#dark oaths

[the-wanted-man]

𝕆𝕒𝕥𝕙

FFXIV Write 2020 | Fade | tw: blood

There’s a woman screaming bloody murder.

That’s not the part that really bothers me though. What bothers me is that she’s screaming bloody murder not ten yalms from me...and I haven’t done a thing. She’s close enough that I can actually smell the blood as she has her back carved out. I’m...not looking. I can’t bring myself too, but the corner of my eye sees the glint of a blade, and she screams even louder. I’m trying not to think about who’s doing it, or the tall shadow that’s standing there.

I think I’m going to be sick.

I’m kneeling before this tree though, like it’s an altar. It feels...wrong. Almost as wrong as sitting here. Doing nothing. But I was supposed to be doing something, or I wouldn’t have been here in the first place. I shouldn’t be here. I know that too. This is a place that only dead things go. Where living things go to...almost die, because nothing was really dead here, was it?

Maybe I can go out in a blaze of glory. Maybe I can take the tree with me. Something tells me that’s a bad idea though, so I don’t, and I focus on the voices. Not the ones speaking, the ones inside my head. There’s been a lot lately. They argue, mostly. But sometimes, she speaks, and she said I needed to come here. That I would know what to do when I did.

The wind howls out a dying breath and the mud at the base of the tree kind of looks like blood when I kneel in it. I reckon that’s just my head though. These roots though, look like they could come to life at any moment. Wrap around me, and pull me into the earth. I’ve walked to the gallows before. I know what death feels like, and the chill I’m feeling here is similar.

The woman screams again, and she’s still close, still right there but I don’t hear her as loud. I don’t hear anything as loudly anymore, because there’s a whisper in my ear. Multiple whispers. They aren’t the voices I’m used to. It’s something else. Things I don’t understand. I bow my head.

It’s...the first time I’ve ever prayed. The first thing I ever worshiped.

"I, Roman, do hereby swear....”

I hear myself start to say the words. I don’t know where they’re coming from, but they are coming to me.

"...my life to the service of the Dowager of the Irreverent Vulget and Unrent Veils. To carry out her will, to bring to heel all that oppose her, and to bring the justice of death and destruction to all who’ve forsaken her will in raising Elysian.”

There’s more to this. I don’t want to say it, but I do it anyways with a bitter chuckle, because why the hell not? I’ve already come this far.

"My life is yours, forfeit from now until oblivion take me, or my soul is released from service."

That was moons ago and I still feel stained. Marked. There’s nothing on me. I’d checked my whole body for days after. I scrubbed myself raw for bells in a shower. I expected something to show up. Some kind of marr that would reveal the ugliness of what I’ve done, but there’s nothing. She’s...silent. The thing I prayed to. Like all gods usually are. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was over, that this too should pass. Should fade.

I know better.

Post-Edit | Mentions:

@mother-dearest-xiv​

@steel-and-aether​

@aishathecatte​

[the-wanted-man]

𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 ℍ𝕠𝕞𝕖 ♣

A Vaguely Garlean Dream-state |  Music

He was back.

The empty streets of the concrete jungle were lonely, forlorn and without any semblance of life but painfully familiar like a repressed memory resurfacing. Just stone and metal structures that jutted out and spanned out in every direction without regard for the natural life that had been here before. At the city center stood a monolithic skyscraper that speared the sky in two - A tower that loomed above it all, and disappeared into the churning, overcast sky. All roads led and ended here.

Tne revolving doors of the building were made of polished glass but they hardly moved and a deep grief emanated from its walls that was palpable to the air outside them. It was a place that many people entered but few people left, and when he looked up, he could almost imagine people tumbling for freedom from the windows. Why was he here again?

Running had been pointless.

He made every attempt to turn his back, to go in the opposite direction. In any direction but forward, yet his feet were heavy as if dragging through wet cement and no matter what he tried he could not get away. He ran in place, anchored to the spire and all its suffering. The loneliness didn't last, though in this case he would have preferred it when a sharp-dressed man in blue came to join him. His own suit and tie were damn near constricting, but it didn't matter when the man led him inside.

"Ain't it time to get your work done, get back to the -right- side of shit and well...live up to those vows? Or ain't you a man of your word..."

There was a woman inside at the security desk enacting the part of cheerful receptionist. He didn't recognize her, but he knew she was real. She smiled at them, but it was unlike any smile Lawrence had ever seen. As if two hooks had her lips pulled wide and she couldn't stop. How long had she been here? How could she still be here? She looked like she was in pain, like she wanted to reach out...but she couldn't. Not here. And he wanted to help but the man in blue pushed him along, towards the elevator doors and there was nothing he could do but keep going and promise that he’d come back.

"Seems this place has kinda gone through a change of hands since you've last been here, but dun worry, there's still plenty of familiar faces around and I'm sure you'll love the new boss."

The elevator climbed and climbed and climbed, seemingly endless until it reached the top of the building  and then with a 'Ding!', the doors slid apart, pried open like a ribcage revealing the heart of all his nightmares. At the back of the room was a tall, distorted figure that held the barest semblance of feminine curves. Nothing was so clear as her smile though, and  the outstretched hand that came with it.

"It's time to return home, dear Roman."  

...Maybe he could make it to the window.

@mother-dearest-xiv​

[the-wanted-man]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘.

FFXIV Write 2020 | Panglossian | music

Excepts pulled from company plot! One whole year after the events referenced in this story.

The Day of the Heist.

There was something pleasant about a good book. It was an idle thought as he licked the rough callous of his thumb and flipped another one of the pages. It’d been a while since he’d read, and he could admit his understanding of the words was choppier than ever. His time on the road had never left much time for that, or anything really that he didn’t strictly gear towards survival. For a bit though, he had time to slowly sift through the pages at a leisure that he coveted most other days. 

He made the time for it today though, as this seemed pertinent. A gifted field journal for mending wounds on the fly. There was far more to healing then just dumping some gunpowder in it, and setting it alight. Who’d have thought? The pictures that showed what to do were of immense help to his understanding. 

The gentle breeze was soothing, carrying with it the scent of autumn. The trees had already been able to shed much of the weight they’d gained in spring, and through the gaps in their canopies shined down brilliant beams of light from the sun. Rays that stretched down like fingertips, that fell over top of him like blankets from the sky. He was warm, safe and comfortable and before long he began to drift and beams of light chased him into his dreams.

It begins peacefully enough - there are dappled rays of sunlight through sunkissed leaves, a soft late-summer breeze, swaying stalks of tall grass. It happens quickly though, like falling asleep - like a whisper on the back of his neck.

The late afternoon sun swells with blotted ink and blankets the space around him in nascent shadows, and he feels it fill his lungs and eyes, and in the solar-heated air a mirror shimmers into being.

He sees his face, but for all the world it might as well be the face of a perfect stranger. His eyes are onyx corner-to-corner, rivulets of ink streaming down the deathly pallor of his cheeks. He can feel the agony of eyes boring into the back of his skull, pressing into his neck, burning his wrists. He watches himself smile, but the smile is hollow - there is no light here.

The eclipse fades but the sensations on his skin do not.

“I suppose those of you who are yet loyal to me are also welcome to attend, though those of you who have failed me or otherwise turned coat... sleep well.“

He started awake.

No.

No.

NO.

He stared down at it in disbelief. Pinched himself exceptionally hard because he had to still be dreaming...but it hurt so he was awake.

                                                                           Not now! Why now??

It was real. It had to be. It had burned to the point of waking him, and now he knew that he was awake so this was real and he was not dreaming about it. This ugly black spot. This sin. This stain. He touched it, remembering how the sun’s spilled ink had gotten into him. Was that all he was now?

He ran to the riverbed, book falling from his chest where he’d laid and looked into the reflection of the stream to touch his face. He’d expected the worst - the black eyes and the ink-stained tears, the veins...but he was fine. The only hint that anything was wrong with him was there on his arms, a black, sickly looking spot with a pale ring around him.

He needed it gone.

He shoved a handful of sand against his wrist and rubbed and scrubbed. Anything abrasive that could get him clean again, that could rip the stain from his body but it just grew red, and angry and excruciating and worse. He had to stop and his ugly truth stared back like an ugly abyss. If this was coming from inside of him...He had to...breath. He had to think.

He had to rob a man today.

The timing couldn’t be any less ideal. There was a perfection he could appreciate in that.

He concluded two things in that moment:

He would figure it out later...and he would not die today.

This thing looked like evil. Like rot, and it made him feel the same. So he covered the disfigurement with cloth, hiding it from both the world and from himself and he told himself the same thing that he always did.

He’d be fine.

@mother-dearest-xiv​

continued from here

to be continued.

[the-wanted-man]

45. What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

“...Mebbe it’s a bit weird but I think about death more’n is probably natural. I mean...Before it was perdy harmless...Y’see I kinda considered it...less like a point on th’map...more like a destination I’ll eventually get to. An’ mebbe then, I thought’ve it as somethin’...freein’. Not in any morbid sense, but ya’ live yer whole life jus’ t’die...there’s like t’be a purpose for it.” 

There was a conflicted kind of look that flashed in the mercury of his eyes.  He looked at his palm, like he was looking at an ugly stain but there was nothing there.

“Now...it’s a place I’d rather avoid. Because I know what’s on th’otherside...an’ it ain’t freedom. Not fer me.”

@remedialelixir

@mother-dearest-xiv

[the-wanted-man]

The Devil Wears a Long Black Dress.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕟 𝕪𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕡𝕠𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕟 - 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪, 𝕕𝕚𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪? 𝔸𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕, 𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕚𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕤𝕜𝕪 𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕟 𝕚𝕥𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 𝕡𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕞𝕡-𝕪𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦.

𝕎𝕒𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕝𝕖𝕖𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕠𝕣 𝕕𝕒𝕪... 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕒 𝕣𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕙𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕣𝕖𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕜𝕪 𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕒𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕧𝕠𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕚𝕥 𝕤𝕒𝕚𝕕 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕨 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕙𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕗𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕨𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟.

                        "𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕞𝕖 𝕒 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕖..."

𝔸𝕟𝕪 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕒𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕔𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕚𝕣 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕫𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕒𝕥...  - Nightmare by Anonymous GM. | Mood | 

      It's early when the Twelveswood begins to stir with ambient sounds of life. There's a gentle wind pushing through the trees, where leaves rustle and branches pop in attempts to converse with the chirping denizens nestled within their boughs. The idle flow of water over pebble and rock draws critters from their hiding places towards the creek for their first sip of cool drink, and even the sun does its part in easing stragglers awake.

     Daylight's wakeful gaze falls over a lonely cabin in particular, tucked back within the deep woods beneath a blanket of moss. Sunbeams creep through cracked window and open drapes like a secretive lover returning home, and the warm fingers of light caress the slumbering body of a male buried beneath blankets and sheet of a cot found within. 

     His initial response is little more than a croak of resentment however and not the pleasant hum that one might usually come to expect from him as a nearby pillow is taken captive within the curling of a bicep and held hostage to his face. The cool surface of the cushion is nice as is the fading scent of campfire smoke upon it, but it does little to remedy the migraine that  pounds incessantly at the base of his skull. With enough force he reckons to put a Brass Blade with a warrant to shame. 

     He blames it largely on the lack of sleep and not the half-jug of hooch stashed between his desk and his bed from the night prior. Anything to forget the xanthous haunting of such a gaze and the lingering chill it’s memory left behind to remind him that they were not quite through yet. 

"Still mine. You made me a promise." 

     The voice strikes with such clarity he swears it's right beside him. Jack rabbit terror grips his racing heart and for brief moments, his nightmares become reality when he feels he’s being watched. Only, when he looks around, he's alone -- a thought that's admittedly not as comforting as it used to be now that he’s had the bittersweet experience of loving and losing. 

   It's just the dream getting to him, he tries to ration but a purveying sense of doubt tugs at the desperado's sleep-deprived mind until he finally forces himself out of bed. Lanky frame stumbling across the room into the bathroom where he can wash the sleep from his eyes and the ill feelings from his head. Try as he might, he just couldn't shake a single thought: 

What do you do when you sold your soul and the devil comes looking to collect?

    He was a simple man with none of the answers, and in his growing despair was certain no one in the Aegis would either. Thin hope at least, but not something he was so dim to cling to. For once, he's acutely aware of his limited lease on life and more so, his dwindling freedom. There were some fates worse than death, he'd heard, and though he believed the old adage, he'd never thought he'd wind up in a place where he'd be facing that intimate truth. 

     In his grooming, he laments on the time wasted in patience. So much untapped opportunity lost to the leisure of taking things slow and steady rather than taking what he wanted. He throws on his boots, a plain white shirt and his hat before heading outside, several conclusive thoughts on his mind when he tilts his head up to greet the sun. 

     Patience was a virtue, and maybe there was some truth in that saying as well, but only to an extent. Too much of it and your final days were littered with regret or so he felt in those moments. It was all about the impact now, and what he could do with the time left to him. Time enough to live on a whim now, not day by day but moment to moment until his time was up. He’d wanted to live life that way all his years, free of obligation or concern but it took the threat of eternal condemnation to really push him past the point of hesitance. 

    Funny, how simple things became when your options were limited. In time though, he supposes it won’t matter and tries instead to keep hold of his wits. He pulls his eyes down from the sky with a sense of unease though he tries to convince himself he’s fine. Fairly certain that when he looks away, he sees not the singular wink of the spring sun in the distant welkin but instead, the foreboding gaze of two lantern yellow eyes telling him to make the best of what's left.

To be continued...

@mother-dearest-xiv​

@glowinggunmetal​ - you know why.