theomachy

Queen of W A R F A R E and Duchess of Destruction Rowan of the Ascended Member of the Kill Club ( Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse ) “There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever be heard. There are not more than five primary colours, yet in combination they produce more hues than can ever been seen. There are not more than five cardinal tastes, yet combinations of them yield more flavours than can ever be tasted.” - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

[royvmustang-deactivated20221127]

my good friend the moon

[ blood moon eclipse, september 27, 2015 ]

[lifeinpoetry]

I dream of massacres. / I am a garden of black and red agonies.

Sylvia Plath, from “Three Women,” Winter Trees (via lifeinpoetry)

[rowanofwar]

And so begins the Revelation of mankind

[8-bitfiction]

[placeholdersea]

It had always taken a great and terrible force to lift Alastair’s eyes from his art once his entire being fed itself to his chaotic ambition. His grip on his knife changed at the movement to his side and his blood called for more, even as the fisherman’s fingers failingly tried to grip his leg. If this were to be another canvas, he would readily carve it as he was enjoying himself far too much to simply stop. Dark eyes, almost black, shifted from torn skin to a mouth so red he thought it had been bleeding. And the bloody mouth was smiling. At him. It was a smile he had seen before, a curl of bliss that lightened his own face many times. It was devil’s smile, a demon’s.

Only if you insist.

Lagi.

Her hands had been painted a gorgeous shade of crimson, from her fingertips to her elbows and he refused to blink as he looked at all of her. (A part of him worried she might disappear if he were to look away, a thought he would later determine as utterly fucking ridiculous.) For all the blue light of her eyes, there was a darkness there, a beautiful void where a star had died (likely under her hand) and he saw himself reflected back. In fractals of red and shadow, a monster looked at his monster and smiled. Droplets of blood stained the pale skin of her face and in a thought so sudden, he wished to kiss them with his fingertips. With his teeth. Every part of her was red, so utterly fucking red, from her fingers to her hair, to her sharp smile that enticed him into an impassioned madness that he stifled with a blink. His monster smiled back.

“He’ll go when we want him to,” Alastair breathed, voice found amidst a sea of red. Her fingers traced along his work, along the tendons that had been exposed like the strings of a violin. Might he play them for her, even though by just looking at her, he knew her to be an artist as well? A sonata by moonlight could not be done alone and as her fingers brushed across his unfinished work, he knew it would not be finished alone. A reason for the fisherman to stay, one that Alastair could think of, was that if he were to die and leave them with silence, the demon would haunt him into a new hell. “His reason is our reason. The night is young and he ‘as nowhere else to be.”

He slipped so easily into the usage of ‘we’ and ‘our’, that it would have sickened him had it not been for the moment her eyes cut into his. It felt like joining clawed hands with a piece of him that had long been gone, a piece of him that had slipped from memory and tore its way back to him. That’s what he thought it was. What he did know, for certain? Fucked, he was fucked. And he didn’t even have her name on his cursed tongue yet. All he had was her smile, her voice, her smell. Enough to commit to his memory. Through the gurgles of a life confused on where to go, a heartbeat pulsated a new madness into his chest and it would be a madness that he would grow fond of. It was a hallowed truth. His mind was a ravished no man’s land and this creature, this woman of frost and rubies, had made a place all her own with only a bloody smile.

“M-Mons–.”

“Yes,” Alastair interjected the fisherman with a pleasured sigh. “Monsters.”

Fingers just as red followed along after hers, accompanied by steel, and the fisherman had lost his words in a red flood. It was alright, the demon murmured, it was alright because his words never ceased.

“He bleeds like that damn sea of ‘is, doesn’t he?” He mused his thoughts aloud, yet another rarity as he was often alone in his endeavors. He looked at her as he spoke and his fingers, his knife, drifted along passively. “Recklessly, fuckin’ beautifully…”

[rowanofwar]

    What was it like to know that there were monsters hiding under your bed? Nothing compared to the thrill of having them at your fingertips. That was what she had, was it not? A dark, bloodied beast under the wearing a mask ( such a beautiful one, in her eyes ) that did nothing but entice, entice, entice. Her crimson stained fingers longed to trail along the slope of his jaw, to leave a red-marked path on his skin so as to let others know that one monster had found another and they belonged to each other. But she refrained, though her blood was burning to know what it felt like to have his skin press against hers. However, if war was one thing it was patient as it waited and watched events unfold. So when his voice invited her, welcomed her sweeter and more seductively than any sin -- what option did she have but to lift her eyes to his and gaze into the eyes of this beloved monster? 

    So long had she been overlooked by the demons that she had resigned herself to the fact that making her mark among the lowerarchy would take a tedious amount of time. Overlooked, underestimated, belittled. Yet when he looked at her she felt as if he could see her and understood her. He understood the thirst that made her throat ache and her fingers twitch, he understood the beauty that she sought in the ruin of another; he understood her. 

    When she tore her gaze away from his to glance down at the masterpiece that had been laid out before them, the demon that had war raging in her veins found his image etched into her vision. Freckles that seemed intermittent with flecks of blood, betraying constellations on his warm skin. Dark locks that seemed to encapsulate the night sky, but one void of stars ( the stars were on his skin, she reminded herself, millions of freckles upon millions like nebulas upon nebulas ). What fascinated her most, though, were his eyes and the warmth that she saw in them where others might have seen only hellfire. Others may have called it madness, but she? She saw it for what it truly was: an artist in a fit of fiery passion for his work. In place of a paintbrush, he held a knife. His canvas was the human body -- his muse was the craving, ever present and perpetual, to have his curiosity for the human body and the ambrosia that flowed through it. 

    His breath warmed the air between them as she demurely kept her eyes on his work, her fingers dipping into the crimson ambrosia that was flowing from the body that had unwillingly offered itself as a canvas. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear ( red upon red, both just as vivid as the other ) as she noted the change -- how words that were once singular, so quickly and easily, became plural as if, in this moment, they both understood that they were kindred spirits and that one would not ( could not ) be without the other. Was their similarity so singular and potent in itself that it demanded these two should become one, so quickly? Did this affinity for the bloody, the violent, the chaotic really interweave itself into their spirits so assuredly? 

    The confident cadence of his voice -- so intoxicating when it was lilted with that accent, teased a grin onto her features and painted itself across her face. A laugh of disbelief bubbled from the column of her throat because she could not believe how sure he was of how similar they were ( oh, if only he knew -- but she would teach him ). “You talk as if we’ve known each other all our lives,” she hummed in amusement, “but we have only known each other for a couple of minutes. Perhaps my reasons differ from yours, my darling.” Then her eyes turned to look into the human’s, so deplete of hope as they were. The next words that stuttered from bloodied lips were ones that did not surprise her, but in their familiarity they coaxed a sigh of contentment from her. Not many took satisfaction in being labeled a monster. Then she heard her companion echoed the word -- and in that moment she felt her lips ache to press against his and confirm that yes, yes they were monsters. And they would leave terror in their wake together. 

    When she felt the presence of his hand trailing after his, she stilled as her heart contradicted the movement and stuttered in anticipation. For how often did two such spirits meet and revel in their depravity? 

    And with each syllable that left his lips she found her bright, glittering eyes meeting his. As if by, some spell, he was calling her gaze to meet his time and time again. She had little choice but stare, like the moon had little choice but to chase after the sun in its warmth and glory. “Aye,” she answered, the burr of her accent coating her tongue. “They bleed and they bleed like an ocean and I often long to stain every inch of my skin in its waters. Yet no one has seen it as something beautiful, others only see it as tragic. But who can look upon this masterpiece and think of tragedy when there is nothing more tragic than letting such a work go unappreciated?” Every word that was lifted from her tongue brought her closer to him until she found her hand on top of his, until she found herself entranced by the darkness of his eyes. 

[foxsdana]

[heartofatlas]

@rowanofwar @alastairofdivinecruelty

[divinum-venenum-blog]

Location: Lucifer’s Mansion Closed: with @rowanofwar Time: October 2nd, 1:30am

There was a stillness between her ribs that most often occurred at night. She wore the shadows like a hat, like a cloak, like a crown. There was a viciousness to the quiet that occurred after midnight that ran down her spine in a caress, and it was most often the time she felt most at home. She’d slept half the day away in waiting for it, for the time before dawn-light where she felt safest. Any earlier, and she might have felt overly raw, her heart an exposed and fleshy thing in her chest.

Eve had beaten her at her own game. Seduction, in its cruelest sense. How wicked she was, to offer Lilith any kind of respite, to make her think for a moment that someone who didn’t share her beloved black wings might see the workings of her mind without recoiling. Eve was a dream of the past, but her friends allies? They were the future. They were her eternity. If she was to move forward, she would need to shed the sallow skin that held the memory of Eve’s passion, of her touch. Banish it, stomp it to pieces, tear it apart until nothing of her awful weakness remained.

It was a keening sort of pain, to realize she’d loved wanted someone a over two thousand years and it wasn’t going to be enough. Not to bridge the somehow insurmountable gap that stood between them.

Now, Lilith was retreating to lick her wounds. There were very few people she would deign to be around when she did, and even fewer she might seek out. But always, she seemed to be reaching out to Rowan. Eve, she’d once thought, was born to mother humanity, as fierce and protective as any; Lilith hadn’t been created with those capabilities. Or rather, she hadn’t thought so. Who would want to distort their body and give away valuable years of their life to raising a defenseless creature into something passable?

Rowan had slunk out of the dark, a black widow so dark she hypnotized. She’d been so new, so fearless, a tempest at the heart of demons who felt little to nothing. Lilith’s passion had waned for so long, the phase seemed to be permanent – a fixture of the age tethered to her bones like an anchor. The ferocity of Rowan still surprised her. It had been a thousand years, give or take here and there, since she’d seen her, and still, she managed to be vexing. It would have irritated many, but it was a delight for Lilith to find a mind that was as prism-like and puzzling as hers. 

It took nothing to navigate the halls that separated them. She could’ve walked the route in her sleep, though she’d barely been five days in Paradise. It was instinct to know where to find Rowan, when her thoughts buzzed in her ears or her heart felt hollow or she wanted that laugh to spark Lilith’s. She knocked before she entered, but she was certain Rowan wouldn’t refuse her. The girl never slept, her mind on a thousand things at once. 

People always expected Lilith to sleep naked, or in a fancy teddy, and when she was on, that might be her go-to. But tonight she was off, so very thrown off she was spinning, and she wore basic pajamas, a wine bottle in one hand and glasses in the other. If she was going to have any kind of weighty, emotional conversation, she was going to drink. Whether it got her drunk or not.

She closed the door and leaned against the frame, managing to carry her burdens rather gracefully in spite of their awkward weight. The sight of Rowan, looking decidedly un-Rowan-like, was enough to bench her own feelings for the time being. “Looking less than selfish, today, my star.” It was a stranger thing to say between any two people but them. To Lilith, the intent was clear: to care about Rowan was a top priority of hers, and she reminded Rowan that it should be a top priority for Rowan as well. To care about how others felt about her was beneath her, though that didn’t mean Lilith couldn’t understand the sentiment. 

Lilith set her wine down on the nearest surface as she moved closer, settling in beside the girl with almost a smile. “That will always be forgiven. Your tears, however…” her fingers were gentle, careful on Rowan’s jaw as she examined her, a fine, simmering rage in her blood at the sight. “There is no one on Earth I could forgive for those.” 

[rowanofwar]

    The reprieve that she had gotten was just that -- a reprieve. It was never meant to last long, but was a brevity in which the serrated edges of her mind were dulled by a comfort that she only seemed to find with Cain. Being the selfish, greedy creature of lore, it was expected of her to demand more. So she did; she would continue to seek it until the knot that seemed to hold her body hostage would loosen its grip. It had only been a mere couple of hours and yet she was unable to remember what it had felt like to feel untethered and free.  Once she had felt like a raging fire, eternally burning and now...well, now she felt rather put out. She felt it every time she shifted her body, every time it screamed in protest. Rowan, the demon of war, felt her blood thicken and drag in her veins each time she glanced at her marred face in the mirror, mottled splashes of color still fresh on her fair skin. 

    WHY? Why was this the one time she felt as if these markings she had earned didn’t belong? They didn’t belong on her despite the pride that she felt when demons glanced her way, eyes raking over her skin in silent acknowledgement of the victories that she had fought for. Bled for.  

    Had one, singular person been doing what was expected -- what she had believed him to be doing -- perhaps she wouldn’t have found Junia and Evangeline or Holly and Elijah. Perhaps her wings wouldn’t have been pulled at and her face wouldn’t have been clawed at. Perhaps her ribs wouldn’t be racked with pain and her lips split and swollen. Perhaps Alastair’s blood wouldn’t have stained her fingers and his wounds wouldn’t have stolen the very air from her lungs, feeding into the simmering rage that was still sustaining her. But divine as she was, she wasn’t GOD so she could not say what might or might not have occurred had he not betrayed her trust as thoughtlessly and coldly as he did.

    Not even the moment he had pushed her away from him had hurt her as keenly as this. Rarely did this little harbinger of doom place her trust in anyone at all, which meant that it was even more rare to have it broken. 

    Shattered to pieces. Smothered until she was able to feel its absence like the loss of oxygen in a human’s lungs. It was such an unfamiliar experience to her that she was at a loss as to what to do. The only thing that was reminiscent was when she had realized that her family would never understand her -- but there had been no trust placed in them anyway. So what she had felt was the loneliness of the singular pedestal that she had been placed on. There was no one for her to trust and, as a result, there was no trust to be lost. Betrayal, up until this moment, had been as foreign a thing as the sun was to the night sky. Which is to say it did not belong in the chasms of her mind. It’s grip on her heart needed to be loosened. 

    Who better to teach her the way to permanent, blessed relief than the demon who had turned her from a bramble to a rose? Who better to coach her through this wave of confusion and pain than the woman who was more familiar to her than her own mother had ever been? But until that time she seemed to be rooted in her seat, eyes staring at the wall in front of her as she tried to figure out where she had let her control slip through her fingers -- when the strings that had tethered her to him had been cut. If there was no such loyalty in the Kill Club, then what could she trust except in the brutality and steadfastness that Alastair had always, always shown her?

    Her eyes lifted the minute the door opened, goosebumps rising on her skin as her wet hair chilled her in the wake of the draft. While her lips might have curled into a smile ( for who else would she try to smile for but Lilith, the moon to her stars ) they remained steadfast in a frown of frustration. The frown only deepened when her gaze wandered over the pajama set, then fixated on the bottle of wine and glasses. Just as she felt decidedly un--Rowan-like, this image of Lilith was very much un-Lilith-like. Tucking a lock of wet hair behind her ear, she quickly went over the events that had occurred and wondered what could have put Lilith in such a state. To cause the moon to lessen its shine necessitated something happening to the sun -- so then who was Lilith’s sun?

    It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of Lilith’s touch brush against the cool trail that her tears had left that she realized she had been crying at all. The small vessel of war leaned into the comfort of her beloved’s touch, lips pressing together as she quickly wiped them away so as to ignore the fact that they were there at all. But to ignore something that needed fixing was futile, was it not? it was a stupid move and one thing she loathed to consider herself was stupid. So instead, she took Lilith’s hand into her own the warmth of one slowly sinking into the warmth of another. Comfort in return for comfort. “Truly no one on earth, Lilith?” She questioned as she tried to swallow the ugly confession that was clamoring to be relieved at the tip of her tongue. 

    “How does one get over the feeling of betrayal?” The question was there, plucked from her mind -- its vocalization offering a slight relief. “I am beaten and bruised and marred with the fights that occurred -- but what if they hadn’t been necessary had someone been there to help me? You know, I put so much faith and loyalty in my companions and the one whom I trusted the most -- the one who I believed in the most -- failed me. And now I have the marks to show for it. Is it wrong for me to feel betrayed?”

[voiceofthedamned]

Date: October 11th 

Location: Lucifer’s Mansion

Closed: @rowanofwar​

Shadows, sleepless in the soft lines of dimmed lights, danced across the lavish halls at every turn. Footfalls rustled across the glistening, wood floors of the manor in the ghost of a whisper emptied into the night. Closed doors remained deaf to the soft sounds gently echoing through the dark, ignorant to the subtle ruckus of a welcomed invader traveling down familiar halls. It would be easy, Gabriel supposed, to get lost among the twisting corridors of Lucifer’s manner.  However, Gabriel maintained his direction as he neared the object of his venture: an exterior door.

The evening had granted him the idea that perhaps a walk in the woods would do him well.

Despite the late hour, Gabriel had been unable to possess the tendrils of sleep forever slipping from his grasp. Thoughts better suited for repression sat unacquainted in the forefront of his mind, plaguing every breath that rattled through tightened lungs. The darkness invading his lavish room was far too heavy to be tolerable. It was as if the world was suddenly full of smoke, suffocating and disorienting with every inhale, as he continued to engage in the dangerous game he had once again found himself playing. Double crossing the devil – it had worked out fine when it had been God, after all.

Hands twitching in a nervous tic, Gabriel had the sudden awareness of eyes on him. A characteristically cocky smirk pulled at his lips as he stilled his footsteps and let his gaze wander across the shadows in search of another’s presence.

[rowanofwar]

    What were dreams to a demon? When she was a child, indoctrinated by the disciplined fantasies of the Roman Catholic Church, she had assumed that demons dreamed of what it would be like to be human. Then, as a human, they would be able to dream of what heaven might be like. While she, herself, had wondered about these things she had never held any desire to actually dream about heaven. It was an idea, a fantasy. Nothing more than the triflings of the vivid imagination of someone who could only imagine a heaven of their own creation, one in which she ruled and was revered. But apparently the God of this universe was a selfish one and the throne was made for one. It was this thought (among others) that was keeping 

       But apparently she wasn’t the only one who haunted the halls in a fit of restless musings.

     It was a flash of hair in the gleaming moonlight that initially caught her eye, her curiosity coaxing her closer. After a couple of seconds of debating, she indulged herself and drew closer -- out from the shadows. Placing her hands behind her back as he paused to allow her to draw near, the little woman of war raised her brow inquisitively. There was something to be said for this fallen angel -- in the most bibilical usage of the term. For that was what he was, someone who had fallen in order to keep his beloved wings, in order to keep what idea of dignity he had. Demons were incredibly villainous entities but to have traitor in their ranks was parasitic. Although, if motivated correctly, it could prove to be an invaluable asset. Gabriel could prove to be an invaluable asset. 

        That didn’t change the fact that she looked at him as if he were a necessary evil. 

    “Gabriel,” she demurred, lips curving upwards into an indulging smile. “what keeps you up and skulking the halls at this time of night?” Her hands glanced down towards his hands and she gently took them in her own, coaxing his palms open while trailing her slim fingers along the lines of his skin. “Nightmares? Memories? Both?”

[dochudson-blog]

Being looked at by Rowan was reminiscent of what he imagined it felt like to be examined beneath a microscope: invasive and a bit humbling, like being laid BARE for judgement. There was a certain distance in the way she regarded him, like he was the unusual specimen to be studied, to be discovered, and for the first time in his life, Wesley Hudson, a scientist in his own right, felt like the subject of an experiment far bigger than himself.

Humbling, indeed. Was this what it felt like to be a believer? If God had truly walked the Earth thousands of years prior, would He have looked upon him like that? Despite attending a Catholic school (sentimental or not, it was the best and only education his little hometown had to offer), he’d never read the Bible; he’d never blessed himself with the belief that he was doing anything more than wetting his forehead; and he’d never bowed his head out of anything more than RESPECT. Perhaps, if he’d treated what meager exposure to religion he’d had as more than a means to an end — something to be endured and tolerated until graduation day — he might know the answer. And perhaps he wouldn’t.

The past was such a troubling concept — reassuring in that it was concrete and worrisome in that what could’ve been was not. Dwelling on it endangered the future, yet so did disregarding it. A man had to learn when to cut his losses and push on.

And so he did. He trailed behind her like the concerned doctor he was, his light eyes only dipping down to their hands when, like a girl — a mortal girl, a (probably) DEAD girl — he’d once known, she released her grip on his wrist in favor of tucking her delicate fingers into the vacant spaces between his and smiled. And if she hadn’t spoken just then — if she hadn’t taken inventory of her injuries just as he’d essentially asked her to, he might’ve been LOST, swept away by nostalgia he’d tried his hardest to suppress since the Fall. It was sacred — she was SACRED, the closest thing to God he’d ever known, and he’d be DAMNED before he let this place soil her memory.

But even dragging him (a poor choice of words, as he’d gone willingly) to Church hadn’t been enough, and by God, if she hadn’t turned a man of science into a man of faith, Wesley was surely convinced nothing could.

And then — “They’re probably bruised.” Realizing a heartbeat later that he hadn’t clarified (her fingers tangled up in his were distracting in the way of something unexpected), he added, “Your ribs, I mean.” Her ribs would need time and rest, things she may not have been willing to give them, and the gashes in the porcelain skin of her cheek would be (somewhat) easily remedied; he could see to that immediately, but her wings —

She’d fallen quiet, he noticed, and whatever he’d meant to say (if he’d known of anything at all to say) died on his lips just then, a moment of reverence for a DEITY he was reluctant to believe in. Her steps slowed (his stride dwarfed hers, so it was only a matter of shortening his) until they’d both come to a stop in the middle of a hallway that could’ve been anywhere in the prison (he hadn’t been able to gauge which turns they’d taken, try as he might), but despite being something akin to lost in the labyrinth, the doctor didn’t fret about finding his way out.

He might’ve had more faith than he was willing to admit, but in whom?

“I, uh —” Before he could even think — let alone speak — a coherent response, she’d disentangled their fingers and settled his hands on the corners of her wings, the soft feathers and tight, swollen tendons undeniably REAL beneath his gentle touch. Fingers softly tracing the outline of her bones, he lingered in the spots that seemed abnormal (he’d only ever dealt with birds, after all) and dared to press down, blue eyes reluctantly tearing away from the damn near unbelievable sight before him to search her likeness for a reaction. “Sprained,” he exhaled, relieved that the right word (and not strange, for this certainly was) had escaped his lips.

Few things rendered the doctor truly speechless in a manner that wasn’t by choice, but AWE held his tongue now. It was harder than he’d expected to lift his hands from the most magnificent, peculiar thing he’d ever seen and felt for himself, but somehow, the part of Wesley Hudson that didn’t let himself get carried away by it all persevered — at least succeeding in getting his hands to fall to his sides. “I’ve only ever healed bird wings before,” he admitted quietly, the image of a bird with a homemade splint burned into the back of his mind. Humble beginnings and not-so-good ideas. “But I can try. There’s not much to do for a sprain, anyway, and everything else shouldn’t be a problem.”

[rowanofwar]

    It wasn’t often that she had a HEALER’S hands on her skin. No, every single hand that had trailed fingers along her limbs had been stained with blood at one point or another. When she was human she had practically hissed at physical contact, believing that the touch of lesser’s would only serve to disgust her -- and it did. It had disgusted her when the cobbler’s boy’s lips had pressed against her cheek and when the baker’s son had held her delicate fingers in his grubby little stubs. Each time they had touched her, she had told herself to swallow the bile that had risen in her throat and endure it. So she had endured it for every single year that she had been cursed as a human on the earth. But when Wesley touched her...when he touched the soft feathers of her wings, she did not feel the bitterness coat her tongue. No, instead she felt a hum of pleasure escape her lips as something gentle pressed their warmth onto her wings. 

    Pulling her hair to the side, she waited for him to say something until she realized that she had rendered him utterly speechless. Was he really so enraptured by the moment that she had inadvertently taken away his ability to formulate a sentence? Her brow peaked as she turned her head to look back at him, wide blue hues curious as to what his reaction might be. When the little, worn vessel of war caught sight of his expression, she couldn’t help but bite her lip to stifle the laugh of amusement. “The world has come to an essential end and this is what surprises you, darling Wesley? How curious -- in a rather foolish way. Curious in the way that Don Quixote was a rather curious man.” She rectified, not wanting him to think of himself as anything special. Rowan was not one who found humans to be curious things and yet this singular exception was trailing the pads of his fingers along her down feathers. 

     There were plenty of curious things in the world for her to explore, after all; his psyche was now added to that ever growing list of things that made her skin burn with the need to understand. 

    But the need was quieted when she felt his hand lift from her wings, her body immediately moving as if to stop it. There would be no excuse for her to offer -- Rowan liked having her wings touched by Wesley. To have pure hands that have tried to do nothing but GOOD touch her, the vessel of war and ruin? It bespoke of future corruption and depravity. As a demon it was her duty to see what she could do to further it and foster it. Was it not? After all, she was being uncommonly kind by bestowing this favor and unveiling his eyes to the inevitable misfortune that was guaranteed to befall him. Rowan was doing him a favor by gently pushing away the veil of doubt that hung over his gaze, she was doing him a good by throwing him into the fray of the new world. What a benevolent divinity she was. 

      Turning around in order to face him, the small redhead lifted her chin as she gazed up at him. Her fingers gently caressing the curve of his jaw. Such a sweet, pure man was he that he sought to genuinely aid the black wings that marked as something depraved. “A bird’s wings are not so different from mine,” she mused, her gaze fixated on his as she searched for that tremor of fear that close proximity with a demon always managed to evoke. “Save for the fact that I earned them and they were not a gift from God -- but of the Devil.” 

    There was a pause as she stroked his cheek with her thumb, eyes dropping to the path that her fingers had traced. “Aren’t you afraid of me, Wesley? Why do you wish to help me when you know I am perfectly capable of helping myself?”

      Her fingers fell away from his face before he could answer her question, her fingers twining with his once more as she remembered that she had places to be and things to do that did not involve foolish humans. Yet she was not entirely done prodding and prying at the mind of this man, who seemed to ridiculously set on the notion of helping her. Did mice help the cats that batted and clawed at them? Did he really have such little self preservation in him?

[toodlooooo-deactivated20171217]

i am the wildfire that will burn your villages, i am the artillery that will murder your soldiers, i am the storm that will crash through your countryside and knock your stone towers to the ground like they are worthless. like this is a game to me. (and truly, with my strategy, the way i move and the way i breathe, the way my words cut deeper than your swords every could: all you can do is sit back and watch me set fire to everything you love.) i am the creature that will rip your heart straight from your chest, tear your lungs from behind your ribcage, and, with a laugh as wicked as the arctic wind, will lick the blood from my lips and scrub the sins from my hands like i never lost control. i am a being forged from hot iron, pure steel; a steadfast desire to conquer. i am built to destroy, to wreck, to ruin. i will not bow to you. i will not cower in your presence.

i will respect your ruler when he shows his worth // a.h (via aphroditce)

[rowanofwar]

Drink Me

Drink Me: I will write a drabble about my character taking shots with yours.

BONUS AU: Holly and Rowan are a con artist duo that are determined to set the world aflame.

    “Doesn’t this one look too sketchy for us?” Holly muttered questioningly, glittering eyelids sparkling in the neon light as she squinted through the windows of the club that looked as if they could have been covered in either perspiration or grime. It was probably a little bit of both considering the amount of people that were in there. But where the people and alcohol were, the cash was bound to be also. So it was time for the people inside of the grimy-ass bar to buckle up because they were going to be in for one wild night. The poor souls probably didn’t even realize what kind of vixens were going to be raining on their parade. “Can’t we go hit up that – what was it, some sort of club with all the frat guys – the fancy one again! Those guys texted me, they didn’t even seem to notice that their American Express cards were missing.”

    “What are we – high class escorts? Nuh uh, honey, you know that we can’t be choosy and you know better than I, my dear Supergirl, that where the money goes we follow.” Grabbing her other half by the shoulders, she gently shook her. Not the dramatic ‘COME BACK TO ME’ sort of shake, but a more ‘get your shit together so we can rob this place’ sort of shake. “Okay, okay, time to get our heads in the game –” she cringed as the High School Musical lyrics continued in her head – “and remember why we’re here. These people are privileged assholes and we’ve got bills to pay and sights to see, right? Right.” Flicking her hair off of her shoulder she looked Holly in her bright, baby blue eyes, grasping her hands in partial reassurance and partial self-assurance. 

    This night could either end up with them in a cell for the night of with cash in their pockets. But she was with Holly. That’s all that mattered. That was all that would ever matter. 

     Why? Because it was the two of them against the world – and with odds like that nothing would ever stand in their way. But Holly did not share the same sense of bullheaded confidence that Rowan did. No, Holly was a much better person than Rowan but even she knew that being a nice person didn’t pay the bills. Not in this world. Not in this day and age. So she saw that it was necessary for a bit of liquid courage before operation Jack Sparrow (’Take what you can, give nothing back’) came into full swing. Holding up her finger, she pulled a flask out of her bag and took a swig before handing it to her Supergirl. 

    “Nothing like a bit of liquid courage before a night of 21st century pillaging!” The redhead crowed as she looped her arm through her blonde less-than-enthusiastic companion.

[rowanofwar]

Drabble Me

Leave a “Amuse Me” in my ask, and I will write a funny drabble about my character trying to cheer your up.

Leave a “Break Me” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Call Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character asking for yours [be it at the brink of death/in a battlefield/knocking on the front door wounded, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Drink Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character taking shots with yours.

Leave a “Enamor Me” in my ask, and I will write a fluffy drabble about my character trying to woo yours [be it out of the blue/Valentines Day,feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Leave a “Get Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character saving yours.

Leave a “Haunt Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours[as a ghost, watching from a distance, or otherwise, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Invite Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character asking your character to

Leave a “Join Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving your character an offer [be it a proposal for an alliance, asking them to join them in an activity (you can get dirty if you want), feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Kill Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character killing yours.

Leave a “Love Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a fluffy drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Mourn Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character mourning your character’s death.

Leave a “Nurse Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours.

Leave a “Offer Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving yours a gift.

Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character drawing a picture of yours [like one of your french girls~ be it painting them or drawing them, maybe offering a picture of them as a gift, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Quite Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to calm yours down [be it from crying, from lashing out, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Remember Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to get yours to remember them [be it from an accident, meeting them after years apart, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Shag Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a dirty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours [be it a love confession, a secret, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Unbind Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character freeing mine, or the other way around, or something among the lines [be it freeing them from jail, from handcuffs, from a trap, from a curse, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “Value Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character telling yours how they feel about them.

Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our character under the subject of wedlock [be it my character proposing to yours, or marrying yours, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “X Me” in my ask, and I will write whatever it is that you wish, [specify.]

Leave an “Yahoo Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our characters celebrating something [feel free to specify.]

Leave an “Zip Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character dressing mine, or the other way around [this can also be used for shutting them up as well, but feel free to specify.]

[olivedunham]

I have known hunger— gnawing, clawing, unfurling, flawless. Violet violence blooming, petals under moonstone skin, I live and bleed in poppy ink. Run, run, run from my red-white mouth. I am holy excess. I am the awful fever. Copper coating your throat, rage at a heady simmer— I overflow. My mind spills bloody wonder.

THE KILL SWITCH // R.K. (via alex-reagan)

[rowanofwar]

LACHESISM —  N.   THE DESIRE TO BE STRUCK BY DISASTER.

Date: October 7th

Time: 3:06 AM

Location: Lucy’s Manor ( Slice ‘Em And Dice ‘Em Fitness Center AKA the Basement )

Closed: @thesaintofsin

        Sleep was a fanciful concept -- a fool’s dream at this point. 

    She had been able to catch snippets of it when she wasn’t making sure that Alastair didn’t get into another row with some demon that managed to rub him the wrong way. Hopefully her obvious concern for his health and well-being would cool any hot-blooded encounters that occurred in the few hours she wasn’t at his side. There were moments where she fell asleep for a couple of minutes, only to be shaken awake by Daniel who would tell her that her attention was needed elsewhere. The best reprieves she was able to obtain were the few hours she could spend tucked against Cain, trading in lustful pleasures for restless naps that always had her waking up with the feeling of her falling. In Tartarus there was the character of Tantalus who always had the prospect of food taunted in front of his face, the image of drink right there before his thirsting lips. He was never able to indulge or slate his hunger and thirst, but the idea of it was tortuously dangled right in front of him. Rowan was the earthly equivalent except the one thing that she seemed to never be able to obtain was sleep. 

    There was no reason for her to analyze why, she knew exactly why she wasn’t sleeping but she was not going to address it. The lack of sleep she was getting was going to recede at some point or another, just like the multiple lacerations that were ribboning along her body. It was going to become a thing of the past -- there was a salve she could put on this wound and it was just a matter of finding it. So instead of tossing and turning in her bed ( which she had not visited for numerous, easily believable reasons ) she had sought to become more productive in the ungodly hours of the morning. Rowan had spent hours staring up at the ceiling, fixating on the errors that she had made when engaging with her adversaries. There was the moment where she had gotten too confident and traded in power for accuracy. The time when she had exchanged precision for speed. It was these intricacies that she began to obsess over in the late hours of the night, when other much more painful thoughts threatened the chasms of her mind. Fighting was a careful dance that could only be perfected through practice -- and what better time to practice than the Witching Hour?

    He was guaranteed to not be there anyway ( it had been 6 days since their last encounter and she was hoping that the number would continue to grow ). She knew he wasn’t going to be asleep unless he had taken up the bed of another -- but she knew that he wasn’t going to be there. No one was there at this time of the night and with that promise of solitude she found herself coaxed into the gym. With her hair tied up and a towel around her neck, the little redhead made her way down into the basement. While she made her way to the room, she thought about who else she might find to help her blow off the steam that had been boiling under her skin since the beginning of the month. Lilith would probably be willing, albeit there was the promise of grumbling and snappishness to follow. Daniel was likely asleep ( and she hoped he was ), as were the rest of her companions save for Cain. But Cain wouldn’t be too keen about the prospect of having Rowan’s fist fly his way. By the time she reached the basement it was too late for her to go back up and knock on someone’s door -- while the wrath might be worth it, the promise of solitude was too enticing in this moment. There was something to savor about the quiet of the room as she flicked on the lights. 

    The music was so loud that it caused the air around her to shift and vibrate, moving her before she was completely aware she was moving at all. Pushing herself to her physical limit allowed her mind to become a blissfully blank piece of canvas on which she could paint images of red, auburn, and burgundy. The sweat that pulled at her collar bone and the base of her neck were signs of the physical exertion, badges that she wore proudly despite the fact that no one else was there to witness it. They shined against the red lacerations and the mottled bruises that bedecked her fair skin like jewels on a gown. Although she was in a state of perpetual physical exhaustion, she was determined to push herself further until she had no choice but to make whatever god of sleep there was carry her into his kingdom. Until that moment occurred, however, she was going to make sure that every minute she spent awake was going to be productive. Productiveness came in the form of the vessel of war decimating a dummy punch after punch, kick after kick. It was a freeing experience as she watched its body curve under her fist -- and if she imagined, she  could imagine feeling the skin break under her knuckles, the blood give way and prepare itself for being unleashed, bones breaking --

               “Damnú air.” Shit. She muttered under her breath as she felt her face harden into stone.

    He literally had her backed into a corner. How she had not noticed the music turn off was a mystery -- it was when she felt him standing behind her that she whirled around, her gaze meeting his with a cold fury that had been straining in her since the first of the month. Did he not see that he was only going to make this more difficult for himself? Was he really so keen as to have utter disaster rain down on him in the form of her wrath? Perhaps this was the type of ruin that had been promised to Paris before he made the foolish decision of begging for Helen at his side. What had become of that except the fall of Troy. Her eyebrows drew together as she stared at him in silence, grabbing the towel on the floor and laying it across her neck as she examined him. Now she could compare him to others who had obviously gone through a more trying time after the event had played out. There was Lilith who had weariness etched into her features, Cain whose pain could be found in his eyes, and Alastair who wore his scars like the sun in the clear morning blue sky. And what had Gale worn? The guilt of a man who had left her his companions to fight alone for the Devil-knows-what.

    And to make it clear that she had taken the brunt of his choices, she did not throw a shirt on to cover the array of bruises that painted the skin of her ribs and did nothing to hide the scratches that ran along her neck and chest. It wasn’t as if she could anyway. But when looking at him became too painful ( for that is the only word accurate enough to describe it ), she went to move around him, seeking a means of escape. If he stood in her way then he was only asking for ruin. 

    “You can have the place to yourself. I was going to bed anyway.”

[praenuntius-blog1]

Elijah kept his tongue at more of Rowan’s taunting, his jaw clenching hard enough that his teeth hurt. ‘Black sheep’ he wanted to refute it but his blood was boiling. He could feel it like fire on his skin, like he’d felt hundreds of years ago. He couldn’t deny that he was lying in front of Holly. He was no saint, he had a monster inside him that had his body shaking with the effort it took to not just let it free; not just let it decimate whatever came into its path.

Oh how it wanted free; no longer did the monster inside Elijah want to be chained to complacency.

Elijah’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown so big that the green of his eyes was but a thin ring. Was it just hatred he was feeling? Was it a sick pleasure in knowing his own hands had caused pain? He was sure he had, even with Rowan not giving much indication that his blitzed strikes had caused her any, Elijah knew enough that about the amount of resistance his hands had been given. He knew enough to know there would be pain and bruising on her for at least a while after this.

    Rowan lunged at him. Rowan kissed him.

Not with a fist, but with her mouth. Elijah’s eyes stuttered wider in the few moments their lips were touching. His mind went blank until he was brought back to the reality he was facing, until he was brought back with violence.

    An elbow to the face.

A sickening crunch of the cartilage of his nose, his teeth slicing through the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and blood pouring out signaled the damage that she’d done. Blackness flashed across his vision from the force of the hit - Elijah knew he’d have two pretty black eyes to match his if not broken, then nearly broken nose. He didn’t have the time to think, he was trying so hard to keep his control, keep what little he’d gained in his bid for Rowan to let him and Holly go.

    Shit. Holly.

There was only a moment of clear vision afforded to Elijah before Rowan tripped him. The back of his head connected with the floor with an audible crack - stars jumping across his vision - and the hard floor against the raised scars on him back from where his wings had been severed shot pain through his back to his chest. He lay for a second, trying to keep himself calm, trying to not let the pain wear down the control he had on his anger.

He rolled, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Fuck did he hurt. “Rowan,” his voice cracked, getting a twin tone to it; distorted just a little, if one were to listen, “just let her go. I don’t want to do this.”

He flicked his eyes up to where Rowan had dragged Holly, a little spit of blood in the white of his eyes, and a lot more of it pouring down his chin from both his nose and split lip. “Holly, I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

[h-gilmore-blog]

Holly had almost made it – almost. Granted, from the corner of her eyes she saw the assault, the way the redheaded monster kissed him ( as if to steal his soul ). The ballerina could stop and stare, however… no, no she was far too selfish. Her eyes were glued to the door, her feet quietly slipping past; and if there hadn’t been that nagging voice in her mind ( the curiosity that would surely kill her one day ) to turn around. To see whether or not the poor angel trying to protect her had been - okay? ALIVE? 

However, snapping her head back towards Elijah’s direction had been a BIG MISTAKE. The girl witnessed the way Rowan elbowed the poor angel in the face and the ballerina almost tripped as a result. The sight had slowed her down, but also propelled her to reach for the door – to get away from the demonic presence in the room. And while victory had been seconds away, Holly’s hand couldn’t quite reach the door handle fast enough for her hair had been pulled, causing her to tumble backwards. 

(  Next time, my little cherub, take a hint and stay where you are )

The pain had been sudden, much like her shrieking. Despite being pulled backwards ( and feeling like her scalp would rip off at any given moment ) Holly wasn’t about to fall so easily. They had dragged her into Paradise against her will, their claws digging into her skin while she screamed in hysterics. Surely, this time the girl wasn’t giving up without a little fight. Her hands scratched at the demon, her nails trying to dig into the enemy’s skin ( trying to make the sinner bleed ). Holly wouldn’t stop squirming, she wouldn’t make this easy by any means. 

“.. let. me. GO!” 

Her nails sank deeper, not caring for the damage they might cause. Holly wanted these demons to suffer; she wanted them to bleed, didn’t she? Perhaps this had been one her given chance, and by all means the blonde wasn’t about to let it slip out of her grasp. In her struggle for freedom, she happened to hear Elijah’s apology ( and wanted him to shut up immediately ). These angels needed to learn that they were NOT at fault. If anything, these beasts owed her apologies. They should’ve begged for forgiveness, for stealing her life.

“ – don’t, Elijah. Just - don’t apologize.”

And the suppressed anger made Holly even more unbearable, her hands reaching for the redheaded monster, hoping to leave marks everywhere ( just like they left scars on her body ). An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, right? And while the door kept getting further and further away, Holly felt like she had been winning ( if only for a moment ) especially when she felt blood on her nails – a demon’s fresh coat of blood. 

[rowanofwar]

    Had she not been so distracted by the flailing human, Rowan might have taken the moment to appreciate how well she was playing Elijah. It was as if he were a grand piano -- and she, the learned master that played it as well as Salome played with people’s hearts. Was it her imagination or did his voice sound distorted? Perhaps it was wishful thinking that she saw his eyes flicker black for the merest of seconds. Maybe it was a trick of the eye that made her see such things but if Divine Grace was coming into play, then perhaps she was clawing at his psyche more efficiently than she had first assumed. The promise of the hold that she might have on him was something that was too enticing, that was too distracting for her to focus on. It was a moment that she was too tuck away for later review because --

        -- the little kitten in her grip was trying to prove to Rowan that she had claws. 

    Rowan arched a dubious brow as she felt her skin burn under Holly’s fingernails, hauling her up by the hair so that she might look into the human’s eyes. “Asking an angel not to apologize is like asking you humans not to suck up all the oxygen in the room in hopes that it gets to your brain.” Those were the last words to be said as the redhead grabbed the girl by the throat and shoved her against the wall so that stars might swim in the other’s eyes. It would be unfair for Rowan to do anymore, but boring of her to do any less. At least this way, she could guarantee that Holly would not do anything so stupid as to make another attempt towards the exit. Did she not realize that the demon was trying to do her a favor -- another attempt towards the exit meant bones would be broken and she was loathe to do that to a mere child. 

    Now her attention was free to turn back towards her little black sheep. With her hands on her hips, she turned to him, making remarkably large strides for someone who was so small. “Now, my little lamb,” she began, as she walked towards him, “we can either do this the fun way or the foolish way -- which would you prefer?” Then she stopped right in front of him, bright blue hues looking into far more pure ones. There was a brief pause as she looked at him, a smile still on the corner of her lips despite the multiple lacerations that now bled on her neck and chest thanks to the incapacitated human. During this reprieve she considered just taking him in now, knowing that he would most likely be complacent as a sheep being shepherded into its pen. 

    But then she heard footsteps approach and the thought was whisked away -- any promise of mercy along with it. 

    “Fun way it is.” And with that she grabbed him by the shirt, turned him around so that his back was facing her, shoved him against the wall with her knee pressing against his back. Then she grabbed his arm and pressed against his shoulder until she felt it give way -- and just as quickly she shoved it back into its socket.  It was enough to cause him enough pain so that he might not be willing to fight, but not enough so as to make him completely black out. Unless he had a low pain tolerance -- in that case, she was not to blame if he fainted. A quick kiss was pressed to his cheek ( a reminder, a promise of further ruin to come ) as she pulled away to look at the oncoming figure. 

    “Salome!” She called out, a ghost of a smile on her features. “Glad you could join the party on such a short notice -- unfortunately, it seems as if it’s drawing to a close.”

[divinum-venenum-blog]

She had known, of course, that Rowan once thought Isabella showed promise. Who better to share that information with than the person who had first seen true promise in Rowan herself? But then she’d become human, and more than that, she’d become weak, softened by the human heart she’d been given. It had been centuries and more since Lilith was mortal, but even then, she had not had much weakness in her. She had been planned for destruction and found purpose within it, and she could not reconcile the idea of Isabella losing her own. To make a decision was to stand by it. If she hadn’t wanted to be caught doing anything DANGEROUS, she shouldn’t have said she was up to the task, should she?

Lilith remained unsurprised by Isabella’s weak pleading, though it was yet another nail in her metaphorical coffin. Laying the blame on others, refusing to take responsibility… it was decidedly un-demonlike. It was in a demon’s nature to be selfish, and had she merely said, ‘I was looking out for my own interests,’ it might have eased her fate, with Lilith, anyway. What Rowan implied seemed true as anything to her – just as a lioness’ nature was to kill the gazelle, so too was Isabella’s to lie and keep secrets. Decent qualities in a spy, but not if she couldn’t reveal information at the correct discretion. She was useless if she couldn’t find a way to convey information of importance.

Watching as Isabella was pulled away, Lilith’s smile was all indulgence as Rowan cut out the girl’s air supply. The thing she’d learned about sparring with Rowan was that she liked to tussle. It didn’t matter what she had to use to win because she liked the fight. Lilith, meanwhile, fought as though she couldn’t wait for it to end – as a result, she was a fan of cutting the knees out from under her opponent before they had a chance to fight back. Rowan, with perfect synchronicity, seemed ready to throw Isabella to the ground in an expertly calibrated routine.

“Astute, as always,” she agreed, linking her arm with Rowan’s a moment, as if they were teenage girls in a school hall. It was in an effort to lean close, though at the same time, she made sure to place her stiletto heel, sharp and thin, against Isabella’s neck, effectively pinning her to the ground with hardly a glance. If the girl fought back, tried to move her leg, she would quickly realize that with age came strength, and Isabella was pathetically young. “What would fit the situation best, do you think? Her eyes, so her beloved camera becomes meaningless? That wouldn’t serve our liege very well, maybe. Her ears, since she seems to be loathe to use them? Her tongue, possibly, since she hasn’t bothered to hand over anything useful, anyway. You know her better than I do, love; what would lovely Isabella find unbearable to part with?” 

[turncoatsilver-deactivated20180]

There was, quite simply, no way out. Isabella had recognized that at the very start, and let it guide her actions. She had thought, knowing something of Rowan, that there would be no game to play if she begged, for what did the other despise more than an easily won game? It had seemed sound enough, a strategy to work with when only given moment’s advance notice of the necessity of having one. Yet, it was doing her little good, the blame for which she laid squarely at Lilith’s feet. It was the extra variable, the unknown in all this for Isabella that made things change in an unpredictable fashion. She didn’t care for it, but there was nothing to do except adapt.

If the defensive did her no good, then she had nothing left but to fight in whatever fashion she was afforded.

The decision was solidified on the back of Rowan’s croon, a thing that was enough to set her teeth on edge. Perhaps it was the slowness of her decision, or perhaps it simply didn’t matter, but before she could even do a damned thing with her newly made choice, Rowan stepped forward. What followed happened quickly, but even so, it all seemed so slow. It was surreal, in a fashion, to have time slow in a cinematographic way, where the quickest of actions slowed simply to heighten their effect. It was as if her mind was saying to her, remember this moment, it is where everything goes horrible wrong. Neck was yanked back, the action too quick, too unexpected for her to resist in any meaningful fashion. Yet, what followed literally took her breath away. If asked later to describe what Rowan had done, she honestly would not have been able to describe it except for the effect – pressure and pain at her throat followed by an overwhelming desire to gasp for air. This was only the beginning, a thing she knew the way she knew her own name. It was simply fact.

And in the aftermath, even as she struggled to breathe, she aimed fingernails for Rowan’s arm, the one nearest to her as it extended to the hand that held her hair. Nails long enough to do damage bit into the other’s skin for singular moments before the other’s last gesture threw her off balance entirely, forcing her backward to the ground, landing her flat on her back, though in a moment of uncharacteristically quick reflexes, she managed to bend her knees entirely and lift her head and neck slightly off the ground, starting the process of sitting up, before she felt the press of Lilith’s stiletto heel, preventing any further movement. She wasn’t stupid enough to risk the physical any further, it simply wasn’t her strength, so she forced herself to think quickly and use words instead as she tried to formulate a reply to what the other was saying, all the while breathing heavier to compensate for what had already been endured.

“I don’t have my camera,” she said first, words spewing out from her in a torrent of bitterness the moment she had enough air in her lungs to speak once more and not simply breathe. And the bitterness wasn’t hard to find; it would have been a lie to say she wasn’t desperately missing the weight of a camera (her camera) within her palm and the comfort it brought her. “It’s buried somewhere in Iraq where I died and I’ve yet to see an acceptable substitute appear in Paradise. Maybe you should get your facts straight, Lilith. It isn’t very threatening when you’re wrong.” This was all bravado, but then, even with a stiletto heel at her neck, she had decided to fight and intended to make good on it in whatever fashion she could. Plus, she still believed in the phrase fake it ‘till you make it. It was how she had managed half the personas she held in Paradise.

And with the refrain in her mind that they ultimately could not displease Lucifer, a modified snippet from Lilith’s speech that hit home, she found herself staring up at Lilith defiantly, the hints of a smirk in the corners of her mouth as if to say, oh how you’ve misunderstood. The question wasn’t aimed at her, it was technically Rowan’s to answer, but she spoke in response anyway, seeing no reason to remain silent. “I’ve already parted with my wings,” she said, voice dripping with condescension as if to say, surely you should have known that would be the most unbearable thing to lose. “Nothing else matters,” she spat out lastly, words holding the sound of absolute certainty even as they were anything but. After all it was a lie, but also a truth. What was left of the demon in her was entirely aware that any harm dealt to her was ultimately transient. However, the parts of her thoughts that had come to embrace or embody humanity protested loudly. She was no martyr, and the idea of suffering in an even marginally permanent fashion for this was appalling. However, it ultimately wasn’t her choice and she was all but doomed to be harmed in such a fashion, she knew. After all, she was at the mercy of two rather merciless creatures.

[rowanofwar]

    It was her job to know her enemy; as intimately, thoroughly, and meticulously as Alastair knew his set of knives she was supposed to know her enemy. Which was why Isabella’s taunting words did nothing to her -- she knew it was a desperate grasp for protection and power in the face of the cold wrath that Lilith and Rowan held at the tips of their fingers. They held it like a loaded gun, their fingers itching to pull the trigger. What did people usually do when the barrel of a gun was pressed to their head? They talked. Isabella, being as human as she was, was no exception to this. So when she opened her mouth, Rowan merely smirked, oblivious to the blood that was beginning to dot along her arm. How was she to pay attention to that when the main show was right in front of her? 

    With her arm twined with Lilith’s, she stood with a vivid smirk on her face. Like a cat who had caught a canary, the two women stood above the raven haired human -- one with a stiletto to her neck and the other considering which weakness to exploit next. Rowan twisted her hair around her finger, tugging it as she mused on Lilith’s suggestions. They were, undoubtedly, very good suggestions but none of them were enough. None of them would be enough -- none of them would leave the right taste of bitterness on Isabella’s tongue every time she looked in the mirror or looked at her wound. So her lips pressed together as she finally released the lock of hair around her finger, head resting on Lilith’s shoulder. But the moment that Isabella dared to turn her barbed words towards her companion, Rowan stiffened. 

    Slipping away from Lilith’s arm, she crouched down by Isabella, quiet as she continued to berate the dark muse that had taken Rowan under her wing. Her fingers trailed from the raven haired woman’s shoulder, her nails lightly scratching along the fragile skin. It was enough to let the other know where her path was, but not enough to break the surface of her flesh and draw blood. “You have such wonderful ideas, Lilith,” she sighed, eyes never leaving the little raven’s, “but I do believe that there is one thing our dear little traitor will loathe us for should we deprive her of it. See, darling, we want to take our time with this one. Her wings were ripped away from her too soon -- and so we must make reparations for such a quick death, don’t you think?”

    Rowan examined the place in which her finger had found its finish line: her little raven’s fragile wrist. Then, without forewarning, she pressed her knee against Isabella’s elbow and began to apply pressure -- slowly and without pause. She did not stop until -- there it was -- the definitive snap that told her she had broken it. Only after she heard the resounding snap was when she stepped away, her head cocked to the side as she waited to listen to her little birdy sing a much different tune. “I feel like I need to explain why my dear Isabella would feel greatly deprived without her wrist. The little lamb depends on it for her writing and without it we have deprived her of a form of communication. But let us keep in mind that this will be the first of many things to come. First take away her writing, then take away -- what? Only the future will tell.”  

   Turning towards Lilith, she slipped her hand into the other’s. Isabella, as per usual, was beginning to lose her entertainment value. There were better, more promising events occurring inside the prison and she was loathe to miss out on it simply because of a disappointing demon-turned-human. And to think, she had once thought that the female showed something like promise. “I think I have had my fill of this one.” Rowan looked down at her little raven, mouth that had once curled into a grin now set into a light frown of disappointment. “She is only a reminder of something that could have been. A stain of something that now leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I can assure you, my darling, that we will find something more lasting and much more entertaining at the prison.” 

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Rainbow [Something Unique for Our Muses]: Alastair & Rowan (@rowanofwar)

The prince fought valiantly.        He slayed the dragon.              The princess cried for days.                      She loved that dragon. (x)