08-22-2018, 01:11 AM
[div style="width:400px; font-size:8.4pt;line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:3px;margin-bottom:3px;letter-spacing:0px;margin-left:0px;text-align:justify;"][align=center]CW FOR VIOLENCE
Beneath the thinness of dawn slumber slips from about their mind, a veil clutched so tight torn away by uncaring hands, mind left to wander, make sense of the images which play behind closed lids. It was hard to recall when last they had gone to their bed with a sense of peace, permitted thoughts of a pleasant rest to touch a mind driven to exhaustion, freed from the shackles of worry. There can be no certainty to thoughts which swirl about a mind slow to raise, clutched at fragments, wanting nothing more than to slip back into the darkness, wondering briefly on when the images had first clutched at their slumber with claws of iron.
Faintly could they taste blood, trailing along the back of their tongue, throat tingling a faint bit as exhale passed through clenched teeth, a murmur crafted from fear and weary exhaustion. They knew well it was there, probing tongue gentle sweeping along lips until head drew back with a faint hiss, pain flaring along the broken skin, but too fresh was it. Upon sand had blood been spilt – in their head, a nightmare not reality – shuddering breath almost laughter as blood bubbled upon her lips, teeth grit in something half a smile half a feral snarl. Bloodied paws had found her cheeks, so gentle had they been, trembling ever so slightly as they cupped her head, crying for the one they had lost – no, she was asleep like all others surely were, tucked away in beds of fur and fabric, enjoying a quiet morning before forced to rise.
It did not matter the delicate gossamer lies their dreams tried to weave none of it held truth for those they loved still breathed, felt the beat of a heart upon ribs, offered up emotion from a deep well within them. Cleo was still alive no matter the shape their dreams tried to shift into, doing its best to make them believe the blood upon their paws as truth not mere fiction crafted to terrify.
Slow to rise from their sleeping place, pelt they had thrown drawn across themself long ago kicked away, left in a mound to be tidied later, they busied themself. Jerky was each movement as they came to gather about the necessary components, grabbing a small tin yet their paw hovered above another, the glaring yellow of the label unique to the glass bottle. The only one they had made so far, a personal draft no other might take, the blue liquid within strangely thick, clinging to the sides as they lifted it, giving it a brief swirl. About the sides it moved sluggishly, as it if were displeased with being disturbed, before settling once more.
Five months. They had seen such a short time come and go, each breath marking a new second of hardship and pain, tempered by breathy laughter that seemed so rare upon those dark lips now, a faint memory they clutched at, wanted once more to experience. Where had their childhood gone, innocence lost before they had known such was a possibility for them to hold, torn from them with no ceremony. Thickly they swallowed the lump which had begun to form low in their throat, never thinking twice as the small vial was tucked into their satchel, never thinking they might need it, but then why else would they dare bring the drug so many had drunk before them.
No, there was nothing within the track of their thoughts whispering of the island just beyond this one, where their home had been made, following a simple path, one they had forged over a short span of time, a routine they had grown comfortable within. Repetitive and mundane might it, each day given a basic outline until it was broken apart by some tragedy which befell another, seeking their full attention, it was enough for now, a structure they needed in this time when they held no idea of what to do any longer.
In truth they knew not who the being Aita was. Were they a child holding the mouth of a sailor, more likely to sink teeth into the hand which dares to offer food than gingerly accept the offering or the healer who had come to be known as hard but fair, given to quick thought and action, but trembling paws for their inexperience got in the way of it all. Or might it be some amalgamation of the two, a child grown into a healer who had learned some, took their work with a serious and dedicated mind, yet lost their childhood, gave it all away to become something they were not ready for.
Who was Aita beyond such base concepts?
Beneath small paws wood offered faint creaks and groans, slight weight of the child enough to draw from it the faint voice of wood grown old and weary, dark eyes flicking across the space, in search of movement. The space was large enough to permit all of them to live comfortably, given their own private areas they tended to with care, organisation a key to both their work and life, disorder bringing with it frayed nerves and snapped words from a silver tongue slow to melt away. Placated when there seemed no shift from any of the others tucked away about the tree house they moved towards the door, letting it fall shut with a soft thud as they slipped through, a few short steps drawing them towards the edge of the platform. They had done this many times, the old wood splintered and somewhat spongy, at the mercy of the elements, bowing some small bit as they took each rung with care, arms hooked as back paws sought the next perch. Now it seemed almost second nature as they scaled the rope and wood ladder, refusing to lift their gaze from the rung before them, knowing to look down was to invite nausea.
Soft was the sigh of relief to part pale lips when solid ground met a searching paw, body twisting as their grip loosened, a practised movement yet it had been little more than a week since they had been moved to this place, given the work of a healer. But then great change seems to come within a sudden sweep, taking you upon unexpected wings to draw you up, left clutching at what little solid ground was left, all of it, from both gaining the position of Sage to the sudden weight of expectations, had proven a stone pressed into their shoulders. Almost humorous is it, selfish want had pushed them to that day when Rosemary had called them together, speaking of the position as though it were nothing, a fire lit within their belly for they proved a headstrong child, driven to achieve an end no matter the cost. Never had they thought to end here, each step touching upon springy ground, somewhat damp with the soft rainfall which sprinkled their back, dampening the dark fur of shades of grey and brown, crafting a path their own, given to the act of healing rather than war.
The first strings of life to touch them were sound. Gentle murmurs barely parting lips that sought to open with a yawn, eyes blurred as sleep fell or some sought it, late night walks only drawing to a close as dawn rose with gentle shades of rose and blush, giving the tiny healer only a cursory glance as they passed, offering no words n greeting for such was unnecessary. To most they were known, for the purpose of their linage, written upon their very skin was it, the fur they bore one which can only be connected to one man, or the place they held, many seeking assistance for simple things, knowing the sailor-mouthed child was equipped to handle such menial tasks.
Damp soil became sand and they uttered a soft murmur speaking of their pleasure, steps quickening some as they neared their destination, satchel gently bumping their side with each step, the various bottles and tins within rattling though they cared not to check, knowing they would not break. The closer their steps draw them towards the Tavern, a building they had grown familiar with no matter how short their time within had been, slow the rise of that morning when their peace had been disturbed by a photo and switchblade, the weight of both burning into their side, left tucked into a pocket of their satchel. It was strange the feeling both gave them, a familiarity for the subjects of the image held some resemblance of the man they called father though he was so different. A ghost inhabiting some far corner of their thoughts they can not seem to shake is such items, held tight though neither hold worth to them, to the one who had given them to the child as though to torment them and speak of some life they were not privy to.
Chilled beneath wandering steps is the path crafted from cobble, worn from countless numbers who had walked this same path before them, each driven to this point by one purpose or another, the one which drew them closer one of simple innocent need. Around them noise swelled, once trapped behind the door it rises to greet them as it swings open upon protesting hinges, laughter and the murmur of various conversations coming together into a mass of sound, discomfort twisting their features. For a time they had enjoyed the quiet of those early hours, found none were present within the walls of the tavern but time had changed that as their schedule had fallen behind, working to a later time as they settled into their work once more. Now they moved through the tavern, giving none of the patrons even a simple glance, ignoring the chatter and the faint call of their name as some recognised them, seeking answers for nothing more than trivial matters they would not regard for the moment.
Warmth envelops them and they lean into it, enjoying the swirling steam as heavenly scents rise about them, the strength of each enough to catch their attention, steps quickening some. Easy and familiar are their movements as they set about their work, retrieving a tea cup and kettle, setting it to boil as they rifled through their bag, easily acquiring the small tin of green tea. Spooning some into the cup they found their attention drawn to the conversation of the few who worked beside them, making their own breakfast or simply enjoying the company of friends doing such, half listening to each snippet.
With a clatter the spoon fell from their grasp, words filling their head, refusing to budge. Black lioness. Quickly recovering from the jolt of surprise they went back to their work and tried to sort through their thoughts, wondering as to why they had reacted in such a manner. It seemed someone had an unlucky run in while they had been under the effects of the jungle juice, leaving the island babbling of a lioness with fur black as coal, baring a wicked grin as she tore into them with abandon, all too real to be a hallucination the drug had brought forth yet the injuries they spoke of were not present. Something about the rumour felt too solid, some flicker of recognition rising within them as their thoughts caught upon that beast, given something akin to reality though their mind tried to reject the thought.
They harbour not the energy or want to regard such thoughts for long and so they do not, focusing on their tea as it comes together, enjoying the smell of the steam as they take the first tentative sip. Slowly the kitchen empties about them and the thrum of live within the wide space beyond fades, each patron leaving to face the day now that their want for food and drink had been sated. Yet within the child a turmoil brews, thoughts of the island deemed Haven and the blue liquid within their bag refusing to be pushed aside for any other topic, annoyance a gentle brush along their temples, bringing with it a faint ache.
The clamour never ceases though they lift a paw, rubbing slow circles into their temple, seeking to alleviate some of the pressure. They had not thought to perform the ritual today, to allow themself time to plan through it and prepare for the moment it became cemented they would go through with it, but something about those words drew them down that path, the wanton desire to drink the drug rising in their throat, tightening it until each breath grew hard. For one more prone to thinking through their actions, not allowing the impulse of fleeting thought to dictate their life, it might have ended there, but for Aita it was only the beginning of something which would bring with it only regret and pain.
Gently do they deposit the cup within the sink, tin tucked away into their satchel once more, before they find their steps draw them towards the door, propped open to allow any who sought to wander in the freedom to do so, welcoming of all. Through their fur does the wind curl chilled fingers, shiver trailing along the curve of the spine, faint murmur of sound escaping pursed lips. There was nothing smart within the action, no thought to the danger of such just the tremor of excitement and anticipation, curling their stomach until it seemed a mass of knots, steps leaden now as they move, ignoring those who pass them, words just a buzz in their ears. None matter now beyond the thing supposedly lingering upon the island which has become their destination, this creature of shade and light, an unruly life that should never have been.
Unease swirls about a mind grown quiet now for they stand before the walkway, finding themself unable to take the last step, shaky breath escaping between clenched teeth. For a few minutes they simply stand upon the edge, looking towards the small island covered within thick vegetation, wondering to the truth behind the rumour, what it is that had come to draw them here, curious to see if nothing more. Through the nose a deep exhale passes and dark paw lifts, gentle as it touches upon wood, the next hesitating some before it reaches out, landing upon the boards only for a few seconds to pass. They had made the first step so why was it the next seemed so hard, their body stone though their mind screams at them to move, run from this place before it is too late to turn from this dangerous path.
Too late. How silly a term for what is too late or early, moments in time which was nothing more than a construct we made to comfort ourselves, to put routine to our days. And too late is it for Aita, this tiny child who held no idea of whom they were, seeking anything to give them purpose, pushing beyond the borders they were confined to, a protective measure they held no want to confirm to.
One, two, three. Steadily do the numbers climb as their movement begins and seems to hold no end, wood creaking beneath them in a fashion so similar to that of just half an hour before when they had allowed sleep to fall from them, had traversed the place they called home, bathed in the heavy scent of herbs. Yet the end is not one familiar and welcoming, no such luck is present in this action, rather it is sand, gritty and harsh as they step upon it, thick vegetation beckoning to them, wind rustling leaves until they seem hands, a reedy voice calling to them. Impossible is it to ignore the call of it and so they linger for only moments.
Within the lull they swing the satchel off, it would only get in the way if worn into this place, likely to get caught or trip them rather than offer assistance, and so they will leave it, opening it only to retrieve the vial. Thinner now as heat as touched it the liquid is no less blue, a shock of colour against the green as they hold it up, unease flooding their system, ears flattening against the curve of their skull. With a pop the cork is removed and in one motion they take the liquid into their mouth, swallowing before the salty tang of it can truly coat their tongue. It tastes all too similar to the brine they had mistakenly taken in, salty and putrid, beneath which notes of death linger, too many lives ended within the waves to be hidden. There seems nothing for a time as it settles in their stomach, lurching for a few seconds until it seems to realise it is no poison they had ingested, nothing more than a rather unpleasant concoction but nothing that might offer death. Faint is the buzz curling about the edge of their thoughts, breath sharpening until it seems gasps drawn across a sand paper tongue, a gaze already blurred gaining a further edge of static, head falling to one side as they look upon the land before them.
All too clear is the fact they had not thought it would work so quickly but their system is not the best, youth marking it incomplete and not prepared to handle such, the effects of the drug kicking in much quicker than it would any other who drank it, strong for the fact their system is unsure on how to handle any of this with no prior experience to prepare it for this.
No thought compels them, what seemed a disconnect shutting down the pathways between brain and body, nerves left frayed and bare for the world to poke at, each step given a slight tremble, almost stumbling as paws struggle to stay right. Unfamiliar is the sensation of the world shifting about them, moving as though it axis has changed and it is permitted free movement where once it never had it, taking this new freedom and pushing at its seams, boundless in its joy. All they want is to scream at it to slow its progress, follow a more steady movement rather than jerky about them within a fashion they can deem only wild, but the words are gone, tongue thick in their skull, barely moving though their body does, struggling to keep up right.
Across their sides the gentle caress of leaves as they pass, drawn to the humid depths of the small jungle, feeling the familiar wet heat of it, touched with the damp scent of earth yet missing the musk of others, of life which courses through its sister island. There is no life here, nothing but the ghost of creatures long dead who had sought to craft a home within the solitude of this place, yet left nothing behind, passing fading until it is just memory, even their handler seemingly wiped from the face of the earth. Some part of them is gleeful at such for the canine and his raptors had been nothing more than trouble, a thing they gladly bid farewell, brief the snatch of laughter which breaks their silence, smile curling their lips as it dies. Sweet is it to find patience is rewarded though they might have wished to tear into the raptors, those who dared to hurt fellow crewmates and think themselves free of retribution.
“Silly child, you would have died,” mocking is the amusement lacing the tone, voice so gentle and sweet, velvet to ears that strain to pick up where it had risen from. No response is forthcoming for there is nothing within their mind but a swell of emotion, strong as it rises before it comes crashing down, fear giving way to tempered curiosity. It seems there had been some truth behind the rumour after all, if the gentle voice which had addressed them was another and not a mere trick of a mind reeling from the concoction they had downed, such a much more tempting possibility to fall into. “Oh sweet thing, I am real.”
A day dream is all she seems, frame of a loose shadow within which life has been breathed, coins of silver regarding the child with what one might only deem a detached interest, never quite lingering though something draws that gaze back, fleeting each little peek between eyelids. Wreathed in shade is she, muscle honed to a point each seems to leave the fine fur rippling across the body, tail a rope of shadow flicking behind her, steps so light no utter of sound is drawn from the underground beneath her. In every way she seems a being of angelic origin, so gentle and sweet is she to look upon, given to a darkness strangely befitting, the pureness of white lacking something this lady holds, a pain the child can almost feel. “What took you so long, child.”
Though the structure of the sentence mimics a question there is no lift to the voice to make it such, trailing into silence as fictional brow lifts, circling steps drawing her around the smaller stature of the bengal, awed by this creature, a beauty of which they had only experienced once. Slow is the flicker of sadness to arise within their chest, memory of a faint golden glow speckled across blue fur touching their thoughts, yet all too soon is it gone. Heavy is the paw which connects to their head, pushing them down into the spongy soil, heated breath trailing across what little was not crushed beneath that paw.
“Not now, you are mine, don't you dare think of her,” there is no sweetness now, no trace of false warmth within the tone, sharpened now until it seemed dagger pressing into their chest, chilled as a possessive note finds its way into the last word. So light is the touch of claws upon brow and cheek, caressing the skin before wandering higher, tip lingering over an open eye. Panic sets in all at once, feeble attempts to push her away drawing forth only laughter, the curl of her lips cruel. “Please, struggle more, it makes it more fun.”
For a time there is only silence between the pair, movement of the smaller bengal drawing to an uneasy halt, confusion twisting delicate features, looking beyond the paw to that of their captor, watching the smile waver. Something within it seems almost to soften, melting away until the silver of those eyes are molten, a hitch breaking her breath. It all seems familiar, as though this were but a dance they were used to performing, locked together in something beyond themselves, written upon the pages of time though the bodies they inhabit are different, strange to them both, skin ill-fitting.
“Not this time,” faint whisper drawn from a sharp tongue, all the warning offered before the claw falls, finds its target with practised ease. Within their skull a fire is lit, curling about a brain which screams, voice rising to meet it, broken apart as sobs tear through their throat, wordless sounds of pure pain. About the socket the claw scraps and with a wet pop it is gone, nerve easily severed by a sharp point, leaving only a gaping hole, smeared with blood and a black substance, pooling within the bottom. “I have hunted you for so long, I am not letting you go so easily.”
Attention shifts and easy is it to press her paw down upon the small chest, each rib so clear beneath delicate skin, faint sobs and pitiful little whines parting dark lips, tears falling from the single eye they are left. Just a little more – and there it is. With a snap each rib breaks beneath her, the scream this time more faint, fading as their energy is diverted, seeking to put them into sleep but there is one time for such. Easily they are turned onto their side, paw moving to press against the leg, pushing it towards the chest. Babbling is the child now, incoherent sound with no word discernible amongst it all, yet each pleading noise could do little to stop them. “You deserve this pain, don't forget that.”
Snap.
Plain is the mix of terror and pain, coming together within a twist of lips left bloodied where teeth had sunk too far, hitching, rolling breath carrying with it life soon to end, but then such would end the fun too soon and she had no care for such. A funny little thing, emotion, running high and rampant it is hard to wrangle it back within this situation, displeased grumble escaping her before she is leaning down, nose so gentle as it brushes a temple. “You will not die today, child,” dry as bone, scraping along the lining of their skull, digging deep until it is all they can ear, lips brushing their ear. “You are mine and I will not suffer disobedience.”
Across the curve of side and chest, blade is run ever so gently, words forming yet finding no release, single eye catching upon silver, questioning. For a brief moment she lifts it, allows them to see the weapon she bares, all too familiar to them now – the switchblade. Protest rises to their lips but there is not chance for it to be uttered before the blade finds a home, cutting through skin and digging into muscle, caught within their side. With each breath is shifts and moves, offers a fresh wave of pain, and through the haze of darkness they can do nothing but watch the beast turn, leave them a bloodied mess, laughter ringing in their ears.
Upon the edge of consciousness their mind lingers, seeking to dip beneath the waves once more, find the peace of darkness where nothing might hurt, the ache of a body left broken fading into nothing but background noise. Faint murmur passes bloodied lips and for a time they entertain the thought, allow the darkness to rise around them, steal the minimal sight left them. With a hitching breath, strangely wet and aching, lungs struggling to draw in enough around shattered ribs, their mind snaps back, claws finding the ground, digging into it.
Slow is the rise of memory, mind struggling to comprehend minutes it wrongfully deemed hours, fuzzy as they are slow to come down from the buzz of the drug, each second leaving it to fade, struggling to hold onto what seemed wrong now. Yet the pain spoke for itself, an ache which had found a home within the marrow and sinew, groan escaping them as they shifted, making some move to try and stand of which they had no hope. Settling instead to drag themself it proved a lengthy progress for their foreleg ached when it merely brushed the ground, screaming in agony when an attempt to straighten it was made, tears welling within their eye as they pushed on.
The movement was awkward and painful, their working foreleg barely able to pull their weight forward while the back slipped constantly as they struggled to push themself, a small aid. What seemed an eternity passed before they found sand had become wood, each plank digging into their stomach, claws hooking about the edge, some small help. Within the centre Aita found herself unable to do anything more, the last of their energy reserves depleted. “H...Help...” A faint whisper passed bloodied lips, body instinctively curling into itself though the action hurt, every muscle screaming, sobs scraping along a throat rubbed raw.
ooc stuff:
![[Image: undertale_box.png]](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/520411335549517862/521265718793338881/undertale_box.png)