closed | it's now or nevarra

[wythersake]

WHO: Flint, Ilias, Leander, Silver, Isaac
WHAT: Meddling
WHEN: Vaguely future-dated
WHERE: Nevarra
NOTES: body horror, bad things happening to horses

threadjack away or make your own TLs i'm not your boss

Comments

[wythersake]

When he blinks, the picture moves. Overlaps.

A man in black, a pale horse — the sort of thing that used to frighten him in stories, the curling lines of ink and superstition to occasionally adorn even Chantry tomes. The mouth would dry, if it weren’t full of ichor.

Separates: Leander’s speaking; Flint is. His drifting chin snaps up.

Leander's working.

The night stinks of blood and torn bowels, impossible to pick the particular drops. He doesn’t need to, imagination already cradling the means to this end. A warped door, a patient eye. Could you? Et voila,

The sort of thing to frighten him.

Flint’s still speaking. John hasn't screamed. Isaac finds his way up, palms the stone; carries an order. If he mislikes leaving Commander and Conspirator together, it's unavoidable. He’s walking better now, pushes past the pause in his step to lay a hand upon Ilias’. Fingers tangle in cold, damp fur, and his skin crawls. He tightens his grip, past the urge to recoil.

"I’m sorry," Spoken to dead ears, warm flesh. The moment hangs; two of them are breathing. "We need to move the bodies."

The rock and its lonely letter. Ilias’ pocket. His hand moves; they overlap.