FRANKENSTEIN THE FORBIDDEN EDITION NaNo Hana Bakir Collab

xxxxxxThe feverent scratching halted, the eldest Bakir finally placing his quill back into the inkpot. Black eyes glanced upward from his study hidden away in the corner of his captain's quarters, falling on the man that slept a bit away. Long dark strands framed his face, draped along his jawline as he snored soundly on his side. He leaned forward, resting his hand on his chin as he observed Baskakova, partitioned only by the dark mahogany desk. Dark brown fingers tapped along the side of Ahmed's face, lips pursed as he indulged himself in his thoughts of the man. Hm... What a curious, curious man indeed! One of science, similar to himself. Perhaps that was the prevailing reason that seemed to get along so well.

Eventually, he found his thoughts drifting to that of the monstrous creation of the Baskakova. Apparently one of the female sex, he seemed to withhold some romantic reservations for his creature. Which Ahmed found odd, as in the same breath he would express his disdain he seemingly held for his creation—babbling on and on about it was the work of the devil. Again, hilarious! Continuing to tap at his chin, Ahmed began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Pursing his lips, droplets of spit coated his desk as he began to blow raspberries. Oh, what to do, what to do. It was times like his he longed for the dark confines of his home; oh, how his dungeon of tools are patiently awaiting his arrival! With most of his men asleep, Ahmed found himself currently lacking in entertainment. That certainly won't do, will it? No, no! Straightening up, he rounded the desk and swiftly made his way to Baskakova—heavy boots causing the wooden floors of the hull to scream under the weight, despite his light steps. Happily hums began to emit from his person, his shadow overtaking the seemingly peaceful face of his unexpected guest.

"Pst, hey!" he said, leaning over to poke at his face, "Wake up Baskakova, wake up! I would like some more entertainment. The night is still young, and youthful souls such as our own should not be wasting away in the land of the unconscious. Come about now, good sir!"

xxxxxx"Hana.... the monster... my monster," Melor mumbled as he repeated the phrase, his breath coming out in fragile icy puffs, as his thin skeletal fingers grazed across the ridges and folds of the blankets that enveloped him. With what little strength he had left in the empty husk of his former self, like a ghost, he pulled the cloth closer to his frame working to conserve what little warmth he could sustain. It was all he could think of, the only thing that clouded his mind. The very thought being the very evil he created, blowing life into it's nostrils so it could breath, holding it's hands so it could walk— GAH! How could he do such a thing? What amount of insanity had he been under to be the maker of such a detestable thing, what spell had been cast upon him to mistake that mangled hideous face... for her.

Melor's eyes had become heavy and sunken, drifting off in a beckoning back in forth. He was not quite asleep, but yet he wasn't full awake either, being subjected to a torturous in between a balance of the two sides. Stuck dangling between both life and death, between both the virtues of good and evil, heave and hell. A carrot being dangled in front of the face of a traveling mule, forced to chase and chase without rest, it had left him tired and exhausted, but the adrenaline still pumped from his heart. Keeping him alive, and further urging it to find the other half that had fled him. Melor's eyes begun to flicker close, with every passing second the world around him faded away with the sound of waves crashing against the sides of the wooden ship he had found solace in.

"Pst, hey!" Melor jumped awake from his slumber with a sharp gasp of surprise, as a finger coming from the dark depths that shadowed across them with coming night came to poke his cheek. Melor would have swatted away the hand immediately if this moment had been a few months prior, but he found himself in such a weakened state he didn't have the strength for such an action. He looked up into the face of the young sailor boy, he couldn't remember if this had been the very one to pull him from his sled, or if it had been another boarding member. But he was grateful in a way he could not express for the crews care, but also resentful for when would this quest ever end? He could feel age pulling and wrinkling his skin, time had started to get the better of him.. But her, she seemed to not change a single day since her birth... If he could could even address it as her anyways. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him, putting a pitiful end to this story.

"Wake up Baskakova, wake up! I would like some more entertainment. The night is still young, and youthful souls such as our own should not be wasting away in the land of the unconscious. Come about now, good sir!"

Melor chuckled, a bittersweet laugh, he remembered being as youthful and curious as the sailor had been, but honestly it felt as if now that person, the person he was had never existed as was that of a figment of imagination. That curiosity had died down with the failure, because what else is their to learn when you discover the secret create life itself on a medical table in your very basement? How he wished curiosity killed the cat, maybe he would've been stricken before he could release his evil creation upon the world, and would be able to rest with her with bouquets of flowers in glass vases. But yet he had gone too far, so much so that he knew even if death had finally come upon him he wouldn't reunite with her.... Or had he cursed her? Did she really lie somewhere in the thick pseudo body, cursed to the immortality he had given to her.

The man opened his mouth just to hack out a cough, his lips fraying, purple, and peeling from the cold that had nearly taken him in the artic planes he traveled. It seemed to be ages he had actually uttered real words besides the incoherent nonsense, his mind clearing from his rapturing thoughts. "Youthful? My days of youth have long passed him by Ahmed," Melor's thin lips curled into a half-given smile as his voice echoed through the silence of the dark chambers in which they found themselves. "He is guessing you wish to hear of the story of the woman he is chasing? The one who has fled from him?"

He coughed a nasty cough, one that comes from so deep that you wonder it is really from illness or one that comes from the pollution of the soul. Melor then laughed, a cackle not much different from the reverberation of hacking chokes from his rather disheveled poor state. "How he used to be young.... He was young and beautiful, not always this poor pitiful hag of a man you see," He leaned back into the darkness of the shadows, his eyes gleaming from the candlelight that acted as the only illumination in the lower deck of the ship. "Very well, he'll tell you of the story of the monster he seeks to destroy... the one he created with his own hands, but listen closely as he'll only tell you once Ahmed..."