hismasterpiece | 1. A Spring Decoration. Still Image

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1. A Spring Decoration. Still Image | Written

[The journal clicks on at the far end of twilight, and the blurring image gradually resolves into a sharply-focused view of a dead fawn strewn with white and purple crocuses. White tea candles halo the little head, which is thrown back. Its tiny thin legs look as though they are leaping across the red-tinged snow.

Anyone who is paranoid about vampires in general -- or who is looking REALLY closely -- might see two tiny, clean puncture holes in the fawn's neck.

The following text soon appears beneath the image:]

I have made a spring picture. Everything melts and runs, and the ground is thirsty for secrets. And empty of them.

[So writes a vampire who is homesick for tombs and crypts and graveyards. This place is so barren of them. It won't do. Won't do at all. Still, she is pleased to have made this beautiful art out of a much-needed meal. Angelus would be pleased, too.]

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[ speaking of people who are paranoid about vampires... ]

What happened to it?

[ it's certainly unsettling. has buffy seen eerier? yes (and some of that eerier has been drusilla's work as well); however, she sees no signature here. no modus operandi. none that she recognizes, at least. maybe it's been too long; maybe she's too optimistic.

either way, life in luceti has long since taught buffy summers to put her vamp-suspicions on the back burner in favour of finding things out. ]

[Oh, the slayer. This is delightful; Drusilla had spied Buffy Summers out on the journals. It was a glorious game to write messages to her. Funny messages. Invisible ink. She is careful to obscure her image from the journal's camera.]

He frolicked off the final page and cut himself. Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad.

[ das unheimliche. mucho das unheimliche. ]

Right. Have you hit your head? Did it hit its head? Did you hit its head?

[ actually -- give her a sec to peer closer and check out what happened to this poor creature in the image. ]

What...what are you doing to it?

Are you quite alright?

-Admiral James Norrington

Edited 2012-03-10 02:34 (UTC)

I have done with it. I have made it magnificent. It is a magnificent child now.

[Drusilla stares at the image of the man writing to her, still careful to keep her own obscured. Oh. Oh, he's handsome. He's handsome like a footman, or the tiny man who stands atop a wedding cake. Oh he is marzipan and delight.]

I am well my lord. I am well. And you?

Only naughty children hit. It is very wrong to do that, very wrong.

A child? A child of what, if I may ask?

[ the fact that this could be someone from home? so very far from her mind. lightyears away. lighteons. ]

Okay. So the critter was hit. But that's a lot of blood for a so-called papercut.

Somewhat concerned, I confess. This fawn -- it is harrowing image.

Edited 2012-03-10 02:52 (UTC)

You mean for me to dig up the earth and hide his bones, my lord?

[His noble language! His noble tone! Somewhere beneath his marble frosting glaze there is a candy soldier with the heart of a poet. She knows it. Delicious.]

A child of the spring: rebirth, new life, moth and worm and beetle filling to bursting!

Paper deals the cruelest cuts, do you not think? A man writes his sweetheart that he loves her no longer. She fills her pockets with rocks and feeds herself and her unborn to the river. Paper can bleed a woman, and a woman can bleed a deer.

[ ...a heartbroken someone? it almost sounds like a sort of aching delirium. or reads like it, since buffy can only imagine this voice. she patches it together out of other known voices. none of them drusilla's.

her second mistake. ]

...Is that what happened to you? Are you new? [ on her side of the conversation, she holds her breath. some new feather dumped into a mushy luceti spring after offing herself?

god, buffy thinks. no wonder she butchered the fawn. ]

I fish such things out again for the feasting. Have you ever seen a mudlark fly? Find your brolly; their wings drip something horrid, miss.

[The vampire writes with such beautiful, girlish script. Quaint. Old-fashioned, really. There's definitely a Victorian feel to it for those who pay attention to such things.]

[ victorian feel? buffy simply categorizes it as unnecessarily old; this could also place it on just about any medieval times wannabe world. ]

You didn't answer the second question. Or the first, actually. But the second's more important: are. you. new?

[She likes those words. She'd like them more if she weren't staring at a dead fawn on her screen, which makes her wary, but curiosity wins out over all.]

You should have used lilies.

[This girl has pointed out a flaw. A serious, serious flaw. Yes. Lilies would have been more appropriate.]

I've no hothouse flowers, dolly. Just what the valleys and fields provide, and haven't they been kind? Cream and purple. How bruised the earth is in spring.

Sometimes I feel new. Here? Here I am new. But I've been used ever so much. I'm not new anymore, not anymore! They broke me in long ago, miss.

[ this was not just eerie; this was sad. it sent disquieting jolts along her spine.

so buffy did what she did best -- she ignored the obvious symptoms and focused on trivial details: ] Got a name, newbie?

So you killed a deer and arranged it artistically... why?

[...lady are you a pooka in disguise. She can't help but smile despite herself. You're interesting!] You could try in a week or two. The rivers will be all fresh and have lilies everywhere.

[...but.][

Did you kill it?

I see...

[He thinks, maybe...he's still mildly confused.]

Is this...some sort of odd ritual?

[ cordelia's too busy wondering what the hell is going on to notice the puncture holes. ] What did poor Bambi ever do to you?

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1. A Spring Decoration. Still Image | Written

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What can I say, he's not very poetic.

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