(no subject)
[this place reeks of old blood, of old ancient secrets buried somewhere deep inside and never meant to be seen. those creatures - not quite monsters, for those are the ephemeral entities, the ones that will never die no matter what the method of execution is - are something important; living keys, perhaps? but there is no trace of them by day, they simply disappear into the stone and dirt until the sun dies once again. it irritates him-]
where're you bastards hiding, un? only coming out at night ...
[-and there is still the matter of that tower.
he stands on the edge of a rooftop, clay birds hovering in the air around him. he has tried but he can not - and this irritates him even more so, the failure of his art to make any impact whatsoever - leave any sort of mark on that tower.
Deidara can not trace the latent sense of uneasiness, vague urgency nagging at him, to any one source. he only knows what he has found, that this abandoned town seems more of a mousetrap waiting for its mice to run the maze to the supposed prize at the center; but he is not a mouse, will never be reduced to a fucking mouse, and he would sooner become the epitome of his art - and take as much of this place with him as possible - before he becomes another puppet.
another can take the place of the sacrificial lamb eagle-spread on the altar, meekly waiting for its heart to be ripped out; there is no creature that will not accept a price in living blood and flesh. But, speaking of art-]
(a vaguely maniacal grin spreads)
Katsu!
[-there is something quite therapeutic in the sound of explosions, the sight of fire and dust and rubble falling to the streets.]
where're you bastards hiding, un? only coming out at night ...
[-and there is still the matter of that tower.
he stands on the edge of a rooftop, clay birds hovering in the air around him. he has tried but he can not - and this irritates him even more so, the failure of his art to make any impact whatsoever - leave any sort of mark on that tower.
Deidara can not trace the latent sense of uneasiness, vague urgency nagging at him, to any one source. he only knows what he has found, that this abandoned town seems more of a mousetrap waiting for its mice to run the maze to the supposed prize at the center; but he is not a mouse, will never be reduced to a fucking mouse, and he would sooner become the epitome of his art - and take as much of this place with him as possible - before he becomes another puppet.
another can take the place of the sacrificial lamb eagle-spread on the altar, meekly waiting for its heart to be ripped out; there is no creature that will not accept a price in living blood and flesh. But, speaking of art-]
(a vaguely maniacal grin spreads)
Katsu!
[-there is something quite therapeutic in the sound of explosions, the sight of fire and dust and rubble falling to the streets.]