gone girl [sparrow n' her clan]

MENE - CLEM

 

One's destiny was aligned with their heart's innermost longing, a longing embedded within their soul long before birth. Such longing was a unique pattern or configuration reminiscent of the constellations within the night sky. When such unique configurations were expressed, they shone through with an otherworldly luminosity, manifesting abundance within the lives of the individual, and the lives of others. One's sole task was to yoke said inner destiny, thread it through their lives and weave it into the world. All else was just shadows and dust. The truth about the world was that anything was possible; had one not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to them for what it was, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tents-show whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field was unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning. Sometimes the slightest things changed the directions of lives, the merest breath of a circumstance, a random moment that connected like a meteorite striking the earth. Lives had swivelled and changed direction on the strength of a chance remark. The universe was no narrow thing and the order within it was not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in the world more things exist without man's knowledge than with it and the order in creation which one saw was that which one had put there, like a string in a maze, so that one should not lose their way. For existence had its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others. And one really had to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm; no matter how metaphoric, there must be made no mistake about it, for it held the capability to cut through flesh just as a thousand razor blades. People would bleed there. Hot, crimson blood. And one would be forced to catch that blood within their hands, their own blood, and the blood of others. And once the storm ceased, one wouldn't remember how exactly one made it through, how one managed to survive. The man who believed that the secrets of the world were forever hidden lived in mystery and fear; superstition would drag him down; the rain would erode the potency of his life. But that man who set himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry would, by that decision alone, have taken charge of the world and it was only by such taking charge that he would effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate. But one thing was certain; when one entered the storm, they were never the same person upon emerging. And that was the very purpose of the pain, the melancholy, the pure despondency so thickly entwined within life. Sometimes the best and worst times of life held the capability to coincide; it was the talent of the soul to decipher the joy from the pain, the job of the mind to think of those moments of which one longed for, the job of the heart to depict love on a background of hatred. The beautiful ghosts of the past often haunted individuals, and yet still one couldn't decide if the pain they caused outweighed the tender moments of which touched upon one's life. Perhaps that was the irony of love.

Truth be told, he would never be surprised, should he to uncover a complete absence of anything mystical or miraculous in the manifested reality of those who were so eager to advise him. Friends and family who suffered the lack of abundance, joy, love, fulfilment and prosperity in their own lives really had no business imposing their self-limiting beliefs on his own reality, hence had been discarded long ago, erased from the brighter recess of his memory and exiled to the shadows. They had been vaporized; each and every being of which he'd loved was trapped within his chest, having breathed all in so deeply that he'd choked on them. Love, he'd decided long ago, was open to interpretation like any other abstract indulgence but followed the same principles everywhere, irrespective of everything else. One either won or lost in love, there was no bridge in between, and he decided he had lost, lost to himself, over and over again. It was the only battle he had admitted to have lost within life, the only thing that had been snatched away from him, before he could even claim it. It was an abstract noun, something utterly nebulous, and yet it had turned out to be the only part of him that was still human as the world turned upside down and the screen went black; love was beautifully imperfect, fragile in every sense of the word. And the one who'd stolen his? Even more so. He'd dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because be trying to force her to love him he'd ended up falling instead for her, and once again, he had started to in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. He looked back then on the wild revelry, the gaudy wealth, and the unbridled fornication as an annoyance and he lamented that it had cost them so much of his lives to find the paradise of shared solitude. Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, he merely enjoyed the miracle of her company in the time of which it sought to last, refusing to acknowledge the looming end that somewhere, deep within the darkened corners of his mind, he believed would come.

And perhaps, or so it would appear, such a drastic end would come sooner than anticipated, for as a singular calloused palm pressed against the doorway, partial gaze readjusting steadily to the dim light of the residence, immediately noting the fact that all-too-familiar scent of the feminine ever present seemed damn near stale. Something else, too... Was-... Lavender, maybe? His lip curled slightly in distaste. Hell if he knew. But the single factor that grew blindingly obvious was the fact that she wasn't here. Odd, he thought, studying the empty room in silence, before a hushed, acknowledging grunt left the man, moving to situate himself upon the couch, dragging his phone from his pocket. Didn't take long to find her on his contacts; he knew the route as the back of his hand, bringing it to his ear and listening to the sound of the ringing on the other end, only to receive.... No answer? His brow furrowed as the damned thing went to voicemail, throwing the small device onto the couch beside him, releasing a disgruntled huff and dragging a hand down his face.

An hour and three miscalls later, worry, perhaps even panic, finally began to set upon his heart. This isn't like her, screamed his thoughts, the shifter having long since taken to pacing about the household, studying closely for a sign. Something, anything, that might indicate a reasoning for the feminine's apparent disappearance. She wouldn't just up out and leave like this. A flicker of doubt fleeted past his singular beryl-toned iris, swallowing roughly, casting such a thought far more attention that he should, she couldn't. An irritated huff escaped the burly shifter, shaking his head in a futile attempt to dismiss the perception. However, the vocals strumming out within his mind failed to cease; lest, he was a strange beast by all accounts, for beneath his exterior he was frightened, sickened, by his own violence, the same repeat of broken trust, the detaching of the heartstrings into a point of utter numbness. He chastised himself for his savagery, especially within the griffin femme's presence, though all he had uncovered from the world was that the slightest ounce of fragility he displayed would cause him only suffering, only pain, for the earth would smother even the faintest traces of weakness until it became nothing more than a pulp of sorrow and despondency. What if she's gone? What if she's fucking left you here? Chewing on the inside of his mouth with a rising tension, shaking his head once more, somehow unable to deter the voice seemingly sourced within. Sometimes he truly believed that there was some form of monster within him, trapped within the cavern in which his heart should be, and every now and again it clawed to the surface. It's breath was full of lies, of spite, and yet he found himself listening to it. It was a part of him, just as the bear that lurked within. Every trace of rational thinking left him at that point, merely trying to escape the vocals pounding within his skull, surveying the contents of the kitchen drawers in futile effort to deter the route of his estranged thoughts. An agitated huff slipped from him, scanning his singular iris over the metal of various cutlery within the draw. "She could be out there... She could be-... She's fine. Absolutely fine." he mumbled to himself, narrowing his eyes briefly, fighting the urge to give the window a hopeful glance. His head shook again, an irritating buzzing working its way through his skull, white noise and static plaguing him constantly, ringing in his ears, bringing destruction to any rational train of thought he tried to cling to. Everything twisted, he couldn't see straight. What the fuck...? "Ah, like it matters. Like she fucking matters." He spoke the words through gritted teeth, and though he didn't believe anything that left his lips at that point, he found there to be no other choice than to comply to the will of the aggravating voice in the back of his head, merely vocalizing everything it whispered to him. "I don't care... I love her," his voice was soft, though promptly seized into an evidently frustrated tone. "Listen to yourself!" Grit filled his voice, rough, jagged, and all the while, his grip tightened on a knife within the drawer. "Be a fucking man!" His singular iris clenched shut for only a moment, calloused palm tightening further around the blade of the knife, the metal slicing his skin, before ragging it from the draw and throwing it, sending it hurling towards the opposite wall, cutting into the plaster as if through butter.

The world had taken her away from him, over and over again, just as it had taken every last fucking thing he gave a shit about. Restitution was all that plagued his mind; the desperate need to inflict damage on the world for his own cursed life. Thus, his frame whirled round, and smoothly convulsing into his animalistic counterpart, carelessly shoving himself out of the doorway, snarl plastered firmly upon his features, the open door and the knife still hanging from the plaster of the wall the only remnant of his presence. His life had been nothing but a dismal play, presented just for someone else's amusement, and the playwright who invented his cruel twist of fate was somewhere far above him, laughing and laughing at his creation. He'd give whatever sick bastard decided to invest this form of perpetual pain upon him. They'd all pay the price for their actions. Every last worthless soul left on the face of the earth, every fading light within the city.

The fact wasn't that she'd never been alone before, for she would seldom choose anything but to be kept company by her lonesome. Yet this? This utter abandonment by society, the lack of any form of acknowledgement? Such were things a world apart from one another, and the fact that she had left the amulet of which withheld Teuiec barely assisted in her predicament, bringing forth only more panic, pain and longing. The stagnant scent of lavender hung thickly within the air, and while her eyes were covered with some tied rag, hands bound, the scent effectively immobilized her other senses, rendering her near oblivious to the approaching presence, had it not been for the ringing of his vocals. Her head snapped in that direction, feline-like reflexes acting swiftly as always, desperately trying to strain her eyes through the fabric to see him. Despite the his silk-ridden tone, the foreboding calm promised little good to come. Restraining herself from attempting to beat his hands from running through her hair, acknowledging the restraints that bound her hands, the feminine gave no visible reaction to his initial motions and speech; perhaps without her response, he'd find little pleasure in interacting with her. Lest, it seemed the man wouldn't relent quite as easily as that, for she soon found his lips being pressed against her forehead, and acting upon instinct, she thrashed violently at that exact point, attempting to give him a good headbutt, if nothing else. He was damaging her to feed his senses, and she'd put up as much of a fight as need be. "Sick bastard," she spat, gritting her teeth, battling down the fright that had settled within her heart, struggling once more again the restraints. "You don't know fucking shit about love! You don't know shit about me! There's a Heckler Koch FABARM FP6 ready to be rammed up your ass!" God, he loves that gun more than he loves me, she thought in the heat of the moment, bringing a faint reluctance to her words, fierce expression beginning to dull into one that spoke more of hesitance. "A-and when he f-finds me..." She trailed off, unable to keep the nervous quiver from her voice, the scowl plastered upon her features faltering slightly. Would he even be looking? Would he even care? He had Eponine, after all; that was more than enough for the man. All attempts to struggle against her restraints gradually began to cease, head dropping, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. Would he ever find her? Would anybody care?


WORDS 2347
TAG Eponine Graves played by RENDEZVOUS
MUSE dog teeth, rampage, nature
NOTES omfg kill me now I swear all of my posts in this are going to be novels. I'll bring chaira in a little later because psh mene has a world to destroy

MENE - CHAIRA - CLEM

 

There had been said to exist three types of substantial fear. The gross-out; the sight of a severed head tumbling down the flight of stairs spewing sickly crimson-tinted cerise. The horror; the unnatural, the spiders the size of bears, the dead awakening from their nightly slumber, the lights flickering out and something with clawed fingertips is visible just within arms reach. And the last, said to be the worst; pure terror; when one arrived within a home and realized everything one knew had been withdrawn and replaced by an exact substitute. When the lights dimmed and one felt something behind them, heard it, felt its breath against their ear, flesh turning to ice, but upon their eyes twisting round it was revealed that no visible being was there. No, no, he felt something much more terrifying than any such notions. He wasn't fearing for the eyes peering through a dark window, a foggy breath upon glass, the skittering of unknown footsteps up stairs, the creaking of a doorframe. He was fearing for the love of his life, and that was a fear that cut deeper than any fear known to man. Nobody could ever witness anybody truly but throughout all the flaws of their own egos. That was the way all saw one another in life. Vanity, fear, desire, competition; all such distortions within one's own egos conditioned their vision to those in relation to them. Add such distortions to one's own, plus the corresponding distortions of other's egos, and one could evidently realize how cloudy the glass became through which one glanced upon another. That was how it was in all surviving relationships, aside from the rare case of which two people loved one another intensely enough to burn through the many layers of opacity to see each other's bare hearts. Love had always been said to win. There had existed tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they appeared invincible, yet in the end, they were always proven to fall.

And yet what of one such tyrant ensnared within the throws of the emotion? What of a murderer so madly in love that he had plummeted forever deeper into the oblivion of his madness? Would he too succumb to fate of eventual slaughter, of so called justice? Lest, he had been more than willing to descend to the grave when he had nothing to live for. Life had broken him, and for a time, he was prepared to die. He still was, yet only for her; every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh was another shard of heart he'd never see again, and each broken fragment he was willing to choke up and hand to her on a silver platter if she requested it. And that was just the cruelty called love. When one loved, they could do anything in creation. When one was loved, there was no need at all to understand what was happening, due to the fact that everything happened within them. It was always new. Regardless for whether one loved once, twice, or a dozen times, one always faced a brand-new situation. Love held the capability to consign a being to hell or to paradise, yet it always took you somewhere new; one simply had to accept it, due to the fact it nourished our very existence; if one was to reject it, they would die of hunger, for they lacked the courage to stretch out a hand and pluck the fruit from the branches of the tree of life. One had to take love where they find it, even if that meant hours, days, weeks of disappointment and sadness. He'd found it, and he'd be damned if he was letting it go. He'd promised he'd always find her, and god fucking dammit, he'd do just that.

His facials, without his awareness, had equipped an expression of pure, unadulterated bloodlust the moment the bear's weight had emerged from the doorframe, his mind transferred into a television screen at the end of a programming day; a blank, unpigmented wall of humming white noise, blocking out each and every extraneous thought aside from slaughtering the first fucking varlet human being he bore witness to, rationality vaporized. So much so that the brutish beast barely notes the sickening array of cracking and tearing that ensued. He doesn't notice the rubescent, copper-tinted scarlet sprouting from mangled remains. Mindless, he doesn't even register the metallic tang flooding his jaws, elongated ivories having penetrated flesh, layers of subcutaneous tissue, thewy muscle and finally, diaphanous bone. The bears form hovered above the collapsed remnants of the victim, the one deep cerulean orb it sported resting upon the mutilated skull of the deceased being, before switching upwards to meet the gaze of various shocked onlookers, claws digging further into the corpse's back, releasing an enraged, glutteral snarl as his iris settled on one in particular that appeared to hold a bemused expression, evidently believing it to be some joke, a sick prank performed in the street. No, this was no badinage. No. This was the living embodiment of ruthlessness shoved well beyond the verge of tolerance. His pain was a living, breathing predator, chewing through his innards with the ferocity of a cougar, rooting for bloodied remnants within his chest, gnawing through each and every heartstring formed within him.

And this man thought it was a fucking joke?

For a number of seconds, his icy orb refused to relocate itself, lip curling in response to the mocking grin of the subject of his stolen attention, expression foreshadowing his rage. A profound cold cloaked him, a numbness, dissatisfied with the one bludgeoned human frame beneath him. Without a word of warning, the frame of the bear convulsed, and abruptly, fur shrunk down into flesh, into clothing, leaving the formerly amused man gaping over at the shape shifter, perhaps if he was in the right mind, would have snorted in his own exaggerated, satirical bemusement, with every right to appear as scornful and derisive as he did. But, no, no. He wasn't himself anymore. It took only a few strides to approach the man. It took even less time to produce the pocketknife. And seconds following both notions, he had plunged it deeply, albeit suddenly, into the sternocleidomastoid muscle of the bipedal, tuning out the cry of the man, sounding more akin to a warbled car alarm through the haemorrhaging that consumed the throat region. Within seconds following his lip pulled back in a violent, rightfully inhuman snarl, tensing his muscles and ramming his full weight into the bipedal, regardless of the fact that he'd likely already pierced the jugular with the knife, and his second victim was already a dead man at best. In spite of that, there was nary a hint of satisfaction upon his facials as the whiplashed backwards with the force of the ram and slumped to the terrain, head lolling, lifeless, and throat spewing blood upon the terrain. His chest shuddered with another thin breath released from his nares, though as he twisted and was about to regain the form of his animalistic counterpart, the vibration from his pocket caused an irritated growl to rattle within his throat, yet with the faint hope, the slightest possibility, of earning contact with the missing feminine nagging from the stygian recesses of his mind, a bloodied hand swiftly reaching to grab the device, singular orb surveying the screen intently with a frustrated grouse. And sure enough, he was promptly shocked out of wit, his chest skipping beats within his chest, blinking rapidly own at the screen.

"Menelaus.. I'm sorry. I have let you down. I'm sorry.."

What the fuck? No, no, fuck, what-... Why-...? Eppie... His expression weakened slightly, desperately trying to figure exactly what response to give to the text. Fuck, what was he supposed to do? What did she want him to say? His deep beryl orb clenched shut belief, before reopening and rapidly typing out a response.

"No, no, no. Eppie, darlin, you haven't failed me. I need you to tell me where you are. I promise you, I'm not going to let a thing happen to you. Never."

Fuck. Fuck! Lest, the messages evidently held more calm than he did; he narrowly resisted the urge to hurl the petite device at nearest wall, clenching his teeth together, holding his frame tense, beginning to pace in frustration. It took several texts to enable him to understand the whole situation at hand, the true nature of her vanishing, the abduction. His breathing had steadied slightly, though rage still boiled within the pit of his stomach, having made himself scarce from the two corpses, abandoning the scene with little care. His singular eye scrolled swiftly over the latest text, scowering for details, anything, that could assist in his discovery on her location, but her mention of the scents of lavender and pine nettles were barely beneficial. Rounding another corner and wandering aimlessly with a cold glare equipped upon his facials, his bloodied hand moved swiftly to submit another text to their desperate conversation, however, upon near completion, a sudden flurry of feathers and limbs shrouded his vision, something large tackling him to the ground, the phone slipping from his grasp and slamming hard against the ground, shattering. His beryl orb squinted to catch sight of familiar features, and though his vision kept blotting angered, inflamed shades of burgundy, he identified the gnarled griffin feminine with apparent ease. The sight of the woman's steadfast, baleful expression, still bearing the scars and purple scourge marks of her own torture, furrowed with contempt and fixated it's unyielding glower upon him, her obvious smile a clown's grin of madness and hatred.

The beak of the griffin swiftly plunged into the sinewy sector of his shoulder, the place of which the arm met the torso - the place in which all the nerves lay. Pain tore through him, the area between his left pectoral and deltoid muscles igniting with utter agony. the sudden nature of the notion having sprung a wake of blood and human particulate seeping from the newly inflicted wound, the feminine unceremoniously yanking the tip from the pulp of his shoulder with a violent jerk. Despite that, however, his attention barely settled upon the griffin, too caught up in making some futile attempt to grab at the broken phone, hissing something inaudible beneath his breath. Tendrils of gristle and matter were torn from his shoulder in a bloodied tangle, causing, oddly, little more than a wince. And, in realizing his efforts to grab at the phone were pointless, his frame pushed upwards, regaining his more beastly animalistic counterpart. Deep down, within the core of his soul, he turned another corner, revelation traveling up his spine and exploding in his brain.

His skull twisted, shoving into the griffin's chest and pushing forth with his full weight, a bellicose, glutteral snarl breaching his throat, heaving the leaden avian-feline from atop him. A few seconds were spent within tense silence, two predators sizing one another up, before surprisingly, the griffin shifter regained her weaker human form. Without questioning the notion, he lunged for her, yet the consuming rage caused him to be uncalculated in his movements. Another ram sent an unseen object - a blade of some sort, toppled to the floor, the woman staggering backwards. And, trapped within the notion that it would be a fight easily won, his own frame convulsed back into that of his bipedal form. A fight, the spontaneous, hand-to-hand kind, was said to emerge in many varieties. In the East, the business of fighting was Zenlike, studied, controlled, perhaps even academic; the opponents often coming at one another with years of training behind them. In Asia, the weaker opponent learned to use the adversary's strength against them, the melees settled promptly. On the other end of the spectrum, in competitive rings around the world, freestyle battles could last for hours, with multiple rounds, the final outcome resting upon physical stamina of each pugilist. A third kind of fistfight occurred within the dark back allies of cities, during which opponents engaged in a whole different kind of battle. Fast, brutal, and unpredictable, the common street fight was usually over in seconds. Street fighters had a tendency to shotgun their blows upon one another, driven by rage, and the whole fracas often ended in a draw, or worse, when the opponent finally pulls out a knife or firearm to bring things to a quick end. The battle that ensued upon that foul-smelling street encompassed a vast multitude of those styles, and during the first five seconds, there was, in actuality, very little fighting whatsoever. Both were planted where they stood, staring upon one another, nonverbal information exchanged during said first fie seconds; she kept her gaze welded to his, and he stared back at her, neither adversary giving the other so much as a blink, the air seeming to crystallize like a diorama seized in ice.

Right around second number three, his gaze averted for a scintilla of a moment towards the floor to his right flank, making silent note of the sword she had dropped - god knows why she had it, perhaps in the thought of ending his existence swiftly, with more ease - the blade glittering in the dull light of the street lights. Lest, the human brain could formulate complex notions in the smallest bracket of time, and in those miniscule milliseconds, he reached the conclusion that he might just be able to make a grab for it in order to conclude matters quickly. Yet, in that time, the griffin shifter had also flicked her gaze downwards towards the katana blade. Second number four found him snapping his gaze back upwards to the feminine's smouldering glare, and in that time, she has also glanced back upon him, the two enemies reading one another's looks. The next second recalled the end of the countdown. The engines fire. The thing explodes. He dived for the blade, and yet by the time his shoulder blade had plunged to the ground and his outstretched, crimson-stained palm had arrived within the general vicinity of the lithe handle, the feminine had also moved in, sporting the suddenness of a thunderclap. She instinctively delivered the first low of the conflict, her limb moving to kick out at him. The hard edge of her boot struck the side of his facials below the temple just as his fingertips brusted against the handle. The sickening crack of hard leather fracturing a human mandible filled the area, not unlike that of a celery stalk snapping, and the bear shifted winces backwards in agony, a thread of blood flinging from his jaw. He fell upon his back, the sword unmoved; Chairavali took advantage of the man's punch-drunked stupor - he had managed to roll upon his elbows and knees, pushing himself upright, face leaking blood from his jaw, lungs heaving - by darting swiftly towards the fallen sword. She snatched it into her hands and whirled round, marshalling her breath, and lest, it appeared as though she had been gifted an advantage.

He surveys the sword within her hands, like a divining rod absorbing the energy in the air, whilst dripping blood and drool from his mouth, the feminine standing only roughly rive feet from him now; one well placed strike with that bevelled razor's edge and it would all end, yet even that didn't phase the man now. He lunged for her. Regardless of being in his human form, the man instinctively went for the neck of the woman, aiming slightly elongated ivories towards the softer flesh of her throat without a single fragment of remorse occurring to him. She allows him to get inches from her, retorting a swift, emphasizing, "anger makes you stupid, Menelaus," before unleashing a patented groin kick, the blow seeming the immobilize the man abruptly, "and one day, stupid will get you killed." At the small proximity, the steel-reinforced toe of her work boot connected with such extreme results that the bear shifter quite literally folds in half, blood and saliva in his mouth spewing out in a spray across the terrain below, a garbled grunt released before he slipping down onto his knees. He gasps for breath, the sudden pain in his gut like a battering ram; bloody vomit roars from him. He feels her standing over him, gazing down with an eerie calm plastered upon her facials, leaving him to swallow the taste of bitter bile caught in his mouth, awaiting the whisper of the hand-forged steel to dislodge his head from his neck, waiting to die upon the floor like a whipped dog. And yet, for the first time, the griffin feminine made a critical mistake, her voice lowering into a hushed purr, "I don't want this to be quick..." Silence. "I don't want it to be over," she utters, "I want to enjoy every second of pain I can possibly get out of you." Deep in the recesses of his tenebrous mind, a spark kindled; one chance, one last shot at her. He feigned another cough, yet every so subtly, he blinked towards her feet, those steel-toed boots spreading shoulder-width before him, inches from his hands. One chance. He pounced towards her lower limbs, and taken by surprise, the woman toppled backwards; he landed atop her like a lover, the sword flying out of reach. And yet, this time, the gleam of the blade failed to catch his eye. His frame morphed into that of his animalistic counterpart, and sensing that the weakness outweighed the strengths, the woman followed suit, the two catching themselves in a flurry of feathers, fur, teeth and claws. Teeth clamped upon the feathered appendage of the feminine, the wing, shredding flesh and tearing plumage free of skin. Her talons sunk into his neck, and while not deep enough to cause much serious damage, it drew a cry of pain forth. "Where is she?!" bellowed the feminine, "What have you done to her you fucking brutish bastard?!" For a moment, he blinked in surprise, but quickly proceeded to frame his skull into her, giving no form of answer, the sound of cracking bone, presumably the dislocation of her shoulder, like music to his ears. As she staggered, his teeth sunk into her back, tearing human particulate and flesh from her frame ruthlessly.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?" the feminine cried once more, and stubbornly shoved her own weight back at him, claws sinking into the chest of the proclaimed brute with puma-like precision. The weight shift took the bear by surprise, limbs giving out beneath him, and once gain the feminine was left standing above him, yet this time she spare no time in securing him there with claws locked upon his throat, knowing exactly where his jugular lay, and how easy it would have been to end him there. But, no, she needed to know what the fuck he had done with her daughter, and by some cruel twist of fate, he was the only one who could possibly wield information as to her whereabouts. She heard him mumble, yet found herself growling in annoyance, as his words were unidentiable. "Speak the fuck up!" she cried out, her claws sinking slightly into the flesh of his neck. "I don't know!" he bellowed back in response to her request for him to speak up, before abruptly silencing himself into a hushed mumble, and for a second she thought she heard a strange mournful tone within his vocals. "I don't fucking know..." His eye traversed briefly to the phone, the last contact he had with the feminine, that had been crushed further beneath their scuffling. She blinked slowly down at the man, glancing briefly at the phone, before reluctantly withdrawing her talons from his throat and edging from atop him, watching him revert to his human form, still slumped upon his back on the floor, dragging both hands down is blood-ridden facials, knees bending. "Fuck, FUCK! I don't know where the fuck she is! I might never know where the fuck she's gone or what kind of sick bastard took her or-... GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!"

The griffin's ears pinned in response to his enraged bellow, casting another glance towards the phone and inching towards it's remnants. "Have you spoken to her?" her tone was calm, yet sharp.  "Did she say anything helpful?" Silence. "I don't fucking know... Something-.... Something about a basement. Uh, a closet. Pine nettles and-... And lavender." Lost in the haze of inner agony threatening to consume him, he barely noticed the sudden dilating of the griffin's pupils, nor the seizing of her muscles, until a good moment or two later, in which his gaze knotted to her. "What?" he muttered, gritting his teeth, resisting everything within him that screamed to tear out the bitch's throat. She knew that scent anywhere, the combination.  "I-... I t-think... I... M-maybe..." She struggled, eyes scanning the area, evidently panicked. "... Ecdysis." The man snorted lightly in response, the name foreign to his ears, and barely sounding like a name at all, "the fuck is that supposed to mean?" She shook her head, her gaze refocusing briefly upon the proclaimed brute, before her gaze knotted to the mountains beyond the city. "N-no, no, I-... It's a name..." Now, the man, noting her look, forced himself upright, closing the distance between him and the woman, his singular orb burning with an intensity unrivalled. "Take me there. Now." Her gaze twisted to meet his own, information beyond vocals exchanged in that singular glance, feathered appendages opening out and powering herself into the airs above, barely needing to glance downwards to know he was following.

~

The young feminine snorted in response to his comment, vendurous gaze fixating firmly upon him, equipped with a scowl that seemed plastered to her facials, and unyeilding defiance having been set in her heart by her parental origins, her expression souring upon his seemingly bemused chuckle, caring not for his speech regarding the so called haven. She had revelled in solitude throughout the entirety of her life, aside from accompaniment by her feline spiritus, secluding herself from human interaction; she'd be damned if she'd be begging for it now. With her attempted blow having seemingly failed, the girl could do no more than flinch in her restraints as cracked lips pressed against her forehead, disgust evident upon her facials. It was sick bastards such as this that had prevented her from relying upon humans for socialization, left only to grimace in annoyance as he leaned closer, yet misjudging his intent, presuming him only to be attempting to intimidate her in some fashion, though as his hands extended, she heaved back against her restraints in shock. "What the hell do you think you're-..." She trailed off, jerking in surprise, her visculent gaze snapped to the side as the blonde feminine rather unceremoniously slumped to the ground at the base of the stairs, and the bound teenager was left only to listen to the struggled conversing. Lest, her attention had been caught, and her intrigue in the intent of the feminine rendered her unaware as a rough kiss was placed upon her facials, muscles siezing, wrenching away from him with a disgusted wince. "No, DON'T!" she cried out as the man strode over to the quaking griffin shifter, straining against her restraints, eyes wide. She hated the griffin, sure enough, yet her brooding and festering hatred for this unfamiliar man very much outweighed that. Yet, considering herself to be useless to the occasion by all accounts, she shrunk back into silence, her gaze faltering, and finally falling to the floor, sensing the air crystallize in tension.

Foliate orbs squeeze shut tightly, to a point of which the darkness she saw speckled inflamed shades of burgundy and crimson, in effort to drown out the pained shrieking of the fellow abducted woman, ringing in her audits, clenching her teeth and resting her bound wrists against her forehead, ignoring the male's griffin shifter's claim that he'd be back for her shortly, ignoring the female griffin's protesting speech, or at least, until mention of Menelaus surfaced, and of Eponine having laid with him, at which point her irises cracked open. "W-wait-... You-..." The pieces formulated within her brain, eyes widening, again straining angrily against her restraints. And yet, this time, she wasn't angry on account of the unfamiliar man. "What the fuck!" she yowled, "Why would you-... When did-... WHAT THE FUCK!" Rendered silent for a brief moment as the man set about removing the feminine from the basement, she proceeded to growl and mumble to herself, more fight implanted into her heart than ever, if only with the need to uncover answers to her questions. And when he returned, she was ready enough to get the fuck out of this damn place. She kept her gaze low, though was wordless, and enabled him to lower her to the ground, oddly, without the same struggle she had once possessed, acting as if yielding to his desires, submissive.

The thin blade pressed to her skin drew little more than a faint flinch, gritting her teeth and allowing it to slice flesh, a thin trickle of copper-tinted cerise festering and dropping down the skin of her arm. A hushed hum left the feminine, quietly inviting him to proceed in whatever he had planned, pushing down her rage for the right moment. Though as her shirt began to be cut, her eyes cracked open beneath the fabric, releasing a thin, shocked breath through her nostrils. Upon feeling her midriff exposed, she acted upon instinct, and with him atop her, jerked her restrained legs upwards in some effort to kick him in the groin. "What the fuck are you doing?" she hissed, and if said kick failed, her bound hands made some attempt to push against his chest, whatever she could to get some form of distance between them.

WORDS 4433
TAG Eponine Graves played by RENDEZVOUS
MUSE dog teeth, rampage, nature, my demons, angel with a shotgun.
NOTES HOLY FRIGGIN CRAP NOVEL MUCH OMFGGGGG -dies- imsorrydon'thurtme... mene went ballistic. phone the police, phone the firemen, phone child protection, phone friggin social services. call friggin everyone. or just call chaira. that works too.

MENELAUS' SPEECH
CHAIRAVALI'S SPEECH
CLEMENTINE'S SPEECH

MENE - CHAIRA - CLEM

 

Grief was certainly too sharp and immediate to describe the dull throb plaguing the man's heart; grief was more akin to the high pitch of the vowel sound, the monosyllabic impact of a word, the swift nature of a jab from knife or cut. Sadness somehow seemed too ephemeral; of something that came and wait, the response to an immediate cause of which would pass with time as another cause arose to generate a contrasting feeling. Mourning, there was something archaic about mourning; widows keening, striking themselves - dark-swathed years a closeting of self away from the world, turned inwards to interior dark. Sorrow. Sorrow seemed correct. It was large, inhabitable; an interior season whose vulted sky was a suitable match for the grey and white tumult that arched over the headlands. Sorrow was not to be shoved through in the same way as sadness, yet sorrow was not yet as frozen and monochromatic as mourning. The sorrow was capacious prior; whilst before there had been room for the everyday, for going on about the workaday notions of life; now it consumed the entirety of his being, the desperate longing to settle his orb upon her facials perpetually resurfacing. It had clarified within his mind that he never wanted to leave her side, he never wanted to see her struggle to be released from sadness. Lest, he could never suggest that she required release, as such, for she did not require any such thing. He just wanted her. He wanted who she was, how she was, only her, all of her, always. He was touched by her life, how it moved forth, pulsed and sprung. There was no visual fragmentation, nothing stunted or wedged. When he was to circle back upon his own, however, the past didn't let go. It might as well be classed as a malfunction, a scene repeating itself, a scratched vinyl record, a stutter. He knew that he would forever be treading the elongated path towards that shrouded chamber of dusky luminance he glimpsed within her in her flickering sorts of half-smiles. Perhaps many things within him had been transformed; perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside his being, he had undergone drastic, yet somehow unnoticed, changes. The only sadnesses that were dangerous and unhealthy were the ones that were carried around in public in order to drown the jabbering of mankind out with the noise; like diseases that were treated superficially and foolishly, simply withdrawing and after a short interval broke out again all the more terribly; and gathered within a being and were life, were life that was unlived, rejected, lost, life that one could die of. If only it were possible for one to see farther than their knowledge reached, and even a little beyond the outworks of their presentiment, perhaps one would bear their sadnesses with greater trust than one had in our joys. For they were the moments when something new had entered a being, something unknown; their feelings grew mute in melancholy madness, everything within withdrew, a silence arose, and the new experience, which no one knew, stood in the midst of it all and said nothing.

Indeed, grief was not the clear melancholy the young believed it to be. Life when one first arrives was a continual mortification as one's romantic illusions were successively shattered and the musical treasure-house of one's imagination crumbled before the hopelessness of the reality. Every day fresh experiences brought fresh disappointments. It was akin to a siege in a tropical city; the skin dried and the throat parched as though one were living in the heat of the desert; water and wine tasted warm in one's mouth, and food was of the substance of the sand; one snarled at one's company; thoughts pricked one through sleep like mosquitoes. If he had been to love a human being, the very essence of fragility, he would’ve likely set them on fire by now - a screaming blaze of smoke and flesh. He'd breathe in the blackness once more just to feel love’s destruction, its mortality filling in the hollow of his ribcage, left without a pulse, lifeless, soulless, heartless, torturing himself by tearing memories out of his mind at random like matches from a book, striking them one at a time and willingly setting himself alight. His singular orb rested forlornly ahead, traversing the road yet gazing at nothing in particular; suddenly, there was no sense of purpose, no direction. There was nothing awaiting him, nothing as reward for the pain he was feeling now, nor the pain he had felt before. Empty and lost, he was searching for something that could easily never be found, awaiting endlessly a ray of hope of which would never arrive. Nothing could make such a pain venture from his mind, from his heart, from the very core of his soul, nor the fear; he didn't fear what the average person did. No, not the loss of life, the riches, the arachnids, the thunder; instead, he feared losing himself, losing her, in the swamp of existence. He feared himself, his own potential to destroy and destruct; to obliterate; to suffocate his life and hers alike. He feared all that he had, and he feared the notion that nobody could ever know what his heart ached for, or how badly. Was it, whatever the glorious it was that had sprouted and bloomed between the two beings, all influenced with futility? He was drowning in negativism, self-hate, doubt, madness - even he was not strong enough to deny the routine, the rote, to simplify. No, he pressed forth, afraid that the blank hell within the back of his eye sockets would break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence; afraid that the disease which ate away at the pith of his body with merciless impersonality would break forth in obvious sores and warts, noticeably to every damned passing human being, screaming traitor, shouting sinner, bellowing out imposter. Yet somehow, his orbs remained trained upon the griffin, of whom had taken to the skies. He had to find her. Had to. It wasn't a simple lust to uncover the existence of the feminine, to know exactly who had taken her, to, ideally, beat the shit out of them, and do so willingly. No, this was a matter of his life and his death. He needed her. And he needed her more than he had needed anything.

Feathered appendages folded inwards, pigmented frame dipping back towards the terrain as the dreadfully familiar mountains peeled into view, the ground beginning to slope upwards at a gradual incline. There was only a brief hesitance in the quickened stride of the brutish man as the feminine made contact with the ground, wings folding untidily inwards with a hushed huff. Glacial beryl orbs briefly met, the griffin's audits perking faintly forth, noting his melancholy expression and faintly dampened facials, before twisting to continue onwards, training her ears to listen to the near inaudible sounds he was emitting. The sounds of a man crying, indeed, were piteous; worse than an infant's cry in many regards. Babies could be hungry, sick, bored, in need of changing. But when a man cried, he was none of such things; he was wrapped in grief as deep as the ocean, and nobody could do anything to assist. Perhaps that was just what caused her to avoid attempting to tear his throat out once again; powered forth by the silenced sound of his sadness, she wanted no more, in that moment, than to stand alongside that imperfect man. That imperfect, vicious, volatile, coarse, blunt instrument of a man. At first, her expression betrayed only the faintest ounce of sympathy, caught in a pained grimace, though as from the corner of her eye she sighted the man's head dipping and a hand dragging across his facials, her expression fell once again. Enraptured by the motherly instinct embodied within her by nature, yet without glancing noticeably backwards, her audits pinned, and the feminine's tail rose to gently brush across his cheek. For a second she gartered no reaction, though upon repeating the process, she earned a brief, pained glance from him, which only brought more unintentionally produced concern, perhaps even an ounce of empathy pounding within her heart; she had anticipated that he would have shoved her tail way, to have glanced over and glared, to have shown the faintest look of confusion, to have shouted, to have done something... Anything... But, no, all he did was look at her. But that look said that she was only rubbing salt in the wound with her pity. And that was more potent than anything he could have said to her.

"D'you know what a bullet feels like, Chaira?" he mumbled abruptly, his frame halting, singular beryl orb fixated upon the terrain below, the peculiar and almost surreal nature of the topic bringing confusion to mind. "It's not like in... Y'know, the kid's comic books. It's not going to make a neat little hole in your chest." She snorted lightly at that, "I'm quite aware. But that's not relevan-..." She was cut off abruptly, his gaze switching upwards with a despondent intensity unrivalled by her own softened eyes. "First it obliterates your internal organs; your lungs will collapse. Feels like drowning..." A brief silence. "And when it finally hits your spine, it'll blow out your central nervous system- look at me, dammit!" He bellowed the second her eyes knotted to the ground, causing her muscles to abruptly tense, frame recoiling slightly; his voice was soft again, just like that. "And the pain will be unbearable, but you won't be able to move... A bullet usually travels faster than that, of course. But the dying...? That seems like it takes forever." A hushed huff left the brute of a man, "something, isn't it? That's the good part. That's just it. And that ends it all. Whatever joy, suffering, pain or confusion has come from life. And the world trundles onwards as if it's all fucking okay. And-..." Fuck, he didn't even know what he was talking about, but it was something much more than a mere bullet penetrating flesh. Maybe that's all I deserve, an end, he finished mentally, twisting away from the feminine griffin, his chest heaving with another ragged intake of oxygen, dragging a hand down his facials, head ducking. "I failed her, I wasn't there, when I-... Could've-... Uh, it's all just a fucking mess..."

She read that tone with a distinct ease, studying him in disbelief, before reluctantly taking a few wary paces towards his positioning, casually dismissing the thought of how easy it would be to shove him from this cliff and end, or at least temporarily dismiss, his existence; the comical thought nearly brought a smirk rushing to her face, though motherly instinct and empathy blocked that down. He's giving up, she thought, the notion deepening the frown embedded upon her facials. Her claws made the faintest of sounds as they shifted against the rock, pupils widening from their formally dilated state, frowning. "Menelaus..." What the hell was she supposed to say to a man quite prepared to relinquish his existence? "Never forget than we are little more than human. Emotion does not count for weakness, not in my eyes; you may indulge within them if you so choose. Yet, never unpack and live within your emotions. Take them for what they are and then refocus on where you are headed." Lest, her words did nothing to ease the hidden sorrow of the man; she could see that; her limbs carried her few reluctant paces forth once again. She needed this vicious man, if only as a tool of destruction, if she was ever to see her daughter again. Within arms reach of him now, her frame remained tense, though the vulnerability of the situation pressed her forth. "Humanity exists within you, even now. And the fact that Eponine trusts you, such an incredible monster of a man, above all is... Remarkable in itself... I still don't understand why. Maybe I never will. But she has faith in you; whatever you say against it, she does. She believes in you more than she believes in me, in her brothers, in herself. Isn't that enough for you?" Lest, just as she believed she was getting somewhere, the final note of her speech seemed to strike a nerve, for his own opposite limb shot upwards to grasp her wrist, studying her intently for a moment, before releasing her limb. His frame morphed, standing before the woman now as a beast in the very essence of the word; the cardinal crimson remnants of previous victims seemed eternally embedded into the bear's dark russet pelt, his one bloodied iris perturbing the griffin feminine, each muscle tensing and rippling beneath a bristling fur. A few moments were spent regarding the fellow shifter with a violent snarl rippling from his throat.

Yet, just as the male thought it appropriate to tear her limb from limb, a sudden flurry of burnt sienna toned feathers intruded his vision, snapping instinctively at the plumage-ridden beast that had interrupted. Luckily, his ivories narrowly missed the smaller creature as his jaws clenched shut, glacial orb trained upon the owl as it took up residence within one of the lowest branches of a nearby tree, head cocked upon an incline. "Little shit..." he mumbled, lip curling in disapproval, though the griffin feminine appeared to take a much more tentative look, studying the avian carefully. What exactly she whispered eluded the brute, though he frowned in confusion as the owl sprung forth from the branch and instead perched itself upon the feminine's outstretched arm; though the talons brought faint discomfort pressed against her skin, it was what lay within the owl's memory that intrigued her further. It was not the communication of the pair that captivated the male, though; his attention was drawn to the faintest of reddened tinges to the avian's talons; his calloused hand extended abruptly, and though initially the owl shuffled away from him along the woman's arm - prompting a subtle smirk from the griffin shifter - he managed to drag his fingertips across the avian's feathers, revealing a faint crimsons staining upon his hand. He studied it for a moment, grunting quietly, before bringing it closer to his facials and inhaling through his nares, immediately tensing as recognition pulsed through him, jerking backwards. "Fuck," he hissed through gritted teeth, the copper-like scent almost painful, pupils dilating. His sharpened gaze knotted to the owl briefly, who stared back at him through wide, umber eyes, studying the avian, before casting an expectant glance to Chaira. He observed her in silence as she cooed a few final words to the owl, running a gentle hand down the rims of it's facial disk, before it took to the skies once again. The two wasted no time in assuming their animalistic counterparts, the bear pursuing the owl, the griffin following closely behind, both enraptured with the desperate need to regain what was rightfully theirs, able to tolerate one another's existence, if only for that time.

Of course, it didn't take long for the cabin to peel into view, consuming the griffin shifter with a sickening sense of nausea, swallowing against the taste of bile rising within her throat, captivated momentarily by the surreal nature of the sight. The owl had since abandoned it's purpose, leaving the pair to their own devices. The bear, barely noticing the hesitance of the griffin, wasted no time, his expression and gaze like hardening, the scent of the feminine's blood still plaguing his senses, jaws clenched in a concerned grimace.

~

Oh, how she wished to claw that aggravating smirk clean from his facials, testing the faintest of pressures on her binds, though still restricted, settled for keeping her ebbing anger pressed down below the surface; appearing to act agreeable and otherwise submissive, her facials were held low, breathing steadying slightly. However, upon jerking her limbs upwards in order to kick him sharply, the feminine scowled with faint bemusement as he hissed a retort, ceasing the shoving against his chest swiftly, gritting her teeth through the slap he offered her. "Maybe I am stupid, who knows," her tone was oddly nonchalant considering the situation, "Or maybe you're the idiotic one. After all, what satisfaction can I give you when I'm bound, hm?" Was she really agreeing to this? Hell no, of fucking course not; merely trying to play him into untying her. Her bound hands once again made an attempt to rest against his chest, yet this time, she left them there, merely brushing her fingers delicately against his chest. The notion sickened her, of course, yet with the desperate need to get away from him plastered in her mind, that was the best she could think to do; another mean of avoiding his intention, even if it disgusted her. Resisting the urge to jerk back and away from the sick bastard of a captor as her shirt was torn away to reveal her form, more nausea rose within her chest as she forced a faint purr into her throat, head tilting. "Think about it," she mumbled quietly, "what fun will I be like this?" She cracked the faintest of grins, silently reeling with anger, frustration, and utter disgust. "I'm sure I could make it more worth your-..." Lest, she was soon interrupted in her no less than her desperate final resort by the attention of the man switching from her partially bare form to the previously unnoticed, cerulean-eyed male. She didn't recognise his vocals, of course, never before having seen or heard the man, yet she held out the hope that he'd release her from the situation she'd caught herself up within. She didn't care how. She didn't care what the white haired man's fate was. She just wanted to be out of this fucking hellhole.

She observed them for a good few moments, listening to their retorts and insults on varying levels of intrigue, before audibly snorting in amusement, retraining the peeling laughter that threatened to break from her, as the older man referred to the circle of life. Wasn't that some shit from the lion king? How the fuck had he even seen that - wasn't that for kids of five, six, seven, as a pose to fully grown men of fucking seven hundred. Regardless, her attention was soon dismissed from the warring griffins, instead focusing upon an obscure, brief scratching; she stilled her straining against her binds, listening intently to the sound; it began to escalate from the faint scratching into audible pounds, and judging by the rough positioning of the sound, it appeared to be upon the locked door to the cabin. Her jaw clenched, and the ounce of hope came springing back to her heart. Menelaus.

~

I'm lost until she's found. The bear still hadn't ceased to amaze the feminine with his rage-inflicted stupidity, his recklessness; deep cerulean orbs belonging to the griffin observed in silence as his muscled frame repeatedly slammed against the locked door, until eventually the hinges gave way, the wooden device topping to the ground within the cabin. The lavender-like aroma was potent, acute senses nearly entirely distracted by the overpowering scent, yet without so much as glance towards the griffin shifter, the bear morphed back into his bipedal counterpart, and strode in, immediately setting about searching for the positioning of the abducted pair. Whilst he searched through the various rooms, the feminine made herself useful, and instead set her sights on the basement. Pupils dilating, she reluctantly made her way down into the darkness, receiving an acknowledging glance from the bear shifter, before he set back to work searching the cabin, occasionally mumbling the name of the younger woman, the traces of melancholy formerly constructing his features having eroded into that of a much more determined expression. Still, doubt crept into the melanoid depths of his mind; maybe this would have never happened if she was without me. Maybe this is my fault. He hushed huff left him, approaching some form of a closet, studying it silently for a second or two, his sense of smell drowned by the scent of lavender. Maybe she'd be better off... Without a monster like me. And, with that, he dragged the closet doors open, expecting to find little more than stale clothing.


WORDS 3500
TAG Eponine Graves played by RENDEZVOUS
MUSE the one, a monster like me
NOTES why is it that mene of all my characters is usually the one that upsets me the most omg ;.; </3 half of this is probs messed up cause i'm tired but wtfe. I couldn't resist.

MENELAUS' SPEECH
CHAIRAVALI'S SPEECH
CLEMENTINE'S SPEECH