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                                it`s way too late ❜ ▬▬▬▬ to be this locked inside ourselves
                                xxxxxTHE TROUBLE IS THAT YOU'RE IN L⋮ OVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx ◞IT SHOULD❜ ×BE ME
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSACRED PARTS, YOUR GETAWAYS ●●
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxx&:YOU COME ALONG ON SUMMER DAYS
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxtenderly *:↘ tastefully
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxI'M IN LOVExxx✽. WITH SOMETHING REAL
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxit could be me that's changing it could be me that's changing it could be me that's changing
                                .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... ....
                                xxxxxxxx✿: ↘ two lovers walk a lakeside mile OH, HOW I LOVE YOU
                                xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxnell myshkin the angry girl coding by wingfat

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                                                  Two women—men?—people—sat fawning over a young woman. There were brushes being yanked through her hair and a corset being shoved onto her—hadn't those gone out of style yet?—while the victim of these atrocities sat, defenseless and fuming. She didn't like it that she was being made 'pretty.' She was fine with her white hair being plain and boring; she was fine with her clothes being plain and boring. She was fine. She didn't need fixing.

                                                  "We'll make you real pretty, won't we?"

                                                  "Real pretty. Real pretty."

                                                  The sigh was miserable. She wondered if demons were assaulting all the other participants in their bedrooms, forcing them to get all fancy for the evening's event. Nell certainly hadn't been expecting it; she'd been napping in her inn, minding her own business, when they came in, spewing piles of 'pretties' and 'lovelies' at her. But wasn't the point that Nell didn't want to be pretty? More accurately, that she could never be pretty. She was too far gone; you had to be pretty far to make it into the preliminary rounds of this competition.

                                                  How cruel, evil, intrinsically animalistic can you be?

                                                  The other competition, the one running alongside hers, was different. How forgiving, kind, magnanimous can you be? They were more than competitions; they were lifestyles. You didn't win Pride, set it on the mantle, and then forget about it the rest of your life. You lived Pride, breathed nothing but yourself. It was something that went on forever, or at least until your expiration.

                                                  So a sick game, then, at least at one end of the spectrum.

                                                  A dark and dreary one for those like Nell; those who were broken enough that even God couldn't fix them. Though she supposed it must have been nothing but pleasant for the others. They didn't even need fixing; if anything, they fixed others. For that, Nell envied them.

                                                  And for the fact that they didn't have to deal with Boone.

                                                  His inhuman, gender-neutral cronies were yanking on the corset ribbon. The sudden constriction caused her to gasp, a white face flushing pink with annoyance and shame. What had she been reduced to? All thanks to desire; the desire for power, for wrath. For her name to be forever associated with the raw emotion called rage. Nell found a sense of pity and self-loathing in the fact; yet something about it was glorious. It was like dull sunlight streaming into a throne room; some semblance of greatness, yet utterly and obviously corrupt.

                                                  With her hair in ringlets and a puffy dress itching at her collar bone, Nell stared at the place. Boone really did like to go all-out, whether in this realm or in his. Guards stood at attention before what one may have confused with a true palace, and for a long while Nell paced back and forth before the place, mumbling to herself little nothings about not being intimidated and being a grown woman. Eventually she did approach the gates, and she was escorted in without having to announce her identity. The guards weren't quite human either, and she wondered how Boone expected Rigel and his crew to actually join them in this place. The mansion itself was regal and bright, and enough of a labyrinth that Nell had to have someone guide her, holding her small, corpse-colored hand, or she would get lost. She'd gotten lost twice now on her way to find the dining hall; however, she did eventually manage it, with the help of a guard.

                                                  The place was nice; she'd give Boone that. But the windows, opening onto a black night sky, had no curtains drawn over them and made Nell stare at them, as if fearing someone was watching from the outside. The room was decorated with deep maroons and slate greys, right down to the paintings lining the walls. All elaborate and signed with illegible names, Nell looked over the paintings and a violent red shade found its way to her cheeks. Were she to check, she would find that none of the pictures in any of the paintings were properly clothed. She bunched up her skirt in her hands, her fingers casually poking about the intricate details on it with guilty, shaky movements.

                                                  She complained to herself about being the first here; though she was early, she didn't think she would be the earliest. Angels were always on time, weren't they? Where were they? Nell knew it was a dangerous idea to accept the devil's dinner invitation, but she also knew it was courteous and kind to accept an invitation and show up on time. With their animosities temporarily tucked away, there wasn't any glaring reason for the pretties not to show up. She never expected beings like herself to show up to anything on time, but she could've expected more from the heavenly ones.

                                                  Nell took her eyes from the painting, though that didn't help her pink face. She instead went to admire Boone's furnishings.

                                                  "Fantastic tablecloth," she grumbled, running a finger along the red silk and feeling the need to gently touch everything currently on the table; silverware, dishes, even the candles burning in the center. She politely wandered the room, glancing towards the door with hopes of company every other minute.

                                                  Sure, the little celebratory get-together didn't make much sense, but it should still be fun, right? Though they were glorifying the competition to be the most pure and most vile beings in existence and the most blissfully free beings in existence, a feast was a feast.

                                                  Her eyes found their way to another one of those paintings; this one was particularly risque and despite feeling inwardly that it was foul and unpleasant to look at, she found herself with a flushed red face and a sort of inability to look elsewhere.

                                                  // lol shitty post but it'S A POST OK AT LEAST IT EXISTS
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                            when your hopes are on fire :
                            ` DON'T HOLD A GLASS OVER THE FLAMEfingerpup( don't let your heart grow cold )
                            fingerpuppet fing i will call you by name i will share your road
                            fingerpuppet puppet mafia♚◞ but hold me fast
                            cause i'm a hopeless wanderer
                            hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast
                            finand i will learn to love the skies i'm under

                                        It was dark out, though not only because the evening had settled in; London was always dark, even in the morning hours. It was the overhanging clouds, the noise, and the dirt. Especially the dirt. It clung to the corners of rooms, and to the hem of every dress. It was in escapable. But he did not mind the dirt; it was the source of life, and indeed, it was quite full of life at the moment. Tendrils were beginning to draw their heads up in search of the absent sun, and they were the color of hope against the dark earth and wet cobblestones. So Rigel did not mind the dirt.

                                        Rigel didn't mind the darkness, either. He was accustomed to it; after all, he had made the darkness and what it cloaked.

                                        It was not often that he touched down to Earth, but he usually cherished the moments when he did. Even the almost omniscient grew tired of being almost omniscient, and condensing himself down into a human body was particularly therapeutic. It allowed him to step outside of himself, in a manner of speaking, and to momentarily forget about Boone, and the war, and the infinite possibilities and uncertainties that the future held. The human race would not be pleased if they knew that Rigel had uncertainities, that, while he knew everything that may come, he didn't know what would come. He disliked uncertainty, and so he kept it from his angels, and told them to have unshakable faith, because he needed something to have faith in him if it was not going to be himself.

                                        Rigel had situated himself as a blacksmith in London, and he wrought items of practicality and luxury. Being a blacksmith suited him, in some way; he liked to work, and the feeling of shaping and molding metal was not much different from that of shaping and molding raw atoms. If one wanted to be technical, metal was indeed comprised of atoms, so the two practices were almost the same. Still, Rigel thought it safer to contain himself to creating inanimate fire pokers or grates; his experiment with forming sentient life could not be safely called successful. Humanity had been his pet project - the tweaking and shifting of a few tiny, but nonetheless important, codes of genetics in one of the many ape species - and had grown to nearly every corner of the petri dish. 'Exploded' might actually be the better word, and Rigel was unused to things changing so quickly. But changing they were, though not always for the best.

                                        He wondered when salutary neglect would begin to backfire in his face. It probably had already.

                                        There was little time for him to ponder the consequences of the human race, as he had other more imminent problems on the horizen. It was the five thousand year marker. Both heaven and hell had narrowed down the numbers until there were only two left. And tonight, as a celebration or an opening ceremony of sorts, there was to be a feast to proceed the trials that would begin the next day.

                                        Said feast was being hosted by Boone, in a mansion as opulent and lavish as its owner. Whereas Rigel found comfort the spartan and the sparse, Boone seemed determined to blind the planet with his showiness. That furnishings were not the only points they disagreed on, went without saying.

                                        At the present, Rigel was cleaning his face of grim and dirt with a cloth, a small dusty mirror, and water in a small pewter bowl. He was dressed neatly but simply - no powdered wig, and the buttons on his jacket were made of brass, not gold. Blacksmiths were not wealthy, and he did not pretend to be. Once he had finished washing, Rigel neated his hair with his fingers, and set a tricorne on his head. Then he went to fetch Seraphina.

                                        He knocked softly but firmly upon the wood of the door. " Seraphina? Are you ready? "

                                        ( ooc; mulli stop calling your posts shitty or i may start to believe you )
One More Revolution's avatar

Wheezing Genius

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                                           ⋮DEEP IN.. THE DUST WAS A &.LEADER* )
                                                S O M E O N E W A S W A L K I N G O N T H E F L O O R B O A R D S   █ █ █  █ █ █ 
                                                      ● t`turned. th;em !from oak to c.edar
                                               H E C A N A S S E S S T H E S I T U A T I O N  H E C A N A S S E S S T H E S I T U A T I O N  H E C A N A S S E S S T H E S I T U A T I O N
                                             ⋯   ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ ⋯ 
                                                                          I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S    I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S
                                                                           I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S    I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S
                                                                              I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S    I W R A P P E D A S T R I N G A R O U N D M Y F I N G E R  I N T O T H E F O R E S T W I T H T H E Y O U N G O N E S

                                           &. I D-DON'T EXPECT. T BE; *A W!NNER

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                                                        Serafina sat behind the polished wood of a round tea table, sewing the damaged hem of a beautiful plum skirt in silence, contemplating how strangely time passed for humans. The passing of a week? A month? A year? It was no more than the blink of an eye to heavenly angels in the grand scheme of time, but humans were such industrial creatures and had constructed modern civilization in an impressively short time, but they were His creatures after all; the angel supposed it was to be expected. The last millenium in particular had been very busy, and the angel had a feeling it was only going to get more dramatic as time went on.

                                                        Even now, things were very busy in the mysterious realm up above, and it never boded well for the faithful in the physical realm. With vices and virtues competing in the mortal world the actions of humans adjusted accordingly to being so close to their direct influence, and it would be difficult for even the most ignorant of humans to miss the sudden influx of such extremes. It warranted Serafina's one question- why did the virtues have to compete, as desiring to be a virtue over another seemed more like a sin in her opinion, but there was a reason she wasn't competing that was most likely beyond the fact that she didn't want to. The angel was young, an ancient being worshiped by mortals but younger than her many angelic siblings. They had ideas, they had feelings and understood when bad things were done with honest reasons- in contrast if Serafina was told to sleep, she wouldn't even ask how long, and whether she woke up or not was none of her concern. She didn't feel things the way her elder siblings did, she was objective and only wished to carry out His will for the good of mortal man. Orders were meant to be followed, and she seemed to be unable to defy them and had no will to. The young angel enjoyed doing her job.

                                                        Turning gently to the window, she could see her distorted reflexion in the uneven window panes. Not a single hair out of place, blue eyes bright in contrast to her red hair. For once she didn't look tousled, bruised, or scathed, and it didn't feel right. If her brothers and sisters were all asked what Serafina Ava's greatest talent was it would be killing demons, not sitting by and watching their competition like a spectator. Taking lives wasn't something Serafina enjoyed because she was created to dislike it, but she wasn't exactly a star at sympathizing and she was better suited for the sword than she was for guardianship. The feeling of her hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sharp blade was second nature, but He had asked it of her, and the soldier had laid down her arms and stepped onto solid ground as the daughter of a big money family who was temporarily staying with her seamstress aunt while the dramatics in France blew over. She even loyally took up shop beside a blacksmith who was known for his luxurious craftsmanship. Evidently the houses were joined, a smart decision as the mannerisms of the day made a woman working with a blacksmith a bit of a scandal, and Serafina needed to be able to move around as easily as possible if she was to do her job properly. These days the appearance of having money bought silence, so she made sure to look like she had money.

                                                        Serafina felt at once honoured and guilty that she should be allowed to monopolize Rigel's time- she was no more than a soldier but she was able to spend days upon weeks with her creator, and it was an honour she felt anxious about more often than not. Being unable to fight for His cause, about to literally sit down for dinner with the devil, overseeing a competition between the greatest gifts and downfalls of man, but as soon as Serafina put the kettle on for tea for three she felt completely at ease, and if she didn't Aleksander and Rigel's stories did. As the heavenly host of the lowest status the red head made it a point to keep the shop she was borrowing and the entire house clean and well stocked, even if other women of her earthly status turned up their noses at her penchant for hard work and the maids giggled as if there must have been some less savoury reason that a lady made tea for a blacksmith. If it hadn't been part of her job to be able to easily move around the higher social circles Serafina would have no qualms about them laughing, but should a virtue get in trouble in the house of a lord or heaven forbid the monarchy she couldn't have scandal blocking her path- apparently mortals didn't take kindly to a young woman being able to go from the front gates to the living room in the blink of an eye so she had been 'living life' as humanly as possible, even if it was a little bit of extra work. It kept her busy now that her hands weren't covered in demon blood, at any rate, which was nice. Looking after the two men who needed help far less than Serafina did and looking after the virtues; those were her jobs, although the former was self-imposed.

                                                        " Seraphina? Are you ready? "

                                                        Carefully, Serafina let the hem of the skirt go so it hung from the mannequin and collected her threads and needles before tossing them into a tin. Any other instance she would have made the effort to place them carefully away, but when Rigel asked her a question instead of phrasing it as a comment that could be implied as a command her unconscious instincts stayed put and she wasn't standing beside Him before He even finished His sentence. Eagerly brushing the bits of thread from her skirts, Serafina didn't bother examining herself before she was out the door. "Yes." The angel never had any articulate answer, but she also never had an excuse. She was exactly where she needed to be when it was asked of her.

                                                        The problem with needing the freedoms of a higher social status was that the clothing of the era was detrimentally restrictive. It was certainly beautiful- dark blue silk embroidered with silver and blue flowers, sleeves trimmed in white lace, but the bows were heavy and she couldn't even be bothered with the weight of jewels and wigs when she was almost certain something at the dinner would be requiring her divine intervention. Rigel dressed in such a way that Serafina felt a nostalgic sense of comfort however, like He was dressed exactly how He should be, and somehow the angel almost felt the need to change into something that matched. It would do neither of them good, she was dressed exactly as she needed to be for her job, but it felt more peaceful when she wore simple gowns. Simple things left time to reflect and consider as the red head innately knew, so from that logic the dinner was going to be a mess of the simple and the extravagantly vain. Looking up at Rigel, Serafina quickly voiced her thoughts. "Are we going to fetch Aleksander?" She didn't presume to know what her superior had been tasked with or even if he needed their presence to get to the dinner at all, but she always asked.

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                                                          IF ;IT'S`— &.GOOD
                                                           O R I F I T ' S F O R T U N E  O R I F I T ' S T O R T U R E
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                                                               i » ..&;can't t`tell )
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            xxx▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ :boone merodach × * the devil
            xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx➡⋮❝ all i need is a heart attack
            xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxCOME ON, HUMBLE MY BONES WITH A CARDIAC
            [******** xxxxxxxx did you ever really think you`d love a guy like me?

                gfx&coding by mulli

                Human nature was one of the most interesting things. He always found it so funny, so predictable; it was fascinating in this way. Pleasure, that came first. They might try to pretend or deny the inner workings and the mechanisms, but wasn't human fire fueled by enjoyment?

                "No, monsieur, I really shouldn't. It would be inappropriate."

                The young duke certainly didn't seem to care what was appropriate or inappropriate an hour later, with a little swaying from a dark-haired, dark-eyed man.

                Boone didn't sneak, and that was arguably one of the scariest things about him. He wouldn't slyly approach, ever. Once, when Boone had gone to kill a past lover, who had at the time been the king of one country or another, he'd charged in through the front gates. He'd been angry; fought off guards and everything else that came his way. He'd torn the king limb from limb, making sure to leave witnesses, and then he'd been swallowed into the ground. Good times. He found himself reminiscing about it a little as he wandered out of the duke's bedchambers, dressing himself as he went.

                "Frère Jacques, frère Jacques..." Wandering quiet back alleys, he sang it. Loudly, obnoxiously. As he continued to walk, he soon heard another join in on his song. A Frenchman, in London? Boone paused in his own singing and turned curiously. A drunkard was laying on the street, slurring the words together.

                Again, Boone sang; walking over to the drunkard, even dancing.

                "Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang," he pulled his leg back, and on his other foot took a step towards the man, "dong!" Foot collided harshly with jaw and Boone's voice barely covered the cracking sound; he stepped away immediately so that the blood from the drunkard's fresh wound wouldn't get on his shoes. A chunk of flesh and bone skittered down the street, settling in a dirty corner for someone to find tomorrow morning. A couple teeth had fallen to the ground during all this, missing from the jaw. Boone picked one up as a souvenir, tucking it into his pocket.

                Politely, straightening out his clothes and brushing himself off, Boone stepped over him and continued on his way, singing again, "Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?"

                When he came home and threw the front doors open, they smacked against the wall and rang out through the mansion. A throne of some silvery, unknown material began to exist in a cloud of thin black smoke upon a gesture from Boone; he sat in it and the thin black smoke began to form thin black figures, smaller than children. One to each leg of the throne, and they lifted it. He was carried down the hall, whistling. Up the stairs they carried him, the small shadow-creatures seeming to struggle under his weight, and at the very top he stepped to his feet. The moment his hands left the throne, it and the servants were gone again.

                He walked down the hall so that he could prepare for the feast, naturally to be fashionably late; Nell was already downstairs, waiting. Preparation didn't take much with someone like Boone, though. A change of the clothes, slapping of Eau de Cologne onto his neck; he pulled the tooth from his pocket and dropped it into a drawer in his dresser. His drawer was nearly full now, and he only had one more; the other two were full, too.

                Boone left the room without the help of dark creatures, and slid down the banister. He strolled into the dining hall, leaving one of the doors open behind him. His silent steps went unnoticed by Nell, the only other creature present. She was enamored with one of his paintings, which he found curious. He came up behind her and only placed his hands on her waist, which was enough to make her visibly bristle. Tiny white hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and Boone took his hands away, and his attention, too.

                "Hungry... quite hungry," he mused to himself, barely the beginnings of a statement. He wasn't in the middle of a conversation in the first place; if anything, he was talking to himself.

                The small, smoky black creatures again made an appearance, this time filing in from the door; each one with a dish held above their heads. With the dishes they almost came up to his knees, and he paid no attention to them as they came by, climbing up to get atop the table and placing their food down before vanishing where they were. Boone stopped wandering the room and came to look over the food, making sure it was acceptable for company. "Polite to wait for guests, isn't it?"
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Dapper Smoker

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                                    How the word sickened her.

                                    Sickening even more so than the creatures that pranced aside her limp corpse. Yes, corpse was a perfectly more accurate word to describe the condition of her living. Soft shadows of candlelight twirled around the room sending dancing figures onto every wall. Oh how the shadows loved to tease her, test her will of desire. It seemed to her that they knew of the need she felt, that they could smell on her the very essence of envy which coursed so rapidly through her veins. How it poured over her lips with every rancid breath and then swept across her hollow eyes to fill the void of emotion. She'd been hollow for years, living with the continual oddity of immortality that so often accompanied her kind. Both sullen eyes swept downward to inspect the creatures which dressed her. Their spider likes fingers, grabbing and spinning narrow stretches of thread across her body as if she were a canvas. One of the minions circled around her body, pinning things in places they need not be. Occasionally a finger would drift too far off and be swatted back down by who seemed to be the 'leading' stylist. Rowen watched their fingers more now, taking in the detail of their ivy veins and the subtle pulse which represented merely half-life. The absence of humanity yet the cruelty and possession of a captured soul. Boone's lackies which had been sent up to 'make pretty' the candidates of his 'side'. Something almost close enough to be called a smile passed along Rowen's lips, but was then easily washed away by her plague of lackluster depression. An always creeping sense of emptiness accompanied her at every step, each breath she drew in would be exhaled in a slow dragging monotony of angst and jealousy. It was not enough, it never was. The thought consumed her, as the creatures continued to draw their hands along her body. Not the touch of their cold skin, nor the creep of their exploring fingers could take her mind from the want, the need to be like them. As their pale pampered skin brushed against her own she lifted one hand, grabbing at the twisting fingers clumsily. In reaction the creatures swatted her away, and continued their business. A hollow groan escaped her lips and she tilted backward on the pedestal they'd stood her.

                                    Both eyes listlessly floated about the room, taking in the dark drapery and flickering candlelight. They'd arrived with dresses now, in several different colors. Each new one a darkened version of the previous. Rowen's eyes settled finally on the glittering shimmer of a soft pink dress. The fabric was silken, something akin to a painting she'd once seen hanging in a gala some years ago. The fabric flowed beneath her fingers easily, flooding the mind with memories before whip-lashing violently into a compulsive fit. Both arms flew from her side, leaving her body bare without the robe, and grabbed at the dress. Her fingers dug into the material, ripping it up to her face where she burrowed her nose deep into the bosom of the gown. She could almost smell the woman they'd no doubt stolen it from. The scent of her death still lingered softly on the beaded lace detailing, black with shimmering rubies that were sewn into the hem. As she inhaled deeply her body snapped backward, spine jolting up and then down in a pattern of rapid successive deep breaths. Each breath filled her with more and more need of this woman. On the dress she could smell the subtle hint of rose petal in her perfume, the stagnant taste of her decorative powder, and even the slightest bit of breath which still clung to the lace neck piece. A thousand beautiful faces poured through Rowen's mind and she shuttered at them all, a wide smile lining her lips and then flickering into nonexistence as she drifted back into what was known as reality to most. The creatures stood in a circle, seemingly unphased by her fit. They drew closer slowly at first but then collapsed upon her and wrapped her into the gown. As they tugged it over her body she smiled, shivers running along her spine and legs as she assumed the mantle of this decayed woman's previous self.

                                    Judging by the rose scent she'd been a woman of class, and obviously the dress suggested wealth, or beauty. Youth was given life by the dust of powder that had clung to the bosom's interior. Rowen cared for each detail, sliding into the elbow length lace gloves, and even giving a small twirl to the creatures which had given her the new persona. Their eyes dusted over her, inspecting for minor details and missed thoughts. When none could be found they set upon her hair. Sweeping the long tendrals of black up into a graceful bun, pinned at the top with a ruby comb. No doubt stolen from the woman's corpse as well. Rowen turned, carefully inspecting herself in the mirror with now flashing eyes. She'd transformed, as she often did, into the woman to whom this dress belonged. A warm glow of contempt flowed over her and she ran a finger along the side of her face, admiring the scratch of the rough lace and then pulling at one side of her hair. A small spiral curl fluttered down along her left cheek, and it was complete. All motion stopped in the room, if only for a moment, and she stood in a void. No breath, nor thought nor word could deny her this perfection she'd stumbled onto. It was the creaking of the large wooden door which had awoken her from this dream like state. Another of the minions, this time summoning her into the dining room.

                                    Boone loved his parties.

                                    If anything he knew how to entertain. Rowen swayed down the hallway, one hand drifting to the side to slide down the wall of the walkway, and the other carelessly wagging the folded fan across her bosom. These dresses were hot, they always had a way of stealing from her the little breath she could catch. With a pursed expression she turned finally into the main room, wherein the 'celebration' would be happening. She bit, gently, onto her glossed lips and surveyed the room. Only one figure could be made from the paintings that darted the wall. She moved almost with the same lifeless fashion they had been eternally graced with. Her subtle tinge of pink that drifted across both cheeks, and the flutter of her violet eyes. Nell, the angry one, had always been such a mystery. Beautiful despite her own self hatred and confusion. Though, Rowen often considered that they all were cursed with this non-truth. Perhaps they were all beautiful? Certainly they seemed so to the humans, though for herself Rowen could not say the same. She merely felt beautiful, in the dress of a corpse with similar styling. Her beauty came only from memory, from the woman who'd given her life so abruptly. Again Rowen's mind wandered, though she snapped it back to focus when Nell had swept across the room to admire a table setting. Something about her was so..ethereal...it ate at the raw insides of Rowen's gut. Twisting, turning, gnawing, and grinding at her teeth whilst she surveyed the woman's every movement. This. This was the eternal desire she'd been filled with. Even in the most despicable of things she could find beauty, jealousy and desire. Her fingers twitched idly at her side and she pushed aside the curl of her hair, drifting toward Nell with a vacant expression.

                                    "Lady Nell."

                                    Simple words, spoken through silken lips and whispered with such care that they were barely audible. A formality that she would have shared with any of the vices that should have arrived. Curling her fingers around one of the silver knives she inspected it, scratching at the surface where her face reflected, and then turned up toward Nell once more. "Beautiful dress...what a delicate fabric..." Lost. Again she was lost, eyes dancing with the sway of Nell's dress. They snapped back to her eyes, devouring hungrily the shades of purple within. As Nell started around the room so too, did Rowen. Her hands reached out to the paintings and she felt beneath her fingers the ridges of acrylic. "Such beauty.." Both eyes looked to Nell, then back to the canvas. "Oh how I would give to be so talented. To give life to such a thing as beautiful as this." Gently, slowly, she stepped away from the painting and continued past Nell. One hand swayed beside her to brush ever so carefully across the back of Nell's arm. A gesture so innocently 'mistaken' for an accident it was commonly ignored. Though she continued to stroll across the room inspecting the art; Rowen drifted the fingers below her lips to kiss the parts of her hand that had just barely danced along Nell's flesh. So beautiful. So perfect. So utterly better than her.

                                    This was Rowen's mind, always.
                                    Devoid of conversation, or entertainment, even pleasure.
                                    Desire filled her, rattled in her bones so hard that she felt the need to pursue even her own kind.
                                    Such is the life of an ugly, jealous creature.

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Partying Reveler

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                                                                          Of all the places he had seen in the hundreds of years he had been in existence, London was probably his least favorite place on earth. The smog and dirt clogged the skies, preventing him from looking up into those celestial bodies of light. Not unless he ventured out far from the city, and while that was entirely doable, it was tedious and in his opinion very tiresome. But he had put forth the effort to will himself to the hills outside of the city, where he currently was laying in the grass and stargazing. Here the skies were clear, or at least clear enough that he could see the stars peeking out from behind the patches of cloud hanging over him. No doubt they would completely obscure his vision with time, but for now he took solace in being able to see them for even a short while.

                                                                          Unfortunately Abel’s mind was far from focused on the pinpricks of light above him, and more focused on the current events taking place on earth. More specifically, on the events that would be taking place within the next hour or so. Was this gathering really necessary? It seemed like a recipe for disaster just waiting to explode and take everyone involved with it. Perhaps that was just his inner cynic coming to the surface and providing its usual commentary to dampen his mood, but even so. The fact that Boone was the one hosting the celebration made it even less desirable to attend and no doubt it would be over the top and lavish in a way only that being could accomplish. If he could have his way, the only times he would see Boone was when his certain…cravings, came into play and demanded he seek out the only being who could possibly sate them. Knowing that he would have to spend at least a handful of hours in his presence for a celebration he could honestly could not care less about made Abel want to teleport to the other end of the earth. Preferably where he could see the stars...maybe Antarctica? He heard it was lovely this time of year.

                                                                          Undoubtedly he would find a way to drag me back…he thought, sure and matter of fact. Boone did not like his expectations to go unmet, and he fully expected the demon to be there. This was the only reason he was pulling himself away from his current activity and returning to the mansion to make himself presentable.

                                                                          Pulling himself to his feet, Abel brushed off the blades of grass clutching to his pants and willed himself back into the mansion, body disappearing from the hill like a star winking out of existence. He completely missed the entry way and entered his room, wanting to forego any potential meeting with the competitors or Boone himself. His room was simple, or at least as simple as a room furnished by someone with Boone's expensive tastes would allow. The fabrics were not so over the top, and there weren't so many knick-knacks stationed around the room for no other reason than to look beautiful. All the furniture was finely crafted from expensive mahogany, which Abel could appreciate if he bothered to put forth the effort to care.

                                                                          It was just a room in a mansion he could not stand to be in, an yet here he was. Boone had...requested, he stay close by, and by close by he had meant within the mansion. The others were allowed to live wherever they pleased so long as they could easily be reached. Not him, and Abel wasn't so naive that he was unsure why. He knew very well the motives behind Boone requesting-which in all reality was just a polite and thinly veiled demand- he stay close by. It all had to do with his possessive nature and the fact that he knew where Abel would rather be in the grand scheme of things. And it was not with Boone, regardless of the fact that he was the only one that could possibly fill his perverted cravings. It was about establishing control, dominance and possession.

                                                                          Refusing to think on that at the moment, as it would only serve to make him even more reluctant to attend the feast, he focused on changing his clothes. Not that he had much time to deliberate, as the moment he opened his armoire, thin shadowy figures under Boone's control appeared in his room and immediately began pulling clothing from his dresser and armoire, all but shoving him aside so they could work. Abel let them, knowing he would have final say in the matter, and went to wash his face in the basin filled with warm water and soap. By the time he had finished, clothing was laid out on his bed, with the shadow creatures waiting to spring upon him and dress him. Abel wouldn't allow it, and picked out his outfit. A shirt from one, the long ankle length trousers from another, a coat with silver buttons and a cravat from separate outfits. His decision made, the little shadow figures sprang into action, dressing him in the clothing he had picked and polishing him up nicely from his usual grunge.

                                                                          When they were finished, he let them go back to putting the spare clothing away as he dabbed a light hint of cologne onto his form. He wouldn't have bothered any other time. The cologne was more for celebrations and 'special occasions', and even then he rarely used it. But everything had to be just so for this particular feast, and he had no desire to deal with Boone this early in the game. The black wisps disappeared when their task was finished and Abel followed suit, disappearing from his room and reappearing right outside the dining hall doors. no point in delaying the inevitable any longer...

                                                                          For a brief moment he hesitated, listening to the voices within. He could pick out Boone's easily, having had that same tone being spoken to him many times before -along with several other tones he dared not mention- along with Nells, one of the competences for the spot of wrath. There was another he hardly recognized, and assumed it belonged to one of the other competitors. Thankfully, none of the angels seemed to have arrived yet, which meant that Rigel was also not here. No doubt if he had been there would have been much noisier and chaotic inside.

                                                                          Once again he was struck with how completely pointless this competition was and the desire to retire to his room for the rest of the night. Instead, he pushed the heavy doors open and walked in, strides full and confidant though his expression was one of bored indifference. Nell and the other contestant, a woman he recognized as Rowan were looking around at the art, scandalous and impolite. He didn't bother greeting them, and let them continued gazing at the extravigance before them. Instead, he turned his attention to the only other male in the room. Boone was examining the food and settings set out on the table, no doubt searching for imperfections for which to punish his creatures on. Just seeing the being made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with unease and hatred. Without thinking about it further, he found his mouth opening and forming words of its own accord.

                                                                          "I believe it is the custom to wait, but since when have you ever been polite, Boone?"

                                                                          His tone wasn't accusing or even curious; it simply was. Was it wise to pose such questions to the king of hell? No, probably not. But as with most things in his existence, Abel couldn't bring himself to give a s**t.
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                                                ♚ ↷ xxxMY name is will━iam thomas ROTHESAY ❞ ・・・⇣User Image
                                                ▬▬ ( DEMON REGULATOR )


                    It was late in the day and Rothesay hadn’t even finished half of the tasks he had expected to complete – no thanks to some of his subordinates. Sure, he wasn’t as high-up in rank as he would like to be, but he was up there—somewhere.

                    Enough to order ‘minions’ around at least.

                    “Really? Really? You’re kidding me!” Rothesay incredulously stared at the small, tattered note one of his lower-ranking agents handed him. ‘Azazel kicked in the face of a drunkard this evening’ was what was written on the slip of paper. He should have expected this; was Boone really not going ‘to have some fun’ with the humans? Never. It was always left to him to clean up his boss’ messes, whether it be covering up an accident or turning away crazed lovers. However annoying it may be, it was still his job. Rothesay had always wondered what the world would turn out to be like if it wasn’t for him to pick up the pieces and fix the problems. He was extra moody today, what with the growing workload and the never-ending aftereffects of Boone’s adventures—especially those with lewd women and macaronis. Rothesay shuttered at the thought of the effeminate gentlemen prancing around town square with the scent of a middle-aged woman’s perfume and the frivolousness of a young child.

                    The blonde weaved a hand through his hair before rolling down the sleeves of his white blouse and smoothing out the wrinkles from his embroidered vest. Rothesay stood up hastily as the church bell rung soundly and echoed throughout the small room. He made a grab for his frock coat and dashed out of the old, rundown building. He had taken up the job as a stenographer—since that was already one of the things he does at his ‘real’ job, he might as well pick something easy. What? He wasn’t going to take up some manual job or anything that required too much work. He was here as a regulator, not a human who worried over life and death, or whether or not they were able to put food on the table.

                    Those pitiful humans—what were they working for anyways? There was always the day they would face it: their inevitable death. Tsk. Tsk.

                    Rothesay entered the large home by thrusting the wooden doors open roughly. “Azazel!” The blonde nearly threw himself at the other male in anger, his hands shook as he craved to land a punch or two—which was an impossible task, of course—he composed himself with difficulty. “What did you do tonight?” Rothesay coughed into his hand and tapped his foot noisily against the pristine floor—he probably shouldn’t be talking to the devil in such a tone, “You…copulated with a young lord didn’t you? And afterwards!” He took a deep breath from his nose, “And afterwards you even kicked in the face of a drunkard! Do you know what I’d have to do to cover this up?!” With a huff, Rothesay straightened out his clothing and forced a sarcastic smile on to his face. “But of course, you’re Azazel, so that wouldn’t be a problem.”

                    Brushing past the devil, Rothesay took a seat next to the Nell. He stared at her light hair, fascinated by the transparency of the strands, before turning his attention to the painting she was looking at. “Nice painting, huh?” From the corner of his eye Rothesay glanced after the lithe body of Rowen, she had intentions, definitely. “Ahem.” He didn’t notice the uncomfortable expression that was beginning to form on her visage.

                    Feeling parched, the regulator made a grab for one of the many expensive wines upon the table. He wasn’t much of an alcohol drinker to begin with, the bitterness of the wines always bothered him, but since it was the only beverage available on the grand table and he was feeling too lazy to get up to fetch someone to get water or some other drink, he was stuck. “Wine, Ksenia?” The bottle clanged against the fragile glass as Rothesay poured the drink; without a reply he poured the wrath-contender a drink as well.

                    The regulator snorted at Abel’s comment, “I don’t think you’re in line to speak that way, Metaxas.” He swished the burgundy wine in his glass, bored really of the lack of excitement of the event. “Wouldn’t want to be the one cleaning up your blood and guts from the expensive carpet.” Rothesay laughed as he sipped on the wine. He missed whatever expression the demon made—probably one of embarrassment, shock, and anger. He clinked his glass against Nell’s noisily and smirked at her. His hands made a gesture urging her to drink up the alcohol. She looked vulnerable—nothing like the cardinal sin she represented: wrath. Perhaps hiding under all those pretty lashes, transparent hair, and blushing cheeks was actually a cunning, scheming fiend ready to break some fingers or two.

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                                      Jonah let out a quiet, anxious sigh as he ran his fingers over the wooden frame of his bed. As he had been doing for countless moments, already, he had to try and run through the scenario in his head. Multiple times. He had been invited to dinner, and of course, the first thing to do would be to accept the invitation. That was the cordial and polite way of action for him to react, and he couldn't possibly be so rude to say no. The thing was that he was feeling far too apprehensive and skittish about the whole event. It had actually managed to keep him from relaxing for the entire day; as dinner approached, he only found himself growing more and more restless. He didn't even like social events, anyways; for all that he knew how the event was supposed to go, what was supposed to occur after each moment, he just never could perform well in the situation on his own. Everyone else would always seem so at ease and casual, and he just felt like hiding behind the drapery until the night ended.

                                      That didn't mean that everyone didn't deserve a chance. He didn't mind giving it a try because it wasn't the others attendants who were the ones making the event awkward; it was he who was doing it. And he knew it. But, it was kind of hard to change it because he would much rather prefer to be back in the realm of comfortable, familiar books. Or maybe just sleeping until he felt a little better about the whole thing. But he really knew it would probably hurt someone's feelings if he was to not show up, so that left only one option - get ready, and go. Getting ready required a whole other realm of motivation to do so, as he chewed the inside of cheek and stared at the chiffarobe which contained his selection of clothing. Although he knew some of the others preferred to have assistance when getting ready - and he thought the shadow creatures that Boone, the party's host, seemed to have a majority of the control over were servants in that way. He had never gathered the courage to ask, but had practically inferred that they probably helped in many manners.

                                      Jonah liked to have his things organized, however, and he liked to pick them himself. It was perhaps one of the few things that he demanded his own control over; although he was perfectly willing to go along with others in many other aspects of life, he disliked having people pick his clothing out or dress him. He hoped that choosing his own, however, wouldn't lead him to be mismatched with others, or stand out. Maybe, he imagined, he'd show up and fit in perfectly, and the night would go smoothly; he'd have good conversation, and really have a fun time. It might even go like banquet and dance scenes from the worn pages of his most frequent reads.

                                      He should probably stop staring into nowhere, and decide exactly what to put on.

                                      Jonah didn't want to think too long on the outfit. Most of his clothing was simplistic, anyways; he didn't feel comfortable in pompous clothing and things that screamed aristocracy when he was obviously not one. Stepping away from the various clothing, he moved towards his the small dish he kept filled with water to splash over his face, and took a sip from the cup that was situated beside it. He'd bitten his cheek too hard and the tangy taste of iron wasn't one that he particularly enjoyed.

                                      He knew he was putting off the inevitable. He turned back towards his clothing and quickly decided to just put on whatever matched and would hopefully fit the situation. Jonah worked into a flowing smock before covering it with a plain waistcoast, with a few buttons of a metal he was unsure of. He pulled on one of his fancier frock coats, as he didn't have any dress coats that would suit more formal events. He might need to get one, if there were going to be a lot more events like this. Jonah felt uncomfortable in tight clothing, and for this reasons, his breeches were relatively loose. The leather soles of his shoes were a little worn, but not too much; they were still in great condition. He debated whether or not he shold wear a cap; he preferred caps with turned brims, and... Well, he was sure no one else was as worried about this as he was. Should he bring a bag with a cap in it, in case he should wear it?

                                      He decided to nix the hat, and then decided that he should leave, before he found himself late. And that would be insulting of him to do, as well, so he had better.. well, better not do that. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, because he was going to need to calm himself a little bit before he went. After a few moments more of attempting calming exercises, Jonah wondered if he should have taken other steps to prepare himself for this. He had already been told and shown where he was supposed to go, earlier, and his memory was sharp enough to get there. He'd even counted the steps, although it was unnecessary for him to do that because of the landmarks in the hall that lead to the dining room. It was probably good he'd dressed simplisticly, now that he thought about it, because he didn't want to stand out anymore than his height already spurred him to do. Thinking of spurring, anyways, he had better get a move on. With a brief, longing glance back towards the open book laid across his pillow, he began a series of quick, harried steps towards the dining hall.

                                      He stood outside the doors for a long few moments, trying to convince himself to enter, and getting more flustered by the moment. There were so many things that could go wrong, if he weren't to do something right... And he didn't want to disappoint anyone... Maybe everyone would just be excited to be together? He didn' tknow how well everyone got along, but maybe they'd all have a great time together. That sounded spot on, actually. Working up a little more courage, Jonah finally managed to get the doors open.

                                      Only to realize that he barely knew anyone in the room. His eyes moved immediately to the others in the room, and suddenly felt.. very out of place. He froze where he was, barely a step inside the room as the door closed quietly behind him, and he was a little overwhelmed by the beautiful gowns that the women wore, the extravagant decorations of the dining room. In fact, he was feeling quite overwhelmed, and he could feel his cheeks pinkening with the emotion. Not really how he wanted to make an entrance.. But he couldn't do much to change it now.

                                      "Good evening.." He attempted to greet everyone properly first, but his voice was probably a little too quiet to be understood. And that was okay, because he might be able to melt into the wall if he went unnoticed and started to wish hard enough.

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                                  it`s way too late ❜ ▬▬▬▬ to be this locked inside ourselves
                                  xxxxxTHE TROUBLE IS THAT YOU'RE IN L⋮ OVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx ◞IT SHOULD❜ ×BE ME
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSACRED PARTS, YOUR GETAWAYS ●●
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxx&:YOU COME ALONG ON SUMMER DAYS
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxtenderly *:↘ tastefully
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxI'M IN LOVExxx✽. WITH SOMETHING REAL
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxit could be me that's changing it could be me that's changing it could be me that's changing
                                  .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .... .... ... .. ..... ....
                                  xxxxxxxx✿: ↘ two lovers walk a lakeside mile OH, HOW I LOVE YOU
                                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxnell myshkin the angry girl coding by wingfat

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                                                    Nell bristled at the warmth on her sides; had she a blunt object in her hand she would've turned and clobbered the creature. She did try to turn and protest this violation, but she found she couldn't move. Brittle bones locked into place and she knew, because only one creature would do this. Rigel could do it, surely. But it wasn't in his style, was it? Boone was the only one. He lost interest in her after a mere moment and Nell was thankful for that, because even with their close proximity she hadn't felt his breath on her neck. That unnerved her.

                                                    "Lady Nell."

                                                    She turned, smiling softly because it wasn't a voice that sounded like it would irritate her later on in the evening.

                                                    "Good evening, Rowen," she said, gathering her dress loosely in her hands and curtsying. Nell wasn't sure if it was proper; she wasn't good with manners, since there were none in Hell. But she did make an utmost effort to be ladylike, more than anything because it was befitting of her in the dress. "Thank you."

                                                    Rowen came and looked at the paintings with her. Nell looked over upon Rowen's commentary. "I hadn't realized you admired art so much, Rowen. I can find you a painting someday." By default Nell wasn't meant to do kind things, and while she would like to bring gifts to her friends, she knew that the implied promise was likely to fall through.

                                                    Something caught her attention and Rowen moved away. Nell felt something on the back of her arm and ignored it, since it didn't concern her much. She did turn from the painting, too, and was met with beady eyes. Boone was watching the exchange with a noxious look. Nell was thankful for the presence of another voice, another person for Boone to train his eyes on. In the moments where he wasn't watching, Nell slid over into a corner to busy herself with the paintings again. Boone's back was to her, an elaborate and very nude sculpture between them.

                                                    Nell found herself bumping into the sculpture upon the sound of wood bashing against wall, doors thrown open. Someone calling for the devil. Nell had started and the statue was tipping. In her panic she grabbed whatever appendages she could grab and righted the heavy piece. Afterwards she lightly brushed her hands against her skirt, because she was sure statues weren't meant to be touched in that way. Again she pretended the art was distracting, and again she cursed Boone for his penchant for nudity.

                                                    Someone else seemed to be cursing Boone, too, and Nell watched Rothesay chew him out from the very corner of her eye. It was when he finished that she turned fully, watching them unabashedly. She was curious, but anyone would be curious for Boone's rebuttal.

                                                    "I should like you to go over your facts twice next time. Firstly, I'll have you know it was a young duke, Ro―the―say," Boone corrected, sounding lightly offended at the discrepancy. He drew the regulator's name out, each syllable snaking slowly off of his tongue in a pernicious singsong. "And I ripped his jaw from its place, for your information. Settled into a pile of s**t, maybe, I don't know. But his neck broke, which must make things all right." Boone used a biting tone that Nell recognized quite easily. "Human s**t?" she whispered. She'd heard the tone only when Boone was trying to make a point, or when he was in a sex kind of mood; she watched him draw closer to Rothesay as he spoke, which must mean both this time. "Besides, you know it makes me happy, seeing the flesh like that." Nell watched him gesture with his hands, scratching at his cheek to show what the person's cheek had looked like.

                                                    Rothesay turned and walked towards her. Nell turned her eyes elsewhere to give the impression that she hadn't been watching them, though it didn't quite work. He mentioned the painting, too. Nell only nodded. She was offered wine and she opened her mouth to decline, but he poured her a glass before she could protest. Nell frowned.

                                                    "Good evening..."

                                                    "Good evening!" Nell cried in response, vigorously and with great passion. Placing her glass down, she flitted across the room to greet Jonah with an imbalanced curtsy. Anything to get her away from the others, because she was quickly coming to realize she probably trusted the unpretties less than the pretties did. "Jonah, how are you?" She asked hurriedly, with the look she gave him a little bit sour. She wasn't sour about Jonah, she was sour about being here. It seemed like most everyone else was, too.
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                              when your hopes are on fire :
                              ` DON'T HOLD A GLASS OVER THE FLAMEfingerpup( don't let your heart grow cold )
                              fingerpuppet fing i will call you by name i will share your road
                              fingerpuppet puppet mafia♚◞ but hold me fast
                              cause i'm a hopeless wanderer
                              hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast hold me fast
                              finand i will learn to love the skies i'm under

                                          Rigel believed in the power of choice. It would be so easy - so incredibly easy - for him to control everything, to bend every creature to his will, to make the planet turn smoothly and to make life grow fruitfully and everything exist in harmony. He had made them, after all, made each and every one of them; and he knew that they would instinctively fall under the power of their creator, if he so wished it. It would be so easy for him to make everything love him, and saturate the world in everything he was.

                                          Which was precisely why he didn't do it. He had created a temptation for himself, which he would not indulge in. He wanted the world to love him not because he commanded it, but because the world wanted to. At the present, the world did not love him; there were a select few who might, truly, but the vast majority only used him as a means to their own personal gain. It saddened him, but he could not - would not - force them to him. He had started to take the same approach with the angels. Well, almost the same approach.

                                          He gave them an illusion of a choice, which personally made him feel better about himself, while a small part of him whispered that he was cruel and selfish to do so.

                                          The door before Rigel opened a bit abruptly, not even a minute after he'd finished asking. It made him smile, a tiny rueful twinge. That was Seraphina down to a tee, unquestioning and dutiful as ever, which was part of the reason why he'd chosen her to accompany him to this competition. He felt she needed a change of pace, something different from blood and war. Change would be good for her, as it was good for everyone, even if most could not see it at first. Change built character. Rigel almost constantly desired change - Boone had once accused him of never being able to be happy with things the way they were - and the truth was, he wasn't. He was rarely satisfied, and so he kept molding and shaping things almost to the point of death.

                                          When you lived for hundreds of trillions of years, you began to desire change too.

                                          But change looked good on Seraphina; she was quite lovely in the dress she had selected - the blue of the fabric sharpened the blue of her eyes. " You look gorgeous, " he said, ignoring her question for the moment. " Would you do me the honor of taking my arm? " He extended one for her with the slightest of bows and the ruefulness dissipating slightly from his smile. Once she had, he started to lead them out to the streets of London. " As for Aleksander ... no, I don't believe so. We might get in the way of his regulating. Don't want to do that. "

                                          One might have noticed the tendrils of grass and clovers that began to creep up among the cobblestones that Rigel's feet had stepped on, leaving a thin, barely noticeably swath of green growth in his wake.

                                          Rigel hummed as they walked, a tune that seemed a little off key and one that he was making up as he went along - the melody, if there was one, was constantly in flux - and he took the opportunity to point out people that were hurrying along the streets, or staggering out of taverns. There were more than a few whores out in the dirtier, darker alleys, their exposed skin pale and pockmarked, their eyes dulled and their faces smeared with clumsily applied makeup; but he smiled at them all, and tipped his hat. On occasion, if they happened to pass a brightly light pub with smoke and laughter curling up against the window panes, Rigel would say something such as " There's Sir Thomas Sheperfield, a member of Parliament, though most likely nobody recognizes him without his wig on, he's not going to win the next election, and he knows it, which is why he's currently drowning himself in rum. ... ah, and that's the butcher right beside him, he's an alcoholic, but who isn't these days? Whisky is the new water, they can't seem to drink enough of it ... " and ad infinitum. Rigel's penchant for rambling sometimes irritated more than a few of the heavenly host, but Seraphina always seemed content enough to listen - or perhaps it was just her instinct for unswerving obedience that kept her from telling him that she didn't give a damn about Thomas Sheperfield and the lot.

                                          As the mock palace came into view, Rigel seemed to become quieter, as if he were already touching in on the mood that would surely settle over the feast; a tense, and watchful one. He said no more as they climbed up the steps to the huge front doors. After a pause, they opened, swinging outward slowly. Rigel glanced at Seraphina, and that rueful look flickered over his face once more before he stepped over the threshold.

                                          Although the place was like a labyrinth, Rigel easily directed them to the dinning room. And the tension began to sink into the atmosphere the way a corpse slowly slides beneath the surface of a lake. But this did not waver the upward turn in his lips, nor the sincerity of the pleasantness in his voice when he spoke. " Good evening. We're not late, I trust? "
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                                                                              xxxxxx█ ▌║EMERSONKING

                                                                              xxxxxxx YOU DRINK THE WISE BLOOD
                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxYOU'RE GONNA HEAR ABOUT IT
                                                                              xxxxxxx YOU'LL BE TAKEN DOWN
                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBRICK BY BRICK BY BRICK

                                                                              xxxxBURN T - THE ORPHANGE YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR IT
                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxt h e yx w i l l x p u r i f y x b l o c k x b l o c k - b y - b l o c k

                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO WAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GOWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO
                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO WAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GOWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO
                                                                              xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO WAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GOWAY WILL THE HEAVENLY GO

                                                              If there was one thing Emerson loved, it was being pampered.

                                                              Well, that seemed unfair. There was many things in this world that Emerson adored, despite her inability to express such feelings, but she was most outright in her appreciation of people fawning over her. Ever since she was a child, a recluse in her own world and surrounded by demons who tormented and ravaged the people around her, she beamed at the slightest compliment. She wore her hubris like a badge of honor, like a scar marred across her skin; eched into her being for all to see despite her small statue. Some might call it a complex; she called it a lifestyle. So when two...creatures showed up at her door to prepare her for Boone's feast, who was she to refuse?

                                                              "Come in, come in."

                                                              They didn't answer, much to her irritation, and instead began undressing her from the silk pajamas she had been lazing around in. Long fingers brushed against her warm skin, unbuttoning and pulling until she stood in front of them, stark naked save for the choker wrapped around her neck. She lifted her arms so they could slide the corset through; feeling like a Renaissance statue in the making. The creatures didn't look at her eyes but she could feel their stale breathe against her skin; whispering little nothings like goblins. The sight made her uncomfortable to say the least but she expected nothing less from Boone's cronies; poor tortured souls that weren't strong enough to fare in the underworld. Alas, survival of the fittest was a scary thought. Despite this, Emerson began to hum to herself, grinning at the feeling of a corset pressing against her stomach. This was her favorite part: dressing herself up; making the men swoon and the woman hiss across the room. Emerson commanded attention the same way she commanded servants: with a loud voice and a bad attitude. A deep inconsideration for others and an innate disability to understand the feelings of other people. It was less a conscious thing and more just the way she was: desperate to comprehend the minds of others but unable to actually carry a conversation for very long.

                                                              Although she wasn't ever able to admit it. If asked, she had marvelous conversation skills and the intelligence that could beat out the finest philosophers in the world (neither of these things were true).

                                                              She let out a small gasp when the whale bone tightened against her skin, the creatures using their phantom fingers to tighten the ribbon and cut off her breathing. She endured the pain for the sake of the gorgeous dress she knew was coming (not pretty, never pretty; the word was too mundane and tainted and even the suggestion made her gag) and held her breath, letting the stiff material sink into her hipbones. She was a skinny thing; small-breasted and short and the only time she looked intimidating seemed to be when she was covered in blood.

                                                              "Almost done?" Again they didn't answer her and Emerson scowled, slapping the smaller one out of the way when she offered her hand. She stepped into the dress without any assistance, pulling in close to her skin and watching them scramble to tighten the outfit before Emerson's temper lit up like a fuse. She watched herself in the mirror, the incident forgotten, satisfied as it molded to her skin and surrounded her legs. She looked like a queen; a drop of poison in dark colors against the mild colors of her bedroom. The taller creature began to work on her hair, combing it through aggressively enough that Emerson winced at each stroke, despite the part of her that took a bit of pleasure in the roughness.

                                                              Once she was sufficiently done up to Boone's liking (she was growing more resentful by the minute), she stepped into her slippers and disappeared from the room without a word, leaving the disfigured things to their own devices. She had nothing in her mortal home that she particularly treasured aside from the choker around her neck and she fingered it gently as she walked through the streets. She spotted the place simply because it seemed like the kind of monstrous castle Boone would use for such an event; both a lovely mansion for a gala and an intimidating place for whatever potential pretties would actually dare show up. She smoothed her hair, adjusting her dress so that the hem didn't drag across the dirty floor. A guard found his way to her and smiled a twisted grin (which she was glad for because it proved this was indeed Boone's place), leading her inside the hallway and finally, into the dining room. She was delighted to see that she was fashionably late; throes of people already arriving and demon servants wandering to and fro around her.

                                                              She spotted Boone and Abel in the corner but debated against joining when the killjoy Rothesay had joined them. They tolerated each other on regular days but right now Emerson was craving some excitement; which she doubted she'd get from such a formal affair. Especially if virtues were present; Emerson doubted that Boone would bring out the dancers or bash out any blood. Her attendance was more a favor than a desire but she figured the night would be ruined without at least one person who knew anything about the concept of fun. She spotted Jonah, the first pretty in the room, and made her way over to him (the other option was Nell and she had a very special hatred for the girl who had once burned Emerson's entire house down in a fit of rage). "Evening everyone," she said as a general greeting before turning to the meek boy. "You look like you're about to burrow yourself into the ground, honestly."

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