[ The first thought that enters Joseph's dead brain is so that's why the undead groan.
He couldn't say that he ever altogether understood much about the undead. He understood how to end the undead, and little else. And that was one mystery that he'd never quite been able to solve, one that'd haunted him and one that he's almost certain Caesar had smothered him for asking in the small hours of the morning. That was why do they all groan like that?
Not the less base vampiric sort, of course, but the raised ones. The deteriorating masses of those most repugnant and unforgivable black-magic masters. The zombies. They all shambled about, groaning - and Joseh could figure that some of them had the motor skills to at least move their tongues once in awhile. So why did they groan?
Turns out, as life assaults his corpse, it comes down to the very same reason that Joseph himself can only produce tortured moans and muffled screams. It's the very same reason that the necromancer immediately draws a knife, crushes his flailing wrist to the ground and forces his head to turn up by his throat, fingers slipping too perfectly into the five sucking gouges lining it, as his throat bulges and leaks with two month's worth of liquid death and his eyes behold something blinding and searing in the lights of the lot - and that knife tears open the thread sealing all of that foulness behind his lips.
When he finally gets to roll over and splutter all of it out, to heave with his whole body to eject the fetid and curdled black glue that had been accumulating for so long, he understands why zombies groan.
He still doesn't have his senses as Caesar pays the man his fee and sends him on his way. He's still trying to breathe air into lungs that can't hold any and to blink that brown film out of his vision. His head is still rolling as Caesar hauls him against his shoulder and guides him, mouth hanging open, legs only barely working, into the restaurant - which blinds him all over again. Caesar piles him into a booth- one by a window, thank God, because the night is so much cooler on his eyes than the fluorescents filling the diner.
And then, the very first words Caesar speaks to him since Joseph had taken his last breath heaped against a boulder in a tangle of green nowhere. How do you feel?
He turns, slowly, deliberately - his eyes are fully visible in the indoor light, crystalline blue now fishy, the whites of them burnt to a nicotine jaundice, set in sockets shadowed and sunken by decay. He regards Caesar with eyes that shouldn't be able to. His gaze is flat enough that Caesar might actually believe that it isn't one that can behold him. He'd been murdered - someone had specifically put effort into putting him out and taking his life - he'd just watched him be unborn, vomit black syrup, digest and regurgitate the stink of death itself, the afterbirth of which is still smeared across his gaunt and bloodless cheek - and Caesar lights up and makes small talk. He wants to know how he feels. Typical. It's just enough irritation to wear through the shock and to bring him back to reality. Joseph scoffs. He'd be flummoxed if he still had it in him, but instead, he just wonders if this is some sort of bizarre fever dream.
No matter how many times he reminds himself, looking at him is still hard. It is backing his patience to an edge. Relax, Joseph, relax. Bring that back down again. He's always looked so good in white.
You know how it happened. It doesn't help.
He raises one blackened finger, just one second, and pulls out the collar of his shirt. His other arm, black rot and exposed femur and fingerbone, reaches inside and fishes around for a second. A windy, rattling little hiss works through his shirt as he pulls it out, something audibly gives a releasing squelch in his direction - and from his fingers dangles a very small, very angry snake, jaws held open in anticipation, slathered in liquid decay as it twists and writhes and pulsates around Joseph's cold hands. One poor half of a couple who just so happened to look over at the wrong moment is transfixed in blatant horror. Joseph's eyesight is still bad enough that he doesn't let it distract him. ]
You want to know where this little bastard came from?
[ His voice is hoarse. Unquenchable in its dryness. Each word chafes his bloodied throat, whistles through the gouged clawmarks hidden still by his scarf. Uncomfortable and unseemly, but a miracle still, given his time spent in the ground and the nature of his wounds. The snake winds back and sinks its toothless jaws into the flesh of his wrist. It sinks farther than it should be allowed, pinching the flesh to the bone as one might squeeze clay to a wire. Joseph either doesn't notice or doesn't care. ]
I'll tell you where it came from. It's been nested in my fucking guts. This thing is alive, and I just pulled it out of my fucking guts. That's how I fucking feel, Caesar. There's snake eggs in my upper intestine and a small civilization of grubs under my skin. [ He pauses, lets his eyes wander, burgeons another smile of wonder that stretches just a bit too far to one side reveals blackening gums. ] As a matter of fact -- yes! I think I feel another little shithead snake hatching right as we speak, Caesar. What should we call them, this -- this new little family that we're cultivating? Any ideas?
[ He throws the snake on the table to wiggle around its own coils. It smears black ooze and scatters clustered dirt. ]
no subject
He couldn't say that he ever altogether understood much about the undead. He understood how to end the undead, and little else. And that was one mystery that he'd never quite been able to solve, one that'd haunted him and one that he's almost certain Caesar had smothered him for asking in the small hours of the morning. That was why do they all groan like that?
Not the less base vampiric sort, of course, but the raised ones. The deteriorating masses of those most repugnant and unforgivable black-magic masters. The zombies. They all shambled about, groaning - and Joseh could figure that some of them had the motor skills to at least move their tongues once in awhile. So why did they groan?
Turns out, as life assaults his corpse, it comes down to the very same reason that Joseph himself can only produce tortured moans and muffled screams. It's the very same reason that the necromancer immediately draws a knife, crushes his flailing wrist to the ground and forces his head to turn up by his throat, fingers slipping too perfectly into the five sucking gouges lining it, as his throat bulges and leaks with two month's worth of liquid death and his eyes behold something blinding and searing in the lights of the lot - and that knife tears open the thread sealing all of that foulness behind his lips.
When he finally gets to roll over and splutter all of it out, to heave with his whole body to eject the fetid and curdled black glue that had been accumulating for so long, he understands why zombies groan.
He still doesn't have his senses as Caesar pays the man his fee and sends him on his way. He's still trying to breathe air into lungs that can't hold any and to blink that brown film out of his vision. His head is still rolling as Caesar hauls him against his shoulder and guides him, mouth hanging open, legs only barely working, into the restaurant - which blinds him all over again. Caesar piles him into a booth- one by a window, thank God, because the night is so much cooler on his eyes than the fluorescents filling the diner.
And then, the very first words Caesar speaks to him since Joseph had taken his last breath heaped against a boulder in a tangle of green nowhere. How do you feel?
He turns, slowly, deliberately - his eyes are fully visible in the indoor light, crystalline blue now fishy, the whites of them burnt to a nicotine jaundice, set in sockets shadowed and sunken by decay. He regards Caesar with eyes that shouldn't be able to. His gaze is flat enough that Caesar might actually believe that it isn't one that can behold him. He'd been murdered - someone had specifically put effort into putting him out and taking his life - he'd just watched him be unborn, vomit black syrup, digest and regurgitate the stink of death itself, the afterbirth of which is still smeared across his gaunt and bloodless cheek - and Caesar lights up and makes small talk. He wants to know how he feels. Typical. It's just enough irritation to wear through the shock and to bring him back to reality. Joseph scoffs. He'd be flummoxed if he still had it in him, but instead, he just wonders if this is some sort of bizarre fever dream.
No matter how many times he reminds himself, looking at him is still hard. It is backing his patience to an edge. Relax, Joseph, relax. Bring that back down again. He's always looked so good in white.
You know how it happened. It doesn't help.
He raises one blackened finger, just one second, and pulls out the collar of his shirt. His other arm, black rot and exposed femur and fingerbone, reaches inside and fishes around for a second. A windy, rattling little hiss works through his shirt as he pulls it out, something audibly gives a releasing squelch in his direction - and from his fingers dangles a very small, very angry snake, jaws held open in anticipation, slathered in liquid decay as it twists and writhes and pulsates around Joseph's cold hands. One poor half of a couple who just so happened to look over at the wrong moment is transfixed in blatant horror. Joseph's eyesight is still bad enough that he doesn't let it distract him. ]
You want to know where this little bastard came from?
[ His voice is hoarse. Unquenchable in its dryness. Each word chafes his bloodied throat, whistles through the gouged clawmarks hidden still by his scarf. Uncomfortable and unseemly, but a miracle still, given his time spent in the ground and the nature of his wounds. The snake winds back and sinks its toothless jaws into the flesh of his wrist. It sinks farther than it should be allowed, pinching the flesh to the bone as one might squeeze clay to a wire. Joseph either doesn't notice or doesn't care. ]
I'll tell you where it came from. It's been nested in my fucking guts. This thing is alive, and I just pulled it out of my fucking guts. That's how I fucking feel, Caesar. There's snake eggs in my upper intestine and a small civilization of grubs under my skin. [ He pauses, lets his eyes wander, burgeons another smile of wonder that stretches just a bit too far to one side reveals blackening gums. ] As a matter of fact -- yes! I think I feel another little shithead snake hatching right as we speak, Caesar. What should we call them, this -- this new little family that we're cultivating? Any ideas?
[ He throws the snake on the table to wiggle around its own coils. It smears black ooze and scatters clustered dirt. ]