Post by Brenna Gordon on Mar 10, 2020 12:45:48 GMT -5
"You shouldn't be here." Granny's voice, strong and vibrant in spite of her age--or because of such!--was the sort of venomous that could've killed those of a weaker constitution. Even the sable-haired female felt a goodly amount of sting, though she did her best not to wince outwardly.
Way to point out the obvious.
Brenna didn't need to be told that she wasn't welcome in Hangtown--she would've known even if she was alone in the hometown of a certain Horror. The air was honey-thick and resistant to the idea of entering her lungs, the ground beneath her feet absolutely unforgiving when it came to her weight trying to gain traction upon it. It was if the town could identify the salt that her mother claimed lived in the water that made up most of her body. All of that meant she had the right idea, but how to convince this woman of that?
A faint clearing of her throat and she who was Born of Myth did her utmost to draw herself up to her full height. Deference needed to be shown, but not outright submission. "I--"
"She's not here by choice." Even now, the sound of Phinehas Dillinger's voice brought forth the sensation of a merciless summer sun upon her shoulders, the tickle of pollen to her nose. Turning her head to regard the man so many knew simply as Grimm, Brenna swore that there was something almost pleased beneath the surface of that solemn expression. Had he missed her? Surely not--he was a monolith of stoicism, that facade only cracking in the heat of battle. She'd crashed against his shores, battered at his coasts with a maelstrom's might... and been rebuked thrice over. Had he known what that first encounter had created? Surely he had, if the whittled little vase she had shoved into the inner pocket of her bomber jacket was any indicator. Did he still wear the necklace she gave him in return? She didn't see it--
"What's in the box?" And leave it to him to remind her of why she came in the first place. Too-large eyes blinked for a moment before Brenna was remembering how to use her voice, her gaze flickering down to the object whose presence she had forgotten for a blessed, singular moment. It was only when she looked at it that she heard that siren's song so sweet and venomous and all-destroying.
The magic in your veins can bring this whole fucking town to its knees! Just--
"Something we need to seal away." Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, Brenna was certain he knew exactly why she had chosen Hangtown as the place...and he to help her do the deed. It seemed the bond between them was something that existed after all and, while it might have gone dormant, the way he nodded told her all she needed to know. Namely?
That it was awake and capable of doing what needed to be done.
The box seemed so small from six feet up.
They had taken turns digging the grave, though Grimm had done the bulk of the work once he took note of how the earth seemed to resist the efforts of she who was Born of Myth. She helped him out of the hole without a moment's hesitation once the work was done and the vessel was in place at its bottom. While his sides heaved with exertion, hers labored beneath the sort of pressure that one usually needed eons of evolution to be able to stand... and she wasn't fortunate enough to have that on her side. She should have felt relieved to see it being done, but yet--something didn't feel quite right. Was it a side effect of fighting to survive in the oppressive and unwelcoming air of Hangtown, or was it just the absence of the chill that had become such a familiar presence along her spine?
"You need to put the rest of it in there." Looking up at the Hangtown Horror, Brenna blinked at how he was looking at her expectantly. What was he talking about? A faint frown graced lips that weren't nearly as luscious and full as they ought to have been, the singular imperfection that her father had passed along in defiance of her mother's genes.
"That's all of it, Phinehas. Every last bit of bone and ash and salt. What--" And then his mouth was upon hers, and for a moment? Brenna's mind was flooded with the feeling of heat and honey, something sweet and drenched in sunlight and so damned good that she thought she'd collapse beneath its weight--but such would be a willing and impassioned surrender. She didn't notice how his lips only moved against hers until her mouth was open at first, but when he formed a perfect seal of pressure and moisture against her own lips and inhaled sharply as if he sought to draw her soul right out of her body? Confusion had her eyes reopening, their deeps as black as the most remote corners of the oceans that had given rise to the Gordon bloodline as she quivered.
Grimm barely retreated in time to avoid the gout of seawater that burned its way up from her gullet and out of her mouth, pouring down into the grave before them.
She felt strong arms encircle her waist, ensuring that she didn't flow down after those traces of what her mother's madness had given her. Time passed in an unsteady gait, shambling and speeding about as he held her until she could regain her footing--and when she did, she turned in his grasp to settle her own limbs around the oak trunk that was his torso, a singular exhaled word all she could manage. "Christ."
"You know he doesn't have anything to do with it." His forehead was almost steaming as it rested against her own, the motion one she had to struggle not to assign extra meaning to.
Way to point out the obvious.
Brenna didn't need to be told that she wasn't welcome in Hangtown--she would've known even if she was alone in the hometown of a certain Horror. The air was honey-thick and resistant to the idea of entering her lungs, the ground beneath her feet absolutely unforgiving when it came to her weight trying to gain traction upon it. It was if the town could identify the salt that her mother claimed lived in the water that made up most of her body. All of that meant she had the right idea, but how to convince this woman of that?
A faint clearing of her throat and she who was Born of Myth did her utmost to draw herself up to her full height. Deference needed to be shown, but not outright submission. "I--"
"She's not here by choice." Even now, the sound of Phinehas Dillinger's voice brought forth the sensation of a merciless summer sun upon her shoulders, the tickle of pollen to her nose. Turning her head to regard the man so many knew simply as Grimm, Brenna swore that there was something almost pleased beneath the surface of that solemn expression. Had he missed her? Surely not--he was a monolith of stoicism, that facade only cracking in the heat of battle. She'd crashed against his shores, battered at his coasts with a maelstrom's might... and been rebuked thrice over. Had he known what that first encounter had created? Surely he had, if the whittled little vase she had shoved into the inner pocket of her bomber jacket was any indicator. Did he still wear the necklace she gave him in return? She didn't see it--
"What's in the box?" And leave it to him to remind her of why she came in the first place. Too-large eyes blinked for a moment before Brenna was remembering how to use her voice, her gaze flickering down to the object whose presence she had forgotten for a blessed, singular moment. It was only when she looked at it that she heard that siren's song so sweet and venomous and all-destroying.
"Something we need to seal away." Judging by the way his eyes narrowed, Brenna was certain he knew exactly why she had chosen Hangtown as the place...and he to help her do the deed. It seemed the bond between them was something that existed after all and, while it might have gone dormant, the way he nodded told her all she needed to know. Namely?
That it was awake and capable of doing what needed to be done.
The box seemed so small from six feet up.
They had taken turns digging the grave, though Grimm had done the bulk of the work once he took note of how the earth seemed to resist the efforts of she who was Born of Myth. She helped him out of the hole without a moment's hesitation once the work was done and the vessel was in place at its bottom. While his sides heaved with exertion, hers labored beneath the sort of pressure that one usually needed eons of evolution to be able to stand... and she wasn't fortunate enough to have that on her side. She should have felt relieved to see it being done, but yet--something didn't feel quite right. Was it a side effect of fighting to survive in the oppressive and unwelcoming air of Hangtown, or was it just the absence of the chill that had become such a familiar presence along her spine?
"You need to put the rest of it in there." Looking up at the Hangtown Horror, Brenna blinked at how he was looking at her expectantly. What was he talking about? A faint frown graced lips that weren't nearly as luscious and full as they ought to have been, the singular imperfection that her father had passed along in defiance of her mother's genes.
"That's all of it, Phinehas. Every last bit of bone and ash and salt. What--" And then his mouth was upon hers, and for a moment? Brenna's mind was flooded with the feeling of heat and honey, something sweet and drenched in sunlight and so damned good that she thought she'd collapse beneath its weight--but such would be a willing and impassioned surrender. She didn't notice how his lips only moved against hers until her mouth was open at first, but when he formed a perfect seal of pressure and moisture against her own lips and inhaled sharply as if he sought to draw her soul right out of her body? Confusion had her eyes reopening, their deeps as black as the most remote corners of the oceans that had given rise to the Gordon bloodline as she quivered.
Grimm barely retreated in time to avoid the gout of seawater that burned its way up from her gullet and out of her mouth, pouring down into the grave before them.
She felt strong arms encircle her waist, ensuring that she didn't flow down after those traces of what her mother's madness had given her. Time passed in an unsteady gait, shambling and speeding about as he held her until she could regain her footing--and when she did, she turned in his grasp to settle her own limbs around the oak trunk that was his torso, a singular exhaled word all she could manage. "Christ."
"You know he doesn't have anything to do with it." His forehead was almost steaming as it rested against her own, the motion one she had to struggle not to assign extra meaning to.
