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6/16/2025, 9:41:23 PM
>>6259372
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“The Night is all around us,” mutters the old woman sitting before her sputtering fireplace, pulling the little trinket out of her pocket and rubbing her wizened fingers over it, trying to find some comfort in the memory of the white-haired woman who gifted it to her. These dark days, tracing the profile of the eight-pointed star carved upon it seems to soothe her heart. That apparition, whether she truly was some kind of Angel from the bright faiths of the North or not, had danced with them and drank with them, after protecting the village from a monster.
All in due payment, but she had done so.
Trustworthy.
Not something to scoff at, during these dark times.
She keeps rubbing and rubbing, with a bit more strength, leaning forward on her creaking chair. Their town had felt strange as of late. Like a hose that’s rotting from the inside.
But—
Her hand squeezes the wood.
The old woman balks at the sight, at the sensation of her cramped muscles frozen.
Her old heart picks up pace. She tries to let go, but her arm feels like it’s not her own anymore.
She opens her mouth to scream, and her breath gets caught in her throat. Fear claws at her stomach. Her fingers do not let go, growing pale even at the light of the fireplace. Sparkles scatter all around, like lost, drunken stars.
How endearing,, mocks a woman’s voice from behind her. To think this did work for a while.
She has never felt something so beautiful, and yet it’s the beauty of an open ravine, of a black lagoon, a beauty of corpse-light that brightens nothing.
Phantom fingers spread over the old woman’s shivering mouth, brushing against her chapped teeth.
Please, she thinks in her head.
Oh? Nobody shall come, to save your wretched race. Cattle you were, cattle you stay. The hand covers her mouth, and when it pulls back, the woman gurgles as her skin and flesh and bones get stuck to it, like melting cheese. Cattle you shall be. But let us not waste what little is there, now. The black voice purrs, even as her body unfurls, still alive, still feeling, as her bones pop and her skin pull taut, tauter, like a parasol spreading, like the wings of some inane beast, and her blood rushes through her brain and through her changing eyes.
Angel— she tries, just as sable-skinned fingers pry the Stilladìa’s gift off her hand.
No such thing as angels. We did make them not, the cruel, silky voice retorts, crushing the wood inside her hand, splinters going off with such strength they embed inside the stone, and inside what remains of her repurposing flesh, but what’s left of the woman can’t feel it anymore.
Perhaps, it’s the only kind of pity the Sisters are capable of.
The joyous work continues.
[cont.]
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“The Night is all around us,” mutters the old woman sitting before her sputtering fireplace, pulling the little trinket out of her pocket and rubbing her wizened fingers over it, trying to find some comfort in the memory of the white-haired woman who gifted it to her. These dark days, tracing the profile of the eight-pointed star carved upon it seems to soothe her heart. That apparition, whether she truly was some kind of Angel from the bright faiths of the North or not, had danced with them and drank with them, after protecting the village from a monster.
All in due payment, but she had done so.
Trustworthy.
Not something to scoff at, during these dark times.
She keeps rubbing and rubbing, with a bit more strength, leaning forward on her creaking chair. Their town had felt strange as of late. Like a hose that’s rotting from the inside.
But—
Her hand squeezes the wood.
The old woman balks at the sight, at the sensation of her cramped muscles frozen.
Her old heart picks up pace. She tries to let go, but her arm feels like it’s not her own anymore.
She opens her mouth to scream, and her breath gets caught in her throat. Fear claws at her stomach. Her fingers do not let go, growing pale even at the light of the fireplace. Sparkles scatter all around, like lost, drunken stars.
How endearing,, mocks a woman’s voice from behind her. To think this did work for a while.
She has never felt something so beautiful, and yet it’s the beauty of an open ravine, of a black lagoon, a beauty of corpse-light that brightens nothing.
Phantom fingers spread over the old woman’s shivering mouth, brushing against her chapped teeth.
Please, she thinks in her head.
Oh? Nobody shall come, to save your wretched race. Cattle you were, cattle you stay. The hand covers her mouth, and when it pulls back, the woman gurgles as her skin and flesh and bones get stuck to it, like melting cheese. Cattle you shall be. But let us not waste what little is there, now. The black voice purrs, even as her body unfurls, still alive, still feeling, as her bones pop and her skin pull taut, tauter, like a parasol spreading, like the wings of some inane beast, and her blood rushes through her brain and through her changing eyes.
Angel— she tries, just as sable-skinned fingers pry the Stilladìa’s gift off her hand.
No such thing as angels. We did make them not, the cruel, silky voice retorts, crushing the wood inside her hand, splinters going off with such strength they embed inside the stone, and inside what remains of her repurposing flesh, but what’s left of the woman can’t feel it anymore.
Perhaps, it’s the only kind of pity the Sisters are capable of.
The joyous work continues.
[cont.]
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