𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚 - 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 & 𝘤𝘺𝘹 | 𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒

[cyx.]

f a t h e r x f i g u r ex & xc y x may include NSFW images or links. x o x​

 

[Father Figure]

the unhallowed xETERNAL // PUPPETEER // SHADOW CACODEMONx "the devil comes as everything you've ever wished for." 𐕣​ October 1892. The Witching Hour. Their pact had been forged at the crossroads, the new moon unseen overhead. A heavy fog lay across the land, the woodland practically bereft of any light in the cold fall morn. It was here that Isadora Van Wyck stood, a girl barely more than sixteen years of age, dress tattered from her pell-mell flight from her family’s manor, feet caked in mud. Desperation had driven the benighted young woman out into the night, running far from the home that should have been sanctuary. Her plight was not an uncommon one, a young girl alone raised among the wolves of high society. Subject to abuse, to cruelties, and to a numbing fear that permeated her very life. Here at the crossroads, she fell to her knees; here with trembling lips she collapsed and begged for a benediction to fall upon her forgotten soul. She did not beg for wealth, nor even vengeance, but something far more horrifying: love. A protector to shield her, to save her from the horrors of her life. One that would come to her with kindness, to save her. Salvation was close kin to damnation, and so in her darkest despair her call was answered. A presence older than time unfurled in the shadows of the forest. The Unhallowed. It came with the rustling of leaves and the hint of ash that stung the air. Its form was writhing shadows save for the singular throb of something eldritch deep within, and the burning malice of its eyes. The Unhallowed cloaked her, a chilling blanket of eternal rest, obscuring the world save for its voice. A voice which whispered with deep resonant intonations, promising succor. Offering its heart. And all the young aristocrat need promise was her devotion. To be his betrothed. To become his bride upon her age of majority. And she accepted. And when she woke the following morning, Isadora accepted that she had dreamt it all. Until the accidents began to happen… -------------- December 31st, 1894. New Year’s Eve. The gates of the sanitarium were ominous. Thankfully, they loomed behind Isadora Van Wyck as the carriage began its journey, the past remembrance of the misbegotten day she first laid eyes upon them prominent in her mind. She had arrived there, thin and ghostly pale, wrists bruised from the grip of hands that sought to restrain her hysterics at the age of seventeen. Her stay had been a lonely one, a dreaded curse lingering over the young woman’s existence even in the absence of the one to which she made pact. None who prayed for her healing stayed long in her presence, all those who had extended a hand in kindness vanishing mysteriously. She was the albatross, the evil eye, and even other inmates muttered tales of unshakeable dread in her passing. Now she emerged from the wretched place, a woman of eighteen years of age, to return home. And perhaps return to her lost love. The Unhallowed had kept its promise to her, shielding her from harm, though in doing so devouring all those who sought to alleviate her isolation. It had loved her, in its own way. A sickening suffocation but a love, nonetheless. Thoughts dismissed as she arrived at Van Wyck Manor. The house stood at the end of a winding drive, its stark silhouette nestled between oaks and hedgerows. Abandoned since Isadora’s commitment, there was a strange sensation that it was no longer part of reality. As if it had been displaced from time itself, left to its own devices, waiting for the return of the bloodline. A modest estate, it had been nonetheless maintained in her absence. The grounds had been kept neatly trimmed, the path to the house clear of snow, but there was a silence that went unbroken. No footprints led to the grand doors, nor any signs of habitation. Save for one thing. One thing alone. There, in the window on the second floor that had been her room, was the steady glow of her bedroom lamp. Something welcoming her home. The carriage came to a stop and her coachman clambered down from his perch to open the door, reaching in to pick up her suitcase, and what little belongings were within, before stepping aside for her to descend. The older man, who went by name of Rory, was furtive, his hand trembling; and not from cold as he spoke with tremulous intonation. “Beggin the Missus pardon, but, does she have need of me this night? I can return in the morn if she want.”​

 

[cyx.]

isadora van wyck xEIGHTEEN // INGÉNUE // VIRGIN HECATOMBx "don't let the devil hear you weeping, or darkness comes as your friend." ✞​ ​ Two long years had passed since that fated night in the woods. She had been a naive girl back then, scared of her father's angry outbursts; her mother's neglectful cold shoulder; and the blind eyes the servants would turn towards any mistreatment that went her way. The young lady of the manor had grown up expecting to be seen and not heard, to promptly do as she was told without question, and to follow in her mother's footsteps and secure a husband that would be an asset to their family name. When she started rejecting the idea of marriage at fourteen, that's when everything had changed for the girl. Until the night her father met an untimely end. The pact that had been made in the woods hadn't seemed like it could be a reality; Isadora had woken up that morning like every other morning. A servant had drawn her curtains, exposed her to the rise of the morning sun, and called upon her to get herself decent and ready for breakfast. Upon leaving her room, her father was waiting, arms crossed behind his back and a glower already resting on his features. His dark eyes picked over her, embedding her with his disdain as though he had physically laid his hands on her. When he brought up an arranged marriage, everything spiralled out of control. Isadora was defiant, immediately expressing that she didn't want to be married - her father's face contorted into a look of hate, and he lunged. The next thing she knew, a darkness had wrapped around the pair of them; instead of feeling the outstretched crooked hands of her father wrap around her neck, she was left with a comforted embrace, and then a shriek filled the upper walkway of the manor before a loud thud echoed below. When the darkness evaporated, and Isadora's amber eyes could peer over the banister, her father's body came into view below.. twitching as he struggled to breathe. His neck was broken, and his body writhed and floundered until he eventually succumbed to the catastrophic injury. Minutes ticked by until a servant finally entered the lobby and stumbled upon the lifeless body, and after her shrill scream entered the manor's foyer, the woman's eyes peered up and caught Isadora's figure; and for a brief moment, the woman would have sworn she had seen a set of pale glowing eyes above the young lady's shoulder. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───​ As the door to the carriage was opened, Isadora remained seated as she collected her thoughts. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories and nightmares, and she was thankful for the few extra moments to collect herself. Once Rory had lifted her meager suitcase, the eighteen year old stepped down onto the familiar stone of her family's property, and her eyes lifted to the desolate manor. Amber eyes traced along the empty windows; the dying vines that clung to the surface of the building from neglect; the lonely porch that beckoned her. The flicker of light within her room caused her gaze to pause, and she focused on the window, hoping to see something - anything - of the whispered shadow that she dreamt of every single night while she was locked away in that sanitarium. Rory's words penetrated the cool winter air, and Isadora blinked, keeping her gaze pointed towards the soft glow of her bedroom window. "That wont be necessary, Rory." Very slowly, the woman's head turned to glance towards her carriage driver, and she attempted to give him a weak smile. "You've done enough. I'll send for you should I require your services; go home and get some rest." Isadora knew why he shook; why he looked so uncomfortable. It was the same way everyone reacted around her, scared of ending up in an early grave due to her dark passenger. The man didn't hesitate to put her suitcase down and retreat back to the carriage, leaving the young woman alone. Isadora took a moment to inhale the familiar smell of her family's property before leaning down to grasp the handle and make her way inside. As expected, the manor was cold and still. It hadn't been touched by anyone in months. Protective drapes were still in place over the furniture that adorned the foyer of the manor, and if it weren't for the moonlight seeping into the windows, Isadora would've been walking into a dark abyss of nothingness. It was enough to lead her up the staircase towards her bedroom, guiding each step of her delicate high heeled boots on their journey. Twisting the door knob to her room, Isadora's amber eyes peered into the still confinement she used to be so familiar with, searching. It was empty, save for the lamp that rested on her nightstand which glowed with light, casting shadows with its every flicker. Slowly, she passed the threshold of the door frame, and got to work bringing the room back to life. ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───​ An hour had passed, and Isadora had lit her fireplace and pulled back the protective covers from the furniture in her room. Her suitcase had been unpacked and tucked away under her bed. And as she filled her bed warmer with hot coals from the burning fire, she found her mind drifting. Every creak within the house made her look expectantly towards her closed door; every shadow cast around her room by a stray flick of fire had her heart racing.. She kneeled before the fireplace in her thin white nightgown, nearly ready to climb into her lavish bed, unable to shake the feeling that someone was missing. Something. With a disappointed sigh, she stood with her warming pan clenched within her right hand, and crossed to her queen sized bed. Easing the bedding up at the foot of the bed, she nestled the pan under the covers. "I thought you would be here.." she found herself muttering under her breath, her tone low and lonely as she settled into bed. She leaned over and snuffed her bedside lamp out, drowning her bedroom in a deeper darkness. The only light that penetrated her bedroom belong to the dying fire in the fireplace. "I was ready for you to be here.." she breathed out into the air, easing underneath the duvet and retreating her head to her pillow. With a heavy exhale, she willed herself to sleep, with a hope that being back in her own bed would save her of the nightmares and deranged dreams that had taken hold of her for the past two years.​ ​ ​

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[Father Figure]

the unhallowed xETERNAL // PUPPETEER // SHADOW CACODEMONx "the devil comes as everything you've ever wished for." 𐕣​ The faint crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, the light weakly flickering from the dying glow of the embers. As the fire guttered weakly, the shadows of the room grew in its absence, vague motions that hinted at an unknown. As if summoned for the sheer purpose of caressing Isadora’s slumbering form. The fire flickered forlorn before succumbing to the encroaching winter cold, plunging the room into darkness. If the young woman were awake, if she could see, then she would know her prayers had been answered once more. Frost spread its pattern cross the window, the hint of monstrosity within the ever deepening cold. Remnants of eyes outlined in the panes, denied physical form, but peering into Isadora’s refuge. The curtains stirred, rustled by a breeze that could not exist, as if something waited within the depths of the fabric. Through the frosted pane a sliver of moonlight pierced through the sky, illuminating the room, and Isadora was not alone. There, a silhouette could be found against the drapery, a shape undefined. But how did one define living shade? This was no man, no beast, but some grotesque amalgamation that defied all logic. But one characteristic was unmistakable. The glowing claret of the Unhallowed’s demonic eyes. Its very presence was oppressive, the world itself reacting to its coming. This was not natural, it was primordial, hearkening back to a period of time before man was cognizant of their sentience. The Unhallowed had existed from the dawn of the first nightmare, the first whispered plea, the first terrified shriek of the human species. And it had chosen Isadora, come to her in her hour of desperation, bound and pact made for some unfathomable reason. What did such a being need of her soft skin? What did such a horror require of her lilting voice? It knew no needs of compassion or merciful tenderness. But the Unhallowed knew hunger, it knew the gnawing ache of time immemorial. Of loneliness, of jealousy, and perhaps even the tang of fear. Whatever the machinations of such an entity might be, they would come to fruition with Isadora this evening as it manifested in her room. Though, in truth it had no choice in the action. The bargain had been struck; the pact inviolate. It was bound to honor its word, and honor it had. Even the devil was required to pay its due. The firelight might have proven no impediment to such a force, but it belonged to the night. And just like on that forgotten night of Isadora’s past, it suffused the space of her room, wrapping it in a cloak of everlasting depth. An otherness that filled the room to its capacity, pausing only above her bed to savor the sight of her. How long its eyes had gazed upon Isadora from afar, unable to cross the threshold of the sanitarium grounds, now finally given reprieve to bask in the sight of her. A hand made from the cloth of oblivion itself reached to touch the coverlet that protected the young woman from the blistering freeze of its presence. A hesitation, a whisper of something spoken, as if even it realized it was on the cusp of a beginning. The shadowy limb turned, fingers splaying out inhumanly to caress an obsidian fingernail along pale brow. Unanswered longing stirring something deep within the Unhallowed’s recesses. And then… …firelight. Leaping ablaze to warm the room once more, alive and hungry tendrils licking to enormous heights as it filled the hearth with the depth of hellfire itself. The banked embers glowing yellow as the sun itself, before tapering down to something far more manageable. The crackle of cold wood snapping, the smell of heavy logs a remembrance of pleasantries from times long past. And here, alone, Isadora might wake to the caress of unimaginable softness that began anew. No longer hesitant as it petted her hair, once more unseen, save for the alluring promise of its voice in the heated air. Did you think I had forgotten, my beloved? Such longing I have had, unrequited and unholy. You are as I dreamt you would be; a blossom of beauty in winter. This world has wronged you so, but now the hour has come. This night marks the fulfillment of our bond, eternal.​