Right, starting to catch back up with comments again, and I see you have a Hallowe'en theme going on. Does this mean that you're not planning on catching up with comments until the end of the month, and you want to read about Hallowe'en when you get started on the comments? :)
The Concoction “A crown of mercy,” said War. He was whispering, but Scuffles still looked hard at the rocks to see if they were quivering more because of his deep bass, even when barely speaking. “And here, I think, a failsafe. If anything goes wrong then Mercy will just let the crown fall and there won’t be enough left to scrape evidence together from.” “Literally, sis,” said Famine. “That thing looks like it weighs a few tonnes.” “So.” Pestilence was still gazing thoughtfully upwards. “So now we have proof that Mercy’s involved in this? Do we?” “Yes,” said War at the same time as Scuffles said “No.” “Is this an existential dilemma that you two are having,” said Famine, “or is this expectation versus pragmatism?” “I have proof enough,” said War. “What I have seen here is enough for me to strap on armour, let loose the dogs and storm the last bastion of Mercy.” Hilda yipped, and a tiny tongue of flame shot out of her mouth and singed Pestilence’s fingers. He cursed softly, but avoided shaking his hand because it might dislodge Hilda from her perch on his arm. “I… I can hear all the voices,” said Scuffles. He looked thoroughly miserable now, as though it was his birthday and all that had happened was that his parents and friends had all tried, separately, to drown him. “They are crying out for Mercy, they are beseeching her to appear and free them from their torment. If she cannot hear them here, in her shrine, then how do prayers reach her?” “He sounds about as lucid as you, cuz,” said Pestilence. “Has he been drinking your tapwater?” Famine knelt by Scuffles and laid a hand that was little more than bones held together by skin stretched to breaking point on his head. “I’ve given him nothing,” he said. “No pills, no concoctions, not even Pellagra. He’s hot, you know.” He stood up and pressed his hand against War’s forehead, and War brushed it dismissively away. “Much hotter than you. That’s the wrong way round, surely?” “You get hotspots for Scuffles,” said War, just a touch gruffly. “And you get cold wars. I’d say,” he stared off into the distance, “I’d say he should be about 10 degrees hotter than me. Hilda will like that, he’ll be warm enough for her to cuddle into.” Hilda laid her ears flat along her head and pressed her body more tightly against Pestilence’s. “He’s not well,” said Famine. “There’s something complicated going on here, isn’t there?”
2 comments:
Right, starting to catch back up with comments again, and I see you have a Hallowe'en theme going on. Does this mean that you're not planning on catching up with comments until the end of the month, and you want to read about Hallowe'en when you get started on the comments? :)
The Concoction
“A crown of mercy,” said War. He was whispering, but Scuffles still looked hard at the rocks to see if they were quivering more because of his deep bass, even when barely speaking. “And here, I think, a failsafe. If anything goes wrong then Mercy will just let the crown fall and there won’t be enough left to scrape evidence together from.”
“Literally, sis,” said Famine. “That thing looks like it weighs a few tonnes.”
“So.” Pestilence was still gazing thoughtfully upwards. “So now we have proof that Mercy’s involved in this? Do we?”
“Yes,” said War at the same time as Scuffles said “No.”
“Is this an existential dilemma that you two are having,” said Famine, “or is this expectation versus pragmatism?”
“I have proof enough,” said War. “What I have seen here is enough for me to strap on armour, let loose the dogs and storm the last bastion of Mercy.” Hilda yipped, and a tiny tongue of flame shot out of her mouth and singed Pestilence’s fingers. He cursed softly, but avoided shaking his hand because it might dislodge Hilda from her perch on his arm.
“I… I can hear all the voices,” said Scuffles. He looked thoroughly miserable now, as though it was his birthday and all that had happened was that his parents and friends had all tried, separately, to drown him. “They are crying out for Mercy, they are beseeching her to appear and free them from their torment. If she cannot hear them here, in her shrine, then how do prayers reach her?”
“He sounds about as lucid as you, cuz,” said Pestilence. “Has he been drinking your tapwater?”
Famine knelt by Scuffles and laid a hand that was little more than bones held together by skin stretched to breaking point on his head. “I’ve given him nothing,” he said. “No pills, no concoctions, not even Pellagra. He’s hot, you know.” He stood up and pressed his hand against War’s forehead, and War brushed it dismissively away. “Much hotter than you. That’s the wrong way round, surely?”
“You get hotspots for Scuffles,” said War, just a touch gruffly. “And you get cold wars. I’d say,” he stared off into the distance, “I’d say he should be about 10 degrees hotter than me. Hilda will like that, he’ll be warm enough for her to cuddle into.”
Hilda laid her ears flat along her head and pressed her body more tightly against Pestilence’s.
“He’s not well,” said Famine. “There’s something complicated going on here, isn’t there?”
Greg - well, this is me catching up on comments. And not yet Halloween! There's hope yet... maybe.
Hmm, this is a worrying development. Scuffles better be okay, dang it.
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