RE: THIS PROGRAM HAS BEEN CANCELED [S!1][ROUND THREE: PORT CERIDWEN]
05-28-2017, 07:59 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-29-2017, 01:28 AM by Pharmacy.)
There must be a universal constant among all libraries, Aaron mused. All libraries seemed to be same; large and empty, with rows upon rows of tightly packed shelves. The Great Library was no different and in fact, reminded him vaguely of the one back at home, not that he wanted to remember it. They never saw his potential, his value, but any proper aurumancer worth his salt (like him) knew to take their investments somewhere else –
He felt a familiar presence. A tiny prick of delight that lights up when you find a lucky, heads-side-up penny between the sofa cushions. Aurumancy, his choice of arcane school.
It wasn’t exactly a lucky situation. He knew why.
“I detect…something.”
A pause. “What.”
“Something vast and terrible. Perhaps – ,” Aaron fumbled over his words. “Perhaps, the scion of your nightmare? Just an educated guess. Regardless, we need to be prepared. We are not the only visitors to this library – ”
He was here.
One part of him at least. It was just a nightmare, Aaron knew; a minor one, but like all nightmares, its amorphous appearance belied something far worse. Aaron could sense something borrowed within. It was the heavy heat of molten gold, the overwhelming guilt of blood diamonds; it was aurumancy. An golden arrow primed and notched to his heart, and he knew who was behind the bow –
“Nightmare.”
There is a startled yelp from earshot (courtesy of Shapiro) and the pitter-patter of feet. The nightmare was in focus now and far less indiscernible now. It was a serpentine dragon, sinuous like an ink-smear and foreboding like the first inklings of dusk. It was smallish, thick in the middle, and didn’t scream intimidating – yet despite all that, Aaron felt the lurch of trepidation going up his throat.
“– Just a minor one, easily dealt with. Shapiro, get the cash register. Tschic, well. Just stay there and –”
You gave me your word.
Aaron froze.
You gave me your word, a pause. I thought we were friends.
Silence.
You didn’t lie to me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?
Shapiro may had vocalized something, but it seemed so far away.
Look into my eyes. Tell me the truth.
Aaron couldn’t bear to look but the forces that may be helped him anyway. The aurumancer felt his chin slowly wrenched to the front, where he made full eye-contact with the thing. You gave nothing, the animal-yellow glow said, seething with borrowed resentment. So I shall give you nothing. Aaron felt his mind open and his consciousness lead down a memory lane of possibilities in a golden, expensive haze. What should had happened. What actually had happened. What mistakes he had done in explicit, high definition detail that totally ruined the chance of the things that should happened, you terrible, no-good person. You need to pay, Mr. Abstract, with interest. Give me the promises you should had kept. Give me your life you wasted. Give me your word. GIVE ME YOUR WORD –
“Aaron!”
“Huh?! Whasit –”
“Aaron! You’re being – ACK.”
Aaron tried to look for Shapiro but he only caught a glimpse of a grotesque bulge going down the throat of the nightmare. The nightmare realigned its jaws to its proper position and stared down at him. Aaron dropped to his knees. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut but he couldn’t. He didn’t deserve this punishment but this was the end for him. He might as well give himself the courtesy of the last few fleeting seconds of consciousness.
The nightmare struck –
And Aaron felt a great force striking at his right. At first, he thought the nightmare finally deal the killing blow or perhaps, dimensions bend at irrational directions while going down the throat of an oneiric beast. However, he was still conscious and whatever counted as pain was mild and rapidly faded away. He looked up and found the reason why.
“Don’t worry, I’ll live.” Someone in the nightmare’s mouth said. “I’ve been through worse.”
---
Tschichold opened his one good eye to nothingness.
The place was cold, very small, and had an unsettling texture to the walls like borax slime. He stood up, a feat much harder than it looks due to the giving nature of the floor and like all good addicts, he lit a cigarette.
Okay, okay. Even his devil-may-care attitude had limits and the dire nature of the situation banished all pretense on defensive casualness, he managed to fumble out a matchbook and strike a light, illuminating the iridescent sheen of the area (not unlike oil on water), an immobilized Shapiro, and several lumps stacked against what approximated a corner in this horrible area.
“Shapiro!” Tschichold yelled. Gears turning in his head. “Other people!”
The artist trundled his way to the man, trying not to focus too much on how squishy his steps are. He tripped over and his heart skipping a beat when he nearly dropped the match. Shapiro was frozen, shielding his face with his forearms, his expression mid-frozen in terror. Which was terrifying. What was more terrifying was what the agitation of his steps revealed, the lumps turned out to be Ceridwen natives – all uncannily similar, all wearing the drab blue-grey attire which Tschichold supposed was the uniform of the Great Library. Huh, no wonder the library seemed ridiculously empty for an important landmark.
Tschic squelched around, observing the frozen figures. After place two and two together (and substituting his sputtering match for a more slow-burning cancer torch), Tschichold cracked his knuckles and used every ounce of his mediocre strength to lift up Shapiro.
“– AARON!”
“YEEARGH.”
Tschichold abruptly dropped Shapiro and the poor man was immobilized again, although he was in a far less miserable position. Silently apologizing, the artist gave another go.
“…Tschichold?”
“Sup.”
“It was terrible,” Shapiro’s frightened tone relaxed once he realized someone familiar, if only barely. “I ruined everything. I disappointed everyone. The fall of Port Ceridwen and the slander of Council, all my fault. All my fault –”
“Just a nightmare.”
“…I should had never been the Councilor of Currency," he faltered."I...I don’t deserve the position.”
“I get you. I understand.”
Tschichold could only see his own trembling arms (he was very heavy) and Shapiro’s chin. He waited for a rebuttal, a retort against the veracity of the statement, but there was only neutral darkness and silence surrounding the feeble glow of the cigarette. Shapiro spoke again.
“…How are you not affected by any of this?”
Tschic nearly dropped him again. He wanted to. His arms were tired but he was tired of running. “I been through worse,” he said all matter of fact-like. “I was covered in psychoactive paint. I was naked.”
“Yes – no, no, not just that. You’re not screaming or panicking. You’re not even questioning this situation, the situation of being eaten by an enormous dream-monster no less, which is frankly absurd. You have the grim intent of those with experience,” Shapiro looked down. “Have you been in this situation before?”
“No.” It was technically the truth.
“Have you been in a situation like this before.”
“…Yes.”
Silence came along with a wash of relief. Tschichold wasn’t exactly a private man but he liked to keep his cards close, so to speak, and the fact that he kind-of-sort-of revealed he is more well-versed with the supernatural than any half-starved ex-art major should be made him feel vaguely vulnerable. He didn’t want to give a wrong impression. He didn’t have fine control over reality like other wizards. His world wasn’t like that, no. Magic was unfathomably powerful and ambiguous, the only constant being a great cost. He remembered the cost. No amount of psychoactive “paint,” no amount of embarrassing blunders in the past three locations could push that memory out. He paid dearly.
“...Had you figured a way out?”
“Sorta, I have to put you down in this stuff again. Is that okay?”
“Eehhh, can I borrow your jacket?”
After some acrobatics, Shapiro sat on the makeshift rug formerly known as Tschichold’s jacket, observing as the problem-solver deftly freed something helpful from a frozen fairy’s grip. It was a hobby knife, with a surprisingly modern mechanism for varying the length of the blade. The fairy was probably doing papercrafting, which Tschichold always approved.
“Are you sure it will work?” Shapiro said incredulously.
“Well remember what Aaron said?” He pushed up the button, exposing the shiny edge. “‘Just a minor one.’ Let’s see how it can handle some major injuries.”
---
Aaron fumbled for spare change.
After some close calls with the hunting nightmare, Aaron finally managed to muster up a half-handful of coinage. His closed his fingers around his to-be spell components, his head heavy and hurting with guilt. The entrance was nearby, the daylight promising freedom and safety. The aurumancer would gladly take it, but he knew he could not live with that decision. Shapiro had promise and potential. Tschic was well, Tschic. He was familiar enough, he supposed. Aaron hoped the nightmare was intelligent enough to realize what a transaction was.
Every click-clack raised a hair on Aaron’s neck. Each second of silence took a year out of his life. Every retch – wait.
Aaron peered around the corner. He could see the edge of the distant nightmare as it was doing something analogous to a dog trying to vomit after eating too much grass, which was frankly more pitiful than intimidating.
The hacking and coughing raised into a nauseating crescendo when just at this moment, its midsection burst.
Aaron darted back to safety as a few errant coins whizzed by and embedded itself a nearby woodshelf. Currency of various internationalities spilled over to him, gently lapping at his toes like an expensive ocean tide before sizzling away to worthless metal and paper-bits.
“Seven hells.” He muttered, lifting his foot. Chunks fell off like snow.
He looked again.
Two familiar figures stood in distance, surrounded by the ring of the same stuff caking his shoes. Shapiro! Tschic! Barring the fact they looked like they took a bath in sewer water, they seemed to be no worse for wear. They seemed to be standing very still, as though they are still in the process of trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“SHAPIRO!” Aaron ran to them. “TSCHIC!”
Tschichold unceremoniously spit out his soggy cigarette.
“Here’s your jacket, sir.” Shapiro said, picking up the soggy excuse for fashion and delivering the sopping mess to the artist, which he slowly donned. The process took some amount of time, which meant the resulting silence had some amount of progress developing into comedic absurdity.
“…You did this on purpose did you.”
“I deserved it,” Tschic snapped. He turned to Shapiro. “I know what happened was cool and all, but don’t tell anyone and don’t tell anyone I did it.”
“How did you do this? How – ”
“He’s dead.”
The three men turned around to the source of the voice. Voices. The Library staff managed to rise themselves from the nightmare-induced stupor and it was easy to see how similar they are to each other – ordinary men, fairly average, with long-tasseled tails lashing anxiously at their heels. Even without the uniforms, Aaron could say they are exact duplicates. Clones.
“You mean him?” Aaron pointed at Tschic much to the latter’s annoyance.
“No, no,” they mourned, shaking their head. “One of ours.”
“A slow death by blade.”
“Many times.”
“Once was enough.”
“So much blood!”
“Murdered!”
“Murdered!”
They shedded tears, the death still fresh in their unified minds. The most cognizant one deeply bowed down at the toes of Aaron. A desperate plead. “Master! We want justice. We want blood, but we know this is no mere murder. We cannot stress how much danger the entire port is in. Ceridwen is not as infinite as it seems and as much as we are afraid to say, the Council is not as powerful to take it on.”
He felt a familiar presence. A tiny prick of delight that lights up when you find a lucky, heads-side-up penny between the sofa cushions. Aurumancy, his choice of arcane school.
It wasn’t exactly a lucky situation. He knew why.
“I detect…something.”
A pause. “What.”
“Something vast and terrible. Perhaps – ,” Aaron fumbled over his words. “Perhaps, the scion of your nightmare? Just an educated guess. Regardless, we need to be prepared. We are not the only visitors to this library – ”
He was here.
One part of him at least. It was just a nightmare, Aaron knew; a minor one, but like all nightmares, its amorphous appearance belied something far worse. Aaron could sense something borrowed within. It was the heavy heat of molten gold, the overwhelming guilt of blood diamonds; it was aurumancy. An golden arrow primed and notched to his heart, and he knew who was behind the bow –
“Nightmare.”
There is a startled yelp from earshot (courtesy of Shapiro) and the pitter-patter of feet. The nightmare was in focus now and far less indiscernible now. It was a serpentine dragon, sinuous like an ink-smear and foreboding like the first inklings of dusk. It was smallish, thick in the middle, and didn’t scream intimidating – yet despite all that, Aaron felt the lurch of trepidation going up his throat.
“– Just a minor one, easily dealt with. Shapiro, get the cash register. Tschic, well. Just stay there and –”
You gave me your word.
Aaron froze.
You gave me your word, a pause. I thought we were friends.
Silence.
You didn’t lie to me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?
Shapiro may had vocalized something, but it seemed so far away.
Look into my eyes. Tell me the truth.
Aaron couldn’t bear to look but the forces that may be helped him anyway. The aurumancer felt his chin slowly wrenched to the front, where he made full eye-contact with the thing. You gave nothing, the animal-yellow glow said, seething with borrowed resentment. So I shall give you nothing. Aaron felt his mind open and his consciousness lead down a memory lane of possibilities in a golden, expensive haze. What should had happened. What actually had happened. What mistakes he had done in explicit, high definition detail that totally ruined the chance of the things that should happened, you terrible, no-good person. You need to pay, Mr. Abstract, with interest. Give me the promises you should had kept. Give me your life you wasted. Give me your word. GIVE ME YOUR WORD –
“Aaron!”
“Huh?! Whasit –”
“Aaron! You’re being – ACK.”
Aaron tried to look for Shapiro but he only caught a glimpse of a grotesque bulge going down the throat of the nightmare. The nightmare realigned its jaws to its proper position and stared down at him. Aaron dropped to his knees. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut but he couldn’t. He didn’t deserve this punishment but this was the end for him. He might as well give himself the courtesy of the last few fleeting seconds of consciousness.
The nightmare struck –
And Aaron felt a great force striking at his right. At first, he thought the nightmare finally deal the killing blow or perhaps, dimensions bend at irrational directions while going down the throat of an oneiric beast. However, he was still conscious and whatever counted as pain was mild and rapidly faded away. He looked up and found the reason why.
“Don’t worry, I’ll live.” Someone in the nightmare’s mouth said. “I’ve been through worse.”
---
Tschichold opened his one good eye to nothingness.
The place was cold, very small, and had an unsettling texture to the walls like borax slime. He stood up, a feat much harder than it looks due to the giving nature of the floor and like all good addicts, he lit a cigarette.
Okay, okay. Even his devil-may-care attitude had limits and the dire nature of the situation banished all pretense on defensive casualness, he managed to fumble out a matchbook and strike a light, illuminating the iridescent sheen of the area (not unlike oil on water), an immobilized Shapiro, and several lumps stacked against what approximated a corner in this horrible area.
“Shapiro!” Tschichold yelled. Gears turning in his head. “Other people!”
The artist trundled his way to the man, trying not to focus too much on how squishy his steps are. He tripped over and his heart skipping a beat when he nearly dropped the match. Shapiro was frozen, shielding his face with his forearms, his expression mid-frozen in terror. Which was terrifying. What was more terrifying was what the agitation of his steps revealed, the lumps turned out to be Ceridwen natives – all uncannily similar, all wearing the drab blue-grey attire which Tschichold supposed was the uniform of the Great Library. Huh, no wonder the library seemed ridiculously empty for an important landmark.
Tschic squelched around, observing the frozen figures. After place two and two together (and substituting his sputtering match for a more slow-burning cancer torch), Tschichold cracked his knuckles and used every ounce of his mediocre strength to lift up Shapiro.
“– AARON!”
“YEEARGH.”
Tschichold abruptly dropped Shapiro and the poor man was immobilized again, although he was in a far less miserable position. Silently apologizing, the artist gave another go.
“…Tschichold?”
“Sup.”
“It was terrible,” Shapiro’s frightened tone relaxed once he realized someone familiar, if only barely. “I ruined everything. I disappointed everyone. The fall of Port Ceridwen and the slander of Council, all my fault. All my fault –”
“Just a nightmare.”
“…I should had never been the Councilor of Currency," he faltered."I...I don’t deserve the position.”
“I get you. I understand.”
Tschichold could only see his own trembling arms (he was very heavy) and Shapiro’s chin. He waited for a rebuttal, a retort against the veracity of the statement, but there was only neutral darkness and silence surrounding the feeble glow of the cigarette. Shapiro spoke again.
“…How are you not affected by any of this?”
Tschic nearly dropped him again. He wanted to. His arms were tired but he was tired of running. “I been through worse,” he said all matter of fact-like. “I was covered in psychoactive paint. I was naked.”
“Yes – no, no, not just that. You’re not screaming or panicking. You’re not even questioning this situation, the situation of being eaten by an enormous dream-monster no less, which is frankly absurd. You have the grim intent of those with experience,” Shapiro looked down. “Have you been in this situation before?”
“No.” It was technically the truth.
“Have you been in a situation like this before.”
“…Yes.”
Silence came along with a wash of relief. Tschichold wasn’t exactly a private man but he liked to keep his cards close, so to speak, and the fact that he kind-of-sort-of revealed he is more well-versed with the supernatural than any half-starved ex-art major should be made him feel vaguely vulnerable. He didn’t want to give a wrong impression. He didn’t have fine control over reality like other wizards. His world wasn’t like that, no. Magic was unfathomably powerful and ambiguous, the only constant being a great cost. He remembered the cost. No amount of psychoactive “paint,” no amount of embarrassing blunders in the past three locations could push that memory out. He paid dearly.
“...Had you figured a way out?”
“Sorta, I have to put you down in this stuff again. Is that okay?”
“Eehhh, can I borrow your jacket?”
After some acrobatics, Shapiro sat on the makeshift rug formerly known as Tschichold’s jacket, observing as the problem-solver deftly freed something helpful from a frozen fairy’s grip. It was a hobby knife, with a surprisingly modern mechanism for varying the length of the blade. The fairy was probably doing papercrafting, which Tschichold always approved.
“Are you sure it will work?” Shapiro said incredulously.
“Well remember what Aaron said?” He pushed up the button, exposing the shiny edge. “‘Just a minor one.’ Let’s see how it can handle some major injuries.”
---
Aaron fumbled for spare change.
After some close calls with the hunting nightmare, Aaron finally managed to muster up a half-handful of coinage. His closed his fingers around his to-be spell components, his head heavy and hurting with guilt. The entrance was nearby, the daylight promising freedom and safety. The aurumancer would gladly take it, but he knew he could not live with that decision. Shapiro had promise and potential. Tschic was well, Tschic. He was familiar enough, he supposed. Aaron hoped the nightmare was intelligent enough to realize what a transaction was.
Every click-clack raised a hair on Aaron’s neck. Each second of silence took a year out of his life. Every retch – wait.
Aaron peered around the corner. He could see the edge of the distant nightmare as it was doing something analogous to a dog trying to vomit after eating too much grass, which was frankly more pitiful than intimidating.
The hacking and coughing raised into a nauseating crescendo when just at this moment, its midsection burst.
Aaron darted back to safety as a few errant coins whizzed by and embedded itself a nearby woodshelf. Currency of various internationalities spilled over to him, gently lapping at his toes like an expensive ocean tide before sizzling away to worthless metal and paper-bits.
“Seven hells.” He muttered, lifting his foot. Chunks fell off like snow.
He looked again.
Two familiar figures stood in distance, surrounded by the ring of the same stuff caking his shoes. Shapiro! Tschic! Barring the fact they looked like they took a bath in sewer water, they seemed to be no worse for wear. They seemed to be standing very still, as though they are still in the process of trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
“SHAPIRO!” Aaron ran to them. “TSCHIC!”
Tschichold unceremoniously spit out his soggy cigarette.
“Here’s your jacket, sir.” Shapiro said, picking up the soggy excuse for fashion and delivering the sopping mess to the artist, which he slowly donned. The process took some amount of time, which meant the resulting silence had some amount of progress developing into comedic absurdity.
“…You did this on purpose did you.”
“I deserved it,” Tschic snapped. He turned to Shapiro. “I know what happened was cool and all, but don’t tell anyone and don’t tell anyone I did it.”
“How did you do this? How – ”
“He’s dead.”
The three men turned around to the source of the voice. Voices. The Library staff managed to rise themselves from the nightmare-induced stupor and it was easy to see how similar they are to each other – ordinary men, fairly average, with long-tasseled tails lashing anxiously at their heels. Even without the uniforms, Aaron could say they are exact duplicates. Clones.
“You mean him?” Aaron pointed at Tschic much to the latter’s annoyance.
“No, no,” they mourned, shaking their head. “One of ours.”
“A slow death by blade.”
“Many times.”
“Once was enough.”
“So much blood!”
“Murdered!”
“Murdered!”
They shedded tears, the death still fresh in their unified minds. The most cognizant one deeply bowed down at the toes of Aaron. A desperate plead. “Master! We want justice. We want blood, but we know this is no mere murder. We cannot stress how much danger the entire port is in. Ceridwen is not as infinite as it seems and as much as we are afraid to say, the Council is not as powerful to take it on.”