Last of the quarterly reviews today, plus a meeting with our accountants and business advisors, and then things calm down a little. Except for trying to sort out staffing levels and campaigns, and the guy who might have had a heart attack....
Only the lonely Elizabeth stared at the cornflower blue sky for nearly a whole minute, disbelieving that such a sky could ever exist over London. Finally she looked down and found the policemen standing solidly on the road, casting patient glances at the people who went about their business, seemingly unconcerned by a summer sky that belonged in an Impressionist painting of France. "Merde," she whispered to herself as memories of a childhood came back; corn fields, narrow rivers and long, gaudily-painted wooden boats, a ceramicist's workshop and an overgrown field where the yellow, brittle grass reached halfway up the heights of a circle of standing stones. She shook her head. Those were not her memories. She turned away from the window and her breath caught in her chest. A tight pain spread across her breastbone and her left hand reached involuntarily for her throat. A woman, shadowy and insubstantial, was kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room, bent at the waist, her hands clutching at her rib-cage. She rocked gently back and forth, and then, finally, lifted her head. Her eyes were disc-like, reflective as a cat's at night, and when she opened her mouth there was an unnatural, cherry-red maw surrounded by pin-like fish-teeth. Her hands reached out, pulling a knife out of her ribs, and a thick spatter of dark blood landed on the floorboards like the first drops of autumn rain. An ammoniac smell, rotting fish and abandoned harbour, rose up from the floorboards and despite the bright sunlight outside a thin mist seemed to be seeping out of the walls. Elizabeth's breath finally restarted, and as the woman hissed and lunged at her, Elizabeth let herself fall to the side and the floor. The prikovanoi, a spirit bound to the world as a trap, wailed and Elizabeth could feel the Power in its cry: odd harmonics shaking the walls and floor. Without thinking about it the spell-structure she'd just established from the room came to the fore-front of her mind, and she applied Power automatically; years of practice and training coming together like a well-oiled machine. The prikovanoi wailed again, but it was weaker and more desperate and Elizabeth felt something hot and wet drag across her face, like she'd fallen asleep in a plate of fresh pasta. The spell-fragments coalesced and the prikovanoi ripped apart, turning into an ashy cloud of needle-like matter that swirled around the room in air currents pulled from some other place. She wiped her face with her hand, and it came across dark and sticky. In her mind the spell-structure was more solid, more details were in place. The prikovanoi had either been part of the spell, or had had some part in concealing it. "I need something to clean up with," she said to herself, slightly relieved that the words didn't come out in French. She looked around the bare room and realised that she wasn't going to be able to -- she would be going outside at the very least covered in the blood of a three-days dead woman. "Merde," she said, choosing the word this time.
Greg - that all seemed fairly normal until you got to the heart attack bit. I hope all is well in the end.
This is fantastic, again. It feels like you're really picking up steam with this tale in recent posts. Elizabeth continues to be a delight, and I'm glad you've had her survive this encounter. Looking forward to what comes next for her, as well as Derby and company.
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Last of the quarterly reviews today, plus a meeting with our accountants and business advisors, and then things calm down a little. Except for trying to sort out staffing levels and campaigns, and the guy who might have had a heart attack....
Only the lonely
Elizabeth stared at the cornflower blue sky for nearly a whole minute, disbelieving that such a sky could ever exist over London. Finally she looked down and found the policemen standing solidly on the road, casting patient glances at the people who went about their business, seemingly unconcerned by a summer sky that belonged in an Impressionist painting of France.
"Merde," she whispered to herself as memories of a childhood came back; corn fields, narrow rivers and long, gaudily-painted wooden boats, a ceramicist's workshop and an overgrown field where the yellow, brittle grass reached halfway up the heights of a circle of standing stones.
She shook her head. Those were not her memories.
She turned away from the window and her breath caught in her chest. A tight pain spread across her breastbone and her left hand reached involuntarily for her throat. A woman, shadowy and insubstantial, was kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room, bent at the waist, her hands clutching at her rib-cage. She rocked gently back and forth, and then, finally, lifted her head. Her eyes were disc-like, reflective as a cat's at night, and when she opened her mouth there was an unnatural, cherry-red maw surrounded by pin-like fish-teeth. Her hands reached out, pulling a knife out of her ribs, and a thick spatter of dark blood landed on the floorboards like the first drops of autumn rain. An ammoniac smell, rotting fish and abandoned harbour, rose up from the floorboards and despite the bright sunlight outside a thin mist seemed to be seeping out of the walls.
Elizabeth's breath finally restarted, and as the woman hissed and lunged at her, Elizabeth let herself fall to the side and the floor. The prikovanoi, a spirit bound to the world as a trap, wailed and Elizabeth could feel the Power in its cry: odd harmonics shaking the walls and floor. Without thinking about it the spell-structure she'd just established from the room came to the fore-front of her mind, and she applied Power automatically; years of practice and training coming together like a well-oiled machine.
The prikovanoi wailed again, but it was weaker and more desperate and Elizabeth felt something hot and wet drag across her face, like she'd fallen asleep in a plate of fresh pasta. The spell-fragments coalesced and the prikovanoi ripped apart, turning into an ashy cloud of needle-like matter that swirled around the room in air currents pulled from some other place.
She wiped her face with her hand, and it came across dark and sticky. In her mind the spell-structure was more solid, more details were in place. The prikovanoi had either been part of the spell, or had had some part in concealing it.
"I need something to clean up with," she said to herself, slightly relieved that the words didn't come out in French. She looked around the bare room and realised that she wasn't going to be able to -- she would be going outside at the very least covered in the blood of a three-days dead woman.
"Merde," she said, choosing the word this time.
Greg - that all seemed fairly normal until you got to the heart attack bit. I hope all is well in the end.
This is fantastic, again. It feels like you're really picking up steam with this tale in recent posts. Elizabeth continues to be a delight, and I'm glad you've had her survive this encounter. Looking forward to what comes next for her, as well as Derby and company.
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