rorschach's journal. october 2nd.
[written in blunt, soft-leaded pencil - though the journal picks up the faint sounds of autumn wind and occasional chatter from nearby, muffled voices]
The fall smells different here. All the leaves piled up on the ground send up a smell of decay, and the stores and homes here belch out woodsmoke. Like being surrounded in fire and some slow, quiet sort of death. Interesting compliment to the decay in the castle that chips away at us all, flaking away who we were to reveal strange, foreign things underneath. Things we would never have dreamed, back home. Things that have the potential to heal us or break us. All of us.
I came out here to the Art District to get away from that. To remember who I was, at home. Maybe find some remnant of
[the writing stops abruptly, a dark spot of lead and then a drag, where it looks like the pencil was pressed in and then quickly, suddenly jerked away, or the journal was dropped. as far as recording, the journal picks up a faint - but very distressed - scream of pain and terror. there's a scuffle, the sound of running and receding footsteps ... and then silence.
a very long silence.
then, calmly, quietly, the footsteps return. there's a soft scrape as the journal is picked up, and a smear of blood marks the edge of the page. the handwriting returns, quietly]
Sometimes the night is good to me.
((OOC: Rorschach's in your town, Para, beatin' up and killin' your random seedy NPC crooks and skulking on the roof of the future home of the detective agency. Another one just bit the dust - he wasn't remarkable enough to have a name, so I figured this was fair game. Mods, if this is an issue, let me know and I'll take it down and save it for once the NPC rules are cleared up.))
The fall smells different here. All the leaves piled up on the ground send up a smell of decay, and the stores and homes here belch out woodsmoke. Like being surrounded in fire and some slow, quiet sort of death. Interesting compliment to the decay in the castle that chips away at us all, flaking away who we were to reveal strange, foreign things underneath. Things we would never have dreamed, back home. Things that have the potential to heal us or break us. All of us.
I came out here to the Art District to get away from that. To remember who I was, at home. Maybe find some remnant of
[the writing stops abruptly, a dark spot of lead and then a drag, where it looks like the pencil was pressed in and then quickly, suddenly jerked away, or the journal was dropped. as far as recording, the journal picks up a faint - but very distressed - scream of pain and terror. there's a scuffle, the sound of running and receding footsteps ... and then silence.
a very long silence.
then, calmly, quietly, the footsteps return. there's a soft scrape as the journal is picked up, and a smear of blood marks the edge of the page. the handwriting returns, quietly]
Sometimes the night is good to me.
((OOC: Rorschach's in your town, Para, beatin' up and killin' your random seedy NPC crooks and skulking on the roof of the future home of the detective agency. Another one just bit the dust - he wasn't remarkable enough to have a name, so I figured this was fair game. Mods, if this is an issue, let me know and I'll take it down and save it for once the NPC rules are cleared up.))