Post by Tulluch on Aug 14, 2020 18:38:07 GMT
In the Eyes of Brass
Bloodborne
Haematic
‘having the color of, or containing blood’
“Hush, my child, lest you wish death to take you away tonight,” the mother said between lips which trembled--terror gleamed in her reflective dark hues--a fear ridden gaze offered to a swaddled baby girl.
An elfin faced infant stared up at her mother, held a calm, collected and curious demeanor. Pointed ears twitched at every sound, whether a skittering house mouse, or the commotion on the white streets of Har Ganeth. She held a cognitive nature and even recognized the commotion held a deranged consistency to it as trill screams blended as one. A chorus to welcome the night of lustrous bloodshed within the white city, and it echoed beyond in the land of Naggaroth.
The sadistic Kingdom of Naggaroth--the Land of Chill.
For one night, and one night only, murder is no longer a crime within the pristine walls of Har Ganeth, and the animalistic Witch Elves are set on the prowl. Spilling blood in the streets, and finding the most worthy of sacrifices to drag to Khaine’s altar. The Witches writhe to gruesome, but honorable, blood orgies. Lustrous screams bellow throughout the night as their pale forms cast wicked shadows across white walls. Dancing a wicked dance of Khaine’s bloody wrath.
Death Night…
Abruptly, the front door of the house was flung open in a wide arc, slammed against the wall, then casted a cloud of dust into the thin light of the room. The door now hung off the top hinges as particles of dust began to settle.
A pained bellow of warning rasped out...
“Get her to the cellar, now! It is not her day to die, not by their hands… not by--” a man said while he panted. His hand held over his gut where he bled profusely, and perhaps held his sloppy innards within.
While he shut the door the best he could, the husband offered the unhinged blockade a frustrated kick as his wife crawled out from beneath the table, stared at him wide-eyed.
She went pale.
He held a short blade in hand as he turned toward his wife, grimacing, “GO! Lest you fail this child, too. Do not let her be another sad tale for the masses to jest in are pitiful sted.”
“But…” she trembled, and glanced down to the esoteric face of her baby. The mother understood nothing of her child at that moment, and she quivered in further fear. It was more than skin deep, and rooted within her mind, but why should her own child create fear through innocence?
“Not now, woman, GO!” he raised his coalesced hand to strike her.
The wife turned her face away as her dark eyes twitched, and quickly stepped back out of his reach. She glared at him as her heart palpitated, then swiftly pivots upon bare feet and ran to the stairs in the back of the shadowed house.
The husband watched her diminutive form dissipate into the shadows, and his anger only tightened in his brows. He clenched his teeth, swallowed hard then hugged the wall to the left of the front door, and held his blade over his chest--held his breath. His blood drummed into his temples, galvanized into his throat, yet in slight, held his nerves in check...
The door creaked, which allowed a thin glimmer of red moonlight to spill across the wooden floor as a Phantom and her Shadow sauntered into the room. Tall, and feline-like, their bare flesh whiter than a full-moon, but only a trace of it revealed. The pair were cloaked in crimson, and it appeared slick upon their seemingly perfect flesh.
The husband knew it was his Death Night as his heart thrummed in his ears. His heart surged within his breast, and the Phantom woman’s ears twitched slightly. Suddenly, swift motion fluctuates through the room and a devilish cry filled the chamber.
Merely a flicker of time took hold of the individuals…
The man, with his steel blade raised high, sprinted at the pair--wished to hack them apart, if only to protect his newly born daughter--and cared naught for his own life in that moment.
The Phantom, with the ebb and flow of extensive white hair, shifted in the slightest of movements--a silver blade wisped through the air, slitting open the man’s throat precisely.
A gasp of air, and a line of blood flickered, and the man collapsed to the floor…
Pitiful…
Dead…
And as the dust settled--his life ended in failure.
The Shadow sniffed at the air, “Lushious, sister. But, there are others nearby…” she offered a mirkin grin.
The Phantom nods, her hair gliding about her form, “Come, then,” and she led her Shadow away...
* * *
The wife had not taken to the cellar as she was commanded but instead climbed up a set of stairs, and into a shrine room of Khaine--there he stood in the fierce, scarlet moonlight. Through a circular window the moon bled into the room, and outlined Khaine’s brass form in a blood sheen. A hand hoisted high a heart, while his other grasped a ritualistic dagger, but most dangerous of all was his furious gaze.
The woman had placed her baby before the statue of Khaine where she groveled to the Bloody-Handed God. Knees, hands, and head all pressed to the wooden floor.
What a pitiful creature she was bent before her God…
...and she trembled as pale lips twisted into sobs and murmurs.
“Blessed Khaine. Most high and beloved. Death to me and to the masses. Murder and Blood in your highest name. I… am nothing before you. Nothing…” she grimaced, and wailed in tremors.
She shifted over her baby girl, studied her calm elfin face, those violet hues specked with crimson and she suddenly felt reposed. The baby looked at her mother, smiled and babbled wholeheartedly. There was calmness before a God of Murder--joy in the face of a night of deathly throes.
“Blessed. My baby girl, you are blessed. You--...” she gasped as she heard a commotion downstairs.
Hurriedly, she clasped her babies cheeks, and kissed her forehead, “I will be a void in your memories, but you have my love--my blessings. Do not let my sacrifice go in vain.”
With one more gaze into those speckled eyes, she shimmied back and drew a knife from her belt, and gazed up to Khaine’s brass eyes.
“I know you have great plans for her, let me sacrifice be a boon to her endeavors, God of Murder. My blood--for you, and for her.”
A tear trailed down her cheek as she gazed one final time before her little girl, “I am nothing…”
In swift swipes, she cut both wrists without confrontation of the mind, and in silence held her shaking arms up to her God. She smiled wildly, blood streaming down her limbs--as did her tears down her sunken cheeks. Then, in one fell swoop, split her own throat, and the blooded knife clattered to the floor.
Bubbling gasps, and gurgles transpired as she bled profusely over the wooden floor. She gripped her throat, and bowed down to her God, and to her baby one last time…
Pitiful…
Dead…
The mother’s blood began to dye the swaddled babies white cloth--the girl now washed in the blood of her mother as Khaine deemed her worthy.
* * *
First walked the ghostly haired woman, her body long, lean, and feline in nature. Hungry, but thoughtful eyes of translucent blue first traced over Khaine’s glorious inclination, then her gait paused at the woman’s corpse, before she even noticed the baby.
Silent, and calm as a mouse…
An intuitive, elfin face stared up to the brass statue--her watchkeeper.
Her Shadow brushed past but a breath away and to a Witch Elf, it was as if bumping a shoulder. The ghost-of-an-elf bore her teeth in warning, snarling like a fiend.
The brash sister stepped over the fresh corpse, swiftly scooping up the baby in her arms, and grinned at it disapprovingly. “Pitiful thing, just like mother and father.”
“She is not,” the ethereal Elf vexed smoothly.
The sister twisted about, her crimson eyes blazing, and a snap of her teeth followed in aggravation, “Drink more witches brew, sister. You know not what you speak of!”
The spirit stepped forth in elegance, “She is a coaxed being lain before Khaine. She is a calm collective before a Bloody-Handed God. His wrath scares her naught… his fire torches her naught. Fear is replaced with bravura.”
“If you will not allow me to take her to the temple for sacrifice--I will do it here before our mighty Lord!”
The Phantom cocked her head, “And slay a Khainite chosen?”
“A Khainite ch-- are you mad?!” she barked, held a bloodied dagger above the baby’s tiny frame.
The Shadow struck, but her weapon instead clattered to the ground--she choked and gasped as she found a dagger lodged in the center of her throat. Blood trickled from the edges of her lips, for a mere moment before the Phantom swiped the dagger outward--splitting her windpipe, tearing muscles and severing arteries.
The Shadow slumped to the floor in a heartbeat... blood washing over the floor.
The Phantom now moved shadowless…
Then...
Without so much a second thought of her dead sister, the ghost held the baby with a nurturing grasp, and gazed into worthy eyes with awe. Violet, but with flecks of rust almost seemed to peer right through the Witch Elf. A breath was caught in her throat for a moment, and tears welled in her own eyes.
“You will now be called Sesnernioth--Bloodborne.” she smiled coldly, then gazed behind the held baby to Khaine, and she swore blood dripped from the bronze heart in his taloned grasp.
The Phantom shook her head, then gazed back to Sesnernioth in wonder. She babbled, whined cheerfully, and made something of a smile. The ghost snorts in amusement, “Such joy in the face of death--dyed in the blood of your dead mother, hmph.” she shrugged her pale shoulders, “How fitting.”
The winter-white woman cradled the baby called Sesnernioth, who gazed up at her wholly, while the Phantom shifted about, and began to glide toward the door.
“Now, Sesnernioth, survivor of Death Night, I will take you to the Temple of Khaine for I sense the Bloody-Handed God has very important plans for you…”
...and the Phantom left without a sound--without a trace.