Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes In A Broken Dollhouse" - [Haruspex I]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Haruspex I]

It was done. Artemy Burakh’s life’s work had been concluded in the span of less than half a lunar cycle. The lifetime of a fly exceeded the extent of his labor, finished in a mangled heap like if one were to force a sown seed to flourish in but a day's time. He felt ragged and pulled apart, tugged by the innumerable lines hooked under his skin. 

The Haruspex no longer remembered what life felt like before coming home. He couldn't tell if that was a particularly good thing, to be unmade and recentered in so little time. Birthed once more into a new existence defined by things he hadn't known existed but a month prior. 

It was as if the tectonic plates of his heart had shifted, chasms burgeoning and newborn mountains towering over his menial priorities of before. Connections ruptured, paths formed anew, all strange and unknown. 

Drawing his eyes away from a blurry haze of tepid water and dusty dishes, he caught sight of the town outside his old home's window. It was not his hometown, and the building he inhabited could hardly be reclaimed from the clutches of absolute tragedy. A roof was still a roof, nevertheless. He observed with melancholy as Murky sat on the old swing set, hinges creaking only when she shifted her posture, hunched and uninterested in playing, picking at loose strings in her threadbare clothes. 

The girl sometimes looked sideways to the second swing, freely tugged by the wind. She would grow weary and hold it in place, palm on the seat to simulate a weight that wasn't present. At one point Artemy witnessed Murky putting her doll on the perch beside her, only for her expression to close and her arm to swing, batting the intruder away with a muffled exclamation in her miniscule voice. “You're not the one who should be sitting there. Nobody is. Not anymore.”

Why did the Burakh house curse itself to shelter a brokenly split family? No pairs, only halves too jagged from loss to fit together; men with no brides, children with no brothers. After all this heartbreak, the Ripper still could not spare his ward from the loss he'd felt so long ago. Murky had barely gained a sibling, only to lose him to the clutches of what she’d naively thought was a friend.

He wondered if Ersher would mind if he buried Sticky alongside him, so they could at least not be cursed to be as alone as those they left behind. 

The window creaked, pulled shut by the wind. Foggy glass cracked before his tired visage, and he felt a foreign kinship with the inanimate.

Translation - Play: "Death of the Roses" [Khan and Andrey Dialogue/Conceptual 'Analysis' of the Polyhedron]

From a play I was writing about the Lilich sisters, the Mistresses and the Polyhedron

Andrey followed Caspar into his father’s study, his head tilted to look at the boy directly. “Don’t be like that, boy. You’re still young but there has to be somebody that interests you. Life is about more than just studying all day, or whatever it is you do. The best thing about being human is other human beings.”

Caspar grimaced. “Every time you visit I remember why my mother likes you and my father can’t stand your company.” He spoke with complete disregard to how Andrey smirked at his words.

“Ah, but I left a strong enough impression for them both to speak of me. Did Miss Maria comment about me, by any chance?” 

The young Kain hesitated, lips thinning. “Yes… But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

They stopped before Victor’s desk, prompting him to look up to regard them both with an even stare.

“Father. Mr Stamatin wanted to speak with you.” The glacial formality of his tone and stiffness of his posture seemed unsuited to the occasion. Andrey elbowed the boy, spiting the seriousness he bore around himself. “How many times have I told you to call me Andrey, pipsqueak.”

Victor completely disregarded the clash of personalities happening before him with the ease of a man married to what would arguably be the biggest personality in town. “Thank you for bringing him here, son.” A subtle dismissal.

Caspar started to retreat before Andrey settled his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The boy can stay, he’s big enough to listen to us talk shop.” He disregarded the boy’s wide eyes and stiffened shoulder.

“Very well, then. What brings you to the Crucible, Andrey?” It was hard to discern if he spoke with apathy or resignation.

Andrey cracked his neck before speaking, making his present company wince. “I thought I ought to warn one of you, and I’m aware your brothers are more deeply invested in this, but decided to check in with yourself.” The way he explained himself seemed to be to nobody’s benefit, perhaps just to extend the exchange. “The Polyhedron is almost complete and ready to be erected.”

Victor spoke evenly, but his eyes reflected reticence. “It’s hard not to be invested in a project the scale of the Polyhedron, but proceed.”

“I’ll take that as a taciturn adherence to my brother’s ambition.” The architect’s tone indicated he took pride in that fact, even as he deferred credit to Peter. “Now, before I continue, I’d like confirmation on how much you’re willing to invest in this.”

“A lot, according to our expenses.” Victor spoke flatly, just enough subtlety not to seem rude.

Andrey’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, of course, and Peter and I are grateful, but my question possesses a more… Metaphysical meaning.” 

“Metaphysical.” Victor echoed.

“Metaphysical.” Andrey repeated, perhaps only to be vague.

The men stared at each other at an impasse, Andrey with a slightly smug smile. Caspar turned to him after avoiding his gaze since he arrived, a sort of childish spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What metaphysical price could a construction have?”

The architect broke eye contact with Victor to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Good boy, great question. Let’s say that a building in this scale had immense potential for mutation. Its mere existence is a crime against nature, which brings me great pride and completes my curriculum of illicit activities in this life, for now.”

“Your point being?” Victor asked, rubbing his forehead with a sigh.

Andrey tilted his head down, making Caspar feel patronized. “What does the younger master Kain think?”

The boy seemed pensive. “Everything that rises, falls. If the tower won’t, it isn’t going to follow the laws of physics.”

“Precisely!” His voice was excited, not a hint of indulgence to be found.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “This is absurd, Andrey. Honestly, I thought you were working within the parameters of the realm of possibility.”

“An anecdote from the life of a charlatan, Victor: if the rules don’t favor you, change the game.” He was fully serious.

“What you’re doing isn’t a change of game, it’s cheating the laws of physics.”

“And I tell you, as an architect, that it’s entirely within our capacities. The circumstances around here seem to favor the strange and absurd.” There was a joy in Andrey’s aura that was rarely witnessed in the Kain home.

Victor spoke slowly, as if dreading what he would unleash. “I suppose you would know a bit more about the strange and absurd than me.” A sigh. “Very well, proceed with my tolerance, but don’t exaggerate.”

Andrey chuckled. “I think you maybe should’ve said that before my brother invented an inverted tower that cannot collapse.”

“As if I didn’t know.” Victor seemed to age as the conversation went on. “Make yourself at home, I need to speak to my brothers about this matter.” He waited for no reply as he took a sheaf of notes from his desk and walked out of the room with even strides.

Caspar relaxed noticeably and took his father’s seat, leaning back on the chair and crossing his legs, feet resting on the polished surface of the desk, fishing a travel-sized book from his pocket and opening it with the smooth motion of someone who took such a posture frequently. Andrey thumbed through the stacks of paperwork on the desk lazily, humming.

“When my father said to make yourself at home, I hardly think he meant ‘Of course, Andrey, please suit yourself to my personal documents with no regard to the privacy of the family’.” The boy spoke as if it were an absentminded thought but with an authoritative tone.

Andrey chuckled. “I’d take your criticism more seriously if you weren’t sitting pretty in his chair without lifting a finger to impede me, boy.”

“I don’t involve myself in the affairs of adults.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand if you want to be a contemporary Peter Pan or if you simply can’t wait for the moment you obtain the authority of seniority over others.” Andrey spoke as if he himself didn’t believe what he said, and it was only for the sake of responding.

They looked at each other for a moment, sizing the other up. “The Polyhedron will be ruled by the rules of which game, in the end?”

“We’re not sure yet. Peter says the tower will sustain itself like a flower, following biological precepts and forming its own lifelong fibers. He was always more creative than me, after all, he was the one who devised the Rose.” Andrey looked out the window, a grounded wistfulness tainting him.

Caspar narrowed his eyes at the avoidance. “And what do you think? You’re the architect who put the idea into practice.”

Andrey waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know, but if pressed I’d say it’s a process a bit less organic. No, perhaps it could be organic, but certainly not natural. Let’s say I’m of the opinion that a sort of alchemy is possible in this specific case. The ascension of an object to a standard unreachable in nature itself, but at a cost.”

The book in Caspar’s grasp was closed audibly, and when he spoke, it was with intrigue. “Alchemy? Chemistry, you mean. The Polyhedron will suffer a transformation mediated by a sort of energy exchange?”

“Someone’s been studying.” The man said in lieu of an answer.

Caspar mirrored the prior dismissive hand gesture. “I’m surprised you have any interest in chemistry as an area of research.”

“How do you think I discovered the best ways to produce alcohol at home, squirt?” 

Caspar’s eye twitched. “You’re a questionable individual.” He firmly set his book down on the desk. “What could the Polyhedron possibly lack to become an edifice, then?”

Andrey rubbed his chin in consideration. “It lacks nothing, necessarily, only time. Let’s say we want to catalyze a process that is already in motion.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t a natural process.” Caspar countered, slightly bewildered.

“Not yet, but given enough time everything becomes possible, and therefore impossible. Your uncles wanted the tower to be constructed in our time by our hands, and I admit I’m interested in seeing it in our lifetime. Lucky for us, my brother and I were born in the right place at the right time.” Not a trace of smugness could be found in his demeanor, only sincerity. 

Caspar tilted his head. “And what’s the catalyst?”

Andrey sat down on the desk and crossed his arms, settling in for a long conversation. “We’re not sure.”

“Your reticence points to the contrary.” The boy got up from his seat, eyes narrowed.

“Do you read the dictionary for fun, punk?”

Silence. Caspar crossed his arms and stared into Andrey’s eyes. The architect threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Bah! You’re persistent like your mother, and your dad’s dead eyed stare doesn’t help the matter.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I find it helps a lot.” Caspar spoke with a straight face, but he exuded smugness.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, you have her sharp tongue and his obtuse determination. Unbearable, a union straight from Hell.” Andrey was clearly more peeved than actually unsettled.

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “Yes, and you’re intimately familiarized with Hell, seeing as you came directly from there.”

The man paused before guffawing good-naturedly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Speaking to you is always a pleasant surprise, kid.”

“Pleasant enough to incentivize you to tell me what the catalyst is?” He didn’t even try to mask the cloying in his tone.

“You know, if there’s one thing we have in common it’s that when I was your age I was a lot like you, despite the precocious sense of humor. You’re clearly not going to give up, so I’ll tell you our hypothesis, but this stays between us and you’re not going to make any smart comments.”

He waited for Caspar to nod before continuing. “You’re asking the wrong question, we’d been doing so for a good while. It’s not about what the catalyst, but who. Peter agrees that the Rose requires human care, but we think such an edifice can only be cultivated by the hands of someone truly exceptional.”

Andrey thumbed the straps of his suspenders as he spoke warmly. “We had a colleague, Farkhad. a phenomenal architect. You might’ve heard that he was the one responsible for a decent part of the most impressive constructions around here. The Cathedral and the Stillwater were works made by his skilled hands.”

“I never understood the Cathedral. It’s not as if it’s a monument to a specific deity.”

“Of course not, boy. Time is a transcendental power in itself. If it suits you, you can even make a statuette dedicated to Kronos and erect an altar there.” Andrey was transparently making light of Caspar.

The boy disregarded the jab with an eyeroll. “Isn’t it a bit contradictory? A space dedicated to time?”

“Ask your uncles, they’re the ones who requested it be built. They wanted a space where time doesn’t pass within, but that alters its passage without.” He closed his eyes as if he could feel the flow of time on his face.

“And the Stillwater?” Caspar tapped his foot impatiently.

Andrey cracked one eyelid open with mirth. “Ah, that’s a bit more complex.”

“Is it?” A genuine query. “Isn’t it just a hostel? I know it can function as an observatory.” The comment would almost come off as haughty, were it not blunt.

“The Stillwater could be considered a Polyhedron prototype-” 

Caspar piped up, almost excited by the prospect of having something to add. “But weren’t the staircases to nowhere also prototypes? I heard my uncles talking about it.”

“A project so big as to shelter a human soul must have at least a hundred blueprints, fifty mockups, twenty prototypes and two iterations. The Stillwater was Farkhad’s.” Andrey’s claim weighed like absolute truth, as if those were tenets he lived by. Caspar supposed at least he followed some code of conduct, albeit only as an architect and not a moral person.

The boy hummed. “I don’t see the resemblance. The Stillwater is short and round, not a single edge. The Polyhedron is made up of at least 70% sharp edges and it towers over clouds, in the right weather conditions.”

Andrey seemed nonplussed by the skepticism. “Yes, and see the ingenuity of its concept. Farkhad thought that a building with the objective of hosting a human soul and nurturing its growth and ascension should be flat, to serve as a foundation and anchor the individual. The task of ascending would consequently be left to the inhabitant themself.”

Caspar’s expression cracked, perturbed. “But isn’t that the place where nobody can stand to stay for a long period of time?”

“Yes, which is why the idea was discarded.” The architect didn’t seem concerned about the fact. “The new guest shows a remarkable resistance to its adverse effects, I hope she stays. Miss Eva Yan is lovely company.” Caspar frowned at his smirk. “But don’t disconsider the importance of the house, its influence demonstrates that there’s merit in the idea that the spaces we inhabit have a profound effect on us.”

“Does this include our estate?” The boy looked around meaningfully.

Andrey spoke with mirth. “Worried?”

“Not at all.” His voice wavered, but his stance was firmly prideful. “The house is ours, it’s under our rules.” 

“I don’t doubt the young master can command his place of residence, but you underestimate the influence of the walls that surround us.” He grinned and leaned forward. “What makes you think the way you behave now isn’t entirely the influence of your environment?”

Caspar shivered visibly, the silence amplifying the weight of the words. “...You’re just trying to disturb me.”

“And I’m accomplishing it.” Andrey seemed delighted by the fact. “But that’s your opinion, maybe I’m trying to teach you something here.”

“I’d believe that more if you had expressed any interest in my education prior to this moment.” Caspar replied, retreating into the comfortable pace of idle banter.

Abandoned: "Pain & Pleasure" - Continuation

warning for mentions of wounds, surgical procedure, death and all that shit. this is being deleted on my drive because i don't care to continue this fic anymore

Notkin awoke to voices and the sound of shifting grass and singing crickets. He cracked an eye open only to be assaulted by the light of a lamp swaying with the movements of whoever held it. He groaned and closed his eyes once more, shifting a little and wondering what was restricting his movements.

“Shush, you two, he’s waking up.” A low voice rumbled from above him, and he could feel the thrum of it on his side, where warmth radiated. He discerned very astutely that he was being carried bridal style by Artemy Burakh, the slight sway indicating not only that he was walking but also that the man was indeed goddamn strong. He was a growing boy, so it wasn’t as if his weight was negligible, yet the menkhu gave no indication in his hold or gait that the added weight mattered at all. “Notkin, stay awake, for Boddho’s sake. It’s better not to risk sleeping.”

He opened his eyes hesitantly again, feeling sore and groggy. “You’re so fucking lucky, Khan. We’d be right to just kill you on the spot.” The voice sounded like Sticky, coming from near Notkin’s feet, where he could see the top of his friend’s head bob as he walked. “I mean, even if he lives, you fucked up so bad, you should be thankful if you only end up getting lynched.”

“Spichka, settle down. I’m sure it’s more complex than that.” The sky was still dark, and the air felt like the steppe, but Notkin imagined they were close to the lair. “If we were going strictly by what’s right or not, I should also be executed.” He was sure Burakh thought he sounded very reasonable, but it was hardly a convincing platitude.

A third voice had Notkin jolting in Burakh’s hold. “I don’t need to be defended, least of all by you.” Notkin couldn’t see Khan, as he was walking on the other side of Burakh, behind his head, but he did catch the man frowning at the words. “And I’m sure you’d love to be rid of me for your convenience, Sticky, but I’m afraid your personal grudge against me isn’t reason enough not to hear what happened.”

“By all means, Khan, explain in depth what possible excuse you have for trying to kill someone.” The lamplight dimmed, presumably because Khan held the lamp and shifted his position to glare at Sticky. “What’re you gonna do, stab me too? Fuck off.”

“Boys, you’re giving me a headache.” Burakh grumbled, looking down at Notkin. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” He held back from saying he was really fighting the impulse to poke his wound again. The man looked ahead but tapped a finger on Notkin, clearly wanting him to elaborate. “In Khan’s defense, I did ask for it.”

“You mean you provoked him?” Sticky piped up, clearly feeling his righteous rage was justified. “Just because you can be annoying doesn’t give him a free pass to stab you.”

“Listen here, you nosy brat-” Notkin decided to cut Khan off for his own sake. Abrasiveness did not a serene environment make.

“I literally asked him to stab me. It’s fine.” The resulting silence was deafening. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but it’s not a problem.” He gave into the impulse and poked the hole in his side, slightly fascinated by how warm the metal of the shiv was, as if it drained his own heat. The flesh around it throbbed. 

“Unbelievable.” Sticky grunted before presumably striding ahead to avoid them, his footsteps growing faster and more distant.

Burakh sighed, looking weary beyond his years. “I hoped our conversation was purely hypothetical, but I guess I should’ve expected you to be, above all, impulsive.” He tilted his head to the left, facing Khan. “Although I never would’ve expected you to go along with something so blatantly foolish, Caspar.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child!” Notkin could imagine him bristling.

The doctor stood before the lair for a moment. “I will treat you like a child as long as you behave irresponsibly like one.” The door was opened for them, presumably by Sticky, and they walked inside. “Oh, Miskha, you’re here.”

Murky’s small voice almost sounded like it came from below Notkin. “Aba, I’m sleepy.” He felt a light tug on his jacket. “Is he dead?”

Notkin coughed out a painful laugh. “Not yet, kid. Maybe next time.” 

Burakh pinched him and grumbled. “There won't be a next time if I have anything to say about it…” He spoke up with authority summoned from a wellspring in his soul. “Mishka, I know it's late, but could you please go home? Have Sticky take you.”

“You don't have to tell me twice.” Sticky said, apparently forgoing pretending they didn't exist and mutinously stomping up the stairs and taking Murky's hand. “I cleared the table for you, Burakh. Good luck.” Sticky looked at Notkin with a mixture of anger, concern and resignation. “Get well soon.”

“Aw, thanks, Sticky.” Notkin pretended he had been addressed with a small modicum of sincerity. “G’night, Murky. Sorry I stole your dad for tonight.”

The girl looked unbothered besides the sleepiness in her eyes. “You need him more than I do.” She said, voice small but sharp, eerily similar to Sticky's annoyed inflection. They truly were quite the pair of siblings. 

Khan stayed quiet for the whole exchange, and Notkin was slightly forlorn at not being able to see him clearly from the angle he was held. When the two orphans exited the lair, Artemy sighed and walked down to his little workshop/operating room, settling Notkin on the stone operating table. “I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do, Khan. Although I doubt you'd listen to me either way, you're free to go home. We'll talk about this later, and don't think I won't go to your family with this if you avoid me.”

The boy in question stood proudly, leaned against the wall and looked directly at Notkin as he replied. “I want to stay and watch.” His voice was even, albeit tinged with a bit too much vehemence to be considered adequate. Notkin's blood burned and his nerves flared as he considered he was being looked at like a particularly vulnerable beast of prey presented before a ravenous tiger. 

Burakh was readying tools on his workbench, back turned to them and in complete ignorance to the heated exchange of stares they were partaking in. “This isn't a show, Khan. Your family must be worried. Go home.”

Notkin barked a laugh. “Do you hear yourself, old man? Khan doesn't give a rat’s ass what his loving family thinks. He hasn't been home in years, you know. He's as good as dead, where his dad's concerned.” He was sticking needles to see what hurt, watching his rival's muscles tense, his fingers tighten, his nostrils flare, his jaw clench. 

“The Polyhedron in my home.” He gritted out, finally breaking eye contact to glare at Burakh. “Not that it's any of your business, much less my father's. I'm staying.”

The man turned back to them, eyes flicking from one to the other with a kind of exhaustion he seemed to always carry. Notkin could tell, he was a tired man; strong, but gentle, a bull whose yoke bore too tight and too heavy for too long. “I'm not unused to working with an audience, given my more ritualistic work. Still, I'd rather not have to worry what your reaction will be.”

Khan scoffed and stood straight, hands in his pockets. “I'm familiar with violence, Burakh. No need to coddle, especially those not under your jurisdiction.”

“See, you calling it violence just tells me you haven't the slightest clue what you're getting yourself into. Surgery is not violence. Being able to stomach blood doesn't necessarily translate to being at ease watching surgical procedures, else women would easily be the more skilled surgeons.” He spoke evenly as he put on gloves and tugged his sleeves up, forearms toned and scarred. 

Notkin looked between his two present companions with words sitting on the tip of his tongue until he finally spoke them, just to have a say. “If it's up to me, he can stay. It's only fair he gets to see the damage he did.” He grinned with confidence he did not feel, focusing on taking his jacket off his shoulders to distract from the discerning looks he received both ways. 

“Don't encourage him.” Burakh said, at the same time as Khan hissed: “Your opinion hardly matters.” They looked at each other as if they had a lot of words to say but little desire to start this conversation. 

Burakh sighed with great weariness, seemingly reticent to give in his stance and essentially concede to Khan, which was fair. Khan had the effect of maintaining persistence while effortlessly chipping at his opponent's own resolve, all the while making it crystal clear that if he was given an inch, he'd ruthlessly take a mile. The man pointedly looked at Notkin before pointing to the boy's feet and gesturing at the table, so he obeyed and turned his hips to sit on the operating table the right way, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Metal clinked from Burakh’s workbench behind Notkin, who resolutely avoided meeting Khan's eyes boring into the side of his head. “If you insist on staying, make yourself useful, Khan.” The man sounded thoroughly exhausted, which was fair, given that he was woken up in the middle of the night to treat an entirely avoidable but possibly lethal wound. “Notkin, lay down. Khan, fetch me a bottle of antibiotics. The small glass vial with orange liquid will do, it has a drawing in the shape of a drop on the label.”

He could lay down, but his abdomen hurt with the throbbing of his bleeding wound, and he was interested in watching Khan when his back turned, if only to unsettle him; a reversal of action, if you will. His rival walked languidly to the bench near the machinery opposite Burakh, the name of which he couldn't hope to recall. It was funny to see him ponder the tools of a menkhu’s trade, even from the back; his head tilted slightly, and he raised his left hand to his face, probably tapping his curled pointer finger against his lip in thought. 

Khan's posture was always stiff in a formal way, not uncomfortable, but certainly posing an air of superiority; it rarely changed drastically, but shifts in the way his spine settled could tell a lot about his thoughts. Pondering the lair, he bore his weight on his right leg, tapping the heel of his left boot on the stone ground as well as his right pointer finger against his left bicep. The Kain boy was examining the machines and bundles of dried herbs as if they'd tell him something about the practice of medicine, a detached sort of clinical examination, as if he'd be mildly interested in unraveling the skill for himself. Notkin didn't know if he should be frightened to imagine Khan was more than capable of learning medicine if he saw fit to try. 

Too bad Khan wasn't applied enough for such things. 

The boy in question turned, taking the requested vial off the table with a sweep of his arm, almost as if it were an afterthought. He approached Notkin and tapped his nail on the glass, eyes tired but vigilant. “Drink. Doctor's orders.”

“Too bad I don't follow orders anymore.” When his response was met with narrowed eyes he continued. “I wonder whose fault that is, eh?” 

Khan clicked his tongue irately, setting the flask down hard enough to convey irritation, but softly enough not to be chastised for it. “Fine. If you intend to make pain and infection an accomplishment, who am I to take it away once I give it to you?” 

He drew close, their stares unbroken as Khan rested the tips of five fingers on Notkin's chest with force, pushing him back until he gave into the pressure and laid down, looking up at Khan. “Stay down. Play dead.” His pinky drifted to hover over the open wound, slowly lowering to enter his flesh shallowly, flaring the pain to a wildfire. Notkin drew a sharp breath only to let it go through his clenched teeth, eyes closing. “Good dog.”

A cough rang out from Artemy's general vicinity, startling Notkin and making Khan tense, consequently shooting another flare of fresh pain through the Soul-and-a-Half’s core with an aborted groan. “Caspar Kain, I realize you've grown used to saying and doing what you want, which is, I'd wager, a hereditary trait from your mother's side, but I want to make something very clear…” Notkin felt Khan retreat, taking back his hand and leaving invisible prints on his skin. Burakh approached and took the boy's hand, one finger stained with fresh blood; he looked stern, more so than expected for someone with the heart of a bull. He was showing his horns, figuratively. “I will not tolerate your rancid behavior. Not in my presence, and certainly not when it's directed at someone under my protection. You want to forfeit your place under my watch, fine. From now on, you're at best a nuisance, and at worst a threat.”

Khan seemed impassive, but the subtle twitch of his nostril and his widened eyes gave away how startled he was. His posture stiffened, as if someone had stuck a pin in the base of his spine, his shoulders tightening and his hands clenching. The Doghead leader was surprised and afraid, but when he spoke, a thick undercurrent of wondrous bafflement tinged his voice. “...I didn't think you had it in you, Burakh. I suppose my assessment of your temperament was wrong, you're hardly a soft-hearted pushover wearing a bull’s skull.” His frigid eyes were calculating as they roamed over the man. “I'll behave.”

Something about the docility of his tone sent shivers up and down Notkin's spine. He'd never seen Khan so submissive and pliant; it felt like a particularly hazy fever dream. It reminded Notkin of a cat picked up by the scruff of its neck. The satisfaction he felt at the sight was dampened by Burakh’s gaze pinning him. “And you don’t have the luxury of vetoing treatment. Take the antibiotics, Notkin.”

“...Can I opt out of the painkillers, though?” He felt the pressure on him double as Khan, previously looking away in chastised shame, turned to him with entirely too much discernment behind his eyes. Paired with Burakh’s waning patience, Notkin figured it was only a matter of time until someone in the room snapped, himself included. 

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Grace I]

The scent of death faded, almost in mockery of the deadened landscape, dotted with myriad new gravestones, blank markers of mass graves with initials carved where corpses could be identified. It was nigh impossible to tell what was really over; the crisis, or the lives of the survivors. 

Wheelbarrows creaked like the floorboards of empty households, sheltering memories of families now gone, hooked by the end of a scythe reaping lifetimes away from undeserving victims of fate. No Mother’s embrace could hide the dead children away from the memory of their killer. Grace could hear moans underground, pitched in a choir of distraught babes, embraced by a maker they thought cruel. 

Grace wondered if she felt the same. Amidst overgrown ashen swish and white whip, feeling the phantom of Saburov’s hand on her shoulder, urging her to accomplish what needed to be done. For the sake of the town. 

She questioned what town could be left, with so much of it buried.

i was told to post this under duress. completely unrelated but did you know the flashy kimono in animal crossing looks cool

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Khan I]

The Stone Yard no longer seemed a fitting name. With the Rose gone, what sort of garden could it hope to be. Only weeds could grow, bolstered by the wreckage of the only thing of significance that lay as dust scattered around the stone and dirt. The smell of gunpowder was akin to brimstone, the light unobstructed as it fell to earth, caressing where once projected the shadow of a dream. The world seemed too bright for such a somber occasion. 

Caspar Kain was now truly alone, perhaps for the first time. No family’s legacy to haunt him, no enemy to fight against, no soldiers to command. His battles were over with no input of his own, torn away from his fingers by the cruelty of an indifferent existence as he tried fruitlessly to cling to a single aspiration, now made meaningless by gaping holes in the world’s make. 

Not a single shard remained of his Polyhedron, paradise made tangible, the last of his mother but for a tomb bearing a likeness too human to ever truly represent her. He stood between the Crucible and the Cathedral, cornered by the only remains of his name that could be considered whole. Not living. Living was too high a bar to clear for the Kain name, now.

His lungs felt constricted, not even a sigh or a sob could escape him. Khan wondered if he’d just die right there, where it seemed more appropriate. A thrum in his veins manifested discordance, the primal impulse to cling to life, bolstered by a cure he had not wanted to consume, living inside him like a parasite of the world he’d renounced only to be cast back into. The Earth’s maw greeted him with the warmth of a mouth ready to swallow him whole.

He would not give Her the satisfaction of his corpse in Her grasp. 

The thought bore heavy in his shoulders, like a mantle. A tapestry of interwoven thoughts, tangled emotions and puppet strings. Khan looked to the Crucible and imagined ink stains on unfinished paperwork, a slumped over figure in the study, no longer fit to gaze upon the paintings in the hall, no more accounts to be made for an empty house; visible clockwork on a grandfather, discarded tools for hands bigger than his, gears forever waiting to be put into place, mechanisms never to be finished; unsewn garments, no thimble to be found, red thread unspooled, waiting to be cast into the eye of the needle of oblivion. 

A toll, heavy and dissonant, coming from the bell of the Cathedral. A stray thought like a feather in the wind brushed by him; mourn, regroup, rebuild. He had made a paradise out of a glass cage, he could make it again. 

Caspar Kain took his first step into his old home for the first time in imagined eternity.