#like your honour is it possible to get a game injected into your veins or nah?

[crunchybeards]

Sam NEEDS to open a daycare at this point

Surprisingly I actually finished the render Joel has not changed much I can promise you that.

Same piece without the highlights beneath the cut

[thehuggamugcafe]

Day 3: Crows

Is it any surprise that once a sadistic gremlin, always a sadistic gremlin?

No? Then you, dear reader, should be well aware of what you’re getting into.

Blessings be to the marvellous Rae, for giggling with yours truly and sparking the muse to get this bad boy served.

Do enjoy, my dears! 

“Are you trying to escape me?” The voice is calling to you, beckoning you closer, despite you trying your damn best to wrestle free of the hold it has on you. You struggle, you kick, you scream bloody murder, you plead for release, you beg for this presence to let you go; all your fruitless efforts earn you is a laugh, a mocking laugh but a laugh all the same, and the feeling of ghost-like hands wrapping around you. “You know I’d never allow that to happen. We’re bound, you and I.” You think you holler “no!” but, honestly, you can no longer distinguish the difference between the waking world and the land of slumber. You think you’re dreaming, but are you really? You can’t tell. Even with the feeling of the earth beneath you, the mud that is wet and heavy, staining the front of your nightclothes, and besmirching the gentle colour with a hue of brown that’s almost black, you aren’t sure. Even when your fingers, your nails claw at the damp grass, prying loose rock and bits of dirt cake to your hands, you aren’t sure. Even when sweat breaks out across your forehead and your skin crawls with the chilling sensation of gooseflesh, you aren’t sure. Even when you scream to be released and the hands, as if they find your misery to be comedy gold, simply hold onto your shaking form a bit tighter, you aren’t sure. It’s with a sting of bitterness, you note, that while they’re treating you like you’re a glass figurine, the hands—nor their owner—clearly have no intentions to let you go. “Don’t you want to spend an eternity with me?” That gets you to stop struggling, albeit momentarily. You freeze, remaining where you are; you’re as still as a statue. It’s as though roots have burst from the earth and wrapped around your wrists, your ankles, holding you prisoner. You feel no warmth radiating off of this being, a fact that doesn’t surprise you at all. Assuming he was even human once upon a time, whatever humanity he formerly possessed has surely rotted away to nothing but dust to be blown about in the wind, long before you and he crossed paths. “I wish to spend forever with you. Doesn’t that sound nice, mon amour?” You don’t—can’t—answer him. You keep your mouth shut. Your recollection of your French classes from high school is vague, but you’re positive that this presence just called you “my love”. Why is it—no, he—calling you its love? There is no sound rhyme nor reason for it to address you with faux affection; you don’t know what it is! Aside from your unwavering attention, you don’t even know what this spirit wants from you! You quietly convince yourself that if you figure out its motives, what it’s after, perhaps you’ll be granted some shred of clemency. It’s a fool’s errand to wish for something like that, you know that to be a cold and brutal fact. One you must accept, like it or not. You know there is no bigger fool at present than you. But when you’re staring into the abyss, can you help yourself for wishing for the best, even though it may be a sweet lie you tell yourself? Eventually, you stop struggling; what point is there in delaying the inevitable, after all? You’re tired, too exhausted to put up with this spirit’s head games. So you lay where you are, breathing icy air into your lungs, awaiting the end. “Aren’t you going to kill me? Get it over with already; enough of these stupid mind games!” Your heated words must surely take it—him—aback, you know they have. You aren’t sure how you know, but with how chatty it’s been, you find it hard to believe that it—he—has fallen silent, but he has. Finally, finally, he breathes a drawling hum in your ear; you shiver out of disgust, of fear. Perhaps it’s both. You don’t know; you don’t want to know. “Kill you? Why would I do that to a beautiful treasure like you?” Damn him, he sounds almost amused. Almost. But there is something else, something other than dark pleasure in his words: curiosity. Is he curious of your logic? Or is he merely playing with you once again? You wouldn’t be surprised if that is the case, as he seems to love toying with you like you’re his doll. As if to prove you right for once, and make fun of you while doing so, he chuckles. And as though he means to rub salt in a wound, your wounded ego that is, he slowly drags a finger along the curve of your jaw. “I cherish you far too much to treat you in such a brutish way. A gentleman is supposed to show proper manners to a lady, is he not?” “As if you’re a gentleman! If you were a gentleman, you’d let me go!” Is what you want to say; it’s what you should say. Fear, however, may as well have formed a fist and punched you in the gut, robbing the ability to speak from you. For now, at the very least. The poison that’s being injected into your veins, terror, is what stops you from speaking aloud; the venom running its languid course through you, fear, is what keeps your lips sealed shut. You don’t know what this spirit is capable of doing to you, even in a dream. And far be it from you to be unfortunate enough to find out what, exactly, he is able to do while you’re dreaming. At least you think you’re dreaming; rather, you hope that this is all just a horrid dream. You’ll wake up soon, you know this. You’re praying that you’ll slip from the land of slumber and wake up in reality, returning to some semblance of normalcy. You have to wake up soon, you have to! You don’t know how much longer you can take being here, in this nightmare any longer! And just like that dread begins to take over, washing over your cold logic like acid, setting your nerves on fire. What if… What if you don’t—can’t—wake up from this terrible dream? It is possible, of course, you know that. It isn’t outside the realm of likelihood that you’re stuck, trapped here forever with this… This spirit or whatever he is. The thought alone is enough to get you to start your struggling anew. It starts as barely a wiggle, shifting your legs. You feel the bits of rock digging into the skin of your thighs, digging into your knees as you kick your feet. Then your arms begin moving, attempting to wriggle them free from the masculine embrace keeping them where they are. “Let me go!” It’s a useless demand; a pointless order. You know he won’t listen to you, but even so, your words slide off of your tongue that feels as dry as desert air. Your suspicions are confirmed when instead of doing as you ask, he simply breathes a laugh. You feel it, the laugh, as a whisper of a breeze tickles the shell of your ear. “We’ve been over this already, haven’t we? I have no intentions of letting you go; not now, not ever.” Bastard. The audacity of this entity! You are not anyone’s property, certainly not his. “You’re mine, after all.” Hearing those words, in a clear and stark contradiction to your own, only makes you struggle harder. You’re acting like a feral animal, desperately seeking freedom from the cage keeping you locked away. However, for all the good your thrashing does, or for a proper lack of blessings, it only seems to amuse him. “Now, now… Where do you think you’re going?” You say nothing. Your jaw stays clamped shut, one set of teeth grinding down on the lower half; you won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You still struggle, of course you do. Anything to get as far away from this… This thing will be a blessing, as laughable as that sounds to you in the here and now. But, evidently, small miracles do seem to exist. That, or he’s curious to see what you will do. This son of a bitch is intrusive enough to let you escape, temporarily, all for his own entertainment! Regardless, you feel a wrist slipping free; half of your body is quick to follow suit. A shaky hope burns in your heart, pumping true and strong in your breast. You take in air, greedily, as you jerk away from this awful mockery of a man— Only to feel a strong hand grip your wrist in a grip that, while it is gentle to an extent, it is also iron-clad, threatening to leave bruises in their wake. A gasp slips from you even as you twist and turn, frantically trying to free yourself from this spirit’s grasp. But of course you can’t have that, not even in a dream. A laugh slithers into the cavern of your ear, mocking your escape attempt with every fibre of his being. As if that isn’t bad enough, he pulls you into a slow, gentle embrace, though you still cannot feel any temperature radiating off of this being, hot or cold. He is just simply… here. What you can feel, however, is the way the damp earth cushions your back as you’re pinned in place, hands held in place on either side of your head. Again, a second chortle hits your frightened scowl as he leans in close, so close that a few inches are all that separates his lips from yours. “You truly are a poor, wistful little fool, aren’t you? How cute.” Slowly, oh so slowly, his hold on one of your wrists loosens, much to your surprise. You watch as he holds it daintily, carefully raising it to his mouth. A phantom kiss is applied to the top of the ring you’re wearing. The ring that you bought purely on a whim, laughing off the concerns of the elderly shopkepper about it being cursed. If only you had listened… If only you had heeded the warning… The golden band shimmers gently underneath the moon’s cold glare as it peeks out from behind a veil of dark cloud, but the little blood-red ruby is what’s earned the right to have the honour, the privilege of knowing the invisible press of his lips. In hindsight, so has your second knuckle. It is naught but a whisper of nonexistent air, a tender kiss of a breeze, but you feel it even though there’s no conceivable way that you should be able to. You watch, absolutely petrified, as a smile pulls at the spirit’s face, raising his eyes to leer at you. His eyes are as black as coal. “My name is Arsène… May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, chérie?”

You awake with a jolt. More specifically, you awake with a scream dying on your lips that’s followed by a squeak of pain as you quickly, gracelessly tumble out of bed. You hit the floor of your room, hitting your hand off of the end table as your descent to the bare tiles is polished off with a low, weary groan. It takes you a few moments to realize that you’re not dreaming. It takes you twice as long, almost a full minute, before it dawns on you that you’re sitting on the floor of your room, your small and shaded sanctuary, with a throbbing hand and a mind that matches the racing of your heart. Still, the fact that you’re safe doesn’t stop you from letting your eyes dart around your bedroom, wide-eyed and wild. You leer at everything: the dark outlines of furniture and random knick-knacks; the pale glare of the moon shining in through the window, giving a silver-y gleam to the wall on your right; the clock tick-toking on your dresser, showing the time as 3 in the morning in red numbers; the small vanity shoved against the left-hand side of your room, reflecting the ghostly image of the full moon lurking in the gloomy sky. Is he here? The thought alone is enough to get your heart to flutter anew, pounding in your breast like a songbird in flight. You swallow; the gulp is thick. You feel it, the gulp, sticking at the back of your throat as it slithers down your esophagus, down to your belly and once there, it flip-flops in silent anxiety. You twist and turn in the sheets that have cocooned your legs. Your cold palms, your clammy fingers reach for the covers, pulling at them until your legs and feet have been freed of the cotton restraints. No, you think, shaking your head as you do. There’s no way he can be here; that was just a dream, wasn’t it? A bittersweet comfort, but you’ll take what you can get right now. You take in air slowly, exhaling it as carefully as you can. You aren’t in the mood to acknowledge how shaky the breath is; you don’t care enough to take note of how much you’re trembling. To calm yourself, you begin to practice your deep breathing. Slowly, as though not to disturb some godforsaken force that’s taken up residence in your home, you step away from the mangled pile of covers and quilts. You raise a hand, wiping away the icy sweat that’s gathered on your brow as you do. A breath leaves you in a winded whoosh, and you feel as though you’ve just participated in the world’s longest marathon. I’m safe here… That’s what you think as you draw closer to your bedroom door, reaching for the round knob. You grip it in your palm, in your fingers, turning it as a wave of relief washes over you. The low, droning creak of the door’s hinges goes largely ignored by you as you step out into the hallway. It has never occurred to you just how sorely welcomed light is, until right this very moment. The ghostly illumination from the light on the stairs, just outside your bathroom door that’s been left open, pours into the small restroom as you take a sharp right, stepping inside and shutting the door. I’m safe here… You take a few moments to fumble for the light switch and a fresh, stronger wave of relaxation washes over you. You blink, allowing your eyes to adjust as the light above the mirror blinks a few times before it stays on, burning brightly like lights in a dark forest. I’m safe here… The sound of the running faucet grates on your hearing like nails dragging over a chalkboard, slowly, but you ignore it as you cup cold water in your hands. The hit of icy liquid as it splashes on your face is just what you needed to wake you up, make you more alert. Your fingers, dripping with brisk water, grips the cold faucet; it squeaks as it’s shut off, the water slowing to a steady drip. I’m safe here… You reach for the small towel hanging off of the rack on your right, drying your hands before you reach for another, smaller towel. The cotton fabric is soft as you press it to your face, gently wiping away the chilled droplets that trail down your face. You lower the towel, peering into the mirror out of habit than, say, out of curiosity about how dishevelled you must look. I’m safe here— And just like that, time crawls to a full-on stop. There, as though to taunt you for fooling yourself into thinking you’re safe, he is staring back at you. You blink slowly, stupidly, eyes meeting his black leer over the edge of the fluffy cotton towel you’re holding in two, trembling fists. How is he—? You watch as his lips curl to a devilish smile as slowly, oh so slowly, lines of a hue that’s as dark as ink leak from his eyes. Perched on his left shoulder is a crow and you watch, equal parts stunned and horrified, as the small, feathered creature opens its beak, releasing a caw that goes unheard. You watch as the spirit, the being—whatever he is—raises a hand, hovering a finger close to his lips, purses them, and his mouth curves to a silent o. The gesture is silent, a laughable contrast to the static buzzing in your brain and the ringing in your ears, but the meaning behind his actions are as clear as day. “Shh.” You blink, shutting your eyes so tight that it hurts. You wait, vomit threatening to rise up from your flip-flopping belly and heart almost daring to burst out of your chest, for what seems like forever before you finally summon the courage to open your eyes. Slowly, the mirror comes into focus, and you exhale sharply as you see nothing. There is no crow silently cawing, as if it’s mourning how unfortunate you are to have caught a spirit’s attention. There is no one with eyes that are solid black; there is no malevolent being leaking inky tears staring back at you. You shake your head, dismissing the thought as you pat your face with the towel before putting it back where it belongs: on the towel rack. You breathe a hiss, raising your wrist to eye-level. Your face pales in shock when you spot light bruising, exactly where the spirit had grabbed you in the dream. In fact, you can even spot faint markings where its nails dug into your skin, gently but painfully. But that had been just a dream, a nightmare. Right? Right? The ghostly pain on your wrist, the tiny marks that mar your skin, beg to differ.