Ruins. NEW   Tattoo.   A New Day Dawns   He's His Father's Son   A Study in WhiteMdNgt   Stepping Down.   A Night at the Emporium.   Late Night Delivery   Remodelling.   And YOU missed it..   Nok-Nok   "I know pain."   Dawn's Arrival   The Angels     »The Becoming     »Manifestations   Roses As A Gift   Crucifixion of a Prophet   The Uncrating   from "A Study in Roses"   Hesitant Visit   A stroll around the Estate   Shadow Phone   Plucked.   The story related...   Tortugory   Can I Get A Witness   A sister remembered.   HOME

DecayAngel ~~ Thin, black lips curl in promise of a faint smile, papier-mache tainted eyes pinioning, blaming, hating and erasing all in one cold sentence. Tendrils of charcoal hair slither down his face to hand at the small of his back and chiseled stomach. Thin eyebrows - both pierced with a silver ring - arch in unison, questioning the intelligence of those before him. His wirey body is tense yet he moves with an unquestionably predatory grace. A spiderweb shirt clings to his upper body, sleeves rolled to his biceps, marring all of his defining tattoos save those upon his forearms done in a deep indigo. Tattooed in small Gothic lettering on the back of his head and directly beneath his hairline is the word 'REPENT' ... Dull, snug leather pants usher away the onslaught of all light, tucked into knee high razored boots which apply themselves to uncaring floorboards in absolute silence. He radiates charisma edged with sharp lines of trickery. He is called Kalas. ~~ <-- Angel of Decay to Blood Red Rose ... I'll show you what a Killing Machine does... --> HarmAngel Thin eyes bleed hollow promises and pretty lies, tainted the color of dull black lashed with specks of lucid crimson. Thin lips curl away from sickly white teeth, a thin tattooed hand raising to slap a twine-wrapped fiery lock away from his face with too-long fingers. Pierced nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of prey and dusty, stale air. His skull is shaven, save the traditional portion atop, each lock wrapped entirely in dull twine, some ornament or trinket hanging from each. Across the portions of visible skull, tattoos in black Barbed-wire (Resembling the stitch tourniqueting his morals and code from his thought.) are strewn in lazy circles. His husk is clad in leathers like a mummifying second skin. A double-breasted trench is draped across his shoulders, veiling a well-muscled body. Knee high boots are laced and clamped into place, worn yet freshly polished. His very presence screams a potential for brutality, his face a mask of cold indifference or slight, mocking mirth. Nothing more... He is Conner. <-- This Killer Angel serves Blood Red Rose ... Dance with me ... --> TwineAngel Soft light sets the scene, splayed in bars across cold pavement. Drizzle falls from the skies (Weeping for the bitter price of Salvation.) wetting...soaking...cleansing. Hollow onyx eyes laced with jagged lines of pure and reflective silver dismantle and dismiss coldly. Only the drug remains (Pretty, pretty lies it whispers...Kill again.). Four long, thin braids of golden hair drape across an otherwise shaven skull, a silver ring woven into each near the bottom. His upper body is masked with a tank-top, toned and hard for the kill, bearing the scars and tattoos in foreign and flowing tongue to prove it. His ears are pierced multiple times with dangling silver hoops, as well as his nostrils and upper lip. Gloved hands ball into fists, a vinyl trench draped across his shoulders to shed the light (Like a reptile's skin.). Snug leather pants encase his lower body, suspenders hanging at his knees where razored, steel-toed boots end. In public, he wears a white straight jacket, dogtags dangling around his neck read 'Jonas' <-- This Machine bathes in Atrocity. He kills for Blood Red Rose...Save Yourself... --> Concerning Angels. In elegy, three Angels lept from aether's lofty spire To plummet down in RhyDin town, cloaked in fury's fire. A trio made of bleeding souls, wrapped with broken vows To trace the ends of mortal strength, and righeous moral bounds. The Angels drip pure sorrow's heart, and vengance is their name, Their jagged words and ragged gaze to take mistress's game. In fear they walk, in hell's pits stalk, death holds no mystery Void's love embrace, each life's breath owned..... no grace for Angels three. ~ RenegdPoet Subject: Killer Angel From: TwineAngel@aol.com (TwineAngel) Date: Sat, 2 Aug 97 06:28:34 EDT Sweet Denial A veil of slender shadows coil about, dangerously near Blood Red Rose, yet slightly behind, and never touching. Deposited in the wake of such a silent tempest stands one of her three Killer Angels. Hollow eyes lashed with reflective silver amidst a sea of darkness swallow the scene, radiations of rage and order, machine-like thought bursting outward. <w> Mistress, may I shadow you to guarentee an absence of incident? Membranes slide across his orbs from side-to-side, raking away the light haze and leaving only gloss. The four brades dangling at his thighs swaying lightly in imaginary breeze. Subject: Hatred From: TwineAngel@aol.com (TwineAngel) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 97 18:29:54 EDT A thin line of shadow slices upwards into the air from one wall to the other, moving in a tempest radiating fury (Like a canvas of dark deeds.) and flawed with time. As the wall of shadows seeps upward into the ceiling, it suddenly falters and drifts earthbound to wrap in a cloak around wirey, tall features. With each second grating on his conciousness, the figure becomes more defined. More real. A vinyl trench coat draped across broad shoulders drifts open lightly, Giving visual access to his normal attire in human form. His chin angled out defiantly, hollow eyes tainted more and more with jagged lines of pure and reflective silver devour the scene bit by bit. Fingertips fluttering at his hips, metalic blades rip forth from his fore arms, jutting out over his hands and arcing past his fingertips where they end in a diamond shape of serated edges. Thin, pierced lips curl in the faint promise of a half-smile. <w> These husks would attack what they do not understand... And defenseless, no less... They would not be so foolish in my presence, for my Mistress might allow me to dismantle one.... Subject: Pretty Stars From: TwineAngel@aol.com (TwineAngel) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 97 19:29:27 EDT ~Reflections of a Killer Angel's mind~ Through those two little windows, I see so much... The drug becons for me again-always teasing. Pain creates new levels of awareness with each grating second of life (Pulsing through my tattered veins.). This new husk is a manifestation of the prettiest lies... Kalas must be informed. Perhaps Mistress will desire this one dismantled. How little she knows. Perhaps she is still a young girl-I am but one machine in one race. I am adult. She speaks with the tongue of one who has never experienced slavery. She reads lies from a textbook written in broken poetry. Perhaps she will quote from the Bible next. Slaving is much more than her unconcious mind can ever grasp most likely. It is a fury of emotions... pleasure and pain. Honor is no excuse for holding a slave. Ignorance is no excuse for hatred. My body hurts. The drug sings in pretty verse...           ~A tremble racks his body~ Hatred. Atrocity twists with empty words to form religion. Oh so sick I am. Unconciousness tugs at the edges of thought. I must fight this. The mirrors serving as my eyes cause the edges of my world to blur. This dream is so-unreal... I can feel my soul seeping, slipping away into the night. This price is too high. I pay it with every pained breath. The drug makes it all worthwhile though...The drug will give me salvation...Mistress Rose seems to understand. She will lead us to a kill. Darkness. The stretch for sanity has become so far...So breaking and hard. I cannot make it. I do not want this.           ~Membranes slide across his hollow eyes from side-to-side, flicking away once more to leave those tainted orbs glossy, hiding evil secrets. Pretty stars shine in his mind, becons of white hot pain. His fists clenched tightly, he issues a pained, inhuman cry which bounces down the walls of the Consortium.~ Subject: Holes From: TwineAngel@aol.com (TwineAngel) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 97 23:34:31 EDT Mistress baghiira being well known and respected enough for obediance, he does not draw upon this tiny little husk with her tiny mind and first-person slave-ness. Psychologically, if she was any better than the lowest kettle slave, she would know only her Master's pleasure. Be only an object for him. She would worship much in the same way he worships his Mistress. Lacking morals as he does, he will not kill an ignorant child (Who would must likely die sputtering her half-truths and unheard of 'obediance'.). The drug calls in its melody of pains and hollow love, but such a kill would not warrent much for reward. A soft hiss issued from the sole of his boot, he turns to face Mistress Baghiira, head tilted at an odd, seemingly broken angle. <w> Her truths are filled with lies... holes in a blanket of supressed thought... I do not like that husk, Mistress Baghiira.