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.

 

[Soladrien]

If she could only see how the gold swirled in his black eyes as he studied her. A pretty thing, this witch, her skin soft and pale like untouched parchment begging for ink. If he could only reach out and splay his fingers around her throat, feel her pulse flutter like a trapped bird, squeeze until it stilled.

But not yet.
He wanted more than blood and flesh.
He wanted fear.
He wanted power.
He wanted souls.
And above all, he wanted his freedom.

“Hail me, do you?” he murmured, stepping as close as he dared. “Spirit of the Hollow… You flatter me, witch... But I am so much more than spirit.”

A dark chuckle pulled from his chest, low and hungry, curling around them like smoke. It shook the circle, made the trees tremble and the last breath in Landyn’s lungs rattle free.

The body twitched no more. The blood-soaked earth drank deep beneath him, and above, the trees stilled, as if even the breeze held its breath.

Then like steam curling off ice, a pale shape began to rise from the man’s chest. His soul. Fragile, untethered, the echo of Landyn's final breath. It lifted slowly, as if unsure of where to go, drawn upward by some invisible instinct. But it never got the chance to flee.

His hand rose, fingers twitching with the whisper of ancient runes. Power curled at his palm, hot enough to burn through realms. The veil crackled behind him, straining to hold him in place.

The soul stopped.
It struggled.

A soft, anguished moan filled the circle. The soul twisted in agony, panicked, trying to resist. It could feel him. It knew him. And still it came to him, dragged against its will. Against the will of the Gods.

Its pale light dimmed as it was pulled down, down, down into the void where he waited.

Soladrien fed.

He inhaled the soul like breath, drinking in every shred of memory, of pain, of life not yet finished. The taste was bitter, regret, love, fear, but he fed until there was nothing left but ash drifting in the Hollow.

Strength returned to him, but only a little. He looked down at the runes etched into his skin, at how they glowed faintly with the soul's energy, now his. He remembered the witch watching him, he returned his attention to her, his gaze dragged over her, deliberate, slow, like a blade deciding where to cut. He could taste her power, the pull of blood-magic soaked into her skin. And she had stayed. Watched. Spoken.. Heard.. She was different from the others.

A witch, yes. And perhaps… a key. Witches trapped him here, so long ago, and witches could free him.

"Feed me again, little witch.." he spoke, his gravely voice clearer this time, the words caressing her throat and cheek as though they held a physical presence.

"Come to me, and I'll share my power.."

 

[Arianell]

The witch stiffened as the Spirit spoke. What is whispered at her ear set her blood to run cold, that there was no spirit of what they had been serving for some many centuries. Arianell whirled around, her eyes looking about the clearing in vain. Surely someone was playing a trick on her? That this was all some clever design.

The voice spoke again, and when she turned back to look into the center of the sacred circle, she saw the body of Landyn twitching before stilling for good.

She licked her lips, wetting them as her light panting breaths of panic had dried them.

"This is not how..."

Run.

Arianell's next breath caught in her throat. She bounded, rushing off towards the treeline. The witch had moved much like a rabbit, spooked by the smallest interruption of noise or presence. This was done all in vain, for she never reached the trees. She hadn't made it past several feet of grass before power pressed upon her. She fell forward, already moving to get back on her feet but that same force of power began to drag her by the feet. Her fingers clawed, nails becoming full from dirt as her screams left her lungs.

No one would hear her.

The witching hour was upon them, and the last remnants of the veil was left in such a weakened state, the planes of existence blurred.

Arianell began to cry. Panicked tears flowed down her cheeks, regretting her curiousity when she should have fled home and stayed indoors.

"No! Please! Let me go! Please, please..." She begged.

 

[Soladrien]

He pressed a fang into his lower lip, a grin curling sharp and wicked as he watched her. Little rabbit indeed. She had wandered too close to the snare, too curious for her own survival. Finally.

The moment her feet crossed the ancient threshold, the power of the Hollow answered him. The unseen chains of the veil snapped taut, and then gave way not to formless magic, but to the weight of his own hands. Flesh. Blood. Claws closing firm around her ankles.

Her nails tore earth in desperation, but he only laughed, dark and low, the sound like rolling thunder. With a violent pull he dragged her the rest of the way, her body skidding over the dirt until she lay sprawled beside the boy she had bled for him.

Smoke and fire bled into shape, his shadow splitting into form as he rose to his full height. His rune-marked, obsidian skin split with glowing veins of molten gold, the heat of his body warping the air around him. Great horns curled upward from his skull, wreathed in embers, his eyes burning like twin suns as they devoured her. His talons flexed, catching the glow of his own fire, as though they had been forged to rip through both flesh and soul alike.

He dropped to a knee, his shadow spilling across her, laughter still rumbling in his chest as he reached to tip her chin up with a clawed finger. Gods, her terror was intoxicating. The salt of her tears, the quickening of her pulse, the hot shimmer of blood racing beneath fragile skin, it all sang to him. He had not feasted on fear so pure in centuries.

“Kind of you,” he growled, his voice like gravel, “to accept my invitation, witchling.”

 

[Arianell]

Her screams were made from air and terror; fear claiming all sense of rational thought. Self preservation had been abandoned, for Arianell knew her death was imminent.

She would be sacrificed. Her blood fed to the Spirit of the Hollow and this pure evil that dwelled here in the circle.

The blood witch quieted, flipped over so that she laid on her back and was faced with monstrosity. Never in her life had she ever imagined the Spirit held a corporeal form, that magic emanated from them so potently it came in manifestation. There was no longer any breath to scream.

Arianell was aware of the state she was in now. As the Hollow had dragged her, her skirts had lifted and bunched, exposing her legs that wore white hosiery with the intent of Landyn's hands running over them. There had been tears from their earlier daring teasing, but Arianell had ran off before they could consummate their evening. Now? The earth had ripped the fabric to shreds, bleeding scratches and scrapes lined her pale legs. They stung as she laid there, terrified and still, and all too aware that there was a body not yet cold beside her.

The Not Spirit took no notice of her disarray.

Clawed finger pressed into the soft skin under her chin, one swipe away from tearing out her jugular. He forced her to lift her head, to cast her gaze into his devilry. Her hands, shaking, came to clutch at the torn corset. The entire evening had been planned to entice and seduce, to lead Landyn astray. She did not wear any of her hunting gear, no more blades spelled on her person.

She was desperate. Her hand flung out to the side, reaching upwards until her fingers could sink into the gaping wound she had left the man with. Blood squelched at her touch, but Arianell did not sicken at the sound. Blood had always been their offering. Blood had always been their binding for magic.

"Ascen." Her lips spoke of a spell casted, the intent of pushing him away from her. That should buy her time to get up and run.

 

[Soladrien]

His eyes devoured her as though she were laid upon an altar meant for him alone, her soft skin bared,, the tear-streaked flush of her terror like the sweetest perfume. It had been so long since he’d felt a hunger not for souls, but for flesh. For beauty. For fear clothed in silks and skin.

His knuckles grazed the fragile line of her jaw, trailing lower, over the porcelain slope of her throat, lingering where her pulse beat quick and frantic. He pressed along her collarbone, savouring every quiver of her, every tremor of air as she tried to draw breath. He leaned close, heat rolling from him in waves, the sharp glow of his molten veins lighting her face as he bared his sharp teeth in a grin, until she spoke.

The word struck him like iron to the chest. Power surged outward, slamming against him, hurling him back. His talons dragged molten lines across the earth as he steadied himself, smoke and shadow rippling from his frame.

For a moment, silence stretched... And then he laughed.

The sound was dark, broken into layers, rumbling through the Hollow like grinding stone. His laughter was not of defeat but of delight and wicked amusement. She dared to bite the hand that held her, and he relished it. A game. A challenge.

“Where are you going, witchling?” his voice split the night, echoing in every direction, impossible to tell where it came from. “We were only just getting acquainted…”

As his words faded, the circle around them blazed to life in fire, an infernal mimic of the very one they had used to hold him. From its edges slithered venomous serpents, fangs snapping at her heels as they coiled toward her.

And behind her, his shadow fell across her once more.

 

[Arianell]

She could not believe she had succeeded.

Before terror could grip her again and freeze her limbs to surrender in a cower, Arianell rolled and pushed off from the ground. The distance to the veil wasn't long, just enough to give her hope and a chance to survive before she was met with resistance. The veil denied her leave.

"No!" She near screamed, anguish and frustration spilling out from her in bursts of her fists pounding against it. How had she been dragged in? How could she not leave?

It dawned on her just as his shadow darkened behind her. He consumed her with his presence, until she was little more than just a rabbit cornered.

Any moment, he would gut her out for the prey she was. Make her blood something to feed on, her soul to be harvested before her body left as a warning and a lesson to her coven. Do not stray from the path.

"I see Death and hail you." She choked out. Every witch was taught the prayer, that they should acknowledge where it was they were heading towards. No brighter heavens, nor scorching hells, blood witches were meant to linger in the between. They served the Hollow, they served the spirit. It was how the magic that lingered her worked. Arianell turned, slowly, and lifted defiant eyes even if her death loomed before her.

He was reckoning, and he was power. He was Hunger, feeding upon everything she was made of. Being a blood witch did not spare her, and if she could not leave this circle, then she would go as a sacrifice.

"Go on." Her voice trembled. "Martyr me."

 

[Soladrien]

Heat rippled from him as he drew closer, each step making the ground shudder, the fiery veins in his obsidian skin pulsing wit slow, terrible rhythm. His horns caught the glow of the circle’s flame as he tilted his head, regarding her not as prey, but as something rarer. Something that chose to bare its throat. His molten eyes drank in her defiance, but it only coaxed his grin wider, fangs glinting as though mocking her bravery.

“Martyr you?” he purred, his voice layered in echoes. “Ah, little rabbit, do not dress your fear in such noble clothes. You did not come here seeking death. You came here seeking power. You offered blood to a god you never knew, and now you stand before him.”

His talons reached out, grazing along her jaw, the razor sharp point dragging just enough to sting, to threaten without yet taking. “But do not mistake me for the spirit your kind whispers prayers to. I am no shade to feed on scraps. I am hunger made flesh and when unleashed I devour.."

He leaned lower, his smile deepening. “And what better offering than one who has kept me caged for far too long?”

A cruel laugh rumbled from his chest, "Martyrs are remembered, witchling. And I do not plan on letting the world remember you, or your sisters." he said, and threw the woman over his shoulder, dragging the dead man by the foot as finally, he left his cage.

 

[Arianell]

Bile burned a path, upsetting her stomach and all that tried to keep sickness down as talons scratched lightly at her jaw and left a wake of pain. It stung for a few moments, as if not allowed to heal as most touches should.

She wanted death. Not this.

And so, when she had been taken too easily from where she cowered, thrown over his shoulder, Arianell began to scream again. It hurt, worse than the burn of bile and worse than the sting of talons sharpened to shred. She thrashed, giving into her panic. All that she thought was to become too much for him to tolerate, to sink those talons into her and shred her to pieces.

If he wanted the world to forget her, then he best begin by marring her beyond recognition.

Her screams disturbed the quiet forest, thrown back at them as the distant call of thrashing waves against cliff face battled to disrupt the dark. There was no blood her hands could reach, no bolstering to any incantations she may cast if clarity returned to her.

 

[Soladrien]

A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest, low and reverberating like millstone. He grinned, claws scraping lightly over her back as if testing, teasing, drawing from her panic the sweetest of sounds. Her screams, ragged and sharp, were music to him, a voice like a songbird caught in a storm. Fear, blood, flesh, soul… each had its own flavour, each nourished and empowered him in a different way, and he drank deep of them all.

He did not hurry. She thrashed, kicked, screamed, and clawed at him with every ounce of defiance she could muster. He only let the weight of his presence press heavier, claws pressing, dragging across flesh, the heat of him smothering her.

He walked to the shore, strode toward the edge where sea met cliff. Waves roared below, distant thunder clashing with the sound of her panic. Before him rose the ruin of what had once been a small palace carved directly into the cliffside. Memories flickered through him of another life, another time. Now abandoned, the stone stairs were worn, but as his feet crossed the threshold, long-dead sconces and fires flared to life, bathing the empty halls in flickering gold and shadow.

Soladrien’s eyes drifted across the space. The furniture was rotted or overturned, the walls scarred with time, dead leaves rustling on the floors, yet the air was thick with memory. He breathed it in, allowing it to settle around him.

This place was haunted.
This place was home.
And the witch, screaming at his shoulder, was a melody threading through it all.

 

[Arianell]

The scent of salt and damp stone filled her nose, and it slowly brought her out of her panic. To be called back to reality made her heart race, the beating so erratic, she was sure her heart would give out at any moment.

His claws left her in ribbons. She could feel the blood pulse, feel the pain waiting to set into her once shock wore off.

Her throat should have no more sound to make, but the sting and burn of her wounds caused her to cry out. It was agony, one she had never felt before. No matter how still she tried to stay, to not upset the tears in her back, his own hold pressed into it on whim.

"Kill me! Please!" Arianell begged. Was she crying? Or was that the sea spray finding it's way into the stagnant room?

 

[Soladrien]

The scent of salt clung to the air, but it wasn’t the sea he savoured. It was her. Her tears, her sweat, her blood, all of it sharp and intoxicating, carrying the taste of her terror.

Soladrien carried her to the massive stone hearth and tossed her down onto the cold floor as though she weighed nothing at all. His grin flashed, fangs bright in the firelight as her plea spilled out of her.

“Begging for death already?” he growled, his voice a molten purr that shook the stones. He loomed above her, shadow and fire casting his monstrous form across the wall. “Perhaps, little witch… but not yet. We're only just getting acquainted.."

He turned from her, crouching low beside the man she had offered up in her foolish rites. His claws raked through cooling flesh, splitting it from throat to belly with a wet, tearing sound that filled the room. He worked with the slow, deliberate precision of someone unhurried, savouring every moment.

Soladrien tore a strip of meat free and brought it to his mouth, fangs ripping through it with a low, animalistic rumble, his throat working as he swallowed. He looked like a starving man finally fed, feral, yet utterly controlled.

When he looked back at her, molten eyes burned through the firelight, searing into her as blood glistened across his lips and chin. He reached into the hollowed cavity, tore free another handful of flesh, and held it up toward her as though in mockery of hospitality.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice thick with dark amusement, dripping with cruel mirth.

 

[Arianell]

She wanted to be sick, but only bile burned in the wake of her throat.

Fear and panic now left her stranded here, her captor and cruel jailer mere feet from her. He feasted, to which she shut her eyes closed tightly to keep from seeing it, but he consumed in such a way that the mere sounds haunted the visuals of her mind. Sickened, that this was now a life she had to endure.

If he would not end her life, then she would do so herself.

Arianell shied from his voice, still refusing to watch him, to even acknowledge offer of cruelty.

She squeezed her fists tight, letting the curve of her nails dig deeply into the palm of her hands. Deeper, harder, until the sting gave way as the flesh was pierced. The witchling could feel the slow ooze of blood coat her fingertips, and that was enough for her to cast one last spell.

Leave me... leave me.... leave... me...

The blood witch shuddered, repulsed by the Spirit, but it was the slow leeching of the world taking her blood as payment. She would bleed slowly, letting her blood flow to the stone beneath her, at every waking moment, Arianell vowed to give back more and more until she had none left to give. Should the Spirit end her sooner...

She would pray for that to happen, every moment she was in his presence.

 

[Soladrien]

Soladrien smelled it before he saw it.. That clean, hot tang of fresh blood, new and alive.. His molten eyes narrowed, pupils pinpricks of obsidian as they fixed on her hands. The small, deliberate cuts she had made glistened like offerings.

He snapped forward with the speed of a thing unbound, strong fingers closing around her wrists. The grip was meant to hurt, hard and precise, not meant to break bone but to steal breath. Up close, the scent of her, the salt and iron and fear, filled him, and something feral stirred behind his measured cruelty.

“Should I be offended,” he said, voice low and seething, so close that she'd feel the warmth of his breath “that you’d rather die slowly than spend time in my company?”

At his words the room contracted. Firelight guttered. Stone shadowed and then fell away until nothing remained but the press of darkness and his presence. The world narrowed to a circle of cold and the sound ofso many distant voices.

They were whispers at first, but then they came in a tide, faces she had loved and faces she had betrayed, neighbours and old rivals, the hollow-eyed remnants of those she’d once cursed and those she had killed. They screamed and clawed at the edges of the dark, mouths split with pleas and rotten screams, they reached and could not touch her because his will put a hand between them and her. The hallucination pressed close enough that the stink of rot and the ache of old wounds filled the air. It was theatre and torture woven together, and he let it wash over her like a wave of pure nightmare.

Instead he lifted one of her hands and tilted it so the blood caught the dying light. He studied the crescents scored into her palm as one might study a map, appreciating the intent, the terror, the bargain. Then, with a sound halfway between amusement and appetite, he drew his tongue along the tiny wounds in her skin, tasting the thin ribbons of blood there.

“Sweet,” he breathed, so sweet in fact that his breath caught, and for the first time the edge of hunger in him sounded almost fond. His pupils dilated, and the screaming around them swelled, an oppressive chorus.

“You sure you’re ready for what waits for you in the next life, little witch?” he rumbled, holding her wrists with effortless strength so she could not pull away, watching every quiver in her fingers like a man counting coins. The darkness kept the phantoms near, their mouths open, their hands reaching, but only he controlled whether they fell upon her or merely hovered, pulled back with some invisible force, and he held them as a reminder of his mercy, and his power.

He kept her there, firm as stone and twice as unyielding, while the hollow choir screamed on, crying her name.

 

[Arianell]

She thought all she would feel was the pain and the blood and magic leaving her slowly.

What he did to her next, letting the evils she had left in the past and beyond the veil try to claw towards her. It was a cacophony echoing in her ears, and Arianell attempted to push herself back and away from them. She was surrounded, hounded by hateful words and mournful laments of those she had loved and let go.

The blood witch was unaware that the Spirit had a taste of her blood, for the pain she was feeling was by his own hold on her. "Please! Make them stop!" She had no shelter, no safety, and her plan to perish and join the lost souls had been turned against her.

"Please, I will do anything. Please, I don't want any of this." Arianell curled up as much as she could, tried to cower into her arm he gripped so tightly. The pain was slowly turning pleasurable, as if she deserved to feel all of this. She could not help the cry, her teeth baring from the shock of pain coursing through her that she now endured. "I will swear it in blood!"

Arianell lifted her gaze, where green hazel eyes burned with hateful passion. Loathing. All for the Spirit. "You have plans for me, don't you? Hail fucking spirit." She all but spat at him.

He made sure she had no where else to go after calling her half bluff.