Set fire to the rain [GoblinFae]

[Anonymous]

If you were too quiet here — too idle, too indolent — you could hear the waves crashing listlessly against sandy beach. He hated the sound; it was so peaceful, too tranquil, and there were days when he wondered why he had thought it'd be a good idea to relocate himself here in the first place. In this land of cheerful colors, sounds, and unabashed practice magic, it was everything his wretched childhood had lacked, everything he had once wanted to see. Nowadays, Fen could only see in three colors: black, white, and crimson red, blood.

Darkness cloaked the night, suffocated the stars, and slowly snuffed out any small sources of light. In this night, when merchants began to close up their shops and lazy villagers were already tucked home in their beds, Fenrisúlfr Rotht still walked the streets. In the dead of the night, he didn't need a cloak of a hood; no monster who lurked the city streets ever did.

Tonight, he lay leaned against a merchant's window, drumming his fingers impatiently against the sill, a frown written upon his frail features. This alleyway may as well be deserted, with only the occasional shady sorts of characters passing through here and there. Fen, the pale figure dressed in black, was the alleyway's only stationary figure. Again, he drummed his fingers against the sill, when finally, a man opened the window, narrowing his eyes him.

"Ah, my friend! Keep my counsel, won't you — and tell me, why did you feel it necessary to keep me waiting for so long?" Despite the darkness, Fen's wolfish grin was unmistakable. "Be kind to your neighbors, Mr. Bolstram — they teach you these lessons in grade school, don't they?"

The man — an older bloke, with a long nose and small, beady eyes — narrowed those eyes of his once more, seemingly unaffected by Fen's rant. "You've been keeping Maurus waiting, you know. You need a thrall in two weeks, or else—"

Fen cut him off, flicking a knife out from under his sleeve, sliding closer to the man through the window, holding it with a lazy, careless grip. "Do you see this knife, Mr. Bolstram?" Fen asked, staring at the weapon calmly. "This is a favorite amongst my collection, you see. It's been with me since my first kill — since the first day I was able to see a color— red." His own red eyes danced wildly as he stretched the knife towards the man.

"The handle is coming loose. And I know you can fix it, Mr. Bolstram."

The blood mage's attention was solely on the man, who seemed to have swallowed his tongue. In the dark, he could relax, even though his back was turned to the world, even though there were still a few blokes walking through this dim alleyway. The only light to be seen came from Bolstram's house — a few candles were light inside, whose light leaked out into the world outside. The absolute last thing on Fen's mind was the thought of being pickpocketed out here, out in this alleyway.

The man grit his teeth, took the knife, and inspected it, wondering if fixing the handle was even possible, not bothering to grace Fen with an answer. And Fenrisúlfr Rotht, for a rare moment, had let his guard down — enough for a shadow to sneak up on him, should that shadow be daring enough...

[GoblinFae]

A lone figure stood in the darkened alleys of this coastal town. There was a stillness about him that seemed to make him appeared molded out of the very shadows he hid in. Long pointed ears twitched about, listening for every little sound, the crash of cold waves on sandy shore, a faint meow of a hungry cat, the squeals of rodents fighting over trash.

Ocarern was beginning to lose hope of catching an unwary person out at night when raised voices tickled his ears. Curious he crept further into the alley, stopping just short of being seen. A pale man in black pulled a knife, causing the elf to unconsciously shrink back in on himself, making himself more compact. A haze of thick taupe clouded Ocarern's vision, making it hard for him to see beyond his own fear.

Blinking rapidly, he fought to control his rapid heartbeat. 'Cruel greedy humans. Take more than their share. Kill all in their way. Time to feed a poor elf's tummy, he resolved. Ocarern found himself gaining false bravado with the stranger's loss of weapon.

Pulling his deep hood up over his head, ensuring any telling features were hidden, the elf made his way cautiously over to the man. Trying to not walk at a suspicious pace, not too fast as to seem in a hurry and afraid and not to slow to seem ready for a fight, he brought himself closer with each step. Ocarern's heart beat like a drum against his ribcage. The thrill of the job combined with the fear of getting caught always made him feel like the sun, a beautiful bright, glowing orange kind of color.

The elf causually bumped against the rich man. Faster than the blink of an eye his small hand had relieved the other man of his purse. 'Home free,' he smirked, perhaps a bit prematurely. Ocarern was hardly a step away from the man before his mind began the celebration. The weight of the coinpurse weighed hard and heavy in his palm. He took great care to ensure it did not jingle about and give him away. He did spare one half-glance over his shoulder to throw of suspicious. It might have even worked if Ocarern actually ever looked at the stranger.

Instead he tried to continue onward. The thief was too frightened to stay much longer. He knew what could be his fate if that man got his knife back anytime soon. He was not too keen on dying yet. 'Aren would kill me if he knew what I am doing. Foolish Oca, Run!'

[Anonymous]

Bolstram handed Fen back his knife, shaking his head. "It's not gonna be a quick job, blood mage. You'd have to leave it here overnight." He shook his head. "I'd need about one fifty glints up front for the job." The older man, a hardened merchant, didn't flinch from Fen's glare, despite how much he would've liked to. He had been in this business far too long to be pushed around by these hounds.

After a moment, Fen laughed, shaking his head. "You are a con-artist in your own right, knave," he laughed, but vitriol dripped from his words. "If you think I care about how much coin it'll cost, you're wrong. The worthless silver peons tote so lovingly in their pockets concerns me not." He reached for his coinpurse, tapping his side once, twice, but found, surprisingly, that it was gone. He frowned a little, not wanting to chalk it up to carelessness — he wasn't the sort to forgetfully leave his stash of money back at his hideway.

"What's wrong, Rotht, hard up for cash?"

The blood mage turned away from the merchant, looking down into the alleyway. In the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a shadow — saw, for a brief moment in time, the whites of someone's eyes. Anyone else would've swore, or cursed, or yelled 'thief!' futilely in the blackness of the night, but Fen merely grinned, stepping away from the window slowly, reaching down his opposite sleeve.

"Fix the knife, Bolstram. That steel is precious to me. It just might be the only true friend my wretched soul has ever had." A glint of steel could be seen hiding down that sleeve, and Fen smiled a little — a pensive smile that painted his pale features. "Deliver it to me when you're done. Just follow the bloodstains, Bolstram. They'll show you where to go."

He slipped another knife out of his left sleeve — this one was thinner, newer, and had never tasted blood before, but it would do on a rush job like this. It wasn't his favorite knife, but it would do — for now, for this moment, it would do. As Fen took to the shadows, slinking after the shadow quietly, Bolstram stuck his head out of the window, and had a right mind to yell at the blood mage, but he knew better. Everyone who knew Fen knew better.

It had been far too long since someone had dared to cross him. So far, in fact, that he couldn't even count the days. The monster inside longed for the chase — but he stuck to the shadows, silently following the stranger's movements. He was too tactical to give chase in alleyways, no, but he watched the stranger twist through the streets, his mind quickly going to work, strategizing the proper way to cut him off. Thieves — petty, petty thieves — could be predictable, Fen knew, if you knew the streets well enough.

Maybe he was able to feel it — the shadow, gaining on him, slipping through shortcuts through the alleyways. With his quick feet, silent feet — feet that knew how to work in darkness — he was eventually behind the little thief.  A hand stretched out from the darkness, clasped hard onto the stranger's shoulder, his grip cold, hard as steel, pulling him back a little, closer to him. The blood mage leaned down, grinning, so that he was at the thief's level.

"You're an audacious fellow, aren't you?" Fen asked, his voice low, despite the amused grin sketched onto his face. "Or, perhaps... resourceful is the right word. Quick to pluck at an opportunity — to take up a coin purse when you see it, and flee. It might've worked, maybe. Maybe."

He grip grew a little tighter. "It is just a shame your target had to be a monster, of all things..."

Fen tilted his head, grinning. "I wonder if I have to ask you to return my belongings to me, or if you will do it of your own volition. Or, if you will even bother to turn around and face me, the monster you've so daringly pilfered."

[GoblinFae]

Elven ears picked the strains of conversation ending and the extremely quiet steps that soon tailed him. 'Calm Ocarern. Think blue like the sea. Remember the deep blue of the sky as the stars would just pop on the horizon and how Kestal would sing you songs. Hold on to that feeling. You are just walking home. Bolt and you are guilty. You have done nothing wrong. You are just a normal law abiding citizen. Yeah that.....right.'

Ocarern's thoughts were harshly cut short a strong hand clamped down heavily on his small shoulder. An involuntary hiss of pain escaped him as he froze in place. 'I am being touched. I'm being touched. Gah!' He let out a faint cry as the grip tightened. The elf ground his teeth firmly into his lip to hold back any more unwanted sounds of pain that might be forthcoming. 'Aren't we all monsters here? Oh, I can just hear Aren's voice now "Oca, what have you done now!" So dead. So dead, so dead, so dead!'

He released his lip, preparing to speak when an earlier thought finally seemed to register in is brain. 'I. Am. Being. Touched. I'm being touched! No, not the touchy!' Earth brown adrenaline and fear took over his senses, driving him out of the other man's grasp. Ocarern felt like his lungs would pop as he fought to breathe.

Ensuring that he kept his head down to hide his face he angrily barked his words to the other man. "Don't touch me! No touchy! You don't just go around accosting random strangers on their way home. Go find someone else to harass!" The elf slowly back away from the man when something glimmered in the moonlight catching his eye. Looking down, to his horror he saw the stolen change-purse, its contents vomited out on the cobblestones.

'Oh that's not good.' Shocked, he allowed himself to glance up to see if the stranger knew what he had done. His backward steps immediately faltered and stopped. "Orange?" he muttered aloud. "What is orange?" His eyes widened as he took in the man before him. Ocarern had never seen anything like it before. The man was practically dripping a poisonous orange and black coating of negativity. Whatever this man was, the elf knew he needed to leave and leave now before he found out. 'Run!'

"I'll uh, just be uh....going." Gulping, Ocarern made to bolt. His heart squeezed like a fist within his chest. The taller man's aura disturbed him greatly making him feel sick to his stomach. 'Run. Run. Run!' chanted over and over through his mind like a hammer on the anvil. Yet, try as he might, he could not seem to get his mind to work fast enough to command his feet to move. Ocarern felt the world had slowed and he was trudging through a bog to try and escape.

[Anonymous]

He was a petulant thief — one who did not stand frozen in fear, but instead, waltzed out of his grasp, yelling blindly in the face of the beast. Such arrogance — the stranger spoke as if he had done nothing wrong, as if his hands were as clean as a virgin saint's. Of all things, at least Fen wore no masks, hid nothing behind a cloak or façade — here he was, a figurative demon of blood, who haunted those that lurked in the dead of the night. And here stood a thief, demanding not to be touched, not to be harassed.

Dear child, those who dwelled in the dark — who lied, cheated, and stole— forfeited such privileges long ago.

"You've got nerve, knave. You're a regular grey fox, you know? A thief— who can't own up to his sins." He laughed, slow and low. "I would pity you, if I had the stomach for that sort of thing. But pity is wasted on extras, I think — on people who are only colored in black and white."

As he spoke, the stranger seemed to realize who he was talking to. He backed away, and Fen would've come forward, but the coins had distracted him — silver glints, spilling out onto the cobblestoned road. When Fen had told Bolstram he hadn't a care of money — for the silver specks of dust that peons carried and loved more than anything else — but damn, he if he didn't hate inconvenience. Hell if he was going to bend and scrape up every last coin, like a filthy peon beggar, scraping together a living in the streets.

Before he could catch him again, the thief ran once again — down the alleyway, far away from him.

Fen took a moment to run his hand through his hair, laughing under his breath, shaking his head from side to side. Gods, he hated it when they ran. They could stammer, stutter, plead, cry, whine, beg, but when they ran, gods, when they ran... He wasn't a physical sort of person, no — under normal circumstances, he couldn't run with the rest of them. But if he had a little kick, just a little push...

You have your coin. Don't do this. You don't need to do this... You don't need it tonight, Fen.

He pulled the knife from his sleeve, pressed it to palm, his pupils dilating at the smell of sweet, ruby red blood. Ahh, and here it was — running down his wrist, the disgusting, revolting, ambrosia, blood. It painted his pale palm red, twisted the mixed up mana in his soul, sent him speeding down the alleyway, abandoning the coins for his prey — and Fen, since he had come here, hadn't been able to hunt down prey in such a long time... He was a missile, a rocket, fueled only by blood alone — a part of him wanted to escape it, and the other embraced it, while somewhere deep down in Fen's core, he could use the conflict to propel himself forward.

In this state, it didn't take long for him to catch up with the thief. Again, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, but this time, he couldn't risk being gentle. This one was squirmy — if he let the worm go for a second, he'd run, and Fen loathed running with a passion. The monster, however, didn't. He clasped both of his shoulders, pressing him against a wall, his bloodied palm staining the stranger's robe unabashedly.

"The thievery," Fen muttered, laughing, still grinning despite everything, "isn't the problem here. No, that's the last of my worries. A little coin spilled out onto the pavement? Nothing. A mere inconvenience, if its anything at all." His grip grew tighter as he pushed the stranger against the wall, harder. "To spit in the face of the beast and turn tail — that— that is what I can't let go unpunished." There was the knife again, gleaming in the moonlight, kissing the stranger's neck. "Own up to your grievances. How will you atone for this, extra?"

Despite the knife at his neck, despite the blood that dripped on the cobblestoned road, Fen didn't have plans to kill him.

Not now. Not yet.

[GoblinFae]

A frustrated growl burst forth from deep within his diaphragm as Ocarern was grabbed and shoved into the wall. The back of his head made a muffled thumping sound as it was thrown back. He feebly tried to escape and push the stranger away. However, the knock to the head must have disorientated him more than he thought; the elf was useless in terms of saving himself.

Focusing on his breathing he began to try and calm down and clear his mind. His head lowered in defeat. 'Big bully! Greedy human! While I starve, you harass me over a few coins you are more than capable of sparing. Your kind disgust me! If I didn't know better, I would say you were from Connlaoth, what with your meany disposition.'

"Wait, what? I never spat in your face," he declared. Ocarern's head popped back up in surprise as he met the stranger's gaze. The red tint to the eyes seemed to make them glow in the night and sent tremors up and down the elf's body. Beneath his hood his pointed ears began to twitch about nervously in confusion, making the fabric ripple with the movement.

Tilting his head the the side, he frowned slightly. "No, I definitely didn't spit in your face," he repeated taking the figure of speech literally. The knife at his throat though had him freezing in place. Eyes wide, he let his head tip back, exposing more of the pale column of his throat.

The hood of his cowl slowly slid back on his head, inch by inch revealing his facial features to the angry stranger. Large doe eyes framed by long lashes, a little button nose, high cheekbones, and full lips all made themselves noticed. Brown eyes glared ahead, as thick brows raised in defiance. The lean jaw was clenched tightly making the cheekbones all the more prominent.

Ocarern did not beg and plead; he did not cry and whimper. The thin, cold steel against his flesh brought back memories of another pressed cruelly against his windpipe. The fear alone kept him still and compliant. Even his erratic ears seized their wiggling as he waited.

'Well! Now what? Is he going to kill me or what? I'm not too keen on standing here all night. Sorry Kessy,' he mentally began to apologize. 'I know I promised you but...never said I was very smart.' Ocarern could almost swear he heard her voice in his head, her laughter on the wind. For the first time in a long time she felt like she was right beside him again. It felt just like old times. 'I guess this is what waiting to die is like. Can't say I fancy it too much.'

A rolling, rumble reverberated his abdomen as his stomach made its hunger clearly known to anyone who would listen. The elf blinked, struggling to keep a smile off his face. A faint twitch at the corner of his lips and the slight raising of one brow were the only signs of his amusement. 'Least when this is all over I won't be hungry anymore. See Aren, dying does have its advantages.'

[Anonymous]

The stranger's only words of atonement were a paltry defense – a meaningless truth that Fen could bring himself to care about. For a moment, Fen could only stare at him, his lips still curled into a beastly smile, blood still dripping from his left palm. Cutting himself had been unnecessary, a waste, and the monster was reeling now because of it. The red of his eyes seemed to grow brighter in this darkness because of it – because of the wastefulness of his blood.

"Poetry," Fen began, holding back a dark laugh. "is lost on peons, I presume. It always has been – but you're a different case. Uneducated, and yet, you are unabashedly unrepentant." His metaphor had been lost on this one, but that wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, he was sure. It was the first time, he knew, that someone had been bold enough to flaunt their ignorance. Most were quiet in the face of the beast, fear paralyzing their larynxes and sucking their voices dry.

As the knife stayed pressed against the extra's neck, the blood mage could not help but study him. The monster was not fully awake – it was drowsy, sleepy, not wakeful enough to be able to demand more blood. As he did so, the hood of the stranger's coat slowly fell from his face, revealing to the blood mage just who he was dealing with. An elf, by the look of his ears, and his face was almost doll-like as he awaited his execution. But it was not his facial features, or his delicate androgyny that excited Fen – it was the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, as if he was holding back a smile.

So Fen did laugh, dark and low. "You would smile in the face of your death? I had expected a scream or two – a final prayer, a plea for me to fulfill your last wish." That knife, despite Fen's words, still kept close to his neck. "They normally beg, you see. They can normally tell – this is the end – and yet, despite that, they'd still cling to their lives. But you... you know better."

Slowly, he removed the knife from the elf's neck, but still kept it hanging in between his fingers. "You're probably used to it, aren't you? Having someone dictate your destiny. It's easy to tell, with a face like yours..." He paused, and the tip of the knife traced the contours of the elf's face – his touch was light enough so that he would not draw blood, no, but just enough for his skin to feel the coldness of the steel. "...You must be someone's precious runaway. A defiant slave, perhaps, who laughs at death, because he knows there are such crueler ways to live than to die."

He stepped back, giving him room to breathe, one hand still clasped on his shoulder, still bent to his level, his other hand still twirling that knife, but more relaxed than before. That hand still dripped with blood, and the wolfish grin Fen sported was still painted wildly on his face. "And if that wasn't your reality, I can always make it so." And the blood mage laughed again, looking the elf square in the eyes.

"How do you think you'd look, I wonder, with a collar around your neck?"

When it came to Fen, there was no such thing as a hypothetical question.

[GoblinFae]

The cruel laughter forced a gasp from Ocarern's throat. He could feel the blade bob against his skin with the sound's movement. 'I...know better? What?' The thoughts were cut short by the cold sensation of metal running along his face. Ocarern's breathing picked up pace again but, he did not dare move.

Even as the man before him relaxed his stance, the elf could not bring himself to try and flee. 'I'll never make it,' he observed, his eyes darting to the sides as he judged distance. 'If only my legs were longer!'

"I am not a slave!" he growled out, adrenaline taking command over his tongue before his brain could stop it. 'Collar! That would mean touching. No touchy!' The diminutive elf pressed himself further back against the wall, almost as if he could melt into it.

Ocarern's ears rapidly wiggled about in indignation. He stood on tip-toe, pushing his face closer to the other man's. "Do I look like some little four-legged furball with a tail just waiting to be dragged around for you amusement? I am not a pet! If you think for one moment I'm going to let you touch me, you're sorely mistaken! If you are going to kill me, then kill me. Otherwise, get out of my way!"

To his embarrassment, Ocarern's stomach let off another rather loud rumble of sound as if to agree with him. His cheeks became inflamed but, he refused to back down. 'Could I appear any more feckless? Stupid tummy!'

[Anonymous]

He was growling, attempting dominance, defining disaster as he baited the beast. Of course, of course he claim he wasn't a slave — and Fen had heard it all before, those vapid vaudeville cries. He wasn't sure what was better, at times like these: should he feed off their fear, or dine from their defiance? Most of the times, he preferred defiance, but the monster was prowling tonight.

"You don't need a collar to be a slave," Fen informed, eyes unwavering, locking with the elf's own. "You're a slave from the moment you're born. From the second you chose to steal from me, you were a slave to your instinct." The knife was sliding out of his sleeve once more — he thought he wouldn't have to use it, but alas, here he was... He twirled it between his fingers — a wordless threat, an unspoken promise.

"You need money, society says, and you listen. My mind, it screams at me — you need blood — and so I listen, and I obey. There is no such thing as freedom — we're all caged in stainless steel. In the end, we can only define the thickness of our cage's bars."

What was different about this one was how far he was willing to go to assert himself. He definitely was not a "four legged furball" paralyzed with fear, no, and that's what made Fen laugh so tenderly. "You're precious," he noted softly, placing a hand on the elf's stomach, shoving him against the wall. "Like a newborn, untouched by the world's filth." The knife danced near his chest, and Fen held it almost tenderly against his cloak. "You're starving aren't you? The world's been so cruel. Perhaps death is a better alternative than scrounging around, dying to live."

In a sudden, fluid motion, the knife slashed across the elf's chest in a fluid motion, in a short, quick diagonal line. Threads ripped, and blood leaked — and somewhere inside, the monster was laughing, taking it in. His eyes grew wide at the sight, and his hand was shaking — blood was spilling onto his pale hand, gods, it was revolting to revel in this liquid, he knew, but that didn't stop him.  

"The best way to cure hunger," he laughed quietly, "...is to bleed it out."

He held onto the elf, grabbing one shoulder with the firm hand of the monster — while the other hand shook, unstable, crazed. "Walk, and I'll lead you — not to your death, I assure you." He laughed a little, while his other hand gripped the bloodied knife as firmly as it knew how.

"Didn't I tell you, before? There are crueler ways to live than to die. But you'll come to like it, I'm sure." Blood from his knife dripped on the cobblestones. "Studded collars, steel bars, and seeing your own blood spill from your veins. It becomes almost..." He scrounged around for  a moment, looking for the word, "...normal."

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern listened, spell-bound by the stranger's words. The way he spoke while confusing to the young elf, also fascinated him. The emotions and colors bouncing around him were like nothing he had ever seen before. Whoever, whatever this man was, he was different. That both frightened and amazed Ocarern. He did not know whether to keep silent or to speak, to stay or to flee.

'Precious?' The elf gave a grunt has he was forced back into the wall, his head knocking into the wall again. Pain exploded through his skull, slowing his thoughts. 'Newborn? I am no child! I have lived my life. I have seen the taint of this false world. I am no innocent to its cruelties. Better dying to live, than living to die!'

The slash across the chest was unexpected and painful. Ocarern mewled at the pain, curling in on himself as he clutched his chest. The blood pooling into his hand scared him. It brought back flashes of memory. His parents. The pain. The blood. The knife. It was all so similar, so familiar.

"No!" he cried shakily. Ocarern struggled fiercely against the hand clamped on his shoulder but found himself to weak and hungry to manage an escape. "No. What are your assurances worth? Nothing! I am not some toy. I will die before I let myself become one," he cried out on the verge of hysteria. The small elf tried again to pull away, yanking as hard as he could and leaning away from the cruel monster.

[Anonymous]

He took a moment to stare, to admire, the blood pooling into the elf's hand. It was a revolting, majestic nightmare, the sight was, and he had to reel the monster back — no no, he couldn't kill this one, not now, fate had other plans for him. The softness of his features, and that spark that Fen wasn't able to bleed out with one solid stare... he'd be useful, if not to Fen, then to some other lucky sod.

Fen was lost, in a bloodied daydream — so lost, he had almost forgotten that the elf was still talking, still struggling away. He had assumed the cut across the chest would silence him, but not so much. Without a beat, Fen took the elf's hands and held them behind his back with one hand, placing another on his neck, forcing him to move forward.

"Would you accuse me of being your harbinger, who marches you onward to your funeral?" Fen asked, his voice soft, humor tinting his words. "No — should I have wished your death, I would've emptied your body of your blood as I brought my knife down upon your chest. You probably have no idea," he paused, distracted momentarily by the smell of the stranger's blood. "...how hard it is to cut without killing."

Fen laughed a little, pushing the stranger forward — his hideaway was not too far from here. "But I digress — I've become too sentimental. It seems like you, however, know the value of words. How words are cheap, futile, fleeting. You'll come to learn, in the short time we spend together, before I send you away to the Collector, that I am not one for lies." He bit his lip a little, in thought. "Lies are for those who have yet to see the beauty in unpleasant truths."

They were close now — to his hideaway, nestled Serendipity's walls. "The unpleasant truth of the matter is no matter how hard you bleed, no matter how much you hurt — you will not be allowed to die." He stopped, in front of his hideaway now, shoving the elf against the door.

"That, my friend, is my vow to you."

His blood red eyes seemed to grin wildly as he said it — his presence intensified by the spillage of blood around him. It took everything he had to hold himself back, to reel in the monster that slept inside, but he had finally found someone worthy of being a thrall — he could not screw it up and kill this one, not now.

The door, recognizing Fen's presence and magical energy, took to unlocking itself. The locks seemed to hum as they unlocked, and it was almost a serene, humble sound, contrasted wildly by Fen's chaotic aura — one that raged inside him, as Fen held the reigns, as Fen pulled it all back

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern cried out from the pain brought on by being held with his arms behind him. But, the hand to his neck only served to anger him blindly. The elf snarled as he tried and failed to pull away.

'I want you to be the reaper knocking on my door. Is that so difficult? You seem to enjoy the blood enough. Would my death not be all the sweeter? Would killing me be that hard? Yes, it would. It's too much to ask a human to do anything for anyone else but themselves. Selfish, vile creatures! Never can look past their noses to see how others suffer or live. The only time they bother is when it suits them and by then it is either too late or would be better if no notice had been taken.'

"It's not hard at all. I know your kind; you do not kill until every exquisite ounce of pain, every little scream has been extracted. You laugh as you watch life's blood slip away. You'll mar beauty to see red. I know your kind, and you don't frighten me!"

'Collector? What does he mean by that? Unpleasant truth, that's putting it lightly. Bleed me like a stuck pig; but, don't give me the satisfaction of dying. Humans! Worthless, cruel monsters!'

"Don't make me any promises. Don't do me any favors. You're not my friend!" Ocarern knew he was trapped and cornered. It frightened him, to feel so helpless and alone. But, in the end, what was he to do? He was far from home and people he knew. This monster was not about to let him go. Ocarern was trapped, prisoner and pet until he no longer suited the stranger's fancy.

[Anonymous]

I know your kind, the elf had seethed, and every bone in his body screamed defiance. It was almost beautiful, the way he snarled at death, grappled against its very presence, despite asking to be sent back to heaven's door.

Fen smiled — it was his usual crooked grin — but said not a word, looking up at the door. After a few hums, the door clicked open, and the monster pushed inside, keeping a firm grip on his new thrall, pulling him inside. The door squeaked to a close when it realized its master was home, locking itself up. This door – one with no handle or lock, would open only on Fen's command. It was the only way in, and more importantly, it was the only one out.

The monster seemed to relax when inside, despite the blood that dripped from his palm, that now dripped on the hardwood floor. He laughed to himself, shaking a little at the sight, and took up a roll of bandages and salve from his dressing table, approaching the elf with it. Taking the elf by the wrist, he guided him near a chair, forcing him to sit, assessing the slash wound he had given him. Fen crouched before him, salve and bandage in hand, playing doctor.

"My friend," Fen began, uncapping the salve, "You are quite presumptuous, to think you know about the man—" Fen furrowed his brows at the look of the wound, tracing how deep it had cut with a finger. "—or the monster." If it left a scar, Maurus would dock his pay, the cheap bastard. He applied the salve with a shaking hand — the monster was still running deep in his veins, screaming to shed blood, not heal it. But if he didn't stop the blood from running free, the temptation to kill him would ultimately choke him, until he had to succumb.

"You know my kind, yes — the run of the mill murderer. But you — oh, you, of all proles—" He unwrapped the bandage, applying it around the slash. "You do not know me." At the word 'me' he tightened the bandage, to make sure it was sticking as it should. "Do not consider this a favor, if you must. Consider this an obligation your current master must fulfill — until those that would dance for a doll like you come to retrieve you, to your new home."

With the wound dressed, Fen sat down, cross-legged, in front of him, regarding his prey, still sporting that crooked smile. "There should be no need for bindings and cuffs — I'm sure we can both be reasonable here, no?" The corners of his mouth pulled into a small smirk. "Now, let's start by telling me your name, shall we? So your client will know what to yell down the hall."

[GoblinFae]

The door's squealing close reminded Ocarern so much of his heart beating wildly within his chest. The fluttering organ seemed to seize as the door shut, marking the elf's new and most likely permanent imprisonment.

He did not like all the poking and prodding, pulling and pushing that this stranger seemed to insist on doing. 'Would asking really kill him? Would you even obey if he asked? No. Well there's your answer Ocarern.'

Each caress, each exploring and healing touch sent the elf's body to shaking like a banner in the wind. He dutifully kept silent and still though, no longer wishing to bring anymore attention to himself. 'It is not being presumptuous when man and beast are both one and the same.' His thoughts were cut short by the involuntary gasp that was forced out of him by the tightening bandages.

'Master, how I already hate the word. What shall these new masters be like? Worse than you? I think not. Perhaps I will be lucky and you will manage to kill me before I have to find out. If only.'

As the other man pulled away to sit on the floor, Ocarern pulled his own legs up in front of him on the chair, forming a very compact little ball.  His chin rested on his knees as he arms around his shins. "What good is a name if all you would have me hear is slave? If what you would have me believe is true, then my name means nothing now."

[Anonymous]

Fen had figured the elf would not relinquish his name so easily — ah, he'd been a fool to think this would be easy. There was something about this one, he knew, that was exceptionally interesting. He lusted for death, would prefer the reaper's scythe than take a chance with Fen and this dark future — but he could not talk without defiance dripping dangerously from his tongue.

At the elf's quip, Fen looked down at his palm — still marred red with his blood from before, still in need of a bandage — and laughed a little, pressing his bloodied hand to the side of his face. He was making a mess — so soon after he'd taken to bandaging up the elf, too — and the monster couldn't help but have a chuckle at Fen's expense.

"You're right, of course." Fen stood up from his cross-legged position. "You're right, about so many things. About the man, the monster, the murderer — I don't, or maybe we don't, particularly care about your name." With a deft movement of his hand, the knife slide between his fingers again. He leaned down, so he was at the elf's level.

"But this is a test of obedience. Consider me your teacher for the day. You can play the student, can't you? This is your midterm exam, and you, dear pupil—" He held the knife in his hand, and in a quick movement, shot his hand out, towards the elf, but at the last minute, decided to stab the knife in the back of the chair instead, inches away from the elf's flesh. "—are on the brink of failing it."

He was smiling, a reaper's grin. "Are you testing me? Trying to see if you can manipulate the monster to deliver you to your bloody grave?" He put his hand on the handle of the knife, attempted to dislodge it, but he had driven the knife too far into the wood. Fen laughed a little — at the situation, at himself. "It won't work, I'll have you know." Finally, after a quick tug, the knife had come loose. He did not put it down his sleeve again — the monster wouldn't let him. "Your name, dear pupil, if you would. Don't let your teacher have to ask you again."

[GoblinFae]

The invasion of his personal space was really beginning to wear on Ocarern. The more the stranger insisted on testing its limits the more the elf felt his control slipping. However, the blade coming at him had any action he might have made, still. Even Ocarern's breathing was silenced in that tense moment.

He did not flinch or even bat an eye but, that did not mean he was not afraid. On the contrary he was terrified by this man and what he could do, would do to the petite elf. 'Teacher eh? I never was a good student, or a good pretender for that matter. Well Mr. Big Scarey Colors, what are you going to do now?'

Sweet brown doe eyes framed by long lashes slowly raised to rest on the madman's own hovering red orbs. "I never was good at the whole obedience thing," he whispered out, keeping his face close to the stranger's own. "I told you before I'm not some little dog you can train."

For a moment the test of wills played out. Ocarern could see through the stranger's eyes into the tumultuous soul that lay within. What he saw though, frightened him more than anything the man had done thus far. The swirling colors were sickening and chaotic. Shuttering his eyes once more, the elf leaned back in his seat. "Kestal. My name is Kestal Ssinjin," he at last conceded. Inside he felt terrible for using his best friend's name. But, if it would save his life then he would do whatever it took to survive. 'Sorry Kessy!'

[Anonymous]

He couldn't follow a damned order without spitting back his own retort. It was maddening, almost, how closely he kept his face to his – despite the blood that decorated Fen's hands, despite the monster that was demanding his own blood to be spilled – again, and again, and again! The monster wanted him dead – wanted to teach him what happened to little dogs that yipped one too many times out of line, but no. Fen needed him alive. He could not kill him, because Maurus would not have it, and because he could not give this one the fate he so desperately preferred.

Fen laughed, and took his bloodied hand – holding the side of the elf's face. It was a test – a test to see if the monster could hold steady for a second, without feeling the need to get violent. He was failing it, his hand was trembling, begging to move, and it took everything in Fen's body to get himself to halt.

"I'm training you now, aren't I?" he asked, smiling. "You may bark out of line now, pup, but you'll soon learn it's easier to simply come when you're called. Minus the sass." He let his hand drop, and stepped away from him – more for his own good rather than the elf's. He usually had a lot more restrain than this. "Next time, I won't ask twice."

At least he had got an answer out of him. He barely registered the name in his head, and repeated it a few times mentally, to see if it would stick, but to no avail. "It is a prole's name, and it should suit you, but it doesn't."

For a moment, he almost sounded disappointed. "...I will probably forget it in the morning." He didn't like the name — there was no flow to it, was so normal, so common — ah, but what did he expect? He knew what he expected — something musical and foreign — but he had no reason to expect anything more from a prole.

He looked down at his hand and rubbed them together, only serving to make more of a mess. It was as if the blood would never leave his hands. Without looking up at the elf, Fen muttered, "I need you to clean this place – from the cobwebbed cabinets to the washed out walls. I assume you know how to do housework, at the very least, yes?"

Fen moved away from him, pulling open a closet door – as he did so, cleaning materials spilled from its contents, obviously untouched. "Normally, I'd care less about such things. But the Collector has never been fond of my lax cleaning habits. He is a man of good taste, you see. He abhors the color red."

He picked up a broom, holding it obviously in the wrong fashion, the way one would hold a sword – one might question whether Fen even knew how to use it himself. "Plus, this will be good training for you, no?" He offered the broom to the elf – to Kestal, whose name he'd forget in the morning – grinning. "Good cleaning skills – that  would look excellent on your resume."

[GoblinFae]

Ocarern remained cowed as the hand caressed his cheek. The touch made him want curl in on himself and die. The emotions that raged through him from the stranger were overwhelming, making the elf feel as if he was drowning and unable to swim up to air. He could feel the shaky control of his master and did not dare test the limits any more for now.

'It isn't a prole name! Kessy's name is beautiful! How dare you, you plebeian! What do you know of beauty? Forget it by morning? Don't expect me to remind you. I'm not playing these games.'

The elf's thick brows shot clear up into his hairline with a mixture of surprise and amusement. 'That's it. Ack! Don't laugh. Don't laugh! Look at him, filthy human looks like he has never cleaned a day in his life. What is this, "oh you're an elf so you must know how to clean?" Ridiculous! Although,' he eyed his master warily, 'best to not piss him off anymore for now. If this is the worst he has me doing, I can handle it.'

Moving cautiously forward, Ocarern's slim fingers slowly wrapped around the broom handle and took it from the other man, his eyes never leaving the other's form. 'Can't say I blame the collector. Red is such a dangerous color.' The elf placed the broom back along the wall before attempting to examine the supplies still within the closet.

'Does the man ever clean?' He silently questioned, lifting up a filthy smelly rag. Shaking his head, the elf sighed and began pulling out more greasy rags and some horsehair brushes. Still keeping the other man within his sight-line, Ocarern knelt on the ground and began the grueling task of cleaning. 'Maybe if I'm good I can find some way to sabotage this. Clean it to the best of my ability but leave something REALLY disgusting lying around just waiting to be found.'

Ocarern nervously shot glances around him, feeling very trapped and vulnerable in this claustrophobic place. He flitted trying to clean as efficiently as he could. Yet, despite his worry the elf's ears began to perk back up again. The possible future mischief lightened his weary heart, even for just a brief moment.

[Anonymous]

The little dog had finally stopped barking, and strangely enough, Fen missed his noise. If he hadn't been keen on training him for Maurus, he wondered how long he could've tested this one. A good banter wasn't something the man or the monster ever liked passing up — after all, eloquence was the only barrier that separated the actors from the extras. This one— ah, it was strange, but, Fen did not know what to make of this one yet, not truly. He could only watch, and observe, and laugh, all while reeling the monster back.

He took to cleaning quite well — a little better than Fen thought he would. He was sure that the elf was going to offer up another quip, or stare infuriatingly at him — the monster had actually been looking forward to that. But no, he was being good, for once. Maurus would be pleased, but Fen — well, Fen had seen obedient dolls dance all too many times before. Sooner or later (and it was always sooner, rather than later), their easy to appease and eager to please attitude grew so dull.

Fen leaned back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his legs dangling off the edge. He was certain the elf wouldn't try anything, and if he did — ah, let him try. There was no need to watch him work at such a tedious task. Instead, he toyed with his knife, releasing and retracting the blade, holding it up above his head.

"See? Even you can play the perfect pup, when you're pressed," Fen noted, sliding his fingers along the knife's edge. "Perhaps you'll even earn a meal, if I feel particularly predisposed. I don't think the Collector would be pleased if I let you starve to death..."

His eyes lit up, and he laughed at the thought — he had never killed anyone slowly before. It might be interesting to try out one day, when he was feeling particularly bored. "Tell me, dear Kes... Kessa? Kestie? Kestral?" He tripped over the name, discarded it. "Puppet, then. Indulge me — how did you end up in such a wretched state?"

Fen flicked the blade closed, and gripped it in both hands, the way a priest would grip a cross. He held it to his stomach, drumming it idly. "Stealing from monsters in darkened alleyways... you've reached quite a low, haven't you?" He grinned a little, shaking his head. "Or perhaps you've always been down in the gutter — desperately trying to claw your way out?"

[GoblinFae]

'It's Kestal, you moron!' Ocarern nearly threw the cleaning brush in his hand if it had not been for the obnoxiously loud grumbling coming from his abdomen. The reminder that he was starving and his only chance for food would be from this man stopped everything but the hateful glare from being volleyed across the room.

Angrily, the small elf just scrubbed harder at some unidentified stain on the floor. "Perhaps I just enjoy the thrill of near-death experiences," he grumbled. Shaking his head, he through the brush down into a bucket and moved away from the floor to swipe at some cobwebs, his back now to his jailkeeper. "I only entered the gutter when you dragged me into it," he quipped darkly.

'Was I always this way? No, Kestal and Aren-don't kid yourself, they found you exactly the same way he did. Think further back Ocarern. When did this begin?' Hot fires, painful screams, and crimson flooded the elf's memories, making it hard for him to focus on his given task.

It really did not take the elf as long to clean up as he expected it would. His hunger and frustration had him working harder and faster than he would have any other day. The things he found in the closets and around the "house" completely disgusted him though. Rotten food, carnage, filth, grime and lots of blood in different states of dryness was only scarping the surface of what he encountered.

However, one good thing did come out of all Ocarern's cleaning. The elf had discovered that one of the closet door was broken, all one had to do was bumb into it and it would open. Since the stranger had never told him where he could store all the refuse he had found, that is where he decided to stuff it. 'Not my fault if he is a disgusting slob with no sense of housekeeping. I was only doing the best I could given the circumstances.'

Ocarern did not want to but, the now continuous gurgling coming from his tummy forced him back towards the stranger. Head bowed, he silently knelt on the floor at the end of the bed. The booby trap he had made lightened his heart and spirit making him more cautious to not screw it up beforehand.

'Just you wait! You think I am this perfect little puppy that will tumble about for your amusment; feed me, pet me, and underestimate me and I will follow you everywhere. Nice try. Feed me and I will have the strength to run, heal me and I will not leave a trail of blood to follow and underestimate me I think goes without saying. I'll show you who the real puppet is here master!'