( picture prompt meme )

[cocksocker]

the picture prompt meme

I — Comment with your character.
II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...)
III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture.

IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please.
V — Be aware that this meme will likely be image-heavy. That's kind of the point.

Link to an image: <a href=IMAGEURL>TEXT</a>

Embed an image in your reply: <img src=IMAGEURL>

You can control width and height of your pictures: <img src=IMAGEURL width=INSERTNUMBER> OR <img src=IMAGEURL height=INSERTNUMBER>

Comments

[sympathyforme]

[shall_yield_us]

[ The trouble with Atziluth's sinking view is, Sevotharte always was too efficient a despot for drama. There's no finesse in how the cards have fallen, no grace in the brutality of the ensuing disaster. Gore and screams and streets run raw by army boots and the council shielding itself, hiding behind the draping skirts of Metatron's cradle — but nothing quite so pretty as a view. From Rosiel's stranded balcony vantage, some creative squinting and tilting of the head barely shows a hint of fire in the horizon.

They've each retired: Katan to his wandering, he to his birds, Rosiel to his fledgling root. It'll be Mudou Setsuna's hour soon — soon, but not yet — second on second and hissed by the tick-tock of a clock someone, somehow, remembered to set, because this is a home, this was once a home, Rosiel's meant to live as master. Instead, he fusses with sticks peeled off a (one) passing corpse, slim — turns them over between his fingers, balances one against the span of a reddened nail. The tip of it's chipped. Comes with catching bone when you stab.

Not that their kindly commander, their Lord and Light minds. To look at him, it's hardly as if every sliver of skin bridging his flesh has gone begged back together, hardly as if he's gone stitched from blood and wire and hope and recollection. Other than the likely horrors of hurt that come with forcible resurrection, dear Lucifel is as good as new of make.

Ah. But he was never intended for goodness, for all he looks the part. For all Kira Sakuya might have played it. Well, isn't that someone else's problem, now.

Rosiel's is finally lighting the plaything of his cigarette, dragging out the performance of that first inhale, when no sensation's born of it. Decaying bodies. Terrible wear. Kira Sakuya's last belongings nearly slip from his other hand when he leans over the rail to finally peer at the world beyond, only remembering late that he has been a most wretched father (again), that his new child waits (again) and that he really shouldn't ignore Lucifer's doubtless questions for sport (again).

Ooops.

Barely shifting, he turns to share the bloodied goods — one pack, four cigarettes remaining, a now gravely scratched lighter — and sets about that wonderful thing, 'sharing' in the absence of 'caring'. There's the glance, Have one. And, Have two. Maybe, You used to like them. But also, Don't tell Katan.

(Katan's so very particular about what rot he'll suffer in God's own foremost house. No telling where he gets that from.) ]

So, then. [ Airy and pleasant and sweet. Rosiel's here for you, newly wakened bane of existence. ] Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?

Eons later...

[sympathyforme]

[Many have thought Lucifel and later Lucifer almost beyond emotions, his eyes always cold, his face not giving away any thought or betraying a feeling. Truth to be told, emotions had never been the issue. Caring, however? That's a different matter.

Perhaps even more so now, disassociated as he is. He looks past Rosiel, but takes the cigarette pack and lighter, which do feel familiar. Oh, he remembers everything, for once in a very long time that isn't the issue. it's his sense of self that he's less sure on.]

No.

[Apparently his appreciation for humour died somewhere along the way too.]

Are you hurting?