dia_f
in
queenoflogs
but is this real
Characters: thesamename, dia-f, noneedforheroic, jemerite
Date: During the event.
Summary: Dreams.
Warnings: Dot's is gory.
Hearing, hearing the sound of water, the slow rush and slosh of it. Everything, everything is submerged, and the echo of it all around is strange and warped, muffled in the density of it, but there are bubbles exploding all around, little screams and miserable little songs that are sung from rotting faces. A web of seaweed and hair obscures everything, briefly, drawn into sibilant motion by the tide. Thick and dark and a'crawl with sea spiders who think nothing of a graveyard in the sea, of the thrash and flail and scream of all those sad sinking beasts left to drown, empty lungs filled with water, skeletons chained to their feet, a weight to see them sunk more quickly.
Clawing and shrieking, but the waters show no pity, closing in, a beautiful blue with the sun shining high overhead, its lights cast in a thousand different patterns against the endless movement of the mirror. Kicking and sobbing, reaching, and skeletons do a clattering dance beneath, inverted in the sea. They smile as they drag the dead ones down.
The room is her flesh. Every wall, every window, every door. The pale curtains are her lashes, the flutter of her lips, the fall of her hair. There is blood and breath in every plank in the floor, running the room in the baseboards and the molding. (And there are cracks in the plaster, places where the pulse of the room beats like the call of a thunderstorm, where dust flies with every boom of it, where the cracks grow and where they bleed, puddling on the floor. Where hands reach through, fingers prying away the barriers, forcing their way in. Where a thousand faces, all the same, peer out from the darkness beyond with their unholy blue eyes.)
They rip and tear the whole world down, what cannot be done with the violence of their hands can perhaps been done with the fury of their teeth, and they eat. A swarm of uniform hunger, they devour, and when there is nothing left, they turn one another at last. There is only blood, and flesh; warm, soft, drooling life from wounds and scratches. There is chaos, and there is stillness, and then there is a room, a house built of carnage where every wall, every door, and every window: it is her flesh.
Darkened shades, fuzzy shapes which give a nauseating buzz--(the secrets of beehive's malcontent, the madness of an electric current, there are voices in the humming, and aching behind the eyes, tremors in the teeth)--but which slowly come together into a muted play of shadows upon a lonely stage of gray. Carnations, a dusky shade of pink, they sprout from the darkness, crawling upwards in dashed strokes--tremulous and uneven, fading in and out of saturation; as if they hardly have the strength to be. A wind blows through the void, bending the delicate painted stems and there is a soft gasp of horror and surprise--please, no, please--and sadness bursts into being in faint dots of tired blue, sprinkled over the blackened landscape, tumbling downwards into nothingness, barely noticeable at all.
A pair of hands encircles them. Real, present and whole, warm, unlike the sad little scribbles they protect. They do not flinch as they are stained ceil with sorrow. It's all right. It's all right, they soothe.
It's been a long time since she's been home to the coast. Keeps herself busy, doesn't take too many vacations, had left the sun and the surf for the war, besides. And she'd gotten so much more than there, there was no need to retrace her steps, go back down the old paths. There was nothing to hunt there.
There are tracks dug deep into the beach now. The heavy marks where ShinRa tanks have savaged the landscape as they passed through. No one seems to mind, not the tourists, and they shuffle through the wounds in bare feet, erasing all signs of ugly times with the kick up of sands.
The tanks will be back, and she doesn't mind, sits about the water on the rocks, watching the ships drift and bob, a flotilla long since destroyed by the madness in the world, but in her dream they're warmongers still. Jets fly formations overhead... the deadly birds of Costa del Sol. It feels like home, and the heat soaks into her dark skin like a balm.
Date: During the event.
Summary: Dreams.
Warnings: Dot's is gory.
Hearing, hearing the sound of water, the slow rush and slosh of it. Everything, everything is submerged, and the echo of it all around is strange and warped, muffled in the density of it, but there are bubbles exploding all around, little screams and miserable little songs that are sung from rotting faces. A web of seaweed and hair obscures everything, briefly, drawn into sibilant motion by the tide. Thick and dark and a'crawl with sea spiders who think nothing of a graveyard in the sea, of the thrash and flail and scream of all those sad sinking beasts left to drown, empty lungs filled with water, skeletons chained to their feet, a weight to see them sunk more quickly.
Clawing and shrieking, but the waters show no pity, closing in, a beautiful blue with the sun shining high overhead, its lights cast in a thousand different patterns against the endless movement of the mirror. Kicking and sobbing, reaching, and skeletons do a clattering dance beneath, inverted in the sea. They smile as they drag the dead ones down.
Click to view The room is her flesh. Every wall, every window, every door. The pale curtains are her lashes, the flutter of her lips, the fall of her hair. There is blood and breath in every plank in the floor, running the room in the baseboards and the molding. (And there are cracks in the plaster, places where the pulse of the room beats like the call of a thunderstorm, where dust flies with every boom of it, where the cracks grow and where they bleed, puddling on the floor. Where hands reach through, fingers prying away the barriers, forcing their way in. Where a thousand faces, all the same, peer out from the darkness beyond with their unholy blue eyes.)
They rip and tear the whole world down, what cannot be done with the violence of their hands can perhaps been done with the fury of their teeth, and they eat. A swarm of uniform hunger, they devour, and when there is nothing left, they turn one another at last. There is only blood, and flesh; warm, soft, drooling life from wounds and scratches. There is chaos, and there is stillness, and then there is a room, a house built of carnage where every wall, every door, and every window: it is her flesh.
Darkened shades, fuzzy shapes which give a nauseating buzz--(the secrets of beehive's malcontent, the madness of an electric current, there are voices in the humming, and aching behind the eyes, tremors in the teeth)--but which slowly come together into a muted play of shadows upon a lonely stage of gray. Carnations, a dusky shade of pink, they sprout from the darkness, crawling upwards in dashed strokes--tremulous and uneven, fading in and out of saturation; as if they hardly have the strength to be. A wind blows through the void, bending the delicate painted stems and there is a soft gasp of horror and surprise--please, no, please--and sadness bursts into being in faint dots of tired blue, sprinkled over the blackened landscape, tumbling downwards into nothingness, barely noticeable at all.
A pair of hands encircles them. Real, present and whole, warm, unlike the sad little scribbles they protect. They do not flinch as they are stained ceil with sorrow. It's all right. It's all right, they soothe.
It's been a long time since she's been home to the coast. Keeps herself busy, doesn't take too many vacations, had left the sun and the surf for the war, besides. And she'd gotten so much more than there, there was no need to retrace her steps, go back down the old paths. There was nothing to hunt there.
There are tracks dug deep into the beach now. The heavy marks where ShinRa tanks have savaged the landscape as they passed through. No one seems to mind, not the tourists, and they shuffle through the wounds in bare feet, erasing all signs of ugly times with the kick up of sands.
The tanks will be back, and she doesn't mind, sits about the water on the rocks, watching the ships drift and bob, a flotilla long since destroyed by the madness in the world, but in her dream they're warmongers still. Jets fly formations overhead... the deadly birds of Costa del Sol. It feels like home, and the heat soaks into her dark skin like a balm.