[Isaac blinks his eyes open and stares dully at the canteen. They have a feverish sheen, his pupils blown. There's no hiding how thirsty he is when he finally puts his lips to it; weak as he is, he drinks like he hasn't in days, spluttering when his throat lurches with bile he can only barely choke back down. The effort takes what's left of his fight right out of him - and within minutes of lying back and letting his eyes slip shut, his trembling body stills and he drifts off to the hungry crackling of the fire, Crimson coiling itself at his side.
He's standing somewhere, out in an empty, treeless field, but not for long.
Something cracks against the back of his skull and he staggers, gasping, as lights burst behind his eyes. He whirls around just as another blow catches him in the side of the head, his knees going soft. He drops to the ground, feeling the tickly crawl of blood oozing out his nostrils. It tastes real - harsh and salty and metallic as more of it slides down the back of his throat.
By the time he feels a hand clamp around his ankle, he's already being dragged over dirt and rocks and into a waiting crowd. Axes and hoes, shovels and pitchforks. They curse and spit on him and roar in triumph, their snarling faces looming over his, swimming in and out of focus. Only their gazes hold steady, black with hate.
There's something wrong with his body. He thrashes against an impossible heaviness in his arms and legs, his mouth dropping open in a ragged scream that gurgles and dies as someone rocks a jug over him and a clear liquid splashes his face. Holy water, is the thought jumping to the forefront of his mind -- but it's stronger than even the Belmont's blessed tools, closer to boiling oil. His skin prickles, then burns raw, hissing as a bright, vicious pain eats into his lips, the flesh of his cheeks, the lining of his throat. He croaks out a cry into the void, rasping for air. More water is dashed onto him. He twists his head away, staring through tears at his arm - bare and unscarred? - as it bubbles up and melts to expose gleaming tendons and muscles, bloody flesh dripping off the twitching bones of his fingers.
heavenly Father -- a voice floats above the ringing in his ears, above the pain-fog and the laughter pressing in around him -- in your name we, the faithful, have congregated and shall see to the burning of this vile servant of Satan, this beast who would shun Your glory and Your light, lest we fall prey to its temptations...
Roaring, he grasps for the threads binding him to his devils. But when he tugs desperately, the line goes slack. Silence, dead air. The magic that should be there, pulsing inside him like an angry, living thing, is gone and --
Isaac lurches awake in the dark, his heart rocking crazily in his chest as he blinks and blinks, seeing and unseeing. Crimson lifts its head. Lying in a rigid silence, it's a while until he remembers where he is, and longer until he realizes he isn't alone. There's nothing left to the fire but charcoal and ash and rocks, a faint whiff of a smoke. Cold and weary, he sluggishly sits himself up against the cave wall, realizing his hands are shaking. He bunches them into fists, angry. Then goes for his dagger when the restlessness in his bones is more than he can stand. He turns it over and over in his fingers, stopping only to press the point into his palm.]
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He's standing somewhere, out in an empty, treeless field, but not for long.
Something cracks against the back of his skull and he staggers, gasping, as lights burst behind his eyes. He whirls around just as another blow catches him in the side of the head, his knees going soft. He drops to the ground, feeling the tickly crawl of blood oozing out his nostrils. It tastes real - harsh and salty and metallic as more of it slides down the back of his throat.
By the time he feels a hand clamp around his ankle, he's already being dragged over dirt and rocks and into a waiting crowd. Axes and hoes, shovels and pitchforks. They curse and spit on him and roar in triumph, their snarling faces looming over his, swimming in and out of focus. Only their gazes hold steady, black with hate.
There's something wrong with his body. He thrashes against an impossible heaviness in his arms and legs, his mouth dropping open in a ragged scream that gurgles and dies as someone rocks a jug over him and a clear liquid splashes his face. Holy water, is the thought jumping to the forefront of his mind -- but it's stronger than even the Belmont's blessed tools, closer to boiling oil. His skin prickles, then burns raw, hissing as a bright, vicious pain eats into his lips, the flesh of his cheeks, the lining of his throat. He croaks out a cry into the void, rasping for air. More water is dashed onto him. He twists his head away, staring through tears at his arm - bare and unscarred? - as it bubbles up and melts to expose gleaming tendons and muscles, bloody flesh dripping off the twitching bones of his fingers.
heavenly Father -- a voice floats above the ringing in his ears, above the pain-fog and the laughter pressing in around him -- in your name we, the faithful, have congregated and shall see to the burning of this vile servant of Satan, this beast who would shun Your glory and Your light, lest we fall prey to its temptations...
Roaring, he grasps for the threads binding him to his devils. But when he tugs desperately, the line goes slack. Silence, dead air. The magic that should be there, pulsing inside him like an angry, living thing, is gone and --
Isaac lurches awake in the dark, his heart rocking crazily in his chest as he blinks and blinks, seeing and unseeing. Crimson lifts its head. Lying in a rigid silence, it's a while until he remembers where he is, and longer until he realizes he isn't alone. There's nothing left to the fire but charcoal and ash and rocks, a faint whiff of a smoke. Cold and weary, he sluggishly sits himself up against the cave wall, realizing his hands are shaking. He bunches them into fists, angry. Then goes for his dagger when the restlessness in his bones is more than he can stand. He turns it over and over in his fingers, stopping only to press the point into his palm.]