* S h i v a m e t *
Shivamet was resting. He was recovering, the loss of limbs, the loss of every last iota of blood in his system and the loss
of his mobility had taken a great toll on him. So when she intruded into his Lair he was sequestered safely in his coffin. The sheer black ebony of the closed coffin held his name engraved on the side of it and shone so brightly you could see your reflection in the curving sides and straight planes of it. A heavy blood red rug cushioned the coffin's underside, giving a border around it that only made the contrast of the pure black emblem of death stand out more. There was nothing but silence in answer to the door scraping open, the simple iron and wooden barrier nothing compared to the bulging thickness of the natural cavern that was his home. Dark black stone shaped the walls, curving inwards from the ceiling in natural formation. The only thing missing to truly give it a natural cave like feel were the stalagmites and stalactites that could have hung from the ceiling and bulged up from the floor. As it was every piece of normal furniture, from the desk in the corner with an actual computer hooked up to it and powered with electricity, to the piles of books in the other corner and the veritable couch against the side wall seemed so out of place.
The rest of his room seemed empty, from the plush greeting mat that her feet stepped on that said Soul's Welcome, to
the thick black carpet that swept out over the floor it felt hard to remember one was in the sewers. The greeting mat itself has some strange symbol in deep scarlet that seemed representative of some sort of demonic entity. Even if it would have been a guess which one it was representing. The ritualistic alter in the center of the room held all sorts of bowls and herbs and ritualistic ingredients on the sloping wooden frame of it. Candles bled wax in soft white and black bulges down the legs of the altar and there were runic symbols like some ancient form of type writer engraved in the actual table itself. They seemed like puzzle pieces, forever locked into the alter, yet able to detach and reattach and be organized into some foreign language. There were splashes and spots and chaotic lines of dried blood staining the altar's surface and the different 'keys' that it possessed. As well as an actual ritual circle woven into the rug underneath it. The chalk residue on every single line something that seemed almost too subtle to even notice or pick up on. What was more terrifying than even that however was what was in the circle next to it. Because the circle next to it had a restraint laden cross, the wood pockmarked and full of bloodied stains. The golden metal cuffs designed to hold someone's wrists and ankles and even waist flush against the frame of it for ritualistic sacrifice.
Or potentially maybe it was designed to hold undead, half rotten corpses or Fadebeasts that had been pulled out of
other realms. It was true, this particular dwelling was near the tear in the Veil. There was a long vicious crack in the farthest wall from the door, a wicked gash in the stone that looked like the earth itself had twisted the room in an attempt to crack it open like some rotten egg. That had happened when the Veil had torn and the undead had escaped the Quarantine. Now it was a reminder of how close the Fade truly was. For all of its horrific ties to death and darkness, the actual room smelled of the sweet fragrance of newly budded roses and other flowers. The fresh scent permeated every corner, every bit of upholstery and fabric one could touch and see. As though the perfume born from even the most grotesque actions somehow possessed an unspeakable allure. In fact, if one took their focus off of the most macabre of the furniture in the room and glanced off down the corridor to the left of the door they'd even see the welcoming play of water over stone. The pale ripples over the walls and the soft glow of the natural hot spring he held in the other room something that came directly out of the earth itself.
Her words settled into the space around her like a pin being dropped in an empty room with metal flooring. It was
almost jarring, the quiet peace that was so suddenly interrupted. As though she'd shouted her words over someone's grave and the sacrilege had awoken
something. Indeed, the lid of the coffin moved up, a single pale hand and muscled arm pushing it away from him, the sound non-existent due to how well maintained the coffin was. There was the brief glimpse of soft white cushion and then the lid fell against the wall beside the coffin and he sat up. His skin was as pale as moonlight, the defined muscle playing over his shoulders and down his back and chest visible when he turned, fingers settling on the edge of the coffin, his opalescent eyes focusing in on her form. His thin lips firmed, his features garish in the flickering candle light that drew shadowy figures all over the room. The color seemed to bleed a little, draining out of the thick blood red rugs underfoot, an unsettling taste of ash in the air, of gray wavering like heat over baking tarmac in the direct sunlight. That was the intensity of his gaze, his presence, the sudden gut sinking weight of his awareness.
Ba-bump...
...ba-bump...
...ba-bump...
Sweet and soft, yet as powerful as any tribal drumming, her heartbeat filled up the entire lair, until it was all he could
hear. All he could feel. His own heartbeat had been long dead. It rested in his chest, something he couldn't even remember any longer. Hunger struck at him so perfectly the pain of his injuries was forgotten, every pulsating summons of her body something he couldn't help but dampen his lips at. His eyes lingered on her neck, that fragile arch of thin skin and alluring life. He needed to hunt, but it wasn't safe to hunt while he was healing, if he stepped foot into the city he would only be shot again until the attacks eventually sent him to the fade. This was a delightful opportunity. The only downside would be if she ran, but she had his undivided attention, so if she tried such a thing it didn't matter that his foot was missing, that one hand was missing, he would still catch her. The feral glint to his pale eyes confirmed his conviction on the matter.
"You...are welcome...in my home..."
His words were genuine, candid, the hoarse whisper of his voice something that dragged up out of his chest in the
softest wheeze of voice. It was wrong, it was like the beginning of the inarticulate groans a zombie would have made, but it was so much more than that by the time he was done with the simple greeting. It matched his appearance, it crowded unease into the simple minded and the motivation for his welcome, well, that was obvious from the glint of pale ivory fang behind those pale lips...he was
starving.