#Sparkles Dibble Dabble

[hedwigoprah]

So much for a writing hiatus, but what are you supposed to do when the muses call?

Here's something that I intend on burying on my blog but definitely belongs in Children of the dark waaaaaaay down the line. @redheadsramblings I'm considering this a question answered. You don't have to read it now, I'm sure I'll publish it later, I'm just letting you know its here :) @notyourmamasdeerbat you should probably know this too 2.3k poorly edited words and a very violent Veryl below the cut.

The door to the chamber slammed against the wall, rebounding and slamming shut as Veryl planted herself on the other side of it. She worked to regulate her heart, the rapid inflation and deflation of her lungs making her dizzy. She hadn't eaten in hours, unable to stomach the uncertainty of what she faced. Her knees threatened to buckle right there in his office. The room was firmly tilted, skewing her point of view; black danced along the edges of her periphery. It couldn't hold a candle to the red haze made her brain pulsate where it met her skull, thrumming with the blood in her ears, putting pressure behind her eyes.  She was ready to attack at moments notice, hackles raised. Her fingers flexed at her sides, itching for the knives that had been confiscated at the the beginning of this entire ordeal. Every part of her was on high alert, ready to make good on the threat of her posture.  "You. Lied." Was all she could say to the man across from her. Her teeth ached in their sockets, shooting bolts of pain through her nervous system, warning her to ease up.  She had seen so many emotions on this man's face. Joy, sadness, anger, the whole spectrum, every degree. Yet, Veryl could not believe the grief-stricken remorse that made him look craggy and aged.  He didn't say a word as he stood there in front of her, as though he had prepared for her fury, anticipated it even. His office certainly befitted his station now, all fine woodworks and plush velvets. A bar cart, a leather chair, windows with a view of the gardens; all of the trappings that he swore to loathe. What a sick twist of the knife. There were obvious tears in his eyes; he always had been the more emotional one.  "How. Long." Veryl barely moved her lips, daring him to break eye contact with her. Her shoulders had started to ache at the beginning of the day from sitting still and straight in that maker-forsaken chair, the muscles were now numb. Even as she stood, tension winding every nerve tight, she felt no pain; no ache of being alive. "Veryl, I-" It was a small step with hands held in defense, an instinct that she was sure was correct on his part. Ah yes, the flesh of his well manicured hands would dare to tame the dragon he faced down.  He couldn't really blame her when she reacted like the animal he treated her as. She reached for the decanter on her right and slung it through the air with her left hand. The right was still slung across her chest, handicapping her most dominate offense.  "HOW LONG!" She roared. It was no more than a few seconds, as the ornate crystal bottle just grazed his ear before he had a moment to register, and was shattering against his painted portrait at the back of the room. Sticky liquid coated the room in sprinkles of antiseptic smells. The glass shards tore clean through it's intended target, the painting covered in it's own acidic application. 

"The whole time," He didn't even have the dignity to duck and come back at her, instead falling to his knees, a weeping, miserable clump in his fine regalia. Veryl's face contorted in disgust, lips turning down involuntarily. She barely registered the tingle of pain behind her broken nose and bruise-mottled cheek as the feeling dug into her skin.  She made a growling noise in the back of her throat, a release of frustration and irritation. Any emotion that could somehow lead to mercy was quickly dismissed, for she indulged nothing that would spare this man, even in his current state. Veryl dug her able hand into his carefully arranged hair, the red locks lush with scented oil, and pulled tight. She gripped against his scalp, raising his head to meet her gaze once again. He did not look away when he finally pried his eyes open. More the better for him. A small redemption.  "So the great and powerful leader of a noble house dares to snivel before the lowly street urchin." The hiss was low, dripping with corrosive derision. "The mighty fall so quickly." She would be damned if she didn't not get every ounce she was owed, and she would not waste a second on incoherent communication. No, he would know, and he would not need to question what she meant. 

Not only had he elected to side with the council, his new peers and colleagues, to expel her from the only place she ever called home. He had borne witness to her further crimes at the behest of another. A wolf in sheep's clothing. An enemy she called her dearest friend.  He had stood there and recounted every single thing she had ever told him in confidence. From the street fights, the violent crimes, the extorted hits, the fire, the defiling of sacred things. Every single thing. And provided letters and documents, further solidifying his claim to the council.  Veryl could do nothing but zero in on the table in front of her, unable to even trace the patterns in the wood, as the sound of shuffling papers being passed around verified her existence in the shadows. As the person who knew her best, revealed himself to her as a henchman of her own personal demon.  She had to assume that any names beside her own would have been coded, more than one gasp should have been heard from the people that judged her; there were a few of their own that had engaged her services. Instead there were only simple hums and snuffs as they ascertained motive and contemplated the evidence.  They had to know this was all incited by coercion, blackmail, and manipulation of which she could not hope to escape. Their perpetrator had already been ousted, why must this be what caused her own expulsion? "Councilman, why do you bring this up now? Most of these matters have been addressed." A stuffy voice asked with an exhausted sigh.  "I only mean to solidify the right to remove Watcher Ingellvar from the Necropolis." "Based on her history of violence?" "Based on a history of an inability to contain certain… urges." "You side with the Noble Undead then." A chair creaked as it's user leaned back, a paper landing softly on their desk. "They call for her head, would that not suffice?" "I simply mean to alleviate the stress of our office." His political voice would never fail to convince even the most stalwart. "The solution is simple: exile on the grounds of uncovered crimes." There was silence in contemplation. "I should so hate to see such a promising Watcher fall." Another, softer, voice chimed in.  "Very well. We shall take this into account as we make our decision."  "I thank you, sers." Her poisonous defender sounded proud of himself. "You will abstain from the vote, Councilman." "I will wait in my office to be called, ser." And so, there they were. Waiting in his office. Waiting for the knock that would summon them to hear her fate.  He was dealt his punishment now. He must have known it was coming, standing there, waiting for her righteous retribution to smite him down, turn him to dust right there on the hand-woven rug under his feet.  "Veryl, please," he begged, neck bent at the awkward angle that she still held him suspended in. She considered his plea before gnashing her teeth at him and letting him go. She moved to his bookshelves, seeking to expel her anger while she gave him exactly forty-five seconds to explain. 

Unwilling to permanently ruin the many first editions in his collections, she started pulling books from the shelves and tossing them to the ground. Heavy thuds perpetuated his flinching as he spoke.  "It was my mother, you have to understand." Thud. "The De Vries offered information on certain offices." Thud. "Offered protection from certain scandals that would ruin us. My scandals." Thud. That one landed next to his still prostrate form.  "The agreement was that I was allowed to be your friend if I relayed any information gathered and mother kept her records, so they wouldn't be traced back to the De Vries." Six or seven shelves in, that claim made her pause. "Why wouldn't you get rid of them? Why keep record at all?" Damn her questioning nature. With renewed frustration she went back to pulling at the leather bindings, ripping them away from their homes more violently and tossing them to the floor.  "She said it was to keep you in line should she ever need to." Of course she would have had a failsafe. Too bad she couldn't reach it when they finally came for her. Why hadn't she used it to keep the Watchers from forcing her exile from Nevarra? "She came for them." He was kneeling now, watching helplessly as more books found the hard wood floor. "But I wouldn't tell her where they were."

Veryl slowed again, this time as understanding dawned and shed light on new facts. He took the break in her decimation as a chance to push further.  "Please, Veryl, you have to believe me." He dared to watch her movements with watery eyes, the ones she was known to give in to, though they held more emotion than usual. This was less about getting his way, and more about hoping she wouldn't abandon him too.  He was shuffling across the floor, wading through the piles of literature, and hugging himself to her legs. Trying to pull her to him, get her to ground herself there with him. Veryl waned in her resolve, her old friend visible on the surface of his countenance, having been absent for such a long time. She felt herself sinking lower to the floor, heard his words become more rapid as he saw a chance to change her mind.  "I only brought them forward because the Nobles were calling for a much more severe punishment. If we play this right, we might be able to get you a pardon. Please, please. I did this for you, my dearest friend." Veryl could only comprehend a middle distance for a while. It was quiet in her mind when she finally reached his dark eyes. She watched as they switched across her face frantically, searching for any information, any inclination as to her thoughts. He gathered her closer as she sank into his embrace. Cloying, expensive perfume enveloping her as she clung to him.  Suddenly, they were kids again. Trying to protect each other from a world the other knew nothing about. Holding their friend together in the hopes that the favor would be returned. It was transactional, conditional, wretched. How many moments had they laughed together, were they greater or fewer than the ones where they cried? Where they screamed or hurt out of frustration? "You lied to me." She whispered into his shoulder as he smoothed her hair down her back.  "I know. I know." He cooed. And Veryl listened for the heart beat to prove his humanity. And for a moment it was calm. For moment, it was just them. Two parts of a single soul, destined to find each other.  But then… "You know." Veryl repeated, something gross and black solidifying in the back of her mind. It increased in size so rapidly it made her head spin.  "You knew."

In seconds she was wrenching herself away from the one person who knew her better than she knew herself, the betrayal of a lifetime thick in the air. She had told him so many things, yes, things she was sure made it back to the most eager ears.  But he knew every horror that Veryl had never told him about.  And he did nothing. "YOU KNEW!" Now she was ripping down tapestries and fine paintings, pulling the bookshelves with both her arms, damn the sling, screeching in pain. Tears poured down her face as she wreaked havoc across the space, and she hoped it would never recover. "YOU LET HER HURT ME, KNEW IT HAPPENED AND DID NOTHING TO STOP IT!"  By the time the last crystal tumbler shattered across the parquet floor, scarring the natural wood, Veryl was her own heaving emotional mess, having sobbed and torn across the room simultaneously. Not a single thing was left unturned, nothing hung on the walls, no books stayed in their home, and his fine self portrait now bore more than one tear in the once taut canvas.  He had tried to stall her with more pleading, trying to catch things as they fell, right things that she displaced, finally learned to duck and dodge as she threw.  He was lucky there had been no fire in the hearth.  He was lucky the windows were reinforced with an enchantment.  He stood in front of her now, hands held in that same horrendous fashion that wouldn't tame even the most timid goat. She watched him with an obvious apprehension that dictated her body language. Inching closer, he captured her hand brought it to his heart, the same way he always had done when she had panicked. Showing her what was real.  "Veryl… please…" He whispered, bringing himself ever closer. She let her hand linger there. Fingers flexing against the fabric of his shirt, the cloak he had worn having been long since discarded. She focused on her breathing, waiting for the clarity to ascend and bring things into focus. To realize that she was wrong to feel such perfidy in her bones.  But it never came.  Instead, her throat cleared, her skin hardened, and the dark mold that ate away at her soul finally reached it's goal.  Wrenching her hand away from the one she had always held closest, she memorized the face, that maker willing, she would never have to see again and she whispered her final parting words.  "Fuck. You." 

[hedwigoprah]

I have a very particular confrontation in mind when it comes to Children of the dark. I think I might go dibble dabble in that a little bit.