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Scream It Until You're Coughing Up Blood - An Early Medieval Punk Fairy Tale

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[X] The Benediction of Madness and Lies.
It's the art of the Malefactors, lying to the world so well that it believes you. It's wisdom that brings little joy and power that they teach to be false and vile. But she is a Saint and she teaches that too. You will be a witch.

Reality bending power sounds great to me.
 
[X] The Benediction of Rage and Refusal.
A spark of anger sets fire to the soul. It's not strength. It's not toughness. It's refusal to stop, even if you know you really should. It's telling the world 'no', even when it breaks your bones. You will be a berserker.

Don't tell me what to do.
 
[X] The Benediction of Madness and Lies.
It's the art of the Malefactors, lying to the world so well that it believes you. It's wisdom that brings little joy and power that they teach to be false and vile. But she is a Saint and she teaches that too. You will be a witch.
 
Personally I'm rather fond of the madness and lies due to how we have lied our way through everything starting from our sister's death and possibly earlier (well that and If we pick anger, I'm probably going to spend half the quest dealing with flashbacks to my parents)
 
[X] The Benediction of Rage and Refusal.
A spark of anger sets fire to the soul. It's not strength. It's not toughness. It's refusal to stop, even if you know you really should. It's telling the world 'no', even when it breaks your bones. You will be a berserker.
 
Hrrm. We're very much tied in the votes!
So, effort-posting time, and here's what I have to say.
Madness and Lies. It's a fitting thing for us, as is Rage and Refusal. The way I see it personally?
Madness and lies is what we sink into when we're feeling down, it's what we ward away with that green bracelet on our arm, it's why we think of ourselves as some horrible creature that cannot exist amongst mankind. The madness that drives us to be sub-human. The lies is that we are something wrong and twisted and not fit to be around humanity.
I say nay.
Before the Madness began to creep up, before the lies that would make us reject the parting token of our mirror, the sponge and comb that say that we can cleanse ourselves of our faults?
We Raged. We refused. Who could put a price on a life? Who would say we should just grin and laugh with those who in a moment of fury destroyed our beloved sister? Who forever diluted the taste of wines with her blood?
Oh we tried to Refuse our Rage. But why refuse it when WE were the one WRONGED in the first place!
They think that three-hundred ounce of silver weight enough for our sister!? NO! Blood for blood! Either prove us unworthy of demanding more, or pay the price the way it should have been paid when this first happened!
 
[X] The Benediction of Rage and Refusal.
A spark of anger sets fire to the soul. It's not strength. It's not toughness. It's refusal to stop, even if you know you really should. It's telling the world 'no', even when it breaks your bones. You will be a berserker.
Who's a berserker-ganging girl and a half? You are!
Rip and tear!
 
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Balaur said:
[ ] The Benediction of Rage and Refusal.
A spark of anger sets fire to the soul. It's not strength. It's not toughness. It's refusal to stop, even if you know you really should. It's telling the world 'no', even when it breaks your bones. You will be a berserker.
Who's a berserker-ganging girl and a half? You are!
Rip and tear!
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You don't have the X.
 
Tenfold: "I definitely voted in Garg's thing right? I know I saw it in my alerts but I must have typed something out yeah?"
Tenfold: "..."
Tenfold: "oh no @@"

AND FUCK ME IT'S A TIED VOTE TOO

Gargulec said:
The neverending succession of summer days and nights is not worldly, and even as you are, you recognize that the place you have wandered into does not entirely belong to the temporal you fled from. Perhaps you should feel concern over that, but even as it buds, on the fertile grounds of worry in your mind, it never sprouts and grows. Something prevents it - distantly, you know it is the bracelet you wear, the one that allows you to think clearly and wander carelessly. You check on it every day, to see if it is as green and fresh as it was on the day she snapped it over your wrist. The way you are may be wild and may be inhuman, but at least it is simple. It is so much lighter on you than knowing the name of things, and knowing that name to be something terrible and awful. Here, you do not have to worry.
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Man it's hard to blame her tbh, it's been fucking rough. Like I think there's always a tendency, especially in Western media but it's aaaaall over, that enduring something terrible is noble in and of itself and leaving it behind is cowardly and inherently indicative of a moral failing. You couldn't tough it out. You couldn't handle it when the going got hard. And sure, sometimes that's more accurate than not but there's a toxic element to that too you know? It's not healthy to escape everything, to numb yourself completely, but wanting to live in a world where you don't hurt is the most understandable thing imaginable.

Gargulec said:
In the morning, you find another Saint. Corvo is his name, and he watches over the exiles of all manners. You would pray to him, but he hushes you gently. Painted at his feet is the man he loved, sleeping, and he does not want you to stir him. It is a shame, too, because you find him beautiful in a way, but you know he will never be with you. Still, in his kindness, he points you to a secret path and you follow it through, making your way through thick growth and rubble of many broken limbs.
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D'aaaww. I mean it's a really understated moment but it's genuinely sweet and deserves to be noted and framed if nothing else.

Anyway I think...hrm.

Yeah.

[X] The Benediction of Madness and Lies.


Something I really like that I don't think necessarily gets a lot of play in magic stuff is the idea of pacts and ritual. Where really often people stick to the idea of "your power comes from within"/"your power comes from a scientific system" without experimenting or deviating too much. And I'm a huge sucker for pact magic and rite and ritual, not just the "eye of newt" style stuff but, like, making bargains with dark and ancient things and bright and furious things for power. Consorting with monsters and knowing their names and walking among the dead. Probing and picking at the secrets beneath the skin of the world because that's what witches do. But it's so different from the usual, like, self-consciously "rational" that this kinda stuff often falls into. The MC is part of the world, a part of the secrets and the madness and the illusions.

And just 'cause something is a lie doesn't necessarily mean its wrong either y'know? Myths and legends carry within them really valuable, cuttingly insightful shit that's still relevant, still informative even today. It sounds all shitty fortune cookie I know but you can absolutely get lies that are more honest than the socially accepted "truth" as its presented. Plus:

Gargulec said:
She wears an iron chain for a necklace and tall boots, and she cuts her hair short. Her fists are never open, and always clutch a stone or a brick. Even though you don't think she has a name, you know what she is the patron of. She watches over the powerless, the angry, the ones who lash out. She is the Furious Saint.
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Given the nature of our patron I think we'll be wrecking some degree of face either way.
 
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8. She's Lost Control
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    • 8. She's Lost Control

    There is a feeling that worms its way around your body as you watch the Laughing Painter work his art. It is a squirming, slithering, squelching thing, one that burrows just beneath the skin, leaving behind a hollow trail cold enough to burn. It is a familiar sensation, one that does not cause you to recoil in shock or horror; although not welcome, it seems to bring with itself memories. But just as it cannot pierce the fabric of your skin and emerge in the world in all of its sluggish glory, neither can those memories surface. A filament-like membrane keeps them separate from you, one that that allows enough light through for you to see the broadest outlines and shadows of color, but nothing more. Your fingers clutch the bracelet around your wrist and feel the places where the dead leaves have taken root. How and when did that happen, you do not seem to remember, but now you can feel them anchored to your flesh and bone, warped and woven into it. Briefly, you wonder if it is left for long enough, will it grow into you and one day fade from sight? From touch? Would it then become just a part of who you are, no longer possible to cut off and remove?

    The thought has an unpleasant barb to it so instead you focus on the painting taking shape before you. The Laughing Painter's hands are a blur, and where he draws his paint from is a mystery to you; there is something arcane to the way mere swipes of his hand seem to leave behind vivid stains of color. At first, mere spectacle of this skill is fascinating. After a fashion, it reminds you of your brothers playing with flying axes, swift-handed, clear-eyed, never once missing a throw. You feel like you could watch him for hours, maybe days. Such is the truth, too. You lose track of the sun and stars above; for all you know days may really have passed really pass. In the shadow of the sky-grasping hands, time itself becomes suspect; something you know to exist, and yet can't quite bring yourself to believe in it.

    It is only when the smudges of color gain shape and definition that you are shaken out of your stupor. The lines he draw twist and turn on themselves, into a shape you know to be human, yet too distorted and ugly to belong on a painting of a Saint. But you do not fail to recognize that they weave together into a stick-figure of sorts, all ripped lines and angry blotches of red and black. That figure is the Furious Saint. She looks nothing like on that painting before. She is just a girl, too young for the world, cheeks stained with soot and ochre; she is ugly and she is proud and you recognize her by the fire in her eyes. You know that given a choice, she would set it loose, allow it to burn and consume until there'd be nothing left but ash. You know that she cannot. No, this flame is not the kind that can ever leave her. You twist your hand around the bracelet, so hard that you feel the roots tear at you and you yelp in pain.

    There is something terrifying about this girl you stare down. There shouldn't be. She is frail, she is not real, she is just some paint on an old log. You could destroy her. You could just turn away and leave it and she would be out of your eyes and out of your mind. And you sit and stare, and your heart swells, as if bruised. The Laughing Painter steps aside, still chucking, and reveals to you the last part of his work: a small, crude door, just a few lines of paint, and one or two splotches of black to indicate locks and bolts. The Furious Saint notices too, cracks her knuckles and smiles murder at you.

    The door is closed for a reason. No one should be opening it. Not a even Saint. What is shut should stay so. It's dangerous. On your knees, you start to pray for her to leave it be.

    She's your patron, not the kind of a Saint that would listen to your prayers. She turns and gives the door a kick; it doesn't budge at first, so she lifts a rock and smashes it into the lock. A terrible, ringing sound, too loud for you to handle goes through the forest, metal grating on rock. She does not relent. When it doesn't give at first, she smashes it again and again and again, drumming an ugly rhythm until finally there's a great crack and the lock falls open. Your heart threatens to rip your chest open and your stomach twists into a knot. You want to rip yourself up from the gravelly soil and dash, but the part of you that you hate, the one that is curious and sad, keeps you down. Just for a moment, just long enough to get a glimpse of what's inside.

    You catch it, and immediately scream; at what's inside and at yourself, for learning it. You jump up and dash away, hoping your scream and fear will push it away, and it only brushes you. It's velvet touch makes you realize it's too late.

    Soon, the calm of the forest descends on you again, cloyingly quiet. It almost makes you forget, but it can't change anything. You can remember or you can forget, you can run away and leave - but the door won't close again. The lock is destroyed and no more. Sooner or later, you will look back, into the door and past it.

    You will see what no one was ever supposed to see; you will learn what no one was ever meant to learn. The cold certainty does not care for your fear and revulsion. You will see and you will learn.

    How could you imagine the Furious Saint ever doing this to you? It feels like such a pointless act of cruelty. Everything was good. You watched that strange beast who led you here and dreamed of becoming like her, a mindless creature of a mindless forest, free of all burdens, of all thoughts. You slept well, and getting better by the day.

    Now you know it was never going to last.

    Perhaps it is nothing, you tell yourself. Perhaps it was just some bad fortune which will wash away in a day or in a week and you will forget again. Perhaps - and that thought brings you some stunted hope - there is more in the woods that can put its roots in your flesh and bone, tie you down to this place where you do not have to remember.

    This hope joins the other worms beneath your skin, other slithering strands of thought. Soon enough, it also finds a measure of validation. Whatever drove you away from the Laughing Painter and his work fades, until it becomes just a dull throbbing in your chest, not nearly potent enough to be called paint. Black birds gather and flock around you. On the white stone of great hands they look like pox-marks. Those accursed beasts, bearers of bad news, keep their distance as you make your way back to where she is. She who will make the birds fly away. Leave you be. Make it so you don't have to listen to what they can teach you.

    When you return, she is gone hunting; however, evening nears so you hope to see her return soon enough. Your things are in a disarray, scattered around the empty pit of the campfire like garbage and refuse, your spear buried in dirt, mould creeping up the side of your bundle. You don't care. Above, the birds circle then rest on the strands of moss that weave a cradle between the fingers of stone hands. They look down upon you in silence and you avert your eyes. You can't deal with them now. You can't listen with them now.

    You have to hide.

    Lost, you wander about, trying to find some shelter from this madness. But the late sun brings you no warmth and you find yourself wrapping yourself in your cloak tighter and tighter as you pace around the hand, pace about, look for her around every corner and in every nook. But she is not there, and neither are her charms. You are alone and helpless. The birds croak to you, and you hear their voice. They tell you to look up. Speak to them. They tell you that they are your companions, your kin. That there are things they want you to know.

    Something inside of you - that stupid kid that did not run away when she should have had - wants to listen to them, but it would be crazy thing to face them, too crazy and too awful to imagine, so you don't imagine it. If you don't indulge them, you lie to yourself, they will fly away in time, and time here serves you. This is, at least, what you try to think, and what gives you some comfort.

    But she does not come, and more and more you feel alone and ill. There are other sensations too, now crawling around as if there was a nest of snakes buried within your gut, but they remain nameless. Desperate, you remember that field of wreckage not far from her den - there was some debris there that could conceal you. You move there as quickly as you can, black birds circling high above. But the muddy flat is just as you remember, littered with broken wood, wreckage of wagons and shreds of bone and fabric. While the birds beg you to listen to them, you crawl under a half-rotted wagon. The ground here is soggy and crawling with insects, and the wood above stinks of decay and mould, but they can't see you.

    You watch the moon's dull silver glow touch the damp soil outside the cart. Where it does becomes ugly gray, as if you were lying at the edge of a swamp where people drop garbage and refuse. At first you think it is dried solid, but then something ripples and bubbles beneath the surface, cracking the hard shell and allowing fresh, warm mud to seep from the hidden reservoir. Pieces of bone and rotted wood break the surface ever so often, before being dragged below again. An awful odour fills the air, of decay and filth. You shudder, less in fear and more in disgust; the swamp spews out remains and shreds, and you shove them back. Sometimes, the gray mud shoots and sprays, and where it touches your limbs, it clings to them, in long, damp strips that hang from fingers and toes, staining everything they touch.

    The birds that do not go away even when you do not look at them start cawing, raising up an unbearable cacophony. You push your elbows to your sides, your knees to your chest, try to be as small as you can be, hidden from the world around you. The bracelet is the last source of comfort, a bulwark against which this hellish crooning is smashed. It keeps you safe. You reminds yourself that you are not afraid. That you do not want to be. Not again.

    But it is too late. You had your chance, but the door is now open. The birds remind you of that, and they won't allow you to forget. Their shrill voices scream straight into your head the undeniable fact that you are not as you want to be. That you want something else, something better, that you have put a terrible burden on your own shoulders and that you can't shake it. That you will carry it. You may not want to, but it is too late. You will have to. Right now, the weight of it pushes you to the ground, and no matter how much you soften the feel of it on your back, it is getting too hard to breathe. You can't do it alone, you realize. No one can. And since no living are there to help you, you do the only thing that comes to your mind and beg the dead to do so instead.

    They respond.

    A new sound emerges from the noise. You raise your eyes and stare across the lake, and see a skeleton standing tall, a hurdy-gurdy in its hands. As it twists the knob, the instrument whines like a knife against whetstone, loud enough to split your ears. There is no harmony between this keening and the birds cries, but they belong together. They are ugly sounds, for an ugly place. You crawl deeper into the wreckage, but it is too late. You have been seen. They know you are here.

    Another skeleton, wrapped in nothing but shreds of a colored sash leans in and extends a hand to you. There is a smile on its face, as there always is. You refuse to take his hand, and it withdraws, instead helping other dead crawl out of the mud-pit. Some of them carry instruments - a wrecked harp and and a banged-up drum. The noise they make is unbearable, but it doesn't stop others from dancing, and the black birds cheer them on as they make merry, knee-deep in mud.

    In the discordant tunes, you hear an echo of a shout - no, of a laugh. Frenetic, mad giggle of someone who is too afraid to cry. A new feeling finds its way up to your head, and this time, you know its name. Envy. You watch them, dead people dancing to the worst tune. They have no future, no hope, nothing. Their place is in the mud and filth, in the prison of the earth. But they refuse it, and when they do, it releases them and allows them this moonlit revelry. The Saints certainly have no hand in that, but if it is evil…

    They extend their hand to you again some time later, and you take it that time, allow yourself to be dragged into the mud. At first, you balk and try to keep your cloak clean. The squelching mass at your feet disgusts you, but it is too late to leave. When they pull you into their dance, you no longer want to leave. Soon, you are drenched to the waist in mud and filth, panting. You chest is on fire - the dead do not have to hold back, and you struggle to hold back. Then, there's blood. Their fingers rake you, cut you, bleed you into the mud. Sweat and gore drench you as you dance and stomp to the cacophonic frenzy, and the black birds egg you on. Their screams fill your mind until there is no room in it for anything else, no thought, no inhibition. You scream along with them, and although the dead throats can give no voice, they gone musicians join your howl. The thunder of your voice splits the night, then your throat. It hurts to be that loud. They offer you the liquors of the dead to drink, and they are so awful that you can't help but to spit them out.

    You don't remember which one of them puts the spear in your hand. It's a dick move, to be honest - you have no clue how to handle it, and when you try to dance with it, you stumble and almost impale yourself on it. At least they can't laugh, but you laugh yourself, laugh with your sore throat, laugh and then cry and then bring the weapon up and dance with it some more, some stupid series of steps that bring you down more than they bring you forward. It's not joy. It's something else, something that lurked behind the door that was opened.

    It is then that she finds you. She is just like you thought she would be - a frail wimp that pretends that if she bedecks herself in black and puts a chain around her waist, it will make her look tough. It's pathetic, really, and also very much brave. When she takes you in her hands and when she leads into an out-of-step dance to a tune without rhythm, all you can think about is how her touch burns you where you skin meets and of how she looks at her with those fire-filled eyes: you can see all the contempt she has for you. She hates you as much as only you yourself can. You try to keep up with her and can't, and her mocking laughter follows you as you crawl out of the mud, into the dry, safe land. It reminds you that you had to be dragged here, that you are just a coward, just someone who wanted things to be nice and pleasant, who wanted to live well, but also live calm. You understand her disdain. Good Saints, you share it.

    The skeletons dance for a bit longer, but you do not join them; they pay you little attention, and when the time comes for them to crawl back into their pit, they wave you without pity or scorn. You sit alone at the edge of this fetid pool, stroking the bracelet on your wrist. It still works; whatever feelings you have are numb and without an edge. Whatever hit you as you danced with the Furious Saint was just an echo of, a pale imitation that is nothing like the real deal that will come if you tear it away. The mere thought of this is enough to send a jolt down your spine.

    The birds sing to you that this bulwark will fall too, and they are right.

    You are no longer afraid of turning back. There is no point in that. You know that what she unleashed had gotten to you the moment the door was opened. It was nothing but the truth, the truth that you are kin to wolves and blackbirds and the dead things that lurk behind the soil. That in time - if you make it there - you will become a peer to them and they will keep you company, because they do not deserve solitude and you belong in their company. They will call you a witch, or worse. Rightly so. There is a seed of pride in that notion, but for now it stays dormant. For now, you think of her, of her contempt. How dare she! How dare she tell you this is wrong, how dare she make you think you're garbage! You want to live, not scream, you want to breathe something else but fire! It's a normal desire, you just want to be fine for once. You hurl some insults at her and at the birds that refuse to leave. They are unmoved, and you are not convinced. The realization is not something you can fight. Had you really wanted to be like you say, you wouldn't have fled. You wouldn't have come here. The thought is ugly. It makes you see that you are just a sham. She is right to hate you - you want to be like she is, but not pay the price.

    Pathetic. But also untrue. You are no kin to men. You do not want to live like they do. Such is the truth.

    You look behind yourself, at the tall hand your host picked for a nest. Maybe it's not your fault, but hers. She led you here, she put the bracelet on you, she made you forget. If not for her, you would not have forgotten. You would not have hidden away. You would have lived on strong and brave, and she wouldn't have to hate you so. She would be proud. Yeah. It's been stolen from you. This dignity. Saints above be your witness - you're just a victim. Someone hurt too many times, by too many different people.

    Disgusting. But also a lie. You've made the choice. You could have chosen different. Such is the truth.

    The morning finds you still by the drying-out mud-pit, torn inside. It's not really a choice, but rather a struggle; something must break, in one direction or another. You, or the others. The bracelet clings close to your skin, but the roots it take weaken. Where their grip releases, something ugly seeps into the cracks. Hate. Pure, thoughtless hate, black as tar, nauseating and intoxicating. It calls out for pain and hurt, and you answer.


    [ ] You hurt yourself.
    [ ] You hurt someone else.
     
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    • [X] You hurt someone else

    Not a great option, but our girl is just...she hates herself so much, adding actually self harm on top of that, I just can't vote for it.
     
    Ah, huuunh...Wellp.
    ...Not sure which one to pick honestly, I can't think straight through the imagery to make heads or tails of anything sooo...*thinks*...
    *groans*
    [X] You hurt someone else
     
    [X] You hurt someone else.
    Feel like I may regret this vote but I don't want to add self harm to our numerous problems.
     
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