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
[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.