#c:ernessa

[bornofbloodandwater]

Unquiet Night

@inexhaustiblywild​

The Witch lifted her head from the heavy book she was reading, eyes bloodshot, a mug of hot cocoa going cold besides her and no matter how much she burrowed into her blanket she found no warmth. Dead came to her night, life came to her too, and sometimes it drove her a little mad to be so old, so forgotten yet still so known. “No child,” she did not make eye contact with her. “I refuse to sleep tonight, but maybe tomorrow when the spirits calm down, I will afford myself the luxury. You may keep me company if you wish but there is still time till sunrise and I expect tonight to be hard on me.”

Xiomara took a seat beside the witch, a slight worry creeping under her skin for the woman. The siren never slept very well herself, but watching the other struggle and avoid rest put her heart on edge. “ I can calm and lull humans to sleep, I’m not certain it would work for you, but if you’d ever care for my abilities I’d give them all. ” Curling up on the floor beside her companion, still uncertain on where their boundaries lay. Careful not to overstep her bounds, the last thing she wanted was to make a nuisance of herself. The siren took to braiding thin sections of her hip-length hair as a distraction.

“ I would gladly keep you company, if I can do anything for you, please let me know. ”

[bornofbloodandwater]

Tragedy's Blood

A young doe. A desolated creature of the ocean. A sham of the end of her people. Emaciated and pathetic to lay eyes upon.

Shaking hands raise the thin bolt of blood, tears burning her eyes she whips the bolt, whistling in the air through the slender neck of the doe. Her only method of gathering food for herself. She had been living in the towns but the only things that they had wanted her for were brothels. Nowhere else seemed willing to hire her, ghostly wisp of a creature that she was. She was a far cry from the beautiful, busty, jolly, joyful women who tended pubs and inns. In truth, she was a depressing sight, not one of mirth and light, but harrowed pain and starvation. So now she has begun to wander, setting herself a small camp each night and travelling each day.

A trembling approach to her kill. There should be health and power in a kill, but alas all Xiomara sees is her continued suffering. Perhaps even the fate she should have been dealt. The siren drops to her knees at its side, cradling its head in her hands.

“Why am I here, gentle one? I should be tearing the throats from my enemies. Avenging my friends. My kin. My future.” She leans down to press her forehead against its soft fur taking what small comfort she can. A deep settled regret at her own vile hunger, that she would have to take such a beautiful little life. When the delicate creature dies Xiomara bursts, hot searing tears and a scream. A furious, soul-wrenching cry of rage and bitterness. Her hair raising around her in a watery halo of bronze. The burning faces of her friends, her people, flickering behind her closed eyes. Her sweet sister’s cold, blueing body in a puddle of dark drying blood. The damned slayers, tearing her cousin limb from limb with axes and swords.

The deer’s body has cooled by the time she sighs and opens her eyes. Her hair sticking in its blood. She forges a dagger from her wrist, aiming to skin and bleed it before nightfall. Her hand stilled by the sensation of being watched, the hair on her forearms and neck standing in a wash of fear.

@inexhaustiblywild​