It's the only time Corvina is gentle. She is very careful with her partners, making sure they are okay, drawing them a bath, making them some tea. She cleans any wounds she left behind.
💋do they like to kiss while having sex? do they cuddle afterward?
Yes, she loves kissing during sex. It's not gentle, loving kisses - Corvina much prefers messy kisses with tongue and teeth, barely room to breathe. Cuddling? No. She is not a cuddler, at all.
[ aftercare ] ― what are they like after sex? any specific routine they have for themselves or their partner that they like to do?
Depends on how feral the sex was. Corvina normally draws a bath for her partner, washes them and massages their bones. She makes sure they have enough water and food in them before letting them sleep. For herself? Not much of a routine. She is a carer, not responsible.
What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?
Fight. There's not a single bone in Corvina's body that wants to flight, no matter how weak or hurt she might be. Don't ever try to scare her, because she will hold no punches.
She wore the same face, like she hasn't aged a day. Her voice sounded all the same too. Those lines on her hands, and the way her shoulders sunk low. Her hair, that always smelled nice — of home, and comfort. Was this a cruel joke? Was it all coming back to bite him in the ass? The toying around. Messing with the brains of those silly humans.
It's not funny. Stop.
He found it ironic, that power capable of unfolding the most frightning nightmares traced his fingertips, power he had wielded since he was in the single digits of life and it was now laughing in his face.
Wake up, Riven. Wake up.
He'd scream if he could, but he couldn't find his voice.
Riven felt like he was shrinking, getting smaller and smaller, clothes too big on him now, shoes too loose around small feet. He was turning into that boy again. The one that couldn't speak. What's wrong with him? Is he mute? It's been months. Faces, and voices of people he couldn't bring himself to care about. Faces and voices of people — and none of them were his mother. None of them looked like her, or talked like her, or smelled like her.
But this — whoever, whatever this was — felt just like her.
"Don't call me that." a beat, "You are not my mother." his eyes were red with tears.
He refused to believe there was a world in which his mother abandoned him. A world in which she put him to bed, kissed him goodnight and walked out of his life. Riven struggled to breathe. Hands went to his eyes, fingers digging into those sockets almost blinding him. A cry so agonisingly shuttering ripping from him, like an animal getting torn limb by limb.
"Why — Why are you doing this to me?"
Could he tell she was not the mother he remembers? Could he see the beast lurking beneath the surface? The danger? The fear?
She halts at his reaction - falters, trembles. Wishes to hide herself, run and run and run and keep running until her legs give out. Did Riven inherit his father temper? His perchance for aggression? No. Not her little bird, not her dear Riven. Corvina knows him better than she knows herself - despite the years apart, her soul would recognize his in a dark room. This is her son, her boy, she doesn't need to flinch. And he doesn't need to run from her.
"Riven, it's me," she begs, "it's mama."
Corvina suddenly realizes her little bird inherited her madness - Her agitation, her distrust of reality. It's the weight of their power, the burden they bear. She doesn't remember what would pull her out of her delusions, when the nightmares would wrap themselves around her like a fog, unwilling to let her go. Smells, touch - She didn't trust her hands, now. They were not the hands of a mother, but a monster. Something unworthy of touching her little prince. Her legacy.
"Riven, I'm here. I'm real." Believe me, please believe me. She couldn't stand it anymore - she never could, when it came to her Riven; when he was but a babe, Corvina would pick him up at any sound of discomfort he made - hold him close to her chest, hum to him a lullaby passed down to her by her mother. She would never leave him to cry it out. Now, her legs move before her self-hatred can petrifie her, arms pulling him into her hold just as she did when he was a kid. "I'm here, baby." She begins humming the song from so many years ago, hoping it is enough to pull him out of his own mind.
Her eyes close for a moment as her name still hangs in the air, letting out a harsh exhale through her nose as her jaw works. And when she opens them she sees the woman of her faint, twisted memories stalk across the coffee shop. She watches as she picks up her order and moves towards her. She’s still as gorgeous as she left her. Aged, yes, but gorgeous. And hasn’t she aged too, eyes colder.
Lovers coming and going, she remembers their names, but never their scent. Not like she remembers her. Her heart only beats this way for the feral beast stalking towards her. She glances down at the drink set on the table, perhaps she had been bracing for the scalding abomination to douse her skin. Maybe she feels as if she deserves it too. But the pain never comes. At least not in a physical sense, the way the sight of her, the burn of hatred in her eyes. It’s all justified.
As she slips her phone back into her hand, fingers grazing she feels heated. Thoughts of those same hands, warm, caressing. Strong and loving. It’s too close, she is too close. That small fucking apartment. Fucking Massachusetts. Fucking Corvina. She craves warm eyes and steady lips. Hands in her hair and the way their hearts beat as one.
Dark eyes trail her once lover as Corvina so boldly takes the seat across from her as if her eyes don’t hold anything but contempt. The first sound of her voice, a delicate melody even with its sharp edges. It’s spite. “You said no…” she breathes out as an answer, as an explanation. “You told me no.”
Something vicious gripped her by the throat ⸻ an anger so familiar she welcomes it as an old friend. She cannot blame the wolf for this desire to create a black hole; it has always been just Corvina. Her need to destroy suppressed every other urge daring to climb within the pits of her spine. Ambrose had rarely been under such displays of violence; the younger woman seemed to mute every other instinct Corvina was plagued by ⸻ only the longing for having her in her arms stayed.
Now, her teeth beg to bite and rip anew. "And you didn't listen," she spits out, more wolf than woman, more beast than ex-lover. Bitterness dripped from her words like oil, a dam rupturing from stress. Thunders roar in her ears, and she shifts, uncomfortably, in her seat. "Now, we are both here." Small world, all that fucking prissy cunt bullshit. A growl escapes dry lips, tongue burning under the hot coffee she swallows in a long gulp. Why is she here? There's nothing left to say between them, nothing to be done.
Still, something pulls her to Ambrose, whispers her name in the sweetest voice she could imagine. The beast desires, and the woman is no match for its strength. "Have you found what you've been looking for?"
It’s like any other morning after an eighteen hour, she’s exhausted, hair pulled up into a messy bun and scrubs still on under her leather jacket. But she feels good, she feels accomplished. She deserves this stupid fucking overpriced sugar bomb that they claim is a latte. And so what if it’s pumpkin, better get her basic bitch on than punch someone in the throat for saying ’Hi’.
She’s sitting off to the side, scrolling through her phone, a small smirk on her face and nearly chuckling as she scrolls through Nikko’s Twitter feed, god that boy was something else. And then it happens a single name, and her whole world tilts. It’s not something common, and she’s only known one person in her life it belonged to. But that was impossible, she’d left Corvina in Massachusetts. Left her in that one-bedroom apartment in the city limits. The one that’s street was lined with trees whose leaves changed into a vibrant masterpiece of colors in the fall and bloomed in the spring. It can’t be the same Corvina, it just wasn’t possible.
The woman hadn’t wanted to come out this way, was set on being on the East Coast, and had made a point of telling Ambrose that she either stayed in that homey little apartment or they were done. And always a loner scared of the way her chest clenched at the thought, at the way her heartaches for someone that was standing in front of her, pleading. She had packed and left that night, accepted the job as she caught a red eye, and left the one person she had truly needed behind.
She swallows back the emotion at the memory of her lover's face that snowy, November night and glances from the corner of her eyes to the counter where the cup resides. Waiting for the owner to come pick it up, and when they do? She’s transported back in time. Even her profile makes her body thrum in excitement, and then the second boot falls. ’Ambrose?’ her name is called out by the chipper barista and her phone clatters as it falls on the cafe table from her shaking hand.
Bitterness only settles in her old brittle bones if she allows it ⸻ And so close to November, the harsh autumn breeze seeping past her denim jacket to coil around her unnaturally warm skin, she doesn't. It is an anniversary of sorts, is it not? Of being left inside a home turned empty hole, angry and broken and mad, alone ⸻ a ring tucked in the pocket of her favorite worn pants. So if she wants to commemorate it with overpriced scalding hot black coffee and a too-sweet crumbling cookie, she will. The cozy little shop serves as a reminder of everything she lost, the greatness she used to be, and Corvina supposes it is why she finds herself here. A masochist through and through, is she not?
She wants to chuckle, but there's nothing to laugh about. So she picks her grande ⸻ fucking large, you pretentious cun⸻ cup, neat paper bag she immediately crumples, and starts marching her way to the front door. Something feels wrong; the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, skin breaking into goosebumps as the wolf pulls and tugs and rips, screaming screaming screaming at her to look; see, it seems to say, home is here home is near we are home we are ⸻ Far away from Massachusetts, from the twisted wicked witch she foolishly allowed herself to love. Everything smells like Ambrose lately; the wind; her sheets; the dirt; the prey she kills.
Perhaps it's sentimentally ⸻ This is where that invariable woman wanted to come, is it not? Of course everything would remind Corvina of her. However, here, the scent is thick. Thick enough to swallow, to make her mouth water and fingers twitch with the desire to bury deep into ⸻ Ambrose. The name rings in her ears when a trembling hand touches the door, dark glowing eyes sharply turning to her. Sitting there. Shocked. Corvina can hear her heartbeat, and her teeth clench with a desire to sink.
She doesn't think when she walks back to the counter, snatches the sweetly pumpkin-reeking drink from the poor young girl with a bark, and makes her way to Ambrose. There are no thoughts still when she places the cup in front of the woman, when she picks the dropped phone with cold eyes, handing it back as she sits in the empty chair in front of her witch. Hers, even now, even after everything. "Ambrose," she says through clipped lips, more wolf than woman, more anger than love. "You seem distracted. Have you seen a ghost?"
Whilst her hidden form may have changed, Corvina is still very much herself in tongues. It rockets a warmth of satisfaction to Nsilo's stomach, to see Victors submit in her fallen form against the wall. She only needs some moments to gloat at the witch's pitiful defeat; it's a sorry fate for someone with such a former gift. And she cannot deny that it is an adjustment; the pine needles tickling her nose and the distasteful woodburn that still tangs in Nsilo's mouth.
"Only the ones that misbehave," Castillon coos, puckering lips so she can playfully blow the pup a kiss. She might discipline them too, if Corvi keeps up this pity act. Not even a yap of a bark? Nsilo leans forward to catch the second droplet that trickles down her chin, on the tip of her tongue. She doesn't spit this one, but it's unsatisfying. "It's an acquired taste, Corvi, you smell like a swamp — you taste..." Castillon's eyes slid down her person, taking her in a second time, humour lighting up her eyes. Hands release the woman's wrists and she slides them down Corvina's stomach, south, souther — "You didn't ruin this too, did you?"
Nsilo titters before Victors even has a chance to answer, her mockery is transforming to a slow concern. Hands drawn away. They've moved passed tragedy and derisive jests. For this to have happened, something has to have got the better of the witch. That's a larger threat than Castillon would like to address; Corvina had better not have brought that to her doorway. And regardless of that, Corvina's bite, as Nsilo knows now, is now a lethal thing.
So the taunting ceases.
Nsilo's brow raises at the change in question, giving the wolf space, but only to deliver another mocking remark: "I was thinking you'd be my new pet, you can have a leash and all, Corvi." it's a bite that hides the disdain that Victors might dare start her sights on her employ. But she answers, for no lack of truth. "He's my casino manager. Leave him be." Severity kicks in, now that the joking's done. He's mine, and she cannot have him.
Corvina can come to her door, always. Even as a changed creature, she can keep her newly given paws off of Nsilo's things.
The cardshark shouldn't take Corvina's desperations as an invitation; she should be better than to take advantage of a wounded puppy. But greed and lust are only but two of Nsilo's sins. "I don't care that you have an appetite." There's a joke there, somewhere. So do I, Corvi. A smirk curves at the corner of a hungry mouth, a hand beckons her closer, eager: "What do you need, pup? Tell me what's happened." She wonders if Corvina's still brave enough to take it like she once had.
"You smell like a rooting body in a grave and yet, you don't hear me complaining, do you, Nissie?"
A wolf in sheep's wool ⸻ a sheep in wolf's hide. Which one is she? Corvina doesn't know. Couldn't tell in the past eighteen years she had been living in this cursed body not her own, a vermin nesting inside the carcass of a Goddess ⸻ eating rotten veins and black blood believing it to be a feast. Predator or prey, which one is she now? Vampyrs carry themselves as apex animals death cannot touch; for it has kissed their chapped cold lips already, rose them from dirt and worms into a majestic creature metal cannot harm. They are the children of hell, are they not? Prey or predator ⸻ even before, one would not think Corvina was anything other than a deer caught between the mangled jaws of a beast. Yet, she knows what most don't ⸻ Achilles's ankle was not dipped into the River of Six, therefore he was not invincible.
What was it if not his mother's own hand that cursed him? She made him; she killed him. Corvina is not the sharpest tool in the shed, but it's not too difficult to guess the vampyrs come from them ⸻ the witches. The mothers. The Goddesses whose pity tastes like cruelty, whose mercy leaves you bleeding dry. She wagers it was a necromancer who birthed the first child of the night, frisky little witches they are. Prey or predator? One cannot exist without the other. It's unbalanced. Vampires do not exist without death ⸻ death does not exist without nature ⸻ witches are gifted by nature. A cycle is easy to understand, really. All roads lead to me, to you. They are so entangled together that she holds the ankle; a dip into the mind of this vampire could put her on her knees. Predator or ⸻
But she is not a witch anymore, is she? No. She is a cursed existence; something that lives outside the balance. But does she? Can a rabbit thrive without a wolf snapping its neck? Is nature nurturing? Is she a child of the forest? No. Werewolves have no connection to the soil, the earth, or the falling leaves in autumn. The moon guides them ⸻ and the moon is a fucking bitch. She lives outside the molds, and yet, with a single bite she could weaken the woman in front of her. Her teeth snarl; lips pulling back to reveal clenched fangs, a low grumbling sound revegetating from her heavily rising and falling chest. Prey or predator?
Madness.
She chuckles, darkly, deeply. Wetness begins pooling in places she wishes were not reacting so fervently to the vampire, seemingly having decided her position now for her. "I don't think you would like me for a pet, Nissie." Velvet smooth voice, shoulders moving to regain what little composure she can muster, arrogance dripping from slender fingers. "I bark too much, don't you remember?" A smile. A smirk. "You don't want me on a leash. What fun would I be on one? Don't you wanna know how ⸻ Delicious I can make you feel unleashed, Nissie?"
She hungers, but she swallows around an empty mouth. Perhaps Nsilo will let her taste flesh and blood later. "I died. Terrible affair. Nitwit of a man thought he could murder me." She remembers his scent, even now, even here in this living breathing coffin. "Pathetic creature couldn't make sure I was dead. Never trust a man to do a woman's job, am I right? ⸻ I want to find him. I need to find him." Her jaw clenches. "I want to tear him apart limb from limb, and I want you to help me." I want you to watch.
He's suddenly fifteen again, and he's staring at a wooden box, he'd soon find out had been empty all along. A voice that had lived inside his memory, had now crawled out of it and was making itself known, like a dark shadow looming over his bed. He shut his eyes tightly, like he did when he was a child. Fear welled up, filling him, like an overflowing glass of water. The stream of fear had been too strong for his body then, Riven had been too young — and air left collapsing lungs. Crying required air, and he had none. Mom?
Eyes met the ones from his memory. And he remembered that when air rushed in again, that fifteen year old boy was able to breathe. His first cry, wasn't even a cry — it was a question. Mom? Riven repeated — once, twice. Mooooom? Vowels stretching more each time, because desperation grew as well. Mothers don't abandon their children. No, this couldn't be. He didn't even know what that word even meant. Abandoned — he wasn't supposed to know what it meant.
Riven was older now. He could cry, the overflowing glass had shattered. Tears streamed down his face, eyes burning like coals on his mother's. Fear and horror all in one — slapped all over his face.
The dead mother returned. Ressurected, risen from the grave or — No. He refused to believe she would leave him to the vultures. That something other than death could tear the two apart. Where has she been all this time? The abandoned boy wanted to pull her closer, cradle that ghost in his arms before she had a chance to slip through his fingers. But the man that he had grown up to be, the one that didn't believe in ghosts and ressurections, moved further away.
She takes great pride in the incredible control she harbors over her emotions ⸻ Or did, her mind provides bitterly, a cruel reminder of this unpredictable creature she has become. Still, the pride is there ⸻ arrogance is a bone she refuses to let go of; chews and nabs until the marrow is covered in spit and froth, a slobbery slippery mess dripping with superiority and trouble. She did not cry when her mother passed; did not flinch when the first slap came. The eyes are the door to the soul, and hers were never open ⸻ gave nothing away. Not even to him, when all she showed was warmth and happiness ⸻ the ease of a mother who loved her witchling with all her heart. She wished him not to see her darkness, her pain, or her struggles. So he did not.
Perhaps she takes most pride in how she never cried in front of Riven ⸻ no matter how bruised, how exhausted, how angry. She greeted him with a smile, and nothing else.
Now it seems hubris has an end ⸻ hers made her think she could control the tides of fate, of emotions, of the world. Here she stands, wishing more than ever to be the woman he remembers, the mother that left him ⸻ yet so broken in the way tears stream down her face. Waterfalls are not meant to contain, she would say if he cried. She couldn't build a dam now even if she tried. "Baby," she whispers to the child she loves ⸻ the boy now a man taller than the cherry sapling they had planted in their backyard, taller than the marks fading on doorways of a house she can't remember. He steps back, and she doesn't remember him ever being fearful of her and her house collapses ⸻ a satellite burning through the atmosphere.
"Oh, sweetheart." She cannot trace his baby fat, can't move the hair out of his eyes while he sleeps tucked in his bed. She has lost so much time. He is her boy, but he is now a man grown ⸻ without her, without her love or guidance. "Riven." Is she begging, pleading for understanding with words she cannot bring herself to say? Her hand shoots to her mouth, failing to push back a broken sob that rattles her ribcage. "You are ⸻ look at you. Oh, my little bird. I'm so sorry."
At first, there's little recognition of this stranger padding through the bloodhouse — a sharp look thrown Dorian's way for allowing at the sudden intrusion. There's no member's ring on the woman's finger. Instead, there's a potency of pine, eucalyptus and damp moss lingering at the entrance as Castillon strolls closer.
The room is brimming with the dead — the living on their laps, beside them, pouring crimson from emerald glass. There's something about the path she's carving through the room that has familiarity knocking on Nsilo's skull, hard, fast—
Surprise is not often so visibly worn on her features, but it spills quickly in the form of shocked humour; a parted mouth; a tip of her head, the itch in her gums when her senses latch on the underlying aroma of honeysuckle and resin. The bloodhouse is not formidable for its wolf populace, but it knows Corvina.
Now she realises why she'd been allowed inside. Of course.
Wordlessly, Nsilo turns and leads them out of the room, to the rear where Castillon presses her ring against a strip beside the door, it opens with a click. She can hear the footsteps behind her. As soon as the door closes, and they're alone — Dorian; gone. It's Nsilo and Corvina, in a quiet corridor.
Castillon can't help the laughter that erupts. "Oh, my,"
It has her tongue poking her teeth, and glimmers of amusement light up the deep green of her gaze. The former witch must know that this is only a sight to behold.
A shell of the great Corvina Victors.
Nsilo has her against the wall in a blink, hands wrapped around wrists — testing the waters; seeing what bite remains. "I'd say you weaved your way into my head, Corvi, but this is just... sad." She doesn't ask what happened, for it is evident. The details are irrelevant; it feels far more like Corvina's nightmare, than one tailored for Nsilo. She leans forward and nips her teeth on the woman's chin before rearing back, the single drop of blood doesn't lie to her. She spits it at the side of the both of them. It's a sign that Castillon thinks that may be the biggest travesty of this new revelation.
The stench of death permeated the air inside Nsilo's little secret room is nearly enough to make her gag ⸻ Vampires often mock wolves for reeking of wet fur and piss, but the creatures seem to readily ignore how they are nearly unbearable to be around; strong nauseating rot exudes from them like expensive perfume ⸻ sulfur, stale blood, burnt skin.
It is unpleasant now that her senses have been heightened by the curse, and Corvina does her best not to flinch. She would, once upon a time; when she could trap Nsilo in a nightmare of her making, protect herself with more than bared teeth and words.
She quickly is reminded of how powerless and beneath this woman she is ⸻ but Corvina expected nothing less from Castillon. Truth be told, had no bite in the woman's words, Corvina would've been greatly disappointed. "You make a habit of kicking dogs when they are already down, Nissie?" strained words past plum red lips, chin aching in a dull throb she would once have cherished. The spit is also expected, but she mock pouts with a quiet "Ouch" and a roll of her eyes.
Nsilo hasn't changed in the nearly two decades since Corvina has last seen her ⸻ time doesn't seem to pass for souless creatures; a century could be merely a week, for them. For her, however, every second matters ⸻ she has lost eighteen years of her life living a reality that wasn't her own, is trapped in a nightmare of an existence without her powers, without her coven and respect. She is pathetic now, a mutt running the streets like the mad woman Corvina once was deemed. She feels mad, for the first time in her life. Corvina doesn't like it.
"Is that your new pet?" She asks, half amused half jealous, part curious. "He reeks of you." Perhaps she shouldn't poke Nsilo when she needs to ask something from her, but she can't help it. It's how they always played this game; tug and pull, give and take. She wants to take, so badly she gulps, mad with lust and guilt and embarrassment. She hates this thing she has become. "I'm the same, baby doll. I just eat meat more often, now." Whose, precisely, Nsilo don't need to know. "I need your help, Nissie. I need it bad."
Of course she too is here ⸻ why wouldn't she be? It seems this drabby little city is a powerful hub that attracts all of them like magnets ⸻ witches, vampires, wolves, sapphics. Corvina was not surprised when she first heard the whispers of her through the grapevine; it's a big city, and Nsilo has always been an effective businesswoman. It is what first attracted Corvina to her, after all ⸻ mutual gains and mutual pleasure walk hand in hand, and is a delicious way of achieving goals.
But she isn't the witch she used to be ⸻ isn't the woman that could command a room with a whisper, the girl who murdered men in their sleep. She is a shadow of her former glorious days ⸻ not even that. Corvina is a wounded stray dog with mud tracks behind her every breath. She doesn't know if Nsilo will even entertain the idea of her now, but Corvina is desperate enough to try. After all, the good times were truly good, and would Castillon like to revive their golden days?
Walking in the blood house makes her nose ache, burn ⸻ her mouth water with the heavy metallic scent of blood everywhere she turns. The boy that tells her to wait reeks of Castillon's perfume, and Corvina has to suppress a snarl. Is the lady of the house entertaining this clueless child?
Once she is finally being led to the woman, she shoos the boy away. Corvina doesn't want a crowd to her how pathetic she sounds now, how broke and weak and powerless she is. Hands in her pockets, she tries to smile, walking to Nsilo with all the confidence of a puppy. "Got time to spare for an old friend? I could make it worth your time."
Cowardice is the most shameful of emotions ⸻ a pathetic thing one should never allow control over their actions. Isn't that what she always told the boy? ⸻ be brave, my little bird, even when you are scared. Then why are her hands shaking and her heart racing inside a sore ribcage? Corvina never felt fear ⸻ she had always be too proud, too arrogant, for anxiety to reach her. She blames it on the bite; on the mongrel living inside of her, causing her fingers to often twich, her throat to choke, her eyes to fill with unspilled tears. It has been too long since she saw her boy ⸻ had him believe she was dead. Mother won't let anything hurt you, little love.
Why did she wait days to search him out, when she always told hin to be brave? He is her son. Blood of her blood, a piece of her soul she granted this world with. She loves him. Yet, the thought of facing the man he has become without her makes her breath skip a beat. Will she recognize him? Will he remember her? Does he hate her, for leaving him with that cruel man? The idea of Riven hating her makes her wish to turn and run, bury herself into another hole and letting earth finally claim her.
She can't. She won't. Corvina refuses to be weak ⸻ they may have taken everything from her, left her powerless and dirty, a hollow shell of the magnificent woman she once was ⸻ but they will not take her son from her. The wolf hums quietly, a constant pressure in her lungs, skin pulled too tight over bones that wish to stretch and be free. It doesn't recognize the scent of the man they watch, but Corvina would know him anywhere. A mother will never forget the face of her children, no matter how much the world tries.
He is picking herbs, and she gasps breathlessly. So much she should have taught him, so much they could've been doing together. It will never matter now, the witch she once was ⸻ the witch she wanted him to become. Bravery doesn't look pretty, she knows. But she steps closer, rubbing the back of her neck and willing her voice not to break, "planning on making potions, little bird?"
Insanity is a word vastly used to undermine the works of bright powerful witches taken with dark magic, loosely hanging from a thread without real meaning ⸻ Or it is what Corvina would tell herself when she could feel her mind slipping past lines she dared not willingly cross, falling into an abyss right beneath her left foot. The world of an illusionist is a fake one, standing on pillars of crafted lies and manipulated dreams ⸻ It was so terribly easy to lose sight of reality when her fingertips were black-stained by the nightmares she created. So no, Corvina Victors is not insane, thank you very much.
Stranger in a coven of strange women ⸻ yes. But there wasn't anything alarmingly off about her; an only daughter of an only daughter of an only daughter of an ⸻ There were no boys born into the Victors's family. Men are disposable tools witches see no use in other than the sperm in their ball sack. It has been this way since the first Victors hung from a tree in Salem ⸻ hurt, alone, betrayed by the one she trusted the most. The hatred diluted each passed generation, but the ways of the Circle of the Reverie remained unchanged. They would not prevent their girls from marrying good-hearted men, of course ⸻ but a warlock isn't allowed in the circle no matter how much love he holds for the witches. It is safer this way, the elders would say to their grandchildren, who would then become elders themselves, passing the belief on and on.
Corvina did not question it ⸻ blindly trusted the words of her mother, grandmother, many aunties in their little makeshift village of support. She had no interest in men save for the kind boy by the river, fetching her shawl in the cold frigid waters for her. And even then, nothing but platonic love coiled around the two of them. He didn't know of the powers she possessed ⸻ the leisure walks she would take through his dreams, the deadly nightmares she enjoyed plaguing in the minds of those beneath her. People die in their sleep all the time, there's nothing amiss when a wife wakes up to find her husband lying cold next to her ⸻ and if she is secretly thankful for that, how his heavy hands can't touch her anymore ⸻ well, you are welcome.
Of course, one cannot control a tornado ⸻ the more Corvina took, the less of herself was left. She had been a prodigy from the moment she was born, starlight on her fingertips and death in her lungs, singing her to sleep. But the burden is one that leaves a void inside one's soul, and Corvina wanted more. Always more. Not only deserving men felt the full grip of her wrath, but any who dared cross her path. When her mother passed away, eyes turned to Corvina as if she had been the one to kill the beloved. She didn't. They knew too. But they feared her, some. They loved her more.
At eighteen, leader of a coven mysterious as they are dangerous. At twenty, pregnant with the heir of all her power and ambitions. Science truly was beautiful. Her best friend provided doctors with the missing piece of the equation, and poof ⸻ they were planning to co-parent the most loved baby in the universe. Of course, maternal instincts didn't hit her easily. Truth be told, by her last semester she had begun thinking she could not love the alien feeding off her body. And then she held him in her arms ⸻ covered in blood, pink, screaming ⸻ Oh Riven, you are extraordinary, are you not, my little love? The first boy to be born from a Victors's witch, and of course he was hers. Only she is powerful enough to break the cycle, only her Riven is special enough to start a new one. She took to him like water takes to the river, and loving Riven became the easiest thing she ever did.
Of course, the more he grew, the more his powers manifest, the more hers did ⸻ and her so once called best friend showed her his true colors, dripping of resentment and jealousy. Motherhood changes people in ways one could not understand. Away from her coven, lost, and for the first time scared, Corvina took the abuse in silence if it meant her son could have a stable household. If she knew what awaited her, she wouldn't have.
Insanity is merely a word ⸻ No. She felt insanity heavily upon her, on her tongue, in her throat, when she was buried in a shallow grave ⸻ bleeding from wounds she could not see, feeling life physically leave her. She felt rage. Anger. Whatever last thread holding her sanity together disappeared, then, like a ripped worn wool sweater. Corvina doesn't know how she survived. There are days she fully believes she didn't. Necromancy is a beautiful thing. And she is a lucky woman to have been buried near the haunting place of a rather skilled one. And when the wolf found her, well ⸻ Losing her powers hit her hard. It’s why, she believes, her mind fractured. Her memories were hidden behind a fog wall she didn’t want to breach, her full moons a thing of agony and bitterness. But she marched on.
Her wounds healed, and she built a life for herself she was quite proud of. But then her fiancé broke their engagement off. The heartbreak, perhaps, was the catalyst of it all ⸻ weeks after the break up, she found herself wandering through a primal haze she has never felt before. Hunting people. Killing them. One victim after the other, she grew stronger. More like herself. And the more like herself she was, the more she remembered them ⸻ Her Riven. The murderer. Tracking them down was hard, but necessary. It is lucky they were both in the same city, now. Revenge will taste sweet with Riven by her side.
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