of teacups and sweets and ceiling wax
Who: Undertaker (thecorpsedaddy) and Xerxes Break (break_xerxes)
When: 2 November, Evening prior to Sirens
Where: Break and Sharon's home in Sector 4
Summary: Undertaker tromps over to Break's for tea and general fun times.
Warnings: Morbidness, general oddity, language probably. That's about it.
A small giggle fell from the curved lips of Undertaker as he stood from his chair that so dutifully stood before the screen of his NV. His hands were held away from his face and clothes, though the light cloth of his under robes were already quite stained from the reckless abandon he'd taken with the remains of Henry, his supernatural guest. Now, all the parts that he had deemed useful were in jars that littered the bare and cracking counters of his apartment's tiny kitchen. All that was left was the hollowed out corpse that, come morning, he would expose to sunlight for the first time since he'd taken it in and see what came of the remaining flesh. His curiosity craved for the sun to move faster, though, at that moment, there were greater things to be had. And to will the sun now would will it away faster, making the night approach more quickly. He had a feeling that he would be spending the nighttime hours at his new acquaintance's home, or using his NV to contact the sword girl to ask for an escort. The sink water ran red for quite a long time as he meticulously worked the blood out from under his long black fingernails. All the while, he hummed to himself, his mind racing from one topic to another, all revolving around this oh-so curious situation that he now found himself in.
Once finished, he dried his hands on his under robes and snatched the outer layer from where it lay draped over a half-stuffed upholstered chair in the living room. This place was only temporary, and he knew that. He would need to start looking for some way to get money, and most likely, someone to share a residence with. Ideally, if he could find a broken down, back water store front to inhabit, it would be just like London. Exactly like London. Full of filth and death, all weighted down and saturated with rain and cold. Pulling the coat on, he buttoned up the front before tying his sash over his shoulder. The moment of haste was lost when his fingers brushed the old and worn gold of the momento mori that hung like charms from a matching chain. The tips of his fingers smoothed over the cool, crystal service as he felt the engraved name written in elegant cursive: Claudia P. The name spawned memories that made the smile fade from his face for just an instant. But it was a statement that rang true: no matter who you are, remember your mortality. Because death is indiscriminate. The string was wrapped around his waist, the latch fastened as he took his hat from the coat hook that hung, disjointed and awkward, from the back of his main door. Putting it on, he hesitated at the entrance for a moment before the grin snapped back to his face.
"It would be horrible if I needed you and left you behind~" he cooed as he trotted to the table in order to snatch up his NV, the screen closing as a result. Slipping it into an unknown, concealed spot in his robes, he left the apartment, closing the door behind him. He didn't lock it, he never did. After all, what was there that was valuable within his home? And, anyone who took a step inside would immediately be hit with the pungent smell of rotting flesh, bleach, and isopropyl alcohol, not to mention the visage of lines of jars filled with organs. Yes, he was certain no one would bother his abode.
It didn't take too long for him to wander his way to the other side of Sector 4. He'd mostly stayed within this socio-economic region in his wandering, at least for now. And if he did stray, it was into the lower income areas, rather than the higher. He wanted nothing to do with the wealthy, as he always had. Save for little Earl Phantomhive, but he was an exception on many, many different levels. He found the house quickly, as it was the only one to his memory that had children's playthings in the yard. It was a quaint building, something that reminded him of the little homes out in the suburbs of London that he'd pass on his way to a familial cemetery. There was a pang of discomfort in his chest at the thought of home, of his business. He wanted a funeral coach, one that he could fill with his best handmade casket and flowers cut from the plant in full bloom, though he was certain no such thing existed here. What had been gained with advancements such as his NV had been lost in ways, somewhere, somehow. His beloved Macbeth would live on in his memories.
Glancing around at the surrounding area, his gaze seemed to fasten on the ever-quickly setting sun. A chorus was beginning to hum in his ears, like an opera from across town. It was a sound he had not heard in an impossibly long time. A symphony that he was almost certain only he could hear. A performance with but one patron. A part of him wanted to stand just as he was until the shadows grew so dark that they overtook the world around him, letting loose the monsters that they spawned. Though he didn't fear death, it was very much an inconvenience. Tearing his attention away from the singing and whispering that was growing louder with the fading light, he stepped up to the door, his sleeves covering his hands, muffling the sharp sound of his knocking on the wooden door.
When: 2 November, Evening prior to Sirens
Where: Break and Sharon's home in Sector 4
Summary: Undertaker tromps over to Break's for tea and general fun times.
Warnings: Morbidness, general oddity, language probably. That's about it.
A small giggle fell from the curved lips of Undertaker as he stood from his chair that so dutifully stood before the screen of his NV. His hands were held away from his face and clothes, though the light cloth of his under robes were already quite stained from the reckless abandon he'd taken with the remains of Henry, his supernatural guest. Now, all the parts that he had deemed useful were in jars that littered the bare and cracking counters of his apartment's tiny kitchen. All that was left was the hollowed out corpse that, come morning, he would expose to sunlight for the first time since he'd taken it in and see what came of the remaining flesh. His curiosity craved for the sun to move faster, though, at that moment, there were greater things to be had. And to will the sun now would will it away faster, making the night approach more quickly. He had a feeling that he would be spending the nighttime hours at his new acquaintance's home, or using his NV to contact the sword girl to ask for an escort. The sink water ran red for quite a long time as he meticulously worked the blood out from under his long black fingernails. All the while, he hummed to himself, his mind racing from one topic to another, all revolving around this oh-so curious situation that he now found himself in.
Once finished, he dried his hands on his under robes and snatched the outer layer from where it lay draped over a half-stuffed upholstered chair in the living room. This place was only temporary, and he knew that. He would need to start looking for some way to get money, and most likely, someone to share a residence with. Ideally, if he could find a broken down, back water store front to inhabit, it would be just like London. Exactly like London. Full of filth and death, all weighted down and saturated with rain and cold. Pulling the coat on, he buttoned up the front before tying his sash over his shoulder. The moment of haste was lost when his fingers brushed the old and worn gold of the momento mori that hung like charms from a matching chain. The tips of his fingers smoothed over the cool, crystal service as he felt the engraved name written in elegant cursive: Claudia P. The name spawned memories that made the smile fade from his face for just an instant. But it was a statement that rang true: no matter who you are, remember your mortality. Because death is indiscriminate. The string was wrapped around his waist, the latch fastened as he took his hat from the coat hook that hung, disjointed and awkward, from the back of his main door. Putting it on, he hesitated at the entrance for a moment before the grin snapped back to his face.
"It would be horrible if I needed you and left you behind~" he cooed as he trotted to the table in order to snatch up his NV, the screen closing as a result. Slipping it into an unknown, concealed spot in his robes, he left the apartment, closing the door behind him. He didn't lock it, he never did. After all, what was there that was valuable within his home? And, anyone who took a step inside would immediately be hit with the pungent smell of rotting flesh, bleach, and isopropyl alcohol, not to mention the visage of lines of jars filled with organs. Yes, he was certain no one would bother his abode.
It didn't take too long for him to wander his way to the other side of Sector 4. He'd mostly stayed within this socio-economic region in his wandering, at least for now. And if he did stray, it was into the lower income areas, rather than the higher. He wanted nothing to do with the wealthy, as he always had. Save for little Earl Phantomhive, but he was an exception on many, many different levels. He found the house quickly, as it was the only one to his memory that had children's playthings in the yard. It was a quaint building, something that reminded him of the little homes out in the suburbs of London that he'd pass on his way to a familial cemetery. There was a pang of discomfort in his chest at the thought of home, of his business. He wanted a funeral coach, one that he could fill with his best handmade casket and flowers cut from the plant in full bloom, though he was certain no such thing existed here. What had been gained with advancements such as his NV had been lost in ways, somewhere, somehow. His beloved Macbeth would live on in his memories.
Glancing around at the surrounding area, his gaze seemed to fasten on the ever-quickly setting sun. A chorus was beginning to hum in his ears, like an opera from across town. It was a sound he had not heard in an impossibly long time. A symphony that he was almost certain only he could hear. A performance with but one patron. A part of him wanted to stand just as he was until the shadows grew so dark that they overtook the world around him, letting loose the monsters that they spawned. Though he didn't fear death, it was very much an inconvenience. Tearing his attention away from the singing and whispering that was growing louder with the fading light, he stepped up to the door, his sleeves covering his hands, muffling the sharp sound of his knocking on the wooden door.