Lee Plaza 10:47 P.M.
Places that are abandoned are rarely empty. What lies behind the hazard of boarded up windows is a story that no one bothers to tell anymore. Landmarks of graffiti intent on summoning warnings to those lost in the dark. She isn't lost. She knows her way in the quiet halls, up the winding Wonderland staircases, past the uninhabited rooms. The smell here is musty due to dampness. Mold in the crevices appearing the further she goes. Every noise sends off a scatter shot of echoes so her travels aren't silent. Every ghost in here knows she's coming and she doesn't appear frightened. The exact opposite, actually. She's confident.
Bit by bit this place begins to restore itself. Melting of the walls which ripple as if disrupted by her presence. A mirage that acts as a place that no one can see anymore because it holds no value, only the local folklore of being haunted. No one bothers the structure and it doesn't seem to bother anyone else, save for being an eyesore to those living close by. The outside keeps the aesthetic of being deserted while the inside twists back into an element of luxury. Floors become carpeted in red velvet. Lights sprout from uncurling chandeliers that flex as ivy would.
In a matter of minutes since her arrival this place has reverted back into a palace.
This is where they will always be found. They acquire condemned hospitals, vacated hotels, discarded amusement parks. A fancy to the left overs that humanity has given up on. Men and women pass the wreckage of these places as if they don't exist. It's a reason why they can be found, summoned up with the right pedigree and a bag of candy.
They like candy. Like might have been an understatement. Jelly beans, bubblegum, lollipops. The galaxies are endless, soundless, empty of flavor unlike jaw breakers and banana taffy. You can bargain with them by offering caramel turtles or rewind time with a chocolate bar as the only thing to forfeit. They enjoy all of these treats as many would a fine wine.
Brown paper crinkles in her right hand while the left bends with a cigarette. She wields it like a maestro to a symphony that spills from the very long hall she continues down. April Showers by Al Jolson. Crackling in the spirit of the 1920's and playing just as it was meant to. Each has their own taste when it comes to their opulence. The imagery which is conjured up reminds her of over flowing champagne, smell of bootleg Canadian Club, unfiltered cigarettes.
Unasis is, and forever will be, a fan of the speakeasy atmosphere that roared to life in the 20's.
She doesn't knock to the remodeled door that either exists or doesn't exist. It's a matter of believing that she was no longer in the rundown anatomy of the antiquated hotel. Unasis reigns here so what she is feeling seems tangible, what she hears is real, but once she steps further beyond the milestones of this kingdom it will all crumble back into nothing.
Lyra is quick to shake the bag to ward off the servants all easing around Unasis. They can't smell the candy but Unasis can so she raises a hand to halt them from crowding this guest.
"My dear! Who is this that I see before my eyes" Is it you, Lyra" Lyra of the East who seems to be so far from home?"
Unasi's face is much younger than her body. They are all like this. Youthful are their masks while their bodies die and wither out. Decrepit and dusty are their limbs. Skeletal with papier-m"ch" skin mummified to their bones. Their faces are stolen from the very entourage that serves them. Gods and men are the same in that vanity consumes them. You can hide a body behind clothes but the face is the first impression. Doll like are the features in comparison to the decaying cadaver serving as their body. Unasi fancies red lips, cherub cheeks, soft eyes the color of hazelnuts this hour. Her hair is an unusual red, full of rust and copper braided into rosewood.
"That would be me, Unasi. So good to see your face." This face, she thinks. "I brought you lemon heads. Be careful, they're sour and tart unlike your soul which is just too sweet." It's never a bad idea to flatter an Eternal.
The Faceless, dressed in their butler and maid uniforms, resume their pampering to Unasi. They brush her hair into rows of blood. They file over grown nails that begin to curl like snail shells. They put more lavishly colored silks, pillows, and blankets in a surrounding mound to comfort a numb body. Offering tea with out speaking as they have no mouths to do so. Unasi has worn each of their faces, man or woman, in her time. Hijacked their identity. Taken who they were. Used them like masks on Halloween. They were all beautiful, so she would, naturally, be beautiful, too. They last maybe twenty years before she finds another. Where their faces should be is black shadow. No static of color, no creep of sound. Empty, hallowed out portraits that used to look like someone.
Unasi's look is deceptive given the face she uses is so girlish. "So you have fallen again, Lyra" You are a glutton for punishment." Raspy laugh. A witches laugh that cackles into the crevices of an oxygen mask that doesn't have any oxygen. What flows through it's tubes is white light from the tank. Shimmers like the dust of crushed opals. It exits like smoke from her nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. It secretes from the cracks of her skin.
Lyra sits on the edge of the extravagant bed that Unasi rests on. It's a throne of softness that creases beneath Lyra's light weight. She levels a glassy look to Unasi and what she can see in those eyes is the very meaning of infinite. "What can I say' I've never been the type to stay stagnant. What's the point of always being risen if I can't continue to fall, over and over?"
"And what about Night?"
Places that are abandoned are rarely empty. What lies behind the hazard of boarded up windows is a story that no one bothers to tell anymore. Landmarks of graffiti intent on summoning warnings to those lost in the dark. She isn't lost. She knows her way in the quiet halls, up the winding Wonderland staircases, past the uninhabited rooms. The smell here is musty due to dampness. Mold in the crevices appearing the further she goes. Every noise sends off a scatter shot of echoes so her travels aren't silent. Every ghost in here knows she's coming and she doesn't appear frightened. The exact opposite, actually. She's confident.
Bit by bit this place begins to restore itself. Melting of the walls which ripple as if disrupted by her presence. A mirage that acts as a place that no one can see anymore because it holds no value, only the local folklore of being haunted. No one bothers the structure and it doesn't seem to bother anyone else, save for being an eyesore to those living close by. The outside keeps the aesthetic of being deserted while the inside twists back into an element of luxury. Floors become carpeted in red velvet. Lights sprout from uncurling chandeliers that flex as ivy would.
In a matter of minutes since her arrival this place has reverted back into a palace.
This is where they will always be found. They acquire condemned hospitals, vacated hotels, discarded amusement parks. A fancy to the left overs that humanity has given up on. Men and women pass the wreckage of these places as if they don't exist. It's a reason why they can be found, summoned up with the right pedigree and a bag of candy.
They like candy. Like might have been an understatement. Jelly beans, bubblegum, lollipops. The galaxies are endless, soundless, empty of flavor unlike jaw breakers and banana taffy. You can bargain with them by offering caramel turtles or rewind time with a chocolate bar as the only thing to forfeit. They enjoy all of these treats as many would a fine wine.
Brown paper crinkles in her right hand while the left bends with a cigarette. She wields it like a maestro to a symphony that spills from the very long hall she continues down. April Showers by Al Jolson. Crackling in the spirit of the 1920's and playing just as it was meant to. Each has their own taste when it comes to their opulence. The imagery which is conjured up reminds her of over flowing champagne, smell of bootleg Canadian Club, unfiltered cigarettes.
Unasis is, and forever will be, a fan of the speakeasy atmosphere that roared to life in the 20's.
She doesn't knock to the remodeled door that either exists or doesn't exist. It's a matter of believing that she was no longer in the rundown anatomy of the antiquated hotel. Unasis reigns here so what she is feeling seems tangible, what she hears is real, but once she steps further beyond the milestones of this kingdom it will all crumble back into nothing.
Lyra is quick to shake the bag to ward off the servants all easing around Unasis. They can't smell the candy but Unasis can so she raises a hand to halt them from crowding this guest.
"My dear! Who is this that I see before my eyes" Is it you, Lyra" Lyra of the East who seems to be so far from home?"
Unasi's face is much younger than her body. They are all like this. Youthful are their masks while their bodies die and wither out. Decrepit and dusty are their limbs. Skeletal with papier-m"ch" skin mummified to their bones. Their faces are stolen from the very entourage that serves them. Gods and men are the same in that vanity consumes them. You can hide a body behind clothes but the face is the first impression. Doll like are the features in comparison to the decaying cadaver serving as their body. Unasi fancies red lips, cherub cheeks, soft eyes the color of hazelnuts this hour. Her hair is an unusual red, full of rust and copper braided into rosewood.
"That would be me, Unasi. So good to see your face." This face, she thinks. "I brought you lemon heads. Be careful, they're sour and tart unlike your soul which is just too sweet." It's never a bad idea to flatter an Eternal.
The Faceless, dressed in their butler and maid uniforms, resume their pampering to Unasi. They brush her hair into rows of blood. They file over grown nails that begin to curl like snail shells. They put more lavishly colored silks, pillows, and blankets in a surrounding mound to comfort a numb body. Offering tea with out speaking as they have no mouths to do so. Unasi has worn each of their faces, man or woman, in her time. Hijacked their identity. Taken who they were. Used them like masks on Halloween. They were all beautiful, so she would, naturally, be beautiful, too. They last maybe twenty years before she finds another. Where their faces should be is black shadow. No static of color, no creep of sound. Empty, hallowed out portraits that used to look like someone.
Unasi's look is deceptive given the face she uses is so girlish. "So you have fallen again, Lyra" You are a glutton for punishment." Raspy laugh. A witches laugh that cackles into the crevices of an oxygen mask that doesn't have any oxygen. What flows through it's tubes is white light from the tank. Shimmers like the dust of crushed opals. It exits like smoke from her nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. It secretes from the cracks of her skin.
Lyra sits on the edge of the extravagant bed that Unasi rests on. It's a throne of softness that creases beneath Lyra's light weight. She levels a glassy look to Unasi and what she can see in those eyes is the very meaning of infinite. "What can I say' I've never been the type to stay stagnant. What's the point of always being risen if I can't continue to fall, over and over?"
"And what about Night?"