Fenix Writes Things!

A blog for all of my random writing, stories, response posts to other writing blog prompts, etc.

[fenixwrites]

Not Prey (NSFW, 18+)

 “What was what like?” Janika didn’t look up from the dancing flames, only reached out with a stick to stir the coals and rearrange the logs that kept their modest campfire burning. She took Farkas along with her for many reasons, the better part of it being that he wasn’t a complicated companion. When they did talk, it never really went too deep, and she didn’t have to force herself to remember what had happened at Helgen. The second being that he was as strong as an ox, and more than willing to run into battle with her without so much as a second thought. Except when spiders were involved. She smiled a little at that, but wiped it off of her face quickly; she didn’t need him finding out she was grinning at his expense.

 “When you absorbed the dragon soul.” He was blunt about things, that’s for sure. He saw her bristle a little, and he wasn’t going to press the matter, but she seemed as though she was willing to talk about it at least. She shifted a little, crossing her legs the opposite way before settling once more.

 “Unnatural is one way to put it.” She began. Her green eyes reflected the flames so beautifully, the light gold flecks brought out by the fire’s bright light. She always seemed to be fighting a battle inside of her, and it got more aggressive when she’d returned with Aela bearing news of what had happened to Skjor. Her stomach seemed to churn. “It’s invasive. All of my senses are heightened to their extremes. It feels like I’m going deaf and blind all at once, and I’m overwhelmed by everything else. Sometimes it’s not as bad as others, but I suppose that depends on the dragon, how old it is and the like. It’s basically fighting its last battle as I absorb its soul, and it’s revolting against me, and I have to struggle to force it down.” She poked at the fire again, bringing in another stick so she could reposition some of the logs without having to reach in with her hand.

 He was watching her as she spoke and poked at the fire, she could feel his intense gaze on her. More than that, she could smell him. He smelled like dirt and sweat, and kind of like a wet dog. But he smelled like a man, strong and dominant, fierce. Despite how capable Janika was, how easily she could hold her own in a fight, she still longed for that safeness she’d feel with a man, and there were no men more capable than the Nord. They lived for that kind of thing. You’d never see a small wiry Nord, not even in his old age.

 “Sounds rough.” A simple answer, and she didn’t expect much else from him. She knew he was trying to be sympathetic, though. Her ears twitched at the sound of scraping armour; he was removing his breastplate, and it was only confirmed when it hit the ground with a loud clank. She could smell his musk clear as day now, definitely stronger than any of the other scents that had been assaulting her senses ever since she’d taken the blood.

 Inside, the beast stirred. She was picky when it came to who she kept for company to begin with, especially the men. Even by Nord standards, she was hard to please. But when she’d taken the blood and ran with Aela and Skjor for the first time, everyone seemed to smell weak. Seemed to smell like prey.

 “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” She shrugged, pulling her sticks out and setting them next to her, allowing her eyes to look over to her companion. Built like an ox could be considered an understatement. He was huge, bigger than his twin brother, Vilkas, and had longer hair that fell just past his shoulders. He was covered in sweat and dirt and dried blood, with the carcass of a deer lying next to him in a heap. His chest rose and fell, the light of the fire dancing off his pectorals where a light dusting of hair grew. He had hair, but it wasn’t as absurd as some of the other men. It didn’t detract from his manliness, though. And despite his strength and size, Farkas had a gentle side to him.

 He put a hand on top of Janika’s knee, giving a light squeeze. “Hey, hang in there. You’ve got a family in Jorrvaskr, now. We’ll follow you to Oblivion if we have to.” He was that much closer, his scent that much stronger, and the touch of his hand sent sparks flying through her body, all the way to her extremities as she sniffed the air lightly.

 Not prey.

 The beast inside her clawed at her, fought desperately to be released, and she took a steadying breath to assert her wavering dominance over it, offering Farkas a smile in return. “I know.” She replied, giving his hand a squeeze in turn, feeling that electricity between them. Not prey. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else following me into hell.”

  Wolves howled in the distance, and Janika wondered how Farkas seemed to hold his beast back with such little effort, until she felt his hand squeeze at her knee with a little more force behind it. She looked down at his hand, and back up to his face, but he was looking away, off in the distance and sniffing at the air. The howling was cut short, and the hairs on the back of Janika’s neck rose.

  “What is it, Farkas?” She asked him, sniffing at the air herself, trying to pick up whatever it was he was smelling, but failing. There were too many scents and she hadn’t yet learned how to separate them all, apart from his own scent assaulting her nostrils.

  “Bandits.” He said, and he was up on his feet again, his broadsword in hand. “No, not bandits.”

  “Silver Hand.” She could smell them, too. She would never forget what they smelled like, not after what she’d seen them do to the other lycans, not after what they did to Skjor. Her blood boiled, the beast within her raged, and her knuckles were turning white from clenching them so tightly. A fiery glow surrounded her left hand as her right drew her longsword, her eyes flickering between gold and green. She couldn’t tell if it was the dragon souls within her or the werewolf struggling to take over, but she was having a hard time finding reasons not to let either of them do so.

  A howl to her left, and the sudden sounds of armour dropping diverted her attention long enough to see that Farkas himself had let the beast come out and take control of his body. Good enough for me, she thought, watching him bound off in all of his furry, wolf-like glory.

  As the first sounds of battle echoed through the valley, Janika’s body had begun its gruesome transformation; bones cracked and reformed larger and much stronger, her posture shifted as she tossed away her armour, fur replacing the leather she wore, her emerald eyes changing into a beautiful, bright gold colour.

  Just as the rest of the Silver Hand had crested the hill and happened upon her, the moon had come out from behind the clouds. It wasn’t full, but it was still there, and Janika howled, calling out to Hircine, her own kind of prayer. The silver blades glinted in the pale moonlight, and for a moment, Janika felt fear. But only for a moment. They cried out in response, though whether it was a battle cry or out of fear and impending doom, Janika didn’t care.

  A sword came down and she swatted it away with ease, sniffing at the air and growling. She could smell fear on the man before her, smell the sweat running down the back of his neck, and sense the hesitance in his swings. He would die last. He would watch her tear apart his comrades and be assured that he had made a mistake, would beg for mercy, and then he would die. And when he did, it was glorious; gruesome, but glorious.

  First, she bit his sword arm off at the elbow, then plucked a leg off at the hip before grabbing his remaining extremities, raising him above her head, and with a long, lusting howl, gave a heavy pull and ripped him in two. Blood showered her as she heard Farkas joining in on her song not far down the hill, and then came running back into the camp.

  The two stopped just at the campfire, panting heavily, gold eyes gazing into one another’s, sniffing at each other, circling around and around. She could smell him, covered in blood and sweat, dirt and gore.

  Not prey.

  Her heart raced, and she could tell his was too; she could hear the blood rushing through her veins, her heart pounding against her chest, and as he stepped closer, she could hear his, too, beating at the same rate as hers. He lifted his muzzle to the skies and called out to Hircine once more, and then he was on her, tackling her to the ground and falling into a rolling ball of fur and dirt and blood. By the time they’d stopped their roll, the bloodlust had withdrawn and their bodies reverted back to their human forms. He was on top of her, strong legs straddling her hips, hands pinning her shoulders to the ground, his face inches from hers, growling.

  Her eyes met his after taking their time exploring the rest of him, or what she could see, and her heart seemed to stop for a moment. They were both breathing heavily, slowly, trying to control their breathing and slow down their heart rate, and yet still they raced inside their chests. They were quiet for a short moment, but to Janika, it seemed like forever, just watching each other, staring into each other’s eyes. She leaned up slightly, sniffing at him lightly, her breathing becoming slightly ragged, their faces mere inches apart. She could feel his hot breath on her face, could see the sweat rolling down the side of his face.

  And then his lips were on hers, forcing her down and once more pinning her to the ground. His kiss was hungry, fierce, and dominant; a side of him she thought never existed considering his gentle personality. He pressed his body against hers, shifting to get himself into a better position between her legs, wanting their bodies to touch in every place possible. If their hearts weren’t racing before, they were probably traveling at the speed of sound, now, and they beat in unison, threatening to burst out of their chests.

  Janika wrapped her arms around his torso, her legs around his waist, and for a brief moment, as he wrapped one arm under her lower back and rested his other hand on her thigh, she felt gentleness from him again, and perhaps even admiration for the shape of her body and the way it fit against him. It was a short-lived gentleness, for he gripped her tightly and pushed himself inside of her with one long, hard thrust, having enough sense in him to give her a moment to adjust to him. She broke the kiss, arching her back and pushing her body against his as a moan escaped her lips, a heavy breath coming from his. He took that as a sign that she was ready, and even if she wasn’t, he’d still have her. He needed her.

  His thrusts were hard and possessive, sacrificing speed for power; he was in no rush to get things over with, wanting to assert his dominance over her and make sure that she knew who was in charge, who the alpha was. Her nails clawed at his shoulders and his back, leaving bright red marks along his skin, threatening to draw blood, even doing so at times. She writhed beneath him, her body moving with his in perfect harmony and complete submission, and the moment he felt it, the moment he realised it, she felt his arm come out from under her, and found her hands suddenly pinned above her head under his strong grip. He grabbed her thigh and forced it up farther, angling her hips so he could plunge deeper inside of her.

  “You’re mine.” He growled in her ear, squeezing her tightly as he lost himself in her, her moans and cries music to his ears, urging him on in their wild lovemaking.

  She could feel his every muscle working as he pressed himself against her again, could feel the power behind his legs and his hips; it was glorious. Her cries became louder, more frequent with every thrust, more desperate. She was nearing orgasm, and though she wanted release, she didn’t want to leave him unsatisfied. But by the time that train of thought had ended, she had already reached her climax, crying out his name in pure ecstasy and arching her back out against him, pushing her chest into his.

  Farkas hadn’t expected such intensity from her orgasm, and he was pushed over the edge as he felt her muscles clamp down around him tighter than any vice Eorlund could ever make and tighten at the Skyforge. He released inside of her, wave after wave of sensation assaulting his senses until he was all but spent. He let go of her wrists and her thigh, now probably bruised from his strong grip, and hovered above her, making sure not to crush her with his weight as they both gasped for air and struggled to control their breathing.

  The air was chilly, and he felt the gooseflesh rise up on Janika’s skin beneath the layer of sweat, and so he rolled off of her, only to pull her into his arms to share his body heat with her. As her breathing became more normal, she drifted off into sleep, a lot quicker than he’d expected her to. Making sure not to rouse her, he let go of her, getting up and taking her into his arms, carrying her off to their bedrolls, pulling them both together and tucking her in. She stirred, mumbling something about dragons and High Hrothgar, rolling onto her side and grabbing onto him. He smiled, cuddling up behind her and wrapping his arms around her protectively before settling into a comfortable sleep.

  Morning came far sooner than Janika had wanted it to, and it came colder than she remembered. She stirred, rolling onto her back and pushing herself up into a sitting position as soon as she realised she was in her bedroll. She had no recollection of falling asleep in it. Come to think of it, she didn’t know where Farkas was, either.

  As if on cue, he came walking back up the small hill and into their camp, dressed only in the leather britches he wore beneath his plate armour, carrying a bundle of sticks that he promptly fed to the fire. Above the campfire, a pot hung with what smelled like venison stew. Janika’s stomach growled fiercely at her, drawing Farkas’ gaze to her. Suddenly, she realised she was naked.

  She’d been naked around him before, so why was it that she suddenly pulled the blanket up over herself and blushed a deep red, looking away shyly. Upon realization, she got up, wrapping the blanket around her in a makeshift dress and walked over to him, stopping just in front of him. “Good morning.” She greeted softly, looking up at him.

  “Morning, how’d you sleep?” He asked her, feeling just a little awkward.

  “As well as the beast blood would allow me.” She replied. She could see the muscles in his arms twitching, see it in his eyes that he wanted to embrace her, but didn’t know if he should. She smiled a little at that, stepping in and wrapping herself around him, easing into his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief and embraced her in his strong arms. She whimpered a little, curling up and tightening her muscles, and a look of worry crossed his face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wasn’t myself last night, it was the beast-“ He began, but stopped himself when he saw the look on her face, feeling so dejected, so hurt. “No, Janika, that’s not what I meant.” He pulled her tight against him, afraid that if he gave her the chance, she’d slip away and run off. “I’ve wanted this, wanted you, for a while now. Ever since I first met you and took you to see Kodlak. And last night, the beast kind of took over and acted on it. I didn’t intend on being so rough, so...”

  “Dominant?” She said, reaching up with one hand to brush some of his hair out of his face. He seemed to nuzzle into her hand as she brought it down to stroke his cheek and the fuzz that was growing.

  “With other women, I could be like that. With you, I wanted it to be special and not hurt you.” He was interrupted by Janika’s lips, catching his in a gentle kiss, holding it for a moment before breaking it, but not moving far from his face as she looked up at him.

  “Next time.” She assured him, smiling that sweet little smile of hers. He couldn’t help but smile back, kissing her forehead and holding her tight to his chest for a while.

  “Come on, we should get dressed and pack up before eating. They’re waiting for us at Jorrvaskr, no doubt.” He told her, letting go of her reluctantly to let her go about her business. He’d have time to hold her later on, when they were back in Whiterun.

[fenixwrites]

500 Word Challenge - Break Up (Fantasy!)

“Ich...Ich glaub' das zu träumen..die mauer...Im Rücken war kalt...”

She was sitting beneath the docks, her back against one of the pillars. Golden eyes watched the sun set, dipping beneath the water and painting the sky a bright purple before it faded to blackness, revealing the star-dappled blanket that was the night sky. The brightness reflecting off the water burned her eyes, and yet she didn't look away. Her gaze seemed distant, lost in another world.

“Die Schüsse reissen die Luft.. Doch wir küssen, als ob nichts geschieht...”

The city's inhabitants were already retiring for the night, and so the footfalls that the bard heard above her, and the creaking of the wood, were a little unexpected. Still, she kept singing; for all she knew, it could have been one lover awaiting the other, and her song could have set the mood for them.

“Und die Scham fiel auf ihre Seite... Oh, wir können sie schlagen, für alle Zeiten...”

Whoever it was stopped above her, and cast a large shadow, elongated further by the fading sunlight. From what the bard saw, they seemed very imposing, armoured much like the Paladin Justicar of the various city's temples. It was a male, she figured, for no woman had shoulders that broad, or a chest that wide. Her eyes tore from the setting sun to look up through the cracks between wooden planks, seeing the all too familiar colours of the Justicar of Brienlye. She froze.

“I recognize that voice anywhere.” The Justicar spoke up, his voice resonating deeply from his barreled chest; she could recognize his voice anywhere, as well. He didn't make any move to come down. “You do not do much to keep yourself hidden, do you?”

“I do not fear those who wish me dead.” Came her flat response.

“How have you been?”

Why was he asking? Why did he care all of a sudden? “Fine.”

“And our child?”

She bristled. He knew very well how their child was.

“You killed her before she could ever draw her first breath.” This time, she didn't bother holding back any resentment.

There was a moment of silence between the two, one that felt like it was going on for far too long despite time barely passing.

“Farewell, then. I wish you well.” She heard him turn around and take a few steps before stopping again. Her heart lurched in her chest. “The next time we meet won't be any different from the last meeting.”

The Justicar was gone moments later, and the bard shut her eyes against tears that came flowing anyway. Her hand rested on her lower belly, her breathing ragged. She wished it hadn't ended the way it did. She wished he hadn't happened upon her this evening, and wished he hadn't been falsely friendly.

She wished she didn't still love him.

“Dann sind wir Helden... Nur diesen Tag...”

------

((Translation:

"I... I think about dreaming... The wall... In the back was cold.."

"The shots tear air.. But we kiss, as if nothing happens..."

"And the shame fell on its side... Oh, we can strike it, for all times..."

"Then we are heroes... Only this day..." ))

[fuckyeahcharacterdevelopment]

#02934802

Can you silence a crying child?

[fenixwrites]

The sun had already set over the Blue Mountains, the skies were clear, and the moon shone bright and full. The dwarves were mostly settled in at home, some already asleep, some staying up a little longer.

Thorin Oakenshield was fast asleep with his elven wife, Tarelethiel, his arm wrapped around her small frame, holding her close as she finally had a moment's rest. Their son, Magnus, had kept her up more often than not, always demanding food or attention, or needing to be changed, or just held. He was much like Tarelethiel while she was pregnant, except she hadn't needed to be changed.

He awoke late in the night, roused by the need to go empty his bowels. Having finished what he got up for, he padded his way back through the halls of their moderately-sized home, his bright blue eyes looking sleepily up at the tapestries that hung from the walls.

He would have walked into one of those walls in his sleepy daze, had Magnus not awoken and started crying loudly. He shook the sleep from his head and picked up his pace, wanting to get to their child before his wife could get up; she deserved sleep after having to take care of their child. It was his turn.

Scooping up the small bundle, he cradled Magnus in his arms, rocking him back and forth as he paced about the room. He began humming, a deep rumble emanating from his chest, his hand coming up to stroke at his son's tiny little cheek. Soon, he decided to sing rather than hum, for even though the babe couldn't understand him yet, he knew that when he was particularly restless, words soothed much better than just a deep hum.

His voice resonated through the room as he sang, a low baritone, deeper than most Dwarven voices.

"Far over the Misty Mountains cold, Through dungeons deep, and caverns old.  We must awake, e're break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold..." 

Tarelethiel had woken up to the sounds of her child crying, groaning into her pillow before she rolled over to push herself out of bed. She was having wonderful dreams of adventure and romance, where she and Thorin were off reclaiming Erebor, or rebuilding Edhellion.

Her Elven ears picked up his voice long before she'd gotten to the nursery Thorin had built for their future children. She'd always loved his voice; it brought a warmth to her heart, and sent shivers up her spine. And he'd been singing one of her favourite songs of his.

Silently, she stepped into the room, her face lighting up at the sight of the burly dwarf standing in the moonlight that sifted through stained glass windows, holding a delicate little bundle and singing. Magnus had stopped crying, looking up at his father with big, sapphire eyes that were slowly shutting as he drifted back to sleep.

It was like a scene out of one of Tarelethiel's dreams, and the smile that played on Thorin's rugged features made her want to run over there and embrace him tightly, to shower him with kisses and affection. Instead, she chose to walk over quietly and stand next to him, resting her head on his shoulder with her arm around his waist.

He looked up, turning his head to gaze at his beautiful wife, this anomaly of an Elf, in his mind at least, especially since she was so short, and kissed her forehead gently.

"Get some rest, love. I'll stay with our son a little while longer."

[fenixwrites]

Court of Vultures - Calming Luthien

   “Eirik.” He called out, side-stepping one of the apprentices who had come by dragging a barrel of various metal blades and wooden handles. The sounds of a hammer striking metal repeatedly could be heard ringing out from the back of the smithy, followed by loud sizzling as a strong shirtless man dipped a searing blade into a cold barrel of water.

   “What is it, Godrick?” The man asked, turning around and undoing the apron straps from around his neck, allowing it to fold down over the strings holding it to his waist. He was tall, taller than the captain himself, and twice as wide, with a strong muscled chest, broad shoulders, and arms strong enough to wrestle a bear and win. His chest was smooth and hairless, showing many small battle scars over his pectoral and abdominal muscles. His blond hair fell down his back and over his shoulders, messy and matted down from work and sweat, and his strong jaw sported a shadow of stubble, his beard messy and unkempt, much like his hair. Bright blue eyes blinked a few times after his strong hand wiped the sweat from his brow, one eyebrow raised curiously.

   “Your wife is on a rampage; she’s tearing apart the entire barracks in a fit of rage, and the king fears she might break something valuable or kill someone.” Godrick replied, taking a step away from the sweating northman. The captain himself was of average height and build, his hair cut short to keep out of his face, despite usually being hidden beneath a helm of sorts. Brown eyes peered over Eirik curiously, and he shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a tunic under that apron?”

   “I wasn’t aware I had a wife.” The large man said, crossing his strong arms over his large chest, looking down at the captain, unimpressed.

   “But don’t you and Luthien have children? And I see you together more often than not...” Godrick screwed up his face in confusion. Eirik only shook his head.

   “She is not my wife, despite having sired my children. I am no husband, merely a consort, a bedwarmer, a father, and a friend, should she ever need one. Everyone who knows of the Legion knows that the Legionnaires do not have relationships, or emotions, and the Grand Mistress is no exception. Despite the fact that she’s not right in the head...” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing away rebellious strands from his dirtied, handsome face. Godrick stared at him, dumbfounded, but then shook his head, not bothering to delve farther into the subject.

   “Well, whatever you are, you’re the only one who is apparently capable of calming the woman down, or so they’ve said.” The captain said, and Eirik heaved out an almost exasperated sigh.

   “Very well, I will go to her. But if I go see the healers with a knife in my thigh again, I’ll come find you to pull it out personally.” He turned around and undid the apron, tossing it over the anvil and grabbing the sleeveless tunic from the hook on a wall and made his way out of the armoury.

   A few minutes later, Eirik was stepping into the main hall of the barracks, and found a chair flying in his direction, missing him just barely and crashing against the wall, breaking and splintering into many pieces, with the Grand Mistress herself chasing down one of the Legionnaire trainers, cursing up a storm.

   “How in the nine hells could you have allowed that to happen?! And not just one of them, but THREE!” She screamed, kicking chairs aside and toppling tables over.

   “Luthien!” Eirik boomed, walking over to her just before she could grab something and throw it at the poor female cowering before her wrath. Luthien spun around and growled in his face.

   “What?” She snapped, but was quickly silenced when the northman had pressed his lips to hers and pinned her arms to her side. But as quick as the kiss had happened, so did it end, and Luthien simply blinked and stared at the man. “You’re filthy.” She pointed out, completely distracted from the matter at hand.

   “Are you going to tell me why you were tearing the barracks apart and snapping at Gytha as if she’d killed Ashnya, or am I going to have to tie you down until you’re as sensible as you can be?” He asked her, still holding her arms to her side. She squirmed a little, and her face grew angry again, but she didn’t seem to struggle.

   “Because she might as well have killed Ashnya! She failed her trials and has to be sent out into the Savage Lands because apparently Gytha didn’t train her properly!” She raged, clenching her fists at her side.

   “I am sorry, mistress! I did my best!” The girl pleaded, dropping down to her knees before Eirik and Luthien. Eirik’s face darkened, and his grip tightened around Luthien slightly, but otherwise, he made no move.

   “You failed your trial as well, Luthien, and you came back stronger than when you left. Ashnya has my blood as well. She will be fine.” He gave the woman a light shake, as if to prove a point, and maybe rattle her marbles back into place.

   “Two other girls failed, too, Eirik! TWO. No one has failed their trial in over a decade!” She squirmed in his arms, trying to break free of his titan-like grip, but Eirik only rolled his eyes.

   “There’s clearly only one way to get you to calm down and look at this from a reasonable person’s perspective.”  He grabbed a tablecloth from one of the upturned tables and tied Luthien up, then tossed her over his broad shoulders. She kicked and protested, but he did well to ignore it, turning instead to the cowering trainer. “Forgive her, Gytha. We all know she means well, even if she isn’t right in the head.” And with that, he carried her out of the barracks and off to Luthien’s personal quarters.

[fenixwrites]

Starlight Serenade

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   It was late, and the adventurers were in need of food and rest. Hours of scouring the woods for a place to set up camp had brought them to an old mansion not far from a trickling creek, deep within the dark forest. Years of abandonment had the manse covered in ivy and leaves, with shrubs and moss and a few trees growing through and atop the building. It was as safe as they would be getting, and provided more than enough cover, should the clouds that loomed above drop showers on them. Most of the roof was rotting, but there were a number of smaller rooms and a master bedroom that still had roofs relatively intact. It would be more than enough for a night or two for the small party.

   Adaleis was given the master bedroom, with the large four-poster bed near the windows which covered most of the wall, and had a small balcony to overlook what was once a beautiful flower garden. Athur, the woman’s lynx companion, was quick to test the integrity of the bed the moment they had stepped foot into the room, walking circles around the old bed sheets and bouncing a few times before settling on the pillows contentedly.

   The air was chilled that night, and everyone was bundled up tightly in their bedrolls as they slept soundly, most of the men snoring contentedly by the fires they had started in the old fireplaces and braziers. Despite the large fire Adaleis had roaring in the fireplace, she found herself wide awake, unable to sleep, and pulling herself out of bed, attempting not to rouse her feline companion.

   The clouds had cleared up and made way for the full moon, glowing brightly in the star-dappled blanket of the sky, illuminating the forest around the old mansion as if it were some sort of dreamscape. Adaleis found her cloak draped over a nearby chair, throwing it over her shoulders and pulling it around her body to keep warm before deciding a walk was needed. Her footfalls were silent as she wandered her way through the hallways, golden eyes looking all around her, taking in the sights, pausing often to brush aside some vines and admire artwork left behind.

   After a while of just letting her mind meander with her wanderings, she found herself at the large double doors to what was once a beautiful ballroom. Tables were upturned, chairs thrown around, but near the back, a grand piano somehow still stood in one piece, untouched, save for the vines and moss growing over it. Truly, an ivy mansion... She thought, tilting her head curiously in regards to the instrument. She took a step inside the ballroom, feeling a chill run up her spine, sending shivers down to the bone, but still she made her way slowly to the piano.

   She righted the overturned seat and set it before the piano, brushing aside vines and leaves from the cover before lifting it, revealing ivory and black keys covered in a fine layer of dust beneath. She blew the dust away, watching it lift into the air and almost sparkle in the moonlight that shone through broken windows and rotting roof as it fell slowly and settled elsewhere.

   A gloved hand reached out from beneath her cloak, hitting one of the keys gently, frowning when she heard the instrument was out of tune. Standing up, she opened up the large lid and went into the body of the piano, spending the next few minutes tuning it properly, making sure not to be too loud and awaken her companions upstairs. She sat back down, testing the keys once more, smiling lightly with satisfaction when the notes rang out perfectly.

   Slowly, Adaleis began a quiet song, a serenade she had heard played at a wedding in Penmarth when she was just entering womanhood. A young handsome man, the son of a local nobleman, had asked for her hand to dance, and whisked her away into the crowd before she could give proper response.

   The song began to build up slowly, and she fell into a deep trance, focusing on how the notes came out and rang out through the empty ballroom. The chill she felt seemed to have left as every thought that plagued her mind earlier that day just fluttered off like bats at the sound of the piano. Magic seemed to be in the air, for a fog of sorts seemed to gather on the ballroom floor and swirl around, slowly taking shape in the forms of people dressed in fancy dresses and exquisite suits, taking each other for one last dance in the ivy mansion. The moon shone down on the ghostly dancers, bringing Adaleis’ memories and music back to life once more. As her song continued and escalated, more of the apparitions appeared and joined the others on the dance floor. The room seemed to transform into a beautiful dream, somewhat reminiscent of what the mansion used to be like, but with touches of details from the woman’s own memories. So caught up in her own world was she that she didn’t take notice of anything going on around her, or of Alorn’s quiet approach.

   “How did you do that?” He asked softly when her song began to slow to an end, and Adaleis was suddenly jerked out of her trance, golden eyes popping open just in time to catch a glimpse of the dream come alive before it disappeared into nothingness.

   She blinked, looking around the large ballroom, which looked exactly like it did when she first sat down at the piano, frowning a little. “I don’t know.” She responded, slowly bringing the cover down over the keys to protect them from future damage. “What did you see?”

   “Ghosts of the former guests in the mansion, I suppose. A large, beautiful party, a wedding perhaps. I heard the angels singing along with your song, felt magic in the air.” Alorn explained, taking a seat next to her on the old bench. “I felt that chill down to my bones when we stepped foot on the mansion property, felt it even more when I heard you playing your song and when I entered the ballroom. Now, it is gone, as if something has been lifted from this place.”

   “I gave them their last dance...” Adaleis muttered sombrely, running a gloved finger along the golden engravings in the piano lid. She heard Alorn turn his body, felt his eyes on her.

   “What are you, Adaleis?”

[fenixwrites]

Hellbound Chronicles, part one: Omen ; prologue

   Across the promenade, one of the local thieves’ guilds awakens as the moon hides behind the clouds. Their footfalls are silent, their forms cloaked in the shadows of darkness, the only communication being simple hand gestures and nods of their heads. Their targets were two guards of a local noble’s mansion, undercover agents of their rival guild. Their mission was to take out the nobleman, a fat man who served as an in-between for the rival guild and other merchants who used to work for their master. Assassins crept forward and slipped behind the barely aware guards, while another thief silently went to the task of picking the locks to the manse. Only a few minutes passed before they snuck inside, quiet as shadows.

   By the docks, the Blue Raleigh Inn and its patrons were down for the night. A patron on the main floor mumbles in their sleep and rolls over onto the wench they’d bought for the night, drooling on the pillow beneath his head. Upstairs, a female twitches occasionally in her sleep, writhing from nightmares that haunt her sleep. An army of cloaked assassins creep through the night in her dreams, slowly encroaching upon a camp of travellers and merchants like the tide washes over the sandy beach. Tents are sliced open, throats opened up just as soon. Horns are sounded in her dreams and she cringes; battle soon begins. Women are screaming, children are woken up and begin to cry and call for their mothers and fathers who lay gutted on the ground before them. She writhes more intensely, her hands finding the bed sheets beneath her, clawing at them, tearing holes.

   She tosses and turns, and the moon is revealed through a small gap between the clouds. As the soft light enters her room, her eyes shoot open and she gasps for air. Her chest rises and falls heavily as she struggles to calm her breathing and her intensely beating heart. Panic grips her.

   Down by the docks, a group of worshippers are gathering on the beach, their robes dark as the night itself, making them seem nothing more than dark shapes moving over the sand. They stand around in a circle and begin to wave their arms, bowing their heads and chanting in a foreign tongue long since forgotten in the world, calling to their god.

   Back across the promenade, the thieves are creeping silently through the home, noiselessly cutting the throats of the guards who pace the halls boredly. The fat noble mumbles in his sleep, one arm draped over his sagging stomach, the other holding one of two whores at his side. A hiccup, and the swatting of the air, but he goes back to sleep. The door is kicked down violently, and he’s suddenly awake. He blinks his eyes to clear his vision, and when they adjust to the dark, all he sees is a dagger coming towards him. He goes to scream, but all that comes out is gurgling, and blood pours out of his mouth as the dagger slips just below his clavicle. The whores are gagged and prevented from screaming, and soon, they join the man on his death bed.

   In the inn, the female is stumbling out of bed, reaching, grabbing for something, only to knock the unlit candles and lamps from the night table and the desk nearby. Her head throbs, she’s still struggling to control her breathing. She goes to scream in agony, but nothing comes out. A wolf outside howls. She needs to get out of the inn, away from the city as fast as possible. She reaches for a cloak and simply tosses it over her barely clothed body, not caring for a robe or britches and a tunic. She runs out of the room, stumbling, crashing against walls with a light thud, and soon she’s out, sprinting towards the docks, the closest exit to the city.

   The thieves across the city have finished their job. Their blades are wiped on the bed sheets, and no trace is left behind. They take only what won’t be noticed is missing, and they slip out into the night, heading back to their master for their reward.

   The female reaches the beach and as her feet touch the cool sand, she throws her cloak away and lets out an inhuman scream. The woman is no longer there, only a disfigured being that looks more demon than human. Rage boils through the creature, its chest heaving as black eyes scan their surroundings. The cultists are heard chanting. An inhuman growl escapes their lungs, and the thing is off, bounding towards the robed men who are too caught up in their ritual to notice the hulking creature running towards them with a thirst for death.

  A worshipper falls and the chanting is replaced with screams. They try to scatter, but fleeing does them no good as the creature hunts them down one by one and tears them to pieces. The beast roars and runs off into the darkness.

   The night is quiet again.

[fenixwrites]

Asynion - The world of the Hellbound Chronicles

   When they thought they could teach us no more, they departed our world for the plane of gods, the Valhaven. There, they would watch over us, offering occasional guidance and the rare intervention when they deemed necessary. Our people prayed to them, thanked them, and those lucky enough would be graced with communication with them, but we were left to our own devices.

   The years went on, turning into decades, to centuries, to millennia, before any of the gods stepped foot in our world again. So long had it been that no one really noticed that the evil god Theran had had been walking among us, spreading his seed throughout the populace, hoping that one day when he returned permanently, his children would rise and fight alongside him.

   Many cities and countries finally noticed, finally found out, most of them unhappy, and so they enforced a registration and inspection on every child born thereafter. If a newborn showed traits that would give them away as a possible spawn of Theran, they would be put to death without question. Children who passed the initial inspection would be watched closely as they grew up, until they hit puberty, when they said that their ‘gifts’ would begin to show and take over. Any failed inspections thereafter would get them publicly executed. If parents were found guilty of harbouring a spawn of Theran in secret would be put to death with their child; it was a warning.

   Children born in secret and undiscovered, who were allowed to grow and let their gifts develop often died on their own; there was no one to teach them how to properly control themselves in their new states, and often succumbed to their powers, losing their minds and often getting themselves killed. Few children were raised strong enough, both mentally and physically, and those who weren’t were killed by their own powers.

   Years went on, and the spawns’ numbers dwindled until their story turned to legend, their legend turned to myth. Cultists who worshipped Theran continued to preach of their god’s return and the rise of their children, but they were paid no heed.

   Decades passed, centuries passed, and tales of the evil god’s promiscuity and children had all but disappeared, save from the mouths of his fanatical followers. Even their numbers had greatly decreased. Asynion was at relative peace, at least when it came to the returning of the gods. Things had seemed to have settled until Theran’s cult grew restless.

   Their preaching became more ominous, giving warnings of an apocalypse and the signs that would herald the end of this world. Unrest was stirring in the realm, and stories of strange occurrences were circulating amongst the people.

   This is where our tale begins.