Dream I - Edge
!-- Filtered from 'Lovely Bezarius Leverage'!Ada Bezarius and 'Replacement Echo'!Chii
Otherwise: Public
Nothing.
And then, the haunting knell of a grandfather clock in the distance.
There seems to be a tea party.
A soft clink of glass against table, like the distant echo of a bell. Soft table cloth against wood, the wind flapping all around. With only the elegant curves of the porcelain and its weight in tea keeping it from flying away, it flutters white like a flag of resignation.
Something drips. A droplet. Once. Twice. It soaks into the white seamlessly, and slowly the pitter-patter of rain can be heard all around and beyond, gray skies stifling and a singular red moon hanging crooked in the sky. Swinging on mad hinges, it grins its maniacal smile, and allows its red glow to fall.
The droplets turn red. A single strand of white hair floats within a tea cup, swirling. Soon, the tablecloth is soaked.
A tsk. His tea is ruined, it seems. An elegant hand reaches from behind the blood-red curtain, and takes the teapot. Upends it. Tea leaves embroiled in blood tumble over the edge of the precipice, a rain of red and dirty green upon a darkened skyline.
The elegant hand allows the porcelain to slip back into its rightful place.
Draws the palm back, coils and strikes.
One is born into misfortune through nothing more than misfortune itself.
A child tumbles to the ground, and then the next. Two young children snared. Blond hair intermixed with black, and amongst two pairs of eyes, a singular red one blares in the darkness.
They sit within the cityscape, awaiting trial.
Why?
Why.
Why.
The city is awash with blood.
And suddenly, he is standing atop the edge of the precipice, mismatched eyes staring off into the distance. A hand in the darkness, it stretches before him. And with his smile, he takes it, takes the hand and caresses it gently, pulling the figure forward. And out from within the looking glass, his face appears. Slowly, a singular red eye staring back with an unreadable expression, hair as white as the falling snow fluttering in the dying breeze.
The ridiculous sleeves are gone. He has cut them away, revealing his hands. And they are pale, beautiful, absurd works of art. He draws his own hands back, and in one smooth motion, pulls the figure onto the ledge. Watches as he stands there, poised.
There is now a pair of red in the darkness, a darkness only deep enough for one.
He draws his hands up, pulling the other figure’s chin up in distaste. Reaches for the neck.
And simply lets go. Allows the figure, now without support, to arch back. Watches as the figure tumbles down the precipice, white disappearing into the dark. A single red eye vanishing where there were once two. And a single one remains on the ledge.
He holds up his hand.
Within his palm, floating upwards softly with the red glow of the moon, are three white strands the length of his forearm.
And laughingly, he lets go, and watches as they flutter away in the breeze.
The sound of a chime in the distance.
Nothing, indeed.
[Why yes the White-haired figure is a certain Xerxes Break. Why yes Vincent just dreamed about pushing him off a cliff. Why yes he is smiling like a bastard. o/ He awakes, refreshed.
A pair of mismatched eyes for the dreamberry to record, and he does a little wave to his audience. A smile.]
That was quite the refreshing dream, I would have to admit.
A nice thought indeed. I do believe I will be in a marvelous mood for the duration of the day. It's quite lovely indeed.
Otherwise: Public
Nothing.
And then, the haunting knell of a grandfather clock in the distance.
There seems to be a tea party.
A soft clink of glass against table, like the distant echo of a bell. Soft table cloth against wood, the wind flapping all around. With only the elegant curves of the porcelain and its weight in tea keeping it from flying away, it flutters white like a flag of resignation.
Something drips. A droplet. Once. Twice. It soaks into the white seamlessly, and slowly the pitter-patter of rain can be heard all around and beyond, gray skies stifling and a singular red moon hanging crooked in the sky. Swinging on mad hinges, it grins its maniacal smile, and allows its red glow to fall.
The droplets turn red. A single strand of white hair floats within a tea cup, swirling. Soon, the tablecloth is soaked.
A tsk. His tea is ruined, it seems. An elegant hand reaches from behind the blood-red curtain, and takes the teapot. Upends it. Tea leaves embroiled in blood tumble over the edge of the precipice, a rain of red and dirty green upon a darkened skyline.
The elegant hand allows the porcelain to slip back into its rightful place.
Draws the palm back, coils and strikes.
One is born into misfortune through nothing more than misfortune itself.
A child tumbles to the ground, and then the next. Two young children snared. Blond hair intermixed with black, and amongst two pairs of eyes, a singular red one blares in the darkness.
They sit within the cityscape, awaiting trial.
Why?
Why.
Why.
The city is awash with blood.
And suddenly, he is standing atop the edge of the precipice, mismatched eyes staring off into the distance. A hand in the darkness, it stretches before him. And with his smile, he takes it, takes the hand and caresses it gently, pulling the figure forward. And out from within the looking glass, his face appears. Slowly, a singular red eye staring back with an unreadable expression, hair as white as the falling snow fluttering in the dying breeze.
The ridiculous sleeves are gone. He has cut them away, revealing his hands. And they are pale, beautiful, absurd works of art. He draws his own hands back, and in one smooth motion, pulls the figure onto the ledge. Watches as he stands there, poised.
There is now a pair of red in the darkness, a darkness only deep enough for one.
He draws his hands up, pulling the other figure’s chin up in distaste. Reaches for the neck.
And simply lets go. Allows the figure, now without support, to arch back. Watches as the figure tumbles down the precipice, white disappearing into the dark. A single red eye vanishing where there were once two. And a single one remains on the ledge.
He holds up his hand.
Within his palm, floating upwards softly with the red glow of the moon, are three white strands the length of his forearm.
And laughingly, he lets go, and watches as they flutter away in the breeze.
The sound of a chime in the distance.
Nothing, indeed.
[Why yes the White-haired figure is a certain Xerxes Break. Why yes Vincent just dreamed about pushing him off a cliff. Why yes he is smiling like a bastard. o/ He awakes, refreshed.
A pair of mismatched eyes for the dreamberry to record, and he does a little wave to his audience. A smile.]
That was quite the refreshing dream, I would have to admit.
A nice thought indeed. I do believe I will be in a marvelous mood for the duration of the day. It's quite lovely indeed.