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CHARACTERS: Ilde
WHERE: Around
WHEN: Day 20 onwards
SUMMARY: 2 boys down, 1 to go.
WARNINGS: I sincerely hope Ilde somehow injures every single person who tries to talk to her. I am here to burn my CR down.
She had woken at the same time, with three other broods. Adara, Shaula, Castor; stars aligned. It had been a cacophony of new minds, of confused, heart broken, frightened things uncertain of just what they had done in answering the call that had brought them here. At first, Ilde had been so certain that the noise of it would drive her mad, she had told Cathaway was much. She had been alone for such a long time, the sounds of people talking and laughing had been too much, rubbed senses raw that had lain dormant for years. Had pushed on her a love and a longing that she had only ever really felt for Dreus, a figure of might and destruction that none of them understood.
Until she found Ren, in the garden she had already decided was her own, and taken his hand to place it down into the soil, for comfort. Instead, she had found the great black cloud that lived in the back of his thoughts. The dark thing that pushed and pulled him, the longing to be free of wrongdoing, to be made a tool, of use, of purpose. Worthy. Special. Their weakness and sorrow had wound together in an instant, brutally tight, thorny. He had hurt her, every moment that she had loved him. She was used to that. She was used to the conflict that tore at him, destiny and power. It was a comforting purpose to her. To love things half-mad with the destruction in their fingertips, she could weather their tirades, their fury, be one soft thing at their side. Planting seeds of comfort, peace, one at a time.
She would be his, if he would be hers. A blood promise, of purpose and belonging. No secrets.
But he is gone now. She feels their bond loosen, letting blood flow again to numb limb, and they begin to burn. She reaches after it, but the mind that has been hers to touch all these months loses all shape, her fingers slip through it. She can do nothing. And then it's gone. Her strings feel cut, a pointless, limp thing now and she sits down where she is without a word. Hurt buzzes in her chest, betrayed.
She could have tolerated any one of the other hosts leaving, none of them really mattered, except for him. She had relearned how to cry when Sam Anders had gone, she doesn't need the lesson repeated. Her cheeks flush with it, tears rolling down her face. Of course he is gone, like all things go. She picks herself up slowly, feeling sick, and angry.
She truly does have a garden of her own, now, and the Station's hallways align themselves for her seamlessly, taking her back to her own private place. The door shuts behind her and is gone. She stays there for the first few days, unseen, but her toxicity is visceral, a stain on the horizon.
Better not to see her.
The Nesting Deck
[ Everything she had thought perhaps to love lies silent in their pods now. Little eggs housing empty minds. She no longer brings gifts, and brushes away withered flowers she had left before, angry with herself for the act to begin with. She is filled with regret, for all she gave, for all she had deigned to take. She sits in the different pods, looking in on the silent faces of all the people she shouldn't have wasted her time to love. All she longs for now is to open up their safe little eggs and throttle them all.
She hates the way they linger. ]
The Training Wing
[ She has never cared for the exercise equipment, has always chosen to keep herself active through actual weapons practice. Always quiet and focused, but now her silence has an electricity and the practice dummy is shredded by the time she is done with it.
She'll take it away to sew back up, almost as vicious with her needle and thread as she was when she knifed it to strips in the first place. ]
The Recreation Wing
[ She's picking through the clutter for a book she can and would want to read. She scans the first few pages of each, hoping for one in her language and her mood darkening the longer it takes. ]
The Hangar
[ She comes down to pick through some of the junk that has been brought back from various planets. She likes to use the various metal pieces to craft with, since there is no one around to use them for their intended purpose... She is struck with the thought of it. Their real purpose being here. Just scraps of junk, breaking one at a time. She loses interest in the project, leaning back against one of the protruding arches from the wall that make the hangar such a tall space, a ring of junk around her. She fiddles with a piece of wire, winding it into a meaningless knotted shape. The sharp edge of it is tearing up her fingers, and she watches as it spots on her white dress dispassionately. ]
The Pool
[ She swims slowly in the dark, retreading a memory that he had once given her to help her overcome her fear, it's the closest she ever feels now. ]
Around
[ She keeps reaching into the dark, reaching after nothing, and the sting of what she lacks awakens in her over and over again. The bursts of reaching, desperation, and then of despair are hardly hidden. Each time, the dark anger boiling up grows only more black. Poisonous. ]
Other Wildcards
[ Bring it on. ]
WHERE: Around
WHEN: Day 20 onwards
SUMMARY: 2 boys down, 1 to go.
WARNINGS: I sincerely hope Ilde somehow injures every single person who tries to talk to her. I am here to burn my CR down.
She had woken at the same time, with three other broods. Adara, Shaula, Castor; stars aligned. It had been a cacophony of new minds, of confused, heart broken, frightened things uncertain of just what they had done in answering the call that had brought them here. At first, Ilde had been so certain that the noise of it would drive her mad, she had told Cathaway was much. She had been alone for such a long time, the sounds of people talking and laughing had been too much, rubbed senses raw that had lain dormant for years. Had pushed on her a love and a longing that she had only ever really felt for Dreus, a figure of might and destruction that none of them understood.
Until she found Ren, in the garden she had already decided was her own, and taken his hand to place it down into the soil, for comfort. Instead, she had found the great black cloud that lived in the back of his thoughts. The dark thing that pushed and pulled him, the longing to be free of wrongdoing, to be made a tool, of use, of purpose. Worthy. Special. Their weakness and sorrow had wound together in an instant, brutally tight, thorny. He had hurt her, every moment that she had loved him. She was used to that. She was used to the conflict that tore at him, destiny and power. It was a comforting purpose to her. To love things half-mad with the destruction in their fingertips, she could weather their tirades, their fury, be one soft thing at their side. Planting seeds of comfort, peace, one at a time.
She would be his, if he would be hers. A blood promise, of purpose and belonging. No secrets.
But he is gone now. She feels their bond loosen, letting blood flow again to numb limb, and they begin to burn. She reaches after it, but the mind that has been hers to touch all these months loses all shape, her fingers slip through it. She can do nothing. And then it's gone. Her strings feel cut, a pointless, limp thing now and she sits down where she is without a word. Hurt buzzes in her chest, betrayed.
She could have tolerated any one of the other hosts leaving, none of them really mattered, except for him. She had relearned how to cry when Sam Anders had gone, she doesn't need the lesson repeated. Her cheeks flush with it, tears rolling down her face. Of course he is gone, like all things go. She picks herself up slowly, feeling sick, and angry.
She truly does have a garden of her own, now, and the Station's hallways align themselves for her seamlessly, taking her back to her own private place. The door shuts behind her and is gone. She stays there for the first few days, unseen, but her toxicity is visceral, a stain on the horizon.
Better not to see her.
The Nesting Deck
[ Everything she had thought perhaps to love lies silent in their pods now. Little eggs housing empty minds. She no longer brings gifts, and brushes away withered flowers she had left before, angry with herself for the act to begin with. She is filled with regret, for all she gave, for all she had deigned to take. She sits in the different pods, looking in on the silent faces of all the people she shouldn't have wasted her time to love. All she longs for now is to open up their safe little eggs and throttle them all.
She hates the way they linger. ]
The Training Wing
[ She has never cared for the exercise equipment, has always chosen to keep herself active through actual weapons practice. Always quiet and focused, but now her silence has an electricity and the practice dummy is shredded by the time she is done with it.
She'll take it away to sew back up, almost as vicious with her needle and thread as she was when she knifed it to strips in the first place. ]
The Recreation Wing
[ She's picking through the clutter for a book she can and would want to read. She scans the first few pages of each, hoping for one in her language and her mood darkening the longer it takes. ]
The Hangar
[ She comes down to pick through some of the junk that has been brought back from various planets. She likes to use the various metal pieces to craft with, since there is no one around to use them for their intended purpose... She is struck with the thought of it. Their real purpose being here. Just scraps of junk, breaking one at a time. She loses interest in the project, leaning back against one of the protruding arches from the wall that make the hangar such a tall space, a ring of junk around her. She fiddles with a piece of wire, winding it into a meaningless knotted shape. The sharp edge of it is tearing up her fingers, and she watches as it spots on her white dress dispassionately. ]
The Pool
[ She swims slowly in the dark, retreading a memory that he had once given her to help her overcome her fear, it's the closest she ever feels now. ]
Around
[ She keeps reaching into the dark, reaching after nothing, and the sting of what she lacks awakens in her over and over again. The bursts of reaching, desperation, and then of despair are hardly hidden. Each time, the dark anger boiling up grows only more black. Poisonous. ]
Other Wildcards
[ Bring it on. ]
no subject
I've been told, is the only real response she gets before the link between them begins to flood with blood. it's thick, plentiful, clinging to their legs as it fills the space between them and shields the rest of damon's mind from ilde — that which he doesn't want her to see, anyway. what he does reflects back at her from the surface of the pool of red, scenes of carnage and destruction wrought by damon's own hands and teeth. a building on fire while he tears into the necks of the people who wronged him, a slaughter of innocents to teach his brother a lesson, a boy's neck snapped at an unnatural angle. all to try to exorcise the venom that bubbles inside him, waiting for a reason to be unleashed.
is this what she wants? does she want to hurt, to rend the world apart for giving her something wonderful and then stealing it away again?
they can't kill anyone here, he suspects. but if what she wants is to destroy, there's no better partner than him.)
cw: for... gross and gore and stuff
The days were grueling, the nights were spent in terror; when the shadows spread. The magic which had burned their world to grit had also imprinted these monsters into the shadows it cast. Moving black shapes that stalked in all directions with great black teeth and great black eyes. They tore apart their human prey with a gruesome vigor, could snap bones with a gesture, rip bodies with their great claws, swallow and break whole with their ever expanding mouths. No weapon of man was of use against them, one hid, and waited for the sun.
One waited for the sun, and hoped that no one in the caravan was a clever shadow in human disguise...
This was her life, from birth to the age of twelve. At twelve she traded the nightly hunts of the shadows for the daily dealings with their father. The madman who had burned their world, the Godking himself whom no one shall ever contest as one of the most imaginatively cruel torturers in all of existence. Damon shows her little snapped necks, Ilde shows him bodies turned meticulously into pulp, bones broken with psychopathic care and precision, flesh twisted beyond any recognition. Before the Station, all she knew was a world of terrible suffering.
And her garden, which brings her little comfort now. She cannot be in it until some of this ugliness burns off of her, she will damage the plants, she knows it.
As she sends her visions to Damon, she is crawling out of the pod where she had been sitting, coming closer. Better not to be near her. She's boiling in her own hatred, feverish with a need for power, and for control that she cannot have without some measure of cruelty. So she dips in to the lessons she learned in her life; her suffering.
What does she want? Is it destruction? No, not particularly, but it would not trouble her to wreak it in the name of control. ]
no subject
ilde advances toward him slowly, but damon has had enough of slow. he blurs up to her, moving too quickly for her eye to track, and then stands there, assessing. he could fight her. he could probably kill her, if the symbiotes would let him. the abilities the symbiotes give them are strong, but he's stronger. she wants cruelty and control — really, she wants to hold onto the things precious to her with a vice grip so that they can't be taken again, but there's no way to guarantee that. not in her world, not in his, not in this one. it'd be pointless to tell her that. she wouldn't care.
in the end, he whips his hand out, quick as a snake, and grabs her by the throat. control is not something with which he has anything more than a passing acquaintance, but violence, hatred, cruelty... those are all things he knows intimately. )
You're not going to get what you want out of this, ( he says, well aware it won't do anything to stop her. she's a wildfire burning through everything in her path. you don't put out a wildfire with words. )
no subject
She hadn't even hesitated or flinched... And now she's taken exactly one step away from him, the knife stuffed through his hand, and the blood run down the front of her white dress. Ah... there is a gape in her neck, it runs down her collarbone. She touches it lightly with an expression of distaste.]
Do not touch me again, ever.
[ She dislikes him, rather particularly, above and beyond what she sees as little more than rabies. He was arrogant and destructive, possessive. All traits she shared, but she wore them differently. Small and soft spoken, play acting at feminine because it got the kind of reactions she was able to manipulate. Her eyes turn then to her knife in his hand, frowning slightly; she wants it back. ]
You clearly have nothing of interest to me, Damon Salvatore, be gone.
no subject
he could return the favor, he muses. part of him would really like to. if she wants the knife back so much he could give it to her stuck in her stomach, tearing her guts open. the anger pouring off of her is just as potent for him, feeding into his indignance at being stabbed, the constant low thrum of fury he feels anyway. he wants to tear her apart. he wants to hit her just because she said not to.
this is what he gets for trying to help anyone. better to stick to what he knows.
the knife he holds onto, blurring again to ilde's side. it's been a while since he's bitten someone who struggled, and it's difficult to hold her in place until he fists his hand in her hair and drags her head to the side, leaving her neck exposed.the struggle makes it all the more satisfying when his fangs finally pierce skin — though he doesn't bother drinking ilde's blood. that wasn't the point. the point was to leave her with a tangible reminder, something she could see every time she looked in the mirror, for however long it took to heal: don't think you can beat him.
satisfied that his point has been made, he drops his grip on her hair just to pick her up by that precious white dress and throw her bodily into the wall, with all the strength he can muster — which is, it should be said, not an insignificant amount. he's nearly two hundred years old, it comes with some perks. )
Stab me again, I swear to god I'll tear your throat out. ( and then he leaves, knife still in hand. if she wants it back, she's going to have to steal it. )