Asher
sand crunches (bone crumbles) beneath the steady progression (degeneration) of the Galliard within the club's boundaries, mismatched (metis) eyes half lidded beneath the throbbing weight (pulsebeat bass) of music

he can feel it speaking to him (just him)
treble's (brilliant) chill on skin
subbeat's gutwrench (nightmare) sickness
the steady writhe of sweaty lives around him
wrapped in this blanket of thickening delight

the wolf among the sacrificial lambs

pleasure finds way to creep into his smile, the lean blond swathed in black (in so. many. ways.), a flyer retrieved (so.... that... was her last name) from previous venture into this territory, a whim bringing him from the tunnels of (hell) home into the catacombs of mythology

the marked (stigmata) running his fingers along the entryway walls, tracing the heiroglyphs, a pause just before crossing the (veiled) entrace, paying the cover, faking the ID

black velvet curtains parting for a blacker soul

Kaj'sha.
Behind the depraved Galliard, the immaculate Philodox whose hands do not touch the walls, whose eyes pass with only the slightest of curiosities over those within, whose feet do not touch the floor. He pays and flashes ID without so much as looking at the bouncer. Dressed all in white, he somehow manages to pull the 'look' off: angel, cherub, seraph.

His eyes are black.

His eyes are black, and they cast over the room, over the hundred dancing skeletons. Most the decorations are lost on Kaj'sha, and the music does not tug at him the way it does Asher, but...

...not bad. Overall, not bad. The sand crunching beneath his feet makes him smile, half-distractedly.

Erik
Mistakes. Already they're making mistakes.

No, that isn't right. He is making mistakes. Should have checked the gift earlier. Could have got em at that lab place. But nooooo. He snuck his pack up all the way to the lab, then powered his senses with gnosis, and found that Asher had already gone...

Fuck. fuck fuckfuck fuck fuck!

Now, finally, he is cornered. But hiding in a mass of sheep. Nightclub...

a low growl escapes the No-Moon's mouth as he stands in the dark alley, the rest of the pack back in the shadows, and stares at the club.

finally he turns to the pack. "We'll have to cross over..."

Decker
Crouching on the alley floor while the Alpha checked his senses and consulted with himself, Decker looks up as he speaks. Nods wordlessly, holds out his hand for one of his packmates to pull him across. Decker's spirit was...less than powerful. In the usual army-surplus cargoes and wifebeater, one hand rubs idly at the jagged, stylized tattoo sprawled over his right arm from shoulder to just below the elbow. Ogre. A good weapon, but he would not desecrate his grandfather's memory in using it against an unworthy foe.

In his hand, a knife glinting dully, unable to hold the edge steel can. Silver. Asher's knife.

What comes around, goes around.

Rune
Sleek and cool as the night, Rune slouches back against the brick wall of the alley, breathing deliberately through her mouth (it stinks back here) and avoiding the strewn debris with assiduous care, attentive to her clothing even now, despite the gravity of their mission. The heels are gone for the night, and so too the more expensive clothing. Tonight, she's dressed down in dedicated clothing she usually eschews - lowslung leather pants curving across her hips, black, and a black sleeveless shell, stark against her pale skin. She slips her leather coat from her shoulders and tosses it aside, but not before retrieving her own silver knife from the pockets. Dark hair swings across her face, obscuring hard dark eyes, as she grasps Decker's hand and pulls him across the gauntlet.

The club. The sheep.

It won't be a pretty night.

Asher
the angel and the devil
(damnation and salvation)
the dream and the darkness
the Philodox and the Galliard

perhaps there's an uncoinscious feed (sharing) what crackles synergy through the lean form, each note a thousand tiny sparks to stimulate and aggravate each muscle, each chaotic refrain (frenzy) of the exotic against animal (whatever became of the man........ you were never a man) skin stroke through the strangest of (invisable) pelts

he does not choose a place to sit
he stops at the edge of the sand covered floor
listening
breathing
unweaving this tapestry of sound and scent that lays itself at his feet

Kaj'sha
At his side, the slighter, slimmer Alpha cocks his head briefly, lightless eyes half-lidding as though listening.

Strange...could have sworn I felt...

But this is the heart of the city, the realm of the Weaver, who answers to no man nor beast - Wyld, Wyrm or Gaia. No wyrmlings comes to speak to the Philodox, and he has not the skills of the Theurge to force an answer from them.

Probably nothing.
"Just watching?" - this, to Asher.

Erik
He hammers a way through the steely guantlet of the city. Immdiately he is alert, looking in every direction with fevered intensity.

All clear for now. He begins the crackling shift to Crinos and grips the black barrelled, sawed off shotgun fetish in his hand. Only here its barel looks made out of hammered storm clouds... They writhe and seethe yet retain their shape. And a white hot light flickers down inside the barrel...

He waits for the rest of the pack to follow across. Then orders are given. the plan is already known. He adds only "Wait. seperate from the herd. Hunt like pack."

The bathroom would be an ideal place for this...

Decker
If Rune thought the alley smelled bad, the Umbra was about to smell worse. In apparent response to his Alpha's command, the Modi cracks his neck to one side - swells - and then to the other.

On top of iron-grey fur, a layer of knobbed, warty, stinking hide grows. The Troll's Skin. Aptly named, indeed: those around him might find their eyes watering from the stench.

In his hand, the silver knife looks like a toy. A miniature swiss army knife gripped in the clawed handpaw of a monster.

Again, he places his hand on Rune's shoulder, letting the Ahroun's stronger spirit draw him across.

Asher
"Yes."

silk from mouth or mind, the Galliard does not say it loudly, but knows it is heard just as easily (a whisper in the darkness, a cry lost in the flames, tell of your terrors now..... child..... elsewise you've only yourself to blame) hands slipping to curl in pockets

so close, this pretty flesh (genuflect at my altar of madness) just within reach
tempting, teasing, taunting, calling out with each crawling echo of rhythmic catastrophe
indulge. yourself. in me.

only watching
newly healed flesh burning againt the fabric of his shirt

Kaj'sha
Languid as an Oscar Wilde nobleman - and as pretty - the Alpha leans (never slouches) back against the wall. Skeletons dancing in strobe lights - of which his strange eyes could pick up the distal wavelengths of, flashing through his eyelids.

Kaj'sha. Clubbing. It's a strange sight.

Presently, a pretty brunette passes by. Kaj'sha is not easily tempted by the flesh he cannot see, but Asher is another story. A slip-slide of eyes. A lick of lips. Indulge? Why, yes please.

Erik
"Yes, Just watching... Heh. There's another."

He speaks as he peers throught he guantlet, oblivious to what transpires around him. Damn ahrouns better have his back...

And he waits, and waits, watching the two wyrmlings watch the sheep and lick their chops. Maddening! Not that he cares overmuch for the sheep....

He suddenly stands and repositions himself, and then draws his senses back into the spiritual.

"Enemys not leave pack. We kill now. Look quickly as I did. then we kill."

Asher
does he even remember the name of the last that walked by in such a way (did he even know her name?) in a provocation tease of (sinister) senses

I wonder what your screams will sound like.

skull tilts in backwards glance, a scythe slash of pleasure curving young lips that will never be seen by his Alpha (and never, ever, acknowledged), weight already shifting to follow

"Not anymore."

the invitation never spoken aloud

Rune
With the word from their Alpha, Rune peers across the gauntlet and studies - briefly - the shapes and movement of those beyond. Full red lips are set in a hard, lowering line as (she likes this setting not at all, but likes Spirals even less. The flashback spills bright across her surface mind - the sleeping darkness of the pack's warehouse loft, the spiraling smoke spilling from the pack's prized hookah, distant groove teasing the senses, languid and low, and the pack - her pack - sprawled unsuspecting in the darkness, the low murmur of desultory conversation mixing with the clink of beer bottles and then - and then - ) she draws her vision back and shifts again into hulking warmform, ready to push through the gauntlet.

Erik
He fades across the guantlet quickly, crouched low (for a hulking 9 foot plus werewolf) behind a nearby bar.

Unprepared. They're fucked.

Then, when he is sure he is fully across and physical, he rockets to his feet and sends one of the deadly silver explosions into the one called Ashers back. Call him coward if you like, just make sure he spends that other round first.

Of course there is a dead silence for a split second, until the screaming starts.

Erik
He swings the deadly, steaming shotgun towards Asher's friend and pulls the modified trigged back to the second notch. Thunder laced with silver lightning erupts from it, but he is jostled by a panicking human, of all things, and doesn't harm the wyrmling much.

Rune
With the shotgun blast, the crowd scatters. The initial wave of panic that spreads through the crowd is doubled and redoubled by the sudden vision of three Crinos Garou emerging from nowhere behind the bar. Glass shatters, alcohol and blood sprays, and more than a few of those in the immediate are release the contents of their bladders in reaction to the sudden, pre-conscious surging of primordial fear.

The dim lights flash and flutter, and the crunch sand is spattered with blood from the spray of the shotgun blast, which catches more than just the Spirals unaware. Several patrons fall, and others are trampled in the ensuing panic as those mortals with wits enough turn and fucking - run.

Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

The female - in the gargantuan warform, the differences are subtle, at most - the female rockets past the bar and turn's her warrior's gift upon Kaj'sha, Asher's immaculate companion - the stink of it, the primal dominance of the full bloody moon - is almost as palpable as the stick copper stain of blood in the air, or the ammonia stench of the mortals' fear.

Still, she rages - nine feet of muscle and mottled fur, more inhuman than a nightmare - and surges forward, silver knife held low. The upward slashing stroke is inelegant, but savage in its effectiveness and soon the silver blade is running red with the other's life's blood.

Kaj'sha
He is perfect.
He is.
Pure.

His eyes are black. His eyes are black, but the rest of him is as the dawn: golden, white, rose. He is all in white, his hair a golden halo of short curls, his skin fair and luminous. His mouth is a poet's, and it is just curving to smile (...angels could fall...) when--

BLAM.
Blood. Red on white.

Shock rockets through him. He doesn't even feel the pain until the warmth of blood blooms on the back of his immaculate jacket. Amazed - who dares?! - the Alpha whirls around; from beneath the sleeve of one long, slim arm, steel-grey drifts and solidifies from a tattoo that's sometimes there, sometimes not. Liquid into solid, smoke into steel and plastic. A shotgun. SPAS-12, futuristic, at once jarring and oh-so-fitting in the beautiful Fallen One. White and golden and pink and RED and black. Beside him, Asher totters, his back a ruined mess. Kaj'sha takes one look and levels the shotgun at the two Gaian Ahrouns crossing the Gauntlet to flank their Alpha.

I believe you have made me quite angry...
...thwarted. Unholy terror hits him; the SPAS-12 wavers in his grasp.

A second shotgun blast, poorly aimed, doesn't do nearly the damage it could've. By then the Spiral Philodox is in his beautiful/terrible Crinos form, staggering back with the blow.

It's not going well. It's not going well at all. His lips peel back, black from white teeth, pink tongue, and he looses the defiance of a howl - the Symphony of the Abyss - a maddening whine, flies and insects, maggots and centipedes.

Lucifer and Beelzebub sat under a tree...

He always has a backup plan. From his other hand, a gathering darkness; a flickering of the lights overhead as shadow expands, engulfs -

- dies.

Just a flicker.
Just a flicker of doubt in his eyes, black, looking up now -

- just in time for the Crinos female to fall upon him. Silver bites deep, thrusting up, invading his twisted perfect heart. The blood of kings, purest of the pure and the most tainted of all, falls in a flood. White. to. red.

Kaj'sha.
Staggers.

The world is woolen and indistinct. Beside him, he can hear the blade of the Fenris-wolf cleaving into his packmate. Inside him, he can feel it through the pack-bond: the shattering of the Spiral's Heart, the destruction these faithless ones wreak. Through the shield of his own disbelief, Kaj'sha makes a realization.

Am I dying...?

It comes as such a surprise. Such an inconstant, such a ...loose end.... Death. He has never considered it. The Father promised him. All this and more I shall bestow upon thee, if only thou wilt fall and worship me.

He fell.
He falls, to his knees.

One.
Last.
Plan.

The barrel of the shotgun jams up under the sleek snow-white blood-red muzzle. The Symphony of the Abyss falters in his throat, but it matters not. The maw of the abyss opens wide: darkness, as dark as the blindness he began his life in so long ago, unfolds to take him in. Less than a week ago he carved the Sign of the Beast into the breast of his Beta. Today, he carves his own sign.

And he's going home.
And he has.
One last loose end to tie.
One last silver bullet.

Kaj'sha: perfectly tainted, the Spawn of Mahsstrac, the Alpha of the Spiral's Heart, the Bastard of G'louogh, the Chosen of the Wyrm and the Philodox of the Silver Fangs:

pulls.
the.
trigger.

None but the purest shall make an end of me.

Asher
curves (sin) waltzing (entrancing) to weave through him, crowd parting a red (bloody) sea this strange, eternal voyage
blinding beauty
blinding pain

[Aethera Enamorata - there is divinity in pleasure
Spiral's Heart - there is divinity in pain]

there is no doubt in his (cracked) mind silver tears through skin (splintering bone, ripping organs) a thousand electric nerves in overdrive the sudden (blistering) heat that pumps (paniced Rage) into the lean Galliard's body, screaming crowd around him doing nothing to dim the shreiking that begins from somewhere long forgotten, somewhere deep inside (.....no...... not again...... please)

blood belches onto the floor beneath the Dancer flipping to his back, finest fabrics replaced by black tar fur, reactive (reactor) rage thundering, mule ears spike (the devil's horns) from twisted skull, tail lashing (serpent's wrath) sweeping a mortal woman from her feet (orientation waning)

just in time to see the Ahroun mauling his Alpha

..... no.

the third (final) blast shatters
something in the Galliard dies

...... not again

the fury of gray stormed skies is almost not enough to grant his attention, before the silver (how familiar) plunges into black (silken) throat there is nothing but the nightmare of white becoming crimson

and lightning cracks

massive fist reaching to wrap around the Modi's wrist, plunging the silver blade deeper into his own throat (there is nothing for me now) and echoing, whispering, completely filling this moment suddenly frozen in time, needling its way into Decker's mind (a voice he will never.... can never.... forget) in vice-grip torture

...... how does it feel...... indulging the pleasure of violence..... the glory of rage.... the ringing chorus of cruelty..... tell me of the power you feel now...... do you like it?

the Gallaird is going home (the Father's warm embrace) already he feels the Spiral's rapture pull
perhaps a smile curls the underhinged maw (I will see you there, soon enough), rippling guard hairs on deformed muzzle, somewhere behind the growing haze in uneven eyes a bitter (bale) fire erupts (victory), lips that could never form even the Spiral's twisted speech quiver as if to attempt one. last. time.

...... you're more corrupt than me.......

head twists, tongue snakes out, smearing through the (tainted) crimson soaking into gray fur (staining), combing it through the hairs, against the skin, the right (night's dark sky) eye flickering in a wink
then the light..... darkens

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 07:58PM
Why?

She's not quite sure why she is here here, the penmanship--the paper it had to be -him-, but she had come nonetheless. The gypsy-hued shawl that usually hangs from her hips is self-consciously pulled about her shoulders now, as if if to ward away the bite of ocean breezes.

Chin lifts higher as she holds the rail under white knuckled grip (As if to ward away the bite of uncertainty. Never that.) punctuated by the fine weave of the shawl threaded between her fingers.

Kaj'sha

Fri 08:04PM
"Thank you for coming."

She had not heard his approach. Few enough do, when he does not wish to be heard; few enough moved with the blonde youth's deft grace. Dressed all in black - though the shirt beneath the woolen overcoat may have been silver-grey - his skin fairly glows; his hair is a halo. So fine, so lovely and so dignified as to transcend gender and race, Kaj'sha is simply beautiful in the way art and angels are.

His hands are gloved, and they rest upon the railing as he steps beside her and smiles. He wears spectacles, their sheen giving the illusion of light to his lightless (hopeless) eyes. This is the only concession to human imperfection; but then, he is not human after all.

"I know the notice was short. Am I keeping you from anything important?"

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 08:21PM
The wind lashes them both her muscles jerking briefly as she hears the sound of syllables to her left. Long ( breeding so pure it seemed she was not real.) colorless strands of hair toss and curl about her in the wind, as cool-grey eyes slide toward the sound. Face only follows eyes as good manners would dictate, the edges of her lips curving slowly. Had she anticipated the pleasure this visit would bring her?

Mouth parts in--

It is always startling to set eyes upon him. Something about him seemed to draw even as it warned. As if he were, at this moment too awfully beautiful, too horribly perfect, that she might (..Oh Semele, you have betrayed yourself—look away.) catch burst into flames at her very impudence.

--greeting.

Foolish girl, next thing you’ll say is you believe those inbred neanderthals are really saviors of the earth—pssht.

“It was my pleasure. Well yes, now that you’ve kept me from my afternoon of lounging and napping I am simply overwhelmed by the thought of making it up. Of course, I fully expect you to make it up to me, Oliver.”

Kaj'sha

Fri 08:28PM
"How can I make it up to you?" Marvel, that his smile can be so guileless; Philodox of the Spiral, Alpha of the Heart. "Ask anything of me and you shall have it if I am able."

You crack me
in
two.

His eyes flit away, black as no one's eyes should ever be. They used to be blue, but night has long since fallen on this sky. In the silence which passes, waves crash to the shore and recede. The wind whips color into his smooth cheeks, but Kaj'sha is motionless as a statue.

He spoke to Asher last night.
Her fate is already sealed.

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 08:36PM
A silvery hued brow rises while head cants to the side indicating they should walk. The boardwalk is chilly that night, though as she moves it seems the cold does not touch her at all. Along with the high curve of her cheekbones, the comfortable erectness of her posture (Did Atlas shrug? Never.), the long thin hands that slide into her pockets as she turns toward him mid-stride, all of it details rendered irrelevant to the sovereignty of her words.

Get on you knees.

“Have you seen Percival?”

Kaj'sha

Fri 08:41PM
So he walks, a easy stroll, effortless and regal. Such a matched pair they are, Silver Fangs to the core and back again. "Hm?" Percival. Percival? "Ah yes. He had a family emergency, I believe. Didn't he leave you a note?"

How easily he lies. Yet three more steps, and he turns to her, though his pace does not falter. His face is intense, serious.

"Can I ask you something?"

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 08:48PM
Family Emergency.
(But didn’t Percy say that his fa--..)

Thoughts stall time stalls as his words ring out across (a small space say 3 feet.) the distance between them. Maddie with the grace of a fencer, dancer of bladed steps, twists toward him halted by his simple inquiry. Lashes sweep low in deference older etiquette.

Instincts.
“..I believe you just have.”

Evolve.
(A small smirk twitches at the corner of her lips as she sneaks a glance through the shield of long eyelashes she’s erected.)

Kaj'sha

Fri 09:08PM
A glance away. A pause, as his flawless brow furrows in thought. Then, carefully, he takes his glasses off and tucks them into his shirt's breast pocket (it is silver), inside the coat.

For the first time that she has seen - though he does not look at her - his eyes are naked. For the first time that she has heard, he gropes for words.

"If - I were to tell you - " a maddening delay as, head down, the beautiful youth (creature.) struggles to frame his thoughts, which were not born human, which would never be human, " - if I were to say that I am - "

No, no. He couldn't say that. It was risking too much.
Father...

"Madeleine," he has never called her by her given name, ever, "do you trust me?"

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 09:19PM
She swallows briefly.

Right hand trembling as if barely restraining the urge to cross herself (Its only that you are so beautiful..) And watching him fumble she reaches toward him, the fleh of chilled hands grasping at his gloved own ( I wonder if you might tell me your name—so that I know which saint it is I implore--) Oh but it isn’t easy for her, and Madeleine Anne Lloyd has been many things…

Never a liar.
(..When I go on my knees at night.)

“I want to but—“

We do not know each other.
I am so volatile.
You are so calm.
We don’t know each other.
Attraction fades.
You are so perfect.
I am so flawed.

We do not know each other.

“—have you trusted me?”

Kaj'sha

Fri 09:24PM
She takes his hand and he grasps it, clenches it. His touch is, for a moment, terrifying.

He is not strong. She is likely stronger than he is. His grip does not hurt, but - there is a desperation there (keep me from falling apart), and a hunger that is black.

Not an angel, after all.

He releases her with an effort. "I have," because she is no tiger, and he is no lamb. "I do."

He sucks a breath.

"If I should tell you that you were in danger." He speaks it just like that: a statement, finished. "If I were to tell you that you should run, and never look back, and never stop running. If I should tell you 'Percival' was a monster who received his just retribution--"

--and I am Michael, Archangel of the Sword--
--and I am Lucifer, Son of the Morning--

"--would you believe me?"

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 09:37PM
Her eyes reach out to him, chilled grey fog hardens into unrelenting concern. Madeleine’s gaze darts wildly about him as she holds his elbows in reassuring grip. Can feel the vibrancy of her form—the (..pathetic) human muscles toned and fit. Comforting and warm, it is she (..noblisse oblige.) who draws HIM near.

“I would believe anything you say, darling.” The softest touch of condescension. “..have you been alright, lately?” Only worse (..corrosive as any poison.) -ened by its mixture of love.

And what was Lucifer’s sin? (Pride. Wrath. Vengeance. Lust. Greed--) No it was a vanity to presume that he in his infinite greatness weighed more than a fly in the cosmic scheme—and so banished from eternal beauty and joy. Cursed to know its taste but never truly savor the fruit.

But do not fear, all things must fall away.
(…even God will not outlive his own self-image.)

Kaj'sha

Fri 09:49PM
And so drawn, he approaches: his rightful mate, come too soon.

His is so armored: his black overcoat covered everything, woolen and thick and warm as oblivion. But when he takes those steps toward her, the armor cracks - he cracks - and for a second, he could, almost does, weep.

Lucifer. Always. Wanted. To. Go. Home.

Oh, but condescension. You don't believe me. You don't believe in me. Even that touch of it, even if it's unconscious, innate, inborn: the trademark of the Silver Fang that's stamped even across his brow and in the tilt of his fine jaw, even now: arrogance. Nobility. Vanity.

When they fall,
they fall hard -
never to hope again.

He smiles. It comes so easily. "Of course. I'm spouting gibberish." A laugh - so simple that she might think she had imagined it: the tension, the madness.

Patch the holes, heal the crack.
With.Draw.

"But thank you," he adds, "for your concern."

Madeleine Lloyd

Fri 09:56PM
Uneasy.

He can feel it in her exhalation, in the rising blush that colors pale cheeks as she realizes she's gripping him. (When all I wanted to do was kiss you..) Releases her hold with the elegance of royal distraction (..meet me in the antechambers.) Her hands going again into her pockets.

"Quite right, of course I don't think you shall ever lack for concern, Oliver. You're blessed."

Kaj'sha

Fri 10:06PM
He stops. He turns to her.
His eyes are black.

In a moment, he strips his gloves from his hands; holds out those hands for hers, takes her hand in his, looks at it, cradles it as he might a wounded animal. His skin is cool, but when he brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, his breath is warm, and his mouth is warm.

"My name is not Oliver," he tells her, softly, and there is no interrupting him. "My name is Kaj'sha. I am a Silver Fang as pure as you."

That doesn't sound like a Silver Fang name--
I never fell. I don't care what they say. I am still. Fang.

His eyes search hers. Search into hers. He sees right through her skin, and those eyes are not natural.

Soft, softer, softest of all:
"And I am sorry."

Without waiting for a reply, the beautiful (tainted) creature drops her hand. He turns and, wrapping his coat tighter about his slim frame, walks away: steadily, crisply, and without a single glance back.

Kaj'sha

Thu 09:21PM EST
He hasn't been out of his room much these few weeks. Like Asher's own ritual seclusion, Kaj'sha had drawn into his pure(ly tainted) self, turned his back to the world and curled tight around the demons within. Memories have been difficult to cope with...thoughts and delusions. Striking is only the first part of the test, and the easiest.

But.

The door is open tonight. Glimpsed within, the room has been reordered. Rearranged. Remade. There is now no furniture. No furnishings. Nothing but white: pure. Untainted. Sterile.

And he wears nothing but white.
And he is still.

Flawless.

Asher

Thu 09:36PM EST
Luna changed her face in the time it has been since the Galliard even thought to return to the Lab (home) all that he cared to accomplish (destroy) accumulated in series of phone calls and chance meetings.... but tonight, tonight something calls (craves) him to the familiar subterranean pathways

the Fang kin abandoned without explanation
without warning
without regard

a heavy silence had walked with him through the empty tunnels (silence his bedmate) to chambers uncared for in weeks
a shiver tightened newly scarred shoulders at how alone the Galliard felt

after the shower (steamed and scalded clean) ceased, only then did the young Dancer think to venture into the rest of the pit, hungry, searching, skin still warm from the water's (hissing) kiss, and curious (hoping) light sparking within mismatched eyes to see the door so long shut (against the world.... against him) one more...... cracked.....

Kaj'sha

Thu 09:47PM EST
Cracked? The door, perhaps.
Kaj'sha? Never.

He is. Perfect. If he is skewed (...and he is...), he is perfectly so now, every last angle off, every line tilted, every curve bent. Everything. Matches. The whole is perfect. The whole is.

WRONG.

"And so," his voice is angels, sighing, "the prodigal son returns."

Behind Asher. Few moved with such effortless, silent grace as Kaj'sha. The beautiful youth's hands are laced behind his back; tall, slender, he regards Asher with a solemnity reminiscent of seraphim and saints. Archangel crowned in (.thorns.) golden locks, the Philodox steps around Asher without ever once brushing him and opens the door to his white room.

"Sian and I have missed you so." Words that could be cloying are grave on his tongue, simple and honest. The room is utterly immaculate; everything is white saved Kaj'sha, who is white and gold with only the faintest pink giving life to his perfection. Like the dawn, is he: like the Morning Star.

There is nowhere to sit but the ground, and Kaj'sha does so, cross-legged, back straight. Quiet, the question comes, "Where have you been?"

(Confess your sins, darkchild mine.)

Asher

Thu 10:04PM EST
jaw twists towards (silver) scarred shoulder, turning towards the voice, the fallen angel, the devilric seraph that now grants the mortal muse audience, attention, bestowing perhaps the greatest of graces with idle smile (where. have. you. been.) quietly watching the circling (shark) that closes in to never strike

[do you speak of me, or yourself]
question writ in eyes that will never be seen

when the Alpha (god) moves, the Beta (child) follows

"As I have missed you."

one has stolen the angel's body
the other has stolen its voice

sinking to sit (supplicate) before the Philodox, the answer whispered silk (poison) against the air

"Hunting."

the bodies found (the bodies not yet found) the vengeance that shows in healing (healed) skin above a sorrowed (fractured) soul, lungs filling with scent so long withheld (never forgotten) in the silence that awaits judgement

[why did you leave me]

Kaj'sha

Thu 10:13PM EST
He draws a breath...
...and he releases a breath.

Oxygen to carbon dioxide. Air to (sweetest) poison. Those who die of carbon monoxide poisoning are flushed and beautiful, as though they merely sleep after the rapture of true love.

Kaj'sha's lightless eyes search the blank ceiling of the blank room. Indeed, they are the only darkness here, save for Asher's clothes and the shadows pooled beneath them. He searches the ceiling as though he could find an answer there, not only to Asher's unspoken-heartbroken questions, but to every other. Why the seasons turn. Why leaves brown. Why angels fall.

I am not fallen. I don't care what they think. I am true.
I am perfect.
I am the vengeance that shall scourge the world.

"I have been..." pause, so effortless that it does not seem to be one, but merely a dilation of time. His eyes slip down; they pass over Asher, into Asher, and then to the ground. His lashes are long and curled and golden; he is as a martyr to the greatest cause of all: that has more truth than even Kaj'sha will ever know, until his fate comes upon him. But - no. Hush. Listen, "...hunting, myself. There were demons to slay."

A beat.

"Trust in me when I tell you this," ...said Jehovah after the Flood... "I will never abandon you again."

Another.

"But they are coming for you, soon."

Asher

Thu 10:25PM EST
as if the Galliard knows his Alpha's thoughts, rhythms, and reasons, perhaps there is a smile that flickers (crawls like a newborn child realizing its chance at life) across his countenance (first breath) and begets sadistic energy once more through battered frame (first sin) the poisonous breath (sweetest taint) drawn and cradled as if it, then, were all that were required, as if it, then, were the oxygen that spawned twisted desire to truly (viciously) live

And that is why I.
Serve.
You.
My faith is still unshakeable.

the crystaline gaze drops (day and night plummeting to abyssmal darkness) to the pristine floor

"They have found me more than once."

so many layers in the all but unheard words

Kaj'sha

Thu 10:32PM EST
"Then you have nothing to fear."

So simply does he slide two threads into one. Face to face with his Beta, the Philodox is slender and graceful, so beautiful as to be otherworldly. Abstract. Beyond. Trust in me, said Lucifer, son of the morning, and you shall fear nothing.

Asher's eyes drop. Kaj'sha reaches one slim and elegant hand forward. His fingers never brush Asher's chin, but the sheer opposed-magnets force of his absent touch is enough to raise the Galliard's eyes back to his. And his are black. Endlessly black. Look in, and be. Devoured.

"They come with all their might, but I will not let you"
Wonder, at the choice of his words.
"fall."

Asher

Thu 10:44PM EST
the reaction to almost touch is instant (how he begs to delay) drawing the (uneven) gaze of the damned back to angel's (perfect) skin, to his eyes - what shakes the very foundations of all else that meet the dreaded gaze, the Galliard willingly casts himself to drown in the voids of eternal

without hesitation
without reserve
without another thought save he wants to be there
just as he threw himself into the Father's (frightening) arms
That. Is true faith.

palms flattening against the cool tiles (aching to curl close and reaffirm the dream is real) weight shifts (the semblance of genuflection's might) to speak the half-language of the Spiral
of mind (cracked), body (torn), and soul (twisted)
the closest move he dares

"Then I shall never fall."

Kaj'sha

Thu 10:49PM EST
The Alpha.
Does not move back.
An inch.

And an inch.
Is the tantalizing distance.
Between.

"I have a question for you." It is barely more than a breath. Though Kaj'sha's eyes never leave Asher's, his hand moves; from the folds of his pristine white clothing, he draws a knife. Summersblade, still smelling of the sea after so long. The knife is held up beside Asher's face. Light dances along the uneven, serrated, seashell edge; light flickers in Asher's vision, at the corners of perception. "Did you kill her?"

And this, this is whispered:
"She loved you."

Asher

Thu 10:58PM EST
the distance that makes strong frame tremble
close enough to taste.... but never touch
...... how it makes him ache

through he knows the blade could strike (he would let it) the Galliard doesn't flinch (faith) when it is raised, it's reflection brilliance in strange blue eyes (seashells against the ever-changing sea) that do not blink else the dream shatters

"Yes."

a breath between them (a breath shared) to span the silence, broken by a (silken) sigh

"She died thinking I loved her in return."

so twisted
his justice
her reward

Kaj'sha

Thu 11:04PM EST
Absolution and condemnation are entwined in his eyes; absolution and condemnation are both absent.

Soundlessly, smoothly, and in a single motion, Kaj'sha rises to his feet. White in a room of white, all that is missing are the wings. But the only wings a Dancer could ever wear are black...leathery...hideous.

Wingless, then, he holds Asher's gaze. It is impossible to look away. It is impossible to look anywhere else but into the void, which is black as the darkest night, blacker.

"Rise to your knees, Grr'aack."
Quiet. as. falling. stars.
"Remove your shirt."

Asher

Thu 11:13PM EST
there is nothing and everything hidden within the darkest voids (and that... is what allows reason to define) but curiosity glints in the seas of color trapped in the desert of (pure) white

fabric whispers across (newly) healed skin to be set aside
how many scars were not there before
how many would his Alpha never know where there at all
the twin ridges blessing his shoulder blades

he has the voice, perhaps he once had the wings, shorn away because he had no right to wear them
that makes two, that should, but never will

one deserves them (has them, in his Beta's eyes)
the other such deviance they could never remain had they existed

silent.... the Galliard waits

Kaj'sha

Thu 11:28PM EST
For the space of an eternity, Kaj'sha does not move. does not speak. does not so much as blink.

Then: condemnation.

The knife sinks into flesh
"Shhh."
and burns like a kiss.

There is silver at its edge, and Asher can feel it. Sunk deep into the skin and muscle of his chest, right down to the bone, it seethes and throbs and scalds. Kaj'sha can see pain register in the set of Asher's bones, but he cannot see it in his eyes.

It did not matter.

Slowly, steadily, the Alpha opens his flesh in a circle, in a loop, in a spiral. Stigmata: the blade is so sharp that the cut cannot be seen; blood wells as though from unmarred skin, and blood echoes for one beaded second the pattern of the cut. The pattern of the Wyrm.

Then it pours. Blood sheets down Asher's skin, here diverting over an arch of bone, there a scar, and there again, a ridge of muscle. Blood soaks the waist of Asher's pants, and lower.

The first design is complete. It will scar: the Wyrm glyph sprawled lazy and perfect over Asher's breast. Another silence falls, and red blood spreads soundlessly at their feet. For once, Kaj'sha does not move back from it.

"So that you remember she loved you."

The knife plunges again. Sharp and fast, the pattern of the jagged whorls about the Wyrm's spiral. A carnivorous rose yawns open; the Wyrm's sign becomes the sign of the beast.

Black. Spiral. Dancer.

But the last spike remains incomplete. The blade remains sunken inches into flesh, and the tip of it - does Asher imagine it? - touches the black heart of the Galliard. It is a queer touch, the (ecstatic) quiver of silver entirely too deep inside, violating and sanctimonious at once. The beat of that heart rocks the hilt of the blade gently; the slightest of pushes would snuff out Asher's flame forever.

Trust me.

Kaj'sha speaks again.
"I should let you die thinking I loved you."

A beat of Asher's heart.

"But..."
Tension stretches forever.
"...I would rather you lived to know it."

Absolution.
The blade withdraws
and clatters to the ground.

Kaj'sha steps away.

Asher

Fri 12:15AM EST
when the blade sinks
the scream rises

silver buried deeply in the metis Dancer's flesh and muscle, nicking bone (scalding) as jaw clenches (to break) to strangle the plaintive wail as he was told (as he was so. silently. commanded) though the pain is maddening (fracturing, splintering, thinning the delicate threads of .....cracked.... mind)

deliciously tormenting
the madman's sick caress
mismatched eyes glazing in horrific pleasure

....... I killed her to save her greater pain......

whispered (so small against the wave of mindnumbing pain) deep in the recesses

but it does .not. matter.
he knows, without seeing, what it is his Alpha carves in willing flesh, quaking beneath the cruel (adoring) touch, low moan (purred, begging) welling behind the remnants of agony's howl, mixing to wash muted sigh on tainted (talented) tongue, the (sick) smile that curves his lips (blessed)

glazed eyes draw open to feel the pause, his heart beating (strong), mindless desperation (devotion) to creep closer to the ultimate touch even if it meant it would be the caress that ended it all (ecstacy's thrill in asphyxiation), irises wide enough to challenge the darkness in Kaj'sha's gaze, blue nearly extinct - the two Dancers (angels, devils) for this instant joined into a single (devastating) creature

in the pain that wells by one to the other
in the blood that spills to bridge one to the other

[I once told you...... I would give all you desired of me and more]

Aethera Inamorata - there is divinity in pleasure
The Spiral's Heart - there is divinity in pain

......I would never forget......

never
as final as the blade's clatter on floor so clean (perfect, that he was allowed to mar) ringing in the Galliard's ears
as final as the mark of his Alpha's hand that will remain with him, on him, in him
forever

After the screams, after the crashing, after the bellowing howls that sounded on planes both audial and mental befell a (terrifying) silence that swathed (smothered) the Galliard until the bolt threw like a gunshot (fire!) in the darkness

even then, minutes (hours, days) passed before there was any sound
the soft shuffle of tankboots (hunger prickling) across hallway slabs
water that drips (black rain) from blond hair
near forgotten soap used to scrub (beneath the scour of steel wool) last dregs of poison away

there's a wander to his steps (gaunt, starving) which finally lead to the gathering room and beyond to scrounge (desperate) in the kitchen

Not long after the starving wolf emerges, Kaj'sha appears from the depths of his own, sterile chamber. Immediately, black eyes note the open door, and nearly as quick, fall upon Taryn in the gathering room. He tilts his head to the kitchen beyond with its noises of desperate feeding, and raises his eyebrows in question.

"The butterfly has emerged from the cocoon, has it...?"

She looks up from the book in her lap that had captured her attention so completely - first to watch the passage of Asher (..teach me..) then again as Kaj'sha (Archangel, savior) enters. She shrugs her shoulders and nods.
"So it would seem."
Eyes fall again to the book in hand, an arm lazily wrapped around waist where fingers tapping against healed ribs (restless). She turns the page, and continues to read (or convincingly pretends).

it mattered not if the food were cold or raw (consumption) to the desperation to fill empty belly (indulgence) the young Dancer curled on the floor against a cabinet..... within easy reach of the 'fridge (even that door shut tight between raids) - each reach into its (steadily emptying) depths washing icy blue glaciers across dehydrated skin

there is little thought given to chewing (jaw still aches from the silver driven wound across his cheek), or the voices outside - only the steady bolt of food and drink down the wolf's gullet

"Hm," is all the comment Kaj'sha has for that, as he settles himself beside the young Spiral with the mindless ease borne of a pack mentality ingrained from birth. Metis that he is, individuality, personal space, and all else had never been as important a thing to him as it had for Taryn, a child of human, independence-fervid America.

Settling himself, he waits for the hungry Galliard to return.

She glances up as he sits beside her, offering a slight smile as she unfolds her feet from under her and sets them on the floor, (preserving her space) though fingers still remaind wrapped and tapping as she turns another page, continuing the pretense of reading while thoughts race along other tracks...

the feeding (frenzy) continues, endlessly, filling the (black) void created in the everlasting darkness

but finally the angry (red) tide ebbs, and gluttony pushed aside in favor of banishing the lonliness that hurt him perhaps worst of all, the Galliard lifts to his feet, satiation driving the smile accompanied by bowl of candy corn brought back into the main room and offered to his packmates without second thought of recent starvation pangs gnawing at his own belly (mindless ease borne of a pack mentality ingrained from birth)
Kaj'sha first (always first) and Taryn second
familiar (homidical) smile lopsided by the tendons still healing (above the new notch carved in bone beneath)

only after they have taken what they wish does he turn to the (his) couch


Kaj'sha, of course, shakes his head to the candy corn. Nevertheless, the sentiment is there, and appreciated in the Silver Fang's own cool and impossibly distant way.

"It's good to have you back, Asher," he murmurs after the Galliard has seated himself. "The wound on your brow, though; I noted it the night we spoke, and it has yet to fade. Silver?"

A brow lifts as the candy is offered... and after half a second she reaches and takes a handful, glancing up at the wound, then back down to the book before she marks her place and closes it, still quiet as she eats the candy corn one by one..

long tongue reaches out, scraping the sugar from the side of a candied treat before the voice (that voice) breaches the distance between them

"1873 Colt .45."

"Interesting choice of weapon," comments the fair fallen-one. His eyes are opaque holes, dark as the darkest night, darker. "Whose was it?"

Somewhere, perhaps he already knows.

The tongue, that voice - manages to lift the infant dancers lips in some semblence of a smile, it lingers, but she just concentrates on the sweet candy as it washes across her tongue... listening to them talk.

it is then
only then
that those mismatched eyes swing 'round to level on Kaj'sha (and may the air between crackle), skies of day and night meeting black nightmare's depths

"Madeleine's."

like so many other women (for so many other reasons) he never knew her last name (but a merit to at least know her first)

Those unnerving eyes drop briefly. Unreachable visions dance behind the screen of angelically long lashes, fade and die. Kaj'sha raises his eyes again.

"Ah," is all he says. "It is done, then?"

She just.. listens, really. A cubwith respect (or simply nothing to add at the moment) perhaps. She just continues to munch on the candy, slender legs crossing under closed book.

perhaps, if those eyes had not dropped (or if his Alpha could actually see in their world's terms), they would have noticed something new would have twisted, writhing in the Galliard's eyes, something none of the Pack had before witnessed (Dances-In-Blood), chin raising slightly before it drops in nod

"I kept her head unblemished..... if you still want it."

lips sealing to not offer the details he know will not be asked (though that malicious smile, it creeps velvet across his features)

An odd expression crosses the Dancer's face then, something caught - and pulled like a man on a rack - between revulsion and wistfulness and longing and uncontrollable, unreasoning anger. At last, he exhales, leans back, and his face clears.

"Yes. I would. Thank you, Asher. You have done exactly as I hoped."

Tensions rise and twist and sing through the air and the infant dancer tilts her head... just so... vivid blue flickering between them, catching various (visions and quests) emotions as they flicker through expressions that are so carefully, and quickly (but not quick enough) schooled, pulled back and calmed again.. the last piece of candy is slid between lush lips (what else does she still taste..) tongue chasing after lingering sweetness before pulled (intotheheat) back again...

the expression raises hackles (invisable) across lean shoulders (in life you were premature, in death you upset..... I'm glad I cursed your soul, inbred bitch.....) but there is little else he says or does but rise, bowl set within Taryn's reach and the youth disappears into the kitchen

the freezer door opening

black garbage bag crackling (popcorn), ice sloughing across tankboots as they draw into the gathering room once more, folding into (submissive) crouch before his Alpha, the head (unblemished) set at his feet (both hands used in the offering) and those eyes raise once more (you're lucky I saved this much) and hold Kaj'sha's gaze.....


He looks at the black bag for a moment, leaving it where it lay - between his feet. Moments pass, and he decides he will take care of it later. Clearly moving on to the next subject, he continues, "Now that you are well again, Asher, I expect you to take your place as my Beta once more. I also expect that you will take the matter of Taryn's education into consideration.

"Sooner or later - sooner rather than later, I hope - we should invite our distant cousins the fomor and the spiderling to meet with us. I am, of course, hesitant to bring strangers into the pack's hold. However, this being something of a dinner party, I doubt a conference room above will do.

"I would prefer if you and SickBoy could obtain a large home in a discreet part of town for the purpose of entertaining our guests. The occupants of the home must be harmlessly taken aside and stowed for the evening, and returned to their normal lives with as little disturbance as possible. Use the Rite of the Survivor if you must, and take Taryn along if you believe it would be a valuable learning experience for her. That judgment, however, I leave to your expertise as instructor and mentor."

Well, this is morbid. All through the little speech, the dead kin's head slowly defrosts at his feet.

morbid?
there's absent wonder how many noticed the frozen head lay next to the frozen meat and microwave meals for the past week, lividity should make her rather becoming (....perfect) for a corpse - bruises' flush, dark eyes, pale skin and flaxen hair.....

but a relaxation weaves through the lean frame (at home, once more, within the pack) a careful consideration of his Alpha's words play across his features

"I'd prefer Bianca and Manetheran never find our hold, though her fear of Pentex should keep her far from the lab. Should she ever be captured, he will surely give the location away far before she can blow up in their faces. Taryn......" a glance (molesting) to prim seat .... seeing Karnala's child with her legs crossed brings great amusement..... "... is improving quickly, already, if all goes well the progress shall continue as it has so far..... but I'll organize location scouting to being tonight. I need the walk. Is there a view you prefer?"

high society etiquette still something of a mystery to the Galliard

After a moment's thought, "Anything but the overtly gaudy. No hedges trimmed into animals on the front lawn, if you please...anything else will do fine. Taryn," attention shifting with sudden, liquid ease, "have you an evening gown?"

Dear God, he was planning to shove even SickBoy into a three-piece suit...

Which, of course, may be just why her legs are crossed - so says the mischivious playful glint in those eyes..
...though the compliment surprises her, it doesn't get the reaction that Kaj'sha's questions does. In fact - she almost chokes on the candy corn, managing to swallow it down as she laughs, outright.
"An evening gown? You must be kidding. I've only what was in my pack when ya'll grabbed me - very little. I don't normally pack around formal wear, even if I owned any..."
Still chuckling - not disrespectfully, but genuinely amused. Two pairs of jeans, 3 t-shirts - that's the complete extent of her wardrobe. Of course - this is not to mean she even bothers to hide her excitement over a shopping trip... she is, after all, a 16 year old girl...

his nose wrinkles at the hedges remark (raised in the Garou society, even he knows better than that) but the sudden visualization that SickBoy will indeed be included in this plan (insanity) makes one wonder if he'd be able to to stay in a three-piece suit or simply ooze out the cuffs

the urge to cackle outright only manifests a (loving) sneer at Taryn's choke

"..........so I suppose part of the scouting trip will include the Caesar's plaza?"

spoken half idly, not mentioning most of his wardrobe was destroyed in the frenzy, either, but if Kaj'sha is planning a party, he'll be sure they impress


"Didn't think so," replies Kaj'sha, neatly clipping off the tail end of her protests. Rising easily to his feet, he picks up the garbage bag (symbolism there, Asher?) and starts toward his room. "We'll go shopping tomorrow. I'll have Sian bring the Bentley--" oh, wait, it was crashed, "--excuse me, the Mercedes around at 4pm sharp. Be ready.

"Asher," to his first, "I'm not to be disturbed. I have some..." turning away, the head of the kin frozen beautifully in his hands, "...loose ends to take care of."

frozen, preserved (be glad he didn't piss in it) carted away and (finally) out of his sight (good. fucking. riddance.) the only acknowledgement

"Yes, Kaj'sha."

murmured to the Philodox's back as those eyes taken in the Theurge, far more amusement glinting in the Galliard - giddy as a schoolgirl indeed

She wrinkles her nose a little as Asher looks at her, knowing the Galliard will tease her for her excitement, but she doesn't care (a formal gown!), she returns her feet to where they had been tucked under her before Kaj'sha sat down..

there's a slashed (wry) grin

"What were you reading?"

interest, instead of mockery, strange the effects deprivation can bring

"Just some studying.. found thus when doing research for you. Has some good suggestions in it, others that I already knew."
A shrug of slender shoulder.

and this he knows, perhaps it is what keeps the slight grin hanging around

"And is there anything else you've learned or studied in the past few days?"

She can't help but chuckle..
"Not to attempt a bargain to make you feel better while sitting on your bed?"
Though her smile is still playful, fingers tap against her ribs.

"Good to know.... good to know...."

chortled softly (the devil musing) before he rises and turns towards the tunnel entrance

"I'm going to find SickBoy and pull him away from his labrats so we can begin scouting for Kaj'sha..... if you wish a walk, feel free to join us"

She tosses a candy corn at him as he turns.
"You're welcome."
Then she shrugs, and unfolds to stand.
"Sure, why not. Lemme toss this in my room, n grab my boots. and I'll be ready."

deep in the pit (the darkness, the soothing darkness) hidden in his chambers (away from the others, never show weakness) curls the Galliard, blanket tucked around chilled (fevered) form, concentration narrowed on the skin drum surrounded (captured) by crossed legs, soft rhythms (bone rhythms) echoing off the walls (echoing in his mind)

distractions
(cravings)
he will be strong.....


"Should I call Ayydis to tend you?"

To the wracked mind, time and space are indefinite and vague. The words float to him as though from very far away, beyond his chills and fevers, beyond his maddening craving.

Just one shot. Just half. Just a single, damned, milliliter, a drop of it and he'll be fine...

When had the Alpha spoken, and how long had he been there? (Where?) There: at the door...no, no wait, just a shadow. There, beside him, supple and crosslegged in the darkness, visible only by the light creeping in under the crack of the door reflecting, however faintly, from his clothes and skin.

the rhythms continue (a smoke signal rising from the bale fire that burns within) moments, minutes, decades, before mismatched eyes open - they look not for his Alpha (he would know where he was without looking) gazing into the tone-filled darkness

"Is methadone in her bag of tricks?"

chuckled softly (pained) a chill driving down lean spine
will they spend time together blood does not shed?
would a drop hurt?
yes
his head shakes to send sweaty bangs latent dance across his forehead

"It was of her I wished to speak with you......"


"No," replies Kaj'sha, softly, "but the Touch may help the symptoms, though the addiction is yours to battle and break."

A slight pause, as he tilts his head to the side. "Oh?"

"I will not suffer others my sickness....."

whispered (she offered to pull the silver from his back, he did not ask, but he will not refuse) as the battle is his - cold turkey - the Galliard will be strong, he will over come this test from the Father, prove himself, fingers (itchy, twitching) coaxing a soft cadence from the flesh drum

"What are your plans for her, Kaj'sha......"

He thinks a moment before he replies, but he does, he is honest.

"I intend to draw her into the fold, tonight. She is a Crescent-Moon...we have none, and would benefit from her powers."

His lightless eyes are a steady, light weight on Asher's body, caught in the throes of withdrawal, caught in the pains of longing. It seemed the Father's test was one and the same for all, at the root: to abandon that which one craved most desperately.

"Your words lead me to believe you would suggest another path of action, Grra'ack."

"Do you truly believe she is ready?"

it is then those eyes (hazed, pained) lift to search the voids darker than even the shadows wrapping the room (the beg choked away, crave rattling the soft rhythms) holding what would frighten others to their core as if it were porceline
before casting back to the shadow sea he fills with drops of notes from each touch of his fingers

"I do not...... she still needs to learn. She makes mistakes."

"I gave her a task...a test...she performed swiftly and admirably. And thus far she has yet to fail before my eyes.

"But I would have your reasons and your concerns, my Galliard."

"What, exactly, did she tell you in her report on the boardwalk? And how she gleaned the information for you......"

while he could not hear it, he could see it, the gestures gave half away

"She told me of the one who is infatuated with her. That he is a spider...serving Weaver and Father Wyrm. The former does not bode well for him, but for the latter we will tolerate him for a time.

"You gleaned the information. Some. She received the rest straight from the spider's lips. Fear not, Asher," smiling, "I am not so foolish as to believe all that this Kang tells us."

softly, whispered (crooned)

"Did she tell you she walked alone the streets she did not know...... and we both remember what happened last she walked alone." a strange, idle, smile, what would have happened had he not found her and shown the way "We only so recently recieved her..... I would hate to lose her to further mistakes as we did Gur'thek.........."

so many layers in those words, how much of recent events seem to be repeating, carefully choosing the words (that hurt dry throat)

"She is premature. Allow her time to learn before trusting her at your back."

"The Dance cannot be undanced. The Spiral cannot be unwound. She is ours, Asher; the others cannot take her back. They would choke on their own jealousy and rend her to shreds if she tried. This I believe.

"But...

"You are more perceptive than I, and see more." If there is a second meaning in those words, it is unconscious; never would Kaj'sha admit, even to himself, that his eyes were not what the Wyrm promised: vision perfect. "And because your Cassandra to Gur'thek's Odysseus was true, I do trust you at my back.

"It is true, also, that her powers as Theurge do not yet exceed mine, and her use to this pack will come later. It is merely a precaution...I want her close, where I can see her, and where my word over her is final.

"You say she is premature; perhaps this is so. But who, Asher, will teach her what she must learn? Who will watch her when I cannot?"

He already knows the answer.

"She cannot be returned to them, but I see how she may benefit us as well, and would rather she not be killed..... "

unless (the whim strikes) it is by his hands
there is a smile, wry (he knows his Alpha well) and perhaps the next words are more a rececitation than an offer

"I will not be leaving the tunnels until the cravings themselves leave, Kaj'sha." there is no need to speak of the dangers involved therein (though how he hates to be backed into a corner with no escape) glancing up to his companion (packmate, alpha, brother, and how he wished more) "I will teach her our ways..... Kyrsha'wai'gas as well...... if you think I will be able to when you are elsewise occupied.

I will give Ayydis to you worthy of becoming the Spiral's Heart."

"There is none more able," he replies. The Galliard is, after all, the Lorekeeper. "But these few days, until you have defeated your own inner enemies, I will take the time to speak to her myself."

A brief frown, "Her and Kyrsha'wai'gas, whom I have seen far too little of."

a nod, accepting (he knew the truth in those) words, though the skull tilts (sweat rivulets of hair clinging to chilled and fevered skin)

"I have seen Kyrsha'wai'gas mostly at the apartment of Malcom's - but it seems she is moving. I know she spoke to a Gaian recently, in Camden, but seemed more determined after returning...... a paranoid redneck named Decker, but he did not follow her out of the Umbra." there is a shrug of tension filled shoulders "And there is another Spiral hanging around her.... but I do not know his name."

"She should not speak to the Gaians...at all. Especially if they do not strike her dead on sight. That is abnormal and it is dangerous. And they have an Athro... This other Spiral who does not come to us but sniffs after she who is ours, too - abnormal and troublesome."

The slim youth exhales, and the weight of his words seems to lift. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and gently daps sweat from his Beta's brow, though his own fingers never contact skin. "Nevermind that, Asher. You've your own battle to fight. I will see to this personally."

He presses his handkerchief, pure white, into the fallen Child's hand and moves to rise.

there's a soft sound that roils in his throat, leaning into the cool (wamrth) of the hankercheif, lips pulling back into a smile (thank you)

"Vos is a useful tool for you, Kaj'sha..." murmured, though a thought strikes "Wait."

"Vos?" Pausing. Considering. "Useful, but dangerous, and doubtlessly with his own agenda." A lean hand creeps up, taps against his temple. "I do not want him sneaking about here too much, and I see what he does to the others."

Mindfucking. Literally. It would probably drive Kaj'sha into fits of unrelenting madness.

"Wait?"

once again the wry smile returns (he would not be here now if Vos was not dangerous, there is no doubt the precautions needed around the fomor) rising (achingly) to stand, digging deeply into the pocket of baggy jeans

"Strange..... he does not attempt that with me."

but it is shrugged away (another tension so desperate to cast off the mantle across tight muscle) hand retrieved from the depths of denim to rub something (clean it) on a portion of open shirt

the key to the outer lock of his chambers
the ultimate trust
he knows it will be worse before it is better
and there is no other hand he would place that key within

"Perhaps," with a ghost of a smile, "he prefers girls."

Then, the smile fades as he looks down on the key, blank for a moment before knowledge dawns.

Even so, he does not take the key for a moment. He watches Asher and then, suddenly and warninglessly shutting the door on his own particular madnesses, the youth reaches forward and wraps one hand behind the head of his Beta. Gently, he urges the Galliard to bend his head down; gently, he angles his own up.

Like an angel bestowing favor, the Philodox presses his lips (...like a brand...) to his Beta's fevered brow.

The contact lasts no more than a second, and after Kaj'sha will spit and rinse and scrub and shudder for half an hour in his own rooms, but for one instant the phobia is overcome; for one instant, there is a connection true.

Then he draws back and takes the key. "Be well, Grra'ack," he murmurs, fingers closing around the bit of scrap metal that was the line between freedom and captivity, open spaces and the worst sort of oubliette. "I will not use this unless I must."

Without another word, the fallen one turns and walks out, pulling the door softly shut behind.

the laughter is soft (he knows...he's tried) a small joy in the midst of the overwhelming pain, but it is replaced by the shock, surprise igniting within those bale-fire eyes

the reach so unexpected (dreamt of) the young Dancer nearly shies from it as if it were a strike

the tremble beneath the touch from more than the crave
(desire)
the smile warming
(lust)
the moan catching into soft whimper crawling across (dry) tongue
(begging)
the touch (brand) burning chilled flesh
(...... aching)
unable to stop the reach, fingers dragging lightly across clean (pure) fabric before balling into fist to restrain (prevent) indulging in more

"Thank you....... Kaj'sha."

so many layers
murmured to the closed (tight) door

the monster walks alone

talon's tck echoing in the dark, lonely tunnels below even where blood flows through the Spiral's Heart, long tail mesmerizing sway with each (solemn) step - journey beginning in the sculpted hallways of the Labs, finding where tile gave way to worn dirt, then those paths relinquishing familiarity to places rarely trod

it is still down here.
quiet
empty......

accompanied only by the still form slung across muscular shoulder (viscera weeping to leave breadcrumb trail) the singular procession does not halt until the end of a tunnel bars silent path

mismatched eyes (father's gifts) glow bale-fire in the darkness (nuclear warmth on night's horizon sky), crouching, body falling limply to sprawl prone before him (supplication even in death) and the young Dancer stills in silent (chilling) contemplation

............Twister..........

whispers echoing though black lips never move - verbal language forsaken and the growls, gestures, and mind-rending whispers of the Black Spiral Dancers embraced

talons drag through congealed blood (clothing powderburnt, flaking to the ground) near black ink drawn from the body itself (lividity my inspiration)

........... Gur'thek.........

glyphs are draw about the body of murdered (assassinated) packmate
stories told, lessons learned
a tainted record all his own

the creature unfolds, taloned hands reaching to caress the ceiling (Wyrm's skin - Gaia's underbelly) tears of green falling from razored tips..... and from the Father's consort does he rip handfuls of dirt to rain across the body as black hail until a mound of packed rubble (saturated with toxic claw's caress) covers the dead man (monster) before him

.........of the Father....... return to Him......

underhinged jaw lifting as a long, solo howl rips through the tunnels


A howl echoes through the den-lab-home that they had made. A death she might've wanted to see (....you know she wouldn't have cared.) And it had been a while since Sian was seen laying about (...you know they wouldn't have a cared.) her absense during the search for Malcolm highlighting the vacancy of steel-lined musculature and dagger sharp violence.


Where.
(...like a chainsaw.)
Was.
(...if my day keeps goin' this way--)
She.


The door to her room is left ajar; falls open under the seeking presence of another. The stagnant air of (..apathy..) still lingering in her ventless room. Opened door spills in the light of the hallway through darkened recess thick as molasses. Along the floor pieces of broke furniture lay as unburied bodies on a battlefield...


But it is the wall that draws your eye.
[RETURN & AHROUN]
Twining glyphs carved into the walls's surface.


He is there.

He who ordered it done.
He who had no part in the doing.
He who has no part in the burying of the dead.

But he is there, for the Rite is his to cast as the words are Grra'ack's to speak, and his black eyes watch, hooded, unknown.

Behind those eyes, within the fallen one's dark heart, what lies, what truths entwine? Sorrow, for the fallen brother? Pleasure, for the fallen foe? Or perhaps, merely a sense of (twisted) justice...

Out of darkness were you born.
Out of night came you to us.
Child of the Father, Bastard of the Corruption's Dance:
Your time has come. Your deeds are done.
Servant of the Deceiver, Spawn of the Defiler:
Back to the night shall you pass.
Back to the darkness shall you go.

The lean silvery wolf-man's right hand rises once. A handful of dust (I will show you fear...) drifts from his open palm, scattering over the remains of his once-packmate.

Malcom.
Twister of Tales.
Gurthek.
Brother.

The Philodox rises and walks away.

---

...into the main room of the pack's Pit. Corridors branch away from it, one to his own impeccable, sterile (...just like him...) room; another to Asher's; another to SickBoy's, and so on and so forth.

But something has changed. A room so often closed is open. Within, silence - and not the breathing sort that surrounds her so often.

The lean Philodox stops, wondering. He pushes the door open and he slips within, pitchblack eyes seeing effortlessly. He sees the mess, the overturned furniture, testaments to her great Rage...

...and he sees the glyphs, not because ink was visible to him, but because blood glows faintly in radiation's glare.

His mouth curves up, ever so slightly. Ever so inscrutably.

he was invited (ordered) but there is pause outside the chambers, broad hands spreading (rough pads) against the wall to straddle the door, mule ears swiveling foreward (nearly touching the ceiling)

listening

he's never knocked (he's never had to) tail lashing a slow waltz behind furry form


He finds his Alpha washing, which is not an unusual thing. Just his two hands this time, water running fresh and untainted, even here, over fair skin, sleek bones, tendons and muscles. "Come in, Asher. You know you're always welcome here."

Well. Almost always. There were times when his door was resolutely shut...usually during private calls to Daddy.

Turning, Kaj'sha dries his hands, mops his face once for good measure. Though Asher has seen them a thousand times, perhaps more, it is still a shock to see the eyes of the Philodox, so utterly black and unreflecting in a face so lovely, otherwise.

The towel is folded neatly and set on the edge of the sink. Someone will clean it up, later; not he. Dressed all in white, a simple undershirt and drawstring pants, he sits on the pristine floor, crosslegged.

"You've been quiet, Asher." Kaj'sha rarely begins a conversation by speaking of himself. Tonight will be no exception. "Is there something on your mind?"


taloned feet (clean, always clean before coming here) breach the barrier of the doorway, long neck folding to pass the frame's gable, stopping only when (deformed) body sinks to crouch just before his Alpha

eyes that still reflect balefire sink into the black voids (when I look into your eyes......) tail still slowly moving as if to sweep (non-existant) dust from the floor (pensive.... to be questioned) underhinged skull dropping in slightest nod

.....yes.

echoing (sad) whisper, as if it truly be formed by those lips - unspoken but he knows its heard


Kaj'sha is easily dwarfed by the Crinos. Though tall, he is slender, and folded easily on the floor, almost a child in proportion to Grra'ack's twisted bulk. In response, he merely lifts a hand, palm briefly up.

Tell me, he invites, abandoning the words of the humans for the gestures and sounds of the Dancers of the Black Spiral.


knuckles brush before hands flatten against the (pristine) floor, weight rocking forward - long tar black fur around his throat dangling just above inviting palm (jugular exposed)

trust....... admission

as if by scent alone it would tell everything Kaj'sha would wish to know (and perhaps it does) neck twisted so that even his breath does not flutter soft fabric, ears held pinned and away

...... apathy....... disrespect....... dreams......


There is no murdering blow, no sign of such. The tips of his fingers drift through the fur of his Beta's throat, barely touching, and then that hand folds and turns, subtle and graceful shifts of posture reflecting his reply. There is only a certain sadness in his features.

I cannot lose you to the Nameless Angel, Grra'ack...I will not lose you to disrespect.

Tell me of these dreams.


a breath, thick, drawn between misligned lips to rattle in his throat

....... when the Father first called............

head lowers as if to settle across his Alpha's knee though it misses as body further twists, tail sweeping around (body the waning black crescent-moon presented at the feet of the fallen Fang) but never will the embrace touch (scarred belly protected)


Merely silence, waiting for more...the Philodox, the bringer of light (dark), the straight blade, the forthright path. His eyes have slipped closed, but Grra'ack knows he can see him just as well.

Merely silence, inviting more.


how he aches to move closer (a boundary never crossed)

........ it haunts....... disconnects...... saddens......

barrel chest fills in deep (sad, lonely.... hurting) sigh, spinning the tale of the dream in broken phrases and crumbling memories - he understands not why it affects him now, this act from years ago, or the silence that's been triggered (do you remember the terrors that came after the galliards' lost their songs?)

Tell me...

Pausing, head down, thinking; choosing words, picking them as carefully as an artist chose colors, a sculptor his palette knives.

...about your past, Grra'ack. Before the Father called, after, and all that happened between.

the great (mangled) skull tilts - a question that had never been posed, by anyone, and a part of it surprises him.....but the weight soon returns to where it rests across his forearm (I would tell you everything)

the echoing whisper (beautiful agony) continues, sounds becoming visions (the Galliard's gift) flashing in his Alpha's mind (as Kaj'sha has never seen, perhaps Asher is just special).......shunned Metis at his birth Caern, parents split and the pup banished....... the welcoming (divine) touch of Aethera Inamorata.......

love and loss in the attack (belly hidden - safe - against the ground)..... the birth of hate, the night the Father first touched him but he never realized it, the dreams (nightmares of memory, vision and prophecy) that have kept his slumber company for weeks now

Crest of the Horn stoked his Rage for more than three years - more than one Fang had fallen by his hand - deed name earned as he danced in the blood of bodies that lay at his feet...... and finally (why did he wait so long) the epiphany before throwing himself into their Father's arms to dance (indulge my mad obsession) past where all the others collapsed

[in order to be reborn, we must first be destroyed.... he will stand and watch Gaia as she burns to be of those Chosen to watch her rise again from the ashes]

hatred such a strong force, focused so coldly from the actions of a single Tribe, perhaps only a single Pack that began it all

several months passed as he learned to serve the Father......

Kaj'sha has seen the rest, that is when he found the (twisted) Galliard, fanatacism's drive needing direction, discovered, molded (pulsing) within the Spiral's Heart.... though it may only be now explained why Asher serves him so loyally (a small part cringes in fear the reaction to the almost admission that was not even in words), so unquestioningly

[the boardwalk fortuneteller's words ring in his mind - lust and love, truth and lies, it is not the woman you love but rather despise....]


Did Asher think, perhaps, that such honesty, such admissions would spur Kaj'sha to anger? No, never; for Kaj'sha cares not for reasons or means, but only for the ends. The Father's ends. His ends.

(Like father...like son.)

When the last of the whispers - visions - fades away, and long after, the youth sits unmoving. The Spiral has stolen all vestiges of mortal age from him, and he remains forever the way he was when he first Danced, just as It stole all vestiges of honor, of truth, of belief other than those the Father keeps.

Through a mirror darkly, is Kaj'sha: through a mirror, dark. And he reaches forward now, not stretching - simply lifting a graceful hand to rest upon the once-Gaian, once-Child of Gaia's brow, fingers stirring the soft fur between the mule ears for which he had once been shunned.

There is a purpose to everything, Grra'ack, are the words unspoken, drifting together from gestures and growls, and the Father tests us often so that we are strong enough to serve him as we must. It was, and is now even more so my belief that the pack stands before a long and strenuous test.

Each in our own ways, we must stand to the temptations offered us, and sidestep the many and hazardous pitfalls in our path. Our reach and numbers have grown greatly, but I believe not all can be trusted...and not all is as it seems.

Hold fast to your course, Grra'ack. The reason behind your Dance is only the vessel for the Father's will. You were Chosen, and you are Chosen. If these dreams come as reminders, lessons, learn them well; if they come to distract you from your true purpose, bar them from your heart.

Once, he might have spoken similar words to hold his packmates to Gaia's path. Once, in another life, it might have been.

A little later, a confession for a confession: I believe that I, too, am being tested...and that I have strayed dangerously close to failure.


perhaps...
(nothing mutilates as quickly or permanently as ridicule)

long (graceful, in another light) ears relax beneath the gentle touch, sliding to the side in answer to gravity's call, belief in his Alpha now - once more - reaffirmed in that simple contact between them, the language of gestures and growls colored with affection's rumbling purr

......... reminding...... hurting........ securing.......I had thought them the Father's call......

beneath the idle touch, skull tilts in question (though he dare not move away, not even to look up, else break the spell)



Perhaps they are. The Father hurts us to make us strong...destroys us to make us again. Is that not so? He is a good master, but a demanding one. We will not fail him.

A long, long pause then, nearly endless as, for once, the Philodox's glib tongue is tied. At last, softly, he speaks of that which he has never spoken of before.

When first I Danced the Father...promised me some things. He promised me He would use me well to achieve great things in His name. He promised me that if I served Him well, I would be rewarded in the way I most desired.

Grra'ack, there is nothing I desire more than a cub. A son, a daughter, a child to call my own, spawned of my seed, borne upon one whose blood matches mine in purity. All this He promised me, and it was more than I had ever dared hope.

That Silver Fang kin, Malcom's toy: she is pure, as pure as the Father promised. But I see now that she is not for me. She is...premature. A test. If I succumb now to my undeserved reward, all this will collapse. The pack will tear itself apart and the Father's hold over this city will crumble. She is the first part of my test. I am certain of it now.

As for the second - I am beginning to suspect one of our own is not what he seems.

those ears carefully swivel, one at a time (the juggler's careful act), not to dislodge but to catch the tones spilling in (angelic) rain..... enchanted by the voice (moreso by the admissions) tailtip flicks as if a child at play

and he does well to maintain composure at even the mention of the Fang kin

though the Galliard remains quiet, his turn to invite (beg) more

There is no more on the kinfolk. Not now. Kaj'sha is a master of half-truths, but perhaps Asher has known him long enough to recognize a painful, bitter truth from one that is merely a tool to achieve an end. The first admission is the one that hurts; the kin is the one he does not wish to relinquish.

It is, perhaps, the longest they have remained in contact: the Philodox's hand upon the Galliard's brow, his black eyes distant. Words come slowly, and only after a small smile.

You know the one of which I speak... you have never liked him, and you have always seen the danger he poses. He will try to kill you at first opportunity, you said. I thought perhaps we would wring use from him. But instead, his mistakes nearly kill the entire pack.

His tone turns cold, And he calls them 'antics' while he fondles his little girlfriend. He is becoming a liability.

something ripples beneath the Galliard's skin (hunger, excitement, but for what.....) prickling the thick fur beneath the Philodox's touch, lifting it into (far from) idle hand

........ he was not pleased when I told him the Bone Gnawer had Danced from my hands, rather than his.........

the long tail sweeps across the floor (anticipation) before returning to the smooth curve around his Alpha, sensing the bitter pain (knowing it far too well) and something ignites far beneath where even the Father's fires burn in the once-shining soul, something darker than the hatred stored so carefully within (vengence)

Oh? Good. You know what to do, then.

(...taunt him. Goad him. Push him to madness. Push him to violence. The usual...)

My decree on in-pack violence stands. The Alpha's tone is musing, beatific. Blood and massacres, and the songs of angels - all are one in the dark mind of the fallen one. If he strikes out, his life is forfeit. Not yours.

Never his.

the only sign of the animal's willingness to act, now, is the slow whipcrack of that long tail (hypnotic across the floor) over pristine floor - he dares not lose that granted touch, sounds thickening in talented throat

he knows what will get to Gur'thek
it's already caused argument in public once, easily instigated again
(a little..... cracked)
how it pleases him to see the bitterness replaced by divine muse (blood willingly shed to see that smile)

And the kin... He forgets nothing, and yet the words are hard to say. (Do not become overfond of anyone. It is dangerous.) His own advice: a bitter pill to swallow.

...when you have taken care of Gur'thek, do with her as you see fit. The Tribe could use another brood mare...far, far from here...or, you could cleanse yourself in her blood.

He trembles.
It matters not to me.

Emerging from the small room in the basement...the small room she was staying in....
troubled by something
She walks slowly up the stairs and opens the door..
peering around....seeing who is there tonight.
Still in the tank top and jeans and barefoot, hair hanging lifeless..shower...she should probably shower


momentarily, the tail's, eager swipe stills

there is...... confusion.... and contradiction in the Galliard's heart (the tremble, no matter how slight, was not missed..... no detail ever missed) he knows what he would do, he knows what he wants to do

but should he do it.

the matter pushed away (when the time arrives, the Father will show him what is right) those strange, strange eyes lifting to glance to his Alpha once more, long ear rotating backwards at the sound echoing down the tunnels of the basement door whispering open - though it is not enough to steal his attention away from Kaj'sha

But Kaj'sha is finished, it seems. He says nothing more on the matter, and his hand lifts from Asher's canid brow, betraying him no further. He leans back, palms braced on the floor behind him as he, too, looks to see what the noise will bring.

a breif expression (loss) when the hand is pulled away, but it allows heavy skull to lift, mismatched gaze cast over his shoulder to watch the door, breath filling his lungs to draw the tunnel winds as brail across acute senses (shower, she needs a shower)

she is not of the pack yet..... the twisted creature does not leave his Alpha's side


She looks around...walking through the halls...eyes checking out the surroundings...
something is troubing her

the creature rises as Kaj'sha retires, taloned feet clicking as they move down the tunnels towards the great room (towards the scent)

.........kyrsha'waaaaiiiii'gaassss......

the whispered voice ghosting through the darkness

Hours have passed. She's lost track. In the total darkness, there is nothing to measure time by but the beat of her heart, the slow cold trickle of sweat and blood, the mindcrushing memories of violation and terror.

Ticktock.
Ticktock.

Door opens. Light slants across her face for the first time in hours(? days?), blinding. Backlit and silhouetted, his features quite invisible, one she has not seen before. Slim and tall, with what might be golden curls - though they are silvered by the bright light - he moves with an assurance, a grace, that she recognizes without even needing to see his face.

Silver Fang...

Behind him, a nameless and unmemorable man shuffles in with a folding chair, which he sets up across from Runs. Perhaps she still has the presence of mind to be humiliated: naked, bound, gagged, staked out for display. Or perhaps there is only the brief, painful flash of hope. Silver Fang? Saviors...?

A blade flickers: seashells, the scent of the ocean. Her bindings come loose one by one, all but the garotte about her throat. With that accomplished, the golden youth sits, ankle crossed over knee, sliding his knife away and pulling his dapper off-white coat straight.

Softly, he questions, "Why haven't your friends come for you?"


there's a dancer in the darkness.....

silent.
malicious.
cast a deadly spell.

taller, darker (imperfect) he moves to lean against the wall, arms folding to cross bare (scarred) chest, jeans clinging low on lean hips, those eyes (unnatural...... roving) covering nude form as a diseased ("He's one of the ones I told you about..... a little cracked by the spiral") blanket


She has cried so long there are no tears left. When she woke to feel the stingking ooze of slithering wetness (....was it all a dream....?) between her thighs, the remembered buried violation deep within virgin heat brought hours upon hours of screaming cries, struggles against bonds that hold tight, the wish for unconsciousness once more.
But wishes do not come true.
This is no fairy tale.
Tears dried, and terrorized fear twisted deep within uncoils to spread the warmth of (defeat) content. She no longer struggled. She no longer cried - if Gaia were merciful, she would have no longer breathed.

Gaia has forgotten her.

The blinding flash from doorway brings a wince, the brief (very. brief.) flair of hope fading with the entrance of (thedemon) Asher behind him, and she closes her eyes. She does not flinch from the blade (she has lost flesh already), the scents of the sea not enough to erase the (remembered?) stench of the thing that abused her (mind) again and again. Dignity remains, however - at least a tiny bit as when her legs are freed, aching thighs slide closed, pressing together. Other then that. Nothing.

"I can tell you why..."

His voice is not the angel's as Asher's is, but it is one that fits the face now half-revealed by the light reflecting dully off the floor. A smooth, young, lovely voice, much as he is smooth, young, lovely - unambiguously so, beauty that transcended gender, (almost) perfect.

But his eyes are black as coal.

"They have forgotten you. They have lied to you all your life. They do not care about you, and you are only a tool for their nefarious ends.

"Cannon fodder.
"Trash."

A pause. He slides out of his coat, holds it out to the other. "Asher, cover the poor girl." And when the Galliard had, "Tell me, Runs-with-Spirits, what did they teach you of the Wyrm?"

the coat spreads (black.magick) with the flair of a magician's cape, falling as a bedsheet across her (safety from the creature beneath the bed) and the man (monster) drops to fluid crouch beside them, strange (the loving maniac) smile curving his lips to hear all of Kaj'sha's words

[how fanatically he believes them all, knowing the truth behind the Mother's Legions]

though he is still. so. frighteningly. quiet.


Even his voice, his (almost) perfect visage, does not get her eyes to open. The (demon)angelic tones of Asher used to taunt (torture) still twisted in her mind. The mock sympathy when coat is offered, however. That gets a response. redgold lashes part, slowly, slightly, and she watches the beast come near, not a flag of truce, but a coat to cover that which disgusts the Fang. She is unclean, soiled both within and without, blood, human waste, writhing sicknesses from the thing left with her in the night. but the Fianna still has just that much fire left within. She waits until the (loathesome) beast crouchs by his (demon) god, before hands move, coat is lifted and dropped to the floor - hopefully in some pile of waste to soil the offwhite perfection. They will look upon their (damnation) creation. Though she closed her thighs (...forever...) she refuses to be covered in some show of (mock) concern.
They made (destroyed perfection, shattered innocence) her. Let them look.
And still. Silence.

Watching her, at ease in his chair, undefended but for his Beta and a knife made of seashells, he laughs.

"Would you like to sit up? Eat something? Drink...?"

(Silence.)

"...all right then." Dusting his knees off (though they were not sullied), he rises, bending to lift his coat, shake it out, and rip it into strips after cutting nicks into the fabric with the knife. With these strips he approaches her and - impossibly - begins to bind her wounds.

"Let us pretend, just for a moment, that you wanted some idealistic youngsters to do your dirty work, further your own dark ends, defeat those who opposed you. Would you tell them the others were the 'good guys', the ones who were right? Or would you tell them the others were enemy, the evil ones, the ones who were mistaken?

"I ask you, further: how much did your Elders tell you about us? Anything, other than that we are evil, that we oppose all that is good? Anything other than the lies anyone would tell you to make you kneel to their sacrilege?"


a sound starts in the galliard's throat (hackles raised) and lightning crackles in his eyes (........how dare you refuse his gift) feathertrigger temper (when did the mellow become so volatile) rippling beneath smooth skin though somehow...... it's held in check

perhaps only by the (golden) laughter

perhaps only by the knowledge of what is to come (no one had to explain it to him, she's already proven how stupid she is thrice over) that excites a low hunger deep in (cracked) mind


The promise of food, of drink gets a flicker of a glance - but she doesn't say anything - she will only be refused. though confusion filters through her gaze as wounds are bound by the fangs coat, torn to shreds and wrapped... finally gaze opens fully, and she looks up at (perfection) Kaj'sha.... shaking her head, slightly... denial? but of what.....
Asher's hackles rising are ignored.... maybe, just maybe, the fang will save her.... (..pleasedon'thurtmeanymore..)


"I know you can hear me," he murmurs, so low now that even his Beta would have to strain to hear, "and I know what your answers are. I know what is in your heart, your doubts, your fears...I know this, because I was one of you.

"Look at me. Look. Silver Fang, no? That is what I was...before I was unblinded, shown the truth. And I am here to show you the truth."

He bends, nicks a bandage with his (dull, human) teeth, rips it, binds it, and begins anew on another. "So you see," he continues, evenly, soothingly, "you need not speak. You need only listen.

"What my pack has done to you was painful, but necessary. It was your Rite of Passage, you see. Do you remember your first? They sent you to kill, to destroy, did they not? And they told you those that you destroyed - they were evil, they deserved to die - even as you killed. Even as you destroyed.

"We are different. We suffer, first, so that we are brave. So that we can face whatever they throw at us. So that we can serve the Mother in the one way we can, and must: by destroying all that threatens her."


She winces as the Fang bends over her, teeth bared, trembling as it is only the bandage that feels the tear... this, oddly, causes her to only fear him more.. she trembles, but yes, listens, eyes (painfilled) of crystal (shimmering) blue locked on the demon (angel) that tends her... a slow blink.. before voice - horse with the force of so many hours of screams, barely audible whispers - is found
"he.... raped.... me...."
the ultimate humiliation, and tears form again, and spill, lips pressed tightly together while control is found again..
"...such violation is no 'rite of passage. beastial. evil. WRONG."
the last is spit at him with all the rage horror pain humiliation that twists within her

another sound (its sick caress) purrs (invades) within her ears (you let it happen)

[satisfaction]

talons plucking harp(heart)strings strung across the floor, though within the strange silence, he waits


"He," calmly, oh so calmly, "was not real."

A beat, in which the only sound is the tearing of fabric, the neat bandaging of her wound.

"Oh, Gur'thek is real. But the one who raped you was not Gur'thek. Just a shadow, no more. Like this."

Spirit-energy ripples and gathers around the fallen Fang, whose eyes are shut now in concentration, who golden curls stir in a wind that does not once touch her.

Air into form.
(Dust into man.)

SickBoy stand there, chittering to himself, hands wringing together, eyes beady. And, slowly, slowly, his posture changes and straightens; the giggling stops; he looks almost ...sane.

The reproduction is perfect. Kaj'sha has, after all, seen him thus once.


Confusion flickers, a glance toward Asher, then back to the (angel) demon before her - a wounded cry (animal in pain) as sickboy appears, the eater of flesh the slathering twisting disgusting thing that violated her near, so calmly... so.. (in)sane... eyes close, thighs press tightly together, and she longs to curl up (protect) but doesn't - knowing she would simply be pulled back into 'place'... reality is slipping.... she doesn't know what or who to believe anymore...*


a sneer curls poet's lips (did you like my parlor trick?) the only expression granted the Gaian


He allows her her silence, her fragile shell of sanity. He allows her thus, for saying too much can sometimes mean as little as saying nothing. In silence he tends her, the last of her wounds carefully cleaned and covered, and in silence he leaves her, takes one step back, exhales.

But eventually, he does speak again.

"Let me show you the truth." So soft, so soft. A nod to Asher, wordless: draw the Spiral. "Step off that table and take my hand. Let me dispel the shadows and show you the truth."

...endlessness...

"Or," even softer, "if you do not believe me, strike me down now, here and now, unarmed - as your Elders would have you do."

Silence. All but the quickened breathing, the hitching cries that fight past the wall of tightly pressed lips, the agony of (...suspicion...) the situation the fear (hope?) that what he says might be true...
..she seems to know, that should she strike at the demon(angle) that the other would strike her as quickly. (...i'm not ready to die...) just as she knows that if she expects to survive, this demon(angel) is her only hope. a glance toward Asher(blooddancer), before she slowly sits up, groaning with residual pain that quakes through her... she almost collapses as she slides from the table, but somehow maintains her balance, knuckletight grip on the edge of the table (prison). A heartbeat(eternity) and slowly, she slides her hand (broken, yet bound) into Kaj'shas...


the nod is bare, liquid feline the turn away (the beast set free) as black fur oozes tar from his skin, bones moaning to twist and reshape into the metis dancer (the icon of coil) that stalks to a part of the room still cloaked in darkness (do you dare strike him even with my back turned)

there are no words
(only Kaj'sha can hear his ritual chant)
there is something that thickens in the silence
(deep sea pressure rising)

the floor electrifies, shadows rippling (do not forsake me your welcoming arms) as they begin to waltz (the spiral's heart...... the lifeblood's forbidden beat) pinching in the center as a spiral begins to form (the totem's hole plummeting abyssmal depths), rivers of darkness wind astray from the pivot point as they swirl, lightning flashing bale-fire currents along their length (can you feel its power calling) to cast eerie glow on the ceiling

the spiral pulses and writhes (eager welcome) as it waits

underhinged skull turns, back to his Alpha
it is ready


When her hand slips into his, there is no cry of victory, no scream of exultation; not even a sigh. He merely smiles, half-tiredly, as though his quest to bring his brand of truth upon the world (...still a Philodox...) had drained him somehow.

But when he turns with her to the writhing pattern on the floor, a breath escapes his lips unbidden, much as a breath might escape a man in a moment of passion.

Father...

"Come, Runs-with-Spirits," he stops at the edge, brings his hand up, leads her to the entrance to the pattern of their hellbound stars, "and let the Father open your eyes."


Attention drawn to the dancer that turns his back, a moments consideration that it is her chance to strike and run (..how far could you get, little girl..) the oppressive thickening, the electric shadows rippling she trembles, and edges closer to Kaj'sha (..protect me..) even through he pulls her to the edge of the (..dance..) spiral, her whimper muted, swallowed, as she stares (panic) into the abyss... lead to the entrance.. dare she step foward?
...the father calls. the truth calls... is there any other way? Panic brings eyes to Kaj'sha (fatherforgiveme) to Asher (deamonseed) to the spiral (Gaia protect me, gaia forgive me, gaia save me) and the step is taken, the entrance breached...

The pattern is alive.

It moves, it spins, it strips her of her senses and her orientation (...useless...), strips her of her human form, throws her into her warform (...as you should be...), and as the ground tilts and the center of the spiral yawns open, she can hear it - the voice of the Wyrm, a trillion voices, a million, a hundred, three speaking in discordant unity.

Hissing, screaming, shrieking, laughing......whispering...

welcome home, Runs-with-Spirits.

the Banes gather (legion waiting command) their howls only memory's faint echo (your nightmares are real) until the moment she passes

and that is when they scream

heaven and hell collide
Malfeas yawns to swallow her
the Father boils thundrous below

and it is then...... the terror finally begins

And then she is gone. The fires of the Spiral die, and spent, the pattern sprawls black and oily across the floor.

Left behind, the Philodox exhales shortly. There is color and reflection in his void-black eyes for once: the balefire of Malfeas, green leaping in the black.

"I envy her, Asher," murmurs he. "It is the greatest day of her life, and she doesn't even know it yet."

Turning then, he claps his Beta on the shoulder, and then moves past him, out the door to cleanse himself. "When she returns, bring her to me. And, Gr'aak: I would speak with you privately, and soon."


The room moves, swirls twists and shift is forced upon one so recently controlled, the noose gone it flings her into instant (pained) shift, warform gained as she screams with the terror the voices twist within, eyes snapping (..insanity..) as syllables voiced scream from shredded throat
"ayy-dis"
drawn out in lipcurlingsnarl as heavenandhell (motherfather) twists about her and collide within frantically pounding heard, spinning out of control the (littlegirl)screams echoing*


a sound rumbles (kitten's purr) at the soft words, strange light within contradicting the mismatched blue that watches balefire reflection in the Father's gifts of his Alpha's eyes

........... I remember......

whispered softly through Kaj'sha's mind, never will the Galliard forget his willing leap into the dark arms of their Father....... the touch returned by cat's tail that whips (to strike) through the air, curving as if it would embrace the man that stands beside him..... though carefully (respectfully) it forms spiral mere inches away from fabric, and lashes away again

....... yes, Kaj'sha........

jaw that could never form words aids curve of acquiescent smile, turning back to wait her return