Angel in the Deep
WHO: The Master and his Boy
WHEN: Monday, June 20th, evening
WHERE: The catacombs beneath the city
WHAT: The Master, in search of his Boy, follows the sound of Despair.
Drip.
Drip.
Dripping, dank, filthy droplets fell tumbling from stone to stone. Rhythmic. Soothing. Once upon a time, a sound that would have inspired unease and fear only instilled within Raivis Galante a pervasive, needling determination. A desire stronger than any physical burn which had gripped even a small, trembling wretch like him, that inescapable drive to sing.
When his heart was empty, filled with nothing or when it was aching, brimming, filled with anguish or anger, he would retreat as always to the sanctity of the catacombs and the shadows whose darkness swallowed his face, his body, his everything but the pure notes he forced from his throat into the staleness of the subterranean air. The visit to the publisher's had been brief, the disguise haphazard but Raivis simply hadn't cared then what connections could potentially be derived. He had felt no respite for the sharp pangs in his chest until at last he had flicked the switch of his lantern off to descend into the depths. For the momentary peace of the city's underground, sacrifices were a willingly given necessity.
"He-"
A sharp inhale. Raivis braced an arm against the cool damp of the wall, parted his lips and let flow the voice that had (over the years) become the source of a small urban myth.
"She lay her hand so softly down
in mine in mine in mine
and I lay hers so gently down
in thine in thine in thine
for though our hearts have been before
one and some
in time
in time, in time
never has the angel been
all mine, all mine, all mine."
The Angel of the Deep.
WHEN: Monday, June 20th, evening
WHERE: The catacombs beneath the city
WHAT: The Master, in search of his Boy, follows the sound of Despair.
Drip.
Drip.
Dripping, dank, filthy droplets fell tumbling from stone to stone. Rhythmic. Soothing. Once upon a time, a sound that would have inspired unease and fear only instilled within Raivis Galante a pervasive, needling determination. A desire stronger than any physical burn which had gripped even a small, trembling wretch like him, that inescapable drive to sing.
When his heart was empty, filled with nothing or when it was aching, brimming, filled with anguish or anger, he would retreat as always to the sanctity of the catacombs and the shadows whose darkness swallowed his face, his body, his everything but the pure notes he forced from his throat into the staleness of the subterranean air. The visit to the publisher's had been brief, the disguise haphazard but Raivis simply hadn't cared then what connections could potentially be derived. He had felt no respite for the sharp pangs in his chest until at last he had flicked the switch of his lantern off to descend into the depths. For the momentary peace of the city's underground, sacrifices were a willingly given necessity.
"He-"
A sharp inhale. Raivis braced an arm against the cool damp of the wall, parted his lips and let flow the voice that had (over the years) become the source of a small urban myth.
"She lay her hand so softly down
in mine in mine in mine
and I lay hers so gently down
in thine in thine in thine
for though our hearts have been before
one and some
in time
in time, in time
never has the angel been
all mine, all mine, all mine."
The Angel of the Deep.