectly aware. Safety carried a heavy price and for the Khalif, that price was sacrifice. Tak was a hungry cannibal god. He demanded flesh to satiate the cruel appetite he carried and the Khalif would give. They knew well what happened when they did not - famine and starvation. Disease and dismay. One life for many. One wicked, terrible life to save the saints and sinners alike.

Misery could taste terror on her tongue. The wolves chanted and adorned her. The symbol of Tak painted between her eyes, a burning white sun on her belly. Ankh's arrow ran along her spine, painted in brilliant silver. Her dark fur shone in a way it never had before - the four year old had been scrubbed and cleaned. Her flesh had filled out considerably in the past week - never before had the pack ever given her meals, and she had eaten well. Tak would not want mere skin and bone as food. A black robe was presented to her and slid over her head and Misery felt strange and claustrophobic. The chanting continued, a hundred voices crying out in holy fervor. Misery wanted to be quiet but she raised her voice as well, singing the song of sacrifice.

Blue eyes found hers. The face she stared at was a mirror of her own - but Ankh, her twin was painted white while Misery was wrapped in black. Trembling hands were tied to the pole and she could smell the bonfire. Ash filled the air and she could taste it, and it tasted of death and fear. "I..please. I don't want to die." But the words well on deaf ears, they were tuned to the sound of the guttural chanting. They had no time for the words of mortals. trembling and frightened she could see the wisps of smoke coming off of the fire now. She could feel the heat and she began to tremble all over, cold terror seizing her. Harsh hands gripped the bindings that held her to the pole that she was struggling against and she felt them go slack. Skinny hands were pulled back and Misery darted through the crowd. The voices quit their chanting and began to scream. Dozens of hands, desperate and wild grabbed for her. But she ran. Far and far away, never stopping or looking back. Not until a cold day many miles away when a quiet voice asked her what she wanted. A home, she had said - and Chimera opened its doors.

In the dark of the night, the old woman woke. The warm fur she used to cover herself as she looked around with wild, feverish eyes. Something was in the air. The fire she kept well stoked had gone out and the cave she called home was quite dark. But something was in the air, and she could feel her old heart thumping away a mile a minute. Misery had not dreamed of that day in so long. The day she had been meant to be burned alive, to be sacrificed to satiate the cannibal god's thirst. She would have burned and her bones would have been carved into little idols - coyotes, crows, scorpions, eagles, a dozen creatures that symbolized the being's beneath Tak's cruel dominion. Misery would have been turned into a dozen little Gods, and she should have been thankful for it. But she had ran. Ankh, the sister who had been born blessed and lucky had shown her pity. She had loosened the binds tying her. Sometimes Misery wondered why, but she had never gotten the chance to ask. The distance between them had been as vast as the distance between the darkest depth of the ocean and the highest cloud in the sky. They were white and black and the two could never settle as one. The old female fumbled around towards the last dying embers in the fire, pushing and breathing and feeding them until a low flame lit the dark cave.

You are so guilty. The ghostly voice felt different. It seemed not to be coming from within, but outside at the same time. Panicked, too-bright eyes scanned the cave and straight across from her she could see it. A shadow blacker than the darkness around it, two gleaming red eyes studying her. The shadow monster grinned showing rows of too sharp teeth - it was like staring into the mouth of a shark. Misery huddled against the wall of the cave, staring at the many toothed monstrosity. So, so guilty. Look at you now though. All pretty and white. The voice was Damian's but it was darker. It was outside of her and inside all at once, but she knew it was coming from the red eyed shadow that lingered across the room. You owe me blood, little one. Misery swallowed roughly, reaching out for the bag she kept near her bed. An assortment of herbs and other refuse were kept inside, but it was the old switchblade she hunted for. A gift from Skoll in the lands she had once called home. Bleed for me.

Misery rarely felt fear. Once her life had been ruled by it, and even the lands of bleeding souls had offered no real respite. Salvaged had stolen her courage, and Hearse had invaded Chimera and her own body to take that bit of refuge as well. Damian de le Poer had brought some courage back to her, but even he had been something to be feared. Sickness and madness coursed through his wicked veins and she had been the easiest target. Even in his cruel, jealous rage she had loved him. She would always love him. But as she slowly rose, carrying the switchblade in her left hand, she was afraid. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears and she walked closer. Laughter echoed around her cave and she slowly approached the red eyed shadow beast that laughed and smiled in the corner. Tak could never really be left behind. He would not be denied his bit of flesh.

Go on. You've bled before. You owe me. Misery knew Tak would not completely be able to take her. He could destroy her flesh, he could ravage her and torment her. But somehow - despite a life of undeniable sin - Ankh had taken her. Ankh had extended a loving hand and Misery was shielded. At least the soul that lingered deep down inside was. But she was afraid of the physical pain. She was too old to suffer. Too old to leap blindly into funeral pyres or to be dragged from burning buildings by pseudo daughters and sons. Misery was too old to listen to a mad voice inside that screamed to kill. She knelt carefully - her right leg wasn't giving her a bit of trouble, perhaps she was simply too afraid to feel the pain.

Do it. Now. The voice was eager and filled with a dark, almost sexual longing. Misery could feel a strange kind of desire running through her. It would not have been terrible to be savaged by the dark God. She had been used and abused more times than she could really count. Sometimes pain really was love, and it would have felt good to have been touched. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. One day death would take her, and there were worse fates than to die in the shadowy arms of a cannibal God that looked so much like her Damian. For a moment she thought of dropping the knife and defying him, and letting the darkness take her. She had never been made to walk in the light. The hand holding the knife loosened but something stirred inside her. A mental picture of black fur and pumpkin orange eyes. A flash of devotion and of the purest kind of love - the love of a servant before their god.

"Larkspur." The cannibal God let out a terrible noise, a scream and a laugh all at once and she knew she had robbed him of Larkspur as well. But she had paid that price. Anzu, foolish Anzu had been the cannibal God's meal. Misery held the switchblade steadily and held out her right palm. The cut was quick and savage and she watched her blood - thick and violently red well up and fall to the ground. The red eyed shadowy creature darted out and she could feel quiet dread as she watched her blood hit the floor. A sick feeling hit her stomach and she rose quickly, looking away from where the blood was steadily falling. The sight of it made her feel ill.

You'll never really belong to anyone but me, Misery. Tak's voice was artificially sweet - the feel of it oppressive and damning. His voice was like biting into fruit only to find it rotten and fetid. There was nothing good beneath the surface of his sweet words, and she clutched her bleeding hand with the other, ignoring the throbbing pain. "Ankh has marked me." A madman's laughter filled her ears and she swayed under the weight of it. His words were darkly powerful.

Murderer. I have seen you take life. The tiny life of a child. The life of a man. The life of one of Ankh's chosen - the very male who fathered you. Ankh only wants you so she can punish you herself. There was nothing she could say to defend herself. Misery knew her wicked deeds even better than the dark god who eagerly spoke of them. Misery knew she had been born to be wicked and that she had fulfilled that well. Speaking to the dark god was maddening, and she could feel a deep, terrible kind of itching settling deep into her mind. "Why are you here?" I am always with you. You are my child. You belong to me. I will always be with you. And Larskpur. And all of my other children. The maniac grin crossed the shadow-monster's face and quiet, eager noises bubbled past his terrible throat. And one day I will have all of you again. I will tear you apart. I will eat your guts and swallow your tongues. You will all be mine. The words and the sheer delight in the rotten tone made her shudder. Tak was never truly satisfied. Chaos, destruction, the flesh of his own, nothing could really satiate the darkness. Misery knew that. Every ritual, every story, they were all meant to save them from his cruel hands. But had it all been in vain? The thought was damning and she clenched her hands, the bleeding one throbbing.

"No." No? No? That is all you have to say? More laughter, gleeful and disturbingly childlike the shadow-beast clapped his twisted hands, rocking on his heels and grinning. This would not be easy. When the dark God chose to come, he would only leave of his own will. Ignoring him was dangerous, but what she steeled herself to do was even more so. Tak might have been fascinated by flame - his body was full of it, but it repelled him as well. Misery turned her back on the shadowy monster and she heard his sharp hiss of rage and she carefully walked away from him to the dim flames. More food on the fire, the flames slowly growing until they cast light on most of the cave. That's not enough. Misery stood slowly, looking into the last tiny bit of shadow where he lurked. No. It wasn't enough. She was perfectly aware. Misery crouched low over the fire, and took a slow breath. It would be painful, but it could be done. Even if she missed the darkness - Misery belonged to the light now. It was time to let the dark god go.

Stop. You love me. Don't you? Damian's voice now. Taunting her, pulling at her. Even if Damian had not believed in her gods, he had been the spitting image of Tak. In death, he would have fallen to him. She knew it wasn't really him, but Misery hesitated for a moment. "I love him. Not you, Tak." Quiet, very soft. Tak's scream of rage was potent but she knew he couldn't really touch her. She would protect Larkspur. She would protect them all until the last breath was pulled from her old lungs. It was just a little burning after all, it wasn't the first time she had burned. Misery darted her bleeding hand into the flame and picked up the hot, burning hunk of wood. The burning chunk cauterized the bleeding wound, and the pain was strangely fugacious.

"Ich bitte Sie, Ankh. Lady von Licht, geliebter Sonne, nehmen diese Dunkelheit von mir!" Misery threw the burning chunk of wood into the darkness remaining in her cave. The dark god let out a harsh screech and she felt his presence leaving. Only quiet, terrible calm was left in his wake. Her hand was throbbing - it smelled bloody and burnt, but she knew the damage wasn't that bad. She'd done worse to herself. The wound would blister and if she didn't tend to it there would be infection but she let out a slow breath, sinking down next to the large fire. For now, she was safe.

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Larkspur D'Angelo · 03-22-2011, 10:03 PM

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Word Count: 390

A long time ago, he had seen the eye of a god.

Larkspur had been a child, starving and bruised. He had been forced to scavenge on the edge of society, cursed by his dark fur, cursed because he had been born wrong. The Khalif’s caste had been unforgiving. The food he had survived on was nothing better than carrion for the crows and eagles that circled the mountains of home. A filthy child covered in dirt and blood had found the rabbit and devoured it. Mere minutes later he had been drugged and lost in a dream-world that carried as much if not more power than their own. So the child had been swept into the ini, pulled down into the earth where the earth god lived.

It smelled of iron and decay. Strange symbols burn against walls made of flesh and blood, symbols foreign but symbols he understands with sudden clarity. Deep in the womb of the earth an eye opened, a red eye that burns with hatred and desire, and Larkspur fears this. He screams, but there is another voice screaming, laughing, howling along with him. Animals crawl out of the red-pink walls, eagles and snakes and scorpions, and they hound his flesh and bite him and turn him mad.

But the eye remains wide and captures him. He hears the voice of a god.

It is this same voice that wakes him from a dreamless sleep. Larkspur’s eyes open in the darkness, burning from the light of the embers that had burnt down hours ago. Eris and his children were curled up nearby. Pandemic was stirring, as if disturbed by dreams. The wolf felt the same power in the air and rose to meet it.

His feet carried him out of the cave, traveling without knowing where he was going. The can tah around his neck was no longer whispering—it spoke in the language of the unformed. He listened and understood. A long time ago, Larkspur had been chosen. Touched and chosen by the dark one that had claimed his life so long ago. Slowly, he found his way to her home. Tall, broad-shouldered and dark, the mystic called out to her in the voice of their most terrible god. “Mi tow, can de lach,” he said clearly, all trace of his thick accent gone.

Misery · 03-25-2011, 03:02 AM

[html]beautiful post, eee. <3 Really big powerplay with how Mis saved him but I don't think we ever talked about it >> I will end it out if you don't like![/html]
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Misery could feel her head swimming. Her heart was going so quickly she was fairly certain it would simply give up soon. The old female could only stare at him in a staggering, frozen kind of terror. It seemed cruel kismet was not going to let the night end with a shrill female's voice crying out in the night. Misery knew Larskpur had been chosen, that was why she had saved him. The white female had felt the touch of Tak emanating off of the frightened boy and she had made up her mind. Anzu's fiery eyes had turned to her in quiet horror when she'd began to speak in the thick, guttural german. He hadn't understood at all, but he had felt the coldness of her tone. His fate had been sealed.

"Cut him down! Now! You heard me, don't stare you fools. I have been touched by Ankh and you will obey me. Cut him down. Take this male - he is tainted and he will serve as Tak's meal. I said now." Larkspur had been cut free and Anzu had been taken by the clamoring hands. Misery had stood before the mad eyes of the Khalif, her heartbeat racing and terror on her tongue. But they had obeyed. They had all known her in wicked darkness, and they knew Ankh had saved her. She had been made Alpha shortly after. But none of that had been relevant. She had simply pulled the trembling giant to her and whispered soft promises of salvation. He had embraced her and she had sealed his loyalty than and there. Larkspur became her most beloved son.

Misery had saved him because of the touch of destiny on him. But it seemed likely now that the touch of destiny might have been her own demise. That thought was chilling, and she trembled. Her wounded hand reached around for the switchblade but she had left it near the shadows. Her cane was near her bed and she knew sudden movements wouldn't end well. "Me en tak, Larkspur. But you are better than that. Don't let him control you." Misery had done everything to save him. Tak would always have claim over Larkspur's fate and soul, but she could hope - and it was a desperate, terrified hope - that she had claim over it as well. Misery did not dare speak the holy tongue - too afraid of strengthening the spirits hold, she fell into the common tongue.

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Larkspur D'Angelo · 03-29-2011, 06:38 PM

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Word Count: 380

Larkspur had been chosen by Tak not simply because of his pelt, but for his mind. It was an odd thing, in truth. The Khalif had scorned him from birth and turned him feral, accused him of stupidity and treated him like dirt, but the mind within Larkspur’s brutish form was one that had once borne great potential. There had been intelligence in there long ago—it had evolved (or devolved, as was the case) to something feral and cunning in its wickedness. He learned things quickly by simply trying them. This was how he had learned to ride the horse and control her, how to tame the sheep, how to care for things like leather and wood and construct with simple tools. Had the Khalif not stunted his mind, he might have become terribly brilliant.

Yet the feral beast he was had been fed by the first drug overdose from the rabbit. The child had suffered for it, splitting his mind into a lesser thing. Half of him continued to grow and become wise, while the other lingered in the half-life of a stupid animal. A wiser man would have recognized this as the reasoning behind the voice of the can-tah and all those terrible gods, but Larkspur was an acolyte to the faith. He would not forsake what he had been taught since birth. He would not forsake the woman to whom he had sworn his life—a bond stronger than the hold of the earth god.

“Ich werde immer seine,” Larkspur said in fluent German. There was no harsh accent as there was with his common-tongue. There never had been, but the common language was harder for him to speak and it showed. “So werden Sie. Auch mit ihrem Marken,” he said, exposing his white underside to her as he approached. “Wir sind seine.” It was apparent that the thing within him had fled—perhaps because of the brute’s own will alone. He was not as weak as the Khalif had sought to make him. “I hate that they live without fear,” he said suddenly, eyes becoming terrible. “They are arrogant to think themselves untouchable. I killed a boy for comin' after my children, but Tak drove my hand; he turned his back on the gods.”

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