nuclear season, c

[attr="class","justice"]you called for help...

A pact was now forged between them. And, certainly, the act of taking the witch to be his familiar involved a degree of magic. In a way, both Deimos’ and Freda’s magics were interwoven together and double-knotted, tightly. Drawn out and partially devoured, as magic did not simply come about from nothing, and always demanded a price.

The fearsome gale died down, with an abruptness that matched how it had started. And the heat, both the flame and the lightning, conducted by the witch also faded into nothingness. Freda fell to her knees, and then to the ground. Lying still at Deimos’ feet. Completely spent, whether as a cost of their pact or exhausted by the turmoil of her emotions. Or as a combination of the two.

Deimos was not as affected. He stood tall, firm, and still, for the most part. Scarlet hues closed, his lips thinning into almost a grimace as the ripples of his actions crawled across his flesh. Like kneading ghostly fingers. Cold and damp, and unpleasant. With a slow rotation of his broad shoulders, as if he could simply shrug such discomfort away, Deimos peered down at the witch lying still at his feet, before wordlessly turning towards her monster.

That hellish stare became fixated, a silent and heavy intensity. Whatever emotions the ghoulish sight of the West’s patron god forced out of this lesser being, Deimos hungrily indulged in. And whatever fullness the darkness of Freda’s heart had lent him had been lost in the act of binding her to himself, leaving him hungry, irritable. Irritable at the careless mistake made when, to get at the little witch, Freda’s monster had charged towards him as well.

”Apologize.” Frigid as ice, that word was a soft demand spoken from godly lips that offered no hint of any inner emotion. Yet, following that one word, all artificial light within their surroundings flickered and dimmed, threatening to go out as one. What was once open space felt significantly smaller, cramped, as shadows seemed to slink and crawl towards the trio, both the method and the swiftness of the growing dark felt alarmingly unnatural. Odd sounds echoed, sinisterly soft. A rustling, crawling, restless echo that promised a team of unseen things. All the while, that hellish stare never wavered from the lesser being’s face. Daring the other to act defiant.

In truth, however, it didn’t matter. Whether he received an apology or not, there was a tense moment of pause. And then a dark tentacle struck from the darkness, wickedly fast, and ensnared Freda’s monster by the leg. An alarmed shriek pierced the night air as the being was ripped at and dragged into the shadows from behind. Dropping his gaze, Deimos moved to turn back to Freda, still lying at his feet. And, by that time, the nightmarish scene that he had created was no more. The darkness no longer sought to press in and upon, with monsters waiting within its midst. All sources of electricity had returned to normal, not flickering at all. Both the tattooed god and the witch were alone. The air around them still, silent.

Bending, squatting with his knees bent, Deimos coolly sought to watch the witch’s face, making no move to touch her. Her monster was no more, Deimos had seen to that. Yet, his actions only then incurred a growing and uncomfortable realization for the god.

He had added to his distractions. Again.

The sigh that was exhaled from between gritted teeth was heavy with exasperation. Wherever the Goddess of both Time and Space was at that moment, she would no doubt have been amused at yet another set-back incurred by her prisoner. That Deimos never seemed to learn from his own mistakes.

Glowering down at the unconscious witch, he considered leaving her where she lay. Her unconsciousness was her own fault, and, once awake, deducing for herself where to find Deimos wasn’t out of the question. Yet, it also was also likely that she might just stumble into the same trouble yet again. The West held many dangers for those unwary of its streets.

And he had sworn to protect the witch, so long as she remained his.

Rather reluctantly, Deimos tucked his arms beneath her knees and behind her back, lifting Freda up and cradling her within his arms, in a style matching a groom with his bride. Thankful that she weighed as lightly as she looked. Turning on his heel, Deimos teleported them both. Landing, a moment later, in the darkened surroundings of his lounge-room. A small square of space, consisting of two sofas, an aging stereo and a few miscellaneous bits of furniture, within the top-floor suite of the West End Hotel. The space that Deimos had claimed to act as his prison cell, more-or-less.

Taking two short steps, Deimos unceremoniously dumped Freda upon one of the sofas.

FREDA LOVECHILD

[attr="class","nobody"]but nobody came.