come_sailaway | Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

Skip to Main Content

Entry tags:

Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

WHO: New beastie boy Gil!
WHAT: Memory share event!
WHEN: throughout March
WHERE; Everywhere while he gets his settle on, also memories in Arcadia
WARNINGS: Memories may include: Body horror (potential for mutilation, dismemberment, disembowelment, decapitation); cannibalism; cruel/unusual torture leading to death; forcible sedation; mind control/manipulation/commands to murder; Faeries but like, old school Gaelic horror stories. Please let me know if there's anything you'd like to hard opt out of!

I. Where's the beef (OTA, everywhere)

Alright, well. That was a stupid-ass safety drill. And Gil can't say he's fond of Friday either, with the whole No Face thing, but at least he's free and can do what the fuck he wants.

So at least step one is easy: work out what the fuck this place is. Cruise ship? Easy. Specifics? What the fuck. Also he's never been on a cruise ship before so it's very... new.

It's pretty easy to find him: he's the new guy, what's there to say. He's short, he's jacked to the shithouse, he's got a black buzz cut, he has thick scars covering every inch of his visible body in his singlet and cargo shorts and bare feet (some thick and ropy, wrapping around limbs and his neck like the pieces got melted back together, some are small, narrow and deep, and yet others are just shallow and superficial, and everything in-between), he has bare feet as he wanders the decks.

(For those with special eyes, though, he looks a bit different: the same height but a monstrous beast, his knuckles nearly dragging on the floor, arms almost half as broad again; thick, dark fur where the scars glint through like streaks of silver and flesh, the fur short but deliberately clipped down to the same length around his neck and chest, where there was clearly a mane at some point; his face is more like that of a bear or hyena, with jutting fangs and huge, bat-like ears; and his bare feet are now cloven hooves, oil-slick black and almost serrated at their tips.)

II. Thks fr th Mmrs (CW: ALL OF THE WARNINGS ABOVE)

If you're unlucky enough to fall into one of Gil's memory slips, it immediately and intensely feels...

Wrong.

There's a brilliant force of emotion in the air, like the buzz of an audience anticipating a stellar performance, made tangible in the air, like breathing through glitter, a sparkling hit of energy and life that feels like wading face-first into a dream. Or maybe the best high of your life, where everything is surreal, beautiful and overstimulating and intense.

And in every one there's a huge behemoth, black as sin, eyes like burning embers - sometimes it's like a wolf, all teeth and hunched shoulders, prowling - sometimes it's almost a bear, claws and thick fur and a roar that burns through to the soul with unbridled fear - sometimes it's no longer a human, disproportionate, foul and fury.

And in all of them, there's blood.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Pratt gasps and tries to pull back.

"Fuck you!" Is what he would have said if he hadn't just had an impromptu tracheotomy, instead he aspirates blood all over the gold man's face and chest. Mostly chest, Pratt isn't very tall.

He squirms and twists, a wild animal caught in a bear trap. He's not to the point where he'll cut his own arm off but it's always an option.

Plan B: knee statue man in his fully exposed, and rather exquisite, junk.

And again there's no real reaction - except this time around his eyes visibly creases, and there's a flicker of emotion in them now that's not horrible and blank - pain, and his grip goes slack on Pratt's wrist.

They'll all hear the voice, though, the same booming non-English that goes straight to the hindbrain and freezes the spine.

Enough. End it.

And the golden man steps aside in a smooth motion, still holding Pratt limply in one hand, as the Beast, still relentlessly throbbing gallons of blood from its own throat, starts padding, shakily, closer.

There's a lot going on here that Pratt doesn't understand, and that he's in no position to even attempt to, especially now that he's bleeding all down the front of his uniform and this statue's hand. He freezes when the voice speaks, but then erupts into frenzied writhing immediately after.

"Lemme go. Come on man, put me down." Some of that might be understandable among the breathy wheezes of trying to breathe while having a slit in his throat. It may not have hit his carotid or jugular, but he's still going to bleed out eventually especially while being dragged around.

He kicks and squirms with determination, and finally gets enough space between the gun and the golden man to shoot him not through the heart. In the shoulder preferably so he puts him down.

The beast over there is all but forgotten.

The crack of the pistol shatters the atmosphere like glass.

The golden Hero staggers, and releases Pratt to clutch his shoulder as he goes down all at once, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then thunderous footsteps that shake the earth, and five of Pratt's ribs shatter as a giant paw smashes into him like a freight train, and throws him back into the trunk of an unyielding tree, and a furious, tragic roar shakes the foundations of the universe.

Pratt also collapses, or he would if he wasn't batted out of mid-air by an enormous furry paw that bashes him right into a tree.

He tumbles to the ground in a heap, one arm around his torso as he bleeds from the neck, from where his head hit the tree trunk, and from newly spreading wounds across his chest as bits of bone try to escape. Still, no matter how injured he is, he'll always get back up, he'll only stay down when someone puts him there permanently. Right now he's on all fours, a shaky, bloody hand reaching for the gun at his belt, forgetting that it's on the ground somewhere, lost in the chaos of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

Having died before, he knows what's coming, knows he has only minutes left if that. There's a wheeze as he tries to get further upright and at least look at the creature that's about to end him, if he doesn't bleed out first.

"Go on. Cull the herd."

And then all there is, is a flash of teeth and tongue as his head gets ripped off his torso.

Pratt wakes up in his bed the next day and he doesn't even have a cool scar to show for his troubles. Whoever's world that was can keep it, Pratt's gonna go get breakfast.

He hopes whoever killed him also ate him and got high as balls off all the various drugs swirling around the blood brain barrier up there.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only