Lucien
11-03-07, 12:46 AM
(Follow my lead and be as bad as you want to be, oh Nekoboooooi)
A church.
Rows of pews padded with red velvet, lined in perfectly symmetrical order. The intense eyes of hanging stone saints, limp from the cross they bore, stared intently at the empty temple. The floors were a rich cherrywood, covered with a varnish of fresh dust and rat droppings. The smell of stale holy water with filthy trappings of dirt still residing within the pools was everywhere, as was the bleak lighting that only changed when another crash of thunder illuminated through chipped painted glass. There was no moon, not even an outside. It was all an illusion; some trapping of the body by the mind. This was the Citadel, where people fought and died in faux battles for honor and sport.
The continuation of a violent culture through violence, and violence always continued in a violent culture.
*thump*
It was different from the thunder; more close to reality than the battle that raged in the sky. A hardcover tome of hymns struck the ground with such force that a wave of dust swirled in the air like a presence that left in evanescence. A boy, tired from the tricks the Citadel played, lay on the front pew like a damned man doomed for the gallows. His blond hair greatly contrasted the environment around him; it's purity seemed to help illuminate the cathedral as much as the bolts of lightning that cried from the heavens in the imaginary outside. He sat up, a shiver reaping his very sanity at the sound he himself had created.
Jeans and a pink t-shirt were all that protected his frail bod from the devilish hell that were the elements. With no warmth from candle nor cardinal, he curled himself up to conserve heat.
"All over a stupid bet..." His mind raced with regret and mourned the loss of his freedom; the stakes of the bet were steep indeed.
Perhaps the old saying was true. The brave do die but once, and Lucien was by no means valiant.
A church.
Rows of pews padded with red velvet, lined in perfectly symmetrical order. The intense eyes of hanging stone saints, limp from the cross they bore, stared intently at the empty temple. The floors were a rich cherrywood, covered with a varnish of fresh dust and rat droppings. The smell of stale holy water with filthy trappings of dirt still residing within the pools was everywhere, as was the bleak lighting that only changed when another crash of thunder illuminated through chipped painted glass. There was no moon, not even an outside. It was all an illusion; some trapping of the body by the mind. This was the Citadel, where people fought and died in faux battles for honor and sport.
The continuation of a violent culture through violence, and violence always continued in a violent culture.
*thump*
It was different from the thunder; more close to reality than the battle that raged in the sky. A hardcover tome of hymns struck the ground with such force that a wave of dust swirled in the air like a presence that left in evanescence. A boy, tired from the tricks the Citadel played, lay on the front pew like a damned man doomed for the gallows. His blond hair greatly contrasted the environment around him; it's purity seemed to help illuminate the cathedral as much as the bolts of lightning that cried from the heavens in the imaginary outside. He sat up, a shiver reaping his very sanity at the sound he himself had created.
Jeans and a pink t-shirt were all that protected his frail bod from the devilish hell that were the elements. With no warmth from candle nor cardinal, he curled himself up to conserve heat.
"All over a stupid bet..." His mind raced with regret and mourned the loss of his freedom; the stakes of the bet were steep indeed.
Perhaps the old saying was true. The brave do die but once, and Lucien was by no means valiant.