"Traitor pig, Black Mass Candlelight vigil, I'm I'm a breakneck city slicking dog, grab your gun Turn their heads, rewind."
Light, the promise of safety - it's never suited him. Not before, in the hollow of drain-pipe secrets and certainly, not now. No, he's always preferred the opposite, hasn't he? Where the dim of a dying fire extends the space of swaying bodies, of slurring company, as waxy as candles, melting together in a lulled, drunken stupor. It's an option he prefers; an option he'll gladly take. And yet, the Hamlet. Ah, the Hamlet.
How unrelenting it is, on the kindness of choice.
Greed's fingers numbly pluck off his ripped-ribbon hat. The knuckles on the back of his hand are open and raw; the blisters of hours, of days, of months, digging into him like a festering wound, constantly prodded. With the tavern as empty as it is, the last dregs of a night well-spent simmer across his skin. Licks of barely-lit logs yellow at his face; a candle-hum whisper drowns in his shades. The Graverobber tests his wrist and as fingers splay out, he gently cracks them one by one - a death rattle countdown, clocking one, two -
Crck, and his middle finger slips back into its socket.
"Cut the chord, burn the house Fake death, fake your suicide Wash it all down with a bottle of regret Till there's no time left."
The brandy in his throat worms into his chest. It's rich, thick; a molasses tar, turning each cut, each shot, every wound, into nothing more than a slick inconvenience. Greed urges his head backward. Down, down, down, the bottle goes - its contents, quickly slimming to his appetite. All things considered, it should have been an easy job. The amount of traffic in and out of the Weald had thinned out the dangers - the flow of heroes, all but paving the way. Everything was set up: he'd go in, finish the burials, and at the dawn of a new day, he'd reap his well-wanted rewards with nothing more than a shallow smile and an extended hand.
Greed's lips peel and as another rinse of blood squeezes through his fingers, the edge of his heel smears across the floor; the spring of his spur, drawing a line.
"Check the bottom line Drain the bathtub Put your friends in it Burn the evidence There's no turning back No turning back There's no time There's no time."
The paper in his hand takes to what's left in the fireplace, forcing the red-seal stamp to a low, liquidity boil. Its browned corners coil in on themselves not a second later; their edges, like the toes of a witch, deflating in defeat. Greed nudges the empty pilfer of brandy out of the way with the tip of his boot and while it rocks against the stone hearth in a glassy shiver, he gingerly weighs his shoulder against the well of the staircase. It isn't a long climb upward - a flight, maybe two. However, at the moment, it may as well be forever. A sinner's walk to a set of pearly gates, stretching further and further away.
"Turn your stomach Turn a cheap trick Turn to violence Burn the evidence There's no turning back No turning back There's no time There's no time."
Greed's shoulder buckles and as his body doubles over, he forces himself up with the help of dirty walls and rickety floors. Choice, he's reminded. This was all his choice. His decision and Lord, Lord, will he be damned otherwise. Because, at the end of it all, righteousness. That light. It's never, ever, suited him.
➥ GRAVEROBBER | Darkest Dungeon AU
Candlelight vigil, I'm
I'm a breakneck city slicking dog, grab your gun
Turn their heads, rewind."
Light, the promise of safety - it's never suited him. Not before, in the hollow of drain-pipe secrets and certainly, not now. No, he's always preferred the opposite, hasn't he? Where the dim of a dying fire extends the space of swaying bodies, of slurring company, as waxy as candles, melting together in a lulled, drunken stupor. It's an option he prefers; an option he'll gladly take. And yet, the Hamlet. Ah, the Hamlet.
How unrelenting it is, on the kindness of choice.
Greed's fingers numbly pluck off his ripped-ribbon hat. The knuckles on the back of his hand are open and raw; the blisters of hours, of days, of months, digging into him like a festering wound, constantly prodded. With the tavern as empty as it is, the last dregs of a night well-spent simmer across his skin. Licks of barely-lit logs yellow at his face; a candle-hum whisper drowns in his shades. The Graverobber tests his wrist and as fingers splay out, he gently cracks them one by one - a death rattle countdown, clocking one, two -
Crck, and his middle finger slips back into its socket.
Fake death, fake your suicide
Wash it all down with a bottle of regret
Till there's no time left."
The brandy in his throat worms into his chest. It's rich, thick; a molasses tar, turning each cut, each shot, every wound, into nothing more than a slick inconvenience. Greed urges his head backward. Down, down, down, the bottle goes - its contents, quickly slimming to his appetite. All things considered, it should have been an easy job. The amount of traffic in and out of the Weald had thinned out the dangers - the flow of heroes, all but paving the way. Everything was set up: he'd go in, finish the burials, and at the dawn of a new day, he'd reap his well-wanted rewards with nothing more than a shallow smile and an extended hand.
Greed's lips peel and as another rinse of blood squeezes through his fingers, the edge of his heel smears across the floor; the spring of his spur, drawing a line.
Drain the bathtub
Put your friends in it
Burn the evidence
There's no turning back
No turning back
There's no time
There's no time."
The paper in his hand takes to what's left in the fireplace, forcing the red-seal stamp to a low, liquidity boil. Its browned corners coil in on themselves not a second later; their edges, like the toes of a witch, deflating in defeat. Greed nudges the empty pilfer of brandy out of the way with the tip of his boot and while it rocks against the stone hearth in a glassy shiver, he gingerly weighs his shoulder against the well of the staircase. It isn't a long climb upward - a flight, maybe two. However, at the moment, it may as well be forever. A sinner's walk to a set of pearly gates, stretching further and further away.
Turn a cheap trick
Turn to violence
Burn the evidence
There's no turning back
No turning back
There's no time
There's no time."
Greed's shoulder buckles and as his body doubles over, he forces himself up with the help of dirty walls and rickety floors. Choice, he's reminded. This was all his choice. His decision and Lord, Lord, will he be damned otherwise. Because, at the end of it all, righteousness. That light. It's never, ever, suited him.
And there's no time, never enough, for regrets.