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Feb. 6th, 2005 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sign_seekerAnthy is spinning again, swords gleaming in the dim light of the bar and blood pooling on the floor below her as Will watches in helpless horror. And then it isn't Anthy at all; it never was. Everywhere around him there is suddenly the scent of the ocean, and Will sees clearly that it is Jane, not Anthy, Jane who is impaled in midair, stretched out and screaming as the thorns stab through her. The thorns explode into bloom, shining white flowers that slide from their stems and swirl and then rise into the air like a cloud of moths, carrying her memories to Nyarlathotep, who sits on his throne of swords with Moiraine at his side. He stretches out one night-black hand, and Jane's memories coalesce into a gleaming golden Sign in his palm.
"Liht Mec Heht Gewyrcan*, Old One. I have given you what you wanted. She is less trouble to you this way, is she not?"
Will is on the cold marble floor before their throne, sitting in a small crumpled heap, Bran's harp in his hands again as though he could protect it, or them -- he does not know. There is no power in it for him, no power in himself that he can reach. The Dark cannot use a thing of the Light, he thinks wildly.
"But I am not of the Dark, little Old One. I simply am."
Jane screams again, a long drawn-out wail, and then crumbles in on herself, becoming a small lump covered in seaweed and barnacles. She, it, falls to the floor, and with her a great shower of petals from the sky, piling over her like snowdrifts. He tries to move to her, but he cannot budge. A gust of wind tosses petals through the air, scouring the floor clean and bare, and Jane is gone utterly.
Nyarlathotep closes his hand over the Sign, crushing it utterly, and glittering dust falls through his black fingers and drifts away on the sharp-scented sea breeze. Grey mist swirls around Will, carrying the distant call of a hunting horn sounded in wild panic, and a sweet terrible voice rings in his ears, "They are mine, Old One. They will all be mine. Just watch."
*[OOC: The Light caused me to be made.]
"Liht Mec Heht Gewyrcan*, Old One. I have given you what you wanted. She is less trouble to you this way, is she not?"
Will is on the cold marble floor before their throne, sitting in a small crumpled heap, Bran's harp in his hands again as though he could protect it, or them -- he does not know. There is no power in it for him, no power in himself that he can reach. The Dark cannot use a thing of the Light, he thinks wildly.
"But I am not of the Dark, little Old One. I simply am."
Jane screams again, a long drawn-out wail, and then crumbles in on herself, becoming a small lump covered in seaweed and barnacles. She, it, falls to the floor, and with her a great shower of petals from the sky, piling over her like snowdrifts. He tries to move to her, but he cannot budge. A gust of wind tosses petals through the air, scouring the floor clean and bare, and Jane is gone utterly.
Nyarlathotep closes his hand over the Sign, crushing it utterly, and glittering dust falls through his black fingers and drifts away on the sharp-scented sea breeze. Grey mist swirls around Will, carrying the distant call of a hunting horn sounded in wild panic, and a sweet terrible voice rings in his ears, "They are mine, Old One. They will all be mine. Just watch."
*[OOC: The Light caused me to be made.]
