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/sapphic/ - Sapphic Dreams

All things sapphic

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Rules

File: e79a84a945bab32⋯.png (134.06 KB,450x535,90:107,f8d480354a686042df39e6006c….png)

 No.1717

Hear ye, hear ye.

We now commence our story time thread.

RULES

At least one post per week to continue the story.

Minimum of one sentence. No maximum.

Posts must continue the story.

Only one reply per post.

Good luck writers.

____________________________
Disclaimer: this post and the subject matter and contents thereof - text, media, or otherwise - do not necessarily reflect the views of the 8kun administration.

 No.1722

Against the star-littered night-sky and the gibbous moon the ruined castle atop the hill dominated the surrounding moon-dappled landscape. Its several crumbling stone towers, chapel spire and ruined battlements still rising high above the trees that encircled the massive outer walls like an invading army. The old road that ran up the gently sloping hill from the wooded base had over the centuries sunk down, become worn away by the countless footfalls of people, till at last, a hollow way had formed, and the overhead branches made it seem like a tunnel. At the base of the hill old, defensive earthworks encircled it, long-since overgrown by trees and shrubberies, and it was now almost indistinguishable from the rest of the hill.

The sight of the ruined castle had always reminded her of the scenes Caspar David Friedrich painted so beautifully, and especially so on a chill, moonlit autumnal night. She watched the castle silhouetted against the night-sky as the car drove along the old gravel road through what had once been the main street of the old village. The bombastic intro of ‘The Moon Was Yellow’ gave away and Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice took over on the car stereo, and she had to admit that the song seemed to be made for the scene.

Ever since she had first heard the tales of Karnstein Castle and the noble family of which she was a distant descendant via a maternal line, Sara Weil had felt a pull towards the castle. She remembered seeing some of the old family portraits on the walls when visiting her grandparents at a quite young age. Even though the paintings were faded by age and blackened by dirt and time she felt a wonderful familial resemblance to one portrait in particular – written in gold in the corner of the portrait was a name: Mircalla Karnstein. It had felt like she was looking at her own reflection in a the water, only slightly distorted despite being separated from each other by centuries – in particular it was the eyes that gave it away. What had begun as a fascination with a distant relative had developed into an obsession; and the vague, hazy memories, or even fragments of memories that had been with her for as long as she could recall began to fit like the pieces of a puzzle when she began to research her long-dead relative – names, faces, places and events. She had ‘known’ where to go when she first visited the castle with her family – where the various rooms had been, the garden, what the stained glass windows of the chapel had looked like… Some of these blood-memories, as she thought of them, were clearer and more ‘complete’ than others; while in some cases she felt the scent of the flowers and the grass, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the tone of voice and the look of someone’s eyes looking at her, they were other times a broken, incomplete sensation with distorted voices and faces without names to them. In the old family Bible she had retraced her ancestry on the ornate family tree drawn up on the front leaf with her index finger, feeling the paper against her touch, tracing herself back to the Karnsteins, the source of the blood-memories and all the trouble had had followed with them.

She was brought out of her reverie as the chauffeur brought the car to a halt on the makeshift parking-lot as the song faded away over the stereo speakers, and the whisper that had called out to her since forever sounded clearer than ever before, beckoning her on like a siren song.

Sara turned her head as the chauffeur opened the door for her. She had hardly noticed him exiting the car, so focused had she been on the call. The air was cool and crisp, and she quickly pulled her cloak around her shoulders as she stepped out of the car. The chill air against her skin, the feel of the grass under her shoes, and how unsteady she felt made it all feel so much more real, and she bit her bottom lip in nervous anticipation. The chauffeur retrieved a bag from the trunk and led the way towards the iron gate intended to keep trespassers from entering the crumbling ruin. As he used a bolt cutter to cut the padlock Sara, turned her head and cast a last look back over her shoulder – was she uncertain, or excited? The gate opened with the grating, unpleasant sound of long-disuse of the rusted hinges.

Dry, dead autumn leaves swirled in the air by the chill night-wind, and made her cloak billow and exposed the soft, crimson-coloured inner fabric. Their breaths were visible in the cold air as the flashlight illuminated the old hollow way up to the castle that had haunted her dreams with so many half-remember memories from another life and another time.

They approached the massive castle walls, and she had to crane her neck to look up at the battlement of the imposing gatehouse where once had hung the banners of the House of Karnstein during the heyday. The main courtyard was overgrown with grass and weeds, and wilting wildflowers.

The large, ruined chapel where many of her Karnstein ancestors had been laid to rest stood separate from the other ruined buildings inside the castle walls. The moon shone in and partially illuminated the interior; the many alcoves along the sides held the alabaster tombs, with highly ornate effigies depicting the proud, noble Karnsteins laid to rest. Right before the ruined altar she knew she’d find the large stone slab on the floor, dirtied and covered in dirt and dust. She knelt down, and with a gloved hand she brushed aside the leaves and dirt to reveal the familiar inscription on the stone slab, which was visible even in the light of the moon.

Hier Liget

Die

Arme Sünderin

Mircalla

Bittet Für Sie

No effigy or carvings, just a plain gray stone slab and a simple inscription marked the resting place of the ‘poor sinner’. She got up and stepped to the side, letting her chauffeur begin the work to open the grave. She watched in nervous anticipation as he used a crowbar to wedge it open. The tombstone covering the grave was quite heavy, and he struggled with it for a moment, before he managed to rise it up with the help of the crowbar, and push it to the side, exposing the with it, but he is strong as a bull & manages to push the heavy stone slab to the side, exposing a brick casing covering the wooden coffin below. Without wasting any time he brought out a large hammer from the bag of tools, and put it to good use, breaking through the red bricks.

The rush of excitement & nervousness growing stronger as he began to remove brick after brick and a gaping black hole began to emerge. Her heartbeat started picking up as she pointed the cone of light from the flashlight and caught her first glimpse of the simple, sturdy wooden coffin below, sealed off for so long in a redbrick hole in the ground. The chauffeur leaned in and used the crowbar to force open the lid once all the bricks had been removed. Without too much difficulty the lid is loosened and opened; the lid being quite frail despite the lack of significant water damage. Splinters of decayed wood fell off as the lid was forced open and slid to the side, finally exposing the contents of the coffin. The chauffeur sat back and pulled out a handkerchief to clean the dust and perspiration from his face after the hard work. Sara turned the flashlight downward to illuminate the wooden coffin, feeling the scent of bricks and dust and rotten wood as the centuried grave was opened.

Unable to wait Sara climbed down into the opened hole and the wooden coffin, not caring that her clothes were smudged and dirtied with dust and dirt and cobwebs. She tore off her gloves impatiently, and reached into the coffin. Her cold fingers touched the ashes, though the slight trembling of her hands came from the feeling of awe and excitement and nervousness she felt.

She caught a glimpse of shiny metal and picked up a small silver necklace, partially covered by the ashes – it wasn’t more than 3x2cm, but her fingers trembled even more as she held she necklace in her hands. She had seen it before, in her blood-memories; two flaming hearts joined together.

With fingers that continued to tremble she put the necklace around her own neck, struggling a few times to get the small lock to close. Her pulse was racing and the emotions were all over the place, constantly switching and fighting for dominance, but neither winning out. She fought to keep her ash-stained hands from visibly trembling, she accepted the glass and knife her chauffeur had retrieved from his bag. She scooped up the ashes in both hands and let it pour into the glass, again and again, till she was satisfied, and took the knife in one hand, and sliced open her right-hand palm in a quick, fluent motion. The pain was overpoweringly sharp and intense, and she cried out in agony as she let the knife drop with a clank to the bottom of the coffin. As tears streaked down her flushed cheeks she gritted her teeth in pain, closing her wounded hand tightly over the glass, letting the warm, red blood drip into the glass container and mixing with the ashes. She raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply – gulping down everything. After forcing down the cocktail she was unable to keep herself from gagging and gasping for breath. Her lips stained crimson, the blood dripping down from her lips, down her chin – her hot breath is visible in the light of the flashlight which lay on the bottom of the coffin. “Help me!” she managed to choke out in an agonised cry of sheer terror; the fear of death evident in her eyes and her voice. Unable to crawl out of the tomb she slumped down in the coffin, her face against the dirtied, decaying wood at the bottom, no longer aware of anything that went on around her before she thankfully was swallowed up in the blissful darkness of unconsciousness.

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 No.1735

>>1722

Darkness. The bed was soft and warm. She heard muffled footsteps approaching. Sara opened her eyes.

Oh, Rand. What happened?

It didn't work Miss Sara

It didn't bloody work. She mumbled under her breath. A quiet discomfort began to creep over her which quickly turned to a rising sense of embarrassment. What had she been thinking? Rand threw open the blind allowing the midday sun to pour into the room. Sara threw a pillow over her face. She couldn't bear the light on her eyes. From under the lightly resting pillow she addressed Rand.

I suppose you think I'm quite the fool, don't you.

Rand stood back and appraised his employer, casting his eye over her barely distinguishable figure hidden under folds upon folds of heavy bedding. Only two pale thin hands were visible at the edges of the pillow. Holding it in place to conceal her face.

It is two pm. Mr Morris will be here shortly to discuss the wedding.

And with that, Rand made for the door.

Bring me two ibuprofen will you? I feel a migraine coming on.

It was a strange sensation in fact. She did indeed feel the symptoms of a migraine approaching. A rawness of the senses. A state where stimuli becomes stronger and at times unbearable. Sound, taste, the light…And yet, at the same time, she felt quite wonderful. The latter being something not soon to be paired with a migraine. Curious.

Oh Jack! Whatever would she tell him? Sara jumped out of bed, quickly closing the blind as she did so. She resolved to tell him nothing. After all, nothing came of it. Why should he know anything of her bout of madness? Such a revelation might drive him away from her. Even so, the desire to hide from Jack grew stronger. She hadn't the energy to face this. What she did need, she decided, was a strong coffee. Yes coffee, that will do the trick. The coffee shop with the server who never smiled. What was her story anyway? Sara fancied the mystery of the girl that never smiled at the coffee house to be much more intriguing than facing Jack. And with that, she readied herself to leave.

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 No.1744

>>1735

Languidly she made her way down the grand staircase, clutching the railing to steady herself with her good hand, yet somehow succeeding in looking graceful. Her oversized sunglasses soothed her eyes as she stepped outside of the darkened entrance hall and made her way down the stone steps and short distance towards the waiting car. “Coffee shop, please.” Rand nodded and closed the car door for her, and she was thankfully prepared for the sound it made and its effect on her aching body. Whether it was due to the stress and long night, or the soul crushing blow that last night had resulted in utter failure, she grit her teeth and squinted her eyes as the car took off and the sensation of motion washed over her.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad; all the money and time her parents had wasted on trying to ‘cure’ her from her paranoid delusions. If anyone had seen her last night, when Rand brought her back home in such a state… She would have been shipped off to yet another posh private clinic or institution in the middle of nowhere in the countryside to be medicated till she hardly knew what day it was. And to make matters worse the forced sessions of useless group therapy, and therapist sessions where some Freudian fraud diagnosed her with whatever nonsense they could, and prescribe more medication to keep her docile. She gently traced the length of the wound in her palm, now covered by the bandage. The pain had thankfully lessened, and Rand’s expertly applied bandage had stopped the bleeding quickly and effectively. No doubt her mother would notice and have a conniption fit. All in due time. She kept her head resting against the soft headrest of the backseat, and her eyes closed behind the dark-tinted sunglasses. She doubted simple painkillers could explain the way her senses were acting up, like she was becoming hyper-aware of her surroundings and coming down from a high at the same time. It was the strangest sensation ever, and not all that unpleasant.

“We’re here,” Rand announced, looking at her via the rear-view mirror when she made no effort to get out. The car had stopped, but her body still felt like they were driving, or on the open sea. “Are you sure you are feeling up to it?” his question caught her off-guard, and she turned her head to face him. Like her family he had a tendency to be overprotective of her, and she hated how much she had made those around her worry about her over the years. What a monumental fuckup she had turned out to be; a mentally ill ne’er-do-well who needed someone to look out for her all the time. Throughout it all, Rand had been there, even when she told him about her blood-memories, and how she could become one with Mircalla. “I’m fine. See, all smiles,” she put her cheeriest fake smile before reaching for the door handle.

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 No.1792

>>1744

Narrow and dark, the coffee shop wedged between brick faces to either side, appeared little more than a door in a wall upon approaching. Once through the threshold however, and down a short corridor of not more than five feet, the premise opened up to a cosy scene. To the left, the counter and coffee machine. Along the right side of the wall were a number of small round tables coupled with one or two stools. Beyond the counter and toward the back wall were larger tables arranged in a booth like manner, whereupon customers lounged on comfortable cushioned supports with the wall acting as back rests. It was at one of these tables that Sara had placed herself, back to the wall, counter to her front right, and corridor entrance slightly to her left.

Satisfied with her ability to see the larger goings on of the cafe, Sara noticed with a tinge of disappointment that the girl was not present today. No matter, the idea of a hot drink still called to her, and the idea of returning to the house, and Jack, so soon did not appeal at all. An ever so small pang of guilt shot through her. She brushed it aside, ordering a tall black coffee from the waiting server. Her mind drifted back to Jack. His face popping in and out of her mind's eye.

They had met on campus. Before she had come into her inheritance. The dashing Mr. Morrisey swept Sara utterly off of her feet and before she knew it, she was accepting his marriage proposal. It was all so romantic, so perfect. She wondered why then, the sudden appearance of cold feet. Was it cold feet? Something felt out of place.

The coffee arrived. Steam visibly rising from the black liquid within the tall thin glass. She drank. While she welcomed the warmth rushing through her chest, she felt dissatisfied. The first sip did not provide the kick she was looking for and Sara began to wonder if she should instead head to a bar. An excellent idea. Sara determined that once finished with her pointless coffee she was going to get well and truly drunk. Eyes on her exit, she rose from her seat and gulped down the last of the drink. At this moment a figure came through the corridor. The girl, it was the girl.

Sara didn't notice the glass collapsing in her hand. Only the sound of glass smashing against glass alerted her to cast her eyes upon her bandaged hand. Across the table, the floor, and lodged in her fingers and thumb, glass shards of various sizes. Small flecks of blood had fallen over the fresh bandage.

Taxi! shouted an unfamiliar voice.

Ok, ok that's enough. Are you ok? A slender hand grabbed Sara's wrist, pulling it towards its owner so that a better look could be attained of possible injury. Sara looked up dazed. The slender hand holding her wrist belonged to the girl that never smiled.

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 No.2936

>>1792

Whatever reply she had in mind died away as she felt the warmth of the hand holding onto her wrist. It was not an unpleasant warmth, but it came as a surprise. “You are freezing,” the girl commented, and Sara felt her eyes watching her, studying her.

She’d never been this close to her before, and under any other circumstance it would have been a nice opportunity to try and figure out the strange girl who had interested her. But now she only wanted to get away as fast as possible. Here she was, standing in a café, bleeding all over the place from a self-inflicted knife-wound, and feeling, and probably looking, like she was recovering from a fever. Not the ideal way to make a first impression… “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Sara excused, cringing at the hoarseness in her voice.

“Let’s take a look at that hand,” the girl stated, motioning for them to sit down at one of the nearby tables. Meanwhile a barrista had been designed to clean-up duty, picking up bits of broken glass and drops of blood. “Sorry about the mess,” Sara excused, addressing the barrista and removing her sunglasses with her good hand. Her attention was, however, quickly focused on the girl who never smiled, as she began to unwrap the bloodstained bandage. Sarah silently dreaded the moment when she would see the knife-wound. Was the girl a doctor or nurse, or would she be able to tell it was self-inflicted? “It was a stupid mistake…” Sara began, nearly stuttering, as her palm was uncovered and the wound was exposed. Unreadable blue eyes watched her, she she noticed a light spattering of freckles she’d never noticed before on the girl’s face. A shudder went though her body, beginning with the hand and spreading all throughout her body as the girl’s index finger softly traced the length of the cut. She had long, delicate fingers, perfect for playing piano, Sara thought, watching those long, pale fingers touching her hand. The other girl’s touch felt oddly warm against her own, like she’d been sunbathing on a beach, and Sara had been outside on a cool autumn day. It was a strange, oddly pleasant contrast, though the dull headache and the embarrassing nature of the situation was everything but pleasant.

She was thankful the other girl had made them sit down; she wasn’t sure if she trusted her legs to keep her up, especially as the lingering headache kept making itself known with renewed strength. “Does this hurt?” the girl asked, running her finger once more over the wound. The skin was bruised and swollen, and the wound hadn’t closed yet. The white gold engagement ring caught her eye, making her recent behaviour seem all the more silly and deranged. What must she think? Sara thought; bloodshot eyes, hoarse voice, a bleeding knife-wound on her hand…

The girl seemed unfazed by the situation, and the bleeding wound, and Sara found herself even more intrigued by this girl who never smiled and didn’t shy away from the sight of blood.

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