Catchism: Unfortunate. Regretful.

Catchism: Unfortunate. Regretful.

Postby catch » Sat Jul 20, 2013 7:36 am

Tennant would struggle with muted dreams. In his hands is a smooth, twining stone, a slightly spongy stone, the rounded edge of Gems that no man on earth had the power to cut into such a surface. Three gems, winding together; glimmering opal (white teeth in a Wolf's red mouth), midnight obsidian (was Black ever wicked? Or had it been deemed to always be so by uncaring Fates?), and deep, heart's blood garnet (like a stag, an antlered stag, running care-free in the blood of a sunset). His fingers would brush the gems, over and over, artwork inseparable. His fingers would brush the horn, and they welcomed him with a child's grasping hand, welcome him with an embrace -


Your first, conscious thoughts are, perhaps, of the cold. The fact that you lay down. Your senses are slow to come together. It is as if tea taken still lingers as a miasmic taste upon your tongue. A strange thickness. The slight bitterness of a Black Rose-petal, one that had not been crushed entire. Yes, you remember, now. You had been taking tea. tea with your Lady.

As it comes back you, you are aware of two, solid thoughts. You are naked. And you are bound. Your arms are stiff at your sides; your legs, slightly spread, are bolted to the hard, sturdy table on which you lay. It is no amateur's affair of ropes. While your chest is strapped down, general ties, so too are your wrists. Perhaps, if your mind can scramble together, you could recognize that particular table. A table that lies within the Inquisitory. Specially made, special-crafted. It was meant for a monster greater than you.

There is a hand stroking your hair. As you open your eyes, you cannot see who, exactly, it is. Your view confirms what you have feared. These are the deepest parts of the Inquisitory, the basement parts that you have glimpsed but once, or twice. The hidden parts that Glenn Burnie had wanted no one to know existed. Low, hard-packed earth is all that lies above you. There is the tail-end of a worm, probing carefully about this sudden ocean of air. It wriggles in rhythm to a sound. You know this sound, too, for you have heard it often enough at your sham-work, the cheerful front of your dark, Rhaena-tweaked mind.

The sound of a blade being whetted upon stone.

You realize that an equally murmurous sound has been speaking. And, when you can turn your head, you can see the figure seated next to you. It is Rhaena. It is your Lady, her bronze scales gleaming with scented oils, her bronze eyes a pity, and a disappointment. Not in you. That is instinctive. She sat upon a padded stool, her dresses and skirts immaculate, as always. She is so unreal to your mind, because she has made it so. She radiates, in the damp. It is she that is stroking your hair.

"It is a terrible shame," she is saying. "Such a terrible waste."

"Your wish is ever my command," says a gentle, accented voice, and though you cannot see him, you know him for Giuseppe. It must be, for he speaks to Rhaena in a way you dare not speak to her, you or Elliot or any number of mind-meddled slaves. No. No, that isn't true. Rhaena liked your wit. She liked your sass. She left that part of you alone. "If you're having second thoughts, better take this out of his head now -"

The Lady sighs, and she leans forward in her stool. She looks down into your eyes, your green, your emerald eyes. This is difficult for her, you know.

"No, no, Giuseppe," she will sigh with regret, after looking into your drug-addled eyes. "It must be done. My husband ever knew the need for necessity. Ah, Tennant! Could you have imagined it?" she asks, and you are naked and cold and bound to a table, and the primitive part if you - the part she did not rewrite - struggles like a rat in a drain, wants you to scream, wants you to gnaw your way out of your bindings. "Perhaps a little, blond girl - the Haytham girl, maybe, with her light hair and blue eyes - a girl for you. And with your family's penchant for twins -"

He tongue clucks against her teeth. "Such a shame! Little, matching handmaidens in green-lace dresses, perhaps, or footboys in smart, blue uniforms, on matching ponies, to announce my coming. It would have been dazzling. I always had that in mind for you, my Tennant. And you would have done it for me, wouldn't you?" Her perfumed, warm hand is hot against your cheek, skin gone clammy and feverish from the basement's cold. "You would have given me such a gift, such a prize. Little, strawberry-blond twins. And they would have had cakes and dresses, would have moved in the highest of circles."

"Oh, but then, your sister..." She trails away, her bronze eyes distant. "I will have to deal with her, too, I suppose. A little less elegantly than you. I couldn't bear to part with you, my Tennant. You are far too useful. You are... controlled, in a way my Husband could never hope. Ah, it would have been lovely. But it is more efficient to make certain traitorous blood does not breed traitorous blood, isn't it?"

She is so reasonable. So gentle. You could, perhaps, fight down the panic as the hot, sharp blade touches your inner thigh.
User avatar
catch
Member
 
Posts: 699
Joined: Mon Aug 31, 2009 4:00 am

Re: Catchism: Unfortunate. Regretful.

Postby Tolleson » Sun Jul 28, 2013 6:44 am

Tea, it sits heavily and bitter on the back of the tongue. It is vile, a venomous poison that is swallowed anyway. Mouth dry, parched and body cold, the world is dark and whatever light glints around there is a foggy halo created from unfocused eyes. Drugs are a familiar experience, their effects known and with some experience perhaps there is a higher tolerance, but the world is still unsure and unclear. There is warmth, fingers in hair, a gentle combing that sways him like an ocean’s tide until washed upon this beach, abandoned, clammy; sweat beading everywhere runs down the curves of hips, through cracks, sits uncomfortably between body and restraints.

Bleary, at first it is only the cacophony of a dozen muted sounds. However slight they might be in the world the whetted stone, the voice of his lady, and that worm, wiggling, struggling, a thunderous rhythm wracking the brain. It makes listening to that voice of silk so difficult, yet the need is instinctive and great strain is taken on to do so.

Head turned, her eyes peering down, her beautiful face becomes clearer and the urge is there to kiss her. Thrust himself on her, feel her skin upon bare flesh, to love her. Or tear her apart. Pupils dilating, brain screaming and resisting, head straining to lift closer to her. Reality begins to set, the struggle is natural and for a time she is entirely forgotten, her voice but a din prattling on about the last things in the world he cared about.

And then there is Genny.

The boiling point of anger is reached in a matter of a few words, matched only by the very tangible panic resulting from a sudden onset of pain. Low and callous his cry is more anger than pain and fear. Hot blades were merely physical, after the initial touch and recoil, the panic is buried and a projectile of spit is launched at Giuseppe before arms begin to thrash wildly within the restraints, every muscle pulling up, trying to break free, trying to take that knife and slit Giuseppe’s throat.
User avatar
Tolleson
Member
 
Posts: 709
Joined: Mon May 31, 2004 4:00 am
Location: Arizona

Re: Catchism: Unfortunate. Regretful.

Postby catch » Sun Jul 28, 2013 6:20 pm

You fight your bindings. You could do no less. The blade is quickly withdrawn at the missile of phlegm and spit. There is Giuseppe, swimming into your vision. He holds the knife in his hands, and there is a spot of red where the tip had been set against your flesh. There is a clear glob of your spittle, and it streaks down his olive cheek like tears.

"It's not like I wish to do this, Tennant," he says, infinitely reasonable. You struggle, and your Lady continues to stroke your hair, your admirable, damnable hair. "It is Her command, after all. And she is right. Endogamy leads to stagnation. Yet some flowers must be pruned, so that the rest may flourish. It is like - grapes for the wine. Some are inherently sour, you see? Some are suitable for the cooking-wines. But should a sour grape enter the drinking-wines, ah!"

He speaks with regret. You know that he does not lie. He does this on command; he does this because your sister, your blood, has turned against the Lady. You are sterilized, but she is not.

"I would have her brought to the fold, my dear Tennant," Rhaena tells you. Her palms is a steadying-presence against your forehead. "I would, but it would always be there, you see? The rebellion. The traitorous blood, full of fire. Like your hair. Your head is on fire, dear Tennant. Your hair is on fire."

Her mnemonic speaking is fascinating. You could be drawn to the way her lips move, the way the tiny scales flicker with each muscle that twitches. She chants, over and over, in her gentle, reasonable voice, "Your hair is on fire. Your hair is on fire. Your hair -"

Giuseppe's fingers close about your manhood. You may struggle, if you have the strength, but the bonds are tight on you, and there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere to hide.

"Your hair is on fire."

The blade is there.

"Your hair -"

Pain. Great, terrible pain, wrenching pain, from between your thighs all the way to your gut, your heart screams, your heart bleeds, great gouts of blood that is fire and flames. Giuseppe burns, and he does not scream, your testicles clutched like a prize in his hands. Your Lady smiles brightly.

"... on fire."

You are awake. Awake. had it been a dream? But you are on your bed in the Dagger, fully-clothes. The sun outside is an early afternoon. You had taken tea, and something had taken you, all the way to your bed. Had lain you down. Had caused you to sweat and scream. Your thighs, your hips, are screaming in phantom pain, and every movement is a sharp, terrible reminder, even if there is no knife. Even if there had been no blood.

A waking-dream. A future?

You look in the mirror. Your hair is the color of flames.
User avatar
catch
Member
 
Posts: 699
Joined: Mon Aug 31, 2009 4:00 am

Re: Catchism: Unfortunate. Regretful.

Postby Tolleson » Mon Jul 29, 2013 11:11 am

It is a frantic fever that has taken him. Muscles seem to tear and cry, every bit of the body a protest to movement in a stumbling shamble to the mirror. Sweat soaked sheets tangled about and whatever clothes remain are carelessly torn free. The reflection before him, now naked, is inspected. The mirror lies.

The pain is real. It burns and twists in clawing tendrils up through the stomach and chest, squeezing lungs and pounding through his head. Though a phantom ache, his hands grasped frantically for the limb which he remembered losing. Fingers to run over the invisible cut on his thigh. Looking down, trusting his eyes more that the flame-haired stranger in the mirror, reality is re-affirmed before collapsing onto fours and expelling vomit about the mess of sheets, clothes and floor. Not a drop of blood in the mix.

It is difficult to go on, to lift up and take another step forward. To clean the mess, to dress again, to light the smoke, let it fill the room and ease the pain.

The pile of ash grows taller, unmoving he sits at the edge of the bed as the shadows grow longer. Evening approaches, golden sunlight turning orange illuminates and ignites his hair. Glancing at the mirror it seems almost made of fire. An unsettling sight, it burns the too-fresh memory and has him standing. A long drag, the air rushes in from a door now open. Smoke dances and curls, hurling itself with vicious speed until well mixed and again the room is still and silent. The movement becomes subtle, the smoke alone with only the company of the light, rays piercing the murky air.

To Catch.
User avatar
Tolleson
Member
 
Posts: 709
Joined: Mon May 31, 2004 4:00 am
Location: Arizona


Return to Myrken Wood



Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 17 guests

cron