She'll Scream and She'll Shout and She'll Pray | @colorfuljust1c3, @dapperdebonair
In the dirty streets of Midnight City there are shadows aplenty, sticking to the walls like stubborn molasses. In those shadows lay the things that humanity does not know about as hard as it can; almost an entire species determined to remain ignorant of what horror lurk in places no perfectly sane man would wish to walk.
To the clown this is a shame. What might happen if they were forced to know? If the knowledge of truth was burned in the forefronts of their minds and their hand other choice put to see and participate in a revolution the likes of with this world has never seen? At the very edges of their minds they can hear it, always, the never ending chorus of honks.
Every living thing in this existence of reality can hear it inside them if they care to listen, but not every living thing has what takes to accept the truth and holiness that comes with it. The true religion underneath it all that has nothing to do with gods or messiahs despite the undeniable existence of both, the religion of nothing and everything all at once together.
There aren't words for it, in any language, and thus the honking.
In the middle of the street, outside in the still still night there is now a door. There wasn't one before now and if you managed to grab hold of one of the shifty passerby's and ask they would assume you were only one of the many rabid mongers out on the road for of course their is no door in the middle of the street. If there was they'd be able to see it, and the cars would be having to drive around it now wouldn't they?
They would not be wrong. The door, in fact, does not exist. Not for them. The door only exists for one man, one man who was given a job and must open the door and walk through to complete it.
Luckily enough for him, what exists behind the door is not prepared for his presence this day. There is a nightmare behind that door, a nightmare so lovingly and exquisitely shaped by careful hands to become more than just a dream. It is a thing of Rage and Void; nothing may leave or enter except at the will of its creator and what goes on in there cannot be known by those outside.
This is where Gamzee Makara waited behind the altar for his sacrifice to be brought. Stained glass was at his back, creating rippled shapes in a light indigo on the stone in front of him. The effect is barely discernible even to the troll, for there there is no light here but simply varying shades of darkness. Human eyes would barely be able to make out the high arched ceiling or the shadowed glittering of the organ pipes. But it's not the sight of it's that important, not really; it's the feel of the place and echoes of the footsteps and the all encompassing knowledge that this was a holy place.
Holy, if you knew what true worship was. Holy, if you recognized the slightly tangy scent of troll blood that permeated the air mixed with brimstone dust, and knew what it was for. Holy to all things that carried the spark of life despite that so very knew of it.
There are no hands which play the organ's keys but in this place the chorus of eternal honking grows louder.
