Heart of Stone [Chernabog & Bathy]

[Chernabog]

"How many weeks has it been now? Surely you can't be that imbecilic to keep trying this over and over?!" The priest's voice snarled out through the halls of the church as he searched for that godforsaken witch. "You know that no matter where you hide, wherever you run… we'll find you! We'll drag you back kicking and screaming every time!" This supposed holy man's hands were covered in blood as he barked, his voice echoing through the stone archways.

That blood belonged to the witch in question. Silently, the man ran as best as he could while limping heavily. One of the many layers of his floor-length skirts were raised and held tight against the deep cuts over his body that bled the worst. The last thing he needed was to leave a trail of blood in his wake to be found sooner rather than later. His golden eyes were wide in how frantic he was. He hated this place, hated how everything in this church looked the same when it came to anywhere outside of the main chapel. Every single hallway could have been identical.

Trying to throttle his own staggered breathing, Nattayad fought to escape the priests. They had been torturing him again, testing the theory that his blood and magic would only be more potent if pain and fear were involved, flaring and harvesting the combination of adrenochrome with the mysterious power the young man held. But as with every time; the pain became too much. Crying out in his anguish, his power flared; sending the men staggering back and in some cases flying against the wall. His bindings snapped, and he fled. This had happened multiple times over the weeks since his arrival, but each time it caused a similar result.

The witch was now lost, and paused, trying to look out of the stained glass windows to see if he could recognize anything that would let him know where he was. But it was useless, as the priests kept him locked up most of the time. Limping through hallway after hallway, he turned a corner and noticed a large wooden door that was in a state of decay, barred over by an intimidating latch of equally heavy lumber. Around the edges of the wood were the stains of moss - it must have led outside. Biting his lip, the dark-haired man looked where he had come from and back at the door before resting his hand on the wood. Though the tongue he whispered in was foreign, anyone and anything could have understood that it was some sort of pleading. The scent of magic filled each and every grain of the door, though strange and unfamiliar for these lands.

The use of more sorcery was painful, causing his wounds to bleed out more. Sweat beaded over his tawny, earthen skin as he panted, adrenaline being one of the few things keeping him from collapse. Small branches and roots started to grow from the heavy latch, pulling itself upwards to haul out of the hook that held it, and the door opened up with a creak - not having been used in some time. He had no idea where he was going or where it would lead to - but at least it was far away from those men.

Fleeing down a crumbling hall, this area of the church had clearly been abandoned to overgrowth, no longer tended to. Roots and branches grew like veins through the stone, taking back what had been destroyed to create the building. As fast as his limping form could take him, the witch attempted to run. He followed the arched hall until it finally opened to a long-abandoned atrium. The circular wall was fully crumbled in multiple places. But in the middle appeared to be some sort of fountain, and within that fountain was a statue that was carved in a level of detail he had never seen before.

Pausing to take in his surroundings, he leaned against a large stone column and panted, trying to catch his breath, looking down at the layer of his skirt pressed against his torso and realizing it was now fully drenched with his blood. The man startled suddenly as he heard angered screaming again, and realized that there were clergy running around the outside perimeter of the church as well. All it would take was one casual glance within a derelict opening and he’d be discovered. Heart hammering, he forced himself into a sprint towards the center fountain.

Nearly collapsing, the witch's body was rattled with heavy breathing as he climbed up into the fountain. Spending what little strength he had left to haul himself up an elevated pillar. Once again the man paused suddenly, honey-gold eyes staring at the massive pair of stone wings and tail that the carved creature bore… and something about it whispered to him that this was no mere statue. He had climbed to the belltower of the church before and there were similarly carved statues. Menacing creatures that he believed he’d heard been referred to as a ‘gargoyle.’ But those were purely statues, unlike this one. Something about this creature drew the witch towards it, almost magnetic as he moved upwards still.

In those moments, the witch known as Nattayad was finally within the sunlight's reach again. Elevated along with the winged creature, his long hair played in the outside breeze, and revealed that it was not black, but the deepest forest green that shimmered in the natural light. His face stared at the face of the stone creature, his eyes trailing over the being's expression. Hearing more yelling come closer, the man's head jerked towards the sound in fear… only to suddenly heave his body up onto the same platform of the gargoyle. It was a difficult position to squeeze up into between its form and wings, but fear was a powerful motivator. Curling his thin body into itself as much as possible, the man shifted so that the statue's body would have nearly completely hidden his own, especially beyond the pair of wings and its crouching limbs.

"I don't know what you are or if you're alive… but please protect me. Please." The witch whispered in a heavy accent as one of his hands rested atop a powerfully carved arm. His form was wedged tight against the statue's form, but this hand atop the creature’s arm was the one that once held the cloth to his wounds, unknowingly smearing his blood upon the rock, magic and all. His breath trembled, fingers gently clutching at the gargoyle, face also buried against the cool stone.

The wounded man didn't seem to care about their elevation or the uncomfortable posture he had to hold himself in. "Where in the Hells are you, witch?!" A man's voice came suddenly from somewhere directly outside of the forgotten atrium, and Nattayad shivered against the creature, trying to calm his breath. Yet tears dripped from his eyes as he clenched them closed, making himself as small and balled as possible. "Please… please don't find me." Came the nearly inaudible whisper, more tears dripping down from the dark-haired man's eyes and onto the dark flesh of the statue.

The sounds of the priest's movements were so close to them that his footsteps against twigs and crass were heard as he shot his head through some of the crumbled openings. "Fucking whore of magic." The man growled to himself before those same angry footsteps could be heard fading away. Yet the man in the gargoyle's company did not relax, merely trembled there for what may have felt as an eternity. But as the hours passed, less and less men could be heard searching for him. Nattayad slightly relaxed, but wrapped an arm around the statue's torso to hold himself secure, a hand resting at its back near the base of a wing.

Slowly, the verdant-haired man shifted forward and raised his head and opened his eyes to look up at the face of the creature once more. "Whether you meant to or not… thank you." He murmured softly, resting his head against the of the statue as his skirts and hair flowed softly in the wind.

It was getting late, the warm colors of evening started to spread across the sky and yet the man did not leave the statue. Soft footsteps could eventually be heard again, causing the witch to tense. At least until a soft and feminine voice could be heard. "Nattayad?"

Shifting, the man shifted his form to peek his head out around the statue's torso, angling to see past its wings at a petite young nun, sticking her head through one of the open areas of the wall to look around. "Sister Nashandra?" He asked in a soft voice. "Are you alone?"

"Nattayad? Where are you?" The woman looked around, concerned. "Yes, it's just me. I promise."

Slowly, the man started to slide from the gargoyle's pedestal, only pausing for a moment to trace his fingers over an etched lock of stone hair, looking to the creature's face again. As he climbed onto the wall and into view, the woman gasped.

"Have you gone mad? Finding your way all the way out here! Not to mention… I don't know how you can be so close to those statues. They frighten me, wretched things."

Slowly sliding down to the ground, the witch paused to look at the gargoyle yet again. "I am not frightened." He replied simply, accented.

"Oh no…you’re covered in blood. No wonder you ran away and hid again." The woman said softly with a deep frown. "Come, we will go below the church into the catacombs and I will tend to your wounds. I will say that you were there the entire time and I did not hear them looking for you. We must hurry." The petite woman was dressed head to toe in a black dress and robes, only her face showing, though there was the slightest hint of blonde hair peeking from the top of the robe where her bangs normally sat. She reached to grasp the witch's hand to lead him away, but he gave the statue one last glance before disappearing into the church as the sun started to set.

@bathymcbath

 

[bathymcbath]

Some centuries, Bryk slept all the way through. He thought he knew how to know that. When he looked at the stars they changed. Many disappeared and many new ones arrived, and the brightest of them were steadfast but for a subtle creeping and spreading away from one another. It happened so slowly that at times he thought he imagined their gentle fanning across the black. There were other times when he could watch new constellations form between blinks.

Sometimes Bryk woke. It was rare now, and never intentional. He spent all his waking hours willing himself to die, only to fall asleep and wake again. Years felt like seconds when he slept, but awake they ripped lazily at his sanity. His skin, his muscles, his bones and talons and teeth and blood were made for unconditional eternity, but his mind was not. His mind, he felt more certain every time he woke, was a fragile thing. His thoughts were long, slow things that were nearly shapeless now. He used to wonder and want and figure and dread but the slow passage of time had worn all his brutal edges smooth.

Bryk remembered a time before the church, he thought. It was more like a recollection of a dream now than a proper memory. He felt how malleable the details were in his own mind’s eye. Did he used to soar with his pack, or was he always alone? In any case, he did soar, didn’t he? Had his teeth ever torn flesh or was that only a pleasant thought he'd once had? Sometimes he thought his name had never been Bryk and sometimes it was the only name he could remember. But those times were few and far between, because most of the time Bryk slept.

He was sleeping when the witch came to beg his favor, or at least he had started out that way. He floated unthinking through an endless black, blissfully mimicking the stillness of death, when he felt the burning summons against his arm. Unwilling, his consciousness waded thickly through the fog of sleep, until he was awake. The sun was on him and he was stonebound, but Bryk was awake. His fury was immediate and all-consuming, but it burned impotently in his chest while the little creature clung to him. Bryk could hear it breathing, speaking. Somehow his touch burned Bryk, so hotly that he expected to hear the sizzle of delicate human flesh against his stone casing. He might have shifted with the discomfort if the sunlight hadn’t held him captive.

Bryk observed in his small way while the human clung to him. The pain faded, which he noted with some regret, because it was the most alive he had felt. Possibly ever, he wasn't sure. The creature remained tucked up against Bryk's body, and he could detect the ghostly sensation of hands about his torso, on his hair. Bryk’s insides twisted with rage and he swore viciously to no one that he would have the human’s blood in his hands and staining his teeth for this violation. He was mad with bloodlust, with vengeance.

It was hours later and the little creature was long gone when Bryk burst roaring from the stone pillar. He stretched his wings and yelled his throat raw, massive hands clenched into fists, face contorted with rage. He hadn’t stood from his crouch in over a century. Dust and leaves and gravel burst from his wings when he snapped them out to their fullest extension. His curling toes scored and crumbled the edges of the stone pillar upon which he stood. His stone skin softened quickly but gradually into a warmer gray, the ropes of his stone hair softened into individual strands of jet black. He remained that way, bellowing his displeasure into the night like a rutting lion for several minutes, until there was nothing left of his stone form. He eventually fell quiet, winded. His wings folded into his back and the night became peaceful once more while the gargoyle towered alone in the garden gathering his breath.

Bryk allowed the details of the day to drift toward him - details he had missed in his stonebound form, details which required sight and scent to make any sense at all. He noticed first that he was smeared with dry blood, and that it was not human. It smelled sweet and smoky underneath the metallic sting of all red blooded things, and Bryk twisted his bicep toward his own face so he could lick the nearest stroke of rusty red. He rumbled deeply in his chest when he tasted the power in it. There was also fear, in the blood and lingering in the air, on the stones. Fear and power in equal measure and, again, something naturally sweet and smoky.

Bryk dropped abruptly from his pedestal and into the fountain. Some of its existing cracks grew exaggerated with the force of his landing, and some new fissures appeared in the stone. He dropped to a knee and sniffed the fountain. He could see without seeing exactly where the witch had touched and he put his face to the stone and licked there, too. Fear and power. So much power. More power, perhaps, than the one who put Bryk here. There were tears mixed with the blood, and Bryk remembered the witch’s plea to hide him, to protect him, and the way his power burned through Bryk, the way the little witch -

“Nattayad,” Bryk said, making a sound more like stones grinding together than an actual voice. He didn’t know the last time he spoke. He didn’t know why he did now. Nattayad was gone, taking all his delicious fear and his intoxicating power with him. He was not a doorway out of this place, but a momentary disruption. Still, he said the name again, tasting it the way he’d tasted Nattayad’s blood, as he stepped up onto the pillar again, assumed a new position of resting his forehead on his knee, and went back to sleep.

 

[Chernabog]

Nattayad hated the catacombs. His culture was never one to shy away from death, as it was just as natural as life was. Yet even though his own people were known for living far beyond normal human spans so long as they stayed near leylines or their homelands, death was a celebration of the soul moving on to new beginnings. It was nothing like the way that death was upheld in this church, in these lands. Hundreds of thousands of bodies worth of bones set up in elaborate decorations. But it wasn't even the macabre manner of their decor that bothered the male.

No, it was the pain and suffering that was tied to the forms of the countless remains within. It was a medley of some of the worst things that the witch could find himself near. Dark and light magics were just two sides of the same coin from his homelands, but this was different. The dark energies and magics that emanated from deep within the catacombs were oppressive, and hungry. Souls snuffed out before they were ready to move on or even die were still connected to their bodies, even more upset that they were often strewn about, no full body intact except for those deemed important. These forces all wanted something, either freedom or more power …and the witch was a way for them to get it. The malice could be felt by the young man, the starvation and desperation to get at him.

Even a limited venture near the many rooms within the ossuary was enough to make the dancer nauseous. He'd almost rather go back to try and endure the pain that the priests put him through than be left alone deep in this place, where his soul could be snuffed out like a flame and consumed by the dark. Yet it was often a location that could be used as a sanctuary or a hiding place, depending on the time of day or who may or may not have been looking for him. The night following the discovery of the strange stone creature, it was a temporary sanctuary as the young nun helped clean his wounds, binding them so that his magic could be used more subtly to conserve his energy. But he knew what was coming. Every time he had run away, even if he was not caught and instead found later, he was punished by the head priest, Father Haine.

Father Haine was a 'holy' man that was somehow more insidious than the others. Tall and handsome, he had a kind visage, and a warm, soothing voice that was all just a facade to the wretched being he truly was. One moment Nattayad would be rewarded for what he was able to give the church, fed extra and allowed to explore through the surrounding forest. Only for the next to be beaten bloody and his body used however Father Haine and his disciples so wished. Father Haine was also the worst of the men here, because he somehow was able to absorb the magic that the enslaved man was able to use to defend himself. It took a toll on the Priest, that was for certain, but it could also be used back against Nattayad. It was the primary reason why he had been unable to escape from this place.

This was how the witch found himself again, severely beaten before being thrown into his almost pit-like cell. There was nothing but brick and metal in the small room. Metal bars, chains, and shackles were there to subdue him if needed. There was no bed, just a measly lump of hay. Upon the bricks were deep scratches, dried blood, and broken fingernails leftover from whatever poor souls had been there before. The energy in the room was almost just as oppressive as within the catacombs. There was nothing but Pain. Fear. Despair. Hopelessness. Death. Up close to the ceiling, was what might be considered by some as a window, but it was barely so. It seemed that the opening was just a brick or two that had been pulled out by someone attempting to escape, only to realize that based on the wall of earth outside, they were underground. But there was the tiniest space above the earth that could be seen, and perhaps, even a hand to squeeze through to feel the plantlife there. Not that the witch could do so at this time, too badly hurt to do anything but curl into himself. But that small sliver above the earth that walled in the cell was the only hint at where the male would have been kept once dragged back within the walled confines of the church.

It didn't take much at all for the dancer to lapse into unconsciousness. So much pain had been inflicted on him, his blood drained. It would be so easy to just give up, let them use his body and magic for dark magic. But he refused. This is not what he was destined for, what his magic was meant for.

---

Days later was a day of 'reprieve' given to the dancer by Father Haine after multiple days spent locked in his cell. The priest was wearing his second face, then. A man of faith that was ever so sorry for hurting the beautiful captive. Words expressed that he wouldn't have done such a thing if he hadn't been made by the victim of his crimes. If only the male hadn't escaped from the other priests and made them go on a literal witch hunt. Then he wouldn't have had to be beaten so badly.

It was these days of 'reprieves' that Nattayad was then completely ignored even outside of his cell. It was as though he didn't exist at all, except for the occasional sidelong glance of lechery or disdain. He walked through the arched hallways of the church like a spirit, quiet and lost. The only sound heard from the male was the shifting of his long skirts, having been allowed to change from the bloodied and torn ones from the days before. It was a wonder he was even allowed to wear his native, preferred clothing at all, but it seemed that there were many blindspots of ignorance by the religious men; they assumed that if they changed too much about him, that would disrupt his magic. If only they thought the same about leaving him battered and bruised.

The male's amber-colored eyes were blank and unfocused as he walked aimlessly, wanting to be anywhere that allowed him to be in direct sunlight. The windows of the church weren't enough. But the witch paused as he realized he had walked to the same door from days before. He had been completely lost then, but yet somehow he found himself at the threshold of his recent discovery. Ensuring that he was alone, silently the man went in and closed the door behind himself. Eventually he was once again within the space leading to the open atrium. Now that he wasn’t actively being hunted, he looked around at the dilapidated space.

Climbing up the same way as before, the dancer found himself now face-to-horn with the gargoyle, no longer able to see his face. He blinked realizing that this certainly was not the same position before. Immediately curiosity welled in his form. “You are alive, then.” Came the soft, accented voice as he held on precariously, a hand on a stone shoulder. The man's honey-colored eyes looked over the creature's visage to see what else had changed position. "I wonder if you can see me, too? Or at least hear me." He said, but frowned. Though still having a sense of beauty to his features, his mistreatment was clear as he crawled up and rested at the dormant creature’s side, clambering onto him and resting there. One of his eyes was surrounded in a deep bruise that made up the entire socket, his eyelid swollen. His lips were busted, scabbed and cracked in multiple places, not to mention his face covered in bruises and cuts. A bruise in the shape of a hand was like a phantom choker around his neck he was forced to bare to all. "...Not much to see right now, though." The dancer muttered, but reached to let his fingers trace over the horns of the creature he held onto, noticing how his face appeared buried now. "But somehow… you look almost more sad than I do."

There was almost a strange intimacy in those moments as Nattayed studied the face of the creature, reaching to caress its cheek with nimble fingers as his eyes followed his own movements. "I don't think I can speak to Nashandra anymore. Not as much." He murmured, speaking to the statue. "Every time she helps me, she gets hurt as well. So I will spare her. But if I do not speak to someone… I don't know how much my mind will last. So I will speak with you… if that's alright." The words left the man's injured lips and his eyes shifted to look towards the tucked-away face of the creature. "My name is Nattayad." The man's voice continued softly, trailing his fingers along a pointed ear. "I wonder if you have a name…" He said as his head canted to one side. “Though sometimes there is power in a name. I will not fault you if you do not wish to share it.”

Eventually the dancer crouched and slipped up under the gargoyle’s wings again. He realized that the cool stone of the creature's arm was a deep comfort against the bruises on his face, so stayed there for some time, enjoying both the sounds of nature and wind around them as well as when he would shift around to allow the sun to hit his earth-toned skin. But eventually came the bell far in the distance that warned of the last meal of the day was being served soon, and the male sighed. "If I do not go, they will let me starve again."

Sliding out from the creature's form, Nattayad paused to look at the face of the gargoyle once again. "Thank you for allowing me to be here with you."

They were the last words the witch spoke before disappearing for the night.

 

[bathymcbath]

Bryk listened to the birds tweet and chirp and screech as they flitted about the overgrowth in the afternoon sunshine. He longed to crush their tiny bodies in his hands and silence their incessant melodious fracas. He wanted to tear the grass and the trees from the very earth to quiet the whispering of leaves touching leaves. He longed for peace, but instead his ears strained against his will to take in every aural disturbance and amplify it to a deafening roar. He was desperate for sleep. He’d been awake since the witch had burned him, possessed suddenly with the urge to pace and flap and rage against the night, and then against the whole day, and then another night, and so on. They ran together so easily.

On the third night, Bryk took to the sky. He’d almost forgotten how. His first attempt was a pathetic, stumbling leap. His wings did catch lift, but still he careened into a decorative stone column, which pitched over and crumbled into ballast. His rage turned inward, then, toward his own repulsive weakness. The anger made his legs strong when he jumped again and he launched high, wings tucked in close and guiding the wind away from his face, along the edge of the blade he made with his body. Still it ripped at his hair and his eyes, stinging gloriously, until he felt the pull of gravity again in his belly and he slowed, more than forty feet in the air at the apex of his trajectory. There was a time when that moment of complete stillness, when gravity was in perfect equilibrium with the strength of his jump and Bryk hung for an instant without falling and without flight, used to be an utter rapture to him. Now he snapped his wings without stopping to savor the beginning of the plunge back toward the earth, and went gliding toward the dimly lit tower, drafting up and up until he was above it and could corkscrew lazily down onto the spire. Upon landing his talons gouged footholds into the stone and supported Bryk so he could sit back on his heels and take in the church below. He remembered when the church was made of softer things than stone and its beams and ceilings would splinter between his toes and so he judged the newer, grander structure to be an improvement.

He scented the wind and watched and listened through the night, his tail intermittently swishing angrily like a cat’s. He didn’t find Nattayad, and if he caught his scent at any moment then it was so faint that by the next moment Bryk was sure he’d imagined it. He imagined a lot of things. He imagined what the witch might look like, how he might shake and cower with fear when Bryk found him. He imagined breaking the witch one delicate little bone at a time until he unmade his sleepless curse. Bryk imagined eating the heart from Nattayad’s chest and drinking his fear and power until he was drunk on it and he went crashing mindlessly into the void once more. He imagined that Nattayad might have the strength to destroy Bryk instead, and that gave him such a thrill down to his marrow that he growled and snapped his teeth at the empty air.

But he did not find Nattayad, and ultimately he returned to the ruin of his fountain in his overgrown garden. It wasn’t his home and he felt no attachment to this corner, but the smell of witch blood lingered there and it sat pleasantly in Bryk’s nostrils and added an edge of realism when he thought of little Nattayad suspended on the long talon of his alula, throat open and spilling hot blood into his mouth, onto his chin. He wanted that, he realized, and that want had been growing since his first taste. He thought perhaps it was why he listened so intently, why he remained awake and hunted for the witch with his ears. He was enamored with the headiness of his blood, the power, and he was nearly mindless with the compulsion to glut himself on it. Bryk hadn’t known bloodlust like this before. Had he?

On the fourth day, Nattayad returned, and this time Bryk sensed it before the witch was beside him and he greedily drank in his sounds. He stepped a bit too lightly, Bryk thought. He moved gingerly. He was bleeding before, perhaps he bled still? Bryk railed silently against the gods not to taunt him, not to stop the witch’s heart before Bryk could do it himself.

He hung upon Nattayad’s words, who acknowledged Bryk’s life as if his vitality were in question, and who touched him on his shoulder, pressed into his side and stroked gently along his horn and cheek. The touches did not burn, and that was its own small devastation, but they did have a soothing effect. Bryk's mind drifted, buzzing. He wasn’t quite awake anymore, nor was he asleep. Nattayad had the decency at least to ask for permission to talk with Bryk, even if he did not wait for that permission to be granted. This was more consideration than he’d been shown, perhaps ever, and Bryk reasoned that he was stonebound anyway and there was no good reason not to let his mind go blank, not to let the gentle touch of the witch lull him. Bryk felt Nattayad shift and put his face into his arm, the warmth of gentle breathing gusting across his skin, and at last his mind was quiet.

That night, Bryk took to the sky again. He launched seamlessly on his first try and he bared his teeth at the moon in triumph. Nattayad’s scent lingered on his skin until the rushing wind scoured it away, and after a while Bryk came back to the fountain where the smell lingered. As he hit the ground, he threw his prize at the base of the fountain, then stepped heavily onto his pedestal. This time as he hunkered down for sunrise, he decided he could sit cross-legged in the center of the pedestal, back straight, with his hands resting neutrally on his knees. His wings were half-extended and fanned out to either side like a sunbathing vulture. His chin was up so his horns were on proper display, twisting back from his skull.

The sun crept over the garden and Bryk’s face blanked and hardened into stone as the light poured over him. The sun never touched the bloodied, ten-point stag tossed unceremoniously to the ground beneath him. The stag’s throat was torn open, recently enough that the blood pooled thickly around its head, but it was otherwise untouched. It was almost as if this woodland creature had been laid out in offering, food for the starving, shaded from spoiling in the eastern sun by the gargoyle’s massive wings extended just so.

 

[Chernabog]

The curiosity of the stonebound creature had finally given something to ease the witch’s mind away from madness. There was no guarantee that he’d be allowed outside every day, but there was a murmuring among the clergymen that was keeping them distracted. Their local gardens and orchards were wilting into rot. It had started out minimally, but like an infection it was starting to reach areas outside of the church all near the main entrance of the catacombs. It was during said distraction that the male was freed from his cell and allowed to walk along the grounds. He glanced back as the men were speaking, and he hoped that if they came to any conclusion that involved him, that it wouldn’t be another day of torture to try and use his blood for something horrid, only making their problems worse.

Once again Nattayad made his way through the maze of arched hallways, letting his bare feet carry him through the soft shifting of long skirts and beading along them that jingled subtly. The door to the atrium was found instinctively once again. Passing through it, down that last overgrown hall he gasped softly at seeing a completely different position that the gargoyle was within… and the dead animal before it. Golden eyes shifted back and forth between statue and stag for a short while, waiting to ensure that at least the far more unknown of the two wasn’t going to pounce on him.

As the dancer neared, he stared down at the deer. Crouching next to it, he ran his fingers through the rough fur. He searched for any other wounds to see if the demon had eaten any of it himself. He remained sitting on his haunches and raised his head to stare up into the sculpted face above. “Is this solely for me?” He asked, knowing there would be no answer. “There is nothing eaten from it, did you get your fill before?” The male considered it all, then remembered that he had told the creature that he was often starved. His verdant brows knitted slightly, wondering if that was why he now had enough meat to last him for days, if it could be preserved.

Searching around, Nattayad found a broken rock sharp enough to start chopping and slicing at the dead deer into smaller pieces. He considered using his magic to create a fire to cook the meat, but that would likely draw too much attention. He had no idea if Father Haine or the rest of the clergy knew about this living statue, but he doubted it. And perhaps, it was better that way. So instead… the first few slices of meat were eaten raw. It wasn’t the first time he had resorted to eating this way, so it didn’t bother him all that much. Once having his fill, he rested his hands in the middle of the animal. He allowed its fur to slide between his fingers, and he noticed at that moment that the tawny earth color of it was similar to the color of his own skin.

Concentrating, the otherwise beautiful face of the witch started to sharpen, golden eyes narrowing. He was feeling for the elements still left within the deer, until eventually he found water. His own magic flowed into the carcass, and his arms started to tremble. His long hair had been pulled into a large braid but started to come undone, falling around his shoulders and back. Magic pulsed through his form, into the deer, and back into his form, scenting the air with potent sorcery. As his hands pulled back, so did all of the hydration from the dead animal. The corpse shriveled slowly as it was dehydrated, and all of its fluids returned to their natural form in welling globes under the witch’s palms. Sweat dripped down his own exposed skin as he did this, power exerting in a way that didn’t come naturally to him like it did with manipulating plants.

The male fell back on his rear as he panted, two large undulating orbs of water held within his palms as they faced the sky. Nattayad allowed his eyes to close for a moment before leaning back forward and saw that the slain creature was now reduced to a sort of mummified version of itself, but also its intended outcome: dried meat. Standing up, the magic-infused water was brought to the fountain and allowed to splash down into the empty basin that circled around the living statue. It was a mere fraction of what it needed to be full, but it was a fluid that would not evaporate in the hot sun so easily; while also invigorating those that may choose to drink it.

“I’m going to hide this so that I may get to it when things are dire. I’ll return soon.” The dancer said aloud towards the statue as he grunted, dragging the stag as best as he could out of the atrium and towards the woods through an especially dilapidated opening. Once in the embrace of the forest his work became much easier, resting a hand on a tree and staring upwards. Vines and branches lowered down with groans and creaks, binding around the buck-turned-rations and hauling it high up within the canopies to avoid detection and scavenging.

Once he was satisfied with the results, the sorcerer paused to pick small white flowers that scattered across the border of the forest, thanking them for their sacrifice. It was as he returned to the atrium that he worked diligently with his hands. Having run his fingers through his deep green hair, many loose strands were taken and saved, being used to wrap around the stems and leaves of the flowers and corded and braided together. He spoke silent words as he walked and worked at the same time, lips just barely moving.

Mostly unknown to the terrible men of this church, they did not understand the deeper intricacies of why hair was so sacred to this witch, and his people. He would never tell them unless his hair was in danger of being cut, and even then wouldn't tell the complete truth. But just like his blood, magic was within every part of him, including each and every strand of hair. It was what colored it so strangely, and allowed it to grow so long so easily.

By the time he reached the gargoyle again, Nattayad paused look at the being’s position before slowly hauling himself up into the creature’s lap and within his crossed legs, continue working with his hands. To most, the craft would appear as a flower crown or even jewelry, but the man had finished a Witch's Ladder, made from his own hair as well as the plucked flowers. He lounged within the gargoyle’s form, the side of his head even resting against the creature’s upper stomach. It was mid-twilight before he was done, and knew he needed to return to the confines of the church as quickly as possible.

The witch slipped the woven ladder in the small space between the gargoyle's large carved legs and the stone it sat upon. He knew that there was also a chance that even if the creature could hear him, he didn't know if it could fully understand him. His fingertips rested on the loop left at the end of the woven craft that could be used to be worn, if so wished. He closed his eyes and focused on the magic he had cast over the creation already.

“Thank you for the stag, if that was your intention to offer it to me. I have a feeling that my magic will soon be used to create barriers in these grounds… but I don’t know if that will hurt you, because the sort of creature you are is unfamiliar to me. But If you have this with you… you will not be harmed so harshly by my own wards, and will give you strength, though I don’t know in what manner." The male murmured, and then repeated in his own native tongue. "...Please don't make me regret it." He followed up, still not knowing if this being was an ally when it wasn't giving him unintended sanctuary.

But other than this gift was one of almost pure magic, it also being made of his hair also meant it was made of his scent beyond the flowers. His hair scented of distant desert sands, warmth and heat, basking rocks and... freedom. One last peering look was given to the gargoyle's sculpted face before the dancer moved away, entering into the church just as the sun was setting.

 

[bathymcbath]

Bryk was nearly vibrating in his stone casing when the sun released him finally and he burst from deathly stillness into explosive action without warning, without pausing to adjust to his own transition into flesh. He launched himself, but not high toward the stars. He wanted to glide low and fast, so he could see the little creatures that skittered along the ground. He hunted Nattayad with an urgency too fierce to bear considering. He had been so close, it was nearly dark when the witch left him. Bryk had been almost docile throughout the day, almost pleasantly napping while Nattayad rambled and fussed. He tolerated the witch’s warm body in his lap and the slightly sickening shifting of balance when the witch worked his magic, smugly pleased to know that Nattayad would not starve to death before Bryk could have him.

Bryk had been content to doze that way until about an hour before sunset, when he had his first stray thought that perhaps Nattayad would stay. Every minute thereafter he became more enamored with the idea, until he felt certain that it would happen, that it had to happen. He had enticed the witch to stay with his offering and he would be rewarded when the sun disappeared behind the horizon and he could gorge himself on Nattayad’s flesh. Bryk could see only this outcome in his mind’s eye. He convinced himself of its inevitability and was gripped with desperation when Nattayad finally left him so close to his moment of transition.

Determined to catch him before he disappeared again, Bryk glided silently over the garden and drafted up over some ruined outbuildings, over the more manicured grounds near the large stone cathedral. He covered the same ground twice, thrice. He circled for half the night before he came back to the garden where Nattayad’s presence sang most brightly, in Bryk’s fountain. Once there he fell into his new habit of ruminating on the witch and all that had transpired and slowly, so slowly, calming himself from his latest wrathful frenzy. The air seemed to shimmer to Bryk, remnants of the magic that the witch had cast upon the stag, bathing Bryk’s small corner of the world in temporary strangeness. He could taste it in the air alongside the witch’s more straightforward corporeal scent.

He found the charm Nattayad had woven for him. He’d said it would give Bryk strength, as if Bryk had ever lacked for it. At the time he had been ablaze with indignation and dreamed of breaking and burning whatever Nattayad had left for him, but when he picked up the offending trinket he found it pleasantly warm in his hand, as if it had been left out in the sun all day. It smelled strongly of Nattayad, and of flowers too, but mostly of Nattayad. Bryk held it to his face and breathed it in. He learned that it was made of green hairs and he realized none of the times he imagined destroying the little creature did he incorporate this detail. He added it now, contentedly re-dreaming his triumph over the green-haired Nattayad while he brushed the charm back and forth across the skin of his cheek, his mouth. He wondered, too, how he might entice the witch to stay until sunset one day.

Once rooted, this thought consumed Bryk. If he couldn’t find Nattayad by night, he would need to draw the witch to him and keep him close until sunset. He seemed a soft creature, polite and grateful. He had power, but he didn’t flaunt it. Nattayad seemed to genuinely want to live in peace, and to help others do the same. This, he felt, would be the key to trapping Nattayad. He smiled grimly as he brushed the witch’s ladder over his chin, enjoying its warmth and the tickle of Nattayad’s hair and the soft flower petals. Bryk met the sun that way, lounging against the base of the fountain, one knee propped up and one leg stretched out wide, with the witch’s ladder lying loosely against his chest. At a certain angle, in his stone form Bryk appeared to be wearing a ghost of a smile.

 

[Chernabog]

"I appreciate your help, Nattayad. I didn't know where else to turn. Because they've put me in charge of the food gardens, I knew that if I told them that it nothing they told me to do stopped it from dying and we were soon facing a shortage... they'd come after me again." Came the light, airy, and ever-so-soft voice of Sister Nashandra. She wrung her hands nervously at the prospect. "It has been especially lonely since you've stopped visiting…" She continued, lowering her head some, biting her lip.

Guilt pulled in the stomach of the witch at the woman's words. "I didn't stop because I don't like you. It's because anytime you've helped me, you get in trouble, too." The male said just as softly as they walked in secret through the many gardens together. It was late afternoon, when the men of the church seemed to be the most busy preparing for evening. The male crinkled his nose at some of the grounds that were otherwise doing quite well. They were either growing terrible things or were fertilized with equally awful things. More than once a human bone had been found within the dirt of some of the gardens, providing another glimpse of what else was possibly growing within the roots. This entire land was tainted.

"I know, but…" The woman murmured.

"It's not worth it." Came the almost stern response, though the dancer raised a hand to rest on the woman's shoulder, squeezing it softly. "...I'm not worth it, Sister Nashandra. Perhaps we can figure it out sometime else, but for now, it is better that we see little of each other as much as we can manage. But I miss your company as well."

But this was the first time that Nattayad had been allowed to visit the gardens where the food was grown. Permitting the nun to lead him, the first thing he noticed was that it was barely protected; just a meager metal gate surrounding it that would do little, if anything at all, to keep out anything that also wanted to consume the food. But moreso, the male could sense that the poisoned lands had also gotten to this garden as well, even though there seemed to be very old wards in place to try and stop it. He could feel it as he neared it. It seemed whoever had placed them was either dead or left long ago and it wasn't up-kept. The first garden was one for vegetables, and it was in abysmal shape. Most of the plants were wilted, rotting, or were growing such meager rations it was a wonder how the church was able to eat at all. Mushrooms littered throughout, signaling decay. Glancing upwards, Nattayad's amber eyes could see that the fruit trees in the next plot over weren't in much better shape.

Sighing, the witch crossed his arms. "This is going to be… a lot of work and strength. If it'll work at all."

"What's wrong? Why does it keep dying? I make sure the plants are watered when it doesn't rain, these gardens are in the best area for the sun…" The woman asked, frowning.

"It's the soil. The ground and earth the plants are in."

"You mean that we just need to till and replace the soil and it'll be fine?"

He shook his head, some of his deep green hair settling over tawny shoulders. "No. That would almost be too easy. There's something wrong with the earth here. I don't know how to explain it. …or how to explain without possibly hurting you or your faith in this church. But there appears to be a magic barrier here around these gardens that is dying. I believe that's why maybe these gardens did better before. But now it's no longer strong enough to keep out what is tainting these lands."

"Oh." Nashandra shifted in a way that showed her discomfort. "Are you… able to use your magic to fix it?"

It was Nattayad's turn to frown. "I… may be able to. Or at least build onto it. " A contemplative look crossed his features. "Can you bring me to the very center of the gardens that contain all of the food?"

---

The witch stood at the center of the gardens in which the church's food was grown. There were four in total, two for vegetables and two for fruit and fruit trees. They all were in equally bad shape. As he stood in the middle, he closed his eyes and he could feel the fading barrier around them all.

"I don't think I can try and heal the gardens today… but I can try to tend to the barrier. If I can do that then at least it would stop the decay."

"...Alright." The woman said meekly. "Should I… go?" It was clear that she was still fearful of magic in general, even for magic she had seen from the man that had healed far more than it had harmed.

"No, it will not hurt you so long as you stay outside of where I have marked. Please keep a lookout in case anyone comes."

Slowly, the male outstretched his arms, eyes closed. He searched his mind and his body first, and focused on the barrier. Once it was within his mind's eye, his arms started to move elegantly, almost serpent-like in nature.

"Nattayad, is this really the time for your dancing?"

Tensing in a pause, the witch opened an eye in slight irritation as he looked over to the nun. "...Sister Nashandra. Do you remember what I told you when you first asked about different kinds of magic?" He asked, albeit in a rather sassy manner.

Flushing, the woman nodded. "Yes. I remember."

"What was it that I said then?"

"Magics are just as different as their users."

"Mm." Came the response from the male, his arms still outwardly poised. "The magic wielders of these lands appear to use objects such as staffs, or orbs, or wands for more powerful magic. My people often use our bodies in song or dance. This is going to take a lot of my strength, so this is one of those times I cannot just say words or motion at things."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. I just need peace. It's bad enough I don't have any music to assist. You don't have to look if it makes you uncomfortable."

Closing his eyes again, the dancer took a deep breath and started where he had stopped. His arms extended, they started to move again in a fluid motion, his hands curling and spreading this way and that. He quietly hummed, trying to use it as the music he would have preferred as he concentrated on the barrier.

Bringing his arms down, he hovered his hands over his core and inhaled deeply and soon his torso started to move, and he truly started to dance. Rolling his torso as his hips lowered and raised, it was a slow, entrancing motion. His bare feet swept through the soil he stood in, and his ground-length skirts seemed to know exactly how to work with his form, complimenting each and every movement. His hair was the same, even as part of it was tied up so it didn't hang at its full length. It moved along with his being, seeming to only emphasize the motions. His beauty was already something that stood out in this place, but his movements, while elegant and mesmerizing, had a sort of natural allure to them.

Nashandra had turned away to not watch, but as she heard the shifting of the man's long skirts and the soft jingling of some of the trinkets attached to the belt that held them, she glanced over. Immediately she blushed deeply and brought her hands to her face to hide her eyes. She had only seen her friend's dancing once before and didn't allow herself to see much of it. Dancing itself wasn't permitted in the congregation, but definitely not a dance so… sensual... not to mention his exposed skin that flexed and rolled as he moved. But slowly her fingers separated, and she peeked from them with doe-like eyes, watching the man's body move.

Usually when Nattayad danced, a bright smile could be seen on his features. Once upon a time he shared the art with others, and it brought him joy. But not since he had been brought to this place. His face now was one of focus and concentration. He breathed out just as the breeze picked up, a strangeness to it that didn't seem natural. The rustling trees joined, but it could be seen that the moving energy through the nature around them didn't extend in the distance. It was focused here, as the male was casting his magic and letting it flow through him. His hands would reach out towards the old barrier as they would lead the serpentine movement of the rest of his arm, and his body turned in a slow circle, pausing a little at a time to focus on some sections more than others. His form was one of purely liquid-like motions, from the way his head would tilt, down to the roll of his hips and the particular steps he made with his feet.

Sweat started to drip down the dancer's earth-toned flesh as he focused. As the breeze picked up, and the clouds rolled away from the sun above, the rays shining down made his whole form seem to glimmer. It was as though he had caught the attention of nature itself, due to how it reacted to his ritual in the area they were in. His magic was being summoned, siphoned from the surrounding natural energies and the leyline that wasn't all that far from them. He worked as a channel for it to join that of the magic of the existing barrier; revitalizing it, repairing it, making it stronger. His magic's natural neutrality joined that of the magic that had been made so long ago and blended in. It had an equally strange scent to it; raw and untainted. It had the fragrance of sand carrying on a hot wind, of the sun itself. Undetectable to all but who could even sense magic in the first place, but potent for those that did.

Time almost seemed to slow as this all was done, but in reality it had been almost a half-hour before finally the witch's body paused and he opened his eyes again as his arms were up in the air. He breathed heavily, and his legs trembled before he suddenly collapsed down into the soil onto his knees, his head falling forward some as his long green hair fell over a shoulder.

"Nattayad!" The woman gasped as she ran forward to his side, grasping a shoulder to not let him slump forward. She had forgotten about the warning of the barrier, but this was far more important. "Are you alright?!"

Nodding slowly, he panted. "Yes, I'll be fine. It's done, now. I've fixed the barrier and suppressed it so that hopefully no one is the wiser that it's been repaired to draw attention." He mentioned, only thinking of Father Haine in those moments. "I am just very, very tired now."

"I'll help you back." The nun offered, but the witch shook his head. "No, you should head back though, I'm sure they're going to notice you not helping with the cooking soon. There's a few more things I have to do."

"Are you certain you'll be fine?"

"Yes, go ahead. I'm going to finish up here."

Once alone and resting at least for a short while, the dancer eventually got up to a stand. He walked towards the edge of the newly restored barrier, and already there was a significant difference; along the inner edge of it golden flowers had immediately sprang up. A small smile pulled at the male's lips as he stooped to pluck some of them after thanking them for their use.

As best as he could, Nattayad rushed to the atrium to approach it from the outside this time, climbing through once of the crumbled areas. He gazed over yet another new position of the strange creature, crouching next to it as it seemed to sit so casually now. “What sorts of things are you up to during the night?” He asked curiously. “Are you impish, preferring mischief?” But his eyes looked up and down the creatures form. “Your form says otherwise. At your full height I imagine you are quite imposing.” Reaching towards the Witch’s Ladder, he started to weave the new flowers into it, adding to the existing that showed no sign of wilting. “There are magical wards in the food gardens now as I had suspected would come to be when I spoke to you yesterday. Keep this with you if you explore.” The woven ladder was rested upon the gargoyle’s shoulder.

“I wonder… if you were to explore and find where they keep me, how different you look at n-”

“WHERE ARE YOU, WITCH?!"
The angry cry from a distance caused for a sudden silence from the male, immediately trembling. “Father Haine…” He whispered fearfully.

“I know you’re out here! If you do not come out this instant I will slaughter the woman right here and now!”

Pressing close to the gargoyle for a moment, the witch’s verdant brows pinched inward as he trembled, but hearing a sudden pained cry belonging to Sister Nashandra, he knew he couldn’t hide. “I… will not be able to visit you for some time, now. I don’t know how long.” He whispered near the creature’s ear before pushing himself up to meet what he knew would be nothing but pain and fear.