ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃⁿᶜᶦⁿᵍ ᶜˡᵒʷⁿꜝ

[pennywise]

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶꒷𝐓HIS IS A PRIVATE RP BLOG FOR THE TITULAR ANTAGONIST OF 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒【 𝐈𝐓 】THE APOTHEOSIS OF ALL MONSTERS. SEMI-COMPLIANT TO THE '86 NOVEL, PRIMARILY CANON DIVERGENT WITH LIGOTTIAN & LOVECRAFTIAN INFLUENCES. ANTI-FANDOM & MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. FED BY JAY. HE/THEY. 21+ DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

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𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 & 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 : the primordial concept of consumption, an entire city haunted, masks aberrant & austere, allegories of childhood trauma & loss of innocence, nonentity performs as an entity, hell is repetition & hunger is eternal, madness upon revelation, the archaic philosophy of clowns as death mockers & imitation gods, & let's give a big round applause to our special act . . . the violent inversion & vanishing of mr. robert gray !

‌‌‎ ✦ CARRD | SIDEBLOG | VISUALS ✦

PLEASE TAG RELEVANT POSTS WITH #BOBGRAY

[tuxedojunctions]

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Orange Colored Sky - Nat ‘King’ Cole (with the Stan Kenton Orchestra)

[bobgray]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 are described by It as : Its eye, Its mind, Its eternity. they are orange unlight. a writhing mockery of life ; of celestial carrion devoured ere extending Its reach across multiple worlds and dimensions. the deadlights are bright oblivion, an inversion of the primordial void from whence they arose. from outside all, the eater persists as the destructive equal to the only other inhabitant : the creator⁽¹⁾. each beyond mortal logic and belief, primordial eldritch forces of nature purposed to attend balance of the universe through acts of CREATION ━ and 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. the deadlights are the true nonentity of It, with all Its masks and glamours cast aside.

to all forms of existence, revelation to the incomprehensible nature of It will result in variable degrees of madness. exposure to them, be it fleeting or prolonged, is not a factor so much as what It intends for the seer(s). It may seek thralls / "dogsbodies" to surrender their will to Its own, henceforth driven half-mad to carry out delegated tasks. otherwise, the deadlights render the mind/the spirit fully consumed, the body catatonic yet suspended from the earth, like mad flies snared in proverbial spidersilk. they all float for later feeding. the mock lights may manifest through the eyes, maws, or cranial cracks of any given glamour, lest the cranium burst open like a balloon, in which they bloom from that incinerating cavity. in rare instances, they may manifest through a vitrine of abdominal plates⁽²⁾. effects range from diffuse enough to serve as warning⁽³⁾ to others ━ or, if those plates brighten, the deadlights grow dangerously concentrated enough to both psionically and physically obliterate all target(s). this is the last resort, given this vulgar display of power afflicts It with a bellyache of cosmic proportions ( not unlike Its rival, the creator, who canonically suffers a bellyache and vomited up the entire universe ), in which the exoskeletal "entity" of It nigh ruptures.

glamours themselves act as mockeries of life, as omnipresent "entities" that possess the deadlights with which It feeds on matter, and the abstract alike ; such as the rich qualities of the imagination, and thus the fear it inspires. the glamours are described by It as mirrors : heliographing images to a seer as a mirror might bounce a reflection of the sun into the unsuspecting eye, and stun it to blindness. without essential need for a full anatomical structure, they are empty exoskeletons, which allow It to gorge Itself into a slumbrous stupor to briefly "sate" that endless voracity through means of survival in the physical realm. while the deadlights are indestructible, these glamours are all but nigh-invincible . . . even It must abide some laws of the shape It inhabits.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 : ⁽¹⁾ the closest approximation the mind comes to comprehending Creation is an eldritch turtlelike entity ( concept art here ), whereas our closest approximation to Consumption is an eldritch spiderlike entity, each a lovecraftian concept of nature predating space and time. ⁽²⁾of few inspirations taken from the 𝐈𝐓 ¹⁹⁹⁰ tv miniseries, another heavily diluted adaptation of its predecessor novel given the limitations imposed by viewer guidelines at the time : the deadlights in this version manifest through what appears as chitinous plates ( as pictured here, and here ) which is affectionately named "the glow belly". i reinterpret them as writhing and orange, as per the source material ━ and as a fun little subversion, they function as both Its least and most threatening display of primordial power. ⁽³⁾ warnings may also manifest in the eyes. while later adaptations ( the 2017 and 2019 films, the 2025 welcome to derry series ) of the story deliberately demystify and depower It, especially the potency of the deadlights, i will not take this into consideration. the deadlights are the lovecraftian horror device intrinsic to this character. this is to say, i will not reduce them to a reversible trance to make them more palatable to you. still, i acknowledge they are the definition of overpowered, and i will never abuse them in our interactions without prior discussion with you.

[derangedrhythms]

A horror so deep only ritual can contain it, 

Sarah Kane, Complete Plays; from ‘Crave’

[pennywise]

SILKEN TENDRILS OF SILVER descend upon the throes of combat, ceiling panels wrest free to render lightless gaps. from them sprawled eight appendages in all, their movements boneless and fluid in search of fearful prey. some men remain steadfast in their pursuit of another presence, whilst a few cowards in their ranks, seasoned with the brine of sweat, are singled out for prey. the first is taken with haste. trussed in an asphyxiating coil, pulled up into a quadrate void of shrieking acoustics ; it amplifies with an unseen feast above, from distinct squelches of flesh rent in chunks, to wet pops of pulverized vitals, to the resplendent splinter of bone.

elsewhere, below intact panels blotted over with pooling blood, two more helpings petrify before Its glamours. one crumbles to his knees, hysterically pleads with an apparition of his mother set aflame at his own hands. unmoved, mother stifles his pleas, laughing black ash, engulfing him in her fatal embrace. the other regresses to forgotten fears of youth, hyperventilating into palms, faced with the gaping snarl and crescent fangs of a great stone dokkaebi. impossibly alive, impossibly hungry. as those stone clutches collect prey, an onlooker sees not this myth, instead she is privy to a prodigious maw that plunges down, protrusile as the jaw of a goblin shark.

It recedes with that single bite, and an exaggerated gulp. It belches forth a weapon no longer slick with liquid light which clatters uselessly to the floor. tendrils sway to a phantom draft, dangling like party streamers ━━ among them, there remains a survivor. the thing in the dark, the thing in the ceiling space, at last peers down at something else neither ephemeral nor of this earth. Its eyes aglow with unlight. It hums a nursery tune : twinkle - twinkle, little star, how I wonder ... what you are.

@ngc-6853 asks : What do you call yourself ?

❝ I am the Eater of Worlds. ❞ answers cold certainty, short as it were sibilant. names. monikers. epithets. naught but little noises that carried a power of their own in realms such as these. a marked silence unspools between them ━━ then, from that black gap overhead came an entirely other, playful lilt. ❝ oh, bit of a mouthful, that one ! I am also known as ... Pennywise━ Pennywise, the Dancing Clown. ❞

the thing in the dark allows Itself a blood - burbled chuckle, congruent to the rattle of those red ceiling panels. then, a series of sniffs : a compulsion of curiosity toward another foreign to this world, likewise, a consumption of abstract delicacies in the air. none so palpable as they were palatable. arriving at a final, deep inhalation of fright, Its pupils dilate. that lambent gaze upon her pulses in the dark, not unlike the contractions of dying constellations. ❝ and yoouuu must be Nay━ ( no - no, not anymore ! ) Nova. yes. awfully far, far, far from the fox den, aren't you ? ❞

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄.   (   a collection of  dialogue prompts originating from alice in wonderland 2010. adjust as desired.   )

you have finally lost your senses.

this venture is impossible.

the only way to achieve the impossible is to believe it is possible.

that kind of thinking could ruin you.

the nightmare, again?

do you think i've gone around the bend?

you're mad. bonkers, off your head.

if you get frightened, you can always wake up.

doubt they'll notice if we never arrive.

who's to say what is proper?

to me, a corset is like a codfish.

i'm sorry. i'm tired, i didn't sleep well last night.

it's always the same, ever since i can remember.

don't most people have different dreams?

there. you're beautiful.

there. you're beautiful. now, can you manage a smile?

at last. we thought you'd never arrive.

[ name ] is waiting to dance with you.

i hope you don't think i've taken advantage of your misfortunes.

do you ever tire of quadrille?

i think you'll do best to keep your visions to yourself.

i was wondering what it would be like to fly.

[ name ], meet me under the gazebo in ten minutes.

but now you've brought it up, you have to tell me.

everyone went through so much effort to keep it a secret.

i don't know if i want to marry [ name ].

shall we take a leisurely stroll through the garden, just you & me?

what an odd thing to say.

i couldn't be more interested, but you'll have to excuse me.

i think i'm going mad.

i don't know. i'm confused, i need time to think.

me? but i'm not the one who's sneaking around.

i think i ... i need a moment.

i am not convinced.

how is that for gratitude?

who are you, if i might ask?

the question is, who are you?

what do you mean by that? i ought to know who i am.

wait, this is my dream. i'm going to wake up now & you'll all disappear.

that's odd. pinching usually does the trick.

did you steal them?

it looks like you ran afoul of something with wicked claws.

well, i'd better have a look.

i'll be fine as soon as i wake up.

what do you call yourself?

all i want to do is wake up from this dream.

i was obliged to kill time until your return.

we simply must commence with the slaying & such.

all this talk of blood & slaying has put me off my tea.

what happened that day was not my fault.

you ran out on them to save your own skin.

what's wrong with you, [ name ]? you used to be the life of the party.

would you like to join us? you're late for tea!

i'm not slaying anything. i don't slay, so put it out of your mind.

wait! you can't leave me here.

you're not the same as you were before.

you were much more ... muchier. you've lost your muchness.

it's not a pretty story.

that is not foretold.

i've been told what i must do & who i must be.

i'll decide where it goes from here.

i make the path.

i've come to you, hoping you would understand what it's like.

and who is this lovely creature?

you're too soft.

the trees seem sad... have you been speaking with them?

rest now. you've done well.

is it not better to be feared than loved?

i'm frightened, [ name ]. i don't like it in here, it's terribly crowded.

you're entirely bonkers. but i'll tell you a secret; all of the best people are.

that's better, you look like yourself again.

why is it you're always too small or too tall?

i don't take orders from big, clumsy, galumphing—

why haven't you mentioned this?

i believe this belongs to you.

i thought we'd settled this.

i suggest you keep a sword on hand.

it is far better to be feared than loved.

it's against my vows to harm any living creature.

here i am, still in one piece.

i would have regretted not seeing you again.

you know what tomorrow is, don't you?

still believe this is a dream, do you?

this has all come from my own mind.

i'm afraid you're just a figment of my imagination.

you would have to be half-mad to dream me up.

i'll miss you when i wake up.

you cannot live your life to please others. the choice must be yours.

when you step out to face that creature, you will step out alone.

nothing was ever accomplished with tears.

don't go. i need your help, i don't know what to do.

i can't help you if you don't even know who you are.

you're just as dim-witted as the first time you were here.

it wasn't a dream at all ... it was a memory.

the sword knows what it wants. all you have to do is hold onto it.

i know what you're doing. you think you can blink those pretty little eyes & i'll melt.

it is MY crown! i am the eldest!

sometimes i believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

so, my old foe, we meet on the battlefield once again.

you are banished. no one is to ever show you kindness.

majesty, i hope you bear me no ill will.

i do not owe you a kindness.

i'll be back again before you know it.

of course i will, how could i forget?

good lord ... are you alright?

i love you, but this is my life. i'll decide what to do with it.

i'll find something useful to do with my life.

shall we speak in my study?

perhaps you'd consider becoming an apprentice.

[pennywise]

♪ when i close my eyes and i dream of you, i see your pretty faces and i taste them too ! but my, oh my, how i wish to cryyy— every time weee say goodby̸ÿ̵̞̖̰̮́y̷̦̗̕y̸̨̖͊͊́ee̸̛̙͔ḙ̷̈́̒ ♪

[lmsgfbn]

[eatsrawa2]

❛ i want to see your art. ❜ @bobgray says unto mina.

the voice is as clear as it's ever been. familiar and consistent. the one thing that had followed her through her life and remained still even as she had long left home. ( am i losing my mind? had i already lost it? here it was again. engaging with me as it did when this first started. is this part of the curse? is it real? it has to be real because i am real. is my madness real? despite my good intentions is this evidence that i will never be good? ). mina had froze initially, the blood on her hands remained as clear as ever, still dripping from fingertips as she sat there in the woods beside the body of a dead animal that she had torn into. she'd been rummaging for bones that she could use for crafts while harvesting blood for paint supplies. mina looked straight ahead at her familiar, voice robotic as she finally spoke; eyes dead.

" it isn't much. it is a start. " she reached for the sketchbook that she had in her bag, showing off pages filled with dried blood and charcoal.

[pennywise]

STATUESQUE WHERE IT STOOD, a bright caricature she names a familiar. near as the imaginary sort, nearer still as an illness. within that deadened stare, It mirrors not the face of mother nor father. It is an image coterminous with the empty spaces between her synapses ━━ something that does not belong. a clown absent of a circus ! Its hands were tied behind its back, and when It smiled, the striated chirps of insects and birdsong alike, fell deathly silent. Its footfalls are weighted, made real, real as the little mind allows. in a single lithe movement, Pennywise sunk to a squat, eyes all too wide, each silver as gibbous moons. no livelier than her own. ( ah ! ) exclaims the clown with childlike enthuse, then It teeters nearer on tip-toes, to discern ruddy and ashen strokes. ❝ oh yes ! that's a vuh━ very pretty start. ❞

It punctuates with a vagrant thread of spittle ; that which belies the pleasant lilt, and unassuming farce of an upturned maw. ❝ I've brought you something . . . pick a hand ( aheh-heh, ) any hand. ❞ the puffed shoulders of the costume bore several more at the flanks, indicative of manifold limbs from which to choose a prize.

[forgedhalo-deactivated20231029]

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[periwinkil]

harsh winds battered at the wagon, it seems a chorus of restless spirits. a child sat lone, huddled in the creaking, lantern-lit confines of the wagon. its wooden slats groaning in protest as the wind whipped through the canvas top, like a maddened lash. scents of damp earth & ozone prevailed. the flickering light casts shadows on the walls as the wagon swayed precariously, as though it may overturn. her tiny frame was wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her eyes wide with fear & fascination.

ingrid rises then, & peers out into the maelstrom through a gap in the canvas. amidst the turmoil, a faint, melodic voice pierced the gale, calling out her name. that voice was like a lifeline thrown out to turbulent sea, & ingrid’s heart skipped a beat as she hesitated. ❛ papa? ❜ a small hand reached out to grasp the worn handle of the door.

stood poised on the threshold, the wind buffeted at her gown, threatening to snatch her up from the wagon. her gaze was fixed on the darkness beyond, her eyes straining to discern a voice that seems to come from everywhere & nowhere, amongst those rattling pines. unmistakably beckoning her name. with a deep breath, child presses 'pon the creaking door, & stepped out into storm, her small frame silhouetted 'gainst the lantern glow as she vanished into swirling vortex, crying, ❛ papa! where are you?! ❜

[pennywise]

BOUGHS OF BLACK TEETH gnash at the skies, at the refracted canvas of steels and violets. each a brutal upstroke of storm. those pines nigh beset a wanderer to the wood, then bristle into an arc that grants her passage to a fairytale clearing; its centerpiece the foundations of an unfinished well house. the hands that wrought this had been taken ━━ first the Downes boy had gone missing, then the well workers, the lion rent from its cage, the contortionist, the skeleton man, the dancing clown, then ... there, a rain - slick silhouette was bent over the well, peering upon its maw. ( Ingrid, Ingriiiid ... come and see ! ) cries not the found father, but again cries that disembodied call, that rotten and placeless glee.

was it laughter that swelled into a fever pitch, or a shrill of whistler winds ? it was this sharp crescendo, nevertheless, that cues the carny's next grievous act.

Robert Gray climbs onto the stone edge of the well, and stalls there. the winds buffet him, balter him, arrhythmic as a marionette whose phantom strings lashed to and fro. in his seeming trance, his neck cranes back with a disjointed snap. before his stung retinas, tearful and bloodshot blues, the sky is newly riven with mosaics of lightning, and once more it refracts. burnt into a liminal orange over father and daughter.

panicked screams of youth are lost on him. only when a smaller hand grapples for his, does the trance lapse into brief, bright terror ... distinct as one wakes from a jarring dream, in which one has fallen to unfathomable depths. such a dream nigh comes true, yet he regains his footing, and staggers from stone lip to sodden earth. knees plunge, painfully, into muck below. the heel of his hand slid for purchase, whilst the other remains a clammy ━━ albeit gentle, grip on hers. ❝ Inga, ❞ gasping, gruff, a strain for words from a throat long - raw with anguish. blood courts the puddle of mire when he coughs, his head bowed. ❝ my Inga. my sweet girl. we━ we need to go home. ❞ behind her father's loving, urging eyes ... It watches, It waits.

[travellersfarfromhome]

[inksplit]