Leonard L. Church (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
noteasybeingblue) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2014-11-11 07:01 pm
noteasybeingblue) wrote in bigapplesauce2014-11-11 07:01 pm
Something obscene, a piece in the long bright curve of space [open to multiple]
She will rend them.
She will shatter their skulls, play glorious harmony with their spines, rip through skin and muscle to crush the beating hearts within, and if they lack hearts she will grind to dust their brains, and if they lack brains she will shred their miserable vermin bodies, and she will wreak beautiful destruction upon everything she sees.
She cares not of what or who she strikes and damages and destroys, only that she deliver destruction unto all of them for incurring her wrath. She may lack the grandeur of her true form and the full might of her true glory but she is still Illyria, God-King and regal chaos incarnate, and they have made her wrathful.
All of Hell has risen to meet them. Illyria will make memorable their reception. She wishes violence, she revels in it, she prides herself in her methodical infliction of it.
And despite it all, still she grieves.
She grieves.
Illyria is grieving.
It is an emotion, pathetically human, welling up from within her or the shell she occupies, she cannot tell, and it is so profoundly alien that she has no choice but to accept its presence. And seethe.
Thus far she finds the sensation of grief to be disagreeable. And no amount of violence seems to rectify it. She refuses to believe that it is not rectifiable. It is a taint, a sickness upon her shell, and sicknesses are rectifiable. All things are rectifiable. And if they are not Illyria makes them so.
She will administer pain and bloodshed until this also becomes so.
There is a shift of energy behind her but she pays it no heed; the energy here is ever-constant-changing and always has been, and if it has been more volatile on this day it is because the forces of Hell have been set slavering upon this world, so Illyria dismisses it. She will focus on her current work - namely, enticing a lowly demon to part ways with its spine. Forcefully.
She rips the inconsequentiality free with a glorious spray of blue-tinged gore - a truly neon specimen of demon, as would befit its Pit-origins - and stands, victorious, gruesome trophy in hand, and then her world changes.
It wrenches in her as it happens, the rip-burn of dimensional tearways screaming past the whole of the God-King’s being, and all she knows is that her world of violence is gone.
In its place is one of peace and clouds and rain, and Illyria can sense them, vermin, everywhere, crawling on every surface, tiny and mindless and simple and everywhere. They are still here, carrying themselves like a blight over the world that was once hers by right. Disgusting. Grating. Virulent.
She does not know where she is, nor does she care. She just wishes to return. But she is no longer the all-powerful and feared being she was, this universe no longer simply aligns to her, she cannot tear through the walls and barriers between dimensions so easily, the voids remain closed to her, and this world will not succumb to her will.
Illyria stands in imperious revulsion, gore-spattered and rain-drenched, disembodied spine dangling, and bitterly wishes a return to her world of Hell.
[ooc: if your character is running into Illyria after she's met Aziraphale, she will be significantly less bloody and scary-looking courtesy of unexpected angel deep-cleaning services]
She will shatter their skulls, play glorious harmony with their spines, rip through skin and muscle to crush the beating hearts within, and if they lack hearts she will grind to dust their brains, and if they lack brains she will shred their miserable vermin bodies, and she will wreak beautiful destruction upon everything she sees.
She cares not of what or who she strikes and damages and destroys, only that she deliver destruction unto all of them for incurring her wrath. She may lack the grandeur of her true form and the full might of her true glory but she is still Illyria, God-King and regal chaos incarnate, and they have made her wrathful.
All of Hell has risen to meet them. Illyria will make memorable their reception. She wishes violence, she revels in it, she prides herself in her methodical infliction of it.
And despite it all, still she grieves.
She grieves.
Illyria is grieving.
It is an emotion, pathetically human, welling up from within her or the shell she occupies, she cannot tell, and it is so profoundly alien that she has no choice but to accept its presence. And seethe.
Thus far she finds the sensation of grief to be disagreeable. And no amount of violence seems to rectify it. She refuses to believe that it is not rectifiable. It is a taint, a sickness upon her shell, and sicknesses are rectifiable. All things are rectifiable. And if they are not Illyria makes them so.
She will administer pain and bloodshed until this also becomes so.
There is a shift of energy behind her but she pays it no heed; the energy here is ever-constant-changing and always has been, and if it has been more volatile on this day it is because the forces of Hell have been set slavering upon this world, so Illyria dismisses it. She will focus on her current work - namely, enticing a lowly demon to part ways with its spine. Forcefully.
She rips the inconsequentiality free with a glorious spray of blue-tinged gore - a truly neon specimen of demon, as would befit its Pit-origins - and stands, victorious, gruesome trophy in hand, and then her world changes.
It wrenches in her as it happens, the rip-burn of dimensional tearways screaming past the whole of the God-King’s being, and all she knows is that her world of violence is gone.
In its place is one of peace and clouds and rain, and Illyria can sense them, vermin, everywhere, crawling on every surface, tiny and mindless and simple and everywhere. They are still here, carrying themselves like a blight over the world that was once hers by right. Disgusting. Grating. Virulent.
She does not know where she is, nor does she care. She just wishes to return. But she is no longer the all-powerful and feared being she was, this universe no longer simply aligns to her, she cannot tear through the walls and barriers between dimensions so easily, the voids remain closed to her, and this world will not succumb to her will.
Illyria stands in imperious revulsion, gore-spattered and rain-drenched, disembodied spine dangling, and bitterly wishes a return to her world of Hell.
[ooc: if your character is running into Illyria after she's met Aziraphale, she will be significantly less bloody and scary-looking courtesy of unexpected angel deep-cleaning services]
no subject
Finally, deciding he's not getting out of this weather any time soon, he miracles himself an umbrella and opens it over himself, drying himself off promptly with the other hand. He notably does not offer her the coverage.
no subject
"All of Hell."
And she returns to observing the tiny ephemera skittering their ways around this place, this mortal city. Tiny, she finds them, and distantly amusing in their rushes to escape the deluge, but mere distractions and no more. On the contrary, she discovers that the hum of celestial magic as the principality manifests some inconsequential object is infinitely more interesting. The principality seems overly concerned with keeping its shell and hers clean, but that is not what so draws her attention. It is the solid object, rather, the one that has made itself tangible and real not merely a construct. Interesting. Useless for anything besides mortal comfort, however, which Illyria would find perplexing were that a thing she deigned to care about. Which she does not, so she will make no comment upon it.
no subject
"Er," he says, "oh. That's, um, that's all right, then."
It's rather a relief. She may not have social graces or humility or a basic sense of decency, but at least she's on the approximate correct side of the fence. So long as she doesn't try to include Crowley in that.
He hesitates, studying her for a moment.
"Others will approach you," he says. "Some will want you to join their organizations. Most will be human."
There isn't really a question here; he's curious to know how she'll respond.
no subject
"Small and fleeting things," replies Illyria with vague ennui. "Their foundations will crumble. What is mortal will fade, and weighs nothing to me."
Unless they can promise her allowance of her wrath, there is little an organization of human construct can offer her.
no subject
"ALl right," he says. "Well. Welcome, I suppose."
He hesitates - is he really going to just walk away? - but there's no much else he can offer. He slides his weight back to one foot, then pivots slowly and starts to walk back toward the Base.
no subject
For now, however, Illyria will wander. If this world is so different, then she wants to know its substance.