» the city network

( 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? ]

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.

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.

[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]

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 festivals.
No fireworks.
No tests of courage.

What a terrible way to spend the summer in a new place. I might die from boredom!

(And yet, it sounds like he's having fun. Don't worry. He'll be fine.)

Why don't we share some tales of the strange and unknown? If we tell enough stories, something interesting might appear~

Let's see... The set up isn't quite right but a hundred stories will probably do.

oh yeah heads up
ive heard from certain people who committed this themselves and
apparently if you kill someone here
you get your memories wiped of the incident altogether
not sure why they'd go out of their way to do that here but they do this sort of thing where im from all the time so im very used to seeing it
probably can't say the same for other people from other worlds so you guys have to educate me on that

so uhh
im not saying you should or shouldn't kill altogether
im not your mom
but just keep that in mind the next time you got some kinda murderous urge or something
the reason why im anonymous right now is bc i don't wanna reveal who did that in the first place
it might lead to some awkward icebreakers on their part
also i wouldn't lie about something like this if anyone's wondering bc i got no time to waste on leading people on

but this is probably the worst thing any newcomer would wanna see, huh
whoops
well... welcome to this city, i guess

( ooc: feel free to threadjack and craft theories! kromer/@gripper will also be answering questions about things she knows as a victim as well. )