laevisilaufeyson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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kore_logs2012-11-17 02:03 am
laevisilaufeyson) wrote in kore_logs2012-11-17 02:03 am
please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste
Who: Anyone. Everyone.
When: Afternoon of Day 11.
What: Crashing the box opening party, and everything else.
Where: Anywhere. Everywhere.
((Note: Please read the related ooc post before responding.))
If all were right, if the scale were appropriate, the sound would be uproarious. The crack of stone would be deafening, so loud as to be tangible, a kick to the chest. If all were right... but when is it ever?
In the end the growing fissure makes hardly a sound at all. No breeze stirs, no sign at all is made of the immensity of what has just occurred, and if the observers standing about hold their breaths, it isn't because they know. It isn't because they've any idea of what they've done, of how they have so neatly severed the threads of fate, have broken, it seems, a universal constant.
Such an event deserves more than the faint clatter of stone chips on the ground, more than the low grind and scrape as the box begins to unfurl. It gets no more, however. No more than that, as the first rays of light begin to penetrate its inner gloom, falling upon a hand, palm-up, fingers lightly curled. A pale hand and bony, long-fingered, filthy, the nails grown long.
A wrist, smeared with something dark, something that has dried at the edges and begun to flake away, much, very much like dried blood. Blood, perhaps, from what twines sinuously about that wrist, binding it down to the stone upon which it rests: viscera, by the look, by the smell. Intestines, if they are as they appear, glistening faintly as they catch the light.
So on up a thin arm, slow, slow as a wet gasping becomes faintly audible and the fingers of the hand twitch. A figure comes into view, a bare torso, back bent, shoulders and hips tied with the same fleshy coils as the wrist. His head, too, is bound in place, face turned upwards towards a serpent carved from the same stone as the box, arching elegantly above him, fangs bared just inches above the bound man's face.
Man, yes, he clearly is, and for some in attendance he is no doubt familiar, even wasted as he is, even...
At the tips of the serpent's fangs two drops of liquid quiver, poised to fall into what once were eyes but now hardly resemble them. Indeed, most of the surrounding flesh is ruined, horribly burned in such a way as to make abundantly clear the nature of the liquid that grows slowly, slowly nearer to dripping down with each passing moment.
This is no gift. Not just yet. Not as things are now. This is a king brought low, a creature of the most dangerous sort: one who thinks he has lost all that there is to lose – save for his life.
Loki Laufeyson breaks out in gooseflesh as fresh air hits his skin, not from the chill, but from anticipation. So much floods in with that breath, with the light which he can barely perceive through blistered and milky corneas. So much, but it's all wrong.
Thin lips press thinner.
No ice. There should be ice. This is too warm, this is...
Enraging. The wait, the agony, it ought to have paid off, it ought to have brought him in the end to vengeance, to the severance of a lineage and a lifetime that dragged him ever lower, moment by moment. What if this is wrong? What if it's not the time? Too early? Too late?
Loki's hand clenches into a fist and he pulls, and finally, now that the seals have been broken his bonds give, tear with an awful, wet sound and he is free. Free, and he knows what he has to do. Whether or not this is the dawn of Ragnarök, he knows: his is only to destroy.
Bare feet find the ground, and a body which has lain prone for years beyond counting unfolds itself, rises. He's unsteady, soles rasping softly against the floor of the box as muscles remember how to move, how to walk. He can sense them moving, the little things outside his cell, matchsticks, light them up and they burn so quickly – human? Strange.
Some burn brighter than others, though. Some might stop him doing what he has to do. And so his arm shoots out for the nearest and he bares his teeth, a monster, a beast, nothing more than a conduit for the force that brings skull to meet stone.
When: Afternoon of Day 11.
What: Crashing the box opening party, and everything else.
Where: Anywhere. Everywhere.
((Note: Please read the related ooc post before responding.))
If all were right, if the scale were appropriate, the sound would be uproarious. The crack of stone would be deafening, so loud as to be tangible, a kick to the chest. If all were right... but when is it ever?
In the end the growing fissure makes hardly a sound at all. No breeze stirs, no sign at all is made of the immensity of what has just occurred, and if the observers standing about hold their breaths, it isn't because they know. It isn't because they've any idea of what they've done, of how they have so neatly severed the threads of fate, have broken, it seems, a universal constant.
Such an event deserves more than the faint clatter of stone chips on the ground, more than the low grind and scrape as the box begins to unfurl. It gets no more, however. No more than that, as the first rays of light begin to penetrate its inner gloom, falling upon a hand, palm-up, fingers lightly curled. A pale hand and bony, long-fingered, filthy, the nails grown long.
A wrist, smeared with something dark, something that has dried at the edges and begun to flake away, much, very much like dried blood. Blood, perhaps, from what twines sinuously about that wrist, binding it down to the stone upon which it rests: viscera, by the look, by the smell. Intestines, if they are as they appear, glistening faintly as they catch the light.
So on up a thin arm, slow, slow as a wet gasping becomes faintly audible and the fingers of the hand twitch. A figure comes into view, a bare torso, back bent, shoulders and hips tied with the same fleshy coils as the wrist. His head, too, is bound in place, face turned upwards towards a serpent carved from the same stone as the box, arching elegantly above him, fangs bared just inches above the bound man's face.
Man, yes, he clearly is, and for some in attendance he is no doubt familiar, even wasted as he is, even...
At the tips of the serpent's fangs two drops of liquid quiver, poised to fall into what once were eyes but now hardly resemble them. Indeed, most of the surrounding flesh is ruined, horribly burned in such a way as to make abundantly clear the nature of the liquid that grows slowly, slowly nearer to dripping down with each passing moment.
This is no gift. Not just yet. Not as things are now. This is a king brought low, a creature of the most dangerous sort: one who thinks he has lost all that there is to lose – save for his life.
Loki Laufeyson breaks out in gooseflesh as fresh air hits his skin, not from the chill, but from anticipation. So much floods in with that breath, with the light which he can barely perceive through blistered and milky corneas. So much, but it's all wrong.
Thin lips press thinner.
No ice. There should be ice. This is too warm, this is...
Enraging. The wait, the agony, it ought to have paid off, it ought to have brought him in the end to vengeance, to the severance of a lineage and a lifetime that dragged him ever lower, moment by moment. What if this is wrong? What if it's not the time? Too early? Too late?
Loki's hand clenches into a fist and he pulls, and finally, now that the seals have been broken his bonds give, tear with an awful, wet sound and he is free. Free, and he knows what he has to do. Whether or not this is the dawn of Ragnarök, he knows: his is only to destroy.
Bare feet find the ground, and a body which has lain prone for years beyond counting unfolds itself, rises. He's unsteady, soles rasping softly against the floor of the box as muscles remember how to move, how to walk. He can sense them moving, the little things outside his cell, matchsticks, light them up and they burn so quickly – human? Strange.
Some burn brighter than others, though. Some might stop him doing what he has to do. And so his arm shoots out for the nearest and he bares his teeth, a monster, a beast, nothing more than a conduit for the force that brings skull to meet stone.
no subject
no subject
He just thought he was better than them when it came to shit like this.
The commotion around the box was difficult to miss. Dean had made sure he was hyper aware of what the fuck was going down in this shithole. He wasn't witness to the box initially opening but seeing Castiel on the floor and a new arrival pretty much solidified what was going on. The fact that he watched Dr. Banner and Lydia turn tail and run also clued him in. This person was not good news. It took a lot in him not to rush in gun's a'blazin'. He was still amazed he held himself back from doing so as he hurriedly moved along; holding his weapon up as he moved closer to the remaining two and moving to kneel next to Castiel. He didn't have any fear in this guy. What he had a fear in was the fact that he knocked Castiel unconscious. "Who the Hell is this joker?" He looked between Mina and the other man, almost ready to just grab Cas and bolt for higher ground. They weren't...after all, alone. The blood from Castiel's head would have the animals sniffing around this place sooner rather than later.
no subject
Still, he bows shallowly, only a slight bending of the back. “I have no interest in this creature you wish to keep; take him. Take him, and stay out of my way, for I've no interest in you, either. Your life or death is of no concern to me. It ought be of little concern to you, now you have released me.”
They must know. They must, though it'll all be so much funnier if they don't. “The son of Laufey remains bound 'til the dawn of Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, end of all things. And here you have released me.”
If anything, smashing that thing's head was a blessing. A boon. If this day is the last day, it's very nearly a kindness.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prophecy to fulfill.”
no subject
She didn't know if she believed in Ragnarök, but she did believe he meant to harm the others and she wasn't going to let that happen. God or no. She was the bloody Queen. And even if not, she was Mary Read. And Mary Read was a force of nature.
Ah. Nature. Excellent.
Quickly, Mina slashed her arm with the knife. "Blood gi opphav til en vegg av hagtorn," she hissed. Blood give rise to a wall of hawthorn. Somehow, a bit too dramatic in English. But that was besides the point.
Her skin sparkling, Mina raised both hands. And as they rose, a wall of hawthorn formed around Loki.
She gave it two minutes. At best.
"Run!"
no subject
no subject
There are things to do. Places to be. Besides, why play that particular hand just yet, on the off-chance that all of this is not what it seems?
Nor does he care if they escape. He'd have been perfectly content to let them leave with the creature he'd knocked unconscious; why bother to kill them if they're all likely to die soon enough anyway? When the Jǫtnar descend, and the Æsir and the Vanir too, what chance will they have? When Fenrir swallows the sun, what then?
They're not worth the trouble. Not worth the momentary distraction from his ultimate goal.
Then again, he does wonder, as he throws his shoulder against the nearest trunk, snarling and letting his skin begin to return to more human-like tones, if he truly doesn't want it. If the way he finds the scrape of bark and branches against his skin delicious doesn't mean that he should try, just try, to live the day out. Perhaps.
Perhaps, but it won't happen, so best to leave that train of thought now.
no subject
But she would do whatever it took to slow him down.