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Entry tags:
- disco elysium: harrier du bois,
- dogs b&c: badou nails,
- good omens: crowley (tv),
- gundam wing: heero yuy,
- hereditary: peter graham,
- mcu: loki odinson,
- mcu: peter quill,
- penny dreadful: vanessa ives,
- sotl: clarice starling,
- stranger things: eddie munson,
- stranger things: henry creel,
- the sandman: johanna constantine,
- vampire the requiem: camille,
- watch_dogs: the wrench
audio | un: hidden
( cw; cannabis )
[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.
In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]
Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]
I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.
[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]
We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.
[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]
...The graves lie empty.
[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.
In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]
Old Yew which graspeth at the stones...that name the under-lying dead; Thy fibres net the dreamless head, thy roots are wrapt about the bones.[ To that, a pause that looms with omen. ]
The seasons bring the flower again, and bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock beats out the little lives of men.[ Now, a strange yearning nearly begins to dissipate the smoke that seems to scorch her throat.
Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]
O not for thee the glow, the bloom...who changest not in any gale, nor branding summer suns avail, to touch thy thousand years of gloom.[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]
And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.
I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.
[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]
We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.
[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]
...The graves lie empty.
no subject
it’s not actually the devil’s
satan and i aren’t that close, despite what the masses back home seem to think…
/wheeze
They do tend to embellish.
How close would you say that you are?
help
you're on your own son
But up is down here. Satan or his minions are here somewhere; they have to be. She has trouble shaking free of her nerves. ]
I'm asking you.
no subject
was pretty sure he wasn't real
but you know what, i saw a bunch of scary shit before kicking the bucket and showing up here so who knows if he's really real or not [ he was pretty sure this place was hell for a while... ]
no subject
I am sorry to say that he is indeed real. He and his coven of witches are the reason we are here, I'm certain.
no subject
the devil being real in any world -- that's. well. fuck. maybe the bible-thumpers back home were right. ] well, i really need a smoke or a drink now.
i thought we were here because of vecna.
no subject
[ Not a demon she's heard of. ]
I'm curious, now. If you still wish to show me this mystery weed, I would be rude not to bring a gift. I have brandy or whisky on-hand.
[ Not that she can't stop somewhere to find something else. ]
no subject
now a wickedly power wizard who in a parallel dimension under our town and wants to destroy the world
i just learned about him about six? five? days before i showed up here
i'll take a trade
whiskey for weed seems like a fair deal, m'lady
no subject
How terrible. I would be of a mind to hear more when you feel comfortable sharing, though I do understand if it is too dreadful to speak of any further.
[ Especially if he...'kicked the bucket'. Perhaps she can hope it just means 'grievously injured but there may still be a chance'? ]
You are charming, but please, I am simply Miss Ives. And what do you answer to, if I may ask? Or is it to be Lord Banished.
[ Not an immediately flattering name. ]
no subject
i’m just eddie
eddie munson but don’t call me mr. munson or anything
that’d be my old man or uncle… [ and while Eddie has all the affection for one of them, he doesn’t want to be reminded of his father ]
no subject
[ Not her preference, but she's not going to railroad someone's choice to shun a name for whatever reason he has. 'Eddie' may sound too strange to her own ears, though, especially for one she doesn't even yet know.
It sounds like he comes from somewhere gripped in endless horror, and that is something she can at least already relate to, making her quite a bit more willing to adapt. ]
Is this the hour of your desire, or is there a time you would best prefer?
[ He had mentioned smoking and drinking, but he could have meant alone. Men have their own ways, at times. ]
no subject
yeah, it's the hour. [ how old-timey of her. then again, plenty that she's said has eddie guessing that miss ives is not exactly from the same time as him.
or world.
though he's kind of out on that. ] i'm not exactly doing much else
sorry life got hectic
[ Once she is done being distracted by other things. ]
you're good ♥︎
no subject
[ Inviting her to meet him near some garbage, and her agreeing, really does get a laugh and yet her friends back home would find themselves unsurprised. Text really does fail to convey sincerity, and so her amusement is kept between her and the device. ]
I will see you soon, Eddie Munson.
( → action )
[ Is he prepared for the level of fancy Victorian goth that's about to grace that convenience store and 'garbage thing'? She couldn't look more out of place on approach, save for seeming quite at home in the moonlight with near silent steps and a dress that could blend into the shadows. ]