#peter lerwick

[sylvs-doodles-n-drabbles]

(Guess who actually wrote a piece they’re proud of?

This durg x3

Here: have some very drama Nightwalkers. Because what other Nightwalkers are there?)

100 Theme Challenge Mix-Up 2 Day Forty-Eight #67: Question Warnings: Death mention

Fingers woven, Peter pressed them to his lips. Elbows were rested against the mahogany of his desk, ruby eyes staring at the doors across from his perch. He knew she was coming. But even so, he knew he was not prepared for her wrath. The portals opened, and his secretary attempted to speak. But before words could leave her mouth, she ducked out of the way as Ayla barged past her, throwing the door open and crashing it into the wall. The knob smashed through the wood of the wall, splinter both it and the oak surrounding the shiny handle. Ayla almost appeared to glow, so raw was her power and emotion. The red of her eyes was bright, lit within by rage and hurt. “Why?!” The single, shouted word was like a gunshot, and despite everything – the wounds he'd suffered, the trials he'd faced, the years he'd lived – Peter flinched. It was a display of weakness he immediately despised. He did not regret his decision – it had been made in the best interests of maintaining order. But even so, the sight of his daughter so keenly wounded nearly made him second-guess. Nearly. Hands slapped down against the surface of his desk with a sharp thwack of skin, her nails threatening to curl into the wood grain. She bared her teeth at him, pearlescent fangs glinting in the light of his office as she growled. That was new. “...why?” she demanded, tone now low and hissed through gritted teeth. “Give me a reason, or so help me God I will turn from this office and never be seen by you or yours again! Am I clear?” “She was a weakness -” “That you were willing to kill?” A hand left the desk to splay across her chest. “You know who she is! What she is to me! My everything!” Her vermilion eyes glinted. Without hesitation, she asked, “Is that what Mother was? Aweakness? Will you lie down and accept her death, then? The enemy was merely taking care of a weakness! Would you ask me to do the same of my mate?” “Ayla,” Peter murmured in warning, his own expression flashing. “Because that is what you are asking me to do! To just...just...pretend that you didn't just try to have my matemurdered...by our friend! By Raven! She saved his life!” “...Ayla...” “We do not kill our own,” the female spat. “She is family! Part of our coven! Our flock! Our pack! Would you send someone after me if I -!” “Enough!” Both figures paused. Ayla's chest was heaving with heavy breath, eyes still locked onto her father's face. He in turn stared back, a warning in his gaze. “...you're right,” she muttered, standing upright from her perch and taking a step back. “...enough.” “Ayla, I -” She ignored him. Spinning on a heel, she left the office behind. A soft beep sounded before a call came through the phone's speaker. “Do you want me to send someone after her, sir?” “No need,” Peter muttered back. “...I know where she's going.”

[sylvs-doodles-n-drabbles]

(Day nine, with a piece from Nightwalkers, my monster story! This time focusing on Peter, the character I love to hate.)

~Sylv

100 Theme Challenge Mix-Up 2 Day Nine #100: Death Warnings: None

Death has always been a companion of mine. It began with my mother, as it does with many an unfortunate soul. I was a young lad...no more than, oh, five or six years? It all blurs together at this point. Father told me it was because God needed a new angel. It would be many years before I learned she died with a rotting fetus poisoning her innards.

It made me wish that lump of cells had been me. Though I never wished to be the cause of her death, nor did I wish to grow up without her.

We were poor, Father and I. Farmers that tilled soil for just enough to live. Father died not long after I became a man – exhaustion, I was sure. Certain that the farm was in capable hands, his withered form finally gave out, no longer having a reason to be bound to the mortal plane.

Humans are so disgustingly weak.

From there, I witnessed the occasional corpse. It wasn't uncommon in the time of my youth. Diseases blamed on demons, danger of daily life, and sometimes even monsters of legends.

But the first time I brought death upon another, it was not a human.

Weary from a day selling the last of my wheat, I was stumbling to my inn when I was caught by shaking fingers. Fingers that sought blood. Panicked and desperate, I bit my attacker just as he had bitten me. Tainted blood swept past my lips, and it was then my curse, and my blessing began. I became wild, feral, untamed – bodies fell to me like the wheat I had once felled with a rusted scythe. Death rode with me, eager to claim my kills. Only once my body was twisted by injury did it stop, and my new role began...though the death count still rises.

Many will tell you that my kind are the dead risen...but this is not true. We are masters of Death. He cannot touch us, so long as we continue our sin of feeding upon what once were our brothers and sisters – our kin. All that remains for us to fear are Hunters, sent by the fearful Church. Formidable opponents...but mortal.

I do not fear Death. Instead, we are old friends that meet occasionally for a fair wager. So far I have yet to lose.

But, I suppose...no one's luck lasts forever.