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F.A.Q. ♦ RULES ♦ PLOT ♦ FACE CLAIM ♦ CANON SPECIFICS ♦ BIO FORMAT ♦ CANONS ♦ DEATH TO MARY SUE! ♦ BELIEFS ♦ EVENTS |
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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| Ghoul and Goose; dans les rues de Paris | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 22 2009, 11:22 AM (380 Views) | |
| Alandree | Jun 22 2009, 11:22 AM Post #1 |
 
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 There is a small collective of outsiders given charge to leave their hollows. Perhaps it's all the pretty lights. Perhaps it's the allure of stately folk in ghastly costume. Several party-goers have been mugged, it seems. There are masks flitting about the streets. A bit of blood. An empty heeled shoe or two. Drunken cackling echoes down endless alleyways. The festivities are no longer exclusive to the walls of the Garnier, nor matter how tightly you cover your ears. A pale leg or two, with occupied corners and scratching nails. The carriages and their drivers, parked restlessly to the left of the House, have many a hidden rascal or two. Footmen drink sherry from hidden flasks, and little boys neatly begin picking pockets, or slipping through windows to take whatever has foolishly been left behind in the guests' wake. There are no policemen on the streets tonight. |
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| Skazka | Jun 23 2009, 07:55 PM Post #2 |
all the ships go down/following the sound
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He wore no mask. Tissot had been thin before, which was not unusual in a country where it was difficult to ever become fat. Now, the angles of the thin bones in his arms showed through. In the night, every face was a mask. Pitted eyes, light catching on a sunken cheek or bared teeth. That was enough. In the dark, he could not be said to wear a costume; they weren't even clothes he properly owned. He had taken them. They were his now. They were good. One side of his face was still welted with stitching, the eye carefully bandaged. Blood spattered his lip, his cheek. Mister doctor had been so careful about that. He had been a good man, at least. That was not enough to deter some customers. Alexis fled hands, and found the only place in the dark where he would not be disturbed. This part of the river was peopled with lovers. Hand in hand, or in more intimate embraces, common and noble, men and women. They were gone, though, now. It was quiet. Quiet and wet. (His hands slipped on the railing, but he did not fall.) He had a knife, even if he did not have a razor for the style of it. The river. A safe bet. The water seemed welcoming enough, thick and silty and sticky-looking but deep as velvet, surely higher than his head? Had he skirts to tangle in, they would billow and welcome in the water, heavier pound-for-pound than lead, and that would be the end of him. |
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| Alandree | Jul 24 2009, 05:02 PM Post #3 |
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A tentative step forward, a bit of untangling, a lot of sloshed wine. He made an indigent noise, pushing through a sea of badly costumed gamins. Crowding was not favourable, even in such low-grade light. He threw the half-drunk bottle to the side dramatically, making an echoing crash, a perfect crash, crossing the road, feeling ruffled and quite sticky with sweat and wine and God only knew what else. He fancied leaning over the bridge to empty the contents of his stomach, or perhaps cross it to try and find a place away from copious debauchery. He just wasn't in the mood. Especially when everyone was wearing masks. The mocking sort, made of old wooden planks and wind-blown pamphlets, stained with dirt, carefully strung up and plastered across faces. They'd accosted a young fop half way to the Opera House, taken his mask, taken his coat, and taken him somewhere far off, but not too far as to make too conscious an effort. Jeannot, himself, was a faithful swain. Or, at least, so honourable a one as not to rape any and every pleasantly cheeked toff that happened to go about without a cane to beat him away. Ahem. An amiable cough. Stumbling, looking over his shoulder for a cart, or perhaps another gendarme. His heel still tended to get caught in grates or holes in the cobble now and again. He ought to find another pair of shoes, or perhaps find a saw and do a better cutting job. Ah, the Seine. As saucily flowing as she was wrought with enough disease to sear one's flesh upon a mere splash. Like the demon river Styx. Filled with souls. At least filled with bodies. He spotted a rather waifish figure. Teetering on the edge. Perhaps it had the same idea. This place was not too far from the local thieves quarter. A whorehouse across the way. It was a humble neighbourhood. A home. Feeling less crowded, he gained enough confidence to walk up to it. Hmm. Him? Yes, a him. He walked up to him, and assumed a delicately stationed stance, tilting his head to get a look at him. "Oh my. Hello young sir." If he had a pair of spectacles, he would push them down his nose and squint, pursing his lips and wondering what that thing was. That thing. That thing on his face. Was he deformed? Oh my. Oh my it looks like sutures. |
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| Skazka | Jul 24 2009, 06:41 PM Post #4 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Tissot wheeled, as much as one could without being flung too soon into the abyss. Which stank, true, but he was no flower himself, even bathed in a thousand bottles of orange water and pickled in gin. As if caught at some furtive deed. His shoulders squared, defiant, on reflex. No, no, no, no, no, you won't be shoving me over, no you won't. All in my good time. The remaining eye narrowed. Its partner attempted to narrow as well, resulting only in a painful twisting of the rut of stitches, and the hollow pinching feeling of an empty socket. And who was this meant to be? Not quite old. Not quite new. Not in the very least familiar, not one whit or shred or jot. Dressed funny. Old clothes. Bad. The masquerade. A stomach-twisting fever dream. Perhaps this was the Devil, here to collect his due. Ha. Staggering drunk. Made Alexis look like a starched young chaplain out for an evening stroll. Somewhere the mask had been gone, had been whipped away on the wind. Or it were later than he had anticipated. And the masks had all been taken away and vanished. Staring beadily, one-eyed, into the face of a ghost. Or Lucifer. His chin lifted defiantly. No, not the devil. Just a skinny old tante, swimming in his field of vision. Hands sticky on the railing. No, can't stop me. Won't. Won't look at me. The stitched up gutter of a slice near his lip made his sneer more of a snarl. "Get back. Don't touch me. I see you." Speech thick with confusion and considerable anguish, without a shade of refinement in it. |
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| Alandree | Jul 24 2009, 07:42 PM Post #5 |
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He twisted a lock of frizzed, dirty wig. It was reddish in colour, and hopelessly mismatched to the rest of his countenance. Like an angry dead animal atop the head. Freshly skinned. Hasty hat. Now this gamin was not one of the usual crew. Frail and tall and as sour looking as a bad lemon. My, my, how bad a lemon. "Well I should hope so. You do have one left." Speech a bit slurred, but not too much. At a certain point one becomes a master of his drunkenness. Just the right amount may propel you miles without a backward step. It may very well become dependant on one drop alone. Sighing, then coughing from inhaling rancid air, he propped an elbow on the rail, chin rested in hand, and gazed at the one-eyed little boy. The toe of one shoe tapping the ground amiably. "An eye, that is." Beginning to hum, which escalated into full fledged words; "Les yeux bleus, vont aux cieux. Les yeux gris, vont au paradis*...You know that rhyme, monsieur?" He did not have an especially appealing voice, even less so with all the wine. "You were going to jump, were you not? Well I wonder, since you have only one eye, will you go to only half the place its colour dictates? Perhaps half of your soul will go one way, whilst the other will remain on earth to rot inside your body, maggots and all?" In this light he could not rightly make out the colour of it himself. " Les yeux verts, vont en enfer. Les yeux noirs, vont au purgatoire. I myself am destined for Hell it seems. Ah, but such is life, non? One can't hope to ask for the things one tumbles out of the womb with." And he giggled, shrilly, hasty fingers splaying over mouth barely concealing a missing lower premolar. |
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| Skazka | Jul 24 2009, 08:00 PM Post #6 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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That damnable wig, he'd snatch it off his head and stomp on it. Very old tante indeed, old as the hills, half-besotted, drunken bastard. He shifted uneasily in place, trying to get his feet to settle down onto solid ground. Perhaps thinking if he got the right angle, it might be possible to see a little more than that leer. Sliding closer with really rather astounding forwardness. Now where had that knife gone? He'd just had it. (And why kept he feeling for the handle of a razor?) As a sort of substitute, he merely prodded the man square in the chest with a thin forefinger. If not a knife, maybe he had a clown's stick to strike him with, that would suddenly burst into particolour bloom. Wouldn't be one to complain. His stance was aggressive enough, but in the manner one might stand before a customer, daring. A slightly damp-sounding muttering, under his breath. "God damn." Another jab with the finger. Another, again, louder, thick with emotion and wine. "Go to hell." A perfect little mimicking mynah bird. "Y'can go to hell." Now this was curious. Curious indeed. Tissot found himself profoundly unsettled, and rather than stepping back, and running from the daft vagrant as was sensible, he advanced. What a brave little soldier. Facing a maniac with fists tightened. |
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| Alandree | Jul 24 2009, 08:13 PM Post #7 |
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He drew back like a ruffled bird, arms bending to retract, fingers twittering. Surprised, really. Didn't know he'd be poking. Perhaps crying. "I can got to hell. Hell, hell, hell. Where will you go? Hmm? Where will you go? Perhaps you will go nowhere at all. Perhaps you will sleep under this bridge, in the divine aqua pura? Float along. Float, float, float! If only I had a boat, I should watch you float, perhaps throw you a line only to let it go a moment too soon..." But he was backing away, head tilted to the side, gazing up at the sky, arms still in that same wounded bird position. Did not fancy touching the thing. He was rather wary of suture. Unnatural things woven into the skin. Now how did he know what they were called? A few rapid blinks as he though this over, almost forgetting that the boy was still there, slowing, stopping. |
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| Skazka | Jul 24 2009, 08:37 PM Post #8 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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This was alarming. This was not right. The world seemed to waver for a moment, shifting uncertainly before clicking into place like the bolt in a cheap deadlock. That seemed secure enough, but it still left the matter of, the matter of this thing in the wig. He wavered. You, sir, are educated. Perhaps a wealthy tante who liked to slum and play at play-acting and slurring his words. Not a true specimen of the thing. Not of the human animal. Straightening up. Clinging back to his railing as if it were a trusty friend. A devious little grin spread its way across his face. Quite against himself. He didn't try to. It just did. And there it was. One hand crept up to his face, still cold from the iron rail, to explore dimensions of both smile and scar. Rubbing at it furtively, prying. "Sir, sir, sir, in the course of your peregrinations--" What did that word mean? It meant nothing, Claudel used it, once, and he was a man of the world; Tissot mimicked this stranger's own voice, in a haphazard rough approximation thereof. "Go to hell. Go dance, if you want to. Leave me well alone, I can tell you that." Voice quavering, still uncertain. No, no, just one push. Still tracing cuts, digging at the sutures with his nails. |
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| Alandree | Jul 24 2009, 09:02 PM Post #9 |
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A bird-like retraction of the neck. A pigeon perhaps. Colours worn and faded, but still vaguely there. Not a parrot anymore. Alas. He flapped his hands, dismissal-like, or perhaps rather like he'd been immersed in something thoroughly disgusting, and attempted to flick it off. "Enough of this hell business." He made a face, as he watched the boy finger his own puckered wound whilst he mocked. Poor thing. "But if you really want to be left alone..." A feigned sigh. Ahh. And he lowered his hands, to swing drunkenly a moment, peering about again, as if fascinated suddenly by the eldritch moonlit scenery. But ah, yes. "I shall go my merry little way..." A small half-turn, and he began wandering over to the other side of the bridge. Perhaps he'd claim one side whilst the boy did the other. He'd watch him jump. Or perhaps not, and merely hear that sickening splash. |
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| Skazka | Jul 24 2009, 09:12 PM Post #10 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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He ceased the exploration of his wounds when they began to bleed again. His hands came away red. Rusty red, but red all the same. The doctor wouldn't approve. The doctor did this, took his eye. Well well well well. Let the old rag-bag of a drunken actor off to stroll the streets alone, leave the men to their business and all that. Had to practically hold his fingers to his good eye to see what had happened, for all the focus the old one was good for. How curious. It didn't hurt. And so he returned to it. Calling after him, less than sporting. "Your mother's a whore!" No offense, monsieur, I mean, really, I'm in no position to cast stones, ha, back to my little hop and skip and jump over the rail. Clinging tightly, no less disturbed, thoughts still turbulent. How had he let such a thing distract him? Had to do it. Had to cinch up that knot again in his stomach, the nerve to do it. To do such a thing, and hardly a thing at all, it was. |
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| Alandree | Jul 24 2009, 09:25 PM Post #11 |
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His gaze fell to the ground, perceived to be out of shame. Maybe? When it was really just to assure that he did not stumble. Arms reaching out, as if he were the one teetering along the bridge rail. Enough of a circus act without it. 'Your mother's a whore!' That warranted another shrill laugh. Echoing through the otherwise relatively silent streets. Not quite like a hyena's but not quite unlike it, either. "Maybe so! Maybe so..." And who was to know? Certainly not him. Perhaps his mother was also his aunt. Perhaps the Eyeless Wonder was his own uncle. Perhaps the missing eye had grown larger than the other and burst of its own accord, like a diseased goldfish's. "Maybe so...Maybe so, but I'd prefer to call her a Lady of the Evening. If you please, monsieur!" He was shouting from the distance now drawn between them. Lifting a finger above his head for emphasis, not turning round though. |
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| Skazka | Jul 24 2009, 09:36 PM Post #12 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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"Call her whatever you want, she's still seen half of Paris on her back!" A parting strike, before falling silent for good. For a long moment, stretching out into the abyss, he considered the relative merits of drowning, and how one might speed it. Without such interruption. By a stinking louse-ridden lunatic off to go debauch little boys and sleep in the gutter. Sick of men like that, sick, if he had had that knife, shit, where was it-- Slumping down against the rail, he began methodically turning out his pockets. What little there was. A few stolen handkerchiefs, with the initials plucked off. Hadn't even recalled taking those. They'd been a gift. A candle end. A coin. A crucifix-- no? Just a bit of wood. Didn't matter any more. A pathetic dearth of knives. But no, no, there there was. He'd not merely pricked his finger, but sliced the tip open-- giving a little yelp of notice, rather than pain, and thrusting it immediately into his mouth. Brain giving another shivering twist, and lock, at the taste of blood. But there it was. That was proof. Now, then. Fixated on it. Slumped on the ground. Christ God, he felt too bone-tired to even rise up again. |
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| Alandree | Jul 25 2009, 11:12 AM Post #13 |
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A few more sourly hummed bars, trickling out, dancing in the air. A bit of a dance himself, if only he had better skirts on the coat. He chose to lean forward to gaze at the horrible murky mass that lay below. Making a disapproving face at it. Anticipating the nearby hissing and smacking of a body meeting water. But no such luck. The young monsieur was perhaps afraid? Though he seemed far gone enough to have long forgotten fear, from the looks of it. Perhaps he stitched up his own eye. With twine and an old fisherman's hook. Ingenious. Gentle tapping on the rail, in time with his humming. Jeannot decided quite vehemently that he would not leave before the kid killed himself. A fine button on the evening, he thought. It was less disturbing than ravaging innocent youths. In his branch of Fagin's crew, things like that were not so much nasty as they were commonplace. Suicide was odd. In any event it was a state of mind he knew, but he'd never seen anyone do it this way before. He turned round. Hmm. But young one-eye. He is not dead. Or perhaps he was. In a pool of his own misery on the ground. Might he be praying? What was prayer these days? Come on now, do it. Jeannot dropped to his knees and crawled, not coy or cat-like as was typical, but a scurry, like a rat, to sniff abandoned carrion. "Troubled?" |
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| Skazka | Jul 25 2009, 07:40 PM Post #14 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Thoughts, what had even brought him here? He could no longer remember. Was it that he was ruined. Though he was, certainly was. Very, very. There had been fear. Alexis still stank of fear, through his very pores, but what this was? He had been ruined. Ugly. Twisted cords of blood on blood on blood, a noose around his neck. Doctor. And the doctor would want paying, and still yet he couldn't. No reason to be here, as good as any. Shallow little breaths. The ache that had spread into his fingers, the ache in his head. There had been the thought of gendarmes in it somewhere. The shadowed man. His breath quickened for a moment, throat constricting as if he'd been taken ahold of and squeezed. The water. He'd come to the water, and that would take him away from it. For a moment, he hesitated, flinching away from a tight grip on wood and metal. A trembling attempt to rise from his knees, collapsing back down onto one with a sharp exhale of exertion that chafed at his throat. A spattering, sputtering little cough. When the-- the thing entered his field of vision, like an inquisitive stray, he recoiled. "Bugger off!" |
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| Alandree | Jul 26 2009, 10:45 AM Post #15 |
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"Ahh...I'd said I would, hadn't I? Alas, I'm not one for keeping to such things..." He lowered himself onto his stomach, legs beginning to swing, head propped, staring up at the one eye, trying to make out what colour it was. Might it be discoloured? No...that was only from some disease, or loss of sight, like that charming old crone Gusarov. Missing all the top teeth. "What is your name, young pup? Or are you perhaps nameless, just an apparition reenacting his struggle toward death in some repeating...purgatorial state?" Now that would be something. Imagine, a spirit communication! Oh wouldn't Merrill be jealous... |
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| Skazka | Jul 26 2009, 12:22 PM Post #16 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Tissot gave up on rising entirely. Drawing his knees up to his chest, tucking in his head, like a bedraggled and slightly damp waif. To minimize the amount of space taken, and to protect whatever might be vulnerable. Safe. Rocking slightly, turning the knife over in his hand. Peering out sharply at this... intruder. Baring splinters of teeth. Watching. Now he couldn't do it, now that he was being watched. Perhaps if he stood still for long enough, the thing would go away. Somewhere, there were roses blooming. On a distant part of the rail, where he could see quite clearly, until he turned his head. That wasn't fair, as if they'd been plucked from his eye like an unseemly mote. "A ghost. A fire. An angel. A flower. Go away. Go away." |
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| Alandree | Jul 26 2009, 12:50 PM Post #17 |
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"A flower?" A scuffle and a snort, "I'm afraid you've wilted, little sprout. Unless you are only a certain part. The rose's stem, perhaps? The roots. The dirty white roots? What colour are you eyes?" He pulled himself closer, rank with stolen wine and the stale pomade still lurking in the threads of the magenta coat. "Eye. Eye I mean! How tactless. My apologies." And he stifled another shrill giggle, stumbling, even in his prone position, finding it difficult to maintain proper snaking ability. "Little dreg of a flower. If you were fire I might just warm myself against you. If you were a ghost then I'd fall right through you should I even try. And..." A pause, pushing himself up to sit on his knees, peering at that little knife. "I don't believe angels carry those. So you are feeding me falsehoods. A terrible thing to do..." But indeed, the poor thing may have been made of nothing much but lies anyway. Lies tended to stopper the hurt, though. Understandable. Certainly. Yes. A little shake of the shoulders, and he removed his wig, scratching the unwashed yellow hair beneath, sitting it in his lap, a horrid creature now assuming the role of pet. And he smiled at the wretched stitched up creature, lowering his head, perhaps knowingly. |
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| Skazka | Jul 26 2009, 01:00 PM Post #18 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Very little of this registered to be understood. Carefully petting wood and metal, lest the thing fly off and bite someone of its own accord. And that would be very unfortunate. Bite this taunting, giggling creature across the mouth, bite that nose clean off his face. Someone would call the constable. A make-pretend constable. It would only be Bessette, there to gather him back into the bosom of their family, and they would all be quite happy. All's well that ends. "Am I made of blood?" An innocent's question, raising a few bloodied fingers like a benediction Christ. Reaching out to swipe them at the crouching gargoyle, falling short instead, by a long way. "I think I am." And a little worming giggle escaped. "I am made of my parts. And I am here. Very well." That thing would give him lice. Whether they'd slumbered in the wig or in his natural head of hair, pestilence was just waiting to leap out and take root. |
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| Alandree | Jul 26 2009, 01:30 PM Post #19 |
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Some soft blinking. "Bloody parts...Hmm." He watched the near-skeletal hand, stained in red. Were his stitches bleeding afresh? He must paw and scratch at them. "You poor wretch. Do you belong to someone?" A coo, as to a baby. But it was truthful, and sad. "Your poor little blood. Made of blood? If you were all blood you'd be a pool, dear thing. And dogs might lap you all up." He set his wig down gently on the ground beside him, patting it gently, soothing it, assuring. "You are just a poor thing. Poor little thing..." Lips pursing, perhaps ready to whistle for him to come near, but not quite. "Come, come, tell me your name. I am Jeannot. Did you know I was born under this bridge? I was raised by the fishies until a noble swain stole my skin as it rested on the bay. Then cursed to go among mortals for the rest of my days." |
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| Skazka | Jul 26 2009, 09:18 PM Post #20 |
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all the ships go down/following the sound
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Such platitudes made his skin crawl. The wheedling tone of voice they were in, half pity and half the coaxing directed toward a stray dog. There would be limits on this sort of patience. (He shifted his balance again, not quite the gentle rocking of a dawdling child.) Not wise to trust a gentle hand or a soft voice; things never come free. Soon enough, it would shake itself clear what this fellow wanted, and he would pick it off the ground and consider whether it was worth giving. Men would talk, sometimes. Or they wouldn't talk at all, or they would talk as if he were not even there. That was better than this. Beady eye tracking, tracking. There were no more roses, not where he could watch, but it seemed best to keep keen attention on this Jeannot. Lest he suddenly come uncoiled and spring. A babbling drunken liar, and unpredictable as such. Pouring such a stream in his ear, did he expect him to believe it? Or merely assent to it? Alexis stalled. Yielded, slightly. "I might have a different name. Depending." |
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