Night Haunter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
curzed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
unfinishedlibrary2025-11-07 11:03 pm
curzed) wrote in unfinishedlibrary2025-11-07 11:03 pm
late night reading
Who: Konrad Curze, Kaiisteron, later on: you?
What: Making Mistakes
When: sometime after 'night', it's obligatory (several days before Storytime)
Where: Somewhere in the Stacks, it's a big library. Probably time-out later. Maybe worse places.
Content warnings: Violence, daemons, primarchs, gratuitous bodily harm, the problems with uncontrolled powers, making a mess.
Sooner or later, someone in power is going to regret the group of misfits that have been taken here as Editors.
Like Konrad. He's been more or less behaving since arriving, aside from commandeering ALL cardstock of a particular color and texture, collecting singing bowls of a dozen sizes and leaving them in little clusters in the kitchen and bunks, and leaving a trail of fine, tiny glitter for several days on everything he touched. His efforts to find a way out of the Library are ongoing and unfruitful, prowling the Stacks without bothering to sleep more than once in several days.
But this time his path through the endless shelves of books is for a different purpose in simply putting as much distance between himself and the other people dragged here as he could. He has no control over when his 'gifts' chose to strike and drown him in the worst outcomes possible, but he does know when it's coming, and here there's no locked room with reinforced doors to make use of. Distance will have to do. There is a point, in the rending pain of things that haven't even happened yet, where Curze can no longer tell where he is now in favor of where he will be then.
It makes for a pathetic sight, something his size on the floor with his head in his hands in the shadows between towering shelves scaled towards his height and not human average, back pressed against the cold rows of books.
The sharp scent of blood is probably fine too. Ignore it. Everything's fine here.
What: Making Mistakes
When: sometime after 'night', it's obligatory (several days before Storytime)
Where: Somewhere in the Stacks, it's a big library. Probably time-out later. Maybe worse places.
Content warnings: Violence, daemons, primarchs, gratuitous bodily harm, the problems with uncontrolled powers, making a mess.
Sooner or later, someone in power is going to regret the group of misfits that have been taken here as Editors.
Like Konrad. He's been more or less behaving since arriving, aside from commandeering ALL cardstock of a particular color and texture, collecting singing bowls of a dozen sizes and leaving them in little clusters in the kitchen and bunks, and leaving a trail of fine, tiny glitter for several days on everything he touched. His efforts to find a way out of the Library are ongoing and unfruitful, prowling the Stacks without bothering to sleep more than once in several days.
But this time his path through the endless shelves of books is for a different purpose in simply putting as much distance between himself and the other people dragged here as he could. He has no control over when his 'gifts' chose to strike and drown him in the worst outcomes possible, but he does know when it's coming, and here there's no locked room with reinforced doors to make use of. Distance will have to do. There is a point, in the rending pain of things that haven't even happened yet, where Curze can no longer tell where he is now in favor of where he will be then.
It makes for a pathetic sight, something his size on the floor with his head in his hands in the shadows between towering shelves scaled towards his height and not human average, back pressed against the cold rows of books.
The sharp scent of blood is probably fine too. Ignore it. Everything's fine here.
no subject
His sons, murderous wretches all, would turn on the other legions. On each other. On the mortals they were supposed to in their own fashions protect.
Kai gets his attention, having made a sound that doesn't quite line up with everything he hears, sees, feels, and when he lifts his head slightly to stare unseeing through the curtain of his own lank, unwashed hair, what he catches is the solid black eyes again, so like his own. So like every single one of his traitorous, murdering sons.
It doesn't matter which one this is. They're all the same, each an unrepentant butcher, everything he loathed about the populace of Nostramo. He can't allow it. Won't allow it.
When Curze uncoils, furious and shocked, it's with astonishing speed for something his size, not to retreat but to strike with enough strength to punch through the ceremite armor he thinks is there between himself and his target's hearts, fully intending on killing 'his son' where he stands.
no subject
Kai reacts fast, not fast enough to stop the man. Luckily, while a punch to his heart is incredibly painful, it is not enough to kill him. Very little is enough to kill a demon, to properly set it adrift from a mortal body. It hurts worse than most anything else he's been through, pain flooding his thoughts and he reaches out, trying to get a hand on the other man to retaliate and steal the life out of him--
--only to find himself on a firm, oddly padded bed with a curtain separating him from the rest of the room. Said room, when he forcibly pushes the curtain back, is mostly bare, except for a single other bed in the same style across the room, a cabinet with labels for medical supplies, and a few oddly cheerful posters reminding any who witness it to wash their hands to fight disease or naming the many bones of the human body.
In a moment he'll realize that he's actually healed up much more than he should be after just a minute or so, but in the meantime-- "What the fuck?!"