The Crypt of St Leviathan
The length of the crypt, from double iron doors to marble sepulcher,
is filled with light and darkness, and music. The sepulcher itself is
suitable for a giant, sunken half into the floor to form a head-high
platform and flanked by two statues: on the left, the marble angel of Art
has her way with the coiling iron serpent of Technology; on the right,
granite Past, titanium Present, and crystal Future are intimately
entwined. The long walls bear murals, one depicting the Creation from
First Word to Adam, with emphasis on astronomy and biology, while the
other follows the history of man from the Fall to the present day,
focusing on massacres and goats; optimistically, it covers only half the
The gothic arch of the ceiling is criss-crossed by catwalks, all draped
with white bunting and supporting a banner that reads "Cloud 9"; beneath
the blank wall at the end of the historical mural, a chunk of floor has
been dug into a waist-deep pit and labelled "Abaddon" in red neon. The
obsidian bar underlines the creation of Earth and matching tables dot
half the floor. The sepulcher apparently serves as a stage, and the floor
in front of it is clear.
- Her wide eyes, short hair, and smooth skin are the color of coffee
with one, two, and three creams; her wings are black. Her clothes are
determinedly casual: black jeans, white Tshirt with an abstract
scrawl of a coffeecup, purple sneakers. Despite this, the tiny
porcelain cup she carries is filled with tea; she takes occasional
sips when distracted by the thick paperback book she carries, which
is often. Where the Angel of Java walks, insects fall dead with tiny
- He peers through a monocle that isn't rose-colored in the slightest,
scrutizing the world for error and finding it far too often. He
himself is immaculate in evening dress of unmingled white and black,
narrow eyes black in a white face, precisely combed hair curling over
white horns. Where he sees error, he corrects it with a touch of his
silver-headed cane, and the guilty rarely slip again. When in doubt,
the Devil of Propriety consults the works of Judith Martin.
- During the day she lives in the eyes of the blind, and every night
she wakes up to put out the sun. At the extinguishing of every candle
she is there, at the flick of every light switch, and at the final
dimming of every eye, but she doesn't hate them. She never misses a
party if it's held underground.
- Catriona Torklep's Guardian Angel is, appropriately, laden down with
bottles, blankets, spare diapers, and an astonishing assortment of
medicines. She's dressed in soft stain-resistant clothes, and her
long dark hair is tied up safely in a bun. Like most guardian angels,
she looks tired, but her eyes glow with joy.
- The flaming mass of her hair is bound about with iron chains, and
drips smoking blood down the back of her lycra shorts; despite the
restraints, tendrils curl out toward passers-by. A coal-black
windbreaker with the Bontraeger logo in crimson flames covers her
from neck to waist, but the skin-tight shorts display legs as lean
and strong as brazen cables, and iron-cleated hooves. Her goggles are
pushed up on her forehead to where they dissolve in her hair, leaving
bare a pale racoon-mask on a face tanned but otherwise so ordinary
that it comes as quite a surprise when she takes a bite out of the
titanium frame she carries in one hand.
- There is nothing exceptional about her appearance, but the words
flock around her in a razor cloud that leaves bystanders bleeding,
roosting in the curls of her long fair hair and the folds of her
floral-print dress. The drops they bear gleam like cabochon rubies on
the graceful curves of collarbones and throat; occasionally one
succumbs to gravity and scrawls a cryptic crimson word down into the
ivory depths of her bosom. If you watch carefully, you might see a
word hatch from the sting of her tongue, squirm between alabaster
fangs and carnelian lips, and strike for your jugular.
- The Devil's Advocate wears a five thousand dollar suit of a grey
perfectly intermediate between white and black, a tie red as tape,
and shoes you never want to see your reflection in. His glasses are
gunman's amber, his briefcase is pale leather and rusted iron, and
every quill on his head is perfectly in place. And he smiles.
- Fire dances to the music of the spheres, gold and orange and fueled
only by her own divinity. More often than not the flames stream along
the line of thigh or back, or billow as the swell of hip or breast
bedizened with brilliant sparks, and a plume of smoke scented with
frankincense and myrrh swirls behind; from the right angle they curl
into the quirk of smiling lips, and the flare of cheekbones beneath
- Her hair is the snow-plume from a wintery peak; her eyes, blue
glacier ice and unearthly luminescence; her robe, auroral green
scintillating with blue and violet. Beneath the northern lights, the
Angel of the North wears worldly clothes: a pine-green Tshirt with
\"See the Mountains of Alaska\" stretched across the chest, jeans
faded pale and skintight, and boots suited for mountaineering. Her
smile is all sunny warmth, but her lips are rouged with frozen blood.
- It's not often you see a lizard like this: eight feet long if it's an
inch, brown scales patterned like astrologer's notes in gilt ink,
dragon thorns at every joint, and eyes old as a serpent's. The woman
it's draped over is no common sight either: a fair-skinned
chocolate-haired temptress filling out a gold leotard, with
gold-glyphed brown wings trailing from her slender shoulders. The
lizard's tail curls languidly around her hips and down to one bare
foot, but its eyes and hers are identical, alert.
- If an angel wears human form too long, she might slip, and display a
thousand crimsonviridescentgold wings. Of course she'd immediately
fold those azuresilverberyl vanes back into the shape of a small girl
with rainbow-dyed hair and a silver lycra minidress, but those
turquoisevioletsunrise pinions are waiting, just beneath the surface.
They say an angel with a thousand wings must have a thousand eyes,
but really she only needs one, if that one eye is the sun.
- In the beginning was THE WORD, and after that came a whole bunch of
Words, and those were the angels who lit the Sun and hung the stars
in the heavens and hold the Moon in its course, who tucked RNA
between grains of clay and taught plants to seek the sunlight and
winnowed them with a corrosive flood. There are higher orders,
though, those who marshal the Words in vital array, who make the
Story, and nothing in creation is beyond them. Not even this.
- Chocolate is not only her Word but her embodiment: milk chocolate for
the flowing curves of face and body, bittersweet for the glossy mass
of hair pouring down her back, mint for eyes and raspberry for lips
and slithering tongue. Bright crinkly foil wraps her from shoulders
to knees, revealing almost everything. People have died for a taste.
This file was last modified at 1635 on 22Jun99 by email@example.com.