E
Endless Cosmos
Guest
Original poster
from heaven all the way to the center of the earth.
"In the light of the morning sun, dusk is laid bare and dawn comes anew."
_
"In the light of the morning sun, dusk is laid bare and dawn comes anew."
_
A quiet tempo rang in monotone time—a continuous clack against wood, evenly spaced, precise, in a rising crescendo that descended to a quick staccato, then a scuffle. Heels drew in tight formation, whilst hands worked furiously to carve inscription on the door. Long fingers, and longer finger nails, scrawled sigils in swift sweeps of the hand before it pressed, palm flat, to push into the spacious hotel room. One pair of hands grasped a series of binders held tight against a petite form and the lady in question surveyed the topics of the room, her lips pursed in a grimace. Upon placing herself in the center, two men entered swiftly behind her and sealed the room shut with quiet incantations on their lips.
Another survey of her surroundings gave her the information she required. Or perhaps the look of disgust scrawled on her face hinted at her distaste for the situation. Regardless, she settled her eyes on the mangled figure to the side, between a large set of doors and the leather couch. Her grimace then was obvious, though schooled within the second. She turned toward the windows, her wrist and fingers flicking in a brisk order, as intimidating as the hard lines of her face.
As far as aromas go, the stench of the present dead body lingered and the steel taste of blood settled on her tongue. It wasn't an unfamiliar taste, but it didn't offer any pleasant stimulus. It had likely been a day since her death, enough time for the room to fester, not rot.
"My liege is quite..." she hummed as the men placed the body before her, "unkempt, today. As fabulous as ever, though." She talked as if the lady in question still lived, as if she still served from the grave. Perhaps that still rang truth.
With another flick of her wrist, the two men went to work, removing any obstacles in their lady's way and setting to the ground like rats scrawling into the woodwork. She watched them momentarily before fetching a piece of chalk from within her binder and bending into a low stoop that stretched the fabric of a tight, formal skirt. She was the picture of a professional, after all. With that in mind, she never once stumbled nor put herself in any kind of precarious position, even stooped to her crouch in dangerously high heels. The pride in every move she made held true and, in working out a perfect circle of Babylonian markings and various forms of Sumerian she placed herself above the corpse in almost reverent glory. Likely her greatest work to date.
A twitch of her lips was the only indication of her satisfaction and she never once took her eyes off the cold corpse beneath her. "The souls, please," she ordered, her tone firm and ringing with her vanity.
"Yes, Lady Gremory."
"Quick," she punctuated with a clack of her heels as she circled the corpse once, "our mistress Abaddon does not like to wait. Even in death."
Another survey of her surroundings gave her the information she required. Or perhaps the look of disgust scrawled on her face hinted at her distaste for the situation. Regardless, she settled her eyes on the mangled figure to the side, between a large set of doors and the leather couch. Her grimace then was obvious, though schooled within the second. She turned toward the windows, her wrist and fingers flicking in a brisk order, as intimidating as the hard lines of her face.
As far as aromas go, the stench of the present dead body lingered and the steel taste of blood settled on her tongue. It wasn't an unfamiliar taste, but it didn't offer any pleasant stimulus. It had likely been a day since her death, enough time for the room to fester, not rot.
"My liege is quite..." she hummed as the men placed the body before her, "unkempt, today. As fabulous as ever, though." She talked as if the lady in question still lived, as if she still served from the grave. Perhaps that still rang truth.
With another flick of her wrist, the two men went to work, removing any obstacles in their lady's way and setting to the ground like rats scrawling into the woodwork. She watched them momentarily before fetching a piece of chalk from within her binder and bending into a low stoop that stretched the fabric of a tight, formal skirt. She was the picture of a professional, after all. With that in mind, she never once stumbled nor put herself in any kind of precarious position, even stooped to her crouch in dangerously high heels. The pride in every move she made held true and, in working out a perfect circle of Babylonian markings and various forms of Sumerian she placed herself above the corpse in almost reverent glory. Likely her greatest work to date.
A twitch of her lips was the only indication of her satisfaction and she never once took her eyes off the cold corpse beneath her. "The souls, please," she ordered, her tone firm and ringing with her vanity.
"Yes, Lady Gremory."
"Quick," she punctuated with a clack of her heels as she circled the corpse once, "our mistress Abaddon does not like to wait. Even in death."
"Damnation is truth."
_
Roswell, New Mexico, an infamous tourist attraction with an overabundance of all things alien. Alien is quite a nice word to sum up an average experience within the city. It was not quite large, but enough to warrant being among the various towns to pop up after Santa Fe on Google Maps. Big or small, Roswell attracted its various tourists and even more conspiracy theorists among them. It held the world's largest consumer supply of aluminum foil for a reason, all likely crafted into tin hats.
Definitely an over-exaggeration.
It amused the man sitting with a tumbler of scotch in his hand, though, whilst he rifled through old newspaper clippings. With an office that sat a few feet from the entrance to the museum under his care, he could very clearly hear the incessant hiss of the front door entrance allowing visitors in. Now, however, with night descending, the door kept quiet and the entire museum held an eerie quality about it. Like something out of the X-Files, he'd always muse when gazing at the dimmed interior, as he was now from his cushioned seat.
He didn't realize he'd been smiling until it faded, making room for a chilling worry to settle in his old bones. A cross sat directly in front of him, as did a copy of King James' Bible, a Tanakh, and the Qur'an—the book of Mormon shoved grumpily in his bottom drawer, under a pile of forgotten paperwork. Off to the side lay the monitor to his state of the art computer, or at least it was back in 1992. And on his person, a deep set frown.
He left with the sudden need to hold the bible in a vice grip and double check the devil's trap embedded in the floorboard of his office. He did so swiftly and with a momentary nod to the night shift guards.
With everything settled, he made for the interstate directly west of Roswell, until he could veer into the country road and up the barren slope of an abandoned trail. The maroon Cadillac swerved beneath the observatory, down a hidden pathway until it was secured within the garage embedded within the observatory walls. The entrance from the garage was kept under tight lock and, though he usually went through said entrance, the man made his way up the steps toward the front door of the observatory, decrepit and nearly falling from its hinges. He made a quick roundabout before setting aside the desk that was placed in front of the hidden entrance, of which he made sure to keep as obvious as was sanely possible in the night air. His hand slid behind the nearest desk where the switch lay and he made sure to press the button with just enough pressure to open the panel just beside the door. He kept it open as he pulled the lever down and strolled his way down the series of steps.
Satisfied with the work he'd accomplish, the man swung into the wide space of a study, hidden a reasonable amount below the rocky terrain the observatory sat on. With reasonable chagrin, he made way to the lone computer shoved into the very corner of the room and began typing away, forging articles, letters, requests, and most of all, sightings. With ample aid from a rather unprofessional website (blog, was it? Something about ghosts and faces; he couldn't be bothered), he made due to spread the word among the people, thus laying the tracks down for various hunters to make their way to where he sat now.
It'd be a few days, which would give him enough time to lay down a few more cases and let the foundation settle. Something peeked over the horizon and it didn't feel good.
Definitely an over-exaggeration.
It amused the man sitting with a tumbler of scotch in his hand, though, whilst he rifled through old newspaper clippings. With an office that sat a few feet from the entrance to the museum under his care, he could very clearly hear the incessant hiss of the front door entrance allowing visitors in. Now, however, with night descending, the door kept quiet and the entire museum held an eerie quality about it. Like something out of the X-Files, he'd always muse when gazing at the dimmed interior, as he was now from his cushioned seat.
He didn't realize he'd been smiling until it faded, making room for a chilling worry to settle in his old bones. A cross sat directly in front of him, as did a copy of King James' Bible, a Tanakh, and the Qur'an—the book of Mormon shoved grumpily in his bottom drawer, under a pile of forgotten paperwork. Off to the side lay the monitor to his state of the art computer, or at least it was back in 1992. And on his person, a deep set frown.
He left with the sudden need to hold the bible in a vice grip and double check the devil's trap embedded in the floorboard of his office. He did so swiftly and with a momentary nod to the night shift guards.
With everything settled, he made for the interstate directly west of Roswell, until he could veer into the country road and up the barren slope of an abandoned trail. The maroon Cadillac swerved beneath the observatory, down a hidden pathway until it was secured within the garage embedded within the observatory walls. The entrance from the garage was kept under tight lock and, though he usually went through said entrance, the man made his way up the steps toward the front door of the observatory, decrepit and nearly falling from its hinges. He made a quick roundabout before setting aside the desk that was placed in front of the hidden entrance, of which he made sure to keep as obvious as was sanely possible in the night air. His hand slid behind the nearest desk where the switch lay and he made sure to press the button with just enough pressure to open the panel just beside the door. He kept it open as he pulled the lever down and strolled his way down the series of steps.
Satisfied with the work he'd accomplish, the man swung into the wide space of a study, hidden a reasonable amount below the rocky terrain the observatory sat on. With reasonable chagrin, he made way to the lone computer shoved into the very corner of the room and began typing away, forging articles, letters, requests, and most of all, sightings. With ample aid from a rather unprofessional website (blog, was it? Something about ghosts and faces; he couldn't be bothered), he made due to spread the word among the people, thus laying the tracks down for various hunters to make their way to where he sat now.
It'd be a few days, which would give him enough time to lay down a few more cases and let the foundation settle. Something peeked over the horizon and it didn't feel good.
"Preparing for the worst—inevitably."
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