'I closed my eyes, and saw the King in Yellow moving through the forest...'
The shadows on the wall cast shapes like trees, swaying, spilling upward to the ceiling. The source of the small pocket-sized flashlight beams in a radius from behind the source of the shadows, bright and tinged gold around the edges as its light dissipates at its furthest edges.
'I closed my eyes, and saw the King in Yellow moving through the forest...'
The king in yellow. The spiral sign. Could it be a reference to a sun god? A god of light? Stars? A pen scratches these words down, a running list of concepts, ideas, symbols to compare to reference books later. Paganism, most likely.
Rust's eyes watch as the flashlight bulb throws moving shapes across the bedroom wall; it won't be enough to just identify the strain of a belief system this killer aligns to. Rust wants to understand from an objective point of view just what this killer wants to represent. What aspect of godliness is the Yellow King trying to pay homage to? What is he practicing? He looks back down at the open pages of Dora Lange's diary.
The front door opens suddenly, audible like a slam, a sound that doesn't occur until the door shuts. Rust's eyes blink back into awareness, head lifting up and turning in instinct toward the sound. A voice follows, but he doesn't need to hear it to know who it is.
And Rust doesn't need to reply, either. He sucks in two lungfulls of air, much needed after minutes of unconscious shallow breathing, as he stretches his neck and back upward in his foldable chair. With careful movements, he swings his arm to lay his open notebook, with the girl's diary laid inside, on a cardboard box on the floor beside him. He implements no haste in stepping down the stairs to the first floor, but he is still appearing from the short hallway's flight within a minute. Once clear of its corner-edge, Rust sees Will against his front door, laid against it like a fallen plank of wood, drenched from the harsh weather outside.
His feet are on the solid ground floor before he finally responds. "Helluva time to pick for a visit." Something is suddenly launched at Will that flutters like a swooping owl: Rust had grabbed a towel on his way through the upstairs hallway, which he had figured Will would need. Either Will doesn't reserve much concern over flash flood warnings, or whatever matter has brought him to his apartment is too pressing to ignore -- Rust will love to discover which one it is tonight.
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The shadows on the wall cast shapes like trees, swaying, spilling upward to the ceiling. The source of the small pocket-sized flashlight beams in a radius from behind the source of the shadows, bright and tinged gold around the edges as its light dissipates at its furthest edges.
'I closed my eyes, and saw the King in Yellow moving through the forest...'
The king in yellow. The spiral sign. Could it be a reference to a sun god? A god of light? Stars? A pen scratches these words down, a running list of concepts, ideas, symbols to compare to reference books later. Paganism, most likely.
Rust's eyes watch as the flashlight bulb throws moving shapes across the bedroom wall; it won't be enough to just identify the strain of a belief system this killer aligns to. Rust wants to understand from an objective point of view just what this killer wants to represent. What aspect of godliness is the Yellow King trying to pay homage to? What is he practicing? He looks back down at the open pages of Dora Lange's diary.
The front door opens suddenly, audible like a slam, a sound that doesn't occur until the door shuts. Rust's eyes blink back into awareness, head lifting up and turning in instinct toward the sound. A voice follows, but he doesn't need to hear it to know who it is.
And Rust doesn't need to reply, either. He sucks in two lungfulls of air, much needed after minutes of unconscious shallow breathing, as he stretches his neck and back upward in his foldable chair. With careful movements, he swings his arm to lay his open notebook, with the girl's diary laid inside, on a cardboard box on the floor beside him. He implements no haste in stepping down the stairs to the first floor, but he is still appearing from the short hallway's flight within a minute. Once clear of its corner-edge, Rust sees Will against his front door, laid against it like a fallen plank of wood, drenched from the harsh weather outside.
His feet are on the solid ground floor before he finally responds. "Helluva time to pick for a visit." Something is suddenly launched at Will that flutters like a swooping owl: Rust had grabbed a towel on his way through the upstairs hallway, which he had figured Will would need. Either Will doesn't reserve much concern over flash flood warnings, or whatever matter has brought him to his apartment is too pressing to ignore -- Rust will love to discover which one it is tonight.