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 Posted: Sun Aug 27, 2017 5:21 am
 [IC] From August 19th, 2017, to September 9th
The dates below will go by when things take place in his storyline, not necessarily when it happens IRL.
Sandy Adventures | [PRP]
New Beginnings | [Solo - Soul Capture p1]
A Reminder to Breathe | [Solo - Soul Capture p2]
Two of a Kind | [PRP]
A Quiet Evening | [PRP]
Dumbstruck | [Solo - Soul Capture p3]
The Cycle of Guardianship | [PRP]
Of Readers and Writers | [PRP]
Witchy Gossip | [Solo - Soul Capture p4]
Seed of Confirmation | [Solo - Soul Capture p5]
From Rags to Riches | [PRP]
The Witch | [Solo - Soul Capture p6]
Her | [Solo - Soul Capture p7]
Nightmares | [Solo - Soul Capture p8]
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:00 am
After years of losing hope, meeting a Raevan for the first time has ignited that old feeling of wanting his own floating child. While he's sure it'll never happen, it's almost nostalgic.
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:01 am
New Beginnings
August 26th
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:01 am
A Reminder to Breathe
August 27th
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:02 am
He didn't expect an email that day, nor did he think he'd meet another guardian who was almost as new as he was. Their meeting reminded him that, no matter what, this was an adventure he was grateful to be on. He appreciates this quiet evening spent with Nina.
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:02 am
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean commodo ligula eget dolor. Aenean massa. c** sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Donec quam felis, ultricies nec, pellentesque eu, pretium quis, sem. Nulla consequat massa quis enim.
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Posted: Mon Aug 28, 2017 3:02 am
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Posted: Wed Aug 30, 2017 7:11 am
Sven meets Oliver and Laurel after a quiet evening alone. Perhaps a potential new friend for his future child has been made?
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Posted: Wed Aug 30, 2017 7:12 am
He hadn't expected an evening of research would lead him to meeting Cordelia and Adrian Shade, but the meeting was a pleasant one. It was endearing to meet someone also excited for the birth of his future child, and sparked a renewed vigor to find the right soul.
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Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2017 1:18 am
Witchy Gossip
September 3rd Joining Writers Group wasn’t his idea, really. That wasn’t to say he was being forced to attend the meetings, but, he wouldn’t have come here if it weren’t for Ellie. The slip of paper handed to him months ago had promised he’d ‘rejuvenate and renew’ his muse, and so it seemed harmless to come. At the time, he had hope. Now, he more often than not only came for free food.
Still, it was nice to take a break. Listening to his assigned partner read their writing was more relaxing than clearing out his attic, which he had just begun doing. He tapped a pen against his knee as his partner — Adrian Summers — carefully articulated each painstakingly written word on their thin sheet of paper. Sven never understood why Adrian insisted on handwriting their assignments, but Adrian was a creature of habit. Their eyes squinted as, for a moment, their voice wobbled, mouth trying to sound out their own handwriting. Was the word papaya? Paper? No, wait, parent, of course! Satisfied, Adrian resumed only to hesitate once more. They adjusted their weight within the chair, thin legs folding over one another as the small man nervously coughed. Sven cocked an eyebrow, noting the odd behavior.
“Is something wrong?” He broke the silence, watching as the green haired man set their paper down. Pale silver eyes flicked up, shoulders shrugging in return.
“It’s not good.” Adrian answered, tapping a nail on the abandoned paper. “I don’t like it.”
Sven scoffed, head shaking as he leaned back into his chair. “It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece.”
Adrian wrinkled his nose, tossing back a long strand of hair over his shoulder. “I want it to be.” He sighed, gesturing towards Sven. “What would you know? Your writing is always spot on.”
Sven couldn’t help the short, breathy laugh that escaped him, feeling the irony in that statement. His work didn’t feel favorable, but to Adrian it was. He almost wished that was enough to break the current haze over his ability to write, but it didn’t satisfy whatever had stolen his talent.
“Thank you.” Sven returned the gesture towards Adrian’s paper. “I quite like your work, as well.”
That didn’t appease the frustrated Adrian as he tossed his shoulders up in denial. “We come here every Sunday; papers in hand and a willingness to try, and neither of us have had a breakthrough.” He hesitated, looking up at Sven with a skeptical eyebrow raise, checking in that Sven wasn’t holding out on the goods. Sven laughed dryly, shrugging with raised hands. Satisfied, Adrian looked back at his paper.
“It’s like, it’s gone, you know? That drive.” His voice dropped an octave, hands sliding up his legs as he shifted his weight to lean against his chair. “I’d do anything for it back. Hell, I’d probably sell my dog if I had to.” His head turned towards Sven, eyes blearily narrowing.
“That’s a joke.” He added for emphasis, waving off the chuckle Sven emitted. “Still, just about anything, really. Just, toss it right out the door if I have to.”
Sven wondered how much of that Adrian truly meant. Throughout their time together, Sven had noticed their struggle with a similar foe, however Adrian exuded a panic Sven didn’t. He’d never ask the other, but Sven wondered what the younger man's home life was like, or their career. Something was fueling the insatiable desire to write for both of them, and while Sven knew his reason, he couldn’t pinpoint Adrian’s. Perhaps it was the same one; the fear of what came when writing no longer was their calling. Maybe not. Whatever it was, it cast a dark look in Adrian’s eyes, overshadowing the flecks of light reflecting back.
“It takes time. These things come and go.” Sven half committed to the conversation with, although he didn’t believe his own words. Not fully. He couldn’t comfort Adrian with his own thoughts on the matter, either. What comfort could be found in the beliefs Sven had? In his own mind, Sven had tapped out already. Unwillingly, but he had somehow drained the creativity from his system, perhaps as a punishment. Coming here was a reminder that he still held a faint, dim hope, but the feeling that he was done always lingered.
“I don’t have time.” Adrian bitterly spat, instantly softening their expression as they lifted their head. “Sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. I’m just tired of waiting, I guess. I mean, what if there was a way to just get it all back instantly? Would you do it?” He shifted in his seat, something sparking in his face, lifting his features as he swallowed Sven up with eager eyes. Sven cracked a curious smile, shrugging.
“Of course?” It seemed like a silly question, after all. Of course he would! But that wasn’t how muses worked, really. They were flighty, at best, gone before you could truly cage it. Creativity was free and fluid, giving birth to many different forms of expression. Summoning it when it didn’t wish to be seemed almost against the very nature of art itself, however the look Adrian held seemed to suggest otherwise.
“You remember Bobby? Short, pudgy guy who kept writing about his cat?”
“Bobby Glaeres?”
“Yeah, that guy! He stopped coming about a week or two ago.”
“That’s not uncommon, really. All of us will stop coming eventually.”
Adrian dismissed him quickly with a wave of his hand. “Remember that email he sent to the whole group? The weird one where he said he found ‘the answer’?”
He did. It had been two weeks ago, in fact. The email hadn’t said much, only bearing a single line without a greeting or goodbye. Sven couldn’t quite remember the exact wording, but he had chalked it up to something meaning religion or just a spam email. He hadn’t thought to look further into it, nor did he think of it in passing until now. Not all of them were there due to writer’s block, either. It hadn’t dawned on him that ‘the answer’ would be anything interesting to him, really.
“Yes?”
“Well, did you email him back?”
“No.”
“I did!”
Adrian flapped his hands as he flopped back into his chair with a self satisfied smirk, as if he held something Sven wanted. “He’s a weird guy, you know? Didn’t really say much at first, despite being the one to announce he figured it all out. Almost as if he regretted sending that email and didn’t want me knowing what he found. But, I got it out of him, eventually. He has a big ego, that guy. Just needed a little something to feed it before he was suddenly blabbering.”
Sven tightened his jaw, eyes narrowing sharply. He didn’t care much for Adrian’s own wording, or their tone, but curiosity struck. It always did. “And what did he say?” He prompted, impatience leaking through as his pen smacked into his knee in anticipation. Adrian was good at capturing attention and monopolizing it, whether they were aware or not.
“It didn’t make sense at first.” Adrian prefaced with, arms folding at their chest. “He said he met someone. I thought he meant like a girlfriend or boyfriend, you know? But no, he met a witch. Said that his neighbors were gossiping about her. Apparently she used to sell these potions down in Barton that had all these kinds of effects; love potions, hate potions, hair growth, and even creativity juice.”
Sven cocked an eyebrow at this, urging Adrian on. Adrian released a laugh, hand waving.
“Yeah, it’s a weird name, but it’s the one he used — creativity juice. He said he found her; tracked her down and everything. She gave him a potion and suddenly he couldn’t stop the ideas pouring in. It was like a faucet was turned on; it kept pouring out. He managed to write the ending to his short story within two days. Imagine that! The guy spent years lamenting over trying to find the perfect ending and there it was in a matter of seconds.” Adrian snapped his fingers at the last word, the sound ringing throughout the gym auditorium. Sven cast a glance towards the other tables before drinking in what Adrian had said. Magic? Sure, he had considered that, due to how prevalent magic was in Gaia, that maybe there was a way to help encourage his muse, but he had always been warned that magic like that came with a price. Perhaps he’d have all the ideas, but be unable to type them. Or, worse, he’d type until his fingers bled and wore to the bone. Sven had never dabbled in magic, but he believed the stories his father had offered him. The stories only someone who knew first hand could tell.
“And you believe him?”
“Yeah, I think I do. I sounded... like he finally was alive.”
Adrian looked down at the paper to his side, placing his hand over it. “It can’t hurt to try. He’s alive and able to communicate, so whatever happened didn’t kill him. He sounded just fine to me.” Adrian shrugged softly, pulling at the edges of the sheet. Sven frowned, one question still nagging at the edge of his thoughts.
“Why would she help him?”
Adrian paused, mulling the question over thoughtfully. His eyes rolled to the ceiling, head tilting side to side before he raised his hands in uncertainty. “Maybe he had to pay, or do something? I could ask.”
“Can you?” Sven hated to admit it, but the idea seemed more and more appealing by the second. It seemed too good to be true, but so had the success of Flesh. His story was a rare one. He suddenly had a comfortable living off his own writing, something often said was impossible. Who was to say magic couldn’t help encourage someone to finally manage what they already knew how to do?
“Sure. I’ll email you what he says, and an address if I can get it out of him.” Adrian promised, grinning ear to ear. “Just, if you ever make it big, drop a shout out for me.”
Sven laughed, head shaking. Adrian didn’t know he wrote Flesh, and he had no intention of sharing such a fact. “I should credit Bobby.”
Adrian puffed his cheeks out, snatching his paper up and waving it at Sven. “Hey, that’s not fair! Without me you wouldn’t even know about it.”
Sven waved at the man, laughing harder as Adrian folded his arms in mock anger. The sound of someone beside them insistently shushing them alerted Sven to the fact that they were still within the group, cheeks flushing as he straightened up and cleared his throat.
“Right, well… you still have an assignment to read.”
Adrian’s face dropped, eyes narrowing at the paper. “Damn it, alright... right, lets get this over with...”
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Posted: Thu Sep 07, 2017 7:17 pm
Seed of Confirmation
September 4th Sven pulled back from his laptop, stretching his arms out above his head as he leaned back against his chair. His eyes fluttered open as his laptop pinged softly, alerting him of an email. Switching tabs, he located the newest message, nibbling his bottom lip as he noted the sender.
Adrian.
Quote: Hey!,
So I contacted Bobby when I got home. Turns out, he did end up having to do something for the witch. They requested that he do a task for them. Something about trying a new potion they were working on. He said it didn't really do much other than make his breath reek for a day or two, and then she was willing to help.
He warned that she's peculiar. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't mention anything dangerous. He seems fine, and still writing away. He's working on a new project, even!
I attached the address in a file, as well as screenshots of his email. I'm probably going to try my luck later this month, but if you go first you should let me know and I'll see if I can come with? lol, is this cheating?
Anyway, good luck!
Adrian out!
Sven exhaled lowly as he downloaded the attached documents, fingers drumming against the laptop. If Bobby was well and alive, then it seemed that whatever he used worked. That, of the negative side effects would come much later. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't curious, and, honestly, Gaia was full of witches and wizards. He'd seen their shops and entered them once or twice, finding their unusual wares tempting at times. He'd never seen anything that was proven to actually help ideas spill freely from the mind, which was why he never really chanced it before. Magic was still foreign to him, and if he was going to dabble in it he wanted to make sure that it was well worth the attempt. Bobby Glaeres was proof enough. Or, at least it was enough to summon Sven's interest.
A visit couldn't hurt, really. Not if he went with company, too — just in case. Nodding to himself, Sven made a mental note to call Adrian in a few days. They had a witch to see.
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Posted: Thu Sep 07, 2017 7:21 pm
Shortly after the email from Adrian Summers, Sven decided to unwind with a session of calligraphy work. Unfortunately, Daffodil, not one to put up with Sven's distractions when she was clearly in need of a pet or two, decided to throw herself onto the table and cover herself in ink, leading Sven to Yuri's salon in a panic.
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Posted: Wed Sep 13, 2017 5:59 am
The Witch
September 6th Quote:
10:34am
Sorry dude! I have something going come up. Don’t get turned into a frog lmao
What a drag. If he had known Adrian Summers couldn’t make it, he wouldn’t have been standing on the swampy path that minute. Common sense told him that going alone was a bad idea, while the lurking curiosity urged him forward. It was stupid; he knew that. For all he knew, he was entering dangerous territory, but that rarely stopped Sven. Less so now that the boredom of his endless stagnant routine grew tiresome by the day. Sure, he could turn around and go home, but what if by doing so he lost the chance for a change? That notion drove him mad; he couldn’t just go home.
The dense forest around him creaked and croaked, warning him of what hid amongst it with a dangerous melody. Who knew what kind of creatures were watching him, or what crawlies scurried by his feet. The forest was dark, darker than one would expect at 11:36am. The forest, nested a few miles from Kindred Lake, was named Ebony Forest, and he had been warned quite a few times during his pursuit to find it. His detour at the gas station to ensure his map was correct had left him with an ominous and nervous warning, muttered from a tweaked cashier.
”There’s a witch in those woods, you know? You aren’t really going in there, are you? I heard just last week the kid down the street came home with a nasty curse after they popped on by.”
The smile on Sven’s lips at that moment was enough to confirm their fears; yes, he really was going there. Now here he stood, looking at a worn path that weaved towards a break in the forest. He was close enough to see the hut, which screamed of a stereotypical witch home. The hut was small, made of dark wood and illuminated by various lanterns. A chimney produced green smoke, as if intent on confirming that almost all movies were right in their portrayal. It seemed intentional, even. Perhaps the owner relished in shaping their home after what spooked young children.
Staring wasn’t getting him anywhere, and frankly he wasn’t keen on seeing if the forest could grow darker in anticipation of finally consuming the man who stood within it. The sounds of the forest almost seemed to echo, warning him to get out. While he had absolutely no intention of doing so, he also wasn’t keen on being out in the open much longer.
A noise of discontent left the man as he approached the hut, spine shuddering as a chill rushed over him. Really, he could do with not being outside much longer. He hesitated as he climbed the rickety stairs, a twitch of a smile followed, summoned by the uncomfortable realization that he was now inches away from something that could end his life in a fraction of a second. Magic was never something he had dabbled in, nor had he acquaint himself with those of magical talents. The soul bottle tucked within his cardigan was as close as he had ever gotten, until now.
A tension creeped into his shoulders as he knocked on the door, the sound hollow and deafening. Something shuffles inside the hut and the sound of a bottle rolling alerted Sven to the resident inside. At least he picked a good time to come. A silence followed, as if testing how long he’d stay in place. It must have been several minutes before Sven felt uncertainty creep through his bones, feet shifting while he debated perhaps leaving. Something was inside, but that something didn’t seem too eager to meet him.
Or, that was what he began to assume until the door creaked open, a pale hand sliding from the darkness to wrap around the edge of the door.
”A human.” A feminine voice echoed, saturated with a curious delight. Sven couldn’t refrain from cocking his head as the hand pulled the door back, revealing the commenter. There she stood; shorter than him and somehow paler. The first and only feature that caught his eye were her own eyes, causing a brief and awkward still in the air as he found himself staring. One yellow, one purple, narrowed into an amused and perhaps expectant curve, alongside a smirk that rested comfortably on her face. Curly black-blue hair framed her face, contrasting starkly against her skin. Sven noted the purple robe and witch hat, feeling his lips threatening to pull into a smile. What a stereotype. However, the robe remained open, revealing something short and perhaps revealing underneath. Sven didn’t allow himself to figure out what that could be, eyes snapping up apologetically to look at the woman.
He swore he heard a chuckle.
”Hello,” Sven bleated, feeling heat reach his cheeks as the woman lifted her smile wider.
”Hello,” She echoed, voice dripping with a sugary glee, most likely at his own nervous glances. She pressed herself against the door, a leg raising to hook an ankle around another. He dared himself not to look at her exposed legs, instead locking his gaze on those peculiar eyes.
His eyes gladly obeyed.
”Err, are you the….?” How does one respectfully ask if another is a witch? Was that term incorrect? Derogatory, even? He should have studied — should have poured himself over the internet before coming. One of her eyebrows cocked, lips pursing as she patiently waited. What had he been expecting? An old and green lady to answer the door? Was she even the witch, or had he been led to make a fool of himself? Sven found his mouth wouldn’t work with him, instead clenching tighter as he fumbled with what could be the right answer. Impatience settled in her eyes, arms folding and allowing nimble fingers to curl around the edges.
”The witch?” She benevolently offered. Sven nodded in relief, piecing together fragments of what is a coherent thought to articulate his reason for being there.
”Yes, the witch. I heard of someone who came here for help.” He breathed a hefty sigh as she snapped her gaze from him, eyes trailing into the abyss that is her home before drawing her attention back.
”Have you now?” She coaxed, hand escaping her skin to gesture loosely at the man who stood before him. ”Lucky me,” She breathed flatly, this time encouraging Sven’s own eyebrow to raise.
”I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to intrude, if you rather I lea-” His voice abruptly faltered as her hand raised, her eyes coated in a dry humor he couldn’t read.
”You’ve come at a bad time, if that was something you were going to ask. However, living in a forest has its own merits, as well as its own faults. If you’re willing to humor this old woman, you may come in. My help does not come without at least a conversation.”
Time seemed to skip as Sven found himself within the hut, whether he intentionally moved in without realizing or she had done something was unknown. It wasn’t unpleasant, although he felt a shudder of apprehension as the door closed behind them. He took the brief and welcoming moment to glance around; to settle his nerves one and for all. The inside wasn’t like the movies — it lacked the eerie promise that whoever lived inside was wrong. Instead, it was warm, although dark, decorated with old furniture and soft accompaniments here and there. The only definite witch things were the line of bottles against the back wall — full of unknown and colorful substances — and the large pot hanging above the fire within the fireplace. Otherwise, one would not guess her occupation.
”Disappointed?” Her tone suggested it didn’t matter either way, but a smile quirked on her lips as she traveled towards the nearest chair, settling within it.
”No,” He laughed, hands sticking into the safety of his pockets. She waved a hand his way, head snapping into a brief, deliberate nod.
”What do you need?” It isn’t accusing, her tone, but it lacks a desire to continue their empty conversation. It wants a point, and Sven struggled to remember what it was now that he stood within that strange little hut.
Right.
”Ah, yes, right,” He responded with a slow hesitation that causes her lips to briefly curl. Impatient; that was the first word he landed on that he felt comfortable giving her. She wanted an answer, and Sven almost found a subtle enjoyment in how her strange eyes shimmered in curiosity as he kept her waiting.
”An acquaintance of mine struggled with continuing his writing. I heard you helped him, and now he finished his project.” He didn’t expect her to remember the name, evident when his eyes widened as she offered it.
”Bobby?” Her face ignited into satisfaction at his surprise, nails suddenly the focus of her gaze as she looked down, examining them. ”I remember him; a writer without a voice.” Her eyes lifted, head canting a few centimeters. ”So you came for that?” Disappointment oozed, pooling into a low and languid sigh. ”You came all this way, requesting the aid of a bona fide witch, for that? How dull.”
Irritation lighted his nerves, mouth tightening as he fought the quip that wanted to roll through. What had she expected? What was the norm of her requests? Heat colored his face, eyes rolling to look anywhere but her. It seemed simple, and perhaps it was, but Sven was a simple man. All he wanted to do was write. Write and fill the soul bottle in his pocket. He didn’t want for much in the world, and even now as he poured through his options he couldn’t pinpoint anything else equally as important.
He knew what he wanted. The witch considered him with low lidded eyes, hand lowering and flattening against long legs. She offered him a moment of thought before turning her head towards the fireplace, nose wrinkling.
”Very well,” She relented, however her tone was far from finished. ”For the right payment, I’ll give you what you want.”
The irritation washed into relief before rolling into a sudden and sudden joy. It was that easy? The answer to his problems? His reason for his growing depression? A warmth seeped into his skin, rushing to his chest as he inhaled sharply. He could be like Bobby; confident in his own skill again. Everything was going to be okay, all thanks to this peculiar woman who eyed him from her throne.
”However,” His gut sank, a pit weighing it down as he heard the dreaded word. Of course, there was a price. Was it feasible? Would it be the end to this deal? ”I have no interest in money.”
’They requested that he do a task for him. Something about trying a new potion they were working on. He said it didn't really do much other than make his breath reek for a day or two, and then she was willing to help.’
Was that what she wanted? He could handle that. Sven’s shoulders lowered. He couldn’t remember when they found their way up, but he felt the protest in his bones as the tension greeted him. ”What do you want instead?”
”Your time,” She answered lazily, adjusting and recrossing her legs. He wondered if that was on purpose, almost. ”I have other requests to fulfill; other more interesting ones which take much more time to satisfy. I don’t have the time to collect certain ingredients I need, especially if I add you onto the list.” She quirked an eyebrow at his apprehensive expression, her tongue lashing out to wet her lips.
”I’m a busy woman, you know,” She added for emphasis, her subtle amusement quickly replaced with a deliberate and thoughtful expression. ”If you want my help, you’ll go where I ask to retrieve a plant I need for my current project. Only then will I work on your potion.”
It sounded reasonable, uncomfortably so. It hadn’t dawned on him that the fix to his problems could be so simple, and now his suffering almost seemed foolish. Perhaps it was. If he had known this entire time he could have entertained a witch for his muse to return he would have done so months ago. Years ago. It all felt so ridiculous now; of course he’d say yes.
”Okay, deal.” Sven croaked. ”What do you need, and where do you need me to go?” The smile on her lips that erupted was unsettling, his inner voice protesting violently against the sight. Unsettled, Sven felt his willingness recoil sharply, mouth drying as the alarm bells rang. Something was wrong, but almost as sudden as the smile had been it rolled into a pleasant smirk, subtle in comparison. Had he been imagining things? Certainly he had been; he already was on edge and was prone to allowing his anxiety to make up situations or sights. Bobby was fine and alive, and while the woman was absolutely different, she didn’t deserve the suspicion that had ignited so suddenly and without cause.
...Right?
”There’s a graveyard about a mile into the forest. The path that leads here also goes directly past the house. Follow it straight, you’ll eventually stumble upon the place.” She rose from her perch, gathering herself with a snap of her hands, covering her figure in the depths of her robe as she traveled towards the back of the hut. She stole a book from a shelf, quickly rustling through it before returning to Sven to gesture it at the man. He leaned forward, glancing at the offered page. He assumed the flower on the page was the subject of interest, eyebrows raising at the skull-like shape the petals outlined. ”A skull lilly. They only grow over graves. Old ones, really. The graveyard was forgotten when the forest began to grow over a lost town, but you’ll find the occasional potion brewer stop by for a flower or two. They’re exceedingly rare, but potent. There’s nothing like it.”
Sven nodded absently, eyes flicking towards the window nearest the door. He didn’t feel quite eager to throw himself out there, again, and especially not in a graveyard, but… He was determined, really. Again, he was reminded of the fact Bobby had done whatever she asked and survived; why would his story be any different? It was just a forest. A creepy one, yes, but that was all.
He turned his gaze to her, nodding absently. ”I can do that now, then.” He couldn’t hide the eagerness, and really he didn’t care to. She hummed pleasantly, closing the book with a definite thud. She brushed past him on her way back to the bookshelf, leaving a waft of faint, almost lavender-esque perfume in her wake. Sven reeled back gently, keen to begin the walk. The faster he did it, the quicker the results would be.
”If you want. I still need to finish a few things; the earliest I can begin your request is tomorrow morning.” Sven didn’t care. Tomorrow was perfect. She turned back towards him, noting his impatient shifting with a cold laugh. ”Alright, go along, then. Go on.” She shooed him off, turning away as Sven awkwardly stumbled in an attempt to register the abrupt dismissal before taking his leave. Her head tilted upwards, a hand raising just as his head turned, catching his gaze and prolonging his leave as he hesitated.
”Ah, what is your name?”
”Oh! Sven! Pleasure to meet you….?” A question hung in the air, her head turning as a purple eyes locked on him.
”Anesidora. Call me Nessie, instead.”
Sven smiled for what felt like the first time in awhile, prying the door open. ”Nessie — thank you.” She waved off his gratitude, hand repeating a sharp shooing motion.
Sven didn’t need to be asked twice.
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Posted: Tue Oct 03, 2017 7:59 am
Her
September 6th [Night] Reticence; it hung in the air, heavy and foreboding, blanketing the old and abandoned graveyard in its density. It swallowed his signature, burying his presence as the darkness washed over him, nipping at his heels with each step. The graveyard was decrepit, covered in rubble and decay as far as the eye could see. Gravestones, each in various states of disrepair, beckoned to him, promising him tales of lost stories and empty skeletons. He wasn’t here for that, and he kept steady in his pursuit as he traveled the broken stone path. The already dark forest had begun to blacken further, a sign that the sun past the forest had begun to set. He needed to hurry up, and fast; Sven didn’t like the idea of wandering the graveyard, alone, in true darkness. A witch seemed the least of his worries when he considered it.
He checked each grave he happened across, noting how unorganized and scattered the headstones were. The graveyard looked old; older than him, perhaps. No, definitely older. Who would bury their dead in such a forsaken forest? What was this place before now? Had the forest swallowed a civilization whole, or was there another story? One he’d probably never know? He exhaled that thought with a shaky break, eyes focused on each headstone as he mentally counted each failure. 39 headstones, and not a single flower; what if he had been led on a goose chase?
That’s when he heard it; a faint weeping. It traveled through the graveyard, echoing past Sven as he turned towards the sound. It was a gentle sound at first, contorting into a heavy and choked sob before withering back into a soft wail. Sven felt cold seep through his skin, mouth tightening while his eyes searched through the darkness. Someone was there, mourning the loss of someone buried long ago.
”Hello?” He tested the air, mouth dry as the wailing hindered for a moment before picking back up into its sporadic rhythm. Turn back, the sound warned, something he knew he should heed as he, instead, began to approach the sound. This won’t end well, the cold air warned, but Sven always had viewed himself as impenetrable. Nothing could hurt him, not in reality. He wasn’t a main character in a novel; he’d be fine. Or, so he clung to.
With each step he held his breath, having forgotten how to breathe. In the distance he made out a shape; hazy and uncertain. He could make out a faint silhouette, eyes squinting as he came to the conclusion it was human, or something similar bodied. The figure shuddered against each cry, convulsing against the sound of their own tears while Sven approached. Something continued to nag at him, warning him of the unlikely situation he was in. The graveyard was old and long forgotten, why would anyone be still mourning? Why would they, in a place without light or people, weep so freely? It wasn’t normal, and he doubted they were here on an errand like him.
Yet, he was a careless man, and careless men often didn’t listen to that voice.
”Excuse me?” He was close enough to begin to make out features. They were slim in a sickly way, as if they hadn’t eaten in a millenia. Their skin looked almost grey, although he wouldn’t doubt it could be a trick of the eye. He determined it was a woman, noting her long, white dress that clung to her sides lifelessly and her ebony black hair that cascaded to her waist. Her hands were pulled up, covering her face as she openly wept. For a moment, he saw a flash of purple across her skin as light broke through the canopy for a brief moment.
She looked undead. That realization sent a spark of electricity through his body, mouth parting against the surge of raw dread that encompassed him. It hadn’t occurred to him until just that moment what kind of beasts liked to masquerade as humans around graveyards, and now it did. The sound of his sharp inhale caused a twitch to ripple through the small and slender woman, his heart lurching as her hands pulled a centimeter from her face as her voice cut short. It was then, after he took one step too many, that he realized where she stood. Bare, purple-grey feet stood on-top of an old grave where the headstone still rested, cracked but whole. His eyes chanced the headstone, noting the name; Harrison Quigley. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why the name stuck out at him, especially as her hands lowered further, but it embedded in his brain as his eyes lifted to meet hers.
He didn’t notice how beautiful she looked, or how, despite the color of death on her skin, she looked like porcelain itself. He didn’t note her soft, purple lips or how she looked far younger than she possibly could be. All that struck out to him were those eyes; red orbs painted against black sclera, adorned by long, thick lashes. They were not frail and delicate like the rest of her — no, they were wild and sick, paralyzing him to the bone. Her mouth contorted, twisting open as a horrific scream left her mouth. Sven stepped backwards, muscles tensing as the woman’s pupils constricted. It happened in a flash; she was there and then she wasn’t, throwing herself in his direction as black nails raised to claw at whatever she could grasp.
Sven stumbled, hands extending to shove back at the undead woman. His hands met fabric, digging into her shoulders as she tossed him to the cold ground. An animalistic shriek left her as she flailed against his hold, slashing towards his face as he squirmed to free a leg from her weight. Sven cursed wildly, german profanity spilling free as he planted a foot directly into her stomach, sending the woman flying. He didn’t wait for the dull sound of her body hitting the ground, instead immediately barreling himself up and away. He couldn’t hear his feet hit the ground in a run, his heart hammering through his skull and deafening the cries and caws around him.
He needed to get out of there, before whatever attacked him got back up.
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Posted: Tue Oct 03, 2017 8:34 am
Nightmares
September 9th Time had ceased from that point on. The days had passed, he was aware enough to know that. He had returned home in a frenzy, forgetting the witch and her forsaken forest in favor of his home and warm bed. He just couldn't remember when the days began to move on, or when he began to notice the shadow that would pass his room every night. Deep down, he knew what it was, especially when on the third night he heard a faint whimper outside his window. Black nails had found their way down the glass, scraping and leaving deep gouges for him to find later in the morning. He knew what had followed him, but he couldn't quite say the words yet.
Each night, he woke with a start, either from the soft wailing that grew increasingly louder each night or from the nightmares flashing through his dreams. All he could see was her, crawling through his dreams with a feverish vengeance. A name fluttered in the corner of his sight, a name he still remembered. It was all he could think about, all he could feel. The fear her eyes summoned in him was stuck, glued to his chest and leaving a heavy imprint where his heart had once been. Each night, he wondered if perhaps she'd break that window down and take him into the abyss one last time, but she never did. She only howled louder for him; cried harder. Had the witch known? Had she sent him to his death? Was this his punishment for his vain attempts to rekindle something as insignificant as his muse?
All he knew was that by each night, she grew louder. One day, he was sure she'd consume him whole.
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