sharpen up the blade boys, what are you waiting for-
Who: Undertaker [cadaverdaddy] & Lee Falun [gotsomebadnoose]
When: overnight from September 20 to September 21
Where: Undertaker's home, in Sector 4
Summary: Lee witnesses the renewed work of a Deserter of Death
Warnings: Undertaker being dark and creepy, talk of death, dead things
[Click. Click. Clickityclickclickclick. Serenades of the reel; the endless flickering of images as sprays of film arch and writhe throughout the damp darkness. Colors have faded to nothing but the sporadic, blinding flashes of black and white and there's no need for anything more. The brilliant red of human blood has not changed in its tone in thousands of years; all the gallons of it once spilled at the foot of the reaper divert his attention away from the superficial. Skin, bone, muscle, tendon, vessel, organ, fluid; while the slickness is comforting and the stench heady as his fingers diligently replace his darling doll's misplaced and devoured parts to her chest cavity, there's something so much more beautiful here. Silence, perfectly mute from the still lips gray with bloodloss and cold. Tender eyes forever closed, forever sleeping even through his touches. She is beautiful, and she is perfect, and her hollow will create a void that will be fed by those defiant and strangely deathless in this land. How he loves them, and loves this place in all it primal and trivial trembling before a force that may or may not hold a candle to the Core's power. To him, it is exciting, to never know.
Such a foolish and faulty heart is that of the human. Yet so powerful and endlessly fascinating.
He finds himself humming in the dim dungeon of his work, lit only by a single candle flickering in the wake of the cinematic record. Flesh gives before his needle, thread passing through with a high pitch whine, over and over and over again, repeating forever as he pulls her chest shut like the lacing of a fine silk and bone corset. A lace-edged blindfold is tied about her eyes, a tender kiss placed on each concealed lid.]
You will be so lovely, my dear. [And his hands fetch another instrument, one not of the human comprehension. His scythe has been calling to him, aching in his blood, beckoning to feel the tear of the film before its edge. He can only ignore her for so long, understandably; women have such a way of making one those their senses. Fingers caress her curves before reaching into the air, searching out and taking hold of the end of the record only seen visible to the eyes of death, flicking like the rattle of an angry snake about in the air. His song rises, bouncing and without intelligible language, lost in a sea of giggles.
A death has made its cut, and another shall edit it so. This world shall feel his work, just as another somewhere else.]
When: overnight from September 20 to September 21
Where: Undertaker's home, in Sector 4
Summary: Lee witnesses the renewed work of a Deserter of Death
Warnings: Undertaker being dark and creepy, talk of death, dead things
[Click. Click. Clickityclickclickclick. Serenades of the reel; the endless flickering of images as sprays of film arch and writhe throughout the damp darkness. Colors have faded to nothing but the sporadic, blinding flashes of black and white and there's no need for anything more. The brilliant red of human blood has not changed in its tone in thousands of years; all the gallons of it once spilled at the foot of the reaper divert his attention away from the superficial. Skin, bone, muscle, tendon, vessel, organ, fluid; while the slickness is comforting and the stench heady as his fingers diligently replace his darling doll's misplaced and devoured parts to her chest cavity, there's something so much more beautiful here. Silence, perfectly mute from the still lips gray with bloodloss and cold. Tender eyes forever closed, forever sleeping even through his touches. She is beautiful, and she is perfect, and her hollow will create a void that will be fed by those defiant and strangely deathless in this land. How he loves them, and loves this place in all it primal and trivial trembling before a force that may or may not hold a candle to the Core's power. To him, it is exciting, to never know.
Such a foolish and faulty heart is that of the human. Yet so powerful and endlessly fascinating.
He finds himself humming in the dim dungeon of his work, lit only by a single candle flickering in the wake of the cinematic record. Flesh gives before his needle, thread passing through with a high pitch whine, over and over and over again, repeating forever as he pulls her chest shut like the lacing of a fine silk and bone corset. A lace-edged blindfold is tied about her eyes, a tender kiss placed on each concealed lid.]
You will be so lovely, my dear. [And his hands fetch another instrument, one not of the human comprehension. His scythe has been calling to him, aching in his blood, beckoning to feel the tear of the film before its edge. He can only ignore her for so long, understandably; women have such a way of making one those their senses. Fingers caress her curves before reaching into the air, searching out and taking hold of the end of the record only seen visible to the eyes of death, flicking like the rattle of an angry snake about in the air. His song rises, bouncing and without intelligible language, lost in a sea of giggles.
A death has made its cut, and another shall edit it so. This world shall feel his work, just as another somewhere else.]