Let the good times roll.
Characters: Francis and YOU.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque - and that he appeared in comparison malformed - kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient - he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Setting: Dormitories [1-10], Floor 13
Format: EITHER
Summary: In which Francis is a hermit and a lost man.
Warnings: Possible → mentions of surgery/flashbacks, looming possibility of character death thanks to event specifics. Definite → heavy despair
Dormitory 1-10
The triumphant return to regular life as he knew it was neither bombastic nor rewarding. In fact, it was immediately after being reintroduced to the main floors of the Tower that the once grandiose man had holed himself away with no intent of socialization. Francis had always partaken in the mantra of ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ to the best of his abilities. To say that he was stinted would have been laughable.
‘Eat’ and ‘drink’ were automatically nixed without the necessary organs though try as his brain might to keep up with over a millennium of deeply rooted habit. The knowledge that he harbored something grotesque - and that he appeared in comparison malformed - kept him from being anything outside of contemplatively glum. Whatever it was, he spent the majority of his time tucked away out of sight where he wasn’t reminded of who he had been forced to become or able to slip up and hurt someone he loved.
Before he had been taken away Francis had plotted out the Tower as he saw fit, blocking off floors completely that were dangerous. Now, even those places he had gone to stay sane had quietly surrendered to join the rest. He had these four walls, at least…
Floor 13: Cathedral
This was not a sanctuary for Francis.
For a time, even before his stay at the Tower, his faith had dwindled. Anyone that had seen the things he saw and experienced all he had would have a difficult time proving to themselves that their God was a merciful being. As the years melted against one another Francis had gone from devout and fearful to a skeptical romantic; it was fine for others and the concept novel, but wholly unrealistic. Despite that, he still believed in hell. He thought that he had seen every shade of hell on earth there was.
There had been a moment... one wavering moment that he had prayed to whatever would listen to him… for death or salvation; he may have intertwined the concepts. The collars had kept on their task and had left him hollower than he had been before with not a lick of mercy from above. There had been no mercy for anyone, not even a child. Faith had done nothing but lead them in to calamity and yet…
Here he was, seated at the back of the Tower’s elaborate Cathedral, doing what he could to justify being here. It was quiet. It reminded him of the Gothic architecture back home. People would not bother him even if they noticed him huddled in the corner by his lonesome; they had their own grief to deal with. And it went on.
Truth be told there was that shameless hope that the one thing that could hear him now would, that for once there would be some sort of divine intervention. He wanted to be moved if only one time; he wanted to be proven wrong.
He’d been here for hours undisturbed and the only thing he could be moved by was despair. The anger and loathing had passed. The denial now as well. No matter how difficult the trial Francis had been annoyingly resilient - he had, after all, survived for a very long time and through many a dilemma. He had pushed through. He had, if anything, himself.
Francis had never mourned the man he was. In fact, he was quite unapologetic.
He mourned now, nothing but a shell of the person he used to hold so much pride in. For once he didn’t feel like France. Didn’t feel like anything. He was detached, a man bound up and bowed at the back of some nameless place of worship grasping for straws and finding nothing. It was a strange realization - to feel so unimportant, so mortal for once; it hit the man hard and he hated it as he'd hated those that took him and God Himeself. There was nothing he could do but press his face to the back of the pew in front of him, fingers tight on the wood as the tears finally came.
Francis was alone, forced or not, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.