Movotti & Midori Movotti
favorite color: green
Assignment 6: Doll
The wood carver made toys.
He carved many toys, and made many children happy. His fame grew, and one day, he recieved an order for a wooden doll, to be used to entertain a sick prince. So he carefully selected the wood, one with a very fine grain, so fine, that it was almost invisible, and he set about carving it. The tone of the wood was pale, such that it resembled the flesh of the noble born folk. The doll was a work of art.
But things are never what they seem
As the wood carver finished painting the greeneyes and the red mouth, and tied the strings, so that the wooden doll might dance, he recieved word that the sick prince had died. That meant no one would pay for the doll, now that it was no longer needed.
Frustrated, the wood carver tossed the doll on a shelf, with it's strings tangled beneath it, slammed the door and went to the pub. No one would be able to afford to buy that magnificent doll.
Time went on, and the wood carver met a beautiful woman, who agreed to become his wife. But things are never what they seem. The couple faught all the time, mostly about money, and the doll that no one would ever buy, and each day, the wood carver would end the argument by slaming the door, and going to the pub, and his new wife would sit on the bed and cry.
But things are never what the seem.
The wife was a witch. And in her misery, she cast a spell.
A friend is what I need,
A friend in action, a friend in deed
My husband is like a garden full of weeds
But a friend is what I need,
Someone strong and kind
Someone who can meet my needs .
Not a man of words, but a man of deeds.
But magic is a fickle thing, and things are never what the seem.
The wife went to bed alone, but was woken by a strong body climbing in beside her, and that night, her needs were met. But no words were spoken.
That night, her husband didn't return.
The follwing night, she repeated the spell, and again, her secret lover came to her, in silence. And still, her husband did not return.
Several days later the wood carver was found hanging from a tree, suspended by vines, like he was a puppet.
Later that day, when the widow went to pack her things, she saw the doll on the shelf, but not as it used to be, the expression was now a smirk, and it's limbs were no longer tied to the strings.
She whispered the spell, and the dolls smirk became a smile. And as it stepped down from the shelf, it grew, and became a real man. He spoke no words, as he took her hand, and lead her to the bedroom.
But always in her mind, was the question of what had happened to her husband. Was it magic alone that had taken his life, or was it the doll? That thought gave her a thrill of fear, and excitement. Was her wooden lover a murderer?
He carved many toys, and made many children happy. His fame grew, and one day, he recieved an order for a wooden doll, to be used to entertain a sick prince. So he carefully selected the wood, one with a very fine grain, so fine, that it was almost invisible, and he set about carving it. The tone of the wood was pale, such that it resembled the flesh of the noble born folk. The doll was a work of art.
But things are never what they seem
As the wood carver finished painting the greeneyes and the red mouth, and tied the strings, so that the wooden doll might dance, he recieved word that the sick prince had died. That meant no one would pay for the doll, now that it was no longer needed.
Frustrated, the wood carver tossed the doll on a shelf, with it's strings tangled beneath it, slammed the door and went to the pub. No one would be able to afford to buy that magnificent doll.
Time went on, and the wood carver met a beautiful woman, who agreed to become his wife. But things are never what they seem. The couple faught all the time, mostly about money, and the doll that no one would ever buy, and each day, the wood carver would end the argument by slaming the door, and going to the pub, and his new wife would sit on the bed and cry.
But things are never what the seem.
The wife was a witch. And in her misery, she cast a spell.
A friend is what I need,
A friend in action, a friend in deed
My husband is like a garden full of weeds
But a friend is what I need,
Someone strong and kind
Someone who can meet my needs .
Not a man of words, but a man of deeds.
But magic is a fickle thing, and things are never what the seem.
The wife went to bed alone, but was woken by a strong body climbing in beside her, and that night, her needs were met. But no words were spoken.
That night, her husband didn't return.
The follwing night, she repeated the spell, and again, her secret lover came to her, in silence. And still, her husband did not return.
Several days later the wood carver was found hanging from a tree, suspended by vines, like he was a puppet.
Later that day, when the widow went to pack her things, she saw the doll on the shelf, but not as it used to be, the expression was now a smirk, and it's limbs were no longer tied to the strings.
She whispered the spell, and the dolls smirk became a smile. And as it stepped down from the shelf, it grew, and became a real man. He spoke no words, as he took her hand, and lead her to the bedroom.
But always in her mind, was the question of what had happened to her husband. Was it magic alone that had taken his life, or was it the doll? That thought gave her a thrill of fear, and excitement. Was her wooden lover a murderer?
Assignment 5: Zydrate Anatomy
Everyone has their scars, and those scars tell a story.
And the story that they tell is the story of your life,
The way that you lived it, and the risks you took.
On the street corner is a man, with a glass vial in his hand.
And the liquid is blue, in the vial in his hand.
It's that liquid that lets the body have more stories to tell.
A shot of the blue into the body's anatomy, just a plum or a jab,
To make any pain, any feeling or sensation just go away.
It's the man on the street who sells as a treat,
The bliss of oblivion that comes in the form of,
A little glass vial, filled with the blue stuff called Zydrate.
The scar of a cut, for a-plum and a tuck.
Pull some skin here, cut off a bit there,
What did you need it for anyway?
Surgery to fix what was never broken, it's not surgery that's the fix
It's the stuff in the bottle, from the man on the street.
It'll stop the pain of the sugery, and your life it'll fix.
And where he gets the stuff? You won't want to know.
They call him the Grave Robber, and that tells you too much,
But if you take that first shot, you won't care any more.
You won't care that he digs up the dead, for the drug
You won't care in what way you'll pay for that drug
All that will matter is that you'll get that shot.
The scars of the people on the street tell the story of their addiction.
Of the bliss of oblivion that from the blue stuff called Zydrate,
From the man on the street, with the little glass vial.
And the story that they tell is the story of your life,
The way that you lived it, and the risks you took.
On the street corner is a man, with a glass vial in his hand.
And the liquid is blue, in the vial in his hand.
It's that liquid that lets the body have more stories to tell.
A shot of the blue into the body's anatomy, just a plum or a jab,
To make any pain, any feeling or sensation just go away.
It's the man on the street who sells as a treat,
The bliss of oblivion that comes in the form of,
A little glass vial, filled with the blue stuff called Zydrate.
The scar of a cut, for a-plum and a tuck.
Pull some skin here, cut off a bit there,
What did you need it for anyway?
Surgery to fix what was never broken, it's not surgery that's the fix
It's the stuff in the bottle, from the man on the street.
It'll stop the pain of the sugery, and your life it'll fix.
And where he gets the stuff? You won't want to know.
They call him the Grave Robber, and that tells you too much,
But if you take that first shot, you won't care any more.
You won't care that he digs up the dead, for the drug
You won't care in what way you'll pay for that drug
All that will matter is that you'll get that shot.
The scars of the people on the street tell the story of their addiction.
Of the bliss of oblivion that from the blue stuff called Zydrate,
From the man on the street, with the little glass vial.
Assignment 4: See No Evil
We hurt the ones we love the most, is how the saying goes, but sometimes, the ones we love hurt everyone, yet we turn our backs, and pretend we can't see it. Sometimes it's our lovers, sometimes our parents, sometimes our siblings.
With the curse came a hunger, a craving for what flows beneath the surface of all living creatures. Ori worked hard to ignore it, choosing only to drink form the beasts in the forest. But Kara, she had no control, the hunger consumed her, and Ori didn't notice.
The gardener was found dead, bleeding in the bushes, Ori brushed if off, a wild animal did it.
There were wolves and bears in the forest. Local villagers died from time to time, their remains gnawed on.
The kitchen maid was found dead, bleeding in the courtyard, Ori brushed it off, a wild animal did it, didn't it? How else would have it happened?
A wolf, it had to have been a wolf. Unless one of the dogs had gone wild. It must have been a wolf.
The scribe was found dead, Ori brushed it off, a wild animal did it. It had to have been a wild animal. Ori couldn't think of any other way for it to have happened?
A wild animal, inside the walls of the castle?
The chamber maid's shrieks had echoed from the courtyard. Ori didn't hear her, lost in thought. It was a wild animal. A wolf. A bear. A dog gone wild. It couldn't be his sister.
With the curse came a hunger, a craving for what flows beneath the surface of all living creatures. Ori worked hard to ignore it, choosing only to drink form the beasts in the forest. But Kara, she had no control, the hunger consumed her, and Ori didn't notice.
The gardener was found dead, bleeding in the bushes, Ori brushed if off, a wild animal did it.
There were wolves and bears in the forest. Local villagers died from time to time, their remains gnawed on.
The kitchen maid was found dead, bleeding in the courtyard, Ori brushed it off, a wild animal did it, didn't it? How else would have it happened?
A wolf, it had to have been a wolf. Unless one of the dogs had gone wild. It must have been a wolf.
The scribe was found dead, Ori brushed it off, a wild animal did it. It had to have been a wild animal. Ori couldn't think of any other way for it to have happened?
A wild animal, inside the walls of the castle?
The chamber maid's shrieks had echoed from the courtyard. Ori didn't hear her, lost in thought. It was a wild animal. A wolf. A bear. A dog gone wild. It couldn't be his sister.
Assignment 3: Undead
He couldn't remember what had happened. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know where he was. He couldn't even remember his own name.
Why didn't he remember? He had something, almost a thought, but every time he pursued it, it escaped. There was a reason why he was here, he was certain of it. If only he could capture that thought. Yet, again, it evaded him.
And this place, he should know where he was. It was so familiar, something like... like. That thought escaped too.
Well, wherever he was, he felt safe.
It was quiet here, wherever here was.
Peaceful.
But he couldn't stay here. Something called to him, something called him to rise. To climb, to dig, to claw, to scratch at the earth, and escape from that safe, unknown place.
It wasn't so nice in the new place. There were stones, with scratchings on them, there was long grass that tangled around his feet, there weeds with thorns that caught on his clothes. There was noise, there was wind howling in his ears. There was craving. The constant hunger. Nothing could satiate it. Nothing would stop the constant gnawing, the ache it caused inside. Why was he so hungry?
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what had happened. This wasn't what he was supposed to be doing. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. This wasn't his... Life?
He didn't know where he was, but his stiff limbs could shuffle him to new places. And while he might not have memories, he could find food. Try to fill the hollow inside. He might not have life, but he could take life. Change life, convert life, into... this... unlife?
And maybe, just maybe, he might remember something small, some little thing. His name, perhaps?
He shuffled past the hole he had crawled from, and the scratching covered stome beside it. Yes. He would like to remember his name.
Why didn't he remember? He had something, almost a thought, but every time he pursued it, it escaped. There was a reason why he was here, he was certain of it. If only he could capture that thought. Yet, again, it evaded him.
And this place, he should know where he was. It was so familiar, something like... like. That thought escaped too.
Well, wherever he was, he felt safe.
It was quiet here, wherever here was.
Peaceful.
But he couldn't stay here. Something called to him, something called him to rise. To climb, to dig, to claw, to scratch at the earth, and escape from that safe, unknown place.
It wasn't so nice in the new place. There were stones, with scratchings on them, there was long grass that tangled around his feet, there weeds with thorns that caught on his clothes. There was noise, there was wind howling in his ears. There was craving. The constant hunger. Nothing could satiate it. Nothing would stop the constant gnawing, the ache it caused inside. Why was he so hungry?
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what had happened. This wasn't what he was supposed to be doing. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. This wasn't his... Life?
He didn't know where he was, but his stiff limbs could shuffle him to new places. And while he might not have memories, he could find food. Try to fill the hollow inside. He might not have life, but he could take life. Change life, convert life, into... this... unlife?
And maybe, just maybe, he might remember something small, some little thing. His name, perhaps?
He shuffled past the hole he had crawled from, and the scratching covered stome beside it. Yes. He would like to remember his name.
Assignment 2: Loss
We were the grandchildren of a baker, and our mother worked at the home of the Duke. And though we were illegitimate, we were his only children, me, and my little sister Kara. The Duke, he doted on us, sent me to university, named me his heir.
And then I met her. She was beautiful, with silver blonde hair, and eyes an inhuman shade of blue. We spent every moment we could together, hidden away in secluded corners, in the library, in the courtyard garden. She stole my heart, she stole my soul, and then... she stole everything.
She arranged for my father to find us, I was then informed that she was the illegitimate daughter of his wife. And a witch. She sought to become the heir. That night she cursed me, and my sister. She turned us into monsters, creatures of the night.
That night we lost it all.
But the reality of that loss didn't all come at once, it came slowly, over the weeks.
Our father died.
In the weeks that followed, I struggled to fight against the cravings, while trying to live my life as the new Count.
But then, the witch told the villagers that we were now monsters. They came in anger, with pitchforks, spears, and flaming brands. They demanded that we leave, and set fire to our home.
We should have drained them all. But instead, in the chaos, we fled to the mountains. I couldn't bear to watch the flames take all we had left. Sword in hand, I watched the path behind us, willing any of them to dare follow, so that I might end them.
But no one did.
We fled before the sun rose, seeking refuge in a small village as the sky began to lighten. I will always remember who took it all from us, but time is on our side. When you are immortal, revenge is a dish that can be served centuries later.
I gave my heart too freely, and lost everything. But one day, I will find the witch who took it all, and she will learn the meaning of loss.
And then I met her. She was beautiful, with silver blonde hair, and eyes an inhuman shade of blue. We spent every moment we could together, hidden away in secluded corners, in the library, in the courtyard garden. She stole my heart, she stole my soul, and then... she stole everything.
She arranged for my father to find us, I was then informed that she was the illegitimate daughter of his wife. And a witch. She sought to become the heir. That night she cursed me, and my sister. She turned us into monsters, creatures of the night.
That night we lost it all.
But the reality of that loss didn't all come at once, it came slowly, over the weeks.
Our father died.
In the weeks that followed, I struggled to fight against the cravings, while trying to live my life as the new Count.
But then, the witch told the villagers that we were now monsters. They came in anger, with pitchforks, spears, and flaming brands. They demanded that we leave, and set fire to our home.
We should have drained them all. But instead, in the chaos, we fled to the mountains. I couldn't bear to watch the flames take all we had left. Sword in hand, I watched the path behind us, willing any of them to dare follow, so that I might end them.
But no one did.
We fled before the sun rose, seeking refuge in a small village as the sky began to lighten. I will always remember who took it all from us, but time is on our side. When you are immortal, revenge is a dish that can be served centuries later.
I gave my heart too freely, and lost everything. But one day, I will find the witch who took it all, and she will learn the meaning of loss.
Assignment 1: Hidden
This city is afraid of me.
Yet once, they loved me. Once, I was their hero. Once, it was to me, that they turned for help.
There was a time, when they would shine a light into the sky, to call me to their needs. But then the filth came, festering on the inside of the shining halls of glory and power. And they knew that I could see what was on the inside.
That I could see it's dirty, rotten core. It's streets so clean, on the outside. The buildings, all shiny metal and glass. Tinted glass, to hide the horrors within. The politicians with their velvet tongues, hiding the venom filled fangs beneath. They had a choice. They could have chosen honesty, they could have chosen justice. But no. They chose lies, they chose injustice. And now, the corpse of this city will rot, it will bloat, and sink into itself, until only it's bones remain.
Yes, the gutters are clean, but the sewers crawl with rats. And as those rats crawl up and naw at the citizens, the people will look up at this tower, and shout, "Save us!"... And I will look down at them, and whisper, "No."
This city is afraid of me.
I was its Warrior of Justice, they labeled me a Beast, a vigilante. In truth, they are the beasts, and I was the hunter. Someone had to keep a vigil over these streets, someone had to keep watch, and step in, when the rats rose up. But no more. Now, I will walk away, and leave them to their decay.
Yet once, they loved me. Once, I was their hero. Once, it was to me, that they turned for help.
There was a time, when they would shine a light into the sky, to call me to their needs. But then the filth came, festering on the inside of the shining halls of glory and power. And they knew that I could see what was on the inside.
That I could see it's dirty, rotten core. It's streets so clean, on the outside. The buildings, all shiny metal and glass. Tinted glass, to hide the horrors within. The politicians with their velvet tongues, hiding the venom filled fangs beneath. They had a choice. They could have chosen honesty, they could have chosen justice. But no. They chose lies, they chose injustice. And now, the corpse of this city will rot, it will bloat, and sink into itself, until only it's bones remain.
Yes, the gutters are clean, but the sewers crawl with rats. And as those rats crawl up and naw at the citizens, the people will look up at this tower, and shout, "Save us!"... And I will look down at them, and whisper, "No."
This city is afraid of me.
I was its Warrior of Justice, they labeled me a Beast, a vigilante. In truth, they are the beasts, and I was the hunter. Someone had to keep a vigil over these streets, someone had to keep watch, and step in, when the rats rose up. But no more. Now, I will walk away, and leave them to their decay.