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Post by Ambrose Emerson on Jul 17, 2009 14:19:39 GMT -5
THIS IS A GIFT, IT COMES WITH A PRICE
Searching, always searching. That was Ambrose's way, he always wanted answers. For the past two and a half years it had always been the one answer he lusted after. He came here every single day, it hadn't always been this way, no, not at all. There was a carefree time in Mr Emerson's life where he had only visited church on a Sunday, and then it was to celebrate his bond - now it was a habitual interrogation between him and God, he was always the one asking questions.
The young man sat on the pew closest to the focal point of the church, the altar and crucifix. His eyes travelled aimlessly, flitting to and fro across the lustrous colours of the stained glass, across the rough stone of the walls, finally coming to rest on his clasped hands. His broad shoulders reached up in sync with the large drag of air he sucked in. A sigh. He mused, mulling over the wording of his prayer. Perhaps, he thought, it was his gradually increasing impoliteness which clouded the answer, it was a punishment of immense turmoil and unrest. This time he even made use of a 'please' and 'thank you', just like his mother had always told him. His fingers loosened, began to play with the beads of his rosary, a rich, dark shade of brown, made from Brazilian rosewood, a rare commodity these days. He counted the beads. No answer. Another intake of breathe and a heavy sigh erupted from his chest, reverberating off ever reflective surface it could find. His features contorted into a grimace, a contrast to his normally warm and friendly image. Why is there never an answer?
The man rose, his hand reaching to tussle his hair, thick and brown, so dark it seemed black in the muted light which illuminated the church - perhaps it was intended, a soft lighting to enforce the sacrosanctity of this place. Ambrose held a large gait, making for a confident swagger which he could never shake; he endeavoured to tame it nonetheless, choosing to try and amble around the side of the pews. This was, in reality, a poor attempt to linger here, to see if an answer would truly come - an answer plucked from thin air, beautiful and fulfilling with it's words. Sometimes he wondered, perhaps God had created a divine mandate to ignore werewolves altogether, and although he came to church more now than he had ever done he felt so alone, embittered by the distance he perceived to be growing between himself and God. He continued to walk, slower still in pace.
WHO IS THE LAMB AND WHO IS THE KNIFE? |
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Post by OUR LADY OF SORROWS! on Jul 17, 2009 23:19:12 GMT -5
Well, if you wanted honesty that's all you had to say
I never want to let you down or have you go
"It's better off this way"
For all the dirty looks
The photographs your boyfriend took
Remember when you broke your foot from jumping out the second floor?
--
[/center] Pale face upturned towards the blinding sunlight, Gerard stood outside of the regal church with his hands shoved into the pockets of his tight black jeans. He wore a shimmery red scarf tied around his neck, protecting his throat from the sun's rays. If only they made head scarves. Wait. They do, don't they? Well, he thought, I'll have to get me one someday.Someday being tomorrow, of course. Gerard really loves his scarves. He heard someone ambling around inside, his hearing more powerful than any human's. Turning he pushed the door open and peeked inside. He hated this place. Saint Agnes glowing in stained glass to his left was encased in shadow, and where she would have once looked innocent she now looked like a whore. He hated it, hated this stupid fucking place and its stupid fucking faith. God never got anyone anywhere. He spotted the person ambling around inside. He looked lost, a rosary clutched in his hands. Narrowing his hazel eyes he slipped into the cavernous room of stone, hearing the door close with an echoing bang that made it sound like he slammed it. Wincing inwardly at the noise, he sauntered down the aisle and stood behind the podium, looking around with amusement. If he were to give a sermon...oh, the possibilities. He contented himself in thinking about it for a bit longer before focusing on the man in the room. "You. Who are you?" --
Forget about the dirty looks
The photographs your boyfriend took
You said you read me like a book
But the pages are all torn and frayed now [/center][/font][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by Ambrose Emerson on Jul 18, 2009 13:13:47 GMT -5
THIS IS A GIFT, IT COMES WITH A PRICE
Ambrose didn't pretend to be surprised at the recent visitor, he could smell the bloodsucker before he had opened the door, heard the crunching underfoot of the gravel beyond the entrance - the church, after all, still maintained a modest plot surrounding its bricks and mortar. In fact, he was sick of feigning a lot of things, he really wished he could be scared out of his skin when someone sneaked up on him, really, he did. Being a wolf really took the spice out of life. He chose to look up out of courtesy rather than curiosity, after all, they all seemingly appeared the same, a stony-faced sentinel of unnatural morbidity, and he tautened his face to form something akin to a smile. Anyone who had studied high school psychology would notice how fake it was, his eyes didn't crease up like natural - it was merely courtesy.
Ambrose continued to contemplate the exact significance of his existence, albeit it tainted with the same thought for the fate of the vampire. I think way too much sometimes... Then the other visitor spoke, cutting through the once unruffled silence of the space – his walking in had sullied that, made it uptight and disagreeable. For a second he felt a bubbling bother, something closer to resentment – normally he kept himself pretty composed, especially for a man whose canine instinct tended to have human emotions at its beck and call to manipulate and toy with. His body seemed to tremble slightly, muscles contracted, he felt...threatened? Perhaps it was merely the tone the stranger had propositioned him with. Amby began to possibly regret moving to this place, most of the people he met had been so impolite – he was used to a small, rural town where people knew what manners were and the Lord was taken seriously, plus this place was crawling with bloodsuckers and dogs, something quite abhorrent, albeit something he was a part of. This was ridiculous.
“Does it matter, corpse?” His lips seemed to curl back over his teeth, his tone more akin to a snarl than anything within the realms of human speech. I need to keep a tighter leash on myself. His clenched fists were white at the knuckles, his heart’s familiar pace quickened – he was ready. Bite first, think later - this was city life.
Vampires were not to be trusted.
WHO IS THE LAMB AND WHO IS THE KNIFE? |
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Post by OUR LADY OF SORROWS! on Jul 21, 2009 11:03:45 GMT -5
Gerard stepped away from the podium to examine the pews where, on a Sunday morning, a small choir of people would stand and sing the tuneless hymns in their tone-deaf voices. He shuddered at the thought. He would say that it was butchering perfectly good musical art, but he doubted it was ever that good in the first place.
Tilting his head in curiosity he picked at a loose splinted on the pew in front of him as he replied. "It does matter, because, you see, here we are in the same room, in this 'temple of worship' --" he made air quotes with his fingers "-- or whatever you'd like to call it, and I don't know your name and you don't know mine. For once i think it's more of a matter of common courtesy, even though you are a mutt and you stink like all hell. So, what is your name?"
Mikey always told him he talked too much. He always had something to say, needed to explain himself, put his feelings forth through the beauty of language. At the same time, though, it was a very useful skill to manipulate. People tended to listen and be awed but what he said, or get annoyed and give him whatever he wanted just to make him shut up. It was helpful, and maybe it'd work here. All he needed was a name, after all. A name was a word, and if that name was erased the person would still be there. He didn't understand why some people held names so dear to them.
The sun broke through the church at that moment, making whorish Saint Agnes look sweet again and this haunted place look beautiful. He bowed his head as the sun warmed his black hair, but his sharp hazel eyes were still fixed on the man across the church from him. What a confusing and curious person.
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Post by Ambrose Emerson on Jul 25, 2009 16:25:47 GMT -5
THE SAINTS CAN'T HELP ME NOW THE ROPES HAVE BEEN UNBOUND
Emerson took care to eyeball the bloodsucker, he had never really felt at ease around them, perhaps it was worse considering his supernatural status; he shifted his weight in a bid to ensure the vampire didn't make a sneaky, backhand move, he had to stay safe. He wasn't about to be savaged by a corpse, not after being mangled and infected by a wolf. Awful experiences led to an overcautious nature. He cringed at the singing tone of his acquaintance, it was bell-like, velvety smooth and yet it went straight through him, much like nails on a blackboard, to excuse the pun; it was his sarcasm towards his faith that hurt more though. He scrunched his face up in disapproval at the comment, his gaze dropped to the ground, he was embarrassed for such slander to ever be spoken in such a place. Never mind, he's probably just had a hard time with some Bible Bashers. His own thoughts amused him, he remembered the people who brought shame on his religion, those who were too extreme, too conservative - never compromising, never accepting. At this the youngster cleared his throat, waiting patiently for the other to finish, he'd relaxed somewhat, the mystery man hadn't taken the chance to attack him,
"Y'know...Christianity isn't just a cult for people to be jerks," he raised his hands up in more of a peaceful, friendly gesture than anything else. A change of tune? No. Amby was still on top of his game, still assessing the threat, yet he continued, his voice was gravelly, definitely male,"I'm Ambrose...Ambrose Emerson. You?"
The lycan drew his hand up to scratch behind his ear, perhaps a habit in being nervous or wary. His face was friendlier than before; it was, in reality, still stony, guarded. He wouldn't trust this gentleman one bit - especially considering he had no sense of manners. He didn't even say please! He continued to grumble to himself within his mind, his more...bestial traits told his to fight or flee - controlling them was becoming more of a challenge recently, he revelled in it, yet it continued to trouble him. He covered his mouth with a large hand, coughing rather loudly, the sound more like a gunshot in this space, magnified and rather more menacing than it had been in reality. He wondered whether to stick up a hand to shake...but there again, his comrade probably had rather large teeth, he couldn’t change that fast – he wasn’t like the Transformers. He began to chuckle inwardly, a boyish smile gracing his lips, attractive perhaps to some, but most likely not to the corpse that stood opposite him.
I HUNT FOR YOU WITH BLOODIED FEET ACROSS THE HOLLOW GROUND |
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