In the Wake of Vultures.

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Ànradh
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In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

So, this is likely to be patchwork and devoid of much necessary context, but herein shall be various scenes intended for my ever talked of but never evidenced book.
Frankly, I have no idea how I should format this, given I can't use indents, but we'll see how it goes.

The Forest.
Spoiler:
To be perfectly honest, I have only vague memories of how I got here... Oh, this won’t be some trite little plot device that drives a touching narrative of self discovery so beloved of certain amateur ‘word-smiths’ (no respected bard would ever retell such rot) but, suffice it to say, my recollection of the past few minutes is somewhat hazy. Had I been thinking clearly, I probably wouldn’t be here now, lungs wouldn’t now be aching as I pace, silently as I am able, through benighted woods, skirting oak and spruce as my breath mists irregularly in front of my face in the chill air... I dare not breathe normally, so concerned am I with making any sound. As it is, the fallen leaves and wet protestations of the peaty soil under foot are setting my teeth on edge with maddening frequency. I’m not the only fool stalking through the dense shadows either, but I no longer know where the others are... I find it hard to care, if I’m to continue being honest. I’ve already seen what appeared to be a dying ember dancing behind a distant hornbeam, an alluring flicker in the darkness that continually draws my eye like a line and hook whenever it appears, nearer each time it momentarily flits from view. One might be tempted to think it originates in the source of the great column of smoke at my back, the billowing mass that scars the sky through the gaps in the trees and fills the air with a dusty odour. I, however, pull my eyes from the darting flame and put my back to it, gripping the talisman swinging from a leather thong about my throat. Warm, beckoning fingers seem to reach through my hood to trace the nape of my neck, and I have to arrest the involuntary motion of my hand as it reaches up to quell my shiver. I similarly resist the temptation to turn, and steadfastly refuse to look over my shoulder at whatever might be producing the stealthy footfalls that pad towards me. I stand unmoving, eyes closed and head bowed as they stop behind me, leaving only the sound of the wind in the branches. I remain this way until the spectral hand leaves my skin and the shadows stop moving behind my closed lids... and for another long, paranoid minute after that. When I feel safe enough, I open my eyes and look up to read the stars. I turn West and continue for another half hour, periodically scrutinising the sky as I go, and I never let go of my pendant. Eventually, I arrive at an ancient, listing oak, partially uprooted at the foot of a steep embankment; tree and mound both are covered thickly with soft, green moss. By now, the moon has disappeared from sight overhead, and navigating in the resultant darkness has been difficult and slow. The chill has seeped through my clothing, and as birch trees became more frequent, I'd stepped in marshy ground (and one outright bog) more than once. I had been hoping that I’d be free of the woods before dawn. No such luck.
Bad Dreams.
Spoiler:
The bed I lie upon has a wooden frame supporting heaped dry grass, covered in several animal furs, from which I can smell fresh heather. The room is lit with a single tallow candle flickering smokily on a low table to my left. I hear her moving in the shadows beyond the edge of the candle’s reach, a rustle of fabric and a hollow clacking as she fusses with something. She emits a satisfied murmur, and I pull my eyes from the mesmerising flame, my evening stubble scratching across my chest as I look towards her. A moment later, she steps partially into the circle of light, the bare toes of her one visible foot sinking into more furs strewn over the dirt floor. Heavy, familiar tattooing covered its roof, and my eyes climb it up the olive skin of her leg to where it disappears under a long, wool-lined coat, hastily donned against the night’s chill. Still blinking through the candle’s dancing afterimage, the only other things I can really see are her hands, holding leather strings hung with wooden pendants, which I knew were all carved with her incomprehensible sigils. “Talismans.”

“Yes.” She runs a finger across them, making them click together like chimes. “Most people crave the protection, but you don’t seem to wear any.”

“Well, you know... if it dies, I can kill it.” I nod towards my unstrung bow, leaning against the wall next to a small stack of horn-headed arrows.

She laughs briefly, gently, and she steps forward, head bowed to place the charms over her neck, face hidden momentarily under long, black dreadlocks. “Ah, brash hunter, but what if it’s already dead?” She shrugs out of the coat and leans over the bed, and I find that I can’t move, though I desperately want to. There are tooth-lined openings in her flesh, drooling black oil from some baleful organ that must nestle foully within her ribs. It runs translucently down her body to merge with the sinuous lines of her familiar tattoos, and I feel her thighs smear it warmly across my torso as she straddles me. Her lips curve into smile, paradoxically enticing as she leans forward. The holes spasm open, like the mouths of so many leeches, to spill a soup of writhing, black-streaked maggots onto my chest. She places her kiss, as though unaware of my horror. I feel the nip of her teeth... and I jerk awake, grabbing at my ribs. There are no punctures in my flesh, no slick corruption leaking from my skin, no writhing sensation around my heart. My skin’s crawling like a motherfucker though.

I sit up, as far as I’m able. I had crawled under the roots of the oak, hiding from the sun in the canopy of soil and hanging moss, after scratching sigils into the dirt around it. I crawl towards the mouth of my ad hoc shelter to inspect the one placed there, but the ringing building at the edge of my hearing tells me what I’ll find. The mark is distorted, though intact, whatever it was that had tried to wipe it away rebuked. I consider fixing it, but even looking at it hurts my head. When the sun sets, I’m wearing my chimes and moving as fast as I’m able; I would rather risk attracting lynxes and wolves over remaining vulnerable to something that can warp wards. I move away from the damaged sigil... it’s starting to smell like fresh heather.
The Summoning.
Spoiler:
The ceremony takes place at night, which isn’t ideal, though the flickering illumination of the lanterns and bonfires probably afford it a mystique that might otherwise have been missing. A pair of apprentices begin by placing handprints of white clay over my face and lower back, then drawing sinuous lines from my hips to my ankles, broken into long rows of finger-printed dots on the inside of my legs. Two mirrored group of zigzags traced over my stomach end the process and I'm lead to an unfamiliar hypersigil. Before I step inside, another apprentice steps forward to wet my hair with seawater until it plasters itself thickly to my neck and back. I kneel in the circle, and strong hands take a firm grasp of my upper arms as I fold them across my chest in the manner instructed. The apprentice who had wet my hair moves behind me to gather it from my face, and the lead witch brings forth the brazier, clearly taking care not to inhale its fumes herself, though the slight clumsiness of her motions suggests she hasn’t been entirely successful in this. I lean into the stinging smoke, relying on the apprentices’ support for balance, and breath deep. The smoke bites, and a hazy insensation starts its nonchalant creep down my throat, trailing a cloud of spreading numbness that I feel first in my lips. The hands on my arms take more of my weight as the clouds close over my vision; a brief, indistinct flutter of panic as the last of the light dies... and then there’s nothing in my head that belongs to me anymore.
Looking Glass.
Spoiler:
Its hand seems to reach from the mirror and trace a slow, gentle claw across my chin; a numbing spasm pulls taught wires through my flesh and I’m eased backwards until my spine and my knees bend under the relentless force. It shoves the remnants of its face in my own and roars its fury on a spray of rotting mucus that drips slowly down behind the quivering glass.
“Because I will end you! There will be nothing left to mourn or bury; I will leave neither ash nor bone dust, nor scorch mark, cinder nor shadow! You won’t see me coming or going; you’ll simply cease, crossing without knowledge the hair’s width between your current state of existence and total inconsequentiality! Now, transgress me no further and do as I bade!” A dismissive gesture from behind the gilded pane and it casts me aside like an empty robe, the illusion of my weightlessness dispelling abruptly with my painful reintroduction to the earth. I spit copiously, wiping my face clear of its sputum, only half certain that I’m imagining its presence. Standing shakily, I pretend the nausea I feel is from the taste of its expectorate still cloying my throat, and stagger away to carry out my tasks.
Breakout.
Spoiler:
But those little marks on the floor might as well be the lines of iron chains and stone walls for all the motive freedom they allow me, but isn’t this how spirits of the Last House are supposed to feel when we bind them? Am I not such a broken creature now too?

Fuck that. If they want a demon, they'll get a demon.

Yet I grab at the sigils and find I can do nothing to them, smearing them does nothing, scratching my nails across them does nothing, and pushing past them sends nausea rolling through my guts, but to them, it does nothing. So, after a while, I give up, nursing the pain blooming in my head as I stare at the abused tips of my fingers. My eyes are beginning to tear, and something suspiciously like despair sends a questing tendril around my heart. A choked off sob, and I lash out at the unchanging symbols... I feel something catch.

I start into alertness. My hands are still in my lap, palms upward, fingers slightly curled such that I can see the ragged ends of my nails and the filth caked underneath, but I can feel the sigils in my grip; I’m holding them at some angle that hurts my head to look at directly, and I can already feel it slipping from my now conscious grasp. “No! No, n—” A slow breath through my nose. I summon that bleak rage again. I tear at them and they resist, sending that hot sickness lancing into my stomach. I hack out another sob that tails into a wet, strained gurgle, but it's no longer my voice, and it spirals up into something bestial that shivers through the air like a heat mirage; the force of it leaves black, luminous traceries at the edges of my vision and flecks of light dancing erratically between them.

The sigils are starting to give now. I see them inanimate and unchanged on the stone before me, but, even still, I feel them moving on their moorings like flesh torn by a violently pulled rope and poorly smeared back into bloody place. I’m sweating now, and my breath has locked in my throat.
With an almost petulant snap of release, it’s done, and my face sinks slowly to the stone, pressing my skull into the suddenly warped symbols—do I imagine the fading warmth?—breathing hard through the urge to vomit, and inhaling some acrid musk from somewhere as I do, which is really not helping my efforts.
I’m dimly aware of a rising panic in my head, the spasmodic flutter of trapped wings as my mind attempts to makes sense of what I just made it do.

Some demon, right? On your fucking feet, witch!

My head snaps up so I can glare at the door. I surge from the floor and all but fall forwards to slap my palm to the door’s lock; the impact stings, but it clicks open as though in fear, and the door flinches away from my touch. Part of my mind quails at this too, but I beat it into silence as I cross the threshold. I gather the agitated fronds of my will into a hard knot behind my ribs and turn down the hall, shoulders ratcheting back with each step as purpose re-enters my stride and my spine both.

The first guard I see hesitates for only a moment before he flees from me; I manage not to smile, and I don’t slow my pace.
An Audience 1.
"At least here we have the chance to gain something worth mourning! You would have us irredeemable, to drown in apathy as we kneel before your usurped throne!"
The edges of Sovereign's form seethe and boil at the periphery of my vision as It spits back in anger, like an arrogant teacher to a particularly slow pupil. "And what would you do instead? Kneel before a throne ever empty? To hope for the tender ministrations of an absentee mother, too disgusted by her own get to ever return to us? What is there to mourn about such loss?"
Blood begins to drip from my nose again, and I wipe at it distractedly as I open my mouth to reply, but then a thought draws me up short and I close it with an almost audible snap. "... Us?"
An Audience 2.
"Tell me, when did I become nothing more than a demon to your people?" It affects a hurt tone as it poses the question, and my instinctive sneer cracks the cruor painting my upper lip.
"Only you might answer that question. It might be more pertinent to ask us when we realised that's what you were."
A pregnant pause. "Your race calls mine demon, yet there are worse things at large in the universe, though, of course, you're unaware of them. Mortals mostly lack the wit to understand even my nature, but the beings of which I speak are beyond your erstwhile gods' collective capacity, so do not ask me how I know—for they never taught me their tongue, and I never learned it of my own volition, nor could I reproduce it even were I so inclined—but they have a... 'word' that they use for themselves. It means something like 'Never Born'. You may trust me on this if you trust me on nothing else: it is they who are the true demons if any can be called such; your mythologies are just tales, and these beings render them tame and puerile shadows, quaint pretensions from small minds to startle children and dullards."
Last edited by Ànradh on 18 Feb 2017 01:06, edited 12 times in total.
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by shimobaatar »

Ànradh wrote:So, this is likely to be patchwork and devoid of much necessary context, but herein shall be various scenes intended for my ever talked of but never evidenced book.
Frankly, I have no idea how I should format this, given I can't use indents, but we'll see how it goes.
Wow, very intriguing! I'm afraid I don't have any specific comments or questions at the moment, but I hope we get to read more of this in the future. [:)] Oh, and the formatting looks fine, in my opinion.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

I basically copied Micamo's formatting; given I'm already stealing her idea, I might as well go whole hog. :P

On reflection, I think I may have waxed a little purple in the prose... and all those typos. Oh my.
Well, it's still a new scene; much proof reading shall ensue.
Edit: There. I think that's better.
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

I think I'm going to keep adding the scenes to the first post in roughly chronological order, and I'll put the previously posted entries in spoiler tags to highlight which is the new one.
My prose is decidedly less poetic here. Good thing, or bad?
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by shimobaatar »

Ànradh wrote:I think I'm going to keep adding the scenes to the first post in roughly chronological order, and I'll put the previously posted entries in spoiler tags to highlight which is the new one.
Ah, thanks, that's helpful!
Ànradh wrote:My prose is decidedly less poetic here. Good thing, or bad?
I personally don't think it's either good or bad, really. The style of writing's different, certainly, but I enjoyed this second installment just as much as the first.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

shimobaatar wrote:I personally don't think it's either good or bad, really. The style of writing's different, certainly, but I enjoyed this second installment just as much as the first.
Maybe I'll alternate depending on the emotional state of the narrator.
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

Just a short one here. I actually have a few other scenes I'm trying to get fleshed out properly* but one or two should be ready within a week or so.

*From a lore perspective; my writing could clearly still use some work.
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by gestaltist »

I just read the first snippet, and I like it. Will come back later to read the rest.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

You'll have a new one when you return then!

This one seemed longer in physical form. Ah, well.
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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Ànradh
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Re: In the Wake of Vultures.

Post by Ànradh »

Update posted.
(I'm not as dead as I appear to be. Promise.)
Sin ar Pàrras agus nì sinne mar a thogras sinn. Choisinn sinn e agus ’s urrainn dhuinn ga loisgeadh.
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