|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
 Posted: Mon May 02, 2011 6:42 pm
 xxＴＡＢＬＥ ＯＦ ＣＯＮＴＥＮＴＳ
25 ✦ IRONY IS GOLDEN ; meta
26 ✦ THE GUNSMITH'S AEGIS ; prp
27 ✦ UNSPOKEN PRIDE ; solo
28 ✦ ARMAGEDDON RIDDLE ; solo
29 ✦ THIRTY HUNGRY SHOTS ; solo
30 ✦ THE FEAST BEFORE THE HARVEST ; prp
31 ✦ WHERE THREE ENDS MEET ; prp
32 ✦ DISCARD AND DISCORD ; solo
33 ✦ RED REUNION ; solo
34 ✦ THE LACK OF SWEETNESS ; solo
35 ✦ THE BUTTERFLY CROWS ; solo
36 ✦ A CHANGE OF HEART ; prp
37 ✦ LUCIEN ARELGREN ; solo
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon May 02, 2011 7:16 pm
ＩＲＯＮＹ ＩＳ ＧＯＬＤＥＮ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 25. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???; meta & growth quest
Meta prompt - Personal DORIAN ARELGREN
hawty adonis
A crow is waiting for you, a piece of parchment clutched in its beak, crinkled and wrapped in black ribbon.
The crow isn't the same kind of dead husk as the one that seemingly started this mess, it eyes beady and watery and its feathers ruffled with the thin details of lighting and shade, with no staunch and pestilent aura about it. When you try to reach for it, the crow merely hops away and drops the parchment without a second's thought, dumbly cooing about until you either catch it or until it decides to fly away into a distance, its wings lazily fluttering about it. The parchment doesn't unwrap itself, but the ribbon's grip slips easily and the parchment is crispy to the touch if you try to open it.
Once you do open it, however, the piece of paper is wordless, but it gives off a tired but satisfied laugh, the same old and starkest voice out of the pond of whispers that spoke to you around the ides of March. "What a successful trial this was," the voice coos while the parchment withers and falls between your fingers as specks of dust, "I must say, all you Grimms are a troubled lot."
The ribbon seeps and liquefies, sunk in a black aura, and without a moment's warning it slinks over to you like a tired beast. Instead of disappearing, it juts and freezes in form, moment by moment twitching in mass, exhausting back into the liquefied form, then becoming bigger and bigger as the moments pass.
"You see, I've learned something from all of you, what two-thousand and growing lot there are, and what few hundred have seemingly passed my trials alive. This aura, this Furvus Elixir, it's truly what you make of it... and I've been deceived all along, and so have you. Welcome to my world of smoke and mirrors."
The black form with limbs rolls over, shivering and crumpled in on itself, now fully in form. Neck arched upward, it looks at you, a featureless face with a pair of glimmering white and pearl-round eyes. A determined face despite its eschew Plague-like features, a black ribbon wrapped around its already black form, it marches in front of you without a single utterance to breathe or speak. The very image of Nancy is handling your wrists, grabbing onto them and pulling you close as if to inspect you. With her dainty worker's fingers she pulls your ears and pulls your eyelids to see your eyes before shaking her head and backing a step away, clicking her tongue. She tugs on the disheveled red ribbon around your neck and straightens it.
"Dorian, really! I'm gone for a bit and you leave yourself a disheveled young man! Have you been getting enough sleep, Dorian?" she pauses, hands on her hips, "Enough to eat? You're as skinny as a stick!"
She turns around, tightening the bow that ties her apron together, rushing to move away from you in a nostalgically mechanical fashion. "Enough talk, then! So many chores to do, so many things to cook! You always did leave me so many things to do around the house, Dorian, hardly any time to bake sweets at all!"
The illusion of Nancy pauses, though, black form as still as a statue while she ponders something, back still turned to yours. Slowly, regretfully, she turns back around to you, pearl-white and dotted mouth lined up into a delicate but satisfied smile. "How's about you join me, like old times?"
The figure starts to melt like candle wax and, as quickly as it came, the figure drips down into a black pile of slick ooze.
Dorian had fought the urge to resist Nancy-That-Was-Not, the silent scream held tight in his throat. His jade orbs moved wildly in their sockets, settling finally on his wrists where Nancy-That-Was-Not had so gripped. He was relieved to see that his arms were still functional after moving them slightly, though he couldn't help but tremble at accepting the supernaturality of it--and how Nancy-That-Was-Not, in fact, echoed Nancy-That-Was's voice perfectly in a way that error was inconceivable. The way she had spoken to him was naturally, like the old Nancy he knew and loved. Lettie couldn't understand any of this, and she, for one, found Nancy-That-Was-Not anything but charming. She began to wonder if the true Nancy spoke so lucidly. She wondered if Nancy was kind. The black form that dissolved reminded Lettie of haughty commonfolk that boasted more than they were in the sense that their words did not at all seem appropriate for their status. It was simply the case of being fooled.
She hoped Dorian was no fool to believe that Nancy-That-Was-Not was Nancy-That-Was. Lettie clutched her cheeks when she remembered the thought that she dreaded so--Nancy wasn't confirmed dead, no, Dorian said so himself. It couldn't be, though, surely it couldn't! Lettie was mortified at the very possibility of the black Nancy being an accurate representation of the womanly figure Dorian spoke of when the sun slept and her friend, Sir Moon, sat still in his throne in the sky. The very loving, gracious maid that her Adonis grew up adoring, Lettie imagined her to be more warm, more lovely, and definitely not oozing black. Her fingertips pressed into Hopkin's leather shawl draped 'round her shoulders, and she tried hard to keep her balance on her Grimm's shoulder--for her was shaking--a lot. Lettie noticed this, and thought of soothing things to say, though she couldn't muster any. It was all very difficult, and she found herself folding her hands repeatedly instead of coming up with a plausible solution.
Dorian's thoughts eerily mirrored his Plague's. Nancy? It couldn't be? But Nancy-That-Was-Not...Dorian blinked the thought out of his head, cursing himself of even considering it. Lettie scowled when she heard him, and Dorian immediately stopped mid-swear, understanding that his Plague did not prefer profanity to ease the situation. Both were standing in the midst of the forest, confused. Dorian couldn't even remember what business he had in a forest--let alone why a letter was addressed to him--and why the fowl delivered it to him while he walked the forest path. Nature had set him on an edge recently, and seemed only more relentless with the coming of his letter. He'd learned to avoid crows after the arrival of the first letter, but he never figured that the crows could find him--he always figured it was some trick, the crows needed to be trained for something this dire--by a mad fool who was more bored than Dorian himself was (and that was saying a mouthful for the damned idiot). The Arelgren began to feel sorry for himself for ever deserving the victimhood that had been thrust upon him. "You Grimms" the parchment had said, "you lot" they were. Of course. They were like cattle, to be driven from one destination to another, to play "smoke and mirrors" with whatever black fun the sender had in mind. Someone was better than Dorian Arelgren at making people miserable.
He hadn't been able to respond to any of Nancy-That-Was-Not's inquiries, and he tried to forget them as quickly as he could. He didn't like it at all--striking the gold of irony. Wasn't he seeking the memory of Nancy? Didn't he want her maternal love, as much as a young colt so yearned to be near his mother after trials of separation? Then why, when the opportunity arose, was he cowering behind a cape of fear? It riddled him. It also upset him.
Lettie kissed his cheek, attempting to soothe his trembling, though the tremors did not calm.
"Thank you, Lettie." Dorian mumbled, self-aware of the silliness he was in. Irony was golden.
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Thu May 05, 2011 12:54 am
 ＴＨＥ ＧＵＮＳＭＩＴＨ’Ｓ ＡＥＧＩＳ✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 26. ✦ ✦ ✦ forest outskirts; mishkanＦＥＡＴＵＲＩＮＧ： Ezekiel North - ｆｉｎ
In which Dorian makes an unlikely friend and acquires a weapon for his future well-being.
Ezekiel rescues Dorian from the latter's plight and profits off the Arelgren some more.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Aug 10, 2011 4:27 pm
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Wed Aug 10, 2011 4:30 pm
ＵＮＳＰＯＫＥＮ ＰＲＩＤＥ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 27. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???
Dorian regarded the new repeater in his hands with a tinge of guilt. Irony seemed more amiable of a friend than comfort these days, and the idea that his own days were numbered fancied him. It was rather strange. He, Dorian Arelgren, in possession of a weapon--yet he lacked the feeling of security from it. Protection. An aegis, that was the purpose of the purchase, was it not? Then why, why did he feel more transparent armed with it? The answer would not come from Lettie, he knew this. Her chocolate eyes gazed at the repeater's dark wood with little affection nor acknowledgement. It was as if they were introduced to a disease, a plague of another kind. The weapon's inception was definite--inserting a new fear into Dorian's frenzied mind. His reason lacked rhyme, and Lettie knew this. He didn't purchase the weapon because he wanted her to feel safe, nor himself for any reason.
His fingers tightened around its barrel, caressing it to feign care. Frankly, he fought the urge to laugh at himself, to criticize what silliness wrought upon him--such disdain he cast upon himself--his savior seeming to bring him more melancholy. He wondered if the feeling was angst, but the feeling of angst should have been warmed away by the arrival of Lettie. Nancy felt closer, that was certain. Yes, Nancy felt closer.
Lettie's bell-voice snapped him back to attention.
"Mr.Arelgren, what is that?" Lettie coldly said. Her tone frightened him a bit, it was a winter chill that never came from her before--its newness was foreign to him, and her form altogether appeared more ghostly in the moonlight.
"A-Ah...it's...w-well...quite frankly put, Lettie, a repeater. Y-you know, a gun.." Dorian stuttered, holding out a hand to transfer her from his shoulder to the weapon's surface.
She refused to use his impromptu bridge.
"Mr.Arelgren, what is that?" Lettie repeated. Her voice sounded more like a knife scraping on wood a pleasant bell chime.
"A weapon, for your protection and my own--you know after the Mage--risks aren't exactly popular to me--" Dorian answered steadily. His mouth felt dry like it always did when he lied.
"Mr.Arelgren, you do not know what you want," Lettie sniffed, folding her gloved hands over Hopkin's leather. "'Security', 'protection', 'dear Little Ghost', 'lovely', 'I do think'", Lettie whipped, "--Mr. Arelgren, you do not mean what you say. "
"W-Whatever do you mean, Lettie?"
"Mr.Arelgren, I am not a subject to your fancy, nor an obligation to you. Shying away in your pocket, domesticated by 'your good graces'? Is it my size that demeans me so, Mr. Arelgren? Mr.Wickwright seems to believe more of Hopkin than you believe of me. What is it that I lack? Masculinity, Mr. Arelgren? Or perhaps I should chop chop and refer to you as Dorian!" Whereas human women would have began weeping after the release of the tirade, Plagues proved to be different. Lettie was choleric, and the pinkness of her cheeks spread over her face--coloring it with a red that Dorian had never seen before. He wasn't quite sure what she sounded like anymore, but he was certain she was no "Little Ghost", her voice stentorian and rivaling his own.
"Lettie don't be that way, I only mean you well--you've known that, haven't you? Oh Lettie, don't make this something I must suffer..."
"You see Mr. Arelgren? Here you are doing it again! 'Oh Lettie, don't make this something I must suffer', PRAY TELL, Mr. Arelgren, what has Lettie suffered? Blindness? Inability to walk for herself? Perhaps the pursue of wit is something I cannot help you with? Perhaps I should keep in a pocket that clouds the day from night? Mr. Arelgren, you forget, I too, am an Arelgren!"
At this, Dorian could offer no rebuttal. He was speechless, and she was wonderful.
"Just as Hopkin is a Finch, Chayele is a Meschke, I am an Arelgren!" Lettie continued, her voice wobbling slightly. The bell returned, small. "Arelgrens do not need weapons to prove their might...because Arelgrens are the strongest and the best, you said! W-were you lying Mr. Arelgren? Y-you said you'd never lie to Lettie!"
Dorian couldn't lie to her, but he did before. He did before with Linda, his tall tales of Felicity and his other fanciful nonsense. His childish games, immature lampoons, and all that colored his monochrome life with fever he thought could resurrect his own love for life as it was. He couldn't lie.
He couldn't lie, but he did know how to cry.
"WHY ARE YOU WEEPING MR. ARELGREN?" Lettie roared, though unbecoming of her, roared. She stomped her little feet and slapped him repeatedly in the face until his tears soaked her tiny gloves. She allowed him to choke in his own remorse for a bit before she continued: "Oh, Mr. Arelgren! There's no need to cry, l've never cried, Mr. Arelgren! A-and I'm a girl!"
Lettie was making him feel pathetic, and adept at it too.
"Mr. Arelgren you're getting Hopkin's leather wet, it isn't a handkerchief! Stop this at once!"
"I'm sorry Lettie, I never...I never imagined your perspective to be so strong--"
"Well, it is! And so you should listen to Lettie more! Look at yourself, Mr. Arelgren--a sorry image! A REPEATER of all things, and you thought Lettie knew nothing about weapons. Silly Arelgren."
She laughed a little, and he did too. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted still, but at least he knew Lettie did, and that was enough.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Aug 23, 2011 7:26 pm
ＡＲＭＡＧＥＤＤＯＮ ＲＩＤＤＬＥ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 28. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???
The laughter trickled into silence once its substance faded; the issue of the repeater was suddenly irrelevant. The wind held its breath and the Shyregoedian leaves crunched under the Arelgren's heel.
Arelgren House came into view, but the urbane edifice lacked value to the prodigal son. His return to Shyregoed was altogether filled with void, and the Damned Hill was a foreign land that neither Plague nor Grimm recalled. The wind brushed away thoughts of Obscuvians dunning the duo for missions; the House itself was not yet a concern. Outside, Arelgren House seemed more solitary upon Dorian's return, though something about its magnificent demeanor suddenly seemed weak and detrimental. The sight was awful to digest, for it seemed as if Arelgren House's value was suddenly equivalent to the two buildings beside it. Dorian coughed at the memory of another--a house beside his own was quiet, its usual clamor an absent memory.Thinking of Dragomir only made Dorian meander to thoughts of Obscuvos--the stigma of Him. Dragomir's affiliation was a fact, only Dorian knew which of the two neighbors' faith, was indeed, fiction. With small effort, the Arelgren pushed the great doors of Arelgren House apart for the reveal, furtive with each push. Oddly enough, Dorian noticed the reluctance in his gesture, as if he didn't want to enter his own manor--return to his birthplace--return from Mishkan. The darkness of Arelgren's House interior did not sympathize with him, and he soon came to realize that his intuition contained substance.
Monotonous footsteps echoed as dried boots entered the vicinity. Lettie's dotted mouth thinned at the lupine scene, her hands folded tightly over her laced dress. Shattered porcelain, empty cupboards, absent paintings--none of them registered in Dorian's mind. He simply regarded them blankly, his lips dry. Dust pooled at every corner of the room, and when Dorian breathed, a diaspora of it rushed before him. He felt sick--genuinely so--wanting to vomit the scene along with the contents of his stomach. Lettie leaped from her Grimm's form, landing noiselessly on a cracked, marble bust of Lucien Arelgren. She adopted no empathetic stare, instead, coolly nodded at the spectacle, tipping her hat in a sardonic salute. Her small, ghostly face was tinged with a mixture of ferocity, loathing, and relentlessness. She watched her Grimm as he knelt, she watched as the crimson noose around his neck slipped and landed beside his foot and over his fingers. Dorian swept the scene with jade orbs--searching for clues of his malefactors. He inspected the same spot tirelessly, wondering if his time had come--if the peasants were still nearby, closing in for the kill where he least expected their snare. His thumb and forefinger rubbed against each other over the ribbon he picked up, his own neck-ribbon, and the lump in his throat finally birthed.
"Mr.Arelgren, I believe the most you will learn is upstairs," Lettie deduced, her bell-like voice wavering slightly. She didn't expect such a return, the state of Arelgren House, nor Dorian's third psychological plight. She tiptoed from where she stood, touching Dorian's cheek to remind him of his reality. He trembled upon her touch.
"Lettie..do you suppose...Obscuvos...."
"Upstairs, Mr. Arelgren. Hush, conquer your fear, but heed no worry, for the Little Ghost will rid its presence if you cannot."
The fear was eminent, though the Arelgren's promise to the Finch sage was more so. Lettie understood and removed her cap momentarily. Dorian needed council, his own constitution was unprepared. She removed Hopkin's leather from within her cap, and wrapped it around her shoulders to comfort herself as well. Dorian required a strong companion at such a zenith--she must be his tower, his guard, his shield. She must become all that Nancy once provided.
Dorian slowly ascended each step of the Arelgren's twisting staircase, each step heavier than its predecessor. The fallen empire below was growing more distant, and Lettie remained curiously calm, her small form composed over her Grimm's shaking one.
Lettie was, undeniably, correct.
Dorian's room was in-tact, and the Arelgren's confusion fused with his Plague's own. His bed was made, and when he checked behind his portrait, he discovered that his shillings depository remained untouched. His room had definitely been contacted with, its cleanliness proving so, though queerly.
"Dorian! Look--over there--" Lettie cried, her small, gloved hand pointing to an embellished sight so majestic that Dorian was surprised that he hand't seen it before. Lettie's mouth opened, though no sound came from it. She knew all that Dorian owned, especially his clothing, and the magenta coat that hung over his bed upon a nail was attire that Dorian did not own. She gazed quizzically at her Grimm, wondering what meaning the item could have. Dorian obliged by removing it from the rusty nail, his eyes sweeping over its elegant fabrics and pattern. It seemed to be something an Arelgren would don, surely, though he was certain he never bought it, nor did his fathers or ancestors own such a piece. He exchanged a hesitant glance with his Plague, and quickly slipped his arms through its sleeves. Lettie gave a little gasp when she and Dorian came to the same conclusion, the coat was a perfect fit.
A slip of parchment fell from its right sleeve when Dorian pushed his hand in, and Lettie quickly jumped to the floor to retrieve it, reading aloud (slowly, for she was a novice at literacy) the words written with flourish: TO THE LATE ARELGREN, BUTTERFLY CROW, HANGMAN OF SHYREGOED.
Dorian could only remain static, stunned upon hearing the title. Surely, someone was aware of something he was not. Or, someone was entirely aware of all he knew. Whichever the consequence, Dorian was certain there was little for him to admire about the coat any longer--he prepared to shed it when a bell tolled--
"DON'T!" Lettie shouted, slamming her small fists onto Dorian's boot. "Keep it, Dorian. Do not let fear intimidate you, instead, make a satire of it."
Dorian's arms hung loosely by his side, and Lettie climbed back onto his shoulder.
He noticed for the first time that she carried his red ribbon. She handed the noose to him: "Remember what you've done, Dorian. Never forget that a stigma is also a gift; like Lettie."
He fastened it to his arm, and Lettie nodded approvingly at him.
"I do not understand, Lettie. Who are my malefactors--and what is it they wanted with Arelgren House?" Dorian questioned dully.
"It is obvious, Mr. Arelgren!" Lettie said poisonously., "We find that gunsmith again. Ten shots simply won't do it.
Dorian, startled, could only choke.
"Mr. Arelgren, you do not let others inflict unbecoming pain. If you are such a coward, then you are undeserving of Lettie and Nancy's love!" Lettie declared, clapping her hands furiously. "You have seen blood before, Lettie has seen blood before, but surely---others have not. They belittle us, Mr. Arelgren. They take us for a sweet cocoa and her dappy dandy...Foolish! Foolish fools!"
He stared at his hands, wondering if revenge was what Lettie's intention was.
"Little Ghost, I do not intend to kill, " Dorian silently said.
"Why, I never Mr. Arelgren! No, Lettie does not want you to kill either," Lettie agreed, "Simply, a harvest, if you please, Mr. Dorian. We must harvest all that they know--though instilling a new fear is a start. Starting is very difficult. As an Arelgren, I wish to see to it that fear is the last cup of cocoa they will taste before they riddle you Armageddon."
Lettie seemed more of an Arelgren to Dorian than he was himself.
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Tue Aug 23, 2011 9:43 pm
ＴＨＩＲＴＹ ＨＵＮＧＲＹ ＳＨＯＴＳ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 29. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???
After the plight of Arelgren House, Lettie's resolution was the absolute direction, and Dorian found little reason to remain in Shyregoed. There were no leads on who it was that trespassed. Dorian figured his past lampoons attributed to their horrible luck, Shyregoedians avoided him whenever he came near, and foreigners were no help either. Soon, the scheduling changed dramatically. Firstly, the priority of obtaining more shots (as Lettie wished) was not a difficult task as the Arelgren had predicted. The Grimm and Plague's search was a fruitful one. Lettie suggested asking the nearby militiamen posted in Shyregoed instead of the commoners, a plan that worked well. Dorian was aware that the soldiers most likely took shifts between weeks, therefore his identity was safe, and their information easily extracted. The repeater's makers were found as well, the Enfield-North Arms company in Mishkan was a renowned brand among weaponry. Their address was provided by a gratuitous soldier who showered the company with accolades, a serious admirer, no doubt. Dorian had a limited knowledge of guns, sans that they were instruments of hunting, the military, and bloodlust.
Lettie suggested that Dorian (as a gentleman should) make an appointment with Mr. North and Mr. Enfield with details of his purchase, but upon receiving quill and ink--Dorian's literary muse escaped him, and he wasn't quite sure how to word his intentions, simply being, they were moreso Lettie's intentions than his own. He was a mere translator, and he explained to Lettie. Dipping her head, she informed him that she would voice what he would write, and the duo focused on the blank parchment paper waiting impatiently for content.
"To: Mr.North and Mr. Enfield, I am Dorian Arelgren of the ribbons!" Lettie began, tiptoeing over the paper's surface as Dorian scrawled hastily. "I am on a quest for revenge, for bandits raided my home and left me a coat in my repose! I feel like a lady!"
Dorian's scribbles ceased, flabbergasted.
"Lettie, I cannot write that I feel like a lady! That is to shame me, to make me appear...no offense, but...ladylike? I cannot write to masters of arms explaining how I require thirty shots because I feel like a lady!" He explained, exasperated from his own loss of muse and Lettie's improper form. While her words seemed to humiliate him, he saw that she truly did not mean to, for her features were quite serious.
"Well, Mr.Arelgren, I am merely assisting you, it is, after all, your fingers that will land those thirty shots. Lettie is merely an assistant."
"Horrifying."
"Don't be a coward, Mr. Arelgren. These men will help us. Now, continue!"
"Alright."
The resulting letter was neither a fanciful or becoming one to Dorian, at least, not anything an Arelgren heir would produce. For one, it was overly humble in prose and description, and for the other, humility was perhaps the only strength in the letter at all. He felt ridiculed in every sentence, though it was true that Lettie was frank in all that she revealed to Mr. North and Mr. Enfield. He groaned inwardly when Lettie repeated the letter, proofreading it with words of approval at certain parts and taps of her fingers on words she thought were "elegant" and "proper".
To: Mr.North and Mr. Enfield, I am Dorian Arelgren of the ribbons! I am on a quest for revenge and the satisfaction of my curiosity, for bandits raided my home and left me a coat in my repose! I feel like a lady! I do not want to be raided any longer by horrible bandits of foolishness. I considered poisoning their cocoa, but I remembered that I do not know who they are. Therefore, I require tools, your tools, to be precise, Mr. Enfield and Mr. North! Thirty shots, no more, no less. I will provide the payment upfront in your arms shop, because I am a gentleman. I hope you will look forward to expecting me and I will bring chocolate. I have the best chocolate in the same way that you have the best guns. I am not going to kill anyone with the gun though, so it is okay. Goodbye.
Dorian Arelgren
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Aug 23, 2011 10:00 pm
ＴＨＥ ＦＥＡＳＴ ＢＥＦＯＲＥ ＴＨＥ ＨＡＲＶＥＳＴ✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 30. ✦ ✦ ✦ the annex; shyregoed; growth questＦＥＡＴＵＲＩＮＧ： The Plague Doctor - ｆｉｎ
In which Dorian acquires additional shots and offhand advice.
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Wed Aug 24, 2011 2:46 pm
ＷＨＥＲＥ ＴＨＥ ＴＨＲＥＥ ＥＮＤＳ ＭＥＥＴ✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 31. ✦ ✦ ✦ trinity tavern; shyregoed; growth questＦＥＡＴＵＲＩＮＧ： Ezekiel North; Wickwright Finch, Hopkin - ｆｉｎ
In which Dorian is reunited with a gunsmith and a sage.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Aug 27, 2011 12:14 pm
ＤＩＳＣＡＲＤ ＡＮＤ ＤＩＳＣＯＲＤ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 32. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???
The North boy's suggestion was sensible; Lettie and Dorian made a silent departure from Trinity Tavern to Arelgren House, the latter's throat as fiery as his Plague's rekindled enthusiasm. The Arelgren heir's cheeriness deserted him months ago, and the only songs that filled his ears were not of his own, but the Hot Cocoa's. The air outside was calm, and he crunch of redding leaves underneath Dorian's boots hinted at coming fall. The sound, which was usually charming to Dorian's ears, was now dreadful. The changing of the seasons brought worse tidings, the first, being Nancy Burdrew's death. He dared not to make a supposition of the last; He wanted to joke, to chide, to return to careless days where his own laughter was reason enough to be happy. Now, he was a stranger in his own region, nobody seemed to recognize him. The Shyregoedians his passed stared at him, as if they had never seen him before. Nobody could identify a Dorian Arelgren that did not smile. He chose to ignore them, continuing along the path he repeated for twenty-six years. He clutched the Enfield-North repeater tightly in his hand. Yes , the gunsmith's suggestion was sound. The most he could learn was from the stage of tragedy itself.
It was necessary to return to Arelgren House.
"Dorian, what do you suppose we'll find there?" Lettie inquired, toying with the scarlet bow fastened to her petticoat. She had been rather behaved in Trinity Tavern, Dorian assumed it was due to the (appreciated) presence of Hopkin and Wickwright Finch. If the only man apparent was Ezekiel, Lettie would not have been well manageable--showing herself to the entire tavern, perhaps. Wickwright Finch and his book Plague were enough to return the Servos girl to her shyness and sweetness. THe metamorphosis itself was sickening to Dorian, and he tried convincing himself that her dynamics were unrelated to him, and that he, could never have influenced her. Both, of course, were untrue. Regardless of how dense the truth, Dorian could not reject his annoyance of her change. He should have been grateful that she wanted to take authority, responsibility--but the manner she exercised her new interest was no different than the Obscuvian's: demanding and red. It seemed as if acquiring a Plague only meant washing his hands in more blood.
Lettie still awaited an answer, so Dorian returned one to her. True to his solipsistic ways, the Grimm answered icily, "Fffpppt, something in my house? I wouldn't know, Lettie. You'd only know what I myself know."
He stopped walking the moment he realized her voice was much too clear than it usually was outside, when she was concealed. Whipping around, he cried: "Lettie, what are you doing? Don't be such a fool, people have seen you! Get off my shoulder!"
Lettie sniffed, refusing to oblige. She crossed her little arms, tilting her head away from her Grimm in defiance, pleased with her sudden wave of power.
"I don't want to! Lettie doesn't want to."
Dorian flamed. He didn't understand why the Hot Cocoa suddenly had to be so damn difficult with him--endangering the both of them. No wonder people stared at him--them--now a good number of Shyregoedians would know his identity as a Grimm. The thought only intensified the fire. He already struggled carrying out Obscuvos's requests. Arelgren House's interior was heavily damaged, an incognito was (presumably) on the hunt for his skin, and Lettie was ultimately trying to get him killed under the disguise of, ironically, trying to "save" him. He paused in mid thought. No, that can't be right. Lettie never spoke of "saving" anyone. No-one but Hopkin, at least.
No, she merely indicated revenge, never rescue. More deaths were suggested to him by the sweet, Little Ghost. Thirty deaths by thirty, hungry shots of the repeater's barrel. Anguish filled him to the brim, and he grasped the squirming Plague with both hands, relieving his shoulder of her and dropping the repeater in the process. She shrieked in retaliation, kicking furiously with her miniature feet, futile in her efforts. Dorian only squeezed harder, making Lettie's cries more desperate. The Arelgren almost smiled. He remember why he was hurting her, and regained himself. His voice was malicious through clenched teeth:
"Why--are--you--making--me--miserable?" he demanded, his cheeks red. His voice was venomously even, he had no intention of raising it to attract more attention, though he was glad no-one was nearby anymore to overhear his tirade: "Do you suppose, Lettie, that I aim to die?"
Lettie continued to scream, so Dorian saw no reason to wait for her reply.
"First, you reveal yourself to weaponsmiths, and now, all of Shyregeoed? You said...you said you wanted to diminish my troubles. I saved Hopkin and Wickwright Finch for your sake, and soon---Obscuvos will know of what I have done...and YOU...you hasten to give me more options to my decimation...How should Mr. Arelgren die, Lettie? Perhaps by Obscuvos's hand, or the Shyregeodians? Or perhaps, just, everyone's?"
Dorian decided his words were not piercing enough.
"Or, perhaps, because I am not Hopkin Finch? I do not deserve to be saved, so apply more pressure to Mr. Arelgren! KINDLY APPLY IT, HOT COCOA!"
He hurled her with an abrupt gesture, and she landed clumsily on the dirt trail. She sniffed, her great, brown eyes quivering. That seemed to satisfy the Arelgren. He tilted his posture slightly so that his chin was inclined away from her. The man himself wasn't even aware of what expression had taken over his features, rather, he didn't care to know. The knowledge of it was not of importance, the cruel heat within him somehow comforted him. He was vexed himself, unsure of whether he spoke to his Plague out of spite, or due to succumbing to the idea of being caged to the wills of ill spirits. The usual urge to cast Lettie a weary eye was absent.
"Leave me peace, Little Ghost. The crows bring no kindness to me. Ever since the black Rook delivered his omens with black, beating wings--the butterflies have ceased to appear." Dorian softly said, his usual, gay tone, consumed by a foreign poison.
"Yes, leave me peace."
Hands shaking, the Grimm walked ahead to Arelgren House, the scent of Hot Chocolate declining with each slow step.
The Plague dared not to follow.
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Thu Sep 22, 2011 9:54 pm
ＴＨＥ ＬＡＣＫ ＯＦ ＳＷＥＥＴＮＥＳＳ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 34. ✦ ✦ ✦
stillcrest ; shyregoed
  Ｆｆｅａｔｕｒｉｎｇ： ｃａｖａｌｉｅｒ ａｎｄ ｎｅｌｏｄｙ
Lettie Arelgren watched her Grimm storm away, and for a moment, she wanted to widen her dotted mouth to call him back, to make him change his mind--but as her small, gloved hand reached for his receding figure, it fell limply to her side. His choleric demeanor itself was frightening and she gulped at the thought of it worsening. Before, it was she was cross at Dorian, not the opposite way around. She had implied his cowardice, exploited it, and altogether tried to substitute it with vengeance against his own morals. In her own defense, Lettie swore that she'd only meant to help, to warm, to make better. She didn't expect her Grimm to be weak in responding, nor did she expect a sudden flare of emotion to surface from him. She thought that upon meeting Wickwright and Ezekiel, Dorian would be happier among the company of other Grimms, and in the younger male's case, a Grimm-to-be...but...speaking of the young Mr.North, it could have well been his own existence that made Dorian worse. Dorian Arelgren, unbeknownst to the Shyregoedians that he afflicted--was quite empathetic, perhaps overly so. He'd only choose to conceal it for outwards appearances, and Lettie knew this well. Ezekiel North must have troubled Mr. Arelgren greatly, though Lettie was comforted by the fact that Mr. Enfield did not seem to be the type of man who would allow Mr. North to join the House of Obscuvos. She smiled at the image of Mr. North shooting an Obscuvan in the chest, she doubted he was incapable of it. He was a "frightening shot, and boys like that were not to be taken lightly.
She stared pathetically at the red ribbon by her foot. Squatting, she extracted it from the ground, wiped dust from it, and pressed it against her cheek. It still had the lingering scent of him and she stopped immediately. Mr. Arelgren was nothing like any of the Grimms or Grimms-to-be she'd met. He was afraid of many things, but pretended he wasn't. He was many things, but pretended he was a simple thing. He worried her greatly, and even after departing from her, she was still anxious for him. She wondered where it was she went wrong; even if he screamed at her his reasoning, none of it registered in the mind of the Hot Cocoa. Additionally, she was clueless with what to do with his ribbon and wondered if Dorian noticed that it had gone missing. No matter, he would not return for it, especially not now.
She wanted to cry, but struggled against it. Lettie was a strong, she-Plague, and all she did would be undone if she exhibited weakness now. Perhaps Mr. Dorian was only joking and he was watching from the Arelgren House window, bemused at her state. She shook her head.
"M-Mr. Arelgren would never do such a thing!" she stammered, her little hands balled into fists. "Mr. Arelgren...Mr.Arelgren will return for me--b-because Mr. Arelgren said that I was the most important thing to him."
Yes, it was so. It had to be so. Lettie convinced herself of this as she walked towards the familiar willow that guarded The Damned Hill, sitting by its bottom while contemplating what to do next without her Adonis to inspire her.
"I don't think he thought you were very important-ah," an accented voice announced. It sounded like the rustling of autumn leaves against one another, a scratchy symphony. Startled, Lettie turned and yelped when she found herself face-tof face with a great, brown leaf. The speaker smiled at being noticed, and continued: "Ah, if he did, he would not have said those things, yahhh."
"But I am very important to Mr. Arelgren!" Lettie cried heatedly, adjusting her bow importantly and impatiently. "Mr. Arelgren doesn't value many things, but he does value Lettie and he does value his own life! Which I can sympathize with!"
"Ahhhh. I think not. I have been watching Dolian for awhile," the leaf added, smoothing out her natural, brown dress. This seemed to only infuriate the already upset Lettie and her cheeks turned from pink to deep crimson. "I have been watching you too. Mr. Arelgren is not a good boy. He makes many people angry."
Lettie could not argue with her here. The leaf sat herself down beside Lettie, and the latter was surprised to discover that she was smaller than the Hot Cocoa Plague. The latter seemed to take notice of this, and held Lettie's hand, much to the Servos's surprise.
"I am Nelody. Cavalier will be is hiding but he will appear when he feels like it, ah. You do not look happy, Nelody commented thoughtfully. She adjusted her sleeves, emitting a rustling sound. Lettie had no clue as of who 'Cavalier' was, but she assumed he was another tiny plague like Nelody herself. She nodded at Nelody's statement, her dotted mouth morphed into a frown. She didn't feel like explaining her situation to the brown Plague, and she'd truly prefer it if Nelody (and Cavalier, if he was somewhere to be seen at all) would leave her alone and cease watching her and her late Grimm. It chilled her: the thought of .other pairs of eyes observing her situation. The sense of home Dorian always bought with him seemed to lack security when others were around, sans Wickwright Finch and Hopkin Finch.
"I am Lettie Arelgren," Lettie stubbornly retorted. It sounded pathetic when she voiced it, and she reddened at the realization. She didn't feel like talking and she really wanted Nelody just to go away and leave her be. The smaller Plague simply turned her head and stared. It was awfully eerie to Lettie, having an eyeless Plague stare at her. Th-then again, Hopkin lacked eyes too--but Hopkin was very different.
"We could play a game, ahhh. Cavalier, won't you play with us?"
Lettie did not want to play, nor did she intend on playing with Cavalier (or meeting him for that matter, whatever he was). She found Nelody to be quite rude by now, pushing her this way and that! Lettie placed her little head over her lap, her gloved hands tightened on the sides of her cap. She hoped they were not scrutinizing her, but the sound of new leaves hinted at the arrival of Cavalier, and this upset the Hot Cocoa.
"Go away! I don't want to play games with you! I don't want to play games with either of you!" Lettie shouted, her cries slightly muffled from the fabric of her dress. "Leave me alone!"
Nelody and Cavalier tried to touch Lettie to comfort her, but the Servos violently shook off their hands, fuming at the contact.
She did not want to play. Why the smaller Plagues insisted, Lettie did not know. Instead, the Hot Cocoa shut her eyes and tried hard to fall asleep. She heard the duo depart when the rustling ceased.
She did not want to wake up.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Sep 22, 2011 10:06 pm
ＴＨＥ ＢＵＴＴＥＲＦＬＹ ＣＲＯＷＳ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 35. ✦ ✦ ✦
??? ; ???; growth quest
The continuation to Arelgren House was nothing short of what Dorian expected it to be. His cheeks were pale from the event before, shaken that he spoke in such fashion to his Plague. He hadn't habituated into the situation; Lettie's absence was something he didn't want to consider unnerving nor voiding, but he couldn't ignore the bitter saliva that gathered in his cheek. The prodigal son gritted his teeth in frustration, he hadn't been depressed for a length of time--he didn't have the time to, and he most certainly refused to categorize the alien feeling within him as loneliness or depression. It couldn't possibly be, he rationalized his options before choosing to abandon the Grimm's Burden. He vindicated himself of his Plague, and as the gruff Mr.Enfield subtly suggested, it was the obligatory decision. Humans were obligated to their happiness, to be free of suffering. Grimmhood stole away his rights to healthiness of body and mind. Dorian Alregren was adamant on reclaiming what was once his. Arelgren House challenged him from the top of the Damned Hill, now visible and becoming closer. It hadn't changed much; it never changed much, now that he mulled the observation over.
The slow crunching of leaves beneath the Arelgren's feet diminished to almost-inaudible crackles when his hands finally reached out to push the familiar, curved gates open. It lazily moved from its hinge, allowing him generous entry. The House's door was ajar, and the Arelgren could identify a snaking trail of blood from the doorsteps to the interior. The sight of it made him smile. Someone was suffering.
Inside, the air once filled with the scent of cocoa beans was suffocated by a musty rot. The remaining furnishings were oddly untouched, despite the fresh evidence of murder arranged in its eerie harmony. The Arelgren lifted a brow at the sight, marveling at how orderly the homicide seemed to be, the blood patterns confined. Still, the reek was more prominent than the scenery. Grimacing, Dorian held his cravat over his nose as he ascended the old, wooden staircase, his repeater clutched tightly in the opposite hand. He didn't bother to call a reasonable "Who goes there?" He harbored no intention to act as a spectre, floating around his abandoned abode in search of the perpetrator. No, he wanted to meet his malefactors. The Arelgren heir was starved.
He didn't have to declare himself. Someone else already did.
A silvery voice emitted from his bedchambers, soft, with a trace of gentle masculinity:
"O'er the lantern
Hunches a black Rook
He ruffles his butterfly feathers
That turn to splendid ash
Butterfly ash coats his secretive wings
For he is the Butterfly Crow
He is an invisible thing
"
Dorian remained rooted to where he stood, his legs suddenly numb. Saliva pooled in his cheek, and he struggled when he swallowed. The repeater in his hand was loosened in his grip. He advanced unsteadily, approached the door, and gave it a quick but violent shove. His bedroom was as welcoming as it ever was, still retained in its orderly form from his last visit. Nothing out of the ordinary. It bothered him; the corpse he expected was nowhere to be seen, and in its place, a simple Obscuvian, the redness of his robes emphasized by the recent kill. The man's beaked mask peered at him through hollowed eyes, recognizing and daunting in what it absorbed. His singing had stopped, and he appeared to have been waiting for Dorian's presence for some time. He didn't bother walking towards the Arelgren. No, it wasn't required. The Arelgren walked towards him.
"You..."Dorian began, unsure of how to continue. While he had a variety of speeches prepared for his malefactor earlier before ascending the staircase, now that the latter was present, he wasn't sure of how to express his disbelief. "You...You did this? All...all of this...?"
The beaked mask stared back, silent. The Obscuvian didn't move.
Dorian regained his composure, his muscles relaxing. His emotions, however, were as fiery as ever, and he had no intention on calming himself. The nerves in his fingers were restless, and each of them screamed: "Shoot him! Shoot him, Dorian Arelgren! Do it now--"
"Don't you dare remain reticent! ANSWER ME!" Dorian roared, raising his repeater slowly. "Thirty shots I have here...thirty shots here...do not test my patience. It runs thin."
The masked man gave a small nod.
"Yes, Dorian. I know...so is mine..."
Before Dorian could reply, the masked man slowly removed the bone-mask from his face. A thick, golden locks graced down his shoulders in a twisted braid, reaching his waist. His face was gaunt with a gentle jawline, but regal in their arrangement. Forest-colored eyes reflected an apathetic aura, his lips pale from the chill. Still, he did not move. It appeared to Dorian that he could not move. He wanted to turn towards the door and escape--the thought of a possibly lingering Lettie was the least of his concerns. He opened his mouth to speak, but clamped his jaw shut when his mind could think of nothing.
"Dorian...Arelgren..." the man breathed, tasting the name as if he'd never composed the sounds together in his life. His eyes settled on the Arelgren boy, a stricken expression reflected on both males' faces. "Do you...do you know who I am?"
Dorian ignored the question. He didn't want to know the answer, he was afraid to. It was obvious now, more obvious than before--his eyes couldn't lie--never.
"DID YOU DO THIS? GIVE ME THIS ATTIRE? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF ALL THIS?" Dorian shouted, his aim still. Die, die, die...
"No--I would never...I would never cause harm to my own son...that is why...I gave you...something that I could identify you by...I thought...I thought it would look fitting on you," the man said, evidently choosing his words carefully. He looked down at the speckled blood on his Obscuvian cloak, and his voice continued to trail. "He...this man suspected you--the only man to suspect you...nobody else knows...I had to lure him in and finish..."
Dorian's head swam at the first part of the man's confession, his consciousness screaming at him from every crevice of his mind. He didn't want to accept it--the man--the man who claimed to be his father. It took a bit of time for the second reality to settle into him: his father had saved him and an Obscuvian had pursued him. Both thoughts were horrifying in different ways, different methods and he didn't know how to properly register either. He didn't know anything anymore for any matter. He crumpled to the floor, tears grouping at his eyes, slipping to the floor plop...plop...plop..... He bit his lip in anguish, of all times--why did he appear now? He suffered for years without either his father nor mother, and it was only when Nancy disappeared that he began receiving shillings at all. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. One misfortune after another, one leading right into the next. It was almost as if Obscuvos himself to have taken Dorian's hand from the beginning, and led him to the now.
He felt the warmth of another being envelope him. Opening his eyes, he saw a sea of golden locks; his father embraced him.
He couldn't struggle against it. He didn't have the power to anymore, or the rationalizing to know how to react. It was a strange, tangible feeling, the warmth of something long absent embracing what was left. Dorian rested his chin awkwardly on his father's shoulder, unsure of what to do in the position. Should he speak? Should he return the hug? What did children do in situations like this? What did his father expect him to do?
"I am overjoyed to see you well, Dorian. There are reasons as to why your mother and I couldn't contact you...I...you...you must hate me...despise me for the father I am..."
No... even if I wanted to rip you a new inside for being negligent of me, I could never hate you father.
"When your mother passed, I began to feel the fear I hadn't felt ever since your birth...I'm laughable, aren't I, Dorian? Surely you've become a stronger man than myself..."
Never, father. I am in my weakest state, at least, of mind...but wait...mother passed? How old was I when she passed? What has Time stole from me?
The two finally broke apart, Dorian still choking, Lucien Arelgren a picture of misery at its best. The elder Arelgren placed a firm hand on the other's shoulder, absorbing his son's appearance, everything that resembled him and the late Agatha Arelgren. He was such a beautiful boy, too beautiful for Obscuvos to hunt. When he heard that his son, too, had joined the Obscuvian ranks, horror filled his heart. He could never find him either, when he arrived at one location, Dorian was already reassigned. Blood had been collected, and the younger Arelgren gained himself a Plague. This worried Lucien the greatest. He was told Dorian was deeply attached to the said Plague, treating it as if it were his sister--a human being. Lucien was more afraid than anything. He needed to protect him, from everything--to help him grow stronger. Dorian Arelgren appeared to be anything but strong in his current state, and his father took responsibility.
"Dorian...you do not look well. You have been tortured by Plagues and Obscuvos."
"Is this new to you? Why do you appear now when you have never appeared to me before?"
Lucien flinched at this. Satisfied with his venom, Dorian continued.
"Did it ever occur to you that I almost died on many occasions? No, because your son must be as immortal as you are."
"That is an unfair, Dorian. I've been searching for you ever since you joined the House. I was horrified, in fact...Lettie...was it? Yes, I think so...Yes, I was deathly afraid for you when Lettie came to your side."
"Incompetent. Lettie was more competent than you ever could be; to me, at least."
"But you threw her away. She is not with you now."
"That's strictly none of your business, seeing that none of my friends have been to you in the past. Lettie is no exception."
"You want to be involved, but you do not wish to kill--or die. You are a Butterfly Crow, waiting to burst from its cocoon. I want you to be safe, free of Obscuvos's influences."
"It's impossible. Nobody escapes from Obscuvos, at least, not alive."
"There is a method."
Dorian raised his head, a new sense of interest perked in him. His nose sniffed up the remainder of his anguish. Lucien's following words tightened around his neck.
"Become a Butterfly Crow: an imaginary creature. We wear Obscuvos's cloak, we adopt titles of his servants...but we do not act for him. Everything that Obscuvos has enlightened us with, we give to the other factions--whoever pays the highest price. Sometimes we give it for free, depending on the situation. Dorian Arelgren, you are not a bad person. You know this."
Dorian glanced at his father, unresponsive.
"How long have you been here?" he finally asked softly. Ready acceptance was something the younger Arelgren was not yet prepared for, as was forgiveness.
"A few hours ago. I'm grateful fate decided to be kind to us both today."
The younger Arelgren considered this. The hush grew, and the elder Arelgren shifted his eyes away, blushing from the awkward lapse. Dorian remained silent from where it was he stood, his shoulders visibly trembling. His father never reassured him that membership would ensure him escape from Obscuvos; it was an illusion to thyself, a trick of one's own mind. But...he could afford to be, couldn't he? After all, he sent Lettie away. Finally, he answered.
"Alright. I'll become a Butterfly Crow. " he said rather submissively.Are you and I the only ones?"
"No, there are two more. They are trusted individuals. They won't give us away--they'd only be sending themselves to the grave by doing so. It's simple to become a skilled Butterfly Crow, really. The Obscuvians must simply forget you, though in your case, it will be no simple task. It's fine though, you will become an active operative."
"It doesn't matter. Anything soothes my conscience over the Obscuvian bloodbath."
Lucien studied his son keenly, his lips twitching slightly at the latter's judgement. Unknown to Dorian, his father was more afraid than glad to see him, afraid that he'd even managed to make contact, to find his son not a memory of ash but a physical being still lain intact. The House had done quite a deal on him, no doubt, yet he could not help but to admire the younger Arelgren's strength in carrying on. No doubt some of it was attributed to his Plague, but Butterfly Crows knew the danger of them and how to keep them well-hidden and well-behaved. Dorian, apparently, did not--otherwise Lettie would not have been sent away. It was almost a pity, he'd looked forwards to meeting Lettie, despite testifying otherwise. She had been good to him and kept him alive this far through. The two Arelgrens would require a discussion, but elsewhere, where it was much safer.
"Come, Dorian. We musn't stay here."
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
Posted: Mon Oct 24, 2011 6:55 pm
Ａ ＣＨＡＮＧＥ ＯＦ ＨＥＡＲＴ✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 36. ✦ ✦ ✦ stillcrest ; shyregoedＦＥＡＴＵＲＩＮＧ： Dragomir Meschke, Chayele - ｆｉｎ
In which Lettie is reunited with a shofar and her chauffeur.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Oct 27, 2011 11:56 pm
ＬＵＣＩＥＮ ＡＲＥＬＧＲＥＮ
✦ ✦ ✦ CHAPTER 37. ✦ ✦ ✦
stillcrest ; shyregoed
 ｆｅａｔｕｒｉｎｇ： ｊａｃｋｓｏｎ ａｎｄ ｋｅｎｎｅｄｙ
Dorian watched as his father walked briskly over to the grand wardrobe, stuck his arms into the forest of attire and deliberately felt the wood behind them until he found what it was he was looking for. His arms remained still for a moment, and it wasn't until Dorian noticed his elbows twitching that he understood what his father was doing. Carefully, Lucien retreated from the wardrobe, and when he sidestepped and pulled some coats aside, the younger Arelgren audibly gasped. The entrance beckoned from where it bored, and the secret passageway was blatantly visible. Its carpenter must have been articulate in his craft, for Dorian had never noticed the cut-out before. Seeing that his son was taking longer to process what laid before his eyes, the elder Arelgren hastily disappeared beyond the entrance, and Dorian saw that his only initiative was to follow. He brushed by the coats he knew so well, wore so well, and entered headfirst, then carefully brought along with him the rest of his body. He was surprised at how easy entering was; the hole looked smaller from the outside. Once both Arelgrens were safely within, Lucien Arelgren pulled the wardrobe door shut, then quietly and firmly set the board back in place. Dorian winced when sudden darkness overtook his vision;his father would not be requiring a lamp. He knew so because Lucien did not bring one earlier, and from the vice-like grip on his wrist, he figured that his father was more concerned about losing his son than succumbing to literal darkness.
The corridor was narrow, and Dorian was clueless to between which walls of Arelgren House it was they were trekking. Soon, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he could make out the dim outline of his father's figure and braid. He smiled faintly at the contact, though the expression did not root from love nor happiness. He didn't know why he smiled; it just somehow felt oddly appropriate. Lucien had been awfully quiet ever since he pulled Dorian into the slim abyss. The latter wondered where the corpse of the man was, the man whom Lucien claimed intended to kill him. He expected a much more harsh experience upon entering Arelgren House. Everything happened so quickly, discarding Lettie, discovering Lucien. This could not all be real. Yet it was--the touch on his wrist was very much so. He wasn't sure if he was enjoying the moment, but he could not escape it. He did like how Lucien's footsteps synchronized nicely with his own, and Dorian's mind bloomed a pocketful more questions that he would ask the elder man later.
"Be wary, there are steps ahead. Here. Now."
They stepped carefully up and ascended what seemed to be an eternity of flights. Dorian listened attentively to the synchronized beat of their footsteps, father and son. The grip on his wrist was calming as well, and he felt his heartbeat come to an ease. The mental tranquility was only temporary. He tried not thinking of Lettie as they ascended further up stairs. Was she alright on her own? Dorian numbly shook his head. He'd made a decision, he should continue to enforce it. Trouble, she was trouble, Dorian. You decided to join the Butterfly Crows to ease your troubles--
Dorian blinked at the sight of the glow. The ball of light was coming closer--and instantly his thoughts settled on Lettie. She was the only being he knew that ever glowed white, and the idea that she was making her way back to him caused a lump to form in his throat. He was frozen in his tracks, but he came to see that it did not matter. Lucien Arelgren remained stationary and his grip did not soften. His father's jade eyes stared steadily ahead, and his lips curved into a light smile. When the glow got closer, Dorian saw that it was not one Plague, but two. Both were clad in armor, expressionless with gaits that suggested to the Grimm that they were very important. Or at least, they personally felt that they were of certain importance.
"Kennedy! Jackson! What is the environmental status?" Lucien whispered, just enough for the small Plagues to hear. They were barely bigger than Lettie and Dorian found himself embarrassed for having mistook them as her. They answered in unison.
"Clear. Yes. Affirmative. Clear. Nothing. Wonderful."
"Excellent. We will proceed."
Lucien momentarily released his son and extended his hand on which the two Plagues climbed. He used them as a lamp of a sort, illuminating the dark passage around them. It shocked the Arelgren slightly that his father would be in the company of Plagues. Earlier, he had condemned them for being a troublesome lot, implying the strife they bought with them. The two knightlike Plagues were more stoic of the lot, undoubtedly. They were a brilliant source of light, however. Upon closer inspection, Dorian realized it was much more narrow than he'd felt. It was also very long, and Dorian wondered if they were still within Arelgren House, or if they'd breached the outside parameters or even beyond. He wouldn't have to ask. Lucien Arelgren eventually came to a halt, and felt the wall before him carefully. When he found what he was looking for, he gave a small push, and a new, musty smell filled Dorian's nostrils. Another room.
"Fret not, this is still Shyregoed. A lovely place to go unnoticed, Agatha had an affinity to strange places like these. We will be safe here."
How could his father be certain?
"The original master of the house is a dead man. I buried him as he requested."
Ah.
The interior of the room was dark, the only source of light being Jackson and Kennedy. Dorian could distinguish the slight outlines of furnishing inside the room, but he couldn't identify what exactly they were or where the exit of the room was. His father exhibited no intention to leave. The putrid smell didn't bother him either. Lucien placed both hands on his son's shoulder and lowered him to the ground so that both men were kneeling, facing each other. In the darkness, Dorian could see very little of his father's face despite their closeness. He could only distinguish the other man's animated lips.
"The Butterfly Crows. You have been made a member by myself, but you must never speak of its title to anyone no matter how close your relationship nor how strong your concern. We are invisible things. We cannot give a chance at life to others if we exist, are you clear with said concept?"
"Yes, father. But what am I obliged to act as a Butterfly Crow? I-I barely know how to act...recently..it's...been so...diggity difficult making decisions at all!" he said, hot with exasperation. Dorian had reason to shed concern. He would not make the same mistakes as he did upon entering the House--his naivete was behind him. He did feel the heat growing within him.
A silence was born from the conversation, and Dorian became nervous of when his father would reply or what the said reply would include. He did not except a ribbon of laughter to follow as Lucien Arelgren clutched his sides, trying to speak in between choked breathing. The sound was symphonic and in a sense, pleased Dorian, for his father's laugh sounded very much like his own. He was more embarrassed than pleased for the elder Arelgren was laughing, the target being him, he assumed. His ego deflated.
"PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT. Diggity difficult? Diggity? Oh--my...my word this...this is just---I meant to carry quite a serious initiation for you, my dear boy--but pfhfhrfhfhngk DIGGITY DIFFICULT!" Lucien Arelgren was on the floor now, trying to regain himself in the presence of his son (who, by now, seemed to have lost his own self as well). He eventually came to terms with his breath and resumed his kneeling posture: "Oh Dorian it really isn't diggity difficult to do. Diggity damnation, we are merely the harbingers of luck--a synonym if you please."
"Father what I meant to say is that I would value your guidance--" Dorian hastily interjected, trying to regain his lost pride. It didn't help that Jackson and Kennedy were rolling in fits of monotonous laughter as well, chiming "Diggity. Diggity. Diggity."'s of their own. It made the young Arelgren quite irritated, and he fought the urge to snap. Lucien's lips sealed themselves with a smile, bemused. He quickly rid himself of the smile and set his face straight again, and instantly, the armored Plagues silenced themselves.
"Excuse me," Lucien coughed. He eyed his son wearily. Describing the specific steps required in the tip-offs were not easier said than done. It would be much more becoming of the situation if Lucien Arelgren simply showed Dorian. People were generally hands-on learners, as he and Agatha had noticed. It pained him to think of Agatha now, so he dismissed the thought with the airy wave of a hand. The gesture confused Dorian, and but before the boy could speak his father interrupted.
"A Butterfly Crows' sole obligation is to warn and advise. Nothing more, nothing less. We do not partake in any interjection of Obscuvos's will. He is still our god, we simply choose not to indulge in the bloody sacrifices." Lucien sharply said. Dorian nodded slowly, processing the information he'd just received. It made sense to him and he was willing on acting on such rules. But Lucien was not finished. The words that followed would change the younger Arelgren's life forever: "We are not morally obligated to permit any of Obscuvos's offenders to live. If they must die, they must die. If the situation is hopeless, we cannot argue for them. They will die because they must die."
"Pardon?' Dorian sputtered. He never imagined that death itself would be apparent even if the Butterfly Crows intervened. Well. He supposed that was it. The Butterfly Crows never truly "intervened". Like Lucien said, they merely advised what would aid delivery from Obscuvos's claws, but he never mentioned that it would always succeed. The thought of failure was difficult for Dorian to grasp. However, it was only natural that some failures would occur. After all, he murdered a man in defense of Obscuvos's title. Wickwright was to be killed because he was a victim among the caravans. Where were the Butterfly in that?
Lucien seemed to have read his mind.
"There are cases in which Butterfly Crows fail. For example, if the message was never received by the opposing party, a failure would ensue and the opposing party would...simply put...die.." He said "die" very naturally. The word had no affect on him. Lucien Arelgren continued. "There are of course, cases in which even despite the failure of a Butterfly Crow, some kind soul is able to seize the day. That instance with the plagued caravans...you do recall no?"
Dorian's lips went dry. The instance with Wickwright and Hopkin. The instance where Wickwright was plagued--how could he forget? And how did his father come to know this? Suddenly, the Butterfly Crows became more interesting and he bit his lip, succumbing to silence to listen.
"I left a tip-off for the Scientists," Lucien quietly said. His voice was more unsettled now. "I did not expect the Scientist to not return. Butterfly Crows always leave information in places where it's highly personal and practical at the same while, sometimes even hidden in plain sight. This man did not return to his home, where I'd concealed it well. He did not return in three days, so I had the message destroyed. If he had received it, that caravan could have avoided a meeting altogether with the Obscuvians."
"But another arrived on the scene--something neither parties nor myself had expected. You know very well who, it took me a bit to figure out motive for such a bold incentive. I did not recognize you at first until you announced your title. At the time, I was merely a rider accompanying the pack. You did not recognize me. I did not know that I was following orders under you."
Dorian suddenly felt cold. His father had been among the mounted Obscuvians? Lucien Arelgren had rode with him in Wickwright's would-be plight?
"It was fine either way. I said nothing to you because there was nothing to say, at the time. You were with Lettie still, and I suppose that was all that mattered. Admittedly, I'd only known the identity of the brown-and-white Plague after she addressed herself as well. It was what followed that would most surely pique your interest."
"Y-You acted as my cover--" Dorian gasped, realization dawning him. It was impossible almost to grasp. Surely the Obscuvians knew that both father and son were on the same mission---how could they not? How did Lucien Arelgren avoid suspicion? No matter how Dorian thought the situation through, he found it strange that if what his father said was true, how was it possible that Lucien Arelgren had not yet been persecuted?"--but you can't have. They must have known."
"Ha! Lucien Arelgren is just not important enough. I glorified you considerably on how you slaughtered the lot. I waited behind to ensure you carried out the mass-murder and ensured that the 'remains' were appropriately dealt with. The Imperial Guard was nearby, so we were warned to destroy what evidence we had of our actions. But. That doesn't convince you either, no? There's always more to a story." Lucien's smile returned, this time, faint.
"I have difficulties believing that the Riders would place such strong trust in you. Wouldn't they, too, want to witness the spectacle?"
Lucien laughed darkly.
"No. This is where you are wrong. The Riders trusted you, Dorian Arelgren. They did not know who I was. I did not know who they were. All of us were hooded and followed only your direction for the mission at hand. We have no real prominence yet, and I understand that neither do you. However, for that specific assignment, you were to lead us--and we were to follow you."
Wickwright was saved by simple-minded Obscuvian principle.
"My report sufficed. They haven't assigned either of us anything fresh. It's a good break. I suppose now is a good time than ever to catch up."
Lucien felt that it was necessary to take leave now, and he felt his way towards the exit. Light pierced into the room at the opening of a door, and the two exited. Dorian was clueless of where the two of them were in Shyregoed, and Lucien refused to tell him, probably out of better reasoning. His father seemed like a sagacious figure as well, far more secretive than Wickwright. As he continued up the approaching grassy path from the Dead Man's house, Dorian could not help but to wonder how his father cheated Death when all the House seemed to enjoy was Dying.
|
|
|
|
|
|
knife effect Vice Captain
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
