Post by The Marquis on Sept 12, 2014 23:53:15 GMT -8
“It did not end.” The Marquis spat, licking his lips.
“What?” asked Tartuffe
“The World. It was merely horrible, but not the end. A single bomb to erase a city.” he said, walking gently down cobblestones, his shadow lengthening against the wall. The hall was dank and lit by a broken neon sign that some thoughtless wretch had cast away simply because it now said “sal.” French for “dirty,” The Marquis had chuckled to himself when he found it in the nets. The younger ones had erected nets in the flow to catch the filth and detritus of the surface world.
“Wasn’t that 15 years ago?” mused Tartuffe, who did not exist, but besides that was a rather wonderful fellow.
“Was it? And still I labor over the perfect phrasing for my latest letter. Do you think it’s fair to rhyme ‘beast’ with ‘breast’ in English? I can never tell.” The withered husk of the once-vibrant Alphonse Gerbeille Marquis D’Angerville had reached a desk supporting a dessicated parchment covered in illegible scratches and arcane flourishes. The letter bore almost as many scars from the quill as did he.
“Well, as a literary motif myself I can hardly be impartial” huffed Tartuffe.
“Yes, yes. Well, this will have to do. There will be another gathering tomorrow night. I do hope there will be a minuet. I adore the minuet. It is so quiet here. This unending life feels like the morning after a party, when everyone is gone.”
