Burning Bridges, Building Families (WSW 2022)
Jun 25, 2022 11:09:44 GMT -5
Isadora Is a Door likes this
Post by R. on Jun 25, 2022 11:09:44 GMT -5
This is just the beginning of a much larger fic btw.
Armstrong Feint sat at his desk in the crumbling building he had been trying to make into a home, unable to keep his thoughts in order. He knew why he was here: the people of Stain’d-by-the-sea had destroyed the forest which had been his true home for his entire life, as well as the neighbouring town of Killdeer Fields, and he was bent on getting revenge in the cruelest way imaginable. Despite the sadness that had been haunting him ever since the floods, he allowed himself a smug smile as he thought of his plans for Wade Academy and the fate of the children he was going to take there. He didn’t regret any of it, none of the lying and stealing and even killing he had done, and he didn’t doubt the even worse villainy he was planning. But one thought flooded his mind with remorse, and that was the image of a young woman sitting on a bed in the Far East Suite at the Lost Arms, angrily dragging a hairbrush through her wild mass of coppery hair. He had grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms behind his back as he tore at the sheets he was using to restrain her. Of course, she had put up an immense struggle, and as she twisted around in his grip to face him her deep hazel eyes looked into his, and her expression of pure terror and desperation was enough to shake him out of the wild, animalistic frenzy he had been trapped in. However hard he tried to thoroughly search the room, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and found himself wishing desperately that he could just untie her, look into her eyes and apologise for whatever had come over him; beg for forgiveness if he had to. But he knew how volatile and dangerous VFD members could be, so he had simply fled the room remorseful and empty-handed. Ever since then he had tried to forget her, told himself time and time again that she was no different to any other volunteer he had tormented over the years. But whenever he lay awake in bed trying to ponder over his wicked schemes, he was haunted instead by the frightened yet bewitching eyes of S. Theodora Markson.
Armstrong Feint sat at his desk in the crumbling building he had been trying to make into a home, unable to keep his thoughts in order. He knew why he was here: the people of Stain’d-by-the-sea had destroyed the forest which had been his true home for his entire life, as well as the neighbouring town of Killdeer Fields, and he was bent on getting revenge in the cruelest way imaginable. Despite the sadness that had been haunting him ever since the floods, he allowed himself a smug smile as he thought of his plans for Wade Academy and the fate of the children he was going to take there. He didn’t regret any of it, none of the lying and stealing and even killing he had done, and he didn’t doubt the even worse villainy he was planning. But one thought flooded his mind with remorse, and that was the image of a young woman sitting on a bed in the Far East Suite at the Lost Arms, angrily dragging a hairbrush through her wild mass of coppery hair. He had grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms behind his back as he tore at the sheets he was using to restrain her. Of course, she had put up an immense struggle, and as she twisted around in his grip to face him her deep hazel eyes looked into his, and her expression of pure terror and desperation was enough to shake him out of the wild, animalistic frenzy he had been trapped in. However hard he tried to thoroughly search the room, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and found himself wishing desperately that he could just untie her, look into her eyes and apologise for whatever had come over him; beg for forgiveness if he had to. But he knew how volatile and dangerous VFD members could be, so he had simply fled the room remorseful and empty-handed. Ever since then he had tried to forget her, told himself time and time again that she was no different to any other volunteer he had tormented over the years. But whenever he lay awake in bed trying to ponder over his wicked schemes, he was haunted instead by the frightened yet bewitching eyes of S. Theodora Markson.