Tristan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelcage) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hauntstart2025-07-12 09:58 pm
angelcage) wrote in hauntstart2025-07-12 09:58 pm
AN OPENING
[ When you died, you, amongst the many dead set adrift in the depths of unbecoming, were chosen by the world. You were caressed, stood back up, and death was brushed from your shoulders as they straightened your body back into a shape presentable enough to be a person again. Grave dirt sloughed from you. Your lungs and heart stretched, yawned, and opened to a pale dawn. You came back whole. Three gifts from the world that loves you were pressed into your hands.
You awaken in a world that loves few things. A world that even death picks over the offerings, taking few cleanly and completely, leaving old hurts pile up in the hinterlands outside the cities, where locals take refuge from ghosts and comfort and distraction in each other. Things go wrong here, frequently. Things go weird here, frequently. Reality is thin, as many parts of reality have better things to do than hang around here all day. Because you are loved, maybe things will go better for you while you are here.
You awaken, more specifically, in a part of the world called Lockscentre. This is a part of the world that is a city. You don't need to guess or be told either of these things, as you wake up in the clearly labeled LOCKSCENTRE STRANGER CEMETARY.
Or, well, it says that clearly when you climb out of your coffin.]
Maybe Violence's wet and ruddy hands took yours in hers with a firm grip.But three made contact, gave gifts, and the last one had one more offering to leave with you. Lastly, the world has given you a train ticket. Departure: any time. Destination: elsewhere. You just need to find the platform.
Maybe Hierarchy's gloved hands took yours in his with expectation behind that grasp.
Maybe The Audience's many hands swarmed up your hands and wrist, and shook with star-struck enthusiasm.
Maybe Charade's hands, bejeweled with costume jewelry, took yours and pressed a kiss to the back of your palm.
Maybe Challenge's rough calloused hands pumped your hand, grip tight and demanding answer.
Maybe Lore's hands, charged with unknown power, touched yours and a spark sizzled between you both.
Maybe Pain's taloned claws dug in, small pinpricks of pain welling up where skin came near to breaking.
Maybe Love's warm palms and gentle fingers entwined together with yours.
Maybe Portents's hands with nails freshly inked traced a runed pattern against the back of your hands.
Maybe Devils' hands, radiant with heat and promise, caressed yours with a giggle or pinched.
Maybe Architecture's hands in elegant angles shook yours in the precise motions of a promise sealed.
Maybe Death's phalanges and metacarpals locked about your hand and, for a moment, seemed they would never let go.
Maybe Life's verdant and furred hands met yours briefly, in an energetic clap of camaraderie.
Maybe Impulse's electric mechanisms whirred in an exploratory imitation of a greeting.
Maybe Controversy's hands held to yours fast, tugging you in opposite directions as they reluctantly parted.
Maybe The Bizarre's hands spiraled up about you and, with the cold impression of mist, vanished before you could return the clasp.
Maybe Miracle's gold and shining hands took yours in a shake of perfect agreement.
Maybe Prey's frantic and small hands pumped yours in an eager and nimble greeting, gone before you had a chance to react.
Maybe The Hunter's heavy strength enveloped your palm in their planned and patient grasp.
Maybe Corruption's scales slid up past your hand, wrist, and arm, up to your cheek, where she patted you with gentle sympathy.
You awaken in a world that loves few things. A world that even death picks over the offerings, taking few cleanly and completely, leaving old hurts pile up in the hinterlands outside the cities, where locals take refuge from ghosts and comfort and distraction in each other. Things go wrong here, frequently. Things go weird here, frequently. Reality is thin, as many parts of reality have better things to do than hang around here all day. Because you are loved, maybe things will go better for you while you are here.
You awaken, more specifically, in a part of the world called Lockscentre. This is a part of the world that is a city. You don't need to guess or be told either of these things, as you wake up in the clearly labeled LOCKSCENTRE STRANGER CEMETARY.
Or, well, it says that clearly when you climb out of your coffin.]
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
[ Cobra can watch him as he stares really hard at the words on the paper. his brows furrow, a frown pulling his usual smirk down. before he abruptly appears to give up, whirling on the Cobra instead. ]
You can read, right?
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
I can. You wanna hear the whole thing, or just a summary?
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
Whole thing. I'll follow along.
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and true to his word he is trying to follow along on the page... as if willing himself to memorize these words in one go.
well, the magic podium is about to make his efforts meaningless but he is trying. ]
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
So, now what we're looking at is eighth day of the fourth month, twenty-second day of the eighth month, uh...
[ does a little conversion in his head ]
Forty-fifth day of the eighth month, fifteenth day of the first month, fortieth day of the fifth month, seventh day of the seventh month.
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW
Unless you're searching for which is the most comfortable to nap in which is not a currently relevant problem but if you end up staying the night it might be. in which case, the crown is the nicest ]
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Re: THE MIDNIGHT START CREW