#selfpres

[harmsdealer]

@selfpres

the montagu is the priciest hotel in town, so it would not be a stretch to assume its operators sprung for a cutting-edge surveillance system. but no matter how robust its security cameras may be, they will mysteriously fail to record pierre as he enters the lobby. nor will they capture him heading for the fourth floor, disappearing into one of the suites.

a svelte woman who doesn't utter a sound gestures for pierre to approach an annex of plush settees by the window. the couches are arranged around a coffee table which currently houses a depleted whiskey tumbler and what appears to be a box fit for a wristwatch. there kei perches, one hand steepled over the glass while the other secures the knot of his tie.

his gaze moves to regard his guest before the rest of him does. when he rises to his feet, he doesn't stand so much as he's propelled—like someone completed his circuit, a wind-up toy with its key turned.

"pierre, right?" his voice is sunlit and breezy, even more so than the winning smile he extends as he speaks. "kei. the pleasure is all mine—and not just because you're here to spoil me." one brow keenly arches, the solitary crack in his affable front. "i assume your boss told you it's payment first with me."

[fleshmade]

@selfpres

"so, what's the plan for today?" j asks as they step onto the street corner beside pierre.

they're treating the whole situation like they belong here, like this is entirely normal—which it is, now. and for the foreseeable future. that's the assignment, anyways, as of a couple days ago.

and today, bright and early, they have involved themself in pierre's morning routine. with no explanation as to how they know his address (no doubt nikki was involved there), they are very (perhaps uncomfortably, for pierre) present.

for having such a deadpan voice, they seem full of energy, eager for whatever may come next. the day is full of potential, after all!

[kurancs]

"you really created this?" it's almost a statement instead of a question, évariste's hand trailing across the pale marble wall; he doesn't bother mitigating what awe he feels, although alongside that awe creeps in some terror. he is and has always been terribly out of his depth. some part of him knows he should have come to celephaïs sooner — there was no reason to put it off. but standing here he understands why he did. he's a wanderer, a stranded adventurer in the dreamlands, not a sculptor of them, and standing beside the creator and king of this place he can't shake the latent fear that even he isn't immune to such powerful influence. "nothing i heard before seeing it myself did it justice." / @selfpres

kuranes twirls a yellow ginkgo leaf between thumb and forefinger; time does not pass in the valley of ooth-nargai, but sometimes the green skirts of mount aran turn yellow in a mimicry of changing seasons to please its king. he watches the movement for a moment longer, basking in the compliment, before letting a passing breeze take hold of the leaf and carry it down sloping streets. the fondness in the king's gaze is unmistakeable as he follows the leaf's frolicking path until it slips out of sight and his focus shifts to the view opening below them: clusters of buildings constructed of white marble and gilded roofs, separated by paved streets; clusters of people going about their daily lives, many of them heading towards the harbour for either work or leisure; cats, slipping out of their owners' windows into back alleys, undoubtedly to some conference with their kind; and in the distance, the snow-peaked mount aran and the sea-shore, and further still galleys sailing towards the purpling horizon.

"i did," he answers eventually. "though it was a long time ago now." there's weight and history in that long time, though what kuranes fails to tell évariste is that celephaïs was raised out of a childhood fancy, without any conscious knowledge or decision on his part. few know that celephaïs is not the result of intentional craftmanship and fancy kuranes quite the sculptor and architect and that suits him just fine.

it's refreshing to see his city through the eyes of a stranger. he can keep the comforts of his manor-house and the countryside waiting for a little longer. "it's quite something, isn't it? if you have the time, you should board a ship and visit serannian as well. i would be glad to host you in my castle there as well." then the king laughs, as though delighted by some private joke. he turns to regard évariste from the corner of his eye, gaze sharp and mouth turned upwards at one corner, as though expecting him to share in his amusement.

[nightrot]

he's stretched out from one end of the couch to the other, as still as stone. hasn't said a word in the last twenty minutes, which is a pretty good record, for him. we even have snoring, and plenty of it.

there's just the small matter of his left eye. every now and again, a sliver of silverly membrane slides across the glassy surface and remoistens it (if you listen hard enough, you can hear the little wet click.) but even it's transparent - his stare is inescapable, and freakishly keen. the eye is all-seeing, all-knowing, and it's staring right at @selfpres.

[bloodiedpetals]

@selfpres ⛧︎ cont'd

his head is swimming. whatever influence she has, it's more than psychological. it's based on more than presence. it feels... familiar, although at the moment he lacks the mental facilities to place why. daughter of hatred, she's called — and that hatred is a palpable thing. it makes oxygen feel scarce, and pierre's chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. "then what was?" he asks, a tremor creeping out through the grit of his teeth. a bead of sweat looses itself from his hairline to run down the side of his face. he has to get a grip, and he takes a deep breath, he pushes through everything in him that screams that there isn't enough good air, that he has to keep gasping for breath, and then ——— calm. the truth of the body wins out over the pressing thrall. the awareness returns to his eyes.

Lilith was able to recognize the strain she was inflicting upon the human ; it was an effect which she was WELL ACQUAINTED with. She was silent as she patiently stood, curious to see if he would succeed in regaining his composure. She had seen many fall into insanity following a few moments within her aura's sway.

A satisfied smirk spread across her lips when he collected himself despite the great strain he was under. Lilith permitted him another moment of recovery before going on, " The ONLY CHANCE of freeing the oppressed from those who wish to dominate all is to unite and retaliate. Do you not agree ??? "

[archcrawl]

there are the mutilated parts of the story: the dreams, the horrors, the grotesque. all that comes with the flesh package. the reality of existence is a gnarled thing, which begins and ends in rot. hiding those parts, there is routine, the commonplace chapters, the distractions, the veil between man and the unknown. the scene here is sanitized a such: monday morning, beyond the walls of the tall office building, the whir of computers, the thud of doors, the monotonous ringing of a phone that is never answered, for it keeps calling, and the constant chatter turning to static. when she walks down the length between the entrance and the desk, the click of her heels prevails. it is just another administrative occurrence, the wheel keeps spinning, and the cogs keep turning.

what festers beneath the surface here cannot be seen, nor heard, nor felt; after all, bureaucracy is the pinnacle of normality, and to a distant observer, the history of civilization can be narrowed down to this one image — a man in his office, on his computer, working, is no closer to a grander purpose than the man in a house of worship. sometimes, she envies mankind their simplicity.

❝ je tombe à un mauvais moment? ❞ did i catch you at a bad time? a blotch of red in the pristine lobby, her figure leans against the desk when she addresses @selfpres, the edges of a polite smile dimming beneath the brim of a hat. it's a practiced expression, mundane in its entirety, but it does not reach her eyes. or perhaps, in an odd turn, it is her eyes that do not reach the rest of her features. she picks a pen, toys with it, examining his morose expression.

the secretary says, ❛ some days you’re stuck with what you’ve got. ❜

❝ pessimism's the first step to misery. you wouldn't wanna fall down that spiral. ❞ the pen makes a loud, clinking sound when she toys with it, flipping it around, the metallic edge dragging against the surface of the desk. its placed back into its holder, neatly, as she straightens her posture with far more enthusiasm than he seems to be emitting, ❝ oh, chin up, ❞ she says, still smiling, as a paperclip folder is slipped toward him, a red logo with an eye stamped over one corner. upon being opened, the papers would be detailing proposed designs and elaborations on the installation of customized, cutting-edge tech within armaments, ❝ and fax this to the big man. 's the designs we're puttin' forth, if the project's green lit — he'll know what it's about. ❞

[stolememory]

“&– - You dream nightmares when you sleep, and may begin to regret the things you think.” // @selfpres liked for a lyrical starter