bakerstreet | ( picture prompt meme )

( picture prompt meme )

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:

Embed an image in your reply:

You can control width and height of your pictures:

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It comes to this, then — strategy soiled, armies turned against each other, gunpowder and treason and plot, plot, plot and rebels at his door. The one rebel. His sister, in the midst of a war of her own waging, come to avenge her jealousy.

He'd told Rosiel she would. He'd spoken of her weakness, her pettiness, her cruelty. He'd said, she rose, and she escaped, and she is with the fallen first, and where are you, her brother?

( In his sanctuary, in his fever dreams, in his rot. )

There's another world beneath Atziluth's ken, beneath tree and tendril and garden, well away from the 'man'-intended Assiah. There's a Hell, and it calls for its dues now, and she leads the summons. His sister (again). The battle Rosiel is shielded from. The burning brutality that becomes them both.

Pockets and posies and black deaths and the one, pale at his doorstep, pale within paces, pale when she raises her sword. Keen blade, dark for the cockles of her heart, arteries and valves and the lightning-beat, he sees it in the rise of her chest, the catch in her throat, the breaths that stagger. Strain.

Has she tired herself, bloodying his house? His quarters? Has she worn herself raw, carrying the blade? Was any part of this choice, if not the instinct to cull the weed of her brother... difficult?

His lips've thinned in dry fragments. His tongue finds each corner, then both lines in broken sweeps, and he stares from his perch on his sick bed, stares between his veils and stares, inevitably blinded by the beauty of her that no brand can breach.

She's always silent. He speaks louder for it. ]

Ahhhhhh...? Say, say, strange, sister, say… you hate me that much, do you, then?

[ He laughs — has to laugh — topples over between his silks as he does so, hoarse sound bruising his throat and ribs. Laughter. He can't remember when he last — it doesn't matter. ]

An hour of your time. I ask. You'll… be the death of me, won't you? Not sacred Uriel of the sorrows, not our, my, yours, maybe — Father. Not him. But you. You'll kill me, so give me the hour.

[ Half of Atziluth is Falling, Lucifel has fled, God does not show Himself, Rosiel's flesh crumbles with every second. She can give him the hour. ]

(War does not only rage; it howls, pleads and, at times, drags its feet sluggishly in utter silence. She detests the silence. Only in action can she forget what their father has to done to them; how he has ripped them apart and spared not a glance for the pieces.

The scent of death is heavy in the air when, at last, she locates his bedroom. Beneath her armored heart, there is tenderness; there is love. He does not know that she spied him in the garden; that she heard his voice.

His voice. Alexiel is certain there is no better sound in all the planes of existence. But she mustn't lose her resolve. His agony must speak louder; she must see it and let her blade strike true.)

What shall we do with our hour? (Even now, she approaches, eyes fixed on him, face expressionless. Statues emoted more.) I will kill you, brother, and if you do not run, it will be quick and clean.

(She will not draw his agony out. Their father has done a fine job of that and nothing angers her more.)

Your body may not last the hour. (Somehow, that is said in a softer tone, yet she is cautious - oh so cautious - to display any affection.)

[ His body mightn't last the hour. Well, then — won't that be ever so much easier on her sword? Dreadful thing, he expects, slaughter. Much improved when the flesh gives and the goes — how did she want it? Quick and clean.

But never mind that, when he gasps at the end of it, slowly aware: ]

...oh. Voice. Your voice. Not His — though He speaks to me, only to me, and I listen, of course I listen, don't be absurd, don't be — ...you're talking.

[ The wondering, once: whether He'd cut her tongue, pulled at the root, slashed in the middle, words forever waiting. Whether her silence came as the by-product of physical inconvenience. No. Nothing so simple.

They've set him his winter silks, thick and evenly embroidered, as if Atziluth cares for seasons. His nails catch when he pats beside him. ]

Sit — with me. [ A kindly order, the narrowed eyes and touch of steel beneath courtesy. You dismiss a council like this. You look the monster Metatron in his pale eyes and wish him well and don't claw him down, like this. ] I'll tell you stories.

(The sword has been a faithful ally; a blade that has carved many a soul from defensive bodies. But their blood will not touch him. Neither will their flesh. Alexiel uses her skirt to wipe the blade clean, leaving the metal shining coldly.)

I am talking to you. (And that is a miracle in and of itself. She is looking at him too, her entire attention focused on him. It is as if he is her world in these stolen moments.

But is he her world because of hatred or love?)

So you can play your tricks? (There is not even a hint of movement, suddenly. She pauses, statuesque and undisturbed under her bloody and tattered clothes.)

Distance protects you, brother. Tell a story.

God protects me.

[ Ice there, what little had thawed growing back its defences, solid and stern. Unwavering, when his eyes rise to hers, and he pushes himself up on one elbow until he's loosely reclined, but waiting with tension still bound in the lines of his body.

There's a fall outside his doors. Thudding. No, shallow. Dead weight — possibly closer to that truth than his words had intended. How many bodies did she leave in her wake? His hair reeks of something, orange and lavender and something old-borrowed-blue. A new scent to hide the death of him.

And he can't say what he's waiting for. (Tries.) ]

He's made two again, you know. Me... ta.... tron ♫ San... dal... [ Curls fall off his tied hair when his head tips to the left. ] ...phon? Was it... was he... phon. San... dalphon. Why does he make two? Always two?

[ Why all these childish experiments with children, and Rosiel's childlike wonder at them.

Gently, he lifts himself to his knees, then carefully starts pawing his way on all fours to the edge of the bed closer to her. ]

Isn't one enough?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( picture prompt meme )

...yes, I set up during the ugliest moment, sue me :' (

...omg look what you did. >:(

:' )

<3

<3 , now with notifs!!!