Anatomy of Evil
Date: Saturday, May 13
Time: Evening, before the sunset
Location: Arcadia art gallery, Soho
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Was it hard? Not particularly. The day was fast coming to its glorious end - another day full of dreariness and tedium. The sun was nearly at the horizon, the far away line already scalded by impotency of the English sun, extinct and never to be re-born.
Montague loved that dying sun. He could hear the distant chattering of passing Muggles, all expensively dressed in their haut couture rags, his mind picturing them underneath that luminary. Consumptive and pale, the dark circles beneath their eyes - the sparkling eyes, defunct and rotting. So beautiful. The world needed to be congealed in moments like these, when there was little of filth left and only mortal beauty - the frailty of human bones and mind, all picked up in the swirl of life and death.
There hung his Medea of Delacroix, ready to kill her children in vengeance. Furious, so deadly furious - did she know the value of death? Or was it the simple matter of her jealousy? Montague brushed his fingers against her full breasts, relishing in the fierce cruelty of her grimacing face. There was blood beneath his fingers: illusory, elusive, like remnants of his previous kills. Their faces as the flame of pain distort them haunted him in his sleep, waking him up, wanting more and more of it, until he could take no more and go hunting for a fresh game. And there were deers and wolves and mighty bears he stunned and skinned and disemboweled - all in the name of Amor Mors.
Employ Incarcerous and fasten, immobilize, paralyze your victim. Do you see the fear in his eyes? Lock your gaze on his. Smile and touch his lips, a single finger and there's coldness spreading around his limbs. Then take Diffindo and cut his clothes open, one small layer by another small layer, until the cutting ray of light touches his skin, just that slightest bit, and there are drops of blood emerging from his pores, little dribbles, all aspiring down somewhere to one ultimate point in the limbo. Give him Furnunculus and see the boils breaking out all over the victim, enjoy the sight of rot mingling with clear blood, and the pain it causes. His skin turns red and then nauseating green, and he flails, as the binding ropes grind into his fragile body, his boils exploding and the greyish substance flying out. Do you still have your eyes locked with his? Watch his pupils dilate, the colour of his irises darkening, and his eyelashes wetten like spider's legs. Then there is the Entrail-Expelling Curse and it cleaves open his stomach, spilling the insides. There is a pungent smell of death now, do you feel it? Do not touch the entrails, let them cool down, watch the smokes rise upwards - it is the soul departing, while the eyes are still locked on yours and he loves you, loves you, because you are his master, his Death Master.
Montague smiled longingly and there were stars on the firmament, he could already see them, and it was time for him to go, but he lingered. There was the ghostly presence lingering in the hallway before the painting of an unknown painter. Montague loved this one above all. He, who had never visited the cemetery at night, would never be able to appreciate the beauty of the scene. The ramshackle crosses standing like crooked elders, while the mossy tombstones seemed to be veiling entrances into infernal depths. Autumn pervading all senses. Bare trees looking different in the spectral light of the moon, looking like bones of people buried there - bones sticking out of ages-old footworn cemetery ground. The old chapel standing half-destroyed, looking at the world with its empty sockets of lifeless windows. There is the tempest, and the impetuous swirling of nightly clouds illumed with flashes of irate lightning, for Death is nearing.
But do tell, who does know the philosophy of Death better than he, who kills? He has leather gloves with silver embroidery and his hair smells of azaleas, as he lifts his axe (knife, sword, wand) to behead the condemned before him. He feels the distinct smell of fear and perdition, as it washes over him in tumultuous waves, and there are drips of blood like jingles on a non-existent christmas tree, somewhere beneath it all, where no sunshine doth reside.
Death was an art for Montague. But few knew how much trepidation it required. The imperceptible trembling, eyes downcast in fervent prayer, before the shrine to goddess of death - the room full of skulls and bones and necrophages. It was beautiful.
It would never desert him.
With the last sanguine ray of the dying sun, Montague nodded to Raphael, his keeper, to extinguish all the lights, before disapparating home.
Time: Evening, before the sunset
Location: Arcadia art gallery, Soho
Characters Involved: Montague Morsus
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Was it hard? Not particularly. The day was fast coming to its glorious end - another day full of dreariness and tedium. The sun was nearly at the horizon, the far away line already scalded by impotency of the English sun, extinct and never to be re-born.
Montague loved that dying sun. He could hear the distant chattering of passing Muggles, all expensively dressed in their haut couture rags, his mind picturing them underneath that luminary. Consumptive and pale, the dark circles beneath their eyes - the sparkling eyes, defunct and rotting. So beautiful. The world needed to be congealed in moments like these, when there was little of filth left and only mortal beauty - the frailty of human bones and mind, all picked up in the swirl of life and death.
There hung his Medea of Delacroix, ready to kill her children in vengeance. Furious, so deadly furious - did she know the value of death? Or was it the simple matter of her jealousy? Montague brushed his fingers against her full breasts, relishing in the fierce cruelty of her grimacing face. There was blood beneath his fingers: illusory, elusive, like remnants of his previous kills. Their faces as the flame of pain distort them haunted him in his sleep, waking him up, wanting more and more of it, until he could take no more and go hunting for a fresh game. And there were deers and wolves and mighty bears he stunned and skinned and disemboweled - all in the name of Amor Mors.
Employ Incarcerous and fasten, immobilize, paralyze your victim. Do you see the fear in his eyes? Lock your gaze on his. Smile and touch his lips, a single finger and there's coldness spreading around his limbs. Then take Diffindo and cut his clothes open, one small layer by another small layer, until the cutting ray of light touches his skin, just that slightest bit, and there are drops of blood emerging from his pores, little dribbles, all aspiring down somewhere to one ultimate point in the limbo. Give him Furnunculus and see the boils breaking out all over the victim, enjoy the sight of rot mingling with clear blood, and the pain it causes. His skin turns red and then nauseating green, and he flails, as the binding ropes grind into his fragile body, his boils exploding and the greyish substance flying out. Do you still have your eyes locked with his? Watch his pupils dilate, the colour of his irises darkening, and his eyelashes wetten like spider's legs. Then there is the Entrail-Expelling Curse and it cleaves open his stomach, spilling the insides. There is a pungent smell of death now, do you feel it? Do not touch the entrails, let them cool down, watch the smokes rise upwards - it is the soul departing, while the eyes are still locked on yours and he loves you, loves you, because you are his master, his Death Master.
Montague smiled longingly and there were stars on the firmament, he could already see them, and it was time for him to go, but he lingered. There was the ghostly presence lingering in the hallway before the painting of an unknown painter. Montague loved this one above all. He, who had never visited the cemetery at night, would never be able to appreciate the beauty of the scene. The ramshackle crosses standing like crooked elders, while the mossy tombstones seemed to be veiling entrances into infernal depths. Autumn pervading all senses. Bare trees looking different in the spectral light of the moon, looking like bones of people buried there - bones sticking out of ages-old footworn cemetery ground. The old chapel standing half-destroyed, looking at the world with its empty sockets of lifeless windows. There is the tempest, and the impetuous swirling of nightly clouds illumed with flashes of irate lightning, for Death is nearing.
But do tell, who does know the philosophy of Death better than he, who kills? He has leather gloves with silver embroidery and his hair smells of azaleas, as he lifts his axe (knife, sword, wand) to behead the condemned before him. He feels the distinct smell of fear and perdition, as it washes over him in tumultuous waves, and there are drips of blood like jingles on a non-existent christmas tree, somewhere beneath it all, where no sunshine doth reside.
Death was an art for Montague. But few knew how much trepidation it required. The imperceptible trembling, eyes downcast in fervent prayer, before the shrine to goddess of death - the room full of skulls and bones and necrophages. It was beautiful.
It would never desert him.
With the last sanguine ray of the dying sun, Montague nodded to Raphael, his keeper, to extinguish all the lights, before disapparating home.