[OPEN]
Who: Irene halcyonthird
When: Just after this post.
Where: Edges of the mist, behind the Outlander Block.
Format: Whatever you wish. I started with tl;dr paragraph. It may change.
What: Irene sees Very Bad Things in the mist.
Warnings: Blood. A little gore.
A few more steps in and the bleeding starts. Not much at the outset - a few droplets here and there - the taste of metal on her lips (she swallows it down, it's only blood after all) and the echo of something just outside of her range of hearing.
It's familiar.
It's her. But not her.
The energy. It's ...something else. Something else entirely. As she passes a broken line of trees half-obscured by mist the stump at her left shoulder begins to ache.
A rush as it's welling in her ears - it's sound through a layer of wet cotton before it spills over and out and splashing red along her shoulders.
But she's used to the blood.
Prickling in the half-moon curve of her fingernails, her right hand slick with it, and her feet growing slippery in their boots.
"Clare." It's not a question, it's an order - and the word brings with it a spatter of red - and it goes unanswered.
The rub of leather straps along her thigh - the flash of silver buckles against the blood-dark stream as she moves - blade drawn and eyes trained on the figure that keeps slipping past and out of her reach.
She knows its not Clare. But she's following anyway, step after step, boots sodden with her own blood, rivulets running from her nostrils - the edges of her vision a filter of scarlet.
"Number Forty Seven! Stop."
She's spitting blood, breath heavy in her chest and gurgling just a little--
How much further until my lungs burst with it? A few steps? More?
The shadow-figure stops. A silhouette traced in silver through incarnadine glass, half turned, its pale hair faintly lifted by a breeze.
Irene coughs, bringing up a gobbet of bloodflesh - a sick spatter against the misted ground, and takes another step.
It's not Clare. No matter how much she wants it to be. The energy. Is all. Wrong. Not just wrong. Gone.
And so it turns, all wide eyes and slip-dark grace, stepping out from the darkness it had coiled itself in.
But the face is not Clare's. it's not even an approximation. It grins with Priscilla's mouth, stares up (down?) at her with Priscilla's eyes - smiling wider as a bubble of blood bursts from her lips.
"Oh..." Its teeth are sharp and white - adorned with shreds of flesh as it speaks. "Hello Irene. What's wrong? You seem to be missing an arm."
*****************************
Irene had misjudged. Again.
And when she'd (futile, really, but reflex) struck the thing, it had grown suddenly smaller. It quite resembled a human girl now---
Priscilla
---small and lying bisected in a pool of its own blood.
Priscilla's blood.
It could have been Irene's blood, too. Because there was so much of it, it was hard to tell. And the mist, it played tricks.
"Why are you hurting me?" the Priscilla-thing asks, but with a voice that caused her to back up a pace. "Why didn't you stop this? It's your fault. It ...really hurts. And now I'm going to lie here forever because of you."
Its voice is reedy, thin and gurgling, its eyes large and wet and accusatory as it cries. "When I put myself back together," it whispers, " I'm going to tear you apart with my teeth. I'll take your legs this time, so you can't run away. And then I can finally tell you all the terrible things I've done because of you."
There's cheer in its voice now, as one half of it searches for the other.
But the energy's still all wrong. It's still not even there at all.
Some other ---yoki----
--back where---
Irene doesn't wait for the thing to speak again - she turns and runs back through the mist mostly the way she came.
She doesn't know (doesn't care) if it's giving pursuit, and the blood is streaming so freely from her eyes that she's surprised she hasn't stumbled yet.
She had, after all, stumbled so many times on the way in.
It's like drawing on silvered threads - she can feel them - other auras - here somewhere - like wires crossing as she lets herself be pulled toward them.
One, Two, Three, Four, Five...
six? seve--
Past the treeline, spitting blood on stone for the fifth time and she sees with redlined vision the edes of ...buildings?
Just over there. That's where I--
Another step, and another, bloody froth at her lips as she finally falls on the barest edge of a misted street. It's rolling away from her now, retreating back into its own shadow, tendril by tendril. It's not unlike a mass of ribbons.
----the yoki. There's one. It's almost...
She mouths the word, bent over, blood-soaked and breathless and----
"No."
When: Just after this post.
Where: Edges of the mist, behind the Outlander Block.
Format: Whatever you wish. I started with tl;dr paragraph. It may change.
What: Irene sees Very Bad Things in the mist.
Warnings: Blood. A little gore.
A few more steps in and the bleeding starts. Not much at the outset - a few droplets here and there - the taste of metal on her lips (she swallows it down, it's only blood after all) and the echo of something just outside of her range of hearing.
It's familiar.
It's her. But not her.
The energy. It's ...something else. Something else entirely. As she passes a broken line of trees half-obscured by mist the stump at her left shoulder begins to ache.
A rush as it's welling in her ears - it's sound through a layer of wet cotton before it spills over and out and splashing red along her shoulders.
But she's used to the blood.
Prickling in the half-moon curve of her fingernails, her right hand slick with it, and her feet growing slippery in their boots.
"Clare." It's not a question, it's an order - and the word brings with it a spatter of red - and it goes unanswered.
The rub of leather straps along her thigh - the flash of silver buckles against the blood-dark stream as she moves - blade drawn and eyes trained on the figure that keeps slipping past and out of her reach.
She knows its not Clare. But she's following anyway, step after step, boots sodden with her own blood, rivulets running from her nostrils - the edges of her vision a filter of scarlet.
"Number Forty Seven! Stop."
She's spitting blood, breath heavy in her chest and gurgling just a little--
How much further until my lungs burst with it? A few steps? More?
The shadow-figure stops. A silhouette traced in silver through incarnadine glass, half turned, its pale hair faintly lifted by a breeze.
Irene coughs, bringing up a gobbet of bloodflesh - a sick spatter against the misted ground, and takes another step.
It's not Clare. No matter how much she wants it to be. The energy. Is all. Wrong. Not just wrong. Gone.
And so it turns, all wide eyes and slip-dark grace, stepping out from the darkness it had coiled itself in.
But the face is not Clare's. it's not even an approximation. It grins with Priscilla's mouth, stares up (down?) at her with Priscilla's eyes - smiling wider as a bubble of blood bursts from her lips.
"Oh..." Its teeth are sharp and white - adorned with shreds of flesh as it speaks. "Hello Irene. What's wrong? You seem to be missing an arm."
*****************************
Irene had misjudged. Again.
And when she'd (futile, really, but reflex) struck the thing, it had grown suddenly smaller. It quite resembled a human girl now---
Priscilla
---small and lying bisected in a pool of its own blood.
Priscilla's blood.
It could have been Irene's blood, too. Because there was so much of it, it was hard to tell. And the mist, it played tricks.
"Why are you hurting me?" the Priscilla-thing asks, but with a voice that caused her to back up a pace. "Why didn't you stop this? It's your fault. It ...really hurts. And now I'm going to lie here forever because of you."
Its voice is reedy, thin and gurgling, its eyes large and wet and accusatory as it cries. "When I put myself back together," it whispers, " I'm going to tear you apart with my teeth. I'll take your legs this time, so you can't run away. And then I can finally tell you all the terrible things I've done because of you."
There's cheer in its voice now, as one half of it searches for the other.
But the energy's still all wrong. It's still not even there at all.
Some other ---yoki----
--back where---
Irene doesn't wait for the thing to speak again - she turns and runs back through the mist mostly the way she came.
She doesn't know (doesn't care) if it's giving pursuit, and the blood is streaming so freely from her eyes that she's surprised she hasn't stumbled yet.
She had, after all, stumbled so many times on the way in.
It's like drawing on silvered threads - she can feel them - other auras - here somewhere - like wires crossing as she lets herself be pulled toward them.
One, Two, Three, Four, Five...
six? seve--
Past the treeline, spitting blood on stone for the fifth time and she sees with redlined vision the edes of ...buildings?
Just over there. That's where I--
Another step, and another, bloody froth at her lips as she finally falls on the barest edge of a misted street. It's rolling away from her now, retreating back into its own shadow, tendril by tendril. It's not unlike a mass of ribbons.
----the yoki. There's one. It's almost...
She mouths the word, bent over, blood-soaked and breathless and----
"No."