Standing Stalling, Always Falling (private) (Mature)

[Anonymous]

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!~ ))

[Anonymous]

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!))

[Anonymous]

((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))

[Anonymous]

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! >.< ))

[Anonymous]

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 ))

[Anonymous]

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.))

[Anonymous]

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 ))

[Anonymous]

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 ))

[Anonymous]

"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 ))

[Anonymous]

"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.

[Anonymous]

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.

[Anonymous]

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*))

[Anonymous]

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.

[Anonymous]

"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*))

[Anonymous]

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 >_>; ))

[Anonymous]

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!!))

[Anonymous]

(( 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...

[Anonymous]

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.