the wolf's head jamboree —「barovian bitches, day 2.」
Oct 23, 2022 15:59:18 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 23, 2022 15:59:18 GMT -5
For such a large, hairy presence that he now had, Andal barely took up space in the campfire they made.
He was becoming something but he was also unbecoming.
There was an old warehouse he used to play in at the outskirts of town, lush with ivy and ragweed, and it was always warm from dawn till dusk. It smelt of rotten wood and sunlight, of homegrown things and homemade charm. And through word of mouth and little playground secrets, all the children in their district made it their secret little haven when they felt they needed a home, their own beacon of safety when they felt they needed a shelter. Laughter would be heard, parties would be held. He’d tinker there, too, make souvenirs for the other children.
Then, one day, they tore it all down. Board by rotten board, brick by warmer brick. A building one day, then rubble the next. Becoming something, then unbecoming.
In his nightmare, he was the house.
His veins were flowing with warm mortar, his skin layers of bricks, and every breath he took in a breath, every big window in the warehouse inhaled alongside him. The sunbeams felt good as they wrapped around him. The birds were good company in his eaves. He stood there on a hill and from day to night, he sheltered little things with little dreams, keeping the cruel world at bay for them—even if only for a moment.
They came one morning with their sledgehammers and their chainsaws. Steel dug into his bones. Stone pounded through his skin. They tore down his walls, ripped up his floorboards, and each minute of it was like being flayed alive. He was being flayed alive. Lungs were punctured, skin was cracked, all until every part of him laid in utter, gaping ruin.
This carried onto his waking self. His bones ached as he woke up, too big for their skin, and his gums bled when he ran a rough tongue over them this morning. The only decent thing so far? The weather. The mist lapping across the cold grass was softly reminiscent of crisp October mornings in Ten, their first telltale sign of winter. He also found his new growth spurt to be a good protector against the frosty chill.
They traveled south, with Jack’s new scent of smell compassing them through.
Every place had the same pallor of gloom as the last and after a while, it felt almost comforting to be walking through the quiet looming woods and open grey fields.
The terrain, however, took on new twists as they went. Grass became broken with stone, trees became gnarled tangles of branches, and the shadows became longer, stranger, casting dark shapes all around as they produced their lanterns to see through the encroaching dimness, even though it was still day. They stood at the mouth of a cave, the smell from it rank and … rotten. A part of Andal recoiled, another part almost growled. Easy, he told it. Whatever it heeded his word was another story.
“This is … not exactly the kennel I pictured,” he told Jack with a small chuckle, walking forward, lantern out. But his eyes pierced through the dark regardless of illumination, and he saw stone walls and rough terrain and piles of white, polished enough to glimmer as the firelight danced upon them. His heart sank as far it could.
His lips, however, licked themselves greedily.
“They are picked clean from the looks of it,” Andal observed. If he had to guess the age, this person had been dead long before the tributes were sent here. Did the Capitol use some sort of stage-craft to make these bones or were they, for authenticity’s sake, real? He shuddered as he pondered over the answer. Andal moved ahead. The light became a halo of yellow the further he went, deeper down this chasm, searching for godknowswhat. How long had it been here? How long had it taken for the Capitol to make it? The history of it had drawn him in, carrying him further like a fish on a worm bait. He hungered for this hidden knowledge as much as he hungered for other, warmer things.
A sound other than footsteps alerted him. He paused, held up his lantern out front and then a finger at his companions. A moment passed. Then the next. His eyes searched the dark for a place it originated from, and it stumbled upon—
“Oh, for the love of all things holy,” his priest’s chant was cut short by the first chittering creature to lash out at him. New senses took over; Andal evaded it with a sidestep. It clicked at him with what he presumed was a hungry fury, and he growled back in return.
“Swpidahsss,” Andal spoke around what was now a mouthful of sharp, hungering fangs.
He was becoming something but he was also unbecoming.
There was an old warehouse he used to play in at the outskirts of town, lush with ivy and ragweed, and it was always warm from dawn till dusk. It smelt of rotten wood and sunlight, of homegrown things and homemade charm. And through word of mouth and little playground secrets, all the children in their district made it their secret little haven when they felt they needed a home, their own beacon of safety when they felt they needed a shelter. Laughter would be heard, parties would be held. He’d tinker there, too, make souvenirs for the other children.
Then, one day, they tore it all down. Board by rotten board, brick by warmer brick. A building one day, then rubble the next. Becoming something, then unbecoming.
In his nightmare, he was the house.
His veins were flowing with warm mortar, his skin layers of bricks, and every breath he took in a breath, every big window in the warehouse inhaled alongside him. The sunbeams felt good as they wrapped around him. The birds were good company in his eaves. He stood there on a hill and from day to night, he sheltered little things with little dreams, keeping the cruel world at bay for them—even if only for a moment.
They came one morning with their sledgehammers and their chainsaws. Steel dug into his bones. Stone pounded through his skin. They tore down his walls, ripped up his floorboards, and each minute of it was like being flayed alive. He was being flayed alive. Lungs were punctured, skin was cracked, all until every part of him laid in utter, gaping ruin.
This carried onto his waking self. His bones ached as he woke up, too big for their skin, and his gums bled when he ran a rough tongue over them this morning. The only decent thing so far? The weather. The mist lapping across the cold grass was softly reminiscent of crisp October mornings in Ten, their first telltale sign of winter. He also found his new growth spurt to be a good protector against the frosty chill.
They traveled south, with Jack’s new scent of smell compassing them through.
Every place had the same pallor of gloom as the last and after a while, it felt almost comforting to be walking through the quiet looming woods and open grey fields.
The terrain, however, took on new twists as they went. Grass became broken with stone, trees became gnarled tangles of branches, and the shadows became longer, stranger, casting dark shapes all around as they produced their lanterns to see through the encroaching dimness, even though it was still day. They stood at the mouth of a cave, the smell from it rank and … rotten. A part of Andal recoiled, another part almost growled. Easy, he told it. Whatever it heeded his word was another story.
“This is … not exactly the kennel I pictured,” he told Jack with a small chuckle, walking forward, lantern out. But his eyes pierced through the dark regardless of illumination, and he saw stone walls and rough terrain and piles of white, polished enough to glimmer as the firelight danced upon them. His heart sank as far it could.
His lips, however, licked themselves greedily.
“They are picked clean from the looks of it,” Andal observed. If he had to guess the age, this person had been dead long before the tributes were sent here. Did the Capitol use some sort of stage-craft to make these bones or were they, for authenticity’s sake, real? He shuddered as he pondered over the answer. Andal moved ahead. The light became a halo of yellow the further he went, deeper down this chasm, searching for godknowswhat. How long had it been here? How long had it taken for the Capitol to make it? The history of it had drawn him in, carrying him further like a fish on a worm bait. He hungered for this hidden knowledge as much as he hungered for other, warmer things.
A sound other than footsteps alerted him. He paused, held up his lantern out front and then a finger at his companions. A moment passed. Then the next. His eyes searched the dark for a place it originated from, and it stumbled upon—
“Oh, for the love of all things holy,” his priest’s chant was cut short by the first chittering creature to lash out at him. New senses took over; Andal evaded it with a sidestep. It clicked at him with what he presumed was a hungry fury, and he growled back in return.
“Swpidahsss,” Andal spoke around what was now a mouthful of sharp, hungering fangs.
[ Andal attacks Cave Spider Pack | Glaive ]
2tk4_LINkQglaive
13063 -- Severed Right Leg at Hip -- 10 damage (Glaive) + 1.0 (Blades)
2tk4_LINkQglaive
13063 -- Severed Right Leg at Hip -- 10 damage (Glaive) + 1.0 (Blades)
