xiii [ location: hyperion hotel, basement ].

[undoing.livejournal.com]

[ ooc | backdated to after this thread, handwaving dawn's performance of the ritual. sarah, if you'd like faith in on this, jump right on in-- same for anyone else who feels their character would be present. :> also, we can treat this like a party post with jumping around/threadjacking, etc. whatever works best for y'all. ]

Everything's foggy at first and there's shapes that, while still somewhat caught in the tail-end of the ritual's affects on him, he mistakes for others, relying on what little of his sight is working and unable to access the other senses that would give him a surer sense of who's around him. He doesn't remember Taxon. Not yet. What he thinks is happening is an echo of the past for him, of another time when his soul was ripped from him the 'wrong way'-- but then it had been of his own consenting, where here it had been a game, something out of his hands and entirely in someone else's control. To the blurry figure in the cage with him (Godric) he ventures, "Connor?" Then, turning his head towards the equally blurry figure outside the bars (Cordelia), he commands in a tone that isn't as loud or commanding as he thinks it is, "Faith. Stop. He's just--"

But then his sense of smell flares back to life with an intensity that makes him shut his eyes, shallow hard and slam his head back against the stone he's chained to with a sickening crack that would've damaged him, had he been human. It won't even cause a bump; it'll just hurt for a while, but the pain is tangible. Pain is always tangible. He understands pain, especially the self-inflicted. Right now, it's all he understands.

( The scents are wrong. It doesn't fit the picture of what's supposed to be happening in his head. )

[ location: castle summers ] [ accidental visual ] | o i'm going to be wounded

[tothelibrary.livejournal.com]

Mirrors haven't been high on Dawn's list of priorities since they brought her back from Wolfram and Hart. Her arm is in a cast courtesy of Dr. McCoy, and every single part of her aches. It's pretty obvious whatever stares back from the mirror is going to be a refugee from the latest Lifetime movie, not the face she's used to seeing. There's no point, right?

...But that's not it, either. She's scared, doesn't want to see. So in the five seconds of alone time she's given today (and she feels a little bad about snapping at everyone about wanting three stupid seconds to herself, but this isn't a group activity) Dawn heads to the bathroom and flips on all the lights, takes a deep breath.

And looks.

( no sleep in heaven or bethlehem | cut for descriptions of the aftermath of violence )

[ ooc: rumi here you go. now come with me to hell. we will go to hell, go straight to hell. we will not pass go or collect two hundred dollars.

ON ANOTHER NOTE lj is sucking, so if i owe you a tag and seem to be lagging i would be SO GRATEFUL if you could pm/im/email me because i probably have no idea that tag is even there. B| ]

006: Just A Little Girl [Accidental Visual]

[a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com]

Drusilla, sprawled on the floor of the office like a broken doll, made a noise that was half way between a scream and sob. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t supposed to lose him – gone, just like Spike and Grandmother and Miss Edith and her version of the Slayer – again.

It had been a strange thing to feel. The soul had been thrust into Daddy’s chest in a flurry of magic and a burst of sparks. She’d missed it the first time, too young and too free to appreciate the gravity of such a spell. In Taxon, she’d been waiting for it.

“Give him back!” she exclaimed, hurling her tablet against the wall in a burst of rage and frustration, “Give him back!”

With a growl of misery and frustration, Drusilla – with wild eyes and tangled hair and tears in her perfect crimson dress – pulled herself to her feet. She moved awkwardly, as if her limbs were made of lead and every step made her ache, but, eventually, she reached her father’s desk. She curled up in the leather chair, wrapping her arms around her knees and attempting to cling to memories that couldn’t last. She could still smell Angelus – the lingering traces of his wickedness – in the air, but he was fading fast. The Angel Beast, his soul safely installed some hours before, was sweeping across the city like a storm cloud.

“Please,” she murmured, rocking gently in her seat “Let him come home. I promise I’ll never be wicked again …”

But she would be. She couldn’t fight against her blood and she couldn’t fight against her Daddy and, because they knew that, they didn’t listen to her entreaties.

The only person who did listen – apart from the tablet, though the vampire didn’t realise that she was being recorded – was the doll she’d given to Dawn. The little linen figure had been abandoned during the escape. She lay silently on the wooden floor, as limp and listless as Drusilla had been earlier. It hurt to look at her. It hurt to think about the Slayer and the Dawn Bird. They hadn’t understood. Despite her best efforts, Drusilla’s family had never truly come together.

“I need Miss Edith,” Drusilla whispered, “I need to change Miss Edith.”