abyssopelagic

ᶠⁱᵛᵉ

ᵃʳᶜ ¹ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ⁴

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪

"Ack? What the hell you weasel! Now the Queen of Hearts' statue looks like it's been flame-broiled!"

"Hey I ain't the stupid one here! That's your fault for tryin' to divert it! You shoulda just let it burn you to a crisp!"

"Haaaah? Who in their right mind would be stupid enough to do that," You should probably play mediator, pacify their squabbling, but the only coherent thing holding your body in place was the ice cold vice of dread. It curled around your heart dangerously, leaving the pulse to rocket, and scraped against the very marrow of your bones.

A more remote part of your senses blare at the forming circle of people, the chants and jeers sounding strangely muffled over your ears. Eyes wide and unfocused you're unable to tear your sight away from the blackened stone of the statue. Swallowing thickly you finally wrench your attention back on Grim and Ace, voice unwilling to function.

They're both glaring daggers at each other, the air between them thick with tension, and subconsciously your grip over the handle of the broom tightens, limb trembling from the budding anger surging through your veins. Unlucky for you (but whether it was lucky for the other two was debatable to say the least), Crowley comes marching forward the metronome of his footsteps eliciting a sense of unease to knot away in your stomach.

"What is going on here!? Cease this at once!" The headmage saunters forward vexation dripping off in rivulets, an irked twist building over his frown as his head slowly swiveled over Grim and Ace, and you squirmed in place the moment his ghastly yellow lights flickered over your form for the briefest moment.

Both people go white as a sheet, pupils dilating and mouths dropping open aghast. They aren't even really given a moment to react, any attempt to escape rendered futile, because in the blink of an eye a harsh crack echoes out, and a small gust of wind follows in its wake. The two have been tripped— wrapped up tight against each other in the corded grasp of a familiar looking whip.

Crowley wrenches his hand, fist clenched knife-like around the handle of his whip, and causing the wrapped duo to struggle against their bindings.

"Myaaaah! I'm still sore from yesterday!"

"The mere notion of the likes of you evading me is utterly laughable—" Another humorous and futile ideal would be foolishly thinking that you would be sparred of the mans disappointment, because all too soon he's back to looking at you, the lights in his mask narrowed contemptuously, and you silently gulp. It wasn't often you triggered the dismayed wrath from a figure of superiority, but this was bringing up an uncomfortable feeling to pool in your stomach, and leaves a bitter taste in the back of your mouth. "And you. Unless you've been ailed with a plight of recurring amnesia, have I not warned you, 'No more incidents'?"

You can only blink dumbly at the adult, mind whirling an hour a minute as pins and needles traversed the surface of your epidermis— the faint feeling of wanting to escape the bounds of your own skin disperses into your mind as everything around you falls under a haze. the edges of your reality blur loosing yourself to the grapple of drowning memories. In place of the opulence of Crowley's feathered visage was a hauntingly familiar woman.

She glares, eyes red-rimmed and manic—eyebrows rigid and mouth poised in a gruesome snarl. The arid tang of briny waters permeates the clearing, and the harrowing screech of a sea bird breaks through the chorus of static within your mind, and as you swallow thickly the overbearing taste of salt clogs your tastebuds. She's yelling something, but all you can focus on is the bruising grip over your wrist. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.