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[ On Christmas morning, there's a package in Vanessa's mailbox wrapped up in delicate green tissue paper with a gold ribbon. There's a tag stating "From Steve - Merry Christmas."

Inside, there's a looped scarf that's hand-knit in a delicate lace pattern depicting interlocking leaves. It's in icy white. ]

[ Tony leaves a quite large box on her doorstep, filled with a red, Victorian dress. There's a note in there as well: "For the next time there's a party. ~TS" ]

( he's wandering the swamps, getting harassed (or maybe wooed) by a raven-like bird. tendrils of sorrow reach and recoil and because he's never been good at doing as he's told, he contacts her before he reaches the deeps or hears disembodied whispers of doom. )

Tell me what it might sound like. You and I may have different ideas of The End.

[ There's a pause before she responds. Her keen hearing isn't going to miss much, and given the singular nature of the dreary muck that leads to the much livelier Encantado river, it's easy to guess at his general whereabouts.

Any such bird may become mildly distracted by her voice when she responds. ]

A sad lullaby that grows weaker as it gives way to a thrum that rushes through the ears: seizing, dragging, then cradling. And at the moment as if sleep is about to consume, between awareness and nothingness, it falls to where noise ought dare not tread. In the pause where sound meets its end, there is still somehow a whisper.

The thing that croons in my ear as oblivion beckons would not be the same heard by you or any other. Everyone is courted by their own demon. Yet, there is a sound to the silence that none can escape.

[ How many gods have died already? ]

Are you familiar with Lord Byron's work?

( the bird stops its efforts at the sound of her voice, tilts its head curiously. Toji can't blame it. there is a certain quality to this woman's voice, something that goes beyond the rasp that seems to cover up secret upon secret.

despite never having met, the Zen'in dog can tell she's something chaotic and it speaks to his mindlessly-hedonistic-geared brain. )

Byron? No.

( he laughs softly at the idea of his family touching, let alone read anything that isn't Japanese. )

Did he hear the silence too?

[ It's a shame she isn't along for the walk, but white dresses aren't made for such settings, are they? ]

In his way. He dreamt of the silence that comes after everything, 'which was not all a dream'... He imagined what would become of a world consumed by the end of days...

'A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.'

( dresses can be cleaned. she should have seen his fluffy white sweater after his encounter with wild forest beasts. it had the most curious shades of pink and rusted reds.

her voice drifts across the swamp, mesmerising, hypnotic. the bird has made itself comfortable on Toji's shoulder, black eyes fixated on the relic, sharp claws digging through the fabric.

nothing about Toji's appearance suggests that he'd be able to appreciate the beauty of language, let alone the works of one Lord Byron. they forget: he's suffered through the same education as all Zen'in children. can't have the dog embarrass the clan in public. )

Cute. I suppose Lord Byron led the kind of life that spared him from realising that most terrors thrive in broad daylight? Which are you? Light or Dark?

package delivery, dec 25

Delivery, Christmas Eve

voice | un: Yū-un

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on valentine's day

another note, some time on the 16th

[text, aug 17]

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[text, sept 1st]

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—> action

< akechi >

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