She Wanted To Beat Something. Throw Things. Make A Mess, A Horrible, Wretched Mess. Show The World What

She wanted to beat something. Throw things. Make a mess, a horrible, wretched mess. Show the world what she felt like on the inside. What her heart looked like.

One of the little clockwork owls was in her hand. She didn't remember picking it up. But already she was squeezing it, fingers tightening around the delicate metal and bending it. If she smashed it in her palm, she'd throw it at the wall. If she threw it at the wall, others would join it. And if she threw them all, smashed the glass, wrecked the shelves, broke her shop...

Then what happened?

She'd lose everything. Everything.

Slowly, her fingers loosened around the owl. Breathing heavily through her nose, she set it on the worktable. There was blood there. Blood on the floor. There might even be blood on the chair in the corner where Ordran had set that useless corpse. She had to take fucking care of things. If she didn't, no one would.

She set out the 'closed for the day' sign beside the door, found a bucket and some rags -- rags she'd gotten to help with Cia NO don't think like that -- filled the bucket with rainwater from outside, and started cleaning.

Milli spent the morning on her knees, scrubbing blood from wood, emptying the bucket when it got too bloody. Not thinking. Not feeling. Desperately wishing she was being held tight by strong arms that could make this all better.

And when it was done, she made her way home and collapsed on the bed in a sort of half-sleep, staring at the door. Hoping it would open. Not knowing who she hoped would be on the other side.

Sweet And Sour Baby on Picsity on We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/63264641/via/picsity

A million thanks to Tia for finding me my pretty new tumblr theme! :D

The cool touch of metal cupping Tia's chin had slowly began to comfort the sore and useless jaw she now wore, a prize from Dexten's brawl. A leather hood wrapped over her head and cloth covered her from her nose down, if only to hold the metal brace in position. Her attire was body forming, clinging to her skin in a way that kept parts of her curves secure and allowed her freedom to move. There hadn't been much discussion between her and the towering man that now stood at her side, a hunger clear in his eyes. He had been duped, chained and proded over the past week. He needed this as badly as she did. The plan to skin the charr was still up in the air, and Tia's hopes of keeping him living long enough for the pain to sink fully in was abandoned as impossible. Tia lifted and arm to rub along her red and watery eyes, fighting off a cold the cleansing of Ciara had given her. The hung in the shadows of the brush on the outside of the charr's lair. A single candle was alight in an otherwise abandoned and condemed estate once belonging to an Ascalonian noble. Just another ball of saliva to be chucked in their eyes with all the disrespect the cat could muster. Tia gave Tom a nod, signalling him to take point. If things were to go down as she figured they would, this may be his last chance to lead the 'knives' into battle. She wouldn't steal that from him.

Tertius Broadmane sat calmly in the area he liked to think of as his "dungeon". Much of the old mansion was beyond repair, falling to ruin even as he sat there. But the basement, where wine and root vegetables had once been stored, was still sound. He'd cleared the vegetables out weeks ago, but occasionally still opened a bottle of the wine. One in three was stale, but that didn't matter much to him. He was just in it for the good cleaning the alcohol gave his blades. And he had a number of blades. Long and straight, short and curved. Tiny scalpels and large cleavers. Those made for making precise cuts and those meant to rend flesh from bone. Before, he'd been a butcher. Not of men, as he was now, but of meat. Animals. He helped provide for his warband. Hunted game, prepared the meals and leather. It was not a glorious task, but it was one that gave him pleasure and earned him respect. Then he'd come back from a hunt. His warband was dead, smoldering in the flaming ruins of their camp. Tertius had a new hunt now. One that was just winding down. Two more lived of the group that had slaughtered his family. He knew where one of them dwelled. It would take only a few days to track him. Corner him. Kill him. Skin him like the animal he was. With a great deal of care, the charr wiped down his blades and placed them into the precise pockets of his bag. A place for everything and everything in its place. He would do what he could for his warband. And then he would set about finding what he could of his own peace.

Tom peered between the leaves, he looked for the signs of a trod the animal might use to egress a path, disturbed leaves or branches. He'd brought a small quantity of large caltrops, five or six, where as a handful of twenty might normally be used, so he had to be clever about it. To Tia he hushes, putting his lips beside her ear, she could feel the stubble on his cheek, "I'm gonna stand fast on the path, get his attention, try and draw him over these." he offered them for view, "Think you can flank him? If his warband is near, I don't wanna use guns. I don't like our odds agains six or seven Charr."

Tia gave a silent nod, an understanding of the terms. She wouldn't be speaking tonight, and her still healing jaw was the result. She hadn't had time to explain where she had broken it, though. The feel of his stubble had her mind flashing back to the night they met - a memory she willed herself to push back into the depths of her mind. The lack of numbing poison in her system had her addiction all out of wack though, she couldn't rightly help it. She knelt down to remain out of sight and readied herself, a short sword in each hand.

Tom walked out into the open, his breaths short, this was a risk and he was breifly terrified. He thought about the options: storming a trapped lair, his war band. He convinced himself this was the right plan. That was all it took with Tom, a little conveniant lie. The engine started in his heart, his lips pressed, then parted reveiling teeth. He thought about the hunts, the murders, he thought about his expendability. He thought about dying a man that the women in his life, each one that he loved and treasured, and how they would speak of him when he was dead. He cast the caltrops down the path behind him and stood between the trap and his prey; located inside his lair before he started to speak. "What makes an Ascalonian man?" he asked outloud, hoping to draw the beasts keen hearing. "We both walk on two feet, we've hands and finger to curl over weapons, and the will to wield them." he wet his lips, for if this was to be a benediction it had better be heard. "What makes a Ascalonian MAN? That one Ascalonian can stand against many, and in his heart wish away any aid or rescue. An Ascalonian MAN understands that the fewer the soldier, the greater the share of honor. An Ascalonian MAN knows that if he survives his day, however grim, that men in Kryta now asleep will wake up and hear his deeds, holding their manhoods cheaply while we roll up our sleaves and show the marks the animals gave us on the day we took their lives and commited their remains back to the earth. The day we told the Gods 'You are avenged.'"

Having just completed his preparations to leave, Tertius's ears perked up when he heard the man yelling outside. At first he thought it the ravings of some lunatic. Then it became the familiar cadence of those who cried for the glory of 'Old Ascalon.' Tertius snorted. He'd been spotted by some idiot and now they were going to make him 'pay'. Didn't they know he had better things to do with his time? With a sigh, he shouldered his pack, axe in hand, and walked through the gathering motes of dust to the front of the mansion. He exited the door into the sunlight and raised a hand to shade his eyes. Peering up the hill he could make out a man, tall and broad shouldered. At least it wasn't some puling farm boy. Hitching the axe over his shoulder, Tertius called back, "I ain't lookin' for trouble, Son of Ascalon. I've my own appointments to keep and they ain't with you. We can go our separate ways and you can tell all yer little friends you run a charr outta Ascalon, fair and square. That agreeable?" As he spoke, though, he searched the brush for others. Sometimes these patriots didn't come alone.

Tia had been tailored perfectly by Adonya to blend into the shadows, and further by Milli so that her weaponry was tight to her frame. She spoke not a word and her breath was slow and calculated. The wind blew over her and the brush moved naturally. The brush seemed empty but things are never as they seem.

Tom turned his back and walked away from the Charr as if rebuffed, he walked through his trap, careful not to step on anything.

With a curious frown, Tertius walked up the hill. He kept an eye on the man's receeding back. It wouldn't do to walk into an ambush. His eyes scanned the trees nearby, watching for those who might be lurking in the branches. A large, dark bird took flight, distracting him as he reached the area with the caltrops. The first took him in the pad of his foot. With a roar of outrage and pain, Tertius stumbled back. Another caltrop drove into the sensitive skin between his clawed toes. Snarling and cursing, he hit the ground hard on his rump. The pack fell, spilling carefully packed blades and provisions. He let it go, one hand holding his axe up in a defensive posture, the other plucking the caltrops free. It was neither a soundless nor a painless process.

There was little need for silence now but Tia still kept to her tricks, rushing up on the foe by using the ball of her foot only. It reduced the chance of breaking twigs and the sound of a foot step was mostly caused by the heel anyways. A curse slung it's way through her mind as she saw the charr fall, ruining her plan entirely. So much for a beheading. Her swords were sheathed, and instead she leaned down to retrieve two daggers from around her calves. She gave silent thanks to Milli's design and eyed Tom briefly to see his next move. She was about ten paces away now and he still had time to take this one if he found the need. She'd understand.

In a world of marginalized magic, there was still plenty to go around. Dexten Morgan had their lightening fingers, and Tom had his lizard blood. Tom also depended on a series of small theives cantrips, learned magic, from the trade and his mentors in it. He hadn't been walking away all this time, like some rebuffed child with ball in arm. He'd been right there under cloaking, with the light bending around him, waiting for his moment. He reached into his pocket and grasped the tube of cayanne pepper and salt, his thumb popped the corked and his arm lashed out, causing the contents of the tube to poof into the Charr's face, eyes nose and mouth all at once. He'd be in range for a hit, and hoped his blinding powder would mitigate the opening he'd given.

With a roar of anger, Tertius noticed the attacker just before the powder engulfed his head. His open maw made the attack even more effective. The charr swung his axe wildly at Tom's midsection as he coughed, choking. His beady eyes clenched shut in pain. Even as he was swinging, Tertius pushed himself backwards, trying to put distance between him and his attacker.

If they were to both get a hit in, it didn't have to be the ones that killed. As the charr swung his axe, Tia finally arrived upon him. Her swords had been once again drawn - so many choices of murder you know - and both were crossed over one another. The point of them were thrust between the two flailing arms and in a swift motion she pulled them apart - aiming to cut his arms completely off. She would let Tom finish him. He needed it more.

Tom had a nano second to make his decision, the sweep of the axe was broad, the blade heavy, the weilder strong. If he ducked and misjudged he'd offer his neck, if he lept back, possible his midsection. He decided to stuff the attack, moving tight to the Charr to allow the haft to strike him in the side and as Tia's attack disembodied one of his arms, he shoved his meaty, gloved fist into the Charr's mouth, pressing his tongue into place and blocking his air passage to all but his nostrils, his foream scraped by sharp teeth until all he could feel was hot soft pallette. He twisted at the waist and used his leverage to tilt the Charr's head backward and lower him to the ground.

Hot, wrenching pain covered the left side of his body as his arm was cut free, clinging only tenaciously by a few strings of tendon. The limb flopped to the ground. Tertius was too busy trying to breathe, to get away, to suffer trying to release his pain unto the world. Colliding the haft of his axe into a hard flank, he tried to curl it around, to lay the blade into the flesh of the man's back, and, failing that, he would drop the axe and attempt to rake with his claws. His jaws, however, were given an easy target. The charr bit down harshly, instinct as much as thought driving him to grab the arm in his mouth and shake it violently, rending flesh, trying to find the hard bone beneath so that it could snap satisfyingly within his jaws.

Tia dropped one of her swords to the wayside and retrieved a dagger. She pulled it up as she saw the teeth clamp down and attempted to drive it hard into the charr's eye. The goal was to cause pain that forced the charr to release but not kill him, but she was in protection mode. She promised Milli she'd get him back safe, she was damned if she'd let anything happen to him. There was still risk in that blade hitting his brain no matter how careful she was.

Tom felt the teeth sink in, and forced his hand down farther, making it impossible to get a good chomp. He'd winced from it, but when Tia put the dagger into its eyes their coordination started to make sense. He'd had his foot peirced, his eyes blinded, he'd lost an arm, he'd been choked, and now a dagger in his eye and all in the space of a minute or two. When Tom withdrew his bloodied wrist and forearm it was to reach for his long blade, a black blade that did not shine. A blade that silenced its victims, and prevented them from screaming, the kind Millicent had seen in the Tinker's shop when it was attacked by the Black Coats, and slid it into the Charr's throat and severed its arteries. Maybe it was already dead, maybe Tia killed it with her surgeon like accuracy and keen eye, but now it was slaughtered as well.

"I promised the coat to Milli," she said cooly as she pulled her spare dagger from her thigh and offered the hilt to him. It was a look of respect, for the first time since their meeting. He'd seen her bare, he'd seen her cold, but now he had her respect. It wasn't something easily come by and he'd only get one shot at it.

The blinding pain of his blinding was only the last in a long line of hurts that killed him, though his mind had yet to catch up with inevitability. It was the final thrust of that dark blade that still Tertius Broadmane, the last of the Broad Warband.

Tom stood up, looking down on the corpse and his friend and now trusted companion, Tia. He paused, allowing the moment to sink in. He stood tall and proud, his chest presented so and his brooding features shadow cast by the backlighting sun. "What the Tinker wants, the Tinker gets."

Tell Me.

They had been trudging all night through the scarred plains of Ascalon, the sole survivors of a fight too large and brutish to not have been a setup. The question, of course, was whether it was an inside job. Whether the victims were, in fact, both victims.

Milli stumbled along, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the cold of shock and environment both. Her back was scraped deep by large claws and each step was an agonizing ache and pull. Markus had fared no better, arms and torso bearing similar wounds. A few long, dark miles back, Milli had made her peace with things. If Markus was a traitor, he would kill her. She wouldn’t fight him. She had no chance. She would ask for swiftness, mercy if possible. And if he wasn’t a traitor, well…she was waiting for that question as well.

They found a small creek, nearly dry, but with enough muddy puddles to wet their lips, at least. A large hand landed on her shoulder and Milli winced. One way or the other, it had come.

"Did you plan this?" came the deep, gravelly voice.

Milli shook her head. “I didn’t, Markus, I swear.” Even to herself, her words sounded flat and distant. But how to tell him that it wasn’t for lack of sincerity?

He spun her around, glared at her angrily. Even in the dark, she could see the burn of his green eyes. “Make me believe it,” he growled.

"I-I don’t know how," she stuttered, backing away, over the slippery rocks that banked the creek. With a slip she ended up on her butt, back aching like it was on fire. Milli arched, mouth open to scream but no sound came out.

A black-gloved hand wrapped around her throat. “Then figure it out quickly. Those were good people we lost back there. Lost to the Cause.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve never been really loyal, have you?”

He wasn’t squeezing hard enough to block her air, just to hold her steady. Lying still didn’t seem like a good idea. “N-no,” she admitted. “I-I haven’t wanted to restore Ascalon. B-but I’ve been loyal to the organization. To the Hangmen,” she said quickly. She hoped he’d believe her.

His hand squeezed and she grabbed it, holding on, not sure if she could pry his fingers from around her throat. Not sure if it would do any good if she could. “You have a strange idea of loyalty, girl,” his voice rumbled, rolled like thunder across her. Then he threw her down, on the dry bank next to the creek. “But if you’re loyal to the Hangmen, you’re loyal to the Cause. It’s time you started learning there’s no difference.” Then he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Move.”

"Y-yes, thank you," she said, gulping air. Rubbing her throat gently, Milli trailed in Markus’s wake. To her, it was always the same. She was loyal to what kept her alive.

Impossible, is scribbled in the margin of this drawing in her notebook. Then, at the bottom, grudgingly, Beautiful anyway.