What's life like... bleeding on the floor.

Dawn.

For once it was welcoming to see the moons rise climb slowly across the dark sky. From a sheath of morbid blue that grew into a calmer serious violet, the heavens were beckoning the start of a new day. Laying there while a curtain of pink, orange and red pulled back was the covenant that life was still breathing. The night before where the only thought that remained was the increasing shrieks of death. It was driven to the point of insanity of the voices wailing in the souls of all who had felt it.

Seryale lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes finally managed to close a few hours before. He could see the moons dance in a waltz behind the veil. He could fill the dull warmth that started to fill the room. He could see the light that was distant from across. It was numbing. He was still dizzy and everything around him, below him and above him was unstable like the waves of oceans so vast and deep. He was still feeling the after math in a state between consciousness and sleep. He felt drained.

It took him several moments to force himself to see the day. Even so, his grey eyes dilated in shock from the light that sent a wave of pain that throbbed within his mind. He twitched his fingers, trying to curl them in a fist but that too was a task within him. His body had seemed to forget how to function just from minutes of panic.

But what had caused it?

He stared at the ceiling above. There must’ve been a ceremony, a calling to his god. But something that would fill his blood in venom was that of the intention. It was cruel, selfish and poisoned. Stryphus was called in a powerful curse to kill. He felt it. He felt that power and hate. He felt those eyes burn into white skin, their lips brushing against warm and innocent life. He felt the pain throb in service of bitter revenge. And he could taste the horrible after taste of sin. Only the foolish and the most monstrous would call Stryphus to do such a biddy. And now he would feel the connection of all when each curse is rooted.

He felt something more. But still was unsure of whether it was real or not.

Seryale turned his head, his neck cracking. He looked at his wrist blazed with a holy stigma. It had been humming his veins the whole night, spreading to both of his arms and down his back. There left was a fresh scar encrusted with dried blood. In turn they would clear up in a week or so. The small stings within his skin would remain until the curses were done.

Slowly he rose, turning his body unto his chest where he pushed himself up with his arms. His body in response trembled as he tried to stand up. He heaved with a deep breath but fell. He tried and tried, coughing, gasping for air but with each attempt left him weaker. Finally he dragged himself to the foot of his bed and carried himself up, leaning on the mattress. The option of resting was no matter. There was work to be done. With another take of air, he stood, his knees buckling under his own weight. He could feel the healed wounds while his bones and organs still ached from the restless failed flight of his structure.

He turned his head to look out the window. It was full day now.

“Hisheme, help me,” he breathed as his body shook again. “Stryphus, have mercy. Please give me some strength to carry out the tasks endowed in your graces.” He feebly crossed his arms across his chest, bowing his head before the sky. Closing his eyes and ignoring the shocks he whispered incantations in humility and adoration. In seconds he could feel his strength returning. Though not great, it stopped his body from quivering. The nauseous squeeze inside was cast aside and his great migraine turned into a fading ache.

He crossed the room and assembled a temporary crutch out of air. Despite the ability to walk himself, his shins still became stressed as a side effect and the heels of his feet stung with each pressure. He would have to return later to clean up the large bloodstains left on both floor and roof. He was glad he didn’t have to see it happen or the torture would’ve been even more monstrous.

And so he limped on his crutch, walking through walls into each room and catching a glimpse of the people who occupied it without being noticed. Some were still asleep, others only awaking and then the rest were doing their morning routines. Maybe after this commute he’ll walk to the kitchen and take a few rolls and cheese. He was hungry after all.

After the tedious journey to his desired destination, he stopped before crossing any further. She wasn’t in her bed. In fact, it was as though she just came out from the evidence of rustled covers and spreads. Even the pillows still had an imprint of her form. He looked over to the connected, closed door. The splashes of water meant she was in there, taking a bath. The only question now is whether to wait or barge in now. It’s not like he was hesitant to see her naked. He saw it before. He did watch her from the shadows each morning to see if the girl had been moved, hurt or such. There was not much to see. She was shaped nicely though it didn’t cope to his standards or arousal.

The problem is that whether or snot she’d be willing to talk, to listen. And she’d see her nude nevertheless if he waited or not. He was also vulnerable if she threw anything at him. But he figured his chances were better if he just walked in since there weren’t a lot of sharp objects in a bathroom setting.

Seryale sighed and passed through, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror with a pale, sickly version of him staring back. Immediately the moisture of warm steam hit him fogging up his vision for a brief moment. He blinked and looked up, Stelon’s back to him as she washed her arms.

“We need to talk,” he interrupted.