maes†ro ♔

And now, dusk settles  on  the  horizon. The nocturnal revenge tragedy, dashing towards its end, seventh horizon─ ❝ sing · for · me❞ ─ † ─ ⊰ sound horizon indp rp ⊱ icon / side / back

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

illusionary funeral {corpseductorr}

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

The only time they’ll meet? Elisabeth’s eyes flutter shut. Yes, that was a foolish notion on her part, since they’re existing on borrowed time. While most would fade into the void at a certain point, her spirit is still against the current, though every cell says it’s alright to give in. And if the blonde looks closer, she knows why. If I submit, there won’t be any chance of seeing him. I know that, at least.

"I suppose since we’ve just met, it would be unreasonable to call you a friend," she reflects, catching a shimmer of glass irises in the cold. "But I hope I can call you that by the end of this, with your discretion." 

Strictly on key, the doll appears and words dry up from Elisabeth’s throat. Light pools trail over to the miniature with a similar appearance, and uncertainty ripples through the former noble’s expression. After all that’s happened, she didn’t prepare for such a meeting. The shock hits her side like a blade, she notes grimly as the man’s tawny eyes almost illuminate from ensuing discomfort (fear follows suit - did she fall from a horrible spot into a place darker, deeper?).

Floundering about won’t help here, so she tries to keep the same cheerful demeanor as before. I won’t fail. I’ve made it so far… Another voice whispers back, one that she didn’t dream would return: you’re not a child anymore, sister. Maybe the pair won’t notice the way Elisabeth’s teeth dig into her lower lip (the stress from everything catches up quickly, passing beyond the threshold) .

"Y-Your… dress is very pretty." Somehow those words come out. Elisabeth catches a thin string of what he says next, before the silken red fabric decorating their outfits blur in a mix of ink and life water. Everywhere I look there’s blood, she thinks, fingers suddenly gripping the wooden altar (how did they get there?). One knee hit the ground, and she cannot breathe–

"Elisabeth. I told you, what’s the first rule in upper-class society? Do not trouble anyone with your feelings." 

She messed up (ah, it’s always like that isn’t it?). At some point Elisabeth’s vision clears, and the night returns. The details of the church are focused, all is as it was, except for the weights tying her limbs down. Knowing she holds the crux of their discussion, there’s little doubt whether the episode went unnoticed.

"I’m very sorry. Please continue with what you were saying before." 

[corpseductorr]

He has to pity the girl (now a young woman in appearance, yes, but it's admittedly difficult for him to regard her as anything else but), in a strange way. Only a little bit more than what is required of him as her confidant, because there's something, somehow, unsettling about that expressed hope of hers. She mentions something else since, something in passing about a...a dress (--Elise's, yes), but it is the word 'friend' stings in his ear for a good while after its utterance: so bothered by it is he, actually, that his reaction to her sudden slipping is belated, and perhaps inadequate even then. He manages no more than a step forwards, as though with intention to lift her to her feet once more, yet he moves no further.

There's then a little giggle in the near-darkness of the old building,       "This one's a little faint-hearted, hey, Mär?" --not a giggle from the gentleman, of course, but from his companion.

Initially, focused as he is still on the young noblewoman, all he's able to afford in response is a distant hum ─ seemingly in agreement enough, whereas tone supposes an absence of any real commitment to such an answer. He's had a good while to determine which of these witty observations he should humour, expanding them into delightful little exchanges of remarks, and which he should simply ignore. This, here, is at first decided to be of the latter category: a sort of rare concern for their budding Actress has him distracted. It isn't her well-being which inspires a soft frown to replace that faint smile - there isn't really a 'well-being' to be concerned about, at least not any longer by his own reckoning - though rather that this moment's weakness on the other's part has provided Death with an opportunity to catch up with her.

Thus, marionette's snide quip is left to fade to silence as he waits perhaps a minute and carefully watches her ethereal form. It remains slumped at the alter, somewhat disconcertingly ─ yet it still has to actually fade, as is customary for those passing on.

He settles after that minute of waiting and watching, however, after he's discerned that her sudden inactivity is no especial cause for worry: a memory from a life snuffed out only recently returns to her uninvited, maybe, and it is this which has her freeze in speech and movement; the reaper has yet to claim the due. In the partial absence of their client, he's inclined to let façade slip a touch. Just enough to allow natural conversation with Elise, although at the same time not too much to deter Her Highness should she in fact be capable of listening, despite her apparent shock. For the first time since establishing contact with the von Wettin woman, attention - even if only temporarily still - is turned towards his partner-in-crime, and he at last humours her slightly irreverent comment.

"Come now, Elise." (Whilst he doesn't laugh as she had, the tone he uses in conversation with her is suggestive of much the same.) "Don't be so rude. You might have even scared the poor woman away, I hope you appreciate."

...He's allowed no further playful chastising, however, for that third voice - not either of theirs - once more disturbs the stillness of the air within. Accordingly, the director's gaze flits back to the recently-return; the second female present seems to fade to obscurity once more, too, as he addresses Elisabeth now. "--Ah. Welcome back to the land of the not-quite-Living, Your Highness," ─ now he has to scold himself for dabbling in the same rudeness his partner had, but no matter. That charming smile is renewed as he gestures upwards with a flick of his rest, "Stand, please, firstly. I would sooner kneel for you than allow you to do so in my presence, whether for me or otherwise. It is most often recommended that one sing standing, besides."

[enigmaofthanatos]

The death servant observed carefully to feed her curiosity. With the softly glowing ball resting safely in her palms. Mu didn’t exactly know what she was expecting, but, his reaction was better than nothing at all, merely falling to the ground like a normal corpse. Unfortunately, by the looks of it he could drop at any moment, boring. With the soul in hand, she would leave the moment the body dropped if it did at all. He didn’t seem to be able to hold up for very much longer.

"I will take the rest once the body is spent." The girl waited, wishing to collect the other soul after the corpse rests once again in the dirt. Also, wishing that the time would either immediately take course or give her knowledge that it was not said time at all. The reapers voice was a haze mixed in with the darkness which surrounded him.

Standing beside the male patiently, Mu hid away the first soul she’d taken in a small area of her apparel. Most likely it was where she carried other souls when transporting them through Hades. Now… for the moment of truth. What would happen next.

[corpseductorr]

Her words still are a blur for the ears: all the more so as every seconds pass, and the body is well on its way to forgetting it had anything of substance within. (A pity, really, for what is left might have been so inclined to provide a second taunt. No matter.)

As anticipated, and as is in fact likely to come as a disappointment to the observer, he - or in any case what's perceivably left of a 'him' - finally slumps to the ground, collapsing forwards first onto his knees and then, lacking in all strength, onto his front entirely. Eyes and mouth remain open, and perhaps the grass beneath tickles at his exposed eyeballs, the taste of dirt gets into his mouth a bit ─ but he, of course, isn't to complain, least of all remedy this ungraceful position of rest by moving. Both are no less than impossible, 

There's a vacancy of consciousness now, however. Vessel of flesh and bone still isn't any empty shell, despite Death's attendant having reclaimed one of the inhabiting souls: one is not the entirety here, rather one of an aggregate. Something, even now, dwells in the corpse.

And with no other in direct possession of body, It stirs.

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

illusionary funeral {corpseductorr}

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

The curve of thin lips dims slightly when he mentions there have been others, a sickening hole forming at the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t want to think of it - those princesses must’ve been just as terrified and miserable. Dying by the cross wasn’t a death most would wish for (it sounded excruciating in print, nothing prepared her for the real thing), but her brother had been decent enough to not have his own flesh sit beneath the guillotine. 

"My death was unfortunate," she replies with distance, the same way one would refer to a miscellaneous subject. "But surely those women you speak of deserve acclaim. I’d rather not tarnish their honor with someone like myself."

The man steps forth into the slight glow of moonlight, and at once she is struck by how peculiar his state of dress is. Elisabeth has no experience with men’s garments (nor her sibling for that matter), but she finds the somber state of his attire doesn’t elude to any true character at all (if anything it adds to the mystery, like gazing into the depths of a foggy lake). His smile doesn’t reveal any cards in his hand either, leaving her with naught to do in terms of predicting the situation.

Hiding within a birdcage, her ice-cold heart flutters against iron bars. From being around a man not of the Von Wettin sort, no doubt (although in time she knew she would never feel the same excitement as when knuckles rapped on her window that day). When was the last time..? She wants to think there have been others, but Elisabeth can’t fathom a lie concerning her best friend. Only Mär. As a full-fledged lady, she’s aware of the smaller frame that follows close to her back, constantly knocking into her heels. I see him everywhere, even now, in someone I don’t know. 

“I’m grateful for your company, sir,” Elisabeth admits with a glance, brows knitting. “Despite this strange affair. Were I alive I’d probably remain in isolation.”

For a moment, she considers declining his service solely due to her own modesty. However any services rendered during such a bizarre interval could be useful, and she has missed talking. Hopefully Elisabeth won’t be troubling him by asking a few questions. The blonde takes one step closer so they are only a few feet apart, a good distance for thoughts to be shared with a certain amount of intimacy (position formal despite baring a sliver of characteristics that belong to a duelist, useless in a refined court).

"Please excuse my rudeness. May I ask your name?" 

[corpseductorr]

As their conversation continues, it becomes all the more impossible for her company to ignore how-- serene, how tranquil she is, even in death. She's almost disgustingly calm, he might venture to admit, in the same way one might be sickeningly sweet. Her predecessors had, without fail, reacted to their untimely deaths as one would expect them to have done: they were hysterical if not sombre, they wept if not remains ghastly silent. She, on the other hand - Elisabeth - peculiarly comes across as almost relieved by her death. As though life had been some great burden, and that only the ending of it could free her from said burden ─ which would certainly provide something of a problem. Regardless as to whether she is deserving of her execution, if she has already wholly come to terms with her death... Goodness, they should have to look elsewhere for the Seventh.

"--Ah, yes," his thoughts are returned to the present by her unobtrusive request for his own name, and he no later spares a glimmer of a sympathetic smile. "You may ask for my name, yes, but I have none for you. Refer to me however you might wish ─ this will be the sole time our paths cross anyway."

On the cue of a graceful, beckoning wave, assistant rejoins director, tiny heels clicking upon the hard ground as she crosses to his side. (Strange ─ she hadn't, on any previous occasion, been so shy as to hang back, but no matter.) The porcelain companion emerges from shadow to stand in the same light the other two performers bask in, thereby revealing a face which is - no doubt - unnervingly familiar to the young noblewoman. It damn near mirrors hers, in fact, although be it marred by lips pursed and brow furrowed in haughty suspicion: but Märchen himself is far from fazed by this seeming coincidence. Instead, the reveal appears to even inspire a moment's amusement ─ their pleasantries over and done with, at least where he is concerned, he shamefully cannot help finding a small delight in inciting slightly more mystery in their meeting.

"Wonderful though it would truly be to continue polite conversation like this, I fear we must press on. Death could well catch up with us at any moment, and even if we were under no such danger, I don't suppose you could remain in this realm without exhausting yourself by the hour." That said, he's reminded immediately afterwards, she clearly has the will to have remained at the site of her demise. Heaven knows for how long now, yet that he hadn't any need to assist this one's return alone is surely some testament to her resolve. Her resolve as regards to claiming what she is due for the theft of her life, he - they - should hope, but all will be realised in due time.

Despite his warning, however, he maintains his soft, level tone; he doesn't rush or hurry proceedings along, rather gently encourages progress. Thus, a silver-tongued allusion to what business they have here is offered without any further ado--

"As you have perhaps discerned for yourself already, we are here by no accident. No less than you yourself are."

[corpseductorr]

*places laundry and a plate of metal in the well, squirts liquid soap in there too, and rotates the plate quickly to imitate a washing machine*

"--Does nobody have any respect for the dead these days."

[corpseductorr]

*replaces the well water with holy water*

Come the morning, as the light of the moon and the stars begins to yield to that of the sun, the wiedergänger retires to his grave to rest. Not for good, as most in his circumstances would wish for, but simply for another day; he will wake when night falls, and while away the hours until the morning comes back around and he retires once more. Just as routine would have it.

The contamination of what little water remains in the disused well not being routine, on the other hand, he of course isn't to suspect any sabotage as he settles down.

Rather amazingly, in fact, he is able to remain wholly ignorant of the ill he's to inevitably - however eventually - suffer, even manages to rest peacefully enough for a good while. As per his usual position during rest (one hardly comfortable, but he's long-since learnt to make the best of the room he has in the bowels of the earth), the legs and seat of his trousers are dampened by the shallow water in which he sits, and the back of his coat by the cold, wet wall he habitually props himself against; his hands, meanwhile, rest neatly in his lap with an equally restful Elise. It is this unintentionally prudent positioning of himself that has him avoid mild injury by blessed water, if only temporarily.

It's really rather astounding how so slight a movement can result in so much. She simply stirs at some point, and not a great deal at that. His right hand consequently falls from its safe place and onto the ground beside him, which ordinarily wouldn't even been enough to bother him to the point of waking ─ though these are no ordinary circumstances. An entirely foreign sensation of a sort of burning has him jolt awake, and whilst the solution could have been as easy as lifting his hand away again, in a moment of weary panic does he instead jump instinctively to his feet. Misfortune begets more misfortune, for in failing to bear in mind his lap wasn't at the time empty, his companion is woken all the more rudely as she herself falls from her original place and into the water.

In another world (as brighter as it is drier), a bird finds a satisfactory perch on the edge of the well above. Alas, no sooner does it do so than the poor thing is scared away by the shrill tirade which suddenly rumbles into existence from below.

[corpseductorr]

To go with your shredded corpse thank you.

[corpseductorr]

Hi, I would like to buy a revenge with lots of blood shed on top.

"Will that be to eat in or to go?"

[corpseductorr]

"Hm, Sir. Maybe... can i ask you if there is a slight chance to take revenge on a certain season of the year? Like Autumn?"

"...I am inclined to say 'no' immediately, if only because of the sheer peculiarity of such a request." He's never been a stranger to the-- well, strange, true enough, but even for him, enacting vengeance against a season is a far-fetched notion.

"Still, I haven't any qualms with at least hearing you out. For what reason do you place this odd request?"

[corpseductorr]

"Never gonna give you up, never gonna let /him/ down. Never gonna turn around and let you keep your soul."

[corpseductorr]

Why do cemeteries have fences around them? Because people are dying to get in.

"To my knowledge, cemeteries most usually have fences around them because—…"

[corpseductorr]

"You shall not beat death with a mere revenge comedy."

"I'm aware, rest assured. Death bests all in the end ─ all we ever hope to accomplish is what is due, what is just. Should that entail disturbing the natural order of things, then so be it."

[enigmaofthanatos]

The others words were a door opened to the envoy of Death. Drifting from the darkness a pair of arms curled around the corpse in utter silence before the hand reached into the fabric of the males very being. 

Her hand half grasped one of two souls inside. “Thanatos will be quite pleased with me for bringing you back, Marz Von Ludowing. It’s time to come home." The maiden lightly began to pull at the strings of his spirit but delayed the taking of it. She was curious whether if she would take it, would the body revert to whom it used to be, or remain how it was now?

Well, what’s the point of having time without utilizing it? Slowly she removed the soul from the corpse, undoing the tie between it and the second soul which called the body home. Holding the small glowing object in her palms, the servant of Thanatos watched with curiosity.

[corpseductorr]

Never before had his fearlessness and inclinations towards arrogance come to any fruition, whether positive or, more likely, negative ─ granted, never before had these inclinations been expressed towards someone...grander than him, in a word, someone of a greater existence. Someone like the envoy of Death, say.

The defier misses the opportunity to negate the element of surprise his visitor has by a second, if even that. Her arrival is ushered in by a noticeable dissonance in the woodland's already unsettling atmosphere. Had he heeded this shift in atmosphere - or, needless to say, what warning he was provided even before that - just a moment earlier, he might not have made the mistake of keeping his guard down. (What reason otherwise would he have had to raise any defence, after all, him being very much in his own element here.) He swivels around to face the intrusion, at the least, though fundamentally failing to prepare himself for what might be recognised as a correction of a wrong inflicted against the natural order of man's morality.

His self-confident smile freezes here in the face of correction, and rightly so.

So, too, does the rest of him just-- cease, in fact. He finds himself unable to instinctively strike out against this trespasser (of course assuming she is something perceivable by touch in the first place), and although his lips immediately part in anticipation of demand for answer, he cannot produce any words. Whatever movements, whatever thoughts he has here are not his own, but the belongings of sheer compulsion: body is racked with a spontaneous, though no less penetrating dread which feels to affect his entire being, and it quivers according. He isn't to know it's the long-overdue collection of soul which pains him both physically and mentally, and it is this, really, which terrifies him the most.

Her voice is heard, sure enough, yet only in distortion; any attempts to visualise the words are blurred beyond recognition. If he had understood even those three words - 'März von Ludowing' - he might have been able to find peace, whether just an iota or something much more substantial and satisfying, in the moment ─ alas.

[corpseductorr]

"Your hourglass ran out long ago. Soon the collectors will arrive."

"Is that so...?"

His tone is curious, as is only appropriate in address to some unknown informer ─ and yet also somehow impertinent. He dares to return question light-heartedly more than anything else, his voice lacking any distress or discomfort that would otherwise be a inevitable in the face of so ominous a message. More audacious still is his eventual reply to the phantom messenger,

"Then tell them to hurry along. I grow weary of waiting with every passing year."

[soundhorizonking-deactivated202]

A Tale Untold || Corpseductorr

[soundhorizonking-deactivated202]

The while his eyes roamed her figure in curiosity, Layla stood there in silence and thought. She had no real rejection to his studies since it had no ill will. His uncomfortable disposition, which was bound in the dull golden eyes, gave away his slight disapproval of the way she was dressed.She couldn’t blame him, in her home she’d have gotten stoned for wearing such a thing. Luckily enough she no longer called that place her home. 

His response to her question was not at all a response at all. Merely a dance around the answer she sought. How unnerving. But to be polite she put the thought out of her mind for the time being and brushed hair back over her shoulder. 

"I can safely assume you are not here to give word of Shaytan’s return, are you?" Eyes slightly dulled at the thought. She felt rather sad by the fact she’d been alone for so long. There was a visible distress in her slightly slumped posture. But, it was not long before she straightened herself out once again and cleared her throat. 

[corpseductorr]

A fleeting fancy has him wonder what would change in the dynamics of their social interaction here if he were to answer (falsely, needless to say) that he has indeed, contrary to her assumption, appeared before her now to relay word of-- of this 'Shaytan's return. Whoever they are, he himself can safely assume that they are of some import to this girl: the disappointment across her face in that moment of pessimistic realisation is like words across a page; her emotion is far from a secret, no matter what recovery she attempts to undergo after a moment's melancholy. Besides provide him with the amusement of inciting a glimmer of hope in one second and dashing it the very next, however, what benefit could lying reward him with in this instance? ─ none other, he concludes almost immediately.

So he grants her the truth, if none too interestedly. Were the focus of conversation entirely of his choosing, he would much rather discuss why (and perhaps how) it is she seems to walk the line between life and death. Patience prevails, though, as simply as he can tend to this answer of hers.

"You assume not only safely, but correctly, mm. Even the name is nothing familiar." The fellow blinks blearily, keeping an eye on what further flicker of disappointment she might betray in light of his certain negative reply. That he doesn't especially concern himself with what relationship Layla is rather sadly preoccupied with notwithstanding, it's difficult for him to really ignore precisely what sort of disappointment hers is: it's quite evidently a more deeply-rooted sort than mere childish sulking, at least. Now, this could mean she's taking her Shaytan's absence melodramatically just as much as it could he truly has been absent long enough to be reasonably concerned; he isn't yet inclined to either one or the other, but he still has to question why he is here, if not because the other was seeking resurrection.

There's then a brief while of silent reflection as he again takes to considering whether she should know the original intention of his visit, never mind what peculiarities have been since discovered. Being what she is, or at least what she seems to be, divulging the truth - so that he might in turn come to understand her existence better - can't result in any great shock or otherwise unfavourable consequence.

Ultimately, he relents, offering to her an answer to her original question ─ albeit belated, and albeit rather scant, yes, but it's truth all the same. "...Actually, I am here on account of an untimely demise, and the subsequent plea for some form of salvation." A pause, before he decides to coyly express his confusion, "Instead, of course, I find you."

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

illusionary funeral {corpseductorr}

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

As the sun fades over the horizon, Elisabeth is struck by cold shadows. Her initial tranquility flees with the light, leaving the spirit to dwell on what brought her here. The day before yesterday had no misgivings, she didn’t get along well with her sibling but that was just so. Even when their parents were still alive, the Von Wettin children made it clear their family ties weren’t particularly binding. 

"They don’t trust me with the family name," her brother explodes one late night, and Elisabeth isn’t sure she can offer any true words of comfort (she didn’t know it would be the end). Indeed, adherents that supported the Von Wettins previously had grown harsh after their parents’ funeral. Yet the result never brought such pain– they said something outrageous, she guessed. 

"Those old men only want what’s best for us," Elisabeth says, one hand moving to drape over his shoulder. Despair overtakes the man’s body, her touch is no more than a breeze. "They are trying to push us through a difficult time. Pay no heed to their advice if it troubles you."

"That’s easy for you to say!" He rounds upon her, fists clenching. "This… this isn’t something I can just ignore, Elisabeth. They think you’re more capable!"

She blinks, the gears in her head stalling. Everyone supported the theory that Elisabeth was truly their father’s, mostly as a joke. Complete strangers used to remark on how chivalrous and kingly her smile was when the two engaged in duels. It was never more than a farce, meant to entertain a crowd (and that was years ago!). “You are mistaken.”

“Accuse me of being mad all you want, but I know what they said!” The lord’s face twists until his sister can’t find a speck of his original self. Elisabeth’s rib cage turns to stone as she watches a lie unravel: the boy who lacked a natural gift but must lead, even through a court’s jeers. The boy whose biggest threat is a girl of the same blood, a bit too good at everything he’s not, and must be locked away for it.

Her life spent in a cell corroded from there. He threatened marriage not because he wanted to see her happy, but to have her gone. Even if it was a cruel decision on his part, Elisabeth holds no resentment for what occurred. Instead, she sits in the dark next to a ragged husk and breathes deep. Death was coming, and perhaps I wanted it to. But… is this death? It cannot be, she thinks. Although the noble-woman managed to shape herself on a metaphysical level, the edges of the illusion begin to fray naturally if Elisabeth falls on mental upkeep. It quickly becomes a constant thought in her head, to manage the soul’s existence. I came back for some reason. 

The morose doors to the church remain frozen, but the echo of footsteps cause Elisabeth to make haste for a spot behind the altar. Only after curling up does she question if this is truly necessary, after all, if it is a human they may be unable to view her. When the person draws closer however, the cool air turns piercing. Foreboding shadows become even more terrifying, and she has to wonder who is there looking at her body.

He greets her, identifying Elisabeth as “Her Highness”. That’s a first.

Night has wrapped the gentleman in its dim shawl, so Elisabeth has trouble seeing his face. At the very least, she will make sure he can see hers. The blonde ceases crouching and steps in front of a glass mosaic, one of the only features that made the church not completely obscured in pitch. Soft fractals of blue, purple, and red run through bright strands, dancing upon the cream color of her dress.

Elisabeth’s mouth goes dry, and for a brief second she fears she’ll be speaking to no one. Even so… better to try than do nothing at all. She smiles, ignoring dampness in her palms.

"Please, call me Elisabeth. I’m afraid any lineage I have is gone now."

[corpseductorr]

It seems that no sooner does he draw his baton in preparation for the resurrection than something-- no, someone catches his attention from out the corner of his eye.

That von Wettin girl. That von Wettin woman. 

And - my! - haven't the years been kind to her: how scarcely he believe that this young woman is that none too impressive child from not especially long ago. Unsurprisingly, on account his macabre circle, beauty isn't something he often has opportunity to experience, yet so great is hers that even he is able to recognise it thus. Bud has blossomed into something really rather sublime here, and he's almost retrospectively disappointed that he hadn't had the blessing of sharing the same lifetime as her. Providence - and pedigree, in fact - permitting, he'd have surely tried his hand at courting her. An unsavoury thought or two hide within this aesthetic appreciation of his, as is perhaps inevitable for one driven primarily by base desires, though by and large can he not help being distracted by her radiance: one only emphasised by the light which spills in through the stained-glass.

...He's suddenly become quite the romantic, goodness (and it's just as well his thoughts are wholly his own). Swiftly brushing aside tangential musings, he returns to the present to, for the very first time, address her directly.

"Your Highness," he insists with a forced smile in return, and the habitual low bow of introduction follows but a moment later. Whether actual princess or pauper, all Actresses are addressed thus simply out of respect, even out of sheer flattery where those of common blood are concerned ─ only half of her predecessors had come from the more privileged walks of life, after all. By the time he stands again, his show of politeness has waned somehow, the smile now but a fraction of its (already rather lacking) original size as he continues. "I'd have referred to you no differently even if you hadn't once been of prestige, frankly. We believe any maiden who has so unjustly met their end deserves no less respect."

With the rare pleasantry of introduction (on her part, if not reciprocally also on his) out of the way, her visitor moves from before her corpse to a step closer to her spirit. There isn't any reason for him to linger in as close a proximity to her crucified shell when the need to use it as a medium between this realm and the Other Side is no more. Elise hangs back in shadow and in stony silence, he might have noticed had he cared to glance behind, but - for the time being - the electoral princess has his undivided attention: no doubt to the envy of the former, again if he'd cared to bear her presence in mind still.

He smiles once more, this one no different in tone to his very first, and with the additional of luxury of being visible to its recipient now as he steps into the reach of what little light is available.

"--I shouldn't think it would be proper for me to address you by name anyway, but no matter. Perhaps it is a touch impertinent of me to suppose so given circumstance, although it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance notwithstanding ─ and, it would seem, to be in your service."

[peacefularabicflamesmoved-blog]

Revo sighed and watched down the dimly lit cavern in anticipation. Yes, Marchen did not know who he was, but he knew him. Why hadn’t the man anticipated this sort of action before  he arrived and thought of a way to counter against it happening. Guess it never crossed my mind to plan out what I’d say or do… Quite the fault on his account. But, no matter, he would gladly wait out the other, as he was towards Revo. A waiting game it’d seem, and the victor was he whom had the most patience. 

"Well… If you want me I will be up here. Please don’t hide for long." His voice showed his knowledge of the others status… Dead but alive in his own special way. So, the man who claimed himself as Vati would not be leaving any time soon. At least not until he claimed what he had come for. And that was conversation and now acknowledgement from the corpseductor.

As time passed around them, the brunette found himself dozing off against the well. He’d made himself comfortable in the grass with his back against the stones. In his hand were a few pages of sheet music to which he was writing, perhaps for another concert. As his eyes began to drift close behind their lids, the pen he held slipped and fell to the grass next to his leg. Usually, he’d had no patience, but this was a special occasion he was really delighted to be apart of, whether the other agreed with it or not. 

[corpseductorr]

A while passes.  

Precisely how long a while passes, of course, he has no way to discern: not only because there is no ringing of church bells to announce the time within earshot (there isn't for some way, in fact), but also because his sense of the passage of time has been skewed somewhat ever since he can recall, what with the very concept of time being something of a redundancy in death. Throughout this while, he had drifted in and out of consciousness, quite sporadically. The worst of it is that each rude awakening was, without exception, brought on by some ghastly imagined scenario - no prophecy, he should definitely hope - wherein a certain guest was so hell-bent on holding conversation with him that they went so far as to dive into the abyssal well after him. The first and second times, he had disregarded these troubling expressions of a restless mind with relative ease, but come the third... Well, he was drawn to venture back up there to hopefully set his mind at ease.

And, at first, he's actually pleasantly surprised. All but finished clambering out of the waterhole, the gentleman remains perched on the well's edge, completely silent so that he might distinguish whether he still has company. A minute or so of waiting answer, blessedly, in the negative, and he thus wastes next to no time in emerging in his entirety ─ but when it comes to stepping down from the stone wall, the ground is discovered, by way of putting some of his weight onto his right foot, to be much closer than had always been the case. Oddly with a bit more give to it, for that matter, t--...

Scheiße.

(Amusingly enough, he curses that his wish for peace and solitude still hasn't been granted much more so than he does that he's essentially stood on a stranger's head.)

[audaces-fortuna-deactivated2014]

illusionary funeral {corpseductorr}

For a long time, Elisabeth sees nothing. Her eyes are open, but darkness engulfs everything (how strange, since she dimly recalls being led to a cross). Despite that, warmth embraces her entire body (a priest once told her babies come into the world like this, without grudges or pain).

She feels icicles in a distant place, and reaches for them. Her fingers wrap around the cold spot and pull it closer, until she can gaze through the veil. An original form comes together easily when she remembers. Elisabeth von Wettin. I’m not defined by the stuffy air I was kept in. I had a loving mother and father. I had wooden swords and a window full of life. And there was a boy… Mär. I had him once, too.

Finally, her heels touch the ground and she can walk forward. The place is not as black as the abyss Elisabeth came from, but it reeks of an old life. When her eyes wander up, she comes across a shell similar to the one she kept, dangling from a holy icon. I really did die. When Elisabeth turns her head, the walls of the church glow in smudges of orange and pink from the sunset. It’s completely empty (her brother was never the religious one), all but for one nonexistent figure, and she cannot help but smile.

"Hm… I guess that’s it."

[corpseductorr]

The time for promises to be fulfilled arrives once more, but as always has been - and always will be - ignorance of impending redemption prevails. He approaches the Seventh no differently than he had the preceding six, mind distant and heart (or what little is left of it) as ever hungry for retribution on another's behalf; he thinks not of the future, even a future, the course of his largely determined by the impulsive whims of others ─ and he's learnt to be content with this. It provides purpose for this sad, shadowed existence of his in the place of dream and ambition, and that it fine. Fatigue bears a greater burden these days than it had done previously, yet he perseveres all the same.

He has a promise to keep to, after all: 'forever and ever'. Even if he has been misled to believe it is this promise which has him continuing defy nature, rather than one made in a past life.

Whilst the crime itself is witnessed by the light of day (if barely), the wiedergänger rises no earlier than is custom. (Charity of revenge he'll offer, yes, though he'll work to his own schedule.) The old church is no longer blessed by a rare colour of the setting sun when the pair, virtuouso and assistant, arrive. Indeed, the place appears to be the same as it was on all past visits, whenever he sought enclosed shelter from the elements, or even to just revel - mocking though the presence of his sort might be - in its atmosphere. Something feels somehow off about the shell of a house of worship tonight, however ─ as if a new life had been breathed into the place since he'd last disgraced it with his presence. Hitherto, the building was thought to have been abandoned long ago, never as there was so much as any sign of a congregation, and still, almost the second he sets foot inside, he's struck by the suspicion that there'd recently been life within the four walls.

Elise comfortably within his arms, he crosses the scene of the crime with a certain caution; a certain wariness, at least. He finds himself reluctant to disturb the stillness of the church, whether out of respect for the recently-deceased or lest he call the attention of some Living trespasser to himself: although even by the time he reaches the alter at the back, nothing stirs, save his porcelain companion.

In fact, it is the raising of her gaze that has him finally realise what it is about the place that's changed. The large crucifix just behind the alter has, to his immediate interest, been put to use besides decoration, for the poor light brings to his attention a figure bound to it: female, he manages to work out, though her appearance remains mostly shrouded in shadow as to render any chance of recognising her as yet an impossibility. Without a pressing need to have her face revealed to him, though, he hasn't any qualms with having her rest in obscurity for now. For now, then, he preoccupies himself with going through the motions of calling back her spirit, still oblivious that her essence waits as closely as her body does.

The assistant is set down gingerly onto the stone floor, with a gentle kiss as thanks for her observation, before gaze is returned to the empty vessel above. He spares a smile, a greeting, even though he's to believe only he and his partner will actually hear it--

"...Guten Abend, Your Highness."