#thcstarter

LOCATION: temple of the saints

STATUS: open to ALL 

There was something special about bearing witness to the funeral rites for someone as glorious and renowned as Cador. It was as though they, the people of the city, capitalized on their efforts to commemorate him  — going into a near frenzy with their rituals and celebrations. They drank, laughed, danced, and exchanged their fondest memories of the fallen Star, gathering together to breathe life into his spirit one final time. Sighing, Romilda leaned against a column, the goblet in their hand, still full to the brim. Many had tried to get her to indulge, but they preferred the clarity of sobriety when paying homage to someone passed rather than imbibing themself and only being able to recount slurred tales of heroism and glory. 

They pushed off the column, their skirts swishing around their ankles as they shifted about, having rigidly stood guard over the festivities from their place in the temple for so long. At least here, it was a little less riotous. An easier pill to swallow. Baldur huffed, taking big, lumbering steps towards Romilda to nudge them into readiness so they might finally join the others. He nosed at the small of their back, rising onto his legs to stand over them and bully them into participating - this occurred quite often - but just as Romilda stepped aside to dodge the insistent nuzzles, they heard footsteps behind them and - 

“Sorry  — sorry!”

The words were out of their mouth before the goblet of mulled wine spilled onto their blouse. “Oh thank the Hundred-Eyed God,” they babbled as they hurriedly wiped the excess from the quickly-staining material.  “I think it is much more preferable that this spilled onto me, rather than you  — don’t you think?” They were talking before they even made eye contact with the person subjected to this ambush of warm, red wine. At least, Romilda thought, I’m going to smell nice for once...

He feels little distinction from the Black Palace’s servants these days, with just how many hours in his day are spent cleaning the mess the remainder of the Conclave had allowed to be made in his absence. There has always been a reason, of course, why it is Judas that Infernum’s elite consortium turns their head towards in times of trial, why it’s his vote that tips the scales, why it’s he who’s sent to represent his people’s interests in other realms. God himself had ingrained in him how foolish a notion serendipity happened to be; it is no matter of luck that Infernum is deemed weak enough to attack when he is away, while countless others of the Conclave remain present and strong.

If not such a grave annoyance, it’d be a compliment.

There was such beauty in death. The mortals acted as if they too could perceive it. Salome had watched as they had ceaselessly laboured, building a pyre - now adorned with the body of a once Star - as if it were something more than just wood itself. As if that body was still him, Cador, their wrinkled but wise leader. She has watched all morning as mortals and non-mortals alike flocked towards it, paying their final respects before the night’s festivities and fire engulfed all solemnity. Really, the whole affair was something of an amusement. Can they not see it for what it truly is? A shell, empty and bloated. Its hollowness is palpable; the strings that had held spirit and body together have been sharply cut, and she can feel the invitation in their frayed ends.

It is charming, the simple beauty of humanity. It’s never as clear as it is when they perform, Dancing has always been one of his favorites. He brings the glass of wine to his lips, all the while growing more and more aware of the weight of something more. Someone is approaching him. Briefly, he wonders if they know who he is. If this will be the moment he will have to draw back into himself. Hide the parts that he has allowed to come to the surface by purely by being alone. He will not resent them for that. He cannot.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He does not turn to the body who has come to rest beside him. Instead, he gestures with his glass, lets his tongue run the length of his lips catching the last drop of wine.

as ravens to omen and vile weather to happy days, so do the hellhounds come to cassiel in the halls of the black palace. from memory or the command of their keeper they crawl forward from dens and dank trenches, following the call of her scent till the first finds her among the obsidian halls. cassiel knows the sensation of being stalked — that which is beautiful is hunted to the ends of the earth — and she knows azazel’s beloved monsters. each as high as her hip and baring eyes like polished stone, they were each misshapen in a way that seemed they had been crunched between the teeth of the shadows, who had attempted one bite before realizing they could not stand the taste, promptly spitting them back out. where once there had been one there springs another, and then a third in a manner so quiet and sudden that it could not be said if they emerged from far corners or merely splintered off the first hound, shadowy replicas of the original. 

 enough of you, the angel snarls when one of the beasts grows bold, raising an arm outward as if to cast a holy hand upon it. oren would have been responsible for dispelling such creatures had he been at her side, but wings had been required for the quick transit from caelum to the demon’s realm, and so he had been left to chase doe — and cassiel to raise her sword against hell’s teeth. 

WITH the festivities and rituals coming to a joyous close, Ryuk has had enough of the inane dancing and drinking that plagued other souls across the Holy Land. At first, he’d played along, following in the merriment and performance, but steadily, he’d grown weary of the ubiquitous joy, peppered amongst the revelry. Truthfully, they’d had enough of the vestiges of life in the weeks prior, ironically displayed in the honoring of death.

But above all, he’d craved what life could not give him. In the wake of Cador’s death, the souls had been unusually hushed, and the Horseman, desperate for a degree of ordinary, broke away from the festivities, not in search of peace, but noise. The Bog, as predicted, is a cavern of howling death, and they dismount their horse, pacing the periphery for a taste of what he so critically lacked in his core.

They know to be vigilant. Even a prance around the perimeter could prove fatal, even as formidable as they are in combat, even as Death themselves. So the rustle from afar isn’t unexpected, but he slows to a stop, backing up to their horse in the case that a swift getaway would be necessary. Feet hardly making a sound, they do what they know best: listen for another disruption or the howls of a band of something wicked.

              𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 outside of the shadows of her solitude alone. She thrived in the tumult of others— it nurtured and caressed the pandemonium within herself. Today, the occasion happened to call for it. This was the only remedy for the gnawing within her, to answer for the moments in which Raum knew herself the least— as if she’d awakened a soul tasked with spectating the everyday happenings of her body. These were days that Raum relinquished all control to the void festering within her. It demanded feeding, and the demon was burdened with its fulfillment— lest she herself wanted to become its next casualty. Where others threatened to collapse under the weight of their histories, Raum was perpetually at risk of drowning in her lack thereof. The semblance of what once was preoccupied her at every moment. Neither God nor Lucifer looked kindly upon the demon. Stripping her of a legacy was not enough— Raum was then cursed with spontaneous, unintelligible fragments of a past life she had no way to make sense of. And as if that hadn’t been enough, they’d died with the answers she sought out.

               Complete and utter satiation was the only answer. Indulge, Indulge, Indulge. Raum gave herself over entirely to hedonism— as what better to fill the void than with things? The finest clothing, the best-imported jewelry The Holy Land had to offer were all at her disposal. And during the most turbulent of times, the beating heart of some stranger. All of these things aided her in the burying of her void, and buried it would remain until it unearthed itself once more— demanding to be fed; demanding more and more and more—

               Surely, it’d been clear that Raum was up to no good. Any who dared entertained her must not have known her, or simply went where chaos called. Presently, she’d been unattended, with only the finest rum to keep her company, but her attention immediately captured by the warmth of a living body lingering nearby. “It must be my lucky day— or so the mortals say,” Raum coos with a wicked smirk, bridging the space left between them. “Fancy a game of sorts? I’ll make it worth your while.”