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
“I was bound,” he grinds out, “in that box with the intestines of my child, in agony, for centuries, bound until the day I am to die, and if I am particularly fortunate I will take you pathetic creatures with me. No, I would not prefer not dying. I await it. I deserve it.”
And so do they, frankly. So do they, for making light of so many long years of pain, for going on as though they and the other humans her may not have just pulled the carpet entirely out from underneath the universe at large, and Loki in particular. Thousands of years of purpose, of destiny, erased – on accident. And they who have just torn down the last supports which kept Loki going don't even seem to know.
“You will not mock me,” he snarls. As his anger rises so does the charge in the air, faint but distinct, odd, not quite static, though it's enough to make one's hair stand on end. And things... things begin to move. Small objects, mostly, as though caught in a particularly strong wind, hurtling towards anything unfortunate enough to be caught in their trajectory.
“You will not laugh, none of you will laugh anymore when I'm through with you.” His shoulders hunch and his fingers flex, testing their strength, testing the boundaries of the world.
“I could change the colour of the sun and sky. I could tear your world apart by its faultlines if I wished. You will not mock me.”
no subject
He would have gotten a high five for the Queen reference, but then shit got mega scary. Dude is snarling. Stuff is moving. This is all kinds of not good. Kenzi takes a step forward, moving just slightly in front of Kobra. Friends don't let friends get attacked by angry villains. And if anything happened to him? Party would probably murder her way worse.
"Just for the record? No one laughed. And if you're taking requests? The sky could do with a bit more purple."
He hadn't directly threatened them yet. He was just making generalized threats and giving orders. Orders that Kenzi didn't feel like taking. Who tells people they can't laugh? Jeeze. Oh yeah, and the whole 'taking you pathetic creatures with me' thing wasn't so great. She was not happy with that part. All this moving stuff had the potential to hurt someone and he was just going to get worse from here. She had to try...
"Remember, buddy. You asked for it." She pulls the trigger, aiming right between his sightless eyes, and shoots the damn bolt. If she'd had an actual gun, it would have been followed by a bunch more shots. This was all she had.
no subject
Before he even gets his mouth open, Kenzi's stepping in front of him and fucking shooting the guy and while it's totally impressive and badass, it's also fucking terrifying. This guy's making shit float and Kenzi just made him angrier.
He grabs Kenzi's arm and starts to try to pull her away, muttering a string of curses under his breath.
no subject
Yes. Oh yes, she has just made him angrier.
Now? Now he's not at all certain he really wants to let them escape.
He tosses the bolt aside with a bellow of rage, moving away from where it clatters on the pavement and towards the pair, as best he can sense them. They'll be easier to sues out once he has his hands on them. He still won't be able to see them, their faces, but perhaps he can memorise them in other ways while he decides what to break.
After their legs, of course. Can't have them getting away.
Perhaps he should've kept the crossbow bolt. Returned it to her, buried it in some tender and fleshy part with his bare hands.
Perhaps he should make them play a game. Kill the other and I'll spare you. Though he won't, of course.
Perhaps he should flay them alive.
Perhaps, but why?
Why play this like he's expected to?
His step slows, but doesn't stop. "Run," he commands, voice a growl. "Both of you should run. Now."
no subject
That was-- that was....
"So. Cool."
Well, it would probably be a lot cooler if they weren't totally gonna die now. Kenzi is basically never allowed to criticize any future decision Kobra makes for the rest of ever after this. If there even are any future decisions after this.
... And then he just decides to let them go?
Running is good. Kenzi loves running. Running means not dying. She looks at Kobra, who still has her arm, and nods in the direction of her house.
"Undignified hero retreat?"
no subject
He's like an inch from peeing his pants. Really, because HOLY SHIT HE CAUGHT IT. He still seems pretty pissed off, though, and Kobra can't die, because he has to watch out for Lyds and Dan and now Party's here and no one else is going to watch out for him.
He mutters to Kenzi urgently as they shuffle away. "What happened to reasoning with him?"
no subject
If she'd hesitated the last time, Lauren would have been dead and Bo would have freaked out and-- ... Okay, Kenzi's not exactly sure what would have happened after that because that was around the time she woke up near a stupid fountain. Point is, guy was trying to kill Dr. icequeen and Kenzi shot him. End of story. Lauren stayed alive.
She was trying to do the same thing for Kobra. It didn't work. Bad decision. Luckily the psychopath was feeling pretty damn merciful.
"But hey, we're not dead! So really, it probably couldn't have ended any better than this, right? This is definitely the preferred outcome right here." She hefts the crossbow over her shoulder and her hopeful smile turns into an apologetic frown.
"Sorry, dude. I panicked. I'm not actually hero material."
no subject
"No way. You are totally a hero." Kenzi had been completely badass. That other guy had just been more badass. It's okay to be out-badassed by someone like that.
He pulls her into a hug. "Anyway, what matters is that we're okay and Lyds is only going to kill me a little." He just hopes that that guy doesn't kill everyone. Holy shit!