#-- open.

[wyslyyzr]

‘  i  will  not  lie  to  you,  your  attempt  was  proficient.  ‘   erik  looks  statuesque,  surely,  from  where  they  lay:  beneath  the  heel  of  his  platformed  boot,  their  throat  squirming  beneath  the  arch.   ‘  but  not  good  enough.  ‘

[lionbled-aa]

open.

When had he last awoken from this deathless sleep? Weeks? Months? He couldn't remember, in fact he couldn't remember much. All he knew right now was he was released and, despite his previous intentions, his vampiric instinct to feed overwhelmed him. 

A clawed hand reaches out from the sarcophagus, grabbing the side to help him sit up, then a deep hiss escapes the corpse of the altmer. He wasn't himself anymore, he was this feral thing. A feral, dangerous thing with a deep desire for blood. He inhales, then his head snaps towards the source of the adventurer who discovered his crypt. A snarl comes over his features revealing long, sharp teeth behind cracking lips. 

He crawls out of the tomb, joints cracking as they move once more. ❝ Freed… me. ❞ he wheezes, ❝ You… freed… me. ❞ he takes his head in his hands and cracks his crooked neck back into place and rolls his shoulders ❝ You... are a fool. ❞

[wyslyyzr]

‘  SIT.  ‘  its  a  simple  command,  and  before  it  can  be  heeded  or  ignored,  with  a  subtle  twitch  of  the  hand--as  benign  and  mundane  as  signaling,  perhaps,  to  a  loyal  dog--they  sit,  the  chair  scraping  noisily  and  firmly  knocking  their  knees  out.  ‘  you  are  very  loud.  ‘

[wyslyyzr]

‘  don’t  cower  behind  corners.  it’s  unbecoming--i  can  feel  you  there  anyhow.  ‘  despite  the  nature  of  erik’s  words,  he  sounds  blissfully  calm,  without  even  a  hair  of  hostility.  he’s  in  thought,  legs  crossed  over  one  another,  his  hands  spread  across  his  knees--and  his  form  suspended  a  good  three  or  four  feet  in  the  air.  

[wyslyyzr]

‘  shana  tova. ‘  

[wyslyyzr]

‘  IF  YOU  DO  NOT  turn  off  your  phone  and  pay  attention,  i  will  scramble  it’s  signal  and--as  the  youths  refer  to  it--brick  the  item. ‘ 

[wyslyyzr]

the  finality  of  exhaustion  propels  erik  from  his  feet  to  the  floor,  palms  passing  the  arch  of  his  brows  to  press  idly  into  the  depth  of  his  eye  sockets.  his  exhale  is  slow,  deep,  a  note  unsteady.  behind  him,  the  mass  of  his  rage,  destructive  and  ultimate:  a  collapsed  high  riser,  a  shell  of  metal  molded  into  furious  scribbles.  

‘  leave  me.  ‘