Creaturial
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Faith — there's not much else to have. He's not sure how much Burakh wants it from him—if he even wants it at all. But the days go, and the lives with them. He's not sure what else couldn't fault him. He misses, almost, Death as it once was — an almost placid force that he knew [...] he could stand up to. [...] Death, back then, was winning more often than not (well, it always won in the end, but the Bachelor could put up a fight), but it was, mostly, a fair foe.
But this was—this is no Death. This is Conquest, Pestilence.
(The black night mare, dusk after dusk, bleeds out her colors, pales like a wet ink stain patted then rubbed dry; like bone slowly sun-bleached. She turns the color of blood-stained enamel, of the rot of a cavity.
Rot, rot, rot. To the bone, to the marrow. [...])The Bachelor weaves in and out of the story, between its lines — where the story develops.
A Bachelor-centric study of the Plague in mythified half-vignettes, for when one is faced with the un(com)prehensible it is always easier to see things through someone’s worse, and sadder story. -
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“I wanted to get in, you wanted to leave, and both of us are stuck here now,” Rubin simply shrugged. “Shall we walk together?”
By the Graces, was he bolder now? Rubin had never been the shy type — being reserved was different. He’d taken when he had wanted. [...] He had never been this bold about wanting (taking) company, but he had so far taken the Architect’s when offered.
“Will you have me?” Peter asked.
“You’re not any worse company than I have had.”
“Oh, you!” Peter barked out one of his glassy laughs. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” [...](And maybe he was lying a little, for it probably would get Rubin somewhere, if he meant it hard enough, and if Peter felt he meant it hard enough. Peter had painted him, hadn’t he? This was not always flattery — but in that moment, in these hands, between these eyes and these four walls, it had been. Maybe they were even, now.)
They had been staring at each other. Maybe Rubin had read this thought on him as plainly as someone else did on the page.Men meet. They have little to tell each other that words can convey, speaketh flesh in their steads.
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Apollo Sauroktonos Emerging from Still Waters by Creaturial
Fandoms: Мор. Утопия | Pathologic
14 Mar 2024
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His voice was chthonian and soft to the touch, rounded like the back of a beast as it rolled over his tongue.
Oh, the house was for him. (Or he was for the house.) Maybe it had been the plan since the beginning, or maybe this was a lucky, opportune coincidence; what other people could have called a blessing.
Once they would be gone — dawned upon Petr — he would never come back again, but this place, as him, as his, would stand. The Cathedral, as him, as his, would still stand. The house was not filled with music, but with voice. Felt like it regardless.
They needed to convince the Kains. They had no other choice.What choice was there even to have? We will never know. This is a story about the Oneirotects, about the house that lies still and restless, and about men who do quite the same.
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Thaumaturgic Arborescence & the Architect's Traumaturgy by Creaturial
Fandoms: Мор. Утопия | Pathologic
27 Jul 2023
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This one didn’t quite feel like them, like the rest. Andrey almost felt agitated by a shiver of excitement — newness, again, finally at once, for once. He kept himself from rejoicing too much, too early — the man still had chances to be disappointing, as most men, even the most charming, were.
He sat opposite the twins, themselves in separate chairs. His coat was a striking, startling red against the vert-de-gris stripes of the settee, so painfully carmine it looked like its damask had been woven in blood itself [...].
As they sat, the Kain men, each at their turn, introduced their guests to each other in superlatives, in almost-religious exaltation. [...] As their lungs swelled with pride for the stranger’s works, something coiled around the brothers’ necks, unnervingly taunting, something akin to mistrust, to incredulity, tinted by the black ink of jealousy — something they wouldn’t have admitted so early, if at all. All the man did was nod conservatively, humbly; as if observing instead of listening.Know thy friend well, thine enemy better, and he who walks the tightrope between the two more than the sum of that threefold.
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« Ça vous vient souvent, de hanter ce bar pour trouver des gens à qui demander de poser ?
— Ça m’arrive.
— Comment vous les choisissez ? »(Oh, il a très envie, mais ça serait bien trop insolent et cavalier, de demander : qu’est-ce que vous me trouvez ? )
« Hmm », fredonne d’abord Piotr, pensif, essuyant son pinceau sur un bout de tissu taché. « Un beau nez, commence-t-il, de belles mains… Des yeux avides, des traits fougueux…
— Et pour moi, c’était quoi ? »
Piotr lui sourit. Rubin sent son cœur faire voltige dans sa gorge. « Si je vous le disais, je crains que ça ne vous monte à la tête. » (Rubin sent sa bouche s’assécher.)Rubin se traîne jusqu’au Cœur Brisé pour y noyer son deuil, et mord à l’hameçon d’un drôle de petit poisson.