This is one of those prompts that really has me scratching my head wondering what could have inspired it. Is Betty White alright? Also: I couldn't work the phrase into the story as it stands, but the general theme of this installment is that: you can be certain that Mercy and the other gods are desperately starting to pump the brakes as they realise that Moros is not here for the party and things might be getting out of control. How out of control... well, you'll have to read on to see what's happening :)
Pumping the brakes “What does that mean?” asked Scuff. He trembled, just a little. “It means we go back now.” * When Scuff opened his eyes again the darkness of the cavern was a strong contrast to the greenish light of the reservoir, though the difference in intensity was only slight. For a moment he wondered how deep the reservoir must be, and then he realised that the other Incarnates were talking. “—calamities embedded in the rock,” said War, his voice still deep and resonant, but now with a note of worry in it. “Then we found these.” He opened his hand, but Scuff, still lying down and feeling sweaty and nauseous, couldn’t see what was in it. “Threads of the oupir’,” said Famine. “They’re a type of vampire, and they’re not at all common to Western Europe.” “We found stones that had been lifted,” said Pestilence. “And more raw firmament of course, binding the spirits of the dead there to keep the stones up.” “Well that settles it,” said Famine, and there was such a tone of desolation in his voice that Scuffles suddenly felt like he’d been starving for months and was looking out at a crop field only to see the blight consuming each and every plant. On the horizon, the clouds were grey and promised hail and damaging rain, and beyond the last crop field was only the mud and ash of war-torn strife and terror. The sweat chilled on his skin and dried up leaving him feeling dessicated. “Moros has set free—” * The doors to the Long Hall opened and a gust of wind blew an umbrella inside. It was open, dainty, and pinstriped, like something a lawyer might carry to a garden party. It bounced gently across the floor, and the doors closed behind it. The gods and immortals in the Hall ignored it at first, but then, as it brushed up against them and nudged past them, they glanced at it in puzzlement. Up on the balcony there was a sudden patter of footsteps and Mercy appeared at the edge, staring over. Behind her the music twanged and spoinged into a sputtering silence as the musicians lost their sense of harmony, and a sense of liberation seemed to drift through the room. The umbrella bounced to a standstill in the middle of the incarnates, and then lifted upwards. Darkness poured out from beneath it into a solidifying column that gradually bent inwards and outwards in places as though an unseen sculptor were moving about it and revealing the shapes within. Gradually it became a pair of figures, elven-featured with raven-black hair, eyes like burning coals and cruel smiles from blue lips over ivory teeth. Each of them held half of a golden ring and half of a torn document. “Narusheteli,” said Death, standing up. “The oath-breaker. Ladies, gentlemen, the Undecided and the Undecidable, in the presence of the Oathbreaker all compacts, treaties and agreements are suspended. The Accords are in abeyance.” Moros stood up. “The doors are sealed,” he said. “Death cannot seal the doors to his house!” yelled the blob-god almost immediately. “That’s not in the Accords, that’s just basic.” “You’re basic, bitch,” said Moros without rancour. “Death may not, this is true. But Doom may, and I have done so.”
2 comments:
This is one of those prompts that really has me scratching my head wondering what could have inspired it. Is Betty White alright?
Also: I couldn't work the phrase into the story as it stands, but the general theme of this installment is that: you can be certain that Mercy and the other gods are desperately starting to pump the brakes as they realise that Moros is not here for the party and things might be getting out of control. How out of control... well, you'll have to read on to see what's happening :)
Pumping the brakes
“What does that mean?” asked Scuff. He trembled, just a little.
“It means we go back now.”
*
When Scuff opened his eyes again the darkness of the cavern was a strong contrast to the greenish light of the reservoir, though the difference in intensity was only slight. For a moment he wondered how deep the reservoir must be, and then he realised that the other Incarnates were talking.
“—calamities embedded in the rock,” said War, his voice still deep and resonant, but now with a note of worry in it. “Then we found these.” He opened his hand, but Scuff, still lying down and feeling sweaty and nauseous, couldn’t see what was in it.
“Threads of the oupir’,” said Famine. “They’re a type of vampire, and they’re not at all common to Western Europe.”
“We found stones that had been lifted,” said Pestilence. “And more raw firmament of course, binding the spirits of the dead there to keep the stones up.”
“Well that settles it,” said Famine, and there was such a tone of desolation in his voice that Scuffles suddenly felt like he’d been starving for months and was looking out at a crop field only to see the blight consuming each and every plant. On the horizon, the clouds were grey and promised hail and damaging rain, and beyond the last crop field was only the mud and ash of war-torn strife and terror. The sweat chilled on his skin and dried up leaving him feeling dessicated.
“Moros has set free—”
*
The doors to the Long Hall opened and a gust of wind blew an umbrella inside. It was open, dainty, and pinstriped, like something a lawyer might carry to a garden party. It bounced gently across the floor, and the doors closed behind it. The gods and immortals in the Hall ignored it at first, but then, as it brushed up against them and nudged past them, they glanced at it in puzzlement. Up on the balcony there was a sudden patter of footsteps and Mercy appeared at the edge, staring over. Behind her the music twanged and spoinged into a sputtering silence as the musicians lost their sense of harmony, and a sense of liberation seemed to drift through the room.
The umbrella bounced to a standstill in the middle of the incarnates, and then lifted upwards. Darkness poured out from beneath it into a solidifying column that gradually bent inwards and outwards in places as though an unseen sculptor were moving about it and revealing the shapes within. Gradually it became a pair of figures, elven-featured with raven-black hair, eyes like burning coals and cruel smiles from blue lips over ivory teeth. Each of them held half of a golden ring and half of a torn document.
“Narusheteli,” said Death, standing up. “The oath-breaker. Ladies, gentlemen, the Undecided and the Undecidable, in the presence of the Oathbreaker all compacts, treaties and agreements are suspended. The Accords are in abeyance.”
Moros stood up. “The doors are sealed,” he said.
“Death cannot seal the doors to his house!” yelled the blob-god almost immediately. “That’s not in the Accords, that’s just basic.”
“You’re basic, bitch,” said Moros without rancour. “Death may not, this is true. But Doom may, and I have done so.”
Greg - :)
Had a friend help me with installing new rear brakes on the van. This seemed like the prompt to go with for the occasion.
Ooh, boy. Ooooooh, boy. This is getting intense.
Hell of an entrance, by the way.
Post a Comment