Post by Wayland on Mar 9, 2021 21:04:58 GMT -8
... A year or two ago ...
Sometimes Wayland wonders if she was Taken because she had already made herself into a similar shape as the mold she would be beaten into. Or maybe that’s wrong, maybe that’s trauma coloring her past. There are things that are different, since her Escape. But there are also things that have stayed the same. Ways in which she didn’t “escape” at all. Doubtless that’s not a unique part of the Changeling experience.
It’s a thought that she pushes out of her mind while she sits in the simple stool, bent over her work. Clasped in one surgical-gloved hand of tarnished silver are a pair of surgical forceps. With the other hand, she pulls a lamp closer, shining down onto her subject’s dappled skin. There are scratches here and there, and this being the third visit, Wayland has learned that they’re a good indication of where to look. She moves the light away slightly, watching for the tell-tale glow under the skin. It’s tiny, almost like a hair, peeking out of the skin around it. A thin scale made of solid light.
The movement is practiced now, deftly reaching for the anomaly with the forceps, and pulling with a slow, smooth motion. The scale comes loose, glistening and gleaming in the semi-darkness around them, and she examines it for a moment before depositing it in a bucket that glows from the results of several such harvests. There was something intensely personal about the living light resting there so unceremoniously. Which was the point, after all.
Riley hadn’t made any noise in response to the firm tugging of Wayland’s forceps. They got quiet during this process, bent forward to lean on their arms, folded atop a workbench in the hollow. Riley sat there and Wayland sat behind them, hunting across their naked, dappled back for the glowing points of bioluminescence. It was clear that Riley scratched at some of these, that they cause irritation. When they had first begun this process, each extraction was met with a wince or a hiss of breath. Now the two of them simply sat in a sort of respectful, intimate silence throughout the process.
It’s an odd contrast to Riley’s usual personality. They’re always chatty when they arrive, talking about their work, their relationships, their taste in music. Fortunately there were some overlapping interests there. Wayland finds it pleasant to chat with Riley, if a little overwhelming at times. But when the Bright One bares their back, accepting that pain will be the price for what they’re after and asking Wayland to participate, it seems to silence them. Understandable. She gets the sense that these are more than just a bizarre bodily function to the Darkling. But she’s not going to pry.
The thought she’s been pushing away comes back to her; this is not so very different from what she did in the Forest.
“I think that does it for today,” she says gently, reaching for a surgical tray of tools and picking up a long cotton swab, which she dabs in antibiotic ointment and then applies the tiny wound left behind by her last extraction, swirling it over a few of the nearby scratch marks just for good measure. Then she pushes her tools and her stool back, and turns to face away from Riley, giving them privacy as they dress while she pulls off her surgical gloves and drops them in a bin. There’s not a lot of space in her Hollow, most of it occupied by the tools and mechanisms of her trade. But there’s enough that they can move and stretch without invading each others’ personal space.
“Come take a look,” she invites the Darkling after a moment, standing at another work bench and waiting for Riley to join her. Before them on the bench is half-finished art in shining silver. The fingers are done, those beautiful flowing claws of curling flower petals and sharp spikes. As is the outline from where the gems will go, gems that Wayland will shape out of Riley’s offered light. And around them are many scattered loops of silver and silver, waiting to be riveted together into a flexible shape that will adorn Riley’s hand up to the forearm. It will be a long, meticulous process, as working with chain often is. But not an unfamiliar one.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Riley says as they stand next to her, looking down at the half-finished project. The insectoid Fairest’s eyes are dark, but they reflect the glint of silver and the glow from the bounty of tonight’s harvest. “Beautiful…” They say, antennae twitching as if to reach out and stroke the metal, but not quite reaching far enough. Wayland watches as their expression firms with resolve. “Worth the cost,” they declare, before their lips turn upwards once more as they marvel in the beauty of the creation. Wayland’s smile joins it, watching someone appreciate her work. There had been those that were thankful to her in the Forest, but it had never been her choice to Make for them. Here, everything she Makes, she Makes of her own volition.
The dark Hollow begins to grow brighter, as a soft light begins to emanate from Riley. It seems to come from underneath their skin, creeping up their antennae and filling their dark eyes. Wayland watches with curiosity and wonder… and a hunger curls deep inside her gut. Sense-memory and buried trauma are trying to push her down a familiar course, a course she might have taken in the Forest. There is more light inside Riley, light that hasn’t yet been harvested. Even not knowing what it is, she knows that light has value, that light could be brought into her Making. Light she left because taking more tonight would hurt the Bright One… but she could have it all. She could pick up a knife from among her tools and drive it into the moth’s back, pull that light from their insides. Or wrap her silver hands around Riley’s throat and squeeze, until that light was forced up through their mouth, so Wayland could swallow it whole.
The blacksmith folds her arms over her chest as these dark thoughts plague her. That’s all they are. Thoughts. Memories. Reminding her how she would have acted at a different time. If she were still trapped in the Forest, if her Making was on-demand instead of by-request. The old hunger twists in her belly, and there’s a rush of saliva to her mouth. She could eat well tonight, by several definitions, if she would just let her be the monster she was before. But she won’t. For three nights now she’s taken what light she could find without harming the Darkling. Light that was precious and powerful and so intensely, viscerally personal. That Riley would trust her to do this is… precious. Not something she wants to betray.
“How ya fixin’ to turn these...into stones?” The Darkling’s words jar Wayland from her thoughts, and she glances down at the glowing bucket full of shards and slivers of light that Riley indicates. The Ogre takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving and loosening as she relaxes, a smile returning to her face as she looks on Riley’s pleased, curious expression.
“The usual way. Heat, pressure, and time.”
[Co-authored with Mavspade.]
Sometimes Wayland wonders if she was Taken because she had already made herself into a similar shape as the mold she would be beaten into. Or maybe that’s wrong, maybe that’s trauma coloring her past. There are things that are different, since her Escape. But there are also things that have stayed the same. Ways in which she didn’t “escape” at all. Doubtless that’s not a unique part of the Changeling experience.
It’s a thought that she pushes out of her mind while she sits in the simple stool, bent over her work. Clasped in one surgical-gloved hand of tarnished silver are a pair of surgical forceps. With the other hand, she pulls a lamp closer, shining down onto her subject’s dappled skin. There are scratches here and there, and this being the third visit, Wayland has learned that they’re a good indication of where to look. She moves the light away slightly, watching for the tell-tale glow under the skin. It’s tiny, almost like a hair, peeking out of the skin around it. A thin scale made of solid light.
The movement is practiced now, deftly reaching for the anomaly with the forceps, and pulling with a slow, smooth motion. The scale comes loose, glistening and gleaming in the semi-darkness around them, and she examines it for a moment before depositing it in a bucket that glows from the results of several such harvests. There was something intensely personal about the living light resting there so unceremoniously. Which was the point, after all.
Riley hadn’t made any noise in response to the firm tugging of Wayland’s forceps. They got quiet during this process, bent forward to lean on their arms, folded atop a workbench in the hollow. Riley sat there and Wayland sat behind them, hunting across their naked, dappled back for the glowing points of bioluminescence. It was clear that Riley scratched at some of these, that they cause irritation. When they had first begun this process, each extraction was met with a wince or a hiss of breath. Now the two of them simply sat in a sort of respectful, intimate silence throughout the process.
It’s an odd contrast to Riley’s usual personality. They’re always chatty when they arrive, talking about their work, their relationships, their taste in music. Fortunately there were some overlapping interests there. Wayland finds it pleasant to chat with Riley, if a little overwhelming at times. But when the Bright One bares their back, accepting that pain will be the price for what they’re after and asking Wayland to participate, it seems to silence them. Understandable. She gets the sense that these are more than just a bizarre bodily function to the Darkling. But she’s not going to pry.
The thought she’s been pushing away comes back to her; this is not so very different from what she did in the Forest.
“I think that does it for today,” she says gently, reaching for a surgical tray of tools and picking up a long cotton swab, which she dabs in antibiotic ointment and then applies the tiny wound left behind by her last extraction, swirling it over a few of the nearby scratch marks just for good measure. Then she pushes her tools and her stool back, and turns to face away from Riley, giving them privacy as they dress while she pulls off her surgical gloves and drops them in a bin. There’s not a lot of space in her Hollow, most of it occupied by the tools and mechanisms of her trade. But there’s enough that they can move and stretch without invading each others’ personal space.
“Come take a look,” she invites the Darkling after a moment, standing at another work bench and waiting for Riley to join her. Before them on the bench is half-finished art in shining silver. The fingers are done, those beautiful flowing claws of curling flower petals and sharp spikes. As is the outline from where the gems will go, gems that Wayland will shape out of Riley’s offered light. And around them are many scattered loops of silver and silver, waiting to be riveted together into a flexible shape that will adorn Riley’s hand up to the forearm. It will be a long, meticulous process, as working with chain often is. But not an unfamiliar one.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Riley says as they stand next to her, looking down at the half-finished project. The insectoid Fairest’s eyes are dark, but they reflect the glint of silver and the glow from the bounty of tonight’s harvest. “Beautiful…” They say, antennae twitching as if to reach out and stroke the metal, but not quite reaching far enough. Wayland watches as their expression firms with resolve. “Worth the cost,” they declare, before their lips turn upwards once more as they marvel in the beauty of the creation. Wayland’s smile joins it, watching someone appreciate her work. There had been those that were thankful to her in the Forest, but it had never been her choice to Make for them. Here, everything she Makes, she Makes of her own volition.
The dark Hollow begins to grow brighter, as a soft light begins to emanate from Riley. It seems to come from underneath their skin, creeping up their antennae and filling their dark eyes. Wayland watches with curiosity and wonder… and a hunger curls deep inside her gut. Sense-memory and buried trauma are trying to push her down a familiar course, a course she might have taken in the Forest. There is more light inside Riley, light that hasn’t yet been harvested. Even not knowing what it is, she knows that light has value, that light could be brought into her Making. Light she left because taking more tonight would hurt the Bright One… but she could have it all. She could pick up a knife from among her tools and drive it into the moth’s back, pull that light from their insides. Or wrap her silver hands around Riley’s throat and squeeze, until that light was forced up through their mouth, so Wayland could swallow it whole.
The blacksmith folds her arms over her chest as these dark thoughts plague her. That’s all they are. Thoughts. Memories. Reminding her how she would have acted at a different time. If she were still trapped in the Forest, if her Making was on-demand instead of by-request. The old hunger twists in her belly, and there’s a rush of saliva to her mouth. She could eat well tonight, by several definitions, if she would just let her be the monster she was before. But she won’t. For three nights now she’s taken what light she could find without harming the Darkling. Light that was precious and powerful and so intensely, viscerally personal. That Riley would trust her to do this is… precious. Not something she wants to betray.
“How ya fixin’ to turn these...into stones?” The Darkling’s words jar Wayland from her thoughts, and she glances down at the glowing bucket full of shards and slivers of light that Riley indicates. The Ogre takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving and loosening as she relaxes, a smile returning to her face as she looks on Riley’s pleased, curious expression.
“The usual way. Heat, pressure, and time.”
[Co-authored with Mavspade.]