Post by Sayvahn on Apr 14, 2016 4:20:21 GMT
Bitter? What was bitter? The blond stared at the woman as she spoke, her words, wrapping around his thoughts. Mix water with honey, mix red with honey mix, mix mix, the straw, ah, the drink, she was referring to the drink. Sayvahn rolled his head to the side, head, spinning. The forests. The tropical forests. They were singing. He could hear them, echoing in the church. The tribe, chanting. But the cup, it was sitting in his palm, the liquid, separating from the mass. Vieka was talking. He had to focus on her words, and not those chants.
No, it wasn’t bitter. Not entirely. There was earth. There was natural sweetness, promised in the grain. But there was something missing, something red. The iron, the metal, slipping down ones throat. Sayvahn saw it. The red. No, there was no red. Not here. Why was he seeing red?
The Raven moved. Picked up the food, a knife, a container. But knife? A knife? It was a normal knife. One dulled, for food. But, why did the barber keep seeing it? That glint of metal, in firelight? Knives, knives are always familiar. But one, with a curved handle, so distant, so strange. Dotted with red, and then, something thin, peeling off, plopping down at ones side, revealing something. But what had Sayvahn been cutting?
“Huh, oh, yes.” Sayvahn did as he was told, taking the gourd, following the train of the Doctor’s black jacket, how it slithered behind her, mixing with her shadow. Stepping so close, Sayvahn could follow the dragging, the black, melting away into the stone of the church. But then, colors swam close to his feet— pillows, lining the edges. But that knife, it glinted in the firelight. And screams, screams filtered in, screams, then a face. A face, where blood and skin peeled away to show the muscle, of eyes, gouged out. What was he even seeing?
Turning away, the blond tried to shut his eyes, tried to block out the image, a hiss, encircling his lips. What was happening? Was this a bad trip? What even was this? My God, did Vieka drug him? No, she drank from the same container— but she had healing magic. She could have poisoned it, and healed herself. But he hadn’t sensed anything hadn’t sensed anything at all, but, maybe something was off, maybe, the cure lay somewhere, maybe, no magic, but the screams. They echoed, and his hands, they trembled, his whole body, it shook. The gourd fell from them, rolling, running to the fire, its contents, smeared on the ground, smeared, like blood. So much blood, and screams, ripping through him, digging into him, the image of cut lips begging him to stop, and a man, prevented from biting his tongue.
“Did you drug me?” The feline voice quivered, hands, pressing against his face, fingers digging into his head, as if to make it stop. “Did you seriously just drug me?” Emerald eyes peered, furrowed, over the brim of his glasses. “Make it stop. Give me the cure, now, or so help me!” Sayvahn growled, stepping forward, hovering over the godforsaken woman.
No, it wasn’t bitter. Not entirely. There was earth. There was natural sweetness, promised in the grain. But there was something missing, something red. The iron, the metal, slipping down ones throat. Sayvahn saw it. The red. No, there was no red. Not here. Why was he seeing red?
The Raven moved. Picked up the food, a knife, a container. But knife? A knife? It was a normal knife. One dulled, for food. But, why did the barber keep seeing it? That glint of metal, in firelight? Knives, knives are always familiar. But one, with a curved handle, so distant, so strange. Dotted with red, and then, something thin, peeling off, plopping down at ones side, revealing something. But what had Sayvahn been cutting?
“Huh, oh, yes.” Sayvahn did as he was told, taking the gourd, following the train of the Doctor’s black jacket, how it slithered behind her, mixing with her shadow. Stepping so close, Sayvahn could follow the dragging, the black, melting away into the stone of the church. But then, colors swam close to his feet— pillows, lining the edges. But that knife, it glinted in the firelight. And screams, screams filtered in, screams, then a face. A face, where blood and skin peeled away to show the muscle, of eyes, gouged out. What was he even seeing?
Turning away, the blond tried to shut his eyes, tried to block out the image, a hiss, encircling his lips. What was happening? Was this a bad trip? What even was this? My God, did Vieka drug him? No, she drank from the same container— but she had healing magic. She could have poisoned it, and healed herself. But he hadn’t sensed anything hadn’t sensed anything at all, but, maybe something was off, maybe, the cure lay somewhere, maybe, no magic, but the screams. They echoed, and his hands, they trembled, his whole body, it shook. The gourd fell from them, rolling, running to the fire, its contents, smeared on the ground, smeared, like blood. So much blood, and screams, ripping through him, digging into him, the image of cut lips begging him to stop, and a man, prevented from biting his tongue.
“Did you drug me?” The feline voice quivered, hands, pressing against his face, fingers digging into his head, as if to make it stop. “Did you seriously just drug me?” Emerald eyes peered, furrowed, over the brim of his glasses. “Make it stop. Give me the cure, now, or so help me!” Sayvahn growled, stepping forward, hovering over the godforsaken woman.