SIX FEET OF DIRT WOULD LOOK GREAT ON YOU / piñata

[beck.]

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    He received word of Arrow's death from a secondhand source. Crow didn't tell him why he abruptly released him from the pentagram trap that day. Maybe it was his fault for not asking. Yet when he overheard the sorrowful wails breaking through the night, grieving for the late captain, Beck's pulseless heart seemed to splinter at its tattered seams. He mourned alone that night, choking back sobs as he cursed the cruel God responsible. A rumor passed around that she was heaving up blood in clumps before death seized her, just as he did -- he forced himself not to imagine the grisly scene too much. Why did she have to die? Why couldn't she be spared? She was a good person, she didn't deserve to die in a pool of her own blood, crumpled at her own doorstep when she had friends -- no, a family that loved her; when she was still in her youthful years and had an entire life unfurling before her; when she always spoke her mind despite the tidal wave of differing opinions. It wasn't fair, it wasn't any fair at all. Why did all his friends leave him behind?

    Yet it was a different injustice that stirred the poltergeist's grief into a cold resentment. If it hadn't been for Crow's punishment for something he didn't even remember doing -- if it hadn't been for the pagan circle confining the ghostly boy to the houseboat he dwelled in, Beck would have been there at Arrow's side. He could have helped her, comforted her, anything for her. He could have seen her alive one last time before she departed the living side of the veil. He could have said goodbye. But he never even had the chance, remaining oblivious until her body stiffened and her spirit crossed over. And it was all Crow's fault.

    A rope had been secured in Audrey's tooth-lined trap, the mutated plant tugging on the frayed end as though it were a shark shredding into an unfortunate seal. With the rope strung over a pine branch, a frankenstein of sewn animal pelts dangled close to the ground from where the rope looped around what could be assumed as a neck. The crude creation vaguely resembled a feline figure, the various skinned hides all matching in a grey hue. Green buttons, mismatched in all traits excluding color, substituted for eyes, unblinking and plastic as Beck glared into the faux gaze of his general. With a claw, he completed the stuffed look-alike by slitting apart its snout in a downwards curve. Crow hardly smiled after all. Ratty cotton spilled from the new mouth, yet the little ghost only tucked a portion of it back inside the makeshift fabric.

    Nose crinkling in resurfaced anger, Beck let go of the effigy, a harsh whistle escaping through his sharpened teeth. On cue, Audrey III rested the bottom half of its trap on the ground, pulling the rope with it as the second Crow was yanked up into the air. As it swayed to and fro, the poltergeist reached for his weapon -- in this case, a battered old tree branch, stripped of its leaves and bark. Paws tightly curling around the base of the branch, Beck didn't hesitate to deliver the first blow, earning a dull thwack against the morbid piñata's flank. And another, and another, until it was clear he intended to beat the look-alike into a ragged pulp. On any other occasion, the sight would have appeared quite comical; the scrawny feline hopping and swinging an oversized stick around at a suspended doll in front of his house, with Audrey lazing in the mud opposite to him. If only his face hadn't been twisted into an expression of raw hatred, eyes filmy with both denied tears and ever-controlling wrath as he snarled in wordless anguish at the fake tabby.

[wormwood.]

[glow=#000,1,400]BUT NOW I UNDERSTAND YOU, AND I WILL NOT BE PART OF YOUR DESIGNS — ｡+ﾟ.[/glow]

Wormwood still couldn't really believe that Arrow was dead, or that she had died in front of him. If he had been asked personally, he definitely would've had Beck in front of Arrow when she died instead of him. Beck had more of a personal connection to Arrow than he ever had, and he honestly could've gone without the trauma that had come from seeing Arrow pass away so brutally right in front of him. Hell, he and Poet had a nice long cry after what had happened to Arrow, and while he felt slightly better now, he still got pretty upset when he thought of going to Arrow's funeral in just a little while. She was clearly incredibly important to the whole group... what was the funeral even going to be like, an unending cycle of misery as everyone in the group talked about what type of person Arrow had been, and why she had been so important?

Worm had been heading out to get some hunting done, when he heard a whistle that hurt his ears and several strong and angry thwacks, and both of these noises piqued his interest. Looking around, the lion slowly moved towards the noise and froze when he saw what Beck was enthusiastically swinging the stick at. Huh, that certainly did look... a hell of a lot like Crow, didn't it? And it didn't seem like just some sort of practical joke, given the way that Beck was snarling at the effigy in rage. Wormwood hesitated for a moment before sitting down and rumbling softly, his gaze up on the 'pinata' with an uneasy frown on his muzzle as he spoke, [glow=#793B29,1,400]"Erm... Beck? Are you alright? You, uh, you don't seem like it, and it doesn't seem like stuffy Crow there is going to be alright either after this..."[/glow]

( sorry this kinda sucks it's mostly a tracking post )

[RED]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]If Red had known that Beck was locked up in his house for a reason, he would've tried to help. He was no witch, but he figured that within reason a demon could break a cast circle - or something like that. He'd never really dabbled in the stuff. In spite of his mutations and unholy origin he was, in the end, just an animal like anyone else. He wasn't even sure if pentagrams and sigils affected him with all the time he'd spent on Earth. But for Beck, he could have tried. Somebody had to give the kid a hand once in a while, even if he could be a little bitch from time to time. He was just a kid who was mad that he got the short end of the stick. (For the past few hundred years, that is.)

And yet, everyone seemed keen on putting the poor kid in a corner and forgetting about him while the world continued to turn.

Audrey's existence doesn't make much sense, but then again, nothing does around here. It's a plant with teeth holding up a pinata. He thinks of venus fly traps and shark jaws, then uses this mental image to try and make sense of the sentient plant - it doesn't really help, but at least there's a natural explanation for the whole thing. Beck isn't exactly the pinnacle of sense today, either, because the frantic and angry look on his face tells Red that he's in another world.

And then the ragdoll - it's a sorry effigy of their leader, limp and dangling by its neck where it swings over a tree branch.  He was planning on asking the kid for some of his snack stash, but was stopped by a harsh whistle and the faint thump of a body (albeit stuffing-padded) being beaten. He wonders, at the distance where he stands, if Beck had plans for Crow and this is just target practice. The demon hangs back a few meters, standing out against the dark woods but carefully unmoving as he watches the ghost from behind. He's sniffling, Beck, and snarling like a wild animal as he beats the doll into the afterlife. It's more than just practice for a coup - something is wrong, and Red has a feeling he might be able to put the pieces together.

He steps out of the brush, wet leaves crunching under hoof and stone. Nothing seemed to decay out here, and even last winter's foliage laid rotten on the ground. He wondered if Arrow would return to the Earth if they buried her, or if she'd be mummified by the mud, like a lost body in a tar pit. He wonders if, when things come to an end, her face will be unearthed and will still be calm but no less frightened behind those half-open eyes. He wonders if she'll still be encrusted in her own dried blood when the earth itself cracks and her corpse is freed. No, they couldn't bury her. She deserved better.

"Hey," It's quiet, because Beck is essentially wielding a baseball bat and Red doesn't feel like getting a concussion on this particular afternoon. "Is this about Arrow?" There's a soft pause. He tries to approach, closer, and lower the branch in Beck's grip. "What's old Crow got to do with all that, huh?" Everything is slow, gentle, and he thinks of Beck carrying that decapitated head across the fields and into the forest. He wonders how much this child has had to witness, young but immortal as he is, and feels sorry for him. Perhaps such events were taking a toll on the weary spirit.

[fulzanin]

[align=center][div style="width: 55%; text-align: justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"] "I've heard that, uh, making fake editions of people and beating them are death threats." Feza muttered as she came over. Now, she was familiar to the noise of a pinata being hit by a stick. This had almost sounded like that. Almost. It was close enough to get her attention and for the vibrant snow leopard to come bounding over, expecting candy and confetti and a party. Not..a beaten up effigy.

She slowed her run down to a halt, her fluffy ears curling backwards. A deep breath, and another. Okay. Serious, this was something serious. No candy, no party, that was for later, the curiosity of this situation was what settled in her expression for the moment. How long had it taken to make this makeshift pinata? Her muzzle twitched, deciding that she could wait later to ask how it had been constructed. Likely not a good topic either way.

"Isn't Crow the leader?" Feza asked meekly, her blue eyes wide. Not with fright, more so with astonishment. So that beaten pile of sewn corpses that had momentarily been a pinata was an effigy of the leader? She wasn't certain- that was why she asked. She didn't know who Arrow was, but decided that like her questioning of how long it took to create the effigy was to be held for a later, more appropriate time. Maybe never, the topic seemed severe enough for her to bury that response for forever. The anger on the other's face was more than enough to warrant a concerned expression taking hold of her face.

[trojan g.]

[align=center][div style="bgcolor= black; width: 500px; font-family: georgia;font-size:12px;text-align:justify"]It was odd, seeing many creatures around the doors of Beck's hut, considering rarely anyone ever really went over in this area, the only few that she had ever really seen being Beck himself and Crow. She had been curious, of course, as to what all was over here, though had decided it was best to leave the boy alone. Moth didn't really know him, but simply knew of him and his pranks, as well as his mutated plant, though she really had no idea what it was if she was being completely honest with herself.

Eyes would look over those who were gathering, head moving slightly with each flicker, though the closest member that she knew was Wormwood - and she still wasn't too sure about him. Padding forward, Moth would look upon the scene, eyes widening slightly as she recognized the animal that Beck seemed to have built himself, only to beat it. Deciding not to speak, Moth could only simply watch, ears pinned to her head, waiting for Beck to finally speak and answer those that had already asked questions, or waiting to see if Crow would show up - the real Crow - and see what would happen then. After all, Moth wouldn't be able to stop anything from happening, and would only be able to simply watch, for fear froze her.

[beck.]

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    His name sliced through the bitter loathing veiling his vision -- a consuming hatred he bottled deep within his half-impaled chest, not just reserved exclusively for Crow, but rather for the world that wronged him, that stole from him once more. Yet the ordinary name given to him centuries ago seemed to press the pause button on an unseen remote; the enraged poltergeist halted midswing, instantly tensing upon the realization of company. His shy paralysis swiftly dissipated into his original vexation and Beck whipped around to face the intrusive lion with a snarl, old blood staining his ragged breath as though his outburst disturbed the gore settled in his lungs. "No shit, Sherlock!" he snapped. Perhaps later he would regret his words. But aggression was all he knew, a barrier from the villains of the world that he adopted in the slums so long ago.

    Yet before he could return to his beatdown on the stuffed scapegoat, a hellish creature he glimpsed from his smudged windows approached. The branch left his grip, partially broken from the brute force applied to it. A pout contorted his youthful features at this, unscathed lips tugging back to bare teeth until one couldn't be certain whether his expression threatened Red or diverted tears from springing forth. Ignoring the demon's questions, Beck made a wild swipe for the branch, his short stature preventing him from even brushing it with outstretched claws. Slumping onto his haunches in defeat, the bristling feline scrunched his nose and whined, "No fair, give it back!" Upon seeing two more familiar faces join the gathering of witnesses to his violent tantrum, a miserable huff escaped the poltergeist. "Just... just leave me alone," he pleaded through clenched teeth. Nobody present deserved to know his reasoning, his emotions; they didn't actually care. They only arrived to spectate and murmur amongst themselves in poorly veiled concern. Likewise, he didn't care about their pity. He lasted this long without leaning on anyone as a crutch and he wasn't about to start.

[wormwood.]

[glow=#000,1,400]BUT NOW I UNDERSTAND YOU, AND I WILL NOT BE PART OF YOUR DESIGNS — ｡+ﾟ.[/glow]

A frown came to Wormwood's muzzle at Beck's weak and almost childish words. He didn't actually see Beck as that much of a child aside from occasional moments of mischief, but seeing him like this made Worm's heart ache a bit. Once Red took the stick from Beck's grip, the lion moved a bit closer to the emotional male. He mumbled softly once he sat a bit away, firmly shaking his head from side to side at Beck's stupid demand, [glow=#793B29,1,400]"We're not going to just leave you alone right now, Beck. We're your groupmates, and you're obviously hurting, so we want to help you."[/glow] He kept his voice steady as he said this, thinking back to all of the times where, when he had been a cub, he had desperately wanted somebody to actually listen to him and help him out, instead of just ignoring his plights and rolling over him in favor of others. Beck deserved the same care and concern that Worm had been denied for so much of his life, at least he thought so.

He continued on as he eyed the ripped apart and gruesome effigy of their leader, a sense of dread settling over him at seeing even just a look alike of the male being so gruesomely beaten, [glow=#793B29,1,400]"Was Red right...? Is this about Arrow? I can understand you're grieving, but.... beating up a sewn together clone of our leader seems like an odd way to grieve. Did Crow do something...?"[/glow] Wormwood, like many others, had no idea about Beck being effectively locked up within his house when Arrow's death had happened, so he didn't get why targeting Crow of all people would make Beck feel better. Although, honestly it didn't seem to be making Beck feel better much at all, since it seemed like he was still on the verge of crying his eyes out. Despite the fact that Worm knew deep down that Beck wasn't technically a child, he hated to see a child on the verge of tears, so he had to at least try comforting him.