Spirits of the Earth

OOC- Lily and The Man are NPCs so... feel free to take control of either one, if you want to :3 Also... long post is long xDD Sorry <33

The soft dirt pathways were particularly empty at night. Violet cloaked the sky as a million curios silver stars blinked slowly at the solitary form that drifted down the narrow jagged path. The moon hung full and swollen, flooding the fielded with eerie grey light, turning the river into a slice of flowing mercury.

Braylinn followed the flow of the water, watching it leap and twist over rocks and conform to the shape of the banks. He smiled softly, clutching his basket to his chest. His startlingly dark blue eyes, like two little dollops of arctic ocean, scanned the serene but empty scene with a sense of seeking. There was something he was looking for, far from him home that slept silent and dark at least twenty minutes at his back. It wasn't to close, but not to far either, and he was almost there.

Even his shadow, stretched along the grassy ground in front of him, looked small. He sighed, disliking the sight of it, absently brushing some of the pale tan strands from his face. He needed a haircut, he thought, his smooth neat hair falling just barely into his eyes, sweeping the nape of his neck as he walked. He looked feminine enough without letting his hair grow, for goodness' sake.

A huge hulking abandoned barn came into his view, like a stain of black against the brilliant violet, diamond speckled sky. Behind just before it lay a sea of glittering blue; a swarm of flowers that only opened their blooms at night. They were called 'Heaven's Mirror,' because all day they would sleep dormant, gathering sunlight. Then, at one in the morning, they would throw open their petals and release all the night, glowing like a miniature sky on the field. Braylinn smiled as he carefully leaned down, plucking a few of the flowers and dropping them into his basket. She would like them, he was sure.

Lilly was the daughter of a priest who had moved into the manor not quite next door to Braylinn, and his father. She seemed to be having trouble getting settled, and so Braylinn thought (with a pale pink blush) that some beautiful flowers might make her feel better.

But suddenly, Braylinn thought he caught sight of the hem of her pale white dress, flared in a burst of speed. He hesitated, blinking into the inky grey light, about to simply ignore his trickster eyes, but then he heard it. It was Lily's voice, sharpened into a frightened little whimper. A worried expression clouded his face as Braylinn drifted into the aching mouth of the black barn, his basket of softly glowing flowers clutched to his chest. Shadows clung inside the creases of his clothes; nothing but a plain white robe tied shut across his waist with a thin black ribbon. Nothing but his pajamas and a pair of sandals; but staying in the house and moving about to change risked waking his father, which was something he didn't wish to do.  

The darkness inside was so thick it was only watered down in spots; the glow of the flowers Braylinn had washing away one spot, while a torch at the other end of the barn cleaned away another. Within the orange stain of light swam to blurry images, one of them (he had been right) was Lilly, and the other was a man he didn't recognize. He had Lily pushed hard against the wall, and her fine pretty face was creased with bright plain fear.

Shock twisted Braylinn's insides.

"H-hey!" he shouted, hurrying across the barn like a little meek comet through the darkness. "What are you doing, leave her alone!"

The man turned around, his eyes blurry and drunk. Lily shivered in fear, her eyes urging Braylinn away.

"What's it look like I'm doin'? Scram kid, I got things to do..." the man muttered, a smile showing his crooked yellow teeth.

"Braylinn, get out of here!" Lily insisted, "He's gunna-"

""Please," Braylinn interrupted, "Please don't hurt her..." he struggled with his own helplessness; what could he do? The man was at least twice his size; it wasn't like he could fight him off.

"Please? Don't you have a nice set a' manners. Your mommy teach you that?" the man chuckled to himself as if he had told an amazing joke.

Braylinn's shoulders stiffened, his grip on the basket tightening.

"I can give you these," he held out the basket, his whole body tensing. "They're valuable, you could sell them. I could give you some money, too. Just please don't hurt her."

The man seemed to struggle for a moment, his thoughts slowed and heavy with alcohol. The moment he took his arms from either side of Lily, she was off, her hair swaying behind her like sun rays until she blinked out into the darkness, and then out of the mouth of the barn. She was gone.

Braylinn turned to run too, but there was a heavy bear-like hand on his shoulder. Within a moment he was thrown back against the wall onto which Lily had been pinned, the weight of the drunken man pressing against him. Braylinn nearly chocked on the stench of alcohol.

"I'll take your flowers, and your money... and maybe something else, too..."

"B-but, I didn't, I never said-"

"Look, I could go catch your little dove right now, if you don't do what I say..." Braylinn felt numbness close around him completely, as the little black ribbon that was tied about his waist was tugged away. The white fabric of his robe opened over his chest like a wound.

"So," the man continued, "you'd best behave yourself."
The flowers (he had dropped them) were littered about their feet like a cloud of weeping stars.

Meanwhile, Lily was banging furiously on Braylinn's front door.

"Come quick, someone! Help! Please!" she shouted in complete panic.

The Nex family were more than a respectable family; they were a household name in this little town. People would always remark to Timor on just how lovely his son Braylinn was, just how much progress Braylinn was making in his herbal studies, and just how much Braylinn looked like his mother. Every time Timor locked eyes with his son, he was reminded of Lucretia's deep, azure eyes. So incredibly pure were they that Timor's own watery blue eyes paled in comparison. There were undisclosed reasons for the white flecks in his own eyes, which he'd rather the public did not know about. But all in all, the appearance of the Nex family was respectable in every way possible, and Timor intended to maintain that family reputation. Even after Lucretia had left him, he'd diffused any major rumours, and had spread his own to ensure the aristocracy still welcomed him as one of their own.

It was simply tragic; the splendour in which he languished, passing away borrowed time, wasting the sands in his personal hourglass. A great man in his youth, Timor had surpassed the intelligence of all his peers, and even his mentors. His parents had enrolled him in Arca University, and everything should've been good and golden, and syrupy sweet. Only it wasn't. Despite what he told himself, Timor knew he was the shadow in the wake of his sister, Rosalia. Whatever he did, she had already done better. Even his mansion was nothing compared to the castle she lived in.

But it was OK. He didn't have to see her except for odd special days of the year. His seething resentment of her always had to be masked then, masked with artificial smiles that had just as much blandness as the cocktails and the snacks the servants always served. No, he had his own little kingdom, built up from the wood and stone of an ancient vampire's stronghold. The previous tenant didn't breathe; that was no surprise, but it hadn't been too hard to stop him from moving...permanently.

And now Timor lived with his son in the old nest of a vampire, a mansion steeped in decadence and glutted with splendour. On approach, two overbearing gargoyles stood as sentinels to a yawning gate, which opened to reveal a winding gravel path that led up to the looming building. Built at least two hundred years ago, this mansion was of the old gothic style that was still in vogue with the aristocracy. Her great arches towered over the macabre garden, and each side of the main building was supported by a jutting wing.

Inside, Timor had kept the décor exactly as it was when he first moved here twenty years ago. The crystalline chandelier hung above a wide reception. Paintings lined the walls and two marble staircases ran up to a raised level, with a balcony, that led to other rooms. It would be pointless to describe the statues, the exotic plants, the antique chairs, the harpsichords, or the numerous bookshelves, but perhaps some attention could be paid to Timor's bedroom, the room in which he was currently residing.

The rise and fall of his chest betrayed the fact that he was alive; other than that, he was perfectly still, a portrait of a man in his prime, lying on a four-poster bed and spread-eagled in such a manner as to appear dangerously lascivious. His lush, dark hair was tousled, and no trace of stubble could be seen in what moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the light curtains.

This night, Timor was practicing the art of astral projection. It was the current goal on his list of things to accomplish, and being the second time that he had tried to do this, he found himself slightly more successful. However, he had read in one of his great leather-bound tomes that in the early stages, astral projections and dreaming often became integrated, and that was the strange sensation he was experiencing right now.

Timor was walking through a dark corridor, lined with portrait paintings. On a quick glance, Timor recognised this as his own West Wing, and it seemed that he was heading down a path he had secretly trodden many times. Yes, yes, past the laundry room, past the locked doors, and here, to the end of the corridor. He stopped before a large painting, depicting a battle of hell knew where. Raising an arm to touch the paintwork, he admired it's beauty for a minute, imagining each lush brushstroke. And then he dug his nails into the space between the frame of the painting and the wood panelling of the wall, and applied slight pressure. Stepping backwards onto a nail in the floorboard, there was a slight rumbling. Timor let go as the painting swung backwards, revealing a door, which he then passed through like a ghost.

That was one of the strange things; he wasn't fully sure if he was dreaming or projecting, but if he was projecting then surely there was no need for him to make the painting swing back. Based on this logic, he deduced that he was simply dreaming, and that he'd failed again. At this, the sleeping Timor's smooth face crinkled for a split second. Failure was not to be tolerated!

But no matter. He would see where this dream would lead. Unspectacularly, it led to his underground rooms, rather than to some flight of fancy. Timor found himself in dark, cold stone rooms, in places he knew oh so well, places that would never see the light of day. Sighing to himself, he acknowledged his failure this time and simply let the dream play itself out. Here he was, in what could only be described as an underground dungeon, littered with rooms full of bizarre equipment, bottles of strange coloured liquids, and books of forbidden knowledge.

In his dream, he walked up to a cupboard, produced a key and unlocked the door. Now this was something new. Timor had no such cupboard. Nevertheless, this cupboard swung open, to reveal a lifeless wax model of someone he knew very well. Timor's chest heaved another sigh, and he let his arm fall, gently stroking the shoulder of the waxen model. He titled his head, moving closer to press his lips to the lips of the model, and was within a hair's breadth away when...

Timor jerked awake, eyes wide and a cold sweat running down his body. That couldn't have been her, could it? No, no! His dream fled his mind as waking thoughts entered his brain. Even now, his dream had faded to something intangible, even now, he'd forgotten it's essence. But why had he awoken?

Timor frowned, and listened. Wait...he could hear something...a thud, thud, a banging sound, like the thud a body makes when one drags it across the ground.

Throwing his covers aside, he lit a candle, and fumbled for clothing. Making sure he was dressed respectably, he picked up the candleholder and cursed the servants for being so deep in sleep that they missed this sound of knocking. Timor hurried down the corridors, glided down the staircase and flung open the door, ready to give whoever was knocking one hell of a mouthful.

"What do you think you're doing, knocking at this time of--" He'd started shouting, before he even had time to register that it was Lily, Braylinn's friend.

Hmph, friend, Timor thought in disgust, but he had no time for this train of thought to follow it's usual route for Lily, white faced and stricken, burst out, "Come quick, someone! Help! Please!"

Frowning, he nodded and slipped some shoes on, before locking the door and following the girl.

((Sorry for long post- it's long to make up for me not replying!! Hope yooooou like it too! Oh, and Timor will follow Lily without making conversation, so take him to the scene of obscenity!! XD))

Lily felt a surge of relief as the front door was tugged open. She had been startled badly from the sudden shouting that rained on her from above; but then again, she was used to being startled by Timor. He was a frightening man, after all, and she had the most distinct feeling that for some reason or another, he wasn't to fond of her.

Lily's mind stirred in quiet chaos; there was no time to explain, not really, and yet she knew leading Timor blind into such a situation would be dangerous (for almost everyone). "S-sorry to wake you, but its an emergency!" she motioned for Timor to follow her and took off at a clumsy run, obviously burned out from the dash to the mansion. Still, force of will kept her going. Breathlessly, she tried to explain what little she could as she ran. The bright moon was slowly stewing, suffocating under a liquid-dark coat of clouds, rain quivering and ready to fall.

"There was this man, and he was coming after me, and Braylinn saw and came to help," she panted, horribly out of breath, her bright sunshine yellow hair plastered to her face here and there. "I told him not to, I told him to get away! B-but... he... he tried to bargain the man away from me, and well... I got away, but who ever that man is still has poor Bray at the old barn!" in such a panic she was, Lily had forgotten one of things Braylinn always insisted, which was 'Never refer to me casually in front of my father'.  

The jagged dirt path was slowly melting into thick filthy mud as the clouds leaked icy rain, and thunder murmured nervously over the field. The grass quivered, cold. The old barn loomed like a giant splash of black ink, blacker still then the sky or the rest of the shadows that sulked through the night.

The light that glowed from the Heaven's Mirror Flowers flickered gently, catching in the creases of Braylinn's robe as he locked his arms around his chest in vein attempt to keep himself covered. His shoulders were bare though, upon them an odd collection of pale criss-crossing white lines. His stomach was knotted painfully, his knees shaking so badly he would have toppled, if he was not pressed so tightly to the wall.

Fear was written boldly across his wide midnight-blue eyes, a scared cry pressed out of him as his struggles were crushed; hands grasping his wrists and prying them apart, pinning them to the wall. The robe fluttered sheepishly down and Braylinn looked away, trying not to shake. He bit his tongue, quelling the impulse to yell out for help. He didn't want to give the man the satisfaction.

Braylinn wanted to melt into the wall as a thick ungraceful hand began to paw at his waistband.

"Please, don't do that!" he shouted, his mind racing painfully. "Please, please, you don't have to go that far! I-I'll..."

"You'll what?" came the voice that was more cruel then slurred, blurry unfocused eyes narrowing on Braylinn. "You cost me my girl, boy. You owe me." That hand pushed forcefully below his waistband.

Braylinn cried out in panic, his body crumpling; he fell to his knees, his hands catching himself against the man's hips. His head rested weakly (he was so damn dizzy) against the man's leg, sobs clogging up his throat. The man regarded how Braylinn looked in such a compromising pose.

"Please, don't... I'll... j-just don't touch me and I'll..." Braylinn felt suddenly like he was going to be violently ill. He hissed as a thick hand dove into his hair, tugging, pushing him forward into somewhere warm.

"Go on then..."

Braylinn hardly noticed the sound to rapidly approaching footsteps, his ears all to full of the sound of a creeping zipper.

"Here, they're in here!" Lily's voice said somewhere in the distance, as she and Timor arrived at the mouth of the barn.

((OOC- No worries, long is fun xD Gives me something to sit and enjoy reading <33 I wanna live in that mansion, you made it sound so cool!!))

Timor had jumped straight to the conclusion, that whatever this was all about, must involve his son somehow. He could think of no other reason for this girl to be rapping on his door at this ungodly hour. This girl, whom he was openly civil to, yet always with a pinch of bitterness...he always treated Braylinn's friends with distance. She was friends with his son, and nothing more, he hoped.

"S-sorry to wake you, but its an emergency!"

His face darkened in response, mind whirling with thoughts along the lines of, 'it had better well be!' Timor had an extremely bad feeling about all of this, a sense of ill foreboding, which hung in the crisp air like a ripe, round moon. It looked as if Lily wasn't going to explain herself.

Wrapping his clothing around himself to stave out the chill air, Timor followed Lily, down the twisting and turning gravel path, bursting out of the flapping gates. Timor was incredibly impatient at the pace they were going, and he wished that this damned girl would tell him just where to go so that he could get there much quicker. By the gods, she was going slow, dragging his pace like the way great rocks impede the flow of torrential water. She must've belted her heart out to get here, and eventually, Lily had caught enough breath to begin a fumbling recount of her tale.

Timor listened first in apprehension, and then in horror, his mind racing ahead, racing and mentally envisioning the outcomes, in so much shock that he even overlooked the fact Lily had referred to his son casually. As if to add pathos to the scene, the sky darkened as clouds swelled, burying the ripen moon with smothering vigour. Raindrops began to pitter-patter, pitter-patter, slowly at first, before increasing momentum.

His heart sank as he finally made out the place where Lily was taking him. What in the name of the gods had Braylinn been doing over here, in this isolated suburb of town?!!? Other than the odd tavern, and the scattered farm houses, there was nothing else here but prime locations for any number of crimes. They ran past the dark alleyways, which were not much better. By now, little puddles were forming in the golden brown dirt, and more than once Timor splashed his clothing, but he didn't care.

Lily ran up the path to the barn, an ominous looking building, and pointed dumbly to the gaping doors, which in the dark had the appearance of a wide mouth. Catching her breath, she babbled, "Here, they're in here!"

Elbowing her aside, Braylinn burst into the barn, stumbling blindly about the haystacks and the machinery.

"Braylinn?" He yelled. His voice seemed oddly muffled here in the barn, as if it had been swallowed up by the bales of hay. "Braylinn?"

---

The man swung a punch at Braylinn's stomach, and then one at his head, which should be enough to incapacitate the boy, causing him to sink to the ground and remain there until he sorted out the other intruder. Looking around, his eyes caught sight of a glinting crowbar not too far away from where he was. There were other bits of half rusted metal, and he tore a chunk of the corrugated metal, before picking up the crowbar. The sound the metal made as it tore would be enough to alert the intruder to his location. Hefting the crowbar in his hand, the man waited until Timor came in sight, and lunged at him, striking Timor on the head.

He watched in satisfaction as Timor dropped to the ground without a word. Giving the body a good kick or two, the man was now satisfied that Timor wouldn't pose anymore problems, at least in the near future.

A scream alerted him to another presence. It was that damn girl again! But before he could react, the girl had taken off, bolting at the sight of him. No doubt she would run to the local authority. In his drunken state, he managed to figure out that he wouldn't have much time to do what he wanted to do to the boy.

Perhaps he could leave some more permanent marks on his body instead. Glancing at the piece of metal he'd torn off, he thought about just how sharp the edge was. In this light, it could almost be mistaken for the edge of a knife...

((Timor's problem solved! The man wants to do his thing, and then let Timor get the blame, mwahahahaha!!!))

Someone was calling for him... Braylinn's heart jumped instantly into his throat, throbbing there painfully. The voice was muffled, yes, but he could never mistake it for anything other then it was. The boy was used to hearing such a voice muffled anyway, a near commonplace sounds saved in his mind from all the nights he had spent 'spying' outside his father's door, attempting to divine just what it was his father devoted so many hour to, locked away alone. Asking got him no where, of course, so on nights when he was especially curious, he wound linger quiet in the darkness of the hall. He never found out much, the dull stirring shadows and quick quiet murmurs (that might have been spells) that seemed under the door did little more then stir his curiosity further. Thus, such a voice, even murmured, was unmistakable.

The cry he had been working so hard to repress suddenly burst helplessly past his lips, "Help! Dad, help!" somewhere in his mind he knew we was out of it with fear; he had been trained better then to call his father so casually. Any other time he would have worried, but not when he was so near frantic with fear.

Pain overrode Braylinn's senses quite suddenly, his sight flickering between the black of the barn and something blacker eating at the edges of his vision. He felt as if he was under water for a few blurry moments, his head swimming in vertigo as he crumpled to the ground, and waited.

Where was his father, the fuzzy questioned played on repeat over and over again behind his closed eyes. Shouldn't he be across the barn by now...?

He felt dull surprise more then anything as he was suddenly hauled up by the shoulders, and then the terror flooded back as his eyes met with those of the berserk drunken man. Urgency was written across his face, his hand clenched around something sharp and metal. reality crashed back to Braylinn in a surge; a storm of questions.

'Where is father, what happened to him? Is he alright? What did this madman do? Where is Lily?' He hardly had time to guess at a single answer. Quite suddenly the sharp edge of the metal bit down his chest, leaving one deep red line, then two, then three. Red crosses blossomed on his pale skin, each slash twisting his face in pain. He began to feel dizzy, pain blurring into sticky warmth down the front of his chest. Meekly, his thoughts beginning to run together, Braylinn attempted to cross his arms over his chest, only to have the savage slashes lash across them, too.

What made him scream though, shrill and unrestrained, was the slash that cut straight up his left cheek. His vision became black on one side, panic knotting in his stomach. And yet, he could not worry about himself. It hurt horribly, yes, and he was terrified... but his thoughts lingered on the safty of Lily...

Of his father. Braylinn lifted his head (when had he been dropped to the floor?) peering through the dark barn to where he could just barely see his father's form in a still mass on the floor.

"Father..." he called out, not quite conscious anymore. Braylinn was confused by the warm pool growing under himself. There was so much... couldn't be blood, could it?

The man walked with an eerie sense of calm, dropping the bloody weapon at Timor's side, next to his hand. He wobbled for a moment on his feet, before heading for the door. As he dashed, he contented himself with thoughts of the authorities arriving, and making all the wrong assumptions.

((OOC- just... cuz I'm confusing myself here xD This aint gunna be what actually kills Braylinn, right? Cuz whatever kills him for realz is gunna have to be some kind of vicious animal. Also, I hope thats what you meant to happen there xD I'm exceedingly paranoid I misinterpreted your comment somehow ._. ))

Timor's eyes widened in the split second he had before he was knocked out. That last image, the snapshot of his son, slumped there in that awful condition and that...man, was burned into his brain with such a ferocity that if it hadn't been for the blow to the head, Timor would surely have betrayed the darkness within him. Such was the power of his anger, limitless and unbounded.

---

Lily's breath came in white misty puffs, as she sprinted down the path, running on nothing but adrenaline. It was amazing the things your body could do, when under duress. The only catch was that the main plethora of buildings was about a mile away, and she was worried that by the time she got back, things would've gone way too far. Her mind refused to picture it, no, no, no!!

Somewhere inside, something broke, and she sank to her knees, hands clenched into fists which were so balled up that her fingernails were digging into the flesh of her palm, making crescent half moons. Her hair hung limply over her face, framing her youthful delicate features, and preventing anyone- if anyone walked past at this time of night- from seeing her trembling eyes spill their precious tears.

She was the quiet girl, and he was the quiet boy in the corner. He had always been so polite to her, always opening doors for her, or lending her his pen when hers ran out. It was supposed to be perfect. And yet, whenever she thought they were making progress, things got in the way. Braylinn's father. No matter how hard she tried, she ended up standing, stalling, always falling.

And now, she couldn't even do anything for Braylinn. Or Timor! The thought of Braylinn's father lying there, eyes closed, helpless, brought back some of her resolve. She would get up from her fall, stand up, and no matter what, she would save them. Lily wiped her tears, and gazed blearily around at the countryside. The houses weren't too far away; she could see them rising up like little toy blocks. No way would she be able to reach the local magistrates or the guards, so she would just have to wake up some of the townsfolk and hope they wouldn't be too grumpy. And if they were, then she would make them help. With that in mind, Lily went up to the first door, and rapped smartly upon the brass knocker.

---

He was surrounded by darkness, cold, comforting darkness, pressing in on him from all sides. Thoughts and voices, disembodied, ebbed back and forth, becoming sharp one second, and out of focus the next. He was on the tide, riding a current through a gaping tunnel. Leading to where, he had no clue.

Everything he had worked for, everything he had built up, crumbled around him into tiny pieces, and was washed away in this current, before his very eyes. Timor let out a cry, but he was helpless, incapacitated somehow. His grasp upon this world was insubstantial. He was bound to another, not to this dream-state, the waiting station. Leading to what?

Jumbled images, jumbled sounds clammed his senses. Someone was banging pots and pans in his ear, and with a start he realised it was his sister, his bittersweet Rosalia. She was laughing at him, and he was helpless, knowing that he would take the blame for all the mess that they had made in the kitchen.

It wasn't me, it wasn't my fault, he kept muttering, but the sounds were choked in his throat. Breathing was impeded, laboured. If only he could get the words out, then everything would be OK. But...what were the words?

You can't say those words ever again, do you understand me?!

No I do not. Why. It wasn't a question, a command. His bored eyes flickered over the face of his schoolmaster, before returning to watching the fly buzz against the window.

They are forbidden.

Forbidden words, that choked his tongue. What were they?

Any words.

Anything will do.

Even, a name.

What shall we call our son?

"Braylinn."

---

Timor came to, murmuring the name of his son repeatedly. His breathing was uneven, in ragged bursts, and his head felt as if someone had been pounding it insistently. Sitting up, it took a second for him to regain his bearings. Adrenaline surged through his body and he leapt to his feet, before letting out a groan and clutching his head.

Yes, there was a bruise. Yes, someone would pay.

But, oddly, when he scanned the barn, it was deserted.

((I think the only way we can get Braylinn to be attacked is if he wanders off, thinking that he can go find help for his father, but gets lost in an alleyway? Can't remember if we've had this conversation before or not! ;-_- And...long post to make up for not replying yesterday!! *bows*))

Braylinn felt as if he was swimming up from deep waters. His lungs ached to breath and yet he could not, not until he broke the surface. Reality swam blurry far above his head as he struggled to reach it, pushing himself one tiny bit closer toward consciousness at a time. He was panicked without knowing why, without knowing anything save for the fact he had to wake up. Get up. Save them. Save him.

Braylinn's eyes opened like painful blue wounds, a hiss of pain seeping past his lips as the blurry barn sprang up all around him. His whole body ached horribly, pain biting vicious on the tip of every nerve. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound, pushing himself into a sitting position. Meekly, he touched his face. It was cut wide open on one side, and half of his vision was still ominously black. Braylinn dropped his hand, terrified to feel only a gash where his eye should be. No, he told himself, panicking wouldn't do anything now.

"Dad?" he called out (formality be damned) struggling to his feet. The pain was something horrible but not completely unfamiliar. He had been hurt rather badly before, through no fault of his own, too. And wasn't this all his fault? Should his first impulse have been to run for help rather then to bargain with that mad man? Braylinn remembered the sting of bees, from the time he had stayed and let himself be attacked only to have to schoolmate who disturbed the hive escape. He remembered the claws of rose thorns, from the time he had climbed willingly into a huge thicket of thorns to retrieve his teacher's lost book. He remembered the bite of broken glass on the bare bottoms of his feet, as he hurried to rescue the poor residents of a shattered aquarium. 'Helpful', people called him. Everyone always seemed so pleased... everyone, save for one. Save for the one who had to wrap his woulds (pull the stingers, the thorns, the glass from his skin) and save for the one who had to listen to just how he let himself become so damaged.

Guilt settled comfortably in Braylinn's stomach, as if it planned on staying. The silver rain-light leaking in from the mouth of the barn highlighted a faint silhouette, a form crumpled into the ground. Braylinn thoughtlessly dropped to his knees beside his father, placing his hands on the unconscious man's shoulders.

"Dad?" he gently shook Timor, watching his creased uncomfortable expression. The man seemed to be dreaming about something unpleasant. "Dad?" with a little more panic this time. Braylinn's arms hardly shook before they gave out from under him, and he fell limply against Timor's chest. He lay there for a long collection of moments, listening hard for the sound of a heartbeat. There was one, panicked and uneven as it was, and Braylinn sat with his head to his father's chest for at least minutes, desperately attached to the sound. Then, with great effort, he pulled himself up. Timor was damp with blood, and in Braylinn's blurry mind he would not divine how much belonged to who.  Where was Lily? Where was their help?  

Braylinn struggled to his feet once again, wrapping his wounded arms around his chest, every step an awful ache. He told himself it was familiar, this pain, and that this was only more of something he already knew. This was something he could stand quite easily, if it meant helping his father.

Pain was something easy for him, as long as Braylinn shouldered it for someone else, and not himself. It look eternities in every moments to drag himself step by step from the barn, down the winding path that followed the river, and toward the town. The rain felt heavy on his clothing (he had tugged on his robe before leaving the barn), and seemed persistent to wash away the blood. But more and more would only pour out, refusing to be clean.

A dark stretch of trees curled out like a great vast shadow before his line of few. The path curved around the sudden spike of forest, and down a slope into the edge of town. Cutting through the forest though, would take a good ten minutes off the trip.

Braylinn thought again of Bee Stings, of Rose Thorns and Broken Glass, and then of Sharp Metal and of Timor laying unconscious on the floor of the barn.

With no hesitation he headed for the forest. It was hard to lift his wounded legs over the occasional offending branch, but the trees provided nice support should he wobble and need to catch his balance. It was a pleasant enough forest... during the day.

Storm light glinted off what Braylinn was positive was bone. His mind only refused it for a few short moments; the sight of a sharp edged white beast, a dragon of bone with eyes of burning coal. He hardly had the thought capacity at that moment to wonder at what such a creature was doing in such a quaint little forest.

But, such a creature did not eat, right? So there would be no reason for an attack...

Those smoldering coal eyes of the creature settled on Braylinn's wounded form, it inhaled sharp the scent of blood above the rain. True, this species of bone dragon did not consume flesh... but fed itself on plain cold pain. Braylinn was startled as the thing stepped closer to him, a sudden lighting strike throwing it's jagged shadow across Braylinn's form.

The boy's stomach dropped, his eyes on the creatures as he slowly began to back up. No, he thought, over and over again until it practically had no meaning. But the creature crept forward, and pounced, and Braylinn hardly had time to call for help.

--

Only a few people were willing to venture out in such an awful storm, the majority of them hardly willing to wake up fully, and ear Lily's story. But thankfully, one of the kind hearts who had joined her was the town's stable master, and so she rode (with him and a few others) crowded on the backs of a few cream-white stallions, skimming over the field like stray comets.  

Lily's body ached for rest but her mind would hardly allow her to blink. He watched the black barn approaching rapidly, her ears full of the sound of clattering hooves and quiet murmurs. They only climbed off the horses at the very door of the barn. Some other kind soul who had agrees to help had brought a jar of frantic fireflies fastened to a staff. She held it aloft, casting smoky orange light inside the blackness of the barn.

Timor was inside, seeming to have just awoken, but otherwise the barn was empty. The women with the firefly staff gasped upon seeing him covered in a great deal of blood, the stable master shielding her, Lily, and the rest of the small crowd by stepping forward, his expression careful and calculating (suspicious and weary).  

"What in god's name happened here?" he demanded.

--

Braylinn was quite correct in his assumption that this particular species of bone dragon did not consume flesh. And so, not a single piece of flesh was missing. Every bit of the boy was present, some by the roots of trees and some laid delicately across the ground, some feet away. The set was complete, but in pieces.

Well, almost complete. The eye that had been wounded by that madman was gone, as was its twin. The dragon consumed pain after all, and those eyes had reflected so much, the creature could hardly resist them.  

((OOC-There xD Silly Braylinn, wondering into the woods at night >_> its actually a very thin stretch of forest, and not very far from town at all. So it should be easy to *cough* find him... especially if they happen to see the random bone dragon take wing from the trees. Haha no problem <33 I hope ya replay soon, I keep getting this "eeeee what happens NEXT?!" feeling xDDD and.... yeah, long post is LONG O_O Sowwy xDDD))

"What in god's name happened here?"

Timor wasn't sure how long he had been sat there for, but the demanding voice and the footsteps of others seemed to rouse him from the murky pounding feeling he had in his head. He seemed to feel rather than see the other presences; intuition, or an extra sense. Struggling to his feet, he blinked once, and then again, as precious light flooded into the barn. Pupils contracting to accommodate the new light intensity, Timor found his vision still watery and shaky, and instead relied on that extra sense.

"What's going on!?"

"Are you alright?"

He ignored the concerns of the onlookers and found himself stumbling forwards, but brushed off the arms of those who tried to help him, focusing entirely on the ground. Once Timor was out in open air, he breathed in deep gulps, drawing in the calming air straight into his lungs. Someone thrust a water skin into his hand, and he accepted the drink gratefully, gulping down the water as greedily as he had gulped down the air. The headache was still there, making him feel nauseous, sick. When his hand moved to brush the straw from his clothing, he was horrified to find that it came away stained a dark bloody red colour...not a lot of it was his...

"M-m-my son!" He said in a strangled voice, gesturing wildly. Ohmigod where the hell was Braylinn!? Had that man really done...but his mind refused to go any further than that.

Suddenly something was switched on within Timor, and he straightened his back, despite the wave of nausea. There was a trail of blood, leading away from the barn. How could the people have missed that?! His mind became cold, and hardened to these imbeciles who stood here crowding around him, fawning at him as if they were mother hens. He stared at each and every one of them, struggling to suppress his loathing.

"There is no time for explanations," he said with finality, silencing the hubbub. "If you wish to make yourself useful, tidy up this mess."

And with that, he snatched one of the flame torches from a neighbour, and strode off into the night, keeping the torch low so he could spot the telltale drops of blood. It was everywhere; on every blade of grass, and soon after he moved away from the barn, Timor saw with dawning horror that the trail led away from the path, and towards...the goddamn forest!

Lily, who had been trying to keep up with him, fell back, taking the hint that he wished to go alone. Her voice trailed off as she called after his disappearing back, "Mr Nex...sir..."

He took no notice of her.

Timor strode on, feeling himself grow stronger with every step. It was as if something was filling up the emptiness within, something refuelling him, rekindling the energy. He knew that it was the darkness that he had been immersing himself in more and more, over the years. He knew that was the reason for the white flecks in his eyes; a subtle sign of the effects that the use of the magic was having upon his body. They say that the eyes are the key to the soul; well, Timor's soul was slowly becoming fractured, warping with the darkness, morphing shape.

He would kill that man, that stupid, fucking drunk, for even looking at his son! No one would dare lay a hand on Braylinn without even his most tenuous permission. Braylinn was his son. No one else's. And there would be hell to pay, oh yes.

There was less blood here. A good sign, or not? Timor wasn't sure. He crouched down, and placed his fingers upon a clover plant. When he pulled his fingers away they were coated in a dark, thick liquid, his own lifeblood. Timor's feet crunched upon the earthy undergrowth of the forest, as he waved the torch here and there. Timor sent out waves of darkness, which slowly extended fingers much like feelers, searching for a positive DNA match.

But before the search could be completed, the feelers encountered something cold, something alien, something totally and utterly unalive. Something that had never been alive, something so monstrous that really shouldn't exist. His feelers retracted in shock, as did the thing. There was a rumble, of branches creaking, and then of something huge moving. He could hear wing-beats. Huge wing-beats.

Timor stood his ground. At that moment, the clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight shot through a gap in the clouds, striking the forest. Through the tall thin tree trunks, he made out something bone white, glistening under the pure light. The pearly thing was moving upwards, and as it broke free from the forest, Timor saw the full creature in profile. The image was suddenly burned upon his mind, and he knew it was something that he would never forget. He knew that it was something he would have nightmares about.

All thoughts ceased.

The next thing Timor knew, he was kneeling in the glade where the dragon had taken off, surrounded by pieces of his son. He was cradling his son's head in his arms, and somehow, Timor's eyes seemed to be broken, for they couldn't stop leaking tears.

((Sooooorry for such a late reply!! Exam season's creeping up, so please don't get mad if posts are erratic! What happens next? XD))

'Awake... I'm... oh, I'm not, I simply thought I was... for a moment...' Braylinn thought quietly, his thoughts coming in whispers to himself. He could no longer see, in the way he was used to, not longer feel. Sensations came to him in a jumble, in an uncrackable code. He didn't recognize anything, not the leaves shivering around him, the red streaks, the white bones of fingers away from hands. Everything was reduced to sad nonsense.

'I must be dead...' he thought to himself, no panic, no emotion to his words at all. But if he was in fact dead, should there not have been some alluring bright light? Or if not that, some hellish gates thrown open in sinister invitation? But there was nothing, save for the forest of things he could not recognize around him.

Braylinn began to feel lost. He felt the air as thoughts, knew the scent of fading rain by touch. Magic swept over him like a hot cotton quilt. Braylinn flinched, moving his hands to his face... but there were no hands, no face, he looked down and could see nothing.Again, no response was born from this. He merely accepted it, as any lost ghost would do.  

Vaguely he recalled something he had heard once... didn't a soul linger around it's body for a while before it died? Perhaps if he waited long enough, something would tell him where to go (heaven, hell, somewhere in between)?

The magic he had sensed... although his memories slipped in an out of this thoughts like allusive smoke, he recognized it was black magic, shadow magic. What was more, it was familiar. The only familiar thing he could recall, as a matter of fact. He had only but to decide to seek out the source and he was there, seeing without eyes a man, on his knees on the ground.

'This way, this way...' urged a silvery voice at the back of his mind. Something wanted to lead him away. Away... the word had never seemed so real before. Away meant away from everything, away forever. I'll go in a moment, Braylinn decided, he just wanted to see why this man seemed so horribly sad...

Even the torn up pieces of a human being didn't seem to startling to the lingering soul, only sad, like a puzzle that had been needlessly trashed.

'Hurry, hurry, you don't want to get stuck... the gates will close without you... and you'll be trapped here...' whispered the same silvery voice Braylinn had heard before. Trapped...? he didn't want to be trapped. He thought for a moment of leaving...

The man was crying. Timor was crying. His father was crying.

The memories that had been smoke became heavy crushing weights. Chains. Shackles. Leave? He couldn't leave! he could never leave! Braylinn lingered, little more then a touch of frost with consciousness, invisible to the world, listening to the sound of closing gates. The hinges creaked and called to him, but he could not go.

"Dad..." he was in front of Timor now, focusing on the man's face, oh his hands and how they looked cupping Braylinn's face. He spoke even though he knew Timor could not hear him. No one could, at least, not his words. He could never speak with the living again, not in the ways he was used to, anyway. "Dad... I... I didn't go anywhere... I'm right here..." he said. Meekly, he reached forward and attempted to touch the man's damp cheeks. His fingers drifted right through, as if he was not even there. Braylinn drew back sharply, starring for a long moment, feeling like if he could, he'd be sobbing.

Carefully, so as not to fall straight through, Braylinn shifted though his father's arms and settled against his chest. With a slight shock of surprise, he realized he could still hear the man's heart beat, just as he had before...

That was only an hour ago, at most. But things were so different now, so wrong... Braylinn was dead now, even if he wasn't gone.

((OOC- Ah no worries <3 I understand that ^___^ I just really enjoy this and really really look forward to your posts xD <33 As for what happens next... uhm, perhaps Timor can slightly sense the lingering soul? And then gathers up the pieces and takes them to his basement to stitch them back together?~))

His world had crumbled. Suddenly, the ground had fallen away from him, and everything that he had built up didn't exist anymore. All of his emotion was being siphoned away, to a complete and utter despair. Words simply couldn't express the tearing pain, the paternal anguish that wrenched Timor's heart. He didn't know how long he sat there, cradling his son's head to his body, sitting there in complete blankness. No thoughts could penetrate the thick emotion, nothing could get through.

All around him the rain had ceased to pitter patter. A gentle breeze picked up, caressing Timor, the broken man, clutching the broken pieces of his broken son. Such a poignant scene he made, crouching amidst the leaf litter. His clothes were bloodstained and dirty. Who would wash them, he thought, erratically. All this blood, all this dirt, who can I give my clothes to wash?

Timor thought of all the times he had gone to pick up his son from infant school. Just seeing that cheerful smiling face again, now, in this state, with both eyes missing! He bit his lip in horror at the sheer atrocity, forcing himself to look at the dark, gaping holes, forcing himself to ebb and flow with the anger. The surging waves brought him life, brought him more memories, of playing ball with Braylinn, of bandaging his wounds whenever he fell on glass. They fuelled his anger, the sense of injustice, and transformed the despair into bitter hatred.

His breathing became erratic, ragged, his eyes were now firm, resolute. Somewhere, he'd read something. In one of the deepest and darkest corners of the Necromantia Libraries, he'd stumbled across something forbidden, something which he had painstakingly scribed to parchment by candlelight. It had taken him days, weeks, even months, but by the end of these...studies...he had left the island with a copy of one of the darkest books known to black magic.

Timor would be breaking rules.

He would be breaking the rules of nature.

...He would be playing god.

Timor hurriedly gathered up the fragments, feeling for any sign of the soul still nearby. Yes, there it was, hovering ever so faintly, unwilling to let go. There was no life in the heart left, but the blood was still warm. He didn't know how long he had been sat here, but he now had to make a move on.

Once he had made a pile of every scrap he could find, Timor waved his arm and chanted an incantation under his breath. The body parts were swallowed up by a blanket of darkness, which then transformed into a bubble that rose a few feet into the air and hovered, bouncing up and down slowly. Oily rainbows danced across the gloopy darkness, forming grotesque shapes. Timor waved an arm and the bubble slowly faded, becoming transparent.

With a sigh, he began the weary trek home. It was still late at night, and he managed to avoid the group of townsfolk who were still near the barn, by cloaking himself in darkness. There was no restraint on his magic now; Timor indulged in the powers with freedom, and anger. He needed an outlet, and doing what was forbidden had always been the best way.

Back home, he opened the door with a click. Inside, all was quiet. He made his way down to his basement, meeting no problems on the way, and making sure the bubble was in front of him. Every now and then he would make it slightly visible, to see that it was still there.

Now, down in his basement, he wondered what to do next.

((Giving ya time to interlude before the big old Frankenstein do!))

Part of him wished he hadn't remembered. Sure, it was frightening in those long few moments before the gates (which gates? Black or Gold?) invited him inside... but the pain of that was nothing to the pain of knowing who he was... who he had been. Braylinn felt himself draw back, trying in vain to refuse... everything. It had been at least an hour, he was sure, if not more. Wouldn't someone follow his trail of blood? Anxiety twisted painfully though his consciousness. What would someone say, if they stumbled across such a macabre scene? Braylinn drifted nervously, his view drifting down the pathway into the open field for a moment or two... and then back to Timor.

The white flecks in his eyes were bright as moonlit snowflakes. Braylinn felt the chill even if he had no body to do so, but it was something familiar. It was impossible to live with the man and not know a thing of his 'hobbies', but Braylinn had no idea how deep the darkness had stained his father. As he felt the darkness around Timor flare he felt nothing but sadness, unbearable woe. He could do nothing, he was nothing at all but a helpless wisp of a soul. Still though, he found it better then being taken away (to wherever 'Away' was) and to not be close to Timor at all.

Timor was after all, the one he had been closest too. Braylinn felt guilt seep across his mind as he realized his father might not even realize that himself. But when his mother had left, Braylinn's confidence suffered. He felt worthless, like no other human being would see anything worth while in his friendship at all. He had been a horribly unsocial child, and was just this very year, slowly creeping out of his shell. But through all that time, Timor had been the one to look after him. The one to make his birthday more then just another day in the year, the one to encourage him to go to class (because sometimes, he just wanted to curl up in his room) the one who encouraged him, in short, to live. It was almost completely Timor's doing that Braylinn's reckless 'helpful' behavior had not crossed the line into dangerous self destruction.  

But just within the past year... had Braylinn let his father know that? Not as clearly as he should, Braylinn thought. Not by disobeying him and sneaking out. Not by spending time away from home, with Lily. Regret chilled Braylinn like a winter gust.

Braylinn looked back to Timor, feeling as if something inside himself was slowly cracking. At least, he thought, I wont be leaving now...

Braylinn watched with numb fascination as Timor gathered the pieces of his body, hovering close to the man's back as he moved. He felt his father's sense of awareness sweep over him, as real as if it were a physical touch. It startled him, made him veer back for a moment.

"Can you see me?" he asked suddenly, "do you know I'm here...?" even though there wasn't a direct answer, Braylinn was sure Timor knew he had chosen to stay.

He wondered what the town people would think (they would follow the trail of blood eventually) when they arrived at an empty clearing. What assumptions would they make? Braylinn worried for Timor, hoping he couldn't encounter too much trouble...

But just what was his father doing? Braylinn half expected his body to be taken to the morgue, but then realized that such transportation would not be done in the middle of the night... and not with a show of dark magic, either. So what on earth was going on?

Braylinn followed Timor like a loyal shadow through the depths of the mansion, pausing only slightly when they entered the basement. He had never been inside before, only listened at the door... but what did he have to lose now? It's not as if he would be getting scolded...

Braylinn wanted to laugh and cry at once. Would he have ever dreamed of wishing for a scolding from his father? At this point, he would have taken anything; he wished Timor would, could at least look straight at him.

Still hovering close to Timor, Braylinn let his gaze wonder around the room. Some of the items sitting sinisterly on the table tops, some of the books and portraits on the wall gave him shivers... and he was dead, what did he have to fear?  He looked back to Timor, and to where he guessed his body would be hovering, feeling uneasy and nervous. What was Timor planning?

(( No problem ^__^ Man Timors unnerving a ghost, you gotta be creepy to do that, ne?~ xD ))

All the pieces were scattered on the table, scattered in no particular order. The warm precious lifeblood was still seeping from them, seeping and staining the wooden table with a deep ominous burgundy. Timor gazed helplessly at the limbs, at the chunks of inanimate flesh and felt the blackness open up again. He didn't know where to start.

Candles burned fiercely at the four corners of the table, and around the dungeon, once by one, the torches spluttered into life, fixed to the stone walls by black metal sconces, that held the flames back from coming fully alive. All in all, the effect was not a pleasant one. The atmosphere was droning, heavy and mysterious. Shadows danced and flickered across the room, forming grotesque hunched shapes on the walls that capered and caterwauled.

Timor had his book out; a huge leather and gold tome that was filled with his handwritten notes. All of the pages he had copied out from the forbidden texts were all meticulously fixed in order. The writing was tiny, and neat, with all the correct loops and dots, all the diagrams accurate to the pen stroke. Timor had always been one for perfection.

He could not remember the countless hours spent in reproducing this book. Those nights came back to him, as swiftly as a whiff of a scent can throw someone back into sweet memory. He remembered the dark underground club that gathered to experiment with the darker magics in the evenings after lessons, and then after he became bored with that, his own search for knowledge that began and ended in the library. He could never forget the regal air the library instilled, the air of awe. If one imagined had enough, the grand flights of staircases ascended to a literary heaven of sorts, and the bookshelves? Thousands upon thousands, that towered above him, making him feel tiny and insignificant, a student barely making a dent in the sea of knowledge. It made him remember his sister, and the feelings associated there, and that caused a burning resolve in him, a resolve to be the best.

Slowly, Timor fell out of his reverie, and his attention returned to the inanimate lumps of flesh before him.

The heart, the heart...where was the heart!?!?

His own heart skipped a beat, but no, there it was, lying next to an arm. Timor's hand closed around the slimy organ, and held it as if it were a sacred relic, bringing it up into the light. He lowered his head, and placed his lips to the flesh, closing his eyes as he did so. A small shudder ran through his body.

He would restore his son.

No matter what it would take.

With this idea set, he began to work, laying each body part out, seeing what he had, and what was missing. He knew that he couldn't have gotten everything, back in the forest, but he hoped, oh how he hoped. After a few minutes, Timor sighed, and shook his head sadly. An arm was missing, some ribs, other body parts. Not many, but not enough to build a person.

With an angry gesture, he waved his arm over the table and muttered, "freeze."

A wave of darkness engulfed the table, which would preserve the body parts, keeping them at a low temperature until he came back from whatever crimes he was about to commit.

---

Lily led the others up the path, then to the woods, in the direction of where she had last seen Timor going. The way was hard, and she had to gather her skirts up to prevent the blood and dew from getting onto her clothing. Because the way was so spiked with tall grass and weeds, it took a long time for everybody to reach the clearing.

When they got there though, many of them wished they hadn't come.

The only sounds that filled the night were the sounds of people retching, throwing up at the sight of all the blood, and all the carnage strewn about here.

Braylinn was beginning to feel tired. He shifted in an out of consciousness; feeling as if he would blink, and open his eyes (or rather, restore his vision because he had no eyes) and be somewhere else. This frightened him, this uncontrollable shifting. He recalled a story Timor had read to him once, when he was very small. 'Once upon a time there was a little ghost...' Timor's voice floated my on a distant memory. 'The little ghost was lost, and had no idea where to go... and when the poor thing would close its eyes, it would open them and be somewhere else! What an unfortunate ghost...' Braylinn suddenly questioned who on earth would write such a children's book, now it seemed ridiculous!  

Braylinn watched as the parts of his body were lain across the table, feeling sickness begin to creep over him. The question ran on repeat through his mind, 'what is father doing?' even as he refused the most obvious answer. He knew his father dabbled in things he shouldn't... but surely, he wouldn't- he couldn't do something so extreme...?

He stilled, froze, petrified was Timor lifted the heart, and brought it to his lips. Before logic had any say, the poor boy's fear spiked. Despite the raising of the flames, it dropped at least five noticeable degrees in one single instant, and a radio that was sitting unplugged on a desk tucked into the corner, suddenly sparked to life.

Painful static bled through the speakers, only moments of words and music struggling through.

I-... a spell.... because... -ou're miiiiiiine.... -etter stop... know better, dad-

Braylinn turned startled to look at the radio, wished it to be silent and it was. Slowly the temperature climbed. Braylinn looked back to Timor, frightened, floating like a cool breeze to the man's side without ever meaning to move.

"What are going to do...?" he asked more out of habit then anything, knowing Timor wouldn't hear him (or at least, assuming as much).  He felt a little ill still, a tiny frantic part of his mind insisting he should have gone through those gates, no matter where they lead too. He pushed the voice away, but had very little else to cling too. He told himself all this fear was because of his own death, and yes Timor was acting strange, but... look at what he had stumbled across. Braylinn felt sympathy combat his fear, and over that the urge to stay with Timor and not be alone, and over that the urge to run away.

--

Someone had stumbled across an arm, literally. The poor lady had dropped her lamp, the glass shattering, the contained fireflies darting away into the night. She whimpered, terrified to look down, though she could feel the blood seep into the hem of her skirt.

Something must have eaten the boy, was the general consensus; although there was supposedly nothing in the woods big enough to consume whole human beings. The townspeople murmured nervously of Timor, questioning if perhaps he had gone after this phantom beast...

((OOC- I wasn't sure if Timor was going grave robbing or going back to the forest, so I set it up so you can go either way :) Also, that song, it's "I put a spell on you" the Nina Simone version, in case you're a nerd like me and wanna hear it so you get the idea what it sounds like x3 ))

((I think I have heard that song before, hehe! And if you wanna know what Timor's gonna do next, then read onwards, bwahahaha! Have you heard the song of the RP title yet? It's called The White One Is Evil by Elliot Minor. The link is here, and the lyrics "standing, stalling, always falling" appear at about 1 min 40 secs. I watched the video just now, and didn't realise how atmospheric it was! Watch out for bits in this post, hehe. Remove the spaces between the address~ http : // www . youtube . com / watch?v=xsqFqaBNqkc ))

Timor swept to the entrance of the dungeon, and paused, regarding the room oddly. There was the strangest feeling, deep in his stomach. It started from his belly button, tingling, and he had the oddest sensation of a cord leading out and joining to something else, almost as if it were an umbilical cord and he was back in the womb. But that was ridiculous. Humans had no conscious thoughts back then.

He shook off this eerie feeling, and raised his hand. The radio, which had crackled into life earlier, flew off the table and smashed to the ground. With a sudden snap, he turned on his heel and left the dungeon. The door clamoured shut behind him, and the locks slid into place, sealing the secrets of the forbidden room away from all prying eyes.

Timor hurried through the cold stone corridors, up the flight of stairs and let himself back into the warmth of his mansion. The portrait swung shut behind him, and Timor made his way up to his master bedroom, passing all the paintings whose eyes followed his every footstep, past the statues who seemed to press judgement upon him, and past the sleeping snoring bodies of all those who served him in this house. He glanced at his reflection in a gilt mirror, noting the haggard features, his thin drawn face. How different it looked now! He caught the reflection of the clock features on the mantelpiece behind him; the hands read an inverted version of two o'clock.

Two in the morning.

Fumbling around in his wardrobe, Timor pulled out the items he would need. He donned a black shirt, black trousers, and placed a white mask over his face, hiding his white flecked eyes from the world. The mask was that of the type the doctors had worn in Old Venice; white bone, anonymous, with a curved beak that covered his nose. He threw a black cloak on and picked up a cane. At the door to his mansion, Timor slipped on soft, black leather boots. Now the outfit was complete, and he left the building with as much ritual as he'd had when donning the clothing.

He would save his son, even though logic said that it wasn't possible. And once Braylinn was back, Timor rued that he would never let his son out of his sight ever again. In thanks, in gratitude for bringing life back, Braylinn would be grateful. Timor would make sure of that.

He strode confidently through the deserted streets. His footsteps clacked upon the cobblestones, and with his walking cane, he made quite the ghostly figure. Flourishing his free hand- both hands had been gloved in black – a silvery mist crept up, swirling around his ankles, and clinging to his body. It left puffy trails, and anyone who saw him would immediately think he was an apparition. But he didn't really need the mist, for the rain had stopped, and because the ground was warm, the moisture was evaporating, and condensing in the air at ground level as tiny droplets of mist.

How deliciously atmospheric, he thought, in an almost jolly fashion. Humming a tune to himself, Timor followed the path that girdled the other side of the forest Braylinn had died in, crossed an old rickety iron bridge, and continued to follow this path. Pretty soon, he came to the gates of a cemetery. The gates held little resistance for him. Timor realised that he was using his magic freely, and without restraint, but frankly he didn't care. It gave him something to channel his energies towards, something to have complete control over.

Inside, he made his way down the little paths, walking past all the mossy graves, until he came to the newer part of the cemetery. There were still fresh bodies here. Their skin would be a little grey, but it wouldn't matter. No, it wouldn't. Humming the same tune, Timor scratched his head, wondering where to begin.

((He'll probably go back to the forest at some point, because he knows right now that there will be too many people around.))

The radio shattering knocked the temperature down another few degrees. Braylinn felt as if he was holding his breath, which was ridiculous because he wasn't even breathing. A heavy anxiety crept over him and settled as if it planned on staying. Timor was using his magic so freely, more so then he ever had before. Braylinn couldn't even recall a time his father had used his magic when he thought Braylinn was paying attention, perhaps once or twice when he thought he could get away with it. Small things though, or impulsive things, like catching a glass before it fell, just by twisting the shadows.

Braylinn knew it was wrong, but kept quiet about it. It wasn't as if his father was doing anything wrong, or ever hurt anyone, as far as he knew. Besides, despite Timor's harshness from time to time, he had to urge to see his father locked up.

But this, this was far more then Timor had ever done, and Braylinn knew, as he looked at his body in pieces on the table, that he had not yet seen the main act. It was getting harder and harder to ignore what he thought his father might do. He wasn't sure at all how to feel; the impulse of course was to be happy, as he imagined regaining some physical form, some presence. But then, he recalled horror stories he had heard, things he was sure his father would tell him were only to scare away the weak minded.

But it was no less frightening when he remembered the tales. The worst was the story that the dead brought back were nothing but empty shells, soulless hungry things that did nothing but wonder, puppets on their master's strings, and crave for flesh. Surly it would be different, Braylinn thought, allowing himself for one wild moment to believe that was actually was Timor was planning to do. Braylinn would not be an empty shell, he still had (and in fact was) a soul. But, that was only one problem.

Would he crave flesh, like undead were supposed to?

Would he be a puppet?

Timor would not do that to his own son, Braylinn thought. But the man was already upstairs, and although Braylinn did not follow he could see his father, as if the walls were transparent. He was dressing to leave... dawning a mask. There were less ominous things to cover his face with, and yet...

Braylinn looked back to his body, trying to keep his gaze away from the empty holes where eyes should be. An arm, and some ribs, at least, were missing. Missing... and Timor was heading out, wearing a mask.

Braylinn felt the room tip, over and over until it was sheer upside down. He had lost grip on himself for a moment, the ghostly akin to fainting, stumbling, or falling. He hovered there, looking down at himself, slowly letting his gaze creep to his own empty eye sockets.

He felt like he wanted to be violently sick as he wondered, 'What about eyes...?'

Braylinn couldn't get away from it now, the realization of what was happening. He could sense Timor was leaving, but what could he do? Follow him? Could he bare to see his own father dig up graves for him? What sort of twist on parental love was that? For a moment Braylinn wished he had left and he didn't remember any of this, but the moment passed and he felt nothing but guilt for hid thoughts.

'Look what my carelessness did to him...' Braylinn thought, sinking and sinking, until he was through himself and under the table, shivering in an odd way only ghosts can. Had it always been like this? Every time Braylinn came home injured, had Timor felt a tiny fraction of what he was feeling now? 'Look what I did to him... look what I'm making him do...' Never in his life had Braylinn wanted to repent with some sort of pain. He'd never injure himself, oh no, but he often just let other things happen to him without trying to prevent them.

And now he thought he deserved it, which only made him feel worse. It was of course the fault of that very impulse that he had tried to help out Lily. It was his carelessness that lead him into the forest. It was his pain that had attracted the dragon. Braylinn remained curled into himself under the table, willing himself not to see.

Suddenly everything felt so horribly wrong.

(( OOC- Cool! I shall be sure to give that song a listen, thanks! ^___^ ))

"Oh, I don't have a shovel with me," Timor murmured absentmindedly to himself.

Scratching his head in that detached way of his that was becoming all too...creepy, he let his eyes roam the cemetery, until his attention was arrested by what appeared to be a small building of sorts. It must be the place where the undertaker worked, for the building was just as gloomy and sepulchral as the rest of the cemetery. Just as eerie, just as atmospheric.

Heading for the building, Timor strode past crumbling stones, catching the hem of his cloak on the tufts of dewy grass. The dewdrops were jewels under the light of the silvery moon, jewels that only held value whilst night [heh heh *points to self*] reigned in her dark resplendent glory. Timor's feet found the path and his boots crunched under gravel, as he walked the white path up to the undertaker's domain. He didn't bother to try the door to see if it was locked, no he simply snapped his fingers and the door swung open.

Inside, the air was cool and damp. Cream marble walls enclosed the cloaked form, as Timor walked once around, inspecting the architecture. The building gave way to one large room only. In the middle was a huge slab of grey veined marble, presumably the table where they laid the dead for preparation. In each corner of the room, a large column rose up to the ceiling, which was domed, and painted with a frieze depicting the gates of heaven. How hallowed, how touching, he thought, with something of a smirk that held a hint of faint arrogance.

None of the cupboards held what he was looking for; however he did find a shovel and a lantern, both of which he took. Turning his attention back to the centre of the room, he walked up to the table, and removed his mask, placing it on the cold surface. Timor wiped his forehead, and then peered at the underside of the table. There was a handle here, that when pulled, caused a section of the marble slab to slide out, revealing all sorts of tools. Scalpels, tongs...most of them were blunt, or of poor quality. The instruments he had back home were of so much higher quality. But, he'd left his mansion in haste and had forgotten to pack accordingly, so these crude tools would have to make do.

Timor selected his instruments of choice, and slid the shelf shut. He donned his mask, picked up the shovel, and lit the lantern with the matches he'd found. The lantern spluttered into use, emitting a watery yellow light in addition to the stuffy smell of burning fat. Leaving the place, he hurried back to the graves he had selected, and so began his task of unearthing them, a deed so atrocious that he cloaked himself in flickering darkness to avoid the eye of the benevolent gods.

He had long since stopped believing in a greater power of good, but childhood superstition still clung to him like a second skin. What Timor believed in was power.

Another passage of time passed, before he finally struck the hard wood of a coffin. The wood was still sound, for it had only been laid into the ground a month ago. He opened the lid of the coffin, and studied it's contents. The body inside was mangled, the result of a tragic horse and carriage accident. Braylinn had cried for a week after the death of his friend Luke. Well, now he and Luke will be together for the rest of eternity, Timor thought, with a dark smile.

There wasn't much he could salvage. A few bones, an eye, and a hand.

Covering the grave back up was easy. All he did was to wave a hand and the mountain of earth rained down into the hole. The reason he didn't just use his magic to uncover the coffins was because he hadn't fully mastered it yet. His magic was still unpredictable, unsubtle, very blunt. It couldn't be used for something as delicate as this.

Over the course of the night, he unearth two more graves, and took from them various body parts. The next body had barely begun to rot, so fresh was it that he found almost everything he was looking for. The second body however, although six months old, contained the last thing he wanted, an eye.

The sky was at that liminal space between night and day, by the time he finished. Cracks of golden light were beginning to creep over the horizon, battling the resigned tendrils of night. Timor himself, was exhausted. He had used up most of his reserves of his magic, following the wake of his son's death. He hadn't thought, hadn't rationed it out. And now, he was feeling the effects of the comedown. His eyes sported dark rings, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge. Breathing was laboured, and a thin sheen of sweat caused his hair to clump together in tufts.

Timor knew he didn't have much time. He collected everything together, and found a sack back in the undertaker's building. He put all the tools back in their respective compartments, and dumped the body parts unceremoniously into the sack. Making sure everything was in its natural order, Timor left the cemetery. Instead of heading home, however, he took a detour and headed away, in the direction of the forest, trusting in the belief that anyone who saw him would think he wasn't real. To solidify that effect, he gathered what reserves he had left, and used his magic to create a shimmering aura around him.

Back in the forest, Timor used the watery light from the rising sun to search the leaf litter for anything, anything else he could find.

"Damnations!" He cried, enraged, after a few minutes of futility.

Those stupid fucking villagers must've taken everything else! He kicked the stump of a tree, causing the leaves to flutter down, showering him in sympathy. Breathing hard, he stood still for a minute, allowing himself to calm back down, before starting on his journey back home.

((Hmm...does anyone see him in the forest? That could be interesting...))

Faint feminine sobs floated through the air like somber blue butterflies. The blood upon the ground had dried, the grass and ground caked in dark brown streaks. The huge dip in the ground left by the dragon (something akin to a nest, created by the sheer wight of him landing) was occupied by two bodies.

"Are you sure...?" came the familiar voice of Lily, whom was sitting shivering on her knees.  In through the huge gap in the canopy (where the dragon had crashed through) poured watered down sunlight, which colored the girl's tears like fresh clear honey.

"I'm sure, kitten," came the kind response. A man stood at her side, clad in white robes with gold detailing, his hair a uninteresting shade of brown with a breath of red highlights, his eyes the exact same shade of Lily's.

"I can't believe all we found was an arm," she said, another plague of shivers creeping down her body. "I didn't think anything in this forest could eat a whole human..." she looked down in complete terror at the 'nest' they inhabited, stiffly shaking her head. "Are you sure he'll be able to you... you know..." she couldn't put it into words without making it sound a little cliche, "be able to... cross over, or... have a good after life or-?"

"Yes sweetheart, I'm sure. I am the authority on the subject, remember. It's unfortunate we don't have a body... but there's no need to worry. I'll preform a ceremony to bless his spirit, okay?"

Lily sniffled, attempting to dry her damp face with her sleeve. "O-okay..."

The Priest smiled as best he could, trying not to look as worried as he was. Yes, a ceremony would certainly be in order. If Braylinn's body had been eaten, it would have at least been a more natural reason for the lack of a body then what the Priest was currently suspecting.

The style of nest, how far the blood was splattered, the odd white flakes that could be found here and there on the ground... It pointed to the attack of a Bone Dragon, and those creatures did not consume flesh.

So it left the burning question, where was the body? The Priest chose not to share this information with his daughter, at least not at that point in time, knowing at it would do was upset her more.

The pair of them noticed at the very same moment, an odd spectral glimmer filtering through the trees.

"How long has it been there...?" Lily whispered.

"I don't know..." from under the hem of his robe The Priest took a cross, it's bright body seeming to emit some sort of holly light. The man could do no (or very little) magic, but it did not mean he couldn't carry a few useful white magic items.  

Lily tugged nervously on her father's sleeve, "D-do you think it could be Braylinn?" but before she bothered to listen to the answer, she lifted from her father's side and darted into the trees.

"Lily, wait-" but the girl was already gone. She ran gracelessly into the trees, eyes (now blurring with tears) set on the sparkling, eerie ghostly glow. Without quite expecting to, she bumped into someone quite solid. With an alarmed yelp she tumbled back, just in time to be caught as her father swooped up behind her. His eyes widened at what he saw: a form clad in sinister black, dawning a white mask and cane, holding a heavy bag that reeked of death. What sort of horrible demon was this?! His hand tightened fearfully, then fiercely on his cross. Was this the fiend that had taken Braylinn-?

"M... Mr. Nex...?" came Lily's fragile frightened voice. The Priest's eyes widened one more fraction, and then narrowed. She recognized him? Meaning this thing was.... human?! His grip around his daughter tightened protectively.  

"What have you done man?" he hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously, "what have you done?!"

--

The torches had flickered out long ago, but Braylinn had no problem seeing at all. The thin but unbelievably cold ice that coated his lifeless body glimmered like silver, as the skin under it adapted the faintest, almost unnoticeable touch of gray. He had not noticed before, to frightened to look at himself for more then a moment, but his hair (where it was not stained in blood) had turned shock-white.

He could not bare to look before, and now he could not look away. His hand passed through his milk-white hair, not displacing a single thread. Braylinn felt a violent shiver pass through him as he ripped back his hand, forcing himself to look away.

It had been hours, he was sure, but the only life he could sense in the house was of their servants, raising from their beds to find no one in the house. their confused footsteps fluttered above him.

He craved and dreaded  Timor's return.

(( sorry for not writing more about Bray, he's mostly just stuck there waiting until Timor comes back xD Also, as before Lily and Priest guy are NPCs so feel free to do whatever you want with them <3 ))

Nightly senses still clung to him, like tendrils of white mist. So, why didn't he notice the girl, until it was too late? Timor had been treading the path, backtracking wearily through the forest, hoping to hell that he could make it back before his legs gave way. What a night it had been. His energy had all but run out now; it seemed he was now running on some unknown reserves, something deep within his body which he seemed to have tapped into.

He had been in such a world of his own that Timor actually stumbled upon impact, sending all tendrils of darkness suddenly shattering. For an instant he blinked, not quite sure where he was or what he was doing. Staring at the girl through his mask- something he was so glad he had donned – he realised he was staring at the eyes of Lily.

"M... Mr. Nex...?"

How her faltering voice grated his nerves right there and then! Timor was so fed up of Lily, of the way she fawned around his son, the way she hung around the gates of his mansion, always waiting for Braylinn, always getting in the way! He would've done anything to shut this simpering excuse for a human being up permanently, and probably would've done, if a) he had adequate magic to tap into, and if b) the other man hadn't just stepped out from the trees.

His eyes flickered over to the other man, who must be some relative of hers, judging from the protective way he hung back, shielding Lily. Timor hazarded a guess that this man was her father, for he had the same doe eyes. He really should've known who this man was, for Timor, to keep up appearances, went to church every week. But whether or not his mind was confined inside the old stone building was another matter. Church was a time for him to review his finances, take notes on his life, and to look over his new advances in the dark arts.
 
Timor did not like the way the man was looking at him, or at the judgements the man was forming. It was not looking good, if Lily had been able to recognise him. But how...?

"What have you done man? What have you done?!"

He hated the priest types. They were so self-righteous, thinking they held authority, when it was nothing but an illusion, an excuse to wield weak power.

With a snort, Timor decided that it would be worth this one last push. He would pay the toll for how deeply he had drank from the dark well later, but for now, he uttered an incantation that would summon a shadow to do his bidding.

"Hide me, and fill their minds with confusion!" He hissed, as the misty tendrils began to form around his own body enveloping him in smoke, and causing him to become ethereal, to become a shadow himself. He could feel his own atoms turning transparent and insubstantial, and knew that there would be a blood price to pay for this invocation.

There was a harsh grating laugh that echoed throughout the forest and a pair of fiery red eyes flickered into life from amongst the swelling darkness. In a booming voice, the shadow spirit cackled, and went straight for the minds of Lily and the Priest whilst Timor disappeared, and took a shortcut of darkness to get home.

Back home, Timor dumped his things inside the bubble of darkness in the dungeon, feeling his mind slip farther and farther. It was so hard to hold on, his vision was blurring so much. The table was sliding, the floor giving way. He didn't know how, but somehow he ended up on his bed, and the next thing he knew, he had been swallowed up by the darkness.

---

Lily and her father felt their minds growing heavy, felt the ground rushing up to meet them. Blanketed by leaf litter, and swallowed by mist, Lily slumped to the ground beside her father. For some reason, she felt so tired, and couldn't quite remember what had just happened. No, everything felt foggy, jumbled up, wrong.

Sleep, a voice whispered to them both. Sleep, and dream. Sleep, and dream, and forget.

The man hadn't commanded him to make any carnage, so the spirit hovered around resentfully, moving away from the forest. Perhaps he would have a little bit of fun elsewhere, and then seek payment from the man later...

((Hmm, we shouldn't kill Lily off yet...feel free to control the spirit!! I'm gonna do a dream sequence next, that takes place in the shadow lands...maybe Timor and Braylinn can meet up there? *ponders*))

The moment the door swung open, Braylinn snapped back to attention, looking to the entrance of the secret room. A long moment passed where he expected something horrible, and yet Timor hardly spent a whole minute inside before turning to leave again. He dropped off a bag (which Braylinn refused to give any attention to, already positive he knew what it contained) and simply left, looking as if he was about to pass out. Braylinn lifted himself from the floor, hovering for a few moments of hesitation, worry blanketing his thoughts. What had happened? Why did Timor suddenly look so ill? Braylinn watched his father through the walls, alarmed when Timor suddenly collapsed onto his bed.

Without deciding to, Braylinn floated up through the house like wayward smoke, setting just beside Timor's bed.

"What have you done to yourself...?" he said sadly, able to sense the sheer fatigue, the near depleted energy. It frightened him, because he had felt a very similar drowsiness swollow himself, just before death. "What have you been doing all night..." Braylinn watched Timor's sleeping face, unable to block the memory of such a face twisted in sadness, eyes bleeding tears. He remembered Timor holding his head, his heart.

Braylinn suddenly felt very dizzy. He had been dead hardly a day, and his father was slowly destroying himself.

"I'm not worth so much trouble, you know..." he mumbled sadly, wishing he could do something about the incriminating dirt clinging to Timor's clothing. He could sense the heavy resonance of some dark magic, and reluctantly wondered just what Timor had spent the night doing (other then robbing graves). "Maybe I should have followed you..." he thought out loud. But then, what use would he have been? Feeling tired more then he ever had in his life, Braylinn settled on the very edge of his father's lavish bed (which was ridiculous, because the floor felt the same to him as the bed, so why bother?) and shut his eyes.

But, instead of seeing blackness, what happened instead was the distinct feeling of blinking. Only, after that fraction of darkness, where there should have been Timor's bedroom, there was not. Braylinn blinked several times, attempting to 'reset' this strange new reality and arrive back to the semi-familiar room, but it was no good.

He looked around in slight panic; it was so incredibly dark here.

"H-hello?" he called out meekly, and then wondered out loud "where am I...?"

--

Lily's eyes snapped open some time later. Every nerve prickled in panic, in a mad rush to find out any broken parts, any damage or wounds. But there was none. It simply felt as if she had closed her eyes for a quick nap.

Her eyes caught sight of something glowing in the grass, her father's blessed cross. She panicked, without knowing why, her memory formless and fleeting, like smoke. Looking around in a panic, she spotted her father not to far away. His breathing was shallow as he lay on his back, starring blindly up to the canopy. Lily scrambled over to him, the cross clutched tightly to her chest.  

"Dad? Are you okay? What happened?-" she suddenly fell quiet, a sharp horrified gasp cutting into her throat. Her father's eyes were completely black, like two polished spheres of coal.

"Lily?" he reached out blindly for her, until her shaking little hand finally reached out for his, and held it tightly. "Lily? Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah... d-dad, what happened? You're eyes..."

"I don't know... I can't quite remember," he gave a weak laugh, "All I knew was I was really worried about you... do you remember?"

"No..." Lily shook her head, grasping at the memories that she could feel where there, but not quite realize.

((OOC- I couldn't think of anything for the shadow to do D: *lame* I'm sorry ^_^;; And I didnt describe the shadow land to much cuz... I wasn't sure what you wanted it to look like ^_^;;; ))

There was something that he had forgotten to do. It was nagging at the back of Timor's mind, something serious, something that could have disastrous consequences, but, like dreams, the thoughts became liquid and slipped through his grasping fingers like the water that quested perpetually for the bottom of the world. Timor sighed, and the furrowed frowns vanished from his face as he slid further and further from this world, anchored onto to his body by a desire to wake up.

Timor found himself walking somewhere, this time for real. He was in astral projection, for he was walking in a place he had never been to before, but the only problem was, he seemed to have no control of where he was going.

This was an extremely surreal experience for him, and suddenly, a ghostly figure rose up from the ground. She was veiled in virgin white, a beautiful bride, with heavily lidded eyes that were half closed. So, so pale was the ghostly bride, and Timor was flung back into the days at university when he and his friends had tried to call the ghostly bride late, late at night. Now, she rose up, twirled for a second, before sinking back into the ground, which swirled around her like a black cesspool.

It was this that made Timor realise that wherever he was going, it was a place where his thoughts had a huge amount of influence. He had placed his attention upon the ghostly bride for a split second, and yet, when he looked around him, it seemed as though he had entered a long corridor. Huge windows that scaled from ceiling to floor were spaced at regular intervals, and as he walked past them, all he could see outside was a dull greyness. His footsteps echoed down the lonely corridors, through empty halls, and past vacant space. Each footstep echoed for a few seconds, and was then swallowed up by the silence.

Everything was so grey, so ashen.

The ceiling gradually opened, and the walls gradually faded until, he was walking outside, amongst the rise and fall of the dull plains. The sky had darkened to a lead grey, the colour of puddles, and still, his feet carried him forwards, trampling over millions upon millions of grains of grey, sparkling sand. There was no source of light, and yet there was a ghostly glow emanating from all around him.

"The shadow lands," Timor whispered, voice caught half-way up his throat.

Shadow lands, shadow lands...shadows...

And then it was swallowed up by the emptiness.

The shadow lands, the liminal space between places, the waiting room for the departed. What was he doing here!?

The sand gave way to dead grassy plains. Here and there, thorns and barbed wire dotted the barren landscape. All the way so far, he hadn't seen another sign of life. And then he came to a single red rose, with a green stem, and green leaves. The flower had barely unfurled. Thinking of nothing better to do, Timor plucked the flower from the ground. The petals opened, and one by one they dropped off, leaving the centre of the rose with the stamen and filaments and stigma, and also, a single trembling blue droplet, that was the colour of Braylinn's eyes. It shimmered for a second, before dispersing into a thousand tiny droplets that scattered and disappeared. The rose shrivelled up, and crumbled to dust in Timor's fingers. With an anguished yell, he bent down to search for a fragment, anything that was left, but it had all dissolved into the void.

And then a shadow fell across him, and a voice spoke.

It was a quiet voice, a voice with no hint of authority, simply meek obedience.

A voice he knew all too well.

((This could be the meeting between Braylinn and Timor? The last chance Timor has of letting go? Let me know what you think!!))

((OOC- sure! ^_^ I'll have Bray wonder over to poor Timor here. Should be interesting to see them interact in such a place!!))

Braylinn forced himself to relax; panicking would get him nowhere. 'Maybe I'm dreaming...' he thought, but instantly he knew that was wrong. This wasn't his dream, or a dream at all. It felt all to real, the sand under his bare feet cool and dry, each grain shifting as he padded across the vast stretch of land. Everything was gray, black, or white. Silver, mercury, coal, snow. Braylinn blinked a few times, holding his palms over his eyes. Something about being in this place made him feel frightened he'd never see another color again.

Braylinn became suddenly aware (as his palms covered his eyes) that in this place, he had form. He did not by any means look like a living thing; as he peered down at himself he realized he could see right through. His skin was a pale snowy gray, like highly polished silver, like white-gold. His hair was the color of milk, still darkened with dry blood in spots. There were no other wounds visible though, but Braylinn still wondered about his eyes. He had spent to long starring at the empty space where they had been, he didn't think he could handle feeling nothing where they should be; still, his hands itched to check. He reasoned out that if he could see, and if covering his face with his palms blinded him, he must have eyes.

At least in this plane, anyway. Braylinn cast no shadow on the ground, his form gleaming with a dull spectral glow. He turned around in a few slow circles, taking in the area around him, trying to catch sight of a single familiar thing. Panic bubbled up inside him but he tried to force it down, knowing a fit of hysteria would do nothing at all to help him. Still, the feeling rose higher and higher inside him, until the point he felt himself shaking. Bordering on breakdown, Braylinn finally spotted something (someone) familiar.

Silently as the specter he was, Braylinn drifted like a winter breeze to Timor's back. He watched the man for a few painful moments, his insides twisted with guilt as he watched Timor strain under obvious anguish. Braylinn wilted under the thought; it was all his fault. If only he had been more careful... Timor might not be suffering so.

"... Father?" he said after a long pause, unable to simply stand by and watch any longer. He wore a look of blue-somber sorrow, of guilt, of regret. It was painful to see such a strong willed creature coming to pieces. Braylinn tensed, the ghostly glow around him flickering like a candle that might blink out, as he waited for his father's response. He wanted to apologize, to plead Timor to stop what he was doing, to stop sinking into this darkness, to stop wasting himself as he was. Maybe, tell him it wasn't worth it. Maybe, tell his father he was afraid.

Braylinn waited in silence though, careful of Timor's state, not daring to spill such an elaborately painful river of words until he first saw how his father would react to him. Part of him was relieved to see him, the other terribly frightened.

"... Father?"

Timor paused, slightly unsure of what he had just heard. He was unable to turn around, not wanting to confirm anything. Timor found that he was trembling, that he was on his knees, hands clenched and causing the grains of sand to shake with the weight of his emotions.

That quiet voice, that plain, sombre voice, so detached, and yet even though it came from behind him, it couldn't be more far away.

Finally, Timor knew he had to react.

Getting to his knees with as much dignity as he could muster, Timor then stood up and with a deep breath, turned around to meet the sight of his ghostly son, so pale, so ethereal. That pitiful sight was enough to make him go weak again. He felt his pulse speeding, and hands go so clammy with sweat.

"Braylinn?" He whispered, but it was barely audible. There was so much emotion loaded in that word, so much pain. Even though it had been barely half a day, the pain of Timor's loss was already so great, so heavy that it preyed upon him like darkening storm clouds, swirling and becoming more and more charged with the second.

He had no outlet.

Reaching a hand out, a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, he moved it closer, attempting to touch his son's arm.

"Is that...really...you?"

But he stopped, just before he made contact, scared of what would happen. Would his hand just go through Braylinn? Was this even real, or was he just being tortured? Another nightmare sequence...were they just dangling the cherry against his lips, just so tantalizingly out of reach?

He gazed at the image of his son with remorse, with pale wistful eyes. The events of the night had reduced Timor to a mere shadow of himself. Where was the proud, dominant man? Where was the self-assured, clean-cut figure? He was so lost, but strangely, not afraid. Timor held faith in his magic, faith in his plans. Was this a last chance for him to change his mind?

((Sorry, short post!! I guess posts will be short whilst they interact, hehe! ^_^))

Braylinn stood as still as stone as he waited, counting the seconds (which was a poor substitute for counting heart beats, because he had none) as Timor remained dormant, not at all reacting to his voice. 'Can he hear me...?' Braylinn thought with a sudden shock of panic. It occurred to him then that perhaps this was not his father at all, and it was all just some cruel dream... It seemed ridiculous that he had not thought of it sooner, but this place seemed so real to him, it was only natural to assume that Timor was real, too.

Finally the stillness was broken as Timor stood, a great rippled shadow, trembling  slightly. Braylinn desperately wanted to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, but was terrified his hand might pass right through. He would hate how bluntly it would show what he was. So Braylinn remained still, his arms resting tensely at his side while he refused to move them, his pale-milk bangs fluttering against his face in a wind that wasn't there.

He tried to smile as he saw Timor's face, but it was a painful thing; a smile in a mirror whose glass was cracked. Even here (where ever here was) Timor looked awful, like the very life had been drained out of him, one drop at a time. Braylinn closed his eyes for only a brief moment, chilled by the irony of it.

"Braylinn?"

His eyes snapped open then, shot like sapphire-tipped arrows straight to Timor's face. He watched, hopeful and (remembering the 'tender' treatment of his heart, the grave digging) afraid as Timor's hand drifted closer to him. He too was dreadfully worried the hand would only pass right through, but before either of them knew the answer, Timor dropped his hand.

"Is that...really...you?" he had asked.

Braylinn nodded, attempting another smile, failing as the expression came quietly, sadly, watered down by more apperent emotions. It occurred to him on a wild whim that he could in fact touch his father, the same way he could in fact touch the ground. His feet were solidly keeping him from just sinking and sinking into the earth, were they not? And he could feel the sand, too. Braylinn thought it must boil down to concentration, because obviously, it wasn't impossible.

Gingerly Braylinn lifted a hand, his gaze fixed on Timor's. The hand flickered, was transparent and then was not, was broken with lines of static disruptiveness, and then was clear. Braylinn didn't watch though, merely tried to feel the air on his hand as he felt the sand on his feet. It was tiring even to attempt it; he felt as if a whole had been punctured between his shoulder blades, and all his energy was slowly draining out.

He paid in to mind, thought of nothing else, focused on nothing but Timor's expression. Braylinn tried to smile once more, reaching up and placing his hand on his father's shoulder. He could feel fabric, and frantic body heat. His smile broke for a moment into a shy real one.

He opened his mouth to speak, wanting now to say a million different things; To tell Timor not to destroy himself over this, to tell his father he was frightened of what he was doing, to apologize. To tell Timor he loved him. To say perhaps he should reconsider, and they should say goodbye. To tell Timor he wasn't planning on going anywhere, and he couldn't stand to watch Timor do this to himself for the rest of his life.

But then quite suddenly, talking became the second thing on his mind. Where he had felt sand he felt nothing, and suddenly Braylinn stumbled, sank very slightly, as if he was standing on water. His eyes widened in bright surprise, his hand on Timor's shoulder tightening as he tried to hold himself up.

'Concentrate' he told himself, trying to quell the sudden raising of panic. 'Just concentrate...' his whole body flickered as his hand had done, some solid and some not, the only constant, the only thing keeping him up, his hand clasped tightly on Timor's shoulder.

(( OOC- yeah no worries <3 interaction posts tend to be a little shorter cuz... you gotta wait and see how the other character reacts, ne?~ xD Also, Its up to you here to decide if you want parts of Bray to be solid or ghosty, cuz it's all kinda flickering at the moment :3 whatever works better for you <333 ))

Dear gods of the underworld, it really and truly was Braylinn, his son! His son! The amount of joy that Timor felt right there and then was so great, great enough to sink ships. This was a sight that he never thought he would see again, and Timor realised he'd been holding a breath for who knows how long. He exhaled deeply, and felt all the tension drain from his body. It was really and truly such a peaceful feeling that pervaded his being now; akin to a soft warm light bathing his atoms. Timor could only smile- he was capable of nothing else at this moment.

"Is that...really...you?"

Braylinn nodded in response to his question, but...something was wrong. Timor felt it creep up from his roots. Braylinn was faded. Everything about him had a faded, washed out look, as if all his colours had been deadened and muted. All apart from his brilliant blue eyes, which were two warm sapphires in the sea of grey. It was oddly disconcerting, to be met with those eyes.

Timor felt as if they were accusing him somewhat.

However, the arm Braylinn laid upon Timor's shoulder definitely didn't have an accusatory feel. No, it was solid, and real, and...Timor couldn't take it anymore. He broke down, letting the barriers go, and even though he cried not a single drop, his voice trembled, and the anguish was so clear in his eyes. His eyes, which were normally so neutral, which normally had the shutters barred to the windows of his soul, were brimmed with indescribable emotion. It was all he could do to keep his feet steady.

He clasped his own hand over Braylinn's, and squeezed it with all the love he had never shown his son before. It was a love that went beyond words, that transcended the years. Then the boy opened his mouth to speak, and simultaneously, his image began to shimmer, as if he were nothing but static.

"No, no, no, no!!" Timor cried, clutching onto Braylinn's hand, which was now beginning to feel less solid, less real. "No! Not again, I can't lose you again!"

And it was true. He didn't know how he would survive a second loss.

"I can't let this happen, Braylinn, I simply can't!"

---

Lily helped escort her father home, through the woods. There was something she wasn't supposed to remember, but she was too tired to pay much heed to the nagging thoughts that swirled around in her mind, as vague as fog. Her father seemed to have suffered something, but she didn't know what. Every now and then, she shifted, allowing him to lean on her shoulder.

"Dad, we're almost home now," she said, hoping it would get through to him.

What the hell had happened? And what had his cross been doing lying a few feet away from where they had fallen?

Braylinn's ears filled with static, the sound fading and swelling like waves. His eyes, the (only color left in his ghostly form) squeezed tightly shut. He forced himself to focus, to gather himself in the moment, the present. Tossing away all other thought as if everything was meaningless, he focused on the sight of his father's smile, on the feel of his hand. Blocking out all else, Braylinn slowly began to solidify; his feet to around his knees, his hands to his elbows, and his head down to his neck. The center of him was faded and transparent, even the solid bits flickering every few moments, like an image on a screen with bad reception.

"I-It's okay," Braylinn said softly, clinging to his momentary stability, "I'm alright, just... unstable." It occurred to him how ridiculous that sounded, 'I'm okay'. He wasn't okay, he was a ghost for god's sake! Yet still, no longer stumbling on solid ground, Braylinn couldn't help but feel his panic subside, little by little. There was a great electrical hiss and for a moment, a long silent moment, Braylinn shifted completely out of focus, nothing but static. The next, he was back completely. Solid, for the moment, in the realm of shadows. He drew back his hands and touched his own chest, his neck and his hair, confirming that he was all in one piece. Finally, letting out a long breath, he looked back to Timor.

It was almost ethereal; of course he had seen the man smile before, and of course he had seen him upset. But the sheer weight of his emotions now; the bright of his smile and the heart break of his trembling voice were almost unbelievable. It spurred the boy to somehow sooth such pains, as deep down he still solidly believed this was all his own fault.

His hand, which felt oddly cool having flickered out of existence under Timor's hand, drifted like a pale white moth, to again land on Timor's shoulder.

"Father..." Braylinn's hand trembled very slightly, his head tipping down, spilling ghostly white bangs across his face. Where had all his courage gone? Hadn't he things to say? Braylinn crumpled against Timor's chest, resting his head there and closing his eyes, drawing in a deep calming breath. He let seconds drip by this way, one of his hands still on Timor's shoulder, the other folded between their chests. "Dad..." he finally said, voice just over a whisper, "I've... I've been watching you, I have some things to say..."

--

The Priest could only nod, to tired to speak. His feet stumbled gracelessly as he leaned on his poor little daughter, clinging just slightly for some guidance. His mind too was full of only elusive smoky memories. He knew something horrible had happened, and thought perhaps himself and Lily should return to the church to be c lensed, after a little time at home to rest.

They had hardly been inside a minute when the phone rang. Lily trotted down the stairs after having just dropped off her father into his room, and snatched up the phone. The long curly black cored swayed as she listened, silent, her eyes growing wider with each passing moment.

"Dad!" she called, "It's the church calling! They want your help! They say theres a shadow approaching the church!" her heart fluttered frantically against her ribs, hysteria edging her thoughts. Shadow... why did she find that concept so horrifying?!

((OOC- feel free to ignore the little side plot there if you want xD I don't know it just kinda struck me so I thought I'd tack it on >_>;; ))

Timor's heart skipped a beat as Braylinn seemed to respond to his pleas. He felt his son's form solidifying, felt the flesh become warm once again. It was almost too much to bear. He could see just how hard poor Braylinn was trying; it was a look he had seen countless other times, but right now, the expression of concentration upon his face brought forth a choked sob from Timor's throat. This was a sob that he didn't try to suppress. For once in his life, Timor wanted Braylinn to see his emotions, to see his raw self, the soul exposed like a gaping red wound.

"I'm alright, just... unstable."

"How can you be so...optimistic at a time like this?" Timor spluttered, before he realised what he was saying. That had always been something of Braylinn that he had never understood. Braylinn always had a way of looking at the brighter side of life. Everything was half full, not half empty. Everything was sunshine and rainbows. Timor would play along, be a shadow puppet in this façade, but in reality he wasn't a very optimistic person. It was all just an act to please the townspeople.

Braylinn seemed to feel that there were more important things to talk about, rather than character assessments. Maybe he could feel something that Timor couldn't, like the sands of time trickling, ebbing away from him. Maybe time was almost running out here in this shadow world.

"I've... I've been watching you, I have some things to say..."

"I'm sorry son, for bursting out like that," Timor said, apologizing with the squeeze of his fingers around Braylinn's hand. "Please, tell me..."

He felt as if he was on the point of something important, on the horizon of a shining moment. Desperately, his eyes flicked to the curve of Braylinn's mouth, willing it to open and for him to speak.

---

The Priest jerked fully awake this time, shocked. What in the name of God was a demon from...from...hell doing here? He felt his body go tense, and immediately resolved to go and see to the problem. Snatching fresh garments, he hurried to his room and put on something warmer, before grabbing some items and flinging them into a soft doeskin sack.

Turning to Lily, he said in a stern voice, "Get some sleep and make sure you don't leave this building. I'm locking all the doors, and don't argue, this is for your own safety!"

This was too much for Lily to bear. First Braylinn, and now this...

She felt new tears welling up from her throat, and was trembling so much that she didn't even offer any resistance- not even a single word, as her father left and slammed the door shut. The screech of a metal key rang in her ears as the key turned in the lock, and then she was alone, alone with the pounding in her head and a heaviness in her heart.

At the church, a small crowd of wide-eyed, yawning people had gathered. Most of them had no idea what was going on, for they had been awoken by the commotion of others. Standing there blearily, they all looked like sheep, ready to be herded, or worse. That dark thought occurred to the Priest as he made his way there, pushing his way through to the front. He could sense the presence of something dark not too far away, and it was growing stronger.

Damn! He needed mages. He had no knowledge of magic that would help; nay, his faith lay with the power of the church.

"If only I had a Mordecai," he muttered under his breath.

Just then, he saw more people making their way here, but instead of despairing, his heart leapt at the sight of them. They were travellers, and had lodged here for a week or so. The Priest had been suspicious of them at first, when he had learned they were mages, but now, he was so glad to see them!

No words were necessary. Their eyes met, and brief nods ensured, to let him know that they understood what the problem was. They spread out, and formed a circle, and did nothing else but wait.

The demon, on approach, had decided that it would be fun to play with the religion of this place, but...he sensed magic types. They couldn't drive him away back to whence he came from, but they could severely annoy him, maybe even shatter him into a thousand fragments and he did not want that to happen.

The demon decided that there was a more interesting place he could go to. The man who had summoned him reeked of magic, and so it wasn't hard to follow the scent, to retrace his footsteps. In his vision, there was a trail of gloopy blackness. Iridescent rainbow patterns splayed upon the oily darkness if he turned what passed for his head to the side. Oh yes, he would extract his payment and then he would have his fun...

Suddenly, the demon faded, masking all traces of his own scent.

Echoing laughter rang around the churchyard, shivering the hearts of the townsfolk.

((The demon is going to go to Timor, causing him to wake up, so we're on a time limit here! Tension, tension...=P))

Braylinn felt his resolve crack just slightly; how could he have thought such wicked things of his father? The man was pouring his heart out for god's sake. He ached to instantly forgive all the wrong he knew Timor had done... but there was a tiny part of Braylinn that was still afraid; afraid this new emotional recklessness (and other recklessness) would birth a horrible disaster.

"Optimistic? I... I don't really know," he confessed with an out of place sheepish smile. Truth be told, he wasn't being optimistic at all. He was worried about his father, more than he was worried about himself. It was the same behavior that plagued him in life, the same behavior that ended up getting him killed.

"I'm sorry son, for bursting out like that."

Braylinn shook his head, his hair floating about around his pale face as if he was under water. No matter how solid he felt, he still looked quite spectral, quite eerie. "N-no, it's okay, don't worry," somehow Braylinn managed another fragile smile. He felt for a long moment like he was being torn in two; something of Braylinn's giving nature screaming for him to shun all else and strive to comfort his father, while the more logical side of his mind insisted it would be more helpful to everyone, his father included, if he confront Timor about what the man was planning, and what he had done.

The gentle squeeze on his hand near silenced him, near made him forget all he wanted to say and concentrate on Timor, but his father's words just managed to tip Braylinn's internal scale. He met his father's eyes for a moment, unblinking, before finally looking away.

"I've been following you since you.... you found me. I've seen... e-everything. I cant stand to watch you h-hurt yourself like you're doing, and... and resorting to such... darkness," he kept his eyes down, afraid seeing a painful reaction on Timor's fault might weaken his resolve. "I'm scared, dad. Scared of what you're letting happen to yourself... and what you... might do to me. You've lost all sense of moderation, or restraint and... I don't know where your limits are anymore." Finally Braylinn slowly lifted his eyes, bracing himself for Timor's reaction.

Timor listened to his son's words, and something like satisfaction blossomed in his heart. So it was true, then, the soul really did hang around for a short period of time after the death! The corners of his lips twitched in a smile. Soon everything would be alright. Soon his son would be back where he belonged. Timor didn't know if these thoughts showed in his eyes or not; for over the course of the meeting with Braylinn, he had slowly dropped all barriers, until his eyes really had become the windows to his soul.

Thinking quickly, he turned his attention to the rest of the world they were currently standing in. It was strange, but even though the place felt timeless, it seemed as if there had been a shift in landscape. Some of the great dunes must've changed, even though there was no breath of wind to sift the grains of sparkling sand from the tops of them. And he had never noticed the strange fantastic structures which rose up, like cacti, only they had a consistency that seemed more aptly related to driftwood. This could've been the place of a surrealist's imagination, for all he knew. It certainly wasn't a world that he would create, if given the choice.

"It's alright, son, shhh, it's alright. You don't have to worry about anything anymore," Timor said, drawing him closer to his own body in a gentle embrace to soothe Braylinn's worries. Closing his eyes, Timor breathed in the scent of his son's hair, paying special attention to the fragrance, which he'd never done so before. For Timor, Braylinn conjured up images of strawberries and warm summer picnics.

"Everything will be fine. I will make sure of it."

---

The demon had successfully masked his scent, and had been stalking the trail of it's summoner for the last few minutes. He was getting close; he could feel it in the coppery taste of the air. This summoner was all burnt out, he thought, chuckling with glee. And he owed payment.

The demon had a lot of fun imagining how the man would choose to pay him.

With another giggle, the demon dissolved, and reformed as shadows that swirled through treetops, disrupting the rooks and crows that nested there. The shadows gathered like mist and the demon's great red eyes blinked open. Up ahead he saw a lone mansion, at the end of this road.

Braylinn had been expecting an unpleasant reaction; not necessarily heart break, but anger or at least annoyance. But there was none, in fact a smile was creeping slowly across Timor's face. At first, Braylinn felt only relief. It was all he wanted to feel really, for he was far to tired to deal with any more emotional strain. But it became un-ignorable, that faint darkness that lived in Timor's eyes flaring up like a fire newly fed. Braylinn blinked away his surprise, his stomach giving a slight painful twist; what was Timor thinking?

But just as Braylinn noticed this, Timor turned away. He seemed to be examining the scenery, of all things. Braylinn's eyes unfocused and he pressed his palms over them, as if trying to block out an unpleasant thought. Had he imagined that look? Timor looked almost placid as he examined the odd landscape, no trace of darkness there... still, worry lingered in Braylinn like a stain of cold at the very center of him. Those scales within him wobbled undecided, part of him wanting to let go and not worry, the other terrified of what a dark look might mean as an answer to his worries.

"It's alright, son, shhh, it's alright. You don't have to worry about anything anymore," Timor's voice, along side with the sudden tender contact startled Braylinn quite badly.His hands snapped up as if in defense, but a moment later he began to relax, little by little, his arms nearly folded between them. His eyes hung just before shut while his fingers slowly coiled into the fabric of Timor's shirt. Still part of his mind babbled in panic, a swarm of anxious butterflies surging in his stomach.

"Everything will be fine. I will make sure of it."

How desperately he wanted to believe that. His grip tightened just slightly, while his eyes finally shut. Braylinn was far past tired, and a vague dizziness was creeping into his head. Gingerly, he rested his head against his father's chest.

"So... you're going to stop all this...?" the question came so freely, so easily, as if the answer would have little consequence at all. In the seconds of silence that followed, Braylinn couldn't even draw the energy to be nervous about what Timor would say. He only listened to the sound of his father's heart beat, telling himself what the answer would be. Telling himself this was all a bad dream.

Still, that look of darkness that had passed over Timor's face played on repeat in Braylinn's mind, skipping like a broken record, ruining the illusions he was trying to conjure up for himself. Braylinn told himself (and was not completely lying) that he felt only comfortable and protected in Timor's arms... and yet, his fear, his panic slowly pooled and climbed, like the sand at the bottom of an hour glass.

OOC: sorry I keep not controlling the shadow creature... I just keep wanting to see Timor's reaction before he wakes up ^_^;;; <33

"So... you're going to stop all this...?"

What did Braylinn mean, all this? All this what? Braylinn couldn't possibly know what Timor was planning, so he dismissed that idea, shrugging it off as ludicrous, even though he knew that Braylinn was capable of putting two and two together. Somehow, he didn't want to believe it. But there had been the clues...Braylinn had hung around after the...the incident. There were things he couldn't possibly ignore, and yet he did.

"Of course, of course," he murmured idly, not really engaged at all. Aside from the physical stroking of Braylinn's hair, Timor wasn't really with it. His mind was busy churning, churning away, coldly analytical, analysing the new turn of events. He was wondering about any ramifications; the psychological effect that bringing Braylinn back would have upon the boy.

In the end, he decided that the best thing to do, would be to put the boy under a spell, which would lock his soul away, but keep him conscious, if not fully alert. It would be cruel, but it would give the boy time to regain his bearings, to come to terms with this. For, any sudden sealing of the soul could result in shock that could cause much more permanent damage. It would be simply tragic if Timor could succeed in reviving Braylinn, but fail in preserving his soul. And faulty goods would always have to be returned...no! He wouldn't...couldn't do that!

Shutting his eyes, he shook his head, as if in pain. No, no, no, no! And then he gave his son a watery smile, as if to say that everything was alright. Should he explain what he was going to do? Looking at the innocence in Braylinn's eyes, he couldn't bear to see it tainted, to see him stained in Timor's own sin. But it was the only way.

"Bralinn, I have something to confess..." he began, but there was a sudden jerk in his lower navel.

What the...

There it was again. Hiding his pain, he tried to continue.

"...You're too special to me to let g--"

But he couldn't continue. The tugging was so strong, that he felt as if he would split asunder. It was as if there was a great earthquake, and he was the epicentre. Feeling the tremors grow infinitely large, the atoms of Timor's body in this realm began to vibrate at gigantic amplitudes.

"Braylinn..." he struggled to say. "...Bray..."

And then he was wrenched away from Braylinn's arms. The world caved in on itself; the sky turned upside down and the sand dunes all collapsed into a singularity. In the blink of an eye, there was a blinding flash, and the grey world was replaced by black emptiness.

---

Timor jerked awake, absolutely furious. He'd been so close, he'd had so much to say to his son, and the minutes had been stolen...by what?! Sitting up, he realised his body was drenched in a cold sweat, and that at the foot of his bed, something dark, something ethereal, something evil, was swirling.

"Why hello," a deep voice intoned, oddly sardonic.

"Of course, of course,"

Braylinn's mind hurriedly locked away all the horrible things he had seen over the last few hours, running Timor's affirmative response over and over in his mind. Timor had agreed, nothing wrong was going to happen. Braylinn clung to this idea, despite the fact that half of him was still reluctant to believe it. The idle stroking of his hair was an odd and fantastic feeling, adding strength to side of him that simply wanted to let go, and relax. Timor had not often been so affectionate before, so such a sudden showing of affections -embraces and tender touches all in the same cluster of moments- was quite startling.

Braylinn's gaze drifted up like crisp arctic fog, focused on Timor's face with a faint sense of kittenish wonder. He looked pensive again...thoughtful. Braylinn watched his father, who seemed to be wrapped up in all sorts of intricate plans. What could he possibly be thinking of, Braylinn wondered, focusing on the curiosity, rather then the uneasiness.

The sudden shaking of Timor's head spiked concern in Braylinn, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, his father spoke before him.    

"Braylinn, I have something to confess..." he felt as if he had suddenly been doused with cold water. He hardly had time to repress the feeling, to mentally scold himself for being so weak of mind, and instantly expecting the worst.

"...You're too special to me to let g--" each word seemed to solidify his secret fear. There was not even a moment to react, before the very world seemed to come apart at the seams. Braylinn felt only coldness where Timor's body heat had been, only blackness where there had been Timor's eyes, grey skies, and silver sand.

Again there came the odd sensation of blinking, and opening his eyes to a different place then he had shut them to. Back in Timor's room, Braylinn woke as if hitting the ground after a grave fall. To panicked to appreciate the irony of that, he floated up like a gust of steam, trying to get his bearings.

Timor was there, sitting on the bed with one of the fiercest looks on his face Braylinn had ever seen. At the end of the bed was something that chilled Braylinn to his very center; a swirling sinister form of black, a pair of rotten-red-apple eyes. No sooner had the boy focused on them, had they snapped up to stare hard back at him. Braylinn felt himself flicker, and shifted to the side, but the eyes followed him.

"You can see me...?"

In response the demon only extended it's black curling tendrils. They crept through the air like black ink seeping over white paper, moving toward both Braylinn, and Timor. The demon's movements were slow and liquid; perhaps slow enough to dodge, but it was not as if he was going to let anyone get away, in the end.

A sinister chuckle cooled the air while a few of the tendrils attempted to coil about Timor's ankles, the others darting through what appeared to be empty air. Braylinn moved like a quick silver fog, agile with fear, ducking and swerving from the reaching darkness. What did the demon want with him?

Slowly, the solid blackness of the demon was broken, as it opened it's mouth with a sinister grin. Yellowed fangs clustered together in his sharp jack-o-lantern mouth, and from between them hissed a dark oily smoke. It filled the room, chocking out the dim light from the window, making everything dull.

A white silhouette could be seen in the fog; thin and lithe, quick and agile. Braylinn watched the smoke crowd around him and etch out his form with a detached amazement. His feet touched the floor and the smoke parted under him, giving him a loose smoky outline.  A tendril caught a wrist, and then a pair, and Braylinn struggled to phase through them, like he could the walls. But it seemed the demon was not so easily escaped.

The creature gave another dark amused laugh, his eyes turning then to Timor, his jack-o-lantern grin widening.

Crap...Timor had forgotten about the shadow demon he'd summoned earlier. It had been done in so much of a hurry, and had been such a botched job that he couldn't quite remember whether or not he had set the terms of the summoning contract properly. Oh dear...if the demon was still here...then probably not. His stomach turned in a queasy uneasiness.

Dear lord, he hadn't offered payment!

Feeling slightly tetchy, Timor regarded the demon through suspicious eyes. He knew exactly what the demon wanted. If Timor had been stronger, then he would've fended the demon off with his own powers, and send the fiend running back to hell, from whence it came.

But, here he was, lying in his own bed, practically helpless.

The being had been staring at Timor, but then its attention was snapped up by something else, something Timor couldn't see. The demon's burning red eyes were boring holes into his wall, and at that, his queasiness increased by a factor of ten. Could it possibly be...?

The fixation was unnerving. Timor was about to say something, when the demon extended a misty tendril in the direction it had been staring in. It unfurled ever so slowly, uncurling and twisting towards...towards...

Oh god...

The darkness billowed out, engulfing the room, and swallowed up everything and everyone in it. Timor threw his arms up as a shield, but it was futile. He blinked, holding back a cough. His muscles were tensed up, but relaxed slightly when he realised that the darkness wasn't hurting.

Nor was it aimed at him.

Timor blinked again, eyes watering. He'd just seen the strangest thing, and not wanting to believe it, he rubbed his eyes, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. But no...the white ghostly figure was still there. It was as if the sheer darkness of the demon had highlighted the presence of the stark spirit. Somehow, Timor's eyes wouldn't stop watering, and this time it wasn't at the rancid presence of the demon.

"Braylinn?" He managed in a hoarse whisper.

The demon had tendrils wrapped around the white figure, binding the figure in ropes of black, and had turned it's evil, evil face towards Timor with an awful smirk. It appeared to be mocking his misery, wondering, what he would do next. Timor could make out the figure's struggling movements, and his own face contorted in fury, as the demon then turned it's hungry head towards the white figure, opening its gaping mouth.

The implication was clear enough.

"No!" Timor hissed through clenched teeth.

No, no, no, no!

"You are in my house and you will accept what I offer as payment and then go back to where you came from." He tried to make his voice as commanding as possible, but there was no hiding the weakness, or the faltering quavers of his waning strength. Also, he was still sat upright in bed, hardly a position for a man of power to be in.

"Sir?" There was a timid knock upon the door.

Timor's face creased in a frown, whilst the demon cocked it's head curiously to the side. Even the white figure had paused in it's struggling. The voice sounded like Graynel, one of the servants of the house. This boy was barely older than Timor, and had only been recruited for two weeks, but already in that time, he had established himself with a circle of friends in the household. Timor's eyes flicked to the antique dagger that lay upon his drawers.

Curse his luck!

This boy would be missed.

But...the demon was making snapping noises with it's jaws now, snapping horrible jagged teeth that make his stomach clench.

Timor made a snap decision, and said, "Come in."

The boy poked his head around the door, saying, "Sir, I was wondering what the noise wa--"

He never got to finish though. Timor had picked up the dagger, and had thrown it expertly at the boy. It hit him straight between the forehead. A few drops of blood spilled, as the body fell with a thump. Breathing heavily, Timor wiped off beads of sweat and flung his bed covers aside. Swinging his legs to the floor, he moved weakly towards the boy and dragged him further into the room.

"Take your payment and go," he hissed malevolently, still breathing hard. There was now a dangerous look in Timor's eyes, an echo of darkness that still sparked somewhere within that body. The demon sensed it too. For, a man in danger always has a reserve, no matter how weak they are.

Bowing reluctantly, the demon released the white figure, which promptly became invisible again, and then the demon swept in for the body, shrouding it in a black mist. It turned red eyes towards Timor for one last time, mocking him, as if saying 'it won't be long before you join me' and then it disappeared, taking the servant with it.

What the hell was this ungodly thing!? Braylinn hardly had the energy to summon up any fear on his own behalf, yet the thing's smile was far beyond unnerving. Still, despite everything, he found himself worried more for souls other then his own. He was dead, after all... what worse things could happen to him?

Other then the damnation he already knew was coming, that is. Still, there were hardly a few moments in which he could be frightened of the great shadowy beast, for then it was Timor who frightened him the most. The knife seemed to sail in slow motion through the air, the sound of it cutting into that poor servant's head far too loud in Braylinn's ears. He hardly noticed as the tendrils slid off him, far to preoccupied with the sight of a pale wisp of a ghost, hovering just over where the servant's body had fallen.

Like Braylinn himself had been fresh after death, this ghost looked blank and mildly confused, looking around at the scene with a sense of detachment. The servant-ghost remained hovering over his own body as Braylinn starred in stark horror, turning his eyes slowly to his father. The boy's head hurt, the edges of his vision blurred.

It was all for him, he knew. The grave robbing, the black magic, the murder. It was all for Braylinn; the thought of it made him ill, dizzy, filled up with a sort of thrill that made him feel as if he would be sick, made him feel like he wanted to shout at his father to stop. Further and further Timor seemed to be sinking into darkness, and yet... Braylinn knew his father would only descend further, if it was for him.

'Should I leave?' he thought desperately to himself, 'If father sensed I was gone... would he stop this madness...?'

A look of fear crossed over the servant ghost's face as the demon floated over to him like a fog of blackness, his tendrils closing around the body, and the ankles and wrists of the ghost. The servant spirit looked panicked, his eyes turning then to Braylinn.

"Help m-me," he stuttered, as confused as he was afraid, "H-help me, help-" but suddenly, the ghost and the demon where gone.

Braylinn remained still for a long few moments, the temperature in the room dropping as his panic mounted.

He saw his father's breath etched out on silver puffs before he covered his eyes with his palms, his shaking having nothing to do with the cold.

"Stop it Dad... I hate seeing you do this, I hate seeing you.... become this way. Please, please... I know you're a good person, please stop..." he said.

Frost slicked the tall imposing looking windows. Words began to crawl through the ice in spidery letters; Stop. Please. Over and over again, ranging in size.

Without knowing what he was doing Braylinn was suddenly at Timor's side, his hands on the man's shoulders. His touch would icy, colder then the air or even the windows.

"If you keep this up you wont be able to turn back! You have to stop!" Braylinn urged, praying his father would be able to hear him. Always being one to worry more for others then himself, Braylinn was not used to the feeling that was slowly creeping over him; he was frightened, but for himself. The hysteria withered from his voice and he added quietly, "I'm scared... if you can do all this then of course... you wouldn't hesitate... bringing me back. And if this is the darkness that you're capable of... I'm scared of..." of what? Of being brought back? Of being under his control? Of seeing Timor sink further?

Or, was he simply developing a fear of Timor himself?

OOC: sorry that took so long >_< I went to anime north over the weekend... then I got sick when I came back ._.

There was nothing but sweet silence in that room, an echoing, ringing silence that pounded in Timor's head. He was still wearing that strange smile upon his face, the same one as he had watched the misty dark tendrils envelop the servant and disappear away from this world.

Timor pulled the bedcovers back over his body, and remained sitting there, leaning against the headboard and letting his thoughts drift. It was the calm of a muffled snowy day, when the snowflakes were spiralling all around. Thinking of snow did make him feel calm, and the cold thoughts seemed to be having an external effect too. With an almost dreamy look upon his face, Timor closed his eyes, and tilted his head, as if listening to the temperature of the room slowly cascade down, down. What was going to happen now?

As if to answer his question, the thin cream muslin curtains began to billow. Timor turned his head curiously towards the tall thin windows. How careless, he'd left the window open. All sorts of nasty things could've gotten in by now!

A gentle breeze had picked up, caressing the flimsy curtains to reveal a view that gazed out upon the wide, imposing grounds of his mansion, where fantastically sculpted shrubs and the bizarre reigned. And on top of it all, the disc of the moon cast the scene in her own brand of pearly light.

Timor sensed the frost appearing on the windows before he saw it. Maybe it was because he had been using his magic senses for such a long period of time, this night, but they honed in on the window like a cat on a mouse.

Stop. Please.

The words just kept appearing. At first, they amused him mildly, but then his face darkened and he got out of the bed, walked woodenly over to the window, and struck it with his fist, causing the glass to shatter. His hand was bleeding as he got back into bed, something Timor overlooked. As he fell bad into a broken reverie where he was ravaged by his conscience in the guise of dreams, the cut from his hand oozed red blood, which leaked and stained the bed sheets a deep crimson.

In the morning, well, afternoon, for Timor slept through most of the day, due to his fatigue from the previous night, the full horror of everything came back to him. In the stark light of day, everything seemed ridiculous, so overblown.

Could it really work?

And also, he'd forgotten about the missing servant, until one of the younger maids asked him where Graynel was. Slightly startled, his eyes were half-glazed as his brain turned for an excuse.

"He got called home. He won't be coming back."

What!?! Was that the best he could do?

Shaking his head, Timor went down, and tried to act as ordinary as he could, which was pretty difficult, due to his rough appearance- the shadows beneath his eyes, the sallow skin, and the general haunted look.

The ruined bed sheets had been replaced, and Timor had inspected the carpet until his eyes could've bored holes in them, but there were no bloodstains from Graynel either. The broken window would need more explaining, however he had a story conjured up, should the need arise. So far though, no one had ventured into his room, for no one dared to, whilst he still occupied it. Yawning, Timor felt his stomach rumble, and realised with a sudden pang, just how hungry he was. Especially from all that magic.

Tucking into a gigantic meal, Timor decided he would go out later and see what news he could get from the events that had happened last night. Maybe that would make things seem less surreal.

Had anyone in his household heard about Braylinn yet? Surely everyone must know by now. Were the looks he received ones of pity?

Shaking his head, he decided the best policy was to play ignorant. After all, no one had seen him leave his mansion last night.

((Am soo tired, so sorry if this post doesn't make sense. I'm not 100% happy with it either, like, the bits about everyone acting normal, so may change it a bit later! And am glad you're well again!! Nightshade has missed you lot's and lot's like jelly tots! XD))

Braylinn could only remain still as his father rose, phasing through him as if Braylinn had been nothing more then air. The sudden shattering of the window spawned a startled and intense fear in him; it was frightening seeing Timor suddenly lash out thoughtlessly, hurting himself and whatever he happened across. The significance of it was not lost at all on Braylinn, but he hardly had space in his mind to contemplate it, past the slowing growing fear.

Braylinn had never seen his father act in such a way, sure he was aware that Timor liked to dabble in dark and dangerous things, but naive as it sounded, Braylinn always thought that mattered very little. His father was a scholar after all, why shouldn't he learn? More importantly then that, his father was a good person... but that notion was proving difficult to hold onto. Still, Braylinn could not quell the tiny swell of worry as he saw Timor bleeding, unable to blot out his dangerously selfless concern for others completely.

It was a long time before the boy even dared move; he simply sat, head down, hands folded in his lap, attempting to quell this horribly hysteric feeling swelling up inside him. 'Run,' it told him, and as pointless and scary as that thought was, it also had it's appeal. It was painful to watch Timor hurt himself, and to remain in the line of fire. As the night gave way to morning and the morning to day, a mockery of normality cloaked the insanity of the previous night. The newspaper dropped at the front step spoke of Braylinn's death, and a smaller article spoke the graveyard's watch hound going mad.

Finally, a long time after Timor had left the room, Braylinn lifted his head. Without ever deciding to he had committed to leaving, and attempting to forget what sat frozen and dead in the depths of there house. He couldn't say he would leave forever, because even after death Braylinn couldn't shed how timid he could be, and he didn't quite like the idea of never returning. He was drifting down the hall, about to sink into the floor that would lead him to the main hall and thus the door (which he had no need to use, but wanted to anyway) when something caught his eye.

A door, his door, to be exact. Missing the space suddenly he drifted inside, spending a good deal of time looking at all the posters of dissected and zoomed in herbs he had created. Where posters were not covering the walls there were shelves, which were crammed to the breaking point with books. School books, mostly, but there was some classic literature, too. They made him think of school, which sent a tiny shiver of guilt through his mind. How many times had he lied and said he had gone to class, only to skip and help Lily with her studies? The girl was hopeless with some things, and Braylinn was smart enough to catch up... but it didn't completely excuse lying.

Braylinn shook his head, looking away from his shelves and in a blink of an eye, he was on his bed. It didn't matter really, because he couldn't feel the rumpled comforter, and he didn't suppose ghosts needed sleep... yet he was so tired, all he wanted was to close his eyes...

Perhaps he would leave after a little rest...

~*~*~*~

Some time later, the door creaked quietly open. Into the room crept a lithe male with thin spider-thread hair, coffee-cream colored skin, and a pair of silver-blind eyes. Bailey was one of Braylinn's servant's, and since the time of his hiring, it had been his job to bring Braylinn a certain kind of herb that grew very scarcely across town.

The elder teen paused in the doorway, letting out a long sigh. He had heard of Braylinn's demise, and yet old habits were hard to break. Bailey placed down the basket of fresh green plants just inside the door, about to turn and leave... when a blur of silver glinted across his blind eyes. Pausing, the servant starred into the dark room, his unseeing gaze settling on Braylinn, who was still sound asleep.

Bailey gave a small smile, oblivious to everything the spirit had been through, to him it appeared only that the soul of his young master was reluctant to leave. Slipping into the room, Bailey left the door carelessly ajar, and settled onto the bed next to Braylinn. The spirit left no imprint on the bed, but he was curled in such a way over the wrinkles of the sheets that it almost appeared he did.

"What are you doing hanging around here...?" he asked in a light voice that was too old for his young body. Lifting a curious hand, he placed it where Braylinn's head would be, shivering as goosebumps raced down his arm. "A-ah, you're cold..." Braylinn didn't even stir.

OOC: Again, really sorry ;_; forgive me T_______T Exams kill me ._. Er... don't ask about the random blind ghost seeing NPC, I don't know, it just popped into my brain xD feel free to do whatever with him....I kinda feel bad for him if Timor was mysteriously around >_>;; heeheehee. Also soon Bray is gonna try and run if he doesn't get anchored to a body soon, the silly thing xDDD

The evening brought a sense of calm for Timor and time for personal soliloquies. It was possibly the calm before the storm, who knew? That whole afternoon had passed by in a blur, just flashes of shouting, grief, shock, dropping things, and the visitors, all come by to solace him.

The walls of this mansion, which had been privy to so many secrets over the years, had never heard the voices of so many different people. A whole multitude, blending in one by one in a succession akin to a funeral march, where the people came to pay their last respects. And Timor had to put his public face on, and greet them all with polite courtesy, when deep inside he wanted nothing more than for them to all get the fuck out of here. Many a time, he found himself taking a deep breath, and practising the breathing techniques from the mountain arts he had picked up from various circles. Finding his middle point, and the ground where he could place his both feet firmly upon, he strengthened his roots and then it was evening.

And here he was, out on the rooftop balcony of the west wing. Both hands gripped the black iron railing with an intensity that turned his knuckles stark white, betraying his outer exterior. He wasn't really watching the blood red sun dip beneath the horizon. Whilst his face appeared passive, if one gazed into his eyes, past the white flecks, the signs of the taint upon his soul, they would find a blizzard of passions inside, some too dark to voice out loud.

As he paced about restlessly, he couldn't help but wish the time would become more fluid and run faster. The ritual had to be performed by twenty four hours afterwards, otherwise it would be too late, and he would only have an empty shell, which would no doubt be a perfect host for some demon to seize and take hold of.

At last, the sun disappeared, and the chatterings of the mansion subsided for the night. Luckily for him, Timor hadn't been approached very often by the servants today, out of respect so he knew he wouldn't be in any danger of being discovered. However it still made sense to be cautious. His actions were like a sleeping time bomb in this town, just waiting to explode. All it would take were more slips like he'd made last night, and the people would put two and two together.

Stomach rumbling, Timor made his way down to the shadowy kitchens and rummaged around for something to eat. He needed to eat like a horse to replenish all that energy he had lost last night.

The people put it down to grief.

Timor's eyes settled upon a hunk of red meat, which had been bought earlier today. He grabbed it and quickly warmed up the gas stoves, foot tapping impatiently. Five minutes into the cooking, Timor grew so impatient that he seized the meat and just ate it rare. The juices ran down the side of his mouth, as the kitchen was filled with inhuman sounds of squelching, chewing and flesh tearing.

Timor wiped his mouth and glanced at the clock. He still had a few hours...hmm...best to get it over and done with now.

His footsteps clattered down the secret corridor as he made his way down to where everything lay ready, waiting for him. There was almost a spring in his step, and if anyone had been listening, they would've sworn that he was humming a tune.

Inside, everything was still where he had left it. Timor shrugged on a soft velvet black cloak, put on some gloves and then systematically began to lay all of the body parts out, as if he were piecing together a jigsaw. He was humming the same tune, a jaunty melody that seemed so out of place here. Every now and then, he would cradle a part lovingly and whisper something inaudible to it. There was an art to all of this, and from the looks of things, it would seem that Timor was extremely proficient in this art, that it would be hard to believe he'd never done this before.

An hour later, all the parts were laid out upon the great table, and four candles were burning brightly, one at each corner of the table. Around the dungeon, the flame torches had flared into life at the click of his fingers. Oh, he was juiced up from all that meat, and even more so from the anticipation of events to come.

The book lay before him, along with various other instruments and withered...things.

He was ready.

((Hehe Braylinn gets one last bout of freedom! Hmm...maybe he could try running away but it's too late...Timor is going to call his soul down, if its still nearby. And I have exams too, they are such a bane to my life! *points to red writing in Nightshade's signature* Grr! Real life sucks.))

When Braylinn woke he was startled to find a warm body silhouetted by his side; a black shadow edged in silver, cut out from the dark by the moonlight leaking through his open window. A servant? Upon closer inspection he realized whom it was, and lingered at his own bedside for a few long somber moments. Braylinn had been so consumed by the tragics of what was happening with his father, he had hardly taken the time to morn the loss of the rest of his life.

That was a little unhealthy, was in not? Allowing such obsession to consume him so, and blot out all else? Braylinn shook his head, attempting to scramble the thoughts. The loss of everything else would have stuck him eventually he knew, it just seemed odd to him that so much time had passed, and he had been grieving nothing but the slow decay of Timor's moral mind.

What time was it? How long had he been resting? Where was his father? Braylinn could hear no murmur of servant footsteps or quiet conversation, the silence telling of the late hour. He moved as if blinking, blacking out for a moment in one location and appearing in another. Suddenly, he was by the window, peering out into the calm silver night. It looked so beautiful, as if nothing so horrible had happened the night before. Slowly Braylinn looked down, and was startled to realize he could see through the floor, as easily as if it were tissue paper.

His sight did not come from human eyes anymore after all, why would it be limited as such? Yes, the night was calm, unlike the night he had died. But tonight, as Braylinn could see, something worse and far more unnatural was about to occur.

He could only make out Timor as a blur gliding about the basement like an elegant tattered-at-the-edges shadow. Panic doused Braylinn like cold water.

He was doing it? Now? So soon? Braylinn had the sick feeling of a racing heart with no heart beat. This was wrong; this would taint was was not yet tainted in Timor, he was sure. But what could he do to stop his father? He was a mere ghost in this world! Silent and wide-eyed in panic, Braylinn glanced around frantically, trying to decide what to do.

His eyes fell to Bailey. Could he wake the boy somehow? Could tell him-?

Braylinn remembered the smile on Timor's face as Graynel's body and soul where swept away by the demon. No, he couldn't send Bailey. Braylinn was truly all alone in what he would do next.

Maybe he could run, maybe if he got far enough what Timor was doing would fail. Maybe then the man would shed himself of his growing madness and learn to grieve like a normal person, and then move on. For one brief moment Braylinn felt fierce and horrifying reluctance to leave; his home, and more so his father.

'Look what the man is doing!' he scolded himself, forcing away the childish senseless feeling. No, he would leave, it would be what was best for both of them. In one blink-movement he was at the door, and in another, he was on the edge of the grand estate. One brief moment of hesitation flickered across his, and he looked back.

How many times had he watched bats flit across the sky at dusk, urging his father to take a break from his studies and join him? Where had those simple times gone? How had things changed so much?

It was during these musings the tendrils slithered hence. For one heart-stopping moment Braylinn thought it was that horrible demon... but these were silver, and these where coming from the house. Braylinn shut his eyes, attempting one more jump through reality that would take him far far away. For a long few moments he held his breath, slowly let it out, and dared to feel relief. He felt nothing, no tugging or constriction, so had he gotten away...? He carefully peeked open his eyes...

The tendrils had grabbed him without him feeling a thing. He was gliding towards the house now, through the walls, the wisps of magic hardly faltering against his frantic struggles. If only he had not hesitated, but now it seemed there was no escape! Braylinn forced himself to watch the walls as he approached them, passed through them, trying to battle his fear. He didn't want to see the conclusion of the capture; the basement, his father. But as he glided through the basement ceiling and the things pulled him down down down, it was so tempting to not just simply close his eyes, and pray for it to be over.

((OOC: I hope he comes off scared enough here... I dunno, I did my best, but I'm still brain fried from exam hell ;_; SO SORRY I'm being so slow ;_; I have such a not sane work load T_____T ))

The incantations had all been said, in flawless Latin. Only a scholar could've accomplished the task so perfectly. But, he was still weak, so would he have enough power for the ritual to be completed without any interruptions? Would anything go wrong? He supposed that he really shouldn't have been so rash in his displays of powers the previous night, but it was too late for that now. He supposed also that maybe it would have been wiser to wait until he had rejuvenated more of his energy, but yet again it was too late for that.

The only consolation Timor had was that he was such a perfectionist that nothing would go wrong. Whether it was by force of will, nothing would go wrong. He wouldn't allow it.

Timor snapped the book shut, eyes scanning the room greedily for any sign of change. Nothing happened at first. The room remained still as ever. A minute passed, of expectant silence. And then, the flames in the candles and in the torches began to flicker. Gradually at first, so that you wouldn't even notice it, but then, as the minutes passed, the flickering grew more and more violent, becoming spasms of wild torrential shadows upon the stone walls. They capered and danced, becoming corporeal reflections of the spirits, somehow representing the divide between one world and the next.

Oh the wonder!

Smouldering eyes opened and closed, and an unnatural wind began to whip up, but not strong enough to put out the flames.

Even so, Timor was growing ever impatient. Why was this damn ritual taking so long?! Granted, they always took forever, but this forever was taking longer than other forevers. He was on the point of getting angry and so almost missed the first slivers of silver mist.

The tendrils came creeping, creeping along the floor, and then rose until they were above the body parts, all of which had been magically sewn together. He could still see the oozy black 'thread' he had used. It was the 'thread' of life, the magic that kept the souls joined to the bodies. As in Greek mythology, he too could control fates. This magical glue would become absorbed by the flesh once the soul was in place, and would then act as a mesh, a prison, to seal the soul, to keep it trapped for however long Timor wished.

The tendrils had become a mass of silver now, a dense cloud. Before his very eyes, he watched the cloud struggle, trying to resist the pull of his spell, trying to resist being drawn in. But it was no use. It was a losing battle.

"I'm doing it all for you," Timor crooned, watching the despairing cloud sink lower, and lower, until it was touching the body. Still sinking, the silver wisps spread out, filling into the shape of the body before being completely engulfed by the hungry flesh. There was an exhalation, and the body seemed to shudder, before the black threads glowed purple, and locked the soul in. The flames stopped flickering, and Timor breathed a sigh of relief. It had worked. The ritual had worked!

Now it was the orientation period, the time needed for the soul and the body to come to terms with each other, to become one, and to readjust in this world. The soul would breathe life into the very blood of the body, and the atoms would once again spark with life. It would be many hours before the boy would wake up, and in that time, Timor would make sure that the boy's will belonged to him only.

"It's all for you," Timor murmured again.

Braylinn would be completely in his power, completely under his control, the way it should always have been. He would look up to nobody but his father. He would have no other thoughts in his brain that that of his father. He would worship his father.

((Sorry it's taking so long to reply! Exams are killing me! -_- Not sure if that was what you wanted – for Braylinn to in effect become totally under Timor's influence? Meh, things don't have to turn out the way Timor wants them... ^_^))

A human body had never looked so unnatural to him, but for all Braylinn knew the greying construct below him, the form that had once belonged to him, could be nothing more then a cold steel cage. That's all it seemed to be, all his mind repeated as he was dragged back, not one sliver of fondness for the body remaining in his mind. Something in him knew this was fundamentally wrong, but all his his struggling amounted to nothing. He had forgotten in later moments just why he was fighting; for himself, for Timor, for fear... he remembered only that he was fighting and that something wrong was happening.

Then, it was as if a great barred gate swung shut, and Braylinn heard the whispered words "It's all for you."

Braylinn had not known how used to be a ghost he had become. Yet, when real human sensation began to bombard his mind (the table under him, the warmth, the cold, the pain) he could make no sense of it. He sat there perfectly still, dumb, struggles forgotten as his mind worked on the most simple level, sorting out the storm of sensations. Something felt tight in his chest, the pressure mounted, until at the last possible moment something clicked in his mind.

Breathe. Breathe!

He gasped, eyes thrown wide open, and blind. Breathe... they closed again, and again the boy became still as a doll.

Minutes crawled by, five, then ten, then fifteen, all the while his mind working, his flesh warming faintly. It seemed things were going smoothly...

Braylinn's eyes snapped open. He didn't register anything he saw, his hands wrapping around his own chest, grasping his shoulders, grasping the threads.

He pulled. The oozing black lines were pulled taut away from his skin. It was an agony so consuming only the simplest tug pulled his spine into a painful arc, and yet he continued to pull the threads.

Moments crawled by as Braylinn refused to make a sound, to acknowledge anything around him. He could have sworn he felt the threads breaking, and almost felt relief. The threads were stretching from his skin, lifting from where they had sunk into his arms, his legs, and he struggled and tugged against them, like a fly in web.

Suddenly, bolts of silver, like petrified rain, tore into his skin. The boy flinched so badly he tumbled clear off the table onto the cold stone floor, where he lay for a long few minutes after. Silver bolts... around his neck, his wrists, his thighs... his finger tips dumbly touched the warm studs. The threads where he had pulled them out sat sinisterly on his skin, steaming, but the bolts seemed to hold everything in place. From his neck to his thighs seemed untouched, as he had not managed to tug the threads from there, and the bolts had stopped any other damage.

Braylinn's mind whirred in useless circles. He refused to think. His skin was an odd white-gray, a beautiful color for something produced by the slightest decay.

"What have you done to me...?" he murmured. His limbs felt oddly heavy, limb even as he lifted himself up. It was a rather odd sensation. His back ached from where he had writhed on the table, and his skin hummed with cold...

So cold... Braylinn peered at his fingers, at the stitches there, and then slowly down at his cold body. A tremor ran through his bare form and he sank to the floor, cowering behind the table before slipping right under it. He pulled his knees to his chest and shut his eyes, attempting to shrug off the hysteria that seeped into his mind.

What could he do now?

((OOC: I think it works like... Since Timor brought him back Timor *could* move Bray by will like a puppet, if Bray had no soul. Reanimating bodies with no soul is something a necromancer does, and they use the dead like puppets. But, Bray does have a soul, so he can move around on his own. As for who has control, it would be a battle of wills, but since Bray is kind of broken, Timor will probably win... at least for now :3

So, uhm, I suppose that is permission to move Bray about yourself if you want, unless it is something you think he would REALLY hesitate about, in which case give me a chance to decide or not :3

I dont know if Timor was there for that little struggle or not, you can decide ^___^ Also, YES, he is naked, but YOU didnt give him any clothes, so THERE, it's YOUR fault! xDDDDD

And dont worry, I'm really sorry I'm doing slow too ;_; This is REALLY fun and I really wanna be faster myself! Just exams kill ;_;

PS Added a pick of Bray to his profile, and soon I will add a new one of Laz too!! ))

Wait...something was not right. Timor could feel it on the nape of his neck, a tingling coldness, as if someone was trickling ice cold water down his back. It was not a nice feeling; extremely unnerving and he did not like it one bit. Timor's hands clenched tightly. His nails bit into his palms, making half moon shapes, signs of his increasing agitation.

The body jerked once, twice, into life.

Briefly, the eyes flickered open, and Timor felt the growing pressure subside, but no wash of relief came. He couldn't take his own flecked eyes off of the body, just waiting, waiting for it, for whatever it was to go wrong.

And then it happened.

Braylinn regained consciousness.

This wasn't meant to happen for another eight hours! Timor's mind reeled in shock at just how accelerated the result was. It shouldn't have been happening. The soul was supposed to readjust, reset it's bearings, mental clock...everything was supposed to go back to zero, default mode.

He needed to calm his breathing down. Timor found himself counting his breaths, focusing on nothing but his breathing in order to calm down. He had to ignore those whirlwind thoughts – all the possibilities and reasons and scenarios his overactive imagination threw at him. He would not be another Frankenstein – yes he had studied this text, back in the student days. In fact, this was what had inspired him to turn his research to...darker aspects, like discovering the keys to unlocking the very essence of life itself.

He was not going to fail.

Even as Braylinn's arms snapped up, trying to tear away the invisible black threads, Timor raised his own arms and willed them to tighten with all his might. His black, oozing threads shimmered, changing from silver to black, and back to silver, flickering...and...they held.

Timor closed his eyes, and slumped into a wooden chair nearby. He felt drained, both mentally and physically. Two nights in one row was way too much for him to handle. He was strong. But not that strong.

"What have you done to me...?"

At the sound of the weak voice, horror dawned upon Timor's face. Wiping away the beads of sweat, his eyes snapped open again and locked on the... body, his son. He watched it flex it's muscles, turn its hands over to inspect them, inspect his own handiwork. As if it would be anything less than top-notch!

Timor kicked the chair away from him as he stood up, at the same time as when Braylinn had lowered himself to the floor, and was crouched there, rocking back and forth, looking so pitiful.

It wasn't meant to happen like this!

Closing his eyes in disgust, Timor clicked his fingers and a grey tarpaulin cloth sailed over. He tossed it in the direction of Braylinn, so that it covered him like a snowdrift, settling around his body and insulating him from the cold.

Timor wasn't going to answer Braylinn's question.

Not when the boy still displayed some portion of controlling his own will.

In disgust, Timor left the dungeon, his footsteps echoing over the cold stone pavements, as the door swung shut and the bolts were fastened, locking in Braylinn.

---

An hour later, the sound of metal against metal tore through the empty air as the bolts were unfastened, this time by hands rather than by magic. Timor strode back into the room, looking around for a quivering pathetic heap. Somewhere along the line, his heart had hardened ever so much. Lines of disgust were etched across his face, as he held the bowl of brown food and the pitcher of water in his hands.

He couldn't see the boy anywhere.

Timor walked over to the stone table, and was about to put the bowl and pitcher on the table, when he snorted. A cruel thought passed through his mind and he placed them both down upon the floor. So far, he had heard no sound so perhaps that was a good sign. Perhaps Braylinn's soul had succumbed to his magic, and had been locked up.

No matter. He would return in another hour, just before daybreak and see if there was any change.

((Hehe, my Timor baby's in shock by how wrong it all went!! He's just reacting badly, is all. If you're unhappy with any of it, let me know and I shall edit, edit, edit. And now that exams are over, I can post more frequently! XD ))

For some reason Braylinn was horrified to let his senses unfocused; something in him was trying to return to default mode, to the simple state of mind that would again allow him to sort out all the knew things that came with being barred into a body, but he did not want to let himself shut down in such a way. In sat there for a long while, flickering in and out of awareness, until quite suddenly he noticed something over his eyes. A... sheet? Apparently it had landed on him. As is on auto-pilot, Braylinn tugged the thing off and shambled to his feet, tying it around his waist with a bow-like knot at his hip.

He surveyed the empty room, the darkness that draped the shelves, the books, the dead charred wicks of the candles. A horrible eeriness lingered in the air, as if something sinister lurked between the walls.

Suddenly, a cold gnawing, hungry cold rippled through Braylinn's center. He flinched, unfamiliar with the feeling but somehow recognizing it. As it passed he waited quietly, frozen, his hands folded tightly around his chest.

Get out of the room, common sense suddenly kicked in; another level of his mind bursting to life. Braylinn went for the door so quickly he knocked into the table, sending a bowl and a glass flying to the floor. Some kind of food and liquid burst over the cold stone ground, and Braylinn was sure he had never seen anything so unappetizing before. It actually surprised him when he managed to open the door, had his father not locked it...? Looking to the destroyed dishes of food and drink, Braylinn realized the man had probubly been in and out a few times by now, and must have forgotten about the door.

That strange feeling rippled through him again, this time more vividly, more urgently. He couldn't ignore it, nor avoid putting a name to this this time.

Hunger. For a moment Braylinn leaned against the wall, shutting his eyes, attempting to catch his breath and more importantly, sort out his thoughts. His mind seemed reluctant to think clearly, more ready to operate only on simple levels that would take care of momentary needs. This was frustrating, but he supposed it would fade with time. Braylinn reasoned that visiting the kitchen was to dangerous; he had no idea what time it was, but if it was anywhere near close to sunrise, servants would be there preparing breakfast. There was however, a little food in his room.

Braylinn moved carefully through the walls, still unable to shed the feeling that his limps were limp and heavy, even as he moved. They felt as if they were still, even as he watched them move. Having no space in his mind at the present moment to contemplate that, Braylinn slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. Timor had discouraged keeping any lasting amounts of food in the bedrooms, as it created messes and attracted bugs, things like that... but Braylinn had to pull so many all nighters to make up for the classes he missed, he found it handy to have something hidden in the room for him. So, he just kept a few things hidden.

The hunger was back again, impossibly more demanding, painfully so even. Braylinn dropped himself more then sat upon the floor, on his knees, his fingertips seeking out the one boarded in the floor that was loose. Pulling it up, he let it clatter back onto the floor as he reached into the hidden space. Out he pulled a small box of honey flavored treats, ripping open the thin plastic and taking a handful, he ate with a huge sigh of relief. Over the crunching, he slowly became aware of a sound... a panicked flutter... breath.

His eyes shot sideways. Laying on the bed, wide eyed with panic, was Bailey. He inhaled and shrieked before Braylinn could react, the sound cutting through the walls, making the windows shiver.

Braylinn dropped the box and little honey treats scattered across the floor. He had thought that Bailey was BLIND. Still, the boy seemed to have no problem seeing Braylinn at all. Bailey of course had horrible vision but no problem seeing supernatural things at all. But he saw, was a soul, a ghost, bound to something against its will.

And that could only mean one thing; an undead.

"Please, d-don't, shhh, you must-"

But Bailey seemed hysterical, his scream trailing as he shuffled back on the bed, attempting to put some space between them. That part of Braylinn's mind that seemed to be working for only the present moment, the present need -despite the consequence- kicked into action.  

Instantly Braylinn was on top of him, a hand clasped over the hysterical servant's mouth.

"Shut up, someone's going to hear you," the whisper turned his voice into a half-hearted hiss. Bailey's eyes were wide and bright with fear.

Suddenly it came again, that incredible demanding hunger. Braylinn's body tensed in resistance to something he couldn't yet comprehend; his hand over Bailey's mouth tightening, little rose-red crescents appearing in his skin. He looked to terrified to whimper.

Braylinn's breath came in deep slow tides, his shock-white hair hanging over his face as he tipped down his head, obscuring his eyes. He shook faintly as the tiniest bit of blood bubbled up under his nails. His heart was beating so fast in this chest, it sounded to him like thundering footsteps...

((OOC: Yay for you! ^_^ Technically mine are done too, I'm just away until Sunday >_<  but I can answer stuff I get today and then on Sunday I'll be back up to speed :D Man I feel bad for Timor xDDD The poor guy; this just ain't his day xDDD   Then again, not like Bray is having the best day either >_>;; heeheehee!~ ))

Timor jerked awake. He'd been dozing in his armchair, the plush velvet one by the fireside. He had been drawn here by the last dredges of the glowing embers, which still smouldered in the hearth before him, separated by a black iron girdle. The living room had a snug cosiness to it, at this hour in time, the in between time where it wasn't quite dawn but night's tendrils just wouldn't quite let go yet.

Glancing at the clock on the mantel, he saw his haggard face reflected in the polished glass. There were dark rings around his eyes, and his skin seemed ghostly pale, of the same ethereal quality as...no. He cut that thought short. Behind the reflection, the black ornate hands pointed to five thirty nine.

Timor raised his arms in the motions of a stretch, yawning with a muzzy countenance. His hair was tousled up most shockingly, and for a brief moment, he could've been transported back in time, back to the young student he had once been- the student, who had mastered the art of all-nighters and had made the library his own domain.

But it was never enough. Being the best still wasn't enough, because she had already been there before him, and all he could do was to follow in her footsteps. The image of his sister made him convulse violently, sending tremors through his body which forced him to wake up to a higher energy level.

Pulling the robe around his body, Timor warmed his hands by the embers and then rose to his feet. His footsteps, as he left the living room, were muffled by the soft slippers he wore so not even a ghost would've heard him glide down the corridors. Down, down the dark flights, down into subterranean coldness.

He paused before the dungeon, and then wondered why he had stopped. It was a subconscious move, and he dismissed it without further ado. Unfastening the bolts, the door creaked open, but he knew straight away that there was nothing inside. The food he had left had been knocked to the ground, and shiny footprints led away from the table, in the direction of the door. In fact, parts of the prints that led outwards into the corridor were still visible.

Timor cocked his head to the side, wondering if he should be feeling anything right now. Rage or concern? He decided, with a scientific scrutiny, to put his own personal feelings on hold until he located the boy.

Eye twitching slightly, Timor followed the trail, but it soon disappeared as the footprints dried.

Now what?

Timor's eyes shifted to the left and to the right.

Where would I go, if I were a soul trapped in a newly reanimated corpse?

Timor's eyes locked on the spiral staircase that led up to the bedrooms. Of course Braylinn would go seek out a place of security, a place that had felt familiar to him during his life. So the boy was still disorientated, scared even?

This would make controlling him easier then. Timor knew he had to gain control very quickly, and very early on, otherwise it would be too late, and free will would reign forever more. Once he woke up fully, he would analyse what had gone wrong with his ritual.

Timor held his breath as he approached Braylinn's room and tiptoed as lightly as was possible. There seemed to be some small noise emanating from that room, so his suspicions were proved correct. It sounded like a scuffle of some kind.

Timor eased the door open, and his eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sight before him. They were frozen in shock, and so was he. From where he was standing, it appeared that Braylinn was trying to strangle Bailey.

"How odd," he murmured to himself.

Folding his arms, Timor leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking the exit. He wanted to see what Braylinn would do next.

((Heh heh ball's in your court, baby!))

((OOC:... NOT NORMAL XD Just sitting back and CURIOUSLY watching.... *sigh* Oh Timor, you sad twisted little man, and he was almost cute in front of the fire... LOL his twitch made me giggle xD!))

Braylinn's attention was so consumed, he'd hardly have noticed a piano crashing through the floor beside him. Bailey was tugging weekly at his wrist, trying to pry Braylinn's hand off his mouth so he could breath, but Braylinn only held on more tightly, desperately, his nails sending little rivets of blood down the sides of Bailey's mouth.

It felt like something huge and heavy was pulsing inside Braylinn's head, the pain mounting until he felt his vision unfocus. Bailey's eyes swelled with unimaginable fear, and Braylinn had only started to wonder why, when suddenly his vision blacked out. Suddenly, he felt doused in unimaginable cold, and as id every single sense was muffled, and numb. For a few seconds he waited in still silence, as if the sudden deprivation of every sense was something like a powerout, and if he just waited, things would fix themselves.

Things did not fix themselves. The cold worsened, sharpened, until it was almost crippling. Braylinn was caught between struggling to regain full conscious thought, and battling sheer hysteria. He tried to move, tried to scream, but could not.  

Then, slowly, a deep heavy warmth began to seem over his senses. Weary of this, he resisted for only a moment, but the warmth granted such relief from the cold he couldn't help but cling to it. At first the sensation was blurry, a smear of warmness everywhere, but slowly it began to develop shape, form. It was on his hands, hottest at his finger tips, pouring down his throat and dripping down his insides, like honey. The warmest point he could feel was at his mouth, and he couldn't help but push into it, like a kitten against against an affectionate hand.

There was however, a sound lingering at his ears, just beyond his recognition. His mind skimmed over it, attempting to decode...

Screaming. It was screaming. All the blackness enclosing him exploded in blooms of red. Reality stabbed up around Braylinn in sharp shards. Before he knew was he was doing he flung himself backwards, knocking onto the floor first, and then his back into what felt, oddly enough, like a pair of legs. He closed his eyes but burned onto the back of his eyelids was that unforgettable, horrible sight; a wide eyed servant with his throat eaten clean out.

What was by far the most horrible, was that Braylinn could taste where all that wonderful warmth had come from, and he could not make himself hate it entirely. His eyes opened even as he dreaded what he would see. His hands, his chest, his mouth, his sheet were all completely dripping with blood. He began to shake horribly, only then remembering the feeling of legs behind his taut bare back. He tipped his head up, back, until it was resting above Timor's knees, and Braylinn was looking his father directly in the eyes.

He looked completely terrified. Slowly, shakily, he lifted his hands, showing the blood and bits of skin that decorated his fingers. Sitting there with his arms raised, tears cutting through the blood on his face, created some twisted mockery of a small child lifting his arms in demand to be lifted. He lifted his hands more in show though, as much to confirm for himself what had happened as anything else. Braylinn did not move, did not recoil from his father in the least.

At that moment, Braylinn was to horrified with himself to worry at all about what Timor had done. There was no guarantee that would last, but for the moment, it stood true.

((OOC:... no one question my mental health for writing that >_> I'm NOT screwed up, SSHHHHH!!!! xD))

Timor frowned, in the kind of manner that wouldn't suggest at all that in front of him was his son eating a freaking servant! No, it was more a frown reserved for when the milk has run out, or for when the book you were looking for in the library had already been taken out.

Oh, but the poor servant though. Bailey, was it? That guy was blind, as far as Timor could remember. In fact, why had this boy been hired? So there was something wrong with Bailey's eyes. Well, there sure as hell wasn't anything wrong with the boy's mouth. Especially when he opened it to emit the most high-pitched scream that had graced the stone walls of this mansion in the last fifty or so years.

With a wave of his right hand, Timor created a black bubble that surrounded the room, so that it muffled up all the sounds. This meant that aside from a brief burst of a wail, no one would hear anything else, and those that did hear Bailey scream would've just thought it was a dream. Heh, this would be a test to see just how many of his guards actually were actively guarding the house.

Timor shifted, arms still folded, and eyes still locked on the scene before him. He scrutinised it with a mild interest, a gaze reserved for scientific curiosity. It seemed that in some respects, Braylinn was different. The animal strength, for instance, and the biting and the gnawing and the craving for human flesh. Timor sniffed to himself. The books should've been more specific on what "specific diet" meant. Hell, he'd interpreted it to mean dog food, not human body parts.

Now this would add certain complications.

There was a bump against his knee, and then the thud of two bodies falling to the ground. Timor snapped out of that train of thought and glanced down. It appeared that Bailey had stopped flopping around, and Braylinn had stopped eating him. The wild look in Braylinn's eyes had gone out, and well...the life in Bailey's eyes had been extinguished altogether. Timor chuckled to himself a little morbidly, at that thought.

As Braylinn seemed to come to his senses, Timor couldn't help but breathe in a little deeper than normal. Ah, the fresh coppery smell of human blood. How he'd missed this smell. It evoked fabulous days back in university...nights, really. Back to those times where they had all dressed up in cloaks and had used tripods and fire and all sorts of ingredients to summon and to entertain and to worship. Back then there had been a ritual for every other night of the year!

Braylinn raised up his arms, and with a snort, Timor imagined that Braylinn had his arms up in prayer, thanking him for this wonderful gift that he had bestowed upon his son. And with that, a swelling fondness flowed into Timor's corrupt and twisted heart.

"There there son," he murmured fondly, kneeling down and clasping Braylinn from behind. "Lot's of things have gone wrong, but there's nothing that can't eventually be fixed."

There was something uncanny about the cheerful manner in which he spoke, which seemed to suggest that there was more, and possibly worse to come. Patting Braylinn several times on the back, Timor then stood up, and clicked his fingers to dissolve the bubble.

"Memo. Bailey found dead in the grounds. What killed him? We don't know. Possibly a dog or a wild beast." He was speaking to himself, but then his face lit up and he addressed Braylinn in a louder voice. "Braylinn, place Bailey somewhere where he'll be found in the morning. Somewhere not too conspicuous, but easy enough for him to be discovered. Now we don't want his body to be lying there rotting for a whole week, do we? Imagine the smell!"

He gazed around the room, and added, "And once you've done that, clean this room so there's none of that horrible red colour staining the sheets and the walls. Make sure you're not seen and get back to the dungeon straight afterwards."

((Heh, how self-confident is he? Oh, how pride comes before the fall, Timor! Should we have a bit of obedience for now? I'm imagining veery bizarre scenarios. At one point, is Lily going to discover him? That could make for some good writing... And grr tried to draw Kumori but without success! >.< ))

As those arms clasped around him Braylinn felt an unreal swell of relief; it was as if those arms were forgiveness, the brief contact affirming that Timor did not see Braylinn as half the monster he felt himself to be. His father's words streamed through Braylinn's mind like precious water on barren land, blindly easing his unbearable anguish. He could not, would not read into any sinister happenings Timor's tone might suggest; his mind could simply not handle it at that point in time.

As Timor stood Braylinn's arms snapped up to stop him from withdrawing, but his hands were so slick with blood his grip was useless. There had been such desperation in the sudden action he had hardly noticed his own nails, sliding off Timor's sleeves and nicking his wrists just as he pulled back. Braylinn remained on the floor for a long moment, his arms wrapped tightly around his own chest. He felt suddenly chilled to the bone; cold and disgusted with himself.

His head snapped up at the mention of his name, his mismatched eyes struggling to focus. Move the body... yes, it was his mess, his fault, it was only right that he should clean it up. Still, the boy was reluctant to move at all. The idea of cleaning seemed a fine one though; he hated the sight of his room stained with the proof of what he had done (and worse, what he would probably do again).  

So with a stiff nod Braylinn stood up, cleaning his hands on the damp sheet; the damn thing was becoming sticky with drying blood. Again adapting a sort of auto-pilot mode, he abandoned the filthy thing and dressed; black jeans -torn at one knee- and a simple sleeveless black top.

Where could he hide the body? Memories flowed in a blur through his mind until he saw it, that small little grove Lily and he often escaped to, thinking the place was there own secret. 'Goodness!' the elderly maid had squealed upon discovering them there one morning 'Thought this place was secret did ya? We come here every morning to get spring water for Master Timor! Guess you don't know that, 'cuz you's always at school this time... hey, why aint ya at school?'

That would be the perfect spot. Braylinn shrugged off the feeling that he was remembering something of another person. He told himself with a forced calm that he was himself, and it would only take some getting used to. With that his mentality settled only slightly, the only missing cart on his train of thoughts being the one that screamed of Timor's wrong doing; but that was still suspended under his own blinding guilt.

Poor, poor Bailey.

The sky was beginning to lighten outside with whispers of dawn, and as Braylinn cautiously poked his head out one of the back doors, he found he could see much better then he had been able to inside. He played with the thought, repeated it and flipped it around countless times in his mind, thankful for the safe thought to muse while everything else in his own mind felt so horribly dangerous.

He dumped the body by little vein of stones that followed the tiny sliver of river like a shadow, and slipped back into the house as quietly as a ghost. The early-bird servants had almost noticed him as he raided the supply closet for cleaning materials, but just as there shadows drifted across the wall Braylinn was back into his room. Someone knocked, an unsure female voice called out,  but then receding footsteps sounded and Braylinn breathed out, relieved, and began to work again.

An hour or two tumbled by. Braylinn ripped the sheets off his bed, scrubbed his mattress until white suds replaced red stains, and then folded on a new sheet, fresh out of the linen closet. He cleaned the stains from the floor and even tidied things that had been dirty before the whole ordeal, finding an eerie comforting normality in the mundane work.

But he could hide; he was dead, or undead, and he had killed someone. Braylinn caught his own reflection in the mirror; his white hair, moonlight colored skin, and bloody face. He struck the mirror, and then cleaned the broken glass.

It was only the sight of the dungeon that began to bring back the weight of what Timor had done. It was both relieving and painful to know how much blame his father held in the nights happenings. Braylinn slipped through the door and dropped himself into a padded wooden chair before a desk covered in an array of notes, and waited.

He rested his head on his hands, closed his eyes, and grappled with logical thoughts. What could he do now? Did it really matter what horrible things either of them had done? Lingering on them wouldn't do anything in the present moment, and that was what was important, so the question remained...

What could be done now?

(( I think he regained a little more logical thought then I expected him to >_>; I know I write him but I swear he has a mind of his own, ya know? xD Awww, keep trying with the drawing! We still need to work out an art trade, too :O <33 ))

After Timor had barked out his instructions, he spun around on his heel and left the room, slightly annoyed that his favourite dressing robe had now been ruined with Bailey's blood. Two fresh palm prints were plastered across the material. No amount of scrubbing would be able to save his poor robe, Timor thought a little wistfully.

From his room, he saw Braylinn drag out the body and go dump it in hell knew where. The window which had been broken from that night when Timor killed the other servant had now been fixed. In fact, Timor had chosen to have the whole set of windows replaced, so now the windows were made up from little diamonds of glass locked in a crisscross black iron grid.

About ten minutes passed and then Braylinn sauntered back. It was interesting that he had chosen to dump the body first, rather than clean his room. That implied that Braylinn still possessed some sense of rational thought.

To be fair, Timor hadn't thought his plan through properly. He had been enraged with grief, and would've done anything to get Braylinn back. But somewhere along the line, his thoughts had strayed, and suddenly the idea of bringing back and controlling life seemed more appealing. His paternal urges, and his ambitions were in deep conflict, tearing him up from the inside out.

"Sleep will sort it out," he murmured optimistically.

Timor climbed into his bed, and allowed his thoughts to drift. It was only a few hours until dawn – he'd practically done another all-nighter, but sleep was sleep. And as Timor drifted off, he dreamed.

---

"Father, please!"

It was Braylinn, cowering in a corner, a week after his mother had abandoned him. Timor saw the hurt and the fear in his son's eyes, and it brought him a cruel sense of satisfaction. Get back at the mother through the child!

He saw Braylinn in the corner of the kitchen, but as he stepped towards him, the flagstones lengthened, becoming swollen and elongated, turning into a path that grew ever longer. The distance between them widened, and the kitchen receded until there was nothing but darkness and the path that led to Braylinn.

"Come back here!" Timor yelled, absolutely livid.

There was no control, no nothing. The grains of sand were running upwards into huge hourglasses that winked in and out of existence. Not even time. He couldn't even control time.

"You will love me and no one else!" All the thoughts he had ever wanted to say but never had were spilling out of his soul, pouring out of his ears and out of his eyes in a torrent, like blood. "After your mother left, you think I can stand seeing you leave the house at all? You will never leave me! And you will do what your mother could not do, you will always love me! Forever!"

...forever and ever and ever and ever and ever...

---

Timor woke up, drenched in sweat. It was noon already, and the sun was high up in the sky. It looked as if it would be a beautiful day. Well, there needed to be some beauty to hide the true ugliness of the world, and all of the dark secrets it concealed underneath the façade of life.

Getting out of bed, Timor found that his body was aching again, this time more than ever. No more magic for a month, at least, was what his body was screaming. But it was something that Timor was willing to ignore. After all, force of will had gotten him here so far. He washed and dressed, overlooking the circles under his eyes, and the pale unhealthy sheen about his face.

On his way downstairs, he peeked into Braylinn's room, and saw that everything was spick and span, as if nothing had happened. A thin smile played about Timor's face.

"Master! We were about to send someone up to see if you were alright," one of the servants said, when Timor reached the living room. "Shall we get you some food?"

"Yes please," Timor replied. "Plenty."

One pig, a vegetable garden and some napkins later, Timor hurried down to his dungeon, making sure that he wasn't followed. Before he unlocked the door, he listened, to see if Braylinn was in there or not. The door swung open, and there he was, sat bolt upright in a chair. Timor thought that he had been sat there all morning, waiting for him to come down.

"Hello boy," Timor said, a little too heartily. He strode up to where Braylinn was sat and pulled up another chair so he could sit and face Braylinn. "How are you feeling today then? Any headaches? Anything the matter?"

He then stood up, and whilst waiting for Braylinn to reply, he rummaged around his equipment. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, Timor donned the lab coat of a doctor, and pulled out a tray of instruments. Picking up a stethoscope, he said with a gleam in his eye, "Ready for your inspection?"

((Sorry for the late reply – had a really busy weekend! Heh, he's evil. Pure evil.))

The waiting wasn't easy, the thinking bordered on painful.

Two people had died; Braylinn killing one and Timor the other. Whatever Braylinn himself was, was never supposed to be. But what could he, what could either of them do about it? Braylinn knew more certainly then anything else that he was not going to... escape his body. The impulse he had had -almost half waking- to pull out his stitches had lost its red hot urgency. He was frightened of what would happen to him, to his soul, should he succeed in cutting the threads.

He was scared of what would happen if he failed, and his father found out. That brought up another tangle of thoughts; had Timor not done what he had out of love? Out of sheer unbearable sorrow at the thought of being without his son? Braylinn never imagined such natural emotions to spawn such twisted happenings. And yet, here he was, in flesh after death, his nails not quite clean of blood, and earth. Braylinn felt suddenly nervous of seeing his father; the man had seemed to unstable in the past twenty four hours. What would he be like now?

Fear fluttered in his stomach like a cloud of restless butterflies as he remembered, for the briefest moment, Timor lifting his heart to his lips.

Braylinn locked the image away, feeling his distress spike.

No. Calm down. Think logically. What will happen next? What must we do? Braylinn flexed his fingers, over and over, trying to get used to that dull, half-asleep feeling that refused to fade from him.

Surely they would not, could not just go along as if all things were normal. Braylinn could not leave the house, perhaps not even the basement during the day. The walls seemed ominous around him as the slow realization that he was somewhat like a prisoner crept over him.

He would have to eat. Someone would have to feed him.

He felt full and sluggish, wishing the feeling would make him sick but unable to force himself. It was good, it was wonderful. he felt warm and satisfied and somewhat sleepy...

No, he had to stay awake, he had to reason things out... but then, his father's voice floated back to him on a memory... "Lot's of things have gone wrong, but there's nothing that can't eventually be fixed."

Perhaps his father knew what to do already; that was a comforting thought. With this Braylinn closed his eyes, leaning back a little in his chair, drifting in the blank comfort of half-sleep, and a good feast...

What seemed like only minutes later, but was in reality much longer, the sound of footsteps roused the drifting boy. He sat up, hands folded in front of him, eyes open and focused just as the door swung open. That familiar fear bubbled back but was calmed, set to a low simmer by Timor's light tone. Braylinn blinked slowly, his mind taking it's time with the question, and more on just how to answer.

"I-I'm ....I'm alright, I suppose, all things considered," he tilted his head and his white bangs slid across his face like perfect silver spider silk. He lifted a hand and attempted to persuade them out of his eyes, unsuccessfully, and flicked one of his startlingly black nails against one of the polish-bright silver studs embedded into his neck. "These are all a little sore, though..."

Braylinn watched Timor's back as the man rose, and began to dig through his drawers. The snap of the latex seemed to ignite something nervous in the boy; his spine becoming straighter, his eyes a little more focused.

"M-my... what?" Braylinn eyed the tray of metal instruments, feeling his heart give a startled kick against his ribs. He had never liked doctors very much; in fact when he was very young, he claimed he would become the best herbalist in the world, if only to avoid ever having to see a doctor again. It was a combination of the doctors themselves and the frightening tools that bothered him... and here were both the frightening tools, and a person he could not, would not quite relax around.

And yet, he was moving. He had not decided to, but he was. More then that, the strange half-asleep, limp feeling that bothered his limbs was gone as he moved. He was heading toward a short table with a huge flat surface; the same on which his body had rested. The examination table.

Braylinn stopped dead, and the strange numb feeling returned. Confusion burned across his face as he looked between the table, and his father.

"Uh... did you... want me to sit there?" he questioned in a quiet, unreadable voice. Why had he moved just then!? Again he looked from his father to the table, puzzled, nervous. "I... had not meant to move, but I did," because there was nothing else a nervous smile flickered across his face by default, accompanied by a small nervous laugh. One of his hands floated into his hair and combed through, sheepish, tangling the strands. The panic he tried to ignore loomed over him like an ominous cloud. He wanted to stay calm, but with all he had been through, it was understandable that a sudden unexpected side effect might startle him so; had Timor wished him to move? Is that what had caused it?

((OOC: No worries :3 I understand ^_^ Still, I'm happy to have the turn at last >3 I'm not so good at the whole waiting thing xD *fails*

Also, if you don like the end bit -as I did kind of assume something your chara wants- then tell me and I can remove it, or switch it around or something :3 If you don't mind, disregard comment!~ <3

The reason Bray could stop though was because I assumed the "go sit on the table" thought was like... a passing, not concentrated on, side-thought kind of thing. If Timor concentrated well... might be different >3 ))

Timor hadn't said anything explicit, yet Braylinn's mind, or something, had captured the meaning of his words, and so as if on automatic pilot, Braylinn headed towards the examination table. The gleaming marble table hadn't been cleared since Timor had last used it so there were still splodges of red and gunk, and crusted red patches where the blood had dried.

"These are all a little sore, though..."

Timor's eyes locked onto the small metal studs that Braylinn was currently fiddling around with. They boy didn't seem as freaked out as he'd expected. It must be an experience indeed to wake up with all sorts of stitches and metal stuck in your new body, not that he'd ever tried it.

"Well, in the check-up, I can make some adjustments."

Oh, now the fear was beginning to eat at the boy! He remembered how Braylinn had always hated doctors. It was a shame though, for Timor wanted his new toy to be in pristine condition.

It was fascinating watching Braylinn move. Out of the corner of his eye, Timor could see that Braylinn didn't want to be here; the disinclination was as clear as day in the boy's mismatched eyes, and yet, something, some force was propelling his legs towards the table. They moved so stiffly, and Timor's thoughts suddenly turned back to one time when they had reanimated an old friend. The zombie was entertaining for a while, until it started demanding their brains. Harry had always had a hunger for knowledge when he was alive; the hunger had become literal when he was dead.

"That's perfect, son," Timor said in a detached voice, head buried in his cupboard. He knew exactly where Braylinn was standing, with the same uncertain look on his face and the same way his arms hung to his side.

Timor then straightened up and dumped his tray upon the head of the table. The stethoscope, which he had placed on top of the other instruments, was picked up and placed around his neck. Timor thought he made quite a good looking doctor; he had the austerity, the look that said 'I mean business', and he thought the doctor's white coat was quite becoming. As for the gloves? Well they snapped on skin tight. It was a shame that there was no mirror here.

"Come on boy, I promise it isn't going to be that painful."

So his tone hadn't been that convincing. Who cares?

His eyes were positively gleaming at the thought of all the tests he needed...well, they weren't really that essential...anyhow, he thought of all the tests that he was going to perform on Braylinn with glee. It was like Christmas had come round twice.

He wondered though; would Braylinn comply? Could the boy go against his old nature? Picking up a needle, he weighed it in the palm of his hand as he pondered the question, watching the rise and fall of his son's slumped shoulders.

((Whar be thine story?? XD ))

"Come on boy, I promise it isn't going to be that painful."

A flash of defiance flickered across Braylinn's expression; what on earth did his father think he was doing? The man knew how terrified of doctors he was, and there was Timor personifying the role of perhaps the most frightening doctor Braylinn could ever hope to run into!

The sight of the needle caused him to tense, his feet dragging himself backwards one small shuffle at a time. His gaze flickered from his father's face to the point of needle, his heart kicking hard against his ribs.

"Father... I don't understand... why you've done this. I saw you after I... after the dragon..." now there was a memory that he couldn't stop from breaking the surface of his mind, from chilling his eyes, from setting a definite tremor in his voice. The boy shook his head, attempting to continue as inch by inch he shuffled back, putting more and more space between them.

"I saw you, so I know how you were feeling..." he dared remove his gaze from both Timor and the needle, a slow heavy sigh hissing past his clenched jaw; the fear was making him tense. "I... I didn't want to leave you either... I stayed, even though something was telling me I should go. I followed you almost everywhere, but..." Braylinn slowly lifted his mismatched eyes, looking to his father's face, and attempting to ignore the presence of that sinister silver needle.

"I still don't understand why. I can't be... we can't be normal with me like... this. I can't go outside, you can't tell anyone... and even if you keep me here the servants are bound to find out... I don't understand why you... I don't understand what you're planning... to do with me," he finally managed, his voice hushing with every word. At that instant he bumped into the medical table, finally backing into it. Started, his hands shot back to ease himself against the offending thing, his eyes darting backwards to see what he had stumbled into.

That faint defiance flared up again.

"You can't expect me to sit on that, it's disgusting," he spoke quietly, but firmly.

((OOC: I am just about to start typing it now :D My time got eaten up last night but >_> Now I'm just about to begin! ^_^ Heehee, I'm pleased you're looking forward to it! :D ))

"Pfft, that is all irrelevant," Timor said with an airy note in his voice. He waved a hand dismissively to illustrate his apathy.

"You can't expect me to sit on that, it's disgusting."

A look of impatience flitted across Timor's face. Tapping his foot, he eyed Braylinn up and down, noting Braylinn's stance, and the quiet sense of defiance that the boy was exuding. Timor wasn't troubled though. He couldn't expect Braylinn to totally leave behind his former self, so there must be some remnants that still clung to him. Like his hatred of doctors.

"Look, son." Timor spoke softly and patiently, as if talking down to a child who didn't understand...or more sinisterly, to a pet. His eyes ran up and down Braylinn's body again. "The short of it is that you need a check-up."

He couldn't have said it any more simply. But somehow, the blunt tone in his voice probably wouldn't get through to Braylinn, so he took a deep breath and sighed, patience already thin.

"Braylinn, look at yourself." Timor looked at the silver bolts that were embedded in Braylinn's neck. He looked at the giant stitches that joined up his skin. He looked at the threads of magical glue that kept his son together. He looked at the discoloured skin. Each limb was a different shade; a testament to the number of parts that Braylinn was now made up from. "If you don't have regular check-ups, then things will go wrong and you will stop working. This is your body now. And it is damn high maintenance."

He folded his arms, as if to seal the discussion.

"The table may be disgusting, but I haven't had any time to clean it. If it matters that much to you, then the washcloth is in the second drawer by the cabinet. Over there." He pointed at some side cabinets, where he kept bits and bobs. Strange bottles of fantastically coloured potions sat amidst scouring powders and hair-growth formulas. There was even a row of pickled oddities.

Timor then resumed folding his arms, and waited to see what his son would do next.

Braylinn was a child of relativity polished manners; at least, he knew better then most other boys his age. However, at his father's words, he couldn't help but stare. Irrelevant? How on earth could Timor consider any of that irrelevant?! For a long string of moments Braylinn stood unblinking, stunned, the slow realization creeping over him; 'You're just going to act like all this is *normal*, aren't you?' Braylinn wasn't sure if he should feel shocked or not, but he knew at least he felt annoyed. The question had taken a lot of bravery to ask, and he didn't much appreciate being blown off.

The tone in which his father was speaking didn't much appeal to him either. Still, his eyes did tilt down and survey all the details of his new form, allowing some of the reality of what he was seep into his mind. The thought of something 'going wrong', or the thought of something perhaps falling off... the boy couldn't help a small shudder. So, begrudgingly, Braylinn dragged himself towards the aforementioned cleaning products and began to dig through the drawers for something to use that was for the most part clean of blood stains.  

He tried to, for the moment, shut off the more frantic, logical thoughts swirling through his mind. However, it wasn't as easy for him as it seemed for Timor, whom seemed perfectly alright with the fact he had just seen the deaths of two people, caused one of them, and raised the dead. Maybe he was just repressing... or maybe he was a little more unstable then Braylinn thought.

He cleaned on auto-pilot, finding a little appeal in ignoring the fact he was cleaning his own blood. A slow heavy dread was creeping over him at the thoughts of sharp pointed metal tools and probing latex hands... It didn't console the boy much thinking this was not just a random doctor, but his father.

"Father..." it was irritating his father was being so unreadable, so unresponsive... perhaps he would try again. The question that next drifted to mind was one he had often thought about, but never dared ask. It always seemed to dangerous a subject to bring up... now it hardly seemed to be worth worrying about at all. "Remember... a few months after mother left... just before my twelfth birthday, and I was a little... unstable..." it was the only way Braylinn could think to describe it, really. Those damn  child welfare workers had insisted Braylinn would benefit from a nurturing mother figure, and suggested he be transfered -just for a short while, of course- to a near by home with a women willing to lavish him with some motherly affection.

He had flat out refused; those were the times his separation anxiety from his father was at it's worst, and yet that was one of the many mental glitches that made the social workers insist time in a different environment would be best for Braylinn.

As the boy tossed the now filthy cloth in a random direction and climbed onto the gleaming metal table, he realized Timor probably still didn't know the whole story of just how that issue was taken care of with such ease. He knew the workers told his father that it was decided that Braylinn needed care from someone who could be home with him twenty four seven, and the new family could not do that. Timor worked at home, so he could.    

Braylinn's arms crossed tightly over his chest as he recalled it; the shaving razor that looked like an item of novelty in his little hand. He threatened to cut his wrists if they took him away to that little bright house across the tiny town. He wouldn't leave, he would stay, or else. Thinking how much trouble he had gone through just to stay with his father... well, it seemed a little absurd now, considering the situation. It seemed a little... funny.

A small unbalanced smile crossed the boy's face, and then the smallest laugh, as if he had forgotten completely where he was. His eyes drifted up to Timor and he realized then for the first time that yes Timor did not know the whole story, but neither did he. Timor could have done things too, to swing the opinion of the social workers, and he himself had never heard a thing.

Braylinn uncrossed his arms and leaned back on them, his legs dangling off the table as he finally managed to get around to the question he intended to ask in the first place.

"What would you have done, if they ruled against you? What would you have done, if they did decide to send me off?"

It seemed a worth while query, considering the current situation.

Acting like this was all normal was the only way that things could ever return to normal. But, the question was...would they ever become normal again? Sure, Braylinn would never ever be accepted into society again, and if anyone found out what Timor had actually done, then, well, suffice to say that burning at the stake didn't stop at females, and was one of the less creative punishments they had for those that dabbled in the darker magicks. Healing magic was fine, as was nature, spiritual, elemental...but anything vaguely associated with death was taboo.

So what could he do?

Timor really hadn't thought that far ahead. All he'd wanted was his son back. But now, when all was daylight, and the horrors of the nights had both been revealed, the crimes laid bare to blood on his hands, and the Frankenstein monstrosity stood before him, everything appeared different under the harsh scrutinising gaze of the sun. Timor felt as if he were being judged, and it was a feeling that he did not like one bit. Perhaps he had been overly harsh in his treatment of his son. But, looking at the thing that was now mindlessly cleaning the table, Timor couldn't muster up any love. Not yet. It was too early. Everything was too early.

"Father..."

There was something about the tone that roused him from his deep and intense brooding. Timor tuned into his son a little warily.

"Yes?"

"Remember... a few months after mother left... just before my twelfth birthday, and I was a little... unstable..."

How could he ever forget? The boy had ceased even to move, let alone eat. The times Timor had crept up to his room, peeking into the slither of the room when the door was ajar, and seen his son just sat there on his bed, gazing at the wall, as if stone cold. He had ceased to be a human being, and had become nothing more than a mere statue, an imitation of a human being.

The agony that had wrenched Timor's guts had sliced him from the inside out. Every time he saw his son, he saw a part of his lost wife. Every time he saw his son, he saw a pale fleeting ghost, a former shadow of what he once was. If the pain had been hard for Braylinn, it was double for Timor.

However, Timor wasn't in the most pivotal years of his life, like Braylinn was. So, perhaps both had been just as equally traumatised. Timor himself, thought that he'd never fully recovered from the separation. Who knew how Braylinn had coped? His lost wife's name was taboo, never to be repeated within these walls ever again. The first servant who had tentatively mentioned her had been fired within a second.

"What would you have done, if they ruled against you? What would you have done, if they did decide to send me off?"

The question totally caught him by surprise. How could he forget the panel of the court? The decisions that could snatch away lives were made no more than a few feet away from a beautiful square in the centre of town, adorned with a stone fountain and market stalls on a Saturday.

Timor unfolded his arms and said with the greatest sincerity, "If those sons of bitches had ruled against me, then I would've done whatever it took to win you back. No son of the Nex family is going to be brought up by heathens!" The volcano inside Timor subsided. "Now come on, I have a meeting with the priest later."

Timor moved to the head of the table, and set about selecting which instruments to use to probe his son. In a detached voice, he said, "Oh, and you'll need to remove your clothing too."

((Heh. Heh. Heh. *evil smirk*))

Seeing some emotion in his father was a relief as much as if was a fright. The man wasn't shutting himself off completely, but he still didn't seem as if he was completely willing to engage. The thought struck Braylinn all at once; he looked down at himself, momentarily numb to anything around him. 'Perhaps... he doesn't understand what he's done. Maybe he doesn't realize... it's really me. Completely me,' the boy mused.

Suddenly he felt a sharp unpleasant chill; how could Timor possibly realize that, with what  he had seen, with what he had witnessed his son do? Braylinn felt tense at the mere thought, never mind the shadows, the images and the scents that lingered on the edges of his mind. Perhaps forcing a little normality wasn't a bad thing, for the moment. The boy was satisfied with the knowledge that his father was at least willing to talk to him a little, if not of the most pressing and urgent topic.

It made him uneasy though, to just leave so many things unsaid. Perhaps he could talk to his father later, after he'd had a chance to relax. Braylinn knew better then most people that if his father wasn't to avoid a topic there would be no speaking of it; a good example was the topic of his mother.

"Anything it took, huh? Yeah... that's kinda what I was thinking, too..." it seemed ridiculous to him, childish and insane what he had done... how he had threatened that poor woman with his own life... but it was only an empty threat, and only to get what he wanted. Perhaps Braylinn and his father were a little more alike then he first thought. Perhaps they were both prone to desperation and insanity, under the right -or wrong- circumstances.

"A meeting?" Braylinn wasn't sure whether he felt relieved or frightened that he would be left alone; perhaps it was a confusing mixture of the two. The last thing he needed was that frightful separation anxiety to act up again, especially when Timor was going to be the only person who was going to be able to talk to him, to see him.

"Oh, and you'll need to remove your clothing too."

"Huh? Why?" Of all the things Braylinn's mind conjured up in those dark fantasies of evil doctors and their frightening agendas, being unclothed was one of his least favorites. There was of course the uncomfortable feeling of being naked around a stranger that Braylinn didn't like, but this was no stranger. He had already been naked around his father before, granted he had been years younger. Braylinn was quite the conservative boy, and it played into his shy nature that even in the halls after a shower, he'd dawn a thick robe rather then a towel. He very much doubted he had actually been unclothed around anyone since he was very young.  

What was more uncomfortable than being naked around a stranger (as that was evidently not a problem this time) was the feeling of being so vulnerable. That was a feeling the boy quite despised.

Braylinn shifted slightly on the table, drawing his legs up and sitting cross legged. He folded his hands in his lap and sat up a little to straight, attempting to look dignified and calm. The effect was riuned by the quick darting of his eyes, and the slight nervous flush that glowed on his face.

"Why, father? Can't you do... w-what ever needs to be done with me as I am now?" only the slight stutter broke the forced calm of his voice.

"Yes, a meeting," Timor echoed with a touch of exasperation in his voice. "The Mayor wants clarification on...things."

There had been repercussions regarding the shadow creature he'd summoned two nights ago. This was also the first time he'd be leaving the mansion since the event of Braylinn's 'death', and all of these events were to be discussed at the Town Hall in an hour or so. Timor certainly was not looking forward to meeting the eyes of his fellow townsfolk. He was not looking forward to the hushed voices, the averted gazes, the mourning black.

Timor knew that Braylinn would protest upon his order. Well, it wasn't an order exactly, more of a request, which is how he thought of it.

"Son," he began patiently, "traditionally, a body examination involves full removal of clothing. How else am I to see if there is anything wrong with you?" Braylinn didn't look as if he got it. "I need to take a look at your skin, to see if all the stitches have held in place. I need to see if there are any lumpy or bumpy bits, which may indicate either a tumour...or that your internal organs are slipping out."

He wasn't going to list everything else – it would just freak the boy out. Timor slipped on a pair of spectacles, which increased the stern air he possessed. When he studied his wristwatch, the light glinted off the glasses, obscuring Timor's eyes.

"Co-operate with me," he said. "And if you're a good boy, I might let you tag along."

If he sticks to the shadows.

((Hey!! Long time no RP! Real life got in the way, since I came back from my music tour, it's just been pretty hectic...bad news is that I'm going away again in a few days! *sob*))

Braylinn's arms were crossed crisply, defensively across his chest. Of course there were things to attend to; the question seemed stupid to him now. Timor's child had apparently died; he would have a few things to deal with. Braylinn watched the stitches weave through the flesh of his arms, binding up the seams. Absently as he listened he traced one of them with a pale shaking finger, only then noticing his nails were black. Frowning, he held his hand up before himself and examined his nails; cracked, some longer then the others, pale at the tips and black at the base.

A chill ran down his spine to accompany the words 'your internal organs are slipping out'. His new body seemed like a fragile and monstrous thing to him, and yet there was nothing that could be done. Timor was the only one that new anything about what could be done to maintain such a form. Braylinn sat still for a few long moments, keeping his eyes pointedly away from his father.

"...Okay, okay," he muttered at last, toeing off his black sandals and letting them clatter haphazardly to the stone floor. Easing himself off the table, he caught sight of the strange reflection gleaming off Timor's glasses, and suffered a moment of sharp hesitation. The man looked bloody sinister. Looking away in a hurry, Braylinn opted to turn his back on Timor, his eyes focused on a blurry flame upon a torch that perched on the opposite wall.

"Are you sure?" he asked in a somewhat blank, unreadable voice. He certainly didn't appreciate being talked down too, but the thought of being let outside was a comforting one. The relief at the idea and irritation at Timor's tone conflicted until the boy's tone was truly unreadable. "I don't think people would react well seeing me... and I'm not sure how well... all this can be hidden."

'All this' referred to the stitching and gray skin that was slowly being revealed as Braylinn peeled off his shirt. Oddly, the skin of his back was unblemished and smooth, paler then the rest of his body, too. The stitches had meted properly into his skin there, leaving not even scars from the dragon's fetal attack. The stitches and discolored skin was obvious around his arms though, and even his face was decorated with the slightest stitching around his cheeks.

When he moved, the silver bolts flashed in the firelight. The skin around them was bruised, darkened to tender purple and painful blue. The stitches pulled as he moved, making the boy wince slightly. He stalled, but only for a moment before he stumbled out of his pants, one hand on the table for support.

"I-I hope nothing is wrong," he stuttered awkwardly, the ridiculousness of the statement not lost on him. Everything was wrong he was the un-fucking-dead for god's sake. Still, freaking out wasn't going to help that moment, right? Right. Despite the logic of that thought, Braylinn's nerves felt rattled.

There were bolts on his legs, too; the little silver studs decorated his ankles, apparently binding his feet to his legs, and circled about three quarters of the way up his thighs. Seams of broken skin tied up in thick black stitches weaved about his legs and feet, but past the bolts that ringed his thighs, the skin was unbroken; without a single blemish.

Braylinn felt unreasonably cold standing upon that cold stone floor in only his black silk-ish shorts, struggling with the knowledge that things were going to get worse before they got better. Feeling as if he was drawing out his own suffering by taking so damn long to do everything, the boy yanked off his final remaining piece of clothing and tossed it aside with the rest. He still stood with his back to Timor, his arms folding uncomfortably tight across his own chest. He shivered, teeth clattering faintly, his eyes -one the color lavender, the other of pale dusk-  peeking over his shoulder at Timor through the white cobweb cover of his bangs. He blinked slowly, adapting a look of restrained discomfort, and it became suddenly apparent against the gray -and then, pale red- of his cheeks that even his lashes that bleached white.  

"... I'm cold, so hurry up and tell me what you need me to do," he muttered.

(( Damn RL, getting in the way of fun! >=O!! I hope everything is okay though ;_; <3 Oh noes! I hope we can get a few good turns in before you need to go again! I'll try and respond ASAP, I hope you do the same!! <3

Also, if Timor employs some will power he can move Bray like a puppet through this little check up... so you can actually write Bray moving some if you want, (just like... sitting on the table or lifting his arms or laying down blah blah blah.... but nothing he would really hesitate about xD Cuz then he would try resisting >_>; ))

There was sweet, smug satisfaction upon Timor's face, as his eyes hungrily drew in Braylinn's every little movement. He could almost pinpoint the exact second of submission, the exact time when his shoulders had drooped ever so slightly, and when the exhalation of breath had been somewhat deeper, much closer to a sigh. He straightened his back and stretched, with an instrument in each hand. It looked almost as if Timor was stretching with a knife and fork during a meal, what with that hunger in those eyes, and the way he licked his upper lip so, so slowly it was barely noticeable.

His handiwork was now laid bare to the world! He saw the body parts all joined together; all so alien yet all working together to produce that marvellous specimen of an organism before him. Necromancy had always fascinated Timor. It was such a dark, blasphemous art. He held the keys to life at his very fingertips! That very thought was sweet ecstasy!

"OK son, lift your arms up and stretch them, keeping them that way." He fought to keep his voice steady, but the excitement was visible in the way Timor bounced off the table and scooped up his tray before darting over to where his son sat, quiet and obedient. Timor dismissed the look of fear in his son's eyes; after all, a little fear was a healthy thing when growing up.

Timor set about probing the skin around Braylinn's underarms with a cold metal tool. It was long and thin, with a spatula end. Timor was checking for anything unusual, well, unusual in the circumstances. Satisfied, he then removed a set of electrodes and placed the tips lightly on the area, before sending a tiny current through. He checked the meter and nodded. He was using a mixture of science and magic in these readings. Timor continued like this, meticulously moving across Braylinn's whole body. Every now and then he would switch the instruments and take a sharper one, to prod at his organs.

"Son, I've finished the prelims, so now you can lower your arms." The look of relief on Braylinn's face was a bit premature though. "However, that doesn't mean it's over yet. I need to get some samples from you, so stay there for a bit longer."

Rummaging around, Timor brought out some empty glass vials, and some other tools, that he used to scrape skin from the edges of the stitches. There was a little bit of pus oozing from there too, which he collected. He decided he would take the urine samples some other time, as now Braylinn looked absolutely sick. And Timor himself was feeling a bit off, after having to handle Braylinn's entire body, and to have to be so close to the bruised colours that were so unnatural.

The final thing Timor did was to grasp the silver bolts and to check how tightly they were screwed, by twisting them around a bit. The movements caused Braylinn to recoil in pain, and a sharp gasp to escape from his throat, but it would do no good if Braylinn were to fall apart whenever he moved!

"All done!!" Timor said happily, clapping his hands. "I'm going to go...get ready so I'll be back for you in half an hour."

He didn't mention the shower he was going to take and the cleansing spells. With a hearty pat on Braylinn's back, Timor gathered his samples and swept out of the room, locking the door securely behind and leaving the boy with his gloomy thoughts.

((OK, I am leaving sometime later on, so hope you get this post soon!!))

(( OOC: Sorry that took so long >_< I had a surprise holiday out of nowhere >_>; I'm back now tho xDDD ))

The look that shifted across Timor's face was almost akin to some sort of hunger. Braylinn was both curious and frightened by this; what on earth could possibly be going through his father's mind? Did this new and bizarre body actually delight him that much? When Timor spoke the boy was in no hurry to follow orders, but again he found his limbs floating up without his own consent. He could have resisted it, but he did not. Instead he studied how strong the pull was, how complete the control. Without a fierce concentration from his father Braylinn would wager he could indeed resist the unknowing puppeteer's pulls... if need be.

For now though, testing that theory was worthless. Braylinn allowed himself to move as his father wished, his own eyes creased shut in quiet stubborn refusal of what was happening. He hated feeling so damn bare to everything; the feeling spawned uncomfortable knots in the pit of his stomach and brought rosey-hot colors to his cheeks.

"Are you almost done?" he would ask now and then, his toes curling in obvious discomfort. His heart felt heavy and frantic against his ribs, his pulse stirring the butterflies and tying the knots in his stomach. The little electrical current made him twitch. His eyes closed tighter, his hands balling into fists at his sides and his heels knocking gently against the examination table. For some reason, he was determined not to make any noise.

he had almost darred feel relief when Timor returned with a little cluster of glass viles. The very polite and proper young boy near cursed in fear and more obvious, frustration. "Just what are you hoping to discover with all this? I doubt you'll get a single normal reading considering..." he trailed off, losing his steam half way; whatever, his father wasn't going stop, damn stubborn thing that he was. Braylinn backtracked the thought and corrected it; no, he wasn't stubborn... he was obsessive. Timor was obsessed with the dark arts and now... Braylinn was like a brand new shiny toy.

The boy hurriedly locked the thought away, not ever wanting to consider it again. Quite suddenly it was all thought and not just that singular one, that was abruptly cut off by a sharp pain biting down his nerves.

"Don't- don't do that- it hurts-" he managed through a few sharp gasp-like breaths; is father seemed determined to test the strength of the bolts, though. But just when it seemed like Braylinn was going to have to break his own vow, slip off the table amd refuse any more of this rough treatment, it was over. The boy let out a long sigh of relief as Timor declared he was done, his eyes instantly scanning the floor for his clothing. Braylinn did however catch the odd expression on his father's face, reading it almost as...

... disgust, maybe? Something deep inside Braylinn felt instantly cold; angry, hurt. It was Timor who had created him this way, why should be feel disgusted? Braylinn looked down at his bare body, the stitches and bolts, the off-gray color and the long blackish nails. Was that really disgust on his father's face at that moment? At the instant he felt brave enough to ask, Timor had already left.

Damn it. Braylinn dressed quickly, suddenly eager to hide all of himself that he could. He even found a dusty tattered black cloak somewhere in the back of the room and slipped into it, drawing up the hood. He looked like a tiny harmless black ghost. The boy wanted to pase but his legs felt wobbly, unsure. He avoided looking in reflective surfaces, already sick of his own reflection. He felt himself tipping on the very edge of a sea of dangerous thoughts; I'm a ... monster

And there were so many horrible things that came along with that notion; what he had done to Bailey, for example. No. Nonononononono. He was not going to unlock those thoughts, not now.

Braylinn went for the door, his smallish gray hands clasping and tugging the rusted handle. It was locked. Braylinn struck the door suddenly, making the wood rattle. It just couldn't be locked, it couldn't! He had to get out of the basement! He had to ask his father what that odd expression really was. Without realizing it, the boy had been depending on Timor to be -as his 'creator'- the one soul who would not ever think his child as horrible a creator as Braylinn himself did. He called up in his mind the expression Timor had on his face, analyzing it, trying to divine just what it was.

Disgust? The handle of the door cracked in Braylinn's hand, and the portal swung open. Braylinn starred out into the darkness, and then down into his hand where the crumpled handle sat. It was like wrinkled tinfoil. The boy dropped it, heard the heavy metal clatter as it tumbled to the floor. He broke the door? How on earth?

But like everything else, he resolved to lock that thought away for later. With his hood drawn up he darted though the house, his bare feet silent on the carpet. There were a few servants about but he avoided them, ducking into shadows and slipping through a few of the secret passages he had discovered as a child. He wasn't searching blindly; Braylinn new just where he was going. Through the walls he could hear water in the pipes, surging towards an upstairs bathroom; and there was only one bathroom upstairs. Timor's bathroom, all the servant's washrooms were on lower floors. What was a little more unnerving then the heightened hearing though, was the heightened smell.

Yes, it was like a ribbon of dark moist something, similar to the scent of the basement -old books, preservative, candle wax- but also different; there was a warm living quality that Braylinn noticed so vividly he had almost started following it without realizing.

Behind the bathroom door was the sound of water hitting the bottom of the tub, the scent of frothing soap, and the quite murmur of Timor's voice. Was he humming? Speaking? The boy could hardly tell over the rush of the water.

Braylinn opened the door without really thinking; clearly his mind was in disarray.  

"Dad?" he called out into the steam. "The lock, uhm... the lock broke..." he laughed, a fluttering and nervous sound. He shuffled inside a little to quickly and shut the door behind him. The steam was thick and floated over the slick black tiles like rolling white clouds. Braylinn stopped moving in the center of the room, blinking into fog, looking lost. He couldn't see very well through the thick steam. "Dad?" he called out again, sounding closer to the frightened state he was in. Questions bubbled up inside him; Why did you leave so fast? What was that look on your face? Are you frightened of what you made me into?

But he wouldn't ask, not yet. He knew his father, and knew Timor could sweet talk his way out of anything. Braylinn was sure the man wouldn't have a problem with simply lying, but he could only with words. He would have to see Timor, to read his subtleties, to perhaps hold his hand. Then Braylinn knew the man couldn't lie completely, he'd be able to tell.

He just has to show me, that's all... show me that he's not... that he doesn't think that I'm...

Timor's mind was abuzz with unprocessed thoughts, all of them swarming around like mechanical flies in his brain. There were so many threads he could pick up from, so many things to test. Capacity to electrical resistance perhaps, or strength of muscle even. His mind skipped over the more mundane routine tests and honed in straight onto the fantastic. Of course Braylinn's curiosity and willpower had to be tuned down for now. It would be temporary, until the adjustment period was over. And then, like a radio volume control dial, it could be retuned back to it's normal setting. Timor hadn't factored in the feelings of his own son, no, he was thinking about ways of achieving this new heightened level of control. Could he slip something into Braylinn's food? No doubt it would be substances of a magical nature – they were much more difficult to acquire, but the payoff would be that they were much more difficult to detect and to resist.

All of those thoughts accompanied him, as he slipped off his clothing and stepped into the shower, washing away the second skin of the basement below. As he lathered his hands with white soap suds, Timor cleansed away every trace of unholy dirt from his body. The peach tiled bathroom ran thick with the silver mist of hot water, and the antique water taps fogged over with condensation, so that there were no reflective surfaces in sight to act as mirrors. The shower had been a recent instalment. Until a few months back, the bathroom had consisted of a large bath tub with clawed feet, along with a sink, mirror and a row of wooden shelves that sported an array of bottled substances, all differently coloured. It had been a simple task to extend the copper piping- there even had been no magic involved.

Timor began to hum to himself. He decided he was clean enough, so was about to turn the water off, when he sensed something, a presence. Better keep the water on for a bit longer, methinks... Timor selected an unusually jolly ditty to hum. The mist was too thick for human eyes to penetrate, no matter how much they scanned the room. So he relied on his other senses to feed him information. Sound and smell. Not much sound could be made out above the roar of the water, so he turned it down a bit.

There! There was a faint clink, and intake of breath. Without a second thought, Timor's arm flung out, and a wave of energy send the intruder flying until he was pinned against the wall. The water stopped, the mist cleared, and Timor emerged with a towel wrapped around his body and paranoia written deep into his eyes. Steadying his breathing, Timor saw that it was only Braylinn, and he let the magic go, so that Braylinn collapsed into a crumpled heap on the tiles.

"Oh, it's only you."

Wait...only Braylinn?

His mind rewound, retracing everything he'd done. Yes, he distinctly remembered locking the door. So what was his son doing here being a peeping tom?!

"Why are you here?" He asked in a calm tone of voice. "Didn't I tell you to wait downstairs until after I'd finished in the bathroom?"

Mind racing furiously, Timor realised that the boy must've broken the lock on his door. And that just made his heart speed up ever so slightly. He hadn't tested Braylinn's strength yet, but now, having dismissed it as something mundane, but now, that task leapt to the top of his agenda. Towelling himself dry, Timor stepped unworriedly towards his bed, where he had laid out some clothes to wear for the meeting. There was a white shirt, with a light blue tie beside it. Dark blue trousers and a matching jacket completed his suit. Timor slipped the clothes on, at his own pace, and then moved to the mirror, where he brushed his hair, flicking it to one side, so that when it dried, it would set that way. A smartly dressed man made the town.

"I do hope that you won't prove too troublesome for me, son," he said as he straightened his tie and collar. "Could you just get my shoes for me – second wardrobe, fourth pair."

Just then, a scream pierced the morning air. Running footsteps followed a second later, and in the space of ten seconds, the house was thrown into a frenzy.

"A dead body, Miss Lily!?"

"Where?"

"Who?"

"Ohmigod ohmigod, I can't believe this, ohmigod!"

"Please, Miss Lily! Someone go down there and see what the fuss is about."

---

Lily, having been warned by her father to not go near the Nex household for some time, for some unexplainable reason, had of course, decided to venture there out of pure curiosity. The last few days had been such a blur for them all. The sudden loss of Braylinn had only just began to work it's way into the community. No longer would his beaming face be seen in class, no longer would the herbalist have him by his side. Braylinn would be a huge loss to the community.

The first day had been horrific. Only a handful of students had turned up – the rest were either in shock, or here to get the gossip. Rumour had it that two monsters had been seen on the same night of his death, a dragon, and a shadow beast. No, she didn't know more, but yes, she had found his body...hadn't she? Her little button nose wrinkled at that thought. She and her father had been out that night, looking. And then...nothing. Just static. This was something she couldn't explain. She felt as if she was on the edge of something big, a gaping chasm, yet she couldn't probe any further. Any further, and she'd tumble, tumble deep into the abyss, and be swallowed up by darkness so absolute that not even angels sent from the grace of god would be able to pull her out.

And whilst the townspeople clamoured, milling around like sheep, her father demanded that there be a proper burial. Oh there had been some parts found...but not everything. And dragons of that nature didn't take flesh, did they?

Lily was aware that there was going to be a meeting called today, but she'd been hoping to be able to see Mr Nex before it, just to pay her respects. On her way there, she'd taken the path through a woodland, on the other side of the one Braylinn had died in. here, the woodland was protected by the creatures of the forest. Shafts of light pierced the leafy foliage, kissing the tips of the bluebells. She picked a few of them, along with her namesake, the aromatic lily, and took a path that wound it's way to the back of the Nex estate. The babbling brook marked the borderline between the mansion grounds and that of the forest, and it was here where she found the servant. The rest, of course, consisted of screaming, running, and hyperventilation.

"Oh dear lord, it's Bailey!"

"I thought he'd left!"

"Ohmigod!"

Lily was taken to a chair, and a steaming mug of cocoa was pressed into her trembling hands. All around her, the servants ebbed and flowed in disarray, not really sure of what to do at all.

And then Mr Nex burst in on the scene.

---

"Get back to your basement now!" He hissed to Braylinn, no more niceties in his eyes. They were cold and hard as steel, and there was nothing fatherly left in them at all. Without even bothering to see if his son would comply Timor strode downstairs to take charge of the new situation, before it got any worse. On entering the source of all the commotion – the kitchen – he was present with a scene of chaos and disorder. The sight of Bailey's mangled body upon the kitchen tiles halted him, both physically and mentally, for a second. The servants took Timor's silence for grief.

"That damn shadow beast," he spat with thick emotion. He'd lowered his head, refusing to meet the gaze of anyone and his hands were balled up into fists. "The night Bailey gets to be free..."  He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Lily took a sip from her hot drink, whilst the tears rolled onto the wooden surface of the table. "What is happening to us?"

"I...I don't know, I really don't," Timor said with a hush.