Blood. Gore. Chaos. Carnage. A shadowed butcher wrecking havoc. Ruin. Sharp copper tang. Lifeless Eyes. Body parts strewn from corner to corner -- prison. Four cells. Bars formed of flesh and bone.

He wakes with a jolt, claws dug deep in to the ice of his den floor, gouges that mark nearly every inch of this hollow. Tallies for each sleepless night; tallies that speak of every wasted day.

Draven was not fond of the night.

Emerging in to the inky shadows -- the moon and stars blocked by thick cloud that promised more storms tomorrow -- the Eye set to wander. Escape in the form of distance, passing perched ravens that fluttered and shifted but did not follow. They did not like the night either.

Further, this time, to the steam that rose from distant springs. Beckoning him to rest weary muscles, to release the tension that inevitably built during the hours of "rest".

Slipping in to the hot as silver eyes slid closed, embracing the heat, melting the ice.

For now.

+5 Practice fabricating another’s scent - 1/2
+5 Learn or exploit a character’s weakness - 1/2
+10 Help a character with a non-physical illness

she wakes, as she often does, to the sound of claws against ice.

she is no stranger to @Draven and his insomnia. more often than not he tosses and turns in his sleep, waking far too soon after settling down for sleep. this is not something she wants to notice, but she does. it is not something she wants to know but she does, and she cannot look away. not when he wakes her up as he leaves. every night that this happens, she leaves him to it; his problems are not her problems.

but tonight, she cannot sleep either.

she is little more than a shadow, trailing after him; for once, she is the one dogging his steps. the hunter, the hunted. through the swirling mist she follows him, bringing forth a scent that mimics his own — she smells like the caverns and him, bjorn by mistake. quiet as always, the wolfess watches through the heavy fog, plush fur bristling beneath the humid warmth of the pools.

she’d never managed to come this far just yet. the sulfur smell is not as distracting as it might have been, not when she has him to focus on — lounging in the waters beneath the moonless sky, seemingly alone for the first time. no birds or bjorn between them, just fog and heat and those all-seeing eyes, closed.

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without his flock he is not granted the awareness of her presence. without the warning calls of his feathered companions he is blind, but he does not fight against it. instead he accepts it, embraces it, for it is almost pleasant to not see beyond the here and now. tethered to the present rather than living in the possibilities of future -- exposed and vulnerable in a way Bjorn would never.

even so -- even with his eyes closed and his vision clouded -- he is no easy target. draven stands taller than the rest and his teeth and claws are just as sharp. he rests easy knowing the strength of his god will keep him alive, for they cannot die yet. not before they serve their purpose, infusing these lands with the taint of bjorn, allowing his power to grow.

the heat sinks in through his skin, warming his blood, igniting a too-familiar need to reach out and snatch that elusive prosperity. to grow and thrive, to lure them in to the web; trapped.

a long exhale punctuates the opening of his eyes, his gaze riveted on the long strands of his mane that settle on the surface of the water. he watches with an unfocused intensity as they swirl, forming strange patterns, reaching to the depths of his soul to pluck at the knowing that lives there.

his back to her it is not certain if he is aware of her presence, yet, nor does he look to acknowledge her. bit by bit the tension melts from his substantial frame, and eventually his eyes rise to the heavens, his thoughts given freedom to roam.

Shrouded by the steam and mist, she feels half a ghost.

Half awake in this fake empire of theirs, more phantom than woman. Intangible she could almost tumble into the sky, no longer tethered to the earth below. But of all things it is @Draven that keeps her grounded. His scent, pulled tight around her shoulders like a fur coat. His body, lounging in the heated pools before her.

Him. All seeing, all knowing, yet blinded on this night with no stars.

She lurks behind him long enough for him to settle. She knows he's relaxed by the broad line of his shoulders,bsees the moment they relax even further. It'd be an easy thing, she realizes with a jolt, to come up behind him. He is bigger and stronger than she is, but anyone could drown. All she'd have to do is press his muzzle into the water and keep it there. Bjorn had granted him many gifts ( gifts? ) but being able to breathe underwater was surely not one of them...

It'd be so easy.

And yet.

She doesn't do that. Instead when she prowls forward, stepping easily upon silent paws, she loops around his pool. Turns a wide breadth to not startle him, and stops only when her two front paws linger on the lip of the pool. Another step and she'd be half submerged, but her eyes remain solely on him. This close she can feel the heat from the water, stirring something low in her stomach, a call that will go unanswered tonight. Unacknowledged, too, as she does her best to brush past it. Instead, she chuffs softly -- intent on catching his attention.

as if she was worried of him dozing and falling beneath the water.

As if she had not considered doing just that to the eye of bjorn.

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It is an unbroken tether that stretches taut between them and then grows slack. The tug evaporates and so he knows; but he does not look. Dravens eyes stay on the sky, moonless and starless, robbed of any glimmer of light. Still he can see the cast of light through thick cloud, a gust of wind away from drenching the world in silver.

Much like Bjorn, except it would not be silver. Red; red is the colour his God would dip his brush in to.

Draven jolts in the water, this train of thought dunking his mind in to memory. Much as the visions and dreams plagued him (keeping sleep ever so elusively out of reach) they also ignite that nameless desire.

Much like she does, when his eyes shift to follow the sound of her arrival. Teetering there at the edge of the pool and — oh! — his thoughts do not stray far from her own. Dark imaginings that rise to taunt him, imaging how easy it would be to pull her beneath the surface and watch the bubbles flee her mouth.

“Join me,” he invites because he would never, for all the Bjorn inspired impulses. @Faolán is meant for so much more than that.

The mist twists and turns between them, the steam billowing around and pushed by the evening breeze. There is something pulling her to him, a longing connected by red thread that starts in her sternum and ends in his. It's not as electric as the feeling harou ignites in her, but still -- she stands here, before him, when she could have easily stayed in her warm bed.

Foolish, still.

An ear cocks to the side at his invitation; @Draven here lacked the ferocity he so often wore in the daylight. A simmering thing to be sure but even still, his fangs sound blunted. For a moment she considers his offer, going so far as to raise a paw an inch or so off the ground -- hovering, considering. But then that same paw raises even higher towards the satchel around her neck and here she truly pauses.

To get in the pool would mean taking it off, and that felt... impossible. far too intimate a gesture. So, slowly, she returns her paw back to the ground and reclines on her haunches with a small shake of her head. No. Not right now. It means, though, that she's left sitting and staring at him -- a creeping feeling draping over her shoulders.

Not tired? She asks, her own voice soft and tired. what are you doing here?

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Rejection; ahhh, there he is.

Draven knows him too well, has lived forever in his shadow. Watching his brothers, with silver tongues and passionate blood, strike true again and again. Gathering diamonds for their wrists, gems for their beds, while he met nothing but denial.

Too icy, too cold, too distant. A haunted figure meant for nightmares and not heaving chests; cursed.

It is the smallest shake of her head but it is enough to strike through — he shifts in the water, turning his face away and lifting it once more to the sky. The empty, lightless sky; this, too, he knows well. As well as the stars and the moon who have kept him company through many a moonless night, the clouds are just as familiar. The distant glow — present but not — that reminds him so intensely of Bjorn.

Mocking him, now, as it hovered out of sight, out of reach, laughing at the floundering failures of the raven king. Her words feel like a cruelty, as mocking as the distant God, and yet he sighs, a soft and almost sorrowful sound.

“I am always tired,” breathing secrets in to the moonless night, as if Bjorn might not hear the admission when his face his hidden.

she is not used to him like this.

he is always like ice, pack ice long since frozen over — solid enough to build a foundation on but always with the possibility of floes creeping in. always with the danger of buckling underneath all of that pressure. he is always like ice, yes, but there’s always an edge to him. sharp, terrible — wouldn’t the cold burn you just as badly as fire?

here, tonight, he seems… different.

quiet, maybe. still waters, and all of that.

he turns his head away from her, looking up instead of forward. she does not have to follow his gaze to know that the moon is not out tonight; she does not follow his gaze, but instead stays staring at him. again that creeping feeling begins to slink in, an uninvited guest. she was not meant to have idle conversation with the splintered god, bt she tells herself that each meeting revels a little more of them. their weaknesses and strengths and everything in between.

( little wolf, do you know what you give away, freely, during this meetings? )

@Draven speaks, and she is not surprised at his correction. not sleeping, she allows, and it’s not a question anymore. she knows this, just like she knows there's no moon about, just like she knows that he's not been tired for a long time. she knows this, but what matters more is why does she care? there is no answer for that, just yet, and so she looks to him. an easier puzzle to figure out than the mess of her own being.

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nights like these -- and there were so, so many nights like these -- were when he began to question everything. the bone deep knowing that he was born from greatness, the unshakeable faith that he was destined to spread that greatness to the furthest reaches of the world, the blind trust that he would be guided in the right direction; was any of it solid, now?

the heat blushes his cheeks but he does not move from the water, embracing the thaw that begins in his toes and spreads through every inch of him. freeing himself from the freeze for a breath. draven takes a deep inhale, ice eyes closing again as he holds and then releases in a slow and steady exhale.

"would you?" sleep? with dreams painted in blood and carnage strew from corner to corner? draven does not elaborate but does, now, look back at the downy dove looking down at him from her perch.

tear her down, scatter those feathers, drench them in blood.

beneath the surface his claws flex, his muscles grow taut, fighting the silent impulses. above he is impassive, clumsily setting a mask in to place, oblivious to the fact that it is crooked and ill-fitting.

no, he does not sleep. nor does he reign over the impulses of the blood-moon God that watches through cloud-strewn skies. but he can pretend.

he can try.

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

would you?

mismatched eyes blink, owlishly. would she sleep, if she could? would she dream? oh, if only she could see inside his mind — if she could hear his thoughts, she might break that placid mask he wears herself. her dreams, too, were strewn with blood. red riddled her life, awake or asleep; the thread that’s been tied so tightly around her neck, the massacre that had taken everything from her, the blood that’s cursed her just as well as it’s cursed them.

they are more alike than either realizes; they are more alike than either would like.

i do, she answers softly, almost gently. it’s hard to sound furious here, between the quiet starlight and the swirling mist. it leaves everything soft at the edges, a smudge on the camera lens, blotting out the harsh shadows they’re so used to. perhaps even bjorn is more subdued here, perhaps they are alone for once.

…you could. she continues, voice trailing intently. the world may be soft and out of focus but she is not, nor is her gaze. it remains upon him, sharp but… tentative. once bitten, twice shy. an offer she might make again, just this one more time.

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m