Theodore "Mask" Allorque
19 June 2006 @ 07:10 pm
 
Blood begets blood, as lies beget lies.

I'm unexpectedly disturbed by the comments of my apparent superior, the lapdog of our rabid Queen. He who disrupts the flow, the one who hides demons under a facade of calm splendor.

Angels hiding demons. The shadows cast by the candle light. The venomous sting of a patterned cone shell.

It always comes back to deception, does it not?

Lord, now it sounds like I'm fawning over that monster. Alas, t'is not so. My obsession belongs to another, a sweet little thing with a complex that defies definition. Someone I'd love to corner and prod and pry at until they finally come out of that delightful little shell they've woven. Mankind is always so soft, so sweet, so malleable when freshly shucked from their self-made coffins of sheer delusion.

Oh, it must be love.

...Yes, I do believe Havoc has worked me into a tizzy. Fairs fair, but I must repay the favor some time.

~Mask
 
 
Current Location: The tiny, fetid corner I call my 'room'
 
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Theodore "Mask" Allorque
14 June 2006 @ 02:33 pm
 
Paints; white, red, blue, orange... On any sensible palette they'd never be mixed, but since when has anything around here ever been sensible?

Mix they do, coming together to form one of the sickest shades of grayish-brown I've ever had the displeasure of experiancing.

And it's not just a color; its a sound, a smell, a touch, a taste that infects every sense and makes me ill. I'm not the only one to feel the bitter acid rise in my throat at the thought of this massive, underpopulated waste we call home. Yet some seem to be in denial; they still cling to the hope that our little societies benefit us in some way.

They do not.

So why don't I leave?

I know what they'll do to me, if I return home. I watched them do it all to you before, dear Cristoff, after your failed attempt at emancipation. Would you hate me even more, if you knew all I've become? All I've created and all I've destroyed?

I suppose you would; you always did fling love and hate about with such wild abandon.

~Mask
 
 
Current Location: Under the wharfs
 
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Theodore "Mask" Allorque
01 June 2006 @ 10:31 am
 
Wharf Rats.

The name insinuates visions of rats crawling all over each other, spreading rumours and plots like a communicable disease.

Amongst the four tribes, we of the Wharf Rats are the schemers, the plotters, the backstabbers and liars. We think nothing of breaking bread with a comrade one moment, and betraying him the next. Nothing means more to us than our own skins, nothing appeals to us more than power.

At least in theory, in any case.

The Wharf Rats. The feral court ruled by a savage queen. How we will twist and kowtow to please the Berserker and her vicious rage. Like the court nobles of old we smile and compliment while behind the scenes we peel away the mask of pleasantries and sneer at those who’ve spurned us. A knotted rope about a throat has replaced the traditional poisoned dagger in the gut, but the meaning is all the same.

We feel no remorse for murder, even though it is openly frowned upon. As long as a kill furthers our cause, be it personal or in the name of our Queen and her consort (to whom we must bow and tug at our forelocks and address them in the reverent tones befitting worshippers of a minor blood god, even to the same degree that we do so towards our Queen), murder is acceptable.

Of course, so say so aloud is to invite the scorn of our fellows, for to speak such truths is terrible politics amongst us poor souls. Instead we whisper them in the shadows, taking discussions of treason and plot into the most inaccessible of sewer tunnels hoping that we’re not to be found and punished.

The prisons of our damp tunnels are a living hell at best, invested with all manner of vermin and illness. Two nights in confinement and a cough will set in, be it dry and wheezing or phlegmatic and bubbling. Two weeks and even the most iron willed of man or woman will begin to question their sanity; for the jailors speak not to the prisoners, lest the Queen or her consort slip a fine edge ‘tween their lips and part them from their tongue.

Such is the way of the rat.

~Mask
 
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Theodore "Mask" Allorque
20 May 2006 @ 07:32 pm
 
A mask may make a man into a puppet, but the puppetmaster is the core of emotion that hides unseen, grinning a sadistic smile while filthy talons snag the strings and lead the puppet on a merry dance of a facade.

Smile and the world smiles with you. Cry and they smile a wicked smirk.

Behind the mask, I am changing. I laugh, cry, fear, love, lust as much as the next shallow soul in this concrete hell. I want, I need, and I suffer like the rest. Perhaps I am a lower being for leaving these emotions unspoken and unseen, but they are a useless waste. Regardless, these emotions are becoming warped, twisted by nameless forces that dwell unseen within me.

The beast behind this mask of smiles and deception hungers, but for what I cannot say. To let it loose now would prove inconvenient. There are truths I hide that I cannot share, for the creature inside is weak and fearful. Scared of the world, scared of the truth...

In this place, where love and hate walk hand in hand over fields of broken glass and twisted steel, such a waste of energy as fear is unacceptable.

~Mask
 
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Theodore "Mask" Allorque
02 May 2006 @ 08:25 pm
 
I found this book while I was shifting through the debris today. The first few pages were already written in, by some girl named Karen. Apparently it was her diary. Oh well, once I ripped out the first couple of pages it was fine for general use.


I'm surprised that it survived wear and tear with only a bit of water damage around the edges. I haven't seen much paper around... I suppose its a fairly precious resource around here. It's probably in my best interest if I keep this jounral hidden from the rest of the Wharf Rats. I'm sure they'd want me to hand it over.

Speaking of which, I need to get back. I've been out for a while now... Sun's starting to go down.

~Mask
 
 
Current Location: The Grid
 
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Theodore "Mask" Allorque
02 May 2006 @ 06:19 pm
 
Such an interesting turn of events, this day was.

Wildcats. Pompous kittycats masquerading as savage backalley toms. Seagull and I ran into one, but he later backed off after the arrival of Eagle Eye and the loner who calls himself Sigurd (oh, and he's 'French-Norweigan'; we must never forget this, o' best beloved!). The loner we took, down to the tunnels for a lovely stay in Hotel Sewage. Silly little bastard. If he survives encarceration, I fear the coward will have quite a trial at the hands of the Berserker. Delightful.

Eagle Eye... pretentious fool, it seems. Has a gun and waves it around pellmell; its a wonder no one has relieved him of it yet. Still, he's easily ignored when he has the good sense to stay away from me. I'd have no qualms putting him in his place, save that it might attract the attentions of the higher ups.

But Seagull. Dear, sweet, little Gull. She has a cold fire inside. The spark of survival's there, even in one as apparently delicate as her. Oh, she's somber enough most of the time, but today... I don't know whether something just rubbed her the wrong way, but she showed she has a backbone, and a prickly one at that.

She's a dear, but I don't think she's too fond of me. Shame. Still, if I can find what triggered her... metamorphosis, today, I'd like to try and get her out from under her rock again, if at all possible.

Ah. I'm too unfocused to write properly, so you'll forgive me if I make little sense, my dear journal.
 
 
Current Location: 'Bed', in actuality a dirty pallet in cranny under the docks
 
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