[oh. well, she is a necromancer. he absorbs this thought in the way that he'd let the last light in that room wash over him - the kind of light that makes the dead get up out of their graves and tango he recalls - but there's no thought of escape that follows, only a dull, pulsing acceptance, his heart slowed to footstep pace.]
Haunted. [he nods, his voice barely a whisper.] Yeah. That's why it's--- [a little jazzhand in the air to signal its wrongness, as if words (they can't) do not convey the whole of it, as if don't look has also extended to don't describe.] Don't lick the wall. Don't ju---
[he will not be descending that way, thank you very much, though it's quite a mental picture, and for a moment the walls find it a very, very good one. his blood would be a fine addition to the base of the structure, and it might only take seconds if he just ran all the way to the top and---
---he would possibly fall forever.]
No. It's not going to win.
[a very small whisper to the wall, his lips just close enough that he can taste that cloying copper - a deliberate taunt:] fuck you [before he follows her up the rest of the crooked, clotted stairs. oh, that's a sound. he wishes he had never heard it, but it also hooks a needle and threads itself through his heart, that thrum, and the walls are no longer speaking to him at all.
is that a chunk of flesh - on the ground, there? yes-siree, and he'd be hard pressed to say where or what from. the walls do not give any hints, and eyes still on the floor, on boots, a seed has been planted - it's his own mind, but necromancers raise the dead, and what was he if not dead already?
of course there is a lighter. he sees it before he sees the remains, the torch, anything. he does not look out the window.]
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Haunted. [he nods, his voice barely a whisper.] Yeah. That's why it's--- [a little jazzhand in the air to signal its wrongness, as if words (they can't) do not convey the whole of it, as if don't look has also extended to don't describe.] Don't lick the wall. Don't ju---
[he will not be descending that way, thank you very much, though it's quite a mental picture, and for a moment the walls find it a very, very good one. his blood would be a fine addition to the base of the structure, and it might only take seconds if he just ran all the way to the top and---
---he would possibly fall forever.]
No. It's not going to win.
[a very small whisper to the wall, his lips just close enough that he can taste that cloying copper - a deliberate taunt:] fuck you [before he follows her up the rest of the crooked, clotted stairs. oh, that's a sound. he wishes he had never heard it, but it also hooks a needle and threads itself through his heart, that thrum, and the walls are no longer speaking to him at all.
is that a chunk of flesh - on the ground, there? yes-siree, and he'd be hard pressed to say where or what from. the walls do not give any hints, and eyes still on the floor, on boots, a seed has been planted - it's his own mind, but necromancers raise the dead, and what was he if not dead already?
of course there is a lighter. he sees it before he sees the remains, the torch, anything. he does not look out the window.]