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[OPEN] Maddening Shroud
Who: Angel and Company
What: Month two of solo priesting
When: August, both before and after the Blight
Where: Yes
Warning(s): Discussion of death, murder, Angel's nature
1. Some days my strength walks out [The Temple]
Degas did not return, when August came. Oh, he gave Angel ample encouragement and appreciation for its work, but his sabbatical continued. So the priest of the goddesses labors alone. Perhaps you've come for a blessing or to discuss theology, or to visit one of the altars or the shrines to other gods.
Or perhaps you've realized it's 11:45pm and the lights are still on, as if someone has yet to go home. Much to do, much to do.
2. Some days I can't go on [Therapy Grave]
There's a pair of graves in the woods, Erin's work, maintained for anyone who needs to rest in cool dirt. Angel never had a grave to lie in before. It rose at the beginning of its lonely existence from a shallow ditch, hardly a proper grave.
It's Angel's day off. It is in the woods, in a grave. Or perhaps it's in the woods walking too or from the grave. Really, this is just an excuse for people to find it on a day off, or an off day.
3. It is for real, we can walk about [Wildcard]
Find me on Discord to plot, or just throw anything at me. I'm easy.
What: Month two of solo priesting
When: August, both before and after the Blight
Where: Yes
Warning(s): Discussion of death, murder, Angel's nature
1. Some days my strength walks out [The Temple]
Degas did not return, when August came. Oh, he gave Angel ample encouragement and appreciation for its work, but his sabbatical continued. So the priest of the goddesses labors alone. Perhaps you've come for a blessing or to discuss theology, or to visit one of the altars or the shrines to other gods.
Or perhaps you've realized it's 11:45pm and the lights are still on, as if someone has yet to go home. Much to do, much to do.
2. Some days I can't go on [Therapy Grave]
There's a pair of graves in the woods, Erin's work, maintained for anyone who needs to rest in cool dirt. Angel never had a grave to lie in before. It rose at the beginning of its lonely existence from a shallow ditch, hardly a proper grave.
It's Angel's day off. It is in the woods, in a grave. Or perhaps it's in the woods walking too or from the grave. Really, this is just an excuse for people to find it on a day off, or an off day.
3. It is for real, we can walk about [Wildcard]
Find me on Discord to plot, or just throw anything at me. I'm easy.
no subject
"Elaborate for me on 'stupid,' Angel. Are you frustrated that there's nothing you can do for a stranger's suffering, and it feels unfair? For you, him, or both of you?"
no subject
It is a fundamental pain that's existed within Angel for a very, very long time.
He has never forgiven himself, as if he was the one who murdered the man, simply by being made from him.no subject
But.
“… I have another question, Angel. Whoever made you—do you believe it was the same as those who killed him?”
no subject
Angel cannot cry. Angel cannot cry. Angel cannot cry. Angel cannot cry. Angel cannot cry.
no subject
His voice is small and quiet, immaterial as fire and as stubbornly burning as it too. (He has no idea where it came from. The last time he checked, a raised male voice was enough to cow him to silence.)
He has much more to say, but first, Mulcahy tugs on his sleeve towards himself. “Angel. Come here. Let me hold you.”
no subject
no subject
“You’re thinking yourself into circles. Do not pretend to have to answers to anything you do not actually know about this. You have no answers, including these ones, and I will not stand for anyone to subject my friend Angel to such awful cruelty, especially in the house of the Mothers, and especially from you.”
It’s pitch black in the room, but he still closes his eyes. He thinks about vein grafts. He thinks about wheat. He thinks about who made man’s mouth. “All you know is that you were not, and then from a dead man, you were. Is that correct?”
no subject
The single word is quiet like it's leaking from his lips. He presses his face against Mulcahy's chest. This is wrong, so wrong. He was here to help, not to be helped.
"Well. No. I know someone chose to make me. Anzu found that out."
slugs out of a tar pit
He holds Angel. He holds him close.
"I... I know you're not human. You don't like to try to be human, and I certainly wouldn't make you. You worry so terribly about how you know you are different, from not only the human but also the living, and those who were born, not made as you were. Your story, as a whole, is unique among everyone you'll ever meet.
"But you're still an emotional being, and I can't think of a single thing that you've said that I haven't heard from someone else. That is to say--so many mothers die as their children are born. So many are abandoned, and so many have to pick up after the decisions of the people who made them. And what would you say to those children? Who had no say in their creation? Whose existence lead to the death of someone they never knew? Who must reckon with being the legacy of decisions that were never in their control?"