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geekys-corner · 5 months ago

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Succulents and Hair Dye

Words: 2, 972 TW: Bed rotting, brief mention of vomit, mention of attempted suicide, mention of domestic abuse - Hurt/Comfort Summary: Tyrell visits Onyx, determined not to let him waste away, and helps him regain just a little normalcy

Tyrell watched from the kitchen island as his father spread a generous layer of jam across two slices of bread, then delicately cut away the crusts. Onyx never ate them otherwise.

A sense of melancholy ached in his chest when he examined his face. He noticed exhaustion simmering distantly in focused eyes, shrouded behind the glint of his glasses. It was ever present yet never once reached the surface.

He took such care as he cored an apple, sliced it evenly, and arranged the pieces in a separate plastic bowl so they would not touch the sandwich.

It must have seemed like a hopeless effort. In the last few days, the plates Malcolm retrieved were left untouched and stale. At first, he painstakingly cooked Onyx's favourite meals, then plain pasta or rice, which gradually became sandwiches in hopes of getting anything into him at all.

From what he had heard, entering Onyx's room was a delicate gamble. Push too hard, and he would knock plates and glasses to the carpet. Leave him to his own devices, and he would ignore the food entirely. Caelan pressed him to drink some water, only to have the glass snatched from his hand and hurled into the wall.

Onyx had made no further attempts since that night, but he had all but given up.

Still, Malcolm never wavered, never once grew irritated, disheartened, or even impatient. He merely continued to cut away bread crusts and slice apples.

"We just have to give him time," Malcolm remarked as though he could read Ty's mind. "He will eat when he is ready." He turned around, the plate in one hand and a water bottle in the other, and smiled. Even he could no longer shield his fear.

"I'll take it up to him," Ty said. "Maybe I can talk to him."

"Are you sure?" Malcolm's brow furrowed in worry.

"I've got some stuff for him anyway," Ty held up a plastic bag he had brought along and shifted it to hang from his arm. "I'll try, at least."

"Thank you, dear," he replied with a faint sigh and passed him the food. "I will be here if you need me, alright?"

Ty nodded as he accepted them, shuffling out of his seat and making his way upstairs. The house had an odd atmosphere now, like water so still it mimicked glass. It was heavy on his chest for certain, but it was nothing compared to what he felt that night after all was said and done.

Onyx had been admitted into the hospital under watch, alive no matter how severely he may have wished otherwise. They sat with him until they were sent away with nothing left to do but wait until morning. The drive home from the hospital was utterly silent. Walking through the door to sit down on the nearest seat was mindless.

It was there, on the sofa, as Malcolm offered him a cup of tea, it all washed over him. His jeans were stained with dirt and sand from kneeling on the river bank and smelt like bile. Aching hands trembled as he finally acknowledged that they were the only reason for his brother's survival, how they forced him awake to feel the ribs he'd just broken.

The dull pain across his entire body grew sharp with the realisation of it all, and his eyes, which had remained wide with shock, filled with tears. He had tried to answer as the mug hovered in front of him, but his breath shuddered violently and collapsed into a sob.

Caelan had burned through his panic and tears, immobilising him until the exhaustion gave him clarity. Ty, on the other hand, always pushed it all down. Focused. Responded.

It wasn't until the first moment of quiet that he realised the severity of the situation and how close he was to losing his brother. Whatever surfaced at that moment was cold, ugly, and raw.

Now, he supposed he was doing the exact same thing.

Ty knocked on Onyx's door and opened it a moment later, greeted by a shell of his bedroom. Years ago, it was practically fit to burst. He remembered how posters, lights, and art fought for wall space and shelves piled with collections and well-loved belongings. A desk overflowing with sketchbooks and figurines, a wardrobe he could barely close, and a drum kit that used to drive him mad.

All of that was a memory now. He supposed what was not thrown away or destroyed by that wart of a human had to be left behind. Onyx left the shelter with a single duffel bag containing the clothing and amenities they provided him, which he discarded by the door and had not touched since.

The bed was pushed up against the far corner like it always was, dressed in a black quilted duvet and surrounded by abandoned blankets.

Onyx lay within it, his back to the door and face inches from the wall. Malcolm said he only got out of bed to go to the toilet, and that was only with prompting.

Ty swallowed thickly. "Hey Onyx," he spoke up, but his brother did not even twitch. The only sign of life was the duvet gently rising and falling to signal breathing. "Dad made you something to eat."

He walked over to the bedside table and gently pushed the identical untouched plate to the side to make room for the new one.

Now that he was closer, he could see Onyx's eyes were open, staring blankly at the wallpaper. It was bizarre to see him without his mohawk. His hair had grown out to his neck in its natural shade of dirty blond and stuck together in neglected clumps.

Onyx blinked idly but otherwise made no indication of hunger or will.

Ty hovered momentarily, then averted his gaze so as not to stare. He rummaged in his bag and walked over to the windowsill.

Part of him wished he could crack open a window, but they were strictly locked. The air was stagnant with the scent of soured sweat.

"Did I tell you I'm working at a garden centre?" He remarked as he carefully produced a plastic saucer and placed a flower pot upon it. "I've been working there for about a year now, I'm even thinking about becoming a supervisor."

No response.

He glanced over his shoulder, but Onyx's attention remained internal.

"I brought you some succulents – they're pretty low maintenance so I figured they'd be perfect for you." Ty set two more upon the windowsill and smiled sadly to himself. The stems had already rooted themselves in the soil, bearing the faintest blossom of a new succulent. "Don't worry, I didn't pay for them. I swiped some dropped leaves while no one was looking and propagated them for you. Don't let anyone tell you y'can't pirate plants."

When he turned back around, the food was still untouched, and Onyx had not moved.

Ty's heart sank, yet he walked to the foot of the bed and sat down. Onyx shifted his feet away.

"You wanna try having something to eat?" He prompted.

Onyx tensed his shoulders.

"What about a bit a water?"

He curled further in on himself. Any more, and he would surely twist himself out of existence.

Ty sighed heavily and stood up, putting a hand on his hip. "I'm not gonna let you waste away in here, y'know." He said firmly. "As much as you might want me to."

A single noise emanated from him as his muscles grew rigid—a scoff.

"Scoff all you want, but I mean it." Ty rummaged through the bag again and produced a plastic bottle. He looked at it for a moment, then back toward him, and his eyes softened. "Look, I got you some hair dye. How about I fix your hair – get you feeling a bit more like yourself again, yeah?"

Finally, Onyx made some form of response and craned his head to peer at him with heavy eyes. Hazel irises glanced between his face and the bottle in his hand, rusted cogs stirring in his head.

Wordlessly, he sank back into his pillow, and Ty almost lost all hope right then and there. He began to feel that familiar pain burrowing away into his chest, but then Onyx shuffled.

He moved ever so slowly. Not out of malice, he noticed, but rather physical exhaustion. The duvet fell away to reveal that his t-shirt was hanging off him, and his skin was almost an ashen grey.

The scars across the lower half of his face were as plentiful as they were evident. Deep, inter-crossing indents slashed through his cheeks, chin, and over his lips.

Of course, Ty never once stared. He stepped away to allow him space as he shuffled thin, bony legs over the side of the bed and stood up. At first, he wobbled to such a degree that Ty thought he might topple over like a stack of books, but Onyx strictly shook his head when he reached out to help.

So, he stepped back again and let him totter through his bathroom door, thankfully only at the foot of his bed.

When he followed suit, he noticed Onyx's head trained strictly downward as though rearing away from something.

"You alright?" Ty asked, and his brother's shoulders tensed again. At first, he was utterly lost, and he looked around aimlessly for any source of discomfort, only to find nothing out of place. Yet when Onyx lifted his hand to his face, he noticed the mirror and how he pressed himself into the wall to avoid his reflection. "Oh! Shit, hang on."

He swiftly grabbed one of the towels from the rack, then draped it over the mirror and adjusted it until not even a slither remained visible. Once content, he looked back to Onyx, whose hand was back to his side.

"That better?"

He nodded.

Ty had him sit down in his desk chair to improve his comfort, and got to work.

Perhaps against his better judgement, he had brought along an electric razor and a pair of scissors. However, Onyx sat with his hands limp at his sides, never once even eyeing them.

The ends of his hair were already matted, but they needed to be cut off anyway, so he made no attempt to salvage them.

"I should probably say now that I'm not a hairdresser, so this might look like absolute shit." Ty remarked more light-heartedly, to which Onyx gave one of his typical "don't care" shrugs.

Still, he did his very best to keep it even. When it came time for the razor, he informed Onyx and waited for his approval before switching it on.

He wanted the 0.1, of course, so the razor glided through the blond hair and let it fall away in thick, wavy clumps around Onyx's feet. Ty took his time ensuring it was as neat as possible, but the border between the top and sides was undoubtedly uneven.

Onyx didn't seem to care in the slightest, though. In fact, he kept his eyes closed through the majority of the process as though to feel every strand fall away.

"We should probably wash your hair so the dye sets well, we don't want it patchy." Ty remarked, tentatively placing his hands on his brother's shoulders and, much to his internal joy, was not shaken off. "That alright?"

Onyx hesitated, opening his eyes and giving a faint nod.

"Want me to wash it?"

More hesitation.

"I don't mind, Onyx, it's not a problem for me."

Another nod – more confident this time.

So that was what they did. Onyx sat in the tub in a towel, his head leaned against the side while Ty lathered his hair in shampoo. He had his eyes closed again, but Ty took exceptional care in ensuring not a single bubble reached his face as he massaged his scalp. All the while, he made one-sided conversation; how work was treating him, his plans for his upcoming birthday, the boring stories he never got a chance to tell him about.

Onyx seemed to listen. Or tuned him out. He was unsure which.

What surprised Ty was when Onyx reached for the soap and a cloth and began to wash himself without a single word of prompting. Whether out of motivation, a need to complete his routine, or simply because he was already there, Ty remained unsure.

It took him a good few minutes, of course, but Ty busied himself with preparing the dye to give him some privacy. Then, once Onyx was dried off and wrapped in an old towel, he moved on to the next step.

He had no need to bleach his hair, so dyeing it jet black was a simple, familiar process. It almost felt normal, like he could forget about the circumstances if he focused enough.

But Onyx's hand was pressed up against his side, silently nursing the broken ribs Ty had snapped through that night. He could just about see it from the angle he stood. It didn't seem to be deliberate, hell would he know if it were, but rather an act of necessity. A hand concealed almost perfectly by the towel, subtly gripping a faded bruise.

Somehow it hurt far more.

That Onyx still insisted on keeping his pain under a thick cloak and dagger. To ease guilt or for fear of weakness – Ty would be forever unsure.

Nonetheless, he focused and steadily applied a generous coating upon his hair. He took his time to ensure his roots were filled in and, once satisfied, sat on the side of the tub to wait for it to set.

They watched some videos on Ty's phone in the meantime, a welcome source to direct their attention and pass the time. Onyx watched, albeit with the same interest one would have for a magazine in a waiting room.

When it came time for rinsing, Ty had him stand in the shower while he stood on a stool and shampooed the dye out of his hair. The bubbles and his once-white gloves were pitch black, as well as any water that ran down the drain. Onyx seemed amused by the sight, allowing the bubbles to pass through his fingers and smearing a sad face into the tile.

He found a clean pair of pyjamas for him to wear, and for once, Onyx did not resist.

Once blow-dried and combed out, his hair puffed into fluffy waves. Ty had opted for a mohawk with a thicker width and a shorter length, producing an outcome which could stand alone without the need for styling. He deduced that it would be easier to maintain and allowed Onyx the freedom to customise it when he got back on his feet.

"Alright, all done!" He said as he dried his hands. "Wanna see?"

Onyx eyed the shrouded mirror with a twinge of anxiety yet still nodded. Ty took the edges of the towel, watching him closely.

"Ready?"

Onyx put a hand over his mouth and nodded again, going rigid as Ty peeled away the towel to reveal a reflection he had not acknowledged in almost a year.

Ty walked behind him and ran his fingers through the silken waves, fluffing them out as Onyx tentatively opened his eyes and witnessed something more familiar.

"You like it?" Ty grinned, "I think I did a pretty good job, all things considered." He wrapped his arms around his neck and leaned his head on his, smiling at him in the mirror. Onyx's shoulders loosened as he slowly inspected each angle and drank in the sight. "It looks way better than before, at least."

He nodded, using his other hand to run over his scalp and watch the hair — his hair — bounce back into place.

Once he had stomached enough of his reflection only a few seconds later, he spun the chair around to the side, averted his eyes, and removed his hand. Ty gave him a gentle squeeze and his hair another ruffle before promptly releasing him as he pushed at his arms like a displeased cat.

Onyx's pace was still just as slow and uncertain, but at the very least, Ty could finally recognise him. Even when he crawled back into bed.

"Hey–" he caught him before he could lay down, and Onyx begrudgingly turned to sit "– have something to eat? Just a little bit, at least?"

Ty sat down on the side of the bed and offered the plate. At first, Onyx only glared at him and pulled his knees into his chest.

"Please...?"

A few seconds drifted by as those rusted cogs in his head began to whir. Narrowed eyes leered at him, then the plate, then with an incoherent grumble, he took one half of a sandwich.

Ty completely froze in place; his eyes widened in disbelief, afraid that even the slightest breath may discourage him.

He managed three bites at one corner before he put it back. One small one, then two larger ones. His eyes were strictly pointed toward the wallpaper as he slowly chewed, his head hunched toward his knees.

He ate one and a half apple slices despite the air browning them.

Then, finally, a third of the water in the bottle.

Onyx wiped his mouth roughly with his wrist, then lightly pushed the plate away. He laid back down in his bed with his face to the wall, pulling the duvet over himself.

"Thank you..." Ty sighed and stood up, opting to finally leave him alone.

He collected the older plates but left the latest in case he was still hungry. Then, he gathered the old bottles and used one to water the succulents on his windowsill before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

They'll always look out for each other <3

I just wanted to write this because it's always buzzing around in my head and it deserved to finally be written up.

Thank you for reading!

#geekyfox1's ocs #original character #oc #oc tyrell #oc malcolm #oc onyx #original writing

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geekys-corner · 2 years ago

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Bloodbranded (Trial Chapter)

So I figured that the best way to actually develop my story is to actually write it. This is a trial chapter, so characters and concepts may change in the future, but I appreciate anyone who reads this. <3

Words: 3, 565 TW: Hunting / animal death, body horror

The twang of a drawstring sliced through the frozen air, a swift death to an otherwise perpetual silence. By the time its warning echoed to the oak branches, an arrow had already embedded through its target and sent it into the snow with a cushioned thud. Only then did he exhale.

Wayde lowered his longbow yet kept it in hand as he traversed the snow. He leapt across the small, icy stream that bordered him from his catch and stepped up its steady incline with ease. His footsteps crunched as his boots broke through the fresh, fluffy surface to the hardened layer beneath and left a prominent mark in his wake.

His catch, a three-pointed elk, would trade moderately well in Silvis’ community with his infamous shots. They were uncommon in this season of their eternal winter, so they could be exchanged for a little more when his mother traded off the excess venison. He could usually haggle the fletcher for a few more arrows just with the sight of the shot itself.

Straight through one eye and out the other. Quick, precise, and certain. Not only did it impress most, it meant he didn’t have to watch it desperately run, crawl, then struggle away from him.

A small halo of blood stained the snow pillowed beneath its head, glistening in the sunlight, which trickled through the branches. Its hooves still twitched like it remained trapped in the final instinct to flee, carving lines in the snow before it finally fell still. Wayde pulled down his mask, and the frigid cold stung his nose, his breath escaping in dragon smoke before his eyes.

He placed the wooden whistle dangling from his neck between his lips and blew three sequential notes to signal his catch. As he waited idly for the short response, whistle still between his teeth, he unstrung his bowstring and loosely folded it to store in his belt pouch.

Wayde blew the three notes again yet was interrupted by the third as a sharper note echoed curtly to his right. He merely rolled his eyes, strapped his longbow on his back, and retrieved his knife from its holster.

He stepped one foot over the carcass and lifted its heavy head by the antler, opting for the smallest tine to carve away.

Snow crunched heavily behind him, and the shrubbery rustled as they were disturbed.

“What are you doing that for?” Lyall’s long legs stepped deftly over the shrubbery, balancing a pole of fresh river fish over his shoulder. “That will ruin its value.”

“Felicity’s been nagging for a tine for two moons,” Wayde replied with a shrug, carving until the bone fell into his palm. She adamantly specified that it was to be cut and not snapped. “You should be impressed that I provided this catch for us in the first place.”

“Why would I be impressed by something you brag about every day?” He countered dryly, draping his arm over the rod.

“It tastes better than fish,”

Lyall responded with a deadpan chuckle and an eyeroll, a trait their mother would scold Wayde for mimicking while disregarding the source. As the eldest, and the strongest shoulders after their father, he was often pardoned as such.

Lyall’s presence could command any room with just a mere glance, let alone a smile or a conversation. He towered over most with ease yet held his balance with the same certainty as the colossal trees and the tales of mountains. His limbs, though long, lacked any doubt in where they were placed, and the labour of a fisherman was evident in his strong arms.

“Well good luck loading that onto the sled,” he noted jovially, freeing one arm to swat Wayde’s hood off his head and snicker at his scowl.

“Where is Thelas, anyway?” Wayde scanned the stark white landscape for any sign of his second brother, yet the vast forest remained devoid of life save for them. No matter the volume, their voices were whispers under the trees, merely the bubble of a stream or a fox’s footprints.

Only their whistles could cut through the static air as they called for their brother.

One long note rippled outward, rustling a flock of birds from above

Finally, another echoed back.

“Half a mile northeast.” Lyall deduced, to which Wayde groaned.

“I can’t drag this for half a mile!”

He sent out his initial three sequential notes, yet two sharper ones argued back moments later.

“He has the dogs; why does he need us to go to him?” Wayde complained, and his head rolled alongside his eyes to express his reluctance. Lyall rarely entertained his complaints and instead retrieved a coil of rope from his pack.

“If I had that mentality when we were children, you would be dead.” He tossed the rope at his chest and gestured impatiently. “Secure it, and I’ll help you carry it.”

Wayde’s scar always became hyperaware of the cold whenever Lyall brought it up. He typically ignored how much sharper the damaged flesh felt against the air, yet it would sting spitefully at the slightest acknowledgement. Needles dragged endlessly across his right eye in those moments, trapped in the memory like he still lay in the snow, five years old and wondering what Goddess Aiyana looked like.

“I don’t need your help.” Wayde grumbled, pulling his mask over his nose, wincing slightly as the cold pricked what was left exposed.

The halo became a lake as he dragged the elk through the snow, and the trails of blood forged the streams which led up to it. Fervent crimson burned against pure white like ink, staining its signature upon parchment.

Colossal trees held up their sky like mighty guardians. Each trunk spanned eighty feet in width and towered endlessly upward; their mighty branches stretched unashamedly with untethered freedom. Light spilt through the vast borders between each crown, echoing the rivers below like ancient cartographers.

Ginormous, centuries-old oaks grew from the surface roots like mere branches, nurtured from saplings with roots intertwined like a child and parent’s hands.

Some surface roots formed snow-coated hills with soil and shrubbery shaped to their will, while others arched high enough to walk under. One colossal root bridged the Broken Gorge, buried deep within the stone on the other side, its surface worn smooth by aeons of animals and travellers alike.

They crossed to the other side with certainty and paid a nod of respect to the tree that gifted them their path.

Thelas’ responses grew much louder as they drew closer, and Wayde huffed from the effort and frustration of dragging his catch up yet another incline.

“I swear, he better have found an abundance”—he groaned as he tugged the elk up to his feet—“of sweet fruit, or I’m gonna clobber him!”

Lyall cracked a laugh at that, then sighed with his own sense of exasperation. “We’ve reached the red charms, we will be right next to the border at this rate.”

Each colossal tree trunk was decorated with a string of charms praying for their good health and simultaneously painted to act as waypoints. This way, one could navigate to and from Silvis with ease.

“Why is he even out this far?”

“I don’t know,” Lyall put the whistle to his lips and blew again, receiving another response moments later alongside the distant barking of their sledge dogs. “Come on, he’s nearby.”

Wayde groaned, took a deep breath, and heaved the elk ever onwards.

The white sky shifted slowly into grey as the evening crept closer, and the red charms began to glow with the slightest hue. Thankfully the walk was only fifteen minutes or so; otherwise, Wayde was sure Lyall would have made good on his threat for him.

The dogs spotted them first and barked wildly upon their arrival, and Thelas hastily jogged over to them.

He was similar in appearance to Lyall, albeit two inches shorter with a stockier build. They shared the same blond hair as their mother, while Wayde had their father’s brunette. His beard had finally started growing past its awkward, patchy state, and he relished in it, going by how well combed it was.

“Apologies that it took us a while,” Lyall remarked as Thelas closed the distance between them and gave him a light shove which was promptly returned. “Wayde managed to bring down an elk and insisted on dragging it.”

“An elk?” Thelas raised his eyebrows, somewhat amused until he laid eyes on Wayde as he finally stopped to catch his breath, then the elk behind him. “Oh, so you have!” He walked over to inspect it, immediately examining the broken tine on its antlers. “I just assumed it was rabbits again, but that’s a good catch – shame about this tine, though.”

“He cut it off,” Lyall added, then folded his arms.

“What– why would you do that?”

“Apparently Felicity needs one,”

“I see you’re not being mauled by a bear.” Wayde snapped breathlessly, his hands propped on his knees so he could look up at him, kicking at his calf when he walked past again. “Why did you make us come all the way to you?”

Thelas’ expression furrowed at his question, the concern he briefly distracted himself from now written on his brow. He stepped backwards, then turned on his heel to return to where he’d emerged.

“I–” he cleared his throat “–I found something.”

Lyall mirrored his expression – the pair looked identical when they frowned, save for Thelas’ beard. Wayde tried to exchange a look with him, but he’d already stepped over the shrubbery to where the dogs barked and paced relentlessly.

Wayde hurried after him and leapt nimbly over the bushes. He glanced tentatively back to his catch, yet it remained motionless, and his brothers didn’t wait for him. So, clutching the hilt of his knife, he followed them around the edge of a colossal tree.

The first thing he noticed was the disturbed snow, torn down to the frozen dirt beneath. What were once paw prints had moulded into a trodden mass, scratches and claw marks scarring the ground and tree bark in a frantic, almost aimless fashion.

Amongst the mess were three shapes. Bodies.

“Gods above.” Lyall cursed, his grip tightening on the pole over his shoulder.

Wayde could easily recognise two of the bodies as black wolves. One appeared to have its neck torn open with its jugular discarded beside it, while the other was disembowelled. Their dark eyes were wide and glassy, trapped in a final state of fear and pain.

Yet what lay dead a few feet away from them truly evaded him. A creature like a silhouette snatched from the night. He tilted his head to discern its gaunt features from one another.

Whatever it was looked humanoid, but only in the sense that it appeared bipedal. It lacked fur or pelt, the surface of what he only imagined was skin a shiny, hardened mass as blackened as tar. Elongated limbs twisted in every direction, bone-like appendages branching from one joint only to converge again on the next.

Its skull lay limp in the snow, devoid and hollow. The skin clung to it like a shell, almost reminiscent of a beak to encase its agape maw. A hand left to reach upward was made almost entirely of long fingers that curled inward with four joints. Blood had formed icicles on the tips of horrific claws.

There was no meat on its bones nor any indication of features. Hollow eyes like geodes stared beyond their boots at nothing and everything.

“What in the name of Mother Esme is that?” Lyall questioned, his face drained of colour.

“It’s dead, I checked,” Thelas replied, then gave it another kick for good measure. “I think one of the wolf packs must have ganged up on it.”

“That is not what I asked,”

“Because I don’t have an answer for that.”

“It could be a deformed animal,” Wayde piped in, prodding at its skull with the tip of his longbow. Lyall pushed him backwards and stepped in front of him to inspect it in his place.

“What sort of animal has limbs like these?” Lyall dared to touch it, albeit with gloves on, and grabbed at one of the arched joints like a handlebar. He tried to flex it, but the creature only jostled, its entire body rigid. “It’s frozen solid.”

“The wolves’ teeth are all broken,” Thelas added, opening the jaw of one of the wolves to reveal bloody gums and shattered fangs protruding like glass shards. “There’s tons of them in the snow, see?”

Wayde merely rolled his eyes, fastening the drawstring back onto his longbow to prepare for a threat he couldn’t decipher. He let the pair fuss and theorise, opting instead to gralloch the elk while he waited to keep himself busy.

He made seamless work of it all, honing his mind to eavesdropping on his brothers’ bickering to avoid the grim squelches and scrapes. His work was efficient as they came – opting for quick, clean results to get the job out of the way as soon as possible.

“It would be a waste to leave black wolf pelts out here,” Thelas said somewhat hopefully.

“I hope that’s a joke,”

“I’m just saying I could salvage some of this,” he continued, gesturing to what the creature left intact and warranting a tut. “It would probably be the perfect size for Essie.”

Wayde kept his lips sealed shut to avoid breathing in the stench of warm viscera and keep his comments to himself.

He could not bury the remains of the elk as was tradition with the ground so frozen, so he left it between the roots of a colossal tree for the scavengers. It made no difference to the horrific scene; nothing could make it any better or worse in his mind.

His once-brown gloves had turned burgundy as the blood soaked through the leather, likely enough to stain them permanently. Wayde didn’t care so long as the job was done. He could trade the antlers for a new pair if he were charismatic enough.

“We need to bring this back to Silvis,” Lyall finally proposed, lifting his fish to the sledge to secure them. “Wayde, let’s fix your elk and head home.”

“On it.”

Thelas had collected half a basket’s worth of berries, roots, and herbs, his yield significantly affected by the distraction. It provided enough for their family for the week, yet Wayde was confident he would have to barter his elk far more efficiently to make up for it. At least until Lyall inevitably relinquished the responsibility on his behalf.

The wolves were eventually, and reluctantly, deemed as a lost cause – though, in truth, he was relieved. He didn’t think he could stomach the image of their little sister bundled up in such furs.

Quick, precise, certain. That was what every hunter needed to be.

The manner in which those wolves died was anything but.

Wayde cleared the thought from his head and pulled the rope taut.

Their spoils were stacked across the sledge with meticulous organisation and secured like gold. The creature dragged behind them so as not to risk spoiling the meat.

It was surprisingly deceiving for its size, and the dogs seemed to have more trouble hauling the gutted elk. The carcass carved lines through the snow behind them where the excess limbs jutted out yet never broke from its frozen state.

Thelas steered the dogs across the vast white landscape, and the sledge jostled gently at the speed. Lyall and Wayde stood with the elk and clutched the handles as trees, cliffs, and frozen rivers whizzed by. Red charms turned to purple, then yellow.

Wayde leaned his weight into the sledge. He craved the warmth of the hearth and a hot meal, something to trade the depriving silence of the forest for the ambience of home. His eyes closed for a moment, nestling into his furs as his scar stung from the cold.

Then he heard a crack.

At first, he dismissed it as a branch or ice. The dogs’ bounding paws and barks made it faint, barely discernible from the natural sounds of the sledge. Then there was another.

Wayde instinctively turned his attention back to the corpse behind them. The hand that once pointed aimlessly toward the sky had unfurled. His mind scrambled instantly, desperate for something to explain it away.

Right before his eyes, the creature’s hollow skull twisted back into place, the stiffened vertebrae crackling like a log splitting open. It shook out the snow that those hollow eyes had shovelled up, letting the rest pour from its void-like maw.

The reaching hand outstretched with new life and caught Lyall’s attention as it grappled at the snow.

“Gods above!”

Limbs contorted with a sense of maddening glee, flailing in and out of place as it frantically tried to free itself from its restraints. Excess joints snapped loose, only to drive into the ground as an anchor.

“Thelas!” Lyall exclaimed. “Thelas, it’s still alive!”

Wayde watched in horror as blackened spines splintered against the frozen soil, yet never relented.

That branch-like hand reached again and tore through the snow like flesh, clumps of dirt ploughed and uprooted like farmland. The sledge jolted for a moment, and berries scattered in all directions. It snatched once more, and the taut rope fell slack.

Wayde grappled his knife in an instant and shoved Lyall into the sledge as he dove at the rope. He began to saw with mindless speed, carving without any regard for precision or certainty. Each frantic breath clouded his vision. The flailing blotch of shadow swelled in the corner of his eye, rapidly approaching as the rope fell looser and looser in his hands.

Thelas turned a sharp corner, and a handful of roots flew into some bushes. The creature hurtled into a tree trunk, the force enough to yank the rope taut again. Wayde sawed through the last fraying strands, and they snapped simultaneously.

The creature barrelled into the snow, a gaunt assortment of limbs suddenly a sweltering mass when distance stretched between them.

“Faster!” Lyall bellowed, and Thelas echoed the command to the dogs. He grabbed Wayde by his hood and yanked him roughly to his feet to keep him standing.

Yet it didn’t stop.

Wayde fumbled for his longbow the very second he saw that hand reach.

It threw itself forward with reckless abandon, and the distance between them meant nothing. Arched legs surged upward, walking, then bounding, reminiscent of a wolf. A gaping maw widened, unhinging like that of a snake.

In those fleeting moments when its horrific body unfurled, it towered almost twice Lyall’s height.

Wayde nocked an arrow and drew back his arm, his stance steady but his jaw taut and eyes wide.

He let the arrow fly like his target was just another bird or rabbit — an elk whose antlers would trade him new gloves and a favour from Felicity.

The arrow soared and tore through his brothers’ yells and the dogs’ panicked barking. It met its target, sailing through a hollow eye with nothing but haste, precision, and certainty—

Then snapped.

The creature recoiled long enough to stretch a dozen metres between them and shook the halves of his arrow from its skull like one would shake the snow from their hair.

Its attention locked onto them again and bounded after them relentlessly. That beak-like jaw unhinged to release a shriek, and Wayde was five years old again.

The sound was both guttural and shrill, an awful, ripping noise. It lacked humanity as it did an animal’s amorality, rattling in some terrible space between.

Wayde heard it, and he was back in the snow. Five years old with burning blood pouring down his face. Wondering what the Goddess Aiyana looked like while Lyall, barely ten, shrieked and flailed a fishing spear. Shrieking until the beast leapt back into the shadows, left to exist in folktales.

He collapsed against the sledge with a shuddering gasp as Lyall sawed the rope securing his prize elk with the same thoughtless haste.

Wayde’s legs staggered over the carcass as Lyall gave it a final shove, his bulging eyes left to watch it roll into the snow.

Dismay blended with terror when he watched the creature finally stop.

The last thing he saw was that deformed beak as it drove into the elk’s neck before a colossal tree shielded them from view.

Another shriek echoed after them, and Wayde’s legs almost buckled beneath him. Lyall’s arms instinctively shot out to barricade him, his muscles taut and his mouth agape.

The only sound was the continuous rumble of the dogs’ paws against the snow and Thelas’ unanswered questions. Puffs of dragons’ smoke escaped their mouths with every sharp exhale.

“We’re back in the blue charms,” Thelas remarked a few minutes later.

Wayde’s eyes slowly drifted up to Lyall, tears stinging the corners of his left eye as they began to freeze on his face.

“You–” he swallowed thickly, then gave another punched-out exhale, “–you lost my elk.”

Lyall glanced down at him, a rare glint of guilt in his brown eyes before he returned his gaze to the wake they had left behind. “We’ll find you a new elk.”

It was the only way he ever apologised.

Hey! If you made it this far, thank you so much!

Bloodbranded is one of my wistful dreams that I hope to publish one day (if I finally get brave enough to write it!), so it means a lot to me that anyone would read my original works!

I’d genuinely love to hear feedback for this trial chapter, how you interpreted characters etc - or whether you enjoyed it! Anything means the world <3 /np

Thank you for reading!

Reblogs appreciated! /np

#bloodbranded #bloodbranded development #bloodbranded trial chapter #original work #original writing

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