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atlasxrose · 4 years

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Tagging: Atlas Rose, (Mentions of @astraearose), (Mentions of Werewolf WC), Isaac Wright (NPC). Time Frame: April 7th, 2014, Early to Late Evening. Location: North Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada Notes: When Atlas met Isaac. tw: kidnapping, tw: blood, tw: murder

There was no sound atop the lookout over the Quay, the witch, his sister, and their childhood friend had parted ways shortly after getting into town. The wildling witches and their wolf companion had been sneaking into cities for years, usually passing their time together, occasionally parting ways to take in sites as individuals, rather than a trio. The red metal scaffolding of the lookout towered over the harbor, Atlas liked it here, coming to the Quay first only a few years ago. The coastal regions were among his favorite. And this province was no exception, the varying islands, cultures and communities were inviting, enriching, and these neighboring cities in particular were rich with international travelers and immigrants from varying walks of life.

He’d already met so many interesting people.

He watched the boats as they came and went, the ferry that shuttled commuters and tourists across the channel to the capital across the water. He’d only been to Vancouver once before, had he more time Atlas might have considered boarding the ferry, he was sure that if he tried he could scrape together whatever money he needed to do as such. But the sun was already beginning to set, and the trio had a long trek back to the Coven, their absence would not go unnoticed.

“Beautiful night, isn’t?”

Atlas turned at the voice of a stranger, almost immediately feeling an intrusion in his peripheries. The young oracle was still naive enough to not recognize the potency of the darkness that emanated from the man’s aura, the corrupt pervasive nature of the other’s magic. Atlas furrowed his brow for a moment, knowing only that the man had magic of some kind, he wasn’t like the witches from Atlas’ Coven, nor any other that he’d come across over the years. But there was power there, the oracle could not deny that, and there was a part of him that was curious.

He was attractive, definitely too old, but duly handsome. There was a sense that he was also much older than he appeared, an aging soul that did not quite match the thirty-something year old man that stood before him now.

“It’s going to rain later, but yeah, I guess.” Atlas returned, not particularly interested in conversing with a stranger, though there was something bizarrely familiar about this one. The past few months he’d been bothered by horrifying dreams, and they were always the same; he was being hunted, through an unfamiliar forest. With trees not native to the soil where he grew up. A pack of jackals pursued him, cackling and howling in the night. He was always running, and he was always afraid. Powerless under the burning red light of a blood moon.

His and Astraea’s birthday had passed just a week ago, it was their eighteenth, the witches had at last come of age. While the Coven celebrated, Atlas had silently lamented his fate, tortured worst of all that night by the same prophetic dream from which he could not wake. The jackals caught him that night, and under the moon they tore the oracle to pieces, feasting on his flesh before the oracle awoke, screaming in pain.

grandmother, Atlas had asked. what does this mean?

A darkness comes for you, my sweet one. You must be careful.

Had Atlas truly headed his visions, had he listened to his grandmother’s advice, then he would have stayed home with the coven as he was supposed to. There was a dozen tasks he could have committed himself to instead, he had a blanket tapestry that was only half finished, the threads of his families’ tree overlaying in emerald green leaves and earthy bark, sapphire blues of a glistening ocean and a clear blue sky punctuated by distant storm clouds.

Being in the presence of this stranger made him long for that familiarity now. Where was Astraea? Where were the companions he’d come here with.

If he had truly headed his visions, had Atlas listened to his grandmother’s advice, then he wouldn’t have separated from them when they’d gotten to town. In the years to come, Atlas would blame his brazen youth, his curiosity for the dark, he wanted to face these jackals that tormented his dreams. He wanted to know what hunted him. Atlas wished to face his fears, and overcome them, but monsters were more than fears, they were more than sounds going bump in the night. Sometimes they came with the sharp teeth of jackals, but mostly they appeared as a stranger, with a smile that invited you to trust.

“You think so?” The man asked, “But the clouds are clear.” He moved to lean over the railing next to Atlas, though the oracle’s eyes were fixed on the strong lines of definition across hardened features.

“I can always tell when it’s going to rain.” Atlas mused, taking his eyes away from the stranger and moving towards the sea, only barely catching sight of a peculiar ring around the engagement finger of the man’s left-hand as he did. This individual was married, so it seemed. Though the ring was unlike any that the witch had seen before.

“I’ve always loved a good storm.”

Atlas said nothing, wondering if silence would lead the man to carry on, before the witch had to make his own awkward departure.

“Sorry, I should introduce myself, I’m Isaac, I live just across the water. There.”

He pointed over the Fraser towards the metropolitan center of Vancouver, he could have been pointing to any one of the high rises or condominiums, Atlas couldn’t have been sure. But he was a local. It was strange because the witch could have sworn he’d seen him before, more inland, maybe a month or so ago before the coven had moved to the forests in the mountains along the coast.

“Atlas.” The witch offered, shaking the man’s hand as it was offered to him. He felt a chill run down his spine, another warning, and after a beat too long, Atlas’ hand was slipping from the others. “But I should be going,” the sun was setting over the river now, bathing them both in an orange hue. “it’s getting late.”

“Shhh,” Isaac reached forward, and Atlas felt his breath leave his body, darkness following soon after. In the distance he heard his voice, “what’s your rush?” Then there was nothing but the sensation of falling backwards, sinking until he was caught. Strong uncaring arms.

While he slept, he dreamed now of a falling star, burning and crashing towards the Earth. As it fell, all the Gods wept as it burned and seared past them, out of reach even for divinity. When he hit the ground he was in this unknown forest once more, still burning he was not the hunted but the hunter. Running on all fours, screaming and cackling and crying as his feet struck the earth, drawing him forward though he had no desire to move. He wished to flee. He wished to drown himself in the lake. He wished to be home. He wished to wake.

They caught their prey, a traitor in their midst.

Atlas awoke in the hold of a ship, outside his porthole he could see the ocean as it lapped at the glass. It was farther away somehow than he thought it should be, without being told, Atlas knew where he was, he needed only to find the one who called to him now. His vision had troubled him and while usually it was the witch’s nature to recoil into himself, Atlas instead sought out the man that had been at the center of his vision. Loyalty and love drew him from the chamber, the initial room where he’d been held was not locked, unlike the others that lined the hall outside. As Atlas passed the doors he heard the screams of those trapped within, felt their power, some he recognized, others the witch had never encountered before.

He rose from the ship’s bowels, entering a room that he knew would be his new home, feeling every bit as attached to it as he had his own room back home. With his coven, with his family. With Astraea. There was nothing of his old life here, no personal affects for the witch to form an attachment to or bond with, yet he loved the bedding for its comforts, he loved the clothes for their fit and style, the magical relics that were now his, the power that was at Atlas’ fingertips. Forbidden secrets and instructions regarding blood magic and the divining arts. Everything the oracle would need to be of service to his master, to a one true, everlasting love.

Atlas washed the journey from his body, scrubbed the ocean salt free from his skin, the sand his body had been dragged across while he slept, healed the scratches formed from small stones and gravel. He dressed to please, wearing something his master would approve of, finding vanity in the darkness of a situation he no longer had any capacity to comprehend. Atlas loved the man he now served, every bit of the oracle’s being was devoted to him, and before he could present his master with his vision, he needed to first be presentable. After all, his master was hosting the others this evening, and Atlas was to be presented before them.

Without being told, the oracle knew this to be true. Knew it because of the ring of servitude that had been slid around his finger after he’d been rendered unconscious.

Atlas climbed the stairs and entered the ballroom, ornate lighting hung overheard as the oracle entered the masquerade, a mask neatly fitted over his face. He wove through the crowd, some enchanted, some not, some there on their own volition, others not. Atlas approached the head table , Isaac sat at the center, his eyes fixed upon the oracle as the rest of the coven lined the table on either side. Totaling eight, with nine seats. Atlas would come to learn that it was Isaac’s own twin sister that sat to his right, and the chair to his master’s left was reserved exclusively for the oracle.

Atlas leaned in, whispering:

Your traitor wears the jackal’s mask.

It brought Atlas some pleasure to see the note taken so easily, Isaac merely nodded and the witch took his rightful place at his master’s side. His raven mask perched neatly across his brow, his hazel eyes watched the room as the final song drew to a close and the dancing slowed. Isaac rose, he had the attention of the room. They were witches, humans, wolves, individuals who had aligned themselves with power, but Atlas knew that those, apart from him, that sat at the table were genasi. Once from a powerful familial coven of air witches, one by one they had turned themselves into genasi. The eight who sat at the table were all that had survived. A century had passed, and over the years they had gathered wealth, power, and a following who wanted only to be near their power.

This vessel was meant as a gathering place for all of them, something that happened maybe only once a year, though it was Isaac’s stronghold first and foremost. The blood wardings were ingrained within the metal itself, Atlas could feel the magic in the air, there was magic at work here. It was not one that he recognized, and Isaac had not simply given him the answers. It seemed the oracle’s fate to learn through observation, though he could guess easily enough the fate of a traitor.

“My brothers and sisters,” Isaac addressed, “tonight is indeed a night for celebration, the blood moon favors us, and has presented us with a new oracle to join our ranks.” The room applauded Atlas, who remained seating, eyes trained on the masquerade before him. “But we cannot forget to mourn the one we have lost,” Atlas knew he was speaking of his predecessor, though the thought that his life was in danger never once crossed his mind. The darkness, his grandmother had spoke of, might have been a lifetime away.

His sister. His friends. They were memories now, ones Atlas felt no attachment towards.

Isaac was his family now.

“Come forth Telemachus.” Isaac commanded, there was a whispering about the room before the finely dressed individuals parted to reveal a man, some years older than Atlas, step forward. A jackal fixed firmly to his face.

Isaac disappeared in a puff of black smoke and whooshed forward, winding around this Telemachus to appear before him. A blade was in his hand now, ornate and runed, Atlas could feel the power pulsing from it. Blood magic. This blade was one that had been used in sacrificial rites, Atlas had seen such tools before, but they were reserved for offerings and only used by individuals in the coven who weren’t so tempted by the power of blood magic.

“How do you answer for your crimes against the Coven? Do not lie Telemachus. I already know that it was you who murdered -”

Aware now of his fate, Telemachus shouted, “Death to the genasi! Don’t you see they’ll doom us all!”

In a moment, Isaac had dissipated in a wisp of black smoke and enveloped Telemachus, he slipped inside of the witch and Atlas rose from his seat as Isaac took possession of the older Greek. The blade now in Telemachus’ hands as dark veins encompassed his eyes, they’d changed from the steel gray of Telemachus old eyes to the dark irises that Atlas had first met on the Lonsdale Quay.

Words of ancient blood magic fell from his lips before Telemachus drove the blade into his own stomach and split it open, letting his innards fall to the ground as smoke rose from his frame, reforming as Isaac stood over the blood and viscera. Atlas drew closer, unphased by the grotesque flex of power and brutal display of gore, the likes of which the witch had only seen before when the coven had to butcher a pig, a deer, or an elk.

“Telemachus murdered one of his own.” Isaac said easily as the crowd gasped, there was whispering, but none would stand against him. They all had their reasons for being drawn to the respective genasi that they served, each had a seat at the head table, and each served the man that addressed the room now. None now more faithfully than Atlas. “Tell me Oracle, what do you see?”

Atlas drew his hands over the organs that had been spilled to the ground, whispering words of power that were meant to incite knowledge and information. He aimed to move the Gods to action, beseeching them to speak, the oracle was the portal for which the movements of the Gods could be perceived, and with this power combined with Isaac’s magic driving him forward, there was nothing the witch would not command of them, on his master’s behalf.

“The Coven will rise in power, but not in infamy, and all that you desire, will at last be yours.”

#tw: kidnapping #tw: kidnap mention #tw: blood #tw: murder #tw: gore #self para #about #history #age 18 #act i #aesthetic

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