Tuesday, April 13, 2010

The Room

Recently, Kestil and many of her friends and acquaintances have become haunted by malicious beings in an act of pure hatred and revenge. In addition to her nightmares, Kestil has been granted the presence of a jerk of a ghost, and goodness, has it been fun so far.

Thank you to Yva for giving me such a fun ghost to work with!

The start: http://bit.ly/kestilshaunting (Read first)

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It was happening again.

It started out mundane enough: A lack of a current assignment meant free reign around Stormwind, and Kestil was enjoying her time off, sitting on the dock near the Old Town with an enchanting textbook in lap, boots off and to her side to let her feet dip into the sun-warmed water. Myrra napped next to her, basking in the light and rolled over onto her back, tolerating the local fisherboys that played with her paws and ears and commenting on just how red she was. One scratched at her belly, and a roo-roo escaped her throat as she turned to give the boy a better angle.

The box on her waist crackled to life with activity and a voice came through. Kestil smiled upon recognition of its owner, and she greeted her mother with a smile. At first presentation of this small, mechanical box to her mother, she was met with uneasiness to use such a piece of “technology”—as they called it—but after the initial setup (“I think the operator is hitting on you, Mom,” Kestil remarked with a grin), both women had grown to enjoy the ease with which they could talk to one another at any time.

Her mother went on to ask if she “knew anything about cooking clams.” The fisherman down the way decided to shower his generosity on the Ravenoak household today and showed up with a basket full of his catch. “Being as old as he is, I couldn’t just refuse them,” her mother explained, almost helplessly, and Kestil laughed. She replied that no, she didn’t have any good recipes on hand, but she knew someone who would.

It carried on mundane enough.

Kestil headed into the Old Town, the Pig and Whistle her destination. Her visits there were much more frequent these days, and it had become a weekly haven in which she could relax and visit with friends. But today she hesitated. She stood outside of the entrance, and already she could feel her breath quickening, her lungs suddenly feeling tighter at remembering the night before last. Where the room had closed in. Where she realized she must be going mad. Where the headaches from lack of sleep became pounding like a titan’s hammer and her thoughts became rushed and panicked at the hint of going inside a building and she had to remember to force herself to breathe.

Breathe, Myrra seemed to command as she pushed on Kestil’s leg with her muzzle. I’m right here.

But she was right there that other night, sleeping under the tiny bed, crushed by The Room and leaving her master helpless and shivering in a ball in the middle of the floor when The Room granted mercy.

Kestil forced a sharp breath into her lungs, calling back to her primal senses and her Sentinel training to slow her breathing and relax her nerves. She closed her eyes and listened to the air whooshing inside her with every inhalation. Breathe in, exhale. One, two, three, hold; two, two, three, exhale. Calm. Normal. The Pig was not The Room.

She placed her foot on the steps to the Pig, and then on the second, and third, reaching the top and opening her eyes. Keep a sharp mind, keep alert. Quick in, quick out. She hastened her steps, now fully inside of the Pig, and she made straight for the kitchen, giving a brief nod to Elly before entering the back room.

Ye wanna learn how t’ bake clams, eh? Stephen had asked, and Kestil replied that she did. Kestil’s eyes darted around the kitchen, taking in its space, and she was pleased to find it adequate and open. The Pig’s kitchen was not The Room.

Oh, but it was.

Kestil turned her attention back to Stephen, but he was gone. She whipped her head around to the door and saw him in the main room talking to Elly, only vaguely remembering hearing something about “getting some cooking rum” from the front of the house. She sighed in relief, gave an embarrassed smile to Myrra who had flopped just outside the kitchen door, and turned back around.

The chopping table was directly in front of her now, pressing up against her legs. She muffled a yelp and here it was again, The Room, the hard-to-breathe thinning air, the constricting lungs, the table actively pushing against her and driving her into a back corner. She cried out for Myrra, but she was gone, Stephen was gone, the walls were filled in and the ceiling dropped to just above her head. The meat hook, which had been at the far end of the room near the firepit, was now swinging perilously in front of her, towards her, its hook still bloody with pieces of meat still wetly attached. The firepit consumed the south wall, and the flames licked at her legs as the room squeezed and the hook twirled on its chain and suddenly swung towards her like a hand had launched it.

The point neatly lodged itself into the mortar between the bricks near her face, and then everything was black.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Nightmares


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Kestil Ravenoak screamed as the agony took hold of every movement, every breath, every thought. Her arms were pulled behind her, contorted and bound, and with a deft pull backwards, the hand that gripped her wrists together pulled her arms from their sockets with a sickening tear. Another cry was forced from her mouth accompanied with sobs as she fell to her knees. Her arms fell limp to her sides as the hand that bound her released its grip, and their weight pulled downwards and the pain continuously shot up to her head, each pulse like a knife in the base of her skull.

"Oh god ohgodohgodohgod please no--"

The figure stepped around her convulsing body, kicking her limp hand as it passed. It stared down at her, its black, shadowy form like ink, and it kneeled in front of her. It whispered something, but she heard nothing, saw nothing; the pain commanded everything. The figure seemed to frown, and reached out its hand to her forehead. Her eyes shot open and her vision cleared.

"That's better," she heard from the figure, but the voice was in her head now. It stretched out a claw now, and it traced down her the center of her chest, past her breasts, over the space between her ribs and over her stomach. A line of blood started to appear before the skin tore open. She wailed in agony as her organs pushed their way free and spilled out from her body, and before her she no longer saw the figure but Myrra, with a hunger in her eyes and spit dripping from her jowls. Myrra snarled and pounced, tearing her teeth into Kestil's insides and skin, her claws into her chest and back, digging them in to the hilt of her paw...



Kestil awoke with a scream, her voice sore and raw, her hair matted to her face and back, her entire body dripping with sweat and fear as it soaked the sheets beneath her. Myrra worriedly nuzzled into Kestil's arm, quietly mewling and panting from stress. Kestil looked down at her lynx companion, and, with the dream still fresh in her mind, she yelped and jolted out of bed, falling to the ground.

She took in her surroundings frantically, checking herself and finding bloody scratches over her arms and chest that she had made herself. She could no longer hold back, and tears spilled from her eyes.

"Oh... god, oh Elune," she managed to whisper as she started to sob hysterically into her hands.