OOC; Dream
The first thing he’s aware of is the sound of a cow mooing. It doesn’t make much sense to him, but he holds onto it for dear life; he cannot see a thing, no ground is beneath his feet, and although he gropes blindly, there is nothing to hold onto. So he listens to the sound instead.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the sound disappears, only to be replaced by a man’s voice, coarse and commanding.. Right away, he knows-this is a man who commands people to listen to him. “Anything can be a weapon,” he manages to catch, the voice being drowned out by silence far more potent than sound, “your helmet, your…” The voice flickers and dims, and he barely hears a snippet of, “From now on, we’re clean.”
All the little angels rise up, rise up, all the little angels rise up high…
Then, he lands, feet hitting the pavement with a violent slap of cheap boots, but the cobblestones underneath his feet are warm, and somehow familiar, and this soothes him even as his vision is not restored. Somewhere, closer now, a cow moos. This brings out an irrational streak of irritation; what the bloody hell is a cow doing in a place with cobblestones? Cows belong in fields. Soon afterwards, he finds he much preferred the cow-a screech of metal meeting metal assaults him, and screams too full of pitiful agony to be ones of show. Anger bubbles deep underneath him, anger he doesn’t understand, but people keep on shouting, and the sound of trampling feet grows ever closer. He is not a coward, but he is not stupid-he flees. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but anywhere is better than here.
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high
There is a deep, guttural roar, and words spring unbidden to his lips (which rather surprises him; although he cannot seem to remember himself, he knows that he is not one to have words simply roll out of his mouth): “The Beast.”
Then he curses like a sailor and runs like hell. Suddenly, at the most inopportune moment, sight gifts him with a single table. He reels backward for a moment, blinking his eyes furiously to adjust, and sees a bottle of what smells like whiskey, and beside it, a cigar. It’s probably very interesting symbolism, he thinks, and tries to run past it, but something holds him back. In this case, the whiskey, he thinks, would be a better choice, but even as his mind thinks it, he grabs the cigar instead.
Warmth envelops him, a woman’s voice, and the damned cow’s moo.
They rise arse up, arse up, arse up, see the little angels rise up high.
The last thing he remembers is the smell of lilacs.
Notes: The chorus of "All The Little Angels" is sung by many rather off-key voices. They're loud and boisterous at first, but it gets quieter as time goes by--there's less people singing it.
The first voice belongs to John Keel. The woman's voice belongs to Sybil.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the sound disappears, only to be replaced by a man’s voice, coarse and commanding.. Right away, he knows-this is a man who commands people to listen to him. “Anything can be a weapon,” he manages to catch, the voice being drowned out by silence far more potent than sound, “your helmet, your…” The voice flickers and dims, and he barely hears a snippet of, “From now on, we’re clean.”
All the little angels rise up, rise up, all the little angels rise up high…
Then, he lands, feet hitting the pavement with a violent slap of cheap boots, but the cobblestones underneath his feet are warm, and somehow familiar, and this soothes him even as his vision is not restored. Somewhere, closer now, a cow moos. This brings out an irrational streak of irritation; what the bloody hell is a cow doing in a place with cobblestones? Cows belong in fields. Soon afterwards, he finds he much preferred the cow-a screech of metal meeting metal assaults him, and screams too full of pitiful agony to be ones of show. Anger bubbles deep underneath him, anger he doesn’t understand, but people keep on shouting, and the sound of trampling feet grows ever closer. He is not a coward, but he is not stupid-he flees. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but anywhere is better than here.
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up, rise up high
There is a deep, guttural roar, and words spring unbidden to his lips (which rather surprises him; although he cannot seem to remember himself, he knows that he is not one to have words simply roll out of his mouth): “The Beast.”
Then he curses like a sailor and runs like hell. Suddenly, at the most inopportune moment, sight gifts him with a single table. He reels backward for a moment, blinking his eyes furiously to adjust, and sees a bottle of what smells like whiskey, and beside it, a cigar. It’s probably very interesting symbolism, he thinks, and tries to run past it, but something holds him back. In this case, the whiskey, he thinks, would be a better choice, but even as his mind thinks it, he grabs the cigar instead.
Warmth envelops him, a woman’s voice, and the damned cow’s moo.
They rise arse up, arse up, arse up, see the little angels rise up high.
The last thing he remembers is the smell of lilacs.
Notes: The chorus of "All The Little Angels" is sung by many rather off-key voices. They're loud and boisterous at first, but it gets quieter as time goes by--there's less people singing it.
The first voice belongs to John Keel. The woman's voice belongs to Sybil.