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the haunted palace - Avicus - October 07, 2021
she's not sure if they'll still be here, if they would have departed or stayed, to gloat over their victory, to defile her mother's body—
the thoughts fill her with more rage than she thought imaginable, and although Avicus is prone to the emotion, the added grief blooms from her usual knifepoint ire, bleeding out like a wound left untended. she focuses only on leading @Merrick and @Aventus and any other comer across the plains, letting her worst fears fuel her forward.
she begins to pick her way nimbly up the slope, searching for the place where she'd seen Astara attacked.
clohh,she says out loud, not knowing whether she's talking for the benefit of the others or to herself.
the smell of blood is heavy even in the thin autumn air, and she knows they must be drawing near.
she is seething, eyes ablaze, trotting fast and light upon the rocks, hellbent on destruction.
a few hours after the thread at Ursus
RE: the haunted palace - Merrick - October 10, 2021
Mature Content Warning
This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: gore/blood/insanity
merrick's step was an inexorable plod.
he was swift after avicus, never deviating nor speaking. his travel would be —
saints blood saints blood saints blood blood blood blood
his breathing became the mantra, the sound of his paws upon earth a talisman, a prayer from the deepest part of him that his raven be returned to ursus, perhaps bearing more scars but vitally alive. they had always returned from their most dire wounds, he and she, he and the blackbird queen by which he had been spared.
she had killed for him, at the crucial moment when merrick might have been beyond hope. she had killed with him in a glossed and feverish memory that still struck into all nerves of the battletorn man an iridescent flame of purest keening delight;
the corvid had parried with merrick in the great and arcing, shrieking climax of motherblood and sonheart tangled together in snow and in love and in desperation and in murder; she had breathed merrick back into herself, and had held that image writ across the surface of her purpleglint eyes in bloodstain and sacredness.
the nightshade had renewed a greater world than bearclaw had been, and in that place of remembered milk and remembered pain, she had given him children, granted ursus and the bear the first dutiful reminder of their zealotry.
the scent of her blood was familiar; it was cloying and had the soaked-burgundy character of a wine glass spilt into darkening earth; the bearwitch could not wait and sped ahead of his son and his daughter, searching; searching —
merrick discovered first a tuft of her fur caught in the cold and mountainous earth; the single fire of his eye searched in growing and echoing swings of his head; merrick looked at the story of massive paws in the earth and the splatter of blood torn from their bodies, and the quickening gout where it widened into thicker ribbons that fed a pool —
the sound of his breath cracked and skittered against the air.
astara had been torn and gouged and cracked by heavy teeth. in her own and upon her lips was testament of her own skill as warrior and defender — but it had not been enough;
merrick suddenly sent a single and unwolf sound into the air, a dismal, billowing, hoarsened snarling cry of something indistinct;
and there were no words within his mind nor his skull. the dirge poured on and on and on until his voice —
snapped;
thread-like and scoured to nothing in his aching throat;
and merrick simply did the same
snap snap snap mommy i am coming to find you again
only a low, stuttering croon remained. merrick pushed his crown against the obsidian fur soaked in a hateful merlot, turning until carried as much of it oozing and staining the cream along his hackles into black-red;
merrick would bear this standard of her for the end of his days; he meant in each beat of his heart;
over over over over over
gone;
he gathered the poor and teeth-cut flesh of his lover to his breast; merrick sobbed coarse and painful salt into the air and felt the cold bite at the wetness new upon his blood-smeared cheeks. he did not care who might see. the bearwitch's lamentation was as loud as his ruined chords might allow them to be.
but when the ocean had run out merrick, it left behind the hard and glittering rocks of madness, crystalline and jagged in his single eye.
the bearwolf had always been the right hand of his god. and his god had removed the last true tethering to the world from merrick. to his bosom he had taken astara, and so merrick had given thankfully, gratefully, worshipfully, to the rolling and simmering murk that began to rise and bitter his gut.
the man raised his head at last to his children, and slowly;
ever so slowly;
merrick forced himself upright and back and back and back and back;
one two three four;
steps away;
"remember this place."
malevolence poured bile between each word. merrick looked at each of them in turn.
"we will take her home to ursus."
but this wretched aerie; he would not let it be forgotten. he would not allow it to be scraped and washed away. leave her blood. leave the tanglings of black and white and brindled fur; no, no, no;
merrick turned away, stooping to gather what was left of his beautiful beloved blackbird queen.
he was swift after avicus, never deviating nor speaking. his travel would be —
saints blood saints blood saints blood blood blood blood
his breathing became the mantra, the sound of his paws upon earth a talisman, a prayer from the deepest part of him that his raven be returned to ursus, perhaps bearing more scars but vitally alive. they had always returned from their most dire wounds, he and she, he and the blackbird queen by which he had been spared.
she had killed for him, at the crucial moment when merrick might have been beyond hope. she had killed with him in a glossed and feverish memory that still struck into all nerves of the battletorn man an iridescent flame of purest keening delight;
the corvid had parried with merrick in the great and arcing, shrieking climax of motherblood and sonheart tangled together in snow and in love and in desperation and in murder; she had breathed merrick back into herself, and had held that image writ across the surface of her purpleglint eyes in bloodstain and sacredness.
the nightshade had renewed a greater world than bearclaw had been, and in that place of remembered milk and remembered pain, she had given him children, granted ursus and the bear the first dutiful reminder of their zealotry.
the scent of her blood was familiar; it was cloying and had the soaked-burgundy character of a wine glass spilt into darkening earth; the bearwitch could not wait and sped ahead of his son and his daughter, searching; searching —
merrick discovered first a tuft of her fur caught in the cold and mountainous earth; the single fire of his eye searched in growing and echoing swings of his head; merrick looked at the story of massive paws in the earth and the splatter of blood torn from their bodies, and the quickening gout where it widened into thicker ribbons that fed a pool —
the sound of his breath cracked and skittered against the air.
astara had been torn and gouged and cracked by heavy teeth. in her own and upon her lips was testament of her own skill as warrior and defender — but it had not been enough;
merrick suddenly sent a single and unwolf sound into the air, a dismal, billowing, hoarsened snarling cry of something indistinct;
and there were no words within his mind nor his skull. the dirge poured on and on and on until his voice —
snapped;
thread-like and scoured to nothing in his aching throat;
and merrick simply did the same
snap snap snap mommy i am coming to find you again
only a low, stuttering croon remained. merrick pushed his crown against the obsidian fur soaked in a hateful merlot, turning until carried as much of it oozing and staining the cream along his hackles into black-red;
merrick would bear this standard of her for the end of his days; he meant in each beat of his heart;
over over over over over
gone;
he gathered the poor and teeth-cut flesh of his lover to his breast; merrick sobbed coarse and painful salt into the air and felt the cold bite at the wetness new upon his blood-smeared cheeks. he did not care who might see. the bearwitch's lamentation was as loud as his ruined chords might allow them to be.
but when the ocean had run out merrick, it left behind the hard and glittering rocks of madness, crystalline and jagged in his single eye.
the bearwolf had always been the right hand of his god. and his god had removed the last true tethering to the world from merrick. to his bosom he had taken astara, and so merrick had given thankfully, gratefully, worshipfully, to the rolling and simmering murk that began to rise and bitter his gut.
the man raised his head at last to his children, and slowly;
ever so slowly;
merrick forced himself upright and back and back and back and back;
one two three four;
steps away;
"remember this place."
malevolence poured bile between each word. merrick looked at each of them in turn.
"we will take her home to ursus."
but this wretched aerie; he would not let it be forgotten. he would not allow it to be scraped and washed away. leave her blood. leave the tanglings of black and white and brindled fur; no, no, no;
merrick turned away, stooping to gather what was left of his beautiful beloved blackbird queen.
RE: the haunted palace - Aventus - October 13, 2021
Aventus took up the rear, withdrawing into his skull to contemplate.
Next to Avicus and Merrick, the boy might appear indifferent to his mother's fate, but on the inside, he was grasping futilely at the black ribbons of his control. Within him there were gushing geysers of various emotions that he struggled to control. First was rage, that his mother would be the target of such horror. Most of them had done something to deserve it, but not Astara. Not since the birth of her children.
Guilt was a close second. It was not Aventus who first suggested leaving Bearclaw, but the Bruin-jaw had not argued, either. He took his father's word for gospel law and agreed. If they had never left, would this have happened? An impossible choice — he would have accepted the scarcity of prey and hardship for Ursus if it meant his mother lived.
Anguish, too, for the loss of an anchor in all their lives. Without Astara, Merrick would surely slip into violent madness, and Aventus believed his sister was made of the same unstable stuff as their father. Asperas was gone, but would have been the same. Astara was what kept them all afloat, and now Aventus felt like it would have to be his job, and he was not certain any of them would listen to him. In fact, he was sure they would not.
His breath cut sharply in his throat when they found the mangled remains of the queen of Ursus. He did not stumble forward to cry hoarsely as his father did, but he watched Merrick while his grief untangled itself in his belly, making his legs shake while his throat went dry. More than anything, he wanted to rush to his mother and press his face into her bloodied flanks, but he knew full well Merrick would tear his face off if he approached now. He would have to settle for the memories of her he began to access in his mind, one at a time, while he sank down within himself and became far away from all this.
His movements were rote as he began to inspect the area, finding tufts of white and brindled fur. No mistaking who those belonged to. With a wicked snarl, Aventus descended on the first clump of Nyra's fur he found — the scent was no longer recognized on account of his young age when last he encountered her, but who else could it be? She had always wanted a pound of flesh from Astara!
He was glad when Merrick stepped away and decided they would return with Astara's remains rather than storm the Saints right here and now. They needed time to plan, time to regroup. Gather the troops. No sense leaving anyone behind to defend their territory; they would either win or they would all die in the effort.
He snatched up clumps of her fur in his jaws, intent on bearing them back to Ursus, to show them all who their primary target must be. Aventus did not like Donovan, but he loathed Nyra, and she had done him dirty on two occasions now, if not including her arrogant smirking at Astara on first meeting. It must be her blood to paint the earth first. It must.
RE: the haunted palace - Avicus - October 14, 2021
she isn't prepared. not for any of it.
the trail of carnage, leading to her. . .body, oh, her unmoving corpse; and then Merrick's frenzied grief, and the way her brother tries desperately to hold himself together before beginning to piece together who had done this.
she knows. the scent rises all around them, heady, tangy with blood. if she had only succeeded when looking for Nyra so long ago—!
the woman has—had always—ruined her life.
her legs, exhausted from a dash to and from the mountain, give way. her gaze finds her mother's tattered dark fur and she sinks with an unhinged wail, akin to a painter's screech, something not of this world.
the cry subsides into deep and ugly sobs that wrack her entire body, and it is only Merrick's spoken pair sentences that bring her upright again,
though she does not want to.
if her mother's killers were not still living, she would rather die here, too.