That's all it is! Beginning of a fanfiction *gasp, the horror!* but don't worry, it's the only one I've written/am writing. And it's terribly unusual, and slightly out of my typical style. Formatting's a bit off, I just c&p'd from the file.
100 points if you can guess the fandom!
Phoebe hung low and huge in the sky, glowing with a yellow-orange light, a pregnant goddess swimming through the rich navy velvet, oblivious to the cares and worries of the little creatures she overlooked. It lit up the mask—set it ablaze in the most frightening manner, a twin to the moon, but angry and vengeful. The face behind it, however, was undemonstrative, and the unnatural voice was silent. The figure to whom the voice belonged stood now on the parapet, impossibly tall and slightly less-black than the night, dusted here and there with a whitish, chalky powder, trapped in the folds and wrinkles of the heavy cloak: a star-sprinkled sky, ready to throw itself at the sun and be consumed in its blissful fire, burned away until only the pure, clear blue light of day remained, leaving the world unstained once more.
The impossible had happened. That voice—the voice of the Host itself, the sweet, strange, frightening tonality which had seduced any who had ever heard it, however briefly—was no more. Ravaged by disease, stolen away! That one truly unique and extraordinary feature to which no other man, woman or child could lay claim had been ripped away. A punishment. A punishment for refusing to die when the way of things dictated that it should be so. This was an error the figure now intended to correct, and it stepped closer to the ledge. A dry, ragged rasp of a cry issued from the mask, and the pale, yellow hands belonging to this skeleton clenched to trembling white fists at its sides. To die this way meant being found easily by any passing by—by a crowd. A horde to stop and gawk at the twisted remains on the stones of the street, its mask lying slightly askew and revealing death's face underneath. To have all those people stare and gape like stupid, bottom-feeding fish at the horror of the face, not even noticing that it was attached to a dead being. No, best to have done with it all in private, where he wouldn't be found, at least not for long enough that his unnatural appearance would simply be thought natural decay. The thin creature stepped down from the parapet and unclenched its hands, the whole skeletal frame relaxing, slumping in defeat, masked face dropping to cravatted chest.
100 points if you can guess the fandom!
Phoebe hung low and huge in the sky, glowing with a yellow-orange light, a pregnant goddess swimming through the rich navy velvet, oblivious to the cares and worries of the little creatures she overlooked. It lit up the mask—set it ablaze in the most frightening manner, a twin to the moon, but angry and vengeful. The face behind it, however, was undemonstrative, and the unnatural voice was silent. The figure to whom the voice belonged stood now on the parapet, impossibly tall and slightly less-black than the night, dusted here and there with a whitish, chalky powder, trapped in the folds and wrinkles of the heavy cloak: a star-sprinkled sky, ready to throw itself at the sun and be consumed in its blissful fire, burned away until only the pure, clear blue light of day remained, leaving the world unstained once more.
The impossible had happened. That voice—the voice of the Host itself, the sweet, strange, frightening tonality which had seduced any who had ever heard it, however briefly—was no more. Ravaged by disease, stolen away! That one truly unique and extraordinary feature to which no other man, woman or child could lay claim had been ripped away. A punishment. A punishment for refusing to die when the way of things dictated that it should be so. This was an error the figure now intended to correct, and it stepped closer to the ledge. A dry, ragged rasp of a cry issued from the mask, and the pale, yellow hands belonging to this skeleton clenched to trembling white fists at its sides. To die this way meant being found easily by any passing by—by a crowd. A horde to stop and gawk at the twisted remains on the stones of the street, its mask lying slightly askew and revealing death's face underneath. To have all those people stare and gape like stupid, bottom-feeding fish at the horror of the face, not even noticing that it was attached to a dead being. No, best to have done with it all in private, where he wouldn't be found, at least not for long enough that his unnatural appearance would simply be thought natural decay. The thin creature stepped down from the parapet and unclenched its hands, the whole skeletal frame relaxing, slumping in defeat, masked face dropping to cravatted chest.
