imwhatsleft

[imwhatsleft]

[imwhatsleft]

[imwhatsleft]

i'd offer a spot check, but i don't think you'd appreciate the invasion. 

{ death or mors or adrian or any of a thousand other   names watches kichuna root around her bag, keeps   his handds still folded once more on his cane. life   two out of a possible nine and it reeks of his other.    always does, where unlife is concerned. he hums at   the comparison of cooking and alchemy, raises a    pale hand out to take the cup with a nod of thanks. } 

it's been a while since i've had anything i did not prepare myself. thank you. 

{ that's all the ceremony he offers before he swirls the   soup around the cup, takes a sniff, and then a sip.   quietly, he makes an appreciative sound. } 

soups are rare in my realm. meat tends  to be the staple, and all else left to the  wayside. 

my daughter carries a love of fruits, so we are not entirely consigned to our fates.

{ he smiles, crooked. those teeth are  back, almost   like he keeps forgetting that appearance should be   static. he drinks the rest of the soup, offers her back   the cup. } 

i'm afraid i've nothing but travel rations on me, however--should bread or cheese whet your appetite, you're more than welcome to a share.

A Season For the Dead

”.. Huh.” She considers this information, and adds in, “Honestly, can’t even tell if I died at all. Remember bein’ alive, then … shit happened, became undead, then someone else decided I should be properly alive again. And here we are. Life number two out of a possible nine.”

There’s the faintest flicker of remorse at seeing this stranger’s frown. Kichuna finally glances away, and instead goes to pull up the bag she carries. Red cross stitched over it, she pulls open the flap. “Heh, a bunch. Got into cooking once I realized it’s just alchemy that does the opposite of poisoning people.”

"Spend long enough without a sense’ve taste, y’start making up for it when you can." She digs for a moment, and pulls out a thermos. She uncaps it, twists open the top, and pours its contents into the plastic cup. It smells strongly of some sort of chicken soup.

And she offers it out to Death.

[imwhatsleft]

{ the transformation is--rapid, from amused storytelling   to whatever this is, and death--er--adrian, mors lets   one side of his mouth tug down. } 

{ this is what happens, when you try to shoot the shit   with anyone but a member of the family, mors, you   really should have known better. he flicks his gaze   down to the cane as well, from there back up to her   fear-tightened pupils in her eyes. he shrugs his    shoulders, the movement creasing and uncreasing   the material of his jacket. } 

it's not much different than sustaining. you just

{ he makes a gesture, hand raising into the air and    snagging into a fist there } 

grab it when it tries to leave, write yourself where Life once was written, and. there you are.

{ he smiles again, and his teeth are blunt. were they   ever anything else? } 

food is one of life's greatest pleasures. do you have any favourites?

A Season For the Dead

"-hm?" Her smile vanishes, and at that one specific word; corporeality…

Cold realization grips her. Wide cat eyes’ round pupils turn into narrow lines of fear, but she doesn’t recoil. By all means, her posture indicates ‘curiously interested’, betrayed eyes otherwise.

And now that’s a grin. She’s used to seeing that in a mirror, not on… Someone else.

"… Promoted." She repeats, careful as she ventures into this information. "Brought back, hrm?…"

"Can’t say I got much experience in the bringing-back part." Her eyes wander down to the cane, to his side… 

It would be so easy to just, reach out, and see if he’s physically there. She isn’t hallucinating again, is she? But no doubt he’d notice this attempt at confirming his presence. A hand on the cement, fingers inching closer to his side. Just the faintest of touches…

No, best not to do it. It’s too soon to try. “Been on th’receiving end of being brought-back, though. Didn’t expect that.”

"Seems like some insane fate’s out to keep me around, ‘gainst public fuckin’ opinon. Heh."

"Stuck with my limits, yea’. S’a pain, but at least I can taste food."

[imwhatsleft]

{ he tracks her movement, hands folded   neatly over a cane that may or may not   have always been there. her amusement   feeds his, though it manifests as no more   than an intensifying of the light dancing   in his eyes. } 

it's always well when there's enjoyment to be had from the job. 

{ he tilts his head. } 

though i've never been restrained to cities. i trust you never found it too trying, given--

{ and here he breaks off to gesture towards   where she sits opposite him. } 

your corporeality. 

{ he flashes a grin full of his own needle-   pointed teeth, clicks them together at   the conclusion of the expression. it is   distressingly, suddenly, entirely lacking   in humour. } 

you might say. i was promoted rather quickly into just that sort of situation. keeping the things ticking is about triple the effort of taking them, in my admittedly humble experience.

{ admittedly humble my left toe. } 

though they can always be brought back, should they exceed their limitations, mm?

A Season For the Dead

This causes a faint smirk. It evolves into a needle-toothed grin, and he even gets a small little laugh out of her. Genuine and crackling, cackling under her hood. “Ahh… fuck, you got no idea.”

She decides, why not, and takes up the stranger’s offer of a seat. No better humor than dark humor for monsters and spooks to bond. “Distressin’, huh. Tell me ‘bout it.” She pulls herself up, and drops down to sit. “Not that I’m complainin’.”

"Half the fun is seein’ their terror. That’s what I’d do, before I got this job. Terrorize entire cities. It was … it was just, so fucking great and so funny you have no idea.” She can’t help the fact her grin just happens to border on Cheshire in length.

She manages to close the forest of teeth into a polite lipstick line. “Mm?…” She shrugs. “Eh. Some of ‘em manage. Barely lose any, and the ones that do, bring it onto themselves once I got my back turned. Don’t care much once they’re out the door. It’s just sport.”

"Seeing how much more sand y’can stuff in their life-hourglass, or whatever. Playin’ with lives. Playin’ with lifespans, in this case." She looks on at nothing. "…S’a new angle. Makin’ ‘em live longer"

"Tougher, though. You ever had that problem? Keepin’ some rat alive, against their best bloody efforts to do otherwise."

[imwhatsleft]

He smiles at her, even, when she thanks him. Smiles, and wraps arms 'round her shoulders. Their surroundings blur, fold up and in and  then they are no longer in the world, but in  Death's world, in the corridor outside a room prepared as hers of old.

"Of course, daughter. Of course.

"You must want a bath, you must want to clean yourself, change. I will be here, when you have  finished. There is food, there is drink. Please. Take your ease."

Upon the simple gesture she caves inwards. That is the feeling she remembers, the one she knows best. in that familiarity she covets all sensation.

"Yes, father. I am sorry. Thank you."

Home. A word she used to echo in the back of her mind to still whatever longing she might have for it by reminding herself that is where chains are. But even now in her aching, feverish pain the cold embrace of chains is more comforting than any blanket or pillow.

[imwhatsleft]

they do--

{ he pauses, to tilt her a commiserating    look. a prideful look. } 

--tend to require kid gloves. don't they.

{ he seats himself on the rooftop like it's   his own goddamn parlor, gestures an   invitation for her to do similarly should    she so choose. he has nowhere he is   desperately needed; his leisure is as    well take here as elsewhere. } 

thankfully, most encounters tend to be brief affairs. i'm.. distressing, or so i've heard.

{ he shrugs, brings a hand to the side   of his face as though thinking, for a   second. } 

but then, a little distress is a marvelous tutor, have you not found? or do your clientele manage themselves.

A Season For the Dead

Electric-blue feline eyes follow him, and she can feel the hackles raise at the back of her neck. (Thankfully, the hood can hide such an obvious tell of stress, but somehow it’s probably not even needed in order to betray her state.) Normally the predator, there’s something in the air that just screams that, this time; she is beyond her league. “… Mors. Interesting.”

"And what do you do, Adrian?" She plays with the name, and there’s the faintest, faintest tint of humor in this game of pretend. A shared joke and exchange of nicknames. "Human HR, heh." And she gains the faintest of smiles.

"… Think I feel you, there. M’workin’ in something similar, myself."

A long history soaked in blood and broken bones, it’s only in recent years that she works to keep organs inside her victims patients, as needed.

"S’funny. Dealing with people, isn’t it?"

[imwhatsleft]

Now, something other than cold resolve does taint his expression, and he brushes a thumb over her cheekbone, and never  mind, how he closed the distance.

"You have been hurt, by your own foolishness my daughter. Do not fear. I will right your pain.

"Home has not been the same, in your absence."

She sucks in a breath, her whole being shaking to the core.

"I would do as you have willed me to be done. To watch over my sisters. To understand that I have been given a responsibility. I would ask for the pain of mortality be removed. I would not wander without your leave." She would not beg. No one begs of Death for chances. He is the final call.

[imwhatsleft]

                  kichuna. 

{ he sounds out the name, tests   it on his tongue and in his mind   and--yes, there is a time for her,   but it is not here, it is not yet. } 

{ he spins slowly on his heel as   if to take in the sights, like he    maybe hadn't noticed that they    stood on a rooftop. between   you and i, it's bullshit. finally,   he faces her again. } 

mors is--closer, if you really and truly                   must know. 

{ a twinkle in his eye says he's    not gonna give her a straight   answer, maybe. } 

quick on my feet. quicker off them.  i'm in universal hr, you could say.

A Season For the Dead

She doesn’t remove her unblinking, sidelong stare. It’s not always wise to hand out one’s name. “… Kichuna.” Nor is it wise to antagonize a risk yet calculated.

"Funny spot to be in, if yer wandering ‘in the neighborhood’…" And it is true. Rooftops are generally a little out of the way from casual city side-walk strolls. "… And you’re not running from me."

She turns, and takes one step away from the ledge — one to ground herself, and then another to face this stranger properly. “Adrian ain’t your real name, is it? Others call you it. Figures…” She drifts to the center of the roof, gravel crunching under her boots as she keeps her attention on the stranger. “… Don’t need to correct me, though.” She mutters. “Imagine y’got yer reasons.”

She stops, and looks him over proper. “… So what th’hell are you?”

"You didn’t make a sound."

[imwhatsleft]

[imwhatsleft]

His head tilts, but pity does not mar his eyes.

"And you would do what, returned to my care?" He wants(?) to let her home, to have her seated at his table once more, but if she is to truly learn, she must learn. She must answer what questions he puts to her.

"That mortal flesh rots, that a mortal life is cruel,"

"That I have been wanton. I wish not for this mortal heart, nor the blood in the veins. I do not want to be bound to a life where I am subjected to my own cruelties—” she reaches for his arm, then retreats,”—for I am more cruel than a thousand mortal lives. I have made immortals so they would feel my loneliness, and I have been made to feel their pain more than my own.”

[imwhatsleft]

[imwhatsleft]

"Daughter."

"Tell me what you've learned."

"Father,"

"May I come home, yet?"

[imwhatsleft]

{ it's in his nature to watch for    precarious things. Habit, call   it. still--there is nothing too   innately dangerous about her   perch, and so it's barely given   more than a cursory glance. } 

{ he does seem amused at the   denial, though. he smiles! } 

                probably it's something about the sanctity of the          circle of life, or some other drivel. i'm called adrian. thought i'd take in the neighborhood.

and you?

A Season For the Dead

"Like hell it is." A raspy voice states back.

She is on a roof, overlooking the city. Precariously on the edge, but not with any inclination to jump. No, she just remains perched.

Cats like high places, even if they don’t think about how to get down.

She’s got her hood up, and her cloak claps against the wind. She’s the picture of a reaper, without the job nor task involved. Feline eyes stare out, counting the bare trees and city streets lined with orange leaves. “Fuck this season.” She mutters.

"Everything’s dead, dying. At least in winter, s’already over and we all just deal with it. But this, this is like, why the fuck can’t we just get over it, already." She kicks a pebble over the edge.

Kichuna sighs, breath visible in the air. “…” It’s then that she finally turns to see the figure, and ask, “Who the hell are you?”

[imwhatsleft]

croifiain

There is a youth leaning against a wall where there should be no youth, no wall. He spins a coin across his fingers, trips it in and out, over and under and under and over, and when the person he is perhaps waiting for passes by, the coin increases its speed, the boy straightens and the wall--well, the wall does what all things that have fulfilled their purpose do.

It vanishes.

"Might I trouble you for the time?" He asks. It's an innocuous start, very innocent, very everyday. 

The twinkle in his eye would put that to the lie, though, even had the wall not vanished into thin air. 

[imwhatsleft]

moved personal blogs moved continents moved

probably my legs at some point! thanks for askin♥]]

Read More

[imwhatsleft]

ectopicfantast

{ there is a river!   there is a river,   and it flows back   wards, and it flows   at the feet of a   man shaped being. } 

{ he turns, and he   smiles. } 

                         lovely day out, isn't it.

{ of course, it's not   exactly day, nor is   it exactly out, but.   that is not the point. }