sixthiterationlogs | { raining blood, from a lacerated sky

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{ raining blood, from a lacerated sky

WHO: Jo Harvelle, a dead elk, and you!
WHERE: In front of The Inn
WHEN: November 13
OPEN TO: Everyone (Especially those in the inn or close enough to hear!)
WARNINGS: Animal Death's w/ Mutilation, Manipulation, Gore, Blood
STATUS: Open

People have been sticking close to the buildings, to each other, to not being out late after dark if they can help it, and even then, almost never alone. There's a charged air to everything, like a shot about to crack, or like they are strung up and held in a never ending loop on that second of shock the moment after the crack sounds, before the body can relax again.

Mapping has slowed to nothing this week, and Jo's among the many who remind people to be more careful when hunting right now. The Village seeming less and less safe with the animals that had appeared in the wide open of the buildings and fountain, with no one seeing anything, which made the dark, closed in shadows of the forest seems even darker and even more closed in.

She's as much not expecting it as expecting it, whens she opens the door, intending to head to the house she's sharing with Kol and Thorfinn, and there's a huge hulking animal form mountained right in front of the path into and out of the Inn. The same path people walked all day to get food, and everything else.

"Fuck," is revulsion for the smell, black and bloody and something else, the sheer size of the body, the still towering form, with its cracked and somehow dangling antlers, before her hand is tightening on the door still in it and she's calling back inside. "We've got another one!"

Jo goes for the knife in her boot even though there hasn't been an attacked attached to one yet, before she's headed down to the huge beast. It looks like the others have all reported in, and gotten written down by her. Ripped apart by teeth and claws, chunks of flesh hanging here and there, but nothing taken, nothing missing. Limbs twisted and contort in impossible ways, pointing toward the door.

The blood everywhere all around it. On the steps. On porch. On the door.

More like it was thrown than like it sprayed in an attack.

The same as the animal that looks like it was dropped -- no, placed -- so far from where it ever might be found in this place. Leaving Jo looking quickly all around there. The whole wide space of the creeping, settling early night dark of this place.

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Kate feels that huff of breath, and in a way it's more intimate than sending her with her body pressed against the man, her arms around him. The breath of his body, or something along those lines.

She doesn't want to pull away, but he's right: he's being sensible. So she nods and then steps back, trying to ignore the way her body retains the feel of his like a ghost along herself.

"All right. Just, knock first. I'll be gettin' out of my things, too."

Before the events of today, Miss Kate telling him she'd be getting undressed would most likely have brought up images that he should definitely not be thinking about in his mind's eye, sending a traitorous blush darkening his cheeks. Now, while the images flicker a little, like a picture on a string that's twisted quickly between pinched fingers, he's too tired and too rattled to focus much on them, and his blush does not manifest.

"I'll close my eyes," he says with a small smile, his hand falling back to her elbow when she steps away from him, already missing the contact her touch had brought. "So you can keep your modesty."

Unlike some of the women who live in these parts, Miss Kate is careful to keep covered. He understands that need, and he'll do what he can to respect that.

He does wind up hanging his shirt on the towel bar, leaving it to drip dry onto the floor overnight, and then heads off to his own room so he can find something new to wear. Unfortunately, most of his clothing is dirty, as he's been tending the garden with Mr Watney and hasn't done his laundry yet. Still, he finds something relatively clean to change into, and heads for Miss Kate's room. After only a few steps, he turns back, and strips the blanket off of his bed. If they're going to share, they might as well share their bedding, too, that way they'll stay even warmer.

Standing with the blanket bundled in his arms, he knocks on her door.

"Thank you."

And there, right there, is the first why she's so comfortable in his presence: he not only lets her be with how she dresses and interacts, but actually understands some of why. Why she does it, and why in another setting it wouldn't make her strange.

Back in her room, she undresses with the quickness of one who is used to getting rid of her layers in cold environment. The slowest garment to be removed is her corset, and that is more to allow her lungs to adjust without making her feel faint. As it is, she's still just pulling on her other chemise (alternate, alternate, alternate and it's not so bad) when the knock comes.

"One minute!" Kate calls out, and then quickly scurries over to her bed. It's only once she's in, covers mostly over her, that she calls, "All right, come in."

True to his word, when Benedict pokes his head in her room, his eyes are closed.

"Are you decent?" he asks, smiling a little. It would be difficult to shake out the blanket over her bed and climb in beside her if he kept his eyes closed the whole time, but dammit, he told her he would, and if that's what she needs to feel comfortable with him in her bed like that, then he'll just have to muddle along.

Some bruised shins are nothing in the long run.

"As decent as I'll be, considerin' the situation," she responds, voice warm and dry. It could have been a sarcastic comment, but here, it's not. The situation is awful, but he's kind and being a little silly, and you need kindness and lightness to combat the dark.

In the actual, physical dark of her room, with the only light coming from the windows with the curtains that don't quite cover everything, the pale of her skin and the pale of her chemise stand out, but nothing to be done about that.

"I won't hold it against you, then."

He opens his eyes and peers in at her, grateful for his excellent eyesight and better than average night-vision so that he doesn't have to wait long for his eye to adjust. The door gets closed carefully behind him, and then he makes his way into her room, the blanket still in his arms.

Snapping it out over her, he huffs. "Why the smallest girl in this house needs the biggest bed..."

But when the blanket settles, he's smiling at her, and perches on the edge of the mattress, his hand settling on her knee above the covers. "Are you sure you don't want me to sleep on the floor?"

There are so many things she could say, but chooses not to. She likes him; she knows he's been slowly, shyly courting her, and she likes that, too. He's a beautiful man and she remembers the heat and desire of making love now with an ache of missing that isn't all tied up with Joe Byrne.

However, that's not what tonight is, and so she doesn't say anything about indulging herself or anything about, well, it's a good thing now that I chose it. Or anything that might lead to kisses and rolling around in the sheets.

Instead, Kate just smirks at him. "If you have the choice of all the beds, why not?"

Then she reaches out, and curls her fingers around the hand he's placed on her knee. It's intimate, an intimate position, but she's ignoring that. Focusing on other things.

"I'm used to sharing my bed," Kate says, quietly. "With my siblings. If you're on the floor, I'm alone. So. Yes, I'm sure."

Kate's hand is small, and hard with a life of toil, but strong enough to circle his wrist and have him feeling it.

Benedict has been shyly trying to court her, not really sure what he was doing but attempting to do it nonetheless. It was immediately apparent to him that Kate either didn't know what the warriorborn were, or simply didn't care, because she never treated him as if he was anything other than a man just like any other. It had immediately endeared her to him, if her fair face and dogged determination wasn't enough to impress him.

He hadn't felt comfortable asking for help from anyone in the village, and so he'd fumbled along, bringing her flowers and trying to be helpful, and there are times he thinks she's receptive to his advances, and times he's not so sure. It's confusing, and sometimes disheartening, but every time he resigns himself to having set his sights on the wrong girl, she gives him a shy little smile that kindles his hopes anew.

Tonight is a time outside of those concerns, however, a time not for flirting or quiet longing, but for seeking and providing comfort where one can.

"I am not," he confesses, but doesn't bother elaborating. He only has sisters, which meant they weren't likely to slip into his bed when they were scared of a bad dream, and the Lancaster home was, is, the largest in Habble Landing. They had no need to share with him, even if they had wanted to. There were more than enough beds to go around. "I will try not to kick you in my sleep, but if I do, you have my permission to roll me out of bed onto the floor."

"I have pointy elbows and knees," Kate says, half confession and mostly warning. She doesn't comment on his sleeping habits: she's already well gotten the impression his family was far, far, far wealthier than hers. Even his name tastes of wealth.

So instead, she just shifts a little more towards the wall and pulls back the blankets for him.

"We'll make it work."

Well, with an invitation like that, how's he supposed to say no?

Carefully crawling into her bed, he settles himself down on his side, curling one arm beneath his head and draping the other over the blankets, his hand dangling near his hip, nowhere close to her so he's not being improper. This whole situation is improper enough as it stands.

He can only guess what Gwen might say if she knew what he was getting up to.

"I've been told I snore."

It's such a normal thing to be worried about. Snoring. When there's blood on the steps and animals being killed left and right (and front and back of her inn), but this is why she gave in and asked, isn't it?

Comfort. Another person.

Something human to hang onto so the fear doesn't swamp and drown them all. Drown her.

So there's a smile in her voice when she responds.

"I'll manage. I grew up in a one room shack with three older brothers. Won't be the worst thing I've heard, Benedict."

Edited 2016-11-18 04:27 (UTC)

It's not like he was unaware that Miss Kate grew up poor, but he hadn't ever asked about just how poor she'd been.

He can't even fathom growing up in a one-room house, let alone with three older siblings.

Luckily, he's quickly distracted.

"You called me Benedict," he points out, a helpless smile curling his lips. It's not like the others don't call him by name — although quite a few people tend to refer to him the way his comrades did in the Spirearch's Guard: as Sorellin — but he'd been quietly hoping she'd grow comfortable enough with him to call him by his name without prompting. It seems his wish has come true.

One day, she will tell him that she's the seventh of twelve. About the cloth partitions for walls, about the day Ned made an extension to the house so they had another room and he was shining proud. But not now, because five of her siblings are dead and she's trying to escape the ghosts.

His pleasure seems to be a nice distraction, and she smiles back as she settles herself down in the bed.

"I guess I did. Do you mind?"

One day, he will tell her about his life, about being warriorborn and what that meant for his family, about the Lancaster Vatteries, about being viewed as a strange, if somewhat regrettable, anomaly in an otherwise shining lineage. Just as she's trying to escape her ghosts, he's enjoying being normal, treated the same as any other man.

"On the contrary," he assures her, his hand sliding off his side to rest on the blankets between them. "We have known each other three months, now. I had rather hoped we would be good enough friends by now that you might call me by name."

He'd like to be able to call her Kate without fearing for her life, too, but he's not going to push his luck right now.

It's not as graceful as she'd like, reaching out to take his hand. She has to untangle it from the blankets, but then, she thinks that should be all right. The level of thought and intent behind the gesture having to come through, no room for misunderstanding as she wraps her fingers around and trough his.

"In private conversation... You can call me Kate, in return."

It is different from granting Thorfinn her name. That had been due to language bridges being too shaky to explain: that her name has always felt safe in his mouth had been reassuring. Here, with Benedict, it is far more deliberate and intimate.

It may not be graceful, but he gives it the gravitas the gesture deserves, letting go of the blankets and letting her slide her slender fingers through his until they are holding hands properly, her touch warm in the palm that normally holds his gauntlet.

Strange, how after just three months, he's almost stopped thinking about it.

On some level, it feels like a betrayal, that he does not think about his home every minute of the day. In fact, he can almost go a whole day without thinking about Gwen, or the Temple, or Habble Morning at all. But then again, he has much to think about here.

"Thank you," he murmurs quietly, stroking his thumb over the side of her hand. After a moment's hesitation, looking at their hands, he speaks up again. "You're very special to me, Kate. I-I hope you know that."

Kate feels herself blush at his quiet voice, at the gentle movement of his thumb over her hand, at the tingling his thumb leaves in her skin in its wake. At the quiet intimacy of this moment. There's something precious about it, something she wants to protect from the horrors downstairs that she'd fled into his arms from.

"I... I do know," Kate says, just as quiet. "All those flowers, yeah?" There's a gentle tease in her voice that she hopes won't take away from Benedict's confession. "You're..."

This hurts, suddenly. The ghost of Joe Byrne clutching at her heart going, mine, mine, mine.

But he's dead, and Benedict is not.

"You're very dear to me, too, Benedict."

Her hand is narrow and soft in his, even with the calluses on her palm that speak of a life of hard work, and suddenly, he's struck with an almost painful bolt of gratitude for this place.

It's not a thought he had ever expected to wrestle with, but he can't help it. Here, he's not warriorborn, he's just a man. Nobody sneers at him and then flinches when he stands to his full height, disdaining him but fearing him at the same time. Nobody cares what House he's from, nobody knows anything about him except for what he tells them. His injuries have been wiped away, his burns healed, and he can lie here curled up with a pretty girl, feeling her hand tucked in his palm, no bandages and no scars to dull the sensation.

"I thought you deserved something pretty to look at," he replies absently, his yellow eyes still looking intently at her face as if he was memorizing this moment. The implication that he didn't need any pretty flowers to look at because he was looking at something far prettier goes unsaid.

The urge to kiss her is strong. He's never kissed a girl before, and he has to admit the thought makes him nervous, but it's not just nerves that are holding him back. He doesn't want their first kiss to be in the aftermath of bloodshed. Pulling her hand a little closer, he kisses that instead, ducking his head and pressing his lips fervently to her pale fingers.

She's still blushing, and she has no idea what this looks like in the moonlight. A stain over her face? No matter: she can't help it, no more than she can help the smile his words, his gesture, cause.

"I've liked them. The flowers. It's been nice, havin' them around."

His lips on her skin, even the skin of her fingers, makes her breath catch. Maybe especially the skin of her fingers. She's not got a lady's hand, a lady who has only handled needles and cups of tea and books. She has a farm-daughter's hands, roughened by work. The kind of hands she only recently could afford the gloves to hide.

But Benedict's kissing her fingers like they are worthy of admiration, not to be hidden away.

Kate lets out a slightly shaky exhalation, and she's not sure if she wants to kiss him or just lie still in wonder. In the end, she does neither. In the end, she just whispers a quiet instruction of him to move closer, lie on his back, and then she curls up next to him. Head on his arm, hand in his. Her body is along his, yes, she knows that, but it feels right. Safe. Like she's wanted, like he'll protect her.

"Good, I'm glad."

Kate does so much for everyone without asking for any kind of recognition for it. He's glad his small gesture, as frivolous as it might seem to others, has been well-received. It's only too bad the cold weather makes continuing it impossible. Benedict has never experienced seasons in his life, and it's rather difficult to get used to.

She pokes and prods at him until he does as she pleases, and he's more than happy to roll onto his back and shift himself to make space for her. Letting a girl curl up against his side like this is definitely a new experience, but he does it without hesitation, curling his arm around her shoulders and holding her hand across his chest, feeling the warm line of her pressed down his side.

Perhaps at any other time, he'd be blushing and squirming and all too aware of the soft press of her flesh through her clothing, but tonight those concerns seem far away, the hush of the room and the darkness lending a chastity to the gesture that he doesn't even think to break.

He squeezes her lightly in a gentle hug, and closes his eyes. Hopefully the gentle rhythm of her breath and the faint lub-dub of her heart will lull him into sleep and he won't dream of anything at all.

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{ raining blood, from a lacerated sky

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