I smiled. I could not help it. I was not quite sure why. I blinked, opened my mouth, then slowly closed it again. With some force of will I managed to avoid looking the fool – outwardly, at least, though inwardly I found the sight at once unexpected and entirely enthralling. I noticed myself thinking back, struggling... struggling somehow to recall...
“Recall what, Nestor?” The voice was startling, cold and sharp – a pattern amongst the constant ring and buzz that assaulted my ears in every waking hour; I responded in turn. In thought.
“You know!”
“No, no we do not know, dearest Nestor!” And then the dog looked at me, turned one rheumy eye in my direction, closed it – winking – as dogs are wont to do. I shuddered inwardly. I could never tell what they meant by such a motion, or whether it even meant anything at all. But there was something so terribly real, so terrifyingly human about the act that I could not help but allow myself a second guess. To wonder whether the dog knew more than it let on... Finally I managed up the words to respond.
“Spoken to someone... someone.... someone not -you-!” Only the dry laughter of sandpaper rasping on steel followed, and then I found myself again in the street, the absurdity of dog and vampiress and lackey all too real and too solid to be yet another dream. I drew a breath, straightened and stepped forward.
“I recongise this one, you know? Nestor remarks as he takes a few steps toward Jerusha, carefully eases down into a squat and runs one of his own hands along the creature's wasted flank; he glances sidelong at the woman, lost for a stretch of time in his thoughts before adding: “He always seems to find me, somehow – don't you, eh?” His last few words directed toward the creature, a cautiously affectionate pat give before he straightens and returns his full attention to the oddly mismatched Vampire. Offering another sort of bow – not so much mocking as simply bemused (and indeed, I would be lying if I said that I could have grasped the moment entirely, or what it might have spelled out for my future – rather here was I, in the midst of the dark streets of an ancient city, the allure of the unknown and unfathomable calling to me.)
I would be telling only the truth if I were to admit that I still to this day do not know what possessed me to follow her into the guttering glow of an ill-lit city night... yet I did. Even (for some reason beyond my comprehension) adding as I turned toward a nearby street, gesturing politely before remarking:
“We shall indeed, and perhaps you may allow me the honour – there is a place near at hand... one I had meant to visit. Perhaps we shall go there together, you and I, before venturing elsewhere”?
Clumsywordsmith
Member
- Last Seen: 3 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: Clumsywordsmith
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 188 (0.05 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Clumsywordsmith 11 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
And suddenly there's all manner of material to work with. Back from an exhausting evening... If it weren't so late I'd get started on something right now. Nice work though, people.
“Bravo, bravo, Little Spritling:” comes the Demoness' pronouncement, words spelled out with the rattling clap of her icy hands. “Bravo indeed! You should take a cue from this one, Nestor Dear – really, you should!” Here she changes position, bending down – snakelike, almost, in the way she contorts her form around my back, one hand found unaccountably on my left shoulder, the other draped casually over my right. I fought off the urge to shudder; the creeping cold seeping from her presence, so close.. not cold, so much as a thousand little pinpricks of burning ice. I curled my lip, but she beat me to the chase – leaning back, giving a little pout of her lips, tilting her condescending stare in my direction – “Tush now! I am the one speaking, not you!”
One forefinger raises slowly, hovering above his face in menace; he glares at her briefly, then simply grunts out (quietly, barely beneath his breath): “Suit yourself!” But she is already gone, springing from the high back of the chair; she rushes toward Daisy, form nothing more than an ice-shrouded blur. She comes to an abrupt halt a few paces away from the Reaper, laces her hands behind her back and begins to pace in a wide semi-circle, announcing as she does so – muttering, half to herself, half perhaps to anyone who happens to be near enough her to hear:
“First one, maybe... in this uptight bunch of... absurdity... soul-searching... and look at him!” She pauses for a moment, turns and points accusingly at Nestor, free hand gesticulating wildly in an overly dramatic attempt to emphasize her words: “And look at him, sitting there – dull and smug as ever! He and Mister Whighty-Tighty: two peas out of the same pod; and a shame they're both mute, or maybe now they'd actually have someone else... to talk to...” The cold seems to draw in from around – the empty cold of the festering death hovering around the Wight; the strangely arcane keening of the aura hovering around the Reaper; the burning depths of ice she felt clutching her at the very core...
I raised my hand with an irritated wave, pushed from my seat and strode toward her – it had been enough... as it was of late. (And just how I hated the way she looked at me then...) and after a moment I managed to speak, offering one final glare in her direction before beginning.
“I cannot say I do not understand your sentiments, Miss Reaper,” Nestor comes to a pause here, having positioned himself squarely between she and the Demoness: “And I applaud your honesty... yet, if you are to hate Master Semyon – you had better make certain to hate me too. Loud and clear now! Size me up, eye for eye and tooth for tooth, and perhaps you'd have to hate me even worse than him.” His words are spoken brusquely – though his seriousness, to some degree remains in doubt: it might be as if he very much meant the words he spoke, but in the same moment gives them in the lighthearted banter of a known acquaintance:
“I will admit – we're bad for business, the both of us. Your business, leastways. But in the same way we understand the line that separates business from the reality of the world around us, you must pause for a moment to see the world as more than a single, shallow lake. Look in the water! There is a reflection! Your faults are hidden there too, if you choose to gaze deeply enough to find them."
One forefinger raises slowly, hovering above his face in menace; he glares at her briefly, then simply grunts out (quietly, barely beneath his breath): “Suit yourself!” But she is already gone, springing from the high back of the chair; she rushes toward Daisy, form nothing more than an ice-shrouded blur. She comes to an abrupt halt a few paces away from the Reaper, laces her hands behind her back and begins to pace in a wide semi-circle, announcing as she does so – muttering, half to herself, half perhaps to anyone who happens to be near enough her to hear:
“First one, maybe... in this uptight bunch of... absurdity... soul-searching... and look at him!” She pauses for a moment, turns and points accusingly at Nestor, free hand gesticulating wildly in an overly dramatic attempt to emphasize her words: “And look at him, sitting there – dull and smug as ever! He and Mister Whighty-Tighty: two peas out of the same pod; and a shame they're both mute, or maybe now they'd actually have someone else... to talk to...” The cold seems to draw in from around – the empty cold of the festering death hovering around the Wight; the strangely arcane keening of the aura hovering around the Reaper; the burning depths of ice she felt clutching her at the very core...
I raised my hand with an irritated wave, pushed from my seat and strode toward her – it had been enough... as it was of late. (And just how I hated the way she looked at me then...) and after a moment I managed to speak, offering one final glare in her direction before beginning.
“I cannot say I do not understand your sentiments, Miss Reaper,” Nestor comes to a pause here, having positioned himself squarely between she and the Demoness: “And I applaud your honesty... yet, if you are to hate Master Semyon – you had better make certain to hate me too. Loud and clear now! Size me up, eye for eye and tooth for tooth, and perhaps you'd have to hate me even worse than him.” His words are spoken brusquely – though his seriousness, to some degree remains in doubt: it might be as if he very much meant the words he spoke, but in the same moment gives them in the lighthearted banter of a known acquaintance:
“I will admit – we're bad for business, the both of us. Your business, leastways. But in the same way we understand the line that separates business from the reality of the world around us, you must pause for a moment to see the world as more than a single, shallow lake. Look in the water! There is a reflection! Your faults are hidden there too, if you choose to gaze deeply enough to find them."
It's fine! Feeling pressured to write something tends to lead toward pushing out work that we wind up unhappy with. So, as I see it, better to stress about the real world stuff first rather than cram to get a post up. (Speaking from experience -- many wasted hours trying to put together a post and failing. Only to get it written and done in a quarter of an hour the next day.)
Nestor does not respond all at once; rather, he seems to allow himself a few moments to take in the unfolding scene – the dog, and the cautious limping of each step as it hobbles over the cobbles toward Charles, the same bright blue light in its eyes; the wisps of moonlight playing over the oddly displaced silks and lace of Jerusha's attire – then he stirs, extends one hand (clean hands – never dirty the hands, that was the task of the blade – or so I had always told myself) to hover just beneath the proffered glove, lips barely brushing the air above the extended fingers before he straightens again.
“Time will tell whether it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance... but I am honoured all the same, Madam Wilde” Here he pauses, lips opening as though he were on the verge of speaking, but his eyes trace toward the stray dog instead – the creature has by now come within a few scant paces of Charles, and after giving the air around the man a sort of exploratory sniff, it summons up the courage to move a bit closer. To extend a raw and bleeding nose in the direction of the man's finery, perhaps getting rather too close for comfort in an attempt to get a bit of the man's scent. A decrepit, all but furless tail swings slowly to and fro, mangy brow scrunched into a picture of intense concentration as it snuffles.
I purse my lips, caught a while before the urgency of the present draws me back and – clearing my throat marginally, attempting to gloss over the uncertainty of my silence – I finally give her my name:
“I am known to a few as Nestor... Nestor Grimsley; as for the things that I seek?” Here I pause, make a conscious effort not to lick my lips – succeed, but fail to prevent my left hand from reaching toward the little pouch at my breast; I stop the motion halfway, make a show at rubbing at my chin whilst casting another glance in the direction of the rat before going on:
“I always find what I seek; that is never the difficulty – the trouble, rather, rests in avoiding the things I did not know I searched for, but am destined to discover all the same.” I find myself grown quiet again, pondering my own words – one of those moments where I am possessed of an uncertainty as to whether what I've said has any true meaning... and then the soft brush of the nighttime breeze – soft and yet full of the sour odour of the streets, the stale rottenness of so much life crammed into one tiny pinprick on the map... – seems to draw the thought from my mind.
“But I would be a fool to refuse your offer... though I would wonder,” here he pauses, gives a brief nod in the direction of the encroaching stray: “Will your companion, perhaps, be bringing his new friend along as well?” The soft play of something like a smile quirks at the corner's of Nestor's lips; rather like the man who – having all the details of a jest beforehand – still finds some amusement in watching the scene play out with someone less informed.
“Time will tell whether it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance... but I am honoured all the same, Madam Wilde” Here he pauses, lips opening as though he were on the verge of speaking, but his eyes trace toward the stray dog instead – the creature has by now come within a few scant paces of Charles, and after giving the air around the man a sort of exploratory sniff, it summons up the courage to move a bit closer. To extend a raw and bleeding nose in the direction of the man's finery, perhaps getting rather too close for comfort in an attempt to get a bit of the man's scent. A decrepit, all but furless tail swings slowly to and fro, mangy brow scrunched into a picture of intense concentration as it snuffles.
I purse my lips, caught a while before the urgency of the present draws me back and – clearing my throat marginally, attempting to gloss over the uncertainty of my silence – I finally give her my name:
“I am known to a few as Nestor... Nestor Grimsley; as for the things that I seek?” Here I pause, make a conscious effort not to lick my lips – succeed, but fail to prevent my left hand from reaching toward the little pouch at my breast; I stop the motion halfway, make a show at rubbing at my chin whilst casting another glance in the direction of the rat before going on:
“I always find what I seek; that is never the difficulty – the trouble, rather, rests in avoiding the things I did not know I searched for, but am destined to discover all the same.” I find myself grown quiet again, pondering my own words – one of those moments where I am possessed of an uncertainty as to whether what I've said has any true meaning... and then the soft brush of the nighttime breeze – soft and yet full of the sour odour of the streets, the stale rottenness of so much life crammed into one tiny pinprick on the map... – seems to draw the thought from my mind.
“But I would be a fool to refuse your offer... though I would wonder,” here he pauses, gives a brief nod in the direction of the encroaching stray: “Will your companion, perhaps, be bringing his new friend along as well?” The soft play of something like a smile quirks at the corner's of Nestor's lips; rather like the man who – having all the details of a jest beforehand – still finds some amusement in watching the scene play out with someone less informed.
While he, meantime, simply plodded through the worst of it – black leather of his boots dragging furrows through the grime; not that it was he was unaware of it – quite on the contrary, actually! As no sooner had Jerusha begun her approach than he squats gingerly down, bends over the stricken and bloated form of a sodden rat. Whether he is aware of her approach or no, he does not show, so intent does he seem on the task at hand. The rat, by all appearances, is quite dead. Very much dead. Very much unpleasant.
“This one?” I remark softly beneath my breath, allowing the words to die amongst the dregs of the rotting street; the query is not so much a question as a statement. The answer found in a silence punctuated only by the chittering and scuttling of this one's more fortunate comrades in the darkness all about. A flick of my wrist and a silent gleam announces the presence of a thin blade in one hand; I roll the fellow gently over with the tip of the knife – I find myself wondering idly what his last moments might have been like – trace an imaginary line along his belly – the frantic gasping for breath, perhaps, beady eyes rolling, flashing – cut through the already putrefying flesh, wrinkle my nose at the release of fumes – a nasty poison this one, no doubt – not even an exploratory nip to be seen; cut a little deeper, curl my lips... prod with the knife... and then, with a jerk of my fingers extract what I sought.
There is a soft clink – the only audible sound to be heard from the crouching figure's direction, and though it might be anybody's guess as to just what, precisely, has been excavated from the rodent's innards, there is the soft gleam of something silver and metallic. The glint vanishes just as swiftly. The figure stiffens, begins to gently tap the tip of the knife against his boot, each strike in perfect cadence with the quietly approaching vampire.
I twitch my shoulders. Hide away the knife. Slip the object into a pouch against my breast. The air about me throbs and hums as I close my eyes, allow myself to listen; there is a beauty inherent to the sound of even the most dismally ordinary souls – and something in this one rang strangely true. Rang indeed. I winced a little as the ringing in my ears intensified, only vanishing for a time as I finally spoke:
“A splendid night for a stroll, would you not say? Though I... must admit – I might prefer a little more green. A little less stench...” The voice is strange – soft, liquid in a way – as though the speaker were thoroughly enjoying the pronunciation of each syllable. A brief silence enters the space left by his words, only to be filled by the sudden banging of a door not far from where Charles waits; there is the pitter-patter of footsteps – many footsteps, yet all seemingly coming from the same place... almost as if they came from the same being entirely. Something crashes in the far off distance. Cold creeps in along the cobbled streets; seeps up from the rotting filth below; filters down from the wind and pale gleam of the moon above. A mangy dog, left hindleg dragging in the muck with each step, emerges from just beyond the corner – it gives Charles a wary glare, bright blue eyes disturbingly out of place with the sooty grey of its hide.
Nestor straightens to his feet and turns smartly about; he offers a polite bow to the approaching woman, then simply waits – paying neither Charles, nor the stray, nor the dead rat, any further mind – rather, clasping his hands behind his back, he studies her approach. The dog studies Charles. The dead rat's empty eyes study the sky.
Igraine
"A splendid night indeed. I was only ever avoiding a carriage ride this night, if I may be perfectly honest," Jerusha said gently, a warm smile on her lips for the handsome, flaxen-haired man, hands clasped behind his back so casually as he intently regarded her approach. The strange sounds that emanated from the street all around them were not lost on her in the least, and she glanced casually over her shoulder to Charles with a small smile and a reassuring wave of her fingers.
In truth, the reassurance was entirely for her own edification, that she had not left Charles in unanticipated peril. Sapphire eyes narrowed dangerously as she caught sight of the strange, blue-eyed cur before she returned her attentions to this gentleman once more. Jerusha noted the precipitous drop in the temperature as she drew up before him, a chill that might very well have given her goose flesh - were she actually capable of such a thing anymore.
Yes, gentleman indeed he seemed to her, despite his odd mannerisms. "But I ask you, how could I ever countenance an insufferably cramped carriage ride, caged and blind to such a beautiful sight as this?" Jerusha laughed warmly, a balmy counterpoint to the crisp chill all about them as one elegant, silk-gloved hand indicated the skies above them, to the seductively silvered full moon above.
"Then again, I see there might have been something of greater interest here, a little closer to Earth tonight, to capture your attention?" One red-brown eyebrow arched curiously as her gaze fell languidly, yet meaningfully, to the befouled patch of cobblestones that had become a rather mangled rat's last resting place.
"Poor thing," Jerusha said, brow furrowed thoughtfully, without the least hint of condescension or insincerity in her voice as she studied the dead creature a moment longer. "I wonder, do you think a terrier got him, perhaps? Certainly not the half-lame cur eyeballing my escort I imagine. Even so, his wee little soul has been departed for some time it would seem. Not even a chance to enjoy the loveliness of one more night sky such as we have this night."
The vampire's gaze returned to the man before her, her head tilted curiously, the tiniest upward tilt of her shell pink lips hinting at the thoughts roiling like a swollen river current behind that pale ivory face.
"Did you get what you needed?"
Her gloved hand lifted gracefully toward the man, palm down, a time-honored greeting that said he might take her hand if he wished - though honestly some small part of her prayed he had not actually been sticking his fingers inside the dead rat as well. That might be a touch... Repugnant. Oh, Jerusha was far beyond worrying about what diseases could be contracted by handling the decaying bodies of dead animals, but the stench was simply impossible to properly remove from silk.
Ah well, no matter in the end. Fashions might come and go in a single season, praised and then forgotten virtually overnight. No, Jerusha knew well there had been a reason she could not bear the thought of riding closeted in a carriage, but was simply compelled to walk the streets of London tonight.
That reason stood before her, this very moment.
"If I like your answer, I might yet know a far fairer, far greener place to walk this night if you wish. Lady Jerusha Wilde, and it is truly a pleasure to meet you."
“This one?” I remark softly beneath my breath, allowing the words to die amongst the dregs of the rotting street; the query is not so much a question as a statement. The answer found in a silence punctuated only by the chittering and scuttling of this one's more fortunate comrades in the darkness all about. A flick of my wrist and a silent gleam announces the presence of a thin blade in one hand; I roll the fellow gently over with the tip of the knife – I find myself wondering idly what his last moments might have been like – trace an imaginary line along his belly – the frantic gasping for breath, perhaps, beady eyes rolling, flashing – cut through the already putrefying flesh, wrinkle my nose at the release of fumes – a nasty poison this one, no doubt – not even an exploratory nip to be seen; cut a little deeper, curl my lips... prod with the knife... and then, with a jerk of my fingers extract what I sought.
There is a soft clink – the only audible sound to be heard from the crouching figure's direction, and though it might be anybody's guess as to just what, precisely, has been excavated from the rodent's innards, there is the soft gleam of something silver and metallic. The glint vanishes just as swiftly. The figure stiffens, begins to gently tap the tip of the knife against his boot, each strike in perfect cadence with the quietly approaching vampire.
I twitch my shoulders. Hide away the knife. Slip the object into a pouch against my breast. The air about me throbs and hums as I close my eyes, allow myself to listen; there is a beauty inherent to the sound of even the most dismally ordinary souls – and something in this one rang strangely true. Rang indeed. I winced a little as the ringing in my ears intensified, only vanishing for a time as I finally spoke:
“A splendid night for a stroll, would you not say? Though I... must admit – I might prefer a little more green. A little less stench...” The voice is strange – soft, liquid in a way – as though the speaker were thoroughly enjoying the pronunciation of each syllable. A brief silence enters the space left by his words, only to be filled by the sudden banging of a door not far from where Charles waits; there is the pitter-patter of footsteps – many footsteps, yet all seemingly coming from the same place... almost as if they came from the same being entirely. Something crashes in the far off distance. Cold creeps in along the cobbled streets; seeps up from the rotting filth below; filters down from the wind and pale gleam of the moon above. A mangy dog, left hindleg dragging in the muck with each step, emerges from just beyond the corner – it gives Charles a wary glare, bright blue eyes disturbingly out of place with the sooty grey of its hide.
Nestor straightens to his feet and turns smartly about; he offers a polite bow to the approaching woman, then simply waits – paying neither Charles, nor the stray, nor the dead rat, any further mind – rather, clasping his hands behind his back, he studies her approach. The dog studies Charles. The dead rat's empty eyes study the sky.
"A splendid night indeed. I was only ever avoiding a carriage ride this night, if I may be perfectly honest," Jerusha said gently, a warm smile on her lips for the handsome, flaxen-haired man, hands clasped behind his back so casually as he intently regarded her approach. The strange sounds that emanated from the street all around them were not lost on her in the least, and she glanced casually over her shoulder to Charles with a small smile and a reassuring wave of her fingers.
In truth, the reassurance was entirely for her own edification, that she had not left Charles in unanticipated peril. Sapphire eyes narrowed dangerously as she caught sight of the strange, blue-eyed cur before she returned her attentions to this gentleman once more. Jerusha noted the precipitous drop in the temperature as she drew up before him, a chill that might very well have given her goose flesh - were she actually capable of such a thing anymore.
Yes, gentleman indeed he seemed to her, despite his odd mannerisms. "But I ask you, how could I ever countenance an insufferably cramped carriage ride, caged and blind to such a beautiful sight as this?" Jerusha laughed warmly, a balmy counterpoint to the crisp chill all about them as one elegant, silk-gloved hand indicated the skies above them, to the seductively silvered full moon above.
"Then again, I see there might have been something of greater interest here, a little closer to Earth tonight, to capture your attention?" One red-brown eyebrow arched curiously as her gaze fell languidly, yet meaningfully, to the befouled patch of cobblestones that had become a rather mangled rat's last resting place.
"Poor thing," Jerusha said, brow furrowed thoughtfully, without the least hint of condescension or insincerity in her voice as she studied the dead creature a moment longer. "I wonder, do you think a terrier got him, perhaps? Certainly not the half-lame cur eyeballing my escort I imagine. Even so, his wee little soul has been departed for some time it would seem. Not even a chance to enjoy the loveliness of one more night sky such as we have this night."
The vampire's gaze returned to the man before her, her head tilted curiously, the tiniest upward tilt of her shell pink lips hinting at the thoughts roiling like a swollen river current behind that pale ivory face.
"Did you get what you needed?"
Her gloved hand lifted gracefully toward the man, palm down, a time-honored greeting that said he might take her hand if he wished - though honestly some small part of her prayed he had not actually been sticking his fingers inside the dead rat as well. That might be a touch... Repugnant. Oh, Jerusha was far beyond worrying about what diseases could be contracted by handling the decaying bodies of dead animals, but the stench was simply impossible to properly remove from silk.
Ah well, no matter in the end. Fashions might come and go in a single season, praised and then forgotten virtually overnight. No, Jerusha knew well there had been a reason she could not bear the thought of riding closeted in a carriage, but was simply compelled to walk the streets of London tonight.
That reason stood before her, this very moment.
"If I like your answer, I might yet know a far fairer, far greener place to walk this night if you wish. Lady Jerusha Wilde, and it is truly a pleasure to meet you."
There is a soft laughter at the old Werewolf's latest words, and – as if in response to her query – the Demoness crystallizes into view; hands laced primly behind her back, she makes one slow circuit of the creature – careful not to touch, but seeming intent on making an odd kind of whiffling noise, like air forced through the hollows of a glacier – and as best as anyone might tell seems to be sniffing. Though whether in mockery or in truth might be difficult to tell.
“But poor Nestor Dear already has such a bad habit...” here she pauses, shakes her head with a disappointed little frown: “of taxing his sad little brain with odd things. But invigoration! Mmmm...” She allows her words to trail off into silence, eyes shifting mockingly in Nestor's direction. The Demonspawn offers only a grunt, before remarking:
“It would fascinate me no end – consider the offer accepted; though I make no guarantees as to what might happen...” The Demoness offers another little chittering spate of laughter at that, before going quite silent as Aislinn turns her attention towards Veti and begins... begins wagging her tail.
A werewolf wagging its tail? Of all the wonders in this world I've yet to see! I even forgave her in that moment the slight against my taste in tobaccos; it was a sight that – even amongst all the strange and curious and truly astonishing things I have been privy to – will remain very well engraven in my memory. Perhaps it is that I just do not spend enough time around the creatures – the werewolves I had met in their more canine forms had all been either quite intent on eating me, or quite intent on eating someone not far away from me... and so... maybe my understanding was and has always been a bit skewed.
I took another sip from the glass and allowed the warmth of doing – well, doing absolutely nothing at all -- to slip in around me; drew a breath and was suddenly struck with the realisation that I had last woken in a drowsy stupor in the midst of a strange hospital, and that it had been god-knows how long before then that I'd had a decent shower. Still, I felt remarkably refreshed and well-rested – the Goddess was to thank for that, I suppose – even if there was absolutely nothing fresh at all about the scent I was currently exuding. (Perhaps why Aislinn had been originally drawn toward me, the smell, that is...) The old She-Wolf seemed to have lost some degree of interest, and – cigar and glass still in hand – Nestor makes a quiet, doubtless largely unnoticed departure from the gathered.
There was little to be seen in the way of change, as the Demonspawn slowly pushed open the door to his old room – well oiled hinges giving way easily, not so much as a sound to follow as he padded across the cold flagstones of the floor. The hearth was just as dead as it had ever been, only the charred remnants of a fire that had gone cold long, long ago remaining: remarkable, that they'd respected his wishes. Left it like that. Even allowed a few trailing cobwebs to form in the further corners of the hearth, a dismal nest of spiders serving as the only scrap of life in the otherwise barren alcove.
But as his eyes shifted to the painting something caused him to pause – his left hand to clench and release impulsively, his lips drawing into a tight line as he stared: the pair of figures were there still, but a great storm was now whipping the scene into a frenzy. A steamy froth hissed and boiled from the river's edges; the grasses were all but invisible beneath the thick mist and driving rain, nothing to be seen but the shimmer of silver as a new gust of air would send the knife's edge of the storm over the field, flattening the grass as thought it had been shorn close with a single blow.
A cold shower and the polishing off of the last of the glass served to drive the better part of the image from my mind, though I found that even after dressing (decently for the first time since... well... sometime before waking, I supposed) and preparing to leave my room, I kept avoiding glancing at the painting. It was with some relief that I finally slammed the heavy door shut behind me, and with it seemed to drive from my mind the sounds of wind and rain and impending dread.
Nestor returned to the common area to find little changed – and again, for the present, he seems content to take up a seat at a comfortable chair settled a good distance away from the fire. The still-visible demoness has elected to perch herself on the high back of the chair behind him, legs kicking softly to and fro, chin resting on her palm as she holds a rather unscrupulous stare in the direction of Aislinn; just precisely the opposite of Nestor's vague and absent-minded study of the tiles at his feet.
“But poor Nestor Dear already has such a bad habit...” here she pauses, shakes her head with a disappointed little frown: “of taxing his sad little brain with odd things. But invigoration! Mmmm...” She allows her words to trail off into silence, eyes shifting mockingly in Nestor's direction. The Demonspawn offers only a grunt, before remarking:
“It would fascinate me no end – consider the offer accepted; though I make no guarantees as to what might happen...” The Demoness offers another little chittering spate of laughter at that, before going quite silent as Aislinn turns her attention towards Veti and begins... begins wagging her tail.
A werewolf wagging its tail? Of all the wonders in this world I've yet to see! I even forgave her in that moment the slight against my taste in tobaccos; it was a sight that – even amongst all the strange and curious and truly astonishing things I have been privy to – will remain very well engraven in my memory. Perhaps it is that I just do not spend enough time around the creatures – the werewolves I had met in their more canine forms had all been either quite intent on eating me, or quite intent on eating someone not far away from me... and so... maybe my understanding was and has always been a bit skewed.
I took another sip from the glass and allowed the warmth of doing – well, doing absolutely nothing at all -- to slip in around me; drew a breath and was suddenly struck with the realisation that I had last woken in a drowsy stupor in the midst of a strange hospital, and that it had been god-knows how long before then that I'd had a decent shower. Still, I felt remarkably refreshed and well-rested – the Goddess was to thank for that, I suppose – even if there was absolutely nothing fresh at all about the scent I was currently exuding. (Perhaps why Aislinn had been originally drawn toward me, the smell, that is...) The old She-Wolf seemed to have lost some degree of interest, and – cigar and glass still in hand – Nestor makes a quiet, doubtless largely unnoticed departure from the gathered.
There was little to be seen in the way of change, as the Demonspawn slowly pushed open the door to his old room – well oiled hinges giving way easily, not so much as a sound to follow as he padded across the cold flagstones of the floor. The hearth was just as dead as it had ever been, only the charred remnants of a fire that had gone cold long, long ago remaining: remarkable, that they'd respected his wishes. Left it like that. Even allowed a few trailing cobwebs to form in the further corners of the hearth, a dismal nest of spiders serving as the only scrap of life in the otherwise barren alcove.
But as his eyes shifted to the painting something caused him to pause – his left hand to clench and release impulsively, his lips drawing into a tight line as he stared: the pair of figures were there still, but a great storm was now whipping the scene into a frenzy. A steamy froth hissed and boiled from the river's edges; the grasses were all but invisible beneath the thick mist and driving rain, nothing to be seen but the shimmer of silver as a new gust of air would send the knife's edge of the storm over the field, flattening the grass as thought it had been shorn close with a single blow.
A cold shower and the polishing off of the last of the glass served to drive the better part of the image from my mind, though I found that even after dressing (decently for the first time since... well... sometime before waking, I supposed) and preparing to leave my room, I kept avoiding glancing at the painting. It was with some relief that I finally slammed the heavy door shut behind me, and with it seemed to drive from my mind the sounds of wind and rain and impending dread.
Nestor returned to the common area to find little changed – and again, for the present, he seems content to take up a seat at a comfortable chair settled a good distance away from the fire. The still-visible demoness has elected to perch herself on the high back of the chair behind him, legs kicking softly to and fro, chin resting on her palm as she holds a rather unscrupulous stare in the direction of Aislinn; just precisely the opposite of Nestor's vague and absent-minded study of the tiles at his feet.
Currently staring down the homestretch at the crest of another conquered Wednesday; I'll be diving into a post sometime tomorrow evening (Thursday).
Wind. The inevitable rush of air sweeping the grass, spreading relentlessly against the greenery even as the waves crashed again and again upon the sheer cliffs below. Great, rolling blue and shimmering swathes of green as they coming crashing, crashing down upon the rocks; breaking, shattering and sent spraying into the air as a fine mist. A grey haze that lingers, watching quietly from above as the assault continues.
A smudge of red tinges the horizon, blood spilling across the slash of blue upon grey, where the ocean's breadth meets the depths of skies above; blood spilling through the cracks in the bit of glass as I hold it before my eyes – veins springing forth from the centre, spiderwebbing of cracks in the shards and splinters of colours that remain. I linger a moment there, hand held on hip, hand held before eyes – thoughts in a time and a place far, far away... and yet very present. Very near. There is a voice in the wind: screams, at first, and then the gasping breaths of some creature who's death is doubtless near at hand. My hand wavers. The fingers twitch. The glass sways and with it the colours, blood drying and vanishing, cracks dulling, blackening and then vanishing altogether.
I draw a breath. Make as if to hurl the thing into the depths below, to send spinning with it the last of the thoughts, the last of the memories... the last of the regret... and yet instead I watch with some kind of disgusted fascination, as my hand draws the piece toward my breast, holds it close there as I turn my back upon the waves and leave that place.
She is waiting for me, as I knew she might – perched upon the single living branch of a gnarled old oak; her gaze is upon me, her smile bores into me – her words cut through me, shearing away at the scattered thoughts I have already built up around the memory, paring away and bearing naked the pain of the moment. She laughs, pushes down from her perch and approaches me with cocksure steps.
“You are thinking too much, Nestor... holding too much... do you not remember?”
I bow my head, heave a say and remark in response: “But that is the very trouble, I always remember...” She laughs again. That familiar laugh of hers. That chilling sound, of wood ringing hauntingly against ice, echoing in the hollows of my mind as I brush a hand before my eyes... and wet. The spray of the sea.
The warmth of sweat. The coverlets drenched. Nestor gives a cry, springs in a moment of shock fused with fear, feet planting firmly upon the chill tile and form springing to its full height before he seems to realise where he finds himself. His room. His tiles. The grey of a full moon springing into life from beyond the uncurtained windowpanes; the city beyond lays in a hollow of deathly quiet, and yet for me the disquiet within continues on unabated. I see her eyes through the glinting light, hear the quiet of her laughter from that perch upon the windowsill.
“Ill dreams, sweetest one?” I bear my teeth, one hand clenching with involuntary motion at the leathern pouch dangling from my neck. Sleep is out of the question. Casting about in the dark as best I might, I begin to dress myself. Mechanically. Methodically. Doing my best all the while to avoid so much as glancing in her direction... and yet feeling the eyes all the same, feeling up to the very point that we step together from the room, slip wordlessly through the empty halls and into the streets beyond.
There is little to be heard beyond – the growl of a stirring mongrel. The squeal of some luckless cat. The constant pattering and scratching of rats against the slimed cobbles. But there is something... something strange in the air, and I find my hand resting absently against the hilt of my sword as I pad through the fog, following the whispering tendrils of fate as they see fit to lead me...
A smudge of red tinges the horizon, blood spilling across the slash of blue upon grey, where the ocean's breadth meets the depths of skies above; blood spilling through the cracks in the bit of glass as I hold it before my eyes – veins springing forth from the centre, spiderwebbing of cracks in the shards and splinters of colours that remain. I linger a moment there, hand held on hip, hand held before eyes – thoughts in a time and a place far, far away... and yet very present. Very near. There is a voice in the wind: screams, at first, and then the gasping breaths of some creature who's death is doubtless near at hand. My hand wavers. The fingers twitch. The glass sways and with it the colours, blood drying and vanishing, cracks dulling, blackening and then vanishing altogether.
I draw a breath. Make as if to hurl the thing into the depths below, to send spinning with it the last of the thoughts, the last of the memories... the last of the regret... and yet instead I watch with some kind of disgusted fascination, as my hand draws the piece toward my breast, holds it close there as I turn my back upon the waves and leave that place.
She is waiting for me, as I knew she might – perched upon the single living branch of a gnarled old oak; her gaze is upon me, her smile bores into me – her words cut through me, shearing away at the scattered thoughts I have already built up around the memory, paring away and bearing naked the pain of the moment. She laughs, pushes down from her perch and approaches me with cocksure steps.
“You are thinking too much, Nestor... holding too much... do you not remember?”
I bow my head, heave a say and remark in response: “But that is the very trouble, I always remember...” She laughs again. That familiar laugh of hers. That chilling sound, of wood ringing hauntingly against ice, echoing in the hollows of my mind as I brush a hand before my eyes... and wet. The spray of the sea.
The warmth of sweat. The coverlets drenched. Nestor gives a cry, springs in a moment of shock fused with fear, feet planting firmly upon the chill tile and form springing to its full height before he seems to realise where he finds himself. His room. His tiles. The grey of a full moon springing into life from beyond the uncurtained windowpanes; the city beyond lays in a hollow of deathly quiet, and yet for me the disquiet within continues on unabated. I see her eyes through the glinting light, hear the quiet of her laughter from that perch upon the windowsill.
“Ill dreams, sweetest one?” I bear my teeth, one hand clenching with involuntary motion at the leathern pouch dangling from my neck. Sleep is out of the question. Casting about in the dark as best I might, I begin to dress myself. Mechanically. Methodically. Doing my best all the while to avoid so much as glancing in her direction... and yet feeling the eyes all the same, feeling up to the very point that we step together from the room, slip wordlessly through the empty halls and into the streets beyond.
There is little to be heard beyond – the growl of a stirring mongrel. The squeal of some luckless cat. The constant pattering and scratching of rats against the slimed cobbles. But there is something... something strange in the air, and I find my hand resting absently against the hilt of my sword as I pad through the fog, following the whispering tendrils of fate as they see fit to lead me...
Igraine said
Wonderful to have you back from the abyss there, Wordsmith! Was it another one of those weekend sessions of ridiculously long working hours?
Fortunately not -- just marathon driving sessions and family gatherings. Because why commemorate someone's death once when you can do it twice?!
But better than working all weekend. By far.
© 2007-2024