• Closed • [Venora] Dreams and Desperation

Oliver Venora.

There are a number of satellite villages in Rynmere, each overseen by a Duke of one of the seven noble families, and all ultimately controlled by the King of Rynmere.

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• Closed • [Venora] Dreams and Desperation

Postby Charlie Warrick » Sat Jan 13, 2018 2:51 am

51st Zi'da 717

Charlie had awoken to lines of poetry, printed on a piece of parchment, laid gently upon the pillow beside her. It was still warm, and Charlie smiled,
reaching to the pillow and pulling it into her chest. It smelled like him. Perhaps only bits ago, Oliver Venora had lain here asleep, wrapped up in the warmth of the blankets and Charlotte Warrick.

After some time, Charlie pulled herself, blinking the sleep from her eyes. He had gone to the Temple, an early morning visitation of faith and trust in the Seven. Charlie stood from the bed and padded naked to where she had laid her clothes the night beforehand, dressing quickly before stealing away downstairs. Her riding boots treaded the way through the house that she had, in only a few trials, become so familiar with.

The kitchen was empty, save for Jirelle, who pottered about the stove. There was still a pot of fresh coffee, and Charlie poured herself a mug, inhaling the warm liquid eagerly. "Good morning, Jirelle," Charlie said warmly, smiling at Oliver's housekeeper. "Good morning, Charlie," was the reply, and warmth billowed through her, not only a result of the coffee she had imbibed. Jirelle, it seemed, had taken her word, and promised to call her by her name.

"Are Darcyanna and Caius up for the trial yet?" she asked, knowing full well the answer before it was given. "Not yet. Mornings are not their forte." Charlie grinned in response. Oliver and Charlotte cherished the early mornings; Darcy and Caius squirrelled them away in bed. "Would you like breakfast?" Charlie shook her head. "Not yet. I'm off for a ride, but when I return, I'll have breakfast with the others, if they are awake."

They lapsed into a warm and comfortable silence, as Charlie finished her coffee, before placing it in the tub with the remnants of dishes Oliver must have left before he had left for the Temple. Charlie bid Jirelle a farewell, and she received a warm smile in return. Moving quickly through the quiet house, she breathed a sigh of satisfaction as she walked to the stables in the morning dew. It was cold, and it had snowed overnight, blanketing Notrerevé. The serene still of the morning woke Charlie's sense.

"Good morning, girl," Charlie whispered, moving to Alana as her fingers tangled through her mane. The horse whinnied in response, and Charlie grinned. "Not too cold, are you?" Taking a moment, Charlie reached across the pen for the brush that she knew was there. Slowly and tenderly, Charlie brushed away the tangles through Alana's mane, repeating the process until none were left, and her mane shone lustrously. "Better, yes?"

Turning from Alana, Charlie reached for the saddle and bridle, well worn leather showing its near daily use. A few soft and tender touches to the nose of Alana calmed the mare, and Charlie took it as sign that Alana was ready, as she lowered her head towards Charlie. Quickly, with practiced ease, Charlie took Alana's muzzle in her hand, an insistent press of fingers against teeth causing Alana to open her mouth. The bit went in, sitting against Alana's molars. "Good girl," she whispered tenderly, as she slid the crown of the bridle over Alana'a ears, and pulling the buckles of the bridle so that it sat snuggly against Alana's head. Then, the saddle. Charlie placed the saddle pad against Alana's withers, then the saddle on top, before buckling Alana in. "There. Ready for a ride, girl?" she said grinning, before quickly placing her feet in the stirrups and hoisting herself up.

Easing Alana from the stables slowly and gracefully, she rose a hand in greeting to the stable master. It was only when she had passed out of the estate that she broke into a trot, laughing as she did. The wind through her hair on such a cool morning was the greatest wake up call she could imagine. Nothing else could make her feel this way; nothing else made her feel as alive. As she rode, she went with no direction, but found herself riding toward the Temple anyway. Perhaps she could give Oliver a ride back...

And then: the snow turned red, and with horrified eyes, Charlie saw, in the bloom of burgundy on white, a body face down. A body she knew. Quickly, she halted Alana, and dismounted so quickly she nearly staggered, but with a limping run, Charlie went to the bleeding body, panic and fear spreading through every vein.


The cry was desperate.
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Charlie Warrick
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[Venora] Dreams and Desperation

Postby Oliver Venora » Tue Jan 16, 2018 12:33 am

"Lying there, in a puddle of my own blood and piss, I found how frail I really was. Body and mind."
He was warm, that much he "knew". Though, knowing was not a luxury he was afforded there in the snow. The encounter played over and over in his mind, but it was the sight, sound and feeling of the dagger sliding into his hip, slicing through supple flesh and grating against porous bone, leaving what he could only surmise was a deep rivet in the pale skeleton. He lied there, feeling the warmth spread from his wound and his cock, mingling the scents of metal and ammonia as he lied there, helpless. He couldn't bring himself to roll over, out of the puddle of blood quickly turning the snowy ground around him into a muddy disaster. Instead, he lied there, face down, the scents mingling to make him sick, quickly adding the smell of vomit to the mix.

Yet, that was not what nauseated him most. What turned his stomach was the closeness of Pythera, her proximity as her dagger entered his body. He could feel the warmth of her form, searing in the cold Zi'da air. He could smell the raw-meat scent of her breath, like she'd just shared the same meal that damned flying lizard of hers ate. But it was the look in her eyes, the cracked irises, perverted from what malady afflicted her mind and soul, mutating her from the half-Biqaj sister into the Butcher of Warrick. Oliver's mind replayed the scene, over and over, and nothing changed. It was not perception any longer: That was not Pythera.

It was the enemy.

Seven Saints. The groan elicited a wince, as he realized he had not made it to the Temple. Instead, he'd found the palatial expanse of his rage, held for so long but exacerbated by Darcyanna's recent admissions. If his jaw were not clenched so hard as to break his teeth already, he would have done so, both from pain and from hatred. He hated her, something he was not sure of until he stared into her eyes. He was going to kill her. He was going to find her, and subdue her, and make her atone for her sins. He would carve it from her flesh, if it were the last thing he did.

He coughed, arcs of agony wracking him, causing even more pain. He began to seize, shrinking into a ball of mewling pitiful man. He cried, he vomited, he bled... All of these things, Oliver did. But through it all, he thought. Mind clearer than expected through pain and blood loss, Oliver watched from on high as the horse rode into sight, sitting atop it the woman he'd prayed would find him. What luck the Seven had shown him then, as Charlotte recognized it was him immediately. He wanted to call to her, but he'd left his voice back in his body. The bloom of crimson, strangely rose-like from his angle, only grew steadily, and the whiteness of his skin threatened to make the freshly falling snow appear gray. He heard her call, as if his head were underwater, and the body on the ground struggled to turn and look at her. It failed miserably, and Oliver knew if Charlotte had not found him in that exact moment, she would have found his corpse instead.

Thank you, Charlotte, he wanted to say. To scream. To emote. To do anything other than lie there in his own lifeforce, clinging to the smallest shred of vengeance to carry him through the misery. He had to hold on, because he couldn't make Pythera suffer from the grave.

And he would make her suffer.

Help me, Charlie. Help me so that I can make her suffer. His Soul begged, even as his body grew stiffer.

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