08. Never break eye contact with a wolf by Rook
rook
It had only been seconds from when Tempest left, disgusted by the turn of the conversation. Seconds, for what was tense to become deadly.
Rook was aware of only a few sensations: cold and numbness, agony and an almost surreal severance from reality. The wolf was no longer fighting; thank the gods, because there was no more fight left in him.
Then, Tempest was there, a very serious look of concern in the molten color of his one eye. His long hair seemed to blur as it caressed his skin, floating about almost ethereally.
Rook loved this sensation. This, near death experience brought about by blood loss. In fact, it was his first drug. It gave him a feeling of careless flight and freedom. And it was what he pushed for with every smoke, every fight with his family, every time he forced someone to strike him, maim him, break him.
Tempest’s arms felt strong and hot, like the fire that threatened to go coursing down Rook’s throat the moment he had unwisely bitten the wolf.
He must look horrible; Tempest seemed so concerned. Sure, the wolf had struck first, attacking his broken ankle; the sweep kick had landed perfectly, shattering the bone again. But the way the savage creature had latched onto his throat was magnificent.
Rook tried to laugh, knowing that his new fur lined coat had to be coated with his own blood. His perfect pale skin had to have been covered with blood and blisters, and his hair must have been matted and caked with drying crimson clumps. Tempest said something, brushed his fingers over the wounds on his neck, but Rook didn’t hear the words.
Breathing.
He couldn’t breathe.
The laugh didn’t come out. Nothing came out! Panic burst to life in the young man, who clutched at his lover’s bare chest. <
He heard Tempest’s deep voice in his head, <
Tears touched Rook’s eyes as his chest heaved repeatedly to expel the air that was poisoning his lungs. No! He can’t die! Not now! Not when he was just learning to be happy!! <> He managed to mentally scream before shadowy dots started to cloud his vision.
Magic was called upon by Tempest, bright and positive magic filled Rook’s panicking body. Blistered and torn skin mended together, just as if it had never been damaged. Rook gagged, sending a spray of blood all over Tempest’s chest. Gasping, a cool breath came to him. And when another entered his lungs without effort, he slumped down, exhausted. He was tired, tired of dealing with his ankle, tired from the ordeal through his memories. Physically he was beat, mentally he was exhausted. He had tried to put on a face of happiness, and for a while it worked. But he was miserable, and he needed time to heal. That first night back, he had felt something he had never felt before. As his lover kissed the crown of his head he whispered, “Take me home.”
And to home Tempest took him, laying him down upon the moist earth. It was where they had come just two nights ago; the air was still sweet and full of life. Nowhere else did he feel the same connection, save in the hands of his lover. But now Tempest needed time to himself, the dark man would always be a creature of solitude. For Rook to continue to demand otherwise would only drive him away. Resting on the soil, he spread one hand out; his blood seeped down and stained the dark stones crimson. The earth welcomed him. <
Oblivious to Tempest’s response, Rook pulled the shadows around himself, like a great blanket of darkness. Under the dim canopy of the evergreen trees, he slept.
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It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
~Marionne Williamson
Thurs, Jan 8th – 11:32PM
lykos
The memory of dying. A familiar one… he would have welcomed the embrace of that velvet absolution had he not been denied it. The sound of heavy chain-links slinking across each other. Goldflecked eyes flare open, glazed with shock and confusion as the mind behind them tries to comprehend the current situation. He lives. He isn’t bleeding, and his body responds normally. Although puzzled by the extravagance of his surroundings, it takes but a moment for him to recognize them. Another pit. Close upon the tail of that realization is the stir of curiosity. Did he win? Was the man dead? No… there was another, a dim memory of female, the tang of unfamiliar fear-scent, and he feels again the nauseating agony of the impact with the piano leg, sending a broken rib shearing through delicate lung tissues. Rook must still be alive. Lips draw back in a snarl of deep-seated, molten fear as he reflexively coils his body into a crouch. He had lost. And someone had repaired the damage to his body instead of letting him die… which meant that he was to be punished for failing. Metal links grate together, and smouldering embers flare back to roiling life.
The lykos prowls restlessly, accepting and dismissing the protests of a still-healing body with the ease of familiarity. A strange cell, though dark eyes are blind to the beauty of it. Congealed, sticky blood coats the floor in puddles and splashes, a jarring flaw to the peaceful chamber. Gaze alighting on the empty, discarded cup he snarls, teeth still clenched to keep the greasy water down. He paces, learning every inch of this new prison, this cage. Sometimes on two legs, sometimes on four – skin and fur both are matted and filthy with blood, though little of it was his own. When the lykos wearies of pacing, the soft twilight of the chamber finds him curled as far from the drying stains as possible, against the base of the wall, merely waiting or snatching brief fragments of uneasy sleep, never more than a few minutes without jerking awake to stare around warily.
Waking or sleeping, memories flicker. Raw, cold stone replaces exquisitely artistic walls, a crude mesh of iron bars instead of the glowing starstones above. The silence of the room stirs with the ghosts of raucous laughter, the whisper of voices crying encouragement or fury, the screams of insanely enraged creatures. No door pierces the luminous walls, a jarring inconsistency. Where is the heavy sheet of iron? Where the cup that burns like liquid nettles on the tongue, yet freezes the throat and belly? Hunger. Fear. Hate. Hate to light the fires that warm him. Fearhate…. they are one, melding into a comfortingly familiar whole, an inferno to warm him, a pyre to fuel his fury against the creature that caged him, the one called Rook. Patience. The door will reveal itself. The cup will be waiting. And the voices will urge him on… to earn the right to another meal, another few days. Or not.
He seeks no exit. Not every cage has a door, and a wolf holds no keys regardless. A pit, a hole, a prison. Fancy or foul, they are the same. They are a cage.. and a cage is the only home he knows. He waits, quietly, even curiously. The pain is familiar, as is the hunger. But what form will the door take? Prowling or resting, he waits, poised on the precarious precipice of fear and hate, familiar companions.
Fri, Jan 9th – 0:55AM
sericea
Up in her room sitting at the vanity across from her bed, she reflects on the adventuresome evening a night before. Everything had seemed to happen so quickly. One minute she had entered the room, the very next blood was spun about in fine, web-like strings dripping and sliding down clothe and flesh. Picking up the brush laying mere inches from her on the vanity, she combs through her hair. Long, black raven stands that fell to her waist when let down, shimmer like tinsel under light of the twin, vanity lanterns.
The creature was undoubtably still in the basement. And she couldn’t help worrying for it. Hours before she’d been down there, seen to most of its wounds. Infact it was then when she first noticed the mysterious necklace. She’d tried to take it but with some sort of magical resistance, it had refused her. The brush in her hand pauses for a moment as she thought on this, still staring into the mirror before her. The bare-skinned man had seemed so plain and ordinary in appearance, except for this little mystery charm around his neck. She really couldn’t help being curious.
Setting the brush down, she pushes the chair back and away from the vanity. Slowly coming to a stand, her eyes linger on the mirror before her for a little longer. So much is wrapped up behind the mask, and with a small sigh she turns away from it. Leaving her room and heading out into the hall, she is the only company this long, shadowed corridor would find for the time being. Paced, methodically steps eventually lead her to the mansion library. “Time for a little research, ” she decides aloud to no one but herself and the empty room.
Coming to one bookcase specifically, she fingers through several bindings until at last she finds one marked, Symbols and Insignia. With a slight smile, she retrieves the book and moving to one of the comfortable armchairs, she settles down for a bit of late night reading.
Sericea Masque
Who am I to the world?
One lost little girl.
But who am I to you?
A passing face in shadow
Fri, Jan 9th – 5:38PM
temptress
That the wild boy is still alive is a testament to my patience and my understanding of my Brother. Rook would be furious if I acted upon my feelings and dispensed of the boy while he was indisposed. And I can’t afford that now. Especially not now. Not when Rook so obviously teetered on a brink. Besides, the time for revenge had come and gone, I had missed the opportunity. To do so now would go against everything I said I stood for. I left the matter in Thorne’s capable hands until Rook returns. I will do my part and stay away lest others find out I’m not exactly who they believe I am.
Private thoughts of Temptress
~By light or by night, Life is a Masquerade
sericea
(A few days later)
The evening was cool and quiet as Sericea sat on the steps leading up to the Festival Hall’s main entry way. Though she might have felt alone, she wasn’t. The shadows were there, watching, waiting perhaps. So as she spoke freely with her sister, the moon, a voice had replied back. Startled at first, it took her a moment to realize just how un-alone she really was. This was a comforting thought yet at the same time, it was nerve-wrecking.
Time and words passed by, until the shadow dweller finally stepped into the light. Moving towards the fountain only a few yards away, he made himself known. It was the very same that had attacked her brother Rook. In fact, hadn’t this creature been locked away? Her own eyes confirmed he was no longer. Fear and trepidation welled within her. What would he do, revenge? The very thought turned her blood cold.
No soon had these realization come to her than he started stalking forward, eyes so intent; it felt as if he would burn holes right through her. Standing by this time, she was ackward, stumbling up the stairs to put some distance between them. All the while, her gaze never left his. If for one split second she looked away, she knew he could attack, and probably would.
All that night he had bombarded her with riddles and intimidated her by approach. He seemed to thrive on the fearful look of her eye. But in the end, it wasn’t his actions that had penetrated her heart, it was his words. Lykos, as he called himself, by name or by breed, she still wasn’t sure. But Lykos lived in a world without hope; a world of anger and revenge. What a devastating existence she had finally come to decide. Even as he had turned and walked back into his welcoming shadows, she had felt a sort of pity for him. What sort of a life must he endure?
She had only taken a mere peak into his world, and it was enough to scare her to death.
Sericea Masque
Who am I to the world?
One lost little girl.
But who am I to you?
A passing face in shadow