Vein and Viscera

by MxCricket

Summary:

Snezhnaya, a land where frost is all too familiar, where blood is carried naught on wind but on snow, for you shall not find loyalty in Barbatos, but salvation in the Tsaritsa. Children are often warned not to step foot in the Woodland after dark, simply folk tales and stories to tell grandchildren as they eagerly sit around the log fire, fore the snow carries the scent of young blood far better than that of hags.

Notes:

First time posting hope i do this right!!
Preface is heavily inspired by KIERU’s stairway to heaven on youtube!!

Chapter 1: Preface

 

“This is log #001.”

 

The sound of hard leather shoes are deafened by the pillowing of the soft snow, followed by the all too familiar crass marching of militia, sharp Cerulean hair hidden behind the fur hood of a cloak as the male sets his equipment down.

 

“Audio recording by Segment 205…”

 

He starts, placing the devise down against his equipment. Ordered to travel light, that meant placing the simple grey recording device down against a rather firm, black briefcase. It felt odd. A feeling of unwelcomeness from their very environment; the ashy, barren trees offering no comfort in the shrouded clearing. Even he could admit that…best not to stay still for too long, he deduced simply.

 

“Regarding designated subject 2191. Statement begins.”

 

He starts, as he crosses his arms comfortably “A recent point of interest in the Lady Tsaritsa herself, followed suit by a subsequent investigation.” The Blue haired man stops, ruby eyes following his own footsteps back towards the off-beige cloth cover of their wagon, now beginning to dot white with the falling snow.

“i am accompanied by Five heavy Skirmishers. One equipped with a light pyro fuelled Firearm, capable of firing .50 calibre Pure silver bullets. Along with Vanguard militia successfully capable of using their Anemo powered gauntlets to precision. Previously referred soldiers are also equipped with capable first aid medical knowledge.” He finishes, watches the aforementioned men scout the area, a few simply searching for threats, while the others stand guard around the Wagon, calming the horses.

 

“We are equipped with enough sustenance to last us 72 hours. I will be recoding these logged recordings of tapes, of which i am armed with 200.” He smiles, thick eyelashes covering his vision from the powdery snow falling from the sky “it is currently nightfall. Our task is to Successfully lure out and capture specimen 2191. No doubt which is hunting us as we speak. So…to work gentlemen?” He smiles, clapping his hands cheerfully, turning back towards the rather off put soldiers

 

“end recording.”

Chapter 2: I

Notes:

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG…i lowkey forgot it existed

The wind howled across the snow-covered plains, a relentless, biting force that clawed at the flesh and stung the eyes with sharp, icy needles, the snow fell relentlessly, swirling in frenzied gusts, blanketing the world in a hush of white. The world was a stark, white wasteland, a frozen expanse where even the trees had long since surrendered to the cold, their skeletal limbs reaching up like silent, desperate pleas for mercy as not even the ravens dared to nest against them. But nothing had much changed in the land of Snezhnaya since the first primordials had graced the land; the days were cold. The nights were colder.

 

 

The air was thick with the biting chill of midwinter, but the silence, almost unnatural in its depth, was what made the night so unnerving. Not a single bird called, no animal scurried beneath the trees. It was as though the world itself had exhaled and forgotten to breathe. Snezhnaya was quiet. Eerily so in the expanse of the great nation’s environment. The sun had long since disappeared behind a wall of thick, steel-gray clouds, leaving the horizon an impenetrable, bruised shade of twilight, the light swallowed by the storm that raged above and below in equal measure.

 

Although, perhaps a monster stirred. A quick shift under the uneven shrubbery that not many would notice, except perhaps a hunter much similar to that of the Assailant. Led by the sweet, sickly scent in the air, one that many mortal men know too well, He could already imagine the sweet viscous honey painting the heavy snowfall. Blood, in all its complexity, is the silent story of survival, written with every heartbeat, woven into the very fabric of being. It is the essence of life itself, bound by the invisible threads of purpose and survival. What is a monster if not bound by survival?

 

He once did not enjoy killing.

 

But perhaps he had grown accustomed to it.

 

Survival was survival correct? It might have once hurt him. But he had walked into homes, dragged children from their bed and into the snow, teeth tearing through the wet meat until it leaked exactly the right amount to keep him alive. Children always put up less of a fight, although louder in some cases. He felt a sort of..mercy with children perhaps. The urge to tear through the meat like a scavenging dog was a slight mockery.

 

He remembered his first child. On the streets of Stestroma , one quite fanciful by the inhabitants of its high societies that often profited off the backs of all the Labourers. They say the criminal life there was quite abundant, as what better place to line your pockets with eggs if not that of the dens off all the biggest and fattest hens? Of course, he had no business lurking throughout the streets at night, only driven by a blood lust so eager and pulsating it had given him a earsplitting headache, the ache in his veins so hateful he had become hard of hearing, and colours didn’t particularly sit right in his vision. Blood hungry and quite honestly under the influence of something much worse than that of pharmaceuticals, he didnt really notice the beggar boy, sat in the alley to shield his freezing body from the snow, using only a matchstick to warm himself, but it had been the boys own descison to make himself known, the stranger staggering past him with something a child might have recognised as drunkenness. “ E-excuse me Sudar?..” the boy had mumbled slightly, tattered clothes not really doing much to shield himself from the heart piercing winter.    He didnt turn to him, but stood still for a moment as the air seemed to pick up for a moment, before the faint sound of veins pumping graced him, and slitted- almost opaque white eyes, bleeding with red found the boy’s figure.

 

“My mother-..she-..” he whined gently, his eyes were a lovely brown. Not that the older man had noticed. “Have you seen my mother?” He whimpered, not having the energy to shiver as he looked up at the older man simply.

 

When he got no response, he stood up. No one had stayed and listened to him as long as he had. All the other Aristocracy had simply walked by, no one had fed him- or talked to him since his mother had promised him she would be back.

 

Immediately as the boy had stood up, his brain had registered the reaction, immediately grabbing the frail boy by the throat, lifting him into the air. He had registered movement. And he held him there until he did not move anymore, or until he squeezed the fresh meat until a sickening crack graced the cobblestone alley

 

he had strangled the poor beggar boy in the alley. Not that there was much left of him after that, or that anyone would miss him.

 

 

 

The ground was smooth and unmarked, save for the occasional jagged rock poking through, its dark surface a cruel contrast to the blanket of snow that had smothered the earth for months.  A figure, draped in layers of fur they had caught and purposely skinned themselves and dark fabric, moved with a grace that belied the harshness of the elements. They did not shiver. The cold did not touch them. He had been left to die and freeze a long time ago. Solid leather boots left no mark in the snow, as if they floated just above the surface, gliding rather than walking, the pale trees having left numerous sharp claw marks, perhaps often mistaken for a passing Lawachurl to those passing in the day time. The air around them seemed to tremble with a quiet energy, as though the elements themselves were reluctant to touch them, all except the energy of the Cryo Archon herself would ever wish to cradle and inhabit something that moved with a grace more than a predator, led by the comfort of the familiar smell.

 

Humans fought, lands changed. Kings died. But blood never changes. It is what men are born from and it is what they return too.

 

He perched above the ground, hung above the white ground that was always a comfort like a lovesick Gargoyle, eyes and nose searching for the direction of the dying creature that Oh so Gracefully   had the politeness to die on such a night. Of course, his ears twitched- a rustling to the west..although perhaps a simple hare. But of course, blessed by Barbatos himself, the winds changed. And for a moment he felt almost a pull to worship the braided bastard.

 

He descended, much similar to that of an owl..or perhaps with the swiftness of a devil, hair billowing with the wind, although he had learnt to put it back most days, when your old enough to have seen the consequences of the fall of khaenri'ah- trimming your hair often becomes a chore.

 

The smell of Ichor got sweeter- more pungent. Until he stood still in the clearing within the bare forest, eyes searching for the promise of his own salvation. But the snow remained empty. A blank canvas of pure white, except of course for the small scrape of grass or rock.

 

He wasn’t hungry enough to be fooled by his own senses..surely ?

 

He had chewed the meat off a fisherman’s wife but a fortnight ago! His eyes searched the scenery desperately, before blood shot eyes caught a flash of silver and a god awful Maroon.

 

Oh…Oh.

 

He felt more akin to a wolf at that moment, deducing the gravity of the situation before moving. The Hunter-..or soldier, he didn’t care at the moment. Uniform is uniform, even if it is a strange brownish red colour that reminded him more of a fat counts curtains than anything else. But of course, that is when a rather large Fire arm was pointed in his direction. He had never been shot at before..only made him curious as to what a gunshot wound would feel like.

 

There was a moment of stillness between both Hunters, as almost a challenge as to who would move first. Eyes met, not with hatred but with a stubborn resolve—each man convinced he had the upper hand in the situation. But of course, the eternally smoother face moved faster; a blur of death with legs and bloodshot eyes, the hunter raised his rifle, finger tightening on the trigger, the involuntary movement of self defence pressing down on it, however to no avail. The creature was already upon him. With a snarl that gave a promise of death from the grave itself, his fist crashed into the weapon, claws tightened on the barrel neck. Metal shrieked and splintered under the unnatural force. The gun bent inward, barrel crumpling like paper, then snapped in two with a sharp crack. Shards of steel and pure pyro energy splintered to the ground, useless. The former hunter staggered back, stunned, holding only the mangled remnants of his last defense. The creature grinned, grin widening until the moon itself caught light of the alabaster weapons protruding from his mouth, glistening with the remnants of saliva, more than just simple molars kept for that of grinding meat,

But the very weapon that had taken the life of many men; capable of a bite force rival to that of a Rishboland Tiger. As he bared them, the space between him and the man infront of him seemed to shrink, an inevitable pull drawing them closer.

 

He lunged like he had done many times before- only this time, a rather large hand pulled him back by his own hair. And to think..betrayed by his own precious mane. He was wrangled into that of a headlock by what smelt like a rather broad male of decent stature. He thrashed like that of a feral cat, bicep pressed firmly against his throat, his fangs bared, struggling to break free, claws failing to make purchase upon the intimidatingly large gauntlets that had grabbed him like a stray cat, he could feel the Anemo energy throbbing around his face. He hated it. Body going rigid with a fear of helplessness as he hissed.

 

He was too concerned with his own situation to notice being lifted off the ground, or the way more Soldiers seemed to approach from hiding spaces he hadn’t even taken the care to acknowledge, Anemo of origin and quickly approaching, or the bark of an order to- “muzzle the bastard.”

 

Of course, he had only taken the care to notice when soldiers began shoving his neck forward, eyes flitting to those around him when a rather large muzzle of silver lining began to mar his skin, stripping him of his pride, as humans had once done before of course.

 

A heretic they had called him. Punishable by fire.

 

A moment of cold steel brushed against his skin, and he recoiled instinctively, but the hands of the hunters were firm, swift- shoving his head down like one would take a prostitute. The muzzle, forged from the dark iron of the mountains of Natlan, for those who knew to smith knew the iron of Natlan was firm and un-breaking, lined with silver, was pressed over his mouth, sealing it with a tight, almost suffocating grip around his head, branding his skin as it seemed to melt around the impact of the silver. His fangs clicked against the metal in warning, a low growl escaping from its throat, but no words could break the silence. Perhaps out of embarrassment, or a familiar, baser fear of being helpless- the promise of captivity increasingly close

 

Perhaps tonight would be the night the fire finally caught up with him.