once more, with feeling


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Elder
Elder

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Joined: Sat Mar 12, 2005 1:00 pm

Location: USA

Post Mon Apr 02, 2018 10:19 pm

Re: once more, with feeling

Breath, against her. Heated. Soft. Softest thing he yet do. That maybe he could.

Death did not come upon it. Did not come on his circling, did not come on eyes breaking against water. His words said
wanting under the shape of themselves. For you. Not others.

So entirely wanted. Strange thing, stranger still to this she was—imperfect, broken, no title, no call. Even Bond did not claim so deep. Sethe, sister of wanting; Sanguine, less so. Sanguine, making her garden apart and asking not. Fit her.

Strange, this maybe way of stallions.
Mine—eyes to mark. And he spoke again, and she tilted her head to hear him. Words, needed, and his words, thus: Now your mark on me. You will agree to bond, to be in my circle.

Circle. She knew from Hinote—from Hinote’s brother, Hinote’s mare, Hinote’s child. Circle was a sticking thing, keeping thing. What circle must be, to keep even this one. What she must be, that he want her there. Inconceivable. As was she.

And more truth to be told, before this.

“My Bond,” said she, watching
patience sit and settle and never still, “is of long road. I go with her. When return, if return, I know not. Can only give that.”

Fair, that he know. Fair, to consider. That she wander with her soul, with those who hold it—long days, long nights, locked to them. Parts, she could give, but only those she could. Some parts, not hers. Not her bargain. But if he want own this what she gave, if that enough—

“As you wish, I will lock.” And she looked to him as he did her, studied the bow of the neck, the flick of mane, tail. She was not Warrior, to take her mark as he did—sudden, savage. Had not that right. Words. “Of flesh…or manner else?”

Mark a wound and lock it. Stain in shadowblood and lock it. Gift gold or stone and lock it.


As you wish.
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Posting Elemental
Posting Elemental

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Post Wed Apr 11, 2018 9:28 am

Re: once more, with feeling

Things to say, notions that he knew deep in the poisons that surged through him, soft and yet not. She would need to understand, before the rest of it, this deepest knowledge he held.

Wander where you wish, he told her, and looked at the sticky shadow-blood drip-drip-drip on the ground, not willing to yet risk his gaze as the air blackened and cracked in response to his instinct. He wasn't calling his power, Caustic, but he wasn't dampening himself, his responses, as he would for others - cautious, lest even this cause some manner of harm, lest the air grow thin and burn in their throats. She was smart, accepting; she let him be. So he was just exactly as he was, and the air grew black with the promise of possession, a different violence to be offered. Mine.

When you want, he told her, his rough voice deepening with intent, with a shadow of hunger, You may pull. I will come.

He showed her, pulling on the small thread of binding that held his poison to her flesh; a piece of him in her, a part of his life, his death. He could feel it, wondered if it flashed hot in her as it heated his own blood, as it made the venom in his face, his shoulders burn-burn-burn with an ache that reached his bones.

And he would come, wherever she wandered. Long roads, yes, he knew of these things; he left often, spreading his death among the stars, cleansing those places that had grown too dark, had lost their balance. Long roads with great change, great dangers; some things had no eyes for his greatest strike, forced him to rely upon the skill of flesh. Powerful, Warrior though he was, still his bones broke. Long roads he knew. She could pull him to her, wherever the long paths took her.

If you need, he continued, and the dark air cracked, the ground sizzled, melted, burned, You may call. I will come with Death.

Again he showed her, summoned the venom that blackened her snake, watched the gift stir in a ripple of aggression as a single drop hung in its teeth, trailed back down its throat, called forth and reabsorbed.

Not your death, he told her again, although there was nothing tender to his voice, nothing soft within the words. It was not protection, but possession. Let her walk the long roads; he was not so needy, to wish her to shadow him. When she came again, if they crossed in their various paths even before then, he would find the release granted by her very nature; he needed no more than that, a chance to push and play and release the restraint that forced him to handle life for the delicate thing it was. But she would be his, even while gone; to bring her harm was to challenge him, just as blatant rampage through her garden would challenge her own possession of the place. It was hers; thus, he could not do whatever he wished. She was to be his.

To bring her harm would insult his keeping of her. It would not stand. Death would be painful, for those who thought to give such disrespect.

Your mark, your lock, I will hold until then, he finished, and let his gaze flicker again over the lines of her, considering, patient. The air stirred, a fresh breath breaking through the cloud brought forth by his vows - for vows they were, even if of death and destruction - though the ground bubbled, sizzled, died beneath him. What that mark is can only be your own choice. Be sure it is nothing easily broken.

Her shadow-blood, a piece of her life, a ghost of her death, locked to his face; in pieces, perhaps, as mud eventually dries and clings, but if locked whole it would break under his jaw - as it had done when he had nipped at her, effort though it had taken. Powerful skills of hers, to hold him even that much, although none had tried to hold his face before. He hadn't known if he had strength enough there, in his bite, to shatter such a hold. Can't know until it is tried.

Easily broken, it wouldn't last; the balance would be lost.

There would be something, though. Something she could hold, something to lock a part of him to herself. The bindings of a circle worked in equal parts. If he was to have her, to keep her in this deepest way, then she too would find him bound to her. He wasn't ashamed of such a thing; this garden, dark and twisted and strange, was her possession, something she owned with violence and claiming. He would own her in the same way. Let her lay the same claim on him as she held for this place, as he held over her, for to own something in such a way was to make it a thing of pride.

For this to be true, it had to be her decision, had to come from her, just as her manner of marking the stone was. She could have done anything she wanted, could have painted or tended or repaired; instead she chose to chip, to mark, to break. That is what made it hers, the very manner she chose to claim it.

Let it be the same with him. Let him be a thing of pride, bound to her as she would be to him.

His dark little dancer, so smart in her own broken way, so new and shapable in others. Not quite so easy to break, any more, knowledge in her body, darkness in her soul. Even were he to push the boundaries, to walk all over her limits, to steal her choices, she would not break and cower.

She seemed such a small thing, to be strong enough to stand for him, strong enough to lay claim on him. Unique. Desired.
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Elder
Elder

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Post Fri Apr 20, 2018 3:32 pm

Re: once more, with feeling

So, this the binding—this, when he say pull and in and up her spine a bathe of fire. Forge fire, soft fire—pain a purring instead of roar. This he could do.

You may call.

And she. Like snakedeath upon her, shimmer of scale and fang. His poison culled on tip—and she too, could call. This a weapon. Death in her mouth, in her will. Like once-upon-a-time the pit, once again
perfect. Missed it—she never lied, not even to herself. Missed it, so much made it garden and grave.

And now,
this. Him. In this, maybe, she knew wanting. Waited-wanted for this—for Death her power again, even if it be but shadow of what she had.

Panacea sang in her as he promised in air and earth all his doing—sang her lungs clean, sang her eyes clear, sang her skin shield. Without this, she’d crack-wither-burn, flesh from her bone—so be it. Said he,
Not your death. But such death he could do, and knowing now what was held in this strange wanting of her. Knowing such promise. Glad to know it, to let him be—to let him be, to remind her what she might do through him. Little breaking, in return—that fair enough.

Little Pandora, Brittle called her, and knew not how true he was.

Be sure it is nothing easily broken.

So, flesh then. Could not bite the stone, no, but her mark stayed. Mark for him, the same—but he was not stone. Then, knew what she could do.

Shadowblood in her mouth dry and gone now. Shadowblood in his gaze boiled black and knew not what it held. But other pools, other places—so much of her spilled. She moved to one, drank enough to darken. Not swallow—hold. On teeth, on tongue, hollow of the spell she’d cracked. Then, she moved to him.

Knew not, what it might do—her mean of marking. His distance careful-careful, his air blistered—what of his flesh, his blood? Steeped in poison, thick with death. Or simply as all others behind the dying in his wake. She would learn this, in what she meant.

In the pit, she used teeth. Not so sharp, not so fine, not like Id who claimed Leopard—but fine and sharp enough. Her jaw knew to break flesh, the flesh where he’d broken hers. Base of neck, blade of shoulder—not so deep, but deep enough to spill her blood there. With his. In his.

Naught but a moment.
Lock.

Drew wide again, called what was left to her mouth—lest some venom stay, lest some burning set. Mark of her teeth in a red-black circle, locked open.

He would hold that. Long enough for stain of her to set into scar, darker on darkness. Mattered not, then, if he held or not. Would not break, would not fade. If it did, she’d mark again. Deeper.

She’d not let this Death leave her again.
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