night terrors [group thread]
Oct 4, 2015 6:00:54 GMT -5
Post by Onyx on Oct 4, 2015 6:00:54 GMT -5
pull out the incisor
give me two weeks, you won't recognise her
[break]
I have always preferred the night. Especially here, in the Reformatory for Wayward Girls, where the very timbers whimper and shudder at their nightmares while those inside sleep soundly. Daytime is full of cruelty of all magnitudes; harsh sunlight, unfair Mistresses and bitter food, but the night is much more forgiving. I like to sit in my room and become part of the darkness, feeling my body blend into it slowly, like when you first wade into cold water and gradually match its chill. That feeling in itself is almost magic, and as such I consider myself to simply be an extension of it. I am a limb of nature, reaching into the human world and grabbing hold of what there is to learn there.
Tonight is something of a reconnaissance mission, by that logic, to gather more knowledge about how fauna and flora interact. I've prepared for weeks, scrupulously collecting my resources and planning to the heartbeat - so not even the strange quiet girls upstairs who divine the future could possibly know more about this night than I do. Even the weather is obeying my wishes, the tiny sliver of the new moon barely shining through the thick clouds. The fine hairs on the backs of my arms are prickling with anticipation as much as they are with the cold. My feet are tied up in cloth sandals designed for agile fighters - future Victors - which provide a balance of lightness and stealth. All my clothes are dark, but my gold nose-ring still glimmers weakly from the centre of my face.
I imagine that I walk out of the House on a cloud which stops my footfall making any noise at all, and surrounded on all sides by glass which muffles my shallow breaths. The door creaks ever so slightly, but naturally, as if the hinges are wishing me luck on my mission. The cold air is almost comforting as it kisses my face. Pulling my hood low, I begin my walk through the dead city.
I first Hunted almost a year ago today, on a night just like this. My offering was a young girl, not even of Reaping age but still with the shadow of muscles stretching over her tiny skeleton - a sign of the future chosen for her. I had watched her for days, making notes on her routine, differentiating between the regularities and anomalies. She had at least six sisters (a strangely large family to find in District One) and for that reason reminded me somewhat of myself, although I know I love my "family" much less than she must have loved her own. But personal connection made as little a difference then as it does now. I'm not doing this for revenge, or personal gain. I am nature's servant, and it is only my duty to make sacrifices to its magic. When the girl began to bleed, the liquid black in the moonlight, she didn't even cry out, just watched in fascination as I filled my vial, tied a ligature at her elbow and, when I was sure she was going to live, unbound her hands and feet and fled. Some of the other Wayward Girls may be messy in their own interests, but murder has always been far too conspicuous for me.
However, I do still wonder if the girl told her family about me when they asked how she got that scar, hair-thin and only the length of the distance between two knuckles. I wonder if she claimed it was a training accident, or if she describes the dark-haired fifteen year old with the golden nose00ring, making my appearance, though not my name, legend in her social circle. Are people afraid of me? Do they mock me as a coward for not 'finishing the job'? And, more than that, will I ever face the consequences of the trouble I could have caused?
I stand now on the first-story balcony of a large building a half-hour's walk from the centre of the District. If there are any Peacekeepers in the District at all tonight, as there so rarely are, they'll be patrolling the living night in the bars and theatres on the other side of the city. My rondel dagger hangs unsheathed from my belt, clinking gently against the metal bottle which I cleaned thoroughly this morning. The figure I'm expecting should be here any moment, and my eyes flicker up and down the road, searching. Suddenly, a strong wind bellows and howls through the street, almost knocking me from my feet. I look up urgently and see what I've been most dreading - the clouds dissolving from in front of the moon, throwing abnormally bright light over my hiding place and the ground below me. What have I done wrong?
I feel the ache of anxiety in my jaw, growing more frightened with every worst-case scenario that flickers half-formed through my mind. And then, I hear it. A cough, a heavy sigh, and footsteps growing ever louder below me. They're hear. My heartbeat quickens and despite the prickling of apprehension in my brain, I duck low behind the balcony, readying myself for the leap.
Time seems to crawl as my subject approaches. I can feel every point of contact my fingers make with the wooden frame around me. The crunch of gravel under shoe slows down, breaths elongating. The moonlight beats down powerfully over everything, and I can't believe it seems even brighter than before. But nothing can stop me now. In one fluid movement, just as I'm sure they're right below me, I launch myself agilely over the balcony and brace myself for the fall. With arms outstretched I descend, feeling the wind cradling my form and my hair stretching out behind me in tendrils. The panic suddenly seems unjustified, and I regain my confidence for the split second before I land on the figure, sending them reeling to the ground.
It's only then that I look up, hearing the silence left by voices I hadn't noticed before, and realise that my offering and I are very much not alone.
INERTIA RAE - SIXTEEN - DISTRICT ONE
TAGGED: arx b. d7m fraser birk ♚ frankel WORDS: 1015 NOTES: lol sorry enjoy
