BxTiger

The pair of young ladies stopped their slow, meandering walk, turning to the lightly armoured horse that rode swiftly towards the pair. Maddison thanked her patron deity for the interruption and smiled genuinely, if albeit briefly, for the first time since she had left the house - she was certain that her father would have been less than impressed had their family’s involvement with the miasmic sciences become known in the noble circle. She forced her expression back to one of stern displeasure as a young man, his black and amaranthine tunic standing out bold amongst the bright colours of the garden, walked gingerly towards her, leaving

The subtle scent of blossoming roses filled the air, their aroma wafted gently throughout the Thorne Estate by a midsummer breeze. Some short weeks had passed since Maddison began her journey into understanding the component pieces of miasmic devices as outlined by her father’s documents, and the progress that she had made was, in her own mind at the very least, prodigious. On this particular afternoon Maddison was, at the insistence of some of the more motherly servants under her family’s employ, taking a walk through the homestead’s extensive gardens. The young lady had grown somewhat more pallid since her studies began,

It was of great convenience to both parties involved that Maddison already had a relatively sound theoretical knowledge of the miasma as a principle, thanks in large part to a maternal ancestor having been one of the pioneers of the discipline. She knew, as she had been told in story from a young age, that the miasma was a wild, powerful, and somewhat unpredictable force that lay in one of the dimensions considered mostly imperceivable by humanity. She also knew, by rote, that the miasmic sciences had their roots in conjuring and wizardry, and the average person still believed both the miasmic sciences and its significantly older counterpart

There was always, for Maddison at the very least, something about the prospect of ‘tea’ that affected her on a primal level. It was unfailingly calming, unrelentingly nostalgic, and yet what it did she found completely and utterly indescribable. On nights when she thought of her mother, Maddison would walk softly to the large kitchen and, dismissing the night-staff momentarily, pour two cups of what she used to call ‘Galaxy Grey’ - a simple, satisfying Lady Grey tea with calming herbs and fruit pips swirled throughout like a cluster of stars, glistening in the near black void of her cup. Sipping delicately from her cu

The searing heat of red-hot iron was all the young lady could feel as flames licked the walls of the room around her, but still she continued her ascent of the staircase, rushing demurely to what she knew was likely her certain death. The upper reaches of the manor, logically, were not the wisest place to run to during a house-fire and yet something in her stomach told her that this was the way she must go. Reaching the rapidly warping attic door she carefully wrapped her scarf around her hand to dull the pain she knew would course through her hand the moment she risked the handle. “A Thorne will yield to no obstacle…” She

Darkness Darkness Perfect pitch Am I blind? I remember not my identity "I don’t know where I am." I scream The words do not escape my lips, save for a brief, choked gurgling What hell hath been wrought upon me that everything I once was could be torn from my mind’s pages so violently Another darkness ebbs in around me, now, as muffled noises drill deafening into my head, drowning my thoughts in nonsensical gibbering I know not what vile incantation they weave, that transforms thought to mush I fear my old self has already fled I fear this new life My body weakened I cry Pain Light

If my affections were wrought in iron For all the world to see My ardor sculpted in twisted bliss The meaning one could ne’er miss I fear that it would be too small Even if built with iron all Even if iron all consumed I fear your heart I'd twist and wound 'T'would not be harm that I was tryin' And t'would bring shame to me If my affections were wrought in iron For all, but you, to see

Our flirtatious phrases, never officially meeting, yet never quite apart from one another, flash with a subtly amorous glow across our screens. Our fingers dance a complicated waltz. They long. They yearn. They need each other. Yet they can never touch.

I am free - bound to my chair by responsibility, while you sit inside your well organised cells, crying at me to release you, even if for a brief moment. You yearn to be walked, to be viewed, even just to be transferred to another holding pen - a prison of a different name. I am not mastered by you, and yet my life now revolves around ensuring your safety, maintaining your integrity, and validating your existence. I am not a bad person. It is simply my job to manipulate you to serve my own purpose; the purpose of another; or sometimes, simply, to just see how far I can push you before something is broken. I like to see what I can get out of