val works out the bills because math. (valmafra) wrote in missions, @ 2012-11-19 20:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, valmafra lenande |
And God knows it's the only way to heal now.
Who: Valmafra Lenande (narrative)
What: The Hour of the Wolf.
Where: Garden
When: Late evening/early morning
Warnings: Nope
The dreams were nothing unfamiliar, not lately, and in fact were made potent, more angry and visceral with the aid of a sleep tonic. Price paid for the reliance of magic-imbued substance, its particular side effects not unfamiliar, but acknowledged from one who understood the consequences of the alternative. Needs must. And so she woke with a start, clutching instinctively to the pendant around her neck by habit, for protection. She found the air in the room was too chill against her skin, or perhaps, however, it was only another lingering memory, this more recent, wind and ice and a cold that struck down to the bone (and that, and yet—). Valmafra let out a breath of forced calm, grasping for the sweater draped carelessly over the back of the small sofa. The room was dark now, the candles on the altar long extinguished of their light, leaving only the smell of old smoke to cloy at the walls. After all, what else might one do now but pray? (Even a witch had faith.) But the spell was extinguished now, the tonic had run its course. And so it was that Valmafra found herself awake again with only the frantic pulse-beat brought on by old demons (a powerful summoning, she knew well their hunger, the names writ in blood, Gylda-Meuntes-Haatis), and they tore, with jagged, unrelenting teeth, deep wounds into her dreams of late. Wrought in fears unspoken, their hunger remained as yet unabated. She sat up from her reclined position on the sofa, uncomfortable as it was, acknowledging her current state and the darkness of the room. The hour was late she noted, or perhaps far too early, not enough and too much all at once. Valmafra stood up and walked aimlessly to the bathroom. With a flick of a switch cold, white light poured into the shared space, or it had been, until recently, and now, there were simply items that would go unclaimed by their once-owner, things soon to be collected and discarded. A room adjacent that would be cleaned and reoccupied. She washed her face in ritual, noted the bruises forming under her eyes, a talon scratch from ear to clavicle that was now only a scar, and tomorrow would be nothing but an uncomfortable itch where the healing magic would weave together flesh and make as new. Her breath grew even, the dread down in pit of her stomach slowly subsiding. Adrenaline lingered, however, and would take longer to be rid of (sleep was no longer a viable option). Valmafra turned off the light, pulled the sweater tighter around her frame, took a handful of belongings from the coffee table. Still fully dressed, wounded but manageable, everything was manageable with time, she slipped on a pair of shoes and wandered into the hallway. It was quiet. There was nothing there, no one to surprise her, nothing but clean floors and clean walls and a silence that stretched the length of it. An illusion undisturbed. She walked a solemn path to the teacher's lounge. Silence greeted, absence permeated, indelible and undeniable against one another. Comfort was not the destination however, whatever now comprised such a concept, it was only routine Valmafra sought, brewing coffee instead of tea, one cup, this time. The mug was hot against her hand, too hot, and she gripped it in both palms, taking a seat at the table and concentrating on the sting until both her current pains twined against each other, indistinguishable. A single worthless opponent to combat, one long moment at a time (everything could be endured). Valmafra dug in the pocket of her sweater and removed her belongings, a notebook, a pen. This was not an act of confession, this was not another act of prayer, this was not, certainly, a small child bowing her head to something greater, something profoundly more terrible. This was only a woman, sitting by herself, taking notes, having coffee instead of tea. In an hour, maybe less, this too would pass, and those to come after would know nothing of her former presence. |