#eexperimental mishaps

Approaching the cabin shrouded in mist, Kor knocked on the door, calling upon the language she had not spoken since she was but a girl. -

Guten Tag, Herr Doktor. Ich habe ein Angebot, das einen Mann Ihrer Fähigkeiten interessieren könnte.

[Good day, sir doctor. I have an offer that may interest a man of your skill.]

@io-splinter-agent

[A few concerning thumps and crashes of various volume would ring out from behind the rickety entrance, accompanied by a cacophony of curses from a rasping, shuddering utterance. Following a resounding bang, silence would claim the surrounding forest once more, bar the cry of a bird.]

[The door would be wrenched open with a growl, the pathetic barrier whining as it connected with the unforgiving wall inside and trembled with the impact. Shoulders heaving with effort, the man that met KOR’S asymmetric gaze was saturated with substances undiscernible from the next; carrying the scent of death and other foul smells like a shroud.]

“Was? Was willst du denn, Mädchen?” (What? What do you want, girl?)

[PLAGUE snapped, his grip on the door leaving slick, sprawling trails of blood and equally sludgy handprints. He seemed suspicious. Wary, yet unashamed in his gory appearance.]

[He hadn’t exactly came across another individual on this God-forsaken piece of land that possessed his mother-tongue.]

[And much to his own chagrin, the masked man sensed the irritating sensation of kinship tug at his internals.]

“…”

[Processing what the woman had just proposed seconds ago, he tilted his face closer. PLAGUE’S breathing underneath the heavy, beaked mask was a wet, hilting thing; as if each gasp was a pain to take in. The beak of his mask was uncomfortably close to pecking KOR in the face.]

“Ein Angebot.” (An offer.)

[He echoed pointedly, PLAGUE’S head twitched ever-closer in a minuscule expression of interest. Much like the bird his mask portrayed.]

01 | 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓; 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍.

MANY have reported sightings of a doctor wandering the outskirts of the island, cloaked in a crow’s feathers, muttering about a cure for the island’s one true tragedy;

❛❛ DEATH. ❜❜

He resides in a cabin in the woods, far from the noise and watchful eye of his peers; free to conduct his mad experimentation without hinderance on the weak and weary unlucky enough to tread upon his path. THEY SAY NOBODY LEAVES TRULY ALIVE BUT HIM.

02 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒; 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍.

#PPERILOUS AND POTENT || in character posts.

#DDISMAL LAMPLIGHT || answered asks.

#EEXPERIMENTAL MISHAPS || OOC posts.

#MMISPLACED NOTES || reblogs.

#DDELVE INTO THE MADMAN’S MIND || standalone posts.

[PLAGUE always felt it. It festered deep in his bones. The grave chill. It sat there. Festering for all those years. Forcing him to become all the more aware of each time he was uprooted from some god-forsaken island and chucked onto a new one, expecting him to be right and ready to pick his research back up. Piece by agonising piece. He had failed to recall where he had last saw his journal. PLAGUE’S memory often failed to aid him in situations such as these.]

[How many islands had it been now? He’d lost count. It was routine.]

[He could feel every crease in his gloves, the fabric irritating his skin every time he expressed the very thought of flexing his fingers. PLAGUE’S fingers curled ever so subtly tighter around the pencil he was scrawling with. Everything, as of lately, was becoming too much. It pained him to move most days. Agonised his very being. He supposed it was just the increasing chill of the forest.]

[Everything ached, and everything hurt. Whenever did it not? But alas. Pure spite kept him going, most mornings. He was staring down his latest..triumph..against death. A scuttling, squirming thing made from a hand and foot crudely stitched together with thread. He held the end in his teeth, closing the seams between the two specimens with a repetitive shhk. Shhk. Shhk.]

[It was obscene. It was revolting.]

“It’s beautiful.”

[PLAGUE murmured, willing himself to outstretch his arms to cradle the amalgamation like a father would his child alongside allowing his lips to stretch into what seemed to resemble a grin. Looking down at it with adoration. After admiring the product of his own genius for far too long, he dropped it back onto the tray with an uncaring clatter and steered himself to another rickety workbench.]

[He leaned heavily on his cane, staggering to and fro as he dodged upturned beakers or a spill of god-knows-what for the umpteenth time in his trek across his lab. He would have to clean that sometime. But now was not such.]

[He had forgone the security of his mask in the privacy of his sanctuary, barely sparing a glance of his mottled, gnarled features as they caught the reflections of several beakers and glass vials. Yet just for a moment, he paused in his frantic ministrations around his space to simply look.]

[He was no longer himself. And that frightened him. It was a thought that he feared to entertain when he was in bed with the darkness of night and the snores of his beloved as companions.]

[A name had come before PLAGUE. Before DR. MALACHITE. But just what was it? It was just out of his reach. He could touch its hazed edges in the very depths of his mind, yet never grasp it fully.]

[He raised a hand to touch the organic, misshapen side of his face as he peered at himself in the shattered fragment of a mirror. The skin warped and stretched from the accident.]

[PLAGUE felt the itch of his beard at the split between scar tissue and skin. He felt the delicacy of the barrier between air and muscle - marred with ridges from the burns. He felt the lopsided bridge of his nose where his spectacles perched precariously. He felt the wrinkles of age root themselves in his skin like worms to the earth. The sheer grotesqueness of his flesh amused him. To an extent.] 

[The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak.]