This is a cloaked and hooded figure you can't see or hear or smell or, one supposes, taste-- but you can feel its presence in the cold air and the way the world seems to shrink, turning dim and dull and grey.
This is all the pain and anguish and despair and misery you've ever felt, whispering over the pavement to sink its claws into your bright little mind and drink away your happiness.
A group of children her age, throwing up signs to ward off the Evil Eye, all in her direction.
She's lived a longer life than most girls her age.
There is blood. Grandfather's. He hangs, supported through the middle by a jagged stake of wood. He was the strongest person she knew.
She's carried this feeling. She's felt things like this. To this intensity.
"Now, I must sleep. I fear we shall not meet again. Farewell, my beloved, my beautiful vampire hunter."
But she could always put it aside before. Stuff it in a locked box in her soul, where its chill burned and gave her the energy to go out at night when no other Christian dared, to try and make it some anyone would.
But now, that box won't close, and its contents are bleeding out, and her vision is getting fuzzy and her eyes are burning. She clutches her whip.
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This is all the pain and anguish and despair and misery you've ever felt, whispering over the pavement to sink its claws into your bright little mind and drink away your happiness.
This is the Dementors of Gotham.
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She's lived a longer life than most girls her age.
There is blood. Grandfather's. He hangs, supported through the middle by a jagged stake of wood. He was the strongest person she knew.
She's carried this feeling. She's felt things like this. To this intensity.
"Now, I must sleep. I fear we shall not meet again. Farewell, my beloved, my beautiful vampire hunter."
But she could always put it aside before. Stuff it in a locked box in her soul, where its chill burned and gave her the energy to go out at night when no other Christian dared, to try and make it some anyone would.
But now, that box won't close, and its contents are bleeding out, and her vision is getting fuzzy and her eyes are burning. She clutches her whip.
Mama... Papa... Grandfather...
Holy Father...
Help me!
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Delicious morsel, yes, tasty, yes, but--
It has seen holy weapons before.
Felt them before.
And has no wish to do so again.
Back it floats, just a few feet.
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None of her family had been cursed with this gift before her- to appear mad, jumping and lunging at things that any sane man could see were not there.
"If she can see them, she must be the one who brought them!"
The icy bleeding from the box eases just enough for her to kindle her soul.
The air flickers, silvery. A chunk of her faith, in tangible form- another gift from God- whooshes out like a charging beast.
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