The Bloodbath
Sept 3, 2019 0:14:31 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 3, 2019 0:14:31 GMT -5
{ 1m malachi le roux ; attack 4 ; no attack }
{ 1m malachi le roux ; attack 5 ; no attack }
“Malachi Le Roux,” he told her, quiet but proud—so gloriously proud. “You can call me Malachi Le Roux.” His last name had always been a crown he wore atop his head, heavy and radiant, an aureate treasure of his golden legacy. It was something this cruel world couldn’t take away from him, no matter what. It was his, a white dove in his hands, a feral pulse in his throat; no one else’s.
She questioned whatever he was afraid and Malachi’s mouth fell agape, only to close once more.
Any reasonable soul would be afraid of a girl so war-splintered, plagued with such hunger, but he was so used to all of her viciousness that fear was simply an afterthought in the back of his head. He admired her, loved the way the light colored all her soft edges jagged, loved the gunpowder clinging onto her like a cruel second skin. She emerged from Malachi had had—a monstrous world which only monstrous things could survive in.
“No, I am not afraid of you,” he said, the same steel from before lacquering his words. “But, that’s what you want me to be—that’s what you want all of us to be—afraid.”
His hands tautened into fists.
“Because you, yourself, are afraid to know what people will see as if you weren’t a frightening creature.” Her ruthlessness was the armor, the little tears edging her eyes were the crevasses in this armor. She’d been guarded her entire life, by her own calloused skin, by her own hands.
As her laughter echoed, a bittersweet sound, and she walked away from Malachi, shadow of a girl, sinking into the darkest parts of herself and feeling so strangely at home. “I won’t help you fight your battles, Dakota,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re hand-made, you wish for battles and blood.” That was the difference between them; Malachi saved, and Dakota slashed at his heroic efforts. They were two sides of the same coin, never meeting, both bronze-coated and steel-boned but one kind, one cruel.
Her form inched closer to another battle, so effortlessly, and his heart twisted not when her knife lunged at a boy, but when the boy, all brute-force and fretted muscles, heaved at a girl in a dress that he’d seen too much in these wars—the innocence, the white-dressed, the ones who should be coddled in the warm embrace of a parent or a sibling, not here amongst knives, lions, and lambs. As he strode closer, he caught a few remnants of Dakota’s words, spoken through the same sharp teeth.
“I'm going to stab you, and you're going to bleed out.”
Her dagger repositioned to a much fatal angle; Malachi had never heard her speak a falsehood. “And I'm going to be pardoned, and you're going to be forgotten.” His eyes, golden and blown-wide, scurried over to the boy, sparrow-boned and small. The hand around his knife loosened. Then, they moved over to the girl and furthermore, over the bruise already coalescing over the skin where he’d hit them. At that moment, Malachi understood that they were all simply feral animals in a jungle, with hearts in his rib-cage made for the sole purpose of systole and diastole—nothing less, nothing more.
But before Malachi’s bones were even capable of movement, Dakota’s clenched together only to lash out at the boy, a cobra withdrawing her scaled head just to leap with vigor and poison the next. He gasped, softly, but the sound was caught in his throat and then gave way to nothing.
He was not surprised, not anymore.
The world may had made Dakota a monster, but she loved her monstrous parts too much to fight for a good heart; her twisted and dark-blooded one worked impeccably.
“Are you okay?” Malachi crouched down, leveling his gaze with the other girl, her face flushed with terror. She shouldn’t be here; none of them should—but especially her.
Then, he rose back to his original height, a lion emblazoned upon every heraldry insignia, eyes moving over to Dakota, on the blood she was dressed in. It was a beautiful color on her lamb-white skin. “Is this a suicide mission, Dakota?” he queried, softly. “Because all I’ve seen is you running towards others—and asking them to tear you apart.”
Because you’re afraid to do to yourself.
“There should be no one in your nightmares but yourself, Dakota,” he spat at her, cruel without wanting to.
( Malachi does not attack )
are you, are you
coming to the tree
they strung up a man
they say who murdered three
coming to the tree
they strung up a man
they say who murdered three
“Malachi Le Roux,” he told her, quiet but proud—so gloriously proud. “You can call me Malachi Le Roux.” His last name had always been a crown he wore atop his head, heavy and radiant, an aureate treasure of his golden legacy. It was something this cruel world couldn’t take away from him, no matter what. It was his, a white dove in his hands, a feral pulse in his throat; no one else’s.
She questioned whatever he was afraid and Malachi’s mouth fell agape, only to close once more.
Any reasonable soul would be afraid of a girl so war-splintered, plagued with such hunger, but he was so used to all of her viciousness that fear was simply an afterthought in the back of his head. He admired her, loved the way the light colored all her soft edges jagged, loved the gunpowder clinging onto her like a cruel second skin. She emerged from Malachi had had—a monstrous world which only monstrous things could survive in.
“No, I am not afraid of you,” he said, the same steel from before lacquering his words. “But, that’s what you want me to be—that’s what you want all of us to be—afraid.”
His hands tautened into fists.
“Because you, yourself, are afraid to know what people will see as if you weren’t a frightening creature.” Her ruthlessness was the armor, the little tears edging her eyes were the crevasses in this armor. She’d been guarded her entire life, by her own calloused skin, by her own hands.
As her laughter echoed, a bittersweet sound, and she walked away from Malachi, shadow of a girl, sinking into the darkest parts of herself and feeling so strangely at home. “I won’t help you fight your battles, Dakota,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re hand-made, you wish for battles and blood.” That was the difference between them; Malachi saved, and Dakota slashed at his heroic efforts. They were two sides of the same coin, never meeting, both bronze-coated and steel-boned but one kind, one cruel.
Her form inched closer to another battle, so effortlessly, and his heart twisted not when her knife lunged at a boy, but when the boy, all brute-force and fretted muscles, heaved at a girl in a dress that he’d seen too much in these wars—the innocence, the white-dressed, the ones who should be coddled in the warm embrace of a parent or a sibling, not here amongst knives, lions, and lambs. As he strode closer, he caught a few remnants of Dakota’s words, spoken through the same sharp teeth.
“I'm going to stab you, and you're going to bleed out.”
Her dagger repositioned to a much fatal angle; Malachi had never heard her speak a falsehood. “And I'm going to be pardoned, and you're going to be forgotten.” His eyes, golden and blown-wide, scurried over to the boy, sparrow-boned and small. The hand around his knife loosened. Then, they moved over to the girl and furthermore, over the bruise already coalescing over the skin where he’d hit them. At that moment, Malachi understood that they were all simply feral animals in a jungle, with hearts in his rib-cage made for the sole purpose of systole and diastole—nothing less, nothing more.
But before Malachi’s bones were even capable of movement, Dakota’s clenched together only to lash out at the boy, a cobra withdrawing her scaled head just to leap with vigor and poison the next. He gasped, softly, but the sound was caught in his throat and then gave way to nothing.
He was not surprised, not anymore.
The world may had made Dakota a monster, but she loved her monstrous parts too much to fight for a good heart; her twisted and dark-blooded one worked impeccably.
“Are you okay?” Malachi crouched down, leveling his gaze with the other girl, her face flushed with terror. She shouldn’t be here; none of them should—but especially her.
Then, he rose back to his original height, a lion emblazoned upon every heraldry insignia, eyes moving over to Dakota, on the blood she was dressed in. It was a beautiful color on her lamb-white skin. “Is this a suicide mission, Dakota?” he queried, softly. “Because all I’ve seen is you running towards others—and asking them to tear you apart.”
Because you’re afraid to do to yourself.
“There should be no one in your nightmares but yourself, Dakota,” he spat at her, cruel without wanting to.
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
if we met at midnight
in the hanging tree
lyrics: hanging tree
no stranger would it be
if we met at midnight
in the hanging tree
lyrics: hanging tree
( Malachi does not attack )
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