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In Nomine Pa†ris
Jung Taekwoon
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Priest
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Heteroual
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10th November
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GMT-4
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Prophet (n.)
They call him proclaimer, the Lord's holiness; not just shaking hands, dripping sweat or burning with fever from heaven's glow. It's ballpoint runes painted with hôsanna, and it lives deep inside him like a sword in the gut. His are rattled bones. But it was all written down, the grace, in the scribe. His voice— humans were small, insignificant creatures of no point or purpose, little toys created by God when once more, got bored with his previous playthings. The creation; a joke. The ever-continuing circle of life, death, sins and torment.
New and old.
Beginnings and endings. Freshness and rot. The world—it was called. The women are sins; men are the sinners, and the demon is the corrupted. The demon hovers behind the bearer of their new plaything, hands resting on trembling shoulders as their scalding touch coaxes screams of agony. They lie in wait, in the shadow of the innocent, and they breathe sin into their lungs. They are sadists, shuddering the pleasure of pain, and they exist for the sole purpose of corruption.
The manifestation of moral corruption begins before birth—before eyes open, and bleed into the surface of a common world, into the wild white of hospital walls and collars of men and women who reign supreme in status. Humans were born of filth, and into filth, and will die from filth. That's how it works, how it is. They'll question the system but will never get any answers, only more more queries until the throat is clogged in between the juncture of fingers, fine lines pressed into the skin, perhaps ready and willing to be torn open by ruthless hands devoid of humanity.
The universe, a maze of constants, equal parts predictable and spontaneous-reliable in every sense of the word. (Until it isn’t.)
Jung Taekwoon—born into a single, loving mother. Father is an imaginary concept, but Taekwoon doesn’t care, finding all the love he desires within the seemingly holy entity, whose fingers thread through his hair and sing soothing lullabies on the days when the world feels too heavy to bear.
It’s by her side that he finds his calling. It’s sanctity that drowns him knee-deep, like a shattered version of baptism, the water enough to sink him into christening. This moment is a firmament that echoes the homilies half-heartedly, where the richochets of the preaching welcomes him. If he’s not to believe there is a God, then whose voice whispers in his ears? Whose sound ripples in his mind?
At age 12, Taekwoon was taken to the local church, where he became an altar boy; and was ordained at a young age.
There's prophecy in Taekwoon's blood and Judas' sin is his own, as his hands are soon tainted with knowledge, a compulsiveness that entails endless cycles of beliefs. A life dedicated to the Lord. Amen.
Yet everyday is a battle against the tangled mess of cosmos, pushing through the stitches that threaten to keep him in the dark.
The world, falling apart, he wants to say, but everytime he opens his mouth his throat catching the ashes. In this monosyllabic yearning for the world to simply not crumble, infernal bleeding, infernal bruising. He’d lie if he said he didn’t know it was coming. The demon awaits, the never-ending spiral; shrouded by dark clouds. The holy will soon face corruption, and he will savour the realization. May the blessed be torn to shreds and drown in pleading woes, flesh, spirit, and all. The day will come when all there to see is the rubble.
They call him proclaimer, the Lord's holiness; not just shaking hands, dripping sweat or burning with fever from heaven's glow. It's ballpoint runes painted with hôsanna, and it lives deep inside him like a sword in the gut. His are rattled bones. But it was all written down, the grace, in the scribe. His voice— humans were small, insignificant creatures of no point or purpose, little toys created by God when once more, got bored with his previous playthings. The creation; a joke. The ever-continuing circle of life, death, sins and torment.
New and old.
Beginnings and endings. Freshness and rot. The world—it was called. The women are sins; men are the sinners, and the demon is the corrupted. The demon hovers behind the bearer of their new plaything, hands resting on trembling shoulders as their scalding touch coaxes screams of agony. They lie in wait, in the shadow of the innocent, and they breathe sin into their lungs. They are sadists, shuddering the pleasure of pain, and they exist for the sole purpose of corruption.
The manifestation of moral corruption begins before birth—before eyes open, and bleed into the surface of a common world, into the wild white of hospital walls and collars of men and women who reign supreme in status. Humans were born of filth, and into filth, and will die from filth. That's how it works, how it is. They'll question the system but will never get any answers, only more more queries until the throat is clogged in between the juncture of fingers, fine lines pressed into the skin, perhaps ready and willing to be torn open by ruthless hands devoid of humanity.
The universe, a maze of constants, equal parts predictable and spontaneous-reliable in every sense of the word. (Until it isn’t.)
Jung Taekwoon—born into a single, loving mother. Father is an imaginary concept, but Taekwoon doesn’t care, finding all the love he desires within the seemingly holy entity, whose fingers thread through his hair and sing soothing lullabies on the days when the world feels too heavy to bear.
It’s by her side that he finds his calling. It’s sanctity that drowns him knee-deep, like a shattered version of baptism, the water enough to sink him into christening. This moment is a firmament that echoes the homilies half-heartedly, where the richochets of the preaching welcomes him. If he’s not to believe there is a God, then whose voice whispers in his ears? Whose sound ripples in his mind?
At age 12, Taekwoon was taken to the local church, where he became an altar boy; and was ordained at a young age.
There's prophecy in Taekwoon's blood and Judas' sin is his own, as his hands are soon tainted with knowledge, a compulsiveness that entails endless cycles of beliefs. A life dedicated to the Lord. Amen.
Yet everyday is a battle against the tangled mess of cosmos, pushing through the stitches that threaten to keep him in the dark.
The world, falling apart, he wants to say, but everytime he opens his mouth his throat catching the ashes. In this monosyllabic yearning for the world to simply not crumble, infernal bleeding, infernal bruising. He’d lie if he said he didn’t know it was coming. The demon awaits, the never-ending spiral; shrouded by dark clouds. The holy will soon face corruption, and he will savour the realization. May the blessed be torn to shreds and drown in pleading woes, flesh, spirit, and all. The day will come when all there to see is the rubble.
Et Fili
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personality
For starters, he is the epitome of a loner. He’s an old soul. There’s a certain kind of wisdom that belies in his years. A bit of an introvert (confident, but finds it hard to connect with people around him, sometimes aloof, somewhat of a workhalic.
While his exterior is usually one that seems imperturbable and intimidating, devoid of any feelings; Taekwoon does experience them, and very deeply, as any other person would. Although rare, there are times out of respect and honesty where he has shown emotion. In these occurrences he is genuinely kind, doing things that would normally be out of character, such as holding a person’s hand and even going so far as to say a few kind words to ease another’s suffering. He showed deep pain and mourned the death of many. Other times Taekwoon has also demonstrated a dry, sarcastic sense of humor when the moment suits him, and is also prone to light teasing.
While his exterior is usually one that seems imperturbable and intimidating, devoid of any feelings; Taekwoon does experience them, and very deeply, as any other person would. Although rare, there are times out of respect and honesty where he has shown emotion. In these occurrences he is genuinely kind, doing things that would normally be out of character, such as holding a person’s hand and even going so far as to say a few kind words to ease another’s suffering. He showed deep pain and mourned the death of many. Other times Taekwoon has also demonstrated a dry, sarcastic sense of humor when the moment suits him, and is also prone to light teasing.
likes
He’s the type to desire solitude but feel suffocated in his own thoughts moments later.
dislikes
He hates pretentious people but has a soft spot for sincerely kind people.
Et Spiritus Sancti
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Blessed art thou, angel. Tonight I will run the memory of you through my hands like a rosary. I will whisper your name like the stars whisper prayers; I will build cathedrals with the stained glass of your eyes, I will place my lips on the altar of your words—yes—tonight you have made me a believer in the holiest of things, in everything, in just one thing: in you.
Crucifix
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ONE. JUST A HEADS UP MORE THAN ANYTHING—I’M USUALLY SLOW, AND VERY SELDOMLY REPLIES FAST TO ANYTHING SO YOUR PATIENCE IS APPRECIATED. VARIANCE IN RESPONSES MAY BE INDICATIVE OF SEVERAL IRL THINGS.
TWO. I USUALLY PREFER PLOTTING. I'M NOT TERRIBLY GOOD AT IT, BUT I TRY.
THREE. I DON'T DO ONE-LINERS, IF AT ALL. I PREFER LONGER THREADS SINCE I JUST WRITE TOO ING MUCH. BUT DON'T BE AFRAID TO NOT MATCH MY LENGTH.
FOUR. I WILL GIVE YOU ENOUGH TO WORK ON, AND IF NOT, YOU ARE WELCOME TO POLITELY ASK ME TO ADD TO IT.
FIVE. I DO TRY TO KEEP THOSE I HAVE THREADS WITH INFORMED, AS TO LET THEM KNOW I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THEM.
SIX. MY LIMIT IS QUITE LENIENT. HERE TO ENJOY MY TIME, HOPE YOU ARE TOO.
TWO. I USUALLY PREFER PLOTTING. I'M NOT TERRIBLY GOOD AT IT, BUT I TRY.
THREE. I DON'T DO ONE-LINERS, IF AT ALL. I PREFER LONGER THREADS SINCE I JUST WRITE TOO ING MUCH. BUT DON'T BE AFRAID TO NOT MATCH MY LENGTH.
FOUR. I WILL GIVE YOU ENOUGH TO WORK ON, AND IF NOT, YOU ARE WELCOME TO POLITELY ASK ME TO ADD TO IT.
FIVE. I DO TRY TO KEEP THOSE I HAVE THREADS WITH INFORMED, AS TO LET THEM KNOW I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THEM.
SIX. MY LIMIT IS QUITE LENIENT. HERE TO ENJOY MY TIME, HOPE YOU ARE TOO.
The Puppeteer
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We’re all kind of weird and twisted, and drowning. My child, pray for my body for I will forget who I am, who could I have been.
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