dust, to dust, to dust [kaplan]
Nov 19, 2018 21:59:06 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Nov 19, 2018 21:59:06 GMT -5
GATRIX CAVELIER
The End of The Line, she'd called it, "An Oasis from the Apocalypse." Fill your lungs with its ichor, bask in its vibrations, for life's brevity is quick and complete. The only thing meeting us at the end is oblivion. The only thing that matters is now.
And an oasis it was, denizens flocking towards it, saving up money for a ticket as the music pulsed in double-time and the alcohol flowed, weak and plentiful. The neon lights did nothing but emphasize the trip, through powders or liquids or sheer spirits. A celebration for the people, by the people, against the man, for the man - who truly cares? Not Gatrix. The only thing that matters is the change that swishes in her pockets, sewn on with satisfaction. The knowing look in the Peacekeepers' eyes as they wade their way into her domain. The knowledge that with just one snap of her fingers, the world was at her beck and call. In her empty throne above the dance floor, a new era is ushered in.
Another benefit though as the camera pans down, through the technicolor to the dim wine cellar thirty feet below the earth - through the crowd screaming jubilation, what's one shriek of terror?
She glides her index finger along his jawline, nails opalescent and sharp, delicate gemstones and chains plastered on the nail beds. The barrel she sits on is heavy with Merlot, and with her eyes not leaving his, she takes her left hand and opens the tap, feeling the cool rush of liquid fill up the glass before she closes it again, pushing her palm against the lever.
"Have another drink, darling," she says, as she holds the glass to his lips and tilts slowly, the red running down his cheek and into his throat. "Now, now, don't waste my wine dear. The age makes it precious. A gold mine."
Does she hear a cough? A gag? the feeling of liquid sputtering against her hand? She makes no movements to indicate so - just the slow, steady, constant tip of the glass. And as the sounds become nearly nonstop she removes the cup, holding it in both hands.
She waits for a minute, letting him cough his way through.
"I'll ask you again darling," she says, leaning forward, her elbows on her thighs. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing him. "Who was it that you bumped into, oh let's say, about three weeks ago? At the Swannsong? It was dark of course, but surely you got a glimpse of her."
Her eyes narrow, the bubbly air in her voice does not. "And oh, yes. Where did she go?"
"I'm asking nicely dear, you know how I get when I get a little...." She pauses, then smirks. "Bothered."
And an oasis it was, denizens flocking towards it, saving up money for a ticket as the music pulsed in double-time and the alcohol flowed, weak and plentiful. The neon lights did nothing but emphasize the trip, through powders or liquids or sheer spirits. A celebration for the people, by the people, against the man, for the man - who truly cares? Not Gatrix. The only thing that matters is the change that swishes in her pockets, sewn on with satisfaction. The knowing look in the Peacekeepers' eyes as they wade their way into her domain. The knowledge that with just one snap of her fingers, the world was at her beck and call. In her empty throne above the dance floor, a new era is ushered in.
Another benefit though as the camera pans down, through the technicolor to the dim wine cellar thirty feet below the earth - through the crowd screaming jubilation, what's one shriek of terror?
She glides her index finger along his jawline, nails opalescent and sharp, delicate gemstones and chains plastered on the nail beds. The barrel she sits on is heavy with Merlot, and with her eyes not leaving his, she takes her left hand and opens the tap, feeling the cool rush of liquid fill up the glass before she closes it again, pushing her palm against the lever.
"Have another drink, darling," she says, as she holds the glass to his lips and tilts slowly, the red running down his cheek and into his throat. "Now, now, don't waste my wine dear. The age makes it precious. A gold mine."
Does she hear a cough? A gag? the feeling of liquid sputtering against her hand? She makes no movements to indicate so - just the slow, steady, constant tip of the glass. And as the sounds become nearly nonstop she removes the cup, holding it in both hands.
She waits for a minute, letting him cough his way through.
"I'll ask you again darling," she says, leaning forward, her elbows on her thighs. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing him. "Who was it that you bumped into, oh let's say, about three weeks ago? At the Swannsong? It was dark of course, but surely you got a glimpse of her."
Her eyes narrow, the bubbly air in her voice does not. "And oh, yes. Where did she go?"
"I'm asking nicely dear, you know how I get when I get a little...." She pauses, then smirks. "Bothered."
