Rockette

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

^{[ 𝐝 𝐨 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐞 𝐚 𝐥 𝐢 𝐳 𝐞 ? ]}

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

She leaves with promises and whispered farewells, her eyes flitting and lashes swooped low whilst they embrace in a swift good bye, his arms around her small shoulders and her fingers scooped against his back. It's brief, but telling, and within Ana feels only the slightest burdens of guilt. Their meeting may of been performed on a means to an end, but their friendship is genuine in warmth and understanding, though currently under forgery. Ana is the first to break away and she glances up -- she then realizes just how much taller he is than her -- and smiles. If such is perhaps pinched around those delicate edges, he doesn't say, but then she doesn't question why he seems perhaps a bit too hesitant to let her go.

But, he does. Eventually.

Patrick watches as she leaves the park enclosure in front of the museum -- his museum -- to cross the main road where citizens of The Badlands gather in troupes and part around her briefly before closing entirely around her. To him she stands out like a brightly coloured bird, adorned in paradise and dressed in splendor, appealing to the curious notions of rarity that crowns her as something beloved. She would loathe that comparison he knew and would tell him she was otherwise and simply just a normal person, however she was anything but. A shadow descended across his eyes as the sun fell yonder clouds swollen all grey and dark, heralding to the Fall weather slowly embarking across the later noon with the promise of the evening chill. He knew she was after something, though his knowledge ended there as to what she was searching for. But, there was no mistaking the glimmer in those ethereal blues alight in success, pride, and intelligence so keen and well wielded, that he was powerless -- no, hopeless -- to do anything else but acquiesce to her very whims and wishes. However Patrick was not without his own merit and with this distinction in hand he quickly retrieved his mobile -- ignored the message there with her name attached -- and dialed a number from memory.

"It's me."

Nights within The Badlands came upon a near winter breath, frigid winds following down the mountain at the farewell of the sun beyond the peaks looming within the clouds. Punctuated to the skies, the evenings fell swiftly and the cold more so in the later years, thus the days shorter and the nights longer that did little to wane the actively of the locale. People flocked to dimmer settings with amber essences and ambiances dulled to golden dusk and husky browns like whiskey in honeyed glass. Cafes were traded for bars alive in smoke and whispers and here Ana paused, glancing to one such establishment that only opened doors at this hour of dusk. Those initial patrons spilled out onto the patio adorned in bare bulbs and maroon drapes; heavy velvet embellishments pulled taut away from tinted glass that cast her reflection back upon herself.

Once, maybe some odd years ago, Ana would indulge in such luxuries with former associates much like Patrick. Lost to whimsical music in the shadows of twilight with perspiring tumblers held cold within slight gestures, such dalliances now seemed like an age ago, almost another life time lost to fate of life and all the destines lain therein. An adopted birth rite had been her sanction and on the eve of coming to terms with her bequeathed purpose, Anastasia came to accept that initial of role of maintaining facades built upon facades and fortifying those with simpers laced with false mirth. She remembers accepting the key that would dedicate her justification to thievery of legendary artifacts and priceless objects from the highly coveted vaults and coffers of many would-be millions of those wealthy patrons that sired The Badland's herald. Anastasia had taken the mantle of the harbinger of forgotten rouges and in exchange, she had come to thrive in the shadows cast by these very buildings she had known so well. In small ways, her identity too had been stolen, buried somewhere among the roots of her family's legacy, liken to a rose among thousands of thorn bushes.

Quietly, she smiled to herself and tucked a strand of hair behind the shell of her ear before abandoning her reflection within the amber tinted glass, and continued her way home to the Herlion building where a rich Greenhouse awaited her and where a forsaken tome of dead poems and lost serpentine dragons suddenly became a glow.

Now the real games would soon begin.

^{. 𝒆 𝒕 𝒅 𝒓 𝒂 𝒄 𝒐 𝒈 𝒍 𝒂 𝒄 𝒊 𝒆 𝒊 .}

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

@Dead Cruiser - Absolutely.
To basically put it, Fei has found the mentioned symbol burned into the wall. She's bothered by the entire atmosphere teeming with leftover demonic energy and refuses to go any further in the conjuring room because of it. She has mentioned that she doesn't hear her, the witch, in that her soul-spirit or essence of life is completely snuffed out. Fei can usually see and hear the dead in whichever form.

I left it open ended with dialogue so that any one else can follow up. I wanted to include a bit of everyone thus Fei addresses everyone in a loose question to possibly trace the symbol's likeness of what have you. Basically anyone can follow up and press further into what it could be.

Sorry for any misinterpretation.

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

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_{𝐈 ' 𝐯 𝐞 𝐬 𝐞 𝐞 𝐧 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐟 𝐚 𝐜 𝐞 𝐛 𝐞 𝐟 𝐨 𝐫 𝐞 𝐦 𝐲 𝐟 𝐫 𝐢 𝐞 𝐧 𝐝 , 𝐛 𝐮 𝐭 𝐈 𝐝 𝐨 𝐧 ' 𝐭 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐢 𝐟 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐰 𝐡 𝐨 𝐈 𝐚 𝐦 .}
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She meets him eye for eye, a slow breath pluming her exhale white whilst she stoically observes, lashes panning down with each flutter. From boot to crown, seeing him but then not him. Fei knows another predator is in her midst and it seethes and boils beneath mortal bindings and the sheer void of appetance whets her tongue with longing, it pines hard and deep and thick and it's just enough to make her squirm whilst her bemused simper falls away into a concerned lapse of a frown. Every nuance tumbles and collides till it forms into a singular construct and label: dangerous. Punctuated and bruised and old.

The black dog relinquishes her glare in favour of mortal graces -- for though she is horrid, and the Doctor is an abomination at best, she can barely stand the sight of that thing -- and heaves a solid growl that churns away inside her throat, catching against her teeth till it whistles harmlessly into the cold.

Magic pulsated around this girl, a bit manic and bright, colours that bled profusely within the eye of the canine now glancing through the entire company provided. Fei spared a second longer to gather her bearings, lingering past insipid candor and glided her tongue against her sharp teeth and now chapped lips before she swiped the pad of her thumb against her pout and snapped her attention to.

"I am," Fei drawled, slow intonations and sluggish responses tempting her voice to sunder away from howls and chuffing rejoinders. Appreciation fled across her countenance whilst she dropped her crossed gestures and bent at the waist in likeness, following in juncture to the hell-born man and performed an old custom. Not bad, a little formal, rigid, but tinged in grace and genuine fluidity and respect that Fei took to with finesse. Though she had no greeting or intention of speaking his name aloud, for the epitaph of Atticus Cléirich was one well adorned into her memory of dossiers gleaned and pried, a wealth of an infamous tale shrouded this man and Fei's eyes visibly coloured in feminine appraisal.

Oh, but then another one speaks and Fei turns sudden and open, eyes then close before they pinch into a glare, narrowed and perplexed till familiarity dawns them in shades of warmth.

"Nestor," the dog beams, barb wired smiles and gleaming teeth that snap around his name. Fei was a solitary creature, bidden to the company only by the command of an Alpha in times of need, however this demonspawn was a frequent companion in the centuries of their respective existences. When loneliness capped to listless and dreary souls lost within limbo or a forlorn purgatory, often did Fei cross the path of ice and jagged cold to share space and time with a creature plagued with Eternity like she, trinkets of chained dead and tombs of kings in her mind's eye whenever she met his gaze. She then preforms a mock curtsy with plucking the hem of her sweater dress and one ankle crossed behind the other when she dips slight, head canted and hair flowing over her shoulder. Fei did so for the amusement of one particular lace adorned creature -- to say it was a woman would've been kind, but over the years Fei has yet to really understand the Demoness and thus keeps her acknowledgement as is -- and attempts to listen in as Atticus details their dispatch.

However it's nothing to temper the bristling at her nape when she goes on the prowl, the lilting voice warped to her nerves and ticking across her spine in the rasp of a winter touch. Fei shakes out her discomfort and paces herself away from the queer company of their wizard, she has seen contracts like these before but never ones quite so eccentric. Their mass seems useful but she steps around the bobblings delicately upon her clawed toes and inches towards the house rapt with taint and stagnant malice.

Whilst the others prepare, Fei takes strides onto the porch, her posture lax whilst her eyes glimmer to silver coins, pressed white and silver around the edges liken to a swollen luminescence. Nestor is right of course, something had indeed passed through the gates of blood and bone and crossing that threshold throws her ambiance askew; tilted and slanted wherein the thick weaves of her hair almost writhe in an unseen breeze. As - Sal, was it? - prattles on in a lazy tune, Fei ghosts slight and almost wills her truer self to embark ahead, knowing that the black dog she is could pass between these shadows and lingering summons of magical stains, however she stalls and glances outside to where Nestor is lurking about, seemingly enthralled by his own findings.

The energy of demonic sin positions against Fei's own vivacity, buffing and chaffing against her flesh and fur. It flows and ebbs in thick waves with a stench not entirely unlike her own signature when passing through mortal chasms. It's curious in comparison and coils within her mind as she passes through the living room and sniffs close to the scorch marks marring the late woman's furniture, the walls displaying the same damage from what Fei can only gauge as the sheer pressure from the ritual airs. The decorum is entirely conventional, something plucked from a home edition page, complimentary colours and hues, pieces collected from the previous decade obviously but still within taste.

With her eyes aglow, she seems to be looking, searching, for something, something that is not quite there and missing. Fei stalks through the home and glides her claws against the walls, scraping light and inhales sharp to breathe in the cold and death - head tilted. It's quiet, much too quiet, the silence plucks on her nerves and frays them apart - she tilts her head another way, curious canine habits - and here, not quite into the room where her body had been found, she stops.

"I don't hear her," she whispers. "Dead souls linger where they have passed on with the chains of their life and sins." Her gaze drops and flickers, a growl suspended within her admission. "But I don't see or hear her, all that she should be and was is entirely gone."

The black dog crosses that threshold into the room with pittering claws and flickering eyes, her face alight in wonderment as the lingering energy of the ritual seethes against her. Fei snarls around the withering smell of the magic used here and that's when she sees it. Swollen lines of black warped harsh and thick into the wall, bleeding scrawls flush against smoldering remains that have eaten away at the symbol burning and somehow pulsating with meaning; a mark, a crest, a memento of the damned. Within she rears at the sight and parts her lips, a breath heaving past her pointed teeth in a slick pant.

"There, see that." Fei dares not to press closer, for something here wars against the very thing that she is. Memory fluctuates and conjours bone festooned faces of goats upon the mortal remains of a man, three there are with inverted insignia's blazoned and burned into deadened flesh, all the way to the heart do they blaze and stay and pulse alive. Women dance madly into the night and impale themselves upon the horns of a ram with the pelts of black dogs worn over their breasts and their deadened faces adorned upon them like crowns of bereaved queens. Fei howls in mourning around the fires that lick away at her paws --

"Atticus, Doctor -- someone." She banishes these horrid visions away and is careful not to cast her eyes upon Sal - for she should never look upon her visage with ethereal regard. "Do we have something to trace this..."

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

Ah, another weekend gone.
I'm off this Tuesday, so my post for Fei will be up by then, just know that it's at least started. ♥

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

I'm pretty much non-existent over the weekends, so I can relate all too well.

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

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_{𝐈 ' 𝐯 𝐞 𝐬 𝐞 𝐞 𝐧 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐫 𝐟 𝐚 𝐜 𝐞 𝐛 𝐞 𝐟 𝐨 𝐫 𝐞 𝐦 𝐲 𝐟 𝐫 𝐢 𝐞 𝐧 𝐝 , 𝐛 𝐮 𝐭 𝐈 𝐝 𝐨 𝐧 ' 𝐭 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐢 𝐟 𝐲 𝐨 𝐮 𝐤 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 𝐰 𝐡 𝐨 𝐈 𝐚 𝐦 .}
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Black claws pitter-pattering against wood, grooves channeled from paw to bone, scuffling against the dirt and grime and filth -- she presses her nose to the stone, inhales, milky-white visions rapt with a moon gleaming back -- and a tether-length tail coiled against a ridged spine pinched tight. Somewhere in the village below a man utters his prayer into the gloom, lit by candle light with his beliefs gleaning as a golden lamplight she can see in the distance; holy perhaps. Children toil within their beds whilst mothers coo over their cherub bearings and fathers wake into the night, stolen away by her presence from an exact moon ago. They count the cycles and shapes, the smattering of stars along the sky they fear in reflection to where an Almighty is told to lay, and when the moon turned -- faced black and back as they say -- fires had been lit and a sheep had been turned to the fields.

A fine gift, she had speculated, perched in the browse, listening to the bleats of an animal forcefully made lame by the shattering of its bone. Her growls had turned luring in that respect, relinquishing territory to cousins stalking within the night, witnessing their shadows as they stole upon the lamb.

She falls to her quarters, paws crossed, tail wrapped and wind-raked fur settled on her loosened posture and muscles. Within the forsaken church she lays, a vision within the door left ajar, ethereal and haunting, a specter lingering over the remains of faith turned hostile in the last century. It's not her home but one burdened by a creature akin to she, but far more ravenous, and far more malevolent. A wayward child stricken ill by blood and hate for the sun. Fei breaths in the rot of soiled wood and stone and the smell of blood gone old and cold, slick and staining her teeth.

She didn't like the reputation of a would-be assassin, but the lesser countries lost to time and the world were left to the lingering remains of tradition, something dead and long forgotten compared to the bustling life she still struggled to accommodate herself too.

Her shoulders lifted, something of a sighing breath, the hound laying her head upon her paws, peering endlessly into the moonlit night, a chuff ghosting from her maw as over the peaks of the pine trees the sun began to climb.

There's a weathered glimpse in her eyes aglow, glistening white against the orange rays, something tired and old; ancient. Fei has never really felt the wears of time before, but events past have got her bones feeling like lead and her soul weighted liken to a stone. The black dog within merely adapts, but the mortal counterpart despairs at the sudden loneliness conjured in her heart. She remembers once when someone had made inquiries to her thoughts, her morals, obligations, feelings -- it was all relatively mundane -- and she had paused, head tilted, and answered such with another question.

I don't know?

The hound perched within the doors to a church sighed once more, too human actions counted by the weariness in her musings and the speculative glance of her eyes. The sun had risen fully and the apparition slowly began to ebb away, bleeding outward in fissures of black that coiled, oozed, sliding back in snapping tendrils until all the remained was a rather unostentatious creature, as if merely resting rather than brooding. Fei stood, arched, stretched and shook around the effective glamour stuck and slick against her fur until something silver shined bright into her eyes. She took a step back, claws skittering and observed as a rather modest orb hovered just so against her snout. A looping scrawl greeted her wherein she felt a flutter within her chest, heaved a growl past her maw and touched the orb with a flick of her ear.

There were little words to be spared, nothing lavish and home-coming, there were no warm greetings or summons, just slight givings to another objective. It was done in the dressings of suggestion, that at least was amusing, for there were no commands to a thing such as she, but the location specified roused memories. It was of dark magics and dead things writhing within the night, horrid things, abominations like she maybe. Fei knew this place like any other she had stalked in appetence and blinked, setting the letter ablaze.

She left it there, a scorch mark against bereaved wood, and left with the howls of her farewells lingering against the sunrise. The village below shuddered in fear, but the feelings of dread had left, for a moment, their curse suddenly lifted.

Fei traveled on all fours rather than two, as she avoided public transit for various reasons, claiming such to be a purpose in avoiding mortal ambiance in what she claimed as safety to the locale. Besides, galloping from shadow to shadow, slipping into the blank canvas of darkness, was much more befitting and welcoming than cramped and heavy airlines and trains. She lifted her jowls, parted them briefly, still donned in the blanketed trickery of her simplified form, and tasted Death and lingering tangs of desire gone stagnant. Magic wed to the surrounding plain and forestry and committed the stain to slithering remains hanging lame and shattered from the loss of a conduit. The black dog huffs. At her paws she had dropped bits of clothing, carried from numerous coffers she has hidden around the realm for such occasions in her slight occupation.

I know this place.

She remembers, from long-long ago, where witches schemed and plotted, they took lovers to their beds often, killed them on the promises of power, spoke to dark being in the night and danced wild around fire under the glisten of the moon. Fei had once watched such a sermon in action as these women danced, lost within lustful qualms and throes of wicked passion and wailed like banshees into the night sky. Resting, feeding on their euphoria, a goat had settled near and yet far, wicked horns and teeth festooned and clustered around that bearded face. Scarlet eyes reeled, hood-less, lifeless and suddenly the fire had turned black --

Fei shuddered her memories away, bones cracking, fur suddenly alive as it writhed and coiled as she bounded from the trees and approached the quaint domicile that reeked of aged brimstone -- slight, but enough to raise her hackles.

However, it wasn't enough to banish the rancid stench next, it was reminiscent of soiled wool dripping sopping wet with taint, cured leather blanketed over such, but remaining wholly effected by what was laid beneath. The black dog barked around the odor as in pinged vaguely familiar in her memory of a being that inspired more disturbance than her truer form ever could. She paces forward in small increments as they talked, greetings and old words lingering in familiarity, and attempts to remember the names she had once read over in her studying of dossiers and infamous tellings. Fei pauses, curiously canine attributes found there, and sniffs delicately around the pull and tug of her mortal countenance, a shrill whine peels sharp against the bones shifting, grinding, as something old in magic and sway reels back and exposes her flesh. It's like coming away from limbo, being within one skin for too long, and Fei breaths in finality as she stands, full height and shakes out the tangled weaves of her thick hair wind-tossed and braided.

She dressed slow, as if stalling, ebony wool pulled over her inked and decorated skin with long sleeves tugged rough over lithe limbs and the hem shucked down low, addressing to mid-thigh wherein she bends and pulls long stockings over her bruised legs. Fei distantly wishes she had brought a coat, but banishes that thought as she lifts her hair, gatherings the mass within her hands and securing as much as she can into a whipping tail. Her body temperature fluctuated too often when in the graces of certain beings and when adjusting from beast to human -- as human as one could attempt anyways, and already the battle had begun in a war of hot and cold. She gazes then upon the house, hands gone idle and at her sides.

In the distance she hears chains that rattle and a wailing women that weeps over her agony and pain.

Fei breaths, her voice raked harsh over her throat from disuse.
"She suffered awfully."

It rings heavy against her weighted heart and teases against the desire of her given existence, she can almost taste the Death wet and heavy against her tongue, as if new and thick despite the lingering vestiges of demonic cruelty.

Bare-footed and arms crossed now, Fei turns on the last catches of introductions, offering her initial profile. She's never worked with others before, not really, at least not in such quantities and in such company. She was told of such in her vague summons, but the practice was still in infancy stages despite any preparations she could have attempted, and Fei, with her brow lowered and troubled, could only scratch idly against the wool on her neck and laugh. Merely at herself, of course, but the chortle was enough to summon a smirk to her lips all the same.

Pieces of 8--The Maidens of Asteroth [Dark Fantasy Adventure]

♚

esper'yhn barghest.

f e i b l a c k c l a w.

__________________________	𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞. ◆ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐠. ◆ 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 : 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟎𝟎 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐥𝐝. ████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ ❝𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒅𝒐𝒈. ; 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕 ; 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒄𝒌 ; 𝒑𝒂𝒅𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒕 ; 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒆 ; 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎.❞ ______________________________________________________________________________ First spotted in 1577 at the church of Bungay in Suffolk. -- apparition, ghost, shapeshifter, hellhound, reaper, guardian of the crossroads -- ______________________________________________________________________________ If ever should you come across one of these fabled apparitions within the gloom of the night, look not into their eyes that are aglow in spectral white or demented hellfire, these are the glimpses of deadened things prowling about in the shadows on the rattling chains of the dead. And should one ever cross your path, turn away at their presence, for fables tell of those who perish one year, six months, three days, two hours and one minute to the day they see such a horrid thing. Standing betwixt glamoured constructs and guarding ancient pathways and ley-lines festooned in acclaimed magics and forlorn souls lost wondering and held to the world; the Crossroads of reality and veiled existence. Black dogs are storied through watered down tales and lore, so often that their origins are muddled between Celtic, and Germanic elements of various cultures, but a constant remains they are famed as a portent of Death and ill wanted. They herald omens of change, death, illness and misfortune to mortality. Such follows their wake even into the Underworld wherein many are christened as Guardians; some told of would-be reapers that sing a funeral tole on the winds of the dead souls that call for their dues. In whichever fable is held to a token of truth, it varies upon the tale told and the whispers uttered of their creation and conception. Secrets and lies are afforded in spades to the protection of self and life, uttered by either man or canine. Electrical storms rampant on a too-silent night will foretell a cruel malevolence that bears fang and claw on any victim, usually upon a moonless cycle where the shadows impart briefly to allow black dogs to roam free without the tethers of their once upon masters and would be keepers. ████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████	___________________________

---

&&

𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.

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A mortal countenance struggles to contain a wailing beast within flesh and bone, the soul warped profoundly within tendrils of history and painted within leagues of misfortune, dread, and wrath. A glamour shrouds thick upon lithesome shoulders and delicate ministrations; slumberous, almost cumbersome and fog-minded actions that inspire fragile misconceptions. Beneath the wavering forgery rests snarling words and fangs stained with perpetual taint and rouge undertones, and claws that curl in anger and bleed heavy around mortal fingers that ache in their quivering intent. Whether one comes to view phosphorescent eyes that glow madly within the gloom or hooded pools that are reminiscent of soil, it's little concern, for in either stance it is impossible to veil the truth of the soul within such visions. With a name stricken from records and forbade to be spoken of aloud -- for such a tongue heralds lightning and shadow -- and forms that beget caution in either skin, Fei is the sole representative of misconstrued hounds that often patrol the Crossroads and predetermine misfortune in either realm.

Alternative in dress and mannerisms, Fei is heavily adorned in ink; spawning over the length of her body in faded lines and thick patterns; scrawling penmanship displayed upon her torso and looped around her thighs; illustrations of demonic portraits over her spine and breast and skull winged insects and snarling canines betwixt them. Liken to the fur of the beast in the night, ebony tresses fall thickly down her nape, curled against her backside with minimal upkeep required, as such is usually fastened lopsided into a chaotic twist on her crown. In par with her truer form, her mortal facade remains at a constant, adaptive only slight to the wiles of time endured, her general ambiance conditioned to interchanging fashions despite the eternal glow that rests within her eyes. Slivers of moonlight will reflect off of her stare, glistening an ethereal white usually within the depressing gloom of night where a growl glides against her usual whispers.

Fei's truer form -- as either fur or flesh is a direct profile -- is several lengths tall and long, dwarfing common canines with a mouth riddled obscenely with bone should she pry open her jowls. Ink like fur wisps lazily within an unseen wind unless effectively glamoured, wherein mortal and untrained eyes witness an uncommonly large dog lurking through the alley ways and vanishing into shadow.

𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 / 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

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A chilling quiver down the breadth of one's spine foretells immediate misfortune, these victims stricken with the illness of not knowing of what may come to pass. This is a universal infliction Fei is infamous for under the guise of her bestial counterpart, coupled with a cursed bark that coils thick in the air and writhing, and a baying howl that sounds eternally within the minds of those close to Death. Her capabilities are subdued when bound in flesh, though her effect is no less ominous by touch and glances alone. Black dogs, as Guardians of the Crossroad or prowlers of cursed grounds, are substantially strong and agile, fleeting among the dark and known to leap to and fro, taunting, never quite attacking but never fleeing from those that would do them harm. As if baiting them to their ends until the sun rises. Malevolent inclinations have been described in the years past, and those are told to bear a bite of burning pain or frigid agony, the sensation marking their prey for all the years to come so long as they live.

Let it be noted that one cannot be turned into a grim, but that they are simply born. Unlike their lunar compelled cousins, black dogs are not the product of curses and rage, though it is still unclear of how they come to be.

Fei herself possess all the agility of her birth rite in either form, and her senses keen and sharp, wicked and graceful with only the slightest of mortal hindrances found when she forgoes shifting into a shuck. Stories utter the pattern of lightning storms among the oldest of dogs and strongest of the blood. Fabricated dressings and embellishments tell of Fei being clairvoyant and burdened by slight premonitions in her long life, a cursed blessing from her past. Such truths though have not been tested, and remain hidden, for the better.

𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

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Past will dictate the summoning of a hellish creature festooned with death as a trinket of yellow-marrow and heavy jowls on cries of woe and sheer misery. Thus with this guise and rouse of inhumane birth, canines of demented misfortune and fate prowl under shadow and ruin with an incarnation of Evil cantering eagerly within their shells and banked heavy on their claws. Fei's birth was twisted and malformed, better part of an eerie beginning that saw the babe born from a black dog in the corner of an abandoned church, a curse -- an abomination -- and such a slur rested on the breaths of those that witnessed. In the following years since the appearance of the black shuck during the 1500's in Suffolk, many had feared the appearance of black canines in their towns and homes. Thus churches had taken to burying them -- alive -- within their grounds to ward off the wrathful hound from appearing in the grave yards, feasting on those recently lain. Such was done years after, under the pretenses of protection, and remains to this day in some countries, thus the term church grim was coined when places of worship adopted this practice as well.

Fei's memory effectively wanes after her birth, muddled and dark, spiteful and bridled with doom whenever she reflects and broods, such could be curse of her own birth and existence, but she claims to be unknowing either way. It such is the truth, however, it is difficult to discern.

However many stories follow her wake and those of her kith and kin, most damning, though such are often warped under folklore and myth. Such pertain to the following of a squire known as Richard Cabell whom sold his soul to a black shuck on a moonless night, said to be in exchange for their power in the hunt of his enemies and lords. In his passing, black hounds surrounded his chambers and feasted upon his remains.

To this day, many are said to lurk around his burial chambers.

Across England many ill wanted dogs suddenly appeared around this time, haunting after mortals and striking fear within their hearts and minds, christening their appearances as omens of death and decay.

Some speculated that, even though one of the first hounds publicly seen -- with glowing eyes of hellfire -- was two hundred years after the Black Death crisis, that such a creature stood high above burial grounds, dragging the souls of the dead on bloodied chains and to their final deaths.

Many black dogs appear through the world and time, some of these Fei, and some not. She haunted the gibbets of many slain souls, and howled their curses, she stalked the gallows of time, took souls with her on her travels, feasted on such remains in daily wanderings until gorged on life. She saw witches rise, and saw innocence fall, saw wars come and go and kings crowned upon hills of bone and blood. Cities and empires came to be under the rule of mighty lords and rulers, each rising upon the death of another and standing upon the corpses of the fallen. Fei was an eternal specter, an apparition that flitted through time and tale; a ghost, a spirit, a manifestation of eternity that howled songs to the moon on every eve since her birth.

Fei never quite rose to her mortal givings until the early 1800's -- such a form was lost to her in time, despite her initial birth, almost over two hundred years later -- and here she forsake her name and adopted the moniker of Blackclaw. Uttering the calling of her birth, Esper'yhn Barghest was met with illness and thundering clouds, established by what she believes to be her Father and Mother's might and inheritance. She avoided many like her and those not, a loner in the midst of a crowd and never committed to one place for long, finding bonds and chains to a place ill favoring. Though she had adopted a mortal display, she never found that niche that would make her seemingly human in the eyes of the Veiled World, or any other world for that matter.

But, when a man of blood and another almost similar to her but not quite the same approached the near feral dog in the blanket of night fall, where there was lightning and hell collaborating into one as she howled; raged, hungered, a beast crying into the night under the pretense of lacking control over something inside her -- Fei fell, for the first time. Since her, as one would claim, submission, Fei has been in service and employment of the Bain & Hoyle Company for such a time, often excusing herself on various leagues of absence over the years. Some speculate she returns often to the church in which she was born, lingering among her origins as it were, growling in answer to any inquires that she's simply looking for something -- someone. However, liken to the black dog she is, Fei is loyal at least, one of her defining canine traits ingrained heavily despite the Death she reeks of.

Pieces of 8: The Maidens of Asteroth (DARK/MODERN FANTASY ADVENTURE)

@AmongHeroes - You got me interested, obviously. ♥

&&𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚.

&&

the bird.

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𝚕 𝚘 𝚘 𝚔 𝚗 𝚘 𝚝 𝚝 𝚘 𝚝 𝚑 𝚎 𝚜 𝚑 𝚊 𝚍 𝚘 𝚠 𝚜</sub>

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<sub>Origins? Unknown.

Anyone from the local law enforcement to bigger government branches such as the FBI, NSA, CIA, and ISA, none of them have been able to pinpoint the exact origin of this supposed mega-network of criminal organizations all controlled by someone or even multiple people operating under the one identity of The Bird. The fact is, despite all efforts, they aren't any closer to knowing the stake that which The Bird's Nest seems to operate from.

Where does The Bird get their resources? How far into the hole are the government and law enforcement officials in with The Bird and The Bird's associates? How many separate criminal organizations operate within The Bird's Nest? Who is the Bird? Where is The Bird located out of?

Those are all questions asked, yet none have been answered because of one simple fact: The Bird uses information as a tool to keep absolute anonymity. In this day and age, information is the new currency and The Bird is well-equipped for just about any kind of foe or foe-turned-ally. This is achieved by having several spies placed in high-ranking positions, trojan horses and various invasive malware and spyware always feeding The Bird information as they come in. Other branches of the Nest's network include foot soldiers that range from hardened criminals to kids with nowhere else to go but serve The Bird's wishes. They report to their own boss who feeds The Bird's underlings the information. At every corner within every crevice and hole the streets of The Badlands possess, The Eyes and Ears of the Skies is always watching, waiting, and poised to strike like a vulture. When the time is right, whoever crosses the ultimate predator of the open clear skies will know the wrath of the mighty talons.

That is what The Bird's Nest is - a network of criminal organizations that all bow to one mighter than all of them combined. They worship and fear the one who could ruin them all. They know not to fear the reaper, but the reaper's master, The Bird.</sub>

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