“We aren’t friends, we never were, and honestly at this point I hate you.” She rolls him onto his back, yanks the longer rope out of its coil, and ties his feet together, tosses the end of the rope over the lightpole, drags the free end down until he drags across the ground, gasps for air, groans as she hauls him off the ground.
She ties the end of the rope to the bench, which creaks, but doesn’t move.
He’s not making anymore noise, but he is still breathing.
The closest open intersection is back in Aphra’s direction, and she sheathes her knife, looks between the puddle of blood growing under Strix--drip, drip, drip, getting faster as the blood pools lower--and then back to circle of light under the streetlight near Aphra.
She drags her hands through the mud and trots to the circle of light, begins the outline of a raven--head, beak, neck, then she has to go get more blood, continues on to the wings, the pinions, more blood, the feathers, the body, the splayed legs, more blood, the tail.
She steps back to look at it, considers.
More than a raven.
Needs something more than a raven.
More blood, comes back, paints the markings--a stripe across its eye, a border for a lighter underside, borders streaks of white in the wings, on the edge of the tail, colors in the end of its beak.
Steps back.
Pauses a moment to look at it before going for one last handful of mud.
Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (107b/109b)
“We aren’t friends, we never were, and honestly at this point I hate you.” She rolls him onto his back, yanks the longer rope out of its coil, and ties his feet together, tosses the end of the rope over the lightpole, drags the free end down until he drags across the ground, gasps for air, groans as she hauls him off the ground.
She ties the end of the rope to the bench, which creaks, but doesn’t move.
He’s not making anymore noise, but he is still breathing.
The closest open intersection is back in Aphra’s direction, and she sheathes her knife, looks between the puddle of blood growing under Strix--drip, drip, drip, getting faster as the blood pools lower--and then back to circle of light under the streetlight near Aphra.
She drags her hands through the mud and trots to the circle of light, begins the outline of a raven--head, beak, neck, then she has to go get more blood, continues on to the wings, the pinions, more blood, the feathers, the body, the splayed legs, more blood, the tail.
She steps back to look at it, considers.
More than a raven.
Needs something more than a raven.
More blood, comes back, paints the markings--a stripe across its eye, a border for a lighter underside, borders streaks of white in the wings, on the edge of the tail, colors in the end of its beak.
Steps back.
Pauses a moment to look at it before going for one last handful of mud.
She comes back, and writes underneath the bird.
THE RAVENSHRIKE COMES.