@[Sabbath] how DARE you - Eight is always nice! I already have an idea for this - but it was getting to be a long post.
also @[The Plague] 'cause, sorry Sabby ):
You are further away than you have ever known (farther from home; from security; from reality). Your stage has been swept clear - your mewling child voice begging for aid has been lost to the wind (can you feel it? Feather light on your sides - the stench of death and glory). You walk, so diligently by His side (- but you don’t quite know why, do you?). He plucks your thoughts like ribbons from a basket - thisone, thatone - and you are none the wiser. Your mind is ripe and bursting (slick blood, pulsing membrane) - you are nearly begging Him to come inside, yes Sir, right this way. And so He does - Vulgaris and your one character play, your portion in the Plague, your past and present and future - His, His for the taking.
“Come, girl.” His voice urges you on throughout the journey, when he feels your mind bending against His will - when He feels your hesitancy, feels your past pullingpulling at your hooves. And so you follow. Farther and farther into the birthplace of the Plague- your mind still spilling out like a reel of film for Him to watch. He tries (really, he does) - to make it momentarily bearable as you stray further from what you know. Flowers sprout from the rib cages of the dead - a measly welcome to the land of the dead (and just as quickly fade away). The waft of rot is occasionally broken by the sweet smell of grass and soil. (HetriesHetries).
And you follow. Closer and closer to His dark skin, like you are seeking a cocoon (to save you from what?) - He feels your tremble, your lust and desire (no, not for His skin, but for his blood - for the silvered liquid flowing inside, the lifeline to living for you). He does not touch you in comfort, but He does not shirk you off (no, you eventually do that yourself). Why are you here? Why has He brought you to this dessicated land - empty of all souls? There are none here it seems but you and the magician - are you fearful? Do you still taste the liquid he spilled for you? Or are you only tasting death?
He does not answer you quite so quickly - and you spill forth another declaration. They will look for you. They ; He sees the dappled gray figure that he plucked from your mind (ahh, so that is where you finagled your viperous form) - they, the land of Loess (thank you - for your home so easily named from the recesses of your thoughts). This thought has solidified you - you are certain to go no further, because you are quite sure there are others out there that will come crawling through the words (flashlights winking, your name called across the barren plains). You will go no further - this much He can read from the brief skim of your mind.
And so He stops abruptly as you pull away. Instead of a question, or concern, a small smile douses His face (He could be beautiful, if it did not strike such fear in your soul). “My darling Sabbath - we came here for you to live!” There is laughter in His eyes as He tilts his chin up slightly - pointing towards your face and what you will become. There is blood sliding from the cavern of your nose (brightbright, like what you drank from His body). Is it really Him? No - it is father! - his grey and snake-type body before you. (Was that ‘live’? It sounded like die.) “Please help me, my master is sick” Father pleads, his eyes desperate in the haze of Pangea. And then it is His face before you, his nose leaking red, dripdripdrip. “Drink up, my lovely Sabbath.” His words seep from a mouth that looks rotting and wicked, beckoning to you like the lull of a siren. The world is hazy, dizzy, spinning.
Oh my little lost Sabbath - the chair has been kicked - you are dangling now.
also @[The Plague] 'cause, sorry Sabby ):
no matter what they say, I am still the king
You are further away than you have ever known (farther from home; from security; from reality). Your stage has been swept clear - your mewling child voice begging for aid has been lost to the wind (can you feel it? Feather light on your sides - the stench of death and glory). You walk, so diligently by His side (- but you don’t quite know why, do you?). He plucks your thoughts like ribbons from a basket - thisone, thatone - and you are none the wiser. Your mind is ripe and bursting (slick blood, pulsing membrane) - you are nearly begging Him to come inside, yes Sir, right this way. And so He does - Vulgaris and your one character play, your portion in the Plague, your past and present and future - His, His for the taking.
“Come, girl.” His voice urges you on throughout the journey, when he feels your mind bending against His will - when He feels your hesitancy, feels your past pullingpulling at your hooves. And so you follow. Farther and farther into the birthplace of the Plague- your mind still spilling out like a reel of film for Him to watch. He tries (really, he does) - to make it momentarily bearable as you stray further from what you know. Flowers sprout from the rib cages of the dead - a measly welcome to the land of the dead (and just as quickly fade away). The waft of rot is occasionally broken by the sweet smell of grass and soil. (HetriesHetries).
And you follow. Closer and closer to His dark skin, like you are seeking a cocoon (to save you from what?) - He feels your tremble, your lust and desire (no, not for His skin, but for his blood - for the silvered liquid flowing inside, the lifeline to living for you). He does not touch you in comfort, but He does not shirk you off (no, you eventually do that yourself). Why are you here? Why has He brought you to this dessicated land - empty of all souls? There are none here it seems but you and the magician - are you fearful? Do you still taste the liquid he spilled for you? Or are you only tasting death?
He does not answer you quite so quickly - and you spill forth another declaration. They will look for you. They ; He sees the dappled gray figure that he plucked from your mind (ahh, so that is where you finagled your viperous form) - they, the land of Loess (thank you - for your home so easily named from the recesses of your thoughts). This thought has solidified you - you are certain to go no further, because you are quite sure there are others out there that will come crawling through the words (flashlights winking, your name called across the barren plains). You will go no further - this much He can read from the brief skim of your mind.
And so He stops abruptly as you pull away. Instead of a question, or concern, a small smile douses His face (He could be beautiful, if it did not strike such fear in your soul). “My darling Sabbath - we came here for you to live!” There is laughter in His eyes as He tilts his chin up slightly - pointing towards your face and what you will become. There is blood sliding from the cavern of your nose (brightbright, like what you drank from His body). Is it really Him? No - it is father! - his grey and snake-type body before you. (Was that ‘live’? It sounded like die.) “Please help me, my master is sick” Father pleads, his eyes desperate in the haze of Pangea. And then it is His face before you, his nose leaking red, dripdripdrip. “Drink up, my lovely Sabbath.” His words seep from a mouth that looks rotting and wicked, beckoning to you like the lull of a siren. The world is hazy, dizzy, spinning.
Oh my little lost Sabbath - the chair has been kicked - you are dangling now.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in