rabidbacon

• 葉隱 •

Haruki was in a haze the whole time, her eyes wide open but her mind far, far away. It would take her hours to notice that she was no longer in an empty room, but a crowded and filthy jail cell with people of questionable integrity. Upon realizing this, she closed her eyes and mentally retraced the steps that led her here, wondering where she had made a mistake.

Was it when she had helped a deer escape from a hunter's trap, and mended its wounds? No - the hunter was not fast enough to catch her anyway, a heavy-footed stranger to the part of the woods she frequented.

Was it when she swindled a spoiled poet by selling him a fragment of the dream she promised by watering it down with bone-white ash? No - he didn't know the difference, and the clueless man even thanked her by paying her more than the usual sum.

Was it when...

She winced. The memory of a young girl dying in her arms despite everything she did and the anger of her grieving parents tore at her conscience, making her wish she could sleep it away and forget who she was once more. But it was too late. The effects of her concoction had already worn off, and she would have to forage to create more. And anyway, the familiar reek of alcohol was making it difficult for her to return to her peace.

It came to no surprise for Haruki to see that she was surrounded by what seemed to be dangerous misfits, all armed with swords. No innocent or ordinary man walked around with swords such as theirs, and two young men in particular caught her attention. They seemed to be quite out of place, apparel hinting at a highborn, remarkable standing in their respective societies. A strange scent wafted about from the black-nailed man, reminding her of bitter and deadly herbs, and looking very much like a coiled viper, waiting to strike. The other one seemed less ominous, yet still had an air of gravitas about him, like a fledgling crane just about to learn how to fly. She wondered who they might have angered to land in such a dreadful place.

The rest of the rabble seemed right in their element - a cripple, an ogre and a drunk. Haruki wondered how the cripple lost his leg and arm, marveling at the skill of whomever saved him if it was the result of an injury, and the wretched luck of the cripple who survived it. Even stranger was that he carried a sword, implying an ability to not only walk, but to fight. A benign, carefree air seemed to radiate from him, which was decidedly unmasculine and very unusual. The ogre close by was quite the creature in comparison, a hulking mass of fighting and no doubt scarred, flesh. She felt that it was highly likely this visit to jail was not his first, and wondered whether he could be coaxed into starting a jailbreak. He certainly seemed to have the fortitude and stregth to break down the rusty cell doors. Finally, there was an old, well-built man stinking of alcohol. Perhaps he wasn't drunk at the moment, but the years of drinking seemed to have broiled the odor into his flesh. Oddly enough, Haruki noticed that he had what appeared to be a string of large prayer beads around his neck. Perhaps even after a life of pleasure and sin, a man has his fill and longs to repent, she thought. He had a friendly face, which oddly enough, put her at ease. Still, she did not trust him enough to talk. She decided to watch and keep silent. Anyway, it was what was expected of her. No use in rocking the boat at the moment.

Eventually, the guards came for all of them and they were brought to a wagon. Now, in addition to the stench of the drunk was the stink of unwashed, sweaty animals and their shit collecting into a sack. Haruki gasped for air and closed her eyes, willing herself not to vomit - not that there was anything to vomit, as she could not remember what, or when her last meal was.

Then all of a sudden, all hell broke loose. Which, at this point, no longer surprised Haruki. Hell had been breaking loose for quite some time now, and she wondered whether or not they were all already suffering in hell, anyway.

Somehow, Haruki found herself tumbling against the wagon's hard walls, no doubt bruises forming on impact. She picked herself up, prepared to break her fingers for a desperate escape, when suddenly one of the captives - who had managed to free himself quickly, a sign of calm and skill for someone as young as him - came back to begin freeing them. Most gave him their thanks - even the ogre, which she took as proof that at the very least, the criminals she found herself with had some measure of civility and were not as lawless or as unreasonable as she had first thought. She also realized that the cripple was a woman, which further served to increase her curiosity. Nevertheless, there were demons about, and that was the concern at hand. Following their lead, she thanked the young man who freed her with a wordless bow, and also inspected the chest quickly, retrieving her hori-hori, as well as her pouch of medicinal supplies. Hearing the ogre speak surprised her somewhat, and she chided herself for thinking him dumb.

"Sir, the beasts would hunt us even as we run. Winds blow down from the hills. They will still follow us with ease."

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@Yankee that escalated quickly :o

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

"I don't have any money, but you can tell me what you want, instead of hurting me again. I won't resist."

Fear radiated from the boy's every gesture, his eyes only breaking contact to survey the wound he had just received. Orwell moved back to the group, giving him space - a gesture of neutrality.

“Why didn’t you leave your coffin?”

Orwell faced the tall, teenaged girl, glanced at her hand once more, and shrugged.

"Seems to me that he's more cautious than most... Six. In a sense, you could say this room is just one big coffin, too, if we lose the game."

Pointing to the wall, he then turned to talk to the boy he had just pricked. "We are in a situation, and those seem to be the rules. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be the first one to experience the King's retribution. I'd say a small beauty mark is a small price to pay to survive another round." Orwell then pointed out the boarded up exits around the room. "And quit talking about money. There's no use for that in a place like this."

A sudden, but familiar creak of the dumbwaiter signalled that another round was about to begin. Seeing as he was "tagged" by the last order, he made his way towards the device, peered into it to survey its contents, pulled out the note card and read it aloud.

"Player #5 and Player #1. From one a tooth and from one a nail." He placed the card back inside and stepped away from the device, as if to make way for either Five or One to make a run for the dumbwaiter. "There is a nasty pair of pliers inside... looks like the King's getting serious."

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

@Aeolian Thanks for the idea! Maybe Marcus could have a VIP status at Vogel's bar on account of his frequent visits. Vogel enjoys making new drinks for the man and likes his honest feedback. What do you think?

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

@Aeolian Perhaps one of the elder Funérailles did the ritual for Vogel's father and our characters know each other in passing mention only?

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@Karisma sleeping beauty's got a beauty mark now ahahaha

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

There were now six people, all in all, and none of them seemed to know the other. Orwell took stock of those who emerged. Everyone looked younger than he did, and one particular upstart irked him. Riley Velskaya, she - or he, Orwell could hear a distinctly masculine tinge in the person's voice - proceeded to take charge of the situation, telling people to calm down like some first responder, then immediately destroyed that sensible and authoritative persona he just tried to create by licking the red, unknown substance on the wall. Orwell decided to keep his distance from the idiot.

Compared to Riley, everyone else exhibited normal behavior, given the situation. The young man he first saw appeared to be the chattiest of the bunch, quickly interacting with two other girls and making sensible observations on how they might have been dragged here. Orwell turned to glance at both girls the man was talking to, one quite disheveled and the other who still seemed surprisingly put together despite the ordeal she has just gone through. Neither of them seemed happy about the situation, which was not surprising, at all.

Another girl stood in front of the "rules", staying away from the rest of the group. It was not an unwise decision, given that they were all strangers in a ominous, and possibly life-threatening situation. He approached the wall she was looking at and proceeded quietly read the rules as well, committing them to memory. Apparently they were all 'players', which meant that this was a game - implying that there would be winners and losers. Even worse, there was a King, and this King reigned supreme. Given the circumstances of their awakening, the coffins were a blatant threat to those who would dare to disobey.

His thoughts were interrupted by a persistent tap coming from one of the wooden boxes.

Orwell was about to approach the offending coffin, when a loud, metallic screech rang out from the dumbwaiter. He laughed to himself, thinking about a movie with a similar premise that ended badly for everyone in it. The first to approach the metal box was the young man, revealing that his curiosity - or was it a misplaced sense of chivalry - was stronger than his fear of the unknown. That warranted a degree of respect, and Orwell decided, for now, that he would make a useful ally in this grim situation.

He pulled out two cards and what seemed to be a glass shard, but not before cutting himself on the sharp blade. On on of the cards was a rule, which only served to strengthen Orwell's suspicions that they were playing for their lives - if the King was telling the truth about letting the winner live. All the same, Orwell already decided that he didn't want to die here.

No, he wanted to die, old and by the beach, with a cold mai tai in his right hand and a half-burnt cigarette in his left.

His vision of blissful retirement was interrupted as the young man read the words on the second card out loud. He clenched his wounded hand and went over to pick up the glass shard, leaving the cards on the floor.

"Four, huh? I'm lucky number seven." Orwell nodded at the man, as if to say hello, then paced around the rest of the room, glancing at their hands. None of them had the number he was looking for.

Only one box was left unopened, and again, he noticed the incessant tap-tap-tap of something against wood. After taking a deep breath to ready himself for whatever horrors he might find, he put the shard in his pocket and pushed the cover aside.

Inside the coffin was a boy with closed eyes, body stiff and stationary as a stone, save for his foot. Orwell swiftly took the shard once more and drew it against the boy's already wounded hand, creating a superficial, yet bleeding cut then drew quickly back while pocketing the weapon once more, in case the boy darted for his throat out of fear and surprise.

"Sorry, kid, King's orders. It's time to wake up... unless you want to sleep forever right away."

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@baraquiel "termites holding hands" made me laugh harder than it should have

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@Yankee Hi! I have a question about the three hour time limit of carrying out orders. Is this real time or is there a different way of keeping time? I'm GMT +8 and I wouldn't want to miss an order while sleeping, haha.

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

For the longest second, Orwell could not determine whether his eyes were closed or open. Eventually his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and picked up on a faint, green glow of the watch on his left wrist. There was a strange, sharp pain on the back of his right hand, leading him to believe a terrible accident had just happened - until he realized that he was surrounded by wood - rotting, based on the stale scent - and that the wood was in a strangely regular shape, reminiscent of a box. The faint sound of two voices - one male, the other female - as well as dull thuds rallied against the thick silence, though all were muffled by the space Orwell found himself barred in.

All he could think of was Corvus, and a cold bolt of fear shot through him. Was this it? He grit his teeth and thrashed about, fists and feet bashing against the wooden constraints, unwilling to accept the end without a fight. Cracks of light came through on the third kick, Orwell found himself kicking straight through the wood and into the air, then he pushed the remainder of the cover away to the side and leapt out of the box.

Only then did he realize, in the dim light, that the box was a coffin, and that the back of his hand bore a gristly wound in the crude, yet unmistakable shape of the number seven. In the midst of scattered splinters, a folded piece of thick paper, a ring, as well as a small key was among the debris on the floor. To avoid dirtying the items with his blood, he ripped a piece of cloth from the hem of his shirt and wrapped it around the dripping wound, before picking up the items and stashing them in his pocket.

He then looked around and finally saw the source of the voices he had heard. There was a dark-haired young man and a much younger girl standing within the vicinity of coffins similar to the one he had just broken out of. The blood-shot energy of fear and confusion darkened their ever-roving eyes and the similar wounds on their hands lead Orwell to surmise that they, too, were brought here, without their consent. His mind flew back to the items he had found and he turned away from the two to reach into his pocket.

Seeing the familiar smiles of the people in the picture drove Orwell's mind into a tailspin, the ache of the wound on his hand forgotten in the midst of this new, and awful discovery. He closed his eyes and steeled himself, placing the picture back in his pocket before turning to address those who had already made it out of their coffins.

"Something bad must have happened to us, to find ourselves here."