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mc776Rewriting this in light of new information.
The Tin Man and the Cauldron
Standing, swaying, moving ever so slowly amidst the group, situated as if the leader - or a king - a gaunt thing of metal mutely surveys the world, an old blackened fondue pot bubbling where its head should be. The cheese is a beautiful blend of every cheese that the group have encountered, simmering in the relish of all the foods that have ever been dipped therein. The group have tried to eat everything with it: some was poisonous, and some provided a cure; some was unclean, but delicious enough for the gaunt man to remember fondly in quiet times. Every so often something might get lost in the pot, and sit too long, and begin to decay and mingle with the other flavours in ways previously unimagined. The decay drives the gaunt man slowly insane in his mute, slow way.
The Angel of Penitence
He is dressed in black, the vestments of a priest, with vast wings outstretched of the hated carrion-birds of the desert. In his left hand is the scourge with which he forgives me, tearing deep wounds as the blood and subcutaneous fat splashes against the walls. I am in good shape, and never do I worry about growing fat: so much energy is spent healing the wounds. In his right hand is his true weapon, the scale. I see his thumb on it, carefully rebalancing heart and feather with the precision of an old master, perceiving and judging with His immaculate will. He finds me wrong, and sinful, and my desires a horror and abomination unto God and man, and forgives me thereby with the scourge. I submit, for he with his thumb and scale is true and just, for he is an angel and I am merely fallen man.
The Mechanical Pit Bull
A clockwork ravenous maw, indestructible, unstoppably fixated on its target, first to charge into battle wherever the group may be. It would be a weapon of immense power, but for the targets it picked. It tears apart the innocent, seeks to destroy the indestructible, and protects me from all harm by gnawing on the roots of the world itself while the rest of us desperately pull at it so we could escape before we are caught. It is the stupidest thing I have ever seen. It is my best friend.
The Idiot Gambler
A brain in a jar is wired to the Mechanical Pitbull to help coordinate its movements and comprehend and articulate language. In life he was a rich man, born to old money and faded nobility: of little talent and less ambition, but more than enough pride to make up for it when things needed to get done. He was prone to drink, and the delicious sleep of opium, but his true undoing was at the card table. He had squandered everything, devastated his closest friends, ruined his business, forever tarnished the family name, scrounging up whatever money and excuses he could by whatever means necessary to keep up his habits. He sold his soul to keep going, and keep going he did - when his creditors sold his brain to the man who built the pit bull.
The Undead Warrior
We opened the sarcophagus only recently, years after the mausoleum was looted; we still wonder when the curse will destroy us. The armour of a thousand ages rests upon him, this dusty wight of dried hide and rattling bones. We have all read of him in our history books: he was a great warrior, proud and cruel, a king among men; his empire now a buried ruin, lost to the evolving world, looked upon by the mighty in despair. The glow of his eyes terrifies and fascinates me, and I long for the power he would grant me, if only I would join him in restoring his lost empire; but I am powerless to help, for he seeks only to slay the Angel. But he cannot make a move now, for his armour has long since cracked beyond use, the noble brow of his burial mask resting atop a crumbling, rotting skull. So he travels with us, and waits - and I carry his sarcophagus for him, as though a cross.
The Tin Man and the Cauldron
Standing, swaying, moving ever so slowly amidst the group, situated as if the leader - or a king - a gaunt thing of metal mutely surveys the world, an old blackened fondue pot bubbling where its head should be. The cheese is a beautiful blend of every cheese that the group have encountered, simmering in the relish of all the foods that have ever been dipped therein. The group have tried to eat everything with it: some was poisonous, and some provided a cure; some was unclean, but delicious enough for the gaunt man to remember fondly in quiet times. Every so often something might get lost in the pot, and sit too long, and begin to decay and mingle with the other flavours in ways previously unimagined. The decay drives the gaunt man slowly insane in his mute, slow way.
The Angel of Penitence
He is dressed in black, the vestments of a priest, with vast wings outstretched of the hated carrion-birds of the desert. In his left hand is the scourge with which he forgives me, tearing deep wounds as the blood and subcutaneous fat splashes against the walls. I am in good shape, and never do I worry about growing fat: so much energy is spent healing the wounds. In his right hand is his true weapon, the scale. I see his thumb on it, carefully rebalancing heart and feather with the precision of an old master, perceiving and judging with His immaculate will. He finds me wrong, and sinful, and my desires a horror and abomination unto God and man, and forgives me thereby with the scourge. I submit, for he with his thumb and scale is true and just, for he is an angel and I am merely fallen man.
The Mechanical Pit Bull
A clockwork ravenous maw, indestructible, unstoppably fixated on its target, first to charge into battle wherever the group may be. It would be a weapon of immense power, but for the targets it picked. It tears apart the innocent, seeks to destroy the indestructible, and protects me from all harm by gnawing on the roots of the world itself while the rest of us desperately pull at it so we could escape before we are caught. It is the stupidest thing I have ever seen. It is my best friend.
The Idiot Gambler
A brain in a jar is wired to the Mechanical Pitbull to help coordinate its movements and comprehend and articulate language. In life he was a rich man, born to old money and faded nobility: of little talent and less ambition, but more than enough pride to make up for it when things needed to get done. He was prone to drink, and the delicious sleep of opium, but his true undoing was at the card table. He had squandered everything, devastated his closest friends, ruined his business, forever tarnished the family name, scrounging up whatever money and excuses he could by whatever means necessary to keep up his habits. He sold his soul to keep going, and keep going he did - when his creditors sold his brain to the man who built the pit bull.
The Undead Warrior
We opened the sarcophagus only recently, years after the mausoleum was looted; we still wonder when the curse will destroy us. The armour of a thousand ages rests upon him, this dusty wight of dried hide and rattling bones. We have all read of him in our history books: he was a great warrior, proud and cruel, a king among men; his empire now a buried ruin, lost to the evolving world, looked upon by the mighty in despair. The glow of his eyes terrifies and fascinates me, and I long for the power he would grant me, if only I would join him in restoring his lost empire; but I am powerless to help, for he seeks only to slay the Angel. But he cannot make a move now, for his armour has long since cracked beyond use, the noble brow of his burial mask resting atop a crumbling, rotting skull. So he travels with us, and waits - and I carry his sarcophagus for him, as though a cross.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: February 16th, 2009 13:54 (UTC)*stendhal syndromes*
(no subject)
Date: February 16th, 2009 14:52 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: February 16th, 2009 20:03 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: February 16th, 2009 16:41 (UTC)just yea creepy
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Date: February 16th, 2009 20:06 (UTC)