Døllmaker | Cyan

(seven)

a/n: if you're a person that doesn't like OCs, don't worry. all OCs that show up in this story aren't important and are only going to be brought in as targets/victims. pretty much i just need people to kill. 

( ø )

Twilight set over a thick brush of evergreen trees. As the small creatures of the forest burrowed into their dens and the crickets began their peaceful lullaby, a disturbance tore through the northern path. With a great gallant, a horse comprised of the night's stars chopped over the beaten dirt as fast as possible. The dark brown eyes of her rider worriedly checked over his shoulder.

Though he saw nothing nearing close, Churchill pressed onward with the most haste he'd ever harbored in his life. His sandy locks and scarlet scarf whipped violently in the wind, his trench coat gliding with the breeze just as his steed did. The scars aligned on his face told no tale, except that of a widower and a thief.

Their clear path suddenly became blocked as countless vines lurched out from the shadows. They fiercely grasped the horse's legs, causing the animal to crash to the ground. Churchill went flying from his mount and landed hard on his left arm. It was no doubt broken, but that was the least of his worries right now. Pain so easily was forgotten when death threatened it's hand. 

His eyes doubled in size, fearful to see his own demise enter his sight. The calm footsteps crunching across the dirt and gravel grew closer. The eerie shadow they belonged to stared him down, almost mocking his newfound pathetic behavior. Churchhill struggled to get up to his feet. He'd survived much worse than the attack of one man, but this man - if you could even call him that - was different. 

Ryan grew close enough for the moon's light to peer down on his cadaverous complexion. He showed no sympathy, yet no anger. Just a blank slate looking to finish a job. Beneath Churchill, a large alchemist array suddenly appeared. The glowing green symbols, wrapped in demonic text and layers of circles, was nearly foreign to the sinful soul. Such witchcraft was well beyond his comprehension and easily placed terror in his strong heart. 

Churchill raised his hands in surrender. "P-Please, please, for the love of God, don't kill me."

"Kill you?" Ryan numbly replied. He laughed once, suddenly summoning a series of smaller circles that hung in the air around his target. Only about the size of a diner plate, these five were significantly downsized from the massive one embedded in the ground. "I'm not going to kill you, but you're going to wish I was." 

His words rattled out like a sickened snake's. In the warm summer night, Churchill was chilled and shaking. Down on one knee, with tears rimming his eyes, it was hard to believe he had such a feared reputation. No matter how many men you gun down and women you swoon like the Devil, you cannot escape the collector's greedy and vengeful grasp. 

Ryan's body was cluttered in bits and pieces of his many works. From Barbie heads dangling on key chains to the glass eyes strung on a bracelet, from the vintage pins on his leather jacket to broken mirrors in his back pocket. Most importantly, tied to his belt was a sweet-faced Victorian doll. Emerald eyes and a pale green dress complimented shinny strawberry blonde locks. Her lips painted so delicately with a nude shade, and a gentle bashful blush gave youth to her cheeks. Three light pink roses made of silk were placed perfectly down the front of her dress, and three more accented her large brimmed hate. 

She was truly beautiful. It would be a shame to have to let her go, he thought, but there are much more important things in life than one doll. He could always make another. Hell, he could make a hundred more if he so pleased. Though, he never did make more than one of the same doll. 

Ryan tossed her overhead of his target. The doll stopped dead center over the arrays and levitated in place. Each of the smaller circles began to turn clockwise. Their speed began paced, then gained momentum until they reached a blinding speed. Churchill couldn't even scream because the pain came so abruptly. His mouth laid agape and his palms out turned to the Heavens. The color drained from his skin, his eyes rolling back until they were pure white and grey infecting his hairline.