#mestas

[entre-image-blog]

Mestas, Marc Brunier

[slumberinggods]

How unusual it is to be hunted all your life and suddenly find yourself the hunter.

[redhandedsuggestions]

okay, sure, bonding with people over mutual attempted murder may not be the healthiest way to make new friends, but all of my longest lasting friendships started that way, so clearly there's some benefit to it

[redhandedsuggestions]

you should know better. you should know a lot better.

i'll put up with a lot of shit, but the second you threaten my family you're living on borrowed time.

[redhandedsuggestions]

you can draw me a map or i can rip it out of your brain, but one way or another you're going to tell me where they are.

[redhandedsuggestions]

i will kill the god that made you and from its corpse rebuild this world

teeth were not meant to be pulled but blood was always meant to be spilled

[redhandedsuggestions]

When she opens her eyes to an unfamiliar world, her first thought is not, in fact, that she has to get home. That she should panic, that she doesn't know where she is, that her daughter is back there without her. Nor does her miraculous survival cross her mind-- her bruised face and throat ache, yes, but the presence of her head, still in place on her shoulders, leads her mind to dismiss that potential train of thought in favor of something far more intriguing:

The water is whispering to her.

Sitting up, she manages to push aside her curiosity long enough to take brief stock of her surroundings. The sun-- or moon? She cannot tell-- is black, ringed in faint purple light as if eclipsed by another. Its light tinges everything with purple, and its glow is strong enough to drown out the reflection of her eyes when she looks down at her arm. The air is far warmer than the Golgar afternoon she just came from, pleasant after exposure to that chilly wind. In the distance, she sees mountains; up close, what might be trees, though they do not look to be made of wood in her eyes. And a few meters away from her winds a long river, the source of the whispers at the edge of her senses.

On further examination, it is not water. What she mistook for a trick of the light (or what little there is) is in fact truth. The liquid in the river does not flow as water would, quick and clean. No, it is instead sluggish, viscous, iridescent where it catches the twilight rays of the odd black sun above her. And still it whispers, calling to her. The words are just too faint, too out of reach for her to catch them clearly, but she does understand that it is calling, this oily substance, and in the depths of her soul she longs to answer.

Common sense and caution would advise against this, declare it folly, but death no longer frightens her. It has claimed her once, perhaps now twice, and should it come for her a third time she will simply find a new way to escape.

And so she dips her fingertips into the whispering oil, watches it glisten black against her gray skin.

Watches it sink into her skin.

Hears the whispering grow clearer.

[redhandedsuggestions]

is the feeling burning in your chest desire or revenge?

which do you crave more: forgiveness or recompense?