[Our Lady Elizabeth Comstock - CW: Racism, Ableism, Religious Extremism]
[Safehouses. Safehouses. The idea that any place could be considered 'safe' is laughable.]
[She can't form fire in her hands, and God, if she were able to? Her work would be light, no more difficult than walking down a lane while touching every fence post. But no, her task is heavy. As it should be. No place could be cleansed with a mere whisper, and no sin could be forgiven without blood and pain.]
[This place is no different from New York. Chaff living alongside wheat, culture running rampant, some of it not even human. This place is worse than New York, and she has been called here to eradicate it. What other reason would she be in so wretched a place if not to be its savior? This place would be burned to the ground, and start anew.]
[The can of accelerant is heavy, but she doesn't mind it. It's light compared to the weight she feels walking through the streets of this chaotic cesspit, so desperate for a new and good start. The weight of this place's terrible and varied transgressions lifts as she empties the can onto doorsteps, down stairwells, into gutters-- bars, research facilities, schools, strip clubs, other places of worship, her targets are wide and varied, but the contemplative and calm expression on her face doesn't change as she strikes a match and lights whatever substance she's chosen this time. Even when the screams start, she walks away to find more weight for her can without so much as a smile.]
[Cohen's Songbird - CW: Violence]
[People scream and run from the inky extensions that spring from her tears. Idiots. As if they could possibly escape her. It would be easier for everybody if they'd just lay down and beg for her to make it quick. Not that she would-- they deserve to suffer, they're the reason she's like this, the reason she can't just live. Every one of her thoughts is occupied twenty four-seven with just how fucked her life is because of Comstock. He's there, somewhere, and she's going to find him. And if she happened to run into someone else who was responsible for her depression and anxiety and anger? So much the better-- she'll rip them in half too.]
Where are you? [She calls, practically singing the words as inky black rifts lightning-bolt up around her. Twisted black figures in masks, armed with pipes and guns and hooks, dart out and fall on anybody who hasn't found shelter. The occasional random samurai rushes out too, stiff clockwork figures with machine guns on their shoulders rattling on about 'Four Score and Seven Years Ago'-- She's at the epicenter of the chaos, orchestrating the opening tears like a conductor.]
Once you come out, I'll stop-- I promise... [It sounds right, almost feels like the truth, but there's always one more. One more to smother, one more to run through, one more, one more, just one more... and then she'll feel better.]
Shadows - 12th through the 15th
[Safehouses. Safehouses. The idea that any place could be considered 'safe' is laughable.]
[She can't form fire in her hands, and God, if she were able to? Her work would be light, no more difficult than walking down a lane while touching every fence post. But no, her task is heavy. As it should be. No place could be cleansed with a mere whisper, and no sin could be forgiven without blood and pain.]
[This place is no different from New York. Chaff living alongside wheat, culture running rampant, some of it not even human. This place is worse than New York, and she has been called here to eradicate it. What other reason would she be in so wretched a place if not to be its savior? This place would be burned to the ground, and start anew.]
[The can of accelerant is heavy, but she doesn't mind it. It's light compared to the weight she feels walking through the streets of this chaotic cesspit, so desperate for a new and good start. The weight of this place's terrible and varied transgressions lifts as she empties the can onto doorsteps, down stairwells, into gutters-- bars, research facilities, schools, strip clubs, other places of worship, her targets are wide and varied, but the contemplative and calm expression on her face doesn't change as she strikes a match and lights whatever substance she's chosen this time. Even when the screams start, she walks away to find more weight for her can without so much as a smile.]
[Cohen's Songbird - CW: Violence]
[People scream and run from the inky extensions that spring from her tears. Idiots. As if they could possibly escape her. It would be easier for everybody if they'd just lay down and beg for her to make it quick. Not that she would-- they deserve to suffer, they're the reason she's like this, the reason she can't just live. Every one of her thoughts is occupied twenty four-seven with just how fucked her life is because of Comstock. He's there, somewhere, and she's going to find him. And if she happened to run into someone else who was responsible for her depression and anxiety and anger? So much the better-- she'll rip them in half too.]
Where are you? [She calls, practically singing the words as inky black rifts lightning-bolt up around her. Twisted black figures in masks, armed with pipes and guns and hooks, dart out and fall on anybody who hasn't found shelter. The occasional random samurai rushes out too, stiff clockwork figures with machine guns on their shoulders rattling on about 'Four Score and Seven Years Ago'-- She's at the epicenter of the chaos, orchestrating the opening tears like a conductor.]
Once you come out, I'll stop-- I promise... [It sounds right, almost feels like the truth, but there's always one more. One more to smother, one more to run through, one more, one more, just one more... and then she'll feel better.]