[Churches were such fascinating places, with all their past worship etched into the walls, the lingering words of praise unto God, and all the lingering impression of sin.
It was the sin in the space of forgiveness that interested him--the duality of thinking of the congregation as sinners and yet simultaneously acting like their rituals melted the humanity away. For that was the sin after all, wasn't it? It was in their very flesh, so the teachings implied.
The hypocrisies of the church, and its various related arms and subtle grasping fingers, amused him.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...
And what whispered confessions were cooed into the ear of the man behind the screen? I have stolen. I have committed adultery. I have spoken the Lord's name in vein. I have killed someone. I enjoyed it, Father.
And yet those men, with all their pretences of handing such secret confessions and then providing suitable penance for those acts, were only human too. What did they feel upon hearing such things? Was there pleasure in a kind of audio-voyeurism that could go on because it was so fiercely protected by the open lie that it was for the purpose of cleansing? Was there anger upon hearing so many of these acts? Disgust? Curiosity? Desire?
I understand, my child. Go on, tell me more. Speak your sins to me in full. Confess it all.
It had likely been a beautiful place of worship once, he thought as he first walked down the echoing nave. Yes, it likely was, and yet now it was certainly a place where the more honest displays of contemptible pleasures. He liked that honesty. But all that remained at that point were remnants of acts and presence--a burnt out fire, some signs of food being eaten, the impression that anything of obvious value had long been forcibly removed.
The silence didn't bother him though as sat down on the dusty stone steps leading to the pulpit and drew a casual finger through a battered old hymn book that lay by his feet. At the very least he could enjoy the space until the blizzard blew over. Though at this rate it could even take a few days.
He was not expecting additional company with the weather already so harsh. On the other hand though, why should be surprised by a wary travelling stumbling into an old church for shelter. He remains rather still where he is sitting as he watches the young man drew further into the building, and the more he watches the more interesting he thinks this whole affair may turn out to be.
That attire certainly isn't the type meant for such harsh conditions, and yet there is no sign of desperate trembling, no laboured, frozen breath and the walk is steady enough.
Oh.
So he's been noticed.
Well, there's little point in hiding now and so he closes the book with a brisk thud before drawing to a tall, elegant stand with the tails of his long, well-worn coat make a soft swishing noise. And he smiles with such ease at the young man before him, as clear and well-placed on his face as if it were a skilfully painted mask.]
My apologies, I did not want to disturb your illusion of solitude prematurely. You seemed to be enjoying it, you see.
[ giovanni watches the other figure silently as he rises, melting out of the grey and black shadows that dominate every surface and into the light of murky, stained glass. only that smiling, soft voice dominates, and the steady drip, drip of water from his hair, hitting the slate. he doesn't bother to dust off the snow that still clings, diminishing, to his shoulders. he's too distracted with that presence, and the long shadow he drags across the floor, resting at giovanni's feet.
there are homeless people everywhere in the city. vagrants from lost days, those whose lives were devoured by the city, products of a fallen underworld. he isn't surprised to encounter someone else with nowhere to go - albeit for different reasons (because giovanni has somewhere, he has something - or is it that it has him?) - and the presence of just this one man, standing in his fraying old coat with a genteel look on his face, isn't enough to make for any particular nuisance. by now, the snow will have already been piling against the closed door. even the stained glass is getting blocked in from the outside.
... even if this person ends up a threat, it'll be easier to deal with him than to leave.
giovanni steps in a little closer, walking around the stoup, watching the stranger steadily with his mouth closed and straight. still. right now, there's nothing about him that threatens giovanni - although something about him as he stands there is bothersome, on another, wholly different level. the strange cadence of his speech, that excessive politeness. it's strange, after all, to immediately trust that whoever comes through the door isn't going to kill him, at least in this city. ]
I'm not concerned. [ he answers him at length, and his voice is tight from under-use. still, he proves it in his approach, walking onto a musty, once-red carpet leading up the nave, stopping halfway. everything about him remains rigid and upright, but after a moment or so, a slim and not entirely-convincing smile forms on his lips. ]
... /beckons 14th_clownDecember 9 2011, 22:35:29 UTC
Do I not?
[There's an upward incline of surprise in his voice as he speaks this time as he briefly glances down at himself in mock-disbelief. It's clowning, there's little else to it, as it's clear that he knows as well as this boy that he is no man of god.
When he pauses in his self-examination to look up once again the smile has not faltered but if anything it has altered from something polite to something a little more openly amused.]
Ah... I suppose if I do not look much like one then I must not be. It is just as well--I'm not suited for such things.
[His dark eyes track the young man as he moves, watching his body language, the way he carries himself, the manner in which he speaks. So many straight, taunt, trained lines in that body: the suit highlights this well. Of course he had no idea what manner of training was involved, and it could be any number of things, but humans don't align themselves on their own--they are cracked into place, made to stand upright, speak clearly, correct that attitude, that attire is not suitable, do your job. Hm... And what job did this young man do, one had to wonder. In a suit like that? And so young, because he was definitely young, barely into his twenties, surely. And in a place like this... Not a lawyer, not a banker, not a politician--those types would not stumble through icy streets and into a church unless there was some humanity shattering irony about to befall them, an epiphany to see what dwelt at the ends of the strings they so casually tugged from above.
Gods among men do not step into churches unless they have fallen from their stained graces.
So none of those things, but still something unsavoury in some way, he was sure. Curiouser and curiouser... ]
And what of you, young sir? [His head cocked to one side as he spoke, the hat remaining upright but now angled atop his head but casting the shadows across another area of his face instead.] I wonder...Are you a lost lamb wandering in from the cold? You do not look much like one: you are neither quivering nor bleating.
Lambs are not nearly as quiet. They would rather hear the sound of their own cries than listen to what may be drawing up behind them. Are you familiar with such cries, young sir?
[He inclines his head back, peering curiously at the blonde over his cheekbones.
Without much in the way of warning though, he seems to crumple at the waist which melts into an elegant bow, the hat removed, head bent down low and his eyes closed.]
You must forgive me, for it appears I have forgotten my manners and allowed myself to digress all by myself.
You are right, I am no priest. I am in a similar progression, of smoke and mirrors and charming people as though they were snakes, however I am, in some respects, more forthright about my trickery. I am a travelling street performer, a clown, mostly.
[He straightens slowly this time, replacing the hat once again before extending a white-gloved hand to the young man before him.]
Unfortunately with the weather as it is business is bad and I was not expecting an audience in a location such as this. Had I known to expect company I would have ensured I were juggling at least. My apologies.
My name is Mana Walker. My apologies for such a delayed introduction, good sir.
... /lured.nebensonneDecember 11 2011, 05:01:10 UTC
[ ... he hadn't been concerned, at least.
it takes a while for it all to sink in, if less for his dense, overly-polite manner of speech as how unexpected his statements are. by the time he's done, giovanni's stance is visibly tighter, his shoulders half-hunched and his hand has flinched up a little bit, dragged up the fine, damp-darkened suit towards his abdomen - caught out by mana's unexpected bow, he'd started to reach for his gun unthinkingly. only now, as mana introduces himself, does giovanni slowly lower his hand again, exhaling softly through his nose.
it's not anything to be concerned with. he's not the only eccentric in the city.
still, giovanni has nothing to respond to that with but silence, for a while, his gaze blank and mouth down-turned a little. a 'clown'. his theatrics make it harder to decide if that's believable at all, whether that's proof for or against his honesty. but more confusing is the nuance caught up in that mess of pointless words, things that make giovanni's jaw constrict perceptibly, make the spine feel tight on his neck like gripping fingers.
are you familiar with such cries, young sir?
i am, in some respects, more forthright about my trickery.
... giovanni wonders about that. there's something about the stranger that unsettles him, between his motions, his half-hidden face, his words. because that question that hangs in the air, the one he can't answer, feels like it hits too close to be an accident. someone who knows the underground, maybe. it doesn't help that his lofty airs remind him of someone fairly close to home.
it's safer to assume he knows than to think he doesn't. and it's safer not to talk about it than confirm anything. isn't that how it usually goes?
so he finally lifts his head slightly, looking at the white-gloved hand extended towards him. the tips look a little dirty, which could have happened from touching any part of the church. he doesn't know quite what to do with that, either - so he does nothing. just looks at him.
for as much as mana apologises, giovanni is convinced he's not sorry at all. ]
That isn't really my kind of entertainment. It's better if you don't waste it. [ he adds a tight smile to his comment, though whether he means juggling specifically, or all of mana's 'smoke and mirrors' is something he leaves off elucidating any more than that.
he also leaves off returning mana's offered details with his own - silence being so often his answer to unsettled nerves.
It was the sin in the space of forgiveness that interested him--the duality of thinking of the congregation as sinners and yet simultaneously acting like their rituals melted the humanity away. For that was the sin after all, wasn't it? It was in their very flesh, so the teachings implied.
The hypocrisies of the church, and its various related arms and subtle grasping fingers, amused him.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...
And what whispered confessions were cooed into the ear of the man behind the screen? I have stolen. I have committed adultery. I have spoken the Lord's name in vein. I have killed someone. I enjoyed it, Father.
And yet those men, with all their pretences of handing such secret confessions and then providing suitable penance for those acts, were only human too. What did they feel upon hearing such things? Was there pleasure in a kind of audio-voyeurism that could go on because it was so fiercely protected by the open lie that it was for the purpose of cleansing? Was there anger upon hearing so many of these acts? Disgust? Curiosity? Desire?
I understand, my child. Go on, tell me more. Speak your sins to me in full. Confess it all.
It had likely been a beautiful place of worship once, he thought as he first walked down the echoing nave. Yes, it likely was, and yet now it was certainly a place where the more honest displays of contemptible pleasures. He liked that honesty. But all that remained at that point were remnants of acts and presence--a burnt out fire, some signs of food being eaten, the impression that anything of obvious value had long been forcibly removed.
The silence didn't bother him though as sat down on the dusty stone steps leading to the pulpit and drew a casual finger through a battered old hymn book that lay by his feet. At the very least he could enjoy the space until the blizzard blew over. Though at this rate it could even take a few days.
He was not expecting additional company with the weather already so harsh. On the other hand though, why should be surprised by a wary travelling stumbling into an old church for shelter. He remains rather still where he is sitting as he watches the young man drew further into the building, and the more he watches the more interesting he thinks this whole affair may turn out to be.
That attire certainly isn't the type meant for such harsh conditions, and yet there is no sign of desperate trembling, no laboured, frozen breath and the walk is steady enough.
Oh.
So he's been noticed.
Well, there's little point in hiding now and so he closes the book with a brisk thud before drawing to a tall, elegant stand with the tails of his long, well-worn coat make a soft swishing noise. And he smiles with such ease at the young man before him, as clear and well-placed on his face as if it were a skilfully painted mask.]
My apologies, I did not want to disturb your illusion of solitude prematurely. You seemed to be enjoying it, you see.
Reply
there are homeless people everywhere in the city. vagrants from lost days, those whose lives were devoured by the city, products of a fallen underworld. he isn't surprised to encounter someone else with nowhere to go - albeit for different reasons (because giovanni has somewhere, he has something - or is it that it has him?) - and the presence of just this one man, standing in his fraying old coat with a genteel look on his face, isn't enough to make for any particular nuisance. by now, the snow will have already been piling against the closed door. even the stained glass is getting blocked in from the outside.
... even if this person ends up a threat, it'll be easier to deal with him than to leave.
giovanni steps in a little closer, walking around the stoup, watching the stranger steadily with his mouth closed and straight. still. right now, there's nothing about him that threatens giovanni - although something about him as he stands there is bothersome, on another, wholly different level. the strange cadence of his speech, that excessive politeness. it's strange, after all, to immediately trust that whoever comes through the door isn't going to kill him, at least in this city. ]
I'm not concerned. [ he answers him at length, and his voice is tight from under-use. still, he proves it in his approach, walking onto a musty, once-red carpet leading up the nave, stopping halfway. everything about him remains rigid and upright, but after a moment or so, a slim and not entirely-convincing smile forms on his lips. ]
... But you don't look much like a priest.
Reply
[There's an upward incline of surprise in his voice as he speaks this time as he briefly glances down at himself in mock-disbelief. It's clowning, there's little else to it, as it's clear that he knows as well as this boy that he is no man of god.
When he pauses in his self-examination to look up once again the smile has not faltered but if anything it has altered from something polite to something a little more openly amused.]
Ah... I suppose if I do not look much like one then I must not be. It is just as well--I'm not suited for such things.
[His dark eyes track the young man as he moves, watching his body language, the way he carries himself, the manner in which he speaks. So many straight, taunt, trained lines in that body: the suit highlights this well. Of course he had no idea what manner of training was involved, and it could be any number of things, but humans don't align themselves on their own--they are cracked into place, made to stand upright, speak clearly, correct that attitude, that attire is not suitable, do your job. Hm... And what job did this young man do, one had to wonder. In a suit like that? And so young, because he was definitely young, barely into his twenties, surely. And in a place like this... Not a lawyer, not a banker, not a politician--those types would not stumble through icy streets and into a church unless there was some humanity shattering irony about to befall them, an epiphany to see what dwelt at the ends of the strings they so casually tugged from above.
Gods among men do not step into churches unless they have fallen from their stained graces.
So none of those things, but still something unsavoury in some way, he was sure. Curiouser and curiouser... ]
And what of you, young sir? [His head cocked to one side as he spoke, the hat remaining upright but now angled atop his head but casting the shadows across another area of his face instead.] I wonder...Are you a lost lamb wandering in from the cold? You do not look much like one: you are neither quivering nor bleating.
Lambs are not nearly as quiet. They would rather hear the sound of their own cries than listen to what may be drawing up behind them. Are you familiar with such cries, young sir?
[He inclines his head back, peering curiously at the blonde over his cheekbones.
Without much in the way of warning though, he seems to crumple at the waist which melts into an elegant bow, the hat removed, head bent down low and his eyes closed.]
You must forgive me, for it appears I have forgotten my manners and allowed myself to digress all by myself.
You are right, I am no priest. I am in a similar progression, of smoke and mirrors and charming people as though they were snakes, however I am, in some respects, more forthright about my trickery. I am a travelling street performer, a clown, mostly.
[He straightens slowly this time, replacing the hat once again before extending a white-gloved hand to the young man before him.]
Unfortunately with the weather as it is business is bad and I was not expecting an audience in a location such as this. Had I known to expect company I would have ensured I were juggling at least. My apologies.
My name is Mana Walker. My apologies for such a delayed introduction, good sir.
Reply
it takes a while for it all to sink in, if less for his dense, overly-polite manner of speech as how unexpected his statements are. by the time he's done, giovanni's stance is visibly tighter, his shoulders half-hunched and his hand has flinched up a little bit, dragged up the fine, damp-darkened suit towards his abdomen - caught out by mana's unexpected bow, he'd started to reach for his gun unthinkingly. only now, as mana introduces himself, does giovanni slowly lower his hand again, exhaling softly through his nose.
it's not anything to be concerned with. he's not the only eccentric in the city.
still, giovanni has nothing to respond to that with but silence, for a while, his gaze blank and mouth down-turned a little. a 'clown'. his theatrics make it harder to decide if that's believable at all, whether that's proof for or against his honesty. but more confusing is the nuance caught up in that mess of pointless words, things that make giovanni's jaw constrict perceptibly, make the spine feel tight on his neck like gripping fingers.
are you familiar with such cries, young sir?
i am, in some respects, more forthright about my trickery.
... giovanni wonders about that. there's something about the stranger that unsettles him, between his motions, his half-hidden face, his words. because that question that hangs in the air, the one he can't answer, feels like it hits too close to be an accident. someone who knows the underground, maybe. it doesn't help that his lofty airs remind him of someone fairly close to home.
it's safer to assume he knows than to think he doesn't. and it's safer not to talk about it than confirm anything. isn't that how it usually goes?
so he finally lifts his head slightly, looking at the white-gloved hand extended towards him. the tips look a little dirty, which could have happened from touching any part of the church. he doesn't know quite what to do with that, either - so he does nothing. just looks at him.
for as much as mana apologises, giovanni is convinced he's not sorry at all. ]
That isn't really my kind of entertainment. It's better if you don't waste it. [ he adds a tight smile to his comment, though whether he means juggling specifically, or all of mana's 'smoke and mirrors' is something he leaves off elucidating any more than that.
he also leaves off returning mana's offered details with his own - silence being so often his answer to unsettled nerves.
well. he does tell him one thing. ]
Giovanni.
Reply
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