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| Castelmoron-d'Albret; Girande, France | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 21 2012, 09:35 PM (33 Views) | |
| Tiger Baptiste | Feb 21 2012, 09:35 PM Post #1 |
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*good*kitty
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"You think so little of me, Arthur." In a quiet countryside location, Tiger Baptiste sat on a workbench in a shed on the property, her children unaware and playing safe outside of the cottage a mere quarter of a kilometer away. She sat with her legs crossed and danging, her hands busy at work filing her nails with two open bottles of polish sitting next to her hip. If she listened carefully she would hear the joyful giggles of her beautiful babies, each now just old enough to crawl or toddle around playing with any toy they could ever want. No one could say Tiger neglected her children; they were indeed her life. But being a mother did not make her weak. Because she could hear her children, a necessary action given the fact that she was the only parent around anymore and she needed to know if anything was happening with them, her visitor sat in a chair, silenced. Admittedly, she would have magically done so or gagged him, but she'd been surprised. It was never anyone's best interest to surprise Tiger, and the poor deatheater's tongue lay across the room. It'd squished as it landed on the concrete, but it'd long since stopped bleeding. That suited her just fine; she'd never enjoyed cleaning up blood. That was always something Ryan had done. Ryan. Again, the reason for this little visit. Were the boys never going to learn? How many was she going to have to 'deal with' until they got the picture? She wasn't with the 'traitor' anymore, and she wasn't a stepping ladder to glory with Him. "I never get to do this." She switched the topic, indulging in a little her-time. "What do you think? Red, or pink?" Setting down her file, she picked up the two bottles to show one a cliche blood red, the meager light glinting on it to make it look real. Maybe it was. The other was a neon pink, a color that she'd once despised. She'd since learned not to give color power though. This pink reminded her of no memory; she just liked the brightness. "You're right. Red would blend in too much. The pink will look lovely against your skin." With that decided, Tigs recrossed her legs and started painting, a smile flickering upon her lips as she heard a chorus of high-pitched squeals and giggles. Happiness. Who knew it was so easy to find? "I am sorry about your tongue." She glanced up from her middle finger, pursing her lips at the state of her assailant's mouth. "It wouldn't have been the first thing I'd gone for, but you hear my children. They don't need to know about this life. You don't have children yourself, do you Arthur? No, I wouldn't think so. Parents are a slight anomaly in our group." Finishing one hand, she waved that around for a second before starting on the other. "I"d ask you why you're here, but I've had so many visitors it'd bore me to hear all over again. By fraternizing with the traitor, I'm a traitor, my children are meant for the Dark Lord, I have worn out my welcome, I've gone soft and distracted from the goal, I don't deserve to be an inner circle, blah blah blah. You know? I agree." Fully smiling this time as she took in the man's surprise, "Well, think about it. None of you are really after me for what I've actually done wrong! I've killed far more deatheaters than aurors. I've stopped the murder of children, and in fact, killed our own for even trying. I've twisted around our Lord's orders to suit my own, haven't I? One would almost think I'm on retainer for the aurors, to take you all out one at a time." Giggling, Tigs spun the lid on her nail polish and hopped off her counter. "But if that was true, then I can tell you they aren't paying me in money." Auror men. They had once been fun. Spinning, Tigs then asked, "Do I look so horrible for a mother of eight?" Her pink nails glittered as she ran her hand down her stomach, shrugging. Her appearance had always just been. She would call herself vain, but it was reasoned by the fact that she had been taught that her appearance was everything. That she could use it to her advantage in so many ways. Looking good was a habit, not a choice. Her genes were just there, and the minor time she had to make herself look pretty just followed a routine she'd been doing for eight years. "Anyways Arthur, I don't think I know a spell to reattach your tongue. You'll have to find another way to answer me." She climbed onto his lap, trailing a finger over an unattached needle. It was her favourite chair; she enjoyed playing with it. Sitting in it attached needle-sharp shards of metal into every inch of body it took to sit there, and bound the seated until otherwise freed. The needles were cursed to attach itself to the person's magic as well as it could, invoking all answers to be answered truthfully. Sitting on him just pushed them in deeper, and her grin widened at his groan. "I've given every man this choice, so don't feel too special. I won't tell you that I'm not going to kill you - I haven't decided. See, I don't know if you were going to go after my babies. I stopped you before you could get there, and I know you'd lie to me any chance you could to get out of this. So we're going to play a little game, and your goal is to get me to trust you. If you can, and if you answer my questions truthfully, I will let you go as long as you vow to me that you will never try to kill me or my family again. Do you understand what I'm saying? Ick, honey. Don't try to talk; just nod." She sucked in her cheeks and raised his chin with one finger, inspecting his face. There she found one difference; usually the males that came after her were just boys, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get them to change their minds. They were too young, too solid in their ways, and all thinking that they were invincible. She had been cut, punched, and cursed for her efforts and there was only so much a girl could take. In fact, she was pretty much done trying to make the idiots that tried to kill her go home safe and unharmed. This man was different because he had the beginnings of a grizzly grey gracing his face, and different because he had a golden ring molded into his finger. Somewhere out there, this man had a partner and had lived a long life with his choice to be a deatheater. At least, long for their profession. (to be continued...) |
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| Tiger Baptiste | Mar 21 2012, 01:16 AM Post #2 |
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*good*kitty
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Tigs sighed heavily as she jerked Arther's hand from the arm of the chair. Ignoring the small rivers of his blood that slid down his sleeve, Tigs held up his hand to look at the ring. "Why did you do this?" Genuine sadness laced her tone as she looked at him, watching his eyes fill with as much confusion as pain. Her question had been completely vague; she wasn't even sure which she meant. Why did he come after her when he had someone waiting for him? Maybe. She hated thinking about the families of the people she killed; it wasn't their fault, and yet they had to bear the pain create by their family member's bad decisions. Perhaps she meant why he got married. She had tried that. She had given in and tried and it had nearly killed her. It definitely changed her. Tiger had always been too much of her own person to be tied down but she loved him. She loved him so, so much, that she had let him have so much. The knowledge of what he meant to her, for one. She gave him children, gave him herself...always, herself. No matter who he was with or what he was going through, she was there with open doors, open arms, open heart...open legs was really what he came for. And she would admit it was fantastic. Most people were afraid to handle her, afraid that if they held too hard she'd break. He knew she wouldn't... and she loved that roughness. But he didn't know how to treat her like he could break her either. Because when it all went down? He was the only one who could. A different liquid splashed down on the bronze chair and Tiger abruptly rose, spinning on her heels to go over to the window to check on her babies, using a towel to wipe her hands before she wiped her cheeks. Never again. There was a grin on her face when she turned back around, a golden whip uncurling from around her wrist where it had pretended to be a bracelet. The thin chinks of metal seemed fragile, but as she drew the strand through her fingers, she began to bleed too. Did she notice? No. Broken didn't begin to explain her mind, and registering pain was not one of them. Some doctor had given it a fancy name - congenital insensitivity - during one of her many forced psych evals, but it was only useful to her. Not that it made things like crucios stop hurting, of course. Hers was a nerve deficiency while the curse made her just believe she was in pain. "Is she still alive? Do you have children?" Stupid man, he should have lied. With the simplest flick of her well-practiced wrist, the garage began to get a new paint job. It always started simply; she needed to know how they reacted to pain before she could really decide how to continue. Truth was, Tiger was probably the best and the worst deatheater there was. The best, because she had made it up to the top of the ladder before she was fully seventeen and had stayed there this whole time with minor disgrace. She had performed as necessary and well, if she did say so herself. But she was also the worse, because as much as she was angry...as much as hatred filled her, she was also cursed with compassion. If she was caught and was to be killed, she could handle it. She could handle being tortured and having it all be drawn out. But she didn't like seeing other people dealing with it themselves. That was why she had learned to do the two-second "surgery" to disconnect the brain from feeling. It wouldn't do well to kill people mercifully and have the Dark Lord think she went soft. That would be all kinds of trouble for her. But it sickened her to kill people she wasn't truly angry with or hated in such ways. Yes, she did enjoy it sometimes...usually when the person was rotten to the core and there was no chance of them coming back. Usually when she was personally attacked; emotionally ruined. Usually when she had lost it, or gone berserker. Not now. Not while it was a gorgeous day outside and her children were playing. Not when this man hadn't actually had a single chance to hurt her. He was just doing his job too. But she couldn't let him go back and tell the Dark Lord about her children and her hide outs. She couldn't let a mass of deatheaters come...she wasn't close to invincible and it was just her now. She was alone to protect these beautiful children. It was a risk she couldn't take. This man could handle pain just fine, apparently. He stared at her balefully, periodically blinking away blood dripping down from a slice she'd made on his forehead - one of three. Face, chest, knees. It made her bite her lip, come a little closer. Her eyes glinted, bright blue even in the dark room. "You're going to tell those boys for me." She whispered, coiling the whip up to strike again. "Your body will remind them, just like the rest, that they can find me all they want. They can bring whatever they want." His gun lay dismantled in several corners. "And I will always win. You know why, right?" Tiger didn't answer; instead she stepped back and threw her whole arm into the swing. It didn't need to be fast, really. It just needed to be messy. It needed to be done, and quick. She wasn't sure how much time she had until her children started missing her watching them, and it'd been a long time since she had used this particular toy. She'd over-extended a bit too far, and another piece of the deatheater joined his tongue on the floor. She winced at his scream, but it wasn't a problem. The shed had been silenced for ages and no sound would get through. Straight through the bone, that little whip had gone. And yet he still stared at her. Disliking this, Tigs decided to take out his eyes. Fear, she wanted fear. She didn't want to see challenge! She wanted to see him resign and then she would give him peace. Her fingers did the job for her, slamming the squishy mess on the floor. She had been right - her nails stood out even amongst the blood. This body wouldn't return clean...no, scrape marks merely fueled her anger and she moved back. Again and again she whipped him, whipped until his head hung against his chest and she couldn't see him breathing. And yet, when she climbed onto his lap in her black, gore-soaked clothes, he moaned again. Her neon pink nail lifted the man's chin, leaning close enough to taste the blood off the corner of his mouth. "I've got too much to lose." The eyeless head rolled across the floor. |
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