[ this is a wonderful place for sneaking. lots of piles of odds and ends that cut into line of sight, and blot the reach of the lights hanging high above. no windows, to the point she could almost pretend she's underground.
in terms of broken things, there are quite a lot. it is almost as if the playhouse in his soul is one big collection of the discarded: coils of rope too frayed to rely on, crates with gaping holes in their sides, scraps of fabric off of long discarded costumes... I could keep rattling this kind of stuff off but you get the picture.
But none of them feel like the wretched festering wound that is killing her flockmate. None of them feel like they could be the source of the rotten material that he has enterprisingly used to his own designs, time and again, that clever, stupid craftsman--
until the Genome leads her by a closed metal(?) gate, and she inhales lungfuls of Mist again.
there is something broken in there. something sick. ]
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momijizukamori
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Date: 2024-04-14 01:08 am (UTC)in terms of broken things, there are quite a lot. it is almost as if the playhouse in his soul is one big collection of the discarded: coils of rope too frayed to rely on, crates with gaping holes in their sides, scraps of fabric off of long discarded costumes... I could keep rattling this kind of stuff off but you get the picture.
But none of them feel like the wretched festering wound that is killing her flockmate. None of them feel like they could be the source of the rotten material that he has enterprisingly used to his own designs, time and again, that clever, stupid craftsman--
until the Genome leads her by a closed metal(?) gate, and she inhales lungfuls of Mist again.
there is something broken in there.
something sick. ]