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Post by Elvander on Oct 2, 2020 18:40:43 GMT
Ari relaxed a slight bit and smiled gently at Freya, offering her water, "Help yourselves to whatever else you can find," she nodded to them both, allowing them to do what they would. She didn't feel like anyone was in danger tonight. And so, she crept to Destrian's room and climbed up on the bed, gently placing her hand against Destrian's back, running her hand up and down in a soothing gesture. "So, I'm away for a little bit and you can't help but get into trouble?" she joked, trying to lighten the mood a little. She sensed, and she knew, that this would be weighing heavily on him. Destrian wasn't used to being in this position, and he had wanted nothing more but to be invisible once they left Raevaryn.
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Post by Val on Oct 5, 2020 21:45:23 GMT
Destrian could feel the suffocating tension begin to dissipate as Cyra put physical distance between them. Now that they were no longer in the same room, he could separate his emotions from hers, but that was hardly enough to lighten the anxiety that was weighing down upon him. He was prepared for a sleepless night, but he longed for Ari’s company and waited impatiently for her to join him.
When he heard the door click shut behind her, Destrian exhaled heavily and felt the fight drain out of him in response to her soothing touch. He groaned softly into the pillow in response to Ari’s quip, wishing he could share the sense of stability that she always seemed to maintain. Emerging from his pillow cave, he rolled over and captured her in his arms, finally able to give her the embrace she deserved in the privacy of the bedroom.
“I don’t know why you put up with me,” he muttered, burying his face into the crook of her neck, “What amount of baggage is enough to scare you off? I must’ve exceeded every limit in existence by now.” Although he was being facetious, there was truth to his words, and he once again felt the need to offer Ari an out before things got out of control. He lifted his head and finally met her gaze, but he faltered when it came time to push her away. Instead, he felt the sudden need for her wisdom above all else. A final decision on the matter had yet to be made, and he needed to talk with through with the woman he trusted most, “Am I being reckless?” he asked, searching her eyes for the impossible answer.
Destrian knew what his purpose was. He was prepared to play his role in dismantling the shadow organization. And yet, the odds felt insurmountable. Taking a stand without an army would be futile; they needed strength in numbers, but the only allies he was aware of were prepared to flee. He and Cyra were a force to be reckoned with, but not even their power would be enough to defeat the enemy. As the doubts weaved their way into his plans, Destrian waited for the impartial advice that only Ari could provide.
Freya couldn’t believe the words that were flowing from Desmond’s mouth. She stared at him as he spoke, feeling like she was suddenly in the presence of a stranger. Not only was he asking her to break their most basic, foundational rules, but they were also ignoring the one rule that their host had given them. It went against Freya’s entire existence, but her devotion to Desmond still overpowered any semblance of rational, independent thought. She was unable to see the plan that was forming beneath the surface; instead, she listened to his instructions in the most literal way possible, trying to keep up with his rushed words.
By the time she was pushed to her feet, Freya felt overwhelmed by the task she’d been given. She stood in front of Desmond, doubt filling her from head to toe at the idea of stepping foot outside on her own. She wanted to ask him a million questions, but her silence persisted. She wanted to beg him to let her stay, to let her curl up in the couch in his arms, to let her sleep beside him for the first time now that they were free, but she remained unmoving at the edge of the couch. As she looked down at Desmond, she knew she would do what he said, because the unfair reality was that she wasn’t free at all.
Unable to form words, she simply followed his pointed nod, her feet moving her in the direction of the kitchen. She picked up the glass of water that Ari had left out with trembling hands and sipped at it, barely feeling the liquid as she swallowed it down. Her nerves were exponential, but she felt like she had fallen into a trance like state, given no other choice but to do as she was told. She cast one last fleeting glance in Desmond’s direction before slipping quietly out the front door and into the chilly night air.
Venturing out into the unknown by herself felt surreal. It was like stepping into one of her vivid dreams, except she had the distinct awareness that this was very real, as were the dangers that lurked beyond. It took Freya several long moments before she set into motion, inching toward the edge of the porch as she repeated Desmond’s directions in her mind. She paused at the bottom step and absentmindedly removed her boots, shivering as her feet were exposed to the cold night air. It was always her instinct to be closer to the earth; the ground held infinite knowledge of life and death, built by layer upon layer of decomposition in all forms. Finally, she stepped onto the grass and curled her toes until they sunk into the fresh dirt beneath. With a deep, shaky breath, she started forward into the darkness.
Unable to see more than a few steps in front of her, Freya wandered aimlessly across the field that surrounded the house, resembling a spirit herself as she flitted across the grass. The physical pull of what she could only assume was fate guided her along, but whatever lay in wait was an absolute mystery. Step by step, she could sense that she was heading toward the burial site where they had encountered Destrian and Cyra, but she never actually made it there. Her foot landed in a seemingly insignificant patch of grass, and the contact caused a shudder to wrack through her body. She dropped to her knees as if the breath had been knocked out of her, and when she looked up, she was faced with a familiar scene. The spirit who had been guiding her was suddenly directly across from her, except he wasn’t a spirit, but a man. He was propped up on his knees with blood dripping from his face and terror in his eyes. She watched as hands gripped the man’s head and twisted, causing his neck to snap with sickening ease. When he slumped to the ground, Freya was faced with the culprit: Destrian. Fear pierced through her heart as she scrambled backwards, away from the projection of the man who was supposed to be their savior. She managed to get her footing and whipped around, only to be stopped by the apparent accomplice to the crime. Cyra was standing only a few feet away from the scene, and an undeniable look of satisfaction flooded her features, as though she was pleased by the act of violence. Freya did not spare a second glance. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, beelining for the trees. She had no destination, driven only by the need to flee as she stumbled blindly into the forest. Her feet got tripped up on what she could only assume were tree roots, and she collided with the earth, left winded by the unexpected tumble. Crawling forward on her hands and knees, she turned to look back the way she had come. When her eyes finally adjusted, she locked onto the obstacle that had tripped her up, realizing that they were not limbs of a tree, but of a person.
“Help,” her voice came out weak and raspy as she stared wide-eyed at the shadowy figure that was sitting on the forest floor, unable to decipher what was real and what was not. Steeling herself, she sucked in a deep breath and prepared to scream Desmond’s name, desperate for rescue from the unfathomable mission he had sent her on.
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Post by starrea on Oct 6, 2020 19:35:20 GMT
Out of all of the people to come hurling out of the darkness, the appearance of Freya was perhaps even more surprising than an appearance from Destrian himself. Cyra didn't have time to move herself out of the frantic girl's way before her foot collided with one of Cyra's legs, sending her crashing to the ground. The collision left a dull throb in Cyra's thigh from where Freya's foot had struck her, a sure sign of a bruise to-come, but she hardly felt it. The girl, crawling backwards on her hands and knees, had Cyra's full, undivided attention and all of her previous grievances were forgotten. Even in the dim lighting, Cyra could see how frail the girl looked - Cyra hadn't even looked that frail when Destrian had finally freed her from ten long years of isolation in the side of a damn mountain. Her skin was a pasty white, almost as if she were made of paper, and it was a shock that her stumble to the ground hadn't ripped her open. The girl had been running and Cyra briefly glanced back towards the direction she had been coming from, but no one was pursuing her. She was running away from the cabin - away from... what was his name? Dimitri? Was she running away from him?
The deliciously scandalous idea left Cyra stunned, struggling beneath the wealth of questions that flooded her mind afterwards and the inherent jealousy at the mere idea that Freya could runaway. Something else, something more subtle than the jealousy, welled up in Cyra's chest. It was unusual emotion, not one Cyra had felt before (or if she had, it had been a long time ago), and it took her a second to identify it; empathy. She knew Freya's struggles, her pain, her suffering and she truly felt for her in a way she hadn't ever connected with anyone before. They were one in the same - two girls with power beyond their comprehension, caged by uncaring, selfish men. The appearance of empathy, an emotion she had thought to have shed long ago, was jarring and Cyra pushed it aside for the moment.
"Whoa there, calm down no one is coming after you. At least, not yet," Cyra mused, settling back against the tree she had been leaning against to observe the girl. It took Cyra a couple of seconds to figure out why the girl wasn't relaxing, and she remembered her abilities. Cyra cracked a wolfish grin, "Ahh, don't the spirits know its rude to slander people behind their backs? Don't look at me like that, if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead," That statement didn't seem to help either, so Cyra quickly amended herself, "Destrian won't let me shift right now. Not since I was spotted a couple of weeks ago, so relax. I'm pretty fucking useless in this form, you'd have a better chance of killing yourself by tripping over a tree root than by my hands."
For a second, Cyra wondered who exactly Freya saw that made her so frightened but it was waste of time to try and guess. It didn't matter which spirit it was; in the end, murder was murder and she was sure that most everyone she had killed had similar choice words about her. If there was a hell, Cyra had a list of sins long enough that she would go down as a fucking legend. Unfortunately, the arrival of Freya forced the uncomfortable truth that Cyra hadn't considered; that death was not the end. The realization was stupefying and it made Cyra freeze as she threatened to lose herself chasing that thought down the rabbit hole. Cyra had been banking on the fact that death was the end, that there was just blissful nothingness after the last breath had been exhaled. As Destrian loved to remind her, her actions had consequences, but the thought of being forced to endure this misery until the end of time seemed excessive, even for crimes of her magnitude. Her grim future was nauseating and she almost slipped down into the abyss of depression she had been occupying before Freya showed up.
Cyra reminded herself that she couldn't do a damn thing about what she had done, and the consequences, including the ones she was enduring now, were out of her control. There was no redemption for her, no forgiveness for her atrocities. She was only sorry for all the wrong reasons, sorry that her actions had caused her own unendurable suffering, and she doubted that would earn her any points towards leniency. If all Cyra had were these fleeting moments of happiness, then she needed hold onto them. If she was going to burn in hell, then she was going to make damn sure she wouldn't burn alone. Fuck Destrian, fuck change, and fuck penance.
"So the curse, it lets you leave him?" Cyra asked, curious about the differences between the magic that bonded her to Destrian and the magic that had to bind Freya to Desmond. The questions about what the spirit-world was like, what her future would be like, but she swallowed them down. It wasn't a reality she was willing to face yet. "Why are you so scared, anyway? The living can't hurt you. The dead sure as hell can't hurt you. They're dead. You're stronger than them just by being alive. Anyway, you can control them, can't you? Like, talk to them? Tell them to fuck off," It was hard to imagine being afraid when Cyra was virtually unstoppable, only compounded by the newfound knowledge that she couldn't die - at least, not by conventional means. Even with the hindrance by the name of Destrian, she wasn't afraid. Angry? Yes. Depressed? Absolutely. Vengeful? Oh yeah. But not afraid. The emotion was foreign to her and her only experience with it was one or two fleeting memories in which she might have been afraid, but the memories were too faded and too blurry to tell. The emotion was easily identifiable in others, and understandable for most people who weren't cursed with superiority - but Freya wasn't one of them. She wasn't someone who should be afraid - she was the reason other people should be afraid.
Desmond held his breath as Freya disappeared out of the cabin door, almost waiting for her reappear. He was acutely aware of her absence, as if he were missing something as profound as one of his own limbs, and he felt unable to function without her. He toyed with the idea of going after her, but he couldn't leave the cabin. If Destrian emerged and found them both missing, it would cause a whole host of issues. For now, Desmond just needed to have faith in Freya and wait for her return.
Waiting was easier said than done. Time froze, and seconds lasted years. Anticipation choked him until he could remain motionless no longer, and he pushed himself up from the couch and poured himself a glass of water. As he sipped it, he stared out one of the window, into the darkness that he had sent Freya into and felt regret churn his stomach. He realized he hadn't given Freya a time limit on her excursion and he cursed himself, promising himself to wait at least an hour before he followed her out into the darkness.
Self-consciousness plagued him as the seconds ticked by. Was his devotion to her enough to bring her back to him? Was he enough? Did she love him? He had been sure in the answer of all of those questions - all yes - but now that she was gone, his insecurities made him think otherwise. He realized he hadn't told her that he loved her and he felt another pang of regret - when she returned, Desmond would make sure that she knew exactly just how much he loved her.
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Post by Elvander on Oct 11, 2020 19:47:11 GMT
Ari put her arms around Destrian and held him close, held him tight. She knew they were in a precarious situation, with an impossible mission ahead of them. "I love you, and nothing you could do would ever push me away. You're doing what you feel is right." Ari pressed a kiss to his forehead, wanting him to know that no matter how many outs he offered her, she was not going to abandon him. She gazed back into his dark eyes, searching them for an answer while she contemplated his question. "Your hand was forced, you didn't seek this out. But we have to be careful now about how we go after them. Tell me about their structure, their numbers, their resources." Perhaps thinking tactically would help Destrian ease some of his anxiety. And it would help her plan. Ari was a natural tactician, and she liked to plan ahead as much as possible. It would be reckless to take on the Paragon just the three of them, especially when she had no real idea what they were facing. Did the handlers use the captives like weapons? How many were there within the walls? They had distanced themselves from Raevaryn and its resources for the most part. Ari was still acting in her capacity as an assassin, and she would be due back to get her next assignment soon. Who within Raevaryn's walls would want to help dismantle a group picking off the most powerful of creatures? With Roman seeming to be at the helm of the kingdom, there had been a stark increase in hatred and distrust of magical beings. Raevaryn was a wary place at the moment, and she wondered if anyone would want to help remove an organization that seemed to be keeping them safe from the shadows. What about Wolfgang? The disgraced court member who had been sentenced to life in exile. Would he help them?
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Post by Val on Oct 17, 2020 3:30:18 GMT
Ari’s words of validation were as painful as they were reassuring. Destrian had learned to accept her love as unconditional over time, but recent events had begun to make him doubt his worthiness. After being forced to confront his past with the resurgence of Cyra, he didn’t feel as though he deserved love in any form. He had yet to achieve the redemption he so desperately longed for and it was beginning to feel impossible to right the mountain of wrongs in his life. In his plight for the greater good, he continued to disregard the lives of the individuals closest to him. His mind was irreversibly set on destroying Paragon, but the decision still didn’t feel right.
Allowing Ari’s touch to soothe him, Destrian held her gaze attentively, yearning for her levelheaded advice. Her tactful questions were enough to suppress his emotions for the time being and the gears began to turn in his head as he conjured up the details of his past, “I’ve been gone for ten years,” he pointed out, “A lot could have changed.” It was necessary to admit that he was no longer an expert on the organization, though there was now someone in their ranks that was. His eyes drifted toward the bedroom door as he considered the wealth of knowledge that Desmond might have, but he made no move to return to the living room, figuring they still needed the night to cool down before he started demanding more answers. Quite frankly, he didn’t like the other man. Looking at Desmond felt like he was looking into a mirror at a younger version of himself, and that was not a welcome sight.
“They thrive on secrecy. Those at the bottom only know what the higher ups want them to know. The leaders are a mystery. I never met them, never even saw them. People revered them like Gods.” It was difficult to admit to Ari how brainwashed he’d been amongst the members of Paragon, even if it was out of his control, “Their numbers are extensive. They have affiliates intertwined within every aspect of society. Anywhere from underground criminal gangs, to the highest levels of nobility. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to decipher who’s hiding in plain sight. Again, they maintain the highest level of secrecy. Most of the people involved don’t even know who they’re working for.” If he was aware of the members hiding in plain sight, they could potentially begin to recruit an army of sorts, but it seemed like a long shot, “The compound is different. It’s sole purpose is to confine those like Cyra and perform experiments to further their cause. These are the people we would be facing…and it’s very possible that they will use their captives against us, if they trust them,” he paused, considering the impact his escape might’ve had, “I imagine they cracked down after I got away.”
As unpleasant as the past was, it was freeing to be able to discuss the complicated scenario freely with Ari. She needed to have an idea of the immense threat they were facing, even if he didn’t have all of the answers, “We need help, don’t we?” he admitted quietly, the reluctance clear in his voice. Gathering forces was the last thing he wanted to do, but it seemed that their options were dwindling and their best chance at defeating the enemy was to form a true resistance.
The cry for Desmond was stifled as Cyra interjected, shocking Freya into silence. She continued to inch away from the other girl, whom she perceived as a threat, until her back hit the base of a tree and she was forced to stop. She curled into herself defensively and hugged her knees to her chest, ignoring the sharp aches of pain from her tumble. Instead of focusing on Cyra, Freya’s eyes trailed toward the direction she’d fled from, half expecting to be pursued by the stars of the murderous scene she’d just witnessed. Except, Cyra was right there in front of her- in the flesh. It was becoming increasingly difficult to separate reality from her visions, and her wariness was evident even after Cyra attempted to console her.
Freya appeared visibly uncomfortable at the talk of killing and death, clearly not sharing Cyra’s disturbing sense of humor. Half of the things the girl was saying went right over her head, only reinforcing the fact that Freya felt completely in the dark. Once again, Demond failed to fill her in on important details, and she felt embarrassed over the fact that she was struggling to keep up with Cyra’s mostly one-sided conversation. Shift? She had no idea what Cyra was capable of; only that she was dangerous- a killer.
Desmond’s voice echoed in her head, insisting that she avoid Cyra at all costs. She will kill you. Freya fiddled nervously with the ends of her sleeves, considering her options. The easiest route would be to follow Desmond’s specific instructions and leave. She could return to him, give him the information he had asked for, and curl up into his arms for the night. It was tempting, but the unexpected encounter with Cyra left her hesitant. After all, she was angry with Desmond. He was being unfair to her, and he was the one who had forced her to venture out here on her own, not even allowing her a break after their arduous journey. Even through her greatly clouded perspective, she could see that he was being selfish. Did he even care about her, or was he using her? The questions were endless, and she was left fuming within the sanctity of her own thoughts as Cyra continued talking at her.
“Curse?” Freya finally spoke up, regarding Cyra quizzically. She frowned, unaware of what the girl was referring to. “I’m not cursed,” she muttered, though she couldn’t be certain whether or not that was true. Ultimately, she didn’t know enough about her abilities or Paragon or even Desmond to be positive of her denial. “Anyway, I don’t want to leave Desmond. I just…want him to treat me differently,” she replied honestly, the admission surprising even herself. It wasn’t her intention to open up to Cyra, and yet she felt undeniable relief after being given the opportunity to share the details of her life with someone who could potentially understand.
Freya blinked and began to study Cyra as best she could in the darkness, curiosity replacing the fear that had been instilled in her. Despite what she knew about the other girl, she seemed relatively harmless at first glance. Although her boisterousness was intimidating to Freya, she found that she envied the other girl for being able to speak her mind. Cyra’s fearlessness made Freya question everything she knew about the world, and about herself. “Everything can hurt me. Living or dead,” she disagreed, feeling far from the all-powerful being that Cyra seemed to believe she was. “I…don’t really know what I’m capable of,” she admitted hesitantly, wondering if Cyra would judge her for suppressing her abilities, “I’m not supposed to acknowledge the spirits, so how would I know if I can control them?” She sighed heavily and rubbed at her tired eyes, “It’s not that easy, anyway. They’re desperate. I can’t really blame them though; they want to move on.”
It was liberating to speak so freely to someone and Freya visibly relaxed, unfurling from her huddled position. Even with Desmond, their conversations were mostly one sided and Freya felt the need to tip toe around forbidden topics. Cyra, though, was like her. Despite their obvious differences, they came from similar backgrounds and found themselves in similar predicaments. The sense of comradery was refreshing and, for the first time in a long time, she forgot about pleasing Desmond.
“Why do you want to die?” The question was rather abrupt and alluded to the fact that Freya was lacking in social awareness. Being locked in a room for most of her life had surely taken a toll on her sociability, but Cyra had to know all about that. Freya continued to study Cyra through round, innocent eyes, trying to make sense of the mysterious girl whom she both envied and pitied at the same time.
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Post by starrea on Oct 18, 2020 18:45:59 GMT
Trauma, as Cyra was starting to see, took many different forms and the more she stared at Freya, the easier it was to see how broken she was. It wasn’t the same kind of brokenness was Cyra; Cyra was rough around the edges, all sharp points, and dangerously unstable and explosive. Freya’s trauma was more subtle, buried deep beneath layers of repression. Desmond had sanded away all her rough edges, molding her into what he wanted her to be and then polishing her off. She was the finished product of what Cyra supposed she was supposed to be; pliable and compliant. They were on two opposite ends of the spectrum, but the damage was the same. Both were devastatingly and irreversibly ruined with no hope of being put back together again. It took Cyra more than a moment to put the puzzle pieces of information she had gathered about Freya into a probable scenario. She hadn’t considered the fact that Freya’s situation was different from hers, and for some reason, that surprised her. In fact, it appeared that Freya didn’t even know what Cyra had done – and she wasn’t in any rush to fill her in. Even in her wildest dreams, Cyra hadn’t ever imagined finding a friend in a girl in a similar situation to her own and she wanted to prolong it as long as possible before her past inevitably came up. Freya’s assertation of not being cursed made Cyra’s heart skip a beat – she could leave. Freya didn’t even realize the magnitude of her freedom and Cyra hurriedly looked over her shoulder towards the cabin, but no one was coming for them. It was hard to quell her excitement over that knowledge, but it was obvious that Freya hardly knew anything. There could be a curse, one Freya didn’t know about. If she lived with Desmond and actively suppressed her abilities, there was no reason for her to know about it. But there might not be a curse. “Men,” Cyra bit out resentfully, “Don’t change. Don’t expect them to, it’s a waste of time. Desmond is wrong – you should explore what you can do. He just doesn’t want you to because he’s weak and you’re strong. You don’t need him, you know that, right?” It was understatement of the century, but Cyra got the feeling that she needed to tread lightly on the topic of Desmond. She needed to figure out how indoctrinated she was to Desmond and his cause before she starting spewing her completely unfiltered thoughts about him. The tactless question was jarring, but only for the fact that no one had ever asked it before. Destrian certainly hadn't, probably because he was well-versed in her list of grievances and mostly because he didn't care. Ari was not much better and despite her meager attempts to befriend her, Cyra kept a cold distance between them. Besides a couple of unsatisfying trips in town, Cyra was completely isolated with her jailer and his girlfriend. The very fact that someone was interested in how Cyra felt was enough to make her open her mouth, ready to unload her lifetime of injustices, but no words immediately came out. The list was so long that Cyra didn't even know where to begin. "Because," She started out slowly, suddenly struggling to put her emotions into words. She was used to her emotions exploding out of her in the heat of an argument, and she was finding it much harder to form her thoughts into comprehensible sentences without the drive of anger and frustration, "Because I have no control over my life. Destrian hates me. He left me to die in the side of a damn mountain, but the joke was on him because I didn't die. I couldn't die. Not when I didn't eat for nearly ten damn years, not when I didn't drink, not when I cut my wrists, not when I was so cold that I was frozen in place, and not when I crushed myself beneath a pile of rocks and boulders. I just kept breathing, even though I didn't want to. I was starving to death but didn't die. I was deliriously thirsty, licking the fucking rocks when it first rained like a fucking animal. I spent ten long winters passing in and out of consciousness, so cold that I was frozen in place. And I was alone. I used to scream every damn day, scream for Destrian to come back for me, scream that I was sorry... scream for anyone and no one came. And you want to know what the worst part was? Knowing that I had to endure all of that, day in and day out, for years, with no fucking clue if Destrian was ever going to come for me. I couldn't even make that one decision, that one, last small mercy I could grant myself. But then Destrian came back, and I was so fucking angry at him for leaving. But I can't hurt him, and he won't let me hurt anyone else, and hurting myself is fucking useless. He doesn't care, and he's not sorry. I'm just as fucking alone as I was up on that mountain, except now I'm forced to see Destrian ever single fucking day. He thinks that I'm being over-dramatic and resentful and destructive, but he stole ten fucking years of my life and left me to waste away in the side of a fucking mountain. And now he needs me, and he'll use me until I'm no longer useful and then and only then, he'll grant me death. Then him and his girlfriend will go to sleep, feeling justified that they've rid the world of another dangerous terrorist." By the end, Cyra was nearly out of breath and tears blurred her vision. Her monologue had started out slow but slowly gained momentum as she kept on, her voice bleeding with the pain she carried. "Destrian doesn't understand that I can't move on. I'm still the girl he left in the side of the mountain ten years ago. Life moved on... without me, and I don't know how to catch up." Cyra's voice cracked with uncharacteristic sadness that was void of the bitter resentment she usually exuded. Now that her rant was over, her posture deflated as if all of the weight of her pain that she had momentarily unloaded onto Freya were piled back onto her shoulders. A sudden urgency overtook Cyra and she stared at Freya with an intensity that she had lacked moments prior, “You need to leave. You need to get out of here,” She hissed, subconsciously glancing back towards the cabin. She couldn’t save herself, but maybe she could save Freya.
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Post by Elvander on Oct 22, 2020 20:39:54 GMT
Ari listened as Destrian explained what he knew, and the more he talked, the more she knew that if they were going to do this, they were going to have to do this with as much skill and force as possible. "Yes, we'll need help," she murmured softly, wondering about the guests in their home for the night, and wondering about Cyra. None of them seemed keen on helping, but perhaps Desmond would be willing to part with information before he left them to find his freedom. Ari ran her finger thoughtfully down Destrian's chest, her mind moving to the tattoos which lay beneath his shirt. Memories from a time in his life when he'd been held a captive. He was still a captive. Perhaps he could relate to Cyra that way.
"Is that what you want?" she asked softly, a gentle challenge. She sensed that Destrian wanted something important, something meaningful in his life that would make him feel like he was a good man, a man deserving of her and of safety and life. Could he do that with Cyra haunting him like a memory of his wrongs? She felt terrible for the entity bound to her partner, but she feared what she would do if she was free. "Is destroying the Paragon what will bring you peace?"
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Post by Val on Oct 29, 2020 17:56:35 GMT
Destrian read the answer on Ari’s face before she said it aloud; of course they needed help. His spur of the moment attack plan had been in response to Cyra’s sudden suicidal ideation and his pure desperation to be free of the past. Even after years of perceived freedom, he was still being manipulated by the enemy, perhaps unknowingly. His eyes shifted to stare out the window into the darkness beyond as a ripple of paranoia spread through him. Undoubtedly, they were waiting for him to crack- waiting for the moment to finally eliminate one of their greatest plunders. The battle he was seeking was one that they would most likely lose, and that was something they simply couldn’t afford.
Ari’s question was enough to spur him back to the present and he met her imploring gaze once more. Want was a difficult word for Destrian. Most of his wants were more like futile wishes to alter history. He wished he could change the past, or forget it altogether. But, he was finally starting to accept the fact that he could never truly escape the past because it was fused into every aspect of his life, as it was for everyone. From the deeply repressed shame he felt over his relationship with Cyra, to the glaringly obvious markings that Ari was tracing across his skin- he had no choice but to accept the fate that had been forced upon him.
Somehow, Ari’s question managed to frame the problem in a different perspective, and he could feel himself start to piece together what he truly wanted for the future. “I want to be worthy of you,” he answered honestly, catching her hand and pressing it to the center of his chest where the very first tattoo had been branded into his skin. Ari made it incredibly easy to be vulnerable to her, and he had no hesitation when it came to admitting that she deserved better from him. “I want to earn Cyra’s forgiveness.” The topic of Cyra was far more difficult to process. He had been rigorously manipulated into believing she was nothing more than a weapon and he’d continued to treat her as just that- an object capable of mass destruction. Mending their relationship seemed so unattainable that he felt nauseous every time he thought about it. Despite the small and pitiful attempts he’d made at reconciliation, she still clearly hated him with every fiber of her being.
“I have to destroy them,” he clarified, his choice of wording meaningful. Paragon wasn’t just a threat to their small but growing inner circle; it was a threat to everyone. From kingdom to kingdom, it spread like a virus, infecting people mercilessly from every walk of life. Most were blind to the enemy as it latched onto positions of power and influence, inconspicuously changing the fabric of society. Revenge had always been his driving force, but if he truly wanted to redeem himself, Destrian needed to unselfishly commit to saving the innocent from a fate like his own and the countless other lives that they’d devastated.
After working through the complicated decisions and the emotions that came with them, Destrian was beginning to feel a sense of clarity. They needed to be smart and that meant seeking help in whatever ways they could. He regarded Ari with deep gratitude, wondering how she managed to be his guiding light time and time again. Destrian shifted so that he was hovering over Ari and pressed his lips to hers, only pulling away to finish answering her question, “You bring me peace.”
As Freya was left to ponder whether or not men were capable of changing, her thoughts drifted back to Desmond. There was a distinct absence when she wasn’t with him, as though she couldn’t quite function the way she was used to without his guiding hand. The idea that he was the weak one seemed absurd to her; he was the one who protected her, cared for her. Freya, on the other hand, felt anything but strong. She was afraid of her own shadow and, like Cyra, knew nothing of the outside world. Nevertheless, she could already feel a change in herself during the short amount of time she’d been free of the compound. Even without her medicine, she was learning to keep the spirits at bay and her mind on track. Her conversation with Cyra had so far been undisturbed, and she was finally considering that it might be a good idea to test what she was capable of. After all, Desmond’s mission had given her permission to do so and in turn opened up a world of possibilities.
When Cyra finally began to formulate an answer to her question, Freya leaned forward subconsciously and provided the girl with her full attention. Death was an unremarkable topic to Freya. She was painfully unaware of just how unique her abilities were, and often seemed to forget that not everyone knew what she knew. Life after death was very much real, but she’d only gone so far as to encounter the entities trapped in the in-between. They were the ones most desperate to contact her, often appearing to beg for her help in gaining entry into whatever realm lied beyond their hellish purgatory. She didn’t know if it was possible to see to the other side, but Freya could sense that it existed, just beyond her reach.
Freya listened to Cyra’s story, becoming mesmerized by the morbidly cruel tale. The bizarre details failed to spark the obvious questions in Freya; rather, she took the story literally and accepted Cyra’s words for what they were- the truth. Cyra seemed convinced that death would solve all her problems, but Freya wasn’t so sure. The more time she spent with the girl, the more she seemed…otherworldly. Cyra very much reminded her of the unrequited souls of the dead, except she was very much there, in the world of the living. Freya could only assume that whatever curse the girl claimed to have been stricken with had permanently changed her.
“Maybe you’re already dead,” she suggested quietly, her voice barely audible as Cyra continued her rant about the man that she considered the root of all of her problems. It seemed reasonable to Freya, and she wondered if her new confidant was only tied to the physical world because of the man dragging her down like an anchor. Her distaste for Destrian grew with the possibility, compounded by the fact that Desmond didn’t trust him, and that she’d just witnessed a reenactment of the murder committed by his hands.
Freya might’ve been inclined to join in on dragging Cyra’s tormentor, but the conversation suddenly shifted, and her anxiety returned full force. Leave? Fear gripped her and she curled back into herself, staring at Cyra apprehensively as she changed gears. She mimicked the frantic look back toward the cabin, only to find that all was calm and quiet. She couldn’t quite fathom why Cyra was suddenly desperate for her to flee, but she had no intentions of doing so.
“No,” she uttered with a shake of her head. It wasn’t a word she used often, but it was far easier when Desmond wasn’t the recipient. “No, no, I have to go back,” she decided, abruptly scrambling to her feet. “I-I have nowhere to go,” she pointed out, hugging her arms tightly around herself as she prepared to make the trek back to the familiar comfort of Desmond’s arms, “I don’t want to leave. I need him,” she insisted, firmly rooted in that belief. She side stepped toward the path that would take her back, still eyeing Cyra nervously, “I’m sorry about what happened to you. But for what it’s worth, I don’t want you to die.” With those parting words, Freya made her way clumsily through the underbrush and beelined across the field toward the cabin.
Freya did not slow down until she reached the front steps of the house, taking care not to make enough noise to disturb their hosts. She nudged the front door open just enough to slip inside and allowed it to click shut behind her. Her eyes immediately landed on Desmond where she had left him in the living room, but they quickly dropped to the floor to avoid making eye contact. She was hit with an unsettling wave of uncertainty as she shuffled wordlessly toward him, hugging her arms around herself in a display of discomfort. As the internal battle continued to rage inside of her, Freya considered lying to him for the first time, or at the very least withholding information to protect her new friend.
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Post by starrea on Nov 8, 2020 19:55:39 GMT
Desmond had filled the time Freya had been gone by alternating between worried pacing and sitting tensely on the couch. The longer she was gone, the more irritated he grew with himself for letting slip through his fingers. His decision to spare her life and flee with him had altered the delicate balance between them and he battled against the desire to violently remind her of her place. Desmond had retired the use of violence when it came to Freya years ago. It was no longer necessary; his violence had only been a direct response to poor decisions Freya made. Once she had dedicated herself to being good, to being whatever Desmond wanted her to be, there was simply no use for him to hit her anymore. It had been a considerable amount of time since the thought of striking Freya had even wandered into his consciousness that it was jarring how vehemently he struggled with the desire now. The moments were always followed by tending to whatever injuries he had created, gently reminding who was to blame and graciously accepting her apologies. Afterwards, things were always better.
As much as he valued Freya's beautiful, pale skin, there was something attractive about how he used to decorate Freya's body with bruises. Her skin was his canvas, painted with abstract splotches of colors, shades of yellows, purples, and blacks. Back then, she was still afraid of him. She couldn't see that he was doing everything for her, even when he struck her. Desmond much preferred their relationship now; she was docile, attentive and eager to please him. She loved him; she loved him enough that if he asked for it, he was confident that Freya would forgive him for everything he had done to mold her into the person she was today. But he had never asked her for it, never would, because he wasn't sorry for any of it. He had saved her - from the world, from Paragon, and from herself.
The sound of the door clicking shut abruptly ripped Desmond from his thoughts and he shot up from his chair and crossed the room in quick, purposeful strides. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to hug or strike her, but before he could make a decision, his hand was already sailing through the air. A loud crack resonated through the room as Desmond backhanded her, and when his hand dropped back to his side, it was stinging from the impact. His watchful eyes raked down her body clinically, systematically checking every inch of her for injury. Only when he was satisfied that she was uninjured did he finally study her face, honing in on the obvious guilt that was weighing down on Freya. Desmond expected two things out of Freya; obedience and honesty. He couldn't remember the last time she had tried to lie to him and the very possibility of it made him want to strike out again. Instead, his face hardened and he grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to the couch and pushing her down onto it.
"You know to be quick," He admonished, staring down her like a parent scolding a child. His voice was only a hushed whisper, but his irritation rolled off of him in waves. "Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did, tell me why you're guilty. If you confess, I may consider forgiving you," Desmond wasn't really in the mood to forgive Freya, still high on the anxiety that had kept him tense while she was gone, but he wanted her to know that he knew she had done something wrong. Desmond had shrunk Freya's world down until it just revolved around him, and that meant that she wasn't allowed to keep secrets from him. He had more to say to her, reminders as to what he had given up for her, all the lengths he had gone to save her, but he wanted to her transgressions before he refreshed her memory. The audacity she had to even take as long as she did was astounding and he felt genuinely insulted that he had given up so much to save her, only to be treated with indifference and inconsideration. He towered over Freya, standing over her as judge, jury, and executioner, waiting for some sort of explanation and apology that would sway him away from the violence that consumed his thoughts.
Cyra didn't try to stop Freya, silently watching her withdrawal until the darkness swallowed her. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree and feeling the familiar emptiness that couldn't ever be filled. It was a black hole inside of her, sucking everything except for her external being away into the dark void, leaving her hollow. She wasn't worried about Freya; one day, she would realize she didn't need Desmond, that she hadn't ever needed Desmond. Someday, she would realize that he was the cause of all of her pain and suffering. Until then, Cyra could chip away at her beliefs and connect with her in ways both of them had been denied their entire lives. Cyra was willing to wait - she was good at waiting, and she had all the time in the whole damn world. For a second, she entertained the idea of following after Freya. She was surely running straight back to Desmond, who was so different but equally as deplorable as Destrian. The motivation was quickly shot down; she wasn't a hero. If there was anything Destrian had made her believe in, it was that she was, without a doubt, beyond redemption.
The look on Freya's face and the way she had jumped to Desmond's defense lingered uncomfortably long with Cyra. Desmond had obviously dedicated years to manipulating an abusing Freya but, despite his heinous actions, he had been there. He had cared, in his own twisted way. He hadn't abandoned her. Freya obviously didn't question his devotion to her. And... Cyra was jealous. Destrian had probably hoped that she would die up in that mountain, and it wasn't until he was scared and powerless that he came back for her. As much as Cyra despised watching Desmond further manipulate that girl, she couldn't help but wish that Destrian had mistreated her that way instead of just abandoning her.
It didn't take long for the sounds of the forest to lull Cyra to sleep. Depression made her inexplicably exhausted, and she was always drained after her emotional outbursts with Destrian. Out here in the forest, with her eyes closed, she could almost pretend that he had never even come to free her from that damn mountain - and with that thought, she slipped into an restless sleep.
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Post by Elvander on Nov 10, 2020 21:16:57 GMT
Ari watched her lover's face, noted every change in his expression as he came to terms with some of the big questions and hurts he'd struggled with his entire life. Watching him grow and become a better person, a just person, filled her with pride. Ari wasn't exactly a pillar of morality- she was an assassin, after all. She killed and she didn't think twice. But now her life had a bigger meaning, a bigger purpose to it, and she was ready to leave her profession behind to achieve something far greater. It wasn't just Destrian's fight- it was hers too. She hoped to be able to help him bridge the gap with Cyra too. Ari wrapped her legs around Destrian's waist and kissed him sweetly. "What you need to do first then is work on your relationship with Cyra. Show her you are sorry, don't just tell her." She ran her hands up his arms thoughtfully, still thinking about who they could go to. "We may find allies in Nethilor," she ventured, but was quickly growing distracted from the problems at hand by Destrian's body against hers.
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Post by Val on Nov 13, 2020 17:32:44 GMT
In an instant, Freya felt like a little girl again. The moment Desmond’s hand made contact with her cheek, she felt all the growth between them over the years slip through her fingers as she plummeted back into a crueler, darker time of her life. Pain exploded across the side of her face and she might’ve toppled over if not for the armchair she used to catch and steady herself. She didn’t dare glance up at Desmond, afraid of the look she knew she’d find in his eyes. Long buried memories of their early time together came rushing back, causing the new version of Desmond to crumble to pieces. They’d become so in tune with each other, so comfortable, that she’d nearly forgotten how much she feared her caretaker in the beginning. As much as she longed to hold on to her newly perceived sense of freedom, Freya could feel her confidence slipping away as she regressed into a childish state of obedience that he expected out of her.
Tears burned in her eyes, but they didn’t have a chance to fall as Desmond quickly pushed her down onto the couch. Freya resisted the urge to curl into herself, instead sitting meekly on the edge of the couch and folding her trembling hands in her lap to still them. Her ear was still ringing as a reminder of the attack, but it wasn’t enough to prevent her from hearing his harsh castigation. Although she wouldn’t dare question him, Freya couldn’t help but feel an underlying sense of ire- he was the one who sent her off on her own. She never wanted to leave, but she had complied with his demand and now was being unfairly punished. The level of disconnect made her head ache, and the part of her that looked up to Desmond as something of a God made her wonder if he somehow knew about the encounter with Cyra.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, conditioned to apologize first no matter how she felt about the circumstances, “I took too long,” she agreed, “T-the spirit scared me, so I hid in the woods. I should have come back to you. I was scared,” she repeated, her eyes still fixated on his feet. The full confession was clawing its way out of her throat, desperate to be free of the worst transgression- the one thing that would truly enrage him. Instead, Freya grasped onto the true purpose of her mission, hoping her successful report would soften him before she had to admit to directly disobeying orders, “I know what happened to him- the one who led us here,” her eyes shot anxiously toward the bedroom door that their hosts had disappeared into, “The man killed him…snapped his neck right outside. He was innocent,” she insisted, deliberately leaving out Cyra’s involvement. She wasn’t entirely sure what Desmond intended to do with the information, but she had no reservations about accusing Destrian of the crime he had committed.
Even with one admission off her chest, Freya was practically humming with anxiety. He knew. She couldn’t bring herself to lie to Desmond, or even withhold information. Every fiber of her being needed to confess, and so she did, “I saw the other girl,” she whispered, barely audible, “I talked to her.” Guilt wracked her small frame and she forced herself to look up and meet his eyes as a form of punishment for herself, “I’m sorry, Desmond.”
Destrian didn’t want to think about Cyra right now, not when he had Ari beneath him. His lips trailed a path down her neck as she offered up suggestions, “Hmm, maybe,” he offered by way of response, far too preoccupied to be considering logistics. After several long days apart, he wanted nothing more than to remind Ari how much he loved her. His hand smoothed up the back of her leg and continued the ascent until his fingers brushed against the bare skin beneath her shirt. Eager to undress her, he sat up and tugged the hem of her shirt upwards, only to freeze at the sound of a resounding smack coming from the living room. It was undeniably a sound of violence, and the paranoia crept up on him again. The attack could be from anyone or anything, and Destrian didn’t have the will to ignore it with the possibility of an ambush on his mind.
Face hardening, he looked down at Ari apologetically, “Stay here,” he told her, gently prying her legs from around his waist. He moved swiftly from the bed and reequipped his sword before cracking the bedroom door open. There were no further signs of a struggle, but he decided to venture out anyway, deciding a patrol was necessary to calm his nerves. He stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, materializing from the shadows to stand at the edge of the living room. He took in the sight of Desmond standing over Freya and could immediately sense the tension in the air. Their whispers ceased when he entered the room and it didn’t take long for him to determine what the sound had been; in the dim candlelight, he could see a red welt was forming across the side of the girl’s face. Destrian’s dark eyes locked onto Desmond, filled with judgement and repulsion. Perhaps he was being hypocritical, but his mistreatment of Cyra had never included physical abuse. His fists twitched with the urge to drag Desmond outside and teach him a lesson, but he decided against it- for now.
Wordlessly, he turned away from the scene that he’d intruded upon and exited the house, stepping out on the front porch to center himself with a deep breath of fresh air. It was difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction in the dead of night, but his eyes slowly adjusted and landed almost immediately upon a piece of parchment fluttering in the breeze. The paper had been nailed into one of the wooden pillars that held up the porch’s awning, and even from a distance he could see that words were scrawled neatly across it- a message. His eyes scanned the expanse of land in front of the house, but there was no telling if anyone was lurking in the darkness. He approached the note apprehensively and realized that it wasn’t the only gift to have been left for him to find. Below it, sitting upon the balustrade, were two small glass vials filled with liquid.
Destrian reached for the note, tearing it from where it was pinned so he could read it closely. He already knew who had left it, but he still felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding as he scanned the words on the page:
Destrian,
I hope this letter finds you well. As is our credo, I am willing to put aside your past transgressions for the sake of the greater good. Today, I offer you a choice.
We have provided you with two vials. The dark liquid for your cursed counterpart, the light for our recently lost asset. Consumption shall prove fatal, freeing you and the others from your responsibilities, as well as from us.
If you so chose not to euthanize our property, we cannot in good conscious let you walk free unaccounted for. In this case, you remain indebted to us and we must ask that you fulfill our next request.
On the back of this letter, please find a map with coordinates to your first assignment. The high-profile target is wanted for questioning and potential desertion. Find and secure the target and wait for further instruction.
May you choose wisely for the sake of your new life.
Reading the words over and over, Destrian came to the realization that his fate had been sealed by a single page of writing. They knew where he was. They could kill him, but they knew he would comply. He turned the page over and studied the map, noting that it led to neutral territory- farmlands. His attention slowly gravitated toward the second option and he reached out to gather the two small vials into his hand. The weight of the ultimatum weighed down upon him as he curled his fingers around the poisons and slipped them into his pocket. In an instant, his freedom had been stripped from him once more. He was still a pawn in their game; they all were.
Destrian stared into the darkness as he contemplated the future of the group. Part of him wanted to smash the vials and eliminate the option altogether, but something was stopping him. It wasn’t his place to make the decision alone- Cyra would resent him even more if he took the choice away from her. She’d made it clear- she wanted to die. And the darkest part of Destrian wanted to be free of her. It would be the easy way out for them both, and yet he was only more determined to make her see the light. They all deserved a second chance- a chance to live.
Moments later, Destrian reentered the house and breezed past the tumultuous duo in the living room, heading straight for Ari. He closed the bedroom door and dropped the letter wordlessly into her lap before he sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floorboards as he awaited her response.
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Post by Elvander on Nov 14, 2020 20:55:50 GMT
Ari soaked up his touch, her body thirsting for him after weeks apart. She felt herself responding eagerly, her hands on him, ready to forget everything for a few moments of bliss. But as Destrian rose, she pushed herself upright, disappointment tightening in her gut. But she let him go, listening quietly for his return. She didn’t have to wait too long, and by now Luna had returned from her tussling in the snow, laying down at the foot of the bed. She perked up when Destrian returned, but her expression quickly turned to steel when she saw the note, and what it entailed.
“What are you going to do?” She looked up at him, her voice quiet but her tone hard. If it was up to her, she’d smash the vials and run. But it was Destrian choice to make, and if he went on his task, she’d go with him. And as for Cyra... that would be her choice too.
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Post by starrea on Nov 21, 2020 4:01:21 GMT
Something was wrong... blackness gave way to color and slowly, amidst the abstraction, a scene materialized, slowly sharpening to reveal a scene Cyra had thought she would never have to see again. The interior of her cave emerged and while most nonsense came into focus, there was a distinct blurriness that refused to dissipate. Everything was exactly how she remembered it; it was like no time has passed at all. The primitive drawings she had made with sharp rocks were still fresh, not yet faded by weather and time. She wanted to reach out, run her fingers over the rough surface of the rocks, but her arm wouldn’t listen. Her mind was quicksand, and her thoughts were sinking, disappearing down into the depths of her mind. A shadow crossed through the light and Cyra turned her attention towards the mouth of a cave; the sunlight outlined a silhouette - Destrian? - walking away. Everything was moving in slow motion, but once Cyra realized what was happening, time raced forward. Panic stole the breath right out of her lungs; they were going to leave her up again - all by herself. Desperation overwhelmed the fogginess that was bogging her down and she tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs were suddenly impossibly heavy and moved too slowly. The world tipped and Cyra tumbled back down to the cave floor, clawing her way forward as she tried to push herself for a second time, this time managing to pull herself upright.
"Wait!" Cyra screamed, trying to run, but her legs wouldn't go that fast. She was wading through mud, moving too slow to catch the person before they were out of her reach. It didn’t matter, desperation wouldn’t let her give up. She couldn’t go through this, not again. “Don’t leave me!” It took monumental effort to stay upright as she staggered towards the entrance of the cave, colliding with the familiar wall of resistance that caged her in. The figure stood on the otherwise, just a few feet out of reach. Tears poured down her cheeks, but she hadn’t realized she was crying until they dripped onto her hands, “Please, don’t leave me. I’ll do anything.” The figure stopped and time slowed down. Cyra waited hopefully, but as the seconds ticked by and the figure didn’t move, the hope devolved into anguish. The figure obviously wasn’t going to free her, and Cyra collapsed onto the ground in a fit of grief. The figure didn’t move; it just watched her as her cries escalated into screams of agony. Cyra awoke. Her heart was pumping with adrenaline, fueled by the fear of abandonment, and it took half a minute or so before she remembered that she wasn't in the cave. She looked around wildly, drinking in the imagery of the forest to offset the feeling of being trapped again. I’m not back there. I’m not back there. I’m not back there. The instinctual fear of being in perpetual danger slowly ebbed away, but the image of the black silhouette standing just a few feet away from her lingered. The faceless figure had stood just out of reach, apathetically watching her descend into despair as she was forced to accept her reality. It was ominously chilling… and it made Cyra feel like she wasn’t out here alone. Nothing scared Cyra. It was one of the perks of being the biggest, scariest monsters in the room – nothing could hurt her. She was untouchable. That title came with a certain level of confidence, and that meant that Cyra wasn’t exactly observant of her surroundings. She didn’t have to be, not when she could destroy just about anything that pissed her off – but now, it just meant that Cyra was left with this undeniable creepy feeling that she was being watched. “Hello?” Cyra called out warily, sitting up as she looked around. Nothing moved. “Destrian?” She called out once more, slowly pushing herself to her feet. Her stomach sumersaulted nervously, but she didn’t know why. She tried to reason with herself, remind herself that she was stronger than whatever force was out here – but it didn’t feel true. “Freya?” No answer. It was hard to discredit the plausibility of the dream; as much as Cyra wanted to believe that Destrian wouldn't abandon her again, she knew better. If it came down to it, Cyra was sure that Destrian would try to imprison her again - but she wasn't the same young, clueless girl he had tricked all those years ago. She wouldn't let him leave her again. Her earlier longing for the familiarity of the mountain and her cave vanished. The dream had forced her with the unpleasant reality of being left up there once again, and she was so violently against it that her body was still feeling the lingering effects of the visceral reaction it had on her. However bad her life here was with Destrian, it was still better than the countless days on the mountain. As much as Cyra didn’t feel like going back to Destrian and the others, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone. As she started to trek back towards the cabin, Cyra realized what had been troubling her the most about her dream; she hadn’t had single dream since the night Destrian had left her up on that mountain.
Desmond’s anger melted with Freya’s apology and her obvious fright. He softened, immediately starting to regret his rash use of violence. He mentally kicked himself for his lack of sensitivity; of course she was scared, and probably exhausted, too. His heart bled at the sight of the red welt forming on her face but it would serve as a reminder for the both of them; for Freya to be better, and for Desmond to trust her. Besides the traces of regret that lined his features, Desmond remained impassive as Freya spoke. He looked down upon her expressionlessly, refusing to grant her the knowledge of whether she had pleased him or not. Despite his reluctance to show it, Desmond was beyond relieved that Freya had come through for them. The knowledge would prove invaluable should they end up in a tight spot, and it only reaffirmed the notion Desmond had that Destrian couldn’t be trusted. Disgust clouded his features as he thought about the senseless act of violence; how could he so easily kill an innocent man? Freya’s next revelation was enough to distract him of Destrian’s sins and Desmond’s features hardened. Tension built between them, uncomfortably filling the dead air as Desmond let the silence drag out between them. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, the sound of a door opening and footsteps approaching stopped him. He closed his mouth, shooting Freya a sharp look that reminded her to be quiet. Desmond tensed when Destrian emerged, his newfound disgust in the other man reignited. When Desmond recognized the way Destrian’s eyes flicked between Freya’s face and him, he moved to protectively stand in front of her, blocking her from Destrian’s view. His disgust was compounded by defensiveness and as Destrian stomped outside, Desmond was careful to move to shield Freya from his view the entire way. It wasn’t until Destrian stormed back past them, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him, that Desmond finally returned his attention back to Freya. His anger had burned hot, simmering just beneath the surface, but all it took was one look at Freya to cool himself down. He knelt in front of her, reaching out to envelop her small, petite hands in his larger ones, “I know you’re sorry,” He whispered softly, “She is dangerous. She kills people. I can’t lose you, Freya. You know I only put these rules in place for your safety, right?” Desmond soothed, releasing one of her hands only to reach up and brush a stand of her hair behind her ear. His touch lingered on her neck, gliding over her smooth skin. “You did good, though. I know it was hard, but you don’t have to worry. I’ll always protect you. Tomorrow will be better, okay?” As he spoke, Desmond could hardly ignore the weariness anymore and was mildly surprised that Freya was still conscious. “Go to sleep, little one,” Desmond hushed, moving so that he was sitting on the couch next to her. He gently pushed her shoulders, guiding her until she was laying down with her head in his lap. He ran his fingers slowly through her hair, methodically working out the knots. Now that she was back in his arms, exhaustion weighed down on him, but he refused to sleep until after Freya was sound asleep.
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Post by Val on Nov 28, 2020 21:06:52 GMT
The moment that Desmond offered his forgiveness, the welling tears finally spilled over the dark circles beneath Freya’s eyes, streaming a steady path down her cheeks. Her delicate shoulders sagged with relief, and it took every last ounce of energy to keep herself upright. The day had been long, arduous, and more intense than a hundred days combined back at the compound. She couldn’t possibly think straight beyond the incessant need to please Desmond and melted right into his hands despite the violence he’d enacted on her moments before.
Barely registering Destrian’s entrance and exit, she waited until she was given permission to sleep. Little one. Her mind grasped onto the distant feelings that the words evoked- they were a place of safety, and that was what she craved. Pliable to his touch, she allowed Desmond to guide her into his lap.
Just before her eyes fluttered closed, she noticed a faint silhouette hovering just outside the window. She followed the outline of the shadowy figure, and the recognition of his unnaturally twisted head was instantaneous. Rather than feeling fear over the reappearance of the ghoul, she felt a sense of comfort, like he was watching over her. Even in her state of delirium, she could see that his dead eyes were focused not on her, but on Desmond. Whether it was due to Desmond or her spirit friend, Freya finally felt safe enough to let sleep take her.
As Destrian waited for Ari’s take on the ominous message, he noticed the shadows shifting in one corner of the room. Bright amber eyes flashed open and Jinx materialized from the darkness, nudging her large head into his hands. He scratched at the big cat’s ears, comforted by the presence of their little family together in one room. Despite his aversion to letting people into his life, he found himself open to the idea of expanding his inner circle, if only for the sake of cooperation amongst the group in their fight for the greater good. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one that needed convincing.
Although Destrian was interested in hearing input from Ari, he had already made up his mind and had an immediate answer to her question, “We’re going to find this person.” Tracking down this so-called high-profile target was part of Paragon’s mission, but it could also work to their benefit. “If this person is a deserter, there’s a chance they would be on our side,” he pointed out, “You said it yourself; we need allies. This might be our best lead.” Of course, this was all best-case scenario. If Paragon was sending him to do their dirty work, they probably had good reason for not wanting to deal with this target themselves.
“We’ll discuss with the others in the morning,” he added decidedly. Everyone, himself included, needed rest for the challenges ahead. Rolling back into bed, he enveloped Ari into his arms and tried to relax, “Sleep,” he urged, though he had a feeling it would be impossible to calm his racing thoughts long enough to drift off.
Destrian slept no longer than an hour at a time throughout the night, constantly plagued by the feeling that they were being watched. Fortunately, he was well accustomed to running on a minimal amount of sleep. By the time dawn broke, he was wide awake and ready to start checking tasks off his list so they could set things in motion. First up: Desmond. He rose silently from the bed, peeling himself away from Ari and tiptoeing around Jinx on the way out the door. His bare feet moved silently across the floor of the living room as he approached the back of the couch, studying the peacefully sleeping duo for a moment. Eventually, he reached out to grip Desmond’s shoulder, jostling him awake.
“We need to talk,” he uttered quietly. Without waiting for a response, he swept out of the house as swiftly as the chilly morning breeze and posted up on the front porch, waiting for the man to join him. It was as good a time as any to get to know Desmond, even though he’d already cast his judgement on the man. Destrian was notoriously lacking at sociability, but even more so toward men, and even more so toward a man that reminded him of himself. It was a recipe for disaster, but fate had placed them together and he intended on gaining some level of trust and cooperation. If nothing else, they shared a similar goal.
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Post by starrea on Nov 29, 2020 22:48:42 GMT
Desmond hadn't always been a light sleeper. Before being paired with Freya, Desmond slept like the dead - heavy and undisturbed. Then Freya came into the picture, and everything changed. Just knowing that someone as powerful and deadly as Freya was sleeping just a room away made him constantly paranoid and his nights were spent snapping awake at the slightest noise, convinced that it was Freya coming to kill him. When his paranoia faded, Freya kept him awake at night with her screams - from fear, before she accepted her new life, and later from the nightmares. By the time their relationship settled down, the habit of sleeping lightly stuck. So when he felt someone grip his shoulder and shake him awake, Desmond awoke with a sense of alarm and it wasn't until Destrian's face came into focus that he was able to calm his heart down.
If it was possible, Desmond felt more tired than he had yesterday. Based on the lack of sunlight, it was still criminally early - too early for Freya's usual nightmares, even. The events of yesterday filtered back to him slowly, trying to wade through the wave of fogginess that was clouding his head. The revelation of Destrian's secret, of the man he had killed, came back to Desmond and he carefully tucked away that little piece of information for later. He considered telling Destrian to fuck off and go back to sleep, but he swallowed the urge. For now, they still needed Destrian's help and if it came down to it, he could use Cyra to barter his and Freya's freedom. This was a dangerous game and he needed to play his cards right if he wanted him and Freya to make it out alive.
Desmond nodded wearily, running a hand down his face in a vain effort to wake himself up. Freya was not allowed to have coffee, and as a result it had been mostly cut of Desmond's diet as well, but he would kill for some caffeine right now. He slid out from underneath Freya, careful not to jostle her enough to wake her. He had passed out seconds after Freya had, so fast that he hadn't even thought of pulling the blanket from the chair over to cover her up. He got it now, gently draping it over her small body. He gave her once last glance, truly appreciating the way she looked as she slept and his heart welled with love for her. It didn't matter how tired he was or how hard it was going to be; it would be worth every second if it meant saving Freya.
The air was frosty and Desmond cursed under his breath as he wrapped his arms around himself. He hadn't bothered to change out of the tee-shirt and boxers he had slept in, a decision he immediately regretted. The cold, however uncomfortable, did make short work of waking him up, though. "Talking couldn't have waited until a more decent hour?" Desmond grumbled, clearly not a morning person. His eyes scanned the treeline for the smoke girl; he was aware that she hadn't come home last night, and it unnerved him that she could just disappear into the forest so easily. Destrian didn't seem the least bit concerned about her whereabouts - but then again, she couldn't hurt him. Him and Freya were not awarded that same protection.
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