#goth weekend

[meowscab]

[authorjadewylde]

Whitby Abbey - 27/04/24 - Whitby Goth Weekend

[jaenisamusculargurl]

Check out my list on Amazon

please help any and all help would be appreciated. This outfit is for Goth weekend in Whitby and unfortunately I do not have enough money to attain all of it I beg you anyone to help me

[wowfan-me]

2.8 - BIG RED BUTTON

Music: LOSING MY RELIGION || Lacuna Coil

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Unlike the others, Apollyon had not left the West Pier. He didn't particularly like mingling. Inclined to be a tad petulant, social skills were not his forte.

Death and destruction, on the other hand, was. He was, thankfully though, able to rein it in when amongst the humans such as he was now. He knew not to attract the wrong kind of attention to himself or indeed the other ethereal rejects. The thought of causing mischief at times, though, did have a certain appeal.

No, he had to conform to the rules as did they all. Their particular skill-sets were meant to be applied to the filthy, rotten, pathetic humans so they carried out the deeds. The prize, of course, was their suffering. Every cloud had a silver lining, he chuckled.

Chatter and laughter sounded behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a group of festival-goers in full gothic regalia posing for photographs. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the sea.

Oh, the temptation! To create a sudden swell would be enormously satisfying but also a bit ambitious considering the day was calm. He huffed.

"What is bothering you now?" a familiar voice asked.

He looked askance and saw Beelzebub approaching, his gait slow, deliberate.

"I'm bored," he answered.

Beelzebub laughed. "Well, you should have joined Xaphan and Zepar. They said they were going to do a bit sight-seeing."

Apollyon clucked his tongue. "And spoil his chances with the delectable Lady Cupid?" he said, in a mordant tone.

Beelzebub looked at his friend, a wry smile tugging the corners of his mouth. "Why, Apollyon, is that a touch of envy I hear?"

The crooked one turned, incredulous. "Seriously?"

Beelzebub laughed. "You and I both know he doesn't have a hope."

Apollyon nodded. "Uh huh. No-one does."

"Hmm. Yes, like us her talents are best used on the ..." He looked behind them, making sure the group of snap-happy people could not hear. "...humans," he concluded.

Apollyon grunted agreement. After a while, he spoke again, still grumpily. "I don't see why we have to maintain this vigil of the novice all the time."

The dark-skinned prince leaned against the lighthouse wall. "He's hardly a novice, Apollyon, he just delivers death differently from yourself."

"He's messy!"

"He was this time certainly, but normally he's immaculate. Something distracts him I think."

"You are defending him?" The crooked angel of death shuffled round to face his friend.

"No, not at all. I am in agreement with you, this regular following him around is wearisome and unproductive."

"Hmm. Well, it's about time Samael admitted the truth. The boy is never going to fulfil the dream. He's a waste of fresh air."

The people along the pier were becoming riotous, swapping places and adopting the most ridiculous poses. "Unless he rips that lot's throats out," he sneered.

"Oh my, we are grumpy today aren't we?"

"No wonder! A vampire that won't breed? The others did!"

"Yes, but few have survived, most went insane and destroyed each other."

"Insane is good! It gets the job done!"

"Samael wants an army, not just a few crazies. Their numbers were too small to make a difference anyway."

"But that's preferable to one ineffectual blood-sucker, surely! Wish I could just push a big red button and be done with it all. I am tiring of this war."

Beelzebub had to agree. Nevertheless, standing at the lighthouse all day was not going to make it pass any quicker and he for one did not want to remain, especially with the cackling, shrieking cos-players behind them. They were starting to grate even his nerves.

"Come, let us take in the sights or at least walk along the front."

"No. I prefer it here."

"You just said you were bored."

"I...lied!"

"No, you didn't. I know you, old friend. You're just... shy." The prince suppressed a grin.

At that Apollyon spun, incensed. "Shy? I think not!"

"Then you have no excuse," Beelzebub retorted with a grin. "Come." He started to lead away from the lighthouse.

As Beelzebub passed the group of photographic subjects, he glanced at his friend who was eyeing the cameraman. Trying to get the whole group in the shot, the man was inching back towards the railings. A sly grin on Apollyon's face said it all.

"You wouldn't!" Beelzebub muttered.

The corresponding yell and several gasps confirmed the awful truth. A chuckle fell from the crooked angel's lips as the group ran to the railings in panic.

Beelzebub rolled his eyes. "Naughty Apollyon," he said, stifling a laugh.

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[wowfan-me]

2.7 - PRINCE OF DEMONS

Music: MARCH OF MEPHISTO || Kamelot

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The warning from Samael had agitated the Prince of Demons. For one thing, Cain, being as ineffectual as he was, needed either to be 'shown the way' or put out of his moping, miserable existence. The vampire was nothing more than a hindrance to greater things. This persistent pursuit of him was distracting and needless.

But, for all Samael (as far as Beelzebub knew) had never made himself known to Cain, he was still fiercely protective of him. Without doubt, if they harmed the blood-sucker, their General would not hesitate to carry out his threat.

Sitting at a table outside Costa coffee house, he flicked open the newspaper someone had left behind. His eyes scanned the print for news of his work. How he enjoyed reading the headlines heralding yet another successful unveiling.

There were some successes abroad at least. Another massacre at some complex in Norway, one or two conflicts in the East and a serial killer was on Death Row in California. Run of the mill really.

It was at moments like this Beelzebub wished he was like the fictitious devil he was believed to be; a master of nefarious creatures, all horned, fanged and cloven-hoofed would be rather delicious. And stampeding through the likes of Whitby would also be highly amusing right now. The only demons which his title referred to, however, were the ones which resided with Man himself.

The atrocities which the human race inflicted upon their own were found under labels such as 'Cults', 'Suicide Bombers', 'Fascists', 'War Crimes' and a million more besides.

The culprits, if ever detained, were further branded, 'insane', 'unstable', 'deranged'. Oh, the talking monkeys did like to analyse such things, but never did they find the real trigger. And how could they? He was but a painting on a wall, a story in a book, a character in a song or a film.

Yes, even the most docile of men harboured a grotesque alias. Some were buried deep, others floated just beneath the surface. But, they were all accessible to Beelzebub. He was like a snake-charmer or the fabled Pied Piper - play the right notes and they all come scurrying. Well, almost all.

He had tried so very hard to penetrate Cain's soul. Laughable to think he still had one, but then again, God did work in mysterious ways. Had he been able to manipulate him, he would have been a glorious demon indeed; biting, tearing, ripping, drinking and then creating an army across the globe, losing sight of whatever he'd believed was expected of him. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Beelzebub just could not find that switch in Cain.

He could tell Samael was frustrated; things had not turned out as he'd hoped but, still, he would not tolerate anyone trying to harm Cain. Quite why he favoured this one, Beelzebub wasn't entirely sure.

The General had produced many offspring over the centuries, his inability to resist a warm inviting sex had issued forth goodness knows how many little demi-gods - or demi-angels, however one preferred to think of them. For some reason though, Cain was special.

Even so, the vampire was surplus to requirement. There was too much focus on him. He had been the ultimate failure. The Prince of Demons along with his cohorts had fired up many susceptible humans to carry out their instructions in the past, a large number having been very effective - at least for a while.

If they were allowed to focus more on others, then their job would be done. Man would be no more. But no, their leader insisted on 'looking in' on his son every now and again. Sometimes for months or years at a time, before moving on.

Not for the first time, Beelzebub wondered what it might have been like to have had a son. Well, for one thing, he thought, he would have been obedient and done what was expected of him. Alas, that was not even a possibility for the prince of demons. He did not possess the necessary equipment. Classed as an abnormality in the human race it was quite commonplace in his genus.

With a sigh, he folded the newspaper and placed it back on the table. He stood, stretched then contemplated which direction he would go. It mattered not. He turned left. There was nothing to do other than be a tourist and try to find Apollyon.

Hopefully, they would receive word soon about where they should all congregate.

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[wowfan-me]

2.6 - THE DECEIVER

Music: SIGN OF THE CROSS || Avantasia

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Lahash pushed himself away from the bandstand railing as he saw his companions board the bus. A sardonic smile traced his lips. Xaphan did like to cling to his little saviour. Pitiful.

His eyes scanned the vista before him and he pondered what to do until their self-appointed leader gathered them together.

As ever, Lahash did excogitate the legitimacy of Samael's claim to greatness. He possessed an insidious ability to seduce the most chaste or powerful of women, but that hardly awarded such lofty stature. Surely!

Lahash was not incapable of changing the course of events himself. Through his form of 'intervention', he had played a significant role in Heaven and Earth's history. He had been inexorably instrumental in their unceremonious ousting from Heaven for one thing. He had started asking questions, putting forth opinions, causing a stir. In all the commotion, however, that was never addressed, he was merely 'party' to it, as were they all.

Nevertheless, his methods adopted a strategy, not lust. In his opinion, that surely would have crowned him as the leader. But no. Samael, claimed the title.

Unarguably, that had been effectual due to the so-called weapon he had sired. The promise of God's will being devoured from within, so-to-speak. A demi-god in the guise of a talking monkey, 'altered' by the Master himself for being a naughty boy (thanks to the contribution from Lahash). Such irony; it bordered on being ingenious. But, the reality was beyond disappointing.

Cain had not become the vengeful champion his father had so hoped for. Infuriatingly, he remained loyal to the one who had cast him out.

Lahash scoffed. It seemed when the CEO of All Things Divine tired of His minions, be they mortal or otherwise, He simply disposed of them one way or another. More oft than not, He assigned His Legion to do His dirty work. The Fallen had thought to outsmart Him in Cain's case. Alas...

And through it all, this hullabaloo called religion, faith, devoutness had travelled over time hand-in-hand with creation itself. So many contradictions and hypocrisy; sometimes, Lahash wondered why he and his comrades had ever worshipped at His feet in the first place.

He had grown weary of it all, however; this babysitting they had been drawn into was farcical.

On that front, he was in agreement with Beelzebub. It was time things changed. Too much of it had been wasted hoping for the tables to be turned. They had, after all, managed rather well without the monstrous blood-sucker up to now.

Granted, most plans had been scuppered by something or someone. He gritted his teeth - he refused to give that credit to the Almighty. Good prevails over evil - balderdash! What was 'good' about their betrayal, for example? Had they not simply tried to show him the flaws of these pets he loved so much? Loved more than He loved his angels! How did all these pathetic, blind, fucked up sheep still believe in Him?

He leaned on the railings as he looked out over the sea. He had to calm down. To allow his anger to ignite at this stage was folly. Apart from Beelzebub, who in all honesty, could be as changeable as the seasons, all the others were loyal to Samael. Theirs was a power not to be trifled with; he needed unity to overthrow their leader. It would take time.

At that, he did laugh, quietly.

Time...

In the eyes of the planet's inhabitants, that was equated by years, months, weeks, days, hours and minutes. For angels, it was by events. Significant ones of course. Ones which could have and should have led to the annihilation of mankind. Although there had been many down the ages, their perception of time was very different so technically, they had not been around as long as the history books had the population believe.

It was still a very lengthy game they played though and certain pieces needed to be taken out. Primarily, Cain. And Samael. Then glory would belong to the Fallen.

Yes, it was nearly time to call 'check'.

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[wowfan-me]

1.9 - MORTAL COIL

Music: VENGEANCE IS MINE || Epica

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The cellar was cold, damp and dark. It possessed all the necessary elements which constituted a tenebrous environment for such a creature. Desolation, solitude, sorrow - the furnishings of such an abode.

For all the vampire had fed well - four, he had found - he paced the cold stone, agitated. Taloned fingers flexed, biting the skin of his palms. The only sounds as he wheeled round to execute another circuit of the room was his long coat whipping against his legs and the soft footfalls rising from the dank floor.

"What ails you?" the voice of his torturer asked.

He could not bring himself to utter the words for lest it made them concrete.

"There is no use in attempting to thwart the obvious."

He stopped abruptly. "I know not of what you speak," he responded, low, strained.

Laughter bounced around the confines of his skull. "Truly? Something - or should I say - someone - has added to your many conflicts."

He resumed his tour of the room. "No!" Denial. Long black hair flicked back and forth as he vehemently shook his head.

"Oh, but I do declare they have. And in so doing, I am - perhaps - at risk of becoming redundant."

He sank to his knees. Like a stain of despair, inky puddles soaked into the fabric of his trousers. He cupped his face in his hands; blood from the self-inflicted wounds pooling instinctively to his lips. "I will not succumb," he moaned.

Again, the laughter swam around his head. "Yet you did once, Cain." The voice moved around the room and stopped in front of the wretched creature, judging. "Your mephitic existence must end and I do not mean by that which cannot be undone."

"Stop! I will hear no more!" Cain pushed himself upright and backed away from the source of his torment.

The voice would not relent. "Desist with this mortal coil you nurture. 'Tis but folly! You are a god!"

"No! Do not dare blaspheme!" Cain's eyes burned, fury rising at such defamation of his Maker.

"Hypocrite! You mock Him every time you take a life, and all to sustain your own. It was nothing more than a Divine Sin which He carried out in sentencing you as he did, and His punishment is one you shall bear for eternity. Nothing can change that which was ordained by the Almighty. But..." The voice paused then resumed, softly, almost tenderly. "He hath not forbidden you... company. Truth be told, he expected you to procreate, as it were."

Cain turned away from his conflict. "I will not! I cannot endure that agony again. My dear, sweet, Melantha..." A desolate sob broke from his throat.

"But, this new one calls to you, doesn't she? You have been painfully aware of her presence all evening. Her melancholy attracted you, did it not? You can almost 'feel' it! She will surrender, I am sure."

Cain fought the temptation being laid at his feet. "No! They are deluded. They think of it as a Gift. I have heard them."

A small reprieve was given before the voice continued. "Those 'pretenders' in their costumes out there, for aeons they have considered Life as a Gift. But, when it turns out to be not what they thought, or hoped for or dreamed of, it loses its appeal and status. Then they hunger for an end. You can give them that. Would that not be considered compassion?"

Beads of blood perspired on Cain's brow. Was there no relief from this battle? "No! Life is the Gift for the righteous," he moaned aloud. "It is the true miracle of our Blessed Maker!" He leaned against a wooden support, mourning that which he no longer possessed.

The voice barked a retort. "Our Maker! I grow weary of your abstinence from the truth. A benign God, indeed! He is simply too cowardly to mete out justice himself and so appoints soldiers to do it for Him. Yes, Cain! He giveth with one hand and taketh away with the other!"

The vampire clasped his hands to his ears, trying to block out the words but, the voice would not cease.

"His legion of Justice, the Angels, fail to deliver time after time for they oft take the innocent, hating that He favours His little talking monkeys. So, He created YOU by blessing you with the Gift of Death. You have been chosen to be His puppet, to eradicate the cursed; and so dost thou obey."

Cain sank to the ground once more, pulling himself into a ball. He whimpered non-committal denials. His existence was a hell from which he saw no release.

"You are more his image than any other. And with the power bestowed upon thee, mistaketh not - you are a god."

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[wowfan-me]

1.8 - THE SLEEP-OVER

Music: I MAKE THE MISTAKE || Mortal Love 

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The combination of alcohol, a sense of worthlessness, cried-out eyes and anxiety, finally caused Becky to spiral into a restless slumber.

Echoes of conversations flitted through her mind mingled with images ranging from her heart-crushing discovery in Michael's flat to the musical cavorting of her companions from earlier that evening. All back to front and upside down, of course, as such images often were to the mind which simply could not shut down.

Semi-conscious phases had her peeling her eyes open for mere seconds, wondering where she was before drifting off again to continue her journey through a lurid dreamscape.

One voice kept repeating the same words over and over - "Look not upon him, for he is marked." She combed through her subconscious images, trying to locate the owner of that voice. It taunted her, circling, closing in.

She felt agitated. Unbeknown to her, a battle with the duvet had commenced - and the odds were not in her favour. Half of it lay on the floor already. The coolness of the night would soon seep into her bones.

Her dreams then took a very dark turn as she saw herself standing next to the mysterious stranger. A swell of dark liquid rippled and pooled towards her, slick and steamy. She was trying to dodge its persistent trajectory.

Glancing back at the man, she gasped. His eyes were black, the deepest obsidian, behind which she sensed an interminable sadness.

A sound like beating wings neared them; large, powerful. Oppressive. Both she and the man turned in the direction from whence it came. She knew not why, but she felt the onslaught of dread; not because of the man, but for what was closing in on them.

Rapid drumming escalated. Distantly, she heard her name being called. She felt herself pulling away from the dream, slowly at first, sluggish and a little unwilling. But, someone wanted her attention. She was projected forward and with a jolt, she was wide awake.

Disorientated for a moment, she looked to the door of her room. Someone was knocking on it, desperate, anxious. "Becky! Becky, wake up. Please!"

Instinctively, she reached for her phone. Notifications of messages and calls she's missed from Michael sat glaring at her but she paid little heed, instead focusing on what ungodly hour the clock displayed. Three twenty-seven it read. Roughly three hours broken sleep which felt more like three minutes. The knocking continued.

She grabbed her dressing-gown and hauled herself out of bed, tripping on the duvet as her feet hit the ground. Quickly gathering it up, she dumped it on the bed before switching on the centre light. Tying her belt around her waist she moved to the door.

"Becky! It's Nick and Craig."

She opened the door to find the still costume-clad couple standing with two policemen and David, the proprietor of the guest house. She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. "What's happened? What's going on?" she asked all five at once.

Craig spat out that someone had broken into their room when they were out. On reporting it to the owners, the police were called.

She was asked what time she'd arrived back, had she seen anything out of the ordinary, or heard anything remotely suspicious? She shook her head, explaining she wasn't sure the exact hour but thought it was around 11.30 when she got in. She'd showered then promptly went to bed. She didn't admit to tossing and turning for about another hour before falling asleep, but it was irrelevant anyway as she'd truly heard nothing.

The police had asked Craig and Nick if anything seemed to have been taken. They didn't think so, but could not be sure, nonetheless, the guys were obviously not keen to spend the night in their room, especially when advised that an emergency locksmith could take anything up to 2 hours to attend.

The boys in blue then said they would return in the morning to investigate further when everyone was calmer and less excitable. It was recommended the plague doctor and Frank N Furter should try to get some sleep.

Conversation then evolved into David apologising profusely for the inconvenience caused to his guests by such a violation.

Becky offered to put them up in her room, stating they were friends and she would rather they felt safe than stressed out any further. She inquired if the owner at least had a spare duvet and some pillows so she could sleep on the floor. He duly delivered the necessary.

Between their ample alcohol intake and shocks for the evening, thankfully the couple were keen to settle down. Nick kept expressing his gratitude to Becky, giving her hugs, kisses on her cheeks and more hugs.

Eventually, Craig told him to stop and come to bed. All were exhausted from their first evening at the festival, not all for the right reasons, but they had 2 more days of this to go and break-in or not, he was determined they were going to enjoy the rest of the weekend.

By the time soft snores emanated from them, Becky was beyond sleep. She dragged the pillows and duvet over to the armchair next to the bay window and pulling the drapes back just a little, she curled up and stared out of the window.

Her eyes drifted over the nearby buildings, all shuttered, or curtains and blinds closed. Few had slivers of light leaking from their windows, implying the majority of the neighbourhood was now fast asleep.

The moon was full, bright, almost golden. It hung over the sleepy town like a sentinel, guarding the little people as they slumbered.

Her gaze moved to the moors, a few miles north-west of her location. Giant cranes and drilling rigs, although distant, were still operational, the night-shift no doubt counting down the hours before they could swap out with the day workers. The security and roving vehicle headlights made the industrial site appear to be inhabited by monstrous metallic silhouettes. It was impossible to escape the spooky element no matter where you looked in the town.

And oddly that swung her thoughts to the incident on her way back to her room. The mysterious man seemed to haunt her whether it be during her waking hours or indeed her dreams. What was it about him? she wondered. Was it simply the costume, the dark and brooding vibes he emitted? Or his accent? She could not hazard a guess where that hailed from, but it sounded quite exotic for all he barely spoke. The tiniest of smiles tweaked the corners of her mouth. He had been her knight in shining armour though, rescuing her bag and shooing off the thief.

Another consideration, completely unbidden and unwelcome then crossed her mind. What if the person who had broken into Craig and Nick's room was one and the same thief who snatched her bag? Should she have mentioned it to the police?

She snuggled down between the duvet and the pillows, plonking her feet on the small matching footstool. No, somehow she thought it highly unlikely to be the same person. If what Craig and Nick described was the case, she doubted that skinny little thief had the strength nor the know-how to snap a lock in the manner which it had been done.

Finally, she felt the allure of sleep beckoning her again. She glanced at the bed, smiling as she thought of the occupants as her two newfound 'Besties', in for a sleepover. Strangely, they made her feel more relaxed than she had been since finding out her boyfriend was banging someone else.

Before long, her own little snores joined the chorus of her guest sleepers.

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