![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mekachu04the bells chime in the distance - another funeral. So many humans, just gone. Again.
The scribes have started to keep count of the bell tolls to try and guage how mnay they've lost. Azirpahle points out to them, that it's only the catholic funerals they're counting, not the hundres of others.
they can only look helplessly at him; it's to dangerous to leave, to dangerous to mingle. how else are hey suppose to keep track? it's not like thye can go ask the other communities. maybe if anyone survives this, they can compare notes.
but at least this way - some record of just how bad this is wil exist. and they will leave a foot note - that it doens't come close to the real nubers of souls lost each day.
crowley lurks in the shadows some nights - they have to be careful not to be seen movig arund the city; the humans are scared - and justifiably so - but they've started to kill strangers that approach them, rather than risk speading infection. they are becoming paniced an parinoid, and it would do nither of them any favours to be discoterated now.
it feels wrong to see his freind, so have any sort of joy in this time. they don't dine and drink these days, even though a blessed haze of alchole would be welcome. they are careful to keep distant - more afraid of humans seeing them close than their sides for once. if azirpahl was seen lingering near a stranger, the little monistary would never let him in again. they have locked out hteir own brothers - why would the rules be bent for him?
still, they comiserate together, at a distance. voicing fears and pains in the dark to only eachother. they both feel hopeless.
off hand, azirpahle mentiones the bells; how he weeps for all those to whom the bell will never sound for - lost without record.
he will not learn it for centueries, but a demon discovers something about himself that night. concecrated ground *burns.* But it seems if you sneak into a church with the Right intent in your heart, you can pass though the threshold. late at night when the church finaly quiets, he slinks to the bell tower. He's lost many humans too - none of which was the right sort for the church to bury.
he rings the bells for each and every one of them.
every night, he counts out the souls lost to sickness and fear, counts out the families wiped out together that will be found out far to late, and some never at all. he can withstand the blisters and burns he will walk on for each tresspass; some so bad they never heal, scales scarring over parts of his feet for the rest of eternity.
this is no bell for the Almighty, hoping She will recieve them into her embrace; this is a bell for those still listening. the church will never understand why the bell tolls in the late witching hour; but the scribes record each strick dutifuly. the names will be lost, but at least for a moment, they will be counted. the will be known.
The scribes have started to keep count of the bell tolls to try and guage how mnay they've lost. Azirpahle points out to them, that it's only the catholic funerals they're counting, not the hundres of others.
they can only look helplessly at him; it's to dangerous to leave, to dangerous to mingle. how else are hey suppose to keep track? it's not like thye can go ask the other communities. maybe if anyone survives this, they can compare notes.
but at least this way - some record of just how bad this is wil exist. and they will leave a foot note - that it doens't come close to the real nubers of souls lost each day.
crowley lurks in the shadows some nights - they have to be careful not to be seen movig arund the city; the humans are scared - and justifiably so - but they've started to kill strangers that approach them, rather than risk speading infection. they are becoming paniced an parinoid, and it would do nither of them any favours to be discoterated now.
it feels wrong to see his freind, so have any sort of joy in this time. they don't dine and drink these days, even though a blessed haze of alchole would be welcome. they are careful to keep distant - more afraid of humans seeing them close than their sides for once. if azirpahl was seen lingering near a stranger, the little monistary would never let him in again. they have locked out hteir own brothers - why would the rules be bent for him?
still, they comiserate together, at a distance. voicing fears and pains in the dark to only eachother. they both feel hopeless.
off hand, azirpahle mentiones the bells; how he weeps for all those to whom the bell will never sound for - lost without record.
he will not learn it for centueries, but a demon discovers something about himself that night. concecrated ground *burns.* But it seems if you sneak into a church with the Right intent in your heart, you can pass though the threshold. late at night when the church finaly quiets, he slinks to the bell tower. He's lost many humans too - none of which was the right sort for the church to bury.
he rings the bells for each and every one of them.
every night, he counts out the souls lost to sickness and fear, counts out the families wiped out together that will be found out far to late, and some never at all. he can withstand the blisters and burns he will walk on for each tresspass; some so bad they never heal, scales scarring over parts of his feet for the rest of eternity.
this is no bell for the Almighty, hoping She will recieve them into her embrace; this is a bell for those still listening. the church will never understand why the bell tolls in the late witching hour; but the scribes record each strick dutifuly. the names will be lost, but at least for a moment, they will be counted. the will be known.
