Post by JMDavis ((Silver)) on Feb 7, 2010 22:17:08 GMT -5
The young girl whimpered, curling tight into a ball as she felt the bed shake ever so slightly. She couldn’t believe what had happened; she couldn’t believe that he would have done such a thing! He had always been such a nice man; he always had given her treats and been a good friend to her father. But now…
She felt his fingers slowly run across her bare arm and shoulder, their touch was oddly chilling, causing goose bumps to rise up across her skin. His body pressed against hers as he moved closer, and her whimpers increased in volume for a moment as she thought he might hurt her again. His fingers slowly danced up, running through her golden hair, stroking her face slowly. A soft sob escaped the girl as she tried to crawl away, feeling the dried blood on the sheets around her legs crack as she did.
“No, you’re not going anywhere.” The voice hissed, tightening in her hair and dragging her back. More sobs issuing from the child as she was pulled, unwillingly, into his arms. She squirmed and kicked, her little feet landing against his legs without any apparent effect. “Stop it.” He ordered, she continued to squirm and kick. “I said stop it!” Her struggles continued, finally with a snarl she heard his voice again, though it was like frozen water filled with venom.
“Per Atrum Procer, subsisto!”
Her whole body locked up after he spoke; only her eyes allowed to move and her breathing to continue. “I see you are filled with too much insubordination and spirit for my liking.” His body moved from hers, and for a moment hope soared within her. Maybe he’d let her go, she would never tell anyone about him. Then, he returned to her view.
If she could flinch she would have. The man stood before her, still completely naked, his long black hair unbound to cover his features like the wings of a vulture. Bright red sigils smoldered across his body, the sickening smell of burning flesh rising into the air. But it was not his appearance which frightened her, it was the wickedly curved and serrated blade gripped in his right hand.
The same sigils seemingly burned into his body were shown, glowing on the blade. “Shame, really. I always did have a love for you, Elizabeth.” He murmured before stalking closer. The steel of the blade kissing her neck, tearing through flesh with the slow sawing of his arm. Whether his spell was wearing off, or it was his own sadism, she could move again.
Her body thrashed and struggled against him, trying to dislodge him even as she felt the blade slicing through her throat, blood shooting out to splatter against his body, to hiss and bubble against the burning signs marked on his flesh.
Slowly, the agony died away as she fell into darkness, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
~~
The musty air of the inn was thick, choking. Pipe and wood smoke hovered in a thick, cloying mass. Seated around the tables were gathered the men of the town, mostly farmers not yet ready to return home for dinner, though a few others were seated as well, their voices low as they discussed the dire happenings within Salem. Eighteen young girls had gone missing; all had been between six and twelve, the most recent being young Elizabeth Corwile, a scrap of her night dress was seen on the fence leading from her family’s farm into the woods.
Many pointed fingers toward the savages in the forest, making wild theories that they are trying to breed with the girls to produce half-breeds that could blend in with the towns and sew destruction when given some command. But these ideas were disregarded, forced jokes on the hideousness of the savages’ women being made, but never in front of the victims’ families.
But a few, a small few, claimed the one thing that froze the blood of every man, woman and child in the village.
Witch.
The foul men and women who would consort with demons and even Lucifer himself. Of course, ever since the Judges had been put in place, there hadn’t been word of any Witches living in civilized society.
That was, at least, as far as anyone knew.
The doors to the inn slammed open, the acrid atmosphere rushing out to be replaced by the crisp, cold night air. All eyes turned to the figure that stood in the doorway. A long duster of dark, oil-treated, cotton clung to the frame of the tall man. A thick slouch hat sat on his head, the wide-brim obscuring his face. Robes of the same dyed cotton were draped across his body, the bottom split to allow for riding, reveling a pair of, almost surprisingly, light brown pants tucked into dark brown boots.
Sheathes, hooked onto a wide belt, held two long blades, both razor-thin. The handles of daggers, or knives, could be seen poking out of the tops of his boots. A small glint, caught by the fire, revealed more knives hidden within his sleeves. The new arrival stepped into the room, a jingling heard with each step, signaling that more weapons were hidden on his form. The thing that frightened those gathered the most was not the appearance of a heavily armed man, but the silver cross chained around his neck.
As if the man carried the plague, the patrons pushed out of the bar, parting before the man to get around before closing back in to get through the door. When the last had left, and the door slammed shut, leaving only the man and the staff, he finally spoke. “Ah, sorry about scaring your customers away, Kenneth.”
She felt his fingers slowly run across her bare arm and shoulder, their touch was oddly chilling, causing goose bumps to rise up across her skin. His body pressed against hers as he moved closer, and her whimpers increased in volume for a moment as she thought he might hurt her again. His fingers slowly danced up, running through her golden hair, stroking her face slowly. A soft sob escaped the girl as she tried to crawl away, feeling the dried blood on the sheets around her legs crack as she did.
“No, you’re not going anywhere.” The voice hissed, tightening in her hair and dragging her back. More sobs issuing from the child as she was pulled, unwillingly, into his arms. She squirmed and kicked, her little feet landing against his legs without any apparent effect. “Stop it.” He ordered, she continued to squirm and kick. “I said stop it!” Her struggles continued, finally with a snarl she heard his voice again, though it was like frozen water filled with venom.
“Per Atrum Procer, subsisto!”
Her whole body locked up after he spoke; only her eyes allowed to move and her breathing to continue. “I see you are filled with too much insubordination and spirit for my liking.” His body moved from hers, and for a moment hope soared within her. Maybe he’d let her go, she would never tell anyone about him. Then, he returned to her view.
If she could flinch she would have. The man stood before her, still completely naked, his long black hair unbound to cover his features like the wings of a vulture. Bright red sigils smoldered across his body, the sickening smell of burning flesh rising into the air. But it was not his appearance which frightened her, it was the wickedly curved and serrated blade gripped in his right hand.
The same sigils seemingly burned into his body were shown, glowing on the blade. “Shame, really. I always did have a love for you, Elizabeth.” He murmured before stalking closer. The steel of the blade kissing her neck, tearing through flesh with the slow sawing of his arm. Whether his spell was wearing off, or it was his own sadism, she could move again.
Her body thrashed and struggled against him, trying to dislodge him even as she felt the blade slicing through her throat, blood shooting out to splatter against his body, to hiss and bubble against the burning signs marked on his flesh.
Slowly, the agony died away as she fell into darkness, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
~~
The musty air of the inn was thick, choking. Pipe and wood smoke hovered in a thick, cloying mass. Seated around the tables were gathered the men of the town, mostly farmers not yet ready to return home for dinner, though a few others were seated as well, their voices low as they discussed the dire happenings within Salem. Eighteen young girls had gone missing; all had been between six and twelve, the most recent being young Elizabeth Corwile, a scrap of her night dress was seen on the fence leading from her family’s farm into the woods.
Many pointed fingers toward the savages in the forest, making wild theories that they are trying to breed with the girls to produce half-breeds that could blend in with the towns and sew destruction when given some command. But these ideas were disregarded, forced jokes on the hideousness of the savages’ women being made, but never in front of the victims’ families.
But a few, a small few, claimed the one thing that froze the blood of every man, woman and child in the village.
Witch.
The foul men and women who would consort with demons and even Lucifer himself. Of course, ever since the Judges had been put in place, there hadn’t been word of any Witches living in civilized society.
That was, at least, as far as anyone knew.
The doors to the inn slammed open, the acrid atmosphere rushing out to be replaced by the crisp, cold night air. All eyes turned to the figure that stood in the doorway. A long duster of dark, oil-treated, cotton clung to the frame of the tall man. A thick slouch hat sat on his head, the wide-brim obscuring his face. Robes of the same dyed cotton were draped across his body, the bottom split to allow for riding, reveling a pair of, almost surprisingly, light brown pants tucked into dark brown boots.
Sheathes, hooked onto a wide belt, held two long blades, both razor-thin. The handles of daggers, or knives, could be seen poking out of the tops of his boots. A small glint, caught by the fire, revealed more knives hidden within his sleeves. The new arrival stepped into the room, a jingling heard with each step, signaling that more weapons were hidden on his form. The thing that frightened those gathered the most was not the appearance of a heavily armed man, but the silver cross chained around his neck.
As if the man carried the plague, the patrons pushed out of the bar, parting before the man to get around before closing back in to get through the door. When the last had left, and the door slammed shut, leaving only the man and the staff, he finally spoke. “Ah, sorry about scaring your customers away, Kenneth.”
