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ph_logs2023-06-27 07:05 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2023-06-27 07:05 pm
Special New Arrival
Who: The White-Haired Woman (via pumpkinhollow) & The Shade (deaths_head)
What:A unique new arrival
When:Right now!
Where: The beige office
Warning(s):BIG LORE
Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me.
She had seen many visitors these past few days, each with their own life, their own story, their own death. But this one would be different. Therefore it would need to be addressed differently.
Instead of coming from the outside, allowing the visitor to adjust, she sat already at her office chair with a cup of hot cocoa in hand and awaited her guest to come through the door. As the man approached, just as he was destined to, her physical form responded. She took on the appearance of a woman just about the same physical age as he was. No sense in charades, she decided. She could be transparent with one of her own ilk.
pumpkinhollow) & The Shade (deaths_head)What:A unique new arrival
When:Right now!
Where: The beige office
Warning(s):BIG LORE
Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me.
She had seen many visitors these past few days, each with their own life, their own story, their own death. But this one would be different. Therefore it would need to be addressed differently.
Instead of coming from the outside, allowing the visitor to adjust, she sat already at her office chair with a cup of hot cocoa in hand and awaited her guest to come through the door. As the man approached, just as he was destined to, her physical form responded. She took on the appearance of a woman just about the same physical age as he was. No sense in charades, she decided. She could be transparent with one of her own ilk.
no subject
Walking through the door of the office--a door he had not meant to enter, but found his way to through an unknown path in Limbo, the Shade stands in his full divine aspect: seven feet tall, stormy eyes snapping with living lightning flashing in their depths, dressed in black trousers and tunic with a matching coat and wide brimmed hat over loose red hair. The tattoos that peek between the edge of glove and hem of sleeve are glowing softly with an eerie purple-grey light...
But that light is fading. He does not feel weaker for the diminishing of the magic they provide, but...something is wrong. Something here is straining his connection to his power, if not blocking it outright.
Given that he does not feel any infirmity for whatever power is at work (those marks that keep him in existence are strong as ever), the Shade instead regards his surroundings with keen interest. Stern features give away little more than perpetual scorn, but the critical edge in his eyes is softer, more neutral. He's less interested in judgment, and more in figuring out where the hell he is, who the hell he's dealing with, and how the hell to get back to his souls.
When he finishes surveying the room, he regards the woman in front of him, folding his arms across his broad chest.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am," he drawls, deep voice barely above a growl, "but if this is some kinda cross-pantheon nonsense? You could've just sent a messenger. Contrary to rumor, I only kill them sent by Satan, and only if they don't announce themselves to me proper-like."
no subject
She passed over the cup of hot cocoa and gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk.
"My name is Mortanne. My pantheon is that of the Four Earthly Mothers. I'm a fellow death deity," she explained calmly. "And I believe someone you know has already passed through my doors."
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So, despite the fact that some of his power seems to be unavailable to him in this place, he accepts the cup and folds himself into the chair as best he can, given his size. He'd put the cocoa down, seeing as the dead don't need the sustenance, but wrapping his hands around it brings warmth.
It's a small, harmless memory of life, and he accepts it without complaint, just letting the heat remind him of the days when a beating heart still lived in his chest.
So he listens. He absorbs the facts, the names--the goddess, Mortanne, the new pantheon--the warmth of the cocoa...
The revelation about one of his souls.
The Shade goes deathly still, carefully setting down the cocoa on the desk in front of him.
"I'm gonna lean real damn hard on diplomacy here, ma'am, and assume it's accidental." he begins slowly, quietly, fighting to keep any anger out of his tone. "Cause I mark them souls that are mine, living or dead. Heaven 'n Hell know I'd return to the battlefield if they dared, but them outside the Christian pantheon got no way of knowin'. So...I'm gonna need a little more information so I can figger out how to proceed and keep things betwixt us civil."
no subject
CW: mild allusions to self harm
Trying to write his name back into himself as Death tried to strip it from him until he became the new thing that the Lord had named Sorrow's Shade.
Problem is, he's got a nasty feeling about this. Ain't but three things the dead can feel: fear, rage, and serenity, and the Shade is loathe to admit he's afraid.
'Cause he's lost track of one particular soul--likely the only one he has to make a special project of keeping alive. Little troublemaking goddamn sorcerer, biggest pain in the ass in all of Creation...
Mortanne goes on, and that gives the Shade pause with a look of genuine surprise.
"The Mark of Death ain't real forgiving. It's either a passin' shadow--tragedy that can be changed--or it's permanent. Fated." he points out quietly, losing some of his agitation in favor of something softer. "Ma'am...you tellin' me you got a means to save a life, even if it's destined?"
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He understands the analogy she's making. Heads or tails, life or death. The mark of death that's temporary can cause the coin to land one way, but only if you can slip a two headed nickel in before the toss. Once that coin goes up, you can't control gravity. That's the mark what's fated.
"You brought me here...'cause you think we can nudge the coin' fore it falls."
A statement, not a question.
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Harsh as the words may be, his tone is quiet, more tense than angry--fueled by worry, borne of a fear that stems from something painful, feeling that slipped away from his reach the moment he died. Impetuous, running headlong into danger--of fucking course. Gutsy little idiot had more heart than she'd ever let on and less care for her own welfare than any living being he'd ever met in Heaven or Hell, let alone the world of the living.
Mortanne's offer gives him pause. He knows what she's offering--or rather, the catch in this whole stupid deal...
...and he's going to agree to it. God fucking damn it.
"Maybe the magicks of your pantheon work different from mine, but I was born human--a death mage, first of my line." he confesses. "And my remains are lost--to restore my mortal form, you'd have to claw back my flesh, which can be used against me. What's more, bein' fully mortal, first mage in my line? The power I'd have could be proper dangerous. But..."
He tugs up the sleeve of his coat, displaying the tattoos that are just barely emanating any light.
"My connection to my power is strained near the point of breaking in this place, yet I feel fine." he explains. "I got but three of these marks that give me physical form, they seem to be workin' proper, but the rest? They help make me what I am as a god. You want me mortal and safe? I reckon you could achieve that simply by your office as a death goddess. Give this body I've constructed with my own magic life--put a beating heart in my chest, these marks will be naught but pictures on my skin, and you'll have a great deal more control over what I can and can't do with my magic. Leash me, so to speak...and should you have need of my aid, you can loosen it as well."
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Standing, Mortanne led the way back to the door through which the Shade had entered. It no longer led to office corridors, however. Instead, it now opened to a stable where a number of spectral white horses with visible skeletons made their home. Two of said horses were already hitched to a black funeral carriage, just beyond the stable doorway. Mortanne, now garbed in black with a veil over her face, climbed aboard the driver's seat.
no subject
Reaching for her hand, he enfolds it between both of his. Lowering his gaze, he struggles briefly for a moment before...
"...that girl's a pain in the ass, a fool, and a careless little harridan--and I'll make a meal of the eyes of a flesh eater outta Hell's pit itself 'fore I admit that, of the living that've pledged themselves to me, she's my favorite. All the power she could want at her fingertips, and she just wants to play games with it as a hobby while she helps folks what really need it. I just..."
He hesitates, then lifts her hand to his lips to press a cordial kiss to her knuckles before letting her go and meeting her gaze.
"One divine being to another...thank you." he finishes simply before gesturing that he'll follow her.
Following her back through the door, he's unsurprised by the sight of the carriage and the horses--and the sight of her true form makes him smile slightly. She's a striking figure, one lacking in anything truly fearful, which is something he appreciates.
Reaching up, he touches the brim of his hat with a respectful little tug before he climbs aboard himself.