Remodelling.
- July/August, 1997
Subject: Remodelling.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Tue,22 Jul 97 01:02:12 EDT
::having resigned herself to living with the … indignity … of a graffitied
wall within the confines of the venerable estate, she has spent night after
night, wracking her brain, poring over surveys and blueprints, in conference
with an army of architects, spending hours at the ledger books, all to bring
her to the inevitable conclusion that tbis work can, indeed, be done::
::the sprawling estate, home to some of the finest slavers in RhyDin, and a
posh shelter for hundreds of transient slave properties over the years, is
already equipped with virtually every luxury money could provide… an
expansive front entryway with a vaulted ceiling, a set of stocks in the
center to serve as both useful tool and careful warning… several hallways
branching out from the main foyer, leading back into a labrynth of corridors,
housing offices, private chambers, and slave quarters, even a
fully-stocked laboratory, home to the resident liche… a second story echoes
the layout of the first, with the added feature of an occasional mullioned
window casting a view on the grounds and the forest beyond… and the building
is floored throughout with marbled tiles, of rich Italian serpentine::
::the stone structure is flanked, in one direction, by an impressive garden,
the site of her own long-forgotten wedding… a cobbled path lined with stone
benches, surrounded by rows of marble pillars, the whole of the garden
ever-brimming with a cacophony of startling red opium poppies, royal morning
glories, roses of every variety, elegant, craning lilies, and the rarest of
orchids::
::to the rear of the estate lies the sinuous black path of a racing track,
its ebony pavings twisting in every direction and stretching towards the
perimeter of the grounds, butting up against a line of evergreens and oaks
that marks the property’s end::
::visible only from the back of the building, one end of the Estate is a
floor higher, this added level
encompassing Baghiira’s Lair… a tropical garden stretches over the entire
rooftop, opening from the Lair and spilling its lush jungle foliage over the
roof’s edges::
::on the other side, little more than another patch of greenery, a hedge
clinging to ivied walls, an expanse of lawn leading out to the wrought-iron
fence… perhaps someday a pool will be installed there, or even a tennis
court, but for now it is suitable for little else than tea parties and
croquet::
::but the front of the estate… ah, the front… the wrought-iron railings curve
around from behind the
property to embrace it there, completing the circle with an ornate gate, left
ajar the better part of the time to welcome visitors… or the unwary… a path
leads up from the gate, across the lawn, and to a few simple steps at the
door, but beyond that, only a steep wall of slate-grey stone, rising up like
an open palm braced against the outside world… and this is the only facade
that these hallowed halls have to offer::
::and so her reconstruction efforts will be focused here… a hand-picked
construction crew - certainly not the louts who did that flimsy rework job
following the bombing fiasco at the Mannor - will be brought in within a
matter of days, to begin laying stone and mortar, starting the task of
bringing the outward face of this austere property to an appearance more
fitting for the business within::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Wed,23 Jul 97 11:58:38 EDT
::day slips quietly into dusk, and as the last burning fingers of light are
extinguished along the horizon, and the chirping and cawing of night's
creatures' awakening begins to thunder across the surrounding wood, a
razor-sharp hum springs to life from somewhere on the shadow-veiled front
lawn of the Morkai Consortium estate::
::the hum deepens, its lingering vibrato undercutting the scores of nocturnal
mating calls... a pulsing, surging electric screech, and a sound like a dozen
leather whips cracking in harmony, and blinding white light scorches the
gloom, consuming it, burning it away::
::a moment's pause, and the glare recedes to a dull glow, leaving colorful
dancing spots in the eyes of any hapless passersby... it becomes evident that
the source of the radiance is no less than a dozen cylindrical floodlights,
perched on steel tripods and planted in a strategic circle around the
perimeter of the lawn, bathing the grassy expanse in an eerie incandescence
reminiscent of a full moon eve::
::a breeze traces a winding path through the blades of grass, rustling its
way up to the stone steps and dying away with a sigh of regret as it meets
the gloss-black toe of a patent leather shoe::
::one gloved hand curled over her hip, the other arm propped easily against
the casing of the single floodlight glaring down from the steps, she rests
her head against an open palm, slender fingertips kneading at the crown of
flame-red... a grim smile rises to her lips at the sight of the washed-out
simplicity of the lawn... but that smile broadens to one of genuine pleasure
as she begins to envision the coming groundbreaking::
::tilting her head up, she inserts thumb and forefinger at the edge of her
mouth and whistles a summons... a grumble of protest is heard from the
blackness beyond the lights' embrace, but soon enough, a frenetic rumbling
joins the other night sounds::
::first one wheelbarrow appears, creeping into sight ahead of a surly-faced
gnome in leather coveralls, his bald head barely reaching high enough to peer
over the top of the cart's edge... another wheelbarrow forges into the light,
this one pushed by a tiny man in similar garb, cursing under his breath::
::one by one, the gnomes make their entrance into the light-washed lawn, some
carrying shovels, others picks, still others packing canvas knapsacks,
contents unknown... each one wears a similar combination of colored leather
and homespun, in a variety of faded, once-bright hues... and each one appears
to be more sour-faced than the last::
::as the gnomes descend on the lawn, assembling their tools and muttering
amongst themselves, the tallest of the workers approaches the steps, carrying
a leather satchel crammed with rolled blueprints... taking the steps one at a
time, he draws himself up to his full three-foot height, squaring his
shoulders as he faces.. her waist::
::pushing his silver-rimmed spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, he lifts
his gaze to her towering figure, extending a pudgy hand upward in greeting::
Hi there.. ::he squeaks:: ... I'm
Leaderinredcoverallswhotellseveryonewheretogoandwhattodoand
whentotakebreaksandwhentoquitandwheretoputthingssonoftheguywhoownsthecompany
-
I'll.. just call you... Guy... ::she breaks in, lifting a gloved palm to stop
the rambling of his name, then lowering said hand to give his a polite
squeeze::
Sure thing.. ::he nods briskly, entirely unphased by the interruption, as
though it happens to him all the time::
So... ::glancing over his shoulder, jerking his thumb towards the waiting
construction crew on the lawn:: .. Where d'ya want us to start?
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: StrahdsLdy@aol.com (StrahdsLdy)
Date: Wed,23 Jul 97 14:44:32 EDT
::Tatyana happens by, seeing the workmen and smiles wickedly, her PMS still
kicking like mad, she thinks..:: "Ohh boy..hapless victims to torture
mercilessly.." ::and she giggles, smiles at Rose, and wanders off humming a
silly song::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: DthDivine@aol.com (DthDivine)
Date: Wed,23 Jul 97 19:35:35 EDT
::Looks over the layout with a critical, albeit draconic eye, circling the
Estate at five hundred feet in her brazen-dragon form. She knows Rose's
desire to remodel, and she also knows the functions for which the Estate was
built. In her mind's eye she visualizes it::
::A circular patch of rammed earth, covered with sand and fifty feet in
diameter, well-fenced with electrified barbed wire and having a small
grandstand on the south side. Slaves can be brought to the 'paddock,'
leashed and harnessed, for morning runs to display them to prospective
buyers; the open area can also be used as an auction floor::
>>Perfect ... I'm sure Rose will love the idea ...<< ::She executes a smart,
sharp wingover and, catching a thermal, soars northeast to her home::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Renfield80@aol.com (Renfield80)
Date: Thu,24 Jul 97 00:42:56 EDT
::walks over and whispers to Rose:: Tell them to leave my Haven alone, I can
deal with that, but can you add on a addition to the library?
Subject: Groundbreaking
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Fri,25 Jul 97 09:29:10 EDT
::a quirk of her cultivated brow at the familiar echoing in the hall behind
her, and she shakes her head, trying to place the tune, and failing::
::a brisk nod at Renfield's approach, an even deeper nod at his words:: Of
course, dear. The only construction we're planning for now is an extension
of the building's facade, here on the front lawn.
::then glancing down to address Guy, she lifts her arm away from the
floodlight, clasping both hands before her... and with the unnervingly giddy
smile of a child on Christmas, she turns a speculative eye on the rippling
expanse of grass before her::
Start wherever you like.. ::she chirps:: ...just see that the earth is tilled
and levelled by morning.
::with a curt nod, the leader gnome turns and drops his satchel on the bottom
step, continuing on into the center of the ring of workers... as Rose and
Renfield look on, the foreman is a flurry of clapping hands and pointing
fingers, sending the other gnomes into action with a clattering of shovels
and picks::
::as the point of the first shovel breaks through a layer of grass, invading
the surface and exposing the first handful of rich soil, Rose's heart
sings... and with a satisfied grin, she pivots on her heel and heads back
inside::
Subject: Time Capsule.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Fri,25 Jul 97 10:04:23 EDT
::some hours later, she emerges from the front doorway, stopping at the top
of the steps to inspect their progress... by this time, the expanse is a
rough patchwork of browns and greens, and tool-wielding gnomes clamber over
the stretch, attacking the remaining dots of grass with a lusty vigor::
::she emits a low hiss of pleasure to announce her presence, catching the
attention of the only figure standing idle on the field - that of Guy, the
foreman::
::tottering towards her, across the pitted lawn and climbing the steps, his
stubby legs taking them one at a time, he lifts two fingers to his temple in
a brisk salute::
I have a request.. ::she croons:: ...a thought occurred to me, and I suppose
now is the time to put it into action...
Certainly.. ::comes Guy's high-pitched vibrato, causing him to resemble
nothing so much as a child who has swallowed a mouthful of helium:: ... name
it, and we can do it.. ::clearly very proud of the capabilities of his crew::
Well... ::clasping gloved hands before her:: ...I have a little object I'd
like to have buried... perhaps at the base of the steps, if a hole could be
made deep enough to cover it...
::Guy's face contorts into a grimace of puzzlement, as though, knowing the
business of his current employer, he expects to be disposing of the mangled
body parts of an errant slave, or some other such gruesome artifact... he
hesitates a moment:: Aah... all right... sure... we can do that...
Excellent... ::is her immediate, silken-hushed response... glancing over her
shoulder, she gives a brisk snap of leather-clad thumb against forefinger,
and a pair of her muscle boys trot out, carrying between them a metallic
cylinder, about four feet long, and approximately the diameter of a dinner
plate... one end is rounded over, like the bottom of a bowl, and at the
other, flattened end is the numbered face of a combination lock, and a dial
indicating the following day's date::
::at Rose's nod, the men carry the cylinder past Guy, who by now has slumped
with visible relief... maneuvering the metallic case down the staircase, they
lower it in unison between them, and bring it to rest, lid end up, at an
angle against the steps::
We'll need a hole deep and wide enough to put the time capsule... hmm...
::tapping a slender gloved fingertip against the curve of her chin:: ...
right about there... ::her forearm snaking out, finger crooking around to
point at a spot precisely centered below the bottom step::
::at her nod, one of the slaves makes quick work of the combination lock,
then bringing the lid up with the hollow gasp of a vacuum seal being
released::
We'll leave the capsule here, for the time being, so that everyone can come
by and drop their mementos inside...
::and with that, she gives a low whistle, and a flickering wave of her
fingertips, summoning the men to her side, then leading them in to the front
hall of the estate::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: LlyraDraco@aol.com (LlyraDraco)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 02:04:02 EDT
Star-flickers dance and rebound, twittering into birdsong around the
gathering form of the feather-topped one. Displaced leaves rustle into the
drapes of her robe as bare feet lilt her path across the upchurned earth...
Llyra circles the gleaming capsule for a moment... talons tap a cadence along
the rim, drawing forth a serenade of water-smooth notes... and a single
blood-and-frost feather slides down her face to drift into the capsule's
gaping mouth.
Tarnished eyes swirl for a moment, gleaming in light-and-dark memory. Images
of a fragile feather disintegrating over years, falling to powder over more
solid memories to be brushed away when these buried thoughts are finally dug
up, play through the vivid colors of her mind.
She disappears along the wall towards a concealment of trees... the feather,
folded protectively around a tear and a smile, curls patiently to wait for
what comes next...
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: StrahdsLdy@aol.com (StrahdsLdy)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 08:05:14 EDT
::thinking she has the perfect thing for the time capsule, Tatyana looks both
ways and bolts out the door, actually with several items in her hands.::
::reaching her desitnation, she looks at the rolled up plastic mat and the
little spinner thingie..::
"everyone in the future should know about AZ-TWISTER"
::dropping it in, she also places in a piece of parchment, but reads it
before hand, and smiles::
"ahh..The Wedding of the Century.."
::grinning, now she places something personal to her inside it..something..small::
::down inside the time capusle, a small ring box rest, upon opening it..sometime years from now..everyone will see a piece of paper, and two rings..Tatyana engagment ring..and her wedding band. Engraved with her name..and Seireans.::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Dcembrhigh@aol.com (Dcembrhigh)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 13:21:06 EDT
::She stops by the capsule, her eyes showing no emotion, though anyone seeing
her would notice the turmoil and past anger sweeping through her at the
moment. She smiles, opening a paper bag and pulling out four items. The
first is a small string, three pearls attached to it. The pearls are from a
necklace she recieved on her wedding night from Rose. The second, a torn
piece of pink sweater, worn after the wedding at the reception. The third, a
picture of Everyone in the "harem",all the girls sitting
in the lobby. Photography being her hobby, she can have pictures of the
oddest moments that seem to never have happened. The fourth item is a note,
remained open for any to read.
~Time passes, but memories stay for always. Don't let the memories Die. December.~
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: TirGanin@aol.com (TirGanin)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 14:43:50 EDT
Heading out for a quick trip to town, she spies the capsule and pauses.
Peering into it, she looks over the collection of momentos and reads Dece's
note carefully. She frowns thoughtfully, then a flash of smile as she turns
back towards to Den. From her desk she retrieves the well-worn book of verse
she had carried so long, carefully removing the violets pressed within and
leaving them on the desk. She returns to the capsule and looks down at the
book, a face rising before her mind's eye briefly and for once no pain accompanies it. Gently she adds the book to the collection. With a whispered, "Goodbye," she takes the steps down, the past in its place, her eyes on the future.
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Renfield80@aol.com (Renfield80)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 15:30:27 EDT
::Walks out of the guildhall and stands before the time capsule. He reaches
into his pouch and pulls out a smaller bag containing four items. One is his
wedding band, found in the Garden after he left it there for Dece. He gently
places it inside, wary not to mess up or damage any of the other's things. He
places a copy of his book of poetry inside as well. The third item he pts in
is a bottle of wyne and the last is some special cigars he got as a wedding
present. He thinks and takes off his necklace
and places a note on it::
~Time moves forever on,
life and lives move on,
then they are gone,
leaving behind only a whisper of their past.~
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Racona@aol.com (Racona)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 16:54:16 EDT
::With whisper-quiet steps, she moves over to the capsule, placing a single
item in. A large shiny sphere, given to her by a friend. A light smile curls
her lips as she scurries away::
Subject: Something to Jar Memories
From: DthDivine@aol.com (DthDivine)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 10:57:17 EDT
::She walks over to the time capsule's glossy casing, her steel-toed boots
scuffing the freshly-turned earth; she carries under one arm a tightly
wrapped bundle:: Just a few little things ...
::Unfolding the package, she displays first the symbols that mark her as a
member of the Morkai Consortium, the interlocked letters "DD" in silver with
a gold whip thrust into them, and her favorite lash, a ten-foot leather
razorwhip. Pressing her lips to them gently, she lays them into the
capsule:: (q) Now, for the other thing ...
::She shakes out a banner of silk brocade, the standard of Hecate's Circle.
The flag is unrelieved black, with its center taken up by a pentacle in gold
surrounded by the World-Serpent in silver; at the heart of the pentacle is
the All-Seeing Eye, in blood-red crimson silk embroidery. Folding it again
she signs the pentacle over it with her left hand and places it in the
container, then walks away, humming tunelessly under her breath::
Subject: Time Capsule
From: Noelllee@aol.com (Noelllee)
Date: Mon,28 Jul 97 20:43:21 EDT
::As the sun begins to rise, the rays falling softly upon the clouds, she
slips toward the time capsle. She approaches carrying a Black velvet bag.
Inside it a few things. One lies wrapped in a wine colored velvet cloth, a
black leather collar, inscribed with 'Property of Church Rhino. Another is a
gem, a sparkling one taken from her husbands bed of Gem's. It is a sparkling
green saphire, wrapped in a matcing silk cloth. The third is a ripped down
posting of the March 11 Slumber Party. Scribbled
in her neat flowing hand writing at the bottom is... ~Kain and Noel... true
love forever~. It is folded up neatly and placed in a opaque envelope. The
fourth is another torn announcement. It is a death announcement of Syleen.
This is placed along side a birth announcement. The announcement of ila
Greyes. The daughter of MagenLea and Church Rhino Aza, the two annoucements
are folded together, for as a life is taken, so shall a life be given. As
she sticks them in the cerise envelope, a single
blood tear falls down her cheek. So many lost. So many. She sighs softly,
all of her old memories put to rest. Where they should be. She drops the
bag slowly into the capsule and hurries into the Estate.::
Subject: Time Capsule
From: Senethari@aol.com (Senethari)
Date: Tue,29 Jul 97 12:21:03 EDT
::As the setting sun casts its rays upon the gleaming silver capsule, a weary
and much saner Senethari emerges from the shadows. She bears in her hands
some gifts for the capsule. Though she is relatively new here, she will
never, can never, forget it.
From a black, leather pouch she takes her first offering, her collar. The
obsidian edges are charred now, and the collar's lost its magic, but the name
is still clear: Azrael Rai. After that, she simply toses the leather sack
into the capsule, unable to look at the contents inside. The miniature
silver bow, book of poetry, glittering obsidian scale, and enchanted silver
ring were presents from her other personalites.
She retreats from the gleaming silver capsule and steps through the nearest
shadow::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: VladTalbot@aol.com (VladTalbot)
Date: Tue,29 Jul 97 13:32:09 EDT
::moving upto the lare shiny capsule, he looks around at the other objects
within, tilting his head slightly to the side, glancing around to see iffen
any one is about, he withdraws something brought over from his former world,
something he thought he would hold close to his heart, but now,........now
this symbol has been replaced by another,.....a new gift his heart yearns to
for.::
::bending forward, he drops the small box, wrapped in paper into the capsule,
his eyes misting a little, at the thought of loss that comes to him. But he
smiles, knowing his future is brighter now, then it's been in a long time.
And with that, he spins on his heels and wanders off::
Within the space of that small box is the wedding ring, he was never able to
give to Michella, his financee, who died upon their wedding day. The paper
around it is a poem written in her honor,......
And we Danced,........by Vladamir Rene' Talbot.
And the night came into hearts.
And lifted us within it's arms.
And carried us away in it's shadowed kiss.
And we lived forever Immortal.
And light and darkness mingled embraced.
And the worlds came and went in a quiet hush.
And the love of the two flourished and grew.
And forever we danced in the glowing stars.
Subject: Time Capsule
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Sun, 3 Aug 97 21:13:38 EDT
::the construction has halted for the moment, waiting for the last of the
curios and mementos to be deposited in the time capsule... Rose sits on the
bottom-most step, her gaze drifting out over the moon-bathed stretch of
turned soil that was once a grassy lawn... the whole of the lawn has been
tilled, by now, and marked off with small wooden posts and ropes, to form a
square stretching to about sixty feet on all sides... it is here that the
groundwork of stones will be laid, to support a new terrace, a
series of outside staircases and balconies, and a new auction block::
::as she ponders the coming construction, additions that will change the face
of the Morkai Consortium estate forever, her mind drifts back, to a time when
she was only a visitor here... and then just another slaver... a cog in
the great slavery machine, she thinks, with a little chuckle at Azrael's
comparison... but once, she was also precious to someone, and that, perhaps,
is the greatest memory of all, one she would have preserved for all time::
::with one arm curled around her folded knees, the other drifts down, gloved
fingertips tracing over a new ring box, covered in plush crimson velvet...
snatching it up with a little grimace of irritation at the pangs still
stabbing her heart, she flips the lid open... inside, a pair of rings... a
wedding set, rescued from smoldering in her office fireplace ... the metal is
tarnished a bit from the flame, but the elaborate ornamentation of the
engagement ring is still sparkling clear, its winking diamonds
and rubies, and the curls of intertwining roses, still evident::
::a single crimson tear rolls down the curve of her cheek, landing with a
>plink< as it hits the toe of her gloss-black patent leather shoe... one
long, last, lingering gaze at the damaged rings, and she snaps the box shut,
with a shuddering sigh of remorse and regret... she pauses to brace herself
with a deeply drawn breath, then, looking away, she reaches over to drop the
box into the open capsule, where it lands with barely a sound among the
clutter of other objects within::
::another deep breath, and she looks back... cupping her gloved hand over the
domed top of the capsule, she brings the lid down... it lands with a metallic
clang, and with a brisk turn of her wrist, she spins the dial on the lock,
closing the capsule irrevocably, leaving its contents to be discovered by
some future generation, a mystery for some future inhabitants of the estate
to ponder, when they are all long gone::
::but tonight, the front of the estate is a quiet place, silent as the grave,
but for the crying of night creatures in the forest beyond... the workers are
all abed, or at other leisures, for tomorrow, the time capsule will at last
be buried, and the exhaustive work of laying the foundation for the new
addition will begin::
Subject: Foundations
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Mon, 4 Aug 97 02:49:52 EDT
::under the bright light of a sparkling clear day, the gnome workers, in
their dusty leather coveralls, clamber over the sixty foot square at the
front of the estate... this barren patch of ground is the center of a cluster
of activity, as the tiny men, with their shovels and picks, carve out the
last of the tilled earth, to form a depression where once was level earth::
::at the top of the steps, directing the work with the help of an
old-fashioned megaphone and a handful of unrolled parchments - blueprints, by
the looks of them - scattered at his feet, is Guy... his childlike voice
resonates with a newfound authority as he waves the gnomes this way and
that... over here, a bit more digging needs to be done, perhaps, to assure
that the deep indentation is level all the way across... and over there,
maybe a few more inches of soil added, to accomplish the same effect::
::and then, with a brisk clap, he brings his hand against the side of the
megaphone, signalling a halt with the hollow, echoing thud... the workers
glance around at each other, nodding their agreement, and in silent unison,
they lift their implements away, slinging the various tools over their
shoulders, and make their paths towards the sides of the pit, clambering out
one by one::
That’s it... bring in the foundation stones... ::calls Guy, turning to his
right::
::this is the moment they have all been waiting for, the moment when the
stone base of the new construction will provide a place for them to work
their true craft - the completion of the elaborate series of terraces and
staircases, marble colonnades to line a catwalk, supporting upper story
balconies that will overlook the new auction block::
::with another flurry of activity, the gnomes rush around the corner of the
building, to join the already emerging pack of workers, groups of four, each
unit taking martial strides as they support the weight of a thick slab of
rouge griotte marble between the four corners of their sturdy shoulders...
one by one, the groups of workers troop out from the side of the estate,
carrying plank after plank of the deep red marble... the fact that this dried
blood hue is a particular favorite of Rose’s is merely
coincidental - in fact, this particular shade is a contrast to the forest
green of the
serpentine marble covering the floors inside the state... where the green
represents prosperity, the red is a fierce symbol of protection, appropriate
enough, as it will be the welcome offered to any and all future visitors::
::heaving and grunting from the effort of carrying so much weight, the army
of gnomes deposits each sturdy slab in a stack at the edge of the pit, and
before the last one has been brought out, they have begun the tortuous task
of carefully laying each blood red square into place, butting each successive
slab against the last in checkerboard fashion to form the beginnings of a
seamless foundation for the stonework to come::
Subject: The Past...
From: Baghiira@aol.com (Baghiira)
Date: Mon, 4 Aug 97 18:35:44 EDT
::With atypical haste, Baghiira darts between grunting and sweating gnome
workings... and, with typical brusqueness, she merely knocks over the few
that don't manage to get out of her way. The short black silk of her robe
flaps around her rushing form as she skids to a halt beside the time
capsule.:::
::Pausing, she stares down at the thing as if in bewilderment.. then, lips
pressing together in a firm line of determination, she kneels beside it and
peers into it. Written words catch her eye... and her breath, in a rare
display of emotion, catches in her throat... how dear these people hold the
past. She had heard the hustle and buzz regarding the time capsule and, for
some reason, had disregarded it as so much prattle... but now she witnessed
the obvious care that was taken in the selection of
items for the capsule, and she wondered... she quested into her own past...
and found nothing of her own that said, "Baghiira was here."::
:::It was with this nagging thought in her mind that she turned, sprinting up
the steps to the Main doors, and disappearing into the depths of the
mansion... hunting.:::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Baghiira@aol.com (Baghiira)
Date: Mon, 4 Aug 97 18:58:42 EDT
::It was perhaps an hour later that a much more... subdued.. Baghiira stepped
down to the time capsule. This time, however, she remained standing... her
head bowed thoughtfully before she shook herself out of reverie as a cat
shakes off water. From the curve of one arm, she withdrew a bundle of yellow
tulips... obviously somewhat old and carefully dried, they were a strange
sight -- not for the flowers themselves, but for the object that had been
used to bind them into a bunch::
::Wound tightly around the dried stems was a leash of leather and sturdy
silver chain links, jarring with the delicacy of the dried blossoms. At one
end, the leather handle swung in rhythm with Baghiira's breaths.. and at the
other, a twisted link spoke of the fact that, somewhere, there might well be
a collar with an extra link dangling from it:::
::The flowers shook beneath Baghiira's ministrations as she began to
delicately unwind the leash. The stems flaked, raining tiny bits of aged,
dulled green on her bare feet as the chain pulled away, leaving imprints and
a few broken stems behind. She held the leash out... it swung in the air...
and she dropped it, the capsule echoing its clinks back at her as it settled
in a coil around the object already placed therein::
::The dried tulips swung at her side, grasped gently in loosely curled
fingers, as she turned and, tilting her chin defiantly high, strode back into
the Estate::
Subject: Break Time.
From: GuyGnome@aol.com (GuyGnome)
Date: Tue, 5 Aug 97 14:58:10 EDT
::night has just begun to fall as he surveys the scene from the top of the
steps… a flawless square of deep red marble, sixty feet wide on all sides,
now juts at the front of the estate… the soil around this foundation square
has been smoothed back into place, these scars for edges planted anew with
sod that is already ripening under the practiced hands of his best
landscapers… yes, his boys have been working hard, all day long, and now they
deserve something special… ::
"Break time!".. ::comes his shrill, elated cry, booming from the megaphone::
::all at once, the air is filled with a high-pitched cacophony of glee, not
unlike the layered giggles and squeals of the Munchkins when they discovered
their archnemesis squashed flat by a house... little pointed gnome hats go
flying into the sky, creating a confetti splash of color across the darkening
horizon... one sweaty little worker draws his arm across his forehead, with a
satisfied nod and a smile as he stands at the edge of the foundation, leaning
against his shovel for support... but the rest
of the square is bouncing with life, as the pint-sized laborers dig into
their satchels, whipping out six-packs... grungy, dirt-stained t-shirts go
flying, and before you know it, the grinding sounds of Steppenwolf are
filling the air, from a radio sitting inside a wheelbarrow, propped
unceremoniously atop a mound of soil::
Woo-hoo! ::Guy himself tosses his megaphone aside, skipping down the stone
steps one at a time, to join the spontaneous fray on the makeshift dance
floor::
Subject: Break Time, cont'd.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Tue, 5 Aug 97 15:08:44 EDT
::the crunching opening strains of "Born To Be Wild" catch her attention as
she clicks down an upper story corridor... her brow creased in a quizzical
furrow, she pauses at a window, lifting her gloved hands to the sill and
leaning out... as she spots the polished surface of the new foundation, now
littered with dancing gnomes, one of those brows lifts in a carefully
sculpted arch of disapproval::
::but as she continues to watch the miniature feet, tramping over the stone,
some swinging arm in arm, others simply skipping in place, jolly, merry
figures one and all, a wicked thought creeps into her head, as wicked
thoughts are wont to do.. ::
<sw> My kingdom for a handful of marbles...
Subject: The Great Gnome Massacre.
From: CopprOctgn@aol.com (CopprOctgn)
Date: Thu, 7 Aug 97 10:10:59 EDT
::looking down, he polishes the golden 'Grey Lance' badge upon his breast, a
hand resting on the Zweihander tethered in place at his hip:: "I am Jon
Doe... I have 'spoken' ::His voice takes on a commanding tone:: With the City
Council, and wish to see your Building permits."
::standing atop a ridge, Jon overlooks the construction, those toiling gnomes
in all of their snooty, high-horsed actions... feeling he's rehearsed long
enough, he starts down the hill towards the Consortium, unbenounced to the
fact that the tip of his blade gouges a foot-deep hole into the earth with
each step.
***Moments Later***
::He stands before the leader of this backwards cultured group, one calling
himself 'Guy':: "I am Jon Doe... I have 'spoken' ::His voice takes on a
commanding tone:: With the City Council, and wish to see your Building
permits."
::For some reason, the Gnome seemed offended by his tone and expression.
Drawing himself up to a full height of three feet, Guy responded.:: "We are
very busy, Sir, and do not have the papers in order... If it is not too much
pain, I will send a runner up to the MorCon offices to fetch them..."
::Jon's facial expression turned dark as he whispered,:: "I know pain worse
than you will ever know."
::Sadly, Jon's tone of voice was so quiet, the gnome failed to hear him.::
"What did you say Sir?" ::He waved the thought off, gesturing that a runner
fetch the papers:: "Only a moment Sir." ::Jon was enraged that a mere gnome
would treat him as such:: "You dare to disrespect a member of the Grey
Harpoon!?!" ::He drew a cocked .45, firing several shots into the crowd of
workers who were busy filming some sort of beer commercial on break.::
::Gnomes scattered as the bullets hit their mark, enraged screams filling the
ears along with cries of warning.:: "Foul Gnomes! You dare to disrespect ME!?
JON DOE!?!?!"
::Guy raised his hands in attempt to calm the enraged building inspector,
dodging another melee of bullets before disappearing into the crowd and
screaming:: "Dig the trenches! Fight!"
::Jon drew his Zweihander slowly, as always he was mystified as to how the
tip got so dirty. As a wave of angry Gnomes charged, he met their attacks,
Slicing and thrusting with his blade while firing shots at close range. Gnome
after gnome fell, yet more and more came. Some dug trenches, others sang
poetry to liven the event. With a sudden burst of intelligence, Jon summoned
the Mounted duck patrols which had earned the Grey Harpoon so much fame.
Over the near ridge they came, giant white geese charging
into the fray. It brought a tear to Jon's eye.::
"Attack my Goose brothers! Kill kill kill!!!"
::And kill they did, each goose selecting their mark, for the geese loved the
fuzzy balls sewn into gnomish clothing. Gnomes screamed and fell as geese
ripped coveted lint spheres, each disappearing into the thick fray. Gnomes
die like men, Jon thought with a grimace.::
::Gnomes armed to the teeth with savage picks and shovels charged forth to
defend their beloved work, yet Jon fought them off in scores. Gunfire
discharged atop the ridge drew every one's attention. Charging forth past the
spike MorCon gates, gattling gun crews lined up for some heavy trench work.
The slaughter began anew as Tracers fired from six-barreled guns lit up the
field.::
"Maybe now you'll show me those papers!" ::Jon ranted, decapitating an
unfortunate gnome. He loved living in a happy world where every attack he
made always hit the mark. Even blind folded and drunk.::
::Slipping away from the fray, Jon began to pick up dead gnome bodies,
impaling one on each spike of the MorCon's iron fence.:: "I wonder if
they'll mail me an application..."
::Across the field, gnomes and men collided in the fury of battle, screaming
war cries in a blaze of modern weapons and pick axes.::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: Baghiira@aol.com (Baghiira)
Date: Fri, 8 Aug 97 02:41:43 EDT
Blood called.
It was near.
It was not the blood of wild game, but it was blood... the scent wafted
through the rooftop Garden to tease his senses and he rose, bowing his
massive head to nudge his hunting partner. The pair stalked the Garden,
discarding previous irritation (at being enclosed in a place less than a
hundred or more miles square) for the crouched intensity of hunting.
Blood called. The Mistress was gone, as were her various bipedal pets...
and they had not eaten yet.
The killing had begun already... as the pair neared the front of the Estate,
the smells of blood and fear strengthened, coupled with the now-familiar
smell of men and .. something smaller. The prey.. and many of them. The
sounds of shouts and clashing weapons excited the felines, though the
repeated retorts of a gun flattened their rears back, lips pulling back in a
snarl. Rising up on his hind legs, the larger of the pair easily attained
the top of the wall bordering the Garden and turned, pacing.
Tail lashing, he watched the carnage two stories below, the length of his
rough tongue running over long, sharp teeth and black gums. He crouched low
to the wall, stretching his neck forward to again scent the air... and to
loose a strange cry, midway between a roar and a shriek. Excited, his
hunting partner answered that echoing cry from the Garden’s floor before
stepping up onto the wall – at only four feet high, the wall was no challenge
for either of these mammoth felines... each stood roughly
seven feet tall at the shoulder.
In response to his hunting partner’s movement, the larger of the pair rose to
his full height again, snarling once at what would soon be competition... and
leapt. Immense paws splayed before him, he plunged off the wall in a
two-story leap to the front courtyard. Below him, the marble was a blood-red
splotch of color... in midair, he gauged the slick surface and rolled his
body in a twist, changing his direction. With a quiet thud he landed in the
soft, rich dirt to the side of the construction,
leaping instinctively aside as his hunting partner landed with equal
agility.
Blood called.
The carnage lay before them, and the larger wasted no time. Sounding again
that strange cry, he leapt into the fray. One massive paw crushed a gnome’s
head with a brutal smack, the long claws removing the face as he swept past.
Simultaneously, his head snapped to the side, powerful jaws grasping a
panicked, screaming warrior by the throat. With a powerful snap of fierce
jaws, the scream was cut off abruptly. The feline spun, a machine of
barbarous death, a gore-spattered ballerina, and snatched
another gnome by his fleeing legs, slamming him to the ground and pouncing
upon him. He wasted no time, but swiftly devoured these kills – clothing,
skin, flesh, bones, all disappearing quickly.
With blood-slicked fur, he stood back from the spot of his first kills – only
a dark, wet area of ground to betray the presence of his feasting – and
raised his head, offering a long, wavering yowl.
Blood called... but the hunt would be complete.
The ritual began. His partner, in response to his cry, began driving both
gnomes and men before him... herding them toward the larger cat. The herded
ones shrieked and wailed, cringing back from the blood-furred visage... only
to be driven onward by the equally fearsome beast behind.
As the gnomes and men reached him, the greater of the pair flowed out of
their path... revealing behind him the expanse of new marble leading to the
entryway. Crouching low to the ground in a stalk, his tail lashed behind him
as he circled the captives and began to drive them along with his partner.
The two massive felines worked back and forth behind the frightened crowd of
gnomes, pouncing with a hiss to drive back any that attempted to escape their
herd. Workman’s boots thumped swiftly over the
newly laid marble, hunters’ paws whisper-silent as the pair drove their prey
toward the archway of the main doors:::
Subject: A penny saved.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Tue,12 Aug 97 16:45:18 EDT
::the call of blood is deafening, almost enough to shatter her senses and
turn her into a mindless porcelain automaton of greed and hunger… it hits her
the moment she wakes from her daytime sleep, rousing her like a ravaging
lover’s kiss… with barely a moment spared to shrug into her suit, she is up
those stone steps like a bullet and out the door, tugging the zipper up over
a triangle of ivory swells as she makes her way towards the front hall::
::the holocaust scene confronting her is of such nightmarish proportions that
she begins to suspect, in some playful corner of her mind, that she has
indeed been granted entry into a heaven of sorts… the blood wells in lazy
pools in the corners, where wall meets floor, and as she clicks down the
hall, weaving in between the sticky red circles, she glances over her
shoulder, to note, with some curiosity, that the trail of crimson splatters
ends at the door to the Lair… well, she shrugs, it is a mystery to
investigate some other time… for now, the reddening of her eyes and the
aroused hunger marked by a swift rise and fall of her chest, and the buds of
fangs appearing at the corners of her sneer, are all far too insistent to
ignore::
::as the corridor opens out into the broad front foyer, the coppery sweet
aroma thickens… she lifts her burning eyes to find one wall completely
painted with the last splashes of some lost life… the forest green of the
floor is tainted to a sickly near-black by the heavy coating of blood, and
the marble veins barely peek through, beneath what would appear to be massive
footprints, measuring at least a foot and a half across::
::her irises by this time a blazing vermilion, she tilts her chin regally,
her liquid saunter carrying her towards the front door, and as she pauses at
the head of the stairs and peers down into the last remnants of the
afternoon’s carnage, she offers little more than a solemn grin, and that much
clearly forced::
Well, this is just typical.. ::she hisses, noting the absence of her gnome
work crew with burgeoning irritation:: Hire gnomes to do a job, and the
moment you turn your back on them… ::pursing her lips in a prim smirk::
…poof. ::and she lifts a gloved hand, giving a dismissive wave:: Next time,
I’m bringing in Oompa-Loompas… at least they’d be more entertaining.
::step by clicking step, she makes her way down to an unusually quiet landing
on the marble pad, and as she glances towards her feet, she discovers, to her
surprise and delight, that the reason for the hush is a pool of congealed
crimson padding her footfalls… letting out a girlish squeal of utter bliss,
she clasps her hands together and sinks into a crouch, and, balancing on
those spindles for heels, she dips a gloved fingertip, swiping it through the
puddle and lifting a glob of the sticky confection
to her lips::
::she remains there, with one hand resting on a bent knee, the other tracing
playful circles in the blood, then lifted up to her winding tongue, and her
gaze travels out, to survey the whole of the glistening marble square… for
sixty feet on all sides, the foundation’s natural red has been deepened by
the thick coating of gore… here and there, a random shred of leather jerkin
can be seen floating in the mess, but for the most part, the pad glistens
with an extra sheen, a little something special that she
is perfectly content to leave there… after all, it would be bad luck to have
completed the construction without at least a little blood spilt::
Oh, how thoughtful.. at least they made way for the new hedgerows before they
left… ::noting the deep gouges in the ground, just alongside the marble
square:: And thank the gods I didn't pay them anything up front...
::of course, something will still have to be done about the little gnome
bodies piked across the top of the fence::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Sat,16 Aug 97 20:32:32 EDT
::by the time the work resumes some nights later, the pad at the front of the
building has been cleared at last, only a few lingering spots remaining where
the red of the marble is somewhat deeper in hue, just a bit richer than the
original stone... and a faint trace of the coppery scent of blood remains on
the air, but that will no doubt be swallowed up in time by the sweat from the
brows of the workers brought in to finish the job::
::ordinary men, this time, a crew of about twenty, has been hard at work for
days... Rose never sees the labor, only surveys the results each evening, as
she rises from her daytime repose... on this night, as she steps out across
the front foyer, to the door, she is clearly eager, as she has not even taken
the time to dress fully... she merely tugs at the sash of a cream-colored
satin robe around her waist, and clicks along the tile floor on her favorite
satin mules, the ones with the maribou tufts at
the toes... pausing in the doorway, she curls a satin-gloved hand up around
one side of the frame, a slow grin spreading over her features as she notes
the completion in the next step of the refurbishment::
::the old front stairs were knocked away some three days earlier, and the few
simple steps were replaced by a new staircase, this one every bit as shallow
as the last, but broader, and sweeping out to the sides like the curved splay
of a scallop shell... there are precisely five steps down, each one wider
across than the last, carved from charcoal granite, and curving out at each
side are the arcs of a set of ornamental banisters, of black jasper buffed to
a high sheen::
::she steps just over the threshold, and out onto the narrow front terrace, a
space just three feet deep that provides a platform at the top of the steps
from which to view the entire front of the property... as she stands there,
surveying the work and dreaming of the improvements to come, an errant night
breeze catches a handful of flaming curls and lifts them around her
temples... the same breeze snatches at the tail of her robe, sending it
whipping around her ankles... she turns into that wind, so
that the front of the robe parts just slightly, to offer a peek at the ivory
leg beneath... and as she pivots on the terrace, her head tilts up, to study
the masonry work at the outside of the door::
::an ornamental arch has been added, a band of bricks cut from that same dark
grey granite, its ribbed surface curling around from the top and ending in a
fluted drum base at each side... perched at the top of the archway is a new
keystone - a carved grotesque in the image of a chimera with a gaping maw
baring finely pointed teeth and a forked tongue, pointed ears and flaring
nostrils upraised in a cry of rage captured in time in the frozen stone...
only the head and shoulders of the creature are
visible, but around the thick neck, just beneath its bulging jaw, is a
collar, a wide band with protruding spikes, not unlike that of a bulldog's
harness... and extending from the hunched shoulders of the fiendish little
gargoyle are a pair of wings, spanning just three feet at most, their ribbing
curling outward, as though the guardian of the MorCon doors is about to take
flight, to swoop down on unsuspecting prey at a moment's notice::
Subject: There's a lii-ii-iight...
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Sun,17 Aug 97 14:14:09 EDT
::the following evening, before stepping out to the nightly hunt, Rose pauses
proudly on the new front terrace, to inspect the latest addition, a simple
decorators' touch, really... as a languid pirouette carries her around to
face the new archway, the gloss of her suit is illuminated by the eerie glow
cast from the new pair of lanterns, hanging one at each side of the door::
::at first glance, the light might appear warm, almost welcoming, a charming
touch in startling contrast to the rest of the surroundings... but a closer
inspection reveals the true nature of these lanterns::
::they are miniature cages of a sort, in a latticework of cut tin, modelled
after an 18th-century Colonial style, with pointed caps at the top by which
they are hooked into the wall and left to dangle... and fluttering restlessly
inside each cage are not the flickerings of candles, not the buzz of electric
lights... but pixies::
::yes, that's right, pixies... their tiny winged bodies radiate with the
iridescent magic that only pixies can create, and the brightness intensifies
as their diminutive forms strain against the bonds of their cages... they
clatter around in a panic, then settle to the bottom once more, only to stir
into another frantic uprising, their delicate wings pinging against the tin::
::with an unnervingly sweet smile, Rose tilts towards one of the cages,
lifting her hand and extending a gloved fingertip to prod between the
tracery... the wiggling tease of her finger elicits a chorus of whimpering
from the captive pixies as they shrink back against the other side of the
cage, and Rose's features are graced with a tranquil grin... and it suddenly
occurs to her that the pixies might make a charming sort of door chime as
well::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Sun,17 Aug 97 17:09:29 EDT
::perched atop the front terrace, just to the left side of the arched door as
one ascends the steps to enter, is a new conceit - a pedestal of rich
malachite, its dark green laced through with the occasional vein of
almost-black or snowy jade... at the top of the three-foot pedestal is a
slight dome, a smooth curve over which is nothing but open air, a six-inch
gap through which can be seen the outer wall of the estate::
::hovering above the half-rondure, hanging in silence on the air, seemingly
by the power of its glory alone, is the true monument, a statue of black
jasper and metallic hematite... the shimmering hematite forms a sword, some
three feet long, the hilt of which is cloaked over in imitation of a leather
wrap carved seamlessly from the same silvery mineral... embedded at the
center of this carven wrap is a single bright sapphire, a winking blue flame
that catches the reflection of the stars and challenges
them with the very brilliance of its own life... the pommel and the ends of
the hilt are curved outward, the arcing design echoing the razor-tipped
curves of the talons wrapped around the bevelled blade::
::these talons, of matte black, form a broad base that supports the body of a
large bird, about three feet in height... the dull finish of the jasper
reflects almost a deep charcoal in its moonlight bath, almost dove grey where
the shafts of nighttime glow are the brightest... at the top of the bird's
body, just to the sides of the proudly puffed chest, wings are crooked
slightly at what would be shoulders, as though the majestic creature were
just about to take flight... wrapping around to the bird's
back, the wings are a cascade of ridges, almost scales, the delicately
carved layers reflected in the prominent of a tail::
::the bird's head is turned, and it is in this profile that the nature of the
avian marvel is clear - it is a raven, judging by the long hook of the bill,
slightly parted in unvoiced song... a single eye, a round of lustrous jet,
looks out over the front of the estate grounds, watching over everything with
its unblinking gaze, the gloss of the mineral in startling contrast to the
dull polish of the rest of the sculpture::
Subject: The Auction Block.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Mon,18 Aug 97 23:10:58 EDT
::the limestone block that makes up the main platform of the new auction
block has been quarried from a site along a nearby river, its bulk mined out
of the same pits from which a large part of the estate's main building itself
originated... taken from its rocky bed with chisels and wedges, the entire
block measures some ten feet across on all sides, but is only three feet
high, an simple enough step up for a man, an easy lift for the slave
properties to be displayed there::
::in the blazing heat of midday sun, the hulking stone is moved along on a
set of wooden sleds, by a team of brawny male slaves in loin cloths and
sandals, and little else but the heavy leather gloves that protect their
hands from the burning of hemp rope... a causeway path, of stone, earth, and
rubble, has been created from the river up to the gated opening at the front
of the estate, and by the time the men have reached the ornate iron gates,
their coiled biceps are glistening with the sheen of sweat,
their quadriceps rippling with effort, making them appear, under the
brilliant lamp of the sun, like bronzed gods in all their steeled glory...
and ooooh, what a shame Rose can't be here to see it::
::from the gate to the edge of the marble foundation platform, the short
distance is traversed over a series of wooden poles, placed on the surface of
the path to help ease the friction between the sleds and the ground, and
water has been splashed over the dowels, to lubricate the way... as they
trudge in unison, the harmonizing tenors of the slave workers can be heard
reciting a dirge-like chant::
"The sale began--young girls were there,
Defenceless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.
And mothers stood with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.
Ye who have laid your love to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose lov'd are rudely torn away.
Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart."
~ excerpted from "The Slave Auction" by Frances E. W. Harper
::up a sloping ramp they go, and over another set of rollers, to bring the
large block grinding to a halt at the center of the marble pad, the sleds
kicked away from beneath before the massive new auction block is allowed to
settle in its final resting place::
Subject: Re:Remodelling.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Tue,19 Aug 97 02:26:36 EDT
<WHAM>
::the sturdy tip of a rotary hammer slams into the top of the limestone block::
<chugchugchugchugchug>
::and begins the noisy task of drilling down through the surface of the stone::
<WHAM>
<chugchugchugchugchug>
::a second drill, at another corner, pounds into the stone, and slowly builds up speed, the gently increasing torque driving the diamond-tipped bit down into the stone::
<caCHINK>
::one of the drill bits jams, and the reedy electronic whirring of torsion jerks to a halt... with a jiggle at the handles, a fist slammed down against the plastic casing, the drill springs to life again, plumming the depths of the stone::
<chugchugchugchug>
<whirrrrrrrrrrrrr>
<CLUNK>
::and the drill is lifted slowly away, the long bit grating against inner walls as it rises from the channel of a precisely carved mortise::
<CLUNK>
::the second drill jerks to a stop, and a burly construction worker jerks his elbows up, yanking the bit from the other mortise with none of the refinement of the first::
::meanwhile, down at the sides of the square, a few of the loin-clothed slaves from the day before are hard at the task of smoothing the surface with an assortment of chisels, and dolomite stones, and abrasive powders to buff and polish::
<clang>
::a pair of rebar poles are tossed up to the waiting hands of a construction worker... he catches them easily in one curled palm, the other hand lifted to drag across his brow, sending a shower of perspiration skittering across the limestone::
::with practiced precision, one of the poles is slipped straight down into a
hole, and then the burly worker stretches to the side, to repeat the process
with only the merest pinging as the second pole drops into place::
Uhkay... hand me up them posts... ::comes his gruff voice, and he stretches
back, to take hold of a pair of cast iron rods... the tethering rods, each
about three feet long, are fitted with large rings at the top, and are
hollow, to slide easily over the shafts of rebar and sink a few inches into
the stone::
A'right... now the chains... ::and with great effort, the worker below
crouches and scoops up an armful of articulated steel chain... the links,
glinting silver, are each three inches long and nearly as wide, and the end
of each length is fitted with an iron hook or cuff... staggering under the
weight, the lackey grunts and drops the bundle to the feet of the first man,
who goes busily about the task of attaching the chains to the tethering
posts, and then draping them across the space between the two
poles, leaving them laying in wait for the first unsuspecting ... customer::
::the two posts sit at approximately five feet apart, presumably to hold
whatever slave might find him or herself in the unenviable position of being
auctioned, in a spread-eagled stance as they stand on display for sale::
::and already in place just behind the tethering posts is a raised platform
of the same dusky limestone, a rectangle three feet high by two feet wide by
four feet long - just the right size for positioning a slave to kneel, or
crouch on all fours, for examination or inspection by potential buyers::
Subject: Re:The Auction Block.
From: DthDivine@aol.com (DthDivine)
Date: Sat,23 Aug 97 20:53:00 EDT
She looks the block over with a critical eye, pointing out to the sweating
slaves polishing the limestone every slight imperfection they miss.
Studying the overall effect as the chains are installed she nods approvingly.
"It isn't the Curule of Ar, or the Merchant's Stone, but it's very nice;
quite aesthetic ... "
Subject: Solve et Coagula.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Mon,25 Aug 97 21:53:09 EDT
::beneath the blazing gold of afternoon sun, a gypsy cart pulls up through
the gates, and along the cobbled path, stopping just to the side of the
marble pad in front of the estate... the wagon, with its arched canopy and
gaily colored tassels and banners, vaguely resembles the transport of a
travelling medicine show... the hollow chiming of cattle bells rings in time
with the low rumble of wooden wheels over stone... as the wagon growls to a
stop, the lettering on the side becomes clear... painted in
purple and gilt are the words "Solve and Coagula, Ltd. ~ Alchemists"::
::the driver of the cart swings down from the clapboard seat first... he
stands at about four feet tall, and his rounded body is swathed in brocaded
scholar's robes of garish orange... dark brown fur, perhaps sable, lines the
edges of the billowing sleeves, and the robe is belted with a screaming
yellow sash, fringed at the ends... peeking from beneath the bottom hem are a
pair of shoes, of worn brown leather, creased from age, with toes curled
upward... the man's doughy face is covered with grizzly
white whiskers, only the ruddy apples of his cheeks visible, and eyes like
ocean coral wink from behind silver-rimmed spectacles::
::the other man, the passenger, lands a little taller - about seven feet
tall, in fact... his ashen skin is wrapped taut over the harsh angles of
cheek and jaw... he wears academic robes similar to the first fellow's, but
these are in lavendar, with a belt of deep crimson, the heavy links of a
scholar's chain draped around his shoulders, and his eyes are like midnight
marbles... skeletal hands clutch a thick tome, a book covered in worn leather
and inscribed with faded ink::
::this cadaverous giant makes his way around to the back of the cart,
flipping through the thick vellum pages of the book, a single spindly digit
tracing over the words... the rotund man, meanwhile, parts the curtains at
the back, and with sausage-like fingers, begins withdrawing a series of tools
and vessels, a brazier, some oddly-shaped bottles and gourds, some made of
glass, some clearly formed from hardened and stained leather, setting them
all to the side of the wagon::
::he combines this assortment of bottles in a sort of chain, starting with a
"bear" with bulbous bottom and a tube extending from the top, settled atop
the brazier platform... hooked into this gourd is a mercurial serpent, an
oblong uterus with two tubes projecting from the bottom... both of these
tubes are inserted into the tops of a pair of peanut-shaped vessels with
connecting arms extending from their sides, to form an embrace in the image
of human copulation::
::for some time after its setup, the distillery smokes and whistles...
condensation forms on the outsides of the tubes and connections... the two
alchemists relax on the tailgate of the cart, sharing stories and muttering
between themselves as the sun goes down::
::just at that moment when the sun is precisely bisected by the sliver of the
horizon, the shorter man hops off the tailgate, goes over to the still, and
disengages the tubes holding the last vessel in the series, lifting it
away... the gaunt man produces two clay tankards from behind the drape at the
cart's rear... the short man wobbles back, carrying the pelican-shaped gourd
in the crook of one arm... he tilts it up, sloshing a cascade of sparkling
clear liquid into each of the two mugs... the two men
lift their mugs into the air in silent toast, the sharp odor of grain
alcohol fills the air, and seconds later, both mens cheeks are flushed with a
healthy glow::
::the short man sets the vessel to the ground, and with one chubby hand
wrapped around the handle of the mug, he digs the other into the folds of his
robe, apparently reaching into a pocket, as he withdraws a small amber bottle
with a dropper screwed into the top... the tall man takes up his book once
more, holding it open on one palm, while he swills the homemade whiskey with
the other::
Subject: Solve et Coagula, cont'd.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Mon,25 Aug 97 22:07:18 EDT
::side by side, they meander around the perimeter of the red square, the tall
man nodding as he utters ancient incantations in a mix of fluid Latin and
some gutteral, unrecognizable dialect, the short man holding the bottle
dropper at the ready... every five feet, the pair stops, and the short man
squeezes the dropper bulb, releasing a single droplet of sapphire blue
liquid::
::as each droplet hits the smooth surface of the marble, the rich red stone
bubbles for a moment, and rings echo out from the center, as though the very
substance of the marble were converted to a ruby pool, the ripples stretching
outward until they reach a two-foot diameter... from each of these gentle
eddies rises a column, of the same rouge griotte, each surging silently from
the marble, and each stopping at a height of precisely eight feet::
::the short man passes by quickly, measuring his steps, dropping his cerulean
nectar, and then moving on, apparently unconcerned with his work, or intent
on completing it posthaste... the taller man trails behind him, pausing at
each newly sprung colonnade long enough to chant a few words, drop a skeletal
fingertip against each one's side, and inspire a sudden blossoming of
bougainvillea... the brilliant clusters of red and magenta wind around each
column, seeming to spring from the fluted base of each
marble column, and stretching all the way to the top::
Subject: The Dust Settles.
From: AlchemLtd@aol.com (AlchemLtd)
Date: Fri, 5 Sep 97 15:15:03 EDT
The sun is just launching into its morning ascent, Apollo’s chariot
filling the ink-laden sky with streaks of ruby and pearl, and casting a glow
of renewal over the whole of the property…
Two figures, one resembling nothing so much as a large tangerine, the
other the long, gangly spike of a candle delphinium, lean over the railing
overlooking the piazza of rouge griotte marble. As they gaze down from their
newly created perch, one set of sausage-like fingers, another set like the
spindly limbs of an ivory spider, curl over the cold, veined crimson.
The overhead walkway, supported by marble colonnades just cultivated
from the plaza’s perimeter the day before, borders the courtyard on three
sides, boxing it in with a shaded catwalk down below, suitable for leisurely
strolls and perhaps the occasional binding of slave to column, for display.
As Solve’, the taller of the two, turns towards Coagula, the bulbous one
in orange robes, his gaze sweeps across the courtyard below, pausing only
momentarily at the auction block. In a few hours, perhaps, that block will
once again be home to a line of chained slave properties, the clicking of
collars and wrist-rings, various scribblings made in ledgers and receipts for
merchandise transferred.
With a shudder that somehow makes his gaunt frame seem eerily childlike
in its frailty, he whispers to his partner, "We’d best go, now the job’s all
done…
But Coagula merely offers a wry grin, his own thoughts having taken a
different direction, towards the gold coins jingling in a pouch, carefully
hidden between the folds of his robe.
"Nay, not… I think me, mayhaps, they could use a spot of landscaping
work." And those coral eyes light up, the thick fingers lifting away from
the banister to wriggle in greedy excitement.
Subject: The Stables.
From: BldRedRose@aol.com (BldRedRose)
Date: Fri, 5 Sep 97 15:58:29 EDT
Visitors to the estate grounds, either on horseback or by carriage, can
pull up on a sinuous cobbled drive that winds through the gate, depositing
them at the front of the marble courtyard, and then snakes its way back
between the main building and the lush gardens, ending at a rear corner of
the property.
Angled at this northwest corner is a traditional livery stable, a long
rectangle with outer walls coated in wattle and daub, and stalls dividing the
interior of the box, enough to hold twelve horses, stables, and room for a
limited number of carriages.
Waiting at the ready, like a solitary sentry at the northernmost stall,
is a coach, a Landau by the looks of it. Its boxy roof, of the heaviest
black leather, oiled and buffed, is closed at the moment, but reveals a seam
across the center, from which the top folds down. A diminutive set of entry
steps are folded up against the low cut of the door, and a broad square of
glass allows a view to the inside, to the four interior seats covered in
crushed red velvet. The driver’s seat, of course, is
elevated, and draped in a blanket of rich burgundy wool, edged in tassels of
molten gold, and at either side of the platform are lantern hooks, empty now,
but girded for the weight of the oil-filled beacons that will guide the
vehicle on its next nightly journey through the shadows of RhyDin.
At one end of the structure, set aside from the remainder of the wooden
cubicles by the presence of a full-length door, is a harness room. Strangely
out of place among the rustic smells of hay and damp stands a cherry armoire,
as highly buffed as the leather implements hanging from hooks on the walls.
Racked inside the tall chest are coats and hats and liveries, overcoats,
coachmen’s frocks, and the like. In one corner of this chamber stands a
stitching machine, for maintenance.
But the bulk of the room is devoted to the thick smell of leather, and the polished gleam of
the straps and buckles of at least thirty traditional harnesses… as well as a
few that appear just a *bit* short to be intended for equestrian uses…
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