26 Dec 2021, 15:40
Final Destination
Victor was looking for answers. Answers to more than just the creeping darkness that had cursed and plagued him for years. The same darkness that cost him his life and his soul. He knew more than he had any right to. He knew about the hags so much earlier than his peers and he never spoke out about it. He knew about the curse, at least the curse in its original form before it was twisted inside Athantos' veins. But his version of events was distorted, through the lens of a boy that had died many times.As Main Story comes to an end, the lose ends that exist (such as these characters) need a conclusion.
@Flash Holmwood
He knew that the workshop, or rather whatever was left of it was in the dungeons. It was where he was born. It was where he died. Yes, the man with the glove who in his obsession had gone mad. An obsession with magic, he was a squib and that item gave him power by proxy. He spoke often to the unseen. Of deals and seals. Of witches and hags. He fled after he killed the man, too fearful to return. His brothers left to languish in the dark, paltry representations of their intended youth. They never fed as his doll had. They never got to fully replace them and sometimes he wondered if the curse had not taken him, if he-- No, of course not, he was the exception. A lie to ameliorate his apprehension, his guilt. He lived a dual existence of which he was aware. He had the memories, the drive, the ambitions of the late Victor Moore, but he also had something ahem... more.
Life was meant to be lived once. Survived once. Death was an integral part of life, nothing indefinitely endures. Yet here he was, life after life with the same memories he had, just a little bit more piled on. With the knowledge that he was but a facsimile of the boy whose life he lived. He wondered if the guilt belonged to Victor or the creature housed within the vessel.
It was the evening, a Friday night in fact. He was seeking the shop for not only answers but to find one of his long lost sisters. Yes, a precocious little blonde draped in pinks and pastels, surely she was among the many. Surely, now that she had gone missing... fearful that she could have died. His sister then could take Mary's place.
Marion had not been seen since October 29. He feared the worst. He searched for her, nobody else seemed to care or notice. Little did he know, she returned to the wilds from which she came. Regardless of the outcomes in Thomas' scenario, Marion would not return.
So while the others were back in the dorms, participating in their studies, a modicum of gossip or preening in anticipation for a new day, he would slink off on his own leaving Snape dorm to their devices. He was simply attired in casual jeans and heavy boots made for tromping through the mud. A plain white shirt and a heavy woolen jacket. The only house colors he donned was a scarf in Slytherin's characteristic green and silver. His hands hidden beneath a pair of thin leather gloves. He kept his head down, said not a word. It was easier to forget about him then as he wandered off. He would take a right rather than a left. Into the dungeons rather than the castle. Down the long, narrow corridor and the flight of stone stairs.
26 Dec 2021, 19:35
Final Destination
Warning
This thread contains a death, even though the victim is technically not alive nor human
If this sounds like it might be disturbing for you, you are advised against reading it
Flash was a patient person, even if he had become more prone to fits of rage, even if he barely knew what day it was anymore as the sleepless night bled into one another. He was living in purgatory, as Thomas would explain it, and he would fail to make sense of the tragedies befalling him and his closest friends time and again. There was one thing however that made the least sense of all, and that was the continued existance of Victor Moore.
Vladimir and Marion had both vanished, like being ripped from a book, impossible to find evidence of besides the people who had known them. Victor still slept in the same dorms as him, a breathing facimille of life. Flash had read Vladimir's account of Victor's death and revival, and Bridget's account of his secondary murder at the hands of Selim. Murder being a joke of course, as one can't kill a doll, only destroy it. What the thing was that wore Victor's face, it wasn't human, and it didn't belong sleeping only a few rooms over from him. Did it sleep, did it dream? He didn't care, it was a liability. If it insisted on continuing as though it was Victor himself, it would fall on Flash, who knew better, to silently put an end to the charade, before it had a chance to escalate.
Flash had the unfortunate opportunity to learn many things outside of his magical studies while living in Hogwarts. He learned how to tail and ambush a victim thanks to Selim, and learned how to make them incapable of fighting back by Marion. He learned how to be discreet by his many failed attempts to do so, and learned to forego asking questions by Hess. Taking action needed to be quiet, swift, and leave no room for failure. He would not give Victor the benefit of the doubt, and would not tell anyone of his intentions. Like the other two, Victor would disappear, and no one needed to know how or why. It was a kindness, a cruelty he'd keep to himself so that the others would not need to feel the fear or the guilt. It would just be another unsolved mystery.
Wearing all black, the long coat his family gave him for his birthday during his first year being worn for the first time ever, he skulked after the animated doll as he isolated himself. His patience came in the form of watching his habits, noting his behavior, and casually following him day after day as they went to their classes as usual. He knew Victor was searching for something, but he wasn't curious enough to find out where the search led. He carried rope in his pocket, a small canister of lighter fluid in another. His retainer bought and sent him all kinds of assorted items by owl when he asked for them. If a record was made of it, or if it raised any alarm bells, he would deal with it then.
When they were far enough away that it was impossible not to notice his pursuit, Flash would quicken his pace and snatch Victor in whatever manner was quickest and secured a tight grasp. Regardless of any fight back or verbal protest, Flash would strongarm his wrists behind him and make the binding as quickly as possible. He wouldn't be without his own anxiety-- it would be mad to not be apprehensive when trying to capture someone. Thankfully, adrenaline helped more than it hurt on this occasion. Taking Victor by the wrists where the ropes looped around them too tightly, he pulled Victor further into the dungeons, recognizing the area as one he had become far too acquianted with on his last birthday, when it had become the scene of horror for all the Slytherins who had more curiosity than sense. Flash himself being one of the worst offenders, travelling too far and barely making it out alive.
Whether Victor tried to stay upright by walking along, or insisted on being dragged, Flash intended to take him to the room just ahead, where a well led to a room below that was unlikely to be travelled by anyone for decades to come. It would serve as a nice grave for whatever ash was left of the undead monstrosity.
@Victor Moore
For we dreamed a lot//And we schemed a lot//And we tried to sing of love before the stage fell apart
Sta: 9 ★Eva: 5 ★Str: 7 ★Wis: 15 ★AP: 3 ★Acc: 15
27 Dec 2021, 00:36
Final Destination
He did sleep and he most certainly dreamed. It was mostly nightmares, leaving him restless in those evenings. Flash was right, deep down in his core he was wrong, forged through dark magics and his very existence betrayed the natural order of things. The dreams were of the stars, of great and endless spaces and paths made of starlight. Men without features that walked among the cosmos that burned with a fiery light. He feared the flames, yet the men in his dreams were not in pain. He could not smell their burning flesh.
The nightmare was such, he did not belong among these beings of incandescent light. He was trust from the paths of light and he would plunge into the dark and endless void. He would burst into flames as he fell. The intense pain, the lonesome death and the eternal descent into the night. His scream never heard, or the beings pretended to never hear. He would burn away, his body becoming ash that would disperse in a trail in his wake, his pained consciousness aware until there was nothing. Even in the time after, the time were he was no more. His awareness tethered not to a spirit or a soul, his dust would refuse to release the ghost.
Night after night, the same prophetic dream. The same vivid nightmare that left his bedclothes drenched in sweat. That left him shivering in the night while the others slept. It can be safely presumed he had no roommate, that nobody was willing to bunk with a deadman. It was a lonesome life, no existence. He would often pace in his room, eventually finding temporary peace in a chair for a few short hours before morning came.
His daily routine was rather mundane. There were times where he had an inkling that he was being followed. He was no spy, he never saw more than a dark, distant figure that flitted away as soon as he looked in their direction. an overactive imagination, a waking nightmare he would reason and tarry on. He would eat alone, taking from the Great Hall a few pieces of meat and perhaps a piece of bread. He would eat in a corner, his back to onlookers as he quickly devoured meager portions. A poor appetite indeed but he ate each meal, drinking only water. He often chose the courtyard or a corridor, on rare occasion an abandoned classroom. Never once he was accompanied, but the times he was in a class he would be leaned against the sill where he would stare out the window as if he was waiting for something.
He would attend class, a studious, dedicated student. He was quiet and compliant. He would spend his free hours between classes in the library where he would dutifully complete his assignments again alone. It was only in the evenings did his pattern ever divert. Some evenings he was in the Owlery where he would write a letter and send the letter in the claws of an owl to an unknown recipient, always remaining until the messenger owl had completely departed. He never received an owl in return, not even something postmarked from his late parents. Yes, his parents were both dead, under mysterious circumstances that he never had the opportunity to address. Had he known, he would have had another reason to hate the Athanatos name. They were nothing more than collateral damage for S.C.A.R., or rather the alleged group S.C.A.R.. The losses there were for political gain, to service the agendas of the elite.
Who were the letters sent to? To so many people, the most important being Thaddeus Athanatos - expressing his condolences and telling the grieving parent the untold story of his son. Another to August VanCleaf, trusted adult and Auror - telling the man his greatest secrets, asking for forgiveness and begging for help. He could not find Marion and he feared for her. VanCleaf never came. Another letter describing the hags and the deals Vladimir made, of the man and the mask, of the doll he once was before he became an almost boy - again begging for help that would never come. To Marion's parents, not that he knew them but he knew their surname and the city from which Marion was from. That owl would leave the castle, make a wide circle and return the same letter every time he tried. That was the only letter discarded and if Flash were to read those letters they would be inquiries and pleas.
Help me find her. She is missing. Please tell me you have her, that you sent her to another school. Please tell me that she is safe at home.
He really loved her. He was a fool, in life and as a centipede. On the evenings he was not writing owls that he would never earn replies from, he wandered the grounds and the basement. He was looking for evidence of Marion's fate, whatever it might have been. He would never find her, no bones or tuff of golden hair in the woods. No evidence that was hidden under the ground. As the weeks turned to months, he had come to the conclusion that she was either dead or he hoped she was. It was a more terrifying prospect to consider the possibility that she was trapped, alive somewhere hurt and terrified. A sick, twisted truth for him to come to terms with. That hope was cruel, even if it was for someone he loved; it was selfish.
He spoke a few times with Gideon, once with Mathias and thrice with Jürgen over matters said in too hushed a voice for Flash to overhear. Had he somehow gotten close enough he would learn that he was asking about Vladimir. Asking how he died, offering his condolences and asking if Marion was there when he passed. If she made it to the funeral. If any of them had heard from Mary at all as they were close in life. Only Jürgen seemed to converse with him for awhile. The conversation each time lasting over an hour, ending with a terrible expression on Jürgen's face. Had Flash interviewed Jürgen at a later date he would be met with a tight -lipped youth that would have been suspicious of Flash's interest had he expressed any.
Over time Victor's behaviors would change. It was no longer a rescue or discovery mission but rather a quest to bring her back one way or another. The hags were an easy out, make a deal and get what he desired most. At the cost of what? Happiness. His soul. His blood. His life. When you truly cared, when you truly repented for something and only wanted to make it right, it would not matter what the cost was because no matter how devious to him it was a gain even if the cost was unreasonable. The hags were nowhere to be found, and certainly he tried.
So he would go to the next best thing, the toymaker. The tinkerer. Father as his brothers called him. Few wondered what he was, who he was or why he was there surrounded by misfit toys. He had been in the castle for a long time. He had been dead for a long time also. A familiar scene in truth, a desperate man who went to the hags to find respite. He had fled to Hogwarts after stealing the mask and the glove from the Ministry, aided and abetted by none other than Potter's former partner VanCleaf. He had been in hiding on these very grounds ever since, until his untimely death at the hands of his creations. He was a squib who had partnered with August for the purpose of revealing the wizarding world to muggle society. They fled to Hogwarts due to the abundant population of children, malleable and privileged, they were ripe to corrupt. Place the mask on a pureblooded brat, perhaps a professor of similar bearring and have them act in accordance with their purposes.
Umbridge had been recently released and they were to meet with Dolores to secure the final parts of their plan when Potter intervened. It was pure coincidence that VanCleaf's partner would be put on the case. His familiarity with Hogwarts and his fame would grant him privileges the Ministry reasoned that another Auror would not enjoy. They were not wrong, the school embraced their famed alumni. Potter was asleep at the tie of the incident as he claimed when the deal between VanCleaf and Umbridge went sour. A change of plan by Dolores - there was not going to be a 'big reveal' to the muggle world as they planned but rather they were going to place a puppet among the highest ranks of the Ministry, perhaps even the Minister themselves. They would complete what Voldemort had nearly accomplished -- a better world for all of wizarding kind. The eradication of muggle lines from wizarding society, the subjugation of muggles and low-bred, half-bred and muggle-born. VanCleaf took her life, it was with an unforgivable but there was a fight between the two wizards. The squib had grabbed Umbridge from behind and VanCleaf rendered the killing blow.
It was then, in a past life that Victor and Marion were on their way to the infirmary when they stumbled onto the whole thing. Looking back, it was obvious that hags were involved from the start even if they had not yet allied themselves with any of them less Vladimir. They saw it coming somehow and they had been pulling at the strings one-by-one, causing as much carriage as possible. In the throes of anguish in truth Victor saw nothing, like Vladimir but he was susceptible to suggestion. There were enough facts there that he had been told, had been reminded of that he had come to truly believe the story he had been fed when Marion cried that she had seen not VanCleaf but Potter raise his wand and kill Umbridge. In retrospect her lie might have ruined Potter's but it saved his and Vladimir's.
He never knew the whole truth about that night. That Marion knowingly intended to lie. Even if he knew, he would have thought it was done for their sake. He trusted her, that was his fatal flaw - his heart.
On his evening he would travel far from the beaten path. Into the dark and the cold, the somewhat familiar depths of the dungeons. He was born here. The body that was found was (likely) evicted and buried, perhaps burned. The centipede remains and broken bits of doll, perhaps erven the furnishings cleared by house elves. Far too fastidious, he knew what was hidden in those hidden corners of the dungeon. That there had to be something that the Professors and house elves missed.
There was that feeling again. That feeling that he was being followed. He would turn and only see a dark corridor. It was his paranoia. His overactive imagination. He would descend the stairs, he was not creeping about and over the sound of his own footfalls he hardly noticed that the echo was just a hair off. Not until he felt someone grab him from behind. His arm cranked behind his back, he cry out in pain and surprise. He could feel the pull at his shoulder, the twist at his wrist. His instinct was to try to turn, to push his assailant back. A kick to the back of his knees would cause him to crash onto the ground. His would brace himself for impact, his palm crashing onto the ground, spraining on impact.
He would twist desperately at his waist and attempt to turn around and look upon his assailant. All he saw was darkness, like a shadow of death had descended upon him. Ironic how a body whose life was assured by the very same darkness was afraid of the dark. "Get off!" He cried through gritted teeth. He tried to grab his attacker by the collar but he would miss and grip his fair. A tuff of brown hair would be ripped out as Flash exerted his weight on the already kneeling youth, never releasing his grip on the boy's wrist to force him to the floor.
He would be forced to the filthy floor, his face turned to the side. "The hell man, this is not-- Urgh! Funny," a knee to his back painfully reminded him that this was not a playful diversion between friends. With haste, Flash withdrew the length of rope he had procured. A fresh fear, beyond that of a beating would wash over him. "Dude, this is not funny," Flash would feel the rushed and desperate attempted to wiggle free. The failed attempt to push himself up from the floor with his free hand and something wrapped around his wrist and was pulled tight. Too tight, he let out a hiss of pain as if that would somehow vent it.
Flash would grab the second arm, pulling it out from under him, causing his chest to hit the ground hard. He could feel it in his sternum, his air knocked out of him. An air hungry series of wheezes as his diaphragm spasmed, Flash would make short work of his other wrist. Wrapped oncem, twice, thrice and tied in a tight little knot before he pulled and joined his wrists one over the other. An extra loop for good measure and a final knot. It was a pathetic scene truly, Victor wiggled and writhed much like the centipede that was housed within that human form.
Victor would not comply, when Flash got off of him he would try to roll over and he would attempt to kick his kidnapper before he realized who he was. "Get off me!" Flash was already off, but Victor was hardly compliant. Those moment between binding and traveling, Victor would gaze upon his would-be kidnapper. "F-flash?" His voice had a questioning quality. A tone of disbelief. A nightmare. A mistake. He would feel moist to the touch, dusted with a fine layer of sweat Flash would have to drag him.
"Flash," he used his name. "Y-you don't have to do this," he would be grabbed by his collar while he wiggled and writhed. While he strained against his bindings. "I have not done a damned thing to you!" Indignant was not a good look on him. It was unlikely to do him favors here either, this was not a particularly sympathetic audience. "Can't we talk about this," he strained "like reasonable people?"
The nightmare was such, he did not belong among these beings of incandescent light. He was trust from the paths of light and he would plunge into the dark and endless void. He would burst into flames as he fell. The intense pain, the lonesome death and the eternal descent into the night. His scream never heard, or the beings pretended to never hear. He would burn away, his body becoming ash that would disperse in a trail in his wake, his pained consciousness aware until there was nothing. Even in the time after, the time were he was no more. His awareness tethered not to a spirit or a soul, his dust would refuse to release the ghost.
Night after night, the same prophetic dream. The same vivid nightmare that left his bedclothes drenched in sweat. That left him shivering in the night while the others slept. It can be safely presumed he had no roommate, that nobody was willing to bunk with a deadman. It was a lonesome life, no existence. He would often pace in his room, eventually finding temporary peace in a chair for a few short hours before morning came.
His daily routine was rather mundane. There were times where he had an inkling that he was being followed. He was no spy, he never saw more than a dark, distant figure that flitted away as soon as he looked in their direction. an overactive imagination, a waking nightmare he would reason and tarry on. He would eat alone, taking from the Great Hall a few pieces of meat and perhaps a piece of bread. He would eat in a corner, his back to onlookers as he quickly devoured meager portions. A poor appetite indeed but he ate each meal, drinking only water. He often chose the courtyard or a corridor, on rare occasion an abandoned classroom. Never once he was accompanied, but the times he was in a class he would be leaned against the sill where he would stare out the window as if he was waiting for something.
He would attend class, a studious, dedicated student. He was quiet and compliant. He would spend his free hours between classes in the library where he would dutifully complete his assignments again alone. It was only in the evenings did his pattern ever divert. Some evenings he was in the Owlery where he would write a letter and send the letter in the claws of an owl to an unknown recipient, always remaining until the messenger owl had completely departed. He never received an owl in return, not even something postmarked from his late parents. Yes, his parents were both dead, under mysterious circumstances that he never had the opportunity to address. Had he known, he would have had another reason to hate the Athanatos name. They were nothing more than collateral damage for S.C.A.R., or rather the alleged group S.C.A.R.. The losses there were for political gain, to service the agendas of the elite.
Who were the letters sent to? To so many people, the most important being Thaddeus Athanatos - expressing his condolences and telling the grieving parent the untold story of his son. Another to August VanCleaf, trusted adult and Auror - telling the man his greatest secrets, asking for forgiveness and begging for help. He could not find Marion and he feared for her. VanCleaf never came. Another letter describing the hags and the deals Vladimir made, of the man and the mask, of the doll he once was before he became an almost boy - again begging for help that would never come. To Marion's parents, not that he knew them but he knew their surname and the city from which Marion was from. That owl would leave the castle, make a wide circle and return the same letter every time he tried. That was the only letter discarded and if Flash were to read those letters they would be inquiries and pleas.
Help me find her. She is missing. Please tell me you have her, that you sent her to another school. Please tell me that she is safe at home.
He really loved her. He was a fool, in life and as a centipede. On the evenings he was not writing owls that he would never earn replies from, he wandered the grounds and the basement. He was looking for evidence of Marion's fate, whatever it might have been. He would never find her, no bones or tuff of golden hair in the woods. No evidence that was hidden under the ground. As the weeks turned to months, he had come to the conclusion that she was either dead or he hoped she was. It was a more terrifying prospect to consider the possibility that she was trapped, alive somewhere hurt and terrified. A sick, twisted truth for him to come to terms with. That hope was cruel, even if it was for someone he loved; it was selfish.
He spoke a few times with Gideon, once with Mathias and thrice with Jürgen over matters said in too hushed a voice for Flash to overhear. Had he somehow gotten close enough he would learn that he was asking about Vladimir. Asking how he died, offering his condolences and asking if Marion was there when he passed. If she made it to the funeral. If any of them had heard from Mary at all as they were close in life. Only Jürgen seemed to converse with him for awhile. The conversation each time lasting over an hour, ending with a terrible expression on Jürgen's face. Had Flash interviewed Jürgen at a later date he would be met with a tight -lipped youth that would have been suspicious of Flash's interest had he expressed any.
Over time Victor's behaviors would change. It was no longer a rescue or discovery mission but rather a quest to bring her back one way or another. The hags were an easy out, make a deal and get what he desired most. At the cost of what? Happiness. His soul. His blood. His life. When you truly cared, when you truly repented for something and only wanted to make it right, it would not matter what the cost was because no matter how devious to him it was a gain even if the cost was unreasonable. The hags were nowhere to be found, and certainly he tried.
So he would go to the next best thing, the toymaker. The tinkerer. Father as his brothers called him. Few wondered what he was, who he was or why he was there surrounded by misfit toys. He had been in the castle for a long time. He had been dead for a long time also. A familiar scene in truth, a desperate man who went to the hags to find respite. He had fled to Hogwarts after stealing the mask and the glove from the Ministry, aided and abetted by none other than Potter's former partner VanCleaf. He had been in hiding on these very grounds ever since, until his untimely death at the hands of his creations. He was a squib who had partnered with August for the purpose of revealing the wizarding world to muggle society. They fled to Hogwarts due to the abundant population of children, malleable and privileged, they were ripe to corrupt. Place the mask on a pureblooded brat, perhaps a professor of similar bearring and have them act in accordance with their purposes.
Umbridge had been recently released and they were to meet with Dolores to secure the final parts of their plan when Potter intervened. It was pure coincidence that VanCleaf's partner would be put on the case. His familiarity with Hogwarts and his fame would grant him privileges the Ministry reasoned that another Auror would not enjoy. They were not wrong, the school embraced their famed alumni. Potter was asleep at the tie of the incident as he claimed when the deal between VanCleaf and Umbridge went sour. A change of plan by Dolores - there was not going to be a 'big reveal' to the muggle world as they planned but rather they were going to place a puppet among the highest ranks of the Ministry, perhaps even the Minister themselves. They would complete what Voldemort had nearly accomplished -- a better world for all of wizarding kind. The eradication of muggle lines from wizarding society, the subjugation of muggles and low-bred, half-bred and muggle-born. VanCleaf took her life, it was with an unforgivable but there was a fight between the two wizards. The squib had grabbed Umbridge from behind and VanCleaf rendered the killing blow.
It was then, in a past life that Victor and Marion were on their way to the infirmary when they stumbled onto the whole thing. Looking back, it was obvious that hags were involved from the start even if they had not yet allied themselves with any of them less Vladimir. They saw it coming somehow and they had been pulling at the strings one-by-one, causing as much carriage as possible. In the throes of anguish in truth Victor saw nothing, like Vladimir but he was susceptible to suggestion. There were enough facts there that he had been told, had been reminded of that he had come to truly believe the story he had been fed when Marion cried that she had seen not VanCleaf but Potter raise his wand and kill Umbridge. In retrospect her lie might have ruined Potter's but it saved his and Vladimir's.
He never knew the whole truth about that night. That Marion knowingly intended to lie. Even if he knew, he would have thought it was done for their sake. He trusted her, that was his fatal flaw - his heart.
On his evening he would travel far from the beaten path. Into the dark and the cold, the somewhat familiar depths of the dungeons. He was born here. The body that was found was (likely) evicted and buried, perhaps burned. The centipede remains and broken bits of doll, perhaps erven the furnishings cleared by house elves. Far too fastidious, he knew what was hidden in those hidden corners of the dungeon. That there had to be something that the Professors and house elves missed.
There was that feeling again. That feeling that he was being followed. He would turn and only see a dark corridor. It was his paranoia. His overactive imagination. He would descend the stairs, he was not creeping about and over the sound of his own footfalls he hardly noticed that the echo was just a hair off. Not until he felt someone grab him from behind. His arm cranked behind his back, he cry out in pain and surprise. He could feel the pull at his shoulder, the twist at his wrist. His instinct was to try to turn, to push his assailant back. A kick to the back of his knees would cause him to crash onto the ground. His would brace himself for impact, his palm crashing onto the ground, spraining on impact.
He would twist desperately at his waist and attempt to turn around and look upon his assailant. All he saw was darkness, like a shadow of death had descended upon him. Ironic how a body whose life was assured by the very same darkness was afraid of the dark. "Get off!" He cried through gritted teeth. He tried to grab his attacker by the collar but he would miss and grip his fair. A tuff of brown hair would be ripped out as Flash exerted his weight on the already kneeling youth, never releasing his grip on the boy's wrist to force him to the floor.
He would be forced to the filthy floor, his face turned to the side. "The hell man, this is not-- Urgh! Funny," a knee to his back painfully reminded him that this was not a playful diversion between friends. With haste, Flash withdrew the length of rope he had procured. A fresh fear, beyond that of a beating would wash over him. "Dude, this is not funny," Flash would feel the rushed and desperate attempted to wiggle free. The failed attempt to push himself up from the floor with his free hand and something wrapped around his wrist and was pulled tight. Too tight, he let out a hiss of pain as if that would somehow vent it.
Flash would grab the second arm, pulling it out from under him, causing his chest to hit the ground hard. He could feel it in his sternum, his air knocked out of him. An air hungry series of wheezes as his diaphragm spasmed, Flash would make short work of his other wrist. Wrapped oncem, twice, thrice and tied in a tight little knot before he pulled and joined his wrists one over the other. An extra loop for good measure and a final knot. It was a pathetic scene truly, Victor wiggled and writhed much like the centipede that was housed within that human form.
Victor would not comply, when Flash got off of him he would try to roll over and he would attempt to kick his kidnapper before he realized who he was. "Get off me!" Flash was already off, but Victor was hardly compliant. Those moment between binding and traveling, Victor would gaze upon his would-be kidnapper. "F-flash?" His voice had a questioning quality. A tone of disbelief. A nightmare. A mistake. He would feel moist to the touch, dusted with a fine layer of sweat Flash would have to drag him.
"Flash," he used his name. "Y-you don't have to do this," he would be grabbed by his collar while he wiggled and writhed. While he strained against his bindings. "I have not done a damned thing to you!" Indignant was not a good look on him. It was unlikely to do him favors here either, this was not a particularly sympathetic audience. "Can't we talk about this," he strained "like reasonable people?"
@Flash Holmwood
27 Dec 2021, 03:28
Final Destination
The struggle performed by Victor would not make things easy-- neither physically nor spiritually. Victor felt and moved like a person, he had skin that sweat, and muscles that strained. He wasn't a shadow that disappeared to the light, and wasn't capable of feats of strength unbefitting his stature. In his daily life, he ate food, wrote letters, showered, and went to bed, like any other living person. If he hadn't seen Victor's face at the fight club, he might have had second thoughts, but he was resolved. He had to have resolve, even if it meant pretending he wasn't afraid.
Victor predictably protested, not only by force but by voice. Flash had never met Victor before he was already dead, meaning the recognition he showed was unique to... this thing. Anything with an ounce of survival instinct would do whatever it could to escape the sense of impending doom invading the claustrophobic space. Even while perpetrating it, Flash could feel it too. This wasn't funny, the weight of his body being dragged also weighed on his heart. He had no love for a carapace, had no reservations in the veracity of his information, but it would still feel wrong. He doubted anything he or Victor did could have changed that feeling. Perhaps if Victor ripped off his boyish mask and started soliloquizing about his evil plans to kill all of Flash's friends... except that wasn't going to happen. It was never going to be easy, but Flash had already known that.
Keeping his silence through the palpable tension, Flash resisted the urge to try to explain himself. He would not waste his breath, it would be like talking to a roast before it was eaten. It was too late for Victor to plead for his life, by far, and Flash was not his killer. That was what he would repeat to himself as he pressed Victor against the cold stone well, momentarily holding him with one hand to grab the lighter fluid and hastily douse the puppet in the noxious-smelling fire stimulant. If Victor hadn't guessed his fate by then, he was certain to have caught on by now.
Flash had been required to plan this, it was not the kind of thing that should be improvised. The fire spell was unreliable, skin was not flammable enough. If he only caught partially on flame and snuffed it out by rolling around, it would have been a hideous disaster. Like a horse being put down when its leg was broken beyond repair, there was cruelty in hesitation. It was best if the animal was killed immediately, but Flash could not perform the killing curse, nor could he ask his retainer for a firearm. All Flash could give was thoroughness, and that this would burn away at him until there was nothing left. Or, so he hoped. He had never done this before.
When Victor started negotiating for some mediation, Flash couldn't help but wonder what the capacity of consciousness the creature held. Flash was an endlessly curious boy, one that would have rather studied Victor than obliterate him. That same curiosity had nearly killed him too many times at that point, and he instead desired the ever rare sense of security in its place. He would spare a few words though, for as little as they meant.
"No reason would suffice." His words would be devoid of passion, said under his breath. Words into the void. He would not be doing this if part of him could still be convinced to stop. Next, "Incendio."
The wand at his side had replaced the discarded can nearly as soon as the sound of it hitting the ground could be heard. The tip pressed against the back of Victor's head would leave no room for inaccuracy. Then, he'd push the burning star down the final stretch to the bottom. If Victor was lucky, he'd break his neck and not experience immolation until suffocation. Either way, Flash was not about to inhabit the same space as something going out in a blaze of glory.
Instead, he would wait until the light below was gone, then check to see that the deed was done. The school was nearly empty while most of the students were away on winter break. No one would notice Flash's momentary absence from the hallways, or hear the screaming. Until then, Flash was alone. His knees would buckle the moment they were no longer being relied on, his breath shorter and his head lighter than they seemed only moments earlier. His heartbeat was already drumming painfully all the way to his head, a space that continued to rationalize. Victor was wrong, he had to do it. He had to. He had to.
Victor predictably protested, not only by force but by voice. Flash had never met Victor before he was already dead, meaning the recognition he showed was unique to... this thing. Anything with an ounce of survival instinct would do whatever it could to escape the sense of impending doom invading the claustrophobic space. Even while perpetrating it, Flash could feel it too. This wasn't funny, the weight of his body being dragged also weighed on his heart. He had no love for a carapace, had no reservations in the veracity of his information, but it would still feel wrong. He doubted anything he or Victor did could have changed that feeling. Perhaps if Victor ripped off his boyish mask and started soliloquizing about his evil plans to kill all of Flash's friends... except that wasn't going to happen. It was never going to be easy, but Flash had already known that.
Keeping his silence through the palpable tension, Flash resisted the urge to try to explain himself. He would not waste his breath, it would be like talking to a roast before it was eaten. It was too late for Victor to plead for his life, by far, and Flash was not his killer. That was what he would repeat to himself as he pressed Victor against the cold stone well, momentarily holding him with one hand to grab the lighter fluid and hastily douse the puppet in the noxious-smelling fire stimulant. If Victor hadn't guessed his fate by then, he was certain to have caught on by now.
Flash had been required to plan this, it was not the kind of thing that should be improvised. The fire spell was unreliable, skin was not flammable enough. If he only caught partially on flame and snuffed it out by rolling around, it would have been a hideous disaster. Like a horse being put down when its leg was broken beyond repair, there was cruelty in hesitation. It was best if the animal was killed immediately, but Flash could not perform the killing curse, nor could he ask his retainer for a firearm. All Flash could give was thoroughness, and that this would burn away at him until there was nothing left. Or, so he hoped. He had never done this before.
When Victor started negotiating for some mediation, Flash couldn't help but wonder what the capacity of consciousness the creature held. Flash was an endlessly curious boy, one that would have rather studied Victor than obliterate him. That same curiosity had nearly killed him too many times at that point, and he instead desired the ever rare sense of security in its place. He would spare a few words though, for as little as they meant.
"No reason would suffice." His words would be devoid of passion, said under his breath. Words into the void. He would not be doing this if part of him could still be convinced to stop. Next, "Incendio."
The wand at his side had replaced the discarded can nearly as soon as the sound of it hitting the ground could be heard. The tip pressed against the back of Victor's head would leave no room for inaccuracy. Then, he'd push the burning star down the final stretch to the bottom. If Victor was lucky, he'd break his neck and not experience immolation until suffocation. Either way, Flash was not about to inhabit the same space as something going out in a blaze of glory.
Instead, he would wait until the light below was gone, then check to see that the deed was done. The school was nearly empty while most of the students were away on winter break. No one would notice Flash's momentary absence from the hallways, or hear the screaming. Until then, Flash was alone. His knees would buckle the moment they were no longer being relied on, his breath shorter and his head lighter than they seemed only moments earlier. His heartbeat was already drumming painfully all the way to his head, a space that continued to rationalize. Victor was wrong, he had to do it. He had to. He had to.
@Victor Moore
★
For we dreamed a lot//And we schemed a lot//And we tried to sing of love before the stage fell apart
Sta: 9 ★Eva: 5 ★Str: 7 ★Wis: 15 ★AP: 3 ★Acc: 15
3 Jan 2022, 05:16
Final Destination
There was nothing that would change Holmwood's mind. Not tears, nor pleas. Assuredly there was both, few are stoic and proud for their extermination. Some would find it hard, this twisting sense in one's gut, this mortal sin -- to kill. That who or rather whatever Victor was truly had a want and a will to live. That it feared death. That while different, many of the things Flash would feel and fear, dread and detest were felt by others. A revelation that was best to not think about or consider.
There was something particularly cruel reenacting Victor's previous death -- by flame. A memory that was seared in the boy's mind, a waking nightmare relived once again as the incendiary fluid was exhausted from the cannister. The struggle for freedom violent and should have been exhausting, but fear gives one strength and endurance they never knew they had. The please. The no. The stop. The sobbing and the requests for anything but from the boy who had died many times before. The question of why never answered. The query of what could he do, what deal could he make, never answered. Not truly one could suppose because Flsh gave an answer of sorts -- Incendio.
Death by fire is a unique way to die. Far from instantaneous. Far from kind. Flesh does not burn away immediately. The screams no longer pleas but of anguish. Howls that would reverberate off those stone walls. Yes, it could feel pain. It would die, whatever was inside of it would roast as well. Few realized how long it takes for a body to burn, even at high temperatures -- three to four hours for a crematory to reduce a body to ash but even then some of the bones remain. The whole of a body small enough to fit in something smaller than a shoebox. The scent of human flesh set aflame is also unique, nothing like a barbecue but the scent of the congbustive fluid might bring one to mentally arrive at certain parallels.
Victor would die, not for the first or the second time. He would die full of fear and pain. He would die alone less that of his killer. He would not be missed by most, if any. He would not be brought back, the toymaker is dead. The hags have retreated and whatever prized replacements they had were exhausted - most of the killed by one of his only friends time and time again in a terrible viscous cycle of fear and the power of force. Vladimir would make no further deals with the hags, this one was brutal and unkind, a cursed legacy that would be swept under the rug and forgotten.
It was likely there would be some sort of sentimental statement. Some accolades by his peers for his sympathy and his kindness even if in truth it was feigned. Those that would later learn the truth would not care, Victor was not particularly special to any of them. If anything Victor was better off dead, Flash had just done what the rest of them could not.
What of the aftermath, of the eerie quiet. No mischievous misfits would come and carry the ashes away. Dead, all of them. No booming voice rebuking Flash for his sins, perhaps there was no God or if there was one they did not care about what happened down here in these godless places. No curse would lash out at him in retribution. He would see a body that would fade, that smelt of meat and flesh, of rubber and porcelain. That stunk of kerosene (or whatever it was that he splashed over the boy).
Even if someone found him, what charred bits remained... what could they identify. Why would they care.
There was something particularly cruel reenacting Victor's previous death -- by flame. A memory that was seared in the boy's mind, a waking nightmare relived once again as the incendiary fluid was exhausted from the cannister. The struggle for freedom violent and should have been exhausting, but fear gives one strength and endurance they never knew they had. The please. The no. The stop. The sobbing and the requests for anything but from the boy who had died many times before. The question of why never answered. The query of what could he do, what deal could he make, never answered. Not truly one could suppose because Flsh gave an answer of sorts -- Incendio.
Death by fire is a unique way to die. Far from instantaneous. Far from kind. Flesh does not burn away immediately. The screams no longer pleas but of anguish. Howls that would reverberate off those stone walls. Yes, it could feel pain. It would die, whatever was inside of it would roast as well. Few realized how long it takes for a body to burn, even at high temperatures -- three to four hours for a crematory to reduce a body to ash but even then some of the bones remain. The whole of a body small enough to fit in something smaller than a shoebox. The scent of human flesh set aflame is also unique, nothing like a barbecue but the scent of the congbustive fluid might bring one to mentally arrive at certain parallels.
Victor would die, not for the first or the second time. He would die full of fear and pain. He would die alone less that of his killer. He would not be missed by most, if any. He would not be brought back, the toymaker is dead. The hags have retreated and whatever prized replacements they had were exhausted - most of the killed by one of his only friends time and time again in a terrible viscous cycle of fear and the power of force. Vladimir would make no further deals with the hags, this one was brutal and unkind, a cursed legacy that would be swept under the rug and forgotten.
It was likely there would be some sort of sentimental statement. Some accolades by his peers for his sympathy and his kindness even if in truth it was feigned. Those that would later learn the truth would not care, Victor was not particularly special to any of them. If anything Victor was better off dead, Flash had just done what the rest of them could not.
Victor has died.
What of the aftermath, of the eerie quiet. No mischievous misfits would come and carry the ashes away. Dead, all of them. No booming voice rebuking Flash for his sins, perhaps there was no God or if there was one they did not care about what happened down here in these godless places. No curse would lash out at him in retribution. He would see a body that would fade, that smelt of meat and flesh, of rubber and porcelain. That stunk of kerosene (or whatever it was that he splashed over the boy).
Even if someone found him, what charred bits remained... what could they identify. Why would they care.
@Flash Holmwood
8 Jan 2022, 18:07
Final Destination
Flash's time spent waiting would be the last memory Victor would impart on the world. He didn't die on impact with the ground, the screams said otherwise. Not screaming-- shrieking. To say the experience was surreal would be an understatement, the eerie discrepancy between the satisfaction of pulling it off and horror at what the act amounted to would cause confused silence from above the well where he sat on the grimy floor. The eventual drift of a hideous cocktail of smells would start the first movement-- lifting his shirt collar to cover his mouth and nose. It wouldn't be enough, and with enough time, he would start to get used to it.
Hours did not pass easily. What his watch said was three hours stretched into infinity. He would have to huddle into the coat, his extremities becoming cold in the stale underground atmosphere. When his eyes closed, he imagined hell as written about in the book Thomas suggested to him. Images of eternal suffering, eternal sorrow, and ironic punishment. It certainly wasn't true, it was a story meant to entertain. Suffering was relegated to life, and ended with death. Once Victor was dead, he would need to suffer no longer, he would be free.
Flash had plenty of time to memorialize him in his thoughts, to consider how young Victor was when he first perished, and how cruel it was to revive him. If there was really a bridge of judgement, if there really were souls that existed that could be judged, he wondered what any God would think of Victor. Had his soul been stolen and twisted, was it his soul in earnest that continued in another body, was his soul ascended from the world years before they even met? Would Flash be judged for ending him... impossible to know. Pondering questions that had no solutions was also a waste of time, yet here he was, with time to waste.
Feeling sick, cold, and untethered to reality, Flash would eventually find his way down the safe path to the room below the well entrance. The light had faded, and a black heap lay singed and smoking its own noxious fumes. Unbearable as it was, Flash would need to check to make sure there was no evidence of anything escaping. The job seemed to be finished, the end product unspeakably nightmarish to the senses. Zoroastrians did not believe in cremation and burial, this was a dishonorable death in his family's eyes. The ancient beliefs would have preferred that Victor be left at the top of a tower of silence, where he'd be food for the birds as he would naturally become one with the world again. This was not a corpse though, it was a broken toy.
Thorough as he was, Flash would bury the rest. Clever usage of spells would make the task easier, removing a stone, reducing the remains in size, hiding them in the wall where they would inevitably become indistinguishable from the dirt. Someday, Flash's body would be no different. All returned to dust. With that, his mission was done. He only hoped no one would stop him on the way to the shower, before he could wash until the smell was gone.
Hours did not pass easily. What his watch said was three hours stretched into infinity. He would have to huddle into the coat, his extremities becoming cold in the stale underground atmosphere. When his eyes closed, he imagined hell as written about in the book Thomas suggested to him. Images of eternal suffering, eternal sorrow, and ironic punishment. It certainly wasn't true, it was a story meant to entertain. Suffering was relegated to life, and ended with death. Once Victor was dead, he would need to suffer no longer, he would be free.
Flash had plenty of time to memorialize him in his thoughts, to consider how young Victor was when he first perished, and how cruel it was to revive him. If there was really a bridge of judgement, if there really were souls that existed that could be judged, he wondered what any God would think of Victor. Had his soul been stolen and twisted, was it his soul in earnest that continued in another body, was his soul ascended from the world years before they even met? Would Flash be judged for ending him... impossible to know. Pondering questions that had no solutions was also a waste of time, yet here he was, with time to waste.
Feeling sick, cold, and untethered to reality, Flash would eventually find his way down the safe path to the room below the well entrance. The light had faded, and a black heap lay singed and smoking its own noxious fumes. Unbearable as it was, Flash would need to check to make sure there was no evidence of anything escaping. The job seemed to be finished, the end product unspeakably nightmarish to the senses. Zoroastrians did not believe in cremation and burial, this was a dishonorable death in his family's eyes. The ancient beliefs would have preferred that Victor be left at the top of a tower of silence, where he'd be food for the birds as he would naturally become one with the world again. This was not a corpse though, it was a broken toy.
Thorough as he was, Flash would bury the rest. Clever usage of spells would make the task easier, removing a stone, reducing the remains in size, hiding them in the wall where they would inevitably become indistinguishable from the dirt. Someday, Flash's body would be no different. All returned to dust. With that, his mission was done. He only hoped no one would stop him on the way to the shower, before he could wash until the smell was gone.
Thread finished
For we dreamed a lot//And we schemed a lot//And we tried to sing of love before the stage fell apart
Sta: 9 ★Eva: 5 ★Str: 7 ★Wis: 15 ★AP: 3 ★Acc: 15