Jan. 18th, 2007 07:24 am
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-A brief candle; both ends burning
An endless mile; a bus wheel turning
A friend to share the lonesome times
A handshake and a sip of wine
So say it loud and let it ring
We are all a part of everything
The future, present and the past
Fly on proud bird
You're free at last. (Charlie Daniels)

-Death before all else is fair. Cruel and kind are words you can apply if you want, but they don't really fit. She'll never argue with you, though she may correct you, depending on how important she thinks it is you get it more accurately. She's just there. And she does what she does. She's a comfort if she can be. She's not, in fact, always a comfort. Many people are upset to see her. There is no magic in seeing her. You do not automatically feel great love for her.

-Being Death's means you're dead. She is the way between the afterlife and life. The afterlife is not part of her; she just takes you there. And she can bring you back, if she wants.

-She will not bring just anyone back.

-Her prices are not meant to hurt for the sake of hurting. They're consequences of the choices you make. She will give you what you want; then you have it.

-Being Death's means you're dead, but the healers and killers of the world are something close. They can belong--see River, who's insane and thus ultimately Del's, or Lucy, who's Destiny's--to another. But the healers and killers know her. And she knows them.

She doesn't play favorites, but they're paying a price--often for others' sakes--by knowing her already, so she might give something now and then. A hat. A message to parents in the Farplane.

Healers and killers tend to have an intense emotional view of Death, loving her or hating her. This is not required. But neutrality is unlikely.

-Death understands a lot.

She knows everything, like everyone else. But she, too, tells herself she doesn't.

She understands a lot; she doesn't understand everything. And she knows very well she's not, ultimately, human. She's curious sometimes. She doesn't always get it.

She's aware when she doesn't.

-Death should not have a lover. Possibly during her day of life--but otherwise, no. Flirting is fun, but it doesn't work. Dream's right. She has to love everyone; even many different lovers doesn't fit.

Death is Death. She doesn't need to be loved.

She's not human. That's a human thing.

-Death does what she does because she wants to. All of it. And because it's her, and she wants to be herself.

-...when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings. (Sogyal Rinpoche)
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It has been some space of time since he found his Tower, and breached it, and fell into her arms.

In that time, he has walked with her, stayed with her as a guest before she walks him on to the clearing.

Today? They are at Disneyland.

They are sitting at a table in the Blue Bayou, as boats splash on in the distance to meet robot pirates, and recorded crickets chirp and fireflies flicker, and Chinese lanterns bob over their heads. In the distance, there is a banjo playing, picked at slow and mournful. She's sipping on a mint julep and grinning widely.
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Death, it turns out, has a small apartment that seems to be somewhere in Southern California, judging by the view from the linen-curtained windows.

And a shabby, well-loved purple couch. Overstuffed, and, sitting on top of a throw pillow, there's a small stuffed chicken. A small bar-thing seperates the kitchen from the living room. She spreads her arms out, grinning.

"This is my place. Would you like a drink?"

Small plastic dinosaurs lurk in stacks of magazines and books and cds. There's a fishbowl in a corner, right underneath a family photo. The place is rather cheery, all in all.
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Death is out by the lakeshore, perched in the rocks overlooking the water.

She's skipping stones and watching the moonlight gleam on the water, at the peaceful spread of the ripples. The night continues with its soft and subtle song around her.
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The pain fades, and the feeling in his body, as he lies on the rocks of Jericho Hill, Roland on one side of him and Cuthbert on the other. The light fades, too; the rising sun, blazing in his eyes even as a thin sliver above the hilltop, fades into black cloud. Too dark to see, and his life's blood pouring on the ground.

And then he realizes that he can see again, that he is standing without pain or fatigue. Below him lies his own broken body, and Roland and Cuthbert still kneeling beside it, weeping.
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Her place, then.

It's not much changed, because this is the way she likes it, by and large. There's sunlight slanting through the windows, deep gold and warm, because she likes that, too.

It's almost shy, the way she leads him toward her bedroom. The bed's a little messy, red and pink and purple, with a stuffed turtle laying near the pillows.
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She has taken him by the hand, and led him out towards the lakeshore, quiet and unobtrusively slipping away from the festivities.

She lets go of his hand when they get a few hundred yards away from the door. She didn't have to hold on quite that long...
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It's not Milliways.

It is most emphatically not Milliways.

But it is a bar. Somewhere in the smoke and wet-shining asphalt of New York.

The piano has been drinking, and so has she.

Drinking, and thinking. About how utterly, utterly stupid she's been.

Mortals. There's a reason. There's several hundred reasons. Very good reasons, all of them.

No one bothers the girl in the corner. She's thankful.

Eventually, the night progresses, and she refocuses on doing what it is she does.
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And there they are.

The place looks a bit cleaner than the last time he saw it.

She had time to clean.
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It's a quiet sort of day.

She putters around her place, makes things tidy, feeds her fish, flips idly through an old issue of Cosmopolitan...

There's a picture of pidgeons in there.

It's enough.

She curls up on her couch and sobs into a pillow for her lost brother.
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Death walks the Sunless Lands.

Somewhere on the outermost borders, where things are... thin. Thin for Death, at least. She's pretty much a black-and-white kind of girl, but even she has her gray areas.

She stands at the edge of the horizon-- if it can be called a horizon-- bathed in a dusky glow. She reaches up to touch something that could be mistaken for sky, to trace the scars there. Scars shaped like runes.

At her back, there is... absence. She turns to look, but of course it's not there. Why should it be?

The place where Nyarlathotep rests is achingly empty, like a pulled tooth.

She needs a drink.
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((OOC: Post this.))


She leads Raph upstairs by the hand, a strange sort of gleam in her eyes, a step and a half ahead of him. She reaches his door and throws it open.


...The room there is most pointedly not his room. The walls are plaster, for one, instead of cinderblock, and it's... well... it's a lot bigger. There's a family picture above a bowl with two goldfish, and a slightly shabby but very comfortable couch. And lots of stuffed animals. A few books and a crude vase on a coffee table. And a stereo. With records. All in all, it's a very cute, very comfortable little place.

The girl stalking the room, however, could be described as 'peeved.'

There's an umbrella stand by the door. She stalks to it and pulls out one of the umbrellas there. It's a pretty thing, black and elegant. She looks at it like it might be a weapon.

"I just... Ooooh. ...I hope that dummy didn't break anything..."

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*Death by the waterfront, skipping small stones in the water for the Squid to skip back to her. She's got a bottle of spiced rum by her side, and she takes a swig before holding it out to Raph as he wanders up, not turning around.*
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Tommy Vercetti holds his gun in one hand, and his intestines in the other.
He is slumped in the back of an abandoned taxi cab, watching his blood ooze across the battered black vinyl and seep into the old yellow foam of the upholstery, staining it a strange orange.

He got the cheap hood- the other cheap hood, let's be honest- that gutted him. He's sure of that. It's something, at least. More than he has any right to ask.

It doesn't hurt much, and that's good. But the way his breath is hitching startles him. It shouldn't be this dark. There's a streetlight right fucking there. It shouldn't be this dark--

And then he's on his feet outside the taxi cab, and his body is whole, and the rumbling hum of the city around him has stopped, just stopped, and the street is empty--

Not quite.

There's a girl leaning up against the lamppost, all in black. She's smiling, a little.

"Hi, Tommy."

On some deep, primal level- ha, on a gut level, Tommy understands.

"Guess that's it, then?"

"Yeah. It is."

He looks over his shoulder, at the gun still clutched in his lifeless hand, and at the mess of his stomach. "Glad now I ain't got a wife or anythin'. Glad my mother's not gonna haveta know 'bout her only son dyin' like this." He looks back at the girl. "I wasn't that great of a guy, I guess."

"You were who you were. It's over now."

She reaches out, and there's only peace in her eyes, only understanding. "Take my hand, Tommy."

He feels a weight fall from somewhere he didn't even know he still had, and puts his hand in hers.

And so it goes.
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He kissed me.

I ought to be pissed off at Desire, or shocked, or... something.

I shouldn't be happy.

But I am.

I think I'll go with that.

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This is not how it's supposed to work.

It's just not.
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You and me have to have us a talk.
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Well. That was interesting.

I have to get Hob settled. I have to talk to Constantine.

Then I have to get back to work.

If I stick around here much longer, I'm going to wind up throwing in the towel. And I don't get that option.

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I miss my brother.
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You know, it's bad enough they feel the need to play games with the poor bastards... but to do it on supposedly neutral ground?

I don't like it.

And I know Destruction isn't going to like it.
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