Anhierarch
03-12-2003, 05:05
[ooc: A spot of flavor just for the hell of it. Comment if you want, constructive criticism preferred.]
In every city, every school, every building and every organization, there are stories. Lurid tales of ghosts and tragedy, of love spurned and lives lost. On and on they live, though more often than not, they're fictions, created long ago by a forgotten one. The tale lives on, the talespinner lost - the tales that carry on, the heart and soul of the entity - sometimes nothing more than potboilers, sometimes a black mirror of the inner mind.
This is a tale that is true.
This is the story of the man with the clever knives.
Every story has a beginning. But when is it, where is it? When the man was born? When his parents were born? This is unsatisfactory.
Thus, we shall go to the now, as all real stories are.
He's having his lunch. Vegetarian on rye, slices of beetroot and a dash of vinegar, his teeth stained red for now. All around him the throb and pulse of Anhierarchi life, and he sits quietly, having his lunch.
They don't see him, this neat little man with his neat black suit, neat black glasses, neat black shoes.
And the neat little scars, elegant traceries all over his skull, his face, his body. That's the only thing that people notice. They walk past, ignoring the man, and then a glance, a flicker of the eyes - and they move on, soundly disturbed by the scars. Then they forget him.
Most people do.
And now we follow the neat little man to his job, to the real meat and bone of this story. We follow him through plain grey corridors, through locked and unmarked doors, down elevators with no buttons, doors with no knobs, past guards without faces.
Round and round they go.
Past the long, barred corridors, the broken wretches screaming damnation, singing madness, drooling and mumbling. Past the ones lying in their cots, staring blankly for ever and ever.
And now to a new door, aged and carved oak with a proud brass handle. Faceless guards stand on either side, bowing as they cradle their weapons.
There is no one to see today. He turns left, to his office. Very few come to see him.
But through the oaken door, past the silent guardians is the source of the story. A story repeated many times for the pleasure of the prisoners, and never elsewhere.
The wretch in question would be led into the room, reeling with fear and panic. He might be a spy, in the pay of another government. He might be an embezzler of state funds. He might be a terrorist - it did not matter, never did.
And he would be locked into his chair, a lovely chair with red velvet cushions. He would look around him as the door closed, and see the room for the first time.
There would be a coffee table in front of him. A chair opposite, of blue velvet. On the table, a porcelain saucer of ginger biscuits, and a porcelain cup of hot tea, in a saucer. Two sugars, no milk, a slice of lemon.
Possibly a teapot.
And always a clock, tick-tick-ticking away.
Tick.
It's a fresh lemon.
Tick.
The tea is peerless.
Tick.
Those ginger biscuits are to die for.
Click.
The door would open, and the neat little man would walk in, the neat black shades before his eyes. Slow, patient, with all the time in the world. His movements would be precise and measured as he locked the door, sat down, and placed a slim leather case on the table.
Everybody knew what was in the case, all the wicked little blades, fashioned into strange shapes after thousands of years of honing the art.
The prisoner's gaze would fall on the case. He'd already be trembling and ashen.
And he would smile, a hidden smile behind his glasses, a smile that makes men shrink away. It's easy to do, when the lines of ritual are carved onto your face.
He would take off his spectacles, a faintest clink and rustle of metal on silk as he moves his arms. He'd smile again, have a sip of tea, and begin to talk.
No one ever knew what he said, except for his students. The guards would wait outside, hearing the screams, the moans, the blubbering confessions. After a few hours the door would be unlocked, the neat man looking genuinely contrite, anxious concern radiating from every pore, his glasses back on his face.
"Oh dear. The poor lad seems to have had a nervous breakdown. Are you sure they're fed properly?"
They were. There was no doubt about this. As the man left, the catch of his leather case untouched, the guards would cart the moaning wreck away, his body completely untouched and unharmed. He would sink into a coma, if he was lucky.
And the man would have his lunch.
His name is Jolon.
In every city, every school, every building and every organization, there are stories. Lurid tales of ghosts and tragedy, of love spurned and lives lost. On and on they live, though more often than not, they're fictions, created long ago by a forgotten one. The tale lives on, the talespinner lost - the tales that carry on, the heart and soul of the entity - sometimes nothing more than potboilers, sometimes a black mirror of the inner mind.
This is a tale that is true.
This is the story of the man with the clever knives.
Every story has a beginning. But when is it, where is it? When the man was born? When his parents were born? This is unsatisfactory.
Thus, we shall go to the now, as all real stories are.
He's having his lunch. Vegetarian on rye, slices of beetroot and a dash of vinegar, his teeth stained red for now. All around him the throb and pulse of Anhierarchi life, and he sits quietly, having his lunch.
They don't see him, this neat little man with his neat black suit, neat black glasses, neat black shoes.
And the neat little scars, elegant traceries all over his skull, his face, his body. That's the only thing that people notice. They walk past, ignoring the man, and then a glance, a flicker of the eyes - and they move on, soundly disturbed by the scars. Then they forget him.
Most people do.
And now we follow the neat little man to his job, to the real meat and bone of this story. We follow him through plain grey corridors, through locked and unmarked doors, down elevators with no buttons, doors with no knobs, past guards without faces.
Round and round they go.
Past the long, barred corridors, the broken wretches screaming damnation, singing madness, drooling and mumbling. Past the ones lying in their cots, staring blankly for ever and ever.
And now to a new door, aged and carved oak with a proud brass handle. Faceless guards stand on either side, bowing as they cradle their weapons.
There is no one to see today. He turns left, to his office. Very few come to see him.
But through the oaken door, past the silent guardians is the source of the story. A story repeated many times for the pleasure of the prisoners, and never elsewhere.
The wretch in question would be led into the room, reeling with fear and panic. He might be a spy, in the pay of another government. He might be an embezzler of state funds. He might be a terrorist - it did not matter, never did.
And he would be locked into his chair, a lovely chair with red velvet cushions. He would look around him as the door closed, and see the room for the first time.
There would be a coffee table in front of him. A chair opposite, of blue velvet. On the table, a porcelain saucer of ginger biscuits, and a porcelain cup of hot tea, in a saucer. Two sugars, no milk, a slice of lemon.
Possibly a teapot.
And always a clock, tick-tick-ticking away.
Tick.
It's a fresh lemon.
Tick.
The tea is peerless.
Tick.
Those ginger biscuits are to die for.
Click.
The door would open, and the neat little man would walk in, the neat black shades before his eyes. Slow, patient, with all the time in the world. His movements would be precise and measured as he locked the door, sat down, and placed a slim leather case on the table.
Everybody knew what was in the case, all the wicked little blades, fashioned into strange shapes after thousands of years of honing the art.
The prisoner's gaze would fall on the case. He'd already be trembling and ashen.
And he would smile, a hidden smile behind his glasses, a smile that makes men shrink away. It's easy to do, when the lines of ritual are carved onto your face.
He would take off his spectacles, a faintest clink and rustle of metal on silk as he moves his arms. He'd smile again, have a sip of tea, and begin to talk.
No one ever knew what he said, except for his students. The guards would wait outside, hearing the screams, the moans, the blubbering confessions. After a few hours the door would be unlocked, the neat man looking genuinely contrite, anxious concern radiating from every pore, his glasses back on his face.
"Oh dear. The poor lad seems to have had a nervous breakdown. Are you sure they're fed properly?"
They were. There was no doubt about this. As the man left, the catch of his leather case untouched, the guards would cart the moaning wreck away, his body completely untouched and unharmed. He would sink into a coma, if he was lucky.
And the man would have his lunch.
His name is Jolon.