#necrtic

AND HE WAITS in silence, hands neatly folded over his lap. His eyes never moving from that contraption— he does not stir, he does not even breathe. 

He looked away, if only for a moment, to glance upwards at Marcel. A slight tinge of irritation in his eyes. 

‘ and what is this—’

Of course, as fate would have it, the moment he took his eyes away from the little metallic square, the toast emerged from it. Causing the ancient entity to involuntarily jump, startled by the sudden movement.

      HE ENTERS AND LEAVES HER LIFE SO FREQUENTLY AND WITHOUT NOTICE, PERHAPS SHE SHOULD BE BITTER. Gaea couldn't find it in herself to be so. Because when he was there, he was there: pressed against her back, in her personal space, taking LIBERTIES she freely offered to others but that they wouldn't take. TITAN'S MESSENGER CRAVED TOUCH. And it was the messenger of Etro that gave it to her. They were opposites; Marcel celebrated death while she coveted and protected human life. They were THE SAME, lost and abandoned by their creators.

What was it the humans said? THEY SHOULD MAKE A CLUB. WITH LEATHER JACKETS.

Marcel popped in and out as he pleased but what he didn't know was that she had been LEARNING to detect him. It took a bit more magic and energy than she was to exhausting but she could pinpoint the cluster of magic before he POPPED! silent into existence. It wasn't a worthwhile thing to know, not until she came up with an idea. Marcel enjoyed getting CLOSE and personal. He had a penchant for popping personal bubbles and the MESSENGER didn't believe it was malicious.

It was simply the way he was. Much like how she was naturally AFFECTIONATE.

The CLUSTER that was independently his. Marcel appeared as suddenly as always but this time, Gaea was PREPARED. His cheeks form between her hands and she smiled, happy to catch a glimpse of his wide eyes as she pressed her mouth to his. It was a firm press, brief, and his expression was much the same when she pulled away.

marcel vc: please god

The unholy, disgusting magic surged, and so what was once dead would rise again. The corpse rose. Now a slave to the will of an arrogant human, naught more than byproduct of cosmic dust—and yet in their delusion, believed themselves to be gods. Toying with forces they did not understand.

The beast moaned in pain, a plea to be let back free, to return to the eternal slumber of death. A plea that went on ignored by the delusional human, who spewed nothing but nonsense, seeking validation from a higher source.

Michael could hardly stomach it. 

His lip curled in disgust, followed by a scoff— cinders and ashes billowed forth. With a slight motion of his hand, one of his blades flew forth; elegant and precise. And in a moment, the blade had decapitated the corpse— almost like a trick of light.   

As if thanking the archangel for his mercy, the beast silenced its cries before slumping forward, fading away into dust— from whence he came, he returned.

Michael’s burning gaze turned away from the pitiful display, now to the necromancer. And where once anger was clear on his face, nothing but apathy remained.

hah nerd

maybe GO TO BED at a decent time >:/