There's a pond by a lake on an island far, far away, or so the rumors go. Folks whisper hushed tales of the strange metal cages submerged within, barely wide enough for a fully grown man to silently scream in through all hours of the day and night. Some are even more constricting due to the inevitabilities of mathematical error. But, maybe, mathematical error was convenient.
The final hours of the sun bronzed all that the gentle breeze swept against. Nothing dared make a sound save for the stray bleating of a goat far off but closer than it would seem.
Several bodies occupied the vicinity of the serene circle now, fresher than the decaying cages and chairs would imply. A boy in a baseball cap, about 6 feet tall and 120 lbs wide, sat slumped and barely upright in one of the seats facing the water. A bag sat on the ground right by its master, perhaps bursting at the seams with the spoils of war, perhaps not.
Maybe if you entered past the gate into the city of woes, you could find out yourself.
The Despair Code
Filmed live on location from the other side of the Acheron; day 10, private
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MethodicalSlacker
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It was getting hard to find a tree to sleep under that didn't already have a corpse propped up against its trunk.
The worst part is that they were starting to rot. Many of them had been rotting for a good while, actually. While she was looking for something in the forest to kill for lunch, she turned the corner and saw Lucas Brady's staring up at her. For a moment, she believed that he was alive. Just a fleeting moment. A few paces north, and she found a tree, dangling with shoes, surrounded by corpses. Everywhere she went, there were corpses. One day flowers would bloom from some of them. Violets, maybe. There were already another Violet in her class. Now, there was a chance that there'd be Violets in the lot of them.
She'd done a project on the flower for biology class, a few years ago. Like many things she did then, she thought it would be funny. Violet thought that doing a project about Violets would be funny. And, generally, it was. People liked the novelty of it. The teacher appreciated how well-researched it was. Violet had fun presenting it. Everything was fine. That semester was rough for her, when it came to Bio, except for that project. It was the only good memory from a regularly tedious class period. When she was bored or finished her work early, she'd open her phone under her desk and read about Violets. Technically, the flowers were called Violas, and they belonged to the family Violaceae, but Violet was the name she was used to. The bigger ones were called Pansies, sometimes, apparently.
Could Violets bloom here, actually? Violet was not sure. If the island was located in the Northern hemisphere, it was certainly possible. Given that it was summer in DC, and sticky-hot on the island, they were probably on the same half of the planet, laterally. The island wasn't mountainous enough if they were in a tropic, but if they weren't, then they could be around. She hadn't seen any, though. Not a single Violet since just after she woke up. They were elusive, it seemed.
On the edge of the Circle, she stopped mid footfall and peered over into the water.
There she is.
[Violet Schmidt continued from Land Locked Blues.]
This place, too, was plagued by corpses. Just one that she could see here, and plenty more by the lakeside. Another Lucas, as well. Abernathy. That made all three; she'd found the last one, Diaz, by the lake delta earlier in the morning. Violet did not know of any plants by the name of Lucas. Maybe there was a kind of invasive weed, or a vine, like kudzu, that filled the same role. Survival of the Fittest hadn't even managed to take out the entire cohort; there were still at least two that she remembered back home. Had she been on anything like good terms with Abernathy, she'd feel some guilt or sorrow at finding his corpse. In its place was a twang of pity, and nothing more.
Her eyes were drawn momentarily to her hands. They were a bit too gunky for her liking. If she was going to do what she'd done with each corpse she'd come across before she'd have to rinse her hands first. The waters of the Circle were not holy by any stretch of the imagination. Those were cages in the water. Violet had no illusions about what had happened here. But energy was energy. If that energy would accept her, then Violet would accept it. Bending down by the edge of the water, Violet lowered her hands to the surface of the water.
For just a moment she hesitated before she began slowly lowering them beneath.
The worst part is that they were starting to rot. Many of them had been rotting for a good while, actually. While she was looking for something in the forest to kill for lunch, she turned the corner and saw Lucas Brady's staring up at her. For a moment, she believed that he was alive. Just a fleeting moment. A few paces north, and she found a tree, dangling with shoes, surrounded by corpses. Everywhere she went, there were corpses. One day flowers would bloom from some of them. Violets, maybe. There were already another Violet in her class. Now, there was a chance that there'd be Violets in the lot of them.
She'd done a project on the flower for biology class, a few years ago. Like many things she did then, she thought it would be funny. Violet thought that doing a project about Violets would be funny. And, generally, it was. People liked the novelty of it. The teacher appreciated how well-researched it was. Violet had fun presenting it. Everything was fine. That semester was rough for her, when it came to Bio, except for that project. It was the only good memory from a regularly tedious class period. When she was bored or finished her work early, she'd open her phone under her desk and read about Violets. Technically, the flowers were called Violas, and they belonged to the family Violaceae, but Violet was the name she was used to. The bigger ones were called Pansies, sometimes, apparently.
Could Violets bloom here, actually? Violet was not sure. If the island was located in the Northern hemisphere, it was certainly possible. Given that it was summer in DC, and sticky-hot on the island, they were probably on the same half of the planet, laterally. The island wasn't mountainous enough if they were in a tropic, but if they weren't, then they could be around. She hadn't seen any, though. Not a single Violet since just after she woke up. They were elusive, it seemed.
On the edge of the Circle, she stopped mid footfall and peered over into the water.
There she is.
[Violet Schmidt continued from Land Locked Blues.]
This place, too, was plagued by corpses. Just one that she could see here, and plenty more by the lakeside. Another Lucas, as well. Abernathy. That made all three; she'd found the last one, Diaz, by the lake delta earlier in the morning. Violet did not know of any plants by the name of Lucas. Maybe there was a kind of invasive weed, or a vine, like kudzu, that filled the same role. Survival of the Fittest hadn't even managed to take out the entire cohort; there were still at least two that she remembered back home. Had she been on anything like good terms with Abernathy, she'd feel some guilt or sorrow at finding his corpse. In its place was a twang of pity, and nothing more.
Her eyes were drawn momentarily to her hands. They were a bit too gunky for her liking. If she was going to do what she'd done with each corpse she'd come across before she'd have to rinse her hands first. The waters of the Circle were not holy by any stretch of the imagination. Those were cages in the water. Violet had no illusions about what had happened here. But energy was energy. If that energy would accept her, then Violet would accept it. Bending down by the edge of the water, Violet lowered her hands to the surface of the water.
For just a moment she hesitated before she began slowly lowering them beneath.
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- A lone goat emerged from the trees a little ways up the side of the pond. It stopped in its tracks and stared at Violet before darting away whence it came, bleating and heralding of things to come.
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MethodicalSlacker
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In Violet's hands she could feel each and every spec of dirt and dust and bone in the waters of the Serenity Circle. She knew how unclean it was, ritually and physically, and knew that many arguments could be made for it being highly inappropriate to use such vile waters in any hand-washing, whether for health concerns or cleanly approaching a corpse. She knew also that she'd be the one making such arguments a majority of the time.
But the sun was setting, and Abernathy needed light to see the way home.
In the dwindling squash colored gloaming light, it was becoming harder to see her reflection in the waters. She felt corporeal enough. Perhaps slightly hungry. The taste of squirrel was growing familiar. Her hair clung to itself in thick, painful knots, slipping through and tangling in gnarls crusted with dried blood and dirt. Violet's eyes felt exposed down to the bone. A recent sweat-borne scourge of pimples stained her forehead. Sand caked her robe around her heels and, inexplicably, on her side. Her right ear twinged with the mucus green pain of infection, her skin slithered like Swiss cheese.
At seeing herself, Violet felt again the same pangs of pity from when she first laid eyes on Abernathy's corpse. It was the same she felt when she passed over the other two's bodies, and every body between then and Kyle. Recognition of an inevitability.
Except it wasn't inevitable. It couldn't be. She couldn't afford to lose hope now. Hell was at her heels. Slip here, and be swallowed beneath. Fall, and burn. This was but one of many stops in a life filled with years of pilgrimage—it had to be. If she failed, nothing she'd done was justified. All for naught, it'd be. The paradox of it all—if she survived, she'd have to live with the guilt of what she'd done, and the more startling fact of how little guilt there was. If she died, then it would be counted against her, as she had not proven that it was worth the sacrifice.
Or at least, that was the running assumption. Just as she'd assumed nobody could crave peace here anymore. Just as she'd understood that Michael was more likely to point his gun at her than to accept her presence on the beach. Just as she'd assumed, for the first few days, that it'd be impossible to feel any connected to the occult any longer. All of these beliefs, she'd held at some point. All of these beliefs had also been proven wrong.
Halfway to Abernathy's body, Violet stopped, raised her arm to her mouth, and sneezed.
But the sun was setting, and Abernathy needed light to see the way home.
In the dwindling squash colored gloaming light, it was becoming harder to see her reflection in the waters. She felt corporeal enough. Perhaps slightly hungry. The taste of squirrel was growing familiar. Her hair clung to itself in thick, painful knots, slipping through and tangling in gnarls crusted with dried blood and dirt. Violet's eyes felt exposed down to the bone. A recent sweat-borne scourge of pimples stained her forehead. Sand caked her robe around her heels and, inexplicably, on her side. Her right ear twinged with the mucus green pain of infection, her skin slithered like Swiss cheese.
At seeing herself, Violet felt again the same pangs of pity from when she first laid eyes on Abernathy's corpse. It was the same she felt when she passed over the other two's bodies, and every body between then and Kyle. Recognition of an inevitability.
Except it wasn't inevitable. It couldn't be. She couldn't afford to lose hope now. Hell was at her heels. Slip here, and be swallowed beneath. Fall, and burn. This was but one of many stops in a life filled with years of pilgrimage—it had to be. If she failed, nothing she'd done was justified. All for naught, it'd be. The paradox of it all—if she survived, she'd have to live with the guilt of what she'd done, and the more startling fact of how little guilt there was. If she died, then it would be counted against her, as she had not proven that it was worth the sacrifice.
Or at least, that was the running assumption. Just as she'd assumed nobody could crave peace here anymore. Just as she'd understood that Michael was more likely to point his gun at her than to accept her presence on the beach. Just as she'd assumed, for the first few days, that it'd be impossible to feel any connected to the occult any longer. All of these beliefs, she'd held at some point. All of these beliefs had also been proven wrong.
Halfway to Abernathy's body, Violet stopped, raised her arm to her mouth, and sneezed.
The breeze picked up. A branch snapped somewhere from the treeline. The bushes hungered.
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MethodicalSlacker
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The sleeve of her robe came back clean. Good. It was just pollen or the wind, then. An environmental allergy. Sickness on the island was likely all but untreatable even with the boons brought by the med-kit. Midway through her third squirrel earlier Violet imagined what would happen if she accidentally ate one that was diseased, in some way. Violet wasn't incredibly knowledgeable about nature, trivia about her namesake aside, so apart from an outward display of symptoms she didn't know enough to tell if her catch was clean or not. She did her best to clean it of anything, of course, skinning and cooking the animal, and she took great care not to eat anything remotely close to the animal's brain, but even then more could be done to ensure that she didn't eat anything diseased. More could be done that she wasn't doing.
Her stomach grumbled. Squirrels. Food. She was running low on supplies. It had been some time since Violet had taken a measured leap further down the spiral. She had to commend the terrorists on how they'd portioned out the food and water. It was just ample enough to make the foolish among them comfortable, and just scarce enough that those with a mind for survival would recognize the need to find more, and fast.
Below her, now, was Abernathy's body, riddled with holes. He looked like he'd been through a lot. One of the few to stand anywhere near her height, and one of the many not even fit to kiss the ground where she stood. There couldn't be any emotion for this one but pity in Violet's sunken eyes. The bodies that Violet touched usually did not earn comment, and this one was no different. In searching for a hypothetical phrase or word anodyne enough to sum up her feelings towards Abernathy's presence without disrespecting his departed soul, Violet found nothing. Words were not needed, anyhow.
Since Kyle's death, Violet had taken it upon herself to help the dead when she found them. She folded their hands across their chests, bringing them out of whatever sprawling agony they'd previously been left in. It was an attempt to bring their spirits some level of peace, to know that their body was, at the very least, watched over by one. If there was one positive thing Violet had done in order to offset her karmic debt, it was this. It was nowhere near enough. A single flower blooming in otherwise fallow, flat fields. It was a simple, ceremonial rite, with no magicks otherwise attached. She knew for a fact that the corpses would not go undisturbed from that point forward—she'd come across several previously sanctified bodies freshly disturbed by wildlife, in her circles towards where she was now. It did not matter. Violet was giving the spirits a sign that they could move on. What happened to their bodies after that point was not their concern, nor was it hers.
And so, across Lucas' body his cold, mangled hands went. She tucked the bony fingers of his left through the gaps in the knuckles of his right. Almost like tying a knot. The bodies of the dead didn't scare her the way that the bodies of the living did. She'd never get too close to one, of course. For every minute she'd spent thinking about squirrel disease, she'd spent a good five thinking about the corpses she'd touched. But touching their hands and fingers was probably fine, she reasoned. For a very brief period of time. With clean hands of her own. She didn't linger too long, anymore. There was little novelty in the bodily shapes of others anymore. In at least their lifeless forms, they'd become familiar. Her attitude towards corpses was growing almost as cold as they were.
Violet looked up briefly from Abernathy's body and scanned the area. Sometimes she worried about being caught in the middle of the rite again. After Layla, she considered the possibility of stopping. It left her vulnerable and open to attack. It didn't look good, neither on camera nor to anyone that might come across her. It was unclean, and it was actively putting her in harm's way. But it felt like the right thing to do, and no amount of reason or earthly logic could move the cosmic weight of that. To find something that truly brought her peace, something that felt like it lifted just a few parts of weight from her back, was nothing short of miraculous. She blew air from her nose. Nobody around that she could see.
Then she looked down again. There, right next to Abernathy's foot, was his bag, slightly open, looking somewhat full. It was hard to say whether or not Abernathy had killed. His name blended with the others that shared it in the daily announcements. She knew he had died recently, but details were scarce. There was a hole around his death where reality had been carved out. A bloodless hole, filled with maggots and other writhing things. It was strange that he had such a full bag at this point in time, but if he had drawn a good weapon at the start, he could have gone around robbing others as Layla had done, though with less lethal intent. If he had any travelling companions, they could have pooled resources in one bag. There were many justifications for the size of the day-pack. It warranted investigation, at least. Violet stooped down low and pulled the bag several inches away from Abernathy's body. In the orangered light of dusk, it looked slightly less plump. Again Violet blew air from her nose, this time in relief. Her shoulders drooped. She reached for the bag's zipper and pulled it the rest of the way open, peering inside.
On a bed of twigs and garbage, a severed hand greeted her.
Her stomach grumbled. Squirrels. Food. She was running low on supplies. It had been some time since Violet had taken a measured leap further down the spiral. She had to commend the terrorists on how they'd portioned out the food and water. It was just ample enough to make the foolish among them comfortable, and just scarce enough that those with a mind for survival would recognize the need to find more, and fast.
Below her, now, was Abernathy's body, riddled with holes. He looked like he'd been through a lot. One of the few to stand anywhere near her height, and one of the many not even fit to kiss the ground where she stood. There couldn't be any emotion for this one but pity in Violet's sunken eyes. The bodies that Violet touched usually did not earn comment, and this one was no different. In searching for a hypothetical phrase or word anodyne enough to sum up her feelings towards Abernathy's presence without disrespecting his departed soul, Violet found nothing. Words were not needed, anyhow.
Since Kyle's death, Violet had taken it upon herself to help the dead when she found them. She folded their hands across their chests, bringing them out of whatever sprawling agony they'd previously been left in. It was an attempt to bring their spirits some level of peace, to know that their body was, at the very least, watched over by one. If there was one positive thing Violet had done in order to offset her karmic debt, it was this. It was nowhere near enough. A single flower blooming in otherwise fallow, flat fields. It was a simple, ceremonial rite, with no magicks otherwise attached. She knew for a fact that the corpses would not go undisturbed from that point forward—she'd come across several previously sanctified bodies freshly disturbed by wildlife, in her circles towards where she was now. It did not matter. Violet was giving the spirits a sign that they could move on. What happened to their bodies after that point was not their concern, nor was it hers.
And so, across Lucas' body his cold, mangled hands went. She tucked the bony fingers of his left through the gaps in the knuckles of his right. Almost like tying a knot. The bodies of the dead didn't scare her the way that the bodies of the living did. She'd never get too close to one, of course. For every minute she'd spent thinking about squirrel disease, she'd spent a good five thinking about the corpses she'd touched. But touching their hands and fingers was probably fine, she reasoned. For a very brief period of time. With clean hands of her own. She didn't linger too long, anymore. There was little novelty in the bodily shapes of others anymore. In at least their lifeless forms, they'd become familiar. Her attitude towards corpses was growing almost as cold as they were.
Violet looked up briefly from Abernathy's body and scanned the area. Sometimes she worried about being caught in the middle of the rite again. After Layla, she considered the possibility of stopping. It left her vulnerable and open to attack. It didn't look good, neither on camera nor to anyone that might come across her. It was unclean, and it was actively putting her in harm's way. But it felt like the right thing to do, and no amount of reason or earthly logic could move the cosmic weight of that. To find something that truly brought her peace, something that felt like it lifted just a few parts of weight from her back, was nothing short of miraculous. She blew air from her nose. Nobody around that she could see.
Then she looked down again. There, right next to Abernathy's foot, was his bag, slightly open, looking somewhat full. It was hard to say whether or not Abernathy had killed. His name blended with the others that shared it in the daily announcements. She knew he had died recently, but details were scarce. There was a hole around his death where reality had been carved out. A bloodless hole, filled with maggots and other writhing things. It was strange that he had such a full bag at this point in time, but if he had drawn a good weapon at the start, he could have gone around robbing others as Layla had done, though with less lethal intent. If he had any travelling companions, they could have pooled resources in one bag. There were many justifications for the size of the day-pack. It warranted investigation, at least. Violet stooped down low and pulled the bag several inches away from Abernathy's body. In the orangered light of dusk, it looked slightly less plump. Again Violet blew air from her nose, this time in relief. Her shoulders drooped. She reached for the bag's zipper and pulled it the rest of the way open, peering inside.
On a bed of twigs and garbage, a severed hand greeted her.
...That was close. Nearly got caught when bitch got done with Lucas and took a look around. Barely made it behind the tree, but still made it, so... winning!
But, ya know, shit... this wasn't winning. Yuka was right, for once. Kinda. These robbing games were fun but now... dunno. Shit was getting stale. She wasn't smart enough to hack it on her own. Couldn't rely on Reuben or Yuka for shit, especially now. Jonathan was dead, too. Sakurako and Ace paired up before she could work on either of them. Michael was... wherever the fuck he went. She was getting bored. The audience was gonna get bored. All that sweet sweet clout she grinded for would slip through her fingers unless she stopped dicking around.
If she was gonna stick around any longer, that meant there was only one real path now. She smirked at the cameras in the trees that stared at the stage for this scene, clenched the brown-tipped knife harder in her hand, and made her move.
((G031 Teresa Rojas - Game Start))
But, ya know, shit... this wasn't winning. Yuka was right, for once. Kinda. These robbing games were fun but now... dunno. Shit was getting stale. She wasn't smart enough to hack it on her own. Couldn't rely on Reuben or Yuka for shit, especially now. Jonathan was dead, too. Sakurako and Ace paired up before she could work on either of them. Michael was... wherever the fuck he went. She was getting bored. The audience was gonna get bored. All that sweet sweet clout she grinded for would slip through her fingers unless she stopped dicking around.
If she was gonna stick around any longer, that meant there was only one real path now. She smirked at the cameras in the trees that stared at the stage for this scene, clenched the brown-tipped knife harder in her hand, and made her move.
((G031 Teresa Rojas - Game Start))
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MethodicalSlacker
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Violet stood up from the bag in shock, turning her head just in time to see a figure cloaked in white advancing on her, holding in her hand a blade, just a pace away. The fringes of her skin felt cold and pruned, like she'd just emerged from an ice bath. Her eyes, at first widening in shock, now were narrowed with determination. The sheathe of her knife was on her right hip; she drew with her corresponding right hand, and held out her left as if to block, or to fling forth a spell, the mere act of opening her palm outward suggestive of incomprehensibly large numbers of magicks and magick users before her that it was arguably a piece of ritual in itself.
Unsheathing her knife, Violet took a step backwards and waved it in front of her, taking a swipe at empty air to put space between herself and her assailant. She was unable to recognize them. Not somebody Violet had ever spent significant time talking to. Shorter than Violet, and weaker, likely. Likely also a girl, from the look of it. And close enough that aiming a crossbow would just open Violet up to attack—there was a lesson to be learned from Paloma, and that was that her two weapons had very specific uses. Just as she could not use her knife at range, it was similarly unwise to use her crossbow at melee distance.
After taking another swipe forward, this time accompanied by a step in the same direction, Violet grit and bared her teeth. Something about this seemed off. There was a strange aura surrounding her assailant. It was rare that Violet picked up on something so distinct, and so distinctly unfamiliar. Clad in white, descending from no discernible place, arriving upon the discovery of an occult symbol in flesh—if reality was not in accordance with the symbolism, that was its own fault.
The abstract meaning was plain, in Violet's eyes; if Paloma's encounter was influenced by forces from below, this skirmish was similarly sent from those above.
Unsheathing her knife, Violet took a step backwards and waved it in front of her, taking a swipe at empty air to put space between herself and her assailant. She was unable to recognize them. Not somebody Violet had ever spent significant time talking to. Shorter than Violet, and weaker, likely. Likely also a girl, from the look of it. And close enough that aiming a crossbow would just open Violet up to attack—there was a lesson to be learned from Paloma, and that was that her two weapons had very specific uses. Just as she could not use her knife at range, it was similarly unwise to use her crossbow at melee distance.
After taking another swipe forward, this time accompanied by a step in the same direction, Violet grit and bared her teeth. Something about this seemed off. There was a strange aura surrounding her assailant. It was rare that Violet picked up on something so distinct, and so distinctly unfamiliar. Clad in white, descending from no discernible place, arriving upon the discovery of an occult symbol in flesh—if reality was not in accordance with the symbolism, that was its own fault.
The abstract meaning was plain, in Violet's eyes; if Paloma's encounter was influenced by forces from below, this skirmish was similarly sent from those above.
Fuck. This bitch had a knife on her. Looked like she knew how to use it, too. Maybe it wasn't too late to just back out, run away like a little bitch, live to fight another day or whatever.
But no. Couldn't. The audience hated repeated material, it was already pushing it redoing the bag gimmick again. But it was okay. Teresa could recover. Simple. At least she was gonna be guaranteed a good edit.
Teresa stared straight at Violet, right in the taller girl's eyes. Heheh.... that face. Teresa's whole body was shaking; she could barely keep a grip on her knife. If she were some sort of mutt, she'd slober all over the place. But she was classy; she settled for just the bloodlust.
She feinted a few leaps at Violet, and then she just went for it, ramming right at the other robed girl with an ear shattering screech.
But no. Couldn't. The audience hated repeated material, it was already pushing it redoing the bag gimmick again. But it was okay. Teresa could recover. Simple. At least she was gonna be guaranteed a good edit.
Teresa stared straight at Violet, right in the taller girl's eyes. Heheh.... that face. Teresa's whole body was shaking; she could barely keep a grip on her knife. If she were some sort of mutt, she'd slober all over the place. But she was classy; she settled for just the bloodlust.
She feinted a few leaps at Violet, and then she just went for it, ramming right at the other robed girl with an ear shattering screech.
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MethodicalSlacker
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It seemed for a second like words would be exchanged. The white robed figure slunk back a bit once Violet drew her knife and waved it about. Knives were not altogether unfamiliar to Violet; even before she was damned, she had used them ceremonially in various occult rituals. She preferred blunt instruments, but sometimes using a knife instead of a wand or her hand was more symbolically appropriate for a given spell.
Appropriateness, again. Don't bring a crossbow to a knife fight. Don't bring a wand to a knife ritual. Internal logic feedback loops. Not the time to get stuck. Her assailant vibrated with eager energy; under the tangled mess of hood and hair, Violet imagined a large, toothy grin, from cheekbone to cheekbone.
A brief flash of white forward, and then back; a faked lunge. Violet held her knife low and with both hands, the point angled diagonally upwards towards the white robed figure's head. They moved again, and this time, Violet was ready to call their bluff—she took a step forwards and made a low swipe at their—
Another feint. Shit. Violet tried to take a step back, but the footfall came too quickly and she landed wrong. It was too short of a step—pain shot through Violet's ankle inside her boot, and she stumbled. Teresa was lunging again, and Violet didn't have the time or the mind to get out of the way. She'd taken a step too close. She'd fallen a little further down.
Violet had caught herself in Teresa's web.
She brought her arms in close and leaned her body to the side, her reflexes kicking in at the last moment to try and somehow turn a direct hit into a glancing blow. Teresa had more than enough time to react, took a side-step to put herself in position, and tumbled into Violet's guard head-on, breaking it open with her full body weight, sending Violet, shocked both by the pain of being slammed with Teresa's full body weight at high speed and the sensation of being violently shoved—touched, there could be no mistaking it, in a violently familiar way—backwards, putting her hands up to protect her face, forgetting she was holding a knife in her hand until the point was already tracing shallow new cuts over the scar tissue on her forehead.
One step further backwards sent a shot of pain up her leg. Violet took her hands away from her face and held her knife out and away, waving it less to preempt a strike and more to provide a reason not to be collided with again. She was still standing, but her left foot felt like it was going to give.
Attempting to distract the angel with her knife, Violet's hand slowly crept towards her crossbow, sheathed in tape on her belt.
Appropriateness, again. Don't bring a crossbow to a knife fight. Don't bring a wand to a knife ritual. Internal logic feedback loops. Not the time to get stuck. Her assailant vibrated with eager energy; under the tangled mess of hood and hair, Violet imagined a large, toothy grin, from cheekbone to cheekbone.
A brief flash of white forward, and then back; a faked lunge. Violet held her knife low and with both hands, the point angled diagonally upwards towards the white robed figure's head. They moved again, and this time, Violet was ready to call their bluff—she took a step forwards and made a low swipe at their—
Another feint. Shit. Violet tried to take a step back, but the footfall came too quickly and she landed wrong. It was too short of a step—pain shot through Violet's ankle inside her boot, and she stumbled. Teresa was lunging again, and Violet didn't have the time or the mind to get out of the way. She'd taken a step too close. She'd fallen a little further down.
Violet had caught herself in Teresa's web.
She brought her arms in close and leaned her body to the side, her reflexes kicking in at the last moment to try and somehow turn a direct hit into a glancing blow. Teresa had more than enough time to react, took a side-step to put herself in position, and tumbled into Violet's guard head-on, breaking it open with her full body weight, sending Violet, shocked both by the pain of being slammed with Teresa's full body weight at high speed and the sensation of being violently shoved—touched, there could be no mistaking it, in a violently familiar way—backwards, putting her hands up to protect her face, forgetting she was holding a knife in her hand until the point was already tracing shallow new cuts over the scar tissue on her forehead.
One step further backwards sent a shot of pain up her leg. Violet took her hands away from her face and held her knife out and away, waving it less to preempt a strike and more to provide a reason not to be collided with again. She was still standing, but her left foot felt like it was going to give.
Attempting to distract the angel with her knife, Violet's hand slowly crept towards her crossbow, sheathed in tape on her belt.
Fuck, that wasn't enough.
Teresa breathed erratically as she watched Violet, watched her knife hand waver in some sorta game of chicken.
And the other hand went for the bow thing.
Fuck.
...Fuck. It was now or never. Fuck it if she got swiped or whatever.
Teresa propelled forward with everything she had and rammed into Violet, sending both girls crashing down into the slopping wet shores of the eerily tranquil pond.
Teresa breathed erratically as she watched Violet, watched her knife hand waver in some sorta game of chicken.
And the other hand went for the bow thing.
Fuck.
...Fuck. It was now or never. Fuck it if she got swiped or whatever.
Teresa propelled forward with everything she had and rammed into Violet, sending both girls crashing down into the slopping wet shores of the eerily tranquil pond.
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MethodicalSlacker
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The crossbow fell from Violet's hand before she could fire a shot, loosened when Violet was hit. Ejected, forcefully, from her person. Before she could even load one. It hit the ground before Teresa toppled over her, too. The bolts spilled out of the top, both mid-fall and after it landed on the ground. It wasn't particularly far away until an errant kicking foot brushed it to the side, disturbing the dirt over which it rested. Some of the bolts fell point-first, impaling themselves in the dirt, while others rolled uselessly on their side.
She dropped her knife as well, on impact, though she was barely holding on to begin with. Taken by gravity. Pushed away by the widening of Violet's eyes. The orange gloaming light glinted dimly off its edge. The tip pointed towards the waters of the pond and was close to the edge of those same waters, almost pendant over its undisturbed surface.
The angel was not heavy. She hit Violet with all her strength, with the force of her entire body, but that body was feeble. Violet's impact with the ground hurt more, knocking the wind from Violet's lungs. Her head slammed against the dirt, bouncing once before not bouncing anymore.
Violet's body was still under the angel's weight.
She dropped her knife as well, on impact, though she was barely holding on to begin with. Taken by gravity. Pushed away by the widening of Violet's eyes. The orange gloaming light glinted dimly off its edge. The tip pointed towards the waters of the pond and was close to the edge of those same waters, almost pendant over its undisturbed surface.
The angel was not heavy. She hit Violet with all her strength, with the force of her entire body, but that body was feeble. Violet's impact with the ground hurt more, knocking the wind from Violet's lungs. Her head slammed against the dirt, bouncing once before not bouncing anymore.
Violet's body was still under the angel's weight.
Violet looked so precious from this angle. Small, wide eyed and gently quivering like a fawn that got separated from her mama and wandered right into the hunter's den.
Poor little Bambi. You'd look great as a mantelpiece.
Mouth foaming with ecstasy, Teresa drove the knife down with both hands.
Poor little Bambi. You'd look great as a mantelpiece.
Mouth foaming with ecstasy, Teresa drove the knife down with both hands.
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MethodicalSlacker
- Posts: 1231
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Violet felt
like somebody had switched the blood in her veins out for anesthetic
like the melted smudge of a wax candle on ceramic after its flame had burned down
like her head was caught in a car door and the car was slowly rolling forward
like her chest was made of paper sagging under a soft dribble of water
like she'd been here before
like her skin was turning purpleblue with frostbite
like a pair of scissors was stuck in her stomach point up
like a mumble, a whisper on the wind, too quiet to be heard
"Get off of me."
like she was stuck in a cage at the bottom of a pond
like how boiling vinegar smelled
like she couldn't move
like she'd been here before
like she was shrinking
like a tapioca pearl stuck halfway up a straw
like she needed to move
"Get off me."
like an open glass window in a storm
like she'd been here before even recently feeling the skin on her forehead sealed under a patch of cloth and the needlepoint press of fingers on her forehead or before that marooned under dim highway light in the early morning fog leaning against the side of her sister's car for support or before that the campfire burn of her fingers on the planchette or tripping on the way to school and someone reaching down to pick her off the ground without knowing or having the chance to know or the first time the very first time the very very first time she felt this way was when she was
she was a child
smaller than she was now
weaker than she was now
younger than she was now
she was tall now
she was strong now
she was older now
and she wasn't going to let the same thing happen to her twice.
Violet felt the angel's weight for what it was and started moving underneath. She pulled her arm back and sent it nails-first into the angel's face, raking sharp red lines down her cheek. Violet started thrashing her legs, kicking the air, grabbing at the knife with the weight, the inhuman mass on her chest, pushing and scratching and shouting—
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"
—finally batting away the knife, reaching for her own where it lay on the ground just to the side of her head, shining with sunlight, with purpose, the weight startled, the angel caught off guard, Violet brought her knife to the angel's face and started flailing, pounding its chest with her feeble shaking fist, peeling it back like dead skin until she kicked right and flailed right and thrashed right and she was out from underneath, out scrambling as the angel fell back in the dirt, and Violet tripping over herself cut through the cobwebs and took three staggering, limping steps from dry land into the waters of the pond.
It went up to her knees. Violet walked backwards through the water, not wanting to turn her back on the angel in case it got back up. If she could just get a cage between herself and it, just a cage, then maybe she could get away.
She wasn't moving very quick. Her foot felt like it was barely attached to her body.
like somebody had switched the blood in her veins out for anesthetic
like the melted smudge of a wax candle on ceramic after its flame had burned down
like her head was caught in a car door and the car was slowly rolling forward
like her chest was made of paper sagging under a soft dribble of water
like she'd been here before
like her skin was turning purpleblue with frostbite
like a pair of scissors was stuck in her stomach point up
like a mumble, a whisper on the wind, too quiet to be heard
"Get off of me."
like she was stuck in a cage at the bottom of a pond
like how boiling vinegar smelled
like she couldn't move
like she'd been here before
like she was shrinking
like a tapioca pearl stuck halfway up a straw
like she needed to move
"Get off me."
like an open glass window in a storm
like she'd been here before even recently feeling the skin on her forehead sealed under a patch of cloth and the needlepoint press of fingers on her forehead or before that marooned under dim highway light in the early morning fog leaning against the side of her sister's car for support or before that the campfire burn of her fingers on the planchette or tripping on the way to school and someone reaching down to pick her off the ground without knowing or having the chance to know or the first time the very first time the very very first time she felt this way was when she was
she was a child
smaller than she was now
weaker than she was now
younger than she was now
she was tall now
she was strong now
she was older now
and she wasn't going to let the same thing happen to her twice.
Violet felt the angel's weight for what it was and started moving underneath. She pulled her arm back and sent it nails-first into the angel's face, raking sharp red lines down her cheek. Violet started thrashing her legs, kicking the air, grabbing at the knife with the weight, the inhuman mass on her chest, pushing and scratching and shouting—
"GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"
—finally batting away the knife, reaching for her own where it lay on the ground just to the side of her head, shining with sunlight, with purpose, the weight startled, the angel caught off guard, Violet brought her knife to the angel's face and started flailing, pounding its chest with her feeble shaking fist, peeling it back like dead skin until she kicked right and flailed right and thrashed right and she was out from underneath, out scrambling as the angel fell back in the dirt, and Violet tripping over herself cut through the cobwebs and took three staggering, limping steps from dry land into the waters of the pond.
It went up to her knees. Violet walked backwards through the water, not wanting to turn her back on the angel in case it got back up. If she could just get a cage between herself and it, just a cage, then maybe she could get away.
She wasn't moving very quick. Her foot felt like it was barely attached to her body.
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
Teresa's face burned as every lash of the blade dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. Her own knife plopped down as she recoiled and took stock of the damage with her own hands.
The blood smeared and mixed with the dirt, and the giddiness slowly boiled over into rage.
Teresa followed Violet into the pond at a steady pace, each footstep shredding apart the glassy waters.
Teresa's face burned as every lash of the blade dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. Her own knife plopped down as she recoiled and took stock of the damage with her own hands.
The blood smeared and mixed with the dirt, and the giddiness slowly boiled over into rage.
Teresa followed Violet into the pond at a steady pace, each footstep shredding apart the glassy waters.