Morb_id
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Toby has always hated the smell of cigarettes. Thinks he came out of the damn womb hating it; can’t dredge out a single memory that isn’t soaked in the acrid scent of them. That isn’t filled with the haze of Pall Mall, the blue boxes piling up next to his dad’s battered up armchair. The old man used to sit there, in the evenings, two or three cans of cheap beer in, and tell Toby what it felt like; the taste, the buzz. The heaviness in your lungs that only water could come close to. Forty five dollars a week for a neverending chesty cough and a decade or so off of a lifespan.
Toby never understood it, the addiction. Always was worried that it would be the one part of his dad he wouldn’t be able to get rid of—but, surely, he was better than that.
Looking at you, though, blood in your teeth and half your shoulder missing, he thinks you’re a vice he’d be willing to bury himself in.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,699
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 8
- Hits:
- 124
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You’ve always been a dreamer. Always quick to conjure anything fanciful, even when you’re still awake, or, at least, attempting to be. Half-lucid wanderer of stitched together worlds that slip between your fingers, your neurons, like honey; anything to get away from the pulsing crowds, coughing out smog and a hundred different chest infections. You know it’ll get to you eventually, but you can’t help but drift away to somewhere cleaner. Somewhere with mountains that touch the edge of the halcyon sky. Somewhere with long grass and wildflowers that never wilt. Somewhere that can be yours, if only in the cracks of day and night.
You’ve always been stubborn; never liked change. He’s never liked not getting what he thinks he deserves.
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❝ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄. ❞
On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a place time refuses to claim; a hollowed palisade of shops and houses, sealed in silence since a chemical disaster in the seventies turned it into a ghost town. Over the years, however, its dead streets have become a shrine for urban explorers, thrill-seekers and true crime obsessives. Some say it's only empty shells and rotting wood, others whisper about reanimated bodies and screams that don't reach the edge of town—apartment buildings that breathe the same way you do.
And, of course, death always catches the eye of the living; brutal murders and ghost stories worm their way into your friend's ears. With nothing better to do on your winter break, you reluctantly agree to go explore the abandoned town with them.
Because hey, what could go wrong, right?
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The Batter has always found the tram a peculiar way of travel: filled with strange Elsen, filled with strange thoughts. Unfit for him, unfit for His Player, for they have a duty to fulfil: crusade until collapse.
Strange as it is, slow as it is, he takes his quiet chances to glimpse The Puppeteer, and in his restlessness, is gifted a reprieve, and he decides purification may wait a little bit longer. Just long enough to wonder what Players dream of.
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Stomach heavy with the warmth of whiskey, you decide that you’ve had enough of drinking for the evening; would rather stumble over ditches in the roads rather than words as the stars blur into a river of silver against the velvet of the yawning sky. It’s a nice night, a damn nice night, and it's made better by the stranger you meet near the crossroads. Says he’s waiting on someone, and though he speaks mighty fine, makes blood rush to your face like you’re a teen with their first crush, you can’t help but be unnerved by his grin.
Even so, you’re filled with liquid courage, and late night small talk never hurt nobody.