Morb_id
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❝ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄. ❞
On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a place time refuses to claim; a hollowed palisade of shops and houses, sealed in silence since a chemical disaster in the seventies turned it into a ghost town. Over the years, however, its dead streets have become a shrine for urban explorers, thrill-seekers and true crime obsessives. Some say it's only empty shells and rotting wood, others whisper about reanimated bodies and screams that don't reach the edge of town—apartment buildings that breathe the same way you do.
And, of course, death always catches the eye of the living; brutal murders and ghost stories worm their way into your friend's ears. With nothing better to do on your winter break, you reluctantly agree to go explore the abandoned town with them.
Because hey, what could go wrong, right?
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The Batter has always found the tram a peculiar way of travel: filled with strange Elsen, filled with strange thoughts. Unfit for him, unfit for His Player, for they have a duty to fulfil: crusade until collapse.
Strange as it is, slow as it is, he takes his quiet chances to glimpse The Puppeteer, and in his restlessness, is gifted a reprieve, and he decides purification may wait a little bit longer. Just long enough to wonder what Players dream of.
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Stomach heavy with the warmth of whiskey, you decide that you’ve had enough of drinking for the evening; would rather stumble over ditches in the roads rather than words as the stars blur into a river of silver against the velvet of the yawning sky. It’s a nice night, a damn nice night, and it's made better by the stranger you meet near the crossroads. Says he’s waiting on someone, and though he speaks mighty fine, makes blood rush to your face like you’re a teen with their first crush, you can’t help but be unnerved by his grin.
Even so, you’re filled with liquid courage, and late night small talk never hurt nobody.
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Ode to Waterfowl, Elegy to Crow by Morb_id
Fandoms: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
03 Oct 2025
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In the Opera House, season flies by like a flock of swifts–days and nights folding over one another, passing and rising, tinted in gold and draped in crimson. Piece by piece, the world turns in opalescent tulle and the crooning of the singers, though, there is only one dancer that Erik finds himself enraptured by, both on stage and off; a pearl, hidden away in the creaking, breathing halls.
So, when the stagehands grumble, and the goslings of the corps de ballet gossip, he finds himself awaiting–ever so patiently–the announcement of roles for a new performance, something he’s adamant you execute.
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Maggot, pupae and worm, the trains writhe through the station; thousands of footsteps echoing like an off-key choir, thousands of faces passing by in ivory. Carved and motionless. Oblivious to him, to what he’s done, to who he is becoming.
As he sits there, salt-licked and still rocking with the tide, a burn in his stomach reminds him that maybe there is still some of him left–something he’s not sure is good or bad.
Please, mind the gap, man of God; lest you fall too far.