DEATH (pale_as) wrote in forgotten_past, @ 2009-01-21 21:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | death, satan |
Who: Death and Satan
Where: England
When: 1349
Ratings/Warnings: R
The Black Death was in full swing, and Death was drunk off his ass from it. He could hardly contain himself. The fear, the rot, the anticipation of the end, the constant pleading to an apparently uncaring God, every thought was on Death, and Death was on the prowl. He was powerful, yes, saturated with the fears and teary reverence of millions of peasants, landowners, nobles, even royalty. It was .. it was something. Not something wonderful but, hell, he hadn't felt this full of belief since the bloody Crusades and it was nice to have a bit of hardcore recognition every now and again. He was brimming with power, the whole universe seemed to bend to his will. It was glorious.
He excused himself from a heated debate between two half-dead peasants over whether the plague was the fault of the Church or the Jews and pushed his way out of a heavily crowded tavern - perfect breeding grounds for more victims, incidentally, his brother would have been pleased. He paused his trek through the throng to grasp a large-busomed tavern wench by the shoulders and kiss her hard on the lips, an action he never would have committed in his right mind, but he wasn't, really. He was smashed out of his mind from power. He burst out of the somber tavern into the cool night air and inhaled deeply, stumbled slightly to his left, and began to walk down the street. This proved to be somewhat problematic, as his legs didn't quite seem to want to work properly. He stumbled a bit more, bumping into various pieces of scenery until, finally, he collided with what he assumed was yet another misanthropic peasant. The force knocked him to his backside and his attempts at standing back up again could only be described as 'grotesquely hilarious'.
"I do apologize, gentle sir-" Death managed to slur as he clambered back to his feet, "But these dark days hath sored my head, you understand."