[ P ] i bled for free

the devil's got his eyes on me
i've bled to tell you what your eyes don't see

Another leaf falls. Through the grimy pane of glass, he watches it flutter down, down, down until it lands amongst a few others in sun-dried golden grass. His head tilts, and his gaze flicks upward towards the overcast sky, promising rain soon. Throwing the latch to the window, he opens it to the impending storm and then disappears further into the manor, the aged floorboards creaking beneath each footstep.

When he'd first arrived here a few weeks ago, it had been like stepping into a ghost town. Somehow, he hadn't been expecting the manse to be abandoned. Not just abandoned—but a graveyard of bones and burn marks. If he stopped and sniffed carefully enough, he could still smell the smoke, and the faintest hint of stale iron. Each room in a state of disarray, broken things, and bestowed with more skeletal remains than he cared to count told a story, sent a message. Enter these halls and die.

Ikaros, of course, knows who had left that message. He knows exactly who would want no soul to touch these halls again. The caution tape is not a warning to him; it is an invitation. It's only a matter of time, he's certain, until he's discovered. Ika is counting on it.

In the meantime, he's been busy. To call the property more welcoming, however, would be a stretch. It's clean—the floors cleared of bloodstains, linens replaced, furniture repaired, all mostly thanks to Rhistel's hardworking paws—but it is not friendly. On the lampposts and trees that lead up the winding path towards the manor, the skulls that had previously littered the interior are now posted periodically, setting an ominous tone for anyone who dares to approach. Rhistel had looked sick when Ikaros had started tacking up those skulls, but he hadn't said anything—not that he can, but eh, semantics.

The chatter of a jackdaw has Ika's head snapping towards the open window, his eyes narrowed. "Make yourself scarce," he mutters to the servant boy, who wisely disappears somewhere upstairs and doesn't return. Despite his suspicion that there's someone else nearby, Ikaros doesn't go to the window, or the door. He slips deeper into the long evening shadows, blowing out candles as he paces down the long hallways and descends stone stairs into the cellar, where he begins to peruse the scant selection of still unbroken wine bottles as though he hasn't a care in the world.

If he's to have company, he best be a proper host and offer them a drink.

code & art