"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He longs for quiet, but not this kind of quiet.
He wants a quiet of the mind, of the soul – not of the world around him. It is not the stink of abandonment, but the gentle pressure of the quiet
(the dark)
inside.
Instead, he has this – a forest that feels bereft of life. Some things stir, sure – the susurrus of birds’ wings, the subtle shifting of leaves under a beetle’s foot. But mostly, it feels so goddamn quiet.
He does not know what is becoming – or has become – of him. He knows he is different, now, that something thrums under his veins. But he is so used to changing, see! His body has never truly been his, not for a long time. His body has too long been distorted at the whim of the dozen strange worlds he has been thrust into.
So how is this any different?
So what if the world seems to be falling apart?
(He never knows if the things he’s witnessed were his doing, or if they were even real at all. Things burst into flame, sometime. The rocks turn into tigers. A cackle screeches out into the darkness, emanating from nothing and everything at once.
But there is never anyone else around to react. And Sleaze does not trust his mind. He does not trust anything.)
He is hopeless in his movement, trudging along a path that has begun to disappear back to the forest. He feels a strange pang of sadness, then, and whether it is for the disappearance of a once-loved trail or for the new growth he crushes beneath his feet, I could not tell you.
(He must not be entirely hopeless, then – for he moves still. He moves still.)
She longs for sound, but not this kind of sound.
She wants shuffling wings, serene song, the soft steps of the Goddess never too far to hear.
Instead, she has this—the near-silence of the winter forest punctuated by the landing of snowflakes that only she can hear. Her injury grows insulted by the winter's frozen hostility, a greater devil than any of the nether-beings she has encountered during her brief time on earth. Brief, but growing, now. She lies to herself, pretends to know how many moons have yet passed since her descent. Pretends to understand why the Goddess chose her.
A step, not far off. She twists her ears thirstily to catch their sound. Bleary from the exertion of a recent time-warp (can you blame her for skipping this miserable season?), she wonders if perhaps the Goddess has returned to welcome her disciple home, to wish her a job well done. But what job have I done? Lillia wonders. A line creases upon her creamy brow, its depths accentuated by the glow of her halo. How can I finish my mission if I am beginning to forget ever receiving it?
But it is not the Goddess who rounds the corner. No, of course not.
It is a man, taller of course, and quilted in a deep violet reminiscent of deep wells of blood beneath a midnight sky.
He trudges through the underbrush lightly coated in snow. And upon his face a weary expression not dissimilar to her own.
A flicker in her chest reminds her of the hope she embodies, of the warmth she can bestow upon others. But she ignores its beckoning familiarity, wondering perversely if the personification of sadness before her might have wounds she could sap.
Not to lighten his burden.
To help her feel anything at all.
"Hello," she says from her position off his dwindling path. The snow falling between them obscures and reveals her eyes, set intently as they are upon his. Her voice, usually lyrical and saccharine, plays instead a morose, cynical ballad into the cool air. "Tell me... Is it nice to meet you?"
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Hark!
The angel may not be singing, but she is there and she is real.
(He hopes.)
He just stares, for a moment. No doubt unnerving, as he surveys her, his stare too intense. It is not the lecherous stare that men often have, but rather, he studies her for some clue to her corporality, some assurance that she is not a dream. His mind, so ever weary, finds no real evidence to either side. She is striking, the paleness of her and the flurry of wings. And shockingly small, enough that he wants to shrink himself, feeling like some looming purple shadow, unfit to be beheld by royalty.
But it has been so long. He is so lonely. And so, rather than remove himself from her presence – rather than protect her from him, from whatever he is – he speaks.
“Hello,” he says, and he moves his head in a nod. She stays solid, unchanging, and so he finally shifts his gaze from her.
He is tempted to move closer, but he resists the urge, slowly remembering his manners. She asks a question – a far one, he supposes – and he considers it.
“I suppose it depends what you find nice,” he says, a little wryly, “but I hope so.” I hope you are real, he means, I hope I haven’t dreamt you up myself.
03-17-2026, 10:57 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2026, 11:00 PM by Lillia.)
Their gazes lock and neither one nor the other seems to intuit the should-be discomfort of their intense ocular exchange. Lillia, for her part, discerns the violet's unwavering gaze as one of fascination--no--desperation. For what, she cannot discern.
(And if she knew that he searches for corporality and substance in the cream-rose of her hide, perhaps she would laugh; for oh, how she so wishes to abandon what he so desperately seeks).
(As it stands, the absence of knowing leaves her curious, too.)
She flares her cupped nostrils to inhale his scent. Pine needles, heavy fog, long-dried sweat. And deeper within herself, in the nest of heaven that sits abreast her heart, she senses something dank and opposite to that which she embodies. An emptiness within the violet that counters her hope.
She licks her lips.
"Hope!" The word leaps from her far too quickly, the sound of her voice following after his like a dog at the ankle; but her exclamation is more subdued than a dog, yes, more like a cat, poking its head from where it rested, intrigued by the appearance of something small, twitching. "I... hope so, too." This with more care and thought, for the idea of the cavernous violet before her experiencing that which imbues her soul with meaning (hope) jostles loose some of the fog enshrining her usual self.
She softens her gaze, her lips, her posture. Steps forward, once.
"I am the Angel Lillia, and I find it nice to be in your company rather than alone in this pitiful weather." She lifts a small hoof and glances in the direction of Violet's untrodden path, her intention overt if unspoken.
