(no subject)
Who: Open.
Where: The forge.
When: Now.
Summary: 5
Rating: R for gore.
Say what you will about Avari, but the woman did her best to keep the forge a pleasant place. The fire always bright, food always available, company always to be had, and wusses beaten into shape. The scorch mark on the wall of the building at the corner of the street didn't quite seem to fit with the cheery atmosphere she maintained, nor the thin streak of frozen red blood that slashed across the front of the building, or the similar, smaller splotches here and there in the snow. They spoke of the sharp depression in the the head--just over the temple--of the corpse that had been dragged into the street directly in front of the squat little forge building. They spoke of the large contusions on her face, her neck, her arms where she had tried to shield herself.
But there was more to the scene before this vacant, crumbling building only a half block from the usually cheery forge. The way the snow under the bloody streak had melted into a sloppy ring of ice spoke of something else, the lingering scent of sulfur in the air, particularly around that scorch mark.
The footprints (large, but smattered in with her own small ones, and certainly Angeal's as well as the others that worked with her, had walked by the building daily to get to hers) and the shallow trough the limp weight of her body had drug through the snow said that she'd been dragged out of that ring, down the street and left in front of her home. She lay just outside the doorway, one leg twisted just enough that it blocked the door from closing the whole way. Her body had been sprawled out, the buttons of her shirt ripped off and the fabric red and cold with blood that was going from sticky to hard. Her chest may have been sewn shut with the same surgical precision as it had been cut open, but the killer had spared no thought to any modesty the elf might have had. Or perhaps, the shirt laid open still to reveal the numbers '05/21' carved into one shoulder and the top of the breast.
In one, near-slack hand she held a small, red rubber ball.
Further from her, inside the door lay the still body of the black cat the elf kept. The little beast breathed shallowly, sprawled out as if where it had landed. Tossed aside, or thrown, or hit, judging by the blood that matted its fur. A black feather still clamped in its mouth. Metal scraps lined the floor, routed through and discarded in favor of something else stashed into the crate of useless junk the smith had meant to melt or hammer next.
Smoldering coals were all that was left of the fires the elf had had going almost all day (with Lucifer's help earlier). The interior of the building had no doubt gone cold for the first time in a good while. The fog crept into the building nevertheless, uncaring for the body it passed over or the lack of heat.
The green door with the peeling paint creaked as it drifted open further.
Where: The forge.
When: Now.
Summary: 5
Rating: R for gore.
Say what you will about Avari, but the woman did her best to keep the forge a pleasant place. The fire always bright, food always available, company always to be had, and wusses beaten into shape. The scorch mark on the wall of the building at the corner of the street didn't quite seem to fit with the cheery atmosphere she maintained, nor the thin streak of frozen red blood that slashed across the front of the building, or the similar, smaller splotches here and there in the snow. They spoke of the sharp depression in the the head--just over the temple--of the corpse that had been dragged into the street directly in front of the squat little forge building. They spoke of the large contusions on her face, her neck, her arms where she had tried to shield herself.
But there was more to the scene before this vacant, crumbling building only a half block from the usually cheery forge. The way the snow under the bloody streak had melted into a sloppy ring of ice spoke of something else, the lingering scent of sulfur in the air, particularly around that scorch mark.
The footprints (large, but smattered in with her own small ones, and certainly Angeal's as well as the others that worked with her, had walked by the building daily to get to hers) and the shallow trough the limp weight of her body had drug through the snow said that she'd been dragged out of that ring, down the street and left in front of her home. She lay just outside the doorway, one leg twisted just enough that it blocked the door from closing the whole way. Her body had been sprawled out, the buttons of her shirt ripped off and the fabric red and cold with blood that was going from sticky to hard. Her chest may have been sewn shut with the same surgical precision as it had been cut open, but the killer had spared no thought to any modesty the elf might have had. Or perhaps, the shirt laid open still to reveal the numbers '05/21' carved into one shoulder and the top of the breast.
In one, near-slack hand she held a small, red rubber ball.
Further from her, inside the door lay the still body of the black cat the elf kept. The little beast breathed shallowly, sprawled out as if where it had landed. Tossed aside, or thrown, or hit, judging by the blood that matted its fur. A black feather still clamped in its mouth. Metal scraps lined the floor, routed through and discarded in favor of something else stashed into the crate of useless junk the smith had meant to melt or hammer next.
Smoldering coals were all that was left of the fires the elf had had going almost all day (with Lucifer's help earlier). The interior of the building had no doubt gone cold for the first time in a good while. The fog crept into the building nevertheless, uncaring for the body it passed over or the lack of heat.
The green door with the peeling paint creaked as it drifted open further.