Serena Fullerton-Fitzwarren (ex_hydromanc523) wrote in camulus, @ 2011-08-14 22:19:00 |
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Serena Fullerton-Fitzwarren's home in England was not entirely how one of her students might expect it to be: there was no moat of demonic fire, no slavering wolves at the doorposts to devour the girl guides who came to do good deeds. There was a clear deficit of dismembered victims strewn around her gardens, and an almost total lack of suspiciously human-looking bone ornamentation. It was an old house, large and menacing, that squatted on the landscape like a crotchety old crab, its shadowed wings to either side of the main keep looking to all the world like gnarled pincers, ready to reach out and seize the world by its throat. It was cold and dark, and only got colder and darker as one approached. There was an aura of malevolence, no question about it, but the same could be said of many old English manor houses - and very few of them were owned by a woman like Serena. Her shoes clicked pointedly against the cold marble floor of the great gallery that spanned the length of the third floor: marble that began to freeze as she passed, and was covered by a solid, two-inch layer of ice seconds later. Serena moved with purpose, the determination in her eyes only matched by the cold efficiency in her steps: though only noticeable by the very observant, Serena was stepping in a very precise manner, only on certain tiles and now and then with a strange pressure that required her to make a kind of half-stumble. Eventually, around halfway down the corridor, she turned to face the wall: there was a portrait there that ran from floor to ceiling, of a stern old woman with grey hair and an oddly savage dress on. She was frowning, but that was hardly an uncommon expression amongst the pictures of the Templemead ancestors: power and influence were genetic traits in Serena's family, but a good sense of humour was most decidedly not. The woman had clearly been some kind of matriarch, perhaps even a royal advisor since there was a jagged coronet kicked under the table. Far more interesting to Serena, however, was not the picture but the frame: running her fingers under the left-hand side yielded a satisfying click, and she pulled the painting forward with all the slightest wince of exertion. Behind the painting lay a recessed door, but Serena did not approach: instead, she stepped back a few feet, her breathing now more shallow and tinged with, if such an emotion could survive in the frigid wastes of her heart, fear. For the door did not lie quiet - it pulsed, with a sick green light that seemed at once to be unholy and divine. It drew the eye like a car crash, but something about it forced the watcher not to look away - even if they wanted to. Though the scene was silent now, some form of communication had to be taking place: Serena nodded once or twice, and seemed to be on the verge of tears at one point. The light began to pulse more violently, tendrils reaching out towards her cold, unassailable form, entwining almost lovingly around her cheek-- until the light suddenly vanished, as quickly as it had begun. Almost instantly, the door was once again a door, as though that was all it had ever been...and perhaps that was all it had ever been. Regardless, after a few seconds of composing herself, Britannia pulled the painting back into place and set off briskly, down the gallery again and out towards the vestibule. Along the way, she was stopped by a familiar figure: a dainty cat sat on the staircase, with a look of affected disinterested interest that rivalled anything Serena herself could attempt. She smiled softly, and beckoned him over, picking him up gently as he deigned to accept her request for company. She stroked his soft fur, and he responded by biting her finger playfully. "It's almost time, Bastian" she said, a note of warmth in her voice that she had never used when conversing with any student or colleague. "So very close to being time. I've been waiting for this for years, my sweet: how long have I sat in that academy, shaping the winners and losers of that silly competition? How many Axiom members owe their position to my guidance? How long have we watched, and waited, and bitten our tongues? All for this moment...my moment. And most importantly, why am I asking you questions? You're a cat. Aren't you?" She laughed, tipping her pet up onto its back and tickling his chin. Bastian replied by flicking his tail lazily and glaring up at her through narrowed eyes. "Yes, you are. Just a cat." The way she said it would have chilled the bone, if the ground had not already been covered in frost. She was standing by the river bank, the still brook that wound its way through her home's grounds stagnant now in the height of summer, mayflies and midges buzzing even in the dead of night. As the insects approached Serena, drawn by the fruitless promise of sweat or blood to feast upon, they were instantly vapourised as the ichor inside them boiled to steam and exploded violently outwards. She did not smile from the cruelty or lament their small insect deaths: to her, the action was as inevitable and unremarkable as putting on one's shoes in the morning. Serena gazed into the reflection of the murky water, noting her own features with something that approached approval but did not entirely resemble it, before she turned her attention back to the cat. "Only a few more weeks Bastian, and then my plans will be completed. But the road has been long, and there have many many sacrifices along the way." She chuckled softly, the way that a shark might chuckle if it were capable. "Sacrifices that have annoyed a great many people, including the Traitor Queen, Louise. But I'm so sorry, my darling. So very sorry... but I'm going to need a lot of power very shortly, and it's going to require your help." Her strokes became more forceful then, and Bastian began to sense that something was wrong, as he started to twist and yowl in her grip. With every pass of her hand, it seemed as though she was pulling out more and more of her pet cat's fur - though the truth of the matter was far more dreadful. Bastian spun in her grip, scratching deep claw marks in the back of Serena's hand as he did so, his paw immediately exploding into a tiny puff of ash from the exertion. There was a spurt of water from her wounds, as they began to bubble and churn...and a moment later the water receded, the cuts healed. She stared down at the disintegrating cat dispassionately, drawing the water out of every single one of its cells at once. Her eyes rippled and roiled, like the surface of a fish tank of piranhas at feeding time, as cold and blue and dead as the deepest trenches of the arctic oceans - until suddenly it was over. The last traces of Bastian blew away on the summer wind as Serena shook the ash from her hair, then delicately stepped down into the river. The soothing cold of the water welcomed her, embraced her like an old friend, and then rose to envelop her - and then, moments later and thousands of miles away, disgorged her gracefully on the banks of a river only a few miles from the Camulus Academy. |