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"it's very...." Dorian hesitated, thinking of an appropriate word to use. "Very extravagant, I suppose. It's much darker than most black souls, and your hands and feet are white, which is abnormal. And you've got some strings-like things attatched to your hands and feet... Makes you look sort of like a puppet." Dorian explained, not knowing what meaning that word could have behind it.

(Adam has left? Hm.

 

I guess it is quite good that he has walked out in the night without a flame, then.)

 

"Usually, when people say extravagant, they are trying to use a word that is less offensive than 'weird'."

 

Silas smiled, but his new grin faltered slightly.

 

"So I look like a puppet of sorts? I suppose we all are, if you gotten into this world as I have."

 

A glare hit Silas' lenses. He turned his head to look at the horizon, or at least what he could see of the distance in the forest clearing. A small sliver of light was creeping over the edge, the sky stained the red of dawn.

 

". . .Time is an odd thing here, isn't it?"

Edited by Percival

(Not imediately, but yes, soon, Mena.)

 

"Well, if you glanced around yourself, we're in a forest clearing, but I suppose that's not the answer you were looking for."

 

Silas breathed in, and he spread his arms in a dramatic flair.

 

"We're in a limbo seperated from Heaven and Hell, with said limbo meant to be a torturous world of entertainment. At least, that's my understanding of it after. . .fifteen restarts."

 

He lowered his arms and readjusted his glasses.

If there was one thing Shana understood about Silas, it's that he seemed to have a flare for the dramatic. 

The morsels now cooked to adequate doneness, she removed them from the fire and waved them around on the sticks they were skewered on to cool them off. She stood up and gave two morsels each to Dorian and Silas without a word. 

Dorian glanced at  "Thank you..." He looked back at Silas, his eyes lighting up with an odd curiosity. "Cycles? You mean you've seen fifteen sets of people?" That was his best guess at what the newcomer meant by 'Cycles', though it seemed to be an odd word to use.

"Thank you for the small scraps of possibly worm-infested meat. "

 

Silas downed the bites quickly, swallowing far too quickly. He picked around his mouth for the bones that he may or may not have swallowed in his haste.

 

"To answer your question, I've seen ten groups of people and five groups of unearthly abominations, in this same world alone. Actually, that reminds me. . ."

 

He pulled a tiny, chewed bone out of his mouth and tossed it away behind him, simultaneously reaching into his pockets and pulling out a leather-bound book. He tossed the book towards Shana, the book landing short.

 

"Involve yourself in this conversation. Read that. You might find an interesting note. Or possibly a morgue record. Or a revelation of insanity. Or an appalling secret. Or a ghastly hint about how you'll die. But that's not important. Just look in there."

(To open the book, or not to open the book?

To bake the cookie dough, or not to bake the cookie dough?

To do my homework, or to continue goofing around on here?

To be, or not to- Whatever, I'm opening the freaking book.)

A little startled from the sudden book throwing, Shana took a quick step back. She hesitated a moment, looking from Silas to the book, before complying and picking it up. She turned it to the first page.

(If you wish, Adam.

 

By the way, I have also anticipated the chance of someone leaving the roleplay, which corresponds to an ending. That's nice.

 

Also, Mena, that's the point.)

 

"I say "he", but that's not to say that the deity isn't a "she" nor "it". That's just the name I give to the person that controls all of this."

 

Silas has a tiny look of smugness on his face.

 

"I should know, as I seen it. I want it's hat, actually. It's a nice fedora; concealing and sleek."

 

---------

 

The pages of the book Shana was holding was akin to the improvisational sketches an artist would make in a sketchbook; words and crude images were scattered across the pages, some of which have no correlation to each other. The first page had a crude, berry-smeared picture of a faceless mannequin, a glass orb acting as its right eye. Words were surrounding the small picture, arranged in such a way that it could be read in several ways, each with a hint of cryptic regret.

 

 

Why is this hell deemed "life"? Why can I not walk among those that are my creators?

am                                                                                                                            My

I                                                                                                                              Call

denied                                                                                                                   That

the                                                                                                                      Those

salvation                                                                                                                  Kill

named                                                                                                                        I

"death"?                                                                                                                Can

 

 

The second page compromised only of pictures; a tiny profile of a puppeteer with a bent figure watching over a tiny world curling from his fingers, a man hanged by a rope that is being tied by himself, a girl reading a familiar looking leather book next to a flamboyant, dramatic man. There were other pictures too, but they were blurred by stains and were otherwise impossible to decipher.

 

The third page was filled with words, arranged in a way so that they were like a path, each breaking off into smaller and smaller ones as the fractal moved down. However, all the words were scratched out with charcoal; certainly not an unintentional mistake.

 

(Dare to go on?)

Edited by Percival

Shana was to preoccupied with the book to lissen to the conversation. She looked at it closer, farther away, and at different angles trying to decipher the crude scribbling and smudged pictures. She took mental notes of anything that caught her eye, especially the girl reading a leather book, and moved on to the next page.

"Depends on whether you want to escape alive or as a slave that will perpetrate the cycle, dragging more people in."

 

Silas crossed his arms, his fingers touching his chin as he closed his eyes in thought..

 

"As of yet, no one has had a happy ending. All of them either became perpetrators for the puppeteer, or died horrible, mangled deaths...."

 

Silas said the above nonchalantly, as if he was talking about the weather. He suddenly reached his hand towards Shana.

 

"Can I see that book for a second?"

 

------------

 

The fourth page was ripped; what remained is covered completely black, save for two gray dots. Upon closer inspection, the dots were made up of words.

 

A Memior Of Light Will Salvage The Souls Of Those That-

 

The page is torn at this part.

 

Two unrecognizeable symbols were placed between the dots, only one shade different from the background behind them.

 

The fifth page had a picture of a boy hanging from his heels, his feet tied by a noose. His face was filled with a face of horror, and the area around his heart is pierced with needles in a cardioid shape. In calligraphy, the words The Hanged Man can bee seen at the bottom.

 

The sixth page was blank.

 

(Continue?)

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