Set fire to the rain [GoblinFae]

[Anonymous]

Fen had amused himself with the knife — as he could for hours, even though this was not his favored blade — and perhaps would've kept at it all night, if the sound of scrubbing and washing hadn't ceased. The soft thud of knees hitting the floor forced the knife back in its blade as the monster crawled out of his den, noting the little elf, who had knelt down at the foot of the bed. He smirked a little, regarding him for a moment.

"I am almost jealous of whoever gets to keep you," he chuckled, placing his hand on the elf's head, ruffling his hair. "You can be quite precious, when you decide to bend to the puppet master's strings." Dolls that let themselves be tangled in invisible wire only ended up becoming a nuisance. Sometimes puppet masters wouldn't bother untangling their dolls. It was best to throw them in the trash, where they needn't be burdened by their presence.

He got up off the bed, ambling into the kitchen, staring at the stove. Ahhh... when was the last time he'd even used a kitchen? As he washed his hands in the sink, he could recall long ago, back in another life, when someone had taught him how to stand in a kitchen the same way he'd stand in a darkened alleyway. You need to eat, she had told him, and laughed. You're all skin and bones.

Fen furrowed his brows at the memory, placing a pot on the stove with warm water to boil, digging up vegetables from the pantry, whipping up a quick stew. It had been ages since he had done this, because he was a monster, and monsters didn't need to eat. He had tried telling her that, once before. He didn't need food. He didn't need water. He didn't need to sleep, or think, or blink, or breathe. He just needed...

—Ah, and without warning, as he was peeling the potatoes, the knife nicked his thumb, drawing blood. A soft curse slipped out of his mouth — not an angry swear, but one that simply recognized that he should be in pain.

He stopped to stare at it — disgusted and mesmerized. "Kestal," he called, his voice ringing with authority, but the monster did not drip in his tone. "Come and finish this." 'This' being the peeling of the vegetables, that is. The broth was already boiling, and all the stew needed was a bit of sustenance.

He sat on the kitchen countertop, staring at his thumb, watching the blood drip onto the floor. "What you told me before — it was a lie, you know." He put pressure on the wound, wondering when it would stop. "I didn't drag you into the gutter. I truly believe you've been down there long before you met me." Putting pressure on it wasn't going to stop the bleeding, it seemed. His body just loved to bleed.

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern huffed at having his hair ruffled so. "No touchy," he muttered weakly under his breath. Besides this slight indiscretion, the elf remained still and quiet. He did not respond until called over to finish the task of cooking.

Nimble fingers peeled the potatoes making the skins curl to the floor in long brown ribbons. The feel of the small knife in his hand reminded Ocarern of lazy summer days where would hold a similar knife and carve beautiful panpipes. His fingers itched to do so again, to place the instrument to his lips and play a soft melody.

But, when the elf looked down all he saw was blood and skins, a reminder that he was not home. "It is not a lie if it is a matter of perception. You know me no more than I know you. Who knows, perhaps our own definitions as to what classifies as the gutter differ, like potato and patato." Thin shoulders shrugged slightly.

For reasons unknown to him, he felt sad about the emotions he felt coming from the human. 'Is it loneliness that does this to him? Don't question it Oca, just go with the flow and run the first chance you get.' Collecting the brown skins and throwing them into a bucket, Ocarern moved back to stand in front of the other man. In his hand he held the very same salve jar and roll of bandages that had been used for him.

"You're staining where I just cleaned," he said by way of explanation. Gentle fingers brushed salve against the small cut before wrapping a small amount of cloth around it. The entire time he worked, the elf had not looked up. Whether it was out of fear or pride, was yet to be determined. "Now no more bleeding," he softly teased. Ocarern's eyes seemed to light up for a brief moment. A small smile skirted across his features before the demure stone mask was slammed back up into place and he was drawing away again.

[Anonymous]

You're staining where I just cleaned.

So he was, and it was a shame. In a short time, the elf had managed to clean his quarters — a feat that Fen had not expected from him, had thought would be nigh impossible. The blood mage had half expected him to pass out from the enormous task he had assigned, but he had taken to it well, starving or no. It made him wonder — had he been wrong to write him off so quickly, as an extra, a peon, a prole? He furrowed his brows again; it was the closest the mage could ever come to looking thoughtful.

He did not expect for the elf to come closer to him — of his own volition — and took up the salve and bandage Fen had once held to heal his wounds. Before, Fen had healed him because he knew he wouldn't have been able to stand it; the scent of blood would've driven the monster up the wall, he would've lashed out — feral, primal — and would've did something he'd regret, something that would forfeit his pay. Or at least, that was his rationale.

This one had no reason to help him, and yet— how strangely tender he was, when binding his wound. He was in a warm place, unfamiliar and strange and he— he didn't know what to do with the feeling.

The elf did not look at him the entire time, but a hint of a smile painted itself amongst his features. It came and went like the wind, but just the hint had been enough for Fen. He grinned, studying at him. "You are... a curious creature," he admitted, flexing his bandaged thumb, which was no longer stared with red.

"My mind must be playing tricks on a poor monster's soul. For a moment — albeit a brief, fleeting moment— I thought I saw you smile." He tilted his head, still grinning. His grin— it was more Cheshire cat than feral wolf. "Someone told me once, long ago, that only an archangel could beam in the midst of the devil's hell," he noted, sliding off the countertop. "For the sake of my soul, I hope I haven't bagged a saint..."

Fen took up another knife, taking to chopping up the carrots, his movements a lot slower than before, to avoid nicking himself again. "For reference," he began, working slowly, precisely, "I am Fenrisúlfr Rotht." He did not normally give out his name, but this one... this one was, ah, what was the word? He wasn't sure. "It is a name you will probably forget in the morning," he acknowledged, "but it isn't a name that graces many ears." He slid the carrots in the stew, watching it come to a broil. Monsters didn't eat — so why the hell was he so hungry?

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern was beginning to feel the emotional shift, the way the colors seemed to slow in their chaotic dance. It soothed his aching head and settled his nerves, if only just slightly. He was still extremely wary and ready to flee but, the elf at least felt that he would survive the next few hours until morning relatively unharmed.

He reddened at being caught smiling, knowing in his heart that it was wrong to find any happiness considering his present situation. 'I almost want to pity him. But, I know as soon as I start to I'm going to end up dead, or worse. He's just like any other human; he'll just break me in the end. Only now, I'm too far from home to be fixed. There is no Aren here to offer an ear or a kind word. No, there is nothing for me here but death and pain. Perhaps that is best after all. Perhaps.'

"Not a saint but, a fool," he piped up, taking one of the carrots and beginning to whittle it like a piece of wood. 'A fool in love. Not anymore. Just a silly fool.' It felt a bit odd using a carrot instead of wood, but the motions were soothing nonetheless. Each shaving he would toss into the pot before continuing on. "Well met. Although," he glanced up from his idle carving to watch the other man, "some of us actually do remember the things we are told come morning, Fenrisúlfr Rotht."

'Forget my false name if you so desire. But, know this, I will not be so quick to do the same. You have drawn first blood. I will be free of you and no longer have you haunting my steps. But, that does not mean I will ever forget your face or now, your name. Fenrisúlfr Rotht, well met indeed.' Grimacing at what he had been trying to make with the carrot, the elf finally gave up and plunked it into the pot as well.

[Anonymous]

Fen was certain he had never heard the words 'well met' spoken in a positive manner towards him before. Either his short bout of training had gone better than expected and he was merely playing the role of puppet, or he was being sarcastic – and Fen's sarcasm detector was normally better than this – or he actually meant what he said. Fen discarded all three theories, furrowing his brows again, quiet, for a brief moment.

He would remember the name, he claimed, as some people actually did. That, now that was an answer he expected. Fen laughed, a low, dark chuckle, and a spoon went into the stew – if he was being careful, it was only because he didn't want to have to mess the dinner up and have to make another one.

"Then take care to remember it well. When the Collector's come to take you, and you need a name to hold and to hate against your heart, think of my name." He ladled some of the stew into a bowl, and handed into the elf; his red eyes – they were the kind of eyes that could grin for all eternity. "Fenrisúlfr Rotht."

The blood mage went to pour a bowl for himself, but decided against it, at the last minute. Monsters did not need food. He put the bowl back into the cupboard, back where it belonged, closing the dusty cabinet shut. Instead, he went to clear off the small dining table – one of the only tables in his quarters – but found it had been straightened already, perhaps a result of the elf's cleaning. Most curious.

"Better to be a fool than to be a saint," Fen muttered, addressing his previous quip. He sat at the dining table, despite his lack of food, resting his chin on his left hand. "A saint wouldn't have stolen from me, back in that alleyway. The saint would've starved, died with honor. But a fool would've – despite the odds stacked against him. He would've tried, because to pass up the chance would've been to pass up a chance for food," He let his hand fall to the table, "a bit of minor wealth, and a few days of security..."

He was trying to understand – why a small elf would try to steal from such an imposing figure. Did he not care, or was it simply as Fen was thinking – that he couldn't have afforded to pass up the chance? "If this is the gutter, where were you before I whisked you away?" A wry smirk crossed his lips. "I'm assuming it was no promised land."  

Of course, Fen was one of those obnoxious people who insisted on holding a conversation when someone was trying to eat. Talking, it was was his sport, pastime, the tamest passion he held close to his soul. He was never sure for how long someone would humor him, but that was what made the banter entertaining.

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern shook his head slightly at the other man's comment. 'As if I need your name to find more hate in my heart. I have hated long before you. I will hate long after you are gone. Unlike you though, it will not rule my life as I think it rules yours.'

Keen eyes watched as a second bowl of soup was almost poured before a change of mind occurred. 'Why is he not eating? It was as if he forgot something. Did he poison my soup? Is this how I'm going to die? No, he did something worse to it. I'm going to suffer and be in all this pain! Or it's some drug to...I don't know what, but it can't be good!'

The elf sat down at the table but, did not partake of the food. His hands rested loosely in his lap as he listened with bowed head. "It may not have been your so-called promised land, but it was home and it was good. As to where I am from, I from here and there. I am from a place far and yet another close." Ocarern shrugged his thin shoulders, falling silent. 'Better I a saint than the devil that is you, human! If you think I'm going to slip so easily and just give you the answers then you are sorely mistaken.'

[Kiri de Kismet]

Call him catastrophic, but the elf's casual dismissal of the soup brought a slow smirk to Fen's features. Such was the reason why the elf had ended up in this bloody situation, was it not? His stomach had cried out, writhing in its pained emptiness, leading the elf to play thief to a beast, not suspecting he'd pose as a pet instead. had the blood mage begrudgingly beset this one — had he been beleaguered enough to behave?
   
At his pet's answer, Fen laughed under his breath, fingers curled around the side of the table. "Here and there," he echoed, amused. "Far and close. Don't play me for a jester, dear pet. 'Lest you've no concept of direction, your promised land is stationary, is it not?" Unless he lived in a castle that moved or a manor in the sky, his home could not be here and there, far and close — but Fen knew the twitch of a flighty pet that'd rather chew off their tongue and bleed dry than entertain the beast. This one still had much to learn.
   
But he couldn't learn if he was dead. Shaking his head, Fen pushed himself up from the table, meandering towards the pot of soup to pour a bowl for himself. He was a monster, a machine, and neither monster or machine should need to eat — but this wouldn't take his chances with a soup that might've been sullied by a beast's hands. When Fen returned to the table, he dipped his spoon in the soup and took a generous sip; it felt as if the soup alone would burn his stomach, as he was not used to eating, nevertheless anything hot or warm, but it was done, and he was not dead.
   
"You're a funny one," Fen murmured. "Truly. You'll steal from a beast, but you won't eat from him, even if you saw me make it with your own eyes." He didn't return the spoon to the bowl — instead, took a fresh one that'd been laying on the table and put that in the bowl instead, pushing it towards the elf. "You're a fool, are you not? When the odds are stacked against you, will you sup or starve?"

[GoblinFae]

"There is no jester here, not at least that my eyes can see. I have had more than one home, one close and another far yet, I can no longer call either of them mine anymore as I have been cast out of both." It took everything the little elf had not to burst into tears right then and there. His throat siezed though, feeling as if he had swallowed a boulder.

'Aren I'm sorry. I miss you. I miss you both. I want to come home now. I wish you didn't hate me so much. I'm sorry. I wish I could change it, change it all. Please forgive me. Please, please, please! I loved her too. I didn't want that to happen. I never wanted that to happen! It hurts so much. If this is my penance then I get it but please know how how sorry I am. Please.'

His mind begged for relief that would not come. It was his own doings, or rather lack of doing that had been the cause of his latest flight. He had no choice but to serve out the consequences of his silence. 'First chance I get, I run. No more crazy colors. No more crazy, period.'

Distractedly, the elf turned his mind back to the present. He watched confusedly as this cruel man take a bite of soup and then pushed the bowl towards him, the rest uneaten. "I have not been permitted to eat," he demurely replied, "and therefore do not take any liberties I have not already been granted," Ocarern swallowed heavily, feeling acid on his tongue as he spat out one last word, "Master."

[Kiri de Kismet]

So if the elf spoke of a home both near and far, it because he could claim both as his domain, both sanctuaries that he had been sent away from. Quiet, Fen blinked back red eyes at his captive, leaned back in his chair, expression neither smug nor sentimental. The blood mage also knew the sting of expulsion, and of what it meant to be flung from the only roof that you could begrudgingly call shelter. He knew not what the word "home" meant now, but once upon a time, he had.

"So it is not stationary," he muttered softly, his voice peppered with a slow pensiveness that crept in each syllable. "Rather, I'd go so far as to say that you have no home, poppet. Not truly." His red eyes seemed to burrow into the elf as he spoke. "An outcast has no place where they can rest their head."

Despite the sharpness of his words, it was his voice that was level, and calm— he spoke not out of malice, but out of past experience, as someone who had been taken up by rough hands and tossed away from his home, his personalized cage, somewhere he'd been dull enough to call sanctuary.

"But it is the outcast who grows strong from it," Fen related, and let a specter of a smile creep up on his features. "A chained dog only grows as much as his chains allows. Best to throw off your chains than choke on your own weakness." Maybe he would always remember the metallic tang of his own blood pooling in his mouth, dripping out of his insides and spilling onto the snow-covered ground as he limped out of his home country— how Fenrisúlfr swore on the blood that leaked from his body that he'd have revenge thrice over for this blow.

But it was not the past that concerned him, but the present. If Fen had been smiling before, his lips curled into a devious, darker smirk as the word tumbled from the elf's lips, master. Bitter and acidic as the word had been, it was progress— pleasing progress at that.

Fen leaned forward, tenting his fingers and tilting his head. "Obedience suits you, pet," he noted, red eyes dancing. "You may eat, elfing. I wouldn't want you dying on me, after all." And his red eyes did not once leave the elf across from him. "That'd be a travesty." This elf, both parts stubborn and soft, made too good company to waste.

[GoblinFae]

A cold, sinking feeling began to settle deep within the elf's belly. It was a chilling experience to hear this creature, for surely he could not be called a man what with his unseemly obsession with the warm, viscous fluid flowing through both of their veins, talk of his lack of home. Ocarern wondered if he had made a mistake, but knew he had had no choice but to answer plainly, or at least relatively so.

He was homesick and wanted nothing more than to return to the good times. He wanted to hear Kestal sing and laugh like she did before the inky blackness had taken over. He wanted to stand in the shadows of the tavern, close to the door and watch the one he loved go about working and serving others with a cheery smile on his face. He wanted it all. An even deeper part of him, long since buried called out for his mother's loving embrace and his father's stern yet silent acceptance. He longed for love and safety where here in this land by the sea he only found strangeness and fear. All his long life he had wanted to be here. Now here he was and it was nothing like what he had imagined. The world was lonely, cold, and terrifying, how he longed for better days.

The words of the monster were true; he was an outcast. Once a thief, always a thief. He had stolen the secret Kestal had kept from Aren and had not shared it with the other man. He had stolen precious moments the other could have shared with their dearest friend simply because he was jealous and afraid. The elf had been torn between friendship and desire. He loved them both and now because of that love had also lost them both.

Ocarern's hand shook as he took up the spoon and attempted feed himself, tears having already blinded him to seeing ahead of him. His was lowered, ears drooping until they were nearly completely flopped over. "Travesty indeed," he repeated softly.

Then, impulsively he pushed his first bowl back across the table towards the monster in a man's clothing sitting across from him. "Ma-you should eat too," he choked out. He just wished the other would stop staring at him all the time like a dog waiting for the bone off  his master's plate. The elf had a deep feeling that he was going to be in for a heap of trouble soon, it was brewing under the surface.

A cautious glance form under his fringe towards the closet reminded him of the quickly dying spark of hope that was struggling to warm him in this cold darkness. 'There is still hope. Don't give up. You'll see him again. Even if he never sees you again, you will see him again. When this is over you'll go back. Just remember that, it will all be over soon. This will all just be a horrible nightmare and you will forget it like all the rest. Just a bit longer Oca. You can do this.'

[Kiri de Kismet]

No matter how tightly Fen wound his wind-up-doll, the elf refused to dance for him. Red eyes glazed over his poppet's form, blinking back boredom as his pet shoved his bowl of soup away, denying himself sustenance. One would think he had shook petals of poison into the mix, or had mixed his own blood in the broth. A sigh slipped from Fen's lips as he stood from his seat, his chair creaking as it slid across the old floorboards.

He circled 'round the table; every step he took made the hardwood groan underneath his weight. Fen was a slender man— lanky, almost; too tall, almost — but despite that, it was as if the house itself cried out in pain to have him in it. His steps were slow, deliberate, until he stood behind his elf, placing both hands on his shoulders. Fen's grip was gentle, but to have a monster's grip not cause you pain could be painful in itself. Like water torture, one would find themselves trying to predict the pain, unsure of when they'd break 'neath the beast's inevitable crushing grip.

"If not for the storm I heard from your belly earlier, I would have wondered whether or not you know what it's like to starve," Fen mused. His hands slid up his elf's neck, slowly; with both hands wrapped carefully around the elf's neck, Fen let his fingers rest there— the threat of what he could do next all too clear. His finger ran up and down the plane of the elf's neck, rolling poppet's veins 'neath his tips. They were soft, rubbery— tubes filled with blood, that could be spilled with a swish of his wrist.

"Your next master might not be so nice, poppet. They may take pleasure in seeing you crawl on the floor, begging for bread."

As he spoke, Fen's knife slid out of his sleeve, kissing the blood mage's flesh. He took up the knife betwixt his fingers, sliding it against the skin of the elf's neck, acquainting his catch with the feel of metal against his skin. It was an uncomfortably close position to keep a knife, but "But I won't force you to eat, poppet. Perhaps this was too easy a task for a clever mind like yourself." A small smile etched itself onto Fen's wan features. "Forgive me. I had no idea you were looking forward to being bled."

Fen removed his hands from the elf's neck, taking a step away from the elf, turning to the window. Call him crass for expecting more out of the bloody creature. The very act of eating, to Fen, was too human for someone like him— to do it in front of another had brought back too many memories, ones that he thought he had buried away, long ago. A fool, he was, for thinking the elf would appreciate a gods-damned meal.

He bit his lip, staring blankly down at his blade.

"Meet me in my bedroom," he muttered, his voice void of his previously taunting tone. One could say his voice lacked tone at all, now— his words were a blank canvas, yours to paint inflection on as you saw it. "Have your shirt off by the time I'm there."

He spun the butterfly blade betwixt his fingers. It may as well have been his paintbrush, now.

"This is an order."

[GoblinFae]

A shudder rippled violently through the elf's body at being touched so. He absolutely loathed being touched and the hands at his throat did not belong to just anyone but to one whose colors swirled in such a chaotic mess that it made Ocarern's head spin and stomach churn. He felt ill and gagged dryly on his own bile but he slammed his eyes shut and refused to acknowledge the presence verbally. He would not give in to the monster who seemed to enjoy the misery of others.

It was only as the knife came back out to play that Ocarern moved. His head fell back so the crown pressed against Fenrisúlfr's torso and his throat was exposed further. Mud-brown eyes flashed open to stare up the figure above him.

"Should a Master," he nearly choked on the word, "not eat before the slave as you call me? You would kill me for this?" Ocarern fell silent once more, his ears only perking up once he was given the order. He did not understand the colors he saw coming from the other man, a verdigris that swirled in a way that the elf could only describe as deceptive calm. Things did not bode well he was sure, but the order he was given, one he was slow but moving to obey confused him to no end. For as old and mature as he was in some ways, Ocarern's innocence still ran deep and there was much he did not understand about the world still.

It as for this reason that he stood in the bedroom as instructed, tucked into corner with his scarred bare back to a wall and his tunic pressed firmly against his his equally scarred chest and torso. His ears twitched energetically, belying his nervousness that all but hummed along his skin. He did not know what to expect and prayed in his own fashion that he could survive a bit longer to escape. Thoughts of his old friend and home were all that kept him going in his time of uncertainty and fear.

[Kiri de Kismet]

The blood mage kept his eyes towards the dusty windowpane, listening as the elf stood from his seat, moving into his bedroom. Red eyes roved over the moonless night that lay outside— out of his reach— and something about the sight was truly wonderful. There were always days without clouds, but never a day without the sun— so the fact that night could fall without its lord, the moon, seemed to be the simplest act of rebellion. Such nights were when his beast yearned to be set free, despite what Marius or Bolstram or the lot of them thought.

Wordlessly, he turned away from his window, into his bedroom. His quarters held the lingering scent of copper pennies and rusted blades— of that faint, metallic bloody perfume. Here was where the man clashed with the monster: dog-eared books lay overturned on his night stands and tables, some with bookmarks, some without.

An assortment of blades— seemingly unorganized— could be found on each end table; most people might think it unwise to leave weapons out when poppets were roaming without bindings, but Fen was a strong believer in discipline. If he could not train a toy to refrain from picking up a knife and brandishing it against their own, then he did not deserve to own a toy at all.

The wallpapering was old, wretched, faded— a crimson in color, it was peeling in some places. In other places, the red was darker than other; one might assume them to be bloodstained, or perhaps just a terrible wallpaper job. Coin and a few assorted chunks of gold lay on one of his end tables, along with a list of names, all of them crossed off. Tonight, another name would be added to the list. When that name would be crossed off, Fen couldn't say for certain.

The blood mage stood in the doorframe of his room, red eyes roving over the elf, who had actually done as he was told. He took slow, careful steps into the room, eyes immediately drawn to the scars on the elf's back. Recalling how the elf had convulsed at his touch before, Fen placed a fingertip to the elf's back, tracing the scars painted against the elf's tender flesh.

"Whoever did this to you," Fen murmured, "was a terrible artist."

He let his finger fall from the elf's back, turning to his bed. Despite how cluttered Fen's abode was, his bed was the neatest space in his home. It was a ritualistic space, to him— a place that should be kept clean at all costs. His sheets were pure white, adorned with a plethora of crimson, tasselled pillows.

Fen sat at the edge of the bed, and with a shake of his wrist, let his dagger fall into his hands, betwixt his fingers. "Come to me, easel," the blood mage, beckoned, a ghost of a smile playing on his features. "You've illuminated my muse tonight."

[GoblinFae]

Again Ocarern twitched at the touch, trying to shy away from it this time even as his hooded eyes observed the other man warily. He bit his tongue to hold his silence even when he wanted to rage and scream that no artist left such monstrous scars upon another's body. But, the elf was wise enough to not provoke a beast further. His very instincts screamed for self-preservation and he would be damned if he did not obey.

It was for this reason that even as he was called against his will, Ocarern made his way slowly to the edge of the bed. He kept himself there, just out of reach but still obedient and incredibly apprehensive of what was to come. It was only as he stood there that he remembered the knives he had seen on the end tables when he had been cleaning. To him they had meant nothing, not even a means of escape. But now they made his stomach flip in ways that made him want to fall to his knees, curl in on himself and disappear completely. He clung desperately to his shirt even has his breath came quick and hard in bronze-colored fear.

[Kiri de Kismet]

This poppet knew how to hedge his bets.

He stood just out of reach from the blood mage. Should Fen have outstretched his arms towards the elf, his fingertips would but just a centimeter away from brushing against his skin. An amused, crooked grin etched itself onto Fen's pale features, while a dark chuckle escape his throat. "It's the little victories, isn't it?" he mused. "They're the ones that'll keep you sane."

Sighing, Fen stood up from the bed, the mattress creaking as he did so, groaning. Of course, he shouldn't expect a poppet to know what to do on the first night. The blood mage took hold of his toy's wrist, bringing him closer to the edge of the bed. "Sit," he ordered, and assumed the elf would do so. He noticed that there was a certain tone that the elf was more responsive to— the emotionless, bland, authoritative voice, one that stemmed from the beast inside of him. His usual whimsy seemed to only frustrate the elf, making him believe he had leeway to talk back to him.

He didn't have that leeway now. Not here, in Fen's ritual space.

The blood mage, sitting on his knees behind the elf, let his eyes rove over his toy's back once more. To be honest, if he had known that this poppet was so scarred, he might've thought twice about bringing him back here. The Collector paid less for toys with imperfections, especially scars; in fact, there had been many a time where the blood mage had to put that damned Collector in check, after seeing Fen's artwork splattered across their skin.

But— despite this catch— why could he feel himself smiling? Was it because the Collector could not blame him for a poppet's scars, for once? Was it because he had free reign over this crinkled easel paper? Or was it because he could practically feel the elf shuddering under his touch— as marble shudders when a sculptor's pick chips away at its form? Yes, as Fen's fingers danced across the elf's skin, tracing scar lines, marvelling at the sloppy handiwork, he could not help but wonder at its history. Who had sliced him so, and why? Had he been a poppet, once before?

He withdrew his butterfly knife, red eyes inspecting the blade. "You've grown quiet, doll," Fen murmured, leaning closer to the elf's back, so that his breath was close enough to skate across the elf's skin. "Don't be afraid to scream. I want to hear those saccharine sounds—" here, he let his free hand slide up to the elf's neck again, caressing his throat, "slip sweetly from your soul."

Smiling, Fen sat upright now, with one hand on the elf's shoulder, the other hand poised with his butterfly knife, its tip aimed towards his toy's back. In a single, sweeping motion, the blade sliced upwards in a horizontal line, slashing through his skin, revealing red rubies. As blood spilled from the slash, Fen hitched a breath, marveling at the sight. Pure ecstasy.

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern sat but more out of self-preservation than willingness. His wary eyes followed the monster about the room until he moved beyond his peripheral vision and the elf was left with no choice but to use his other heightened and on edge senses to know what the other man was up to.

The hand on his shoulder was the only warning he received before the blade was dancing painfully across his skin. Ocarern foolishly perhaps, curled away from the blade and further in on himself as far as the hand holding him back would allow. While others might have arched themselves into sitting up taller and turning their bodies into taut bows, the elf just wanted to hide himself, become as small as possible before seemingly disappearing. It did not matter to him that his efforts tore his skin more, stretching it tighter and making it bleed more while opening himself up for more attacks upon his person. It kept his diaphragm squashed, silencing the faint gasps that biting into his shirt was unable to quell.

His only consoling thought as he waited tensely for the next strike against him was that somewhere back in Arca, most likely curled up in bed and fast asleep in his own adorable way was his Ocarern's dearest friend, safe and completely oblivious to the torment the elf was now suffering almost masochistically. On the one hand the elf wanted nothing to do with it but there was a very tiny part of his subconscious that saw this as punishment for his black lies that had tainted Kestal's dying days and ruined his former friendship. It was that tiny part that whispered in his ever-twitching ears with words worse than anything his captor could ever hiss at him, with words that drowned him in a sea of violet misery and guilt of which there seemed to be no escape. Ocarern slammed his eyes shut, clinging tighter to his tunic as he fought back pain both physical and mental to little avail.

[Kiri de Kismet]

The rubies he'd extracted from the elf's body splattered over Fen's arm, drenching his shirt, blooding the elf's scarred back. Poor poppet had wanted nothing more than to escape the pain, but in doing so, had only stretched his skin further, had made it easier for his brush to spread that delicious, delightful paint over himself.

But one thing had been missing from his performance, yes— just as a fine restaurant will have a violinist plucking at strings for his patrons, his poppet was supposed to provide the ambiance. No matter the blood, no matter how drenched his hand was in his rubies, that precious throat of him had barely screamed at all.

Fen's dark red eyes gleaned over his bloodied hand, smiling widely. His clean hand, still on his shoulder, violently pulled Oca upright— forbidding him to curl into himself. "You would rob me of your requiem?" Fen asked, his clean hand trembling, while his right shook just as terribly, holding the dagger firmly betwixt two bloodstained digits. He turned his poppet around— his hands bloodying him more as he did so— so that the elf could look into his eyes, red eyes, the eyes of the beast.

"I want you to open your mouth," Fen muttered, reaching up to Oca's throat,  smearing blood over it, feeling the most vulnerable part of him, "and wail like the wounded animal you are."

So beautiful was a creature's throat— to touch it was to tempt fate; for one slice of his knife could end his elf's life. As bloodied fingertips rubbed across his throat, the beast could not help but smile His smile seemed so genuine— as if this were one of the few moments where he were truly at peace— but it was his eyes (chaotically craving, laughing, savouring)  that reflected his true nature.

And tonight, he was blessed and baptized by blood— so gods help him, it was only at the last second did he remember that his fun would end if he should slide that knife 'cross his throat. So Fen grabbed Oca's upper arm with his clean hand, poising his knife towards supple flesh.

"Let's try this again."

Audaciously, he dared to wink at the elf before slashing at his skin again, sliding across his upper arm. This time, Fen had sunk his blade deeper into his skin as he slashed— so although his canvas was smaller this time, his goal was different. He wanted to make a caged bird sing.

[GoblinFae]

The shirt was quickly dropped as Ocarern was dragged around to face the beast of a man who was intent upon skinning him alive or so it seemed. The elf shuddered in revulsion and fear at Fenrisúlfr's touch and the blood that smeared over his pale skin. He did not have long to think on the fiery red and orange chaotically swirling aura that bled from the monstrous man as easily as the elf's own lifeblood escaped him.

When the knife scored across his flesh once more, Ocarern did open his mouth, letting lose a pained shout as he both tried to keep his arm still to not drag the blade in further even as he leaned the rest of his body closer to Fenrisúlfr, baring his teeth in a defensive growl. His breath came quick and heavy while the elf fought for control over his pain. But the contortions of his face and the dilation of his eyes could not hide how he suffered both physically and mentally from both the past and the present. It did not matter that even as the blade dragged across his skin anew that his back was already in the process of knitting flesh back together again. His very soul was raging with black-lined hatred for the human who not only dared assault him but dredge up long bury memories of pain and hate. If only Ocarern was not so weak and fragile. If only he was strong enough to avenge and free himself. Not even thoughts of a possible humiliation for Fenrisúlfr and a subsequent escape were enough to calm or console him. The elf was already losing himself to misery.

[Kiri de Kismet]

He was a living muse, the sort of perfection that artists, sculptors and musicians would wage war over. For as his brush soared over his canvas, the little elf did open his mouth, a primal shout ripping from his throat as he did so. Fen could not help but curl his lips into a grin, especially as his catch leaned closer to him, into him— anything to stop the pain.

It was an overwhelming cornucopia of emotions; the blood mage found he could not contain them all. The urge to strike again, to bleed him dry, to end his life— but also, to continue playing his delicate sonata— all rushed through his head in an effort to take priority. It was rare for him to extract so much wondrous red from a body and for the music to be just right. In the interest of preserving his phonograph, his easel, Fen— with a shaking, blood-red hand— dropped his knife, letting it fall on the bed.

The blood mage took a took breath, attempting to reel the monster back in. An overwhelming part of him wanted to feel that warm red gush out of his throat and onto his hands, but the artist in him knew that this would complete this work of art, forever. No. He'd very much like to keep this elf alive.

He placed a trembling hand onto the side of the elf's face, letting his thumb brush over his cheek. "You played beautifully," he acknowledged. His voice was airy, otherworldly, as if he was no longer of this earth, but in a different time, plane, dimension— one awash in red. "Who knew such a clear cavatina was captive inside you, hm?" He laughed, letting his hand fall from his face. "You will make some mad master happy one day, pet. But as for now..."

Blood everywhere.

Fen placed a hand to his face, suddenly quiet. The blood was all copper, metallic, begrimed as it slid down betwixt his fingertips. It was viciously viscous, scummy as it clung to him and his pet— silently staining, tainting his world with red paint. Obnoxiously, it covered his art— a befouled liquid, smudging his beautiful black and white world.

The beast was leaving him, as it did when his ecstasy dimmed. Fen shut his eyes. It was all he could do to stop himself from shuddering.

"In the bottom drawer," Fen motioned towards a nearby armoire, "take the towels there and clean the paint off your person. Be quick."

[GoblinFae]

Just because the bloodlust had seemed to have left Fenrisúlfr, did not mean that the rage boiling within Ocarern was just as quick to wash away. On the contrary, the demon's apparent dismissal only served to send the elf into a further rage. The moment that he was released, he was curling his injured arm into his chest while the other swiftly back-handed the knife off the bed where it fell to floor with a clatter moments before Ocarern's bunched fist grazed Fenrisúlfr's chin.

Then, not waiting for the man to recover himself and with a speed he regularly reserved for his pickpocketing, the smaller man clasped his uninjured hand about his so-called master's throat and loosed an anguished scream of hatred and pain in his face. The hand trembled where it firmly but not dangerously squeezed, ragged nails digging into soft flesh to leave behind crescent craters.

The sting of his wounds healing was but a distant memory to the elf who wanted nothing more than to squeeze the life out of his captor but in the end found himself too weak-willed to partake in such a murderous act. Instead he took to shaking the man slightly as his tongue whipped and lashed the man up and down with curses in all the tongues he knew. Elven. Common. Connlaothian. Adelan. The words flew by detailing just how deep Ocarern's disgust for the demon who dared cage him ran. The elf blamed him for his pain, mocking him for his lowly "human greed and lust" for another's suffering, all the while cursing his very existence to a fate worse than death for dolling out judgement that was not his to deliver. In that breadth of a few seconds, Ocarern cared not for his fate once it caught up with his flying tongue. All that mattered was fighting for all he was worth to prove to Fenrisúlfr, to prove to himself that he was not weak. He was no man's poppet.