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Entry tags:
- a king needs an army,
- and on the third day...,
- come be his minion bush,
- dead man walking,
- dead men dont cry,
- even worse than anticipated,
- he deserves these ghosts tbh,
- he did take the hippocractic oath once,
- he has broken it a lot since,
- he just doesn't know how to stop,
- it's only despair if you feel it,
- no desire no fear no pain,
- not a good month for him,
- not an emo kid really,
- painted painted painted painted black,
- resurrection complications,
- sad little king of a sad little hill,
- the road to hell is paved with...,
- this is rock bottom,
- this is the planetary mantle possibly,
- what a wreck,
- when stars die they become black holes,
- when stars die they explode,
- when the world ends,
- why not go back to work
22. Persian (spam + messages)
[Spam, infirmary]
[Ten days after he died - three days after his death toll should have ended, but didn't - the Emperor goes back to work.
He looks an odd mix between perfectly composed - calm face, smooth carriage - and a wreck. He hasn't bothered to change his clothes in a while, for instance, although the far-future fabric doesn't wrinkle and his risen body doesn't sweat. It's mostly noticeable in the accumulation of white and orange cat hair and the faint acidic-corpse scent from spending much of his time lying on or beside Sylvanas. No flowers; he has spent very little time in his garden.
He walks into the infirmary without any fuss, any announcement or even an acknowledgement of the previous weeks' events. He pulls all the files, texts, and notes they've accumulated about John's neurological damage and alternate brain structures in general, and begins going over them again.]
[Spam, art room]
[When someone insists he finish a shift, he leaves the infirmary and makes his way to the art room. He sets up an easel and finds a clean, small brush. Then, gradually, painstakingly, brushstroke by tiny brushstroke, he paints the entire canvas black. He starts in the middle, spirals out, adds layers one on top of another as the first coat dries. For those who were staunchly loyalist in the Empire breach, this will be somewhat familiar: black holds a deep fascination for the risen, and painting it a common hobby. Not one the Emperor himself ever indulged in before, but now - well. It fills the time, and the eyes.]
[Spam, dining hall.]
[He's avoiding his own room, and Barbara's, which means he's stuck making tea in the microwave. Not that it matters. Water is water is 70% of everyone. Steam is steam. The shapes in it are entrancing. After watching them, unnaturally blank for unnaturally long, eventually he takes his mug elsewhere without a word.]
[Private to John Young]
You should be aware your warden contacted us regarding possible solutions to your neurological damage some time ago.
[Private to Captain Bush]
[There's a pause, where a living man would breathe, brace himself. From Aslan there is only silence, perfect stillness, a slate-like evenness common to most Risen, the kind he himself has only displayed before when greivously injured.]
...congratulations.
[OOC: If none of these work and people want to harass him in the hallways or the library or something, that's fine too.]
[Ten days after he died - three days after his death toll should have ended, but didn't - the Emperor goes back to work.
He looks an odd mix between perfectly composed - calm face, smooth carriage - and a wreck. He hasn't bothered to change his clothes in a while, for instance, although the far-future fabric doesn't wrinkle and his risen body doesn't sweat. It's mostly noticeable in the accumulation of white and orange cat hair and the faint acidic-corpse scent from spending much of his time lying on or beside Sylvanas. No flowers; he has spent very little time in his garden.
He walks into the infirmary without any fuss, any announcement or even an acknowledgement of the previous weeks' events. He pulls all the files, texts, and notes they've accumulated about John's neurological damage and alternate brain structures in general, and begins going over them again.]
[Spam, art room]
[When someone insists he finish a shift, he leaves the infirmary and makes his way to the art room. He sets up an easel and finds a clean, small brush. Then, gradually, painstakingly, brushstroke by tiny brushstroke, he paints the entire canvas black. He starts in the middle, spirals out, adds layers one on top of another as the first coat dries. For those who were staunchly loyalist in the Empire breach, this will be somewhat familiar: black holds a deep fascination for the risen, and painting it a common hobby. Not one the Emperor himself ever indulged in before, but now - well. It fills the time, and the eyes.]
[Spam, dining hall.]
[He's avoiding his own room, and Barbara's, which means he's stuck making tea in the microwave. Not that it matters. Water is water is 70% of everyone. Steam is steam. The shapes in it are entrancing. After watching them, unnaturally blank for unnaturally long, eventually he takes his mug elsewhere without a word.]
[Private to John Young]
You should be aware your warden contacted us regarding possible solutions to your neurological damage some time ago.
[Private to Captain Bush]
[There's a pause, where a living man would breathe, brace himself. From Aslan there is only silence, perfect stillness, a slate-like evenness common to most Risen, the kind he himself has only displayed before when greivously injured.]
...congratulations.
[OOC: If none of these work and people want to harass him in the hallways or the library or something, that's fine too.]
art room spam;
[He asks this because either the hues are very similar, or the Emperor is painting in one color. It doesn't occur to him that the color might be black.]
no subject
[His favorite, if he had to pick, would be burgundy, the rust-red of the Ebran seas, halfway between wine and old blood. But black is where infinity lies.]
no subject
What is it?
[Gesturing at the canvas. It might mean 'what color'; it might mean 'what the hell are you painting'.]
no subject
Peace.
A painting.
no subject
Peace.
[He echoes him thoughtfully, and tilts his head, staring at the paint as it slowly dries.
He lights a cigarette, and takes a small drag. Then he hums as if reaching an epiphany, and moves to burn a tiny hole right in the center of the canvas.]
no subject
He adds more black around the hole, concentric ripples, shock waves, echoes. To a living eye, it wouldn't look any different. It's a story to him now, of bombs that never were, a planet spared by a traitor's heroism. A different kind of death. Now it's about war.]
no subject
Still. When you see the world in black and grey, a purely dark painting is hard to decipher, and he picks up a little sculpting knife and gently flecks some texture around the detonation sight, defining the ripples.]