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Post by Nepeta on Apr 29, 2016 11:20:03 GMT
Being a giant nerd like I am, I figured a night named 'Witches Night' totally seems like the BEST damn day to throw up all my Fae/Witch/Magical prompts. And I totally invite you all to do the same, or even better, write one up! The day/night is April 30th. I'll post up most the prompts I'm gonna toss up. Changeling Nepeta She'd been gone over a month. A month! A whole damn month and she still felt ok. Well. Ok was a bit of a stretch. She was cold, and her bones ached unpleasantly. There was also this... Sting. This dull pain that burned over her skin on occasion. But it was better than being home. It was better than being reminded yet again that she was weird and unwanted. Here, she was wanted. Well. Sort of. They were all unwanted, which in a weird way meant they were wanted by each other, right? No? Well. Nepeta Leijon wasn't one to argue semantics.
New York was beautiful in the morning. Small shops were just starting to open, the heavy smell of dew and general decay being pushed away by the first hints of coffee and baked goods. Her coat weighed heavily on her shoulders, the frayed edges dragging on the ground. Her pants were the same way, faded gray with ragged edges that caught on the tiniest thing. Spring was starting to show it's face, bright green leaves starting to worm their way through cracks in the sidewalk and buildings. Nature's new lease on life, soon to be crushed under foot.
It had started two months ago. The dreaming. Or maybe nightmare-ing was more apt, now a days. They had started out light, fun. Filled with beautiful and unreal creatures that danced on the edge of her vision. Eventually, night by night, they got closer. They invited her to parties in apple groves and under hills, where she ate and saw many amazing and horrible things. They kept telling her she could have this all the time. They told her she just had to remember her true nature. She was tempted to listen to them. Everything looked like such fun, but there was something about it that made her feel uneasy after she woke up.
One day, she had awoken with her eyes greenish-gold in color, the sclera black with pupils mere slits. She was terribly sensitive to light and kept seeing 'things'. 'Things' that were now her new kin, though she didn't know at the time. With out the darkness, they all seemed so much more inhuman, so much more terrifying. Eventually, her parents started treating her differently, it was as if they now knew she was not their real child. The tension grew thick in their home and patience grew thin. Then one night, the ears grew. Or maybe they appeared and they had always been there. It was hard to tell, really. Almost feline in nature, they were tall with tattered edges and almost impossible to hide under any of her hats. The fur on them was dark and curling, like her own short kept curls, and the tips of the ears curled inwards, sharp and pointed.
That was when she knew she could stay no longer. She had to find help, she had to find the things in her dreams.
She pawned much of what she had for money, saving only the most important of items and shoved them in her backpack. She didn't let anyone know she was going, though it was tempting to say goodbye to her old school friends. One night, when her parents were out for dinner, she left. She was intent on finding out what was happening and how she could reverse it. Faeries, she knew now they existed, and she knew they were somewhere close. She had a feeling it was important to find them before the night of her 18th birthday, she had a feeling things would just keep getting worse if she did not.
New York had seemed like the logical place to start, it was filled with people, so surely it was filled with the fae, right?
Since then, she had stumbled around New York, trying to locate the other fae. They were there. She saw them. Seelie, Solitary and Unseelie. But none of them would speak to her. She was too human. But to humans, she was too fae, though they knew not her true nature. All they knew was that she felt alien to them, and that she made them uneasy. Even though she had started wearing dark sunglasses to hide and protect her eyes and a managed to make her ears look like props, there was something about her that made them uncomfortable. She now knew there was a glamour on her, old and flaking as it was. It had protected her from the poisons of the human world, and protected the humans from her inhuman aura. Now she just had to find a way to fix it for herself.
She wasn't about to let the challenge of it all dampen her spirits. Well, ok, it did dampen them some. But she wasn't going to let the world see it! For today, it was a new day, there was tea to be had, and she still had some money left to spend. She had found ever since the change, her luck at finding valuable items had been uncanny. Shrugging her backpack from her shoulder, Nepeta walked to her preferred cafe. She pulled a roll of bills from the pocket and got in line with everyone else. The place was in an old brick building, the floors hardwood and the décor looked like second hand items, gathered from thrift stores all over. Nothing matched, and it somehow felt perfect. At least to her it did.
She'd found solace in Stinging Nettle tea after she discovered it, it was terribly bitter and stung so nicely. The Owl in the Pea Coat was run by people like her. Faeries. Changelings. They had a whole separate menu glamoured away from human's prying eyes. When it was her turn, she placed her money on the counter.
“A Special Three. Leijon. Thank you.” They knew her behind the counter by now, but she was still enough of an outsider to get suspicious looks. She took a seat near the back, in an overstuffed armchair. Her sunglasses slipped down her nose a bit, and she closed her eyes to wait until her name was called. After, she'd go to the library again. She'd been spending a majority of her days there, when she wasn't dumpster diving for things to pawn. Faery Market There were just some things she loved about the city. The lights, for one. The way that it looked like stars had dropped down to grace windows and signs, the way everything seemed to twinkle when you looked at it /just/ right. The way people moved through the streets like blood through veins of some great construct beast. She was certain the place was alive. She swore she could feel the ground shift beneath her feet every now and again, as it drew it’s breath. Who knows, she might be right. After all, people tended to lend places their own kind of magic. Magic was belief. It was pain and pleasure and hope and sorrow. It was life. Whether some people knew about it or not, everything they touched had some magic to it. She didn't doubt that a city as old as New York had become it’s own thing, made magic by the people who called it home. After all. Home was the most magical place.
Nepeta liked to think the city liked her. She liked to think, that maybe, it even loved her. That it was the reason people never seemed to notice her. But then again, who would? I mean, really, she was short, with a mop of dirty black curls, and skin that would be naturally dark underneath all that dirt and grime. She was a walking bundle of old clothes and patches and weird little charms that only those without a proper home could understand. She more a part of the city than a person, in the eyes of most. Just another wayward soul spit on by life. She was the perfect prop. What was a dirty street without some kid trying to get a few dollars to eat?
That, of course, afforded her all kinds of opportunities. See, Nepeta wasn't content waiting. She didn't have the abilities some of the other buskers had, she couldn’t cast magic or play music. Hell, she couldn't even sing. But she did have talents. The thing she /could/ do was steal. She had enchanted fingers, lighter than butterfly whispers. Well. Not really. But they were still pretty light. And of course, Central park was a big area, lots of crowds to move through. The perfect hunting grounds. If she was quick and careful, she could be in and out of a crowd before a performance was over. She always made sure not to steal too much, leaving enough marks that her fellow 'artists' would get their tips. See, Nepeta had rules. They all did, or so she hoped. That didn't make what she did any less reprehensible, but they still helped her feel better. It was like an honor code. You protect and care for the other homeless. Especially since they usually repaid the favor. See, a lot of them were like her, and not really as human as they tended to appear when faced head on.
It was nights like tonight that she had her biggest hauls, though. The setting sun cast bloody light across the park, the darkening sky dripping red at it's edges. It was almost morbidly beautiful, and she knew some unseelie prick would probably wax poetic on it for hours on end. Great. But she couldn’t dwell on the thought. She had to pay attention to what was being set up. Generally, this sort of event was called 'Faerie Markets', those with magical wares set up their stalls and sold it all by the full moon's light or the new moon's darkness. Not everyone was Fae, of course. But they had started the tradition. New moons were known for being particularly dangerous though. People brought out the blackmarket stuff. She had to be extra careful. Lamps were set up and lit with colorful flames, and candles flickered at the corners of most tables. New Moons were dangerous, but worth it.
It was a night for non-humans to shuck off their disguises and human skins, to be free. Nepeta preferred hers on, though, thank you very much. It was better to keep people guessing. Once people knew what you were they could figure you out. Her eyes drifted from table to table as she wandered with the early crowds, taking her chance to look at what was on offer. If there was anything special, maybe, she could barter for it. Potions bubbled in one corner, letting of strange scents that tickled her nose and made her oddly hungry for things she couldn’t name. And another stall set out charms that glimmered in the flickering light, made of mundane objects that had powers untold when used just right. Even further down the rows, a grill had been set up and some four-armed fae turned large skewers of odd bugs that popped and crackled, dripping with sauce and grease. Her stomach growled in protest and she clutched at it lightly. Maybe, just maybe, she'd treat herself tonight.
Slinking through the crowd, she pretended to shop. Even here she didn't look too out of place. A good chunk of the homeless population were Non-humans who didn't have the ability to hide well, or who couldn't adjust their natural tendencies. They couldn’t hide all their nature, nor afford the glamors and magicks of better wixes and fae. Where in that spectrum Nepeta fit, it was hard to tell, her heavy coat hid most of her body and keep people guessing. Lifting dark-circled eyes from one table, she lightly tapped on the corner. She made small talk with the owner, a wix who did some work for her on the sly in the past, before slinking away with the crowd.
Soon enough the aisles of the market were filled enough to work without worry. The congestion of bodies kept them all pressed rather close, and she mentally mapped out getaways as she sized up marks. Hunting was hard. You had to find someone just right. So when she spotted a likely target, she trailed them for a few tables and observed them before making her move. She used the press of the masses to her advantage, and slipped their fingers into her target’s pocket, holding her breath as she did. Her fingers were quick, her touch was light, and before her lungs could even start to burn, Nepeta had a wallet. Quickly and casually, she slipped it into one of her many pockets. She could check it out a bit later. No sense in breaking her streak before it even got started. Plus, it would do no good to be caught red handed. So she dove into the crowd again, her eyes shifting between green and gold in the flickering light as she eyed her prey. Underground Matchmaker Wix -ew this one is old- When she had first moved to the city as a child, they thought she was non-magic. It was nothing to be ashamed of, as her parents said. Her Mother's mother was non-magical and she had survived just as well. A whole family of Wix, and she was the only one unable to perform magic. It hurt. It had hurt so much. Plus it had drawn criticism from other magical- folk. A non-wix in a family of Wix was seen as weak. That the family’s magic was dying, that their blood no longer carried it. It made her rather unpopular, because kids being kids, assumed they could catch her ‘non-magicness’. They hoped the city would change that, it would make it more likely to meet other non-magical children, instead of their previous small town.
In truth, the city did more than good for her. Under the smoke-choked sky, she flourished.
Wix draw upon their homes, they draw upon the natural magic of their surroundings. To do this, they have to attune to their homes and their surroundings. Without the trust and support of their surroundings, they couldn't do much. They would lack a place of power. For Nepeta Leijon, her birth home never did anything for her. She never attuned with it though no one could figure out why, but the city? The city, with all it's people, lights, sounds and activity? She took to it like a fish in the water. It soon became obvious that she loved the city and the city loved her. After two months, she managed to cast her first spell. It had been an accident. She had been clapping along and singing the rhyming incantation to a small spell, something that was common for young children to learn, when she felt the first true rush of power. As the game ended, small flowers sprouted up around her and her game partner in a circle. They lasted for only a few moments before crumbling to dust, but it had been magic. It proved that she was just as magical as her parents and sister.
After that, her abilities only grew.
At 23, Nepeta Leijon was an accomplished empath, with a wide range of charms and spells to assist with her job. She could calm and soothe large groups of she had to, or rile them in a burst of righteous fury. She could keep party-goers feeling euphoric and bubbly, or bring a theater to tears at the proper moment. Her abilities were dangerous, or would be if they were not so strictly controlled. She was a junior member of a company that rented out abilities like hers. The paperwork was sound, and there were many checks to make sure her powers were not put to use for the wrong reasons. Everyone knew that the magical world, and the more mundane world had issues. Even in the magical world alone, there were still businesses that refused to cater to humans, or elves, or dwarves, or any of the many other races that had come forward in recent years. Everyone used to think magic would make everything better. If anything, it had made it all worse. And Nepeta still remembered what it had felt like to be unwanted due to not possessing magic as a child. So she angled for those jobs, ones where she could help those advocating for better treatment, for more equality. She wanted to make things better for everyone.
Yet despite her stable job and the prestige it could get her, she still didn’t feel fulfilled. In her downtime, in the dark corners of the world, she offered her secondary set of skills. These were the ones she didn't brag about. They were the ones that she knew would get her laughed at for being interested in such a 'teenaged girl's fancy'. But to her, it was more important than manipulating people’s emotional states. She had always loved relationships, and she guessed it started to show in her magic. While others in her classes had been studying, she had been researching old spells and incantations that would help her in her true calling. Finding soulmates. Though, she guessed ‘Soul Mate’ was subjective. While she specialized in the romantic type, she had found finding platonic soul mates was just as difficult. So she had studied and researched, and eventually, started putting her skills to the test.
So there she was, dashing through side streets as she got ready to meet with a client. With her hood pulled over her face, the illusion it showed was that of a cat, one with white fur and bright olive eyes. the rest of her clothes did the same, hiding her human nature for that of a fanciful feline guide. It was perfect. No one searched for love magic topside, it was seen as foolish and downright dangerous. Many used the those unlucky in love as pawns, or just ripped them off. But Nepeta was intent on actually helping. So she offered her services under the title of 'Rogue of Heart'. It had been slow going at first, but things were starting to pick up now. Most just wanted a hint or two, and their meetings didn't last very longs. Some thought she crafted love potions, or ensnared people they wanted in spells, to which she quickly turned them away. She didn't deal in that, that wasn’t love. Whatever that was, it was fucked up. She wanted to deal in only pure love. True love. The kind of relationship that just made you feel all warm and fuzzy.
That was why, despite the rain, she was scurrying through the alleys, carefully searching the illusioned walls for their tiny sigils. She was late. She should have been at the small cafe five minutes ago, but work had run late and the rain had started. She hated the rain. Her disguise flickered slightly as she turned her face to the sky, wincing as cold droplets landed heavily on her cheeks. She looked back and exited the alley onto a crowded street. The Owl and the Peacoat was her favorite meeting place, it was small, warm, cozy, and they knew her there. Or at least they knew the Rogue. They'd look out for her if things turned sour. Plus they actually baked love into their pastries, how cool was that? Pushing her way through the crowd, Nepeta only paused to give a small nod to the door gargoyle that watched over the place before entering.
She was late, she just hoped her client was at the proper table. Small Town Witch/Monster Nep - Also really old - The world was a terrifying place, even at it's most mundane.
But there were worse things out there than student debt, jury duty and tax collectors. Monsters lurked right alongside humans. Ghosts, zombies, terrors of the deep. It was almost surprising that most humans didn't notice. Well, no, actually it wasn't. Unless they were on the forefront of one of these outbreaks of the supernatural, it was kept out of the news. Vampires lurked, building secret empires, until a new generation was born. Wars ensued. From the seas came creatures only heard of in books, things with skin that sloughed off, tentacles that grasped at the living, that smelled of brine and horror to come. The dead clawed their way from their graves, and specters manifested all across the spectrum. From benevolent guardians to malevolent poltergeists. Children disappeared as faery rings cropped up, lured away by bright lights and promises of sweets so good it was ethereal.
Most of the World's government knew little of it. They were not the guards of that world. That honor belonged to age old organizations, ones that vied for powers in the shadows of great buildings. They were the gatekeepers and lawmen of this second world. They did what ever it took to keep the general populace unaware. Sure, this meant getting their hands dirty at times, but really, it was worth it right? Whole towns would go off the map for weeks or longer, under the guise of 'Quarantines' and black outs. Only the barest of information got out to the public. Sometimes, they would have to be eradicated fully an 'Accidents' would happen.
But it was all better than letting people know that the monsters in their closets were a real possibility.
Behind her back they called her a 'Small Town Witch', though she never knew why they waited until her back was turned. She was a small town witch. Her name wasn't going down in history books, even if they had such a thing. Her abilities weren't anything to brag about, but they got the job done. If anything, her abilities were a burden. She had been recruited when she was a teen, took under the old guard's wing and schooled in the way to use her powers to help those in need, rather than harm. Or at least that was what they told her. Hey, at least she got to travel for free, right?
She laughed softly to herself as she zigzagged her way through airport crowds. No one really paid any notice to the mass of necklaces she wore, glittering with metals and bones, glyphs and charms and sigils of protection that pulsed ever so faintly with the magic of her comrades. They kept her safe from others, and others safe from her. As she neared customs, Nepeta Leijon dug through her pockets until she found her wallet. She flicked through varying badges until she found the one she thought would work. Flashing it, she gestured to a few of the bags behind the counter, and they were handed to her. Fake Ids were a necessity in her line of work, but she couldn't help but feel giddy when she got away with it.
Bags slung across her back, she started to flip through the folio that had been waiting for her atop her bags. Her instructions for this time around. She wrinkled her nose slightly as she read it. They never skimped on the gory details did they? She sighed and closed the folder with an audible snap. She sent sidelong glances to the others who waited for taxis. It was still so odd that she passed inspection so easily. Of course, who was going to argue when one of the monsters was sent to fight the monsters?
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Post by Nepeta on Apr 30, 2016 0:06:37 GMT
Hey drunk teenagers works too. I live next to a forest, and even though it's private property, all the baby witches end up congregating and drinking box wine and starting bonfires. So I tend to sit around with a few buckets of water handy, because like 2-3 years ago, someone set the whole thing on fire.
Skeevy Warlock Cronus sounds pretty bangarang though? Like, Science is almost like magic, and it could be pretty cool to like, delve into that.
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skeppsbrott
New Member
Official Cronus Ampora
Posts: 45
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Post by skeppsbrott on Apr 30, 2016 0:50:12 GMT
I actually found two things that might be considered ~witchy~, or at least that involve Cronus dealing with magic, I guess. Both of these are pretty old. First off, there's Näcken Cronus, which... I do think count for something, because while he's not explicitly a magician he's definitely a magic creature. And also it's the same mythos (germanic). The summer night was warm and beautiful; the small lake which Cronus called his home perfectly mirrored the sky which shifted in turquoise, blue and shades of red. The illusion was only broken by the occasional splash from a fish. And the lillypods, whose stalks were snaked around the leg he had in the water. Almost as if they were trying to pull him down below.
Of course, they wouldn't. Not Cronus, at least. Never had they tried over the course of the past few centuries, and not for at least a century come, though perhaps he would at times wish they would and could. He plucked at the strings of the violin rested against his knee, tuning them a last bit before bringing it up to his shoulder. Over the past century, the gaps inbetween his concerts had only grown; out of boredom and disinterest in life and purpose, and the only reason he felt compelled to play tonight was to choke out the muffled blaring sound from what had to be a party not too far away.
Things had changed a lot, as of late. He tried not to be bitter about it. Hell, at one point he had even been kind of excited about the change of times; back when the park had been built over at the next lake. He'd gone over there a few times, back then, watched bands play (some of them even spoke another language entirely!) and humans dance to music so unlike what he could ever hope muster. There was a certain rythm and movement in it, and despite knowing well that he was the best violinist in miles he still felt envious. He'd even disguised himself once or twice for a few hours of living like a human to truly experience the music and dance, before having to return to the water.
Really, he had all the right to be bitter, didn't he? Cronus put his chin to the violin, grip light on the bow just to create an extension of his arm. The notes travelled across the water, low and heavy in starch contrast to the happy chirps of the forest's birds. When was the last time anyone had listened anyway? The water lillies brushed against his leg as he pulled his foot out of the water to shift his position on the rock. It really was a while since anyone had listened. He had never been a huge fan of the whole "drowning people"-thing, but tonight he really wouldn't mind. It'd show them, for forgetting about nature. Or for forgetting about him, more specifically.
The ghosts of gnats swarming over the shores and rotten logs vibrated as Cronus' music increased in strength, grew more dramatic. His fingers moved easily across the neck of the violin and soon he was deep enough into the music to forget about the rest of the world. Again he'd forgotten the joy in playing. Engulfed in the violin, he didn't notice how the moon rose, casting a ghostly pale sheen on his skin and a reflection on the lake. He also failed to hear the steps approaching the lake through the woods behind him, the cracking branches and feet against gravel. Not until he heard the sound of, and felt the motion of someone clumsily stepping into the water did he open his eyes, jerking his head around to look at the being who seemed to be on their way towards him and the rock a few meters out in the lake. The bow stilled and the last tones faded out over the lake as he looked at them in silence. He hadn't actually been SERIOUS about wanting to drown someone, had he? Then again, this was a good sign that he hadn't lost his spark, wasn't it? A triumphant smile spread across his lips as he observed the other, lifting the bow and readying himself to play again not to lose the grip on their mind.
The other isn't a prompy as much as a starter, but I'll share it and in case someone's like "I'm into this concept" I'll rewrite it then. Natural water spirit Cronus for a urban/modern fantasy AU with werefox/street magic Dirk. The smoke from the hookah took shape of a centaur. Next to him, the two women made some sort of sound between a giggle and a sound of awe as it took aim with the bow. It was a simple trick for a natural water-spirit, controlling the water particles in the air to make subtle changes in how the light broke and the air moved. He could do so much more. But that wasn't why he was here, he was here because however diluted his bloodline he was in essence a sea nymph, and those were rare in the cities. Probably because what natural spirit would want to be so far from their element aside from a few shattered pieces of controlled and muddled parks, harbors and city air? But then again, it made for better pay for those who were actually here
Most of the time the job was pretty okay, if you were okay with sacrificing integrity for style and clients. The pay was decent and though the contract was pretty fucked up and unsafe Cronus did well enough to not have to worry. Most clients left tips and some returning ones even brought gifts. These two women were not among those, though. Rather they were the inexperienced annoyance who saw him as entertainment rather than a host, they didn't even leave him a tip. Once they had left, Cronus began cleaning up the room, changing out of the richly coloured and embroidered kaftan which was his working clothes. It was a job all about acting, as if he had ever been to the country he was advertised to heir from, as if he would actually pick golden patterns of stars and moons over a pair of jeans and a white tee. But it suited him pretty well, he was adaptable and if someone gave him the time of day (and especially if it was accompanied by a nice paycheck) then why shouldn't he return the favor? Out of all the jobs he could have, this was far from the worst. Even with the vaguely offensive exoticism of pipes and incense and tea and luxurious fabrics and low tables.
The night was cool, with rain hanging in the air as if it had no interest in leaving the town even after the past weeks' storms. Technically it was pretty early for him to leave, but he had no pre-booked clients and a very important rendezvous to attend to. He scrolled through tumblr (throwing up an update on the blog of his host-persona), seeing if Dirk had updated with anything yet. Dirk was a pretty weird guy, even when Cronus himself was hardly normal. They were "bros" of sorts but admittedly he still wasn't entirely sure what that meant. If you liked someone you liked them, he didn't really see the point in making it more complicated than that. Even though the billions of way humans dealt with romance was rather impressive to him. He was slowly learning more about it, having moved into the city when he was rather young he still had a hard time with some of the customs and cultures. At least he and his brother looked human, most of the time. Eridan wasn't even registered and no one had bothered them yet. They had pretty good control of it, especially in the urban environment. He felt kind of sorry for Dirk in that aspect, even if he was kind of human already he was just... He had heard the state of being a were being likened to being sick. It seemed pretty reasonable to him from what he knew of sickness. And now he had a unregistered dragon egg. Way to go, pal.
Cronus took a shortcut under a bridge, stepping through the sewer water without getting even a drop on the folded up hems of his blue jeans or loafers. He considered sending Dirk a text to announce his arrival but judging by his blog the guy seemed to be pretty busy.
The whole dragon-egg deal had been pretty interesting so far, though also moronic. Not that there was anything wrong with dragons, but if you raised one then generally it was a good idea to one, have it be legal, two, have an actual good place to do so, three, have the funds and four, maybe not attract glances from the government since before. Not that he was at all opposed to breaking the law a little if necessary, in fact he had offered to help Dirk quite a bit with contacts to black-market dealers of unusual magical species (for a bit of a share of his own, of course), but seemingly an exotic pet and something for his blog was more important than laying low under the increasingly strict government controls of halflings and magical species and earning a bit of cash in the process. Dirk wasn't stupid, quite the contrary actually, he was really intelligent, but it seemed like he had a fondness for risks.
What seemed like a raindrop hit Cronus' face and for a moment he felt his nose lose shape in the contact with the unexpected water. He sped up the steps, soon enough finding himself in Dirk's apartment complex and heading up the stairs because the elevator was old and run-down just like the rest of the area and while he wasn't afraid of getting stuck per se it seemed like a stupid risk to take. He rapped on the door, taking a moment to check his mirror on the dark phone-screen as he waited for Dirk to open the door. Blue eyes looked back at him as usual and he moved a stray lock in place before looking back up at the now-open door and Dirk. "You know chief, most people just say 'hey, I'm a bit busy right now' or pretend they're not home." Cronus said, steppin inside because of COURSE he was welcome, they were bros, right? "Anyhow, I have to say I'm feeling a little disregarded as your friend here, really expected a more personal message that you'll become a parent." The last part was said with a hint of a smirk as he closed the door behind him and gave Dirk a greeting hug.
I'd be down for a more legit wizard-type Cronus, though. But every time I've played those it's been in more of a fantasy/medieval type AU. |
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hanka
Junior Member
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gnarlyhotep
Posts: 52
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Post by hanka on Apr 30, 2016 4:19:12 GMT
in celebration of the hexennacht i'm leaving all my weird fantasy-horror shit up overnight, including but not limited to necromancer (necromantrix?) rose and soulless scratch. The air was cold in the sizeable clearing she had found carved out of the Minnewaska woods, but perfectly still despite the howl of the wind above. It was nearing three in the morning, and the lack of sleep was visible in the faint tremor of her hands and the red rimming her eyes. A faint metallic smell hung in the air, the cotton-wrapped gash across her palm still bleeding freely despite her makeshift bandage. The winter sun would not rise until half seven and it was well below freezing, her breath turning to steam in the frigid air. She traced the lines of her dusty, stale-smelling grimoire with one aubergine nail, keeping her place as she read aloud.
Her name was Rose Lalonde, and she was summoning an Elder One. It was not so often that she wandered from the analytical into the practical. Her studies were arduous, with necromancy's learning curve steeper than the nearby cliffs. Knowing full well the extent of the danger she courted, Lalonde much preferred to stay ensconced in her ivory tower. It was, often, the difference between her head on her shoulders or on someone else’s altar. There were extenuating circumstances, though, when one had to get one’s hands dirty. The most she could do was take every precaution.
Before her, twin white candles of virgin beeswax cast wavering shadows on the ground. “Azathoth Nyarlathothep d'ahtla fhb'hthu, ng n'ghft ng naflathaior,” she read, stifling a bored yawn. There was arcane meaning in the words she had to say and the rituals she had to perform. This she did. Nowhere in the writings was she required to be particularly impressed.
After a certain point, the self-mutilation and the candles and the circles of so-many cubits and so-many rings all tended to become a bit twee. For example, she’d left out the blessed staff, which seemed to be only for show, and everything was going well so far. She didn’t need a skin of strong wine, either, or a knife with a blade of ivory with which to slit her own right wrist -- a clean paring knife from her kitchen and a shallow line across her palm had done the trick.
Sorcerers were always so /showy./ A common enough character fault, but one she herself could not abide. Rose stuck staunchly to the practical, photocopied pages of her grimoire fluttering despite the absence of wind as her soft chanting began to echo in the clearing. The Words were all consonants now, and she was left hoping it was not a tonal language she was reading, or she would be more lost than a nun in a brothel. She didn’t stop reading to note that the echoing was beginning to overtake her own voice in volume, already well aware that a metaphysical tantrum in full swing was more than capable of throwing physics to the wind. Still, it was interesting; she hadn’t expected to offend any eldritch forces quite yet. She’d hardly gotten started.
Then space bent, crumpling in on itself like a heat haze. There was a bang of displaced air as her clearing was suddenly occupied by something new. The smell of sulfur and decay permeated the air, and she knew she had found what she sought. Rose found herself no longer alone. Batch one hundred and eighty three is a failure. The worst kind of failure. The kind of failure that learns from batches one through one hundred and eighty two, doesn’t respond to the sternest of reprimands, and claws its way out of the basement to eat the neighbors.
Fortunately, he lives in the middle of nowhere, in a dusty old Victorian that looks as if it was ripped from a storybook page and placed into the forest, soot and all. Perhaps it was. Unfortunately, this means quite the walk between the hole in his wall and the nearest neighbors. The moon is full according to his almanac, but it might as well be new for all that filters through the trees. Scratch tracks his along the straight path of a ley line until it happens to stumble upon civilization.
As far as he is concerned, Innsmouth is the end of the line. Pest control is far below his pay grade and -- at the risk of sounding unforgivably vernacular -- not his problem. Any action he could possibly take against the shambling abomination would no doubt prove just as harmful to the surrounding folk as whatever damage his failed experiment can do in its half-life. He’s looking forward to a quiet night in and a call to the contractor in the morning when the empty campus is not so empty anymore. Batch one hundred and eighty three rushes at the figure as time seems to slow down for Scratch. The decision is his; he can let it tire itself out and decay organically and perhaps make it home in time to enjoy the late-night radio, or he can make himself into some sort of altruist.
He sighs, the breath escaping him in a soft grey puff of condensation.
And he had been /so close/ to a quiet night in with a mug of tea, and perhaps some stolen manuscripts.
Frowning slightly, Scratch withdraws a pistol from his inside coat pocket and fires into the creature three times. Just as predicted, it rots in high speed, falling apart on itself until only dust remains. Where one door closes, neatly shutting away one set of problems, another opens; he’s shot an innocent.
Scratch looks at the pistol closely, and then opens the chamber. Sure enough, the remaining three bullets aren’t lead. They give him a headache to look at directly, and seem to bend the surrounding air in a heat haze. He looks at the body again, then at the bullets, then at the dead girl. They are definitely, indisputably dead. That’s not supposed to happen.
So much for making it home in time for talk radio.
---
Fifty years ago, Scratch looked much the same. A hundred, and except for some greying around the temples, he was identical. Only at a hundred and fifty years would he seem even a fraction younger.
In all his time, in all the distant lands he has seen during his studies, never once has something so hellishly inconvenient as carrying a corpse through the woods in the pitch dark presented itself.
He’s not one given to episodes of nostalgia, but in cases like this, where there’s little else to distract him from the bloodied corpse of some young ingénue and the miserable state of his gloves from carrying it, the entire hellish operation is made easier by focusing on something else. Something cleaner. Something that doesn’t soak through his gloves with the kind of hot sting he remembers from medical school accidents in the cadaver lab and has him thanking the heavens they’re not alive to see him.
Homicidal failed experiments and mysterious corpses he can handle. Stomach acid on his gloves and blood on his coat? Absolutely out of the question. He’ll have to change before he gets to work. And paint some appropriately powerful warding sigils on the gaping hole in his house. And stitch up the bullet holes, and give her insides a once-over with lime to counteract any remaining stomach acid, and attempt to make the basement workroom look somewhat respectable.
It’s been such a long time since he’s had proper guests. Even the undead deserve a measure of courtesy.
---
When they finally wake, properly sewn up and no doubt disoriented, his first thought is ‘Oh, to be young again.’ It seems to him that the undead, no matter their age, should be a fair bit less spry. Though he maintains the appearance of middle age, his line of work has taken its toll in its myriad ways: fatigue; aches; soullessness.
His zombie, on the other hand -- though he resents the crude term, it matches his halfhearted work -- seems to be raring to go. “Slow down. You’ve had a rather eventful evening. I apologize for the smell. Formaldehyde, methanol, some lime. The bad news is it’s highly carcinogenic. The good news is that you don’t have to worry about that.” He casts a pointed look at the stitches down their front before presenting them with a neatly folded green-and-white square of clothes. It’s nothing flattering, but it’s the best he could do on such short notice.
“Because you’re dead. Rather, you were. I understand this might be difficult news, but do try to avoid fainting. There’s enough of a mess in here as it is.” there's more but i like being sneaky and not sharing all my prompts. >:) |
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