La Danse Macabre (Open)

[Francis Fortunato]

Sleepy Hallow ~ Main Titles - By Danny Elfman

Dusk settled in with a blanketing fog, in the dark of the night with a chilled autumnal air. Past gnarled trees of twisting and contorting bark and mangled iron gates crippled and haphazard from the formidable sands of time and the disregard of uncaring man. Moonlight’s omnipotent glow smoldered like hellfire as foreboding clouds festered across the skyline. The witching hour struck like the chords of a violin, screeching it’s vile tune into the realm of mortal man with a vile disregard for the pleasant and the pleasing. A decrepit figure lurched alone, enveloped by shadow and bolstered by the magnanimous promises of some fruitless venture. Shovel in tow, mangled jester bells glistened in the shadow of this moonlight night, past the iron and into tufts of grass, a blanket of dismal viridian hue. Headstones sprouted up from the fields like dandelions choking out the idyllic pleasantry with a festering taint of death.

A loathsome chapel leered from high above the land, surveying such charnel fields with the power of a full moon’s effervescent glow shining atop a weathered peak. Slanted and warped, appearing to be, not a house of god, but a blasphemous quarry of evil and taint, glaring cruelly below to a fiefdom of death and degradation. A kingdom, and an invader, marching through fields of rot and ruin. Weeping stone angels snarling demonically down upon a blackly figure which crept up spiraling earth trodden trails and amidst chiseled stones of macabre dates and names. Nameless obelisks sprouting high into the air, and rickety wooden sticks cobbled together into scattered crosses. The skies sweltered in a grim admonition of fates to come, higher powers screaming their disgust as the skies trembled and the air tensed.

Clothe poulaines trudged wearily through dirt and mud up a dauntless hill and through mangled leafless thicket. A grim purpose gangway past crumbling stone and dilapidated cobble. The skies roared in anger, but the figure stood in horrific defiance. God screamed “no”, through the heavens and into the thunder. The figure never faltered nor failed, rusty shovel slumped over his shoulder with a mangled parchment nestled in his opposite glove. Pleased with the parchment, the shadow, black as tar and cruel as a devil, struck the earth. Iron piercing through soil and grass and haphazardly lobbing it aside. Another strike, piercing deep into the bowels of hell. Wind howling and the skies darkening. Digging. Digging. Digging. For what purpose? Allow me to explain....

Dawn simmered away the blight of darkness with heavens illustrious glow, in the light of day in the bowels of the bayou. Louisiana, circa. 1889, a tale as old as dirt and about as interesting. An urban legend spread by sewer rats and guttersnipes of all ages. The tale of the Cackling Crone. Men in the bayou spoke her name only in whispers, for her devilry was known far and wide. Bewitching men with the sensation of lust with honeyed words spewed from withered lips. Not the voice of a sultry maiden, but one of a wretched old hag. Her voice was irrefutable, a terrible and hoarse hymn, guttural and satanic. The men of the bayou could stand her honeyed words no longer. In the dark of the night they lurched into her hovel and home, she slept wheezing in her coffin like bed, sputtering out curses and profanities in her dreams and her her nightmares. Carefully and cautious they crept through the kitchen and past the parlor, through the halls and into the wolf’s den. She slept, peaceful and idyllic, unaware of the rabble she had roused in the dark of the night. Enveloped by shadows, black as tar, the men the men heaved open the hag’s mouth. She squealed and she sputtered, mouth held agape by bare hands heaving it open. She attempted a curse, but had her tongue sliced off clean as butter before she could finish such a spiteful utterance. Her honeyed words were now no more, but just to be sure the swamp men took a needle and thread and sealed her lips with surgical precision. Seemingly, she could not speak, only mumble. The men, satisfied with their work ambled off into the bramble, leaving the witch, alive and angry with the searing light of dawn piercing her ragged skin. The men thought peace had availed, but alas, there was a but a mere quiet before the storm. Revenge was swift, for a pestilence like the world had never seen swept across the bayou. Crops withered and livestock cried and anguish and pain as death shriveled them up into husks. Swarms of flies bloated out the skies, like a cancer festering in the air. The bumpkin bayou folk called to arms, ravenous and angry. They stormed the witches hovel to put an end to the voodoo and the hoodoo and the eldritch debauchery. With her lips sewn shut, the hag’s mumbled screams wailed out into the air like a deranged and hideous fit of gaudy laughter. She crawled out of the swamps with her cackling screams, but the men were relentless. Her shrieks gripping the air, the sounds of a hyena bellowing into the wind. She crawled out of Louisiana, howling in a cackling anguish, but the men were relentless. She crawled to Oregon, her muffled shrieks laughing into the city air and cursing the skies above, but the men were relentless. She crawled up a hill, laughing and laughing and laughing in fear, but the men were relentless. The Cackling Crone’s deranged fit of horror faded into nothingness as the men slew her there and then, casting her into the fires of hell and leaving her to plummet in an unmarked grave atop a twisting cemetery. They say, in the dead of night you can hear the Crone’s anguished cackle bellowing into the moon, engulfing that cemetery in her fear and horror and laughter for all ages.

Be it fact or fiction it mattered naught. The tale inspired droves of macabre men and women, those cast off into the pits of despair. Those disregarded by an uncaring world. Perhaps she was witch, horrific and cruel, or perhaps she was a simple and kindly recluse beaten into perdition for crimes she did not commit. It mattered naught, for what really mattered was how macabre and amazing the story was. The weird and the wild adored such fiction or fact, heinously delighted by such deranged tales. So delighted, in fact, that there are those few whom hunt for the forgotten grave of this horrific protagonist.

The darkly figure slumped through dirt and mud, a trench of smelly dirt decaying with the scoops and slumps of that battered and broken shovel. It slumped ever downwards until the spades tip collided with a pallet of wood with some echoing *thud*. A sinister grin curled and twisted like a snake slithering through stone and rock. Dirt and dust swabbed away to reveal a coffin, mangled oak wood creaking with the steps of clothe poulaines. Wood was ripped open with a creek, and lips sewn like a quilt leered back at the figure. Eyes black as the night, lifeless and void gazed into the heavens. Skin, ragged like burlap and peeling bits of flesh haphazardly strung and held together to that skull only by the lips. Hair, course and shriveled up coiled like tendrils stretching outwards were nestled across wood like a starfish. Delighted, the figure held out a gloved hand, as if expecting the corpse to reach out and grab. "Oooooh! My heart is pounding! You look as beautiful as your day of death! Hahhahahahahahahhahhaaaaaa!”

Danse Macabre - By Camille Saint-Saëns

He pulled her out, the corpse limply falling to his chest. Lifeless. Motionless. Pathetic. He titled his head, an empathetic smile twisting across his lips. A horrible manipulative little empathetic smile. He knew of the horrors, he knew of the hell, and he knew of the laughter... It felt good to find another. Another who knows. Another who feels. Another like him. And in that moment, blue eyes struck black. He was in love, she was hideous and grotesque... But he looked past that. He saw a kindred soul. A friend. Another lost in fires of this hell. Lightning crashed and crackled in the air, but he had companionship. A friend. A wonderful knew ally, for which he’d show his appreciation for... "I propose a celebration! A dance... La Danse Macabre! Come, come! We shall metamorphoses this graveyard into a raveyard! Hahhahahaha~" Confetti bellowed from his wrists, sprinkling down in the moonlight. Thunder and lightning screamed at him to stop this madness, but he spat in the face of whatever deity dared to plea something so repulsive as sanity.

His right hand delicately clasped bone and marrow, fingers coiling around a decomposed wrist. The dance of death was about to begin. He wrapped an arm around the corpse’s waist. They danced.... He swayed too then swayed fro, a step and a waltz then finally a twirl. "La Danse Macabre now here we come!" He guided her to the left, then swayed to the right, with a sashay here and a tango there. Dancing between headstones and crosses with glee. "We prance and we sway ‘til the day is done!" He jumped atop a headstone, swaying her about in the air, hopping between graves like a deranged rabbit. A twirl atop one headstone, a prance fo the next, all the while his partner in tow. "Tittering to the left and tattering to the right " Lightning struck the headstone beside him, one which he’d just moved away from. A stroke of bad luck you might say, lightning struck again and again each time attempting to smite this heathenous creature to no avail. "Hear our joy in this effervescent night!"

Lights and glitter enveloped the cemetery’s skyline. With thunder and rain pitter pattering on the grass and cold stone beneath. There was a commotion in this land of the dead, a grim custodian forced to trudge up through muck and mud and investigate the goings on in his realm. The dull glow of a lantern held high, murky light glinting against the caretaker’s cheeks. He squinted upon the sight of movement. Who’s makin’ all that racket!?” His mouth fell agape in shock and horror of the horrific sight which danced and prattled on before him. The attendant dropped his lantern, stricken with fear and disgust he ran off. Sprinting into the streets and screaming bloody murder.

”POLICE!!! HELP!! THERE’S A MADMAN IN THE GRAVEYARD!!! SOMEBODY!!! THERE’S A MADMAN IN THE GRAVEYARD!!!”

| Open Thread |

[Morgan Faye]

The moonlight glinted off of Arcadia's armor as she made her patrols. She'd been in Astaria for about four years now, and had yet to make a significant name for herself. Most large threats were handled by Aegis before she could reach them, but she was content to do good.

Besides, it was a good distraction from the essay she had to write and the exam she had tomorrow that she really didn't want to think about. She knew she was going to regret the decision to go out and patrol instead of do her homework, study, and get a good night's sleep, but she just couldn't help it. There were people who needed help.

Her ears perked as she heard someone calling for police, screaming about a madman in the graveyard. She wasn't sure what there was of value in the graveyard, but she figured that's why this guy was called a madman. She threw her blade up, sticking it into the roof of the attendant's shack, and then in a brief flash of light vanished from where she had been and appeared with her sword, using the height to get a good view of what was going on.

Was that... a clown? Dancing? With a... oh. That was rather disgusting. Very unsanitary. She'd have to tell this poor man's caretakers what he'd been doing so he could get a proper disinfecting bath.

She stood, and once again her blade arced across the sky, glinting in the moonlight as it spun and stuck itself in the dirt not far from the cackling jester. A woosh and a flash of light, and the armor-clad woman was extracting her blade from the earth. She pointed it at the cavorting clown.

"Hold, foul jester. Return the grandmother to her rest, and come peacefully, and you shall be returned to those that care for your body and mind forthwith."

Under her helmet, she grimaced at the sight of the grinning madman and the corpse. "As for your soul, may God have mercy upon it, for I know not what torments it."

Francis Fortunato

[Francis Fortunato]

Moongrains - by Seiiccubus

Twilight glistened where writhing memorials creeped and sprawled; the thrashing pitter patter of rainfall glinting bright hues of white and blue ‘pon the Last Laugh’s stage. The spotlight of the moon, the stars, and the lightning flaring horrific flashes as a backdrop to the lucky jester’s tango. Oh and lucky he was, for this dazzling date with death herself left his heart all atwitter. Lo the reeking husk which enveloped his nostrils with the smoldering musk of maggot addled meat and cheap perfume - rotted mangled hands with the texture of gnarled leather coiling round his neck in a passionate embrace - limp body dangling and battering against him with every waltz... Okay, so she was actually quite putrid. But he needed her. This disgusting rotted carcass would be his mentor. The Last Laugh’s teacher and tutor, another lost soul who knew full well the terrors in this world. Awake and alive to the madness of the so-called sane of mind. She would be the mother he lost, like the one he thought he loved; but he knows now that no such emotion exists.

White gloves dipped the limp figure into the tango’s swoop, one partner holding the other leaning into a light hover. The decrepit flyer hung limply in the smiling jester’s arms, two of the blackest eyes met and exchanged emotionless glances. Blank and black holes of a grinning clown mask glaring deep into empty eye sockets. A thumb and forefinger pinched the ridge of the Last Laugh’s nose, lightly tearing away a psychotic veneer from Fortunato’s face. For she needed to see his sincerity. She needed witness first hand the welled up hatred in his eyes. A curl of blonde unfurled over his forehead with blue eyes glaring cold and dead into the empty void of rotting eye sockets. ”Look to me and see the truth in the trickster ~ the proof in the pudding of my soul... To you, macabre mademoiselle, I promise a new lease in life. Freedom together from this downward spiral... I submit myself to thee, o’ spectacularly spooky skeleton, I shall serve you and together we shall unlock these shackles of reality! Accept my offer, Cackling Crone!”

She spoke naught but he took it as yes, and that yes made him overjoyed. Pearly whites curled into a beautiful smile beaming with joy and with a swivel he flailed her lifeless body to continue their dance of death. They sashayed around tufts of grass and with a small hop he perched them upon the top of a headstone with a twirl. Then in a flaring glint of moonlight a blade came plummeting from the heavens. It struck the earth in an uproar of thunder above, and miraculously an interloper followed. The harlequin stood upon his perch of stone in a downpour of rainfall, back facing the sword and warrior who stood staunchly against his heathenous act. Blue eyes gazed over his shoulder with a writhing massive grin, one could faintly make out tufts of blonde billowing from under his mangled crown. Lightning flared past them as he simultaneously pulled out a few tricks from his frilled sleeves and placed a grinning mask back upon his face.

~It’s Showtime!~
”Oh? An audience~? With mwah???”

One hand grasped the waist of the Cackling Crone and with a twirl and garish bow atop that tombstone stool the duo greeted their audience of one. The Last Laugh beamed and cackled with joy, a snarling white mask with jagged black fangs gleamed a vile effervescent grin to this... Knight? Oh, now that was just hilarious! I mean, the whole world was joke but this was genuinely funny! It took all his might and prowess as a thespian not to let loose a deranged fit of laughter... Sure, his deranged giggle would come and go quite often but those were choreographed you see. All part of the grand and decadent play of which he was the starring antagonist. He let this medieval vigilante prattle on with her demands, but in the back of his mind there was a simple pleasure in the poetry of it all. Like the grand stories of yore familiar archetypes cross paths under moonlight. The gallant knight and the cackling fool, the cunning jester and the stalwart hero, the conniving harlequin and the staunch warrior and the best part is she seemed fit her role down to the t! She certainly looked the part, glistening armor shimmering valiantly under the trickling storm. She spoke the part, eloquent clear cut and precise in her words quite proper indeed. She even acted the part! Dazzling dunce that she was gave the loon a chance to surrender (her mistake, really). ”Hold, foul jester. Return the grandmother to her rest, and come peacefully, and you shall be returned to those that care for your body and mind forthwith."

But there is no one who cares for him, not his mind, not his body, nor his soul. Not even he cares of himself, only for the illusion of self crafted for the sheep to praise and applause. This deranged bard’s life now belongs only to his mad crusade, the grandest show the universe has ever seen. No friends, no family, he had nothing.... Nothing and no one, except this decaying century old carcass but now even that was under threat of being swindled from him. That was just his luck, Francis had finally found someone... Someone to cherish, someone to form a meaningful bond with, a wretched material creature that he could communicate his thoughts and feelings to, and now this meaningless and moronic paladin wanted to strip that away from him... The first tangible connection he’s had in what’s felt like an eternity and a half just to have ripped away like he was a toddler playing with a match. Fortunately, Francis was not one to let his emotions get the better of him. That seething anger was to be stored in a cozy little bottle on his mantle, sheltered away for later use as his bombastic performance took center stage upon the here and now. ”Oh ho! Ah ha! Ah ha ha ha ha! Was our performance not a pleasure, o’ sanctimonious Knight - and what a dark knight it is - one which comes to rain upon my parade it would seem”

A grinning pale mask leaned as close as it could to her helmet, a black grin with bars like a prison gleaned horrifically proud beneath empty eyes with a plastic expression like makeup on a toy. A red glow billowed out from his sockets and mouth, maroon smog billowing out from eyes and mouth beneath his jagged five pronged jester crown. He had slipped a smoke bomb between his face and mask before greeting this paladin, the aforementioned trick. Now smoky red danced from his sockets and playfully billowed around them. Glowing white shapes of spades clubs diamonds and hearts glittered under his cape, he twirled with his corpse as blood red enveloped them and struck a pose, reaching up into the heavens theatrically. ”Behold my Charnel Carnival - for this dance of death is but the hors d'oeuvre in my four coarse meal demise! Ahhahahahahahahahahaha! (Believe me, you’re in for a killer main course! The desert is to die for! HA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAH!)”

”As for your soul, may God have mercy upon it, for I know not what torments it."

It was the grandest insult to insinuate that he above, he who authors all, he who holds the effervescent magnanimous vision did not appreciate the craft of this humble performer. The arrogant one above who laughs at him below. The wretched playwright of heavens who crafts the miserable tragedy of existence. Lord who authors pain and torture for its own amusement, personally and gleefully tormenting him with this harrowing curse, and this tin can b!%#& has the audacity to insinuate that God is not pleased - that God will torture him more in death than he has in life. Never before had the karmic clown felt such a very personal vitriol towards another - she might as well have spat in his mouth. But the jester remained composed allowing only slight hints of venom to seep into the tone of his collected chirp. ”Mmhmhaha. You speak his name as though you are well acquainted... But have you met our host as I have?” This poor lost sheep, lost like all the other sheeple, he could not help but pity her madness. Sanity is the true absurdity in an unfair, unjust, unscrupulous world. But he, and his Cackling Crone could offer her salvation. Offer her truth! Offer the sweet ambrosia of knowledge! ”Behold THIS is your god!” Theatric bravado chirped with every utterance as he leaned close to the warrior’s helmet. Gloved fingers delicately pinched a paper tube with a black and white pattern strewn around it perching the tube, with a rolling patterned paper at the tip, between his lips. Finally a party horn unfurled upon the stoic guardian’s face.

~FLOOM!~
| Morgan Faye |

[Morgan Faye]

Yep. That settled it. Ronald McDonald here was absolutely nuts.

She sighed and lowered her blade. "Your mind, poor clown, seems to have taken it's leave. I take no pleasure in what I must do, but I cannot leave you to disturb both living and dead with your chicanery."

This whole situation was absolutely nuts. She had to laugh to herself, in spite of the clown's antics. It was like something out of a comic book. The noble knight setting forth to subdue and stop the insane jester. She just hoped that the smoke that came out from under his mask was theatrics and practical effects and not any sort of superpower that would let him belch flames or something because that would make this a whole lot more difficult.

In a sudden, swift motion she flung her sword towards the jester. At first, one would have thought that she missed, but she prided herself on her accuracy with her blade. No, she had intentionally thrown it so it would soar past him, because she teleported to it while it was in mid-flight and redirected it's momentum to try and swat the clown on the back of the head with the flat of the blade. A quick and easy nonlethal takedown. Hopefully, this would be over just as quickly as this strange, macabre interaction started.

Francis Fortunato