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Post by Weylon on Jan 16, 2010 21:15:45 GMT
..13th Day of Unumber..
..23rd Hour..
..Year of LVI..
..It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be..
The pallor of the winter moon matched his skin. He sat in the branches of a rowan tree, feet gripping the bark and chill blue eyes staring, seeing everything and nothing as he reached out with the coiling tendrils of his mind. It was a habit for him; something he often did since he discovered he was capable of it. He did not expect an answer: all the sad little minds in this valley were so closed. Not strong enough to weather connection, too closed to open a connection at all. There were two types of minds, in his estimation, that could do what his did. The first were the strong and open to the Other. His mind was one of those, he determined. The second sort of mind was the sort too feeble and innocent to put up a wall. True, the cats could send…but that was different. Their minds were flabby and unused to anything but speech. They did not use them for wandering and so were easy to sense. He could shy away from feline thought patterns with practiced ease. No point in even considering them at all. Curious, how minds could be so different. He had seen a brain before, a few, in actuality. He had studied them after extracting them and while there were, of course, some superficial differences in the things, they did not seem so painfully different. Yet in the way they worked, minds were infinitely varied. It was a fact that intrigued him. For years he had hoped he might encounter the second sort, the naïve mind, but now he had all but forgotten the possibility. Tonight was no different: silent and empty, devoid of anything but the dull suck and thump of hearts. Rabbit hearts, Gewin hearts, deer hearts, Guardian hearts. There was the smell of hunger and fear, sweat and pheromones, the smell of dirt and sky. Dull, earthly machines, they held little interest for him at present.
The young man lay down, his torso rippling with muscle and his skin jumping as it came in contact with the smooth, cold bark. His thick, muscular arms encircled the branch as best they could, eyes still gazing mindlessly into nothing. His fingernails, short from constant chipping and wearing, scraped the bark, digging in to the green wood as best they could: the hard bark resisted and one fingernail tore. There was no indication that he noticed it. The dark vines of his mind, the cool sinewy ropes reaching out to anything and everything, were too involving. They touched nothing of note: the monotone hum and bland muted tones of slumbering empty minds. The common. A few of the minds were more distinct than most, but not a one of them aware. There, by Hallow Hill, the blacksmith dreamed in warm dark tones of green eyes, his assistant in bolts of fleeting and vengeful amber-orange. The Doctor’s dreams were solid and uninteresting grayscale. He passed them all by without thought. Then there were the flickering minds of the Guardian cats, darting and intelligent things but still so consumed with themselves that they did not notice the presence of another. All familiar; the silence of the humans, the blindness of the cats, it was monotonous and he swung his thoughts over town in a fleeting arc. Then, in the muted and indistinct rustling that was the Bell household, he felt a change. A pale blue and sunlight sending like wisps of smoke: undoubtedly the mind of a girl. It fluttered here and there, like a wounded butterfly, shot through with black flecks of pain, searching and crying softly, softly muted tears of white. It was frail and it was helpless and needy…and it was aware.
Up in the rowan tree, the pale young man’s body shivered down its whole length, his back arching and pressing his stomach, his pelvis, his chest, his thighs, harshly against the tree. The turquoise eyes blinked and leaped violently into focus. His breaths deepened, coming in slow, shuddering gasps of quiet pleasure and triumph. At last, his long search had been rewarded. Presently, he quieted himself, his soulless eyes still flickering victory, the strong midnight blue tentacles of his thoughts reaching out to softly touch sad blue smoke of the young woman's sending.
..And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink..
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Post by Enya Ayre on Jan 23, 2010 19:25:28 GMT
OOC - Sorry for the delay, and the crappiness of the post x.x Yours was great, and the bits in italics at the beginning and end are just beautiful ^___^ It wasn’t in Enya’s nature to reveal her pain or troubles to anyone. Whether it was a petty problem back at home, or her current situation, if she could, she would mask any sign of vulnerability.
But as darkness fell, and the girl slept, this all changed. When she slept, her defences fell, and her mind was invaded by the most terrible dreams. It was common knowledge that she suffered nightmares – but perhaps the Bells had become used to her screaming in the night. Regardless of this, she was exposed when she was at her most vulnerable, and there was nothing she could do about it. Every night, without fail, her nightmares took one of two courses. One of them was an exact reply of the night in forest. And while predictable, it still terrified her, every time it played in her fevered mind, and brought back the pain which healed a little during the day whenever she managed to distract herself from the memories. The other nightmare was just as terrifying, and more varied…the girl would be running through the forest, panting and terrified, dark shapes hiding in the shadows, the sound of footfalls behind her. She never did find out who or what was pursuing her – she never saw anyone in these dreams. Just felt their presence, heard the sound of their feet on the forest floor, saw the shadows thrown by the silvery moon on the ground around her, the chase only broken when she could bear it no longer and awoke, screaming. And the girl honestly didn’t know which dream was more terrifying.
That night, it was the second dream. Or at least, that was how it had started out. She was running through the forest frantically, heart pounding, unable to stop looking over her shoulder for something that wasn’t there. She ran until she reached a clearing, and that was when she noticed something odd. There were no footfalls behind her. And yet…she wasn’t alone. She could feel the presence of another being…and yet as she looked around in a panic, she could see no one. In her dream she cried out…
‘Who are you…what are you doing…please don’t hurt me…’ she begged in her dream, any thoughts of hiding her vulnerability pushed out of her head by fear and dread.
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Post by Weylon on Jan 27, 2010 2:59:24 GMT
..I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself...
Tremulous and fearful, but so overwhelmingly and arrestingly simple. Sweet fragility. Naiveté. Its helplessness made his blood tingle in his veins with a delicious fire.
‘Who are you…what are you doing…please don’t hurt me…’
In the woods, he shuddered again, ecstatically and his taut stomach muscles rubbed against the smooth bark. His cold blue eyes rolled back beneath their lids, he gripped the rowan bough and sent back a weave of soft blue coils, dusted with moon-silver and interspersed with flecks like stars. It was a strong sending, but was carefully woven to imply gentility in every way. He knew he had to have her, whoever she was. The temptation of a mind aware was too great, he had waited too long and now would not sever the connection. She was his, she was his. His and only his. Dammit, she was his! He had waited and felt and waited and he deserved her. And now that she was his, he would not scare his pet away.
<Poor sweet, thanks the gods I have found you.>
He said, the sendings wrapping their coils softly but surely about her thought wisps.
<Do not cry, darling, for it breaks my heart when you cry. I have found you and now you are safe. Please...forgive me. I have taken so long to find you and you must have been so lonely without me, so afraid. Please, forgive me?>
His sendings mewled pleadingly through the Intangible, their sound as pitiable as heart wrenching as the whimper of a young pup and up in the tree, the marble skinned young man stretched an arm up along the tree, fingers clutching compulsively at the contours of the wood. He would get her trust, yes, this was what he would do and there was no better way to do so than by giving her what she wanted. You catch more flies with blood than vinegar, his father had told him once. ::or was it honey?::
<For I have come to you as soon as I was able and you were so hard to find. But I have you now and you have no need to cry.>
It didn't matter if everything he spoke was stainless truth or blackest lie, so long as she believed him. For if she believed him, she would veritably consign her soul to him: if he told her what she wanted, spoke the words she wanted to hear, she would be his. This was how the sentient mind worked, he knew it to be so. So he would reel her in, with silken lines and silver hooks.
..Oh, she is...out of it - completely. They - the women, I mean - are out of it - should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse..
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Post by Enya Ayre on Feb 25, 2010 16:56:22 GMT
Enya shivered as a voice floated through – soft and persuasive, it caressed her troubled mind, but she still couldn’t relax. Tossing and turning in her narrow bed, restless, in serious danger of following the source of the voice, she remained oblivious, focusing only on the strange, unfamiliar voice, which seemed to know her so well.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered in her dream. “Who are you?”
The frightened girl in her nightmare looked about, frightened, searching for the source of the voice. She couldn’t comprehend why this voice was trying to call out for her, trying to comfort her. But she didn’t trust it, not while she couldn’t see where it was coming from, not while she was still in the woods all alone, with no one to call to. Panic began to overtake her, her breathing became frantic and terrified, her body subconsciously twisting and turning to try and work out the source of the voice.
“Why can’t I see you? Who are you?” she whispered, her eyes wide and scared, unable to think rationally, unable to escape the presence all around her.
***
Unbeknown to Enya, while her mind was in the forest, her body was heading in the same direction. Wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, she had climbed out of her bed, down the stairs and out of the house, heading for the forest. It was not the first time she had walked in her sleep since arriving in the village, but she had never gotten far. But now, she walked, her skin like a pearl in the moonlight, heading, blissfully unaware, towards certain danger.
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Post by Weylon on Mar 7, 2010 21:05:51 GMT
..I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end...
Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is – that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose..
She was questioning him! The nerve, he thought to himself with a snarl, fingers flexing involuntarily against the bough that held him. Oh, that she would question him….and despite the hot pinprick of anger her feeble challenge inspired, he felt an undeniable surge of arousal blossom beneath it. It flooded his pores with a raw longing, as glittering and multi-faceted as insect eyes. Yes, he amended, heeding the crimson desire. Yes this would be much better. This display of fluttering spirit would be most pleasurable. For what fun is a toy if you purchase it already broken?
<Poor darling, forgive me, for I am a novice at this work.> The sendings swirled about her in apologetic blue waves of distress. <I have no earthly form unless I choose to take one. And I must never be seen by any eyes but yours.> then the sendings were interspersed with trails of cool shimmering silver, wrapping themselves about her and rioting off like a trail of starlight into the thick of the woods. They beckoned to her, their pull inexorable, hypnotic.
In the bare branches of the rowan tree, the young man’s breath came in long shuddering sighs as his mind weathered the overwhelming connection and strove to manipulate it. Fatigue mingled inexplicably and inextricably with heady satisfaction. While he was accustomed to sendings, he was unused to sustained contact and he had no doubt it would prove taxing on his tenacious mind. Her butterfly frail sendings were rife yet with apprehension, he noticed through the haze, but how to calm them? What to tell her to gain her trust? Then he struck upon an idea and the thought set his mind alight, for there was no way it could not work. Half in a stupor, he scented the air, his lupine senses slightly dulled by human anatomy but not so much as to deny him the scent, faint yet, but indubitably present, of a young woman.
<You have been through so much, dear pet; the gods have bestowed upon you a gift..> More flickers of starlight silver and the blue becomes an alluring forget-me-not and a sweet sky blue, to draw her ever nearer. <And though I am late in coming, I hope you will forgive….your Guardian Angel.>
..the forest, the creek the mud, the river – seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart..
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