writing_shadows

More grist, more grist, more grist...

It was something of a subconscious mantra. All he laid eyes upon viewed through a prism of spinning into words, converting the interaction of words and prejudices and rumour into the body of an email; via a formally required intermediary who was so blank a slate they might as well have been a typewriter. He'd noticed his attendance increase markedly since he had reports to pen: he'd gained a purposeful air. He had been stripped of his wastrel state, by being given a function.

Anything striking, anything of note, anything worth so much as a word...Sketch it, jot it, etch it to your mind. Secure, relate, release. Intense work, but worthy. This was the stuff that could bind domains together, put ruffians in their place, instill order and harmony where he had found only chaos.

The Nosferatu's claws flung his foe's body in two directions. It collapsed into ash, even as it landed. As Mr. Swan advanced on the form of Perseus (rapidly rendered prone by an onslaught of offensives, freed up by the abrupt end of the duel) no other seemed to notice the dark figure (charismatic, for a Mekhet, but hardly going out of his way to grab the eye; now) sweep down to the floor, scooping with his hands.

By the time the furore was over they had filled a top-hat. His. Of course.

Mr. Swan would never forget the image, not for so much as a moment of what remained of his Requiem. Nor would he put it into words.