dream for Siren's Pull event
You’re walking up the central aisle of a splendid church, cast all in gold with gold filigree inlaid on the wall, a Latin refrain of an ancient prayer wrapping the place like a consecrated bow. It's so beautiful, you think. A man could find faith here, but you know you don’t deserve it. Some wrongness about the place irks on a level too subsumed to understand. It has the feeling of a place long abandoned, like a child’s birthday party with the candles melted to nothing and two dozen chairs that were never filled.
Candles, torches, beautiful lights make it to shine like the sun in your vision, all brilliance seeming to fall on a massive crucifix in a marble tabernacle taller than some houses. Your eyes are not cast down in thought or humility, no religious contemplation or respect, but fixed boldly up at the eyes of the vividly detailed marble Christ on his cross with all the anguish of a very real and graphic death. A spire reaches up to the peak of that central dome, past the tall panels painting the dome with images of the angels in their nine choirs right to the benevolent bearded visage of God at the peak, looking down on all.
You move silently through the chapel, past the pews, and do not kneel at the altar. There are no eyes watching, no pause at all as you walk like you belong around the clothed table and right to the golden tabernacle in the heart of the marble structure, atop a silver-inlaid reliquary, nor when you finally tear your eyes from the tortured face of the Messiah to gaze on the engraved chalice adorning the small golden door, reaching a hand out to touch. You pause then with a hand outstretched just inches from that holiest of things; no. It's not supposed to go like this.
You turn, then, intending to reach for the holy water font you saw a moment ago, and stop in confusion. Where before there was only a small, understated basin on a slim pillar now stands a stoup you know wasn't there a second ago. It's a child angel holding up the basin like the crushing burden of Atlas, averting its eyes in pain. You approach slowly, heat tilting in curiosity, a hand outstretched to touch, to feel proof that all this is real.
The instant your finger brushes the cold marble the statue erupts in blinding white light, knocking you back a few feet as you cover your eyes instinctively. When you open them again the cherub statue is gone. In its place there’s only a smoking stain on the chapel floor shaped horribly like a body the size of a child. You look at it wonderingly before turning, starting in shock at what’s suddenly in front of you.
All around you, spotted randomly in the tabernacle area and flanking the altar, are holy water stoups with their faces all turned to you. Angels carved from gorgeous marble, the pure white stone stained with a curious black ash. They’re as dazzlingly beautiful as the church itself until you turn away and you can almost see horrible rotted faces, wasted skeletons smeared with ash right in the corner of your eye. There's at least a half dozen or more, some bowing reverently with eerie supplicating expressions, some with pain in their eyes, others averting their eyes. Whatever it is that they’re afraid of, you can’t see, but as you suck in a death-rattle breath there’s obviously something very wrong here. You swallow down your dread and pick your way through the maze of cold angels, stepping slowly down the chapel aisle.
The air is frigid and silent as a crypt, with a layer of dust settled over everything beautiful and, here and there, pitch-black ash. A few times, between your echoing footsteps, you swear you can hear faint, muffled scratching, but no matter what you can’t hear where it’s coming from, so you ignore it. The third time it happens, you turn back only to find a new stoup blocking the door that wasn’t there a second ago. This one isn’t like the others, all angelic and sad. It’s different.
It’s the Devil himself, carved from vomitous red stone etched with white veins and black ash caked into every slight crevice. The gargoyle Satan’s face is contorted into a vicious sneer and stares at you from under the weight of the holy water font with hateful, accusing eyes. You swallow hard and stop in your tracks, but not for long. The scratching is even louder now. It’s just unsettling enough to draw you in, until you’ve crossed the length of the chapel and bend down to see it yourself.
The cold stone turns to squishy rotting flesh under your hand, your fingers sinking in. The chapel starts crumbling around you, opulent splendor crumbling and rotting away until all that's left is a putrid hellscape almost profane in its horror, all blood splatters and decay and oh, the noise. Every angel statue is screaming, melting slowly until they burst in dazzling light. You spin around in shock, ears ringing painfully as they go up one by one, hurling broken bodies against the bloodied chapel walls. You recognize some from the Network: Castiel, blood dripping from his mouth, Anna, eyes burned out with sockets still smoking. Gabriel, head fallen back to rest on his shoulders with a broken, agonized look to the stars that will never answer him. Others you’ve never seen before, figures old and young twisted in pain and strung-up like blasphemous Christmas lights. Every single body is flanked with the enormous imprints of ashen wings.
There’s sobbing coming from somewhere. It might even be you. The walls are closing in now; this place is death paved with gold- a crypt of the forsaken never meant for you. Your gaze is locked on their faces as you turn: empty eyes, hollow cheeks, expressions contorted in confusion or desperate heartbreak.
That’s when you hear it.
The noise. You turn slowly, cold with horror, and see the Devil statue still intact, still kneeling beneath his basin full of holy blood like Atlas himself. This time, though, the eyes seem to move- following your gaze like they’re alive. You kneel down slowly and reach out with trepidation, to feel a seam at the eyes- there’s no stone there. Something is inside, and suddenly the scratching makes sense. Heart pounding in your chest, you tear into the eyes and, somehow, a piece of rock comes off in your hands. In a rush you tear away the rock, ripping the stone Devil apart until you’re looking at its prisoner: a shriveled, hideous creature like a bloody baby, huddled into itself and sobbing. It’s so sad, so pitiful, that your heart goes out to the hideous thing and you reach to scoop it up and comfort it. However, when you make contact with it, the twisted infant creature attacks you, knocking your head against the floor with a horrible scream of rage before everything goes black.
You wake up suddenly, still in pain.
Candles, torches, beautiful lights make it to shine like the sun in your vision, all brilliance seeming to fall on a massive crucifix in a marble tabernacle taller than some houses. Your eyes are not cast down in thought or humility, no religious contemplation or respect, but fixed boldly up at the eyes of the vividly detailed marble Christ on his cross with all the anguish of a very real and graphic death. A spire reaches up to the peak of that central dome, past the tall panels painting the dome with images of the angels in their nine choirs right to the benevolent bearded visage of God at the peak, looking down on all.
You move silently through the chapel, past the pews, and do not kneel at the altar. There are no eyes watching, no pause at all as you walk like you belong around the clothed table and right to the golden tabernacle in the heart of the marble structure, atop a silver-inlaid reliquary, nor when you finally tear your eyes from the tortured face of the Messiah to gaze on the engraved chalice adorning the small golden door, reaching a hand out to touch. You pause then with a hand outstretched just inches from that holiest of things; no. It's not supposed to go like this.
You turn, then, intending to reach for the holy water font you saw a moment ago, and stop in confusion. Where before there was only a small, understated basin on a slim pillar now stands a stoup you know wasn't there a second ago. It's a child angel holding up the basin like the crushing burden of Atlas, averting its eyes in pain. You approach slowly, heat tilting in curiosity, a hand outstretched to touch, to feel proof that all this is real.
The instant your finger brushes the cold marble the statue erupts in blinding white light, knocking you back a few feet as you cover your eyes instinctively. When you open them again the cherub statue is gone. In its place there’s only a smoking stain on the chapel floor shaped horribly like a body the size of a child. You look at it wonderingly before turning, starting in shock at what’s suddenly in front of you.
All around you, spotted randomly in the tabernacle area and flanking the altar, are holy water stoups with their faces all turned to you. Angels carved from gorgeous marble, the pure white stone stained with a curious black ash. They’re as dazzlingly beautiful as the church itself until you turn away and you can almost see horrible rotted faces, wasted skeletons smeared with ash right in the corner of your eye. There's at least a half dozen or more, some bowing reverently with eerie supplicating expressions, some with pain in their eyes, others averting their eyes. Whatever it is that they’re afraid of, you can’t see, but as you suck in a death-rattle breath there’s obviously something very wrong here. You swallow down your dread and pick your way through the maze of cold angels, stepping slowly down the chapel aisle.
The air is frigid and silent as a crypt, with a layer of dust settled over everything beautiful and, here and there, pitch-black ash. A few times, between your echoing footsteps, you swear you can hear faint, muffled scratching, but no matter what you can’t hear where it’s coming from, so you ignore it. The third time it happens, you turn back only to find a new stoup blocking the door that wasn’t there a second ago. This one isn’t like the others, all angelic and sad. It’s different.
It’s the Devil himself, carved from vomitous red stone etched with white veins and black ash caked into every slight crevice. The gargoyle Satan’s face is contorted into a vicious sneer and stares at you from under the weight of the holy water font with hateful, accusing eyes. You swallow hard and stop in your tracks, but not for long. The scratching is even louder now. It’s just unsettling enough to draw you in, until you’ve crossed the length of the chapel and bend down to see it yourself.
The cold stone turns to squishy rotting flesh under your hand, your fingers sinking in. The chapel starts crumbling around you, opulent splendor crumbling and rotting away until all that's left is a putrid hellscape almost profane in its horror, all blood splatters and decay and oh, the noise. Every angel statue is screaming, melting slowly until they burst in dazzling light. You spin around in shock, ears ringing painfully as they go up one by one, hurling broken bodies against the bloodied chapel walls. You recognize some from the Network: Castiel, blood dripping from his mouth, Anna, eyes burned out with sockets still smoking. Gabriel, head fallen back to rest on his shoulders with a broken, agonized look to the stars that will never answer him. Others you’ve never seen before, figures old and young twisted in pain and strung-up like blasphemous Christmas lights. Every single body is flanked with the enormous imprints of ashen wings.
There’s sobbing coming from somewhere. It might even be you. The walls are closing in now; this place is death paved with gold- a crypt of the forsaken never meant for you. Your gaze is locked on their faces as you turn: empty eyes, hollow cheeks, expressions contorted in confusion or desperate heartbreak.
That’s when you hear it.
The noise. You turn slowly, cold with horror, and see the Devil statue still intact, still kneeling beneath his basin full of holy blood like Atlas himself. This time, though, the eyes seem to move- following your gaze like they’re alive. You kneel down slowly and reach out with trepidation, to feel a seam at the eyes- there’s no stone there. Something is inside, and suddenly the scratching makes sense. Heart pounding in your chest, you tear into the eyes and, somehow, a piece of rock comes off in your hands. In a rush you tear away the rock, ripping the stone Devil apart until you’re looking at its prisoner: a shriveled, hideous creature like a bloody baby, huddled into itself and sobbing. It’s so sad, so pitiful, that your heart goes out to the hideous thing and you reach to scoop it up and comfort it. However, when you make contact with it, the twisted infant creature attacks you, knocking your head against the floor with a horrible scream of rage before everything goes black.
You wake up suddenly, still in pain.