yodathedark: (Default)
Rocker cruises down the road, wind licking at his hair, throwing it round his head. The bandana he'd taken helped that. Less hair in his face. More able to see.

There was a peace to driving like this, roaring down the road at insanely high speeds. People in their boxes swerving to avoid him. He's only following the path. The line set out in front of him. And still they get angry.

Elaine tells him he should slow down, stay on one side of the road, but the speed is wondrous. The rhythms of the world come together when he moves this fast, it almost seems like the music is shouting itself out, naturally broadcasting the songs he hears to anyone that would listen.

But they're all too angry to listen. None of them listen, not to Rocker or the music. He was cursed, brought to this existence, this pain by the one who he seeks. And when he finds them, they will pay for every hurt, every slight, every iota of pain that he's received.

Vengeance will come. And Rocker shall not be stopped.

Angered, he guns the bike more, reaching higher speeds. Sirens and flashing lights echo behind him, but he ignores them. It means nothing to him.
yodathedark: (Default)
William sighed, gazing up at the grotesque hanging from the ceiling. A poor parody of art fashioned from human parts, the grotesque loomed overhead.

Back to the penance. As his confessor required of him, he had spent his time painting. Poor shadows of his former art, but what life could he bring to his work when his only love has seen her final death?

There was no vibrancy to his art, no joy in painting. His skill had not lessened, but his heart was torn asunder and how could anyone expect true art without that?

His left arm still hadn't returned. William suspected the damage dealt while he was possessed was truly severe for it to take this long to heal. Not that he had a lack of sustenance. Jessica has seen to that.

And if he was desperate, there was always the mockery. Mockery of his existence, of his beliefs, of his life. The wretched pitiful ghoul. Jessica probably found it amusing to have the ghoul look after him. That Strix had a lot to answer for. Would that he could take out some of his fury on it, but they told him it was dead.

But still, the very fact that his blood was responsible for creating such a thing felt foul. He wanted nothing to do with it.

Jessica had gone out of her way to supply him with materials. The quality of art supplies she had obtained for him was far beyond anything he'd had access to in decades, if not longer. But still, it was wasted, his talent dead to him as he created only facsimiles of art. No true expressions of art, of the beauty of the world, the masterworks of man and God.

How could he express the blood and sweat that went into the creation of a cathedral when he couldn't touch the feelings such works inspire within himself. He felt as an empty husk, the wounds on the outside hardly representing the wounds he felt deep inside.

But still, he cannot rest, or lay idle. There are works that must be achieved before then. He looks at the bag Jessica brought him. Contained within are her remains. Claire's ash. The last he'll ever see of her. Perhaps.. perhaps he could immortalise her somewhat, make an artwork that would outlast even him and be revered for centuries to come.

Yes, that's something he could do. And then, to Paris again. He would see it one last time before he tried to set things right.

June 2011

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