MABEL
Mabel didn’t deserve kindness or compassion – and couldn’t quite fathom why it was continually extended towards her. Her jaw became a clenched, knotted, gnarled thing, a sinister slip of fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger; ready to flee, ready to pummel, ready to hit. The offer thereafter made her step back, confusion knotted across her brow – eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Why?
Why was he offering this to her? She’d been nothing but nasty and derisive towards him.
Maybe he was too nice for his own good. Maybe he was one of those individuals who just catered to anyone and everyone, with no forethought for his own soul. Which was stupid.
But she, eldritch and enigmatic and ethereal, wasn’t. She could understand the nuances, the reasons behind the assertions, of the eyes meeting hers, of the potential for her death incoming, of flight taking her far far far away. Or the talons, to grip and rip, to tear and maim. “I don’t understand why you would offer me this,” she uttered, very quiet, as she began stepping forward, hesitant. Even if his reasons were merely beneficence, so that none of them flickered out like miniscule lights and dying flames.
Or why she’d take it – the temptation, the greed, the avarice, combined with the will to survive would’ve made sense.
Her hands, cold, forgoing the handle of her dagger (tucked away somewhere), went towards his arm; lifting it to her mouth, lips parting to reveal the telltale fangs. A first time in a series of initials – first deaths, first battles, first tirades – but her teeth lightly grazed over his skin, a whisper placed upon the flesh, billowing outward before the plunge. “Tell me when to stop.” A look in her eyes that spelled too many things at once, and then she sunk in, and bit down.
Why?
Why was he offering this to her? She’d been nothing but nasty and derisive towards him.
Maybe he was too nice for his own good. Maybe he was one of those individuals who just catered to anyone and everyone, with no forethought for his own soul. Which was stupid.
But she, eldritch and enigmatic and ethereal, wasn’t. She could understand the nuances, the reasons behind the assertions, of the eyes meeting hers, of the potential for her death incoming, of flight taking her far far far away. Or the talons, to grip and rip, to tear and maim. “I don’t understand why you would offer me this,” she uttered, very quiet, as she began stepping forward, hesitant. Even if his reasons were merely beneficence, so that none of them flickered out like miniscule lights and dying flames.
Or why she’d take it – the temptation, the greed, the avarice, combined with the will to survive would’ve made sense.
Her hands, cold, forgoing the handle of her dagger (tucked away somewhere), went towards his arm; lifting it to her mouth, lips parting to reveal the telltale fangs. A first time in a series of initials – first deaths, first battles, first tirades – but her teeth lightly grazed over his skin, a whisper placed upon the flesh, billowing outward before the plunge. “Tell me when to stop.” A look in her eyes that spelled too many things at once, and then she sunk in, and bit down.
If you dig under my feet
You will find things that you don't want to see
You will find things that you don't want to see
