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02. (Week One)
Feb. 6th, 2026 06:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tequila_sunset[will link Harry’s TL with his altars here when posted, available to be prayed at, vandalized, etc]
Out of the murmur comes an image: an altar made of tires and chains and cinderblocks. Decorated with multicolored feathers and the cleaned bones of hosts. Crowned in antlers made majestic with their twisted metal branches. An assortment of candles sit around the base, flickering with a gentle and inviting light.
An image isn’t the only thing being transferred in this moment. It comes messy with the residue of Harry’s feelings. (A tumultuous mass of mismatched colors and limbs that tear and bite at each other.) He’s nervous, absolutely terrified of what’s to come upon them all, and afraid he’ll be turned away, mocked-
HALF LIGHT - (Stop! Stop! This is a horrible idea. They’re only going to yell at you.)
-but there’s a hope. That if he does right it’ll all be worth it. Nausea boils in his stomachs. Rejection is painful, scary. It’s cold.
His rough voice echoes as if coming from many mouths:
“I invite any and all of you to come worship with me. The world is splitting, its fragile seams are tearing open all around us. The world ends again. The end of ends comes.”
Speaking of her calms the noisy background chaos of his mind. All can feel it: a deep love for Sleep, and the time he’s spent with her.
“You can offer her what you want, your hope, your past, your blood. I once gave her a memory of a song…sharing that with her was wonderful.”
He falls into a nervous silence, not totally sure what to anticipate.
Out of the murmur comes an image: an altar made of tires and chains and cinderblocks. Decorated with multicolored feathers and the cleaned bones of hosts. Crowned in antlers made majestic with their twisted metal branches. An assortment of candles sit around the base, flickering with a gentle and inviting light.
An image isn’t the only thing being transferred in this moment. It comes messy with the residue of Harry’s feelings. (A tumultuous mass of mismatched colors and limbs that tear and bite at each other.) He’s nervous, absolutely terrified of what’s to come upon them all, and afraid he’ll be turned away, mocked-
HALF LIGHT - (Stop! Stop! This is a horrible idea. They’re only going to yell at you.)
-but there’s a hope. That if he does right it’ll all be worth it. Nausea boils in his stomachs. Rejection is painful, scary. It’s cold.
His rough voice echoes as if coming from many mouths:
“I invite any and all of you to come worship with me. The world is splitting, its fragile seams are tearing open all around us. The world ends again. The end of ends comes.”
Speaking of her calms the noisy background chaos of his mind. All can feel it: a deep love for Sleep, and the time he’s spent with her.
“You can offer her what you want, your hope, your past, your blood. I once gave her a memory of a song…sharing that with her was wonderful.”
He falls into a nervous silence, not totally sure what to anticipate.
