#vvalentinus

“If the world’s ending, tell it to wait another day.  I’m on vacation.”  Or that.  That works, too.

this just in: the biggest cootie of all calling the kettle black.

y’all are :////// sinning around the child??? ://// he raised???? himself :///?????

“You, sir-- do you need healing as well?” The Oracle turns to the next patient on the line, a rather oddly-clad man with the most wondrous pair of eyes. He reaches with both hands, fingers already glowing a soft golden light.

ıllıllı hell triumphant ıllıllı perhaps i should have prayed harder to those asstralsıllıllı hell triumphant ıllıllı i may not have become the butt of a joke then

           And so he tried, but as soon as he tried to push the orb down, it shot away from him in a near-linear trajectory, crashing loudly onto a nearby wall.

“Comfy?”  He asks, linking fingers and claws at the small of Vincent’s back, effectively holding him close, and laughs when the only reply he gets is a content hum.

          -╳-           Calm tendrils of bespoke music notes echoed effortlessly through the derelict hallways and shattered windows of the once bustling warehouse. Thundering rain and hammering wind provided percussion tones to the natural masterpiece which basked the hauntingly kept building in a sense of comfort and calm. Both together seemed to create a war of decadence and strength; one loud, strong and noble; the other gentle, soft and understanding. Trees were beginning to give up infantries of leaves; letting them go to cross the lands of the small empire in a precise and swirling ballet within the arms of the cascading wind. Like the betrayal in Shakespeare’s Hamlet between Gertrude and her deceased husband; the wind dropped the leaves to the floor and allowed them to wither bitterly as nothing more than a pushed aside memory. Subtle violence raged on within the cries of the piano; hammers metaphorically whipping strings into increasing their output; like archers they threw out notational sounds that slashed through the sitting airwaves and furtively pushed particles away so they could fill the space with pride and valor. A short lived victory, for the mighty wind and the noble rain struck back with the force of a villain and, like an unsung hero of many wars past; the piano kept playing. Time was not an ally as it wore on; the wind losing energy, the rain drained of resources. The subtle, slow tune of the piano still rang on through those derelict, dampened halls; the note slightly out of tune. The old record player had been wound and used repetitively, not once allowing the silence caused by the end of the track to lease more than a few moments at a time. It posed as a comfort within the world the figure no longer knew - a battered, bruised frame slumped against a corrugated wall for support, the lengths of metal once forming wings used as weapons haphazardly broken and hanging in fragments; still weighty, still a hindrance.   The Sable - once a being to fear, to be wary of, now reduced to nothing but a lithe frame of bones and withered existence. His time had come and gone, perished within the confines of Deepground that fateful day, alongside his brother - but his body had been too tainted by darkness to be accepted into the Lifestream, too vile, too impure - he was spat back, to await the end where he would fade into the very darkness of time itself; he need only be patient.  Weeks had passed since it reluctant return, no nourishment gained, no aim to leave the confines of the ruin. However, something was sensed and unsteadily, feet paced the ground to seek it out - lacking strength to remain upright for long periods of time. An arm outstretched to poised against the wall, a stability, an aid - a single firearm held within his other, finger itching while upon the trigger. A corner turned, aim taken - only to be met with a barrel, or three, of a firearm he  knew all too well. “Valentine.”