Guess who just got back today....

[inner_human]

Date: Friday, June 2, 2000
Time: Late morning
Character(s) Involved: Montague Morsus, Peregrin Derrick
Location: Arcadia Gallery
Rating: PG-13... just to be safe
Complete or Incomplete: Incomplete

Comments

[morsus_et_mors]

It was the unique smell of lust, fear, and absinthe that differentiated Montague's private study from any other room or hall in the large gallery. It's gothic build let its presence known even here, where one expected comfort and a safe haven from the world of visitors and entertainment. The ceiling was far too high for it to be considered normal - its corners lost in the artificial dim fog, an optical illusion - windows tapered and ogive, made of stained glass.

"Welcome into the personal universe of one Montague Morsus," the former Slytherin announced, standing in the centre of the room, hands thrown apart in an attempt to grasp the vast expanse. His eyes glittered with sincere mirth, the tension of previous minutes as if completely forgotten. His embroidered tunic billowed from the effort before enveloping his slender height - and he was a beautiful butterfly (a Morpho, you see) hidden in a thick cocoon of white.

"Come sit and prepare yourself for the view," Montague said with a barely suppressed grin, pointing toward the white irregular-shaped sofa at the other end of the large room. There was an elaborate ebony working desk and several girandoles placed about the study, providing for light even at such an early time of the day - a carmine persian carpet and elegant parquetry beneath - bookshelves with countless manuscripts - chairs and armchairs - a piano. A curious mix of elegance, grotesque and post-modernity. Only beautiful people were allowed to be fitting of such rooms.

[inner_human]

The personal universe of one Montague Morsus certainly looked the part, Perry thought as he followed his friend in. The room felt bigger than life--even more so as Montague over-exaggerated its grandeur by throwing out his arms. Perry rolled his eyes and directed his attention to admiring the Old World architecture, the trompe l'oeil-esque ceiling (though Perry didn't notice the optical illusion right away), and then his head slowly turned to the white couch that Montague pointed out.

'Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' Strange enough that that thought should enter Perry's head at this moment--especially since he had already entered the spider's parlor. And really, was Montague a spider? Weren't they the happiest of friends? That previous tense moment had ended a little too quickly and left Perry feeling like a rabbit ready to bolt at the slightest sudden move.

Nevertheless, he sat.

"All right," Perry said, getting comfortable... but not too comfortable. "I'm prepared."

He stared at Montague through curled locks that fell just over his eyelashes, one eyebrow raised imploringly and his mouth quirked into a half-grin. What more could Montague possibly do to impress him?

[morsus_et_mors]

And came the sound of Archangel Gabriel's trumpets, as he soared above the hanged heads of sinners and saints alike - heralding the forthcoming of Judgement Day. He was dressed in the white brocade Armani suit and his wings were polished, shining like crystals in the un-scorching light of the dying sun. Behind him were hordes of Seraphims and Grigories, all thousands-eyed, four-headed, and four-winged - dreadful in their silent readiness to strike and destroy and annihilate. And the air was filled with specks of diamont dust, the azure of the sky pitched with black of bonfires - and trunks of the dead stuck out like branches of rotten trees. It was the Famine, all stylish red, her hair dishevelled - always hungry for more and more.

If one de-focused his eyes and concentrated on the whole, one would see - there was a certain overwhelming rhythm to the whole. The sea of bodies and skeletons and the heavy leaden clouds above, all moving like one whole in those few moments before the apogee of carnal ecstasy.

Montague could almost smell the nauseating scent of rot, it was just a few abstract centimetres away from them - thousands of miles away, in another dimension, where no time existed. Dali had once killed Time and since then, it hadn't been back, as it bled the seconds and milli-seconds into non-existence. It was almost there, but unreachable - a desert mirage in its nature.

"Like the frame?" Montague asked Perry after a few moments of silence, appearing from behind the large, gigantic even, painting with an elegant frame of blackened silver. He was smirking slightly, more than sure the picture must have made an impression on his friend - the only friend he had, actually.

"My latest acquisition," he explained, not waiting on the other's reply. "A consumptive painter from Germany, Cologne - he specialized on magical portraits. A few months before his death he was baptized -" a derisive sneer - "which was when he conceived of this idea." Montague grinned. "I being my merciful and charitable self - helped him leave this world without pain, in exchange for which he sold me the piece."