Enrico Maxwell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
13th_crusader) wrote2010-01-31 05:25 pm
13th_crusader) wrote2010-01-31 05:25 pm
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✞17 Days since my Last Confession✞
[✝]Psalm 43:5
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.[✝]
[☨]The slow knell of the church's bell tolls--gentle chimes art what waken the corrupt soul at the end of a lens' gaze. Sea-misted eyes blearily stare up at the frosted glass of a stained glass window, white breath passing blue-tinted lips, painted with day-old blood that trickles thickly drown from his crown of unkempt blond hair. Entangled in the fallen alter's debris, it looks as if he has been trapped there for any number of days after a dance with a devil.
Damn it all, he let idle thought pass as the chill of the church's draft shudders his frail body pinned under a heavy cross. How could I think to let myself go in such a place. Knitting his slender brows as cold defiance sparks in those envious green eyes he attempts to move, but finds his body impoverished with stagnation. How... could I go in such a place? Prostrate, he curses himself, and outcries within. Lord, don't let me go in such a depraved place! Such was retribution for being the church recluse, rebuking and refusing the hands of his would-be brothers.
Damn it all, he coughs as a snow-flurry spin down from the break in the intricate glass and lands on his wincing sunken cheek. Sighing he supposes he had expected this at least.. He had somewhat made peace with his enemies, only for them to assail him in the end, just as he had foreseen. The true price of peace, bah. The time was nigh, he knew, and balked, to make peace with his God all over again, still dejecting that this would be his resting place. So shutting his eyes, Maxwell breathes as the wood depresses on his wounded chest and ushers a quiet and hymn. A versed alto choir, dusted by lyrical italian of a wayward cherub.[☨]
Be still, my soul.. the Lord is on thy side...
..Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain..
....Leave to thy God to order and provide....
...In every change He faithful will remain..
..Be still, my soul.. thy best, thy heavenly, Friend...
....Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end..
....Be still... my soul, though dearest friends depart..
..And all is darkened in the vale of tears...
...Then shalt thou better know His love.. His heart..
....Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears...
..Be still, my soul.. thy Jesus can repay....
.....From His own fullness all.. He.. takes.. away. . .
[☨]The archbishop's voice fading from the receiver, the feed times out.[☨]
((ooc: Backdated to the Night of the 29th. The frigid man is still stubbornly alive, much to the world's dismay. A day and a half after his scuffle with Youma!Pip, still in progress. I had to take an unexpected/unannounced hiatus the past couple of days. :3 ))
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.[✝]
[☨]The slow knell of the church's bell tolls--gentle chimes art what waken the corrupt soul at the end of a lens' gaze. Sea-misted eyes blearily stare up at the frosted glass of a stained glass window, white breath passing blue-tinted lips, painted with day-old blood that trickles thickly drown from his crown of unkempt blond hair. Entangled in the fallen alter's debris, it looks as if he has been trapped there for any number of days after a dance with a devil.
Damn it all, he let idle thought pass as the chill of the church's draft shudders his frail body pinned under a heavy cross. How could I think to let myself go in such a place. Knitting his slender brows as cold defiance sparks in those envious green eyes he attempts to move, but finds his body impoverished with stagnation. How... could I go in such a place? Prostrate, he curses himself, and outcries within. Lord, don't let me go in such a depraved place! Such was retribution for being the church recluse, rebuking and refusing the hands of his would-be brothers.
Damn it all, he coughs as a snow-flurry spin down from the break in the intricate glass and lands on his wincing sunken cheek. Sighing he supposes he had expected this at least.. He had somewhat made peace with his enemies, only for them to assail him in the end, just as he had foreseen. The true price of peace, bah. The time was nigh, he knew, and balked, to make peace with his God all over again, still dejecting that this would be his resting place. So shutting his eyes, Maxwell breathes as the wood depresses on his wounded chest and ushers a quiet and hymn. A versed alto choir, dusted by lyrical italian of a wayward cherub.[☨]
Be still, my soul.. the Lord is on thy side...
..Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain..
....Leave to thy God to order and provide....
...In every change He faithful will remain..
..Be still, my soul.. thy best, thy heavenly, Friend...
....Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end..
....Be still... my soul, though dearest friends depart..
..And all is darkened in the vale of tears...
...Then shalt thou better know His love.. His heart..
....Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears...
..Be still, my soul.. thy Jesus can repay....
.....From His own fullness all.. He.. takes.. away. . .
[☨]The archbishop's voice fading from the receiver, the feed times out.[☨]
((ooc: Backdated to the Night of the 29th. The frigid man is still stubbornly alive, much to the world's dismay. A day and a half after his scuffle with Youma!Pip, still in progress. I had to take an unexpected/unannounced hiatus the past couple of days. :3 ))
no subject
The sound of a pair of small feet can be heard running over the floor of her apartment, as if she's intent on rushing out the door to help you this very minute.]
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Signo..rina Nill.. Please.
[You wouldn't be able to lift this cross off me anyway.]
...it is.. not.. n-nnn... someone.. will come.
[Not sounding very convincing, he wondered, had his device hadn't been knocked would they have found a corpse lying here instead?]
no subject
But there was a tremble in her lack of voice, if not a tiny sniffle. She couldn't help but fear for the worse, and wanted to do what she could to stop it.
Only... she trusted him, and that had her tied.]
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...You'll.. catch your death... out there..
[You don't want to end up like this, now do you? It's rather uncomfortable.]
Peace.. be with you...child. .
[Uttering his thanks. Oh, that had hurt just a tad. Her concern was.. charming to say the least. Or not at all, not being the sort to admit such a thing.
Glancing away from the screen, the figure of Abel Nightroad half catches in the viewfinder (http://13th-crusader.livejournal.com/5520.html?thread=193936#t193936) before it's knocked off it's pedestal when the debris is moved.]
no subject
[His words were a small comfort to her, as she remained in place, but still hard-pressed for keeping her own feet sitting firmly on the ground like she was being asked to. Maybe even beseeched to.
She was unsure, and a note of uncertainty hit her lack of voice like a child not wishing to go into a scary-looking place with their parent.
That changed once Abel Nightroad came into view, catching her by surprise as she let out a gasp. This only came back again, intensified as the communicator was knocked off its pedestal, leaving her in the dark.]