Flavour tat counterpoint

[nadriel.livejournal.com]

This is my city.

Some of it I can see from here; just outside the haven, the decaying warehouses and abandoned buildings, the places I've scoured clean of any trace of life (except for insects and animals). Some of it I can see only in my mind's eye, and through the eyes of my pawns; the cracked tarmac in the streets where the drunks and the druggies lie in their own piss and vomit, where the shadows have knives and only the experienced or the stupid walk. And me, of course. This is my city.

This is my city, this rotting rose whose blackened petals curl in to rob the sun from its still-beating heart. Whose ways are as tangled as my metaphors, as dangerous powers I use to destroy my enemies. They are out there, hiding among the pollution-blackened buildings and the stink and refuse of the receding floodwater, sheltered and cherished as I am not. It won't make any difference.

This is my city. I will be its heart and make it into what I want.

I knew it when I survived the death of Ravenna. I knew it when I devoured the soul of Mithras. I knew it as I directed the minds of dozens to my will. I know it now.

This is my city, this foul, cancerous sore, and this is the place, I feel increasingly sure, that will finally exalt me.

I love this place.

Comments

[ksirafai.livejournal.com]

It's a nice spin; I think I'd like it more if it were less derivative. I guess imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, though... :) Lots of owners of this London. :P