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The couples and groups went up the long walk of steps, two by two or threes and fours, stepping between the headless statues of prancing pegusi in sandstone. The necks of the winged steeds curved in arches over the walkway as if menacing judges stalking the challengers past the threshold. Mist condensation rolled down their cracked and marred flanks like perspiration. Proud tails, bobbed for fashion, hung from -- no, onto their backsides for existence. Age had worn their wings as well, and their feathers lay around their pedastals, chipped; graveyard gravel.
A person would think that Regalia wouldn't ever visit something as silly as a haunted house. He'd only be half correct. From upon the right side horse's rearing spine, the view through the mist was unparalleled. The bustle of her dress rumpled at her hip. Her long, silken skirts hung, the horse's mane. Slender, white legs dangled over the edge, implying that she sat, with that nonchalant expression, upon the neck-stump of the poor, stone creature.
Fear did not exist in her vocabulary.
The slender, sprite-like girl felt like a god again. From her perch, she could see every little weed that sprouted from the cobblestone pathway. Trampled dandelions struggled to survive. Milkweed thrashed together in adamancy. Thistles arrogantly displayed their thorns. Blondes. Brunettes. Pale and dark skinned... weeds. The chatter and giggle reverbrated between the arch of the two steeds until they seeped right into her bones. The mere conversation of weeds... Sometimes, they could be quite interesting.
It was a wonder they haven't noticed her yet. Her entire body glowed incandescently, turning her into a beacon of light wherever she went. Was trying their courage so entertaining that they lose all vigilance? Her metal spike-heels tap against a crack upon her pegasus' surface and caused a piece of mane to crumble to the dew-ridden grass. The faint light of the moon shone momentarily to Regalia's challenge, peering through clouds long enough to reveal its seductive crescent against midnight-blue. It faded soon, defeated, its light gone from the gothic roofs and rafters of the pointed towers and attics.
Wind rattled the dead, brown leaves from their desperate clinging to home. Like terminally ill children they clung to their mothers and fathers in a last stand before the black god of death... and then, the cruel, north wind and the wild, west wind took them and flung them visciously against the faces of gutterpipe gargoyles. Many were blown to other destinations with time though some floundered in imprisonment within the cold, damp jaws of stone monsters. Glass panes clattered to be blown in their loose frames. Shrieks from within the establishment further threatened the status of their currently solid existence.
The torches burst into flame on either side of the great, oaken doors, drawing even Regalia's attention. The slender, cast iron arms of knights' armor gripped the wooden stakes of flame. Prometheus had stolen something similar from Olympus itself as she remembered from her days serving as Nike. Wax upon ivy leaves reflected the flames with a glittering gaze of envy. Those vertically groveling plants, in their own struggle, had choked the life of both birches on either side of the front veranda-deck and smothered the very light from the first-story windows. To them, the flaring glory of fire was too much to bear.
Fire lit the Serif-style chisel into the stone archway above the doors. Above the text was emblazoned the coat of arms of two rearing, winged horses; between them a round shield with the bloody fleur-de-lis. Compared to such beautifully decorated masonry, the woodworking of the front door seemed lacking. They were simply doors, functional in protection, separation, and insulation... but not in decoration. Perhaps banners once hung from them -- there were holes where pegs used to protrude -- but they now stood nakedly, barrenly, their hinges creaking and their bottom sides scraping against loose floorboards.
Sandstone never appeared so gray as this former mansion home. Mismatched stones blocked the surface of a dollhouse gone wrong. It wasn't hard to imagine rose bushes where only dead shrubbery and ivy thrived. Once upon a time, the stain glass windows of the study probably put cathedral panes to shame. The Tudor-style chimney pointed like the middle finger, upwards, at the sky, as if to relay the fate of its innocent, past occupants.
"To heaven and good riddance..." Regalia mouthed the translation with a small smile. Her antigravitational hair wrapped around her body, a pearly shawl of silken threads.
Long, uncut grass rippled in waves inside this circle of deciduous greenery. Everything... everyone... they all struggled to exist in this twilight zone gathering. Even the vivid torches would have to die one day. Screams... The event participants would find themselves struggling to not run, fighting to continue their existence. Even the house itself... its guardian horses that were falling apart... even it battled against the evanescent wind for its own place here -- not as a pile of demolished rubble, but a prideful structure with its own, unique personality.
Regalia nodded in approval.
A person would think that Regalia wouldn't ever visit something as silly as a haunted house. He'd only be half correct. From upon the right side horse's rearing spine, the view through the mist was unparalleled. The bustle of her dress rumpled at her hip. Her long, silken skirts hung, the horse's mane. Slender, white legs dangled over the edge, implying that she sat, with that nonchalant expression, upon the neck-stump of the poor, stone creature.
Fear did not exist in her vocabulary.
The slender, sprite-like girl felt like a god again. From her perch, she could see every little weed that sprouted from the cobblestone pathway. Trampled dandelions struggled to survive. Milkweed thrashed together in adamancy. Thistles arrogantly displayed their thorns. Blondes. Brunettes. Pale and dark skinned... weeds. The chatter and giggle reverbrated between the arch of the two steeds until they seeped right into her bones. The mere conversation of weeds... Sometimes, they could be quite interesting.
It was a wonder they haven't noticed her yet. Her entire body glowed incandescently, turning her into a beacon of light wherever she went. Was trying their courage so entertaining that they lose all vigilance? Her metal spike-heels tap against a crack upon her pegasus' surface and caused a piece of mane to crumble to the dew-ridden grass. The faint light of the moon shone momentarily to Regalia's challenge, peering through clouds long enough to reveal its seductive crescent against midnight-blue. It faded soon, defeated, its light gone from the gothic roofs and rafters of the pointed towers and attics.
Wind rattled the dead, brown leaves from their desperate clinging to home. Like terminally ill children they clung to their mothers and fathers in a last stand before the black god of death... and then, the cruel, north wind and the wild, west wind took them and flung them visciously against the faces of gutterpipe gargoyles. Many were blown to other destinations with time though some floundered in imprisonment within the cold, damp jaws of stone monsters. Glass panes clattered to be blown in their loose frames. Shrieks from within the establishment further threatened the status of their currently solid existence.
The torches burst into flame on either side of the great, oaken doors, drawing even Regalia's attention. The slender, cast iron arms of knights' armor gripped the wooden stakes of flame. Prometheus had stolen something similar from Olympus itself as she remembered from her days serving as Nike. Wax upon ivy leaves reflected the flames with a glittering gaze of envy. Those vertically groveling plants, in their own struggle, had choked the life of both birches on either side of the front veranda-deck and smothered the very light from the first-story windows. To them, the flaring glory of fire was too much to bear.
Fire lit the Serif-style chisel into the stone archway above the doors. Above the text was emblazoned the coat of arms of two rearing, winged horses; between them a round shield with the bloody fleur-de-lis. Compared to such beautifully decorated masonry, the woodworking of the front door seemed lacking. They were simply doors, functional in protection, separation, and insulation... but not in decoration. Perhaps banners once hung from them -- there were holes where pegs used to protrude -- but they now stood nakedly, barrenly, their hinges creaking and their bottom sides scraping against loose floorboards.
Sandstone never appeared so gray as this former mansion home. Mismatched stones blocked the surface of a dollhouse gone wrong. It wasn't hard to imagine rose bushes where only dead shrubbery and ivy thrived. Once upon a time, the stain glass windows of the study probably put cathedral panes to shame. The Tudor-style chimney pointed like the middle finger, upwards, at the sky, as if to relay the fate of its innocent, past occupants.
"To heaven and good riddance..." Regalia mouthed the translation with a small smile. Her antigravitational hair wrapped around her body, a pearly shawl of silken threads.
Long, uncut grass rippled in waves inside this circle of deciduous greenery. Everything... everyone... they all struggled to exist in this twilight zone gathering. Even the vivid torches would have to die one day. Screams... The event participants would find themselves struggling to not run, fighting to continue their existence. Even the house itself... its guardian horses that were falling apart... even it battled against the evanescent wind for its own place here -- not as a pile of demolished rubble, but a prideful structure with its own, unique personality.
Regalia nodded in approval.
