The three robed figures are carefully examining the pattern on the floor and the other things set up around it. Philippus is getting a closer look, this time.
The red smears aren't paint. The white powder isn't chalk: it's bone. Unlit black candles in shallow brass bowls stand at precise points on the pattern, smelling faintly of incense and sulfur. And on the table itself, on the black velvet altar-cloth, a bulbous pale root sits in front of the Scythe like the world's ugliest paperweight.
There's something genuinely hideous about that root; something about the sickly grayish color, the swollen shape, the cracked and flaking surface texture. Seen out of the corner of the eye, it seems to stir sluggishly, to swell and pulse as though breathing.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-10-23 04:39 am (UTC)The red smears aren't paint. The white powder isn't chalk: it's bone. Unlit black candles in shallow brass bowls stand at precise points on the pattern, smelling faintly of incense and sulfur. And on the table itself, on the black velvet altar-cloth, a bulbous pale root sits in front of the Scythe like the world's ugliest paperweight.
There's something genuinely hideous about that root; something about the sickly grayish color, the swollen shape, the cracked and flaking surface texture. Seen out of the corner of the eye, it seems to stir sluggishly, to swell and pulse as though breathing.