- ↬ catvent day: six
↬ username & id: vivika + 966947
↬ clan archive: azeryn
↬ word count: 888 words
↬ prompt:
the stillness of the morning air whispered against his skin.
something about it breathed an omen, a promise of trouble and treachery. he suppressed a shiver against the shudder of sparks trailing down his spine, and surged on. step by step, pace by pace, the crunch of ice beneath paws, lashes heavy with snow. a silent malicious laugh seemed to twine through the evergreens, jingling like a jester’s silver bells.
riddle us this, tev. their taunts jabbed between his ribs, light and singsong. is it better to fear what you cannot see? or fear what you you can? tell us, tev, tell us.
the ashen landscape unfurled before him as pale as bone. daylight fractured in a thousand iridescent shards, casting sequins of faded light across smooth, rippling stone and gnarled wood. white fungus dripped from the spines of ebony trees, and icicles glinted like the fangs of fallen beasts. to his side, snarls of rougewood thickets rattled with a fevered frenzy. with each shudder, plump berries tumbled from their host, splashing the crystalline ice with veins of crimson. all except one.
… is it better to fear what you cannot see? or fear what you can?
if he blinked, he would’ve missed it. that split second’s delay of suspended reality at scarlet striking snow, the blip of unnatural light as the landscape morphed to mimic the spidering veins of crimson. little signs, little hints of unreality.
everything in him rioted. he forced his limbs to move, pulled the hood of his cloak farther over his eyes, pushed the breath from his stubborn lungs. step by step, pace by pace. do not run, do not freeze. he was being watched. no, hunted.
uh oh, someone’s in trouble. the tinkling bells of laughter needled him. the seeker, the watcher. the hunter, the hunted. the predator, the prey. which one are you, tev?
he forced the traitorous itch of his tail not to linger — to sweep in slow, relaxed waves past the wind-burned pocket of his satchel. he had one chance to get this right. one.
the teetering heap of cracked concrete and brittle branches ahead soothed the itch. familiar ruins, and home. a sanctum. if he could make it back, he could make it out. he fitted the curve of a river stone under his paw and started across the path in a loping dance.
sols and lunes of dancing across slippery stone had made the routine a part of him. three lefts, a right, swing around. repeat. he knew every overturned stone, every jagged edge, the ghost of hidden glass beneath ice. but nothing seemed out of place. maybe they weren’t looking for him? or maybe they intended to take him alive, haul him before the magistrate, back to that—
he missed a step. a frantic gasp stole past his lips as he struggled to find his rhythm, to remember the alternate steps of a dance he had never practiced. the needle-point of a hanging branch grazed the corner of his eye and he stilled. the sharp end seemed to jab an accusing finger at him, chiding. head in the clouds, eh? sinking six feet under and you don’t even realize.
gathering his breath at the entrance, he pushed the wooden door open.
✦✦✦
everything narrowed into single, razor focus. colors crystallized, shapes sharpened, sounds a muffled susurration. the familiar fragrance of earth and sea-salt breathed into his stubborn lungs, the thin warmth a salve against the cold.
he heaved a chest against the door, wincing at the screech of steel against stone. in the same swing, he smashed a clay vase at the threshold. the shards of colored pottery hadn’t yet found their final resting place, still rocking from the impact, but he kept moving. only action quelled the rising tide within him. his tongue tasted like ash as he reached beneath his nest of tangled moss and furs. cool metal pieces tumbled into his grasp. gold, silver, bronze—his emergency funds. bribes held power, but there was nothing like the distraction of free peças.
if he was dead, he’d have no use for them. yet, something in his chest screamed like a feral beast as he scattered them around the ruins. their shiny heads glinted with his distorted reflection.
a force slammed against the wooden door. splinters shot into the dark, rusty hinges screeched in protest. maybe whoever it was called out, maybe they ordered his surrender, maybe they said nothing at all. it didn’t matter.
he kicked his nest aside, tearing away dried tangles of moss and vibrant bits of tattered feathers and stripping away matted furs. sols of working at the forge chased the tremble in his limbs, granted him a sense of rhythm. underneath, a small hole just his size gaped at him, the darkness a stone vice over his stuttering heart. if he didn’t make it, this would be a grave. a grave he dug of his own free will.
splashes of light bruised the stone ruins, hinges popped free of their joints, the wooden door breathed its last. he didn’t wait for it to cleave in half, didn’t wait for the stumble of steps over the metal chest, didn’t wait for the howl of pain from shattered pottery.
he leapt into the abyss of darkness, their inky teeth devouring him whole.
