I can give you freedom from your guilt with a flick of my wrist
TW // death and dismemberment
If an Ascended falls in a forest and only his killer is there to witness, does he make a sound?
His life - a pronoun and a noun that Nephele would never ascribe to the creature - is so pitiful. So easily ended. There is no struggle, no battle for the dredges of energy that spark in engineered mechanisms of death. She watches, kneeled above his head in a prayerful vigil that only smears and taints what little meaning Robin had in this world. "One more lamb returned to your fold, pretender. May it anguish you as much as the loss of our Máthair did to us." Ripping a chakram free of the flesh it had embedded in, Nephele slashes it down against the creatures throat. Again, and again, and again. Sawing mercilessly at inorganic matter, as fluid sprays against her face and paints across the snow in a macabre display. The odd, jutting hang of the mimic's neck makes her insides shudder with revulsion. But she continues all the same, as mechanical as Robin had once been in his false-life.
Until the head of the beast is removed, dark strands of hair clutched in her small hand as she lifts it away from the brutalized stump of neck. There is no kindness offered, no closing of the eyes as some would. They continue to stare unseeing, the flesh hanging awkward over mechanical structure in death. She tosses the severed head to the side, and begins using her chakrams to dismember the rest. Hands, feet, legs. The longer limbs she piles upon the torso, creating a pyre for the creature to burn upon. Nephele spits down against the creatures carcass when it is all finished, scowling. "You do not even have the decency to feed the scavengers in your death." She stashes the smaller body parts in her bag, transferring out her tinder and flint that she carries now that winter has descended. Her kin are not immune to cold, though she may be now with Ludo's rags around her shoulders. It is useful, now.
She strikes the flint and sets the dismembered body alight. Watches it crackle and consume with golden eyes flickering in ravenous kinship, burning with righteousness. Then Nephele turns away, plucking the severed head from the snow with an idle hand and flies off into the distance, leaving behind nothing but ash.
- FIN
If an Ascended falls in a forest and only his killer is there to witness, does he make a sound?
His life - a pronoun and a noun that Nephele would never ascribe to the creature - is so pitiful. So easily ended. There is no struggle, no battle for the dredges of energy that spark in engineered mechanisms of death. She watches, kneeled above his head in a prayerful vigil that only smears and taints what little meaning Robin had in this world. "One more lamb returned to your fold, pretender. May it anguish you as much as the loss of our Máthair did to us." Ripping a chakram free of the flesh it had embedded in, Nephele slashes it down against the creatures throat. Again, and again, and again. Sawing mercilessly at inorganic matter, as fluid sprays against her face and paints across the snow in a macabre display. The odd, jutting hang of the mimic's neck makes her insides shudder with revulsion. But she continues all the same, as mechanical as Robin had once been in his false-life.
Until the head of the beast is removed, dark strands of hair clutched in her small hand as she lifts it away from the brutalized stump of neck. There is no kindness offered, no closing of the eyes as some would. They continue to stare unseeing, the flesh hanging awkward over mechanical structure in death. She tosses the severed head to the side, and begins using her chakrams to dismember the rest. Hands, feet, legs. The longer limbs she piles upon the torso, creating a pyre for the creature to burn upon. Nephele spits down against the creatures carcass when it is all finished, scowling. "You do not even have the decency to feed the scavengers in your death." She stashes the smaller body parts in her bag, transferring out her tinder and flint that she carries now that winter has descended. Her kin are not immune to cold, though she may be now with Ludo's rags around her shoulders. It is useful, now.
She strikes the flint and sets the dismembered body alight. Watches it crackle and consume with golden eyes flickering in ravenous kinship, burning with righteousness. Then Nephele turns away, plucking the severed head from the snow with an idle hand and flies off into the distance, leaving behind nothing but ash.
- FIN
I can give you death with the look upon my face
