Clumsywordsmith

Enthralled in Ice (Clumsywordsmith x Igraine)

The bad news is that I probably won't get my thoughts onto the page tonight... the good news is that I am not (as I originally thought) working tomorrow, so I'll have an entire open Saturday. Though I will give advance warning that it might wind up being a long piece of writing! This particular scene has had a few days to brew now.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

I found myself beginning to weigh my options; ice and gusts of snow swirled around me in a constant buffeting – to struggle at once to maintain the storm's ferocity, all whilst tempering the fury just enough to keep from doing more harm than good was beginning to wear on me. I had bought the castle's defenders maybe a little more time to gain their footing – and, indeed, the havoc wrought by a squad of minigun toting Drakes made my hail of ice pale a little in comparison to the storm of silver bullets.

I lowered my arms and began a few breathing exercises, eyes remaining closed as I grappled to control the weight that had pressed itself in from around me... it was enough. Victory in battle did not always win the war. I supposed I'd experienced enough of history to verify that. Not to mention the mindless assault of the castle gates was causing me to wonder whether I'd been nothing more than a pawn in a mere game of distraction.

I finally let go, turned and let the storm run out its course – it would rage on for a little while longer, but seemed unlikely to spiral out of control if left untended. My senses began to return... cold... as if I had been dropped into a bath all of ice without warning, and the sudden shock snaps me back to the present just as surely as it sucks the wind from my lungs.

Nestor turns abruptly. He was only vaguely aware of having climbed so far, and it took several moments for the scattered pieces of what had just happened to assemble themselves. He shook his head. Frowned. Gazed down at the fresh layer of snow that had rendered the courtyard below a bizarre pile of misshapen lumps and hummocks leading all the way to the embattled gates and beyond. The frown deepened upon encountering the red... red... blood on the snow! With a silent cry the decision is made; one hand resting for an instant upon the icy parapet, the Demonspawn vaults the stonework and plummets to the balcony beneath.

A jarring impact follows, ice and stone groaning and shattering as Nestor lands directly in the centre of the snowy stonework; something in my mind twitches – thoughts run to one place, the raw reflexes of my own body directed in another. I float above the ground, only half-aware of my own actions. Interesting, I had apparently drawn my sword upon landing (Cliched but useful in a pinch; and besides – what was the purpose of a cane if there wasn't a sword in it?) – and while my mind was still struggling to piece out the puzzle of pawprints... very large pawprints... pattering about in the snow, then bounding – leaping toward me!-- my body sprang into motion. The laquered wood of the hollow cane clacked so hard I almost imagined it might have broken; then my blade leapt forth, the tip plunging into the opening that instinct only told me was there. I hit empty air. Hear the rush of wind as the creature leaps past, metal snicking against metal as I displace my invisible opponent's offhand blow to my backside, whirl about and bring the edge slicing low even as the cane knocks aside another strike roaring in from the right. I graze something. A low growl follows, and a modest welling of red begins to seep through invisible fur, blood dripping – as it were – from mid-air.

But not enough. I have no time for this! Apparently neither does my invisible enemy; the footsteps retrace backward – toward the edge of the balcony – before vanishing over the rim. I wonder to myself how much time I will have, before the creature's next ambush – watch as I dart through the doorway and into the great hall beyond.

A scene of chaos greets Nestor the moment he steps in from the balcony; shouts, cries – a hail of rain inside the very hall... rain that begins to freeze, mingling now with snow in a slushy downpour that soon leaves the fine tiles carpeted in a puddling mess: blood mingles, here and there, and I have no time to discern from whom or where – only to dash across the slick floor, half-expecting at any moment to feel the stinging bite of a blade at my back. I note Siya, holding an unseen victim against the wall – one accounted for, at least, not that I have a clue as to how many there might actually be.

“Mind your back, Semyon!” Nestor calls out as he approaches, falling into position to cover the assisting Wight and wounded Werewolf; “I lost one outside... only pricked him well enough to see he was probably alive... wouldn't shock me in the least if he came back...” The sword is by now wreathed in a writhing, blue light – tendrils of crystalline veins stand out in the Demonspawn's exposed arms, his eyes nothing more than blazing pools of vivid blue – he glares toward the faltering shadows, blade shifting restlessly about in his hand, as though prepared for an unseen blow that might land at any moment.

And meanwhile, the storm I had left outside raged on – abated now, to a degree, but perhaps it was the constant -thud- of exploding souls that kept the weather from calming entirely. The cold lingered.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Today was a good day. Home an hour early. Got a little writing in. Let me know if I took any liberties, anyone. For some reason I thought the concept of Soul Fission was, like, totally groovy.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Nestor had made it no more than halfway through his cigar when some commotion off to the side drew his attention; it might have been difficult to make out – such was the hour – but the Demonspawn's unnaturally bright eyes could make out the surprising entrance of the Yoni (Indeed, I'd become so accustomed to the creatures standing there some ways off, just around the bend from the portico I stood at, they may as well have been another pair of statues...)

Statues; Nestor eyed the nearest warily, as though half-expecting any one of them to suddenly step into life – and had only just begun to return his attention to the Yoni when an unannounced blast of some concussive force slams into him, lifts him bodily into the air and sends him catapulting toward the solid stone of the castle looming behind him.

A blinding light and splintering crack followed – and without warning I found myself flat against my back, pressed up against the wall; shattered bits of ice lay strewn at my feet, stone crumbled against my shoulders as I shifted -- I felt remarkably fit despite – apparently age-old reflexes had saved me the instant before death... I stooped down to pick up my cane (which had somehow survived – a bit nicked and scuffed now, but intact). Raising a hand to my head, I patted absently at my hair whilst wondering for a seeming age on the last images I had seen before momentarily... leaving... as it were. Not much like any concussion I had experienced in the past. I had time enough to ponder the grim realisation that I might simply be in shock, when quite without warning it hit me.

The werewolf. The strange cloak. The strange poweder. And with that the connection – of course! A Fission of Soul... but that had been banned by the first convention of the more 'modern' veiled world and the ban upheld by every convention since! I sprang into action; I could hear more now – the rustle and breathing of a few thousand creatures descending upon the castle from all sides. No doubt many – or perhaps even all! – of them bearing the same burden.

“Nothing for it!” Nestor remarks cheerily to himself, before leaping toward the walls, beginning a rapid ascent – not so fast as the invisible werewolf assassins, perhaps, but he moves with a practised ease all the same; ability clearly unnatural in form as he finally pulls himself up and over the rooftop parapet. I could sense nothing at that point – just the vague murmur of souls giving up their last breath below me, each newcomer delivering another stone-shattering -whump-, one that could be felt almost to knock me off my feet, should it catch me unawares. But I was running by then – running and still carrying the same train of thought:

The Reaper would really have something to be upset about now (Ice began to form again, growing, pulsing – I ran faster) – Hoarding souls for personal use... well, that was one thing. And so was dragging souls back from the edge of death to be re-lifed... or, whatever the hell it was had always managed to concoct wights... but just obliterating them entirely? Tearing little holes in the fabric between worlds with each blast? The former two were simply grey-area, the latter amounted to full-on warcrime (I come to a halt, skidding for several feet such is my rate, only slowing as the ice roots me firmly to the stone floor. I raise my cane – more for dramatic purpose than anything else... it seemed suitable at the time.... definitely not drunk. But perhaps a tad too tipsy for being reasonably expected to stave off suicidal-werewolf-bombers. The rolling clouds overhead intensify, little spots and splotches of hail and wet snow begin to whip down, borne on the strengthening wind.) I idly wondered if the Reaper even remembered the purge her kind had once carried out on the Demonspawn when we... no -they-... first tried it... couldn't entirely blame them... How old -was- she, anyway? It was always impossible to tell, with them – they wore their personality like some sort of cloak, deflection serving as their most effective (even if most transparent) defense. (The falling sleet and snow intensifies, little bits of ice mingling now, whipping down from above in a fury)

I would see if I could last a tad longer than the Yoni – with any luck – and at the very least it would give the others a little more precious time to mount an effective defense.

Or turn and run like hell, which was seeming all the more likely by the second.

All that aside, I really just wanted to see what new lighting storms Max had cooked up during his foray into the Reaper's World of the Unliving.

I gave a laugh at that, raised my arms and closed my eyes as I allowed the cold to descend over me. I knew full well I would not have had a chance in hell of fighting so many Werewolves single-handed (not at least under any circumstances I liked to think of...), not to mention seeming-zombified, exploding werewolves... but slow them I thought I could.

And with that the driving cold of the storm sweeps across the battlements – less effective, perhaps, against Werewolves than some more susceptible creatures – but it arrives with a swirling force of cold and wind to be reckoned with; ice and snow to melt and cling and freeze to fur, sheeting the ground in an instant, at times even shredding skin and fur alike with its force.

Nestor, meanwhile, remains entirely unaware to the goings on -inside- the keep.

Enthralled in Ice (Clumsywordsmith x Igraine)

“A cab?” Nestor states – quite plainly, as if voicing the question again aloud to himself. “But yes, of course! Or mayhap we could find for him some far more... interesting... form of conveyance." The Demonspawn imparts a devilish arch to his eyebrows, appraising the aforementioned Lord before glancing to the dog and adding:

“But as for this one...? I shall tell you a story, perhaps – a story of my childhood... yes...” Here he offers a kind of smirk; sidelong, appraising glance – I wondered what her reaction would be? Maybe none. I added anyway: “Yes, things even such as I – even I had a childhood; though it might very well be that you know me too poorly as of yet to find the statement odd. The cab, however – I might have just the thing for that...” He stops speaking here, one hand fumbling about in his jacket before producing a long, cylindrical tube; the end has been perforated several times, neat little rows of holes running a circuit about the perimeter. Its purpose is immediately apparent as Nestor unscrews the cap, slips a few gentle fingers inside the opening and pulls forth what – though doubtless nothing more than an obscure blob to normal eyes under the poor light – would appear to Jerusha as something resembling an overly large moth. Replacing the tube, he extends the creature a little on the palm of his hand – it does not move, seeming quite content to simply lay there, wings outstretched in typically mothy fashion, one antenna waving lazily for a moment, before coming to an abrupt stop as it points directly toward the Vampiress.

“Convolvulus Hawk-Moth; or, Agrius Convolvuli. Not, admittedly, that this one is especially normal – but they seem to have a strange affinity for my butler and I... or perhaps it is the other way around... They serve a quite useful purpose, whatever the case --” With that, he raises his hand slightly – the moth stirs, shifts, and finally lurches awkwardly into the air – it hovers there a few moments, as if in indecision, before darting off down the street and vanishing almost instantly into the night. “One of the fastest known Moths, or so it is said... I don't feel much inclined to doubt it. But surely better than mucking around the streets in search of a stray cab.”

But here my attention returned to the dog, and the lingering story at hand, whereupon I offered a half-apology, hastily adding: “But I never did finish my initial story! The dog... the name... Yes. I, as a child, and it was a dark evening in a darkening wood, of the sort that one does not find so often anymore. Caught up deep in the foreboding heartland of the Black Forest; no one but my own self and my closest, dearest companion at the time – a great hound, of a sort not often seen...” I find myself falling suddenly silent, words conjuring to life memories of a time so far back, so far in the past as to seem only the faintest wisps of errant dreams; I wondered, at such times, how much was true memory and how much was, indeed, merely the effects of dreams and long passage of time. The dog gives a soft whine, air wheezing between his nostrils and dragging me back again into the present.

“It had been a long day, of endless trekking – a single boar, and long since the lesser hounds had given up and wandered home, only the two of us remaining; he, loyal as ever, and I – young and just beginning to taste the first of life's many deadly thrills. I had gone without rest for some time: I found that I was thirsty, and taking a little while to pause near the edge of some clear stream I allowed myself a brief respite from the chase. The hound, however, charged on – and so it happened to be, as I knelt by the softly rippling waters, enchanted for a time by the quiet babbling of water against stone, I heard a long series of snarls, followed by yelps and a few sounds I could not quite make out.

“I darted to my feet at once, of course, and went charging off madly through the woods after him; I can remember still the dizzy blur of twigs and stones and roots and boulders rearing up suddenly in my path, and the patches of treacherous footing that threatened to throw me to the ground, so heedless was my rush.

“But when I finally found him it was by the side of a little pond in a small glen just beyond a sudden rise; a stream – silver-clear – went sluicing through the grass and moss upon either side, pooling at the clearing's centre. And there, crumpled beneath an ancient willow, was my hound – still breathing, and eyes still bright as he gazed upon me with the enduring glance that every dog gives his master. He stirred – perhaps attempting to rise... but could not. Rather whimpered, lay his head upon his paws and was still. The monstrous carcass of the boar lay right beside him, and the blood from both mingled and went running away into streams, clouding the depths of the pool, sending long tendrils of scarlet and black snaking through the darkening waters.”

Here Nestor comes to a long pause – he might be caught, then, gazing absently toward the moon above; his hands he has drawn up, clasped neatly behind his back. His lips pursed. But the sudden clatter of hooves and creak of wheels shatters the moment, the rough skidding of iron against stone as a a jet-black coach lurches into view; the over-large, bundled figure of a coachman stirs in its seat, straightens awkwardly (to a full height of well over two meters, at the very least!) before lumbering down to the street and wordlessly pulling open the door. I glance at my coachman, give a nod in Charles' direction, before turning toward Jerusha and remarking:

“A cyclops... he's a rather silent fellow. But dependable when he needs to be. I'm quite sure he'll get our dear Charles home very safe and sound and not missing any...important... pieces.”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Kinda like this:

Miss-chee-vee-ous

Well, that's my version of phonetically -- the kind of phonetic that doesn't require learning a whole second set of letters and symbols. I only realised it when I tried to spell the word 'Mischevious" and came to the shocking conclusion that the i comes before the e, which led to the dire thought that I had been pronouncing it incorrectly all along, and then a brief bit of research concluding my fears that I had, indeed, been a dunce. Worse than that, I'd been thoroughly colloquialized.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Nestor arches both eyebrows at the words of the Fallen Angel – he silently mouths what seems to be the word “Ahhh...”, then gives a quirk of his lips that – had it lingered for more than a split second – might very well have seemed mischievous; the whisper that slips up behind Gabe, however, is a sight less than mischievous. Provocative, in a way. The honey-laced tongue masking the icy sheen of its venom.

“But you should know, shouldn't you – Radiant One – “ And at this the Demoness reveals herself – though perhaps she would have been visible to the angel all along; a dizzy haze of sparkling blue interlaced with a vibrant light. Now turned solid. Solid, and in a remarkably rare moment, quite human. The pale form of a tall woman – slender, face and figure shaped so finely as to seem more the work of some sculptor than any living being – yet when she moves, the motions flow easily around her, a few swift steps taking her to stand an almost uncomfortable distance from the Angel. Giving him a single, imperious glance – and for the moment elaborating no further on her words – the vivid blue of her eyes peer directly into his, a swirling kaleidoscope of fractured ice before – as though it were the most natural thing in the world – she sniffs deeply, wrinkles the tip of her nose and takes a single step back. “You should know how it was said “Wine to gladden hearts of men”; and unless I am mistaken, the Psalmist...”

I interrupt – something about her demeanour right then and there was disturbing me, and (Does it trouble you that much to Know, Nestor? That much! He is precisely as I thought; you know damn well you were thinking the same) and.. well, I decided not to play the idiot's game to her words: she and I both knew the unspoken answer to that. Rather, I just retort aloud: “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness: like a villain with a smiling cheek.” I grin broadly in her direction, right back at the spiteful stare as she screeches out – whining, almost... though the sound is closer to that of a caged tiger calling to its keepers for the evening meal –

“That's Shakespeare, You Dunce...” She grits her teeth, holding stubbornly to her silence for a moment, whereupon I add cheekily – speaking in the direction of this Newcomer, Gabe:

“Then again, the Old Boy himself – who resisted the Devil's entirely sincere offer of every earthly pleasure ever imaginable – couldn't resist tapping into just enough of Daddy's power to ensure no one had to attend a wedding in a sober state of mind. So...” Here Nestor raises the glass once more, offering it for the final time before turning and moving toward the door.

“Deus Vult! Or so say I. Fortunate, or unfortunate, I was headed for a breath of fresh air myself – the bosses... well, you can always expect them when least expected. Practically the living embodiment of non-hyperobolic 'Thieves in the Night'”; something about these last words makes Nestor snort back a bit of laughter. Then, taking up his cane at the door and resting it at a cocky slant over one shoulder, he steps from the room, arm in arm now with the demoness – the latter of whom turns one last time to give Gabe a winsome smile before vanishing from view.

I emerged onto the portico and allowed myself a good, stiff lungful of rainy London air. I wasn't sure what had led me outside to begin with – perhaps the overwhelming feeling of simply being stuffed inside the great hall, and the equally uncomfortable feeling at the thought of going back to my room. Or maybe it was simply the pervading gloom that had been working its way on me all this time – always hard to say... so many strange and oftentimes disturbing memories wrapped up into this place. Difficult at such a time to separate premonitions of the future from ruminations on the past. And so I would simply do what I always did at such moments – would stand, and stare at the stars, and smoke. And she... she decided to perch herself on the balustrade, back resting against a stone pillar, right hand resting upon one knee.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

And for the first time in my life I realised that I have been pronouncing "Mischievous" incorrectly all along. Derp.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

An excellent weekend indeed -- began with birthday celebrations, ended up turning into a Summer initiation ritual of sorts. I will be writing again tomorrow (Monday).

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

-Children-. I was never any use with children. I curled a lip and shot a withering glare in -her- direction; to be completely honest, I realised right then and there, if it hadn't been for -her- I would have found myself in -this- situation to begin with. But I still could not tell whether it was my growing interest in the wight, or simply my inescapable desire to immediately undo everything -she- managed to muck up that led me to find myself standing there in the midst of it all, caught up in the sudden fury of untempered emotion that made up the young reaper.

Had I a moment then, to myself, I might have laughed. Laughed at the irony of it all. Laughed as she laughed, as she gave the reaper a condescending stare and – tracing a delicate finger through the air, crystal eyes closing as she followed the imaginary line of the reaper's thin spine -- chided:

“But hell is just where I belong, Sweetest Thing... and do you know? He doesn't know it yet... “Here her voice drops a few notches, lowers to a rasping whisper: “But that is just where our dear Nestor belongs as well”; a girlish twitter follows, the same icy hand now covering her lips as she takes a few hasty steps back whilst intoning “Hell is waiting...! Hell is waiting!... Hell is....”

And then she quite thankfully shut her mouth. Bared her fangs into a wicked kind of snarl and vanished without further comment.

Blinding light. I growled inwardly. One awkward moment to another. I'd lost the stomach for any verbal fight – the bitter tang of scotch was still on my tongue, and my head swam with unbidden thoughts... angels... nephilim, fallen – reflexes took hold as Nestor's gaze shoots without warning toward the distant archway. Figures. Figures approaching. He tilts his head ever so slightly to one side – as a dog might, almost, surveying some new oddity entering its domain.

Always unexpected, I could not help but think to myself. Caught off guard. The perfect feint. And there she was, in the distance – though my eyes could scarcely make her out, standing as she did at the end of the great hall... I felt the throbbing hum of her soul all the same. I was not certain. Not certain at all, in that very moment, whether things had gotten better or simply much, much worse.

“Jerusha Wilde...” the words came unbidden from my tongue. Yet softly, so quiet that perhaps at most the Wight and Reaper might have heard, but none other. My first instinct was to glance toward the nearest exit opposite the approaching pair.. Still, I managed to pick up the mention of my name, and though I could not help but suspect it was some joke of hers... or maybe as much a test... or perhaps only the gods knew what properly... the realisation dawned on me that this latest... pet? Friend? Lover? I gave a mental sort of shrug. Perhaps definitions were better left to time. I nodded absently to the wight (Nestor perhaps, at the time, not even realising that the two of them might very well be on their way to greet the same newcomer), snatched a pair of tumblers... poured a bit of the favoured poison... and steered my steps toward the searing heat of the newly arrived angel.

Nestor makes no commentary to the past. No heralding of the future. Simply, he arrives. Gives a cordial nod to the newest arrival; extends a slender hand in offer while remarking (and in the same moment gesturing expansively toward the so recently poured glass of liquor, resting neatly on a silver platter held in his left hand)

“Pleasant greetings; I am the one known as Nestor – Nestor Grimsley, to be precise. Will you have a drink?” Should the fallen angel accept the proffered hand of the Demonspawn, he might feel the cold chill of a creeping winter slip between the fingers, up through the arm and into the spine. Less a feeling, and more the memory of a pain and strange sorrow – the crazed laughter of souls in chains; the simple greeting of an ordinary man in rather extraordinary circumstances.