Her wounds had healed, though she looked liked she’d been burned in places all across her body. Scalded droplets of scarred flesh. If queried, she would say someone threw acid at her once, leaving the scattered marks across her skin. Her hair covered the scaring where fangs had once punched through her scalp.
If withdrawal hadn’t gotten her away from the seeds for good, then nearly overdosing certainly did. Sometimes, she would tell recovering addicts at the refugee shelter she’d overdosed once and went through withdrawal. The one thing that helped her through was the vision of an angel. She never mentioned that the angel she spoke of had the eyes of serpent and spun webs like a spider.
The wind had taken on its cool autumnal bite. Once more, Cynder found herself wearing a coat at night. On some mornings, there was a thin layer of frost.
It was a warmer night and they all were gathered at the silo. Poison cradled Eclipse in his arms whilst Cynder leaned against Scarecrow as he occasionally ran his talons through her hair. All four of them were looking at the stars, marveling at their cold diamond brilliance.
She realized that she loved him completely. It was a sense of love she had never felt for anyone or anything in her life. She could not imagine her life without him, that part of her would die if they were to ever become separated.
Yet, although she knew she loved Scarecrow, it wasn’t like love girls she worked with at the refugee shelter would describe with songs they heard or poems they were given by suitors. The love she felt wasn’t like that between child and parent or siblings. It wasn’t like the emotional attachment of very close friends. It was far deeper, stronger than that. Something Cynder sometimes wondered was a different emotion altogether from love, but love was the only word she could find to describe it.
Whatever it was, Scarecrow felt it too. She could sense it. He had helped her through withdrawal and protected her when she was in danger. When she had been poisoned in more than one way, he worked desperately to save her life. He was always elated when she came to watch the stars with him. When her gaze met his cold blue eyes, the emotion she could only describe as love was evident.
Being there at the silo, in the company of the hunters, looking up at the stars was perfect. Nothing existed beyond the moment under a blanket of night. She truly relished these times. Scarecrow’s company, Poison’s odd humor, Eclipse’s games of chess. This, along with her late night walks and her work with refugees, was her life now. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
At one point, Cynder felt eyes on her and turned to meet Eclipse’s gaze. It was for only the briefest of moments before the hunter’s amber eyes once more drifted upward toward the night sky. In that moment, Cynder sensed a sort of longing mixed with a little bit of envy. She realized the bonded pair missed the lama. They still hadn’t found a simian, and Cynder’s company was the closest they were getting to that, even if she had been chosen by Scarecrow.
She looked up at him, almost desperately. Poison’s anger over the lama’s murder had subsided somewhat, and was replaced by the dull ache of not having a human companion. Eclipse just seemed genuinely heartbroken. Cynder felt for both of them, even if she was unsure of what to do.
“When do you think?” She started, unsure of how to further word her inquiry. Even sensations and images seemed inadequate.
What looked like a smile formed on Scarecrow’s face. His tongue tested the night air as his mind brushed gently against hers. She could feel his talons softly working through her hair.
“In the fullness of time,” he said. She leaned against him with a slight smile, returning her gaze to the stars. His answer was all there was, and, right then, it had to be enough.
Showing posts with label The Hunters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Hunters. Show all posts
14 October 2012
12 October 2012
Vortex
She was swept into a vortex of rainbow colors. Lightning clawed across her field of vision. The one reality she knew for certain was the burning within her. Tendrils of smoke wrapped around her like the tentacles or some otherworldly beast.
Her heart throbbed within her chest and her breathing felt labored. Whatever the feral did when he put his fangs into her was obviously causing the burning. It had briefly caused paralysis. It was hard to tell if what else was happening was because of that as well or the three handfuls of seeds she took. She was pretty sure she’d overdosed.
She was going to die, she realized. Whether it was because of hunter’s poison or the amount of seeds she wasn’t sure. As the hallucinations flashed before her, she figured at least she’d die on a fun high. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too painful.
…No!…Scarecrow’s voice ripped into her mind…Cynder, stay with me!…
His cold blue eyes came into focus. He was holding her close, not breaking her gaze. She could feel the hallucinations, but it was as if he was using his mind to keep them at bay, a maelstrom in the background, threatening to drown her. The burning became more intense and she cried out in pain.
“Trust me?” He asked her.
She tried to speak, but her mouth and tongue worked for little else than whimpers of pain. She reached out with a shaky hand, the venom had made it look as withered as an old woman’s. With great concentration, she strung her thoughts together and reached his mind.
…You know I do…
What looked like a smile formed on thin lips. His tongue flicked out, testing air. His embrace on her tightened. She could sense how worried he was. Whatever he meant to do might not work.
“Good,” he said. “Hold on. Stay with me.”
He placed his mouth over the wounds in her scalp. She could feel his forked tongue probing into the punctures. It was curiously soothing. Then, she felt him start to suck at the wounds. The heat began to abate a little.
Scarecrow pulled away briefly. Cynder heard him spitting, fighting back the urge to retch. Again, he placed his mouth over the punctures, repeating the process.
The smoke dissipated first. Looking at her hand, it didn’t look so shriveled anymore. There were still some open wounds where the smoke had escaped, but she no longer felt like she was burning inside. She even felt the effects of the seeds were lessened.
Eventually, Scarecrow pulled away for the last time. This time, he allowed himself to vomit fully. Cynder looked beside them and saw a pool of thick black fluid. The realization that that was what was inside her made her sick to her stomach. Scarecrow looked into her eyes and another smile formed on his inhuman face.
“Cynder better?”
All she could do was nod. Tears began to flow freely from her eyes. Scarecrow pulled her close as she sobbed. She could feel his talons stroking her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she wept looking into his cold blue eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need,” He said. “No need.”
“But I ran away!” Cynder cried. “I took the seeds again! You must be mad at me.”
“No, no,” Scarecrow said gently, hugging her tightly once more and stroking her hair. “Cynder clever. Very, very clever.”
Her heart throbbed within her chest and her breathing felt labored. Whatever the feral did when he put his fangs into her was obviously causing the burning. It had briefly caused paralysis. It was hard to tell if what else was happening was because of that as well or the three handfuls of seeds she took. She was pretty sure she’d overdosed.
She was going to die, she realized. Whether it was because of hunter’s poison or the amount of seeds she wasn’t sure. As the hallucinations flashed before her, she figured at least she’d die on a fun high. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too painful.
…No!…Scarecrow’s voice ripped into her mind…Cynder, stay with me!…
His cold blue eyes came into focus. He was holding her close, not breaking her gaze. She could feel the hallucinations, but it was as if he was using his mind to keep them at bay, a maelstrom in the background, threatening to drown her. The burning became more intense and she cried out in pain.
“Trust me?” He asked her.
She tried to speak, but her mouth and tongue worked for little else than whimpers of pain. She reached out with a shaky hand, the venom had made it look as withered as an old woman’s. With great concentration, she strung her thoughts together and reached his mind.
…You know I do…
What looked like a smile formed on thin lips. His tongue flicked out, testing air. His embrace on her tightened. She could sense how worried he was. Whatever he meant to do might not work.
“Good,” he said. “Hold on. Stay with me.”
He placed his mouth over the wounds in her scalp. She could feel his forked tongue probing into the punctures. It was curiously soothing. Then, she felt him start to suck at the wounds. The heat began to abate a little.
Scarecrow pulled away briefly. Cynder heard him spitting, fighting back the urge to retch. Again, he placed his mouth over the punctures, repeating the process.
The smoke dissipated first. Looking at her hand, it didn’t look so shriveled anymore. There were still some open wounds where the smoke had escaped, but she no longer felt like she was burning inside. She even felt the effects of the seeds were lessened.
Eventually, Scarecrow pulled away for the last time. This time, he allowed himself to vomit fully. Cynder looked beside them and saw a pool of thick black fluid. The realization that that was what was inside her made her sick to her stomach. Scarecrow looked into her eyes and another smile formed on his inhuman face.
“Cynder better?”
All she could do was nod. Tears began to flow freely from her eyes. Scarecrow pulled her close as she sobbed. She could feel his talons stroking her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she wept looking into his cold blue eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need,” He said. “No need.”
“But I ran away!” Cynder cried. “I took the seeds again! You must be mad at me.”
“No, no,” Scarecrow said gently, hugging her tightly once more and stroking her hair. “Cynder clever. Very, very clever.”
10 October 2012
Bad Seed
As the feral began to close the distance between them, Cynder began to think malice might not be as fitting as she initially thought. It was as if he wasn’t really concerned with her other than as prey, and as a means to an end. He didn’t even really seem to care there were other hunters in the city; he wanted territory with a steady food supply. The others were an obstacle to overcome, nothing more. His goal was to be well fed, and being the only hunter in a city would insure that.
She brought her hands to her mouth, as though to stifle a scream, and swallowed hard. It seemed unlikely she could talk to the feral or that the hunters would have any interest in doing such. Perhaps this was unfortunate. She swallowed hard again as the first webs began to shoot from his clawed fingertips. She was going to die, and she found there was no way she could bring herself to accept it.
“Stop!” Scarecrow’s voice barked out of the darkness. “Now! Enough!”
He emerged from the shadows flanked by Poison and Eclipse. All three carried themselves in the manner of being ready to pounce, their eyes blazing in the low-light. The feral made a sound, which came across like a satisfied chuckle. With a quick snap of his wrist, he pulled Cynder closer to him. She swallowed hard one last time before moving her hands from her mouth, setting her jaw. Eclipse cocked her head quizzically, as his noticing what may have been some black staining around the young human’s mouth.
“Cynder mine!” Scarecrow hissed, stepping forward. “Stand away!”
The feral hissed loudly, holding out a hand to stay the other three hunters. There were hisses and clicks, sensations that Cynder could not make out. Strange images and sounds. She wondered if they were trying to negotiate.
“How it is,” the feral said finally, looking down at her. “Accept it.”
His mouth opened wider and two very large and cruelly shaped black fangs dropped forward. Briefly, Cynder wondered if that’s why the hunter’s speech carried the clicking sound it did. Not that it mattered. She tried not to let her fear show as the feral brought her closer to him.
“You’re a fucking coward!” She spat.
The fangs punched into her scalp, past flesh, muscle, and bone. The pain made her yelp, despite trying not to. She could feel some sort of liquid seeping into her. Instantly, a new pain surged from deep inside of her; it was as if she was burning, smoldering from within. She tried to scream again, but found herself paralyzed. It was then she noticed what looked like thin wisps of smoke surrounding her. She was able to get her eyes to move in their sockets enough to see a split that had formed along her left forearm and the smoke emanating from it. Her eyes turned helplessly toward the scowling hunters, who were now slowly advancing; if they couldn’t rescue her, they would avenge her.
The feral suddenly stopped, his red eyes wild with anger and confusion. He pulled away from Cynder quickly, tossing her aside like a soiled rag doll. She found she could move again, though it hurt to do so. There was still smoke coming from newly formed wounds on her skin and she still felt as though she was burning away inside. The only comfort she found was the slight flashes of light forming on her peripheries, an old sensation from just the past winter, and the feral’s reaction as he leered at her.
“Was it something you ate?” She asked, noticing her voice was somewhat slurred, something she had expected to happen.
“Bad!” The feral roared, desperately trying to spit out what he swallowed. “Rotten!”
“Cynder?” Scarecrow’s voice got her attention, she turned to see him coming quickly toward her, his voice touched her mind…What did you do?…
She opened her still free left hand. It was stained black, as though she’d been holding onto tar. Three small black objects rolled out to the pavements.
“Seeds,” she said weakly. “Three handfuls, and whatever was absorbed into my skin. Probably overdosed myself.” Then a wave of hallucinated light and color washed over her as she spasmed, causing her to laugh wildly. “Plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay ball!”
The feral, still spitting, and trying to fight the effects of the seeds himself, prepared to spring. He was still going to kill Cynder, though, not in the same manner or for the same reasons he intended. Even as he launched himself as her, the back of Scarecrow’s talon caught him in mid-air, sending him flailing back, spurts of purple hunter’s blood spraying into the night. Poison and Eclipse started to move closer to the feral at greater speed.
Scarecrow reached Cynder, who was still smoking away and staring blankly ahead. There was no time to figure out what she was seeing or whether or not it was real. He pulled her close to him and cast a glance toward his fellows.
“Cynder sick. Very sick,” he said to them…I must help her…
Both Poison and Eclipse nodded, their understanding obvious across their features. The feral was attempting to get up, but was fighting with his own effects from ingesting some of the seeds. He spat to the side to try and purge the drug from his system. Looking up, he could see the other two hunters. The smirk forming across Poison’s lips as his multicolored tongue tasted the night air was anything but whimsical.
“’Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly,” he hissed as he advanced, the sensation emanating from him was that of retribution.
She brought her hands to her mouth, as though to stifle a scream, and swallowed hard. It seemed unlikely she could talk to the feral or that the hunters would have any interest in doing such. Perhaps this was unfortunate. She swallowed hard again as the first webs began to shoot from his clawed fingertips. She was going to die, and she found there was no way she could bring herself to accept it.
“Stop!” Scarecrow’s voice barked out of the darkness. “Now! Enough!”
He emerged from the shadows flanked by Poison and Eclipse. All three carried themselves in the manner of being ready to pounce, their eyes blazing in the low-light. The feral made a sound, which came across like a satisfied chuckle. With a quick snap of his wrist, he pulled Cynder closer to him. She swallowed hard one last time before moving her hands from her mouth, setting her jaw. Eclipse cocked her head quizzically, as his noticing what may have been some black staining around the young human’s mouth.
“Cynder mine!” Scarecrow hissed, stepping forward. “Stand away!”
The feral hissed loudly, holding out a hand to stay the other three hunters. There were hisses and clicks, sensations that Cynder could not make out. Strange images and sounds. She wondered if they were trying to negotiate.
“How it is,” the feral said finally, looking down at her. “Accept it.”
His mouth opened wider and two very large and cruelly shaped black fangs dropped forward. Briefly, Cynder wondered if that’s why the hunter’s speech carried the clicking sound it did. Not that it mattered. She tried not to let her fear show as the feral brought her closer to him.
“You’re a fucking coward!” She spat.
The fangs punched into her scalp, past flesh, muscle, and bone. The pain made her yelp, despite trying not to. She could feel some sort of liquid seeping into her. Instantly, a new pain surged from deep inside of her; it was as if she was burning, smoldering from within. She tried to scream again, but found herself paralyzed. It was then she noticed what looked like thin wisps of smoke surrounding her. She was able to get her eyes to move in their sockets enough to see a split that had formed along her left forearm and the smoke emanating from it. Her eyes turned helplessly toward the scowling hunters, who were now slowly advancing; if they couldn’t rescue her, they would avenge her.
The feral suddenly stopped, his red eyes wild with anger and confusion. He pulled away from Cynder quickly, tossing her aside like a soiled rag doll. She found she could move again, though it hurt to do so. There was still smoke coming from newly formed wounds on her skin and she still felt as though she was burning away inside. The only comfort she found was the slight flashes of light forming on her peripheries, an old sensation from just the past winter, and the feral’s reaction as he leered at her.
“Was it something you ate?” She asked, noticing her voice was somewhat slurred, something she had expected to happen.
“Bad!” The feral roared, desperately trying to spit out what he swallowed. “Rotten!”
“Cynder?” Scarecrow’s voice got her attention, she turned to see him coming quickly toward her, his voice touched her mind…What did you do?…
She opened her still free left hand. It was stained black, as though she’d been holding onto tar. Three small black objects rolled out to the pavements.
“Seeds,” she said weakly. “Three handfuls, and whatever was absorbed into my skin. Probably overdosed myself.” Then a wave of hallucinated light and color washed over her as she spasmed, causing her to laugh wildly. “Plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay ball!”
The feral, still spitting, and trying to fight the effects of the seeds himself, prepared to spring. He was still going to kill Cynder, though, not in the same manner or for the same reasons he intended. Even as he launched himself as her, the back of Scarecrow’s talon caught him in mid-air, sending him flailing back, spurts of purple hunter’s blood spraying into the night. Poison and Eclipse started to move closer to the feral at greater speed.
Scarecrow reached Cynder, who was still smoking away and staring blankly ahead. There was no time to figure out what she was seeing or whether or not it was real. He pulled her close to him and cast a glance toward his fellows.
“Cynder sick. Very sick,” he said to them…I must help her…
Both Poison and Eclipse nodded, their understanding obvious across their features. The feral was attempting to get up, but was fighting with his own effects from ingesting some of the seeds. He spat to the side to try and purge the drug from his system. Looking up, he could see the other two hunters. The smirk forming across Poison’s lips as his multicolored tongue tasted the night air was anything but whimsical.
“’Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly,” he hissed as he advanced, the sensation emanating from him was that of retribution.
08 October 2012
Hideway
The temple decided not to report the lama’s mysterious death to the authorities for their own reasons, which suited Cynder fine. She did not relish the idea of having to speak with someone in uniform on the subject. The excuse she gave the refugee shelter was the lama had always been a friend, but was even more helpful when she was quitting the seeds, so his death, a heart attack, she told them, was devastating. She needed some time away from work. Because she was good at her job, she was placed on leave, no further questions asked.
Scarecrow saw to it she was made comfortable at the silo. No one knew how long she would be staying, but it was made plain to her none of the hunters wanted her to be the feral’s next victim. Out of the three of them, Poison seemed the most upset, almost spoiling for a fight. From what Cynder could understand he ranged and raged far into the city searching for the killer of the lama. Prey became an afterthought to normally whimsical hunter.
Despite the danger, the first week or so was not so bad. Certainly, not being able to stray very far from the silo carried a sense of annoyance, but she understood why. It was after that she found herself starting to get edgy, wishing the feral would either appear or go away so she could resume her life again. She missed her late night walks.
Eclipse would come and play chess with her, in an attempt to assuage the growing sense of cabin fever. Cynder would indulge the hunter in playing, but her heart was not in it. She wanted action. To do something, anything. She knew she was being kept at the silo for her own safety, but now it was beginning to get to her.
That was why one night, almost a month from when the lama’s body was discovered, she slipped out. She felt she had to. In her mind, she kept projecting assurances to the hunters, especially Scarecrow, the whole time hoping that would also help them locate her if needs be.
Being on the streets again was liberating. The silo had been simultaneously a sanctuary and a prison. She let the presence’s, the thoughts and emotions of the crowds of people wash over her like warm water. The burritos she purchased were the best she had tasted since her first meal after withdrawal.
Sometime later, after being by the gaming-house, she realized she was being followed. It was a hunter, but not one of the three she knew. Cynder concentrated on Scarecrow, his mind, his presence, and kept walking. Her alleyway was not far off. Jamming her hands deep into her pockets, she picked up her pace. This new presence followed briskly. There was a sensation of savage amusement and outright cruelty. There was no mistaking that she was in danger.
She was halfway down the alley when he dropped down in front of her. The feral was taller than Poison, and almost half-starved looking in his build. She remembered when Scarecrow was trying to explain the feral, he used the term malice. Looking into his burning red eyes, she couldn’t help but think that was an apt name. Nowhere in his psyche was there any sense of compassion.
“Frightened?” He asked her, his tongue flicking out menacingly. Cynder set her jaw defiantly.
“Next week is my twenty-fourth birthday,” she said plainly, bringing her fists from her pockets. “I’m afraid to die. But of you?” She spat. “Never.”
Scarecrow saw to it she was made comfortable at the silo. No one knew how long she would be staying, but it was made plain to her none of the hunters wanted her to be the feral’s next victim. Out of the three of them, Poison seemed the most upset, almost spoiling for a fight. From what Cynder could understand he ranged and raged far into the city searching for the killer of the lama. Prey became an afterthought to normally whimsical hunter.
Despite the danger, the first week or so was not so bad. Certainly, not being able to stray very far from the silo carried a sense of annoyance, but she understood why. It was after that she found herself starting to get edgy, wishing the feral would either appear or go away so she could resume her life again. She missed her late night walks.
Eclipse would come and play chess with her, in an attempt to assuage the growing sense of cabin fever. Cynder would indulge the hunter in playing, but her heart was not in it. She wanted action. To do something, anything. She knew she was being kept at the silo for her own safety, but now it was beginning to get to her.
That was why one night, almost a month from when the lama’s body was discovered, she slipped out. She felt she had to. In her mind, she kept projecting assurances to the hunters, especially Scarecrow, the whole time hoping that would also help them locate her if needs be.
Being on the streets again was liberating. The silo had been simultaneously a sanctuary and a prison. She let the presence’s, the thoughts and emotions of the crowds of people wash over her like warm water. The burritos she purchased were the best she had tasted since her first meal after withdrawal.
Sometime later, after being by the gaming-house, she realized she was being followed. It was a hunter, but not one of the three she knew. Cynder concentrated on Scarecrow, his mind, his presence, and kept walking. Her alleyway was not far off. Jamming her hands deep into her pockets, she picked up her pace. This new presence followed briskly. There was a sensation of savage amusement and outright cruelty. There was no mistaking that she was in danger.
She was halfway down the alley when he dropped down in front of her. The feral was taller than Poison, and almost half-starved looking in his build. She remembered when Scarecrow was trying to explain the feral, he used the term malice. Looking into his burning red eyes, she couldn’t help but think that was an apt name. Nowhere in his psyche was there any sense of compassion.
“Frightened?” He asked her, his tongue flicking out menacingly. Cynder set her jaw defiantly.
“Next week is my twenty-fourth birthday,” she said plainly, bringing her fists from her pockets. “I’m afraid to die. But of you?” She spat. “Never.”
02 October 2012
Feral
Cynder ran almost blindly toward her alley. The heat of the summer night weighed oppressively upon her as she cut through the crowds. She struggled to make sense out of what had just happened. The last few minutes seemed more like a bad time on the seeds, but she knew better. It was all horrifically real.
She knew something was wrong before she even reached the temple. Since winter, she’d gotten to where she could sense the lama before she actually saw him. Sometimes, he was reaching out to greet her, which she found comforting. This time was different; there was only silence. A cold void she could not traverse no matter how hard she strained.
Slowly, like static, the thoughts and emotions of the others whom resided within the temple walls began to seep in. It was like a sort of subdued bedlam; something terrible had happened, but no one was quite sure what to make of it. There were questions of calling the authorities or covering it up. Riding as an undercurrent to it all were the sensations of overwhelming sadness and fear.
She reached the muraled room where she often met the lama and almost screamed. There were webs everywhere. On the floor was a set of robes covered in ashes save a desiccated skull with two puncture marks through the scalp.
…Cynder! Cynder!…
Eclipse’s voice grabbed her attention. There was a sense of desperation to it, which bordered upon panic. Concentrating, Cynder reached out.
…Eclipse?…
…Good! Cynder good. Come! Come now…
…But?…
…Come now!…
And she was running, following Eclipse’s mental calls. This was important. The desperation was still there, but Cynder sensed other emotions as well; loss and an almost blind burning rage that burned hotter than the night winds.
Poison and Eclipse were waiting in the alleyway. Eclipse was crouched down, hugging her lower legs. The sadness was obvious in her amber eyes. Cynder wondered in that moment if hunters cried. She reached out, but was greeted with only the absent flicking of a tongue.
“Eclipse? What happened?” She asked.
“Our simian,” Poison hissed, his anger barely contained.
He was standing next to Eclipse, his arms folded squarely across his bare chest. It was from him that Cynder sensed the rage. His purple eyes seemed to blaze in the low light, the scowl on his face bordering upon demonic.
“Our simian,” he said again. “Not food! Wrong!”
“Who did this?” Cynder asked. “And why?”
“Feral,” Eclipse replied softly. “Kills simians. Simians not food. Wrong.”
“Cynder come,” Poison said, reaching out with to her. “Danger. Come now.”
“Wait,” she said. “I want to know who this feral is. I want to know why.”
“Cynder come,” Poison hissed, his impatience becoming apparent.
“Answer my questions first.”
“Stupid simian!” Poison snapped. “Leave you! Let feral feed!”
“Enough!” Scarecrow snapped as he emerged from the shadows.
“Scarecrow, can you tell me what’s happening?” Cynder inquired.
“Feral,” he replied. “Malice.”
“I don’t understand. Not completely”
Scarecrow crouched in front of her, locking his gaze with hers. Slowly, images and sensations began to play out. The ones hunters called feral were often lone ones of their kind whom decided they wanted a particular territory. In order to do so, they needed to be rid of the other hunters. The quickest way to draw another hunter out was to go after its respective simian. This is what was happening now; a feral had come to the city. The lama was its first obvious target, meaning Cynder was next.
“Now understand?” Scarecrow inquired as he pulled away, and she nodded. “Good. Come. Keep you safe.”
“But if I’m with you than this feral will come to you,” Cynder protested.
There was something like a chuckle behind her. It was wild and maniacal. She turned to see Poison. He was smirking.
“Hope so,” he said.
She knew something was wrong before she even reached the temple. Since winter, she’d gotten to where she could sense the lama before she actually saw him. Sometimes, he was reaching out to greet her, which she found comforting. This time was different; there was only silence. A cold void she could not traverse no matter how hard she strained.
Slowly, like static, the thoughts and emotions of the others whom resided within the temple walls began to seep in. It was like a sort of subdued bedlam; something terrible had happened, but no one was quite sure what to make of it. There were questions of calling the authorities or covering it up. Riding as an undercurrent to it all were the sensations of overwhelming sadness and fear.
She reached the muraled room where she often met the lama and almost screamed. There were webs everywhere. On the floor was a set of robes covered in ashes save a desiccated skull with two puncture marks through the scalp.
…Cynder! Cynder!…
Eclipse’s voice grabbed her attention. There was a sense of desperation to it, which bordered upon panic. Concentrating, Cynder reached out.
…Eclipse?…
…Good! Cynder good. Come! Come now…
…But?…
…Come now!…
And she was running, following Eclipse’s mental calls. This was important. The desperation was still there, but Cynder sensed other emotions as well; loss and an almost blind burning rage that burned hotter than the night winds.
Poison and Eclipse were waiting in the alleyway. Eclipse was crouched down, hugging her lower legs. The sadness was obvious in her amber eyes. Cynder wondered in that moment if hunters cried. She reached out, but was greeted with only the absent flicking of a tongue.
“Eclipse? What happened?” She asked.
“Our simian,” Poison hissed, his anger barely contained.
He was standing next to Eclipse, his arms folded squarely across his bare chest. It was from him that Cynder sensed the rage. His purple eyes seemed to blaze in the low light, the scowl on his face bordering upon demonic.
“Our simian,” he said again. “Not food! Wrong!”
“Who did this?” Cynder asked. “And why?”
“Feral,” Eclipse replied softly. “Kills simians. Simians not food. Wrong.”
“Cynder come,” Poison said, reaching out with to her. “Danger. Come now.”
“Wait,” she said. “I want to know who this feral is. I want to know why.”
“Cynder come,” Poison hissed, his impatience becoming apparent.
“Answer my questions first.”
“Stupid simian!” Poison snapped. “Leave you! Let feral feed!”
“Enough!” Scarecrow snapped as he emerged from the shadows.
“Scarecrow, can you tell me what’s happening?” Cynder inquired.
“Feral,” he replied. “Malice.”
“I don’t understand. Not completely”
Scarecrow crouched in front of her, locking his gaze with hers. Slowly, images and sensations began to play out. The ones hunters called feral were often lone ones of their kind whom decided they wanted a particular territory. In order to do so, they needed to be rid of the other hunters. The quickest way to draw another hunter out was to go after its respective simian. This is what was happening now; a feral had come to the city. The lama was its first obvious target, meaning Cynder was next.
“Now understand?” Scarecrow inquired as he pulled away, and she nodded. “Good. Come. Keep you safe.”
“But if I’m with you than this feral will come to you,” Cynder protested.
There was something like a chuckle behind her. It was wild and maniacal. She turned to see Poison. He was smirking.
“Hope so,” he said.
30 September 2012
Amongst the Living
The summer wind brought blast furnace winds from across the wastes. Even the coming of night seldom offered a respite. Cynder’s shirt stuck to her back as she wandered the streets. Many things had changed since those cold days of winter when she first became aware of the hunters and death and resurrection of seed withdrawal, but the wandering the streets at night had not. In fact, there was a new dimension she found amongst the crowds as she walked, her mind brushing against theirs, the sights and smells, the briefly passed words; she found herself feeling more of a connection than she could ever remember. She knew the lama would smile if she mentioned it, which she resolved to the next time she visited the temple.
He was her ever-patient teacher with her mind, in dealing with being one of the hunters’ simian. It was because of the lama that Cynder was taught how to communicate with them better. Although, there was still a spoken language barrier, and one existed in thought and emotion, it seemed like she could almost have what passed as a conversation with one of them.
The hunters certainly had their distinct personalities. Poison was the trickster, although it was difficult to always understand how his sense of humor worked. There was one thing he could say in the human languages with eerie accuracy; “’will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly.” Although he never said it in a malicious way to Cynder or the lama, and it was probably an attempt at a joke, it would still give her chills.
Eclipse was a scholar of sorts. It seemed like she was always studying something, whether it was the behaviors of the creatures she either had as companions or preyed on, or a random rock she found. The game of chess fascinated her and she was delighted when she discovered Cynder not only knew how to play, but was fairly accomplished at it. Strangely, Eclipse never took winning a game well.
“No! Wrong!” She would snap. “Cynder clever! Again!”
Out of the three of them, Scarecrow seemed to a leader of sorts. He was also a stargazer. There were plenty of times Cynder would find him standing atop his silo staring pensively into the night sky. It always pleased him when she would sit with him. Once, while running his talon through her hair, he gave her the sensation that the stars were the thing that equalized them.
After the last of the addiction left her, it was implied that she could live at the silo, but Cynder declined. She still wanted her own space. Shortly thereafter, found employment at refugee shelter, liking the work, although the pay was not very much. Every so often, when she saw one of the hunters, they would give her money, obviously acquired from one of their victims, to help her get by. Scarecrow would even attempt to bring her clothing, even if it didn’t always fit or was not a color she liked. Despite having been away from the seeds since winter, she found she still liked gorging herself on burritos occasionally, finding it reminded her of when she returned to the world of the living.
It had been so long since she walked by the gaming-house, she’d forgotten it was even there. At first she avoided it for fear of falling back into old habits. Then she just lost interest in its existence. Walking by without really noticing until after it was behind her she felt was a big step.
“Cynder!” A familiar voice, one from some time ago now, called after her. “Hey! Where’ve you been, girl?”
She turned to see Bigsby Tran, her former source for the seeds. Once upon a time, she might have rationalized she was his friend, but the truth was more he was her dealer and either occasional lover or pimp. She felt a part of her become excited at seeing this tall, dark-skinned, well-dressed man, but another aspect, the one that had been away from the seeds and the gaming-house for so long, felt uneasy. There were sensations of betrayed abandonment and lecherous hopes of reestablishing something sordid coming from him.
“Hello, Bigs,” she said coolly. “It’s been awhile.”
“’Awhile’?!?” He snorted. “Try like six months. You going to tell me where you been?”
“I…um, met someone,” Cynder said, slowly edging back.
“Must be someone special,” Bigsby winked slyly. “This someone keeping you in seeds?”
“I quit.”
“You what?!?”
“I quit,” Cynder repeated, she was almost to the alley adjoining the gaming-house. If she needed to, she could make a break for it. “Crashed, burned, and came back. I came walking this way without really thinking about it.”
“Well, you’re here,” Bigsby said, reaching for her. It was then she backed into the alley. He followed effortlessly. “What the fuck, Cynder? After everything we been to each other? You’re just going to walk away?”
“You would sometimes sell me for seeds and a little extra money in your pocket,” she shot back. “I’m not your property anymore.”
“Shut up!” Bigsby roared, drawing back his hand.
It was only in the heat of the moment that she realized something else had been watching this exchange. With savage and impossible quickness, Scarecrow sprung from the shadows, pinning Bigsby to the ground. He hissed, his forked tongue tasting the air with its scents of fear and desperation. From his talons, he began to spin his webs.
“Don’t do it, Scarecrow,” Cynder said with incredible calm.
“Why?” He didn’t even look at her. “No mercy. Remember?”
“Seeds,” she replied.
Scarecrow stopped spinning his webs. He leaned closer to Bigsby, his tongue flickering out, brushing the terrified man’s sweating flesh. Scarecrow sniffed the air loudly. Then, with a disgusted hiss, he pushed Bigsby away.
“Rotten! Bad! Not food!” He spat. “Cynder good. Thank you.”
“Holy shit!” Bigsby whimpered as he pulled himself free of the webs. He was reaching into his jacket, both Cynder and Scarecrow could sense what for. The hunter drew himself up to spring once more.
“I wouldn’t, Bigs,” Cynder said calmly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I got him to spare your life once,” she replied. “I might not be able to do it again. You better just get away from me.”
Free of the webs, Bigsby ran back to the street. He didn’t even look behind him, which was probably for the best. Feeling Scarecrow’s talons running through her hair, Cynder heaved a heavy sigh, watching a part of her past better left dead running from her.
***
Even as the lama emerged from his meditation he could tell he was not alone. He reached out with his mind, trying to discern the identity of the presence he felt. It was worrisome when he realized it was no one he knew. The intentions he sensed were nothing like the hunters he was familiar with.
He turned to see a hunter watching him from a darkened corner. His mane and talons were as white as his skin. His tongue was black as it tested the air. His blood red eyes leered at him maliciously.
“Frightened?” The red-eyed hunter inquired as webs shot out, ensnaring his prey.
“Of you? Terribly,” The lama replied as he was drawn closer. “Of death? Never.”
He was her ever-patient teacher with her mind, in dealing with being one of the hunters’ simian. It was because of the lama that Cynder was taught how to communicate with them better. Although, there was still a spoken language barrier, and one existed in thought and emotion, it seemed like she could almost have what passed as a conversation with one of them.
The hunters certainly had their distinct personalities. Poison was the trickster, although it was difficult to always understand how his sense of humor worked. There was one thing he could say in the human languages with eerie accuracy; “’will you walk into my parlor?’ said the Spider to the Fly.” Although he never said it in a malicious way to Cynder or the lama, and it was probably an attempt at a joke, it would still give her chills.
Eclipse was a scholar of sorts. It seemed like she was always studying something, whether it was the behaviors of the creatures she either had as companions or preyed on, or a random rock she found. The game of chess fascinated her and she was delighted when she discovered Cynder not only knew how to play, but was fairly accomplished at it. Strangely, Eclipse never took winning a game well.
“No! Wrong!” She would snap. “Cynder clever! Again!”
Out of the three of them, Scarecrow seemed to a leader of sorts. He was also a stargazer. There were plenty of times Cynder would find him standing atop his silo staring pensively into the night sky. It always pleased him when she would sit with him. Once, while running his talon through her hair, he gave her the sensation that the stars were the thing that equalized them.
After the last of the addiction left her, it was implied that she could live at the silo, but Cynder declined. She still wanted her own space. Shortly thereafter, found employment at refugee shelter, liking the work, although the pay was not very much. Every so often, when she saw one of the hunters, they would give her money, obviously acquired from one of their victims, to help her get by. Scarecrow would even attempt to bring her clothing, even if it didn’t always fit or was not a color she liked. Despite having been away from the seeds since winter, she found she still liked gorging herself on burritos occasionally, finding it reminded her of when she returned to the world of the living.
It had been so long since she walked by the gaming-house, she’d forgotten it was even there. At first she avoided it for fear of falling back into old habits. Then she just lost interest in its existence. Walking by without really noticing until after it was behind her she felt was a big step.
“Cynder!” A familiar voice, one from some time ago now, called after her. “Hey! Where’ve you been, girl?”
She turned to see Bigsby Tran, her former source for the seeds. Once upon a time, she might have rationalized she was his friend, but the truth was more he was her dealer and either occasional lover or pimp. She felt a part of her become excited at seeing this tall, dark-skinned, well-dressed man, but another aspect, the one that had been away from the seeds and the gaming-house for so long, felt uneasy. There were sensations of betrayed abandonment and lecherous hopes of reestablishing something sordid coming from him.
“Hello, Bigs,” she said coolly. “It’s been awhile.”
“’Awhile’?!?” He snorted. “Try like six months. You going to tell me where you been?”
“I…um, met someone,” Cynder said, slowly edging back.
“Must be someone special,” Bigsby winked slyly. “This someone keeping you in seeds?”
“I quit.”
“You what?!?”
“I quit,” Cynder repeated, she was almost to the alley adjoining the gaming-house. If she needed to, she could make a break for it. “Crashed, burned, and came back. I came walking this way without really thinking about it.”
“Well, you’re here,” Bigsby said, reaching for her. It was then she backed into the alley. He followed effortlessly. “What the fuck, Cynder? After everything we been to each other? You’re just going to walk away?”
“You would sometimes sell me for seeds and a little extra money in your pocket,” she shot back. “I’m not your property anymore.”
“Shut up!” Bigsby roared, drawing back his hand.
It was only in the heat of the moment that she realized something else had been watching this exchange. With savage and impossible quickness, Scarecrow sprung from the shadows, pinning Bigsby to the ground. He hissed, his forked tongue tasting the air with its scents of fear and desperation. From his talons, he began to spin his webs.
“Don’t do it, Scarecrow,” Cynder said with incredible calm.
“Why?” He didn’t even look at her. “No mercy. Remember?”
“Seeds,” she replied.
Scarecrow stopped spinning his webs. He leaned closer to Bigsby, his tongue flickering out, brushing the terrified man’s sweating flesh. Scarecrow sniffed the air loudly. Then, with a disgusted hiss, he pushed Bigsby away.
“Rotten! Bad! Not food!” He spat. “Cynder good. Thank you.”
“Holy shit!” Bigsby whimpered as he pulled himself free of the webs. He was reaching into his jacket, both Cynder and Scarecrow could sense what for. The hunter drew himself up to spring once more.
“I wouldn’t, Bigs,” Cynder said calmly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I got him to spare your life once,” she replied. “I might not be able to do it again. You better just get away from me.”
Free of the webs, Bigsby ran back to the street. He didn’t even look behind him, which was probably for the best. Feeling Scarecrow’s talons running through her hair, Cynder heaved a heavy sigh, watching a part of her past better left dead running from her.
***
Even as the lama emerged from his meditation he could tell he was not alone. He reached out with his mind, trying to discern the identity of the presence he felt. It was worrisome when he realized it was no one he knew. The intentions he sensed were nothing like the hunters he was familiar with.
He turned to see a hunter watching him from a darkened corner. His mane and talons were as white as his skin. His tongue was black as it tested the air. His blood red eyes leered at him maliciously.
“Frightened?” The red-eyed hunter inquired as webs shot out, ensnaring his prey.
“Of you? Terribly,” The lama replied as he was drawn closer. “Of death? Never.”
27 September 2012
The Others
She was led to the very bottom of the old silo. A great iron boiler roared with hungry flame that both warmed and illuminated the room. Cynder could feel sweat beading upon her brow. In the center of the room was a long table. At it sat the familiar figure of the lama. He smiled broadly at her as she approached. In his hands was a bag of something spicy and sweet-smelling, a scent she knew well.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “I was concerned when you left.”
“How long ago was that?” Cynder asked.
“Three twilights,” Scarecrow replied, before motioning to the bag. “Cynder feed.”
“I was sent to get this for you,” the lama said. “Scarecrow saw you eating this the night you first met him and he figured it’s your favorite because of how you devoured it.”
Cynder smiled weakly as she took the bag and opened it. Inside were burritos filled with eggs, cheese, black beans, and shredded pork, slathered in green chili and hot sauce. It was something she almost always found herself eating after she took the seeds. Her come down food. With having gone through the physical portion of withdrawal, she wondered if this might be the last time she ever had this particular meal.
“Thank you,” she said to both the lama and Scarecrow.
It was almost amazed her how ravenous she was. Certainly, she hadn’t eaten in three days, but the last time she had anything in her digestive tract, her body was being treacherous. These thoughts soon became lost in the need to fill herself as full as she could. There was a sense of disappointment as she finished the last burrito. Although she felt as though she could burst, she wanted more. After what she’d just been through, it was like she was returning from the dead, and she wanted as much of life as she could get. If in the heat of the moment life equated to gorging herself on burritos, then so be it.
“Good appetite,” another voice said from the shadows. “Getting better.”
Cynder turned in the direction of the voice to see two other white-skinned creatures standing off with Scarecrow. The one she heard speak was taller and more slender than the hunter she had first been acquainted with. His hair, the nails of his talons, even his forked tongue were every conceivable color thrown together in a whimsical fashion. He regarded her with purple eyes and what could best be described as an almost maniacal smirk.
Next to him was a female, whom, like Scarecrow, had a mane of long black hair. Her amber eyes held a quality beyond that of aloofness; Cynder at first thought she was being scrutinized, but realized that wasn’t the correct sensation. She was being studied.
“Those others you told me of?” She asked the lama.
“Yes. Poison and Eclipse,” he replied. “They are what you might call bonded.”
“Shake!” Poison said excitedly, offering his left talon. “Come! Shake!”
Gingerly, Cynder reached out. Even before she got close, he drew back with that quickness she’d seen when these creatures were ensnaring their prey. Something, which may have been a chuckle resounded in the back of his throat.
“Too slow,” he smirked.
“Trickster,” Scarecrow said with an almost dismissive gesture to his fellow hunter.
“Fuddy-duddy,” Poison shot back with an equally dismissive gesture and a mocking tone. His shorter fellow made an amused sound.
“Eclipse,” Cynder began. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Charmed,” she responded coldly, her tongue flicking out dismissively.
“She takes some getting used to, but she means well,” the lama said as he walked up to Eclipse. The female hunter ran the back of her hand across his head in a way that probably was meant to be affectionate. “I am their simian.”
“Watch Cynder,” Poison said to the lama.
It was then the hunters exited the room. She could hear them communicating in a series of hisses and clicks. Not all the sensations she got from them made sense to her, although she could sense none of them had any interest in harming her. The lama took her hand and led her back to the table.
“Where are they going?” Cynder inquired.
“Hunting, maybe, I don’t know,” he replied. “But come now, stay with me.”
***
Cynder didn’t know how long she sat with lama by the roaring fire of the boiler. Her sense of time was still horribly skewed. They spoke of her nightmares of withdrawal from the seeds and how Scarecrow stayed with her through the worst of it. She told of coming upon the room full of cocoons and being punished for it. He merely listened, only saying something when she threatened to lapse into silence.
They felt the hunters before they actually saw them. Scarecrow’s talons teased Cynder’s hair playfully and Poison rubbed the lama’s shoulders. Eclipse hung back in the shadows, her amber eyes giving off a soft glow like that of the butter lanterns at the temple.
“It is time,” Poison said to the lama. “Come.”
“I’ll see you soon, Cynder.”
“I should leave too,” she said.
“No!” Scarecrow hissed. Suddenly, she felt him grip her arm tightly.
“But…”she started to protest.
“Still sick,” Scarecrow stated. “Stay with me.”
“It’s for the best,” the lama said. “He’ll keep you safe.”
Cynder could sense the sincerity from both her fellow human being and white-skinned creatures around them. They were all concerned for her, which she found odd, but comforting. For the first time in a very, very long time, it seemed there were others who cared for her, even if three of them were of kind that preyed upon others of her species.
Scarecrow stroked her hair again and she relaxed. She knew he would do whatever he could to watch out for her, even going as far using his mind to comfort her from the residual demons left within her psyche from the seeds. It was then the felt another hand, another talon touch her. Cynder looked up to see Eclipse looking at her in an almost matronly fashion.
“Cynder get well,” she said softly.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “I was concerned when you left.”
“How long ago was that?” Cynder asked.
“Three twilights,” Scarecrow replied, before motioning to the bag. “Cynder feed.”
“I was sent to get this for you,” the lama said. “Scarecrow saw you eating this the night you first met him and he figured it’s your favorite because of how you devoured it.”
Cynder smiled weakly as she took the bag and opened it. Inside were burritos filled with eggs, cheese, black beans, and shredded pork, slathered in green chili and hot sauce. It was something she almost always found herself eating after she took the seeds. Her come down food. With having gone through the physical portion of withdrawal, she wondered if this might be the last time she ever had this particular meal.
“Thank you,” she said to both the lama and Scarecrow.
It was almost amazed her how ravenous she was. Certainly, she hadn’t eaten in three days, but the last time she had anything in her digestive tract, her body was being treacherous. These thoughts soon became lost in the need to fill herself as full as she could. There was a sense of disappointment as she finished the last burrito. Although she felt as though she could burst, she wanted more. After what she’d just been through, it was like she was returning from the dead, and she wanted as much of life as she could get. If in the heat of the moment life equated to gorging herself on burritos, then so be it.
“Good appetite,” another voice said from the shadows. “Getting better.”
Cynder turned in the direction of the voice to see two other white-skinned creatures standing off with Scarecrow. The one she heard speak was taller and more slender than the hunter she had first been acquainted with. His hair, the nails of his talons, even his forked tongue were every conceivable color thrown together in a whimsical fashion. He regarded her with purple eyes and what could best be described as an almost maniacal smirk.
Next to him was a female, whom, like Scarecrow, had a mane of long black hair. Her amber eyes held a quality beyond that of aloofness; Cynder at first thought she was being scrutinized, but realized that wasn’t the correct sensation. She was being studied.
“Those others you told me of?” She asked the lama.
“Yes. Poison and Eclipse,” he replied. “They are what you might call bonded.”
“Shake!” Poison said excitedly, offering his left talon. “Come! Shake!”
Gingerly, Cynder reached out. Even before she got close, he drew back with that quickness she’d seen when these creatures were ensnaring their prey. Something, which may have been a chuckle resounded in the back of his throat.
“Too slow,” he smirked.
“Trickster,” Scarecrow said with an almost dismissive gesture to his fellow hunter.
“Fuddy-duddy,” Poison shot back with an equally dismissive gesture and a mocking tone. His shorter fellow made an amused sound.
“Eclipse,” Cynder began. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Charmed,” she responded coldly, her tongue flicking out dismissively.
“She takes some getting used to, but she means well,” the lama said as he walked up to Eclipse. The female hunter ran the back of her hand across his head in a way that probably was meant to be affectionate. “I am their simian.”
“Watch Cynder,” Poison said to the lama.
It was then the hunters exited the room. She could hear them communicating in a series of hisses and clicks. Not all the sensations she got from them made sense to her, although she could sense none of them had any interest in harming her. The lama took her hand and led her back to the table.
“Where are they going?” Cynder inquired.
“Hunting, maybe, I don’t know,” he replied. “But come now, stay with me.”
***
Cynder didn’t know how long she sat with lama by the roaring fire of the boiler. Her sense of time was still horribly skewed. They spoke of her nightmares of withdrawal from the seeds and how Scarecrow stayed with her through the worst of it. She told of coming upon the room full of cocoons and being punished for it. He merely listened, only saying something when she threatened to lapse into silence.
They felt the hunters before they actually saw them. Scarecrow’s talons teased Cynder’s hair playfully and Poison rubbed the lama’s shoulders. Eclipse hung back in the shadows, her amber eyes giving off a soft glow like that of the butter lanterns at the temple.
“It is time,” Poison said to the lama. “Come.”
“I’ll see you soon, Cynder.”
“I should leave too,” she said.
“No!” Scarecrow hissed. Suddenly, she felt him grip her arm tightly.
“But…”she started to protest.
“Still sick,” Scarecrow stated. “Stay with me.”
“It’s for the best,” the lama said. “He’ll keep you safe.”
Cynder could sense the sincerity from both her fellow human being and white-skinned creatures around them. They were all concerned for her, which she found odd, but comforting. For the first time in a very, very long time, it seemed there were others who cared for her, even if three of them were of kind that preyed upon others of her species.
Scarecrow stroked her hair again and she relaxed. She knew he would do whatever he could to watch out for her, even going as far using his mind to comfort her from the residual demons left within her psyche from the seeds. It was then the felt another hand, another talon touch her. Cynder looked up to see Eclipse looking at her in an almost matronly fashion.
“Cynder get well,” she said softly.
25 September 2012
Coming Down
Even as she walked, she could feel her fragile grip on reality fraying. Outside of the evangelical church, a missionary spoke in doomsday tongues of how these were the End of Days; the rapture had occurred when things fell apart and now the final judgement was at hand. When Cynder turned to look at him she saw his face melting into something sinister and demonic. It caused her to shriek and run blindly through the twilight streets.
Everything was twisting and warping and reforming in upon itself. She felt disoriented. Every so often, she thought she heard an alien, yet familiar, voice guiding her, but she couldn’t be sure. Noting was real anymore. Her body ached, and, despite the chill in the winter air and the biting wind, she was sweating, heat radiating from some inferno deep within her. Part of her wondered if she was going to die, or worse, plunge into a psychosis of never-ending hallucinations and pain.
She had no idea how she found the alleyway. Even as she came upon it, it bore the countenance of a gapping maw with gore dripping from rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Still, she crawled into the belly, finding herself surrounded by the familiar graffiti and scents of trash. Desperately, she looked to see if there would be the familiar non-human figure she met the last time she was here, but perhaps that was just a hallucination too.
There was itching on her arms, she reached down to scratch and saw maggots chewing their way free. Even as she started to scream, the meager contents of her stomach burst forth in the form of sewer water and blood. She could feel wetness in her crotch and a stickiness from her backside. Her legs buckled under her as she began to shake. Cynder spied a pile of garbage she figured she could crawl into to hide, but found she lacked the strength to move. Finally, a low moan escaped her frame.
A set of arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Clawed nails caressed her scalp. She looked up into a pair of serpentine blue eyes. Scarecrow’s forked tongue flicked out into the cold air, almost touching her fevered brow.
“Easy. Easy,” he said. “Cynder sick. Not good. Easy.”
“Withdrawal…” she managed to say. “I’m crashing.”
She might have said more, but a spasm shot through her body. Suddenly, she was twisting and turning, thrashing violently. By this time she realized she no longer has control over her own body. Part of her regretting not staying at the temple with the lama, but she also wondered what could’ve possibly been done for her at this point. The seeds, the addiction, was having their way with her, as she tried to purge it all from her system.
As the spasms wracked her body, she felt Scarecrow’s grip tightening. His mind brushed against hers, letting her know he was close. The sensations of comfort helped calm her a little. It was only as the spasms subsided that Cynder noticed he had wrapped her in webbing from her shoulders to her knees. She opened her mouth to scream, but he placed a clawed finger to her lips.
“No!” Scarecrow hissed. “Easy, easy. Cynder not food. Promise, promise. Easy. Trust me.”
Slowly, she nodded. It was the only thing she could do. Her mouth was filled with ashes and she couldn’t trust her body to do much of anything. Slowly, Scarecrow lifted her over his shoulder. The hallucinations were still happening and the heat she felt made her wonder if she was going to burn alive from the inside out, but, in the arms of the hunter, she knew there was at least one real thing left.
“Cynder sick,” he said as he began to move into the growing shadows. Then, with his mind; …I will keep you safe until you are well...
***
The decaying silo stood at the far edge of the city. One of those places even the most criminal of elements would not go. Beyond stood the desiccated wastes and iron-colored mountains. Cynder felt the structure resembled a watchtower. Something that was perfect for a hunter.
She had no idea when it was she arrived, or how long it was she spasmed and hallucinated. Her body, and its ability to keep its contents to itself betrayed her on more humiliating occasions than she could count. The whole time, Scarecrow stayed with her, cooing assurances, giving sensations of comfort. When she thought she could take no more, she found his gaze locked with hers, his blue eyes glowing brightly.
...Sleep…
***
When Cynder opened her eyes again, she was alone. A blanket was placed loosely over her bare body, and a tub of steaming water had been drawn for her. Next to the tub were fresh cloths, and her soiled ones were drip-drying in an open doorway.
The water felt wonderful on her aching and battered frame. She wondered how long she slept and then wondered if it really mattered. Outside, she could hear the wind, and, from an open window, she could see a few flakes of desperate snow. It looked like it might be late afternoon.
Finally, she pulled herself from the water, which had become lukewarm. The fresh clothing was a little brighter colored than she preferred, but at least it fit. The building she was in was surprisingly warm for being an abandoned looking structure with open windows. She somewhat wondered if it was an after effect of her withdraw. Perhaps a residual fever.
Cynder began to explore her surroundings. Many of the chambers in the silo seemed abandoned. There were webs everywhere, which seemed fitting, given her host. She called out his name, but there was no answer. With her mind, she tried to sense for him, but wasn’t exactly sure if he was nearby.
Finally, she came upon a room filled with cocoons of various sizes. Cynder felt herself grow cold, knowing what was inside those bundles. There were what looked like piles of ash on the floor. One cocoon looked to be opened. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she approached it. What she saw made her scream.
The mummified husk had to distinct puncture marks through the top of the head. A great deal of the remains was little more than ashen dust. Whether it was the sound of her scream, or her footfalls so nearby, but the rest of the body disintegrated into dry ash almost instantaneously.
…What are you doing in here?…Scarecrow’s voice came from out of nowhere. She turned just in time to catch the back of his hand across her face, sending her flying. “No! No! No! No look! Cynder bad! No look! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
Before she could even stand he had grabbed her by the nape of the neck and dragged her from the room. There were scratch marks down the side of her face. She wondered if she was bleeding. Forcefully, she pushed against the wall of another chamber.
“Bad!” Scarecrow hissed. “No look! Not your food! My food! No look!”
“I’m sorry,” Cynder whimpered. “I was looking for you.”
He said nothing, his tongue testing the air. She could sense he didn’t enjoy striking her or admonishing her. Still, the sensation he gave was clear; that room was off-limits to her. It was as though she wanted to protect her from the sight of his preferred food source.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay away from there.”
“Good,” he said. “Cynder hungry?”
“I think I am,” she replied, unable to remember the last time she ate.
“Good,” Scarecrow said as he began walking in the opposite direction of the room with the cocoons. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Cynder asked.
“To feed,” Scarecrow said over his shoulder.
Everything was twisting and warping and reforming in upon itself. She felt disoriented. Every so often, she thought she heard an alien, yet familiar, voice guiding her, but she couldn’t be sure. Noting was real anymore. Her body ached, and, despite the chill in the winter air and the biting wind, she was sweating, heat radiating from some inferno deep within her. Part of her wondered if she was going to die, or worse, plunge into a psychosis of never-ending hallucinations and pain.
She had no idea how she found the alleyway. Even as she came upon it, it bore the countenance of a gapping maw with gore dripping from rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Still, she crawled into the belly, finding herself surrounded by the familiar graffiti and scents of trash. Desperately, she looked to see if there would be the familiar non-human figure she met the last time she was here, but perhaps that was just a hallucination too.
There was itching on her arms, she reached down to scratch and saw maggots chewing their way free. Even as she started to scream, the meager contents of her stomach burst forth in the form of sewer water and blood. She could feel wetness in her crotch and a stickiness from her backside. Her legs buckled under her as she began to shake. Cynder spied a pile of garbage she figured she could crawl into to hide, but found she lacked the strength to move. Finally, a low moan escaped her frame.
A set of arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Clawed nails caressed her scalp. She looked up into a pair of serpentine blue eyes. Scarecrow’s forked tongue flicked out into the cold air, almost touching her fevered brow.
“Easy. Easy,” he said. “Cynder sick. Not good. Easy.”
“Withdrawal…” she managed to say. “I’m crashing.”
She might have said more, but a spasm shot through her body. Suddenly, she was twisting and turning, thrashing violently. By this time she realized she no longer has control over her own body. Part of her regretting not staying at the temple with the lama, but she also wondered what could’ve possibly been done for her at this point. The seeds, the addiction, was having their way with her, as she tried to purge it all from her system.
As the spasms wracked her body, she felt Scarecrow’s grip tightening. His mind brushed against hers, letting her know he was close. The sensations of comfort helped calm her a little. It was only as the spasms subsided that Cynder noticed he had wrapped her in webbing from her shoulders to her knees. She opened her mouth to scream, but he placed a clawed finger to her lips.
“No!” Scarecrow hissed. “Easy, easy. Cynder not food. Promise, promise. Easy. Trust me.”
Slowly, she nodded. It was the only thing she could do. Her mouth was filled with ashes and she couldn’t trust her body to do much of anything. Slowly, Scarecrow lifted her over his shoulder. The hallucinations were still happening and the heat she felt made her wonder if she was going to burn alive from the inside out, but, in the arms of the hunter, she knew there was at least one real thing left.
“Cynder sick,” he said as he began to move into the growing shadows. Then, with his mind; …I will keep you safe until you are well...
***
The decaying silo stood at the far edge of the city. One of those places even the most criminal of elements would not go. Beyond stood the desiccated wastes and iron-colored mountains. Cynder felt the structure resembled a watchtower. Something that was perfect for a hunter.
She had no idea when it was she arrived, or how long it was she spasmed and hallucinated. Her body, and its ability to keep its contents to itself betrayed her on more humiliating occasions than she could count. The whole time, Scarecrow stayed with her, cooing assurances, giving sensations of comfort. When she thought she could take no more, she found his gaze locked with hers, his blue eyes glowing brightly.
...Sleep…
***
When Cynder opened her eyes again, she was alone. A blanket was placed loosely over her bare body, and a tub of steaming water had been drawn for her. Next to the tub were fresh cloths, and her soiled ones were drip-drying in an open doorway.
The water felt wonderful on her aching and battered frame. She wondered how long she slept and then wondered if it really mattered. Outside, she could hear the wind, and, from an open window, she could see a few flakes of desperate snow. It looked like it might be late afternoon.
Finally, she pulled herself from the water, which had become lukewarm. The fresh clothing was a little brighter colored than she preferred, but at least it fit. The building she was in was surprisingly warm for being an abandoned looking structure with open windows. She somewhat wondered if it was an after effect of her withdraw. Perhaps a residual fever.
Cynder began to explore her surroundings. Many of the chambers in the silo seemed abandoned. There were webs everywhere, which seemed fitting, given her host. She called out his name, but there was no answer. With her mind, she tried to sense for him, but wasn’t exactly sure if he was nearby.
Finally, she came upon a room filled with cocoons of various sizes. Cynder felt herself grow cold, knowing what was inside those bundles. There were what looked like piles of ash on the floor. One cocoon looked to be opened. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she approached it. What she saw made her scream.
The mummified husk had to distinct puncture marks through the top of the head. A great deal of the remains was little more than ashen dust. Whether it was the sound of her scream, or her footfalls so nearby, but the rest of the body disintegrated into dry ash almost instantaneously.
…What are you doing in here?…Scarecrow’s voice came from out of nowhere. She turned just in time to catch the back of his hand across her face, sending her flying. “No! No! No! No look! Cynder bad! No look! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
Before she could even stand he had grabbed her by the nape of the neck and dragged her from the room. There were scratch marks down the side of her face. She wondered if she was bleeding. Forcefully, she pushed against the wall of another chamber.
“Bad!” Scarecrow hissed. “No look! Not your food! My food! No look!”
“I’m sorry,” Cynder whimpered. “I was looking for you.”
He said nothing, his tongue testing the air. She could sense he didn’t enjoy striking her or admonishing her. Still, the sensation he gave was clear; that room was off-limits to her. It was as though she wanted to protect her from the sight of his preferred food source.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay away from there.”
“Good,” he said. “Cynder hungry?”
“I think I am,” she replied, unable to remember the last time she ate.
“Good,” Scarecrow said as he began walking in the opposite direction of the room with the cocoons. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Cynder asked.
“To feed,” Scarecrow said over his shoulder.
23 September 2012
An Education
The air was that of incense and the chanting of prayers. Esoterica and enlightenment. Butter lanterns lit the room, casting ominous shadows across the brightly colored murals, which covered the walls. It was a large chamber; the figures within seeming so insignificant in its scope.
The lama listened to Cynder’s tale with rapt attention. His and then’s and please continues placed at the appropriate times. She felt bad; when speaking of Scarecrow, she couldn’t bring herself to speak his name. Her descriptions included words like it and monster, neither of which she truly felt about the white-skinned creature that was so kind to her in their brief encounter.
“And then it just disappeared,” she concluded. “I wonder if I’ll ever see it again. I mean, it said so, but who knows?”
“You will,” the lama said softly, in an almost distracted tone. “Were you given a name?”
“Scarecrow,” Cynder replied, almost feeling like she had just betrayed a secret. The lama merely chuckled.
“He’s always been choosy about his simians,” he said. “That’s what they call us; simians.”
She started to open her mouth; thousands of questions clawed their way from her throat, begging to be answered. The lama merely smiled gently. It was then she began to receive sensations of familiarity, images of reptilian eyes and flicking forked tongues. Part of her was comforted that someone else in this world possessed the same ability as were, but another felt frightened and betrayed, like she should’ve been told earlier. Perhaps she should have been warned.
“You…you knew?!?” She exclaimed.
“You weren’t ready,” the lama replied. “And just because you have the gifts that you do does not guarantee a hunter might take a liking to you. Most people go through their entire lives without any real knowledge of them. Others, end up in the hunter’s webs.”
“Hunter? That’s what something like Scarecrow is called?”
“It’s the most apt term, but they’ve been called many things since they first appeared; rakshasa, barghest, windigo…”
“Vampire?” Cynder interrupted and the lama’s eyes narrowed.
“Only if you want to insult them.”
“Where did they come from?”
“It is said they first started appearing when things were falling apart, back around the First Great Famine,” the lama said. “Some believe they were an experiment that turned upon their creators; the amalgam of a spider, a komodo dragon, and perhaps a hyena twisted up into something sort of humanoid, but not a human being. It is thought whoever created them did so because humans had no natural predators, other than themselves, and after what we’d helped do to the world, perhaps we needed to be kept in check.”
“But Scarecrow didn’t want to hurt me,” Cynder argued. “I could sense it.”
“Of course not,” the lama agreed. “People like me and you, who can sense things, are able to communicate better with the hunters than other people. They sometimes choose us as companions; their simians.”
“You mean pets? Like a dog?”
“More like a cat, I’d say. The hunters like how human beings can have an independent streak, that we sometimes fight back and ask questions. It might be hubris that our species exacerbated what happened to the world, but it’s that sometimes stubborn refusal to just go with the natural cycles, which at least amuses them.”
“Are there others here besides Scarecrow?”
“Two more,” the lama replied. “Even in the most populous city, there is usually no more than three or four hunters. It’s all a matter of their food, after all. Since Scarecrow’s chosen you, you’ll eventually meet the others.”
Cynder said nothing, instead trying to make sense out of what she was being told. Until a few days ago, this sort of thing was just a spook-story. Something a parent might tell a child to keep them in line. Now, she was faced with the fact there was monster of sorts in her world, and it was very real.
She stood up to leave. The urge to walk aimlessly while she processed the information held appeal. Even as she stood, a wave of nausea swept over her. Suddenly, she felt very hot. Sweat beaded upon her brow and she fought to stay standing.
“How long?” The lama inquired.
“Since what?” Cynder asked back.
“Since you took the seeds.”
“Three days, I think,” she replied. Another wave of nausea soaked her frame. She desperately wanted to get outside, into the cool air.
“You’re starting to go into withdrawal,” the lama observed. “Perhaps you should stay here. We can help you through the worst of it.”
“Thank you, but no,” Cynder said. “I’ll be okay. I just need to walk.”
It seemed like she was walking through tar, but she made it to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she could see little flashes of light, like fireflies. The hallucinations were beginning. If she could at least make it to her alleyway, she’d be safe. Part of her mind uttered Scarecrow’s name almost like a mantra.
“Be careful,” the lama said. “If you crash out there on the streets you may fall prey to something worse than a hunter.”
“I’ll be okay,” Cynder repeated, knowing she was lying, but she couldn’t stay at the temple. It was too hot and the images in the murals were leering at her, whispering evil things. “Do you think I’ll see Scarecrow soon?”
“I would wager he will find you soon enough,” the lama replied with a concerned smile. “Just as he promised.”
The lama listened to Cynder’s tale with rapt attention. His and then’s and please continues placed at the appropriate times. She felt bad; when speaking of Scarecrow, she couldn’t bring herself to speak his name. Her descriptions included words like it and monster, neither of which she truly felt about the white-skinned creature that was so kind to her in their brief encounter.
“And then it just disappeared,” she concluded. “I wonder if I’ll ever see it again. I mean, it said so, but who knows?”
“You will,” the lama said softly, in an almost distracted tone. “Were you given a name?”
“Scarecrow,” Cynder replied, almost feeling like she had just betrayed a secret. The lama merely chuckled.
“He’s always been choosy about his simians,” he said. “That’s what they call us; simians.”
She started to open her mouth; thousands of questions clawed their way from her throat, begging to be answered. The lama merely smiled gently. It was then she began to receive sensations of familiarity, images of reptilian eyes and flicking forked tongues. Part of her was comforted that someone else in this world possessed the same ability as were, but another felt frightened and betrayed, like she should’ve been told earlier. Perhaps she should have been warned.
“You…you knew?!?” She exclaimed.
“You weren’t ready,” the lama replied. “And just because you have the gifts that you do does not guarantee a hunter might take a liking to you. Most people go through their entire lives without any real knowledge of them. Others, end up in the hunter’s webs.”
“Hunter? That’s what something like Scarecrow is called?”
“It’s the most apt term, but they’ve been called many things since they first appeared; rakshasa, barghest, windigo…”
“Vampire?” Cynder interrupted and the lama’s eyes narrowed.
“Only if you want to insult them.”
“Where did they come from?”
“It is said they first started appearing when things were falling apart, back around the First Great Famine,” the lama said. “Some believe they were an experiment that turned upon their creators; the amalgam of a spider, a komodo dragon, and perhaps a hyena twisted up into something sort of humanoid, but not a human being. It is thought whoever created them did so because humans had no natural predators, other than themselves, and after what we’d helped do to the world, perhaps we needed to be kept in check.”
“But Scarecrow didn’t want to hurt me,” Cynder argued. “I could sense it.”
“Of course not,” the lama agreed. “People like me and you, who can sense things, are able to communicate better with the hunters than other people. They sometimes choose us as companions; their simians.”
“You mean pets? Like a dog?”
“More like a cat, I’d say. The hunters like how human beings can have an independent streak, that we sometimes fight back and ask questions. It might be hubris that our species exacerbated what happened to the world, but it’s that sometimes stubborn refusal to just go with the natural cycles, which at least amuses them.”
“Are there others here besides Scarecrow?”
“Two more,” the lama replied. “Even in the most populous city, there is usually no more than three or four hunters. It’s all a matter of their food, after all. Since Scarecrow’s chosen you, you’ll eventually meet the others.”
Cynder said nothing, instead trying to make sense out of what she was being told. Until a few days ago, this sort of thing was just a spook-story. Something a parent might tell a child to keep them in line. Now, she was faced with the fact there was monster of sorts in her world, and it was very real.
She stood up to leave. The urge to walk aimlessly while she processed the information held appeal. Even as she stood, a wave of nausea swept over her. Suddenly, she felt very hot. Sweat beaded upon her brow and she fought to stay standing.
“How long?” The lama inquired.
“Since what?” Cynder asked back.
“Since you took the seeds.”
“Three days, I think,” she replied. Another wave of nausea soaked her frame. She desperately wanted to get outside, into the cool air.
“You’re starting to go into withdrawal,” the lama observed. “Perhaps you should stay here. We can help you through the worst of it.”
“Thank you, but no,” Cynder said. “I’ll be okay. I just need to walk.”
It seemed like she was walking through tar, but she made it to the door. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she could see little flashes of light, like fireflies. The hallucinations were beginning. If she could at least make it to her alleyway, she’d be safe. Part of her mind uttered Scarecrow’s name almost like a mantra.
“Be careful,” the lama said. “If you crash out there on the streets you may fall prey to something worse than a hunter.”
“I’ll be okay,” Cynder repeated, knowing she was lying, but she couldn’t stay at the temple. It was too hot and the images in the murals were leering at her, whispering evil things. “Do you think I’ll see Scarecrow soon?”
“I would wager he will find you soon enough,” the lama replied with a concerned smile. “Just as he promised.”
21 September 2012
Scarecrow
Maybe at some other time, Cynder would have been frightened, but there was no fear at all. She stepped forward without really even thinking about it. The figure, this strange tall white-skinned creature, ran his talon-like hand over her head, pushing her hood away, gently. The long black nails scratching softly and playfully through her amber-colored hair. It got her to smile. She could feel it; there was no malice in his touch. He wanted her to trust him.
“Good,” he cooed. His inhuman voice of hisses and clicks as comforting as his touch. He brought her in closer. There were times when the words faded into that sound, and he would make an amused sound before resuming in simple words. “Easy. Good, good. Easy.”
“Wha…who are you?” She finally asked.
He started making a series of hisses and clicks. Once more, he made an amused sound. She could sense he knew of an obvious language barrier. Words didn’t always exist, so there were the simple terms and sensations she was getting. Slowly, he stooped lower and pointed upward to the rooftops.
“There,” he said. “Up.”
She followed his clawed finger to one particular rooftop. Once, during the day, she remembered seeing it; a rooftop garden. It was a simple thing, which made her smile. A bit of hope in such a hopeless world. She could sense his gaze was focused on a silhouetted figure standing silent and still amongst the covered plants. He then pulled her attention back.
“Me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “Am Scarecrow.”
“Cynder,” she said, and he nodded with the expression that looked like a smile.
“That your boyfriend, chica?”
They both turned to see the leering shaved-head man with lime green eyes. Two other men stood on either side of him. Cynder felt herself growing cold. Scarecrow’s black tongue flicked out in an almost annoyed fashion. Slowly, he stood up, placing his arm in front of her.
“Behind me,” he ordered. “Now!’
He took a single step forward. Upon doing so, Cynder began to get a scope of just how tall he was, towering over the men who were all easily over six feet tall. He was more muscular. What seemed out of place was how he was shirtless on such a cold night, but that was a triviality; she noticed how his legs bent backward, like the hind limbs of a dog or a cat. She noticed how his mane followed the full length of his spine, ending at his waist, but how it trailed behind like a sort of tail.
“Cynder mine,” Scarecrow said coldly, his tongue testing the air again. If his appearance, his strange voice, rattled the men, they weren’t letting on.
“We just wanted to talk to her,” said the shaved-head man as he pulled a whip from his belt.
He cracked it once, as a posturing gesture, then snapped it at the tall creature in front of him. Scarecrow caught the weapon with impossible speed. Even faster than that, he was on top of the shaved-head man. His talon hands moving in a frenzy around his quarry. From the clawed fingertips, something white and stringy emerged.
In seconds, a cocooned bundle fell to the ground. The other two men were already running, but Scarecrow was so much faster. Cynder wanted to scream in horror as she saw him cocoon another of the men. The last, he grabbed, slamming savagely against the pavements, blood and screams of surprised pain flying wild everywhere, before dragging him back whimpering.
“Cynder want?” Scarecrow inquired as he held the sniveling mass in front of her.
She wanted to vomit. She feared she was going to wet herself. Scarecrow regarded her for a moment and then shrugged.
“Just fed,” he said, webs beginning to ensnare the last man. “Not hungry.”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” the man was sobbing as the strands wrapped around him. “Please…”
“Stop!” Cynder screamed. Scarecrow’s head snapped up, a snarl on his face. “Please?”
“Why?” He asked simply.
Her head was suddenly filled with images of what the men intended to do to her. Her body felt the sensations. The urge to vomit returned. She looked into his cold blue eyes and felt tears welling up in her own.
“No mercy,” Scarecrow said. “Hunted, hunter.” Then, clearer, his voice resounded in her head;…It is the way…
Now, she really wanted the seeds. She could all put taste them. Sensing this, Scarecrow’s eyes narrowed.
“No more! Bad!” He snapped. It was then she realized what he was saying in her mind earlier.
“Okay,” she said after swallowing hard.
He turned away to gather the cocoons. Cynder shut her eyes, trying not to imagine what would ultimately happen to the men trapped inside each one. There was a sudden wave of comfort when she felt nails scratching into her scalp. His touch was so soothing. It was safest she’d ever felt.
“Must go,” he whispered. She opened her eyes to see the three cocoons slung over his shoulder. “Hungry. Feed.”
“Will I see you again?” She asked, her voice was small. He cupped her cheek, and the expression, which looked like a smile appeared again.
“Soon,” he replied gently. “Promise.”
And he was gone. Disappearing into the dark and cold of the night with the same unimaginable swiftness she’d witnessed when he was dispatching the three men. In that moment, she felt herself feeling lonely, but, this time, it was different; this was an aching loneliness, as though a piece of her had disappeared into the shadows. As if sensing this, Scarecrow’s voice touched her mind;
…Do not worry, Cynder…I will find you…
“Good,” he cooed. His inhuman voice of hisses and clicks as comforting as his touch. He brought her in closer. There were times when the words faded into that sound, and he would make an amused sound before resuming in simple words. “Easy. Good, good. Easy.”
“Wha…who are you?” She finally asked.
He started making a series of hisses and clicks. Once more, he made an amused sound. She could sense he knew of an obvious language barrier. Words didn’t always exist, so there were the simple terms and sensations she was getting. Slowly, he stooped lower and pointed upward to the rooftops.
“There,” he said. “Up.”
She followed his clawed finger to one particular rooftop. Once, during the day, she remembered seeing it; a rooftop garden. It was a simple thing, which made her smile. A bit of hope in such a hopeless world. She could sense his gaze was focused on a silhouetted figure standing silent and still amongst the covered plants. He then pulled her attention back.
“Me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “Am Scarecrow.”
“Cynder,” she said, and he nodded with the expression that looked like a smile.
“That your boyfriend, chica?”
They both turned to see the leering shaved-head man with lime green eyes. Two other men stood on either side of him. Cynder felt herself growing cold. Scarecrow’s black tongue flicked out in an almost annoyed fashion. Slowly, he stood up, placing his arm in front of her.
“Behind me,” he ordered. “Now!’
He took a single step forward. Upon doing so, Cynder began to get a scope of just how tall he was, towering over the men who were all easily over six feet tall. He was more muscular. What seemed out of place was how he was shirtless on such a cold night, but that was a triviality; she noticed how his legs bent backward, like the hind limbs of a dog or a cat. She noticed how his mane followed the full length of his spine, ending at his waist, but how it trailed behind like a sort of tail.
“Cynder mine,” Scarecrow said coldly, his tongue testing the air again. If his appearance, his strange voice, rattled the men, they weren’t letting on.
“We just wanted to talk to her,” said the shaved-head man as he pulled a whip from his belt.
He cracked it once, as a posturing gesture, then snapped it at the tall creature in front of him. Scarecrow caught the weapon with impossible speed. Even faster than that, he was on top of the shaved-head man. His talon hands moving in a frenzy around his quarry. From the clawed fingertips, something white and stringy emerged.
In seconds, a cocooned bundle fell to the ground. The other two men were already running, but Scarecrow was so much faster. Cynder wanted to scream in horror as she saw him cocoon another of the men. The last, he grabbed, slamming savagely against the pavements, blood and screams of surprised pain flying wild everywhere, before dragging him back whimpering.
“Cynder want?” Scarecrow inquired as he held the sniveling mass in front of her.
She wanted to vomit. She feared she was going to wet herself. Scarecrow regarded her for a moment and then shrugged.
“Just fed,” he said, webs beginning to ensnare the last man. “Not hungry.”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” the man was sobbing as the strands wrapped around him. “Please…”
“Stop!” Cynder screamed. Scarecrow’s head snapped up, a snarl on his face. “Please?”
“Why?” He asked simply.
Her head was suddenly filled with images of what the men intended to do to her. Her body felt the sensations. The urge to vomit returned. She looked into his cold blue eyes and felt tears welling up in her own.
“No mercy,” Scarecrow said. “Hunted, hunter.” Then, clearer, his voice resounded in her head;…It is the way…
Now, she really wanted the seeds. She could all put taste them. Sensing this, Scarecrow’s eyes narrowed.
“No more! Bad!” He snapped. It was then she realized what he was saying in her mind earlier.
“Okay,” she said after swallowing hard.
He turned away to gather the cocoons. Cynder shut her eyes, trying not to imagine what would ultimately happen to the men trapped inside each one. There was a sudden wave of comfort when she felt nails scratching into her scalp. His touch was so soothing. It was safest she’d ever felt.
“Must go,” he whispered. She opened her eyes to see the three cocoons slung over his shoulder. “Hungry. Feed.”
“Will I see you again?” She asked, her voice was small. He cupped her cheek, and the expression, which looked like a smile appeared again.
“Soon,” he replied gently. “Promise.”
And he was gone. Disappearing into the dark and cold of the night with the same unimaginable swiftness she’d witnessed when he was dispatching the three men. In that moment, she felt herself feeling lonely, but, this time, it was different; this was an aching loneliness, as though a piece of her had disappeared into the shadows. As if sensing this, Scarecrow’s voice touched her mind;
…Do not worry, Cynder…I will find you…
19 September 2012
Prologue; A Voice in the Dark
Cynder awoke from her jade-colored dreams of lotus perfumes to a head full of cobwebs and stale smoke. There was a dry and decayed sensation in her mouth and throat, and her youthful frame ached in ways she imagined more appropriate for someone many, many years older than her. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but, in some ways, that didn’t surprise her; when she had the seeds, her memory would slip away.
The last shards of her dreams faded as she opened her eyes. Outside, it was dark. Night, and it had been for a long time. She struggled to remember when she left the gaming-house with her handful of seeds. Certainly, the sun still shone in the sky. It was all so dubious now. Just like the dream that had been consumed by smoke and cobwebs in her head.
There was no escaping it; she was down. Back in the world now. A dry and foreboding place beyond the city’s walls. There were stories that world was once much different. Greener. The rain and snow would come with more frequency and the wind was not always so ferocious, the heat and cold not so extreme. It was a time before The Horsemen had been so thorough; reducing the world’s population by billions. Even now, it was said Death and Famine lingered behind to play sadistic games with the survivors. There were too few left for War and Pestilence to have any fun.
Was it any wonder why people wanted to escape? It seemed even the well-to-do were miserable. It felt like the world was dying and those left were only hanging on out of habit.
These dark muses played through Cynder’s head as she pulled herself up. Rationalizations and arguments she had tried on the lama over at the temple. She knew he would be disappointed at her use of the seeds. He always was, telling her it was greater suffering to hide within the embrace of intoxicants. There was beauty to be found in the moment, not in the strange hallucinations brought on by the seeds.
A sensation arose in her belly somewhere between sickness and emptiness. She realized she was hungry. There was no food where she was. That meant she had to go out again. Out into the dark.
***
It was later than she anticipated. Colder, too. At least the wind wasn’t bad. She hugged her jacket close to her frame and pulled the hood down low over her eyes. Her breath followed her in clouds of tiny iced barbs.
On some of the busier streets, there was still activity. She was able to find an open food-stall, and what it was serving was warm and filling. It was spicy and sweet smelling. The way she attacked her food, it was as if she hadn’t eating in days.
Had it really been that long? When did she take the seeds? It was only earlier in the day, wasn’t it?
…No more!…
Cynder’s head jerked up with a start. The voice was so close it may as well been right next her, but there was no one, just a lamppost with a flickering bulb. As long as she could remember, she would catch snippets of voices, of images, in her head. It frightened her, and she used that fear as part of her rationale for indulging in the seeds. Although, she never told anyone, not even the old lama about the voices. That could get her locked away. Or worse, sent off to one of those camps where criminals were experimented on.
She looked around to see if she could find the author of that voice. Nothing. There was something different about this particular voice; it carried a strange hiss, an almost clicking sound to it. Something not quite human, but making an effort to communicate with her none-the-less.
That was an unsettling thought. There were stories when the world was falling apart that things were created in labs and those camps. Monsters and nightmares, which walked with earthly feet. Perhaps they were just stories told to discourage travel in the wastes between cities, but on a cold, dark night with a strange voice in her head, Cynder began to wonder.
Quickly, she finished her meal. The gaming-house would be open. It always was. She wanted more seeds. Needed them. Once she had them, this alien voice and fear of old stories would be gone. Erased from her psyche. She was sure of it.
She began walking. The night seemed suddenly colder, the people around her more distant. There would be warmth within the walls of the gaming-house. The warmth of a body to get her the seeds if she didn’t have enough to purchase them outright, but perhaps she needed that warmth to fill the void of distance. Another rationalization, one she’d used before.
…No more!…The voice came again, and she quickened her pace.
“Hey, chica! Where you going in such a hurry?”
The author of that voice was a pale shaved-headed thing with a leering smile and lime green eyes. He stood surrounded by a pack of hangers-on. Not something she needed to be dealing with now or any time for that matter. Cynder pulled her hood lower and began walking quicker, hoping they wouldn’t follow.
“Hey, chica! We just want to talk to you!” He was calling after her, his voice, uncomfortably hot and close.
She ducked into an alleyway she knew. More than once she’d been this way as a shortcut and escape route. It had hidden her and kept her safe sometimes when she took the seeds. As long as she’d been aware of the alleyway, despite fresh garbage and graffiti, she had never seen anyone else in it.
The figure standing dead-center shattered that delusion. He was far taller than anyone she had ever seen and his skin was far more than pale; in fact, it was white, like fresh-fallen snow. From under a mane of ink black hair that ran the length of his back, she caught a glimpse of his eyes, and as if his presence and white skin was not enough, his eyes unnerved her. They were cold blue that appeared to glow in the low light and the pupils were slitted, like a serpent’s. Any question of humanity was removed when from out of his thin lips flicked a black forked tongue, testing the air. Something, which may have been made to resemble a smile, formed as he looked at her. The expression was strangely warm.
She wanted to back away, but found herself frozen in place. The figure reached out to her, offering a hand that bore more of a resemblance to a talon than any hand she had ever seen. There was something comforting in this gesture. Despite herself, Cynder felt herself being drawn to him.
“Good. Easy.” She shuddered when she realized his voice was the same hissing and clicking voice she’d heard in her head just a little earlier. “Come. Come to me."
The last shards of her dreams faded as she opened her eyes. Outside, it was dark. Night, and it had been for a long time. She struggled to remember when she left the gaming-house with her handful of seeds. Certainly, the sun still shone in the sky. It was all so dubious now. Just like the dream that had been consumed by smoke and cobwebs in her head.
There was no escaping it; she was down. Back in the world now. A dry and foreboding place beyond the city’s walls. There were stories that world was once much different. Greener. The rain and snow would come with more frequency and the wind was not always so ferocious, the heat and cold not so extreme. It was a time before The Horsemen had been so thorough; reducing the world’s population by billions. Even now, it was said Death and Famine lingered behind to play sadistic games with the survivors. There were too few left for War and Pestilence to have any fun.
Was it any wonder why people wanted to escape? It seemed even the well-to-do were miserable. It felt like the world was dying and those left were only hanging on out of habit.
These dark muses played through Cynder’s head as she pulled herself up. Rationalizations and arguments she had tried on the lama over at the temple. She knew he would be disappointed at her use of the seeds. He always was, telling her it was greater suffering to hide within the embrace of intoxicants. There was beauty to be found in the moment, not in the strange hallucinations brought on by the seeds.
A sensation arose in her belly somewhere between sickness and emptiness. She realized she was hungry. There was no food where she was. That meant she had to go out again. Out into the dark.
***
It was later than she anticipated. Colder, too. At least the wind wasn’t bad. She hugged her jacket close to her frame and pulled the hood down low over her eyes. Her breath followed her in clouds of tiny iced barbs.
On some of the busier streets, there was still activity. She was able to find an open food-stall, and what it was serving was warm and filling. It was spicy and sweet smelling. The way she attacked her food, it was as if she hadn’t eating in days.
Had it really been that long? When did she take the seeds? It was only earlier in the day, wasn’t it?
…No more!…
Cynder’s head jerked up with a start. The voice was so close it may as well been right next her, but there was no one, just a lamppost with a flickering bulb. As long as she could remember, she would catch snippets of voices, of images, in her head. It frightened her, and she used that fear as part of her rationale for indulging in the seeds. Although, she never told anyone, not even the old lama about the voices. That could get her locked away. Or worse, sent off to one of those camps where criminals were experimented on.
She looked around to see if she could find the author of that voice. Nothing. There was something different about this particular voice; it carried a strange hiss, an almost clicking sound to it. Something not quite human, but making an effort to communicate with her none-the-less.
That was an unsettling thought. There were stories when the world was falling apart that things were created in labs and those camps. Monsters and nightmares, which walked with earthly feet. Perhaps they were just stories told to discourage travel in the wastes between cities, but on a cold, dark night with a strange voice in her head, Cynder began to wonder.
Quickly, she finished her meal. The gaming-house would be open. It always was. She wanted more seeds. Needed them. Once she had them, this alien voice and fear of old stories would be gone. Erased from her psyche. She was sure of it.
She began walking. The night seemed suddenly colder, the people around her more distant. There would be warmth within the walls of the gaming-house. The warmth of a body to get her the seeds if she didn’t have enough to purchase them outright, but perhaps she needed that warmth to fill the void of distance. Another rationalization, one she’d used before.
…No more!…The voice came again, and she quickened her pace.
“Hey, chica! Where you going in such a hurry?”
The author of that voice was a pale shaved-headed thing with a leering smile and lime green eyes. He stood surrounded by a pack of hangers-on. Not something she needed to be dealing with now or any time for that matter. Cynder pulled her hood lower and began walking quicker, hoping they wouldn’t follow.
“Hey, chica! We just want to talk to you!” He was calling after her, his voice, uncomfortably hot and close.
She ducked into an alleyway she knew. More than once she’d been this way as a shortcut and escape route. It had hidden her and kept her safe sometimes when she took the seeds. As long as she’d been aware of the alleyway, despite fresh garbage and graffiti, she had never seen anyone else in it.
The figure standing dead-center shattered that delusion. He was far taller than anyone she had ever seen and his skin was far more than pale; in fact, it was white, like fresh-fallen snow. From under a mane of ink black hair that ran the length of his back, she caught a glimpse of his eyes, and as if his presence and white skin was not enough, his eyes unnerved her. They were cold blue that appeared to glow in the low light and the pupils were slitted, like a serpent’s. Any question of humanity was removed when from out of his thin lips flicked a black forked tongue, testing the air. Something, which may have been made to resemble a smile, formed as he looked at her. The expression was strangely warm.
She wanted to back away, but found herself frozen in place. The figure reached out to her, offering a hand that bore more of a resemblance to a talon than any hand she had ever seen. There was something comforting in this gesture. Despite herself, Cynder felt herself being drawn to him.
“Good. Easy.” She shuddered when she realized his voice was the same hissing and clicking voice she’d heard in her head just a little earlier. “Come. Come to me."
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