Who wants to be the hanged man?
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Ghostface
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Apiary Tazy
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Scripture
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OoC: You said you wanted an intro, so I figured I could still sneak in. Fight whomever. This scene was stewing in my head for two days, it could almost be a warm-up exercise by itself. I was never much into those. /OoC
Micky was sitting in-between the driver and passenger seats in his car, which was in turn sitting on a steeper portion of I-70, parked, as sheets of snow fell fluffy from the sky, blanketing everything around him in icy white. The world was turned peaceful from the six windows he occasionally peered out of, his guitar – a deep mahogany to the black and silver embellishments on the console of his vehicle, the orange glow that told him what number album was in, what number track was playing – thrumming out dead-end tunes as his fancy changed. His fingers meandered on frets, digging the string into a callus still numb from a day’s time on the mountain, swooping about on skis under encroaching clouds.
They had followed him off the mountain, those clouds, with their howling winds and grayed masses. Indeed, they had caught him as he pulled onto the interstate, and at last stopped him dead with so many others, in his white car to match the white snow, with his beanie pulled firmly over the contours of his head and glasses. So, he waited, as the snow piled up in its cold drifts about his wheels, and listened to Damien Rice lament about December, acoustically distorted.
Micky was sitting in-between the driver and passenger seats in his car, which was in turn sitting on a steeper portion of I-70, parked, as sheets of snow fell fluffy from the sky, blanketing everything around him in icy white. The world was turned peaceful from the six windows he occasionally peered out of, his guitar – a deep mahogany to the black and silver embellishments on the console of his vehicle, the orange glow that told him what number album was in, what number track was playing – thrumming out dead-end tunes as his fancy changed. His fingers meandered on frets, digging the string into a callus still numb from a day’s time on the mountain, swooping about on skis under encroaching clouds.
They had followed him off the mountain, those clouds, with their howling winds and grayed masses. Indeed, they had caught him as he pulled onto the interstate, and at last stopped him dead with so many others, in his white car to match the white snow, with his beanie pulled firmly over the contours of his head and glasses. So, he waited, as the snow piled up in its cold drifts about his wheels, and listened to Damien Rice lament about December, acoustically distorted.
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Ghostface
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- Joined: Fri Feb 16, 2007 3:04 pm
Strange noise from above: lyrics of feedback from the mouth of thunder. A stormcloud descends the mountain, its rippling surface consumed in smoky whorls like from a wizard's glass. Looking out through the translucent hull is a sight just as magical, the vast forest of snow-frosted pine in the bowl of a mountain range. Demetrius' yellow eyes linger in the wonder. No music plays; enough thrill standing inside a cloud. Manyringed fingers grip the steering wheel, and the other hand swings a pocketwatch, a blackened treasure rescued from fire. The pocketwatch vibrates like a cell phone.
"The white car," he purses, and the cloud plummets. Keystrokes disable the cloud immersion, and lightning crackles
[Will finish later]
"The white car," he purses, and the cloud plummets. Keystrokes disable the cloud immersion, and lightning crackles
[Will finish later]