kassandra,
we were born in the shadow
of the crimes of our fathers
The painted stallion continues to leer at them, and one of his friends, finding courage in his drink, also lingers nearby. She is lost somewhere in the weight of Rivane’s body against her and the alcohol in her blood. She imagines little rat feet scrabbling in her head where she knows she should be afraid but she can’t bring herself to care. She has no natural defenses, carries no weapons, and wields no magic. What does she have to bring to bear?
Oculos’ voice is a sarcastic drum in her head. (Sure be great if you could have one of your freak visions right now.) And the light clicks on in Kas’ head.
There came the uncomfortable, yet familiar, pinching in her skull as she let her jaw fall slack and her tongue lolled forward. Her cheeks flexed in an unnatural manner; her nostrils flared. Her eyes twisted in their sockets until all that was visible was the unnatural and too white backside and the red veins that ran through them. It was a terrifying sight, especially as her indigo visage stumbled to the side and spit and slavery began to roll from her mouth.
Her movements became jerky as though every muscle in her body was twitching individually pulled by some invisible hook sunk deep into her flesh. Her voice rasped like sandpaper against the dry of her throat-- dark, demonic, and echoing in an otherworldly manner. And from the depths of her chest came horrific verses, terrifying and chilling to behold, though ones she knew as well as the top of her own hoof, if amended slightly.
“I see you climbing a ladder, your limbs disjointed, your lungs heaving and empty of air, weeds of your own making growing back into your bones.” She flicked her tail in a harsh motion and it grazed over the top of Oculos’ head; with well-practiced swiftness, the hound disappeared into the darkness behind the bar.
“You stamp upon the clinging tendrils to destroy them and break yourself into pieces like glass.” There was a creaking and a crashing noise as one of the pillars supporting the canopy above the bar came smashing down upon the bar top; the drink filled glasses of patrons shattered into the little pieces covering the shellac in alcohol. And still Cassandra was chanting in the strange and possessed voice:
“The veins of your own body are curling themselves into knots.”
A nearby tiki torch, suspended on a bamboo pole, came clattering down; The open flame connected with the spilled alcohol and sent up a great flame in many colors, whooshing loudly into the air, in blue, and red, and green, as the various concentrations of alcohol combusted on contact. It followed the path made by the spilled drinks, snaking down the bar towards the obnoxious stallions as Kas said, “Your veins are alight and burst from you with a fountain of fire and blood--”
--and her great blue form staggered forward and in the final breath she retched all over them, coloring the painted stallion’s flesh dirt-brown with the half-digested remnants of her drink. The air smells like smoke and acrid vomit and, of all things, nutmeg; and then Oculos (without thought) jumps on the still smoking bar, scattering glass shards, and snapped his pearly white fangs right in the roan stallion’s face.
There's a split-second among the cries of oh shit and aw gross where the world smells like piss, and Kas doesn't know if it's the effect of her visuals, her fake trance, the grossness of her “attack”, or the dogs’ teeth so close to them, but both stallions turn tail and stumble away, retching a bit themselves. Oculos tumbles from the bartop to the sand where he laughs until he, himself, feels ill.
Kassandra rights her eyes, wipes the spittle from her mouth off on her shoulder, and leans languidly against Rivane, like a drunk friend needing to be kept propped up. She has the grace, at least, to breathe in the opposite direction.
“They are going to ask us to leave now, and I’m sorr--sorrow we’ve ruined your night,” Kassandra half-hiccups, half-giggles, “but that was very fun.”
Oculos’ voice is a sarcastic drum in her head. (Sure be great if you could have one of your freak visions right now.) And the light clicks on in Kas’ head.
There came the uncomfortable, yet familiar, pinching in her skull as she let her jaw fall slack and her tongue lolled forward. Her cheeks flexed in an unnatural manner; her nostrils flared. Her eyes twisted in their sockets until all that was visible was the unnatural and too white backside and the red veins that ran through them. It was a terrifying sight, especially as her indigo visage stumbled to the side and spit and slavery began to roll from her mouth.
Her movements became jerky as though every muscle in her body was twitching individually pulled by some invisible hook sunk deep into her flesh. Her voice rasped like sandpaper against the dry of her throat-- dark, demonic, and echoing in an otherworldly manner. And from the depths of her chest came horrific verses, terrifying and chilling to behold, though ones she knew as well as the top of her own hoof, if amended slightly.
“I see you climbing a ladder, your limbs disjointed, your lungs heaving and empty of air, weeds of your own making growing back into your bones.” She flicked her tail in a harsh motion and it grazed over the top of Oculos’ head; with well-practiced swiftness, the hound disappeared into the darkness behind the bar.
“You stamp upon the clinging tendrils to destroy them and break yourself into pieces like glass.” There was a creaking and a crashing noise as one of the pillars supporting the canopy above the bar came smashing down upon the bar top; the drink filled glasses of patrons shattered into the little pieces covering the shellac in alcohol. And still Cassandra was chanting in the strange and possessed voice:
“The veins of your own body are curling themselves into knots.”
A nearby tiki torch, suspended on a bamboo pole, came clattering down; The open flame connected with the spilled alcohol and sent up a great flame in many colors, whooshing loudly into the air, in blue, and red, and green, as the various concentrations of alcohol combusted on contact. It followed the path made by the spilled drinks, snaking down the bar towards the obnoxious stallions as Kas said, “Your veins are alight and burst from you with a fountain of fire and blood--”
--and her great blue form staggered forward and in the final breath she retched all over them, coloring the painted stallion’s flesh dirt-brown with the half-digested remnants of her drink. The air smells like smoke and acrid vomit and, of all things, nutmeg; and then Oculos (without thought) jumps on the still smoking bar, scattering glass shards, and snapped his pearly white fangs right in the roan stallion’s face.
There's a split-second among the cries of oh shit and aw gross where the world smells like piss, and Kas doesn't know if it's the effect of her visuals, her fake trance, the grossness of her “attack”, or the dogs’ teeth so close to them, but both stallions turn tail and stumble away, retching a bit themselves. Oculos tumbles from the bartop to the sand where he laughs until he, himself, feels ill.
Kassandra rights her eyes, wipes the spittle from her mouth off on her shoulder, and leans languidly against Rivane, like a drunk friend needing to be kept propped up. She has the grace, at least, to breathe in the opposite direction.
“They are going to ask us to leave now, and I’m sorr--sorrow we’ve ruined your night,” Kassandra half-hiccups, half-giggles, “but that was very fun.”
@Rivane | i asked ink and she said i could do it
