Christopher, second-in-command of the Papal Resistance, was annoyed. It had been twenty-three months, going on twenty-four, since Anastasy, leader of the debacle that was the Resistance, had disappeared. He had left only to fight in the Great War into which he was conscripted, and which had been over for nearly a year. Christopher had no doubt that his mentor was dead by now, but sometimes he still had dreams in which Anastasy would return. Most of these dreams, of course, included the brutal and usually messy murder of the men who had come to vie for his position.
Christopher was interrupted from these thoughts by a loud crash coming from t
The Metatron stood in the middle of the Assembly Hall.
“Cherubim, seraphim, angels of all circles, I must ask for your help. As I’m sure many of you are aware, my charge, the human Anastasy Illyich Skripatch, has been held, against his will, by Emmanuel’s charge, Quartus Demetrius Verus.” He shot a glance towards Emmanuel, who shrugged complacently. “Anastasy has been stuck on Wrangel for five months now, stranded there by none other than Lucifer, king of the demons, and one of our former leaders.”
Michael, the current leader of the angelic hierarchy jumped up. “Do you have a point, Gabriel?” h
In an infinite white room sits a person.
This person is very nondescript – average height, average build, light brown hair of intermediate length – and wears simple grey clothes. This person sits in the centre of the room, racking their brains for something. They mutter a quiet prayer for help. As if by magic, it appears, in the form of three masked women. The one on the left wears bright colours and a mask depicting a cheery smile. The one on the left wears dreary greys and blacks, and sports a crying mask. The one in the middle has a neutral mask and clothing of pale blues and greys. They walk up to the person in the room.
&ldqu
Sing to me, Muse, about the story of the cities,
of the Achaeans, of wise Mycenae and brave Sparta,
of clever Ithaca and strong Myrmidon,
of Pylos and Athens and Argos and Thebes.
Sing to me, o Muse, about the great city by the Hellespont River,
about Ilium, the greatest city in all the world.
Start, o Muse, when Hellas, mother of all the Argives,
appeared to Troy, blessed by the gods,
to tell him of his fate.
When Ilium, breaker of horses, saw the queen of all Greece,
he hurried out of his walls, eager to meet her at his gates.
“Welcome, dear Hellas, queen with the lovely braids,
what have I done to deserve the honour of a visit?&rdq
Diche was a gossip and a whore, always tasting others. Now she cannot taste.
Audette was an eavesdropper and a spy, listening on things she had no right to. Now she cannot hear.
Nidor was a hunter and assassin, smelling out people and killing them. Now he cannot smell.
Spector was a stalker, looking at defenseless girls and pleasuring himself. now he cannot see.
Treme was a fornicator and a rapist, feeling up defenseless women. Now he cannot feel.
And none of them can remember.
Legare Diche
I wake up. I feel fine. I look at myself in the mirror. I remember I have no mouth. I scream. I cannot scream, I cannot yell, I cannot talk. I cann
Christopher, second-in-command of the Papal Resistance, was annoyed. It had been twenty-three months, going on twenty-four, since Anastasy, leader of the debacle that was the Resistance, had disappeared. He had left only to fight in the Great War into which he was conscripted, and which had been over for nearly a year. Christopher had no doubt that his mentor was dead by now, but sometimes he still had dreams in which Anastasy would return. Most of these dreams, of course, included the brutal and usually messy murder of the men who had come to vie for his position.
Christopher was interrupted from these thoughts by a loud crash coming from t
The Metatron stood in the middle of the Assembly Hall.
“Cherubim, seraphim, angels of all circles, I must ask for your help. As I’m sure many of you are aware, my charge, the human Anastasy Illyich Skripatch, has been held, against his will, by Emmanuel’s charge, Quartus Demetrius Verus.” He shot a glance towards Emmanuel, who shrugged complacently. “Anastasy has been stuck on Wrangel for five months now, stranded there by none other than Lucifer, king of the demons, and one of our former leaders.”
Michael, the current leader of the angelic hierarchy jumped up. “Do you have a point, Gabriel?” h
In an infinite white room sits a person.
This person is very nondescript – average height, average build, light brown hair of intermediate length – and wears simple grey clothes. This person sits in the centre of the room, racking their brains for something. They mutter a quiet prayer for help. As if by magic, it appears, in the form of three masked women. The one on the left wears bright colours and a mask depicting a cheery smile. The one on the left wears dreary greys and blacks, and sports a crying mask. The one in the middle has a neutral mask and clothing of pale blues and greys. They walk up to the person in the room.
&ldqu
Sing to me, Muse, about the story of the cities,
of the Achaeans, of wise Mycenae and brave Sparta,
of clever Ithaca and strong Myrmidon,
of Pylos and Athens and Argos and Thebes.
Sing to me, o Muse, about the great city by the Hellespont River,
about Ilium, the greatest city in all the world.
Start, o Muse, when Hellas, mother of all the Argives,
appeared to Troy, blessed by the gods,
to tell him of his fate.
When Ilium, breaker of horses, saw the queen of all Greece,
he hurried out of his walls, eager to meet her at his gates.
“Welcome, dear Hellas, queen with the lovely braids,
what have I done to deserve the honour of a visit?&rdq
Diche was a gossip and a whore, always tasting others. Now she cannot taste.
Audette was an eavesdropper and a spy, listening on things she had no right to. Now she cannot hear.
Nidor was a hunter and assassin, smelling out people and killing them. Now he cannot smell.
Spector was a stalker, looking at defenseless girls and pleasuring himself. now he cannot see.
Treme was a fornicator and a rapist, feeling up defenseless women. Now he cannot feel.
And none of them can remember.
Legare Diche
I wake up. I feel fine. I look at myself in the mirror. I remember I have no mouth. I scream. I cannot scream, I cannot yell, I cannot talk. I cann
Well, hello there, good sir or madam! I am Eeveeon, though I prefer such names as Beedle, Koruga, or Dorcas. I'm an artist, at least, kind of. I mostly draw for fun, and I write a lot of stories. a good amount of the things I am begin with the prefix a. I'm a failure at drawing males, and, well, that's mostly it. Oh, wait, the spheres of fiction I like best are fantasy and sci-fi. Maybe steampunk, but I have yet to learn what that really is. I like the Internet because it allows for me to hide my complete lack of ability to pronounce words. This is because I either learned the Latin root and assumed that the Latin pronunciation applied, or I only ever read it. Or, the word in question is Aphrodite.
I want to be a linguist when I grow up. I want to learn dead languages and go to MIT. I see no contradictions here.
Favourite Movies
Probably one of the first three of either Indiana Jones or Star Wars.
I just finished writing the Skripatchka. It is two-thirty-six AM. My brain feels like a pincushion and I am making so many typos that Autocorrect can barely keep up with me. My autopilot is running the show right now and doing a really bad job of it, I can't figure out how to work half the things on my iPod, and most of my decisions right now are based on the aesthetic appeal. I just ate a bright red button.
I am a GOD.
Babe you haven't uploaded in foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr