Private Tales Patience..

[Soladrien]

The air in the Hollow did not move. It watched.

A hush settled over the clearing like a breath held too long. Trees ringed the space in solemn reverence, their gnarled limbs twisted skyward, as if straining to hold back the moonlight. Moss blanketed the earth in fading greens and greys, though nothing truly grew here. Not anymore.

At the centre stood stones. Twelve, each carved with runes so old they pulsed faintly with the memory of power. A circle of binding. A cage forged not of steel, but of intention. A prison meant to last forever.

And within it knelt Soladrien.

His form was shadow draped in skin, curled horns arching from his brow like a crown of exile. He rested upon the cold stone veined with memory, his head bowed, not in prayer, but restraint. For centuries he had endured this sanctified trap, etched into the bones of the world by trembling hands who feared him more than they feared the void.

The full moons were rising now. Their light crept over the treetops, too bright, too pure. It bled into the clearing like quicksilver, washing over his form and searing the runes carved into his flesh. He gritted his teeth against the sting. The bindings flared as the moonlight touched them, awakening old magicks that siphoned his strength and thinned the veil that separated this world from the next.

They could not see him, but still, they came. From the mortal side of the veil, he felt them, figures moving through the trees with their offerings, as was customary each night the moons hung full. Fear drove them forward, and fear made them kneel around the stone circle, never setting foot inside.

Sacrifices for the one they called The Black Wolf, The Shadow Warden, The Soulthief.

Soladrien’s dark, golden eyes cracked open. Behind him, shadows twitched and curled, sensing the veil’s growing thinness. The scent of fear reached him first, rich and warm. He starved for it.

A gust of unnatural, cold wind swept through the stones. The bindings held. For now. But the moons would pass, and the veil would part. And when it did, he would rise from the stone and sate the hunger he felt in his bones, in his soul. He would feast.

Let them believe their gifts meant mercy. Let them believe he had forgotten what was taken from him.

 

[Arianell]

"Hail the spirit. Hail the witch."

The murmur shared between twelve witches knelt in their chosen positions around the circle sounded much alike to a hex than that of their greeting to the Hollow.

The blood witches always did these rituals in unison. Moving to the mind of one. Blades, silver, cut across palms, now red. Blood was their life force. Blood was their magic. Blood was their sacrifice. An offering to the deity, the true spirit of the Hollow. Yet the witches learned how to keep them fed and bound here so as to not take more from the deity's disciples.

First, they spelled the earth. Their chants so low, so different, but spoken as one. Secondly, their blood was fabled to keep the Spirit of the Hollow distracted once that veil thins enough they could cross.

It was the third option that always had the bigger pay off.

Long after the coven left that circle, when that veil thinned a touch more, the Maiden of the Black Moon was chosen to bring a sacrifice to the Hollow. She was to make payment before the Black Moon came by, and what night was better than a ritual night?

Arianell had found this man alone. He had muscles she had to seen in decades, and was surprised to learn a warrior could look like that. She had thought him a farmer at first, but a warrior's truth only made her decision final. She had torn into his shirt, tossing it aside and noted how it fell short a few inches from entering the circle.

"Oh, Aria." Landyn peered down at her as if she were something soft playing ffierce. His smirk was something bordering condescending, and yet Arianell could not ignore the beat of his heart. He believed he would win this night. "Will you mend those buttons?"

She shook her head, taking a step back and watching as he absently followed her. Arianell could feel the presence of the veil, but changed her course so that she would back into a tree. Landyn didn't let opportunity to waste. The man trapped her there with kisses and hands exploring her form. Arianell allowed it to happen, to let him think he had won.

Blade, silver, caught the moonlight as she brought it between them. Had one hand press him back enough to move the blade and slice. Landyn staggered as his hands braced around his neck. His eyes looked down to the blade in her grasp, now red.

"If you were a match for me, darling, you will be there when my lifetime comes to an end. Meet me at death's kiss." Magic curled and whipped to rush to her. It travelled from her commanding hand to the male, keeping him upright and legs moving until the veil was a cold shiver at his spine. She twisted her wrist, using magic to drop him into the circle.

This was the part she should walk away. Turn her back and return home, for she secured her coven's safety for another year...

Arianell did not move. Her eyes watched the space inside the circle as her feet stalked forward. She fell to her knees and watched, wanting to see what happens to a sacrifice.

"Hail spirit, hail witch." She whispered.

 

[Soladrien]

He paced, unseen within the stones as they came to him.

A creature of smoke and shadow, of memory and fury, bound within the runed stones of the Hollow. He had watched as the witches arrived, twelve in number, their chants spilling across the veil like ripples on still water. He heard them, he always heard them, but he did not listen. They were echoes now. Familiar rituals. Cold offerings to hold him here, not free him.

But her, the red haired maiden, she drew his gaze.

He had watched her long before the blood was spilled. Watched her laughter, soft and serpentine, as she lured the man into the trees. Watched the way her fingers brushed his chest, then tore the shirt from it, casting it aside like a broken promise. It landed short of the circle’s edge. Clever girl. She knew the rules.

And he had watched, hungering, as her blade caught the moonlight. The blood sang to him when it spilled.

His hunger was a pain, old and gnawing, a wound that never closed. But soon. Soon, he would feed.

The veil shimmered.

Where once the earth lay still, the stones began to hum, low and dreadful, vibrating with a resonance that did not belong to the world of the living. The runes carved into the standing stones flared with pale, eerie light, not gold nor silver, but the blue-white of a dying star. The Hollow was waking.

The circle breathed in. The mist that clung to the stones thickened, crawled inward, and then recoiled like smoke. Shadows condensed where the sacrifice lay, crawling up his prone body like fingers of oil. Blood fed the ground, soaked into the runes.

Now, they would leave.. Or, they should have left. But she remained. He walked to the edge of the circle, slowly lowering himself to the ground, staring through the veil, his eyes black as void, but she could not see him.

A whisper, no louder than dead leaves rustling, curled through the trees.

"s̴͓͐̋t̸̳͌e̶̛̱͐p̸̘̀ ̷̡̎ i̶̛ͅn̸̪̈́s̷͇̕i̴̜̓d̶̘̓ë̷̢́" he beckoned.

The voice came from everywhere, from nowhere. It was a thing that slithered into ears and under skin, like silk soaked in malice.

 

[Arianell]

She should have left the Hollow, to go return to her home and spend the rest of ritual night in the safety of being with her coven.

The trees and leaves had voice, so did the earth. Rocks and the small critters that braved being here in the Hollow all seemed to join in with the same one voice. It spoke at her ear. She had thought that perhaps it was her imagination, that her thoughts were playing tricks with her. The veil was thinning, was it not? Perhaps the spirit beckoned her to be a sacrifice, ever so blood thirsty despite their monthly rituals.

Her gaze lifted, as if to search the empty space before her. All she had seen was the body, twitching as the butcher's son, Landyn, tried to stop the bleeding in vain. Arianell was always chosen by the spirit to be the one to deliver the sacrifice. Hailed the Maiden of the Black Moon, it was an honour to be the one to feed the spirit the blood witches served.

Arianell shook her head, letting her dark copper hair dangle down her back. She had worn simply a corseted dress, no sign of linen blouse underneath. Earlier that night, she had met Landyn in the woods, a cape covering what modesty she should protect, but she wanted to lure him into the woods somehow without question.

That was how she liked to play god, to lure her kills with promises and taking their lives before they even thought their night could go wrong.

She shivered, feeling the ghost of a caress at her exposed throat, and that same voice whisper. How could she tell if she were alone? Her eyes rose, fixing somewhere she could not see if there were truly anything there.

Arianell rose, blood left on the earth lightly staining her virginal white dress.

"That is not how ritual night goes." She said in a soft whisper. It felt foolish, but slowly she started to become aware that perhaps there was another present here. "Hail spirit." Arianell added quickly, more grumble than a hurried apology for the lack of respect in regarding the true dweller of the Hollow.