#lncarnon

a loud, bitter laugh leaves the blonde at danny's question. ( do you think i'm irredeemable? ) it's not very often that mapplethorpe finds himself having the upper hand whenever it came to ghostface. ( normally, he'd zone in on him and try to make his death as agonizing as possible. ) even after his death, waking up at the fire---... he still felt the sting of the blade. ( a part of him thought that the entity found it to be amusing---... because wasn't he supposed to forget? ) though, that was probably a lot that was fueling his fire, the fact that he was actually able to ambush ghostface in the first place.

icy blue eyes focus on him, almost like a cat that was focused on prey. the clove sits in the palm of her hand, unmoving until rindul decided to take it into his own hand. ( okay, he didn't burst into flames like the lost boys or anything. ) wait, wasn't it the holy water and not the garlic? well, perhaps that's a good thing since, you know--....rindul has been kind to her and exploding into flames in their kitchen wouldn't necessarily be a nice thing, would it?

He is on his back tonight, eyes gazing upwards onto the dim ceiling of his room, tracing cracks that sprawl across it like the worm-paths in tree bark. In bodies. Like roots, stretching over and feeding off the misery stained into every surface. They begin to shift and move, wriggling to life like maggots as his vision swims in the darkness. If he looked to the corner, he imagines he'll find a chair converted into the hunched-down figure of a Visitor, eyes shining in the night before it pounces on him. He knows he must get up soon to tend to his house, answer the calls at his door (if there would be any. They have become so rare), but his body aches at the thought of it. Maybe if I just lay here...

Surprisingly, the knock on the window doesn't startle him. He knows what ghost has come to haunt him, the corpse risen from the grave to torment him. It's not her. The knock was too heavy. She never knocked like that on the door. Her touch was always soft.

"Good evening," He mumbles with false civility. He's mostly too tired to truly care. The window is locked, curtains shut, and door closed. He would not consider himself peaceful nor placid, but he finds he's grown accustomed to his nightly visitor.

"I didn't hear you knocking at the door. Did you somehow hear me or... is it because you didn't hear me moving around you figured to check the bedroom?"

" Nice guise. But your blood smells of gravel and earth. What are you in truth, creature?"

AND ITS WISHES WERE EVENTUALLY MET. Looming over the other, multitudes of eyes idly looking at the guns raised around it // A PART OF IT ALL WAS AMUSING. Even in this state, such menial tools would only do so much... but it was not here for anything but what they also sought to do. “&– - I am one of many titles and names, however one constant is Mora. Though, it matters not does it-- - for your organization has a preference for numbers and labels. You are in the 9000s now, correct?... It has been quite a while since I've been able to keep tabs.” Mora does not hide the knowledge it owns // NOT, IT USES IT AS A FURTHER LURE. As if such is even necessary.

"If only you were the first one to say that to me." Fuck, he should've gotten a smoke when he had the chance. It was a situation he wanted to know more about, yes, but Nadia wasn't one to budge easily. So, what other choice did he have but to push his own perspectives upon it? It was surprising that she'd even respond in such a way, but this was a chance he didn't wish to let go of.

"Not only that, but you're not even the first one to be wrong." He challenges, just to rile her up some more, hopefully get her to open up if even a little. Was he also trying to cause conflict? If someone asked, he'd say not really... but he'd be lying, as usual.