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shadow over dreamwidth [open post]
[This is an open post for Rune/Solomon/Ilhatar/Liam O'Rian/Freckled Garbage Monster. Here are some scenarios for you.
A. Baby It's Awful Down Where it's Wetter
A few seconds ago, you were doing...whatever it was you were doing, in the place you expected to be in. Now you are not. This is...it looks to be a basement or something, marble floors and glass walls (which makes it fucking freezing, by the way, I hope you have a coat). The light is very dim and sickly green; what's worse is that it flickers and dances and leers like a drunken, living thing. Also those glass walls? Aquarium walls. Some of the fish swim in and out of view, and they're all horrible deep-sea monstrosities, of course they are. There are little placards beneath the glass, listing all the awful, awful species.
Also, there's a young man, sitting on a sofa, the only furniture in the room, reading a book. In this light? He'll ruin his eyes.
B. A Little Bit Of Gardening Never Hurt Anyone (We Cared About)
As a contrast, this is a garden. It's a beautiful garden! It's peaceful, and in full bloom, and the sun's shining in through the glass. Ignore things like the skull-shaped pots for some of the smaller plants, and the fact that every single flower in here is poisonous or has thorns or both. Also, there's a freckled...person with a giant floppy sunhat staring at you. All his hair, poking out from under the hat, is also staring at you.
They would like to know why you're in their garden?
C. STOP SUMMONING FOREIGNERS GODDAMMIT
Like. Whatever Holy Grail War this is, however completely fucked the greater grail is this time, a summoning circle probably shouldn't vomit black ooze and your command seals just turned bright green and all the shadows have eyes. Have we learned nothing from the Einsenbergs? Have we learned nothing from Chaldea?
Anyway the shadowy mess coming out of the circle seems to have turned to regard you, what do.
D. Make up your own prompt, live freely, I'm not your Dad
A. Baby It's Awful Down Where it's Wetter
A few seconds ago, you were doing...whatever it was you were doing, in the place you expected to be in. Now you are not. This is...it looks to be a basement or something, marble floors and glass walls (which makes it fucking freezing, by the way, I hope you have a coat). The light is very dim and sickly green; what's worse is that it flickers and dances and leers like a drunken, living thing. Also those glass walls? Aquarium walls. Some of the fish swim in and out of view, and they're all horrible deep-sea monstrosities, of course they are. There are little placards beneath the glass, listing all the awful, awful species.
Also, there's a young man, sitting on a sofa, the only furniture in the room, reading a book. In this light? He'll ruin his eyes.
B. A Little Bit Of Gardening Never Hurt Anyone (We Cared About)
As a contrast, this is a garden. It's a beautiful garden! It's peaceful, and in full bloom, and the sun's shining in through the glass. Ignore things like the skull-shaped pots for some of the smaller plants, and the fact that every single flower in here is poisonous or has thorns or both. Also, there's a freckled...person with a giant floppy sunhat staring at you. All his hair, poking out from under the hat, is also staring at you.
They would like to know why you're in their garden?
C. STOP SUMMONING FOREIGNERS GODDAMMIT
Like. Whatever Holy Grail War this is, however completely fucked the greater grail is this time, a summoning circle probably shouldn't vomit black ooze and your command seals just turned bright green and all the shadows have eyes. Have we learned nothing from the Einsenbergs? Have we learned nothing from Chaldea?
Anyway the shadowy mess coming out of the circle seems to have turned to regard you, what do.
D. Make up your own prompt, live freely, I'm not your Dad
no subject
Ilhatar is thinking.]
A script...for someone such as you?
[He snaps the book closed, stands up, reopens it, but it's a different book. Some unauthorized spinoff. A serialization. A play. A screenplay for a tv series, some truly godawful movies, a hundred thousand snippets of sparked imaginations--he flips through it, and then drops it back on the couch.]
I'm afraid horror is more my genre than mystery...I'm not entirely sure what to give you.
no subject
Then I'd very much like to be sent back, if you please. If you've no business for me I've no interest.
no subject
[He tilts his head to one side, smiling, perfectly innocent. Harmless. Possibly a freckle singularity. ]
So, a fair price must be agreed on.
no subject
Therefore: he does not trust the stranger before him. Sherlock Holmes does not trust in anyone, save for one man.
His grey eyes, luminous like a cat's, narrow ever-so-slightly.]
Hmm.
[He taps a slender finger against his chin.]
I see. You've no control of the situation, either.
no subject
[His eyes--his eyes are so Green. There are no pupils, just an endless depth of green. They aren't luminous, no, they are truly lit. And he stares into this patchwork man's being, hunting for his desire. The 'wish' buried in a person's core. Liam is certain he has one, sure as all things that were ever human do.]
...Hmm. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Well, I'm no Doyle, but it seems to me there's at least a decent puzzle I can give you to solve. Please excuse the turbulence.
[The universe bends. It stretches and shifts and crackles at the seams as Liam rearranges it. The room has changed--piled with books, cramped and claustrophobic, something bubbling in beakers and cupboards open and strewn everywhere. Two men lay dead--an older gentleman, blood and foam dribbling out his mouth, a jeweled cup not far from him. And a younger man...who might have looked familiar, if not for the horrific state his body is in. Eyes torn out. Lacerated. Shot. Stabbed. The body is broken, and something more about is deeply unsettling at it's core. Something unnameable, for now.
The room is filled with a sweet, cloying scent. And a voice echoes through the room.]
Find my name, Sherlock Holmes. Tell me what became of these men, and find my name. That will be your fare.
no subject
( and, when liam peeks in, a universe of eyes peeks back. spotted across a black backdrop like a galaxy of multicolored stars light-years away, of all different shapes and sizes, drooped and mismatched as if the painter were unsteady and careless of hand. they peek back and they all blink their messages out of time.
helithurtslo hleaveello hellwhoareyouwhoishewhoamio hellhelpo helmorepleasemorealwaysmorelo
there are, indeed, many "wishes" for liam to peruse. )
The set twists. The curtain rises. Sherlock doesn't know when he began clutching his head but when it all settles he can feel his fingers clawed deep into his scalp. Space and time settle. He feels sick, deep in his gut, but he still smiles. Wrenches his hands off his head and presses them together to hide the ugly expression on his face.]
Ha. Ha ha ha! Your name? That's an odd request, Mr. Green. Do you not know yourself? That's a pitiable state to live in.
no subject
[His presence is still here, even if the young man is no longer visible. In that sickening scent, in the strange texture to the shadows of the room, to the constant feeling of a gaze on his back.]
So, hunter, sort through the lies and find the truth within this distorted reality. All the pieces of this tale are here...and please. There is no need to think of me as your opponent, in this game. I am simply the stagehand for this show.
no subject
What makes you think I am capable of this task, Mr. Green? Surely you were able to discern that I am a fake.
no subject
[There's laughter, soft and pleasant and kind of like ants underneath your skin.]
I've a fondness for patchwork beings. No, I think it is because you are fake, you are most qualified.
no subject
May I ask a question before I begin, then?
no subject
[It's friendship, Holmes, let it into your heart.]
no subject
You are a god. Whether you are a true one matters little to your devotees. What good comes from chasing the vestiges of your human self?
no subject
Oh! What a charming question...well, it's difficult to answer without spoiling the mystery, but the essence of it is--I will always be both, and neither. That is the condition for what I am, what I was, what I will be.
no subject
Gods. You're all as unreadable as the trash I'm made of.
[He squats to get a closer look at both the bodies.]
CW: GORE
[Liam, pls.
The older gentleman is an aristocrat, through and through. The outfit speaks as much, impeccably tailored and smartly pressed. He shows signs of cardiac arrest, and a flower tucked into his lapel--a daffodil--would indicate akaloid poisoning. As for the other young man...
it's a frightful scene. His eyes removed, the vacant slots seem almost bottomless. there are lacerations over every inch of his body, the limbs splayed in unnatural angles from being broken repeatedly. His clothes--or what remains of them--are working class, and poorly kept, from that. his wrists, ankles and throat all have rope burns--he was on a rack, and then hung. Furthermore, there are several bullet wounds in his chest, and below them, the boy's stomach was cut open and exposed.
But there is no blood.
There is an inky blackness that suffuses through his organs and bruises and cuts. The pallor in his skin seems to come from this lack of blood. there's no stains from an exsanguination, no streaks or any indication there was ever blood in this body. those empty sockets, and his mouth (if pried open), simply contain a bottomless, inky blackness.
There's a sound, the closer the body is examined. A quiet, irregular, but persistent thump.]
no subject
It was the detective's.
He examines each body with the efficiency and coldness of a professional. Feels the clammy skin, turns each limb to properly catch all the data. Death by poison for the older gentleman - that's an easy one. As for the younger man--
Holmes kneels beside him. Almost idly, he pokes a finger into one of the eye sockets. How deep do they really go?]