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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
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