#TC:atlas diem

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

Open to all; To something that I forget

11:25 p.m.

Atlas felt like he was haunting the halls of the party, an ominous presence that laid against chairs, vest open and his first three buttons undone. One big hot and sweating mess, as Astarte would say. But there was something even worse, his voice felt ragged and clawed at, desecrated from angelic to the hoarse thing it currently was. 

Shameful. 

Singing like Freddie Mercury didn’t help him, Coughing after sips of wine only mad him feel sober. The alcohol having no effect on him like how pigs blood tasted earthy at fatty in his mouth the first time he had decided not to drink human blood. Yes, he had considered it once. It was one of the questions he kept in an arsenal about the soul-suckling vampirism he and others were subjected too until they all died or lived to see everything end. Atlas, personally, wanted to see everything implode on itself and burst into flames and vigor then dance upon the ashes of mortal and immortal flesh. 

Brushing his hands over his throat he coughed again, thinking, intensely; was he parched or was he tired for once in twenty-five years? His red tipped fingers traced up his face, brushing swiftly upon the intricate mask he had designed.

Pressing his cheek against cold marble, Atlas had started to mumble the words to a song spinning in his head, but his mind was caught in a mental underbrush; fact blending into fiction. What was he talking about? 

Something about stars and the howl of a coyote. 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

Vine of Vernacular

Location: Les maison des danseurs de brume Time: 14:52 a.m  Status: open to all

What harbored in Atlas’ soul was a mix of fury, pain, resentment and the tingling and lingering touches of the poison that had grasped his nerves. His head and fingers jerked, a set of spasms erupting and spreading like viscous syrup. It was like having your nerves dull and your muscles tighten. Fatigued had seized him by the eyes, he staggered, still wearing his suit, blood left dried and browning on his skin, Atlas, for once felt gross. Sweat had meddled, sticking cloth to flesh and hair, God his hair, was far from the crowning glory he had always set it to be. 

What had unfolded next was a blur, he had staggered through the early hours, wings dragging painfully behind his steps, they caught on almost everything that laid on the road. And those pulls, the moments of tension made him fall to his knees and bite his lip hard enough to draw rivulets of blood. He felt crippled, his senses were dulled, a haze of white noise clouded his hearing and his mind, an endless replay of what happened, the sickening crack, the horrible tremor that told him something had gone, something had lost connection. 

“My wings,” He remembers him mumbling from the late night. Atlas was silent now, he had been silent since he recognized the old-fashioned street lamps that dotted the performing arts street he had strolled back in the nineteenth-hundreds, cane, purely for show, clacked across the cold streets. The sweetest times, the growing stage of his empire. He had 

Hand trailing the walls, nails dulled from him chewing incessantly, Atlas’ touch had become so sensitive, bumps of uneven stone or plaster made his skin feel cold and flushed. What was in his mind? In his heart? Something that bled out into his lungs. It felt like oil, it gnawed at him, eating away at his awareness. His vision was blurring again, would he pass out again in the street? People would see him, stare, use their mobile devices to capture him in digital history. He hated cell phones. Blatantly comparing them to the modern day narcotics. Like mary jane and moonshine. It was one of the things he wished he missed in man’s history. People in urban cities have lost touch with themselves, finding a fake solace. He didn’t want that, he never wanted to be a part of that. But then another thought slid through his dwindling consciousness: he never asked to be a vampire either. Sneering at the thought, solving unearthed issues didn’t seem appropriate at the time, reluctantly, Atlas rubbed his eyes.

Stumbling into the lobby, the first to realize it was him was Cerberus, the triplets. The three-dog-headed humanoid, if that was the correct term, he called his most trusted affiliate and at some point in their relationship after two hundred years, a friend. Clad in a bathrobe, a nightcap for each Doberman head in red, white and blue and some furry pink slippers that, as far as Atlas could recall insisted they were slippers, looked more like booties by the way it was custom made and hiked up their canine limbs. “Ah, shit boss.” The head, farthest to the right, Ludden, said. “What happened to you?”

“You look like a piece of shit boss.” Orcos, the middle head said. “Like we chewed you up then spat you out.” “Orcus, you’re not helping,” Henry said as he moved their arms to snatch up Atlas, supporting his torso, pressing against his ribs. They smelled like kibble, probably a midnight snack. Grumbling under his breath, Atlas shook his head at them, a furious glare into their three pairs of wholly black eyes. “Get me Asklepios and Furiosa.” He ordered, he hissed as he unconsciously moved his wings. “I’ll be in the--” He heaved as he found what little strength left to stay upright. “ Chapel.”

“The Chapel boss?” They all turned their head to him, muzzles almost pressing his cheek, “Don’t you want your bed boss?”  “Did I fucking stutter? The Chapel.” He said, lips parched and throat ready to burst into an erratic frenzy of thirst. “Bring Hesoid too.” 

In the dorms, the rooftop apartment was his, Asklepios had slapped him, hands flying in a graceful yet soul ripping fury. But then he grumbled, uttering words below his breath that placed Atlas on the lowest of the man’s standards. Furiosa on the other hand, the stoic Valkyrie, crossed her arms over her chest. Cerberus and his three heads watch on, talking amongst themselves, whines and growl repetitive as their eyes darted from one point to the other. 

“YOU THINK?” Asklepios yelled as he examined his wings, Atlas, stomach flat against a fully spread out recliner in front of a hearth, it’s domed funnel sticking in and out the glass window. “HOW ARE YOU NOT SURE?”  “I told you,” Atlas heaved and hissed as he felt the fleeting and smooth touch of his fingers against his scale and leather textured wings, “I don’t know. It was all a blur.”  “Asi,” Furiosa cooed at her lover, her knuckle grazing his cheek for comfort and calling onto his calm, her wings shifted, tucking tighter together. Atlas blinked opened his mouth to talk yet Furiosa’s eyes, alight with commanding force to be silent made him relent. Pressing his cheek into the cold leather he watched as Furiosa rubbed Asklepios back, running down from his nape to his lower back, porcelain white hands looking warm in the firelight. She leaned forward to his ear, “We don’t want our debt Lysander to bleed to death, do we? You cannot pay your depth sweet thing.” 

Then he perked up, through the pain of his back and the branding stare of his healer, Atlas mimicked the attitude of a meerkat, eyes wide and ears open to the rhythmic clack of shoes. 

“Someone’s in the house.”  He said and he saw Cerberus turn to the door and Furiosa reach down her back to reveal a tomahawk. 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

What I should have had during the Great Fire.  God bless Soundcloud. 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

What i sing is the lore of my people, the hymn of the forgotten. How dare you think I sing of crazy

Atlas Diem, September 23, 1941 to Sergeant Louis Schneider of the 14th Platoon of the German Natzi Army  

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

Preparation

tTime: 5:00 pm

Location: Les maison des danseurs de brume

Status: open to all

“Lys,” Gilgamesh said, raising her hand towards Atlas, a worried expression on his face, her dark brows furrowing together. “You have to--” “I know Gilly,” He said, a snarl climbing on his lips, his bare and bandaged torso tingling with the cold air of the airconditioning filling the room. The night would make the air freezing, maybe even form mist on the grounds, but it kept Malia’s flaming throat cool for the night. Her fire dancing was exceptionally beautiful but absolutely deadly. “If I didn’t have the capacity to walk I wouldn’t be sitting in a wheelchair. Also, everyone wouldn’t have heard me screaming my head off last night. I have dealt with much worse.”  “How could anyone fall asleep?” She chuckled as he rubbed her eyes, dark bags printed on her skin from last night. “You made Tilia cry last night.” He motioned her hand to the girl with the sapphire blue hair and pale skin doing vocal warm-ups with Persephone, An actual Siren, sitting in her own wicker-made wheelchair, her fishtail covered by a quilt and a container of water melded onto the back of her seat. She laughed and Atlas lifted his head from his hunched over posture, a sequenced dress in his hands, made for Gilgamesh for her finale scene, laced with gold. Atlas ran his hand down the seams and knicked at fibers.

He huffed at her before, gently placing the delicate dress down with the other costumes taking the loose shirt he left unchecked over a chair and placed it over his head. “Are the lights checked?”

“Yes.” “The performers?” “Nervous...and excited.” “And you?” He asked, tone flat. He shifted his shoulders slowly, rolling them forward and back, the tingling sensation running up and down his spine like 

She lowered her hand to her stomach, then lifted her chin to Atlas. “I am severely hungry.”

Atlas chuckled and took her hand, his fingertips shaking as he felt the coolness of her olive skin against his own pale white flesh. He felt like a Desdemona, no foresight other than the world a few centimeters from his person, his vision was clear like something had scrubbed his eyes clean with turpentine. It was a weird feeling. He felt the weight of Gilgamesh on his arm but to his perception she, and nobody else was there. It was like a fog, he was walking on glass and his footsteps echoed into the world further. He wanted to touch his back, rub the butt of his palm across his shoulder blades, he felt something to folding beneath his muscles, bulking them up. It made him feel more unnatural than he already was. The bandage wrapped around his chest didn’t help him. It lifted weight in weird places and made him feel, breathless. As a human would say it, he didn’t need too much air. He carried himself weighted in confidence, like stones. “Boss,” Cerberus ducked under the door arch and his three heads gave him a dog smile. Ludden, Orcos, and Henry nodded and shoved their hands into their pockets, their black slacks covering his human legs like a glove. “You’re up,” Henry said, his ears twitching as sounds clicked their attention. “You shouldn’t be up, Boss, you should be asleep.. .or something low maintenance,” Ludden said, his head bowing low. 

“Why haven’t you three split up yet?” Atlas let Gilgamesh’s hand slip from his elbow. “You’ll scare the humans away. I don’t want to have sales back down.”  Ludden perked his head immediately, his brown irises turning into a mesh of gold and amber, Orcos growled, barring his pearly white fangs. His breath smelled like mint and Henry just barked. He jerked back and held their right hand over his mouth, surprised by himself. They looked at each other, golden eyes meeting black and sterling ones. The Cerberus triplets removed their overcoat and unbuttoned their cuffs.

Then, the floor beneath them erupted into blue pentagram, designed with symbols. It was beautiful, yet it beckoned more than anything, power from hell.

Skin gave away to muscle as a flurry of blue, maroon and green smoke trailed across their body. The skin between their heads ripped, cleaving away as if cut by a blade. They snarled, snapping their jaws and foaming at the mouth as their dog features melted away. Then they split, missing appendages forming in place of missing ones. It was ugly, to say the least. Their inner workings were bare. A heart once shared cut itself in, it’s parts still beating. “Does it hurt?” Gilgamesh asked. 

“Not exactly,” Ludden said, a half-formed smile stretching across his muscle wrapped skull. 

“It’s like split hair,” Henry explained, shaking his head and folding his hands behind him.

“Makes us cranky.” Orcos winced as his ear reformed, brown skin already starting to layer across his bare chest. 

As the brother’s reformed, smoke erupted from their feet, circling them like a column. They all tilted their heads up.

Atlas closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He heaved a sigh as the light, the smoke, and the colorful loss themselves to the air. Fully clad in a fashionable style, the Cerberus brothers smiled at Atlas, fangs tipping at their cheeks. 

“How do we look?” Henry asked, fixing his striped shirt and suit coat. “I think we perfectly look human.”

“I think we look chipper,” Ludden said as he twirled a lock of his braided hair. 

“Hmph,” Orcos said and walked away. “I don’t prefer this. I don’t prefer this at all.”

Atlas straightened, looking back to Gilgamesh. He pursed his lip. “Keep preparations for tonight. I want everything to be better than fine.” 

“Yes, sir.” The remaining triplets saluted then went in separate directions. 

“I understand.” 

As he watched Gilgamesh leave, he couldn’t help but think about the tiny heartbeats that pattered against his ears. Turning around, he felt like he was walking in circles around the place, checking every little thing that perked his sense of spatial reasoning. He sighed again, flaring his nostrils as motivation dripped from his orifesces like water. 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

The Greenhouse

The gardens are free to roam about during the performing night of the week, holding an array of tropical plants. A pond is laid out in the middle, a fountain , grey and water spiting cherubim. 

The most defining feature of the Greenhouse was the ever blooming pomegranate trees that you can find spotting the grounds. Nobody knows how they grow along with the tropical simulated temperatures, but all know that the the leaves of these trees and water glow in the night, an amazing blue and magenta contrast and are delicious to taste. 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

our city changes it's coat at night; it has blood stains on it's hands. it is the snake that cheated god

Atlas Lysander Diem 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

Kudyara mbeu yoruvengo. He remembered what his last oath bearer told him. A time too long ago, in Zimbabwe, looking to keep his troupe in one piece after the slave trade had raided not just humans, but the supernatural. An old man, hair turned white and skin as leathery as a newly skinned hide. “You will only learn, a student and master, mutakuri. Slave to the past.”

Atlas Diem 

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

My troupe, my family, the spirit of home I have forgotten to remember. The house I will never allow to fall.

[bloodypocketatlas-blog]

|La maison des danseurs de brume |Theater House

Nicknamed The Siren’s Den of Brakebills, the illustrious building is the only theater in the city. Home of peculiar and whose halls hold wonders, owned by Atlas Diem, the suave owner form overseas has brought his troupe from the Mediterranean to Washington. 

Home to humans, vampires, witches and the unknown , The Siren’s den has a diverse group of crew, one big family who was not scared to show who they truly were. 

Nitsya, the snake charmer, Hades, the shape-shifter, Tamar, the sword mistress, Luve, the snappy contortionist are few of the amazing crew members of that perform with perfection and grace. 

It it not normal to not be amazed by excellence of the performance, some come in skeptical, others drive in hearts high on hope and excitement but all come out hungry and lustful for more. 

There is one show every week, each vastly different from the other. (Till then the doors are closed.)

 And on special occasions, the made genius and mastermind, Atlas Diem performs with his troupe of miraculous performers. Which showman is he? Nobody knows, the man changes his costume and demeanor like a snake. He might as well be the new Phantom of the Opera.

Think of the performance in the Grand Nightingale room the dinner, there are more treats and sweets as you explore the opened doors of the House of Mist Dancers. 

It is something you wont want to miss.