WARNING! This is a
Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.
* * * * *
A mother is weeping, and a crowd is staring; their horror is unified, drawn together like hands of a frightened child. It is twisting inside of them and transforming into something else entirely -- but for the mother and the crowd, this transformation is two shades of the same color.
For the mother, the transformation is a blend of delirium and madness. Her weeping intensifies; the sobs racking her body become a thin, high-pitched wail of despair hurled at the cloudless sky, at the burning golden eye of the sun, at anything and everything, anyone and everyone. Words from the crowd are lost on her, and are of no more use to her: her ensuing cries are devoid of sense, much less cohesion.
For the crowd, the transformation is a blend of more macabre elements. There is the thick wool blanket of fear, but there is, in turn, the airy linen of wonder -- their fear clung to them as a person might cling the aforementioned blanket during a particularly aggressive winter, and their wonder left them stricken, immobile, yet high as kites on a strong gust of wind. Most of all, however, the crowd was, to their personal and, quite likely, collective disgust,
fascinated.
* * * * *
Sophie loved her new dress.
It was a summer dress, blue as the sky and just as airy. As if providing an example, a breeze sent her russet curls billowing and threatened to tangle her legs in the folds of the dress. The former she ignored; the latter brought out a half-embarrassed, half-delighted laugh. A few passerbys looked at her strangely or curiously, but said nothing and did little beyond shaking their heads.
Her baby girl, cradled in her arms, squealed, agreeing -- with which, however, would remain a mystery.
Behind her, Sophie heard an ear-splitting
crack. Curious, she turned -- and while this action was of little immediate importance, it would forever alter the course of a young woman's life.
* * * * *
Sophie wept. Sophie issued tiny screams. Sophie wept, screamed, and cradled the still and silent body of her baby girl, its head demolished by a roof tile that, albeit covered in blood, bone, and flecks of flesh and brain, Sophie stroked as she had the thick mop of russet hair on her child's previously whole head.
* * * * *
The sound that drew Sophie's attention, causing her to turn, was not the roof tile itself. That little event -- now transformed into something else entirely -- generated little to no sound at all, at least until the moment of impact. No, what had drawn Sophie's attention was, just as her baby girl's concurring squeal, to remain a mystery.
* * * * *
Sophie had loved her new dress. It had been blue as the sky and just as airy. Now it was stained with the blood of a child, the sickly mesmerizing shade of red that, in the right light, was bright as scarlet and just as lively; and in the wrong light, was black as deceit and corrupting as power. The red on her dress was somewhere between, a rusty color that would make a knight's armor cringe. The red on her face and hands was more vivid, more lively, but amorphous -- her tears mingled with the blood, creating murky, swirling rivulets that ended at her chin.
The crowd was flooded with fear and wonder; they were motionless as ancient statues. The wind stirred their clothing, their hair, but not them. Only the shouting of guardsmen from the Order of Straka brought them to life, in fact stirred awareness of the situation before them -- and all at once dozens of voices joined themselves to Sophie's screaming, which had taken on a raw quality that spoke of a dry, bleeding throat.
* * * * *
Sophie had loved her new dress.
In her cell at the gaol, where the guardsmen had taken her until she could be safely transferred to the Rememdium Edificum, she hung herself with it.