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TO: Miss Kachina (Bestie) ( @mxonkxss ) FROM: Dr. Gloria Attlas
forgive me i do not feel like properly composing a complete message. i hope this does not offend you. i am feeling very lonely and would really enjoy the blessing of your company. but if this is tedious for you at the moment i understand. please take care of yourself.
dr gloria attlas
HIS CHILDREN NEED SUSTENANCE, and it is with a heavy heart that he waits for them to fall asleep. He can’t be certain they truly are sleeping-- his boys are excellent actors when they want to be. But he has no choice. With a claw he opens a wound on his opposite forearm, deep enough to draw forth a steady stream of demon blood.
He takes every precaution he can think of. Every demon warding sigil that comes to mind, drawn on the walls, above the doorway, by the windows. It’s while he draws on the outside wall by the front door that he sees the flash of gold, and his heart sinks. He knows that gait. Whipping around on his heel, Sparda watches her turn the corner with trembling words: ❝ EVA... YOU’RE... ❞
She beckons him forth like a siren, and Sparda follows. Rounding the corner, seeing her kneeling with a smile. With bleeding limb he reaches for her, claws reluctant to fully touch her hair. With a hand hovering an inch from her scalp, it’s then he realizes the garden spade in her hands. Something commands her attention, and she rises to her feet, looking curiously through him--
--then walks straight through, ghostly imprint that she is.
He’s left standing, arm still outstretched, only distantly aware of the figure watching him across the street.
HIS SONS ARE TIRED, HUNGRY. Yet he cannot bear to leave them to find them a meal. Sparda sits in an unoccupied building, far from the burnt ruins of their home. Holding Dante in his arms, a clawed hand methodically petting the boy’s hair. Vergil sits quiet, unmoving, clinging to Eva’s shawl at his side.
Lifting his head only when a visitor emerges. A petite woman with soft eyes. Sparda can barely muster the will to meet her gaze, and offer her a sad smile. ❝ IF YOU HAVE COME SEEKING REFUGE FROM THE MIST, I CAN OFFER YOU THAT. NOT MUCH MORE, THOUGH, I AM AFRAID. ❞
( His voice quiet, a low purr, as not to wake his youngest. Unaware that Dante is awake, listening-- fighting the urge to steal a glance at you, @esperelle. )
PART OF HIS HEART DIED with her, but he is not fool enough to lay down his life and die at her side for nothing. He shrugs off the rubble long after the building has finished burning, the last sparks dying out with no more fuel for their unyielding flame. Familiar scents draw him forth, eyes dark with grief-- and he finds them not too far from the destruction, huddled in the corner of a nearby building.
Vergil swathed in Eva’s shawl, a hand clamped firm over Dante’s mouth until they both realize that the demon in the building is not one out for their blood. They weep at his legs, and he can’t find the words. It’s all he can do to kneel, hold them in his arms, and stay the rest of his tears for their sakes.
Until another demonic presence catches his attention. Sparda rises to his feet, abruptly, letting loose an involuntary growl-- shaking himself of his sons’ grip, stepping forward to place himself between them and the creature that seeks to finish what they started with Eva.
At once, his gentle, breaking soul turns firm as steel. Sparda calls out, voice oozing with disgust: ❝ SHOW YOURSELF. YOU HAVE FORFEIT YOUR RIGHT TO A MERCIFUL DEATH. YOU, AND THOSE WHO HAVE COME WITH YOU-- ATTACK MY SONS IF YOU DARE. I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOUR MASTER... AND IT IS WRIT IN YOUR BLOOD. ❞
( He doesn’t realize that the demon he senses-- it’s you, @stormslayer. )
“Th-th-there!” She points excitedly into the mist. It might be improper, but she can’t help herself. In her excitement she takes hold of Raine’s hand and guides her forward, catching up with ease to the ghostly mirages of her fathers that walk side by side in the fog. “Th-this... th-this is them, Professor Raine...! Th-this is Doctor Lemieux,” she says, circling around to their fronts to introduce them, even if they march on with no acknowledgement of their surroundings, “A-and this is Doctor Gordon.”
“O-oh, h-how I wish y-you could talk with th-them...! They are so v-very knowledgeable, professor... I th-think you would get along swimmingly!”
( Despite it all, she remembers the illusion of the laboratory, wondering briefly if she had returned home, and her ears twitch back momentarily. Still, she smiles, and she’s oh-so-proud to show you her fathers, @otherworldly-healer. )
She knows her limits, for the most part, and doesn’t stray far from the paths. But curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and she can’t help but edge into the fog. The mists are quick to take advantage of this, thickening, almost swallowing her whole-- so Gloria loses heart, turning on her heel to return to the path...
And gasps, her heart skipping several beats when she finds herself face-to-face with the laboratory she spent her whole life within. Ears flatten against her scalp, and she panics. Not thinking of the illogical nature of suddenly reappearing back home. Gloria drops the notebook in her hand, fingernails rising to her lips, and she shakes. Was it all a dream? Why is she back here?
She never realized just how badly she never wants to go back until a figure appears through the wall, walking in to her memory and shattering the illusion just enough for her to take a ragged, hungry breath. “O-oh... oh, th-thank... thank heavens... I... I... I... I-I...”
I thought leaving this place might have all been a dream, she can’t quite seem to say.
AT THE END OF THE WINDING path he’s followed, clarity between the sea of fog, he comes to a curious, brittle plant, no larger than a sapling. ❝ IT HAS TAKEN ROOT, AND YET DOES NOT SEEK BLOOD... HOW UNUSUAL, ❞ he muses aloud, aware of the individual who has been following him for a while.
Aimless wandering has taken her to a place that might have been familiar were it not for the fog swallowing the land whole-- and besides, it’s not the scenery that’s led her here. Dress sways behind her, along with her tail, as Winni follows her nose. The scent of blood is thick in the air. Someone is hurt.
Or was hurt, she realizes, when she comes to a halt, sea green eyes wandering down to the ground, ears flattening back against her head when she sees the blood in the dirt. Winni crouches, her fairy flying to her side. Fingers brush against the grass, and she closes her eyes solemnly.
Something horrible happened here. If she had a sense of self-preservation, perhaps she would turn tail and flee. But in the hopes that perhaps the person who shed this blood is still alive, Winni calls out, unafraid of anything that might be lurking in the dark: “Please-- I won’t hurt you. If you’re still alive... I... I can staunch the bleeding. I promise.”
