dark as corpses but cluttered with gold
bas // TW
08-24-2023, 09:06 PM
TW: mental health & graphic descriptions of violence
The laughing. The cold, humorless laughing. It reaches Hazel where she should be safe. It reaches her far beyond the depth of sleep, the walking in dreams. It touches her in a way that she cannot shake. In a way she cannot cope with. It started as a low, far away chuckle. It started as a sound that doesn't seem real to her. It did not seem real, it did not seem tangible. Intangible, but it could still hurt her. If it could still find her, then it could still hurt her. If it could still hurt her, then she wasn't safe.
It built in volume. It built in intensity. From a chuckle to a cackle, echoing the hallowed halls of her dreams. Pain blooming in her chest, as if the wound that nearly killed her was still fresh. It's still fresh... fresh blood. She can smell it. She can taste it. It floods her senses, but where is it coming from? Through the fog of dreams, Hazel can see it spilling from her. With great intensity, greater intensity than should be possible, there is blood spilling from her chest. There is blood spilling from her neck. Washing over the girl's body, and she can't stop it.
Hazel can see him. She can see the man that sired her circling, a vulture. Her head spun. Her gut lurched. Everything was dark, and everything was too bright, all at the same time. Quivering, trembling, shaking at the knees. Hazel lashes out at her father, but she can't catch him. He's too fast. He's too fast, she's too weak. She's but a child. The sinister cackling continued, and she lunges once more. Over and over, she tries. Over and over, she fails. It's only when she draws from a reserve that she doesn't have that she catches something, a leg, between her teeth. Her fangs rake across flesh. Hazel tastes blood.
In the real world, the girl is thrashing in bed, an afternoon nap gone wrong. She hadn't been sleeping well, not since the raid, but this was perhaps the worst yet. Shouting, mixed with her own manic cackling, in her sleep. It's Hazel's own crystalline fangs that have ripped open her foreleg. She continues to thrash, whimpering her way through the nightmare.
"Speech"
It built in volume. It built in intensity. From a chuckle to a cackle, echoing the hallowed halls of her dreams. Pain blooming in her chest, as if the wound that nearly killed her was still fresh. It's still fresh... fresh blood. She can smell it. She can taste it. It floods her senses, but where is it coming from? Through the fog of dreams, Hazel can see it spilling from her. With great intensity, greater intensity than should be possible, there is blood spilling from her chest. There is blood spilling from her neck. Washing over the girl's body, and she can't stop it.
Hazel can see him. She can see the man that sired her circling, a vulture. Her head spun. Her gut lurched. Everything was dark, and everything was too bright, all at the same time. Quivering, trembling, shaking at the knees. Hazel lashes out at her father, but she can't catch him. He's too fast. He's too fast, she's too weak. She's but a child. The sinister cackling continued, and she lunges once more. Over and over, she tries. Over and over, she fails. It's only when she draws from a reserve that she doesn't have that she catches something, a leg, between her teeth. Her fangs rake across flesh. Hazel tastes blood.
In the real world, the girl is thrashing in bed, an afternoon nap gone wrong. She hadn't been sleeping well, not since the raid, but this was perhaps the worst yet. Shouting, mixed with her own manic cackling, in her sleep. It's Hazel's own crystalline fangs that have ripped open her foreleg. She continues to thrash, whimpering her way through the nightmare.
| Thread Move Log | ||||
| Thread | Forum | From | To | |
| 1. | dark as corpses but cluttered with gold | Mile-High Woods | 09:06 PM, 08-24-2023 | 02:05 PM, 03-31-2024 |