Abandoned at the edge of eternity ▪☆▪joining

[VIRGIL M.]

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XVIII - THE MOON

a monument dreams and fantasies come to life, the representation of instincts often left suppressed and a knock into our subconscious.  Virgil of the pitt is a study in beauty: a perfect understanding of that which terrifies you, a perfect picturesque of horror and delight

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Cruel where the fathers that abandoned them both. Virgil felt spite welling inside her blood. It boiled into an anger that she had struggled with. There were no funeral for her father- just a crowning corpse a pile in his home- and his skull the jewel to the crown. He had died, he had crooned the corpse god's words and rotted away; She felt bitter, but it was only the rumble of distraction from the festival that kept her from stumbling off and carving his skull into something more useful: but he were a waste- and it were only fitting his body waste away.

It was the howl that broke Virgil's concentration, tending to the home of her father; turning it into a garden was a careful process. Toiling soil over the melting flesh of her father's kills. She would dig up the bones later- but for now the remnants of him would be made into something from Virgil's own hands. She stopped her workings, and looked towards the sound- watching the bone-white pup stumble between the corpse wall and closer- further in. Well, that wouldn't do, would it?

"you reek of sorrow, stranger" Virgil hummed through the vision that befell her. Sickly green eyes spoke of rot looked at and saw more than what was physically present. A lingering taste of the other's aura, the determine set- sorrow that dragged at the stranger's shoulders. The acolyte cocked her head towards the stranger. Giving them a moment to speak- rebuff if the so wished . "What a place to get lost in," she hummed out