- Joined
- Nov 24, 2007
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I reckon this place is gathering more dust than the Terrain Board, but I figured, since I've started a new journey of sorts, I might as well share it here ^^
This is a little story which is a part of a little collection of stories which all revolve around different characters from the same universe living out their different lives which will eventually get intertwined and move into new plot-directions. It's kind of a hobby project, in between working on my actual book, but maybe some of you guys might find some enjoyment in it or have something to say about it.
Any and all feedback is welcome.
Enjoy!
_________________________________________________________________________
The Manor
The lord of the house is dead.
A self made man made flesh and bone in the harrowing hours of the night. He had been a dreadful master, his tongue as sharp as his whip and his whip as crass as his tongue. The first butler, which is as ancient as some of the tomes in the library, and likely equally untouched, says that he is quite unlike the previous one, which had been kind by comparison, but only the butler was human enough to remember such things. He was old and shrivelled and chocked full of memories, listening to him reminiscing about his glory days in melancholic felicity was one of the day's absolute high points.
I had come to Brysmon Manor not two years ago, and have been scraping the floors ever since. Well, at least that's how the housekeeper puts it, in the same breath as she indicates the "subtle" difference between scraping and rubbing. I find it difficult to fill my heart with the same measure of sorrow as is displayed in the wailing choir in the next room, where the lady and her daughters have congregated to grieve. The lord's study, where the act of unmaking had taken place, looked nothing short of a butcher's shop. The bloodied floorboards glistened in the early morning light. And through the window came the happy sounds of chirping birds, carried on the lazy drifts of the daybreak wind, as if this was a joyous moment of celebration. And as if by cruel design, the lord's head sat staring blankly through deep swollen eyes on top of his desk, severed from his body. The decapitation was the only sign of brutality so far, but the lord's body was curiously bloated and pale, as if it had been submerged in the ocean for a long time. The human body was frail and non-amphibious like that, quite unlike the Craak.
As I'd made my way toward the study that morning, I'd felt the growing unease that had foreboded this scene of murder. I'd silently slithered through the upper hallways, passing by the empty stares of the portraits of long dead men and women that had once lived here, their names were on plaques under the paintings, but I hadn't bothered to read them. I wouldn't remember them for long in any case. However, I did remember the strange dream that had lead to my waking up.
In the dream, I had been walking in a dark forest, dragging my feet behind me as if they were made of stone, fighting that panicky feeling that one felt when one thought there was something monstrous hounding one's every step. The air had been chilly and my breath had been heavy, as if I was moving under water, unable to breathe. I had been frightened to turn around, too frightened to slow down, as yet I felt the breath of something dark breathing down my neck, snarling in the distance. It was a blurry dream, curling mists were gathering around me, surrounding me, like a thousand tendrils of giant squids. Suddenly clawed hands were grasping for my feet, cutting and tearing, pulling me into the ground as I tried in vain to get away. I remember waking up either screaming or to the sound of a scream, too unnerved to tell which. And as I laid there panting and sweating, feeling so physically exhausted that I started suspecting the dream to have somehow happened in a strange twist of reality, I was reminded of what had instigated the dream to begin with.
The day before, like the day before that and presumably the day after, I'd spent all day scrubbing the floors of the manor alone. The housekeeper had, as I presumed she always did, berated me on the tardiness and indecency of my work, denying me the basic right of supper before bed as reprimance for my failing skills, as if I was some kind of child.
Like all Craak, my memory is weak. I remember little of my life prior to arriving at the manor. And soon, even the arrival will fade into disremembrance. I vaguely remember that I was running away from something, but I cannot remember what. Oh how sweet it must be for the humans to have such good memory, to remember the faces and voices and scents of one's parents, to be able to look back and see more than a hazy mist that blurs the past, to see clearly where they came from and where they've been. Living in the present, not thinking about the sad prospect of not having a long-term memory, was the only way for a Craak to stay sane. After I had shaken these thoughts out of my head, I had made my way to the rear lower balcony of the manor to enjoy my pipe as recompense for not getting supper.
As I'd stepped out on the windswept balcony, I'd tucked my cap down as far as possible so that it wouldn't blow away in the howling winds. I'd had to yank my tail free from the door as it'd got stuck, which had put me in an even fouler mood than I'd already been in. I'd found a sheltered corner, there were makeshift wooden panes on the balcony to hide behind in order to get away from the wind. After more attempts than I care to admit, I got the pipe burning. I'd been careful not to scrape the mouthpiece on my frustratingly sharp teeth as I'd puffed to keep it going. I'd settled down on the railing, leaning against the wooden pane, and had looked out across the water. Before me was the vast open ocean that was the Circle Sea, around which all the five nations of this world converged. Brysmon Manor was situated on the edge of an unfathomably tall cliff, below which, at the far bottom of the cliffside, sat Brysmon Hamlet. A small fishing village that was the source of Brysmon Estate's wealth.
My gaze drifted upwards towards the horizon, then I saw something among the waves. It was small and insignificant at first, I thought it looked like a reef, or a small fishing boat, but as I watched, it grew before my very eyes, until it was so large that I shuddered at the thought of what it could be. At first I thought it must be a whale surfacing for some air, but when I saw no fountain of water spraying from the top of the massive blob, I became wary. I was completely transfixed, the monstrous being, for it could be no known entity, grew larger and larger as the vanishing light of dusk receded.
Soon it was so large that the hamlet seemed small by comparison. And somewhere deep inside me, something woke up as two enormous eyes opened and stared straight at me. I hadn't seen the eyes, it was too dark for that, and the growing dusk made it nearly impossible to discern the behemoth among the waves, but I had felt them. They were the eyes of a divine creature, so ancient that those who had once worshipped it no longer had any memory of its existence. My body was shaking with uncontrollable, deeply instinctual, terror, but my mind was serene. Suddenly I could remember everything, not only my entire life, but also the deep memories of the world at large. A whispering voice materialized inside my head, speaking an alien language I had no chance to comprehend. And yet the message of the voice was clear.
The lord of the house had to die.
_________________________________________________________________________
Thank you for reading!
This is a little story which is a part of a little collection of stories which all revolve around different characters from the same universe living out their different lives which will eventually get intertwined and move into new plot-directions. It's kind of a hobby project, in between working on my actual book, but maybe some of you guys might find some enjoyment in it or have something to say about it.
Any and all feedback is welcome.
Enjoy!
_________________________________________________________________________
The Manor
The lord of the house is dead.
A self made man made flesh and bone in the harrowing hours of the night. He had been a dreadful master, his tongue as sharp as his whip and his whip as crass as his tongue. The first butler, which is as ancient as some of the tomes in the library, and likely equally untouched, says that he is quite unlike the previous one, which had been kind by comparison, but only the butler was human enough to remember such things. He was old and shrivelled and chocked full of memories, listening to him reminiscing about his glory days in melancholic felicity was one of the day's absolute high points.
I had come to Brysmon Manor not two years ago, and have been scraping the floors ever since. Well, at least that's how the housekeeper puts it, in the same breath as she indicates the "subtle" difference between scraping and rubbing. I find it difficult to fill my heart with the same measure of sorrow as is displayed in the wailing choir in the next room, where the lady and her daughters have congregated to grieve. The lord's study, where the act of unmaking had taken place, looked nothing short of a butcher's shop. The bloodied floorboards glistened in the early morning light. And through the window came the happy sounds of chirping birds, carried on the lazy drifts of the daybreak wind, as if this was a joyous moment of celebration. And as if by cruel design, the lord's head sat staring blankly through deep swollen eyes on top of his desk, severed from his body. The decapitation was the only sign of brutality so far, but the lord's body was curiously bloated and pale, as if it had been submerged in the ocean for a long time. The human body was frail and non-amphibious like that, quite unlike the Craak.
As I'd made my way toward the study that morning, I'd felt the growing unease that had foreboded this scene of murder. I'd silently slithered through the upper hallways, passing by the empty stares of the portraits of long dead men and women that had once lived here, their names were on plaques under the paintings, but I hadn't bothered to read them. I wouldn't remember them for long in any case. However, I did remember the strange dream that had lead to my waking up.
In the dream, I had been walking in a dark forest, dragging my feet behind me as if they were made of stone, fighting that panicky feeling that one felt when one thought there was something monstrous hounding one's every step. The air had been chilly and my breath had been heavy, as if I was moving under water, unable to breathe. I had been frightened to turn around, too frightened to slow down, as yet I felt the breath of something dark breathing down my neck, snarling in the distance. It was a blurry dream, curling mists were gathering around me, surrounding me, like a thousand tendrils of giant squids. Suddenly clawed hands were grasping for my feet, cutting and tearing, pulling me into the ground as I tried in vain to get away. I remember waking up either screaming or to the sound of a scream, too unnerved to tell which. And as I laid there panting and sweating, feeling so physically exhausted that I started suspecting the dream to have somehow happened in a strange twist of reality, I was reminded of what had instigated the dream to begin with.
The day before, like the day before that and presumably the day after, I'd spent all day scrubbing the floors of the manor alone. The housekeeper had, as I presumed she always did, berated me on the tardiness and indecency of my work, denying me the basic right of supper before bed as reprimance for my failing skills, as if I was some kind of child.
Like all Craak, my memory is weak. I remember little of my life prior to arriving at the manor. And soon, even the arrival will fade into disremembrance. I vaguely remember that I was running away from something, but I cannot remember what. Oh how sweet it must be for the humans to have such good memory, to remember the faces and voices and scents of one's parents, to be able to look back and see more than a hazy mist that blurs the past, to see clearly where they came from and where they've been. Living in the present, not thinking about the sad prospect of not having a long-term memory, was the only way for a Craak to stay sane. After I had shaken these thoughts out of my head, I had made my way to the rear lower balcony of the manor to enjoy my pipe as recompense for not getting supper.
As I'd stepped out on the windswept balcony, I'd tucked my cap down as far as possible so that it wouldn't blow away in the howling winds. I'd had to yank my tail free from the door as it'd got stuck, which had put me in an even fouler mood than I'd already been in. I'd found a sheltered corner, there were makeshift wooden panes on the balcony to hide behind in order to get away from the wind. After more attempts than I care to admit, I got the pipe burning. I'd been careful not to scrape the mouthpiece on my frustratingly sharp teeth as I'd puffed to keep it going. I'd settled down on the railing, leaning against the wooden pane, and had looked out across the water. Before me was the vast open ocean that was the Circle Sea, around which all the five nations of this world converged. Brysmon Manor was situated on the edge of an unfathomably tall cliff, below which, at the far bottom of the cliffside, sat Brysmon Hamlet. A small fishing village that was the source of Brysmon Estate's wealth.
My gaze drifted upwards towards the horizon, then I saw something among the waves. It was small and insignificant at first, I thought it looked like a reef, or a small fishing boat, but as I watched, it grew before my very eyes, until it was so large that I shuddered at the thought of what it could be. At first I thought it must be a whale surfacing for some air, but when I saw no fountain of water spraying from the top of the massive blob, I became wary. I was completely transfixed, the monstrous being, for it could be no known entity, grew larger and larger as the vanishing light of dusk receded.
Soon it was so large that the hamlet seemed small by comparison. And somewhere deep inside me, something woke up as two enormous eyes opened and stared straight at me. I hadn't seen the eyes, it was too dark for that, and the growing dusk made it nearly impossible to discern the behemoth among the waves, but I had felt them. They were the eyes of a divine creature, so ancient that those who had once worshipped it no longer had any memory of its existence. My body was shaking with uncontrollable, deeply instinctual, terror, but my mind was serene. Suddenly I could remember everything, not only my entire life, but also the deep memories of the world at large. A whispering voice materialized inside my head, speaking an alien language I had no chance to comprehend. And yet the message of the voice was clear.
The lord of the house had to die.
_________________________________________________________________________
Thank you for reading!
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