Re your last comment regarding Samual: he will not die on the roof of the Temple. I hope that's not a spoiler :) Somewhat irrelevantly, sometimes I look at your prompts and wonder how on earth I can work them into an ongoing story. It's not a complaint at all -- I enjoy the challenge! -- but if you wanted to prompt me with "Into every life some rain must fall", "Who put the fun in funeral?", "Black is a colour that goes with everything", or even just "Splat!" I would be appropriately grateful. For the stories about Pestilence, Famine, War and Death, obviously. And... I've overrun the word limit and still not dealt with that minor character :(
A night on the town Samual shrank backwards reflexively, his skin crawling and his body wanting to get away from the strange monsters now climbing the walls of the Temple like they were abseiling against gravity. He pressed up against the step in the roof, the lip of it cold against the nape of his neck, and he turned, wondering if climbing up now was a good idea or if it would just make him visible to the soldiers. Even if it wasn't clear how strong they were, with arms that could extend that far out he didn't want to get into a wrestling match with them. He looked around, wondering how far away the spear was now, but it was much closer to the roof where the soldiers were climbing up than him. "Right," he muttered under his breath. "There's no chance of surviving here, so up it is." As he hoisted himself up a level, feeling his arms shake as they were used again before they were really recovered, he also felt horribly exposed. He wondered what their voices would sound like when they saw him and raised the alarm, or if they'd even shout-- perhaps they'd just race across the roof like hungry wolves and pounce. The skin down his spine tingled with anticipation, and he pulled himself up and sprawled flat on the roof, avoiding creating an obvious focal point, and then started belly-crawling away from where the soldiers were climbing. Though locally flat the Temple's roof was a mass of level changes, hinting at many smaller rooms inside. Samual crawled between two sections that were higher than this new one, and sat up, now sure that he wasn't easily visible. Behind him this section dead-ended, though he thought he could probably climb up again if he had too; at the open end he had a clear field of view to the side of the Temple and the Watchers where they stood. The soldiers seemed to be starting to form up near them, but to him it looked like they were keeping a safe distance as well. He didn't blame them. There was a thump to his left, where he'd been standing earlier, and he guessed that at least one of the soldiers had now landed on the roof. He pressed himself against the wall where the shadows were deepest, held his breath, and waited.
The blue-robed Warlock completed his spell and the yellow Gate shimmered. Then it seemed to shatter outwards, pieces flying left and right but still cohering as though they were held together by toffee. Strands and shards glittered like stars and there was a high-pitched whine like someone running a finger insistently round the rim of a wet wine glass. Other mages in the room tensed and started backing away, but the blue-robed Warlock stood confidently in the middle of it. As the shards stretched further still and a feeling like the onset of a thunderstorm filled the room he still held his ground. The whine stopped abruptly and there was silence for two seconds. Then came a deep, bone-quivering thump like a gigantic heart-beat and the Gate pulled back together again, rippling into shape like it has melted and been reformed. "Albion prevails," said Arthur, and if you were listening hard there might have been a touch of reverence in his voice. "Home ground advantage," said the Warlock with a feral grin. "Wouldn't like to try that in Carcosa." The Gate changed form, becoming oval and green instead of yellow. "When we're done with this I'd say we're due a night on the town, Art. Someone told me the other day that there's a new Christie at the Cambridge Circus theatre. Fancy picking holes in the plot with me?" Arthur smiled. "Definitely," he said. "After this is sorted."
And stop calling Samual a minor character. I find it... worrying.
Regardless, your description of the rooftop scene is beautiful and horrible all at the same time. And I can still appreciate your ability to work oddball prompts into this story :D
3 comments:
Re your last comment regarding Samual: he will not die on the roof of the Temple. I hope that's not a spoiler :)
Somewhat irrelevantly, sometimes I look at your prompts and wonder how on earth I can work them into an ongoing story. It's not a complaint at all -- I enjoy the challenge! -- but if you wanted to prompt me with "Into every life some rain must fall", "Who put the fun in funeral?", "Black is a colour that goes with everything", or even just "Splat!" I would be appropriately grateful. For the stories about Pestilence, Famine, War and Death, obviously.
And... I've overrun the word limit and still not dealt with that minor character :(
A night on the town
Samual shrank backwards reflexively, his skin crawling and his body wanting to get away from the strange monsters now climbing the walls of the Temple like they were abseiling against gravity. He pressed up against the step in the roof, the lip of it cold against the nape of his neck, and he turned, wondering if climbing up now was a good idea or if it would just make him visible to the soldiers. Even if it wasn't clear how strong they were, with arms that could extend that far out he didn't want to get into a wrestling match with them. He looked around, wondering how far away the spear was now, but it was much closer to the roof where the soldiers were climbing up than him.
"Right," he muttered under his breath. "There's no chance of surviving here, so up it is."
As he hoisted himself up a level, feeling his arms shake as they were used again before they were really recovered, he also felt horribly exposed. He wondered what their voices would sound like when they saw him and raised the alarm, or if they'd even shout-- perhaps they'd just race across the roof like hungry wolves and pounce. The skin down his spine tingled with anticipation, and he pulled himself up and sprawled flat on the roof, avoiding creating an obvious focal point, and then started belly-crawling away from where the soldiers were climbing.
Though locally flat the Temple's roof was a mass of level changes, hinting at many smaller rooms inside. Samual crawled between two sections that were higher than this new one, and sat up, now sure that he wasn't easily visible. Behind him this section dead-ended, though he thought he could probably climb up again if he had too; at the open end he had a clear field of view to the side of the Temple and the Watchers where they stood. The soldiers seemed to be starting to form up near them, but to him it looked like they were keeping a safe distance as well. He didn't blame them.
There was a thump to his left, where he'd been standing earlier, and he guessed that at least one of the soldiers had now landed on the roof. He pressed himself against the wall where the shadows were deepest, held his breath, and waited.
The blue-robed Warlock completed his spell and the yellow Gate shimmered. Then it seemed to shatter outwards, pieces flying left and right but still cohering as though they were held together by toffee. Strands and shards glittered like stars and there was a high-pitched whine like someone running a finger insistently round the rim of a wet wine glass. Other mages in the room tensed and started backing away, but the blue-robed Warlock stood confidently in the middle of it. As the shards stretched further still and a feeling like the onset of a thunderstorm filled the room he still held his ground. The whine stopped abruptly and there was silence for two seconds. Then came a deep, bone-quivering thump like a gigantic heart-beat and the Gate pulled back together again, rippling into shape like it has melted and been reformed.
"Albion prevails," said Arthur, and if you were listening hard there might have been a touch of reverence in his voice.
"Home ground advantage," said the Warlock with a feral grin. "Wouldn't like to try that in Carcosa." The Gate changed form, becoming oval and green instead of yellow. "When we're done with this I'd say we're due a night on the town, Art. Someone told me the other day that there's a new Christie at the Cambridge Circus theatre. Fancy picking holes in the plot with me?"
Arthur smiled. "Definitely," he said. "After this is sorted."
Greg - hah, I shall keep those prompts in mind.
And stop calling Samual a minor character. I find it... worrying.
Regardless, your description of the rooftop scene is beautiful and horrible all at the same time. And I can still appreciate your ability to work oddball prompts into this story :D
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