they were given a task. decoration and tidying the fortress.

the twins did not know the luxury of appreciating aesthetics, or what they perceived to be beauty. there was only the aching weariness of helplessness sinking into their bones like winter, awaiting punishment and affliction.

it only felt like finally, after so long that they could breathe a little again.

ironic, considering they only merely switched the clutches of subjugation and tyranny.

decoration. it sounded quaint. quaint did not fit the pitt, from what they had seen. the pitt was loud and savage. they needed something according and tactical for their own fortress. something to stake a claim and a statement, screaming, this is our home!

the right head’s barbaric mind roiled with impish ideas, and the left only pondered. what to do. what to do? time to ask themselves.

left turning to right, with tongue poised in inquiry.
right already long ago had an idea. they did not speak-- never would. only a glint came to the other half’s honeyed irises.
-
simply divine! fearsome, just like moribund’s own current captors; whom they idolized. it reflected the ferocity of the pitt. it would truly be a home to live in.

the din of bones rattling against the cobblestone became an orchestra. the right bit into the brittle bones between their jaws, feeling the ivory crackle onto the hallway floor, and relishing in how easily it gave away beneath their flat, blunt teeth.

they had carried a plethora of gristly bones into the camp. anything from skulls to hipbones and ribs-- leftover remains from far too weak slaves who had withered away under the sun or cruelty of their masters. these were trophies-- testimony to the pitt's terrible might.

tactical adornment was a mere fantasy in the two-headed slave's mind. they placed the bones wherever they felt space was too empty. too shallow.

it looks far prettier now, the right head thought rather satisfactorily as they stepped to inspect the skull they had just crammed into a high reaching crevice.

pretty. an odd word seldom rarely used by them, or anyone else. but pretty was a pretty word, and it felt good to think. or say. if only they could speak.

When she had given them the task of decorating, Cosette hadn't considered remains to be involved. But, even so, she wasn't too surprised--it fit them, if anything. Still, it was a little unsettling, the empty sockets of the skulls seeming to stare at her as she stood at the slave's side. A chill down her spine, she instead focused on the two-headed being, offering them a somewhat shaky smile.

"It looks good. I think it fits." she says, though there's a note of uncertainty in her voice at first. It wasn't bad, just hard to register, she supposed. It would take some getting used to, that was for sure.