August 21, 2002
gathering for the departed [kaj'sha-sian]

[tunnels beneath the wyrmpit | forum post]

the monster walks alone

talon's tck echoing in the dark, lonely tunnels below even where blood flows through the Spiral's Heart, long tail mesmerizing sway with each (solemn) step - journey beginning in the sculpted hallways of the Labs, finding where tile gave way to worn dirt, then those paths relinquishing familiarity to places rarely trod

it is still down here.
quiet
empty......

accompanied only by the still form slung across muscular shoulder (viscera weeping to leave breadcrumb trail) the singular procession does not halt until the end of a tunnel bars silent path

mismatched eyes (father's gifts) glow bale-fire in the darkness (nuclear warmth on night's horizon sky), crouching, body falling limply to sprawl prone before him (supplication even in death) and the young Dancer stills in silent (chilling) contemplation

............Twister..........

whispers echoing though black lips never move - verbal language forsaken and the growls, gestures, and mind-rending whispers of the Black Spiral Dancers embraced

talons drag through congealed blood (clothing powderburnt, flaking to the ground) near black ink drawn from the body itself (lividity my inspiration)

........... Gur'thek.........

glyphs are draw about the body of murdered (assassinated) packmate
stories told, lessons learned
a tainted record all his own

the creature unfolds, taloned hands reaching to caress the ceiling (Wyrm's skin - Gaia's underbelly) tears of green falling from razored tips..... and from the Father's consort does he rip handfuls of dirt to rain across the body as black hail until a mound of packed rubble (saturated with toxic claw's caress) covers the dead man (monster) before him

.........of the Father....... return to Him......

underhinged jaw lifting as a long, solo howl rips through the tunnels

A howl echoes through the den-lab-home that they had made. A death she might've wanted to see (....you know she wouldn't have cared.) And it had been a while since Sian was seen laying about (...you know they wouldn't have a cared.) her absense during the search for Malcolm highlighting the vacancy of steel-lined musculature and dagger sharp violence.

Where.
(...like a chainsaw.)
Was.
(...if my day keeps goin' this way--)
She.


The door to her room is left ajar; falls open under the seeking presence of another. The stagnant air of (..apathy..) still lingering in her ventless room. Opened door spills in the light of the hallway through darkened recess thick as molasses. Along the floor pieces of broke furniture lay as unburied bodies on a battlefield...

But it is the wall that draws your eye.
[RETURN & AHROUN]
Twining glyphs carved into the walls's surface.

He is there.

He who ordered it done.
He who had no part in the doing.
He who has no part in the burying of the dead.

But he is there, for the Rite is his to cast as the words are Grra'ack's to speak, and his black eyes watch, hooded, unknown.

Behind those eyes, within the fallen one's dark heart, what lies, what truths entwine? Sorrow, for the fallen brother? Pleasure, for the fallen foe? Or perhaps, merely a sense of (twisted) justice...

Out of darkness were you born.
Out of night came you to us.
Child of the Father, Bastard of the Corruption's Dance:
Your time has come. Your deeds are done.
Servant of the Deceiver, Spawn of the Defiler:
Back to the night shall you pass.
Back to the darkness shall you go.

The lean silvery wolf-man's right hand rises once. A handful of dust (I will show you fear...) drifts from his open palm, scattering over the remains of his once-packmate.

Malcom.
Twister of Tales.
Gurthek.
Brother.

The Philodox rises and walks away.

---

...into the main room of the pack's Pit. Corridors branch away from it, one to his own impeccable, sterile (...just like him...) room; another to Asher's; another to SickBoy's, and so on and so forth.

But something has changed. A room so often closed is open. Within, silence - and not the breathing sort that surrounds her so often.

The lean Philodox stops, wondering. He pushes the door open and he slips within, pitchblack eyes seeing effortlessly. He sees the mess, the overturned furniture, testaments to her great Rage...

...and he sees the glyphs, not because ink was visible to him, but because blood glows faintly in radiation's glare.

His mouth curves up, ever so slightly. Ever so inscrutably.

Posted by asher at August 21, 2002 12:00 AM
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