Here is a chapter written by vechmaster involving his character Darrius and taking place in the Graveyard.
_
A Charitable Man:
The air hung heavy, drenched in the scent of decay; an odour most foul, and most fitting of such a city. A necropolis in gestation, overrun by the barely living as they made their way to eventually fill these catacombs.
The shrill tone of a violin cut through the deathly silence. A masterful tune, from the hands of a man lost in morbid fascination; and an even more morbid eye for opportunity. A black horse and a black carriage; fitting for a man of this particular disposition. The two stood silent atop a hill; beside a decaying homestead surrounded by crisp, brown grass.
From deep within the bowels of the structure the serenade continued. Thin fingers on thin strings. A bow strung with the hair of a black horse, cutting through the air; swiftly and smoothly as if it were a butchers knife through a carcass.
A macabre tune for a macabre place, played by one of macabre intent. The player, a tall man; if it is possible to call him a man any more. A sharp form held together with pale flesh and impeccable posture. A cold, hard face; angular and thin with gold-rimmed spectacles perched precisely upon a nose. His hair, long and as black as night; kept in immaculate form alongside a tailored suit of gentlemanly grace.
A silken sleeve rustled silently as the music halted for a fleeting moment; the fast scratching of a pen used with perfect form. The light sliding of book pages and musical manuscripts upon a mahogany lectern; and finally the shrill beauty filled the void once more. The candlelight danced through the room, though it could not pierce the dense almost liquid shadows that congealed in every corner and secluded nook.
Stranger still, a bookshelf which by all logic and means should be a canvas. No. A stage. For the dance of the musicians shadow was left blank. Once more the music stopped; the gentle click of shoes upon a wooden floor was all that was audible. Two knocks of a bone china tea cup rang out, once as it was gently lifted, once as it was set back down upon its saucer. The gentle black cup now devoid of contents.
The musician resumed playing, but soon released his instrument, permitting it to continue playing as he sat upon a chair at his bureau. Pen once more in hand and letters being formed once more; a red ink, not dissimilar to blood, seeps into page upon page. One might observe the letters as they swirl, settling into their new positions as they darken to black. Broad, gentle sweeps of the pen mark the paper, a diagram of the heart of a man, etched into the paper; the ink setting into its proper colours. Deep arterial reds and fleshy purples of sickening accuracy. A sharp eye and keen ear could see it gently beat, hear the rhythm of each strained convulsion.
A free hand sweeps across the book, its pages now filled and its cover now shut. In thin, perfect letters “Darrius Kane” is etched into a free space on the hand marbled cover; the ink setting into a deep red, as to match the shade of the leather spine of the thin tome.
With thin hands and a firm grip the violin is silenced. Its previous signs of life obediently fading away as silently as they arrived. More footsteps fill the room as Darrius seemingly glides to an iron-banded door placed flush within the wall. It flows open silently, effortlessly.
“The experiment has been concluded.” Darrius’ voice gently worms it’s way into the exposed grotto; a delicate silken purr, weaved with undeniable malice and deceiving charisma. His words, however, remain unheard by all but him; as there is no longer a living soul within the small room. Simply an inhuman stain, painted in the most nauseating of yellows and horrifying greens is all that could be found.
The tall frame of Darrius turned on his heel; posture unbroken. A slow walk to a staircase followed, the grotto door silently flowing shut as if it were dragged by its own shadow. From a tall stand beside the front door loomed a tortured, twisted structure of metal. It’s appearance like a scream turned to matter. Gently and deliberately the long fingers of Darrius removed the final additions to his attire from the stand.
There was no sound but the cries of the gentle rain as this man approached his carriage. Hands bound in black leather gloves, a heavy cloak swallowing his suited body; but retaining the faultless geometry of his posture. As he drifted towards the carriage, its door slid aside; allowing its passenger to enter the abyss inside.
“I believe that tonight we shall conduct business in the Simmetary.” The purr of his voice oozed from the walls of the vehicle, each word nearly tangible; a thread upon which those that thrive in the crime and squalor of the Graveyard scrabble and kill, just for the hopes of getting a fleeting grasp before being violently torn away by others with more strength. More desperation; and almost certainly far less to lose.
Obediently and silently the horse slips into a trot. Once more the shrill tone of a violin serenade pierces the night air. A fine night for business.
_
A Charitable Man:
The air hung heavy, drenched in the scent of decay; an odour most foul, and most fitting of such a city. A necropolis in gestation, overrun by the barely living as they made their way to eventually fill these catacombs.
The shrill tone of a violin cut through the deathly silence. A masterful tune, from the hands of a man lost in morbid fascination; and an even more morbid eye for opportunity. A black horse and a black carriage; fitting for a man of this particular disposition. The two stood silent atop a hill; beside a decaying homestead surrounded by crisp, brown grass.
From deep within the bowels of the structure the serenade continued. Thin fingers on thin strings. A bow strung with the hair of a black horse, cutting through the air; swiftly and smoothly as if it were a butchers knife through a carcass.
A macabre tune for a macabre place, played by one of macabre intent. The player, a tall man; if it is possible to call him a man any more. A sharp form held together with pale flesh and impeccable posture. A cold, hard face; angular and thin with gold-rimmed spectacles perched precisely upon a nose. His hair, long and as black as night; kept in immaculate form alongside a tailored suit of gentlemanly grace.
A silken sleeve rustled silently as the music halted for a fleeting moment; the fast scratching of a pen used with perfect form. The light sliding of book pages and musical manuscripts upon a mahogany lectern; and finally the shrill beauty filled the void once more. The candlelight danced through the room, though it could not pierce the dense almost liquid shadows that congealed in every corner and secluded nook.
Stranger still, a bookshelf which by all logic and means should be a canvas. No. A stage. For the dance of the musicians shadow was left blank. Once more the music stopped; the gentle click of shoes upon a wooden floor was all that was audible. Two knocks of a bone china tea cup rang out, once as it was gently lifted, once as it was set back down upon its saucer. The gentle black cup now devoid of contents.
The musician resumed playing, but soon released his instrument, permitting it to continue playing as he sat upon a chair at his bureau. Pen once more in hand and letters being formed once more; a red ink, not dissimilar to blood, seeps into page upon page. One might observe the letters as they swirl, settling into their new positions as they darken to black. Broad, gentle sweeps of the pen mark the paper, a diagram of the heart of a man, etched into the paper; the ink setting into its proper colours. Deep arterial reds and fleshy purples of sickening accuracy. A sharp eye and keen ear could see it gently beat, hear the rhythm of each strained convulsion.
A free hand sweeps across the book, its pages now filled and its cover now shut. In thin, perfect letters “Darrius Kane” is etched into a free space on the hand marbled cover; the ink setting into a deep red, as to match the shade of the leather spine of the thin tome.
With thin hands and a firm grip the violin is silenced. Its previous signs of life obediently fading away as silently as they arrived. More footsteps fill the room as Darrius seemingly glides to an iron-banded door placed flush within the wall. It flows open silently, effortlessly.
“The experiment has been concluded.” Darrius’ voice gently worms it’s way into the exposed grotto; a delicate silken purr, weaved with undeniable malice and deceiving charisma. His words, however, remain unheard by all but him; as there is no longer a living soul within the small room. Simply an inhuman stain, painted in the most nauseating of yellows and horrifying greens is all that could be found.
The tall frame of Darrius turned on his heel; posture unbroken. A slow walk to a staircase followed, the grotto door silently flowing shut as if it were dragged by its own shadow. From a tall stand beside the front door loomed a tortured, twisted structure of metal. It’s appearance like a scream turned to matter. Gently and deliberately the long fingers of Darrius removed the final additions to his attire from the stand.
There was no sound but the cries of the gentle rain as this man approached his carriage. Hands bound in black leather gloves, a heavy cloak swallowing his suited body; but retaining the faultless geometry of his posture. As he drifted towards the carriage, its door slid aside; allowing its passenger to enter the abyss inside.
“I believe that tonight we shall conduct business in the Simmetary.” The purr of his voice oozed from the walls of the vehicle, each word nearly tangible; a thread upon which those that thrive in the crime and squalor of the Graveyard scrabble and kill, just for the hopes of getting a fleeting grasp before being violently torn away by others with more strength. More desperation; and almost certainly far less to lose.
Obediently and silently the horse slips into a trot. Once more the shrill tone of a violin serenade pierces the night air. A fine night for business.
- Vechmaster