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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.
the nerve of them
What territory is that?
it was so rude!
Stands to reason some of us may be sensitive to these things.
no subject
Do you miss it?
no subject
Honestly? I miss my car more.
You got anything back home you're missing?
no subject
Reading.
[ There are no books here to pass the time, and it's tedious. Best to keep it shallow, no need to get into what she really misses. ]
It does make me wonder what should happen if we write in the empty books about this city. Will the words disappear the next day?
no subject
So far anything I've written down has stuck so if you're thinking of journaling or scrapbooking or whatnot, you're probably good to go.
no subject
My considerations were leading instead toward writing down what literature I know, to leave somewhere for others to read. I had spoken with someone else on perhaps creating something of a communal space for moments of reprieve.
no subject
And I'm sure he'd be thrilled about the principle of the thing. He'd just chafe at the whole idea of other people that aren't him reading or touching or looking in the general direction of the books.
no subject
What if he were to contribute his own books? I should think he would have quite a bit of literature memorized if he loves reading as much as you say, and may delight in others reading what he transcribes.
Or even what he has penned himself, should he wish.
[ It isn't like there are any rules around here. ]
no subject
Look, I did mention he's a bookseller, didn't I? Have you ever actually met a bookseller that has ever sold more than maybe two books in a decade? When it comes to Aziraphale, it like that, but biblical orders of magnitude worse.
no subject
[ Some such people may be particular about how their wares are handled, but they are far more particular about keeping their purses filled. Though it sounds like his friend may not actually care as much about coin. ]
I admit I have little practice or particular interest in most communal spaces, but I am sorry for the lack of culture here and there is the danger of idle hands. It would give many something to do when not of the mind, or not able to hunt for our captors.
Too, some here may have unique knowledge worth contributing to our eclectic company of fellows.
no subject
But you see, it's not about the business, it's about having a very nice place where he can put his very nice books, and sometimes he might deign to let people come in and look at them, but not for too long lest they wear out the words or start getting funny ideas about giving him something so crass as currency to part with them.
[The tremendous fondness that this is written with is practically palpable through the phone.]
Anyway, what's so wrong with idle hands? I love idle hands; all full of potential. Can get up to all kinds of mischief. Especially among this eclectic bunch.
no subject
And none of them were in Soho. Not that she avoids unsavory areas, but that isn't where she would ever think to do her shopping. But she would never be one to judge, either. Perhaps it's the most charming 'shop' she would ever stumble upon. ]
Now that sounds like a library.
[ An incredibly strict one. Yet how it's described could make her nearly smile, as it seems the sort of structure one might suffer from a loving, but overbearing parent. Would he think the books his children, or the people?
Well, she would ask, but he's already distracted her. As if anyone could get into real trouble in this city. There is so little to work with, as far as she's found. Yes, the people might make it more interesting, but she would be fool to depend on them for...potential. ]
What manner of mischief?
no subject
And all the best kind of mischief; gluing coins to the pavement, switching the sugar for salt, that one with the shaving cream and the feather, the old bucket and door trick, 'voice activated' stickers on machines that aren't voice activated --
-- though that last one might be a little past your time. When are you from anyway?
no subject
[ If text could make a sound, this would echo disappointment. Vanessa had hoped for better...
And she will need to become accustomed to hearing 'when are you from' as often as 'where are you from'. Perhaps more-so these days. It's still a strange concept for her to accept when she isn't walking among the dead, but the breadth of literature she has consumed, combined with a wickedly vivid imagination, does help one acclimate somewhat.
The year of our Lord, ]
1891. Why? Is it so clear, my unfamiliarity with the century this city chooses to mimic?
[ She's aware that she sticks out when it comes to the local fashion, but there really is no winning here. Should she pick up slang? ]
no subject
And no offense, but yeah. You come off as either a dyed-in-the-wool Victorian, or one of those sorts yearning for the yesteryears of epistolary, corsets, and petticoats for whatever reason.
part of me died typing that
My bad, I'll chill out. How's this?
i'm so sorry, but also not sorry at all