Sasha prefers to open (carry) wrote in repose, @ 2016-02-17 22:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cat dubrovna, eddie nelson, sasha james |
Theater: Eddie, Cat, Sasha
Who: Sasha, Eddie, and Cat
What: Machete delivery!
Where: Sasha's loft.
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Spooky?
In the back of The Senator theater was the door to Sasha's loft. It had been used as storage for decades, but the actual apartment that shared the same floor was far too domestic for Sasha's tastes. Thankfully this half of the building had been renovated enough to be utilized as a living area, but it was still one big empty room that happened to have a bathroom attached.
However, that was not the first thing anyone would notice upon coming up the stairwell. The first thing that hit was the smell of rotten flesh. Death. The sickeningly sweet maggot siren call of decomposition that hung heavy in the remarkably humid room. Ribbons of what looked like crepe paper streamers littered the floor, but upon closer inspection they were actually long strands of dead flaking snakeskin instead.
At least there were no animal carcasses on the floor, right guys?
Sasha was on the bed in the back corner of the room, lounging languidly in the plush down. She looked like the high priestess of some jungle tribe (if said high priestess wore a paint-fleckered black tank top and blue sleep shorts), the humidity giving her unruly curls a mind of their own. No, not one of those benevolent jungle queens, either. The sort that would be painted in bright crimson scales from the blood of her enemies, wrapped around her body from head to toe, which would serve as threat to any who invaded her territory. Except this wasn't warpaint. These were real scales that that infected and overran her flesh, snaking seductively along curve of calf and around her torso up over dip of clavicle.
They could be felt before they arrived. "I hope you brought some rum. She has no more." The voice belonged to Sasha, but rumbled with something deeper underneath.