Work Text:
|
|
||
binah Rose smiled, gently running her hands through Jade's hair. "I understand. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention.". The lack of wind outside was cold, dreary. Almost Dickensian. "I'll see what I can do. You know that I cherish you deeply, but this is something that I'll need to discuss with Kanaya, too. This vessel does not go by my willpower alone." "Of course! Whatever decision you make, I promise I'll be fine with it." Jade replied, with a wry smile. She held Rose close, wrapping two arms around her. The ship continued its unelegant dance in the starless sky. They were hopelessly, ceaselessly lost. Sometimes, this Rose wished she had all the answers. Caught between a rock and several hard places. Juggling far too many plates, only to let them all fall. This house of cards could only hold itself up for so long. Everything had to come down eventually. There was nothing left in this sea but each other. There were no more barriers to cross. There were no more landmarks to follow. Please, God. If you are there. I don't need you. "Is something the matter, my dear?" Kanaya asked, greeting Rose with a kiss. Rose buried her face in Kanaya's shoulder, taking in a deep breath of her familiar scent. Rose heaved out something in between a sob and a sigh. "Jade just told me we passed the event horizon. There's nothing more we can do now." Rose spoke, her voice dry, hoarse, throat feeling like cracked glass. Kanaya looked at her with a curious expression, and just hugged her closer. "We never know exactly what is outside and what is inside because we can only observe at a certain level of matter. And when we think about these things, we are actually so lost. We don't understand so much." -Mavros Sedeño We're lost. We're dead. We're gone."Rose! Something's come up on the sensors!" Jade yelld through the intercom, sounding both increasingly excited and worried in the most vaguest of senses at once. It was the typical Jade sort of feeling to have, scientific discovery tempered by the fear of the unknown. Jade would never say to anyone that this feeling existed, but Rose could feel it nonetheless. Jade expressing fear was as natural as Rose expressing humility. The starless sky was quiet. |
hokhmah
Move. Move. Move. Move. She was radiance in sunset orange, the brightest eyes, the most dazzling of presences. My invitation to the Lady Sophia's feast was the most immaculate. Everything about her, superlative. She was beyond compare. My carriage, modest as it were, approached at dawn, despite the sunrise overwhelmed by her magnificence. One could swear that I was glowing sympathetically, my own skin taking hue of its own from her luster. I loved her, and sought her out from my youth, I desired to make her my spouse, and I was a lover of her beauty. I stepped out of the carriage, allowing my followers to follow along in line. They are all of a goodly nature, from the first to the last, and like me, they all desired her wisdom. Some, of course, more ornery than others, but they have all earned their dues in the other lives. Our procession continues in an orderly fashion, up the stairwell, into the foyer. For she is the breath of the power of God, and a pure influence flowing from the glory of the Almighty: therefore can no defiled thing fall into her. For she is the brightness of the everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of the power of God, and the image of his goodness. And being but one, she can do all things: and remaining in herself, she maketh all things new: and in all ages entering into holy souls, she maketh them friends of God, and prophets. When the feast ended, we retired together to her chambers. The procession did not follow. I have found my Lady Sophia. I am content. |
|
| da'at | ||
gevurah I'm sorry to be so harsh, but I need you out of my way.My name is Rose Lalonde. I'm a detective -- a private one, not for public consumption. Some people might call me "hard-boiled", if they were of a particular literary motivation, but I reject that notion entirely. While it would be great if people took me more seriously, the noir stylings of my personal maze are mostly for the organization of my own thoughts. I allow you into them on my terms. When I was a small girl, my mother was taken from me. To be excessively blunt, it was a traumatic incident that has left more than its fair share of marks, both on me and the world around me. She was a brilliant scientist, a passionate woman, and perhaps, at some points, a decent parent. When I grew up, I knew I would have to find her killer and put him to justice. At the bare minimum, I would need to put her spirit to rest. I joined the police academy as soon as I could. I had to play dumb, of course, and they tried to drill into me values that i vehemently reject, but I'm sure there's some lingering poison in my veins that aches to bite out. Still, it taught me the skill with a violent implement that I would need in order to deliver justice should the legal routes become unavailable to me. I carry it in my holster at all times as a reminder of that potential necessity. My time in the force was relatively unremarkable. I did... policework. Most of it was irrelevant to my greater life's mission. No, the real reason I found myself in the police was that so I could aggregate evidence and begin building up a casefile of my own. When they discovered, they, of course, discharged me. I wasn't surprised by this outcome, and, thankfully, it took them far too long to actually do anything about my propensities for legal grey-zones for them to stop me from accumulating my case. Jack Noir, also known in certain circles as Spades Slick, an alias I find as atrocious as policework. Droll. Boring. Comedic, even. But, I'm not here to ruminate over the status of the aliases (aliasii?) of my enemies. I'm here to put them to justice. A group of ruffians, because, of course, evil prefers company. I'm sure that there's some good reason for Jack and his gang to do the things they do -- slaughtering innocents, extorting politicians, drug deals, embezzlement, money laundering. There's always a reason for something. A part of me passively wonders if Jack has a kid that he'd like to stay seeing someday. And then, another part of me wonders if that kid's a boy or a girl. And then another part of me wonders if what I am doing is wrong or right, and then I attempt to discard the notions of wrong or right, I'm doing this because it's important. Jack Noir Spades Slick Diamonds Droog Clubs Deuce Hearts Boxcars Midnight Crew I need answers I need reasons I need motives I need justice and I'm going to mother fucking get it I just have to do this. That's all. I'm sorry to be so harsh, but I need you out of my way. I'm sorry to be so harsh, but I need you out of my way. I approach the building. Someone with more criminal proclivities might've said "case the joint", but I don't consider myself an active participant of those kind of linguistic shenanigans. A little rinky-dink bar in the bad end of town. The shitty end. The grip of my gun is warm, slightly sticky, in my hands. Sweat has a tendency to do that, at least, in my experience. I see them, and my rage boils over in my blood. Gunfire. It is omnipresent. It is essential. When you point a gun at someone, you are saying "I am willing to take your life," so you better be prepared to follow up on that promise. A bullet is a promise to Death.I'm sorry to be so harsh, but I need you out of my way. |
chesed
|
|
|
tiferet I awaken in the night to the sound of the crow's call, pecking at my mind in the moon's luminous glow. The window casts a familiar frame-shaped shadow across the wall, and as I swing my legs over the side of my bed, I take some time to smooth the wrinkles out of my nightgown. There is bright flash of lightning, and moments later, the clap of thunder. When my ears adjust post-rumbling of the house's settling, wooden frame, I hear the beatific prattling of endless raindrops upon the roof above me.
There is a small groaning sound behind me as I get up from my bed. When I turn to look, there is nothing there. I'm not surprised, of course, at the groaning or the lack of physical presence. Such events have been occurring for quite some time now, despite my bed being up against a wall and, therefore, it being impossible for something to be behind it. My brother sleeps quietly on the bunk above me.
It's this sort of calm environment that I do my best work in. I grab the lantern off the nightstand, as well as a match. I strike one against the wood, in order to generate a sufficient amount of light to see by in the manse's inky depths. Another lightning strike gives me more than enough light to aim by, igniting the lamp. I blow out the match, shut the apparatus, and cloak myself within a blanket so as to avoid rousing any sleepers.
The groaning continues, in a fashion. I turn around to cast my gaze upon Dave, and with it, cast light through his still form. When I see little but the stirring of an impatient sleeper, I turn back around. I am bathed in orange light.
I make my way down the stairwell, keeping the lantern held tight in one hand and the edge of my blanket in another. I make great pains not to trip over myself -- the last thing I need this early in the night is some manner of cranial injury to befall me. A grandfather clock chimes his most bountiful cues, two, three, four in the morning, a most excellent time to be up to something in particular. The purple hues of my blanket surround me in a layer of warmth.
I make my way through the labyrinthine household like a rat in a maze, chasing for its meal. I pass by the orange-patterned curtains, emblazoned with the shining sun, and cast my wicked gaze upon them with the most sonorous of scowls I can imagine. Hopefully my predecessor, if she is watching me from the Heavens, finds my disrespect to be awfully displeasing.
I enter the kitchen, tightening my blanket around myself. The light here is exceptionally low in intensity, due to the lack of windows -- I almost miss, entirely, when I step on something wet and sticky. I am, of course, no stranger to the macabre, and I can recognize the sound of corpsewater, the distinct sensation of sinking a bare foot into blood, but that, obviously, derives more questions than answers. I tighten the blanket further.
The metallic groaning from before echoes itself through the halls, proving my days-old hypothesis that this is, in fact, following me. The noise has only been increasing in intensity and frequency, and as I turn my head over my shoulder to perhaps catch sight of its source, I see little of such machinery, only yellow-red-silhouetted shadows burnt into the walls, moving as I do.
When the trail finally leads me to the source of the blood, I gasp. My own blood begins to run cold in my veins. I bend down, and flip over the body, cringing in disgust. When I am taunted with the face of my brother, I feel a particular form of tingle run its way through my spine. I hear a groaning noise behind me, and turn around, wide-eyed.
|
||
|
hod I have always been one to attempt to understand the unknowable. I take great pride in my mastery of the subjects of the arcane and elusive, that I may one day escape this limiting cave from which shadows cast down themselves and approach some more complete realm. On occasion, I stare at the mirror hung on my wall and wonder perhaps if there is more to me than the light that shines through these three restraining dimensions. When I look, something looks back. I see sunlight behind my lilac gaze, and I feel a smile worm its way through my lips from the other end. I tear my vision away from myself, and decide that if I am to be having a meeting with an extraspatial entity of some kind, I may as well look dashing while doing so. Not to say that I consider myself a particularly vanity-ridden individual, but there's a certain level of respect you would likely want to show to members of any noble circle, extraplanar princes, princesses, and monarchs not excluded from those ranks. Unless, of course, you prefer your skin to no longer be attached to the rest of your physical form. I spend perhaps a bit too long making sure not a single hair is out of place before enrobing myself in the most wizardly attire I can manage. I must, of course, look impressive for my guest. While I'm certain any lies upon my brow will be immediately discerned, and thus presenting myself as anything more than an apprentice would be a fool's errand, I can still have some fun with it. Even if my robes are dragging on the floor a little. I heh-hem softly into the elbow of my robe, and adjust my headband. I draw my wand, and gently trace a circle on the mirror. My mouth speaks in tongues half-memorized in the dreary hazes of sleep paralysis, self-induced for this very purpose. Something metallic gleams through. I see myself in the mirror, burning with sunlight. Whatever divine or demonic entity feels the need to imitate me, they do so with stark recollection and impressive form. The being's gaze picks its way through me, grabbing hold of my visage like a jeweler examining a gemstone for cracks, leaks, fissures of mana. I feel myself pried for every weakness. I feel a presence in my head that feels inimitable, alien, like a duplicate of my own thought processes running within a separate soul. My vision blurs at the edges, but I hold fast. The thought of this encounter being a mistake never enters my mind once. Then, I hear foreign noises. A smith grinding steel against steel, drawing a blade through my skull -- metaphorically speaking, of course. I need to do nothing more but accept what gift I am given from the gracious outer entities. After all, I am an excellent host. I feel the being's light cast through me. I hear my shadows on the wall. When I turn to face them, the being disappears from my view, and when I look back, they are gone. |
netzach I smile down at the clouds below, watching as my plane gently careens itself towards the ocean. There's something distinctly calming about airplane flight, despite my hatred of the sky. If I had it my way, I would be traveling by boat to every exotic locale, letting the waves lap small droplets of salt-infused seawater onto a delightful orange sundress. I fucking hate it up here. A flight attendant offers refreshments and I take the offer of a ginger ale and a small box of salty, crunchy things. My brother and his friend both sleep soundly next to me, leaning against each other. I think they look cute like that, but in this window seat, I can feel the heat radiating off of them and the little tiny fan embedded above me does not do nearly enough to provide relief from that discomfort. The plane continues its upward ascent. After ten minutes of staring at a white void of clouds, I shut my eyes and |
|
|
malkhut :: tentacleTherapist :: PESTERLOG: -- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:34 -- TT: Greetings. -- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:33 --
PESTER! |
