At the Slaver's Association   The Caravan Arrives   Paying a Call   There Goes the Neighborhood   At the Realm of Thorns   Native Ground   At the Consortium   Through the Looking Glass   Plucked   Peer Gynt   Solitude   Clipping a Raven's Wings   When Once We Were Mortal   Neighbor of the Beast   The Hunter, Dawn   Realm of Thorns home    The Slaver's Association       Message boards       Web site

Solitude Chapter One Chapter Two Solitude. Sanctuary is sometimes found in the strangest places… This is a night when even the cooling cover of darkness cannot quench the smoldering of day’s lingering heat, and any random breezes that might have stirred the sluggish air have apparently been stilled by the oppressive weight of humidity. Even the night creatures seem unwilling to fight the heat to make their customary cawings and cries… all but a single masked owl, that is, whose a cappella dirge sends an eerie ripple through the veil of gloom. With the grim serenity of someone resigned to a little sultry discomfort, Rose makes her way down the ambling lane, this time with no sedan chair, no servants to carry her, only a beautiful Goth boy on his knees at her side, following every measured step as a slinking gait carries her along the forest’s edge. With every step, her eyes dart back and forth, into the pitch blackness of shadow-hung boughs at either side. No lustrous serpentine of gloss-black this night, she is instead a porcelain figurine, traced over in the delicate spirals and lattice of spider-web mesh, and the only shine catching the moonlight tonight is the occasional sparkle of two silver rings, barely concealed by the open-weave net, winking in tandem with the deliberate undulations of her every step. Upon spotting a break in the thick foliage, her rambling gait finally pauses, and she brings gloved hands up to curl around the boned and laced stays at her waist as she surveys the opening. "Come with me, pet.." is her low, hushed hiss of a command. Without bothering to look back, she forges ahead, into the oak tangle, trusting her instinct to guide her through the thickest of the brambles and out of the way of the outstretched branches snagging at her suit, her ears ever alert for the crunching of Sean’s hands and knees on the twig-lined trail. As she makes her way to… somewhere… her gaze lifts to just above the treeline. Somewhere in the distance, a brush fire has overtaken a lone foothill. But while the crackling red and orange lights against a backdrop of ink make for quite a lovely spectacle, they garner only the mildest amused interest from Rose, and certainly no sympathy, only a little grimace of disgust at the acrid stench teasing at the air. She has felt the static charge, the brisk crackling of unseen energy, for some time, felt it growing more pronounced with each step, until every footfall, every congress of gleaming patent leather with crisp earth triggers a discharge of jagged electricity through her sleek limbs. By the time she reaches the clearing, her whole body is one jangling nerve, though truth be known, she was well on her way to that state before ever nearing Dark Moon Grove. Exhausted by the thrumming ecstasy, she motions her beautiful dark-haired pet to poise beside one of the tree trunks, while she lifts gloved hands to her hips and performs a languid pirouette, half-studying her surroundings, taking in only the most vivid detail. "Stay on all fours, darling...," she purrs, the velveteen of her tones a little coarse, a little threadbare, as though the very fabric of her bring were just beginning to unravel. But still, she manages to keep the weft and warp tightly woven - enough so to suit Sean's ears, at any rate - and the slave boy scurries over fallen brush and the nubs of ancient, exposed root, grating his knees over the rough ground in his somewhat clumsy haste to make a seat for his Mistress. Wresting a spindly heel from where it has lodged itself in the soil, she picks her way across to him, gloved hands still at rest around the heavy boning and lacing of her stays. A single flicker of those angry hillside flames is reflected in the sweep of her curls, as they whistle over one shoulder, her torso and hips following as she winds down in a torpid serpentine to rest on Sean's back. "That's a good boy," comes her vague whisper, a shred of praise for the determined stiffness of his spine... but her words are distant, an automated response. Her eyes are fixed dead ahead, her gaze seemingly locked on a tree stump several meters away. Anyone looking at her porcelain features in that moment would see only cold resolution, a dispassionate blankness borne of an overload of anger. But there is no one to see her, and for that she is grateful. There is only Sean, and his head is lowered, half at respect for his Mistress, half at the leather-clad grip that winds into his tresses of bottle-black and flexes over his scalp. The sight of another face at this moment, human or otherwise, would likely jar the roiling beast inside, a beast that has been growing for some time beneath the facade of ice. Heartbreak. Pressure. Sycophants. Squabbling. She dares not close her eyes, lest all the irritating grains of images already hammering at her mind suddenly become a flickering film noir montage on the backs of her lids. Oh, how she would like to give it all up at times, but even through the kidskin at her supple fingertips she can feel the fine woven silk that reminds her why it's all worth it. A few shimmering droplets of watercolor crimson loom at the rims of her eyes, like the sanguine welling of a new wound, and though her features remain passive, her grip on Sean's scalp tightens, to prevent curious investigations should she be unable to choke back the accompanying sounds of fury that might prevent her enjoying her tears in silence. She longs to hide in sleep, but Morpheus will never claim her while there is still ink in the sky. But there is escape, of a sort, to be found in her lineage. Frozen in place, no motion but for the first heavy crimson tear that rolls over the curve of her cheek and leaves a thin slash of red through ivory, she slowly begins to fade. Her entire form loses its solidity, as though the very molecules were evaporating, leaving only a phantom of milky shadows in the image of the Mistress. A single shuddering gasp issues from the bruised lips of the slave boy-turned-human divan, as the temperature drops to a lancing chill, a stark contrast to the otherwise scorching of the air, only in the places where she touches him - the ghostly hand at the back of his head, the shallow of his back where she rests, and the curve of his posterior, where the other shadowy palm curls over panne velvet. But she is oblivious, her mind already drifting towards waking nightmares, the soothing bloodbath images that warm the cockles of her undead heart... She Dreams Awake. She is a bird… not a bat this time, but a dark bird… she can tell by the distinctive rustling of feathers, as opposed to smooth, hollow swooping, as her wings strike at the air… As she cuts a path through the ink of night, her whole view is rounded at the edges, as though she were looking through a marble, or seeing the world through a crystal ball, the vision warped but somehow more accurate that way. And the air is coarse, like the grain of an old home movie, with the occasional jagged rent of light, the scratches and fuzz on the filmy surface of the hallucination. Glassy eyes skim over the pointed tops of pines, seeking out the only source of light in a world otherwise completely obscured by night. A single long stretch of blacktop, of the sort that is rarely seen in RhyDin, but that she knows from her past, cleaves the forest. This pristine and perfect ebony ribbon is precisely divided by dual stripes of vivid canary at the center. One could assume that the road went on in much the same fashion, both ahead and behind, but only one stretch is truly visible, awash in the phosphorescent glow of one lamp that casts a crooked pool of pastel yellow across the lanes. The highway slopes gently upward, and as her flight path carries her closer, she can see a solitary robed figure making its way up that incline, stepping slowly and exactly along the path drawn by the median lines. How very odd, how entirely out of place this figure seems, cloaked entirely in black, a velvet-cowled grim reaper wandering a lonely stretch of country road. From her bird’s eye view, she can only see the back of this midnight stroller. The heavy folds of the robes obscure any distinction that might be found in the speed or sway of the gait. In fact, the figure almost seems to be floating, rather than walking, so tranquil is the swing of the fabric. The air is silent… even the crickets and owls and other creatures of the shadows are stunned to stillness by the passage of this mysterious figure. Suddenly, the thrushing sound of her own wings disappears, as though the realization itself were enough to send the noise into hiding. But somewhere in the distance, there is a humming so low as to be almost imperceptible… it grows slowly, rising to a fever pitch of grinding gears, churning pistons, and hissing exhaust. As the car zooms down the blacktop, reaching a dip in the paving and starting up the incline behind the robed one, she tries to call out a warning… But in that moment, time and space contorts, sending askew the movements of all three - bird, walker, and sedan. Her vision is turned upside down, and the car’s whirring becomes suddenly sluggish, as it plods in slow motion past the robed wanderer. The ensuing breeze stirs the hem of the robe, lifting it into the air, sending it fluttering forward on one side. The heavy cowl ripples at the edges, and the velvet falls back, revealing a shock of red curls. A tiny dust devil captures a handful of summer-parched leaves from the side of the road… a few of the crisp, delicate buds drift into those fiery locks, catching there. The mutated reflections of passing headlights and taillights bathe the figure in a glow of luminescent orange, and as the car drags by, its momentum still hampered by the curious distortion of time, a glimpse, just a glimpse, of a face is visible in the side mirror. The cool porcelain curves are evident, the serenity of the crimson cupid’s bow unmistakable… they are her own features, no question about it… but the emerald of her eyes has gone almost black with glittering cruel dementia, a certain maniacal happiness, the look of someone just about to go on a killing spree and anticipating it like a child on the way to her first carnival. Somewhere, buried deep in the roiling, seething miasma of grease and pavement, stale alcohol and decaying brick, is a city… a city that never really stood proud, but was always a mere downwind shadow of the real shining bauble. This dank pile of rubble comes complete with all the obligatory sights and sounds - echoing sirens; rude and angry car horns; the heated cries of foreign-tongued women as they babble and scream from tenement windows into the dead of night; the wails of cranky children and the occasional smacking of palm against flesh that suddenly silences those cries… But somewhere down below, spiraling down between the slate spires pierced with muted light, a single rhythmic clicking slices through the din. Step by even step, those stiletto heels rap over the veined pavement. The contrast is startling - the lacquer-red gleam of patent leather shoes, shining like a newly applied slick of nail polish, against coarse, cracked concrete. Her languid passage is like the sharp glint of a knife cleaving through shadow, an hourglass drizzled with red enamel lancing through the murky vacuum of missing time, the heady perfume of roses lingering around her like a protective aura, shielding her acute senses from the miasma of local odors, grease and refuse and the staleness of old blood. The cadence of her gait carries her to a familiar doorway, a shadow inset deep within more shadows… as she pauses, the eerie reflection of a weak, sputtering shaft of light from a nearby street lamp splashes down over the glossy surface of one calf, across the polished toe of the foot beside, finally warping on the oil-slicked surface of a fetid puddle just beyond the curb. Something horrendous waits behind this door, innumerable perversions of the human psyche, weaknesses upon which to gorge herself. Envy. Desire. Pain. Blood. She presses a gloved palm to the door, as though to taste first of the feast awaiting her by drinking in the hum through her fingertips. In the dark, moonlit grove, the entranced Rose stirs atop her slave settee, her translucent features tensing momentarily, then relaxing… Inhaling deeply of the copper and salts behind the wood, she at last lifts her chin, swiveling to face her watcher, a man standing on the corner. The tails of his leather trench coat hang like guardians around the study in matte and gloss blacks that are his legs. His face remains obscured by shadow, but for the golden iridescence of his eyes, and the few stray tendrils of ink that spill over his features, melding seamlessly with the backdrop of night. For all of his darkness, the looming figure radiates greedy heat, and presents a tempting morsel, perhaps a prelude to her carnage. But she knows this seeming threat, has tasted of him before… and the temptation has somehow lost its luster in the face of what awaits behind door number three… Resting both hands now against the surface of the door, she brushes her porcelain cheek against it, still peering out at him, the candied red of her curvature winking in an inviting tease. One of those gloved hands whispers down from the wood, the leather-clad fingertips brushing across her lips, anointing them with a kiss… and as she lifts her hand away, to send the affectionate buss in his direction, sarcasm dances in her smile and venom lingers in her emerald eyes, mocking the tenderness of the gesture, turning it into a joke. With an imperious upsweep of her chin, she turns back to the door, and, fingertips splayed once more, she coos, with a lilting, dreamy sigh that causes the very air around her to tremble. The door before her seems to melt away, and she steps through it, disappearing into the den of blood smells and the throbbing call of carnal appetites. Condensed laughter and thick cigar smoke suffocates the boxy club. Perhaps the dim, wavering lighting makes the room appear to be much smaller than it truly is, but no matter - there is a stage, and enough walking space between the baseboards and the walls to circumvent it. A tube of brass railing is the only thing separating the platform from the tiny, maniacally lit eyes of male hunger, the greedy, wiggling fingers of their greed. Her audience is merely painted on the walls - cartoonish figures of men with their jowls flapping, tongues lolling from open mouths, men with wolfish leers, and lips pursed into ‘o’s of appreciative howling. But their faces are alive, animated, and if one were to look away for a brief moment, one might catch the slightest peripheral movement, a fist raised in cheer, a few droplets of spittle glistening down the chin of a particularly enthusiastic patron, perhaps a ripple of movement across the mural as two of the caricatures tussle for a better vantage point. The din of harsh cackling emanates from nowhere and everywhere at once, the chatter and catcalls and the echo of distant calliope music combining to steep the room in a dizzying, warped dark carnival parody. But all falls to a hush as Rose pushes away from that phantom door and slinks through the pools of shadow and light. The same ruby-colored patent leather winks from around her toes, but now her porcelain stems are shaded by the most sheer black stockings, their hint of luster indicating silken origins, their seams rising like black crayon lines from her stilted heels, up the backs of her legs to just above mid-thigh. Her curves are echoed, and molded to perfection, by the boned strictures of a Victorian hourglass corset of shimmering red satin, with a touch of saloon-girl in the black lace trim at the edges and the black piping at each seam, and a touch of whimsy in the giant red bow perched like a Christmas wrapping over the gentle swell of her posterior. The front of the corset dips into a gently sloping "V" just between her legs, making it impossible to determine, through the shifting shadows, if there is any other covering save the slender garter straps. A pair of fingerless gloves wrap high over her elbows, in the same lipstick shade, and the bare digits curled around her hips are tipped in deadly razors of traffic-stopping red, their lethal sharpness veiled by the dim. Her breasts are reined in, the swells crushed to her to form an elegant shelf from the rounds of flesh. Dazzling at her throat is an elaborate choker, of sparkling glass beads, trimmed with fringes of strung crystals, all winking through the deep blood red of their hue. All in all, she is the very picture of burlesque charm, but for the fact that a few of her fiery tendrils have been caught up from the cascade at her shoulders, and coiled into the semblance of horns. And if one were to look into her eyes at that moment, one might spot a singularly murderous chill underlying the tranquil emeralds. As she makes her way down the narrow passage between stage and wall, she reaches out, trailing a fingertip along the muted brush strokes of a cleft chin painted in peach and amber oils, and as she passes, she can see the visible straining forward of the figure from the corner of her eye, as though he is struggling against his two-dimensional captivity to trail after her. "Soon enough, pet," comes her silken whisper, the words audible to her ears alone as the masculine clamor resumes. At last, she reaches the handful of steps leading up to the top of the platform, and with a distinctive serpentine sway, she takes them one at a time. Her footfalls are minced, and the undulations of her hips set the tails of the bow to fluttering over the backs of her thighs. When she reaches the top, a few languid paces carry her towards the center of the stage, and the brass pole jutting up from floor to ceiling. She pirouettes, dropping back against the pole and bracing herself with hands wrapped behind her. In sync with the sudden appearance of a honey-laden smile, the already murky lights snap to a wash of red, bathing her repose in a hint of things to come, and she gazes out over the smooth faces of her audience, waiting for the voices to still to silence… waiting, with a predatory storm brewing in her eyes… A nervous guitar plucking, as of a detoxing addict's fingers twitching over a fretboard, creeps down from the corners, infiltrating the room with its edgy thrumming, and Rose's arms sweep up behind her, along the top of the pole. She whips around, keeping the brass rod in a loose, sliding grip, then clamping down tight as she jumps up, wrapping her thighs around the pole and swinging herself into a spin, her body held perfectly horizontal as she winds down. Within a few feet of descent, one knee crooks, and she lands, still spinning, still revolving around that pole with her other leg extended, spiralling down as the fidgeting strings rise in pitch and make their way up the scale. Practiced precision brings her upright with a snap, to cling to the pole, just before the final note gives way to a hollow voice. Her tranquil gaze swivels over the room, but she remains frozen in place - all but her hands, which stroke up the length of the pole as though it were a favored lover... "I got my head but my head is unraveling... Can’t keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling..." And her hips swing into a gentle rhythm, sending her writhing like a serpent behind the length of the pole... "I got my heart but my heart's no good... You're the only one that's understood... " The metallic click of a heel melds with the frantic rapture of techno throbbing as her foot strikes out to the side, and her hips swivel down, rolling through a circle. "I come along but I don’t know where you're taking me... " The other leg curls around to the front of the pole, and she lifts her arms overhead as those hips return to grind down in the other direction... "I shouldn't go but you're wrenching dragging shaking me... " Undulating from head to toe with every step, she glides closer to the railing, her arms still weaving fluid spells above her head... "Turn off the sun pull the stars from the sky... The more I give to you the more I DIE... " On that last screeched word, she tosses her head back and sinks to her knees, slamming her fists down between them atop the polished wood. Her shoulders roll back, and her head dips forward once more, the shadows playing over her features serving to dramatize the sudden dementia in her eyes, and the feral grin beginning to form on her lips... "And I want you… And I want you… " Her own hunger grows more apparent with every note of increasing anguish in the singer's voice, and her spine rolls farther back with every surging, tribal beat of the drums... "And I want you… AND I WANT YOU… " Her forearms rise to form a half-circle over thighs that are flexing and relaxing to lift her in a mockery of ballerina elegance, and as though swallowing the pain of this last scream, her eyes clench tight, and her lips curl back into a sneer caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " The words are like a mating call to those cardboard-stiff figures surrounding the room. With every pulsating note, life has begun to pulse through those painted veins, and the imagined movements are becoming more real by the second, flesh taking on form as the myriad masculine bodies peel themselves from the walls and step into the murky light of existence. "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " This gentle entreaty is like a crooked finger, motioning the lambs ever closer to the railing around the stage. In a momentary return to those few twitching guitar notes, she rolls onto the small of her back, her legs swinging around and up into a rigid "V", then closing over one another in a series of scissor-like kicks... "You make me hard when I'm all soft inside... I see the truth when I'm all stupid-eyed... The arrow goes straight through my heart... " Long waves of coppery fire brush the surface of the stage, then lift away, swinging around her shoulders as she rolls forward into a split, then eases onto her belly... "...without you everything just falls apart... " Cruel drum beats, frenetic and edgy, drive her to hands and knees, and with the look of a cat in heat burning in her eyes, she flows towards the railing, where eager hands are already thrusting forward, waving greenbacks clenched between sweaty fingertips. "My blood just wants to say hello to you... My fear is warm to get inside of you... My soul is so afraid to realize... How very little there is left of me... " Another series of violent drum beats thrashes at the seams of the tiny room, threatening to send the whole space bursting outward into the night... "And I want you… And I want you… And I want you… And I want you... " Gaze dancing over the denominations wavering before her, she studies and selects a hundred-dollar bill, ripping it away in her teeth as she whirls around. The flame-red curls go flying, and their trail is captured in stop-motion as the red lighting is suddenly replaced by strobes. The agitated fluttering of light renders every fluid movement mechanical, making her appear a preening automaton as her hips arch back. "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " A foreign hand darts out, snatching at one end of the ribbon and tugging it away, unraveling the bow and loosing it from the bottom of her corset, but she moves away before that curious hand can do more, and so the man is left to ripple his trophy above the heads of the howling crowd. "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " Bombarded by that pulsing glow, she slides down to her belly, her haunches lifted high for the crowd behind her. Unseen, she offers a secretive smile, lids heavy with greed slipping down over twin emeralds. As she peers into the darkest recesses of the room, away from the clamoring throng, those emerald pools meet with rich gold, the metallic orbs seeming to bore into her very core. Her grin broadens in that moment, and her eyes flash wide, then settle back into knowing slits at the brief glimpse of the outlines of a leather trench coat shifting in the shadows. Dropping the bill to the side with a snap of her teeth, she stretches forward, as though her slender limbs were straining towards the opposite railing... or towards that mysterious watcher in the corner?... but no - private laughter lights her smile, and her gaze drifts away, in blatant denial of that watcher, and her shoulders roll upwards in response to the ever-increasing throbbing of drum beats... "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " Suddenly, the singer's voice grows almost reedy, threaded through with quiet resignation. With the torpid weightlessness of a feather drifting through space, she rises from her crouch. Every movement, every sound, slows to a crawl. Even the lights float to a still wash and fade back to red. "You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " Swimming through a last muffled whisper, she turns, like a porcelain statue wrapped in ribbons of blood, to face a crowd lulled into complacency by the hypnotic mutterings of the music... "(sw) You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug... " The words fade to nothing, and are suddenly swallowed by the digital pulsings of synthesizer notes. The red light ripples to strobe once more, the fluttering crimson hiding the predatory gleam in her eyes and obscuring the ominous flexing of her bare fingertips as she advances, hips swaying in a provocative stride, towards the railing. Mesmerized by the sinuous movements, the audience of gaping, simpleminded animals can only stand lowing, shifting, crushed against the railing and captured in their helplessness like so many head of cattle about to go to slaughter. To the jarring, off-canter staccato of artificial drums, she quickens her gait, and in that final pace towards the railing, one hand rises to her hip, to steady her pivot, as the other circles out, whipsawing across a line of throats in a singular sweep. A guitar jag grates through the air, and she takes a few skittering steps to the side, all semblance of a dance forgotten as she strikes out again, making a clean cut through another lineup of jugulars. Her slashing becomes almost indiscriminate, catching at a few stray flailing limbs here and there, as she attempts to sever every last remaining vein of newly formed life, sending their contents gushing like crimson geysers over the stage to the accompaniment of creaking metal sounds and the hiss of steam escaping from howling maws. Hmm... and people wonder why she stays gloved all the time. The scene resembles nothing so much as the celebratory popping of dozens of bottles of Dom Perignon... coppery liqueur splashes wildly over every surface, showering her bare limbs with its sticky sweetness, then foaming to puddles at her feet. A frenetic, chaotic drum cadence mingles with the hysterical lilt of her laughter. Rarely has she been so sated, rarely has her thirst for life's essence been so wickedly orchestrated, and as the blood pours over her, she tilts her face heavenward, in throaty, rapturous glee over the insects so easily trapped in her web. The pounding echo of drums, teased at the edges with cricket vibrations and interspersed with machinery whining, matches the throb of her hunger note for angry note. To the rising crescendo of a sawblade scream, she sinks to her knees once more, splayed fingertips dipping gingerly into the pools of scarlet welling up around her. All at once, the music is stilled, fading instead to a series of industrial whisperings, a few scorching pulses of static that time her fingers as they trace circles through the sanguine warmth. A hollow, mournful guitar strumming leads into the next words, and her maniacal smile goes quiet, complacent... satisfied. "Take me... with you... take me... with you... take me... with you..." The solemn, half-hearted pleadings of the song only serve to send her further into a pensive sort of meditation. "Without you, without you everything falls apart... Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces... Without you, without you everything falls apart... Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces..." Absently, she lifts her left hand, bringing it across her blood-spattered chest and lifting the back of her index finger to her lips. In the same fluid motion, she glances over her right shoulder, her gaze meeting a pair of golden eyes once more. "Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces... Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces... " With a glimpse of silver and the richness of fleshy pink, her tongue darts out, rolling upward in a single lazy stroke to lap the blood from the back of her finger, her eyes never leaving his, her features never losing their taunting calm. "Without you, without you everything falls apart... Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces... " A few crystalline piano notes stab at the air, and then the song tapers off into a series of layered whispers, fading to quiet desperation, to the madness of a love lost and the bitter certainty that it will never be reclaimed... Eyes drifting closed, she utters a contented sigh and turns her head away.