A new beginning to the same ol' song.

[Arsenic Ruin]

A new beginning.

Soil mashed under foot, fitting evenly in the grooves of his boots. Weight shifting left then right as he hobbled along battle worn and tired. Dirt smudged against his cheeks, matted against the frayed end of his cloak, and ingrown to the fabric of his clothing. Tears and dilapidated spots on his pants, with each straining breath his state of health was only exacerbated. Climbing to the reaches of frustration at his obvious lack of regard and disappointing show within his previous battle, shoulders slumped forward to give him that weary, altruistic glow to him.

Right eye half opened while his left was completely closed, he was more than worn thin. He was a car running so far past empty the gas gauge seemed to be broken. Shuffling steps only inform to a new danger. Arsenic a product of diverted attention, and regard others before yourself complex. Also a product of a coming fall, his one opened eye looking to the ground, watching his feet instead of looking a head of him which was his only weakness when walking alone.

His head on tree collision.

WAM!

The top of Arsenic’s head darted against the surface of a hanging branch, which only lead to him staggering backward. Another swell of pain washing over his body, from the top of his head, previous maims, and bruises throbbing with renewed vigor. He whooped and hollered holding his head, cursing bitterly to himself.

Sweet lord, holy hell, and the occasional fvzck me.

Water bucked at the rim of his eyelid, inhaling rapidly as he bit his bottom lip. Though a high pain tolerance he did have, that didn’t mean Arsenic liked being struck. Inhaling deeply before exhaling he got himself under composure, trying to subdue the tears that threatened to poor. He as t the end of his rope and questioning his own mettle to be able to serve others, and to serve for others.

[Bregan [Famine]]

((Sorry for the length. Too short for my tastes, but it works well enough to stage things for us.))

The curse of this life was that it was a circle.

Leaning back against the faded brick of the guardhouse, Coin studied the moon with calculated interest, forcing away all thoughts of sleep. His fencing saber, half-buried in the soft earth beside him, reflected the red light in such a way as to make it seem to be soaked in pale, glowing blood. A firm breeze, thick with the animal scent of the forest, rode hard through the pines; altogether served to make the effect of the night a great deal more melodramatic. Killing moon, old house, strong wind, dead man.

Oh, what a production.

Against his better judgement, he'd allowed his brother to go ahead to the town while he stayed behind to investigate the mansion. Although hardly so grand as the manor in which they both had risen, the dilapidated Serfereti home was still a graphic reminder of what they had been before their deaths: noble, glorious, and vibrant. He could no more leave it behind than he could the...grim reminder of their dark journey that was his right arm. The bones of his own corpse...bare and white and somehow living beneath the ragged black cloth, they insured that he would never, for one single instant, forget why he was here.

And so he sat, alone and restless, here by the light of the moon. Too cautious to move on, and too stubborn to turn back, all that he could do was wait for Viktor to have his fill of brawling and return to the gates.

Together in life, together in death, and together in...this. Never ending; never breaking, what a wicked circle this life could be.

[Arsenic Ruin]

A drunkard

Or A man in need.


It was up to perception now, his body staggered to and fro ragged and slack. The camera would zoom in on his eyes, blood shot and half opened. His shoulders hunched forward as he was in a stupor. The might would pick up his grunt a low warble that rung out under his breath. His legs felt like Jell-O but what did he know? He was barely conscious, and his sword drug at his side digging into the ground. His eyes half opened as nothing really computed to him but what mattered was where he was going, his legs moved pulling him to a destination he had no knowledge about.

Fingers numb, cut off circulation, coupled with his sauntering steps made him look like nothing more than a silhouette. A wandering soul looking for some sort of redemption, his pain spreading through his chest. Centering on his lungs it was becoming a labor to breathe, and more of a labor to keep going. Hair hanging forward, brushing past his cheeks which were sore even with the light attention they throbbed with displeasure. The muscles in his chest shuddered, automatically gripping around his armor, and then covered his mouth. The camera would swerve around pointing it at the ground, where red droplets struck the ground drying upon touching.

More blood, it dripped between his fingers and down his sleeve, and his staggers only became worse, and more frequent. He pressed his shoulder against the nearest tree, staggering forward again continuing his drunken stupor. Lips curling into a sickening grin, as he muttered to himself, the camera swerving around behind him as he started walking again. His feet drug against the ground, and soon enough he came upon a mansion pressing his hand against the gate. Balance giving way as he pressed hard against it wand forced it open. The momentum from the balance forfeit transferring into forward motion, carrying him onto the lawn where he ended up sprawled out.

Help..

He mouthed the word as he looked up, eyes lulling closed as he gripped the soft grass between his fingers searching for the strength to press onward. But it never came, his body was subdued by exhaustion, and he was nothing more than her little rag doll.

[Bregan [Famine]]

The stranger, blinded by his own wounds and self-interest, fell to his knees not twenty feet from the motionless specter. The light of the moon, hot and bewitching, shone in his sightless eyes as they stared ahead, dead and lost before the rotting estate. Beyond the treeline, the sharp cry of an owl filled the heavy air as she took to the skies...and he fell. Like a glacier's advance, the broken man bent and slumped to the grass, never once losing the perfect, timeless reflection which he'd somehow caught.

Blood made black in the moonlight, he lay there...still; unmoving.

His scarred lips framed a word; some last plea made to the bright goddess above in hopes of finding mercy. Cold and distant, though, how could she hear him with what little breath he had left? How could she care with a heart of stone and ice, for one man on one world with one wish?

Coin watched him, his white fingers sliding gently along the edge of his buried sword. He couldn't have said how long he sat there, almost breathless, playing the blade as if it were a harp. Tonight, time was meaningless...and eternity was caught somewhere between the hellish light above and the sparkle in a dead man's eyes.

A smell came on the breeze, like cobwebs and glamor, easily overpowering the pervading stink of the pines. It and all the secret things it promised...they were terribly familiar and terribly discomforting, like the distant voice of a loved one long departed. He took little pleasure in the scent...but he did take comfort.

Because, after all, it felt like home.

And, from the darkness, she came to him like a fever-dream, all red silk and white skin, drifting across the lawn so smoothly that she seemed almost weightless. Everything: the reek of the pine woods, the soft breathing of the blood-soaked stranger, even the quickening drumbeat of his own ashen heart...it all dimmed and faded before her. Long legs led up to a toothy smile; far too many of them showing for anything on this side of a nightmare. Her eyes were hidden under the whirlwind of black hair that rushed around her head, but he didn't need to see them...her skin in the moonlight was enough.

His fingers moved faster against the edge, trailing powder as it carved through the bones by layers. The memories came faster, too, rushing past the double doors and through to his brain, filling his chest with every unformed terror that the ghosts of his past could call up. He had come so she had come so THEY would come, every last rat-bastard one, and they would...they would swallow him.

And then there would be nothing left.

She nears, but says nothing...she doesn't even look his way. Blood-red in the wind, she grins that crazy, sick cannibal grin as she stands over the stranger. The world screamed and shook around them; reality hemorrhaged its thick, hot blood as she bent to kiss him.

Rising off the dirt, he moved against the storm like light across glass, sliding from one spot to another as the very fabric of his world screamed in torment unending; ripped at the seams to spill forth the horrors beyond. He had to reach her...had to stop her, because when they kissed, he would be her own, and then they both would be her own. He couldn't face the dark of this place, not alone, not without Victor...but he wouldn't survive the next five minutes without this man.

And so, for her, he breathed one word.

"Stop."

Her head whipped up, neck snapping like a gunshot as the tempest subsided. Her hate; her longing came off her in waves so strong that he could almost see them. So cold...so dark, these haunted grounds, and there were none to ease the pain.

When you were dead...everything felt hollow.

Her hurt subsiding, she left them there...but in her smile there was the promise of tomorrow. Perhaps it had been a mistake to save the stranger...she might have had her fill, and found little relish for the taste of such wasted flesh. But now, for his kindness and his fear, she had marked him. Run as he might, someday she would come, and give him the kiss he had stolen from another.

Someday, she would pull him to this place once more.

It had to be tonight...they had to end it tonight. Memories be damned, he couldn't wait for Viktor...he would go in, with the lucky bastard next to him if he could, and face what needed to be faced. Every spirit had a story...every ghost had a reason for why it did the things that it did. And if she took his heart to the grave tonight..well, it wouldn't be much different than three years away, now would it?

Throwing the stranger over his shoulder, Coin made for the gatehouse.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Dreams…

Conscious fading…

His body tumbled to the ground, which was all he remembered like a freeze frame in a movie. The ground rushing up to meet his face, but blackness had consumed his vision before he struck the plush grass. Arsenic’s head bounced once, twice, three times before he lay still, the fresh green prickling against his face. The smug smell of pines wafted through his nostrils as he sighed contentedly. His mind wandered to the days of is training, etched in a dim sandy yellow nothing really held much color.

“Arsenic, keep your elbows bent and watch for attacks.”

“Don’t tense up so much; loosen your grip on the sword.”

His instructor made few corrections seeing as Arsenic learned the movement through watching, but applying the movement to combat always was his point f weakness. As he swung the weapon he saw himself pitted against his enemy Arawn his sword clashing against the rocks of the earth as he missed again. Exhaustion took him even in his sleep anxiety gripped him and held him in submission. His throat began to close on him as breaths became shallow and frequent.

In reality though this would be the point where the woman had hoisted him up in the air. His body flailed and wiggled like a fish on the line, and then her lips almost pressed against his own. Flesh crawling as if a thousand bugs ran rampant, then a chill a calm shiver as he gently turned his head. Lips quivered cold brushed against them, but he couldn’t quite pull away from her.

Stop...

The word that rang through out his subconscious, his pain came back to him. That pain a reminder that he was still amongst the living, as his hands groped silently at his side as he opened his eyes briefly to catch a glimpse of the woman. Her head turned as she noticed another, but when he turned to look blackness enveloped his vision once more. He was falling backwards, his body hitting the ground hard then he snapped up.

It was a two story affair. His eyes scanned over the lackluster room that he had been placed in. More like a prison than a place of rest, windows barred keeping whatever in, in. He felt claustrophobic then franticly searched around for a way out. With a miss placed step he dropped, right hand gripped the hand hold of a ladder one that lead from the first to second floor. Left hand held over the heard, breath caught and ready. He lowered himself to the first floor, touching down still dressed in the soaked clothing.

Arsenic soon found himself drawn to the oaken door, large and gigantic. A hand gripped tight to the wooden hand hold he pulled with much effort, only to budge the doors a bit. They were thick, and undoubtedly heavy which caused much strain, giants must have kept company within such an estate. Arsenic muttered curses under his breath as he finally got the doors opened. Stepping outside letting the cool night air brush against his face before posing a question.

“How did I get here?”

[Bregan [Famine]]

The stench of mildew and corpse-rot was overpowering.

Coin lounged in the water-stained armchair like a tyrant on his throne, legs up in the aid and his back set snugly against the top of one arm. Although he'd thrown open every window in the gatehouse, the sickeningly familiar scent of decaying flesh clung tenaciously to the ancient wood and peeling wallpaper. Only the choking smell of burning pine from the fireplace before him served as a shield against the reeking, putrid reminder of the Lady's touch against the stranger's flesh; against his own soul. That greasy, sick feeling the harlot had left him with had seemed to stalk him through the trees; turn every lurking shadow into a gateway to her arms.

It had been...foolish of him to be so forward such a short while after his revival. With next to no strength to speak of, all he'd been able to do was speak to the wraith...the voice of command he had become so accustomed to, both in life and death, had utterly failed him. The only reason he could think of, in fact, that either he or the stranger were still alive was the simple fact that he had shocked the spirit. Hearing the thick accentuation of the grave from the lips of another for the first time in years...how could she have felt anything else but complete and total shock?

And so she'd left, because she'd been confused. Not without leaving her vile mark, though, because even in bewilderment there were habits that one could never break. If he'd left the wounded man to his horrible fate, then he might have been able to sneak away and wait for Viktor in the relative safety of the trees. But he hadn't...and now he had to do something entirely unfortunate, and entirely dangerous; it had to end here and it had to end tonight, under the light of the red, red moon.

He knew haunting intimately...he had no desire to repeat the experience; especially on the recieving end.

The funny thing was, he reflected, that the very thing which made the Lady so elusive would ultimately show as her greatest weakness. Unless one had died a very messy death, such as being spread liberally and in small chunks throughout the ground of the estate, there was always a reasonably-sized physical anchor. For he and his brother, it had been their entombed bodies down in the family crypts...and given that this mansion seemed to have suffered the same treatment as his own, it was all too possible that he might find that of the cannibal queen in the same area.

And once you had the bones, why, you had the ghost by the balls.

Well...figuratively speaking, in this case.

Stumbling, drunken footfalls sounded above him as the broken stranger came to his senses. Given his proximity to the woman, it was surprising that he was in any condition to be awake, much less moving around. He'd need all of that...remarkable endurance to survive the night, though, if he agreed to what Coin was set on proposing.

He would, though...he wouldn't have a choice in the matter.

"How...how did I get here," moaned the soldier, completely overlooking his savior in the armchair.

"Well," replied the Baron dryly, "I would think that should be pretty obvious. I was nice enough to pick you up, haul you up the stairs, and throw you on that nice, soft bed."

Diplomatically, Coin refrained from remarking on the remarkable number of insects he'd found nesting in the bedding directly after said throwing.

"So, in a very real and binding way, you owe me your life. My name's Coin, by the way."

Further diplomacy restricted him from pointing out that, given the nature of his coming 'request', the man would be likely to keep his life for as much as five more hours.

"And, fortunately, I know just what you can do to pay me back."