¡canta, musa!

private indie multi-muse// written by cain

[snakerps]

i see a darkness // whitby & hyuntae

[hollowedteeth-blog]

snakerps‌:

What does it look like?

He doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t want to give voice to anything further and exist within limbo. A momentary regret. Would it not be easier if it had been another moment of mistaken identity? His ailing memory to once again take the blame. Then again even if the griffin before him were a stranger (is he not? Is there not something amiss?) the pain that radiates off of him is palpable. Maybe that’s it. His own bleeding heart will be his downfall yet again. There’s an aborted step forward, it’s instinctual; to comfort, to soothe–anything to lessen the burden the other carries. Another question begs to be asked, is it my fault? But it finds no voice, the speed at which the other moves is not wholly unexpected.

The blow is.

It’s not the first time he’s been hit in the head, certainly won’t be the last; he’s sure. Whitby’s memory is already a grab bag at the best of times and there’s a burn of shame that simmers on low, distracting him just enough that he barely notices they’re airborne. He’s lost his hat in what he’d shamelessly call a tussel, and he knows without a doubt that it’s the last he’ll ever see of it. A shame, he liked that hat; it was old and well worn–and he’d once had a dozen others but that was his hat first and foremost and the only reason it’d be spared from the slaughter was because he’d left it behind in his truck.

The ringing in his ear has not subsided, his teeth grit as his hands grip tight to the forearms of his friend the man that bore them upwards. There’s a call for a rebuttal, a demand for the palms of his hands to grow white hot and burn away flesh and fabric alike.

It doesn’t happen, and he hits the rooftop flat on his back with a grunt of impact and a rush of air from his lungs.

Whitby had never shared his true form with any other before, it was a whole other way of being laid bare. Akin to bearing his soul and while he wore his heart on his sleeve; it wasn’t the same. Suffice to say, it had been an awful long, long time since he’d been airborne. Let alone crashing down again like this.

But, it’s not the first time he’s been knocked down; like the head injury…it likely won’t be the last.

He’d seen Hyuntae fly before, Sanctuary’s remote location often called for unique forms of travel of those capable. And what he saw in glimpses, slivers that threaten to spill from his aching head–were wrong. He scoots back along the ground, until his back hits some concrete cropping and he uses it to stand. Palm landing flat in dark soil but he does not dare turn away from the sight before him.

The monster that wears the face of his dear friend.

He pushes strands of blond out of his face, and blinks rapidly as if to clear his vision and…and set things right.

And then The Thing That Wears Hyuntae’s Face speaks his name.

The phoenix may not remember all that he has seen across his many, many years of life but he knows, he knows he’s looked upon his fair share of nightmares with gritted teeth. Some still haunted his sleeping hours, hell; he was still walking off the remnants of the last episode. The ash, the ichor still coats his tongue; weighs down his lungs. Dark as the blackness of the other’s wings (they’re wrong, so very wrong) and his voice drives spikes of ice into his being.

Iscariot.

His lips twist but a sneer does not come. Only confusion. Hyuntae had spoken of family once, of siblings; perhaps all this really was a case of mistaken identity. He knows your name. It’s childish of him to want to stick out his lip and say or what? “It’s your name innit?” he says instead, some unspoken instinct keeping him from testing his luck; though away from prying eyes he still knows if this were to come to…

To violence.

Then it would be a spectacle.

He is without a weapon. All his gear, all his supplies, left behind in his truck and all he’s got is his flame. And his wits. They would have to be enough. But he’s getting ahead of himself, The Thing That Wears Hyuntae’s Face is steeped in an air of malice. He calls himself Iscariot, he has named himself and asked you to say…

He attempts to regain his lax air, arms held loosely at his side “I came looking for my friends,” he answers because it’s the truth while also keeping…vague “Haven’t spoken tuh some of them in awhile figured I was due to visit.”

It’s worth noting that…he doesn’t include just how long it’s been since he’s seen them. That most of them have passed. That most of them are also…missing. He wants to say, you’re one of them, you’re one of them that has been missing that’s gone; even though you’re right before me. “Your wings,” he says “What happened?”

It’s easier than asking…

No, no he can’t hold his tongue “What happened to you?”

There’s a punchline here, just waiting; even though he’s well aware that the other was not one for such things. Beneath him. Some survival instinct tells him to keep his distance but he ignores it, in favour of taking the first steps towards closing the distance between them. His hands flex, open and closed as if ready to…fight. It’s that instinct again, keeping him on his toes. “Couldn’t it just be that I missed ya’?” he offers and adopts a crooked grin that lasts only a beat “Which is why I’m gonna say I probably deserved that.”

The blow to his head, the quick beat to the rooftops. His hat.

“But, com-mune-eye-cation,” he drawls slow “Is a two way street ol’ friend.”

And that’s where he leaves it, standing once again out of reach–acutely aware of the wingspan; the violence with which The Thing That Wears Hyunate’s Face is capable of without hesitation “Hyuntae,” he says ignoring that screaming something inside of him like nails on a chalkboard “Your name, Hyuntae Yang, ya’ drilled it into me how important it was that I remembered it.” he points at him, the gesture sharp “This ain’t you. An’ if ya’ wanna throw down over it, work out whatever nasties ya’ got kickin’ ‘round inside…” he opens his arms as if going in for a hug, the gesture wide and open; a clear invitation “I’m ‘ere fer ya, Hyuntae.”

Though trying to focus on a single scene from his dream-image was like discerning a needle from a haystack, Whitby’s cheek sparked the clearest memory to date. This was Iscariot’s first time standing on the cutting edge of the phoenix’s snark, but not this body’s. It remembered. Out of sheer muscle memory, it formed a reply he only just kept from spitting back at him. No more than yours is burnt chickenshit, would have said a voice, one that sounded awfully like his, if this had been a different time, a different place, Harsh words barely carrying a half-hearted bite softened further by the laugh following a second after.

His smile tightens, twitches, grows into a portent of something terrible. “Your… friends?” Iscariot pretends to mull it over, as if utterly baffled, pacing in a circle around the phoenix like. “Why, who could possibly matter enough for Whitby to abandon his precious little farm? Leave it undefended? Vulnerable? Or are these other friends more important than its protection? Don’t correct this one. It’s hazy, but it’s true. Your peace loving family would not stand a chance against any conflict beyond bartering.This raven wouldn’t have thought Whitby was one to play favorites with his friends. That’s quite irresponsible, these days. Someone your age should know better.”

“Unless…” He stops, one foot yet to finish its descent into a step. “Oh Whitby, oh no. It couldn’t be. Could it?” Iscariot’s turns sharply in Whitby’s direction, clapping his hands together in realization, looking sickeningly delighted as the lines connect the miserable dots leading to the wretched conclusion. “ Has the sun finally set on your sanctuary?” says Iscariot, giddy almost, relishing a little too much in the hypothetical carnage, partly to salt Whitby’s wounds, partly to ignore the way his own, hidden deeply but not entirely forgotten, threaten to ache.

Iscariot doesn’t answer right away. A shudder runs through his wings, rustling the feathers like a breeze would the fur at the tip of a frightened animal’s tail. There’s a pensiveness to his smile and averted eyes now. He ponders over a million ways to phrase his answer, put into words the unjust atrocity done to him, on him, how they pulled him apart and rebuilt him, nightmarish, a ghoul possessing just enough of his former glory to be worth keeping on a leash. He can worry the details for hours of the scalpels, the needles, all the other sharp devices he couldn’t name and only told apart by how much pain they caused and the depth of their cut.

They broke him, slowly but surely, as water weathers down stone.

“Ah, this raven is not free to answer that question. Perhaps for the best. But…” He hums, shaking his head. “How about a story, instead, old friend?”

Iscariot chooses his words with care, speaks softly, detached, like he spoke not of his past, but of someone else he was vaguely acquainted with. In some way, he supposed, it was the truth. “A boy is given wings fashioned from wax and feathers. His father warns him before they fly, says the work of his mortal hands is no match for the sun’s might. But the boy’s head is too full of pride and arrogance to make room for the old man’s words. So he flies higher, so high the sun is close enough to touch, and he thinks his father is a fool. Then the feathers scorch, the wax melts, the wings come apart, and the boy falls, and keeps falling and falling and falling, until his fall is broken by the merciless, or perhaps merciful, waves.”

He laughs, a shrill and rickety sound, hands clutching his arms. “But the boy doesn’t drown. Whitby. He doesn’t die. He doesn’t die.His father’s enemies find him broken, washed up on the shore. They take him, what’s left of him, rearrange the pieces, all the while deaf and blind to the boy’s agony, and once he’s made into an image that suits them they stitch him back together into something... something.”

The surgical objects, the clinical, sanitized torture, every face in the room looking down at him cross his mind with each blink. It threatens to choke him, overwhelm him, but he tells himself the story is almost over. “They graft new wings on the boy’s back, a pair of black, awful things so dark they appear to swallow the light around them, and they fill him a new purpose the same way a snake fills its prey with venom. The boy lives, but at the mercy of others. Strung up like a puppet. Played with like a doll. Disposable like a toy. The boy lives, Whitby, but the boy is hollow.”

Before he can catch his breath, collect himself, drag himself back from the past, he hears Whitby utter the name.

“No!” A wordless cry tears its way up Iscariot’s throat, a wounded, ragged pathetic sound, All pretense of composure thrown to the wind. His face twists, indignant, snarling furiously before a violent sob escapes it as his fingers curl to claws and wings give a single, threatening beat. “No, stop, you can’t-- ”

But Whitby continues. The phoenix’s sincerity hurts in a way Iscariot almost believes is intentional. Whitby couldn't possibly be so blind so as to think this husk, this shadow’s shadow housed any fragment of Hyu-- of him. It’s punishment. It must be. For breaking his promise. For being alive but hollow. But Whitby looks at him so earnestly, so full of hope that this whole mess is one measly heart to heart away from fixing itself…

It’s too much.

The weight in his chest suffices to bring him to his knees, Iscariot can’t bear to raise his eyes and watch Whitby speak his name like a judge announcing his guilt to a slobbering mob ready to rip him to shreds. So he curls in on himself, eyes screwed shut, muttering weepy, rambling apologies to names with half a face to them through the hands covering his trembling head. The phoenix falls blessedly silent at last, and when Iscariot dares a peek through his fingers he’s met with Whitby’s gut-wrenching earnest display of good will. Of course this phoenix would jump at the first chance to help anything he considered a friend, braving the risk of an ungrateful jaw snapping shut on his helping hand with the gentlest of hearts. Of course he’d do this for him. For a friend who’s as good as dead. Someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Iscariot yelps. flinches as though he’s been hot iron branded. He half crawls half scampers away backwards from Whitby like the phoenix has given him the fright of his life until all that’s left between him and a lethal plummet to the ground is a couple stacked bricks at the edge. “This is it! Drill that into your head.” he spits out, hateful, like a forced confession, “This is all that’s left of the man you’re looking for. This raven is what lives when he should not..”

A wing falls protective over his body, hiding him rather ineffectively beneath a blanket of pitch from Whitby’s compassion. Iscariot’s shoulders slump, and he looks, and sounds, very suddenly, exhausted. “Does Whitby see Hyuntae in this one? Can he really, truly, call what he sees by it?” Iscariot’s eyes glisten with tears, a thin line of blood trickles down his mouth from where he bit his lip in his distress. He tries to smile again. “Anything worth addressing by that name in this raven is gone, Whitby. Please. The sooner he accepts that, the better for both of us.”

[snakerps]

i see a darkness // whitby & hyuntae

[hollowedteeth-blog]

snakerps‌:

@hollowedteeth​

It seemed since the mysterious group set his home ablaze and left the earth to rot heedless of all the life that once flourished there; Whitby’s life had gone to shit. Loathe as he was to be a pessimist, so often did he spend time battling such thoughts between moments of clarity…he sits in his truck, crossing out yet another name with one quick red strike of his pen. He tries not to let his mounting frustrations get the better of him, on edge of such thoughts is a powerful sadness that leaves a sour taste in his mouth with every name crossed off.

He’s paid for the minimum parking sum of half an hour, his walk to the brownstone and subsequent let down had barely scratched three minutes. So he…decides to take a breather. Something of a generous title for it as he rests his head back against his seat. He closes the book and tucks both it and his pen away in the pocket of his jacket. He had dozens of names left on the list. Some, he didn’t even recall the faces of and he was…

Losing hope.

It was a terrible feeling.

Had the names crossed out on the list met a fate similar to Sanctuary? Or had time simply claimed their lives. Not every species was immortal, though a generous sum of those that populated the list did have lengthened lifespans…he’d not left himself any notes for the earlier entries. Only the later pages had a date of meeting and date of departure. As if he had finally taken notice of his failing memory. Pinching the bridge of his nose he let out a sigh, it feels heavy; like the weight that rests on his shoulders.

Rolling his head to the side, he stares out the window to the streets. Despite the hour, the streets were terribly busy. Then again, he hadn’t been around an urban center like this…ever before. He feels distinctly small. Unimportant. His truck seems cartoonishly large amongst all the small compact cars of the city, maybe he’d feel more at home in yet another rural community–he’d seen photos of English villages…memories of similar scenes make his brain itch. He scrubs at his beard, the bite of blunt nails against his jaw as he closes his eyes against a memory that threatens to overtake him.

There’s probably a professional somewhere that could help him with this proper.

But I don’t have time for that.

He almost scoffs aloud as he drops his hand to his lap, funny that; all he’s got is time. Not right now ya’ don’t. He looks outside again in a vain attempt at avoiding the obvious and it’s only just that he catches a glimpse. But, it’s enough.

Hyun.

A face, the face of a friend that he remembers; the memory does not escape him–does not drift through his fingers like smoke. He’s already out the door of his truck, all but slapping his hat back upon his head and slamming his door as he goes at a jog through the crowd. He’s distinctly foreign in a way that is almost American–head to toe denim and flannel and heavy workboots eat up the distance between him and the griffin as something so very much like excitement bubbles within.

Perhaps it clouds his judgement. Silences the warning sirens that warble in his mind at something is wrong. One hand keeps the hat on his head and the other gently parts the crowd before himself with the odd pardon, excuse me, excuse me; though their time together had been brief and the other had been about as partial as a cacti in bloom–the warmth was real.

His name was too far down the list, he’d not thought about him; and that makes him feel guilt most powerful. It happened, it happens. He had had an awful lot on his plate after all. When had they last spoke? What had they last shared? When had he last seen the other in the flesh? He could not recall the touch of the other’s hand in his (his customary handshake) time is ever so cruel old friend, I’m sorry I’m sorry. Maybe the other had heard him coming, maybe something else had nagged at his mind like whatever it was that was scratching at Whitby’s brain like an over eager feline friend.

Whatever it was…whatever it was it had him slow his approach; his budding smile (warm and fond) and his arm coming up in an aborted gesture to touch to make certain the other was real.

Something was wrong.

It was subtle. Like looking through a foggy glass. Was his memory truly so wrong? Had he misplaced the pieces? His hand atop his head holding his hat in place slowly lowers to his side, alarm bells chiming in his head; some long ago honed response to danger. What danger was to be found standing here before his friend? It’s an itch between his shoulder blades, a cold breath at the back of his neck and he shifts his stance while confusion wars with relief–birthing forth caution “Hyuntae?” he says, asks it more like a question than the greeting he intended, spoken in a vocal just above a whisper.

As if something was keeping him from giving further volume.

He clears his throat and tries to recover, floundering internally and his smile isn’t quite the same. Senile in your old age. He aims for levity, falling flat even as he speaks “It’s been awhile…are you…alright?”

The feeling is still there, creeping up his spine with one cold claw; a warning, something deeper within him (a bird’s cry) begging him to leave, to run, run far away before…before what?

He still dreams of the farm.

It often comes after the nightmare-memory of his family. A hundred years of a gently guided journey to adulthood, where the soft earth caught his falls the times a father miscalculated the reach of a fledgeling’s wings, the rare anxieties soothed by a stern but understanding mother who taught him pride, taught him why, if given the choice, he should die rather than lose it. A brother and a sister pass by the dream, too. They love him. They are loved by him. Even in their goodbyes, even though he will forever bear his brother’s farewell on his back in the marks that betray claws once flayed the otherwise unmarred skin, even as they swear to treat each other as rivals should they cross paths again. He loves them. He is loved by them.

The dream is beautiful, and he despises it precisely because of it. Only in dreams is he tempted to long for the life of a dead man. The dream ends. Another begins.

The next scene vastly differs, but the warmth remains, still, the same gentleness in a different shape, in another voice, in a handshake with a man as old as, he suspects, the written word. The man’s-- no, no, the phoenix’s words, that was important, that was the whole reason he agreed to stay, for back then he’d have only allowed a phoenix, gloriously immortal and clad in the sun, to address him so casually and with such familiarity.

Could be that’s why he’s able to remember so well. The memory sharpens, cuts the dream, more details enter the picture. The phoenix’s face, though still blurred and hazed by the lens of the past, focuses. Iscariot can almost recall the exact timbre with which he commanded peace without commanding at all, relying on the authority innate to the immortals, trusting in bonds, friends, in the found family that resulted from prolonged exposure to both.

If he ran into this raven, Iscariot thought, before wakefulness washes away what-ifs and regrets like a wave, he might have to kill him.

He already dreads having to close his eyes and seeing him again.

Iscariot wouldn’t really call what he does ‘sleeping’. Sleeping implied rest, not watching a kaleidoscopic, repetitive adaptation of half remembered flashes of a past life (the only life he should’ve had, says a dying remnant of sanity). Perhaps it’s not just reluctance that drives him to test the physical limits of his broken body, of depriving himself of rest until he has no choice but to collapse, of starving until he was so hungry he couldn’t think, of stripping himself from the luxury of feeling. It’s something else. Something spiteful that survived the watch’s purge. A delayed, self-loathing response to his servitude, born out of a need to punish himself for his inability to fulfill a promise: Die before you’re humbled.

But that’s enough of that. Patrol now, self-reflection later.

Iscariot was, however, quite mistaken in thinking that he’d have a say on when and which ghosts would come back to haunt him, in this, of all stages of his life,

He hears him before he sees him. Ever smiling, ever calm and composed, like a clockwork doll with every part moving in perfect, synthetic harmony, Iscariot turned around to watch a spectre from someone else’s memories come to life in a fumbling, clumsy run. A phoenix… the phoenix was here. In London, A long way from home, all alone, far from his community, (Did he leave them behind? How unusual.) Unknowingly, gleefully, approaching one of the Night Watch’s terrible boogeymen full of the meekness that stemmed from guilt, as though it’d been him that moved on from that farm, and not Iscariot. The phoenix stops, just shy of arm’s reach, and opens his mouth before Iscariot can,

Then he says it, speaks his name like a question. Iscariot hears an accusation. Who are you? Why didn’t you die? A couple syllables is all it took to encompass his greatest shame, an identity he shed so he could bear to continue living as a rott. His treasured pride, surrendered, all because he was too weak to pry his claws from where he’d sunk them into life. Why didn’t you die, asks the phoenix, asks his mother, asks his father and brother and sister and anybody who ever knew him. Why didn’t you die, Hyuntae? Why didn’t you die? You promised you’d die. Iscariot gasps, stumbles, bends over like a man who’s been shot, takes one step back to regain some semblance of balance while his hands fly up to cover his face, head shaking. Humans would notice, and stare, and if they knew what was good for them they’d leave them alone.

Then the grief gives way to anger, indignation. How dare the phoenix say that name, how can he stomach it when the creature before him clearly is not who he thinks? The phoenix mocks him. The phoenix, too, knows he should have died. Iscariot looks up at him from between his fingers, wide eyes near brimming with tears. Why didn’t you die?

He barely remembers to process anything the phoenix said beyond his name. Iscariot hisses, “What does it look like?”

Quick as shadow, while he had the advantage of the first move, Iscariot struck the side of the phoenix’s head as twin nightmares grew from his back. He didn’t want to cause any real damage, only stun him enough for his clawed hand to grab the collar of his shirt and take to the sky with him, battering onlookers with gusts of air.

Iscariot knew he was flying on borrowed time with a phoenix in tow, especially one this old and with undoubtedly more than one trick up his tacky denim sleeve. Once the surprise wore off, a fair one on one fight had high prospects of ending poorly. He flew fast, sacrificing greater altitude for speed, until he spotted some high rise’s rooftop garden and figured they’d just have to put up with whatever consequences his impulsive actions brought. Iscariot brusquely let go of the phoenix before landing himself.

A memory hits him like the phoenix hits the floor tiles on the roof.

”That’s right… Whitby… Whitby... Why...”. He practically chews the words out, tone dissonant from the twisted, grimacing mouth that says them. Iscariot tries again, straightening his back, positioning and repositioning his pitch-black wings as if fidgeting. In a few breath’s time, Iscariot transforms into a smiling, bladed tool again. “Whitby called the name of a dead man. The raven Iscariot is speaking to you. Do not--”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Opens them again. “Do not make that mistake again.”

Hands folded, the predator glint is back in his eyes. The instinct all griffins are born with, and exacerbated by the raven process. “Why has Whitby come to London?”

[getbradley-deactivated20220909]

home sweet home // brad & barrett

[hollowedteeth-blog]

getbradley‌:

He could only imagine. Crestle Cove born and bred, as much as he’d rolled in filth trying to rid himself of the stench, he knew it was saturated deep into his bones. Hated it. But, it was a privilege few had these days. He didn’t doubt that there were other supernatural communities across the globe, but this was ground zero. Those born here were a different breed. They’d barely been here five minutes and Bradley could almost taste the difference. The heavy reek of ambient magic in the air, underfoot. Such a sense was basically the unspoken seventh sense in the world–hold up Brad, are you really counting that Bruce Willis movie as a testament to a bonafied sixth sense? 

Never one to doubt the magic that was Bruce Willis, he quickly dismissed the negativity. 

Humming low, he follows the kid out. Slamming the door shut before moving around to the trunk. “Feels the same,” he answers knowing full well it’s not really a yes or no “I’d have to swing by my past haunts to really get a feel for the place.” 

Not that he was in any kind of hurry to that. Because first things first, Hunter. He had no idea where the guy even lived anymore–doubted it was still with dear ol’ Mom and Dad. And the very idea of swinging by their place to ask after his baby brother was enough to turn his stomach. Popping the trunk, he swings his own duffle out “Not a problem, was ‘bout time I brought you ‘round to be with…” a pause “Folks like you, and none o’ them asshats from the city.” 

It wasn’t as though he didn’t trust Barrett to keep his place in the city safe, it just…well, Bradley had hardly sat on his hands all these years. He was hardly shy with his talents and connections which meant enemies and maybe one or two of em could scrape together a brain cell or three enough to find his place. 

Especially if they were the supernatural sorts. His enchantment work wasn’t anything to write home about, but it did the job to keep home sweet home safe as can be–and what he couldn’t muscle, he could buy. “We’ll have to go get some furniture tomorrow but from what I’ve seen, it’s cleaner than most places. ‘Sides…” he pulls out some of his ‘camping’ gear “I’m sure we’ve both slept in worse places.” 

Calling it camping gear was generous. It was an emergency bugout kit he’d perfected over the years. And also, expanded upon for his young friend. Out of necessity of course, he wasn’t about to leave the poor guy in the deep end when the sharks came sniffing for blood. He shoulders the second large bag with a grunt before shutting the trunk and starting up the drive. A truly hideous garden gnome was currently playing prison guard to their keys and all it took was a little magic je ne sais quoi to get him to give em up. 

It was a simple house. Squat family style home with three whole bedrooms and one point five bathrooms (a true luxury). Unfurnished. Either the previous tenant(s) found something better closer to the heart of the town, or they’d left in a hurry. The lights flick on and if either of them runs hot or cold, he knows there’s both central air and heat. The hardwood floors looked pristine and the walls unmarred by the age of the building. Magic was good for restoration work in the right hand. “Alright kid, dibs on the master but you have your pick o’ the rest of the rooms,” he drops his bags inside the foyer “I might sleep in the living room for tonight, I’m gonna check the wards and put up some o’ my own…you take a gander about and decide if you’re hungry or not, yeah?”

It was worth a try. Brad’s favorite way to communicate about his hometown came in the form of grunting one word answers, sometimes a couple reluctant sentences, or, on a good day, the rarest and most coveted response of all: a short anecdote. Barrett never held it against him. It’s not like he was any more keen to chat away about his past. 

The corners of his mouth twitched up. Folks like you. “The city did set the bar pre-tty low, but I can’t really be that mad at all of them.” He eyes the gnome with apprehension.“Some were just scared.” And didn’t happen to run into someone who could help. 

Barrett hardly expected to find tame puppy dogs, all wagging tails and excited hello’s for anyone who knocked on their door, ready to welcome him with open arms. His first encounters before Brad left much to be desired. Though a good word about him from someone they knew, or used to know at least, might help curve any reservations the wolves could form about him he didn’t lean too hard on the hope this would be a smooth ride.”So long as there isn’t like, some kind of initiation fight to the death thing involved, I think we’ll get along just fine.” His chuckle at the end was more nervous sound than laughter.

He lets the silence be his assent. Cleaner, drier, (relatively) safer, the fact it was an actual house. Not cramped either, plenty of space for the two of them and then some.The promise of sleeping on a mattress could easily get him through a night or two on the floor. He could rest comfortably enough with a wall against his back. The smell was the only albeit small grievance so far. Barrett briefly considers shooting Glade directly into his nostril, but supposes he’ll get used to it. Eventually. “I’ll eat anything you throw my way right now. What’re the Crestle Cove specials these days, you think? Goblin chops?” 

“Let’s see…” Barrett leaves Brad with the bags and magic business to do his own inspection. The intricacies of how magic worked were barely starting to make a lick of sense to him, but he knows enough to understand a faulty ward, like most earthly security measures, was worse than no ward at all.  He’s crossing the door of the first room when the stench hits him. Immediately, a hand flies up to his face to cover his nose. “Oh my god, what lived-” he gives another cautious sniff and grimaces “-what died here?” Barrett waves the comment away with his free hand. “N-not literally. Obviously.” Hopefully. “I think even you could tell if something were rotting under the floorboards.” He starts to shut the door, but leaves it open halfway. “Guess my room’s gonna be the other one.”

[hollowedteeth-blog]

hunter-finn‌:

Finn blinked a little at the quick response, the boy’s demeanor not at all giving himself any benefits. “You are jumpy.” He replied with a chuckle and a gentle smile. “Keep looking over your shoulder and all that. Should I be worried?” He asked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“And you’re the one creeping up behind strangers.” He crossed his arms, shoving his nerves underneath a mask of annoyance. “Asking ‘em too many questions.”

The man smiled, laughed. Barrett didn’t like him. Didn’t like the way he wanted Barrett to trust him. He nodded towards the groceries.“I don’t know if you ‘should’ anything, b-besides getting back about your business.”  He’d stuttered, great. With any luck the old man would ignore that and decide Barrett was more trouble than he was worth.

[hollowedteeth-blog]

hunter-finn‌:

Finn had gone out to the store to grab a few things. His fridge was painfully empty and he was craving a good chip, dip, and something meaty. Beef sticks and jerky was good enough until he did some real grocery shopping. He was carrying home the paper bag when he saw the stranger from afar, almost able to taste the unease on them. They walked like a scared rabbit knowing a fox was near, shoulder bunched and steps jittery. But what Finn really paid attention to was how lived in the other’s clothes seemed. Worry pulling at his chest, Finn moved towards the other. 

The burly man nodded softly, offering the other a kind smile. “Are you ok?” He asked, figuring there was no need to beat around the bush.

“I’m fine,” he answered a little too quick. Suspicion settled in his gut, not narrowing his eyes at the towering man was a conscious effort. “Something making you think I’m not?”

Barrett hadn’t managed to last this long by taking every stranger’s good intentions at face value. And in a place like this it’d take a lot more than nice smiles and words to get him to admit he needed help. Barrett couldn’t pick up anything strange from the man’s scent aside from the odd twist every Crestle Cove human seemed to have. Too much supernatural mystic nonsense in the air for it not to stick to every person who set foot inside city limits for longer than ten minutes.

Looking up at the other’s face revealed nothing useful. The old man was either someone, something even, very good at playing the part of a concerned gentleman and Barrett should just offer his neck right here because if it came to a chase then he obviously wasn’t getting out of that one with his current sense of direction, or Barrett had come across some poor sap that mistook his small, vertically challenged build for an actual thirteen year old and genuinely wanted to help him find his parents or something similar. Good luck with that.

[hollowedteeth-blog]

bethxbenton‌:

Beth was heading home, it had been a long day, a long week, a long month. She was lost in her own thoughts, her headphones playing music loudly in her ears and taking no notice of her surroundings. She’d been around people all day, she didn’t want to socialise with strangers on the street. 

Though someone looking back at her caught her attention. She didn’t like that. She was on edge a lot lately. Recent events had made her nervous, as well as the dreams she’d been having. “There’s really no reason to look at me,” she finally said. “I’m just walking home.”

“Easy, I’m not looking for trouble.” He gave her a sheepish grin and held his hands out in front of him, placating. The woman looked and sounded worked up about something, all twitchy and tense. Better not give her any reason to spring some nasty curse or whatever on him. She may have appeared relatively harmless given the streets they were currently walking, but he knew from experience that looks weren’t always the best reference when trying to gauge how dangerous someone could be. Or how kind.

“And you, well.” He couldn’t help feeling a little sympathetic for her own nervous mood. If she was a long time resident, she probably had to entertain new worries every day. Under all those nerves she just looked tired. “You could probably do with less of it.”

[hollowedteeth-blog]

ezrabryant‌:

Ezra was finally getting used to life again in this dreary little town. She didn’t hate it, not now that she’d got used to it. She enjoyed her time alone and she enjoyed the attention she was receiving from her maker. She wasn’t that bothered when she walked into the stranger. She had little interest in the people in the town, especially the werewolves. She turned her nose up, the smell was revolting even after all these years. “Is there something on my face? is there a reason you’re staring at me like that and your heart is beating out of your chest? I can assure you whatever you want. I’m not interested.” 

Barrett stiffened. His size made it so anyone of average height had to lower their eyes to see his face. He’d learned to live with it. But this woman, this vampire, oozed disdain. She did not look down at him, but on him. A younger Barrett would’ve wasted no time getting out of her way after muttering an apology. The safe thing to do. The thing most likely to let him live to see another day. His pulse quickened.

“You just look like you’re sucking on a lemon, is all.” The irreverence reached his mouth before any sensible words could. These days, to his tranquil nature’s great distress, he found himself thinking twice about the non-confrontational way of dealing with people. Brad had mentioned that a bite tended to cut a person’s fuse short, how the wolf’s temper influenced even the kindest thought. And sure, maybe that played a big part in his reaction, but Barrett couldn’t blame it entirely on the wolf this time. The woman’s gaze reminded him a little too much of certain situations where he’d have such looks thrown at him. “Y’know, that’s an awful lot to say for someone who’s ‘not interested’, lady. Could’ve just,” --he gestured forward-- “kept going and prevented this whole conversation.”

[hollowedteeth-blog]

There’d been some pretty bad times in Barrett’s life. His first weeks on the street sleeping rough, getting mauled by some animal on his way to Canada, discovering that animal had, in fact, been a werewolf of all things the full moon after the attack were all pretty high on the list, So while getting lost in an unfamiliar town full of unfamiliar faces wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him, it certainly wasn’t his brightest moment. 

The sun got lower with each wrong turn he made. As one used to navigating cities larger and busier than this he shouldn’t have lost his way so easily, but the Cove had more dangers to look out for than anywhere else he’d previously been. It kept him on edge, distracted him.

Despite worry gnawing at him, Barrett maintained an easy pace and a serene expression. The last thing he needed right now was catching the attention of an unsavory character prowling about in search of idiot newcomers like him. As long as no one bothered to look too hard, Barrett gave the impression he was simply taking the long way home, the scenic route, instead of the more embarrassing reality.

Someone behind him. Too close. His heart skipped a beat. Slowly, with calculated ease, Barrett turned around to see who it was.

[getbradley-deactivated20220909]

home sweet home // brad & barrett

[hollowedteeth-blog]

getbradley‌:

@hollowedteeth

Never thought he’d find himself back here. He flexes his hands against the steering wheel, fingers splaying out before gripping tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The black ink of his tattoos looking especially dark with each action, even against the warm light of the streetlights overhead. Would it truly be such a crime to turn around and run away once again? But, he recalls the raw fear in Hunter’s voice. The tremor, he’d never heard his brother sound like that. He didn’t want to name the sorts of places he’d been faced with that kind of fear. 

Hunter and he may not have seen eye to eye, may not have ever gotten along but…

He’s still your brother.

So why wasn’t he pulling up in front of his brother’s home? 

There wasn’t an awful lot of available real estate in town but looks like he’d managed to score something half decent–all he had to do was drop his name. While he was hardly a local celebrity, his magic had been–and still was– powerful. That didn’t hurt to have in your corner. And at this price…

“Alright kid, here we are,” he says as he thumbs the radio off “Welcome to Crestle Cove.”

Removing the key from ignition, he knew the town wasn’t much of anything to see at night but that was honestly the safest route to take. No need to overwhelm Barrett right out the gate. Bradley’s mom may have been a werewolf, it didn’t mean he’d kept up to date on local politics. He’d learned enough to keep his distance. He glances sidelong at Barrett in the passenger seat, his gaze softens some as he pauses in opening his door “How are you holding up? I have no idea how this place feels to a wolf; probably stinks somethin’ foul.”

Barrett clutches the backpack containing his meager possessions like vice. He thought his heart would stop in fear along with the car, but it hammered on, rabbit-fast, inside his chest. The place he knew so little of and wondered so much about was finally just one open door away. To put it simply, Barrett was terrified. 

He didn’t dare show this fear, however, not when every other creature in town could probably smell it. After a deep breath he picked apart the less harmful feelings that made up his terror and turned his attention on those instead. Excitement, curiosity, eagerness to see and learn and breathe in the strangeness of Crestle Cove. Ever since that bite, he belonged here now in a way he hadn’t in all those places he’d survived in before. And adding to that, he wasn’t alone anymore. The prodigal brother and the frightened newcomer could find some comfort in the other’s uneasiness regarding the Cove, he hoped.

“I can deal.” Barrett can’t stop the trembling in his hand reaching for the handle, but he can try to distract Brad from it. So he smiles, impish, and only half of it is forced. “Oh, it reeks. I bet it’s only gonna get worse the closer we’re to a moon.” He makes a show of scrunching up his nose and blowing out air. The smells weren’t exactly foul, just alien enough to make his hair stand on end. He’d gotten whiffs of vampire before, of wolf and witch and other things he couldn’t yet name. Evidence creatures wearing human veils walked hidden in plain sight. But never so… eerily defined, like this.

“Anyways, it’s fine. Are, uh, what about you? Town stay the way you left it?” He hides the jitters in his body by moving quickly and all but jumps out the car. Better to shift the attention on Brad. Not that he isn’t genuinely concerned about him, but Barrett would prefer not lingering on himself much. Barrett walks towards the house, backpack swinging in his right hand, nerves momentarily replaced by the relief over having a roof over his head. The relative ease with which Brad acquired it had him raising an eyebrow, but gift, horse, etcetera. He looks behind him and waits for Brad to catch up before going any closer. In the yellow light of street lamps, and if it weren’t for each breath reminding him of reality, Crestle Cove could almost pass for one of the countless other dull, forgettable towns in the country. He tries not to imagine what lurks in the corners where the light doesn’t reach. “Thanks for letting me stay with, by the way.”

[radiation-baby]