E%patriate ♐ Darkleer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disgracedvoid) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-03-13 01:54 am
disgracedvoid) wrote in towerofanimus2013-03-13 01:54 am
Entry tags:
[OPEN] you were just a child, ready to explore
Characters: Darkleer and YOU!
Setting: Floor 71. [Space floor, CLOSED to Signless.]
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: In a last ditch attempt to procrastinate going back to work a little longer, Darkleer decides to get... artistic.
Warnings: Darkleer's usual flavor of creepy. Body horror because... well, floor 71.
[He's going crazy. Crazier. The truth is, no matter what, he needs to do something with his hands before that something turns into someone's gruesome death. He's cranky and snappy and in absolutely no mood for shit. This wouldn't be any different than any other day, except he's literally going stir crazy and it's time he admits he cannot keep away from the workshop any longer.
But going back to the workshop means being easily found again and he doesn't want to be easily found, because then he'll have to talk to people and deal with... well, things.
Which is why he's sitting on a more or less solid patch of bloddied fresh in the room, sketching away the various organic structures about. Darkleer's penchant for mechanics have always tended towards the organic, taking cues from the design of living creatures, and while he doubts anything in this room follows one particular design, drawing and trying to replicate the patterns is familiar enough to be soothing. Even if he's sitting in bleeding, gross organs. At this point, he'll take whatever he can.]
[There is something strangely comforting about this floor, even if he's well aware that he is watching death on a massive scale. But perhaps it is the notion of an end, an actual, unavoidable, unmistakable end, that appeals to him. He knows himself morbid enough to be comforted by it.
Darkleer sits, legs folded and hands lying on his knees, with his back against the wall and his head tilted up to watch stars collapsing and yet another universe die. It is soothing. Comforting. Reassuring. Everything ends. Everything stops. He too will come to disappear, one day.
He's so engrossed, watching the display in this floor, that he loses track of the staircase and who might or might not be using it.]
Setting: Floor 71. [Space floor, CLOSED to Signless.]
Format: Starting with action, but I'll match you.
Summary: In a last ditch attempt to procrastinate going back to work a little longer, Darkleer decides to get... artistic.
Warnings: Darkleer's usual flavor of creepy. Body horror because... well, floor 71.
[He's going crazy. Crazier. The truth is, no matter what, he needs to do something with his hands before that something turns into someone's gruesome death. He's cranky and snappy and in absolutely no mood for shit. This wouldn't be any different than any other day, except he's literally going stir crazy and it's time he admits he cannot keep away from the workshop any longer.
But going back to the workshop means being easily found again and he doesn't want to be easily found, because then he'll have to talk to people and deal with... well, things.
Which is why he's sitting on a more or less solid patch of bloddied fresh in the room, sketching away the various organic structures about. Darkleer's penchant for mechanics have always tended towards the organic, taking cues from the design of living creatures, and while he doubts anything in this room follows one particular design, drawing and trying to replicate the patterns is familiar enough to be soothing. Even if he's sitting in bleeding, gross organs. At this point, he'll take whatever he can.]
[There is something strangely comforting about this floor, even if he's well aware that he is watching death on a massive scale. But perhaps it is the notion of an end, an actual, unavoidable, unmistakable end, that appeals to him. He knows himself morbid enough to be comforted by it.
Darkleer sits, legs folded and hands lying on his knees, with his back against the wall and his head tilted up to watch stars collapsing and yet another universe die. It is soothing. Comforting. Reassuring. Everything ends. Everything stops. He too will come to disappear, one day.
He's so engrossed, watching the display in this floor, that he loses track of the staircase and who might or might not be using it.]
no subject
It is the truth that is the most painful and while we constantly continue upon our destined path, we wish to hide from the truth. Sometimes it is easier to hide or cover the pain with a lie. However, it does not mean that we should run or deny the words that need to be spoken. For it is through truth that change happens and friendships are made. From those friendships may relationship blossom, but this is another issue entirely.
[Another cough as he gasps for breath and tries to regather his thoughts and form them into words.]
It is. It is just, but you cannot be perfect. One action here will only hinder or expand upon another. Do not beat yourself up over that. We all make mistakes.
no subject
[Darkleer bites out the words a bit more harshly than intended. Apparently he's got quite a few... feelings about this whole mess.]
How could I not beat myself over it, as you candidly put it, when I am reduced to nothing but a mindless beast?
no subject
[A pause as he clears his throat.]
I reiterate. Putting blame to an act...you did a horrible action. However it will be forgiven. It is only in the nature of our species to lose control and kill...while it is not something I praise. I have come to accept it. This is why we have a need for the pale quadrant.
[It was unclear if he was dancing around the subject or clearly was just speaking in order to speak.]
no subject
[There's something petulant to that statement. And something very, very desperate in it, as well. Why, if you thought about it really hard, you might say he sounded terrified. But that's nonsense, obviously. Darkleer is afraid of nothing.]
no subject
No. You do.
no subject
[Oddly enough, the image Darkleer presents is that of a hissing cat, as he presses back against the wall, shoulders hunched forward defensively.]
no subject
[His recent tone had been shaky, uneven and moved from a soft whisper to that of the enraged. However now was different. This tone was stern.]
no subject
no subject
I will forgive you.
no subject
...I know.
[His voice is quiet and absolutely miserable.]
I wish you wouldn't.
no subject
Do not beat yourself up. There is nothing to gain from that.