milliways_bar | (no subject)

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How sad droop the willows by Zalal's fair side,
If reality could scream, she would. Rather than the gradual fading of Morpheus, or the simple presence of the other Endless, Nyarlathotep has torn a hole between the Dreaming and the waking world. He is there, tall and black, cold and red-eyed. His hands rest on Moiraine's shoulders, tilted slightly inward. The claws on his smallest fingers touch just above the top of her breasts.
Where so lately I stray'd with my raven-hair'd bride;
She is there with the rough and primal sound of good leather rustling against silk. From ground to throat, she is encased in it. A dark blue which is nearly black, but not quite, the dress is almost like armor. It is fitted tightly at the top, nearly a corset but not quite, with lapels similar to a man's suit coat. The skirt is full, held out by petticoats rather than hoops. It has embossed on it and lightly painted pictures of the napthalot flower. Her collar and cuffs have a spill of ruffled silk; a nearly cerulean color which is almost obscenely bright against the near-black of the leather.
Ev'ry light-floating lily, each flow'r on the shore,
He is, in his way, protective of her. He is, in his way, caring. He glances up from her, to smile at the room. It is not a comfortable smile.
Folds in sorrow since Moiraine can see them no more!

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Deadpool glares.

Glare, Deadpool, glare.

Ooogh, shit. THAT was fucked up. Alright, he's Dream. He's the Boss Lady's kid brother. Clearly, he can kick Deadpool's punk ass all the way from one end of the universe to the other.

That being said, he still was causing the one fucking place in the universe where he could get a beer without having to worry about people fucking with him. Not cool, endless being. Not fucking cool.

While you stand heroic, I sit
Composed ...
*Moiraine looks absolutely serene, and her black eyes are blank and unconcerned. She smiles up at him.*

And here we are again, my lord.
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

His lips curve, and he caresses her cheek with one palm as he lifts his hand off of her shoulder. The fingers dig into her hair, and he pulls her back against himself with the handfull, dipping to taste her lips. He then settles, and settles her next to him. In something which is concerned for her welfare, but sounds like command, he speaks;

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
As you wish. *She glances about with vague curiosity, but every waitrat has vanished. Wise creatures.*
I dreamed that you bewitched me...
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

The lack of wait rats is easily remedied. He coerces one out, even rats have nightmares, and it takes Moiraine's order. His hand remains tangled in her hair, and he watches the patrons with amusement.

The question is an honest one. Which might make it more frightening. The majority of his attention shifts to her face when he asks, and lingers there. The rest checks on his dear little pawns.

Within these mirrors
the world inverts:
*Moiraine smooths her hand over the leather and trails her fingers delicately over one of the embossed flowers, then looks up to meet his gaze with a serene smile.*

It is lovely, my lord; and the design of it is quite striking indeed. I admit to not having worn such attire before, but I do admire this.
the fond admirer's
burning darts
*A trembling waitrat appears with a glass of blood-red wine and a delicately spiced fish entree, both of which it places on the table, immediately scampering off. She takes the glass and swirls the wine in it briefly before taking a sip.*
turn back to injure...

He lifts his own glass of wine, and sips at it with a quiet noise of appriciation,

He watches Tonks, and Divis Mal when they look toward the pair, then turns back to Moiraine.

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies...
*She smiles, and it seems somehow wrong, but evidently sincere. Moiraine picks at the fish for a little bit, then pushes it aside in favor of the wine, and settles back to look around the bar.*

There are a number of people here this evening, it would seem.

He points some of them out, one by one,

Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
*She tilts her head, studying various people as he points them out. Dark eyes are flat and seemingly unmoved.*

All very intent on their conversations, it seems. So calm. It is refreshing.
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars...

He sips from his glass, and then looks at her barely touched meal,

Struggle can be wearying, my lord.
How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
*She glances at the fish, and then up at him.*

If you insist, I shall... but I have no wish for food at present, and am in no danger of fading away from its lack, I think.

This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air...
*She looks thoughtful for a moment, apparently considering this. Her tone is calm.*

I have, in the past. Peace has been a dream of mine before.

He smiles, and dips his head to kiss her lightly; lovingly, with only a hint of teeth digging into her lip;

And he cups clawed hands around the sides of her face before drawing away.

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come back ... O memory, hope...
*She does not flinch as he kisses her, and she does not move as he pulls away; dark eyes meet his gaze.*

And yet, my lord, the Wheel weaves. There are things that I must yet do, and peace may not yet be mine to have.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again...

He has her, and yet. His head turns away, inscrutable. His feelings, likewise, are too alien to interpret.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
*She watches him as he turns away, head tilted slightly, and her tone is calm and curious.*

I have sworn myself, my lord. I have made promises, and agreed to things that I would not see undone. It is part of who I am, you know this.
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit—

He nods, after a moment,

But such is his being that he can not like sharing her. Even if it is her oathed words. Those things mean nothing to him.

Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
*Moiraine continues to watch him, although there is a hint of wariness in the dark eyes now at what she feels through the link.*

My lord Nyarlathotep?
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

He is silent a long moment, then touches her face;

It is matter of fact. It carries a simple, flat connotation that he will understand her, even if it means that he has to take her completely apart and put her back together again.

The black
wood reddens, the deathwatches inside
begin running out of time,...
*Something swirls deep in her eyes, and Moiraine slowly stiffens, looking at him with a clearer gaze.*

Shall you indeed, then, Lord Nyarlathotep?

*The link sings with wary tension at his unspoken implication.*
longing again for the universe, I can hear
in the wet wood the snap
and re-snap of the same embrace being torn...

He gazes down at her, inscrutably.

And with a frown, he is gone. The link is mostly closed, only enough left to make certain she does not think he is gone. He is never, truly, gone.

the oath broken,
the oath sworn between earth and water, flesh and spirit, broken...
*She sways as the link is blocked, and moves rapidly to another chair, where she sits, shuddering in horror. Moiraine looks around the bar, then, desperation in her glance, and sees friends.

The Aes Sedai rises and moves towards them.*

*Tonks steps out of the staff corridor, her face white and pinched. She scans the bar, looking for Moiraine, and stops short when she sees her with him.

She steps back into the doorway, half-hidden in shadow, and just watches the two of them interact. She's chilled by Moiraine's demeanor, and realizes that there's no way to safely approach. Hopefully later Will will stop by -- he's a friend of Dream's, as well, she thinks. He might have answers.

Her eyes narrow as she looks at him, anger welling up inside of her.

Not the time, Tonks.

She turns on her heel and disappears back down the darkened hallway.*

From where he's talking with Snow White, the man in the gray suit sees their arrival. He sees the inverse-video Lord of Nightmares. He sees Moiraine Sedai in an outfit that resembles one Angela wore for one of her fetish videos. That tells him just how far things have gone.
I know your worth, I sense your frustration, and I have seen your destiny; hear me now.
And he feels it as well as seeing it. He hears reality screaming as they arrive. He tastes the rot of Time's corpse. He only dares look at the Dark Man in brief glimpses, lest his sight be sucked in.
To be born, the One Race must destroy its egg and, with time, fly.
Michael Daemon Donighal hasn't believed in a God since he was old enough to know his feelings for his best friend ran deeper than friendship. He hasn't believed in a Devil since he noticed that humans are quite capable of damning themselves. But he knows a predator of souls, a devourer of light, when he sees one.
Whosoever would be a creator, must first destroy, and in this new age of the One Race, a terrible angel is loosed, preparing his grand creation.

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