[ There’s a strange sense of familiarity, here. Something parodical about it all, about Rome, about — God.
Doesn’t sit right with him, really. Nothing sits right with him; the hedonism is too familiar. It’s an old tactic, it’s a familiar temptation. Let go of your inhibitions, give into the euphoria of submission, of pain, of evil. This is what demons do, and Marcus been wondering, assuming, this has been an active invasion of his psyche for days.
He simply hasn’t been able to wake up. Instead, he’s dressed in a toga, handed a drink, and fighting the urge to scream.
Needless to say he’s tense when he glances at their false God for the night, with his blackened eyes and his sloppy servants.
He feels - scared. On edge. Feels ready to claw out of his own skin looking for a sign of reality. He won’t get it here, so eventually he moves to the gladiator pits, strips off, and prepares to fight. ]
–—veni, vidi, vici
[The beast scratches him. It happens so suddenly, so terribly fast. It scratches him, and someone tends to the wound across his cheek, and he thinks finally, at last, a monster.
In the days that come, he wants nothing more than to rut, to tear, to bite. He stays in his room. He barricades the door; each time he falls asleep he awakes somewhere else. A hallway; the library, the kitchen, the gardens. Each time he falls to his knees, presses his forehead to his knuckles and begins to pray.
On the sixth day, it’s becoming harder to resist. Harder to stay awake, to stay locked up. Harder to remember the call to God, the sacred words, the vows. ]
–—network
username: keane
Is there a chapel in the house? Or somewhere quiet, with a radio?
Secondary: don’t suppose anyone here knows if there’s a chip shop that can get in the gates? Haven’t been this side of home in a long time. Could do with some chips and sauce.
marcus keane - the exorcist
[ There’s a strange sense of familiarity, here. Something parodical about it all, about Rome, about — God.
Doesn’t sit right with him, really. Nothing sits right with him; the hedonism is too familiar. It’s an old tactic, it’s a familiar temptation. Let go of your inhibitions, give into the euphoria of submission, of pain, of evil. This is what demons do, and Marcus been wondering, assuming, this has been an active invasion of his psyche for days.
He simply hasn’t been able to wake up. Instead, he’s dressed in a toga, handed a drink, and fighting the urge to scream.
Needless to say he’s tense when he glances at their false God for the night, with his blackened eyes and his sloppy servants.
He feels - scared. On edge. Feels ready to claw out of his own skin looking for a sign of reality. He won’t get it here, so eventually he moves to the gladiator pits, strips off, and prepares to fight. ]
–—veni, vidi, vici
[The beast scratches him. It happens so suddenly, so terribly fast. It scratches him, and someone tends to the wound across his cheek, and he thinks finally, at last, a monster.
In the days that come, he wants nothing more than to rut, to tear, to bite. He stays in his room. He barricades the door; each time he falls asleep he awakes somewhere else. A hallway; the library, the kitchen, the gardens. Each time he falls to his knees, presses his forehead to his knuckles and begins to pray.
On the sixth day, it’s becoming harder to resist. Harder to stay awake, to stay locked up. Harder to remember the call to God, the sacred words, the vows. ]
–—network
username: keane
Is there a chapel in the house? Or somewhere quiet, with a radio?
Secondary: don’t suppose anyone here knows if there’s a chip shop that can get in the gates? Haven’t been this side of home in a long time. Could do with some chips and sauce.