013; action; open to all
[The old-fashioned oil lamp smashes to the floor, and in mere moments the room is in flames.
Her place of refuge will be cinders, and his only regret is that he cannot stay to watch her burn along with it. She sleeps as beautifully as she walks, gracefully and evenly, each breath as assured as the next. But soon enough her thick, rich clothing would no doubt burn slowly, starting at the hems and licking up towards the bodice, consuming her, overtaking her, deaf to her screams and pleading for it to stop, setting her hair ablaze in a demonic mockery of a halo. And oh, what a performance she would give him then: a final, twisting, visceral dance only a witch could enact. He would be there, watching with a cold stoicism befitting a man of his moral virtue, a stone statue in the face of mere fire, untouched by the flames of Hell that turn their wicked tongues upon their own servant.
Frollo watches the fire until smoke rakes his throat and his eyes dry with the heat, and even then he cannot bear to turn away completely. He steps back to admire his work, and a heated shiver wracks his body, spreading from his chest and rippling through every nerve, electrifying him, and for one horrific moment, he is with her there, entwined, burning, damned.
He takes flight, dashing down the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway. Before long he is no more than a shadow cutting across the quad, Mist at his heels and his robes whipping behind him.
If she would not be his, she would be the Devil's.]
((Note: Frollo will not be replying to this post, having fled the scene of the crime. But feel free to discover Esmeralda's burning room and help her salvage what she can... if anything.))
Her place of refuge will be cinders, and his only regret is that he cannot stay to watch her burn along with it. She sleeps as beautifully as she walks, gracefully and evenly, each breath as assured as the next. But soon enough her thick, rich clothing would no doubt burn slowly, starting at the hems and licking up towards the bodice, consuming her, overtaking her, deaf to her screams and pleading for it to stop, setting her hair ablaze in a demonic mockery of a halo. And oh, what a performance she would give him then: a final, twisting, visceral dance only a witch could enact. He would be there, watching with a cold stoicism befitting a man of his moral virtue, a stone statue in the face of mere fire, untouched by the flames of Hell that turn their wicked tongues upon their own servant.
Frollo watches the fire until smoke rakes his throat and his eyes dry with the heat, and even then he cannot bear to turn away completely. He steps back to admire his work, and a heated shiver wracks his body, spreading from his chest and rippling through every nerve, electrifying him, and for one horrific moment, he is with her there, entwined, burning, damned.
He takes flight, dashing down the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway. Before long he is no more than a shadow cutting across the quad, Mist at his heels and his robes whipping behind him.
If she would not be his, she would be the Devil's.]
((Note: Frollo will not be replying to this post, having fled the scene of the crime. But feel free to discover Esmeralda's burning room and help her salvage what she can... if anything.))