Another day come to its bitter conclusion and Mikayas had still found no solace in his work. With a chorus of heavy sighs and a languid, meandering pace setting the evening’s mood, the old man made sure to lock up for the night as he had done every night now for nearly eighty years. With the bolts on the door secured and his eyelids growing heavier by the tick, so began the almost ritualistic walk through the rows of sculptures and carvings that adorned his shop on the way back to his room. This was usually a time he looked forward to at the end of a long day, a time to revel and appreciate, a chance to enjoy his finest creations as he toured past the artworks on display, greeting each like an old friend and faithful compatriot. Now, the work seemed only to mock him with their beauty, reminding him of his damnable failures and constant stumbles with each one passed. It was always the same damn story every time he’d run up against his artists’s block.
Today had been particularly trying however.
For weeks now he had labored over his latest piece, toiling away against the marble like a slave in the mines, and for weeks the stone had continued to vex him to no end. Every edge seemed perfect under his precise touch, every crease and curve a masterpiece beneath his ruthless inspection… until he decided to step away and studied the whole of his creation from a new angle, only to find his bells of sweat and toil had amounted to a piece of trash as amateurish and shoddy as his first days as an apprentice. It was frustrating beyond words at this point, and his temper had gotten the better of him more than a few times now, even going so far as scaring away customers with his tantrums. Well, scaring them away more than usual that was.
Perhaps that was for the best, at least until his work was done and this final commission was complete and put past him. It had certainly helped when those little hooligans from down the street had come traipsing around his tore again at noon, returning like a case of the lover’s pox to call him names like ‘stumpy’ or ‘splinter toes’ while their grubby fingers pawed and groped at the nude sculptures like incessant animals. Usually he’d trade insults from afar, chasing them around the store on his one good leg for a little before they grew bored and ventured back to whatever hell pit had spawned them, but this time he had had no patience for their absurd antics, and had instead resorted to flinging his instruments at the little shykes before they’d even had a chance to fondle the holy visage of the Voice. He’d listened to them yelp and squeal as the measurement sticks and mallets rained down upon their heads without warning, and in their hasty retreat, one had even taken a tumble into the canal with the most satisfying ‘kersploosh’ Mikayas had ever quite heard. That had cheered him up a great deal.
There had been another in particular who the endless vexation had served to rid of him of as well; a vagrant of some sort who had come snooping around, pretending to peruse his wares as if he could possibly afford anything from the sculptor’s shop. Mikayas was old, but he wasn’t a fool, and he knew a thief when he saw one. The old artist had no time for wild eyed lakeshore rabble who on occasion managed to wash up in the city proper, and had sent the pale wretch fleeing from his wrath just as quickly as he had done with the other delinquents that came before. That had been bells ago now thought, and it had been an exhausting day ever since, with more setbacks than success. He was tired. Too tired to think, to grieve, or even sit down with his prayer book before bed, he just wanted to sleep and hoped to Rhysol his blasted dreams weren’t as haunted with aggravation as his waking moments were.
With an overwhelming yawn that managed to crack more of his old bones than he cared to count, the sculptor pushed open the door to his humble abode and immediately noticed something was off.
He’d lived in this same shack at the back of his establishment for decades, and even his old weathered eyes could tell when something was out of place, especially when everything had been in the same spot for years and years. It didn’t take a detective to tell something was wrong however, when he pushed open the door and heard a hollow bump, followed by the tell tale sounds of an empty bottle rolling across the floor.
Hesitantly, he reached for the flint and tinder, hands shakily rubbing together as he fumbled for his candles to illuminate the dusk’s dark reprieve. When the spark finally found the wick and the flame took hold, Mikayas gasped in horror at the nightmare revealed in the dim light.
Bottles… of wine… everywhere!
His wine!
Someone had raided his bloody cellar, drinking dry every last drop before throwing aside the empty husks and moving on to the next. They littered the floor in the dozens, some spilled or simply tossed aside, and often accompanied by the occasional crumb or vile mess of food here and there. They’d gotten into his god damned pantry as well it seemed, wasting not only his vintage 411 AV brand, but also his petching jerky and bread.
“Those little mongrels.” Mikayas cursed through a spray of rage induced spittle as he stomped over to the kitchen to see the full extent of the damage. They must have snuck in while he’d been distracted with his sculpting, ransacking his home while he worked diligently upon his craft, those motherless curs! He was going to kill those damn creetons when he got his hands on them, he swore it!
As he rounded the corner, fury and malice fueling his stride, he continued to light candle after candle in an ever-enraging effort to cast clarity on the totality of the mayhem that had become his come. As his spray of sparks gave birth to the latest flame however, Mikayas came a to sudden and abrupt halt as the flickering fires unveiled something hidden in the darkness.
Something moving.
Were they… were they still here?
Slowly, uncertainty, the old man raised his candle lantern to burn away the shadows and delve deeper into the blackness before him. It was something he regretted instantly, as a pair of cold, blue eyes quietly turned to meet his gaze from within the shivering shroud of night.
It smiled at him.
Then It lunged.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Damn his old bones! Damn his blasted leg! If he’d been twenty years younger… he’d still be a hundred years too old to get away, let alone even pretend to indulge the idea of fighting back. He could hear the heavy footsteps hot on his trail as he turned to flee, and the ancient artist hadn’t even made it a step before a hand had wrapped itself around his mouth, muffling his scream. He could feel it was slick and wet with something as it squeezed the breath from him, and when his wide and panicked eyes fell upon the fingers strangling his cry, the old man realized they were covered in blood. Oh god, help me. Rhysol, I beseech thee, save your faithful servant!
In vain he tried to free himself, to fight off the arm that ensnared his frail form from behind, but the effort proved as fruitless as his prayers, his boney fists bouncing off the pale flesh that gripped him like a vice with laughable effect.
“Why you, hmmm?” He heard a course voice hiss into his ear. It started another round of flailing and futile resistance as the sculptor’s muffled wails died in the clutches of his mad eyed assailant. “Why did they choose you, old man? What did you do to earn their ire I wonder?” His breath was hot upon Mikayas’s face, the familiar, pungent stink of the craftsman’s vintage stock so thick upon his words they burned the nostrils. Mikayas’s struggling only intensified, his eyes darting from place to place in a desperate attempt to find something nearby that could help him. His candle had fallen to floor in the bedlam, its faltering light casting a thousand dancing shadows across the walls as the two struggled. Eventually, amidst the madness and fear, the old man’s terror-stricken gaze fell upon the table the intruder had been sitting at, a veritable feast of stolen food and drink splayed out haphazardly upon the old kitchen staple. Something about it seemed off though, like an imperfection in one of his pieces that drew the eye away from everything else around it into one sole spot.
It was a glass inkwell that caught his attention for some reason, though why he couldn't tell, yet nor cold he look away. It stood apart from the ransacked banquet, carefully and distinctly separated from everything else as if it held some importance even amidst the crazed gluttony that had been indulged here. Mikayas staired deeper within, for some reason, hopeful he might find the answers he sought and the salvation he needed within its murky depths. Within its see through encasing however, something black and dangerous swirled, something that wasn’t ink.
“Doesn’t matter.” He heard from behind him as the madman shuffled. His gripped didn’t loosen upon Mikayas’s mouth so much as it shifted to pry apart the old man’s lips. A pathetic, mewling sound escaped the craftsman as he noticed the vial being lowered from above next. “You’ll be playing my game now, not there’s.”
It was blood! The thing was full of blood!
“And then we’ll see whose the real puppet here!”
Today had been particularly trying however.
For weeks now he had labored over his latest piece, toiling away against the marble like a slave in the mines, and for weeks the stone had continued to vex him to no end. Every edge seemed perfect under his precise touch, every crease and curve a masterpiece beneath his ruthless inspection… until he decided to step away and studied the whole of his creation from a new angle, only to find his bells of sweat and toil had amounted to a piece of trash as amateurish and shoddy as his first days as an apprentice. It was frustrating beyond words at this point, and his temper had gotten the better of him more than a few times now, even going so far as scaring away customers with his tantrums. Well, scaring them away more than usual that was.
Perhaps that was for the best, at least until his work was done and this final commission was complete and put past him. It had certainly helped when those little hooligans from down the street had come traipsing around his tore again at noon, returning like a case of the lover’s pox to call him names like ‘stumpy’ or ‘splinter toes’ while their grubby fingers pawed and groped at the nude sculptures like incessant animals. Usually he’d trade insults from afar, chasing them around the store on his one good leg for a little before they grew bored and ventured back to whatever hell pit had spawned them, but this time he had had no patience for their absurd antics, and had instead resorted to flinging his instruments at the little shykes before they’d even had a chance to fondle the holy visage of the Voice. He’d listened to them yelp and squeal as the measurement sticks and mallets rained down upon their heads without warning, and in their hasty retreat, one had even taken a tumble into the canal with the most satisfying ‘kersploosh’ Mikayas had ever quite heard. That had cheered him up a great deal.
There had been another in particular who the endless vexation had served to rid of him of as well; a vagrant of some sort who had come snooping around, pretending to peruse his wares as if he could possibly afford anything from the sculptor’s shop. Mikayas was old, but he wasn’t a fool, and he knew a thief when he saw one. The old artist had no time for wild eyed lakeshore rabble who on occasion managed to wash up in the city proper, and had sent the pale wretch fleeing from his wrath just as quickly as he had done with the other delinquents that came before. That had been bells ago now thought, and it had been an exhausting day ever since, with more setbacks than success. He was tired. Too tired to think, to grieve, or even sit down with his prayer book before bed, he just wanted to sleep and hoped to Rhysol his blasted dreams weren’t as haunted with aggravation as his waking moments were.
With an overwhelming yawn that managed to crack more of his old bones than he cared to count, the sculptor pushed open the door to his humble abode and immediately noticed something was off.
He’d lived in this same shack at the back of his establishment for decades, and even his old weathered eyes could tell when something was out of place, especially when everything had been in the same spot for years and years. It didn’t take a detective to tell something was wrong however, when he pushed open the door and heard a hollow bump, followed by the tell tale sounds of an empty bottle rolling across the floor.
Hesitantly, he reached for the flint and tinder, hands shakily rubbing together as he fumbled for his candles to illuminate the dusk’s dark reprieve. When the spark finally found the wick and the flame took hold, Mikayas gasped in horror at the nightmare revealed in the dim light.
Bottles… of wine… everywhere!
His wine!
Someone had raided his bloody cellar, drinking dry every last drop before throwing aside the empty husks and moving on to the next. They littered the floor in the dozens, some spilled or simply tossed aside, and often accompanied by the occasional crumb or vile mess of food here and there. They’d gotten into his god damned pantry as well it seemed, wasting not only his vintage 411 AV brand, but also his petching jerky and bread.
“Those little mongrels.” Mikayas cursed through a spray of rage induced spittle as he stomped over to the kitchen to see the full extent of the damage. They must have snuck in while he’d been distracted with his sculpting, ransacking his home while he worked diligently upon his craft, those motherless curs! He was going to kill those damn creetons when he got his hands on them, he swore it!
As he rounded the corner, fury and malice fueling his stride, he continued to light candle after candle in an ever-enraging effort to cast clarity on the totality of the mayhem that had become his come. As his spray of sparks gave birth to the latest flame however, Mikayas came a to sudden and abrupt halt as the flickering fires unveiled something hidden in the darkness.
Something moving.
Were they… were they still here?
Slowly, uncertainty, the old man raised his candle lantern to burn away the shadows and delve deeper into the blackness before him. It was something he regretted instantly, as a pair of cold, blue eyes quietly turned to meet his gaze from within the shivering shroud of night.
It smiled at him.
Then It lunged.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Damn his old bones! Damn his blasted leg! If he’d been twenty years younger… he’d still be a hundred years too old to get away, let alone even pretend to indulge the idea of fighting back. He could hear the heavy footsteps hot on his trail as he turned to flee, and the ancient artist hadn’t even made it a step before a hand had wrapped itself around his mouth, muffling his scream. He could feel it was slick and wet with something as it squeezed the breath from him, and when his wide and panicked eyes fell upon the fingers strangling his cry, the old man realized they were covered in blood. Oh god, help me. Rhysol, I beseech thee, save your faithful servant!
In vain he tried to free himself, to fight off the arm that ensnared his frail form from behind, but the effort proved as fruitless as his prayers, his boney fists bouncing off the pale flesh that gripped him like a vice with laughable effect.
“Why you, hmmm?” He heard a course voice hiss into his ear. It started another round of flailing and futile resistance as the sculptor’s muffled wails died in the clutches of his mad eyed assailant. “Why did they choose you, old man? What did you do to earn their ire I wonder?” His breath was hot upon Mikayas’s face, the familiar, pungent stink of the craftsman’s vintage stock so thick upon his words they burned the nostrils. Mikayas’s struggling only intensified, his eyes darting from place to place in a desperate attempt to find something nearby that could help him. His candle had fallen to floor in the bedlam, its faltering light casting a thousand dancing shadows across the walls as the two struggled. Eventually, amidst the madness and fear, the old man’s terror-stricken gaze fell upon the table the intruder had been sitting at, a veritable feast of stolen food and drink splayed out haphazardly upon the old kitchen staple. Something about it seemed off though, like an imperfection in one of his pieces that drew the eye away from everything else around it into one sole spot.
It was a glass inkwell that caught his attention for some reason, though why he couldn't tell, yet nor cold he look away. It stood apart from the ransacked banquet, carefully and distinctly separated from everything else as if it held some importance even amidst the crazed gluttony that had been indulged here. Mikayas staired deeper within, for some reason, hopeful he might find the answers he sought and the salvation he needed within its murky depths. Within its see through encasing however, something black and dangerous swirled, something that wasn’t ink.
“Doesn’t matter.” He heard from behind him as the madman shuffled. His gripped didn’t loosen upon Mikayas’s mouth so much as it shifted to pry apart the old man’s lips. A pathetic, mewling sound escaped the craftsman as he noticed the vial being lowered from above next. “You’ll be playing my game now, not there’s.”
It was blood! The thing was full of blood!
“And then we’ll see whose the real puppet here!”
@ProphetThis a long post with just a lot of preamble. Whats important to note though, and what may not have been too clear since I wrote this the way I did, is that Elias has swapped out the black blood given to him with his own blood, hiding the latter in an ink pot. So when he gives Mikayas the vial, nothing should happen.
