these buried souls // death [blitz]
Sept 5, 2014 19:01:04 GMT -5
Post by Onyx on Sept 5, 2014 19:01:04 GMT -5
Inertia Rae wanders through the dark streets like a sigh. The low, indigo-grey clouds extend their cold palms to her, curling around her bare shoulders in foggy tendrils, and she feels so light that she almost submits and joins them in the midnight sky. The moon is a curling crack, like the mark left by a fingernail digging into skin. In the darkness, Inertia's eyes are heavy-lidded, as she relies on her other senses to lead her away from the Beaucroix Reformatory for Wayward Young Ladies, and towards the sparse, rocky woodland that she often visits on nights like these. Nights when the chasm between this world and the next begin to narrow. Nights to on which to talk to spirits.
One bare foot in front of the other, Inertia clutches the little leatherbound bundle of incantation book, incense, pendulums, candles and cards, and softly sings to herself. It's a tuneless little shanty, breathy with the girl's cautious hush for not yet being out of the residential zone of the District. She makes up words as she goes but is sure the general melody and rhythm is something half-remembered from a memory; a lullaby, perhaps, or a taunt. Inertia doesn't fret about it.
The woods draw on quickly after the buildings end. At first, Inertia is aware of small shrubs sprouting from the dirt ground. Then the stones that litter the path begin to gain in size, no longer worn down to pebbles and shingles by the feet of travellers. Then the old, dry, knotted trunks of the trees, and their skeletal branches, begin to clump together - never enough to become dense forest, but substantial enough to shield Inertia's rituals from the sight of anyone who may stumble upon them.
Or not, as it may seem, everyone; only most people. For just as Inertia finishes laying the candles in a circle in the middle of a glade, she is suddenly, and acutely aware that she is not alone.
One bare foot in front of the other, Inertia clutches the little leatherbound bundle of incantation book, incense, pendulums, candles and cards, and softly sings to herself. It's a tuneless little shanty, breathy with the girl's cautious hush for not yet being out of the residential zone of the District. She makes up words as she goes but is sure the general melody and rhythm is something half-remembered from a memory; a lullaby, perhaps, or a taunt. Inertia doesn't fret about it.
The woods draw on quickly after the buildings end. At first, Inertia is aware of small shrubs sprouting from the dirt ground. Then the stones that litter the path begin to gain in size, no longer worn down to pebbles and shingles by the feet of travellers. Then the old, dry, knotted trunks of the trees, and their skeletal branches, begin to clump together - never enough to become dense forest, but substantial enough to shield Inertia's rituals from the sight of anyone who may stumble upon them.
Or not, as it may seem, everyone; only most people. For just as Inertia finishes laying the candles in a circle in the middle of a glade, she is suddenly, and acutely aware that she is not alone.
