tampered | Log: Complete

When; Feb. 15 (night)
Rating; R for ruthless rot
Characters; Saya

voodoo_daddy
Summary; A weaver above the waters seeks the blood of an old voudun midnite.
Log;

He walked along the streets of a City he barely knew but knew it to be as old and as complex as the Bleed itself. Papa Midnite had grown tired of its novelty. There was little for him here that he couldn't get in New York City. Magic was in abundance (and used for the most inefficient reasons) and angels far more common than one could ever ask for. Further more, Gabriel here wasn't the snob from their homeworld, there were no chainsaws to speak of. No Constantine to speak of. That should have been a bloody blessing to Midnite, but the fact that the bad luck magician had touched ground here before left a sour taste in Midnite's mouth. It was as if the con man had dumped cold leftovers in his lap. That was a fucking insult to Papa Linton Midnite. He raised his chin, cigar lit to smoke away those thoughts. He wouldn't let Constantine get the best of him. After all, Papa had been tapping some of the finest magical property in the City. The werespider woman's vision had been his greatest discovery here. Anansi should be having a fit.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"What--"

He stared as the real world tore apart for what was called the astral plane in his. Midnite's eyes narrowed, immediately recognizing the threat even as her defenses came down around him in large stealthy and deadly legs. Mages were easy meat in the umbra, but he was no standard mage. Here his body showed its true form, rotting flesh and old bones, old bones worked away by masters of white and black alike. Midnite had been aging since the 1700s; it showed itself clearly here. He could almost hear his beheaded sister calling.

"What have you done, woman," Papa growled, his eyes fixed on Saya to anticipate her next move.

He could burn her, he could give her cancer, he could rape her skull if they weren't on the astral plane. Here the creatures born of spirits beyond had power. Midnite had been born just a man.

Reflexively she opened her mouth to speak, but instead of a tongue there were only her thick, vicious fangs that dripped with venom - not the mild, diluted version she had injected in him earlier, but the nasty, deadly stuff - poison that could kill a vampire in fifteen seconds and a man in three.

She looked down at him; far down, from her vantage height of ten feet, and slammed one pointed leg next to his rotting corpse. Still beating heart, still working liver. She could see them through eight wide lenses that stacked were her eyes and forehead should be.

"Sssssshhhrraa...." she managed, but that didn't mean anything to him. She readjusted her fangs and tried again. "I haaaveeee trrrriejdd jouuu, Papa and jouu arej mine."

Old spirits ruled here, and there was a wraith close by. She wondered for a moment, as she scuttled towards him, reached for him, if it knew the not dead, not living man.

"Shit," he hissed when the leg speared him through the heart. He hadn't had the time to get out of her way, and fuck did it hurt. His corpse was impaled and stuck against what passed for the ground in the Umbra, but Midnite snarled, unfazed by his situation.

"Stupid woman, do you think you can kill me?"

She had contacted him to teach Foster, knowing his black secrets to share with a wizard aligned towards good. He wasn't that easy to kill; Constantine knew this. His fingers touched her leg, channeling an old god's fire from his body to hers though the flames themselves never appeared. Only smoke to the skin. Saya was large and armored though, and Midnite could feel the sickness in her poison stinging his chest from each drip.

The fact of the matter was she could murder him, but that didn't necessarily mean she could kill him.

Not kill. Murder. She wanted him more than dead, she wanted him gone, away, out of her life, cleaned up. She wanted him where Ananansa's eyes did not see, where the Weaver wove in madness but did not remember her. She wanted him where he would never see again into the magic she had gifted him, or remember what was between her legs.

She wanted him to forget her true name. His death could erase that, make him gone.

She felt the lick of flames and drew him up to eye level, quickly injecting him with enough to liquify those organs, to drink them like a human would suck the juice from an orange.

She felt the banes close but took her time, knowing he was still alive, knowing that it was painful, knowing that he could see each one of her light brown eyes, and the smile there.

Her other arm wound around his, pinning them close to his body. His blood was old and sanguine and tasted like her, that sweet sickly flavor of ripe and nercosy and rot.

There was the liver.

There was magic, too, but it escaped her, fleeing through the cracks of her lips and through the negative space, out into the deeper umbra that led into the Bleed.

All because he quipped on the noise. Fate was a cruel mistress, and sharp wit even crueler. Midnite however could understand that, though it didn't mean he'd lie down and take her beating over the tongue she seemed to covet just days ago.

He grunted when the poison entered, his voice rotting away like the dark flesh on his bones. Papa Midnite was dying and not dying per se. This realm was a strange one, what happened here was always up for argument, whether it was the Umbra or the astral plane. For the dark mage, it was where he kept his sister and where magic truly took revenge on men like Constantine and himself. But even since the 1700s, Papa Midnite was always one step ahead. His magic leaked away from every pore as Saya's venom turned his flesh into fluids.

"You... will not forget me," he rasped to her, smiling bone white teeth between sagging decay.

It was more than just the quip; it was more than just his tongue.

It was her mistake, and she would correct it. Once she was finished, once his body was dead, she spotted the bane coming and dropped it, sliding back through the gauntlet in her usual fashion, quietly and softly.

She tugged her coat around her and laughed into the air.

"But you will forget me."

And his body tasted of bark, of the trees in Jamaica and the roots in the monsoon waters. It was his breeding ground for magic, his origin, and she had a taste of it. Then no more. His husk was hers to consume, his husk in this world. Whether Midnite's death satisfied the rules to return or not was anyone's guess, but he was no longer in the City nor in the Umbra, at least not the material that made his true self. Barely human, more than dead.

Now, merely dinner.

Log: Complete

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