In Wigan It's As Good As Gravy

'Well, look at you, little butterfly.’ she croons softly.

I cannot reply. Cold lances through my back, bare against the stone wall, as surely as her pins lance through my flesh and bone, affixing me to the brick. Like an ornament. Like something to be seen, viewed, admired.

She has none of that sentiment.

She works over me for a while, preparing instruments, caressing my soft skin, holding me between her hands. There is nothing but self-interest behind it.

Then she starts to cut.

Under her hand, my skin parts. Muscle and fat are pulled aside. Organs are removed with the utmost care. Anything that could rot or decay is pulled out of me. I am preserved, a snapshot frozen in time.

Only when she pulls back, finally finished with her work, my skin emptied of meat and sewn back up so precisely that no seams can be seen, now that I am indeed an ornament, does her expression change.

‘You’ll look quite exquisite here on my wall,’ she says, at last with tenderness in her voice, ‘little butterfly of mine’.

ohhh so now you're doing a fucked up team attack, huh? alright, which is it, huh? another power of friendship type, or is it the awesome might of your military empire?

he wouldnt hurt a fly. he would hurt other things he just really likes bugs

writhing in pain today but at least it’s cute maybe

Oh you hate me? So enemies to lovers?

my worst opp is an actual wizard he came to my bandit camp and started flexing all his magic shit floating runes levitation teleportation sparkles all that and said he would give me "any power I desired" if I told him my true name Im so sick of his shit but I can't do anything to him

Don't worry everybody I promise to be normal tonight.

One drink in: Who would like to swear fealty to my cause

Modern vampire who has spent the last 70-ish years of their immortality primarily being slutty in nightclubs and non-lethal snacking on hookups shocked and uncomfortable that most vampires older than the lightbulb are really into torture and cruelty and eating babies alive. Super excited to finally meet his own kind and then oh no. oh fuck. time out wtf are they doing. this is profoundly unsexy they bit that guy’s arm off and are letting him crawl around screaming and crying. there’s not even any kissing or grinding or club music. is this normal?? i am Going to throw up i’ve gotta get these poor ppl out of here. askjeeves how to smuggle 30 naked prisoners (assorted genders) out of vampire mansion time sensitive.

They’ve been walking around for a while now. Not really sure where they’re going, not really sure why. Their legs start to ache, and they can walk no longer.

They come to the front of an old building, well-maintained yet clearly showing its age. They ignore the gardens, and do not dare to cross the fence. The cold and rain bite into their face.

They need to stop. They need to rest. They go towards the doorway, and sit on one of the steps there, protected from the elements.

They sit there for a while. It is so late at night, and they are so tired.

They sit and stare into the night.

They do this for a while.

The door behind them opens, and they wake from their reverie. They quickly lift themselves off of the step, and turn to face whoever is in the doorway.

How can they describe the sight that awaits them?

A beautiful looking young lady stands there, wearing an elaborate dress they swear they’ve seen in a museum somewhere. Her skin is pale, looking almost dead. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, and they do not move. Her eyes appear as though they do not need to blink, and she stares at them and through them. She does not appear to be breathing.

The most horrible detail of her appearance, though, is her smile.

It appears kind, caring, almost loving. But it is clear as day that it is only an appearance. There is no feeling behind it. It is a smile born of manners and propriety and nothing else. They imagine it is the kind of smile serial killers give their victims before they plunge a knife into their chest.

This is not to mention what lies beyond the threshold of the building. The hall is warmly lit, yet is cold and uninviting nevertheless. The aroma of flowers fills the air, and it reminds them of the bouquets people leave at funerals or on graves. They can see some of the flowers themselves. They are so beautiful, yet so horrid at the same time.

She has some of them in her hair.

They wonder if she is a ghost of some kind. If she is one of the Fair Folk, here to torment and torture them. If she is human at all, or ever was.

She opens her mouth, and the sound that emanates is so sickly sweet as to be smothering.

‘Are you quite alright?’

The words themselves should be comforting. They should fill them with warmth and reassurance.

But the tone…

There is nothing behind it. It is the tone one hears from a clock chiming the hour, or a music box repeating a song. Words that should calm and help instead fix them to the steps.

They stare at her in terror, even though they cannot put a finger on what is amiss.

Maybe it’s that everything is amiss.

She steps forwards, and it is this that breaks them. Her movements are so measured, so perfect. She does not shake or twitch. It is as though something has placed a hand on her and moved her.

The smell of her flowers fills their nose as they inhale. Maybe it is their imagination, but there is an undertone of flesh and meat and blood.

Her shoe hits the step.

They turn and run into the night. At least whatever monsters await them in the shadows do not pretend to be something else. They do not wear a dress that is centuries out of fashion. They do not act with such inhuman grace. They do not gut and flay kindness and dress their words up in its skin.

Those monsters would tear them apart, and at this moment they would find it a mercy compared to whatever fate she would promise them.

As they sprint away as fast as their legs can carry them, they wonder if she is following them. They wonder if she will catch up with them. They wonder if she will ask them what exactly caused them to leave so suddenly, utterly oblivious to her own wrongness.

The thought terrifies them.

It is the first bit of normalcy she has had since her boss vanished.

For three lovely days and nights, she was able to play the role of host, and Drakan the role of valued guest.

She gave him a room, she kept him well fed, and she was as polite as always. In return, he taught her the rules and laws of their clan. He told her how their particular variety of hospitality functioned.

After three days and three nights, he left.

He gave her a gift.

He gave her a knife.

It’s an old thing. It is so very sharp, and comes to a tidy point. The handle is worn and aged, yet the blade shines as though it has never been used.

She takes it in her hand, holds it.

Her cold skin matches the cold of the metal hilt.

She makes a few attempts at cutting and stabbing with it. Her movements are clumsy, lacking her usual grace. No amount of skill at needlework or using a broom has prepared her for this. Even if she were to find herself in a fight, she would much prefer to grow claws or twist and reshape the bodies of her opponents.

But she has been given a gift, and she intends to accept it in every way she can.

She needs to practice.

She goes to one of the spare rooms. She fixed this one herself. She made the bed. She fixed the walls. She crafted the decorations.

For now, none of this matters.

She takes all those raw materials, and shapes them into the thing she needs.

She builds muscles and a skeleton and vocal cords and eyes and teeth.

She takes a brain, but leaves it as empty as it was when she made it into that pretty thing over the fireplace, and puts it inside the body.

Soon, her preparation is done.

She lashes out with her new knife, embedding it in the dummy’s eye.

It jerks and twitches. It screams. It does not fall or move backwards.

She is satisfied.

She removes the blade, and fixes the dummy.

She lashes out again. She cuts its throat. The cerebrospinal fluid it is using as a surrogate for blood spills out.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She moves around the dummy, and crouches swiftly, striking at its legs. She cuts the muscles that keep it standing, and it tumbles to the ground. It cries out again at this.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She walks back around to its front. This time, she strikes lower. She draws her blade through the skin of its belly. Guts come tumbling out. Tears fill the eyes of the dummy.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She plunges the blade into the flesh between its neck and shoulder.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She strikes it under the arm, nearly tearing it off the joint with the force and precision of her blow.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

This goes on for a while.

By the end of her practice, she has become quite adept with a knife. Her movements are exact and calculated. She is graceful again.

She has grown rather fond of this knife.

She fixes her attention on the dummy. Tears stain its face. Viscera and cerebrospinal fluid tarnish the floor around it. It is covered in scars, borne from wounds that have been too rapidly healed.

Its eyes seem to plead with her. She ignores it, and returns all of the materials to their proper places.

She leaves the room with a soulless smile on her face. She wonders what it would be like to practice on something that could still act and think.

But first, she has made a mess, and it is her job as a maidservant to clean it up.