[Flashback] Bittersweet (Devmond)

[Dulcamara Solanum]

68th of Autumn 509 AV The Blue Grotto It was finally peaceful, finally quiet again. He breathed out slowly as he closed his eyes, a long shivering exhalation that made the tall silhouette shrink. He leaned gracefully against the cool stone and felt the moisture from the wall soak through the thin silks of his clothing. It felt cool against his skin. Comfortable. It was a rare feeling these days, and he felt almost guilty for the small measure of peace that he allowed himself. The echoes from the larger caves beyond managed to reach this peaceful haven, but the sound of voices and laughter had at the very least been muffled. They no longer felt as they would suffocate him with their deceptive joy, did not annoy him by the sheer effort of pretending that everything was as it should be. He reached a hand into the folds of his clothing, layers of silk in hues of gray and purple, gold and black; his family colors that he felt compelled to wear even when he was not participating in the celebrations. With a careful movement that was as natural as breathing he grasped a small object and pulled it forth, gently so that the long black claws wouldn't tear the expensive fabrics. He did not really wish to look upon the piece, but the faint shimmer in front of pale, closed eyelids was alluring, and the flat disc that rested in his palm was cool to the touch, reassuring and commanding. Dulcamara's face twisted in a pained grimace and reluctantly opened his eyes, allowing translucent amethyst orbs to rest upon the small thing. It was an opalgloam, one of the luminescent stones that lit up the cave city of Kalinor; it had been carefully carved and polished, before the shape of a fragile, bell-shaped flower had been removed and replaced by crystal. A stab of pain caused the tall young symenestra to shift, and the fingers of his free hand traced carefully over the stone. Solanum. Nightshade, the beautiful but oh, so poisonous flower that was his family crest. He had been named after it, and he found it ironic that such a delicate plant could place such a heavy curse on the web it was named after. In a fleeting motion he placed the disc back into the folds of his clothing, and with determination in his steps he began to move through the cave, skillfully scaling the walls with bare hands and feet until he reached a niche in the cavern wall that was large enough to fit him; the flattened top of a stalagmite served well for the purpose, placed as it was by an overhang so that he sat more or less right over the shimmering pools of water. There he cushioned the rock with the silks and made himself comfortable, prepared to spend quite some time to himself. Dulcamara leaned his head back against the rock and gazed quietly over the blue water. Like all of his kin he was thin, tall and by surface-dweller standards he would probably be considered scrawny. The pale skin was stretched taunt over the delicate bones, and only thin, slender muscles serves as cushion to fill out the sharper parts. The face was probably handsome, but there was a bitterness dwelling over it that made many look away instead; life had made him that way, life and the fate that seemed so common among Symenestra these days. Somewhere behind him in the more populated areas of Kalinor, they were celebrating Notok by now; the harvest had been returned and the people were celebrating. Another time he would have joined in, but this year the pale-eyed man didn't find much reason for celebration. His older brother had not returned, and it was apparent that he wouldn't do so either. The pale, gleaming disc he now had in his possession was proof enough; Atropar had worn it when he left home, and a different harvester had returned it to the family along with his condolences. A wry smile twisted his features as he traced the shape of the emblem through the layer of clothes. As if anyone cared. They all had their own problems, and after all the Solanum still had a son left. And a daughter, even if she was just recently born and ill, so much that they feared she wouldn't survive. To make matters worse, Mother was ill too after the birth, and her condition was deteriorating. His father... hadn't been heard of since he left, he too as part of the Harvesters. That left only him, and he was unreliable. He had long since acknowledged that he wasn't of proper mental health; after all, he did not value the things Symenestra found so important. Dulcamara couldn't care less about the social life in Kalinor, he had no respect for others possessions and was openly known for picking up things that he 'found' in carious places. Of course he returned them with a smile and a humble apology afterwards, but there was none who did not know or suspect that he was the perpetrator behind it all. Despised. If he hadn't been so young and still able to reproduce... But now it seemed unlikely. All the suitable harvesters from his already small web were gone, the few women were ill and he showed no interest in any of the surrogates offered by others. It seemed hopeless... Unable to keep his fingers away, Dulcamara had soon freed the glowing object again and held it up into the air. The flower-shaped crystal had almost the same color as his eyes and gleamed in the murky light; he couldn't take his eyes off it, and moved a strand of long, silky black hair away from the face to keep the field of view undisturbed. It wasn't really the object in itself that was important though. It was the only thing he had left from his brother, and the reminder that he would never meet him again was painful, even more than the supposed loss of Father. They had been more than brothers, they had been friends, and now nothing remained but a fragile illusion of peace. Nothing was good anymore, and the pain wouldn't go away. Dulcamara closed his eyes again and let the hand drop down on his knee, the hand holding the disc dangling over the edge. Bittersweet, such a fitting name. Nothing but memories, and only emptiness would follow... His fingers moved, tried to grasp the polished surface better, but to his horror the young man felt the object slip from his grasp. A swift motion was supposed to flip the glimmering stone into his palm, but instead it flew past his fingertips and began to fall and with a soft noise caused by sadness and loss he quickly leaned forward to watch the emblem spin in the air as it dove towards the ground, just where the pools met the rocky edge. Was it the fate of his bloodline he was watching? Such irony...

[Devmond Incarnata]

The surface of the pond, once so still, rippled from the shore. Its crisp water now muddied by a taste of tin. Devmond Incarnata dipped his hands into the water again and gave a second splash to his face. The bleeding from his nose had finally slowed. Breathing through his nose for the first time in hours, he tested the sound of his own voice. Nursed in his breast for hours, finally strong enough to free itself. Curses. A stream of it. Which it soon lengthened to become a longer river of loud yells. Then the whole grotto was echoing with the angry tide of black words, coloring the dim with creative profanities. All this aimed around one word.

Avard.

He spat a globule of blood into the pool. The red tendrils reaching out like a swimmer’s fingers. Looking but not watching, Devmond saw the tendrils unwind and unwind all to fading. The blood of the Symenestra. It so desperately wanted to save itself. Reaching out to multiply. Children, children was the cry. Yet, you cannot make something grow that only has so much life in it to give. Crushed by gravity that it could no longer defy. Seemed the blood was not any more strong in water then his own bloodstream.

The water rippled again. The tendrils sank out of his sight. A crystal had bounced near his ear, and came to rest at the pool’s edge. Wet and smooth, it reflected the soft light of the grotto. A perfect skipping stone. Taking it in his hand, Devmond was surprised to see the edges carved into petals. Small rocks occasionally fell from the walls and ceilings– bumps and bruises on heads that took the god of fate’s name in vain. This, however, was delicately shaped by an artists’s hands.

He traced his thumb around each curve. It might be the crest of a Symenestra family. Devmond chuckled at this. Had it abandoned its family or had someone cast off the burden? This thought was only amusing for a moment, now a joke at his own expense. So, someone was free from the strangling ties of the web. The silky threads that, like roots of the flowers they were named, sucked the life from their own soil.

If only he was so lucky.

“Where’s you faith now, hm?” Avard spat at him from above, his large claws digging Devmond’s shoulder into the white silk floor. He laughed crazily and let his dank breath fill his brother’s ear. “Where’s all your talk of how much Vitaras loves those who love their family? You should tell me of repentance, my glorious older brother."

Devmond glare burned in his gold eyes making them appear wide and round like the harvest moon. “You want me to comfort you like a child and tell you everything’s going to be peachy? Well, I won’t and never will because it won’t and never will. Peek up to the surface and see how the gods have played with the lives of every race. See how broken is the world we have no choice to be born. Then try talking about what you deserve and what you don’t. Avard, just take the damn surrogate I caught for you. Don’t blame me for the fact that Vileras was not the one to bring it to you.” Devmond voice then became as cruel as the poison that lined his lips. “Why don’t you try and fish for his body that was dumped like trash in the Suvan Sea? Maybe then you can convince a Nuit to reanimate it for you. Heh, maybe it’ll even marry you. Now, get the hell off me because I’m not the second child anymore. I’m the oldest. Obey the-”

That was when Avard had hit him so hard that flecks stained the white carpet. Devmond then reached up with a freed hand and pierced his abdomen with sharp claws. Clawing and kicking, they tangled with the yells of feral hatred, tearing out each other’s hair. Painting a bloodied path to the furniture at the center of the room, Devmond thought he heard mother scream as Avard got ahold of a large clump of hair. He yanked hard, forcing their eyes to aline with each other. Avard was grinning peacefully. Then he smashed his brother’s face into the table leg.

Devmond’s grip on the crystal was made clear by a sudden sharp pain in his index finger. He released the pressure in his bloodless white fist. Warm drops of blood came from a tiny cut made be one of the five petals’ points. They had dripped to collect near the center of the flower like bees. He stared at it and wondered if he needed to say a prayer with the makeshift offering bowl.

NOTE: Due to Dulcamera's unfortunate leave of absence, I'm having to end this thread rather suddenly.